Testing Audio -DK Principessa

by kibass91

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39. Courting Scandal plus 1

Courting Scandal

He supposed that he should have anticipated that Kate would turn down his proposal, but Anthony honestly never had. After the dance they'd shared, he believed she wanted what he did so Anthony followed her out into the Featherington garden and confessed his love. When Kate admitted to reciprocating his feelings, Anthony felt as if his heart was going to burst with happiness and he had immediately gone on to ask her to marry him. However, when he did so, Kate's smile disappeared and she stepped back from him before shaking her head, swiping at the tears leaking from her eyes, and running away.

Anthony's heart urged him to pursue her, but his legs wouldn't move. He covered his face with his hands as he worked to school his emotions before losing the battle, dropping them, and screaming into the night, grateful for the noise of the fireworks shielding him. Anthony sank to the grass in defeat and cried.

~z~

Anthony, so tired of it all, laid in the grass crying until long after the last of the fireworks lit up the sky and the guests had departed. He knew he should go home, but he couldn't muster the motivation to move.

He forced himself to get up, though, so that he could walk across the street and resume the life he never asked for and the responsibilities he never wanted. Because without him to bear the burden of it all, his family would be lost.

As Anthony was making his way back to the house, purposely sticking to the shadows to avoid being seen by the staff, he noticed a cloaked figure emerging from the servant's entrance. The figure, most likely a woman based on the stature and gait, made its way to the street where a hack was waiting. Curious, Anthony hurried his pace and arrived nearby just as the person was climbing into the carriage.

When the woman stepped up, her foot slipped. She grabbed onto the sides of the doorway for purchase and the hood shifted to reveal a swath of unmistakable red tresses.

What the hell was Penelope Featherington doing boarding a hired hack alone at night?

~z~

Anthony reached the carriage just as the driver was about to pull away. Knowing that his sister would kill him if anything happened to her dearest friend, Anthony bribed the driver and hopped into the carriage.

Penelope startled when he entered and dropped the parchment that was in her hand as she plastered herself to the far carriage wall and put both hands on her heart. "Lord Bridgerton?!" she asked with wide eyes. "What are you doing?"

Anthony took a seat on the bench across from her and replied, "What are you doing, Miss Featherington?" as he picked up the document.

When he saw panic cross her face as her wide eyes darted between him and the document, Anthony looked down and nearly had a heart attack when he read the first line: Dearest Gentle Reader.

The distinct advantage Anthony had over his other siblings was the viscountancy. He could come and go as he pleased and no one could question his motives or whereabouts. So, when he decided to return to London two weeks before the rest of the family to prepare the house, his Mother was forced to bite her tongue and accept it.

When he made himself scarce in the week between their return and Francesca's presentation, she had to grin and bear it. What choice did she have? For he was behaving with the utmost decorum both publicly and privately and had ensured all of the accounts she would need to shepherd Eloise and Francesca through the season were up to date.

And, when he disappeared at all hours of the night, who was she to tell him he couldn't? She was his mother, not his keeper and he was well past the age of needing to be parented.

~z~

Anthony felt her across the street the moment he stepped out their front door with his family in tow for Fran's debut at Court. She was there, hiding behind a bush, wearing some hideous monstrosity of a dress her mother should be flogged for ever commissioning. Even from the distance where he stood, Anthony could see the tight, unflattering ringlets in her hair that made her appear far more childish than she was. Knowing what he knew now, that she was Lady Whistledown and it was her disguise, it made complete sense. But, damn, did it rankle him.

His family was chatting amongst themselves, speculating on what the gaggle of girls down the street were giggling about, so Anthony took the opportunity to stare at her some more and try to reconcile how the girl across from him could co-exist with the the vibrant, witty, and clever woman he knew. He couldn't, so he just allowed himself to enjoy the view as memories of her writhing in ecstasy filled his mind. She must have sensed what he was thinking, though, because her breath started to quicken and a flush began creeping up her chest and neck. Anthony smirked at her and winked, causing her to work her throat. But she didn't break eye contact or shy away. The woman he knew began twirling a flower she'd picked on her walk between her thumb and index finger before bringing it to her nose to inhale its scent. Anthony raised a brow at her antics until she slowly trailed the flower down her cheek, neck, and chest the same way his fingers had done the night before. She pulled it across the neckline of her bodice and back before tucking it in the valley of her breasts. This time it was Pen who smirked while Anthony worked his throat and fought the urge to loosen his cravat.

Their foreplay was interrupted; however, when Benedict announced, "Is that our brother?!" In that moment, Anthony witnessed Lady Whistledown, wanton seductress, disappear and Penelope Featherington, shy wallflower, emerge. Pen frantically looked between him and Colin, who was dressed like a pirate, and took a step back into the shadows the evergreen provided. Anthony thought Colin must have sensed her, too, because he immediately glanced toward where she was standing. However, he was distracted when Eloise hugged him in greeting. When Pen turned away from the two friends she'd lost, Anthony stepped forward to greet his brother.

~z~

Anthony was standing with Eloise and Benedict when the Featherington family arrived at the luncheon. His sister seemed to have sensed her arrival the same way he did because she immediately turned around to face her. Anthony watched Pen's face fill with hope when their eyes locked only to deflate into trepidation when his sister failed to greet her.

"Well, well, if it isn't Penelope Featherington back in a dress the…," Anthony heard Cressida Cowper start only to be cut off by Eloise, who rushed to her friend in greeting. While Anthony was proud that Eloise's instinct was still to protect Penelope from her bully, he couldn't help but want to throttle her over her pettiness in establishing a friendship with that girl in the first place. The trepidation that had graced Pen's face was replaced with despair when the two girls walked off arm-in-arm. Anthony admired the way Penelope schooled her features and acknowledged him and his brother before walking away in the direction her mother and sisters had gone.

As the party drew on, sans the Queen, Anthony used the time to monitor his family. Eloise stayed glued to Cressida's side as Francesca struggled to find common ground with the other debutantes. Benedict looked bored as he made an art form of avoiding said girls and their mothers while Colin charged in full steam ahead and had them simpering at his feet. His mother fluttered between Francesca and Lady Danbury, who was, of course, once again hosting the Sharma family as Edwina sought a new match this season. (Which meant that Anthony stayed far away from them at all times.)

Whenever Anthony wasn't monitoring his family, he monitored his lover. She was a marvel as she, even dressed as loudly as possible, managed to effortlessly flit from group to group to gather the gossip for her next edition. She stood just close enough to hear, but not so close as to be noticed. At the same time, she observed the crowd, searching for scandals in the making. She schooled her features pretty well, but he could tell whenever she landed on a tasty morsel of gossip by the way she rubbed her thumb and index finger together. Sometimes her hand was empty and sometimes it wasn't.

The astonishing thing was that even as Penelope did all of that, she managed to keep him in her periphery. There were moments, though few and far between, where they would lock eyes across the lawn and it would steal his breath. Whenever she anticipated Kate starting to venture toward him, Penelope would somehow manage to warn him by crossing through his field of vision so that he could change positions without it seeming deliberate. While he loved his family, they had a tendency to make demands on him without doing anything in return. Penelope, conversely, seemed intent on protecting him (and, by extension, his family) without expectation. Anthony had seen her this way with Eloise many times, so knew her support was not conditional on their new relationship.

Anthony wished he could do the same for her. However, any attention bestowed upon her in public by him would have potentially damning consequences, so they had agreed to keep their distance beyond simple pleasantries. That was why, when Colin finally tracked her down, Anthony was forced to do nothing but watch. Pen, however, didn't need his help as she expertly shut down the conversation and made a strategic retreat.

~z~

Later that evening, Anthony was forced to greet his exes at Lady Danbury's ball. He was disappointed by how Kate's very presence in his space still made his heart skip a beat. She looked beautiful in a gown of the deepest teal with her hair pulled up in an elegant braid. Anthony fought off the memories her scent invoked when he passed by even as he longed to be drowned by them. Francesca, loyal sister she was, tugged him away quickly with the excuse of being parched. Anthony smiled genuinely at his sister as he bid adieu to his broken past, despite his lingering desire to make it his future.

When Francesca took a moment alone, Anthony was left undefended against the mamas who were deciding whether the reward of his title was enough to risk their daughters' reputation on another failed wedding, as well as the daughters who didn't care one way or the other. He was approached by three women at once for dances, but he was blessedly able to beg off for the evening when he stated that his sister was his priority.

Fortunately, Francesca was being kept company by Penelope at the refreshment table. They were engaged in a close, familiar conversation as the friends (albeit distant ones) they were. Penelope was once again both unassuming and outlandish in a yellow gown. This one, however, was the color of gold that made the red of her hair, which was pinned up at the sides and flowing loosely down her back, stand out like a fire. The dress was just garish enough, decorated with an array of embroidered fall flowers in true Featherington style, to repel the shallow men of the Ton. (Well, that and the return of Colin, whose presence reminded them that Penelope was unmarriageable. As Anthony watched Colin watch Pen, he marveled that his brother truly did not seem to remember insulting her last year. Pen had opted not to publish it because, in her words, he had only stated the obvious.)

After Fran left to go dance, Penelope finally noticed the withering looks the ladies were giving her at her new, more refined look (as just because men were idiots didn't mean women were). Pen was eating an ice at the refreshment table when Anthony saw Cressida making her way over to her, so he beat her there.

When Anthony arrived, it was in time to see Penelope take a bite of ice cream and quickly discard the bowl while holding her head. Anthony sidled up next to her and chuckled. "Are you quite all right, Miss Featherington?" he asked as he reached for his own ice.

Anthony didn't miss the scowl that crossed her face at his question, but she quickly schooled her features and put on a polite smile before replying, "Yes, Lord Bridgerton. Thank you for asking."

"How has your night been thus far?" Anthony inquired as he angled his body to face hers. It was a boon that doing so also managed to get Cressida to stop in her tracks and turn around.

"Rather dull, if I am being honest."

"Hmm. Well, I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps your evening will pick up," Anthony said as he placed his empty dish down and excused himself to make his way back to his family.

~z~

Penelope was waiting inside the front door of his new compact bachelor lodgings when he arrived later that evening. The moment he stepped over the threshold, Pen grabbed him by the cravat and pulled him down to her lips for a bruising kiss. Anthony slammed the door shut behind him and wrapped his arms around her body to pull her close, basking in her sensual assault after such a long day apart. As they kissed, his fingers moved to the line of buttons down the back of her gold dress and began loosening them until the bodice of it was open and her breasts were accessible. Anthony immediately pulled his lips away from hers to attack them and Penelope gripped his head tightly and moaned loudly in response. Anthony chuckled at her reaction and asked, "Miss me?"

"What do you think?" Pen asked as she dug her nails into his flesh before pulling on his hair and yanking his head away from her body so that she could work on loosening his cravat. Once she had finished with his cravat, Penelope immediately slid it and his coat off his shoulders. When she started on the buttons of his waistcoat, Anthony pushed the gown down her body.

He whipped Pen around to face the door, yanked hard on the tie that held the corset until it snapped, and then unlaced it with one hand while the other cupped her chin snugly as he kissed her passionately. Anthony moved his hands to her sides to ease the corset down her body, catching her underpants in the process. Once Penelope was gloriously naked, except for whisper-thin thigh-high nude stockings, Anthony peppered the juncture of her neck and collarbone with kisses while he opened his trousers. Now free, Anthony flipped Pen so she was facing him, and lifted her onto his solid cock. She immediately wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles securely above his ass. Anthony pushed her back into the wood with his body for the leverage to thrust the way she liked. Pen showed her appreciation cupping his cheeks with her hands and devouring his mouth with hers. "Harder. Please .," she whispered frantically between breaths.

Knowing Pen needed the pain as much tonight as he did, Anthony acceded to her request and set a bruising pace that was bookended by the nails of one hand digging into her ass cheek and the thumb of the other firmly pressing her clit between their joined bodies. Pen gasped and then smiled within their kiss. "Is that what you wanted, baby?" he asked, unable to keep a smile from his own lips.

"Yes." Pen's voice was breathless and throaty when she answered, which made Anthony unbelievably harder. Anthony sensed he was not going to last, so he pulled his lips away from hers and leaned in to whisper in her ear some of the dirty things that made her blush but that she secretly craved. Then Anthony bit her earlobe as he pressed extra hard on her clit and she exploded. The feel of her convulsing around him triggered his own orgasm and he had to physically push Pen's hips backward from his in order to pull out in time.

He couldn't avoid spraying all over her, but she didn't seem to mind, for Pen slid her legs down from his hips and pulled him back into her body immediately. They stood there leaning on the door for support until they regained their faculties. Then Pen pulled her forehead off his chest and leaned it gently on the door so she could look up at him. She smiled before cupping his face with her hand and saying, "If you get the water, I'll light the stove."

"And where have you been, brother?" Benedict whispered cheekily as Anthony joined him at the food table set up in the morning room. Anthony elbowed him and said, "I was out for a morning stroll."

Benedict hummed noncommittally and took his plate to the table to sit down after muttering a low, "If you say so." On the way to take his own seat at the table, Anthony nodded to his mother and younger siblings, who were deep in a discussion on whether or not the Queen would name a diamond this season (since last year's was still in residence). Anthony enjoyed a few moments of peace with Ben before Colin and his mountain of food joined them. After catching up on some of the things he'd missed while he was traveling, Colin asked what happened between Pen and Eloise. Anthony knew, but was not about to break Pen's confidence to share, so he allowed Ben to take the lead on the discussion. Given that Colin had denounced a desire to court Pen, Anthony couldn't help but notice how bothered he was by her lack of attention.

~z~

After breakfast, Anthony retreated to his study only to have his mother follow him.

"Where have you been?" she asked firmly.

"Out," he replied vaguely as he sat down and shifted his papers around to pull out a pile of correspondence he needed to work through.

"That's helpful. Thank you," she deadpanned.

Anthony looked up. "I am not certain what you want from me, mother? I am your son, but I am also a grown adult who can do as he pleases when he pleases. I do not owe you or anyone else an explanation," he stated.

Violet relaxed. "No. You do not. But you are the head of this family and your actions reflect on all of us."

Anthony shot out of his chair and pounded his fists on the desk, "I KNOW! " You do not need to remind me."

She backed away at his vehemence. Mother took a moment to breathe before she spoke again. "I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to see Miss Sharma again. If you needed some time and space to process that, it's fine, Anthony. I was simply worried I could not find you."

Anthony let out his own breath and sat back down. "I am sorry, Mother. I will endeavor to let Humboldt know when I will be out so that you do not worry."

"That is all I ask."

~z~

Four weeks ago.

"What is this place, Anthony?" Penelope asked as she removed her green cloak to reveal one of her old half-mourning dresses beneath it.

"It is my new bachelor lodgings," he clarified as he took the cloak and hung it on a peg by the closed front door. "If you're going to insist on putting yourself in danger to deliver your column, I at least want you to have a safe place to come in case something goes wrong." He passed her a key with a ribbon tied to it. "I'm sure Gen can find a way to help you hide that in your corset or bodice."

Pen stared at the key for a long moment and then broke down in hysterical tears. Anthony wasn't sure what he should do, so he stepped forward and pulled Penelope into his arms to comfort her as she cried. He held her for a long while, trying to ignore how good her petite frame felt against his body, until her tears were spent. Once he was sure she was finished, he pulled back slightly to ask if she was alright.

Pen stepped out of his embrace and swiped at the tears on her face with her forearm. Clutching the key tightly, she said, "No one has ever done anything like this for me before."

Anthony chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, and said, "Well, you did keep your identity a secret. How was anyone supposed to help?"

Pen laughed at that and swiped at more tears. "Touche, my lord."

He stepped forward again and took her chin in one of his hands. "I know that both Eloise and Colin have forsaken you, one out of hurt and one out of obliviousness. But, I swear, Pen, that I will always be here to help regardless of the circumstances. If you have need of anything, simply ask and it shall be provided."

She averted her eyes for a moment before focusing back on him and asked, "Anything?"

He nodded.

She bit her bottom lip as if steeling her nerves and then asked, "Wo- would you kiss me?"

He certainly had not expected that. "Kiss you?" he echoed.

Pen raised her free hand to his chest and smoothed the lapel of his jacket. "I am about to enter my third season on the Marriage Mart and, thanks to Colin, my prospects have gone from very little to even less. While I have made my peace with spinsterhood given my other priorities, I do not think I should like to die without ever having been kissed."

"Pen…" he started, not knowing how to reply. They were friends. Hell, they were practically family given her close relationships with all of his siblings. He shouldn't kiss her.

" Please , Anthony?" Pen implored with desperation in her eyes.

Anthony understood that desperation. It was the same desperation that had gnawed at him for years after he inherited his title. A longing to be anyone but who he was. Anthony wanted to help her since he couldn't help himself, so he nodded and leaned down. Just before he touched his lips to hers, he said, "Anything for you, Pen."

The kiss was unlike any Anthony had ever given. It was not one born of passion, but of longing for a life, a future, that was just out of reach. He was gentle and slow as he caressed her lips with his. When he pushed his tongue forward to invade her mouth, Pen moaned softly. The sound of it unleashed something inside of him that wanted to devour her, but Anthony kept himself in check. His restraint held until Penelope shifted to her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her body into his, meeting his tongue with hers. After that all bets were off.

~z~

Present Day

"Miss Featherington, how may I help you today?" Anthony asked Pen as he approached her in the foyer.

"I am sorry to intrude, my Lord. But I found a book of Eloise's that I would like to return. It is one of her old favorites and I did not want to leave it with just anyone." Pen held up the book as proof of her errand.

Anthony looked at the footman that was stationed nearby. "I shall handle this. You may go." When the man was gone, Anthony ensured no one else was about and ushered her into his study by the foot of the stairs. He closed and locked the door before pulling Penelope to him for an intense kiss.

"Where is everyone?" she asked when they parted, having dropped the book, her reticule, and shawl on the floor beside them.

"My mother, Fran, and El are at the modiste, as you already know, and my other four siblings are out in the lawn playing cards."

She smiled. "So we have some time then?"

He returned it. "Yes, we have some time."

"Good, because I think I have a favor to return." Anthony was confused until she cupped his erection with her fingerless glove. "And I wouldn't want them to interrupt."

~z~

Since there were six of them attending the celestial-themed ball, the family opted for two carriages that evening. Anthony rode with his brothers while his mother and sisters shared another carriage.

Ben made a show of straightening the ruffles of his shirt below his coat sleeves before saying, "You seem happier, brother."

Anthony, who had been looking out the window, faced him. He shrugged and said, "I suppose I am." Since returning to London, he no longer felt the crippling weight of his broken heart quite so thoroughly.

Colin entered the conversation and asked, "Will you tell us what or who is responsible for this change?"

Since there was no way in hell he'd ever reveal the who, he went with the what. "Just time, I suppose."

~z~

Yellow wasn't going to work for this ball, Anthony knew, so he couldn't wait to see what color dress Penelope was going to be wearing tonight. When he finally spotted her a quarter hour after arriving, it was in a gown of beige that was so light it appeared off-white, especially when the candlelight hit the gems that had been sewn on in a celestial pattern. Tonight her red tresses were pinned up in a relaxed style so it fell just above the (very delicious) nape of her neck. Tiny little pearls dotted the tops of each of the twenty-five pins he could count. Penelope looked radiant and, based on the stares the rest of his family was giving her when they saw her (by the far wall opposite of the door where she couldn't be missed by anyone actually looking), others noticed, too.

Anthony and his brothers separated from his mother and sisters and immediately headed for the refreshment table. Anthony found himself wishing they had something stronger than iced tea, especially when they were immediately approached by three misses. They held their glasses up in greeting before briefly turning around to groan over Benedict's, "They've taken to hunting in packs."

After he and Colin cajoled Ben into dancing with Miss Stowell, they shared a quick laugh. Just as Anthony was about to walk off and check on Frannie (while also avoiding Kate, once again, thanks to Pen who entered his field of vision in the knick of time), he was stopped by Edwina, who looked radiant in pale green. "Good evening, my lord," she said, coming to a stop in front of him.

Anthony inclined his head. "Miss Sharma. Nice to see you. I hope you are well."

"I am. Thank you," Edwina confirmed. "But, I would be better if you did me a favor."

Anthony, aware of all the stares they were garnering, kept a half-smile on his face as he asked, "And what might that be?"

She cleared her throat and moved in slightly closer. Anthony fought his urge to move back. "Several gentlemen have expressed… concerns… with regard to our families' amiability and do not want to risk incurring the ire of the Bridgerton family in pursuing an attachment with…me." Although Edwina mentioned herself, her eyes drifted to her sister, who was standing by the refreshment table.

Anthony followed her gaze and acknowledged Kate silently. Anthony held out his hand and asked, "Would you do me the honor of a dance, Miss Sharma?"

Edwina smiled like the diamond she was and replied, "I would like that very much, Lord Bridgerton."

~z~

As Anthony twirled Edwina around the room with a pleasant expression glued on his face, he noticed two stares hitting him more intently than the others: Kate and Penelope. Both women looked as though seeing him dance with Edwina was bothering them; however, one looked sad and wistful while the other one looked forlorn, but resolved. Both watched, but only one was still there looking on with pride when he kissed Edwina's hand and backed away wishing both her and her sister a wonderful rest of the season.

Immediately after the dance, Anthony turned on his heel and exited the ballroom only to run into Kate on the terrace. "Thank you for that," she said quietly as she continued to stare out to the lawn ahead. "It will help."

"You're welcome. I truly do wish you both nothing but the best," Anthony stated. He was about to step away to avoid any hint of impropriety when he felt Pen enter the space. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see her about six feet away admiring a rather green evergreen. Since he had the legitimacy he needed to continue the conversation, Anthony asked, "Is there anything else you wish to say to me?"

Kate glanced nervously over her shoulder at Pen before looking at him with a raised brow. Anthony nodded, so she said, "Family is everything to me, just as it is to you. I was scared that I could love you both, but not have you both; so, I ran. But, over the offseason, I was able to speak at length with Edwina and clear the air and she has assured me that I, well, can. So, I suppose that is what I want to know." Kate paused and cleared her throat. "Whether I … still … can."

Anthony stared into Kate's eyes and saw the same love he still felt reflected back at him. He wanted so badly to agree, but he knew it would be hasty to do so. His decisions affected his entire family and, as much as he wanted Kate to be a part of that family, he needed to think it over. "The truth is that I do not know. I still love you, but I cannot allow myself to be ruled by my emotions. Not again. Everything I do affects my family, so I need some time to consider what a future for us might look like in order to ensure their security."

Anthony could tell it was not the answer she wanted, but it was the only one he had.

~z~

Later that night, Pen was waiting at his bachelor lodgings for him. This apartment, unlike the last one, was simple. It contained a drawing room that served as both a sitting and dining area, a bedroom, a kitchen, and dressing room / water closet. It was far below his station, but, as he explained to Pen the first night they met up after both returning from the country, it was not about him. That said, Anthony was more than happy to have a place he could go that could be a sanctuary if he needed it. And, boy did he need it tonight.

"I delivered Whistledown early so that I could have some extra time for us to talk, if you'd like. If not, that is fine, too. I can stay or I can go. Whatever happens, Anthony, is your call," Pen announced from the threshold that led to the drawing room, still in her beige gown.

Anthony slid off his jacket and hung it on the peg next to her cloak and then walked over to her. He looked at her ballgown and extended a hand. "Anything I want?"

"Anything," she reassured with a smile.

"Then I'd love to dance with the most beautiful woman at the ball."

Pen grinned. "I should like that very much."

~z~

There was no music, but Anthony did not need any. He could lead a waltz expertly without it. It wasn't long, however, before the steps became a sway that slowed to a near stop as he leaned down to kiss Penelope much like he had that first time - slowly, gently, and reverently. He took his time kissing her as his hands expertly pulled out each of the twenty-five pearl-tipped pins that held her hair up. Anthony pulled back when he was done to brush his fingers through her loose curls. "Much better," he said reverently as he arranged it over her shoulders to cover the dress the way he imagined earlier. "You are so beautiful," Anthony whispered prior to re-capturing her lips.

Pen, however, didn't respond to the kiss. She bit her bottom lip and looked up at him with pained eyes. "Please don't say things you do not mean."

"I do mean it, Pen," Anthony assured her. "A thousand times over."

A tear leaked from her eye and he swiped it away with his thumb. "Really?" she asked.

"Yes, really," Anthony stated as he leaned in toward her lips again. "Now kiss me."

She did.

Notes:

Next: Anthony ponders Kate's question while forces of nature throw him for a loop.

(Don't you love a good pun?)

This one became safer to read at work than I intended because, I guess, it ended up showcasing their growing trust and intimacy. Have you also noticed a change in Pen's confidence?

Yeah, I stole the Polin kiss scene. Kinda. However, I took the desperation out. It's funny. In the book, Colin thinks he should say something like "Anything for you" but doesn't because he thought it would cheapen it. However, Anthony does because he promised her ANYTHING. I didn't plan that. It just happened. This is why I can't outline stories. Hope you enjoyed! If you're puddles of goo on the floor from your melted hearts, I'm sorry in advance.

Anthony sat next to Benedict at the breakfast table smiling as he needled Gregory about his broken arm thanks to his early morning roof snafu. The three of them engaged in quiet conversation as their mother and sisters discussed Francesca's suitors. He thought her pun about dancing with them alphabetically was inspired and smiled over at her to show her so when Colin walked in looking uncharacteristically disheveled.

"You slept late," Anthony observed.

"Something the matter?" Benedict asked.

Colin poured himself a cup of tea and brought it to his lips "Yes. I could not sleep."

"Why?" Ben asked.

Colin huffed and sat down. "Penelope will not speak to me and I do not know why," he confessed, clearly distressed.

Upon hearing Pen's name, Eloise stood and said, "Excuse me." She headed for the exit, but stopped before she could leave to say, "Perhaps that is a good thing, brother."

Anthony gripped his fork a little tighter, but said nothing. When neither Ben nor Gregory could offer a reason why Pen would not speak to her friend, the conversation dropped. However, Hyacinth's, "Perhaps it was your rather bold declaration against ever courting her that has soured her on your friendship, brother."

Colin's teacup stopped in midair. "My what?" he asked.

" Are you mad? I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife ," Hyacinth recited in a freakishly accurate impersonation of her brother's voice. "Those were your exact words, brother, were they not?"

Colin turned ashen as Anthony watched him recall the memory. So he hadn't been completely foxed then, had he?

Violet stood and gasped. "How do you even know this, Hyacinth? You were not there." She paused and then pointed to Colin. "You, I shall get to in a moment," Violet threatened. She turned back to her daughter, crossed her arms and tapped her foot in a waiting pose. "Well?"

"My maid told me. She heard it from Eloise's maid who heard it from Penelope's after Rae found Penelope crying her eyes out in her room while the fireworks display was going on." Some days, like today, Anthony loved his little sister's special personality.

"And you did not tell me. Why?"

Hyacinth shrugged. "Colin was gone the next morning. What was the point?"

"The point, young lady, was so that the family would have been prepared to deal with it upon his return."

It was now time for Anthony to jump in. "There is nothing to deal with, Mother. The words were said and cannot be taken back. Penelope has every right to treat Colin however she sees fit. Since it did not appear in Whistledown, there are no consequences for the family to fear. Let us consider the subject closed."

His mother did not seem happy about his conclusion, but accepted it. (It was one of those benefits of being the head of the family that Anthony liked so much.) Colin, however, was not remotely ready to let the subject drop. He shot out of his chair and started for the door. "I need to go to her and apologize!"

Anthony popped out of his own chair and grasped his brother's bicep. "You will wait for calling hour and take me as a chaperone."

Colin frowned but nodded. "If you will excuse me. I should like to go and prepare."

~z~

When Anthony and Colin arrived at the Featherington door two hours later, Varley frowned and tried to slam it in their faces. "Miss Penelope is not at home," she said with a venomous look toward Colin.

Anthony bit his cheek to hold back a grin as he realized that Rae had told Varley, but Varley hadn't tattled to Portia. Pen had the staff wrapped around her finger and didn't even realize it, Anthony mused as he stepped forward and planted his boot in the opening. "Five minutes. Let her know that I have accompanied him to act as chaperone. And then perhaps you could find an urgent matter for her mother to handle?" Anthony asked as he held out a banknote under his calling card and handed them both to the housekeeper.

Varley relented and showed them into the drawing room where the Featherington sisters were playing some sort of game involving grapes with their husbands and Portia was dissecting the latest Whistledown. Anthony and Colin sat uncomfortably on the settee by the window as they waited for Pen, who entered a few minutes later wearing a plain light green day dress. She clasped her hands together in front of her nervously as she greeted them. "Lord Bridgerton. Mr. Bridgerton. Good day."

"Good day," both he and Colin answered in unison, which seemed to break the tension because the three of them laughed.

As promised, Varley returned and suggested that the girls might like to continue their game in the garden and then summoned Pen's mother to assist with a most urgent matter regarding Aunt Petunia. Portia paled at the name, but quickly recovered and asked if he would mind acting as chaperone for a few minutes until she returned. Anthony, of course, readily agreed and followed the women to the door, where he cracked it up against the doorway. (Technically, it was still open, right?) "Alright, Colin. You have five minutes. Make them count," Anthony stated as he stood by the door to watch for the women.

Colin walked up to Pen, closer than he ever should have been getting, and said in a low voice. "Pen. I am so very sorry for what I said at your mama's ball last season. I did not mean it the way it sounded."

Pen worked her throat. "But, nevertheless, you meant it."

"I…" Colin sputtered.

Penelope held up a hand. "Your apology has been accepted, Mr. Bridgerton. You may go."

Colin's brow furrowed. "Mr. Bridgerton? Pen, what are you doing?"

Pen stepped back, far out of his space and said. "Re-establishing boundaries between us. You are Mr. Bridgerton. And I am Miss. Featherington. We do not dance at balls, correspond, or enter rooms alone together." Anthony raised a brow at the last one, but Pen waved it off with a tiny shift of her hand against her skirts. "Whatever prospects I have left will not take kindly to a friendship like ours; so, now that Eloise and I have grown apart, I believe it is best we keep our distance, too."

Colin reached out, but Pen recoiled. "It is truly for the best. Because we both know that any future wife of yours would never let our friendship continue."

"That is not her decision to make," Colin rebutted mulishly.

Anthony startled when Pen turned to him, "Lord Bridgerton, hypothetically speaking, if I were your wife, would you allow me to continue to correspond with an unmarried male childhood friend?"

Anthony was surprised by the fierce stab of jealousy that entered his being upon hearing those words and immediately said, "Absolutely not." If Pen was his wife, he would never share her.

Pen smiled at him and then turned back to Colin. "Thank you for the apology. It means a great deal. But it does not change the situation." She stepped forward and reached up to pat Colin on the bicep, "I will miss you, Colin. Take care of yourself, yes?"

Colin nodded dejectedly. "You too, Pen."

Pen said, "I trust you can see yourselves out," before walking to the widow and turning her back on them.

~z~

That evening, the family attended a soiree at Stowell House, much to Benedict's chagrin. It was, thankfully, a small affair being held in their (surprisingly large) drawing room. As usual, he and his brothers split from their mother and sisters and engaged in their own conversation. Colin was mid-sentence regarding an archery competition he'd attended in Paris when Penelope and her mother entered the room and he stopped speaking. Benedict snapped his fingers in front of their brother, but he didn't snap out of his trance. When Benedict looked, too,his eyes widened in surprise. This, of course, made Anthony turn around to see what about Pen had them so flummoxed, only to have his heart skip a beat at the sight of Pen in a dark green gown that had a myriad of sparkly things on it that created a rather flattering pattern. Her hair was pulled up the same way it had been last week at the celestial ball, but, this time, the twenty- eight pins had little green pearls instead of beige ones. As she walked past them on the way to a corner near the refreshment table, she nodded, "Good evening, Bridgertons", which successfully snapped them out of their hazes and enabled them to greet her back.

Immediately afterward, Benedict made a beeline for Pen, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the rest of the room, including Miss Stowell, who looked about as put out by that development as Anthony felt. Pen laughed at whatever Benedict was saying and took his arm, happily accepting his turn about the room. As they passed by, he heard Pen ask Benedict if he was using her as a shield. When he said "Yes, absolutely," Penelope laughed the genuine, carefree laugh he loved so much and responded with, "If I am your shield, then perhaps you can be my magnet? For being seen on the arm of a man as handsome as yours can only elevate my desirability, can it not?"

After hearing that (and not liking it all that much), Anthony moved from his spot and planted himself in the corner opposite of Penelope's as he waited for her to finish her turn with Benedict. As he sipped a terrible iced tea from the refreshment table (his excuse to see her later), Anthony watched Colin watch her. Subtle was definitely not his brother's middle name. Anthony made a mental note to remind him to tone it down when she finally ended up back in her corner with Lord Alfred Debling, who had already been standing there. The man, who was not particularly funny in Anthony's opinion, said something that made Pen chuckle and smile. Anthony growled low in his throat and then heard a familiar voice say, "Well, I suppose I have my answer."

Anthony averted his eyes from Pen to focus on Kate, who was now standing beside him watching him and Colin observe Pen and asked, "What?" Kate, who also had a glass of tea in her hand, took a sip before saying, "Your answer, Anthony, is 'cannot' because your emotions are already engaged elsewhere."

Anthony worked his throat. "I… What?"

She gave him one of her patented you are daft looks and said, "Penelope."

Anthony looked down at his tea as he swirled the glass. "No. We are friends."

Kate reached out and placed a hand on his forearm before nodding her head to Colin. "So are they. And he doesn't even have half the scowl on his face that you have on yours. If you learn anything from last year, Anthony, let it be that denial gets you nowhere fast."

"I am not in denial," Anthony rebuffed.

"Yes, you are," Kate retorted.

"No, I am not."

"Yes…" Kate stopped herself, took a breath, and dug her nails into his arm. "Must you vex me so?"

"Must you ?" Anthony replied.

When she answered with, "I have made it the single most important mission of my life," Anthony laughed and she joined in.

~z~

Since Pen was not delivering a new column that night, Anthony went to his apartment to be alone so that he could think. Was he truly developing feelings for Penelope beyond the friendship they'd established after the Featherington ball or was Kate imagining things?

When Anthony caught Pen delivering her Whistledown column he'd been furious and scolded her on both her foolishness and disregard for her safety. However, she did not like that and boldly declared that she was not one of his sisters to manage and he could leave anytime as she pointed to the door with her index finger. He declined to do so and the two of them eventually established a tentative truce.

Once they left for the country, they exchanged letters. Anthony asked Penelope about how her column came into existence and requested an explanation for the issues that had hurt his siblings. By giving her a chance to explain, Anthony learned a lot about the woman Penelope had become and found himself excited to learn more. What was different with their correspondence, the frequency of which had grown exponentially over his time at Aubrey Hall, though, was that Anthony felt comfortable sharing pieces of himself with her. He shared how his father's death had changed him, how he sometimes resents his siblings' freedom, and how painful Kate's betrayal had been. By the time he returned to London, Penelope Featherington had become a cherished friend and confidant.

Anthony was mulling over everything that had happened between them since their return when he heard the front door open and close. "Pen?" he called out.

~z~

Anthony heard footsteps coming toward the room and then saw his brother Benedict enter. "Well, that explains so much about tonight."

Anthony's heart rate spiked and he could feel his face flushing. "What?!"

"You. Penelope. The staring. The scowling ," Benedict explained as he poured himself a glass of liquor from the sidebar. "You are as transparent as Colin, Anthony."

Anthony blew out a breath and sat back down. " Fuck ."

"Want to talk about it?"

~z~

Anthony found himself feeling much lighter by the time the family entered the balloon exhibition the next day. The talk with his brother (the only one of his siblings who truly felt like a brother, not a sibling he had to parent) had helped him clarify his feelings. Sharing with Benedict the truth about what had been happening with Penelope since he caught her sneaking out of her house "to apologize to Eloise" the night of the ball had been freeing. Ben listened without judging him and offered an outside perspective Anthony desperately needed as he worked through his complicated emotions.

Penelope's family had entered before his and Anthony's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to her derriere as the skirts of the pale yellow day dress she was wearing swayed as she walked. When his brother elbowed him in the ribs, Anthony whispered a harsh, "What?!"

"You know what," he replied before breaking away to collect Hyacinth and Gregory to take them to see the balloon up close.

Anthony blew out a breath. He had to stay in control today if he didn't want to give the entire game away. (Penelope would kill him if he did, as she had been very clear on her desire for no one to ever know about them.) Anthony was about to ask if Colin wanted to go see the balloon when his brother suddenly broke away with an abrupt, "Excuse me," and followed Penelope into the sweets tent. She was not happy to see him, but let him talk while she made it look like she was browsing for sweets. After a few minutes, Pen selected a piece of chocolate and paid the vendor. She wished his brother a good day before stepping outside into Anthony's direct line of sight and popping the chocolate into her mouth. She licked her fingers, offered him a half-smile and walked away. Anthony groaned.

When he heard a chuckle next to him, Anthony whipped his head from Pen's retreating form to the source of the noise and was shocked to see Kate standing there. "She is worse than you when she feels threatened."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I was behind you the whole time, Anthony. She saw me the moment she walked out of the tent," Kate said before patting him on his coat sleeve and walking away to join her sister and Lady Danbury, who were looking at the wares a few tents over from the sweets one.

~z~

Since his mother and Fran, as well as his two youngest siblings, were seated with the Queen, Benedict had gone missing, and Eloise had somehow gotten pulled into a conversation with Cressida Cowper, Pen, and Lord Debling across the way by the lake, Anthony stayed with Colin and his two mates near the sweets tent. After scarfing down a few of the same chocolates Penelope had bought, Colin asked his friends about Debling (which Anthony was secretly glad for because he was curious, too). The three men were chatting when the wind suddenly started to gust, blowing the balloon to and fro. Its handlers worked to stabilize it and seemed to be succeeding until one of the ropes broke loose and pulled the rest of the stakes out, too. Anthony watched, horrified, as the men tried and failed to bring it under control and its basket drifted closer to Pen and his sister.

Suddenly, Colin broke into a run, yanked on one of the ropes, and yelled for help. Anthony, already on his heels, bent down and grabbed the rope on the right while Ben picked up the one on the left, and pulled with all his might. Anthony's heartbeat sped up as the basket closed in on Penelope, who stood a few feet away, frozen. After a few seconds that felt like hours, Pen seemed to come out of her trance and somehow manage to lock eyes with him. Anthony wanted to shout at her to run, but couldn't risk it, so he conveyed the command through the panic in his stare. Thankfully, she listened and began running out of the way, but tripped on a nearby picnic blanket and fell to the ground. Anthony watched in horror as she tried in vain to scurry backward to avoid the oncoming basket. Fortunately, they were able to stop the drifting just as Debling threw his body over Pen's to protect her.

Anthony saw red.

~z~

Anthony had some time to kill between the exhibition and the ball Hawkins was hosting that evening, so he went to his study to work on some of the accounts. Upon his entrance, Anthony saw a note on top of his desk with his name written in familiar handwriting. Anthony sat down in his chair, ledgers forgotten, and opened it, eager to know what Pen had to say to him.

Anthony,

Since my debut, I've heard the phrase "I saw my life flash before my eyes," uttered far too many times, mostly by gentlemen set on wooing ladies into dark corners, to take seriously. However, after today, it has taken on a whole new gravity, as that is what happened to me when I saw that balloon basket edging towards me. My feet wouldn't move, despite my internal pleas for them to do so, and every meaningful event or conversation I've ever had with anyone played out in front of my eyes. Let me tell you, it was a sobering experience. I realized some truths about myself that will be hard to bear, but I also learned what matters the most to me in this life. When my fear finally released me, the first thing I looked for was you; but, you were already there in front of me trying to save my life. How convenient that was. For if the last thing I ever got gaze upon in this lifetime was you, I would have died a happy woman indeed. But, because of you, of your fierce determination to manage me (even with a look), I am alive and grateful to be so. If there is ever anything I can do to repay you for saving me, let me know.

Yours,

Pen

When he was done reading Pen's note, Anthony stared at it until it was time to dress for the ball.

~z~

Anthony opted to escort his mother into the Hawkins' ball so that it would be less likely he'd be accosted by he and his brothers' legion of new fans on the way in. It turned out to be a strategic decision because the girls immediately swarmed them upon their entrance. Last year, his mother would have done what Francesca and Eloise did to Ben and Colin and step aside to leave him to the wolves. But, last year was not this year, and it seemed she had learned that no good could come from managing his life (in public, at least), so she easily paved his way past them. "Thank you, Mother," Anthony whispered when they reached the bottom of the staircase.

She smiled lovingly and replied, "Yes, well, I suppose I owed you one."

After depositing his mother with Lady Danbury and a gentleman she introduced as her brother, Lord Marcus Anderson, Anthony perused the ballroom to check in on his sisters. Francesca was taking a turn about the room with Edwina and Kate and Eloise was standing in a corner looking peevishly upon Cressida Cowper and Lord Debling. Pen, it seemed, had not yet arrived, so Anthony milled around looking at the objects on display and the inventions being demonstrated.

He was standing by Lord Hawkins, who was demonstrating a lamp, when Pen and her family arrived. Anthony couldn't hold back a snicker to the abrupt "No." that left her mother's mouth when he offered to show it to her. Tonight, Pen was dressed in a gown the color of rust that made her red tresses, which were once again pulled back and pinned by the nape of her neck, nearly blend in with it. The elaborate beadwork on the gown matched her decorative pins perfectly. She looked like a goddess incarnate and Anthony wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her.

"Oh, good, Lord Bridgerton, you are here," Lady Featherington stated.

Anthony smiled tightly. "That I am, Lady Featherington."

Portia pulled Pen in front of her and held her there by the shoulders. "Penelope has something she'd like to say to you." She looked down at her daughter. "Doesn't she?"

"Yes, Mama," Pen said with a quick look over shoulder. Portia inclined her head in a hurry up motion, so Pen looked back at him and spoke. "Thank you for saving my life. We feel most fortunate that you and your brothers were in the right place at the right time."

Anthony was about to reply to Pen, when Portia took up the mantle. "I would hate to have lost the companionship my dear Penelope provides, especially now that her sisters have married. I take comfort in knowing she will be here with me for many years to come, thanks to you and your brothers."

Anthony didn't miss the way Pen's genuine smile had become strained with Portia's words. But she held it nonetheless, even as Portia continued with, "Come, Penelope, let us leave Lord Bridgerton to his evening. I am certain he has better things to do than listen to you blather on."

Pen said, "Of course, Mama," before curtseying and walking away without another word.

~z~

When Lord Debling went to fetch him and Miss Cowper some refreshments, Penelope was standing there (as it was one of the best places for gossip). The two engaged in conversation for a few moments before Lord Debling smiled at something Penelope said to him and offered her Cressida's lemonade. It was rare to see Penelope so at ease in the presence of someone not named Bridgerton and it made Anthony proud. However, when Debling put down his glass and motioned for her dance card, his goodwill toward the man evaporated. On paper, the two seemed to be an ideal match, especially given Penelope's favorite pastime and the need for privacy. However, she was far too passionate of a woman to live a life rusticating alone in the country, no matter what her situation at home was. When Debling excused himself, Penelope made her way around the ballroom in the direction toward where he was standing, completely unnoticed by the attendees except two: Colin and Eloise. The former was standing with his mother in what appeared to be a deep conversation and the latter was next to Cressida, who seemed to be pouting over Debling's earlier abandonment.

As the crowd began parting for the next dance, a waltz, Anthony saw Colin kiss his mother on the cheek and zero in on Penelope as Debling navigated the crowds to reach her.

Something inside Anthony crystallized in that moment. All the doubt, fear, and worry he'd been struggling with this week fell away and he knew what he had to do.

~z~

Anthony reached Pen's side in just a few strides and greeted her, "Miss Featherington."

She smiled genuinely and replied, "Lord Bridgerton. How has your evening been thus far?"

"Rather dull, if I'm being honest," he replied, which elicited a chuckle from her.

"That's too bad. Perhaps it will pick up," Pen volleyed back in a knowing voice.

"I am positive it will," he affirmed. "Especially if you do me the honor of joining me for the next dance."

Pen's eyes, which had been full of mirth before, went wide and she worked her throat. "Are you certain?" she asked with trepidation.

Anthony reached out a hand to Pen and replied. "I have never been more certain about anything in my life."

~z~

When Penelope took his hand, Anthony led her confidently to the floor, ignoring the curious glances and loud whispers he and Pen were garnering. Aside from Edwina and his sister, he hadn't danced with anyone else this season, so he knew ushering Pen to the floor was a Whistledown-worthy moment and couldn't help but chuckle at the irony of that.

"What's so funny?" Pen asked as they took their positions and waited for the music to start.

"I was just wondering what Lady Whistledown might say when she remarks upon this moment in her next edition," he replied.

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Your intentions," Pen replied. "Is this a one-time pity dance for the girl whose life you saved earlier today or is it … more?"

"More, Pen. So very much more."

Anthony was waiting on the settee by the window when Penelope, dressed today in a mint green day dress with butterflies on it, walked into the Featherington drawing room. Her face lit up when she saw him and she rushed over to meet him. Anthony stood and greeted her with a kiss to the top of her hand. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Pen responded.

They stood there, still holding hands, until Lady Featherington, who was acting as their chaperone, cleared her throat.

Anthony dropped Pen's hand and leaned down to pick up the gift he'd brought. "This is for you."

Pen smiled and motioned for him to sit down. She placed the parcel on her lap and tore into it, gasping when she saw the contents: a sheaf of blank paper inside a folder monogrammed with her initials and a new quill. "Oh, An-," Pen started, but caught herself. "This is lovely, Lord Bridgerton. Thank you."

Anthony winked with the eye facing the exterior wall so her mother wouldn't see and replied, "Well, I know how much you enjoy writing, so I thought this would be far more useful than flowers."

A nosy "How do you know that?" came from Lady Featherington, who was sitting on one of the settees in the middle of the room pretending to read the most recent Whistledown issue.

"Surely Eloise must have told him," Pen responded quickly. "Isn't that right, my Lord?"

Anthony played the part and nodded. "Yes, quite."

~z~

Then

Anthony knew he would be besieged with questions once he returned home, so he purposely went directly from the ball to his apartment. Also, he had been hopeful that Penelope would make an appearance, as the "Rather dull, if I am being honest," line was their coded response to meet. About an hour after he arrived, Penelope, fresh off her latest Whistledown run, swept through the door in her green cloak.

"Anthony, are you here?" Pen called from the entrance.

Anthony had stood upon hearing the door, so crossed the sitting room and met her at the threshold. "Present and accounted for."

Pen unclasped her cloak and hung it on the peg. Turning to face him, she asked, "So, do you want to tell me what that dance was about or are you going to keep me guessing?"

"I read the letter you sent over after the exhibition."

Pen's eyes widened. "Oh."

"And I realized that if I were dying and your face was the last thing I saw, I could die happy, too."

The corners of Pen's mouth edged upward until she broke into a wide, happy smile. "Really?"

"Really." Anthony walked over to Pen and captured both her hands in his. "I would like to marry you, Pen, if you'll have me. I know that I am far from perfect, but I think that I might be perfect for you. And, there is no else out there better suited for me than you."

"What about Kate?"

Anthony pulled Pen closer. "She left me. If I marry her, I'll always wonder if she'll do it again. I cannot live like that. It will drive me mad. But you, Pen, you don't leave. Not even when we push you out the door." Pen let out a tearful chuckle at that. "You stay and you fight for my family as if it was your own. That is the partner I need in a wife: someone who loves the Bridgerton family as much as I do."

Pen unclasped one of her hands from his and laid it on his chest. "What about Whistledown? The Queen is still searching for her identity. Marrying me could put your entire family at risk."

He laid his hand over hers. "Then it will be our turn to fight for you."

~z~

Now

Anthony arrived home after courting Penelope to find his mother waiting in his study. "Good morning," he said as he closed the door and crossed the room to sit at his desk. "To what do I owe the honor, Mother?"

Violet, who'd been drinking her fingers on the arm of her chair, looked up at him shrewdly. "Is she with child?"

"Who?"

"Do not play dumb with me, Anthony. I saw the two of you dancing last night. You and Penelope had a level of familiarity that only exists between lovers."

Anthony slouched in his chair and rested his head against the back. He closed his eyes and took a measured breath before opening them and answering, "Not as far as I know, no."

Violet shot up out of her chair and slammed her hands on his desk. Leaning forward, she commanded, "You will marry her. And soon. Or so help me, God … "

Anthony stood and did the same. "What, Mother? What will you do? Besides express your continued profound disappointment in me from now until eternity, that is?" He stood up, opened his arms, and waved them around the room. "In case you've forgotten, all of this is mine. The house, the lands, and the money. Whether I wanted it or not, it's mine to wield as I see fit." Anthony dropped his hands and sat back down. "So watch your tone."

His mother gasped and stood straight up. "Your father would never…"

"Yes, well, as you are so quick to point out: I am not my father."

~z~

Then

Anthony,

It has been over twenty-four hours since you kissed me and I find myself unable to stop thinking about you. About what we could be. Our mamas speak about ruin as if it is something we should avoid, but all I want to do is invite it into my life. Invite you. However, I suppose the invitation does not matter unless you will disregard your own warnings and come inside. Will you?

Pen

Anthony,

You have expressed your concerns repeatedly and I have taken them under consideration. What you are conveniently forgetting is that your brother already ruined me in the eyes of the Ton thanks to his careless words. At best, my future holds a cold bed and, at worst, marriage to a man thrice my age who is too desperate to care about my purity. Do I not deserve to know what it feels like to be wanted at least once in my life before I commence my sentence?

Pen

Anthony,

I know your involvement with Miss Sharma upended your life and made you question your judgment, honor, and worth. If you need more time to make peace with your past, take all you need. I am not going anywhere, except perhaps to a cottage in the country with a cat. If so, I'll leave a forwarding address with an open invitation for you to visit. Until then, I shall gladly enjoy the benefit of your friendship.

Yours,

Pen

~z~

Now

Anthony and Colin accompanied Eloise, Francesca and Lord Samidani to the library opening as chaperones that afternoon. After entering, Francesca immediately took her suitor's arm and broke off from their group to remove herself from the tension enveloping them. Colin and Eloise weren't far behind (eager to get away from him, apparently), the former seeking out his mates and the latter, Miss Cowper.

Anthony surveyed the room and spotted Penelope standing with her mother and Lord Debling discussing a book on the Northwest Passage, so he approached them. While he thought the man was daft to attempt such a journey, Anthony had to admit to being curious about the logistics. Lady Featherington preened when he arrived, basking in the interest that not one, but two, lords were showing her daughter.

Any hope Debling may have had of a match with Pen was snuffed out, however, when Anthony planted a lingering kiss on her hand and then took over holding the book so that she could take his arm with one of hers and point out sections of interest.

~z~

Then

Penelope giggled when he came into view. Giggled.

"What?"

"I am sorry. I do not mean to laugh. But, Anthony, you make a terrible footman."

Anthony looked down at himself in the footman's uniform he had procured that matched the powder blue maid's outfit Pen was wearing. He smoothed his hands over the front of the coat and asked, "What is wrong with it?"

"Nothing. It's not the outfit, it's the way you wear it. No one will believe you work for a living if you carry yourself so regally," Pen explained. "Plus the signet ring is a dead giveaway."

Anthony looked down at his hand, at the ring passed from his father to him, and blew out a breath. He used the thumb and index finger of his other hand to pull it off and carefully placed it on the fireplace mantle. "That's one problem solved. But I'm not sure what to do about the other. I am who I am, Pen."

She stepped forward and smoothed the wrinkles out of his sleeves, straightened his cravat, and ensured his powdered wig was sitting correctly before saying, "Then perhaps think about who you could be if you weren't a peer. How would Mister Anthony Bridgerton carry himself if he spent day and night caring for naught but his horses?"

"I do not know. I have never thought about it."

"Well, then tonight is your opportunity."

~z~

Now

"You look like shit," Anthony said from the doorway of his study as Colin stumbled toward the stairs.

His brother gave him a two-fingered salute and tried to step up the bottom stair, missed, and had to grab the railing with both hands for balance.

Anthony sighed and closed the distance between them. He looped one of Colin's arms around his neck and put his shoulder under his armpit.

As they gingerly walked up the steps, his brother muttered, "She was mine first, you know. How could you steal her from me? I don't think I can live without her. I miss her so much."

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek and counted to ten in his mind to reign in his temper before answering. "First of all, Pen is a person, not a possession. She cannot be stolen. And, second, brother, you've managed to live perfectly well without her thus far. So, somehow, I think you'll manage."

When they reached Colin's room, Anthony helped his brother discard his coat, cravat, boots, and waistcoat before laying him on his sheets on his back. He sat down next to him and swiped his hair from his forehead. "In a family of eight siblings, it is natural to want what someone else has. Not because you truly want it, but because you simply do not have it."

"Mmm-hmm …" Colin murmured, clearly drifting into sleep.

Anthony bent down and placed his palms on the mattress. He leaned in and whispered, "Think about it," before kissing him tenderly on the temple and exiting.

~z~

Then

"And, finally, you must let me do all the talking."

"But what if he tries to rip you off?"

"Then you stand there and glower over my shoulder while I handle it."

"But…"

Pen leaned across the carriage and laid a hand on his knee. "I appreciate you coming with me tonight, Anthony, but I can take care of myself. I have been negotiating with printers on behalf of Whistledown for a long time."

"Then why am I even here?"

Pen smiled. "Because I want you to be."

~z~

Now

The Queen's Ball was just as Anthony expected it would be, full of splendor and drama. The Queen was doing everything she could to cement a match between Francesca and Lord Samidani, but Francesca's clear preference for Lord Stirling was making it difficult. Personally, Anthony had been rooting for the Scottish lord from the get-go, as he shared his sister's preference for quiet and space; but, after Daphne's mess of a season, Anthony opted to stay out of his sisters' courtships unless absolutely necessary. He was already blamed for too much in the Bridgerton household. He didn't need to add responsibility for one of his sisters' lifetime of abject misery due to an unsatisfactory marriage to the list, too.

Since Colin had opted to stay home, he and Ben escorted their sisters. Eloise's clear favoritism toward Benedict left Anthony with Fran, but he did not mind. The two of them entered and took a turn about the room, happily chatting, until she was scooped up by Samidani. Once free, Anthony made a beeline for Pen, who was already in attendance and standing with her family.

"Good evening, Miss Featherington," Anthony greeted upon reaching her. Tonight she was dressed in a burgundy gown with a low neckline, puffy sleeves, and layers of sparkling gems on the outskirt. Her hair was pulled back on each side, but otherwise loose and free. "I trust your evening is going well?"

Anthony motioned for her dance card and Pen extended her arm. "It is, my lord. However, I am finding the lull between the ballet and the dancing to be rather dull, if I am being honest." When Anthony was done signing for the first waltz, he transitioned his grip from her card to her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss. "I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps your evening will pick up once the dancing starts."

When he squeezed her fingers, clad in wispy fingerless gloves, she squeezed back. Pen smiled and replied, "I certainly hope so."

~z~

Then

Anthony stared at Pen as the carriage rocked to and fro. Having finished her negotiation with the printer over this season's issues, they were on their way back to his apartment, where he would exit and she would continue homeward.

Pen's face was flushed from exhilaration and her eyes were bright with the satisfaction of victory. "You're a bloody marvel," Anthony stated.

"Thank you," she replied. "It is about time you recognize my superior quality, wit, and intellect." Pen's tone was teasing, which made Anthony laugh. "And, you're not so bad yourself."

He pretended to stab a knife though his heart. "Not so bad? You wound me, Pen."

This time, it was Pen that laughed "Well, someone has to knock you down a peg or two. Since everyone else is afraid of you, it might as well be me."

"Because you're benevolent like that?"

"Uhm-hmm. A real savior."

Anthony raised a brow. "Humble, too."

Pen winked, clicked her tongue and pretended to shoot at him with her index finger. "And don't you forget it."

Anthony guffawed.

Pen did, too.

~z~

Now

All things considered, the ball was going remarkably well. Since Benedict disappeared within a quarter-hour after their arrival and his mother and two sisters opted to return home early, that left Anthony completely free to stay by Pen's side the rest of the night.

They were in the middle of dancing their waltz, during which they were discussing the ridiculously amusing heir race her sisters were engaged in, when Anthony saw Colin enter the room.

His brother watched them dance for a few beats before walking over to them and asking to cut in to talk to Pen. Anthony was both humiliated and frustrated by his brother's behavior, but went to relinquish his hold on Pen anyway so that the two of them could finally hash out their issues.

However, before Anthony could let go, Pen squeezed his hand tighter and pulled him closer to her body. She turned to his brother and said, "Colin, we are dancing. Can this not wait?"

His brother looked put out by Pen's response. He replied, "It will just take a moment," and held out his hand for her to take.

Anthony was certain Pen's waist would have a bruise tomorrow given how tightly he was gripping it to keep a leash on his emotions. But Pen didn't seem to mind, as she knew how much he hated to lose composure in public. In fact, she was doing the same to him as Colin tried her already frayed nerves.

"Colin. The answer is no. Now, if you'll excuse us, your brother and I would like to continue celebrating our engagement."

Colin reeled back in surprise. "Your what?!"

~z~

Then

Anthony couldn't remember the last time he laughed like that. He'd come close the day he and Kate had gotten stuck in the mud during Pall Mall, but he had felt too guilty and confused to truly let his guard down. Tonight, though there were none of those emotions; and, Anthony felt freer than he had in a long time. With Penelope, he could just be Anthony, the man. She did not kowtow to him, nor did she seek to one-up him. Penelope was always just there to support him.

Anthony watched Pen swipe tears of mirth from her eyes and was hit with the desire to kiss her again. Friendship meant being there to be whatever the other person needed you to be when they needed it. It wasn't conditional, nor was it one-sided. Friendship, Anthony realized, had to be mutual to be true. So, tonight, Anthony decided that he would finally be there for Pen in the way she needed him to be.

If Pen required proof of her desirability, he would happily give it to her. Because the last thing that the vivacious, brilliant woman sitting across from him deserved to be is cold and lonely.

Anthony, who had tossed his wig to the side upon reentry into the carriage, slid off the bench and onto his knees in front of his friend. He cupped her cheeks and said, "If that invitation is still good, I would very much like to take you up on it."

Pen's jaw dropped open. "Anthony, are you sure?"

"I am," he confirmed. Anthony swiped his thumbs up and down her cheeks gently and added, "However, I have to confirm you are, too, before we go any further. Because once we take the step, it cannot be taken back," though.

Pen reached up and grasped his wrists. "I appreciate your consideration, but I have made my decision." Her grip tightened and her voice got husky. "I want you to ruin me, Anthony. I would not have suggested it otherwise."

"That's good then. Because I have wanted nothing more than to ruin you ever since that kiss," Anthony confessed as he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.

The carriage ride home with Colin was tense considering that his brother would not speak to him since leaving the ball. Anthony was aware that Penelope's refusal to allow Colin to cut in on their dance had hurt his feelings, but he couldn't help but be proud of Pen for standing up for herself. Anthony had been surprised by the casual way in which Pen had announced their engagement given that they hadn't spoken about marriage again since the other night. But Anthony was also pleased by the development, as there were far worse things he could do than marry a friend such as Pen. Their relationship was delightfully uncomplicated, which was the opposite of his attachment to Kate last season.

When they arrived home, Colin shot Anthony a furious glare and bounded out of the carriage and into the house as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. Anthony followed at a more sedate pace and sought out the rest of the family in residence, who were gathered in the drawing room examining, he assumed, Frannie's gift from Kilmartin. "Good, you are all here," Anthony said as he entered. "I have news."

His siblings looked at him curiously while his mother eyed him with dutiful expectation. "Miss Featherington and I are engaged."

Hyacinth and Gregory gasped in surprise while Fran shot him a supportive smile. Eloise, however, looked as if she swallowed a lemon and immediately spat, " You cannot marry he r."

Knowing this confrontation was going to come sooner or later, Anthony faced Eloise directly and asked, "Why?"

His sister looked at the other occupants of the room, who were all flabbergasted by her vehement negative reaction, and replied. "Because you do not know her."

Anthony pulled out his pocket watch to check the time before responding to her assertion. He had to meet Pen in an hour, so Anthony hurried the argument along. "I know that Penelope hates the fact that her mother dresses her in yellow, but has a fondness for some of the dresses anyway. I know that she shies away from competition, not because she can't win, but because she prefers to avoid conflict. I know that she can pick a winning horse, but despises gambling thanks to her father. I know that she prefers to read love stories, but will not turn down a book of fact that broadens her knowledge. And, lastly, Eloise, I know that her favorite Byron quote is, 'Of all bitches dead or alive, a scribbling woman is the most canine'." Anthony had looked his sister dead in the eye when he said the final sentence and did not miss her knowing flinch at the quote. Of course, their stare down left his family confused, so he broke eye contact, pasted a smile on his face, and added, "Because she loves to write both works of fiction and correspondence, of course," for their benefit.

Whether his family's collective sigh was in relief or due to his impassioned speech about his fiance, Anthony wasn't sure. He was certain, however, that Eloise did not like his answer based on her furious growl as she stormed out of the room.

~z~

When Anthony arrived at his lodgings, later than expected thanks to an interrogation by his mother on his engagement, Pen was already there. Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, she looked tantalizing with her hair loose and falling down her back. She had changed out of her gown from the ball and was wearing one of her dark half-mourning day dresses that she could easily get into and out of herself, which she often did on nights she delivered Whistledown drafts.

She leaned casually against the jam. "You're late."

"Apologies. The delay was unavoidable." Anthony crossed the space, shucking his coat and loosening his cravat as he went, until he was standing right in front of Pen. She reached up and slid his cravat off his neck and went to work on his waistcoat. "If the rest of your family took our news as well as Colin, I can only imagine what you had to deal with." When she was done with the buttons, Pen smoothed her hands down his open vest and then stepped back. "I am sorry for putting you in that position. I should not have said anything without discussing it with you first." Pen fisted her hands and clenched her jaw. "But he humiliated me, again, in public by cutting in and I couldn't stop myself…"

Anthony closed the distance between them and took Pen's fists in his hands. He rubbed them gently until they began to relax. "I was certainly surprised you announced it like that, but I am not upset. If I did not wish to marry you, Pen, I would not have brought it up." Once the tension left her hands, Anthony used his grip to pull her close and smiled. "It was an open invitation."

Pen dropped his hands and wrapped her arms around his neck. "An open invitation, you say?"

"Uhm-hmm," Anthony replied as he reached around her to open the buttons of her dress. "You're familiar with those, are you not?" he asked before dropping his head to plant a kiss behind her earlobe.

Pen craned her neck to give him better access and moaned, sending a jolt of desire straight to his groin. Anthony pushed the gown down her body until it pooled at her feet. Thankful that she was not wearing stays, he unwrapped her arms from around his neck and pushed them up so that he could yank her chemise off. Bare to his gaze, finally, Anthony latched onto one of her breasts with his lips as he used his hands to push her pantaloons down over her hips.

Pen gripped his head to hold him to her with one hand and grasped his bicep with the other so that she could step out of the circle of her clothing. However, instead of allowing her to back them into the bedroom like he usually did, Anthony picked her up bridal-style and carried her to the bed.

He dropped her unceremoniously on the mattress, eliciting a giggle, and set about undressing himself. Pen's amused expression turned hungrier with each item of clothing he discarded. By the time he was naked, her pupils were blown out and her breath was coming in pants. Anthony smirked. "Like what you see, baby?"

Pen worked her throat and raked her eyes up and down his body before opening her legs wide, taking two fingers, and swiping them through her glistening pink center. "I don't know. Why don't you tell me?" she asked saucily as she pulled them out and held them up to him. Anthony growled low in his throat and pounced, crawling up her body on the mattress until he could pull her fingers into his mouth. Pen's breath hitched when he sucked them clean and she arched her back in pleasure. "The results are inconclusive. Perhaps I need another taste to be certain," Anthony replied, moving back down her body.

However, Pen grabbed his face in her hands to stop him and pulled him back up. " Later ," she whispered throatily before lifting her hips impatiently. Anthony balanced his weight on his knees so that he could use his hands to separate her legs and place them outside of his hips. Once he was done, Anthony settled between her thighs and lowered himself flush against her body. He slid a hand behind her neck and pulled her lips to his for an intense kiss.

Pen let out an "mmm," and dug her nails into the back of his head with one hand while the other reached between them and lined him up with her entrance. The feel of her hand on his member made his hips buck involuntarily. Pen giggled into their kiss and tugged him into her. She was so warm and tight that Anthony couldn't help but groan once he was seated inside.

He held still for a moment, basking in the feeling, until Pen pushed upward. Anthony reflexively dipped his hips to meet hers and broke their kiss to urge her to hold on. Pen, tresses spread over the pillow like fire, burrowed into the mattress and locked her ankles behind him for the ride.

Propping himself up with one elbow, Anthony set a pace that Pen reveled in. As her writhing grew in intensity and her sounds of pleasure got louder, the hand that was under her neck slowly moved down her body until it was between them so that he could press down on her clit with each thrust. When her body began to tense, Anthony sensed she was close, so he switched to the bruising pace that always got her off.

The moment Pen shattered, milking him for all he was worth, Anthony grunted and moved to pull out, but Pen held him close. " Don't go ," she whispered.

Anthony was too far gone to speak, so he asked Are you certain? with his eyes.

Pen nodded and Anthony let go.

~z~

"We cannot continue to meet," Pen stated softly once their bodies had cooled and they were lounging in bed.

Anthony sighed. "I know."

Pen, who was tucked against his side with her head on his chest, shifted so that she could look up at him. "We will be under too much scrutiny. We cannot risk it."

"And what about Whistledown?"

"I believe I can count on Gen and Rae for help, at least until after the wedding."

"And after the wedding? What will you do then?"

"I do not know, Anthony."

Anthony took a deep breath and eased himself out from under his betrothed. He then shifted himself so that he could sit against the headboard and motioned for Pen to follow. Once she was sitting by his side, Anthony said, "I would never stop you from writing, Penelope. But I would not be disappointed if you found another outlet besides Whistledown."

Pen opened her mouth to speak, but he gently put a hand over it. "Listen, please," he implored. She nodded, so he took his hand away and continued. "The Queen will not stop until she unmasks you and I am worried for both your safety and the safety of the family should you continue to write after the wedding. The risk, Pen, may not be worth the reward. Not anymore."

Pen held her counsel as she worked through her thoughts on the matter. After a period of silence that felt interminable, Pen spoke. "What if I continue on through the end of the season and then let the column fade away? Quitting around our wedding would raise too much suspicion. This way, I will be able to retire on my terms while still protecting our family into the future."

Anthony bussed a quick kiss on the top of her head. "I can live with that."

~z~

The next morning, Anthony was working in his study when Benedict popped his head in. "So, I read a curious piece of news in Whistledown this morning, brother."

Anthony closed his ledger and He leaned forward with his elbows on his desk as Ben entered and closed the door behind him. "And what would that be?"

"That you are engaged to Penelope Featherington."

"And where, pray tell, did you happen to read this morning's copy already?" Anthony clapped back in a teasing way.

Ben sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Smiling enigmatically, he said, "Tsk, tsk, brother. We aren't talking about my love life. We are talking about yours."

Anthony rolled his eyes. "Yes, we are engaged. We plan to marry in a month."

Ben rose a brow. "No special license?"

"Not unless one becomes necessary."

~z~

A few hours later, after requesting his mother handle the plans for an impromptu engagement party, Anthony headed over to Featherington House to call on Pen. Upon entering, Anthony heard the raised voices of Pen and her mother and rushed to the drawing room.

Portia was holding up a copy of Whistledown. "This is how I find out about your engagement?"

"Forgive me, Mother, but I did not much feel like informing you of it after our conversation last night."

"I will not apologize for advising you to entrap the viscount before his interest wanes. He is a bird in the hand, Penelope, and a fine one at that. You need to be smart, girl, to ensure he doesn't fly away before you can lock him in."

"Why are you so certain, mama, that his interest will wane? Am I so unattractive in your eyes that the only way I can get Lord Bridgerton to marry me is by trapping him?"

"No. But you need to be reasonable about what you can achieve, daughter. You are no Kathani Sharma."

Pen's mother seemed like she was going to say more, but she wisely stayed silent when Anthony barged in and moved to Pen's side. He took her hand in his and said, "You are correct, Lady Featherington, Pen is no Kathani Sharma. And I am profoundly grateful for that," before dragging her out of the room behind him.

~z~

Anthony leaned over and closed the curtains of his carriage once he and Pen were ensconced inside.

"Thank you for that," Pen said from next to him. "No one has ever defended me before."

Anthony raised his arm around and laid it across her shoulders to pull her into him. "You're welcome."

Pen wrapped her arms around his torso and snuggled close. "So, did you have a reason for stopping by or…"

"I thought you might like a trip to the modiste today."

~z~

Anthony wanted nothing more than to go to the modiste with Pen, both to help her pick out some flattering fabrics for the new dresses he commissioned for her and to learn how she planned to enlist Madame DeLaCroix' help with Whistledown. But, instead, Anthony dropped her off at the back entrance and continued on his way to the jeweler so that he could pick out a betrothal ring. Once he was done with that, Anthony stopped at both the book shop and the florist to pick out gifts to give her today.

Pen was waiting out back when he returned for her and quickly alighted sporting another hooded cloak, this one a striking shade of blue that did wonders for her complexion. As soon as the door was closed behind her, Anthony knocked on the roof of the carriage and pulled Pen into his lap. "Please tell me you ordered some dresses this color."

Pen wrapped her arms around his neck. "I did. And a few other accessories, too." Anthony raised a brow in question, but Pen shook her head and said, "You will have to wait and see."

"When's the wedding again?" Anthony asked like a child who was impatient to get to a destination.

"One month."

Anthony huffed and let his head fall back to the cushions, causing Pen to giggle. Her laughter was cut short, however, by the blare of the royal trumpets.

~z~

Pen's hand shook as she read the royal decree offering a reward for proof of Lady Whistledown's identity.

The day Anthony feared since learning her secret identity had finally come and he had no idea how to handle it.

~z~

"You rang," Eloise said snarkily as she entered his study and closed the door behind her.

Anthony stood and rounded his desk to meet her. "Sit, please," he asked.

Eloise eyed him suspiciously, but did as he requested. Anthony took the chair next to her and shifted it so that he was angled toward her rather than his desk. Anthony then grabbed the Queen's decree from the top of his desk and passed it to her. He gave his sister a moment to read it before he spoke. When it was clear from her facial expression that she finished, Anthony got on with what he needed to say. "I need you to give me your word that you will not disclose Pen's identity to the Queen for the reward."

Eloise looked up from the card with a shocked and wounded expression on her face, as if she was offended he even had to ask. But it was quickly replaced with a hardened one. "Why shouldn't I? Doesn't she deserve to hurt the way she hurt all of us?"

"I won't sit here and try to convince you to forgive Pen for what she wrote about you and this family. But, like it or not, she is going to be my viscountess. It will be my duty to protect her just as I protect all of you. So, I need your word, El. Promise me."

Eloise practically threw the card back at him. "Fine. I promise. But I will not live in the same house as her."

"Well, then I suppose you need to start making plans, sister. This is my house, so she will live here. You can either marry, stay with Daphne, visit Aunt Winnie in Bath, or convince mother to move to a dower house as soon as possible. It's your choice."

~z~

"What do you want me to do about Lady Danbury and the Sharma family, Anthony?"

"Do whatever you wish, Mother. You're going to anyway."

~z~

"I am leaving," Colin announced from the doorway of his study. "I cannot stand by and watch the two of you make a horrible mistake."

"That is your choice, brother," Anthony replied. "But at least stay for the engagement party to give the illusion that you wish us well."

"Are my funds contingent on it?"

"Yes."

"Then I suppose I have no choice. I will see you tomorrow night."

~z~

As expected, his mother invited Lady Danbury and the Sharma family to his engagement party. Anthony had hoped common sense would rule and she would enable all of them to avoid the awkwardness. However, Violet was nothing if not persistent when it came to her desire for her children to find true love matches. Even though she knew he had compromised Pen, his mother still seemed to hope he would fix things with Kate. (Of course, reconciling with Kate would leave Penelope conveniently free to be pursued by Colin, a fact that was not lost on Anthony.)

Fortunately, Penelope and her mother arrived before they did and he was able to greet his exes and the most formidable woman in the ton with his partner by his side. Penelope looked ravishing in a pale green gown with sheer sleeves and embroidered vines running vertically throughout it. Her hair was pinned up so that it fell at her shoulders and had one side falling more loosely than the other. She looked every bit the woman he knew her to be rather than the wallflower she was perceived as and left many of their guests, including Kate, gaping.

When Anthony drew her to the side to kiss her hand and tell her how beautiful she looked, Penelope returned the compliment, stating he looked handsome in his black double-breasted tailcoat and trousers and Bridgerton blue waistcoat and cravat. Her mother, of course, allowed her to stay by his side after greeting him and suggesting they let bygones be bygones. Before answering, Anthony looked to Pen. She shrugged as if she didn't care, so Anthony agreed.

As usual, Anthony did his best to keep a wide berth from Kate and Edwina, but was glad to see that Colin had taken up the mantle of playing host on his behalf. (The wide berth from him was likely the reason Colin was doing it, Anthony surmised.)

Eager to get the formalities over with, Anthony clinked a knife on his glass of champagne and asked for everyone's attention. "Thank you for coming tonight to celebrate my engagement to Miss Featherington. It is clear from the looks on many of your faces that we have taken you by surprise. But, trust me, no one was more surprised by us than me. While I have known Penelope for years as a friend of the family, I rarely interacted with her. And, let me tell you, that was my mistake. Because, once I got to know her, I realized that she was one of the kindest, smartest, and cleverest women in London. And I am grateful to soon be able to call her my wife." Anthony raised his glass and toasted, "To Pen."

"TO PEN!" a chorus rang out afterward.

Anthony basked in Pen's blush as his mother shooed everyone from the hall to the drawing room for charades. Overall, the game went fairly well except for a few awkward moments between Pen and Eloise, who, despite their estrangement, seemed to be of one mind when it came to answering the questions.

However, the evening took a turn when their guests started to speculate about Lady Whistledown's identity. Pen's normally unflappable demeanor began cracking as gossip raged around her in light of the reward money. The cracks split completely, however, when Colin commented that he couldn't wait until someone rooted her out so that she would get what was coming to her for all the people she'd hurt.

Penelope hastily excused herself from the room and Anthony looked to Eloise to follow and check on her, but his sister was having none of it. She immediately turned away from his glance and engaged Cressida Cowper (who had invited herself to the party) in conversation. So, Anthony waited a few minutes and then sought Pen out. Anthony found her alone in the study practically hyperventilating and did the best he could to calm her down by encouraging her to breathe and holding her close.

"I have to leave before my absence is noted," Anthony stated reluctantly. "Will you be alright?"

Pen put her hand over the one he was using to cup her cheek and nodded. "Yes, thank you. I just need a moment and then I will be back."

Anthony leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her lips, which Pen eagerly reciprocated as she brushed his cheek with her free hand.

~z~

Anthony returned to the drawing room and was shocked to see Daphne and Simon there chatting with Benedict and Lady Arnold. Originally, they had sent their regrets due to his sister's third pregnancy, so Anthony wasn't sure what changed; but, he was grateful for the diversion they provided to allow him to enter the room covertly.

About five minutes later, Pen returned and seemed much less anxious. She was happily conversing with their new arrivals when Cressida Cowper suddenly stood up and announced that she was Lady Whistledown.

Anthony waited on the settee by the window for Penelope to join him the morning after their engagement party. She had begun to panic after hearing Cressida's announcement, but Anthony quickly positioned himself behind her so that he could place his hands on her shoulders and ground her in the moment. While it wasn't necessarily within the bounds of propriety for him to touch her so familiarly in public, no one said anything because they were too busy processing Cressida's assertion.

"Good day," Pen greeted upon entering the room.

Anthony stood and greeted her back before sitting down again and tugging her down with him. He leaned in close. "How are you this morning?"

Pen glanced at her mother, who was doing a horrible job pretending not to spy on them, and replied, "As well as can be expected."

"Leave it to Miss Cowper to take that which is not hers. I am sorry our party was ruined."

Pen smiled wistfully. "It was a nice night up until then."

He returned it. "Yes, it was."

Anthony took her hand and kissed it. When his touch lingered long after he'd put their hands back down, Lady Featherington cleared her throat. Pen blushed and Anthony pulled away to dig the ring out of his coat pocket. "That reminds me. This is for you," Anthony stated as he opened the box to reveal the betrothal ring he bought. It was similar to his mother's ring, but was instead composed of a flower set in diamonds rather than pearls. Pen gasped when she saw it. "Oh, Anthony, it's lovely. Thank you."

Anthony took her left hand, which was stained with ink (as usual), and slid the ring on. "Not as lovely as you," he replied honestly.

Before he left, he presented her with the book he bought the other day, but forgot to give her in all the commotion. The fact that a letter fit nicely inside it was simply a welcome coincidence.

~z~

Later that day, Anthony was lounging in the family study with Benedict and Simon when Humbolt knocked on the door and announced a letter for him. He thanked the man and went to leave to read it, but was stopped by questioning stares from his companions.

"We all know it is from Penelope, brother, so you may as well read it," Ben said knowingly.

"Yes, do not leave on my account," Simon commented. "Ben filled me in."

Anthony shot his brother a scathing look before breaking the seal.

Dearest Anthony,

To answer your question, I do not know what to do. Letting you-know-who to take the blame for you-know-what should be easy. However, I find it is not. The thought of allowing her to take credit for my life's work is breaking both my heart and my spirit.

That said, perhaps it is for the best, as you suggested, because it will allow us to focus on our future together as Lord and Lady Bridgerton without this hanging over our heads. Maybe I could even start my novel (when I am not otherwise occupied, that is).

I implore you to give me some grace as I work through my complicated feelings on this matter.

I miss you,

Pen

~z~

Anthony had just finished reading Pen's letter when Colin burst into the room. He saw the three of them sitting there and immediately halted. "Pardon me," he said. "I just came to collect some of my things."

"Are you still planning to leave then?"

Anthony asked.

"Yes," Colin stated. "But, I spoke at length with Edwina last night and she encouraged me to stay through the wedding despite my feelings on the matter. It is important to present a united front and not give that Whistledown woman, or, I suppose, Miss Cowper, any hint of dissention to report upon."

Anthony nodded tightly, grateful to his former fiancé for her both her levelheadedness and ability to get through to Colin. "Thank you, Colin."

"Don't mention it. I'm not doing it for you. I am doing it for Pen."

After Colin collected his belongings, which appeared to be journals, he left, leaving both Ben and Simon confused in his wake.

~z~

Anthony was beyond grateful when their banns were read at church and no one objected. He knew his mother wouldn't embarrass the family by stating a public objection, but he had no idea if Colin or Kate would stay quiet.

As the congregation made its way to the exit, Anthony hung back to speak to Pen. He immediately kissed her on her left hand right above the ring he'd given her. "Hi."

"Hello," she replied, tucking her fingers into his hand to grasp it tightly. "It's very good to see you."

Anthony used his free hand to swipe a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. "I've missed you, too."

Pen worked her throat and took a cautious glance around before laying her free palm on his chest and stepping closer. "Only three more weeks."

Anthony let go of her hand and gently rubbed her biceps under her the puffy sleeves of her new blue dress. Then he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I am counting down the minutes until I can be inside you again."

Pen smiled up at him and whispered back, "So am I."

~z~

When Anthony and Pen made their way out of the church, they ran into Daphne outside the door. She shot him a You can't fool me look before entwining her arm in Pen's free one and pulling her out of his grip to escort his fiancé down the steps and over to Simon, Francesca, and John.

Left alone, Anthony surveyed the scene and noticed Eloise and Cressida having a clandestine meeting behind some coaches, as well as Colin, Edwina, and Kate deep in conversation. Both Lady Danbury and his mother were looking between him, Pen, and the Sharma sisters with Colin.

Not wanting to willingly put himself in the middle of whatever futile scheme they were implementing, Anthony made a beeline to Benedict and Gregory to see what they were up to.

~z~

Anthony was writing a reply to Pen's letter, which he planned to sneak in a book he had taken from the family library to give her tomorrow, when Daphne burst in.

"You, brother, are a piece of work," she announced before slamming the door and locking it behind her.

Anthony groaned and pulled the nearest ledger over top of the letter. "Good afternoon to you, too, sister."

Daphne plopped down in one of the wingback chairs angrily and eyed his sideboard with longing before turning her full attention back on him. "Is she with child?"

"Who?"

"Do not insult my intelligence by playing dumb," Daphne admonished.

"Then perhaps you shouldn't insult mine by assuming I don't know how to prevent pregnancy." Anthony stood from his chair and made his way to the sideboard to pour himself a drink. When he was done, he faced his sister, took a sip, and said, "I learned from the best after all."

Anthony momentarily regretted his words when Daphne flinched, but he was sick of the women in his family interfering in his life. What he did and with whom was his business and his alone.

"That was cruel."

Anthony walked back to his desk and sat down. "I apologize. It was uncalled for. But so is your interference, Daphne."

Daphne leaned as far forward as her distended stomach would allow and placed her hands on his desk. "Penelope is not like us, brother. She doesn't have anyone to look out for her, especially since her falling out with Eloise. My only concern is for her reputation."

"I appreciate that, sister, but I assure you that Pen is more than capable of taking care of her own reputation," Anthony replied as he swirled the liquid in his glass.

Daphne leaned back again and studied him before saying, "You care for her," in a somewhat astonished voice.

"I do. She is my dearest friend."

"You do not have many of those," Daphne joked. "So, I suppose it's best to keep her close then."

Anthony rolled his eyes and said a mocking, "Haha," in response.

"If you'd like to tell me how you became friends, Anthony, I'd be more than happy to listen."

Anthony locked eyes with his sister, who conveyed her sincerity in her gaze, and took a breath. "It all started the night of the Featherington ball…"

~z~

Anthony joined Benedict, Simon, Colin and John Stirling, Fran's new fiancé, later that evening at Mr. Mondrich's club for its last hurrah. The former boxer was selling his establishment due to his son inheriting the Kent estate and he was not happy about it. Simon was doing his best to cheer the man up, but it was not working all that well. So, they opted to get him drunk instead.

All of them were long into their cups when John suddenly blurted, "Your mother does not like me."

Benedict waved him off and said, "She doesn't not like you."

"Well, it certainly doesn't feel that way."

Anthony chimed in with, "Mother likes you. She just has a very specific idea of what kind of matches she wants for her children. If a match doesn't meet her standards, she can be aloof."

"What is wrong with mother wanting us to find love?" Colin, clearly frustrated by Anthony's assessment, asked. "She only wants us to be as happy with our spouses as she was with father."

Anthony slammed his glass down on the table. "Love doesn't equate happiness, Colin. Sometimes it brings nothing but misery."

"So, what? You're just going to settle for a convenient marriage to Pen while you're still in love with Kate because you're too scared to try again?"

"Colin …" Benedict interjected, but Anthony cut him off with a, "Yes," of steel.

Colin shook his head ruefully. "I can't believe you, Anthony. How can you, in good conscience, do that to her?" Colin paused and took a breath. "At least I hold affection for her that could turn into love one day," he shared in a softer, almost wistful voice.

Anthony laughed, but it was harsh. "That may be true, Colin. But you have also hurt her tremendously. You denigrated Pen to your mates, making her the laughingstock of the ton, and then you humiliated her by cutting in on our dance when she told you to your face to keep your distance. And that was all after you made a point to tell her she did not count as a woman in your eyes. Pen and I may never fall in love, but at least she can be content in the fact that I would never hurt her the way you have."

~z~

Anthony's head was pounding the next morning thanks to far too much liquor. He took a light breakfast in his room before dressing and leaving his chambers to head over to Featherington House to call on Pen. However, he was stopped short in the foyer by Eloise, who said, "The Queen has demanded proof from Cressida."

When he nodded in acknowledgment, she added, "I thought you should know," before disappearing up the stairs.

~z~

Any hope Anthony had of talking to Penelope about Eloise's news died the moment he stepped into the Featherington drawing room and was immediately pulled into wedding planning with Pen and her mother for the duration of his visit.

~z~

Anthony did not see Pen again until later that evening at the Mondrich ball. She looked fantastic in a light green gown adorned with various types of flowers. Her hair was pinned up on the sides and adorned with a matching floral headpiece. For his part, Anthony was wearing black trousers, a double-breasted navy blue tailcoat, and a white cravat and waistcoat. They made quite the pair as they danced around Mrs. Mondrich's mechanical floral centerpiece.

If Anthony didn't count his inability to speak to Pen about Whistledown, all was going well. His mother was leaving them be, Francesca and John seemed happy together, and Kate was keeping her distance as she hovered over Edwina and her bevy of suitors.

Of course, that changed when Cressida Cowper and her mother entered and were summoned to the Queen's dais. Anthony and Pen shamelessly watched as Charlotte gave them a dressing-down. She was on the verge of tossing them out when the doors opened and footmen began delivering cardstock with Whistledown imprinted on it.

Anthony picked one up from the nearest tray and read it aloud to Pen, who began panicking and glancing around the room nervously. She managed to catch Eloise's eye and left his side to meet her friend. Anthony followed and caught their conversation, which was more like half of one since he couldn't make heads or tales out of it based on their lack of actual words.

Anthony pulled them both into a nearby room and closed the door so the three of them could speak freely about the issue. It was torturous for him to listen to each of them blame themselves for the mess they were now in, yet he held his silence. When the two of them came up with the idea for Pen to publish again to discredit Cressida, Anthony jumped in.

"So, let me get this straight, Eloise. You have been treating Pen like persona non grata for months because of what she wrote about you, yet you expect her to publish to save you, once again, from something you brought on yourself?"

Since his sister gaped like a fish at his words, Anthony turned to Pen. "You do not have to do this. I sincerely doubt she will be able to write an actual issue. Please think about what's at stake for us first."

Pen glanced at Eloise nervously before grasping his hand and pulling him to the side of the room for some privacy. "It's all I have been doing, Anthony. I was willing to let the column die with her, but I simply cannot stand by and let Cressida usurp my identity and ruin everything I worked so hard to build."

~z~

Anthony understood Pen's desire to protect her legacy, but he wasn't willing to put her safety at risk to do it now that the entire ton was out to get Whistledown. So, he asked Eloise to cover for him with their family so that he could accompany Penelope on the delivery.

She wrote the edition from the carriage, which was quite impressive, and implored him to stay in the coach while she spoke to the printer. Despite his instinct to protect her, Anthony acquiesced to her wishes. He watched from the curtained vehicle as Pen, clad in her green hooded cloak, made the drop with her adorable Irish accent.

However, the smirk that graced his face at the printer's accommodating, "Anything for Lady Whistledown," was quickly extinguished when Pen turned around and was stopped in her tracks by a furious Colin.

a breaking point just before their big day while Penelope's decision to discredit Cressida threatens to come back to haunt her.

Since Penelope was both capable and adept at fighting her own battles, especially when it came to Whistledown, Anthony had to physically grasp the seat of the carriage to stop himself from intervening in Colin and Pen's discussion.

Pen stayed quiet as his brother quietly raged over her secret identity. She was Whistledown? She had written all those damning things about him and his family? She printed tonight's edition?

Pen answered him clearly and succinctly, if not tearfully, throughout his interrogation until he mentioned deliberately following her. "You followed me? Why?"

Colin answered that he thought her coachman was abducting her, but Anthony could tell he was lying due to the substantial pause between her question and his answer.

"You're lying," Pen replied. "If you followed me from the ball, you had to know that Anthony was in the carriage with me. What were you hoping to discover Colin?"

Anthony took her mention of his name as his cue, so he opened the door and disembarked. "Yes, brother, what did you expect to find?" Anthony asked as he moved to stand beside Pen.

"CERTAINLY NOT THIS!" he shouted before taking a long step backward and glaring at both of them. "I will never forgive you. Either of you," Colin decreed harshly before pivoting on his heel and walking away.

~z~

After Colin had faded into the shadows, Anthony helped Pen back into the carriage and sat down beside her to hold her as she cried her eyes out yet again over his brother.

He wanted to take her back to his lodgings so that he could take care of her, but she insisted on returning home.

With their wedding only a week away, Pen refused to allow Colin's discovery to put all their careful plans in jeopardy.

~z~

Anthony made sure to be present for breakfast the next day when both issues of Whistledown came. His mother nearly had an apoplexy when she read what he assumed to be Cressida's version of the pamphlet, but she quickly relaxed upon seeing Pen's issue and let out a relieved, "Oh, thank God."

Anthony demanded to see both issues when she was done. At first, Violet tried to dissuade him from reading it, clearly embarrassed by what was written, but he held his hand out until she relented and passed it to him. As Anthony read the drivel the Cowper chit wrote questioning his siblings' parentage, he felt a very real desire to murder her. When he was done reading it, he glared at Eloise and commanded her to follow him to the nearby family study.

Once they were locked in the room, Anthony pressed the column into his sister's hand and ordered her to read it. He watched with satisfaction as she began to pale at what her supposed friend wrote and then asked if it was worth it.

"If what was worth what?"

"You befriended Cressida to hurt Penelope the way she hurt you. Was the scandal you nearly brought on this family, again, worth the satisfaction of seeing Pen twist in the wind?"

"No," Eloise whispered.

"What was that? I didn't hear you?"

"No, Anthony. It wasn't," she said louder. "And, I am sorry."

"I am not the person you need to apologize to, El."

"I know. I shall call on her later."

"I am due to meet Penelope for a promenade. Benedict was going to chaperone, but you are welcome to join me instead."

~z~

Lady Featherington was not pleased to see that Eloise had accompanied Anthony to Rotten Row and was even less so to witness him trailing behind the friends as they talked in hushed voices as they walked.

Anthony could hear bits and pieces of both Eloise's apology and Pen's responses. Both women were clearly eager to reconcile; however, they seemed cautious about jumping back into their friendship with both feet. Anthony supposed that was to be expected given the hurt they both experienced, but he was glad that their wedding would not be marred by the friend's estrangement.

~z~

When Anthony and Eloise arrived home, they were stopped at the foot of the stairs by Colin. "How long have you known?" he asked them angrily.

Anthony exchanged a look with Eloise and responded for both of them. "Since the Featherington ball."

Eloise took a step toward her other brother, "You know, the one where you humiliated Pen with your public decree never to court her."

Eloise crossed her arms in front of her body as she spoke, which made Colin step backward and put his hands up in front of himself defensively. "I apologized for that," he ground out, desperate to hang onto his righteous fury.

Eloise waved her arms wildly at her sides. "Well that makes it all better, then, doesn't it? I'm certain her hurt and humiliation vanished the moment you deigned to grace her with your apology."

Colin flinched at her words. "El…"

"And I am confident that Pen was overjoyed when you assured her you didn't mean it the way it sounded rather than not meaning to say it in the first place," she added sarcastically.

"How do you…" Colin asked, flabbergasted.

"Penelope's maid was outside the door, Colin. She is quite close to my maid. Just because I was hurt, didn't mean I didn't care. I would throttle you within an inch of your life if I could, but then I would be denying you the opportunity to reflect upon how happy your travels have made you. Travels that were made possible because Pen had the good sense to save you from yourself."

With that, Eloise turned back to Anthony, looped her arm through his, and began walking back up the stairs toward the drawing room stating that, if they hurried, they might catch the end of tea time.

~z~

"Lord Bridgerton. Lady Bridgerton. We are so happy you could join us today," Lady Featherington preened as she led them through the house to the room where she planned to hold the wedding breakfast. By all rights, their wedding breakfast should have been held at Bridgerton House; however, Anthony was willing to let Pen's mother host. Given his mother's reticence on his union and the on-again, off-again estrangements between Pen and his siblings, it made sense to Anthony to keep his family as minimally involved as possible in the plans.

"I apologize for the delay in visiting, Lady Featherington, but, as you can imagine, I have had many loose ends to tie up prior to the wedding. Most of my time the past few days has been taken up with meetings regarding the management of the estate while we are on our honeymoon."

"Of course, my Lord," Pen's mother replied. "I did not mean to insinuate that you were apathetic regarding the plans. Only that much has occurred in your absence that Penelope and I need your approval on."

Anthony moved closer to Pen, who had been standing at a polite distance away from him. He grasped her hand and tugged it through his elbow to bring her body next to his in an acceptable way and said, "Penelope has carte blanche to make decisions related to the wedding. She knows my wishes and I trust her to handle things as she sees fit."

Anthony smiled down at Pen after his words and was rewarded with a blinding smile in return.

What, after all, was marriage without trust?

~z~

Colin was conspicuously absent for Anthony's stag gathering at White's. However, he had a nice time socializing with Benedict, Simon, John, and Will. At first the other men seemed concerned, but Anthony assured them that all would be well. He stated that Colin and Eloise had a tiff and speculated that his brother was taking some time to himself because of it.

It was mostly the truth. Anthony, however, omitted the fact that he and Colin had gotten into a serious argument earlier in the day that had left him shaken over the status of his relationship with his brother.

Colin felt betrayed by both him and Penelope because of Whistledown. He questioned why Anthony didn't tell him and how he could take Penelope's side even after all the damage she caused to the family.

After what felt like ten rounds of arguing in circles, Colin finally landed on the real reason for his upset: Anthony stealing Pen from him behind his back. Despite Anthony's argument (again) that Penelope was a person, not a possession and, therefore, couldn't be stolen, Colin remained steadfast. Pen was his and Anthony betrayed him by pursuing her without talking to him first.

Having had enough, Anthony eventually told his brother to move past it. He had two seasons to make her his wife and couldn't be bothered to do so. It was only a matter of time before someone else stepped in and married her. Before leaving, he encouraged Colin to think about who he was really angry at: Anthony for proposing or himself for not doing so.

~z~

Anthony lingered at White's for some time after the others left and then decided to go for a walk. He was both eerily calm and incredibly restless about the wedding tomorrow and believed that movement would help him get a handle on his emotions. He had just turned the corner onto Bond Street when he saw Penelope walking toward him at a hurried pace in her green hooded cloak.

"And what do we have here?" Anthony asked as soon as she was close enough to hear him.

Pen, who had been looking at the ground, jumped at his words. She put a hand on her heaving chest and said, "Good Lord, Anthony. You nearly gave me a heart attack."

He smirked. "Sorry. But, in all seriousness, Pen, what are you doing out here alone at this hour the night before our wedding?"

Pen dropped the hand from her chest and frowned. Then she stepped up on a nearby curb so she could be of equal height to him. She crossed her arms over her chest and reforted, "I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing out here all alone at this hour the night before our wedding?"

"Taking a walk," he answered truthfully.

"Having a drink with Gen," she replied.

The two of them stood there in silence for a moment before both breaking out into laughter. God, he needed that. It had been weeks since he'd had any form of release for all the tension stored in his body.

Thinking about tension and release, though, had the mirth quickly vanishing from his countenance as he thought about his favorite way to achieve relaxation. Pen must have been thinking the same thing because she bounded toward him just as he moved into her space. They captured each other's lips in a fierce, feral kiss that had his cock standing at attention in two seconds flat.

Anthony, longing for her heat, pushed his hips into hers and was rewarded by her immediately mimicking the motion. He growled and pulled her flush against him as he stepped up onto the curb and walked them back to a nearby shadowed doorway. Pen immediately lifted one of her legs to wrap around his hip, so Anthony took her cue and snuck his hand under her skirts. Pen moaned as he slid it slowly up her thigh and buried it in her molten core.

Anthony broke the kiss and Pen threw her head against the door to give his lips free reign on her neck. Anthony latched onto her pulse point and sucked while his fingers probed, twisted, and pressed her toward orgasm. Pen gripped the back of his head with one hand as she clawed at the sleeve of his long black overcoat with the other. "Please, Anthony," she begged as her hips undulated in time with his motions.

"I've got you, baby," he whispered into her ear before nuzzling her jawline with his nose on the way to capturing her lips once more, this time with a tender, languid kiss that belied the urgency they both felt and always somehow drove her wild. His tongue invading her mouth sensually was enough to push her over the edge. Pen keened in ecstasy as her pussy coated his hand with her juices.

Anthony longed to drop to his knees and lick her clean, but knew this wasn't the time or place for that. So, he gently extricated his hand from beneath her skirts and wiped it on his pant leg. As Pen worked to catch her breath, he smoothed down her skirts and straightened her hair. Anthony indulged in one last thrust against her core and then slowly pushed her leg back to the ground. Once Anthony was certain she could stand on her own, he backed away and held out his other hand to her. "Let's get you home, shall we?"

Pen eyed the bulge in his trousers and frowned, but took his hand anyway. He led her to a nearby hack and helped her inside. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Anthony was about to close the door and give instructions to the driver when she leaned over and blocked it. Pen craned her neck so she could look up at the driver and said, "Grosvenor Square. And take the long way," in her Irish accent before grabbing his hand and asking, "Are you coming, mi'lord?"

Anthony chuckled at her double entendre and quickly alighted the carriage, closing the door firmly behind him.

~z~

Anthony was much less tense when he arrived home. The driver had indeed taken the long way and Pen used every extra minute they had together to return the favor he'd bestowed on her in the doorway. He'd had to practically bite his cheek bloody to keep from crying out as Pen worked magic on his cock with her lips, tongue, teeth, and hands. What she lacked in experience, she made up for in fervor and Anthony couldn't wait to see what she would do with his expert guidance once they were wed.

Anthony had just reached the top of the steps and taken off his overcoat when his mother appeared on the landing in her dressing gown. "You're home late."

Anthony held back an annoyed groan. "I stayed at the club longer than expected. I didn't mean to worry you, Mother."

"Having second thoughts?" Violet asked with a hopeful tinge to her voice.

"No. Not in the least," he replied firmly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get some sleep. Tomorrow is a big day."

~z~

Anthony walked out to wait at the altar for Pen with a surprising sense of peace enveloping him. Given the sheer volume of guests and the strife within his family, Anthony assumed he would feel slightly anxious. However, not even his mother's concerned expression, Colin's frown, or Kate's wistful gaze had managed to unnerve him. Deep down, Anthony knew that marrying Penelope was the right step, even if it closed the door on ever rekindling a romance with Kate. He loved her. Probably always would. But Anthony couldn't trust her.

In order to effectively run the Bridgerton estate and manage the family, he needed someone he could rely on. Someone who would always put him and his family first. Someone who wouldn't run away from difficult situations. And Kate wasn't that person. Her loyalty was to her family. And, while he couldn't fault her for that, he also couldn't risk coming in second either.

Pen was far from perfect, but she was steady. Her loyalty had always been with the Bridgerton family, even when it was detrimental to her. She would be a true partner for him, which he desperately needed in his viscountess. The fact that they were dear friends who also happened to be exceptionally compatible in bed was a bonus.

~z~

Anthony's breath hitched when the curtain parted to reveal Pen in her wedding dress. It was the same style as her green and black Parisian ball gown except that it was gold. The under layer of material was a richer gold that reminded him of the color of a gold bar while the outer layer was so light that it was almost off-white. As the outer layer of lace muted the color of the fabric of the gown, the darker gold of the fabric made the beaded lace layer stand out so that the dress landed on a middle-of-the road gold that made her red hair, which was pinned up the same way it was the day of their engagement party, burn like fire. Penelope wore a long veil that trailed behind her, as well as fingerless gloves that left her soft skin free to his touch.

Pen took a few steps and paused to look around at their guests before catching his eye and smiling at him. Anthony smiled back and nodded and Pen resumed her trek with her mother by her side.

When she reached him, she gave her mother her bouquet and took his outstretched hand. "You look beautiful," he whispered to her.

"Thank you," she whispered back with a slight blush as she took in his outfit for the first time, which consisted of black trousers, a navy blue double-breasted tailcoat, and gold waistcoat and cravat that matched her dress perfectly. A blue boutonnière of forget-me-nots completed his look.

Anthony stood there smiling at Pen until the minister cleared his throat.

~z~

The second Anthony heard the minister say, "You may now kiss the bride," he dove in and touched his lips to hers. The kiss was far more chaste than he would have preferred, but likely bordered on scandalous to their audience.

Anthony held onto Pen's hand for dear life as they turned to face their clapping guests and walk back down the aisle toward their new life together as Lord and Lady Bridgerton.

~z~

Anthony did his best to stay by Pen's side throughout the wedding breakfast, but they were eventually parted by none other than Eloise, who demanded a few moments of his wife's time. (If today was a preview on how the rest of his marriage would go when in Eloise's presence, Anthony couldn't help but wonder whether his encouragement their reconciliation was the best idea.)

Penelope's absence gave several people the opportunity to speak with him, including his mother, who had finally resigned herself to his practical match. She ended up wishing him well just as Kate approached him.

His former paramour was fighting tears in her eyes when she said, "Congratulations," and he found that he was, too, when he expressed his thanks. They stood there chatting for a few minutes, mostly about her concern over Edwina's recent strange behavior, when she suddenly asked, "Are you happy?"

As Anthony caught Pen in his peripheral vision laughing with her mother and sisters, he answered honestly with a, "Yes."

~z~

Anthony had just told Kate that he hoped she soon found whatever she was looking for in her life when Pen returned to his side. "How did that go?" she asked concernedly.

"Better than expected."

Pen reached up and laid her hand on his heart. "I am glad. Conversations like that are never easy."

"Have you spoken to Colin?"

"No. He is avoiding me."

Anthony placed his hand on top of hers. "I'm sorry."

Pen smiled wistfully and swiped a tear from her eye with her free hand before shrugging in a What can you do about it? way.

"Do you want to get out of here?" he asked.

Pen nodded and they began to make their way toward the door when the room was suddenly invaded by the Queen, who threw out all the guests except the Bridgerton family.

~z~

"I assure you, Your Majesty, that if such a thing were happening in my home, I would have known of it and put a stop to it years ago," Anthony stated. Technically, it was the truth, as Whistledown hadn't been operating under his roof, so he wasn't lying to his monarch.

Charlotte eyed each of them in turn, gave an ominous warning about outing Whistledown's identity sooner or later, and then took her leave.

After she was gone, Colin strode out of the room in a huff while the rest of them stared at each other in silence. Daphne looked between Simon and the doorway where Colin exited and quickly ran after him. His mother and Frannie were sharing confused glances while Eloise and Pen had another one of their wordless conversations. Simon and Lady Danbury whispered among themselves and threw furtive looks his way.

Anthony thought this was a wonderful moment to make a strategic retreat.

~z~

"What are you going to do?" Anthony asked Pen as he closed the door to his bachelor lodgings behind them.

Pen turned around to face him and took off her blue cloak. Handing it to him to hang up, she sighed. "I do not know, Anthony."

"Perhaps this is a sign that you should not continue? You will have your hands full learning to be viscountess, for the time being at least."

"But the thought of not publishing makes me feel like I am cutting off a limb. I am Whistledown, Anthony. I cannot stop being her because I have other things to do now."

Anthony removed his tailcoat and hung it up before stepping over to meet his wife where she was standing. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, "I am not saying that. I'm simply suggesting taking a break so that you can acclimate to our life together. Then, perhaps you could start the novel you've always wanted to write and use Lady Whistledown as your pseudonym."

Pen bit her lip. "May I think it over?"

"Of course. It's your decision, not mine. But I would appreciate it if you would talk to me before you take any action so that I can protect the family, if necessary." Anthony let go of her shoulders and held out his hand. "Deal?"

His wife smiled and took it. "Deal."

~z~

After shaking Pen's hand, Anthony released it and asked, "Are you hungry?" He added, "I believe Cook left us some food for the next few days," as he stepped around Pen and began heading toward the kitchen.

Anthony loosened his cravat and unbuttoned his waistcoat as he went. "Why don't you get changed and I'll see what I can find?" he suggested once he reached the doorway.

Anthony was busy rooting around in the cabinets and the icebox when he heard Pen clear her throat behind him. When he looked at her, he saw her standing sideways just inside the kitchen with her back angled to him. "I need some help, please."

Feeling like an idiot for forgetting she'd need his assistance, Anthony headed over to her and quickly undid the buttons. Once they were open, he carefully loosened the string on her corset so that she could slide it off herself. He caressed the nape of her neck lightly as he mentioned that Rae had dropped off a few things for her to wear while they were here, so she should be able to make herself comfortable while he grabbed them some food.

Anthony had to turn away from Pen to dig out a tray from one of the lower cabinets. He filled it with various smoked meats and cheeses, as well as some water for each of them. He shouted to Pen to meet him in the sitting room to eat before picking up the tray and turning around to head back out only to drop it at the sight of his naked wife standing right where he left her.

"FUCK!" Anthony exclaimed as he tried in vain to dodge the splash of the full water pitcher as it landed on the floor.

Pen giggled and Anthony mumbled, "It's not funny."

She made her way over to him, mindful of the broken glass and her bare feet, and clasped his hand to pull him out of the wreckage and toward her. Pen ran her hands over the wet spots on his waistcoat. "It looks like you're all wet, darling. Perhaps you should get out of these clothes."

Pen started undressing him as Anthony worked to process her use of darling for him in a non-joking way. He had to admit he got a little thrill out of hearing that come out of her mouth in her sultry bedroom voice instead of her sarcastic one.

Pen easily slid the waistcoat off his shoulders and untied and removed his cravat. She then unbuttoned the top half of his shirt and slipped his suspenders down his arms. When she reached for the button on his trousers, Anthony pulled his shirt over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up.

Pen immediately latched her lips onto one of his nipples as her hands worked to free him from his pants. Once the buttons were open, Pen wrapped her arms around his waist and snuck her hands down his waistband onto his buttocks. She kneaded his ass checks with her fingers as she used her grip to pull him against her. Like a moth to a flame, Anthony locked his arms around her body and grasped her behind to hold her tight against him as he bucked his hips into hers.

Pen gasped at the contact, causing her to release his nipple. Anthony took that as an opportunity to kiss her senseless, so he lifted one of his hands from her derrière to the back of her head to lock her lips in place against his. Anthony attacked her lips while he walked her backward toward the bedroom.

Once there, Pen lifted her hands out of his pants and frantically pushed them down his legs, clearly as eager to be skin-on-skin as he was after a month of separation. Anthony chuckled into their kiss over her impatience, which resulted in her biting down on his lip in retaliation. It hurt, but in the best way, so Anthony growled low in his throat and tried to pick her up to throw her on the bed.

However, Pen had other ideas and held herself stiff to avoid his grip. As she did so, she pivoted them so that he was the one with the mattress behind his knees. Suddenly, Pen broke their kiss and pushed his chest with all her might, causing Anthony to fall down onto the bed. Legs hanging over the side, Anthony propped himself up on his elbows and raised a brow. His wife smiled and licked her lips as she stepped closer and straddled him, impaling herself on his member.

Anthony groaned at the feeling of Pen surrounding him once again and reached up to anchor her hips and stop her from moving while he reveled in the pleasure. Pen didn't give him long, though, for she quickly grasped his biceps and tugged him up into a sitting position. She threw her head back and cried out at the angle change and Anthony took that as an opportunity to pepper her neck with nips and kisses. He released her hips so that he could use one arm to plaster her chest against his and the other to tangle in her hair, locking her in place and dislodging her hair pins in the process.

Pen moaned and immediately began undulating on his lap. Her pace started out slow but quickly sped up as she used him to chase her orgasm. Anthony didn't mind, though, as he was more than eager to be used if it felt this good. When Penelope's tempo increased to a breakneck speed, Anthony planted his feet firmly on the plush carpet and released her tresses to sneak his hand between them and catch her clit on each downstroke. Free of his hold, Pen took control of their embrace by using her hands to capture the sides of his face and attack his lips. Her kiss was urgent and biting and nearly consumed him whole with its intensity, so much so that he was powerless to stop himself from exploding. He murmured breathy apologies to Pen as he emptied himself inside her like a green lad wetting his wick for the first time. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when he was laying back down on the bed with his wife's boneless form on top of him, that Anthony realized his climax had triggered hers.

Notes:

Next: Pen and Anthony receive an unwelcome visitor the morning after their wedding and are NOT happy about it.

Notes for this chapter:

1. I first heard this song on a Cole & Alison fanvid for The Affair (https//watch?v=sUTR2YDXNWs) and thought it fit really well for Penthony where they are in their journey right now. They are leaning on each other as they try to find their way back to themselves, whoever those people are.

2. It was really important for me to have Eloise confront Colin about what he did to Pen last season, so I reworked the stair scene to do that.

3. Violet is done interfering now that Anthony is married and Kate is moving out of Anthony's sphere, at least in a romantic sense.

4. Colin is in his feels right now. Give him some grace.

5. Anthony and Pen are friends who have become partners in an equal, balanced relationship both in bed and out. Is that love? Does it even matter if it is or isn't if they are happy?

6. Don't you just love domestic Penthony? I like to think they would have been pretty comfortable with each other by this point and Pen would have taught Anthony how to take cait leads her.

What happens when two people who exist in the same sphere but rarely interact suddenly find themselves on a collision course of ruinous proportions?

Anthony was warm. Deliciously so. What surprised him, however, was that said warmth was concentrated in a singular area: his groin. Anthony fought against his exhaustion to open his eyes and found himself with a vision of Penelope with his cock in her mouth. When she saw that he had woken up, she winked and graced him with a suck so intense that his back arched off the bed of its own accord. Anthony moaned at the feeling and fisted the sheet to keep himself from coming down her throat. " Bloody hell ," he blurted as his eyes crossed from the pleasure.

Pen drew her mouth upward at an agonizingly slow pace that had him vibrating with need and released him with a pop. She laughed melodiously and said, "You're awake."

Anthony eyed his prick and replied. "In more ways than one, wife."

"I was beginning to think you were going to sleep the day away. I have been at this much longer than expected with no reward to show for it." As Penelope talked, she encircled him with her hand and began pumping up and down. Fully awake now, Anthony reached down and covered her hand with his. He forced her fingers to squeeze him tighter and pump faster with his grip. "Like this," he ground out.

Pen hummed her understanding, so he removed his fist and let her take back the lead as his hips began to thrust in time with her motions. He watched her watch him, gauging his level of pleasure by his reactions and thanked his lucky stars that he had the good sense to marry this woman. He'd had many hand jobs in his life, but very few had been with Penelope's level of enthusiasm and singular focus on his needs. Anthony's body started to tense as his orgasm approached, so he closed his eyes and threw his head back into the pillow in anticipation of the wave of pleasure, which hit when he felt his wife's tongue lick across the tip and her other hand squeeze his balls. Anthony fisted the sheets let out a stream of expletives as his cum spurted all over her hands and his abdomen.

Anthony kept his eyes closed and took several deep breaths to calm down. He heard Pen laugh again and the sheets rustle as she crawled up his body. He opened them when he felt her plop down beside him, her naked body resting half on his, completely mindless of his stickiness. She threw an arm across his chest and greeted, "Good morning, husband."

He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "Good morning, wife. Did you sleep well?"

"Like the dead. You?"

"Same."

Pen chastely kissed his pec. "Mmm, good," she murmured.

Anthony took a deep breath and said, "I did not realize how exhausted I was. Not only physically, but mentally."

Pen shifted her head on his chest so she could see him. "Keeping secrets certainly takes a toll. But a good night's rest does wonders."

Anthony reached over with his free hand and caressed her shoulder. "When was the last time you slept so soundly?"

"Not since before Whisledown first came out."

~z~

After returning the favor Pen bestowed on him, Anthony washed up and donned his robe and a pair of slippers. He had just finished cleaning up the broken dishes from last night and was preparing a breakfast tray for him and his wife when he heard an insistent knocking at the front door.

Anthony ignored it and carried the tray into the sitting room where Pen was waiting in a long blue nightrail and floral dressing gown. He sat the tray down and went to pour them some tea when Pen said, "Perhaps we should answer it. Whoever it is is clearly not going to go away if they have been knocking this insistently."

Anthony groaned, frustrated at being disturbed despite his strict instructions to his family, steward, and solicitor that he not be bothered except in the case of a life or death emergency. However, he acceded to his wife's wishes. Anthony tied the sash of his robe tightly and went to the door. He opened it with a harsh, " What?!" and was floored to find Cressida Cowper standing on the stoop.

~z~

Cressida, the brazen chit that she was, used Anthony's surprise to push her way inside the house. Once she was in the foyer and had a clear line of sight between Anthony at the door and Penelope in the sitting room, she said, "I do hope you had a wonderful wedding night," in a placatingly sarcastic voice.

Her words made Penelope jump up from her seat and rush to the doorway. "Cressida?" she asked, "What are you doing here?"

Anthony closed the door and walked around the woman to stand next to his wife. "I would like to know that, too."

The chit smiled wickedly and said, "I am here to find out how much my silence is worth to you."

~z~

If Pen hadn't grabbed his wrist, Anthony probably would have lunged at the viper who seemed intent on blackmailing them over his wife's secret identity. Instead, her touch provided him with a moment to take a breath before acting. Once he was calm and clear-headed, Anthony leaned into his role as Viscount Bridgerton. "Your silence is worth nothing, Miss Cowper."

She laughed. "Oh, I doubt that."

Anthony shrugged off his wife's grip and walked over to Cressida. Drawing to his full height to intimidate her, he stated, "Between the two of us, Penelope and I hold enough of your family's secrets to ruin the Cowper name so thoroughly that you and your parents will never be able to show your faces in London again. So, Miss Cowper, I suggest you think long and hard about what our silence is worth before you open your mouth again."

Anthony gave her time to panic and got a satisfying rush out seeing her eyes widen, cheeks flush, and breath quicken in fear over his words. He was about to throw her unceremoniously out of the house when Penelope implored him to wait. She padded over to her bully, patted her on her arm, and said, "Tell me what is wrong. Perhaps we can help."

~z~

Penelope led Cressida into the sitting room to talk after sending him to dress. Anthony did so, quickly and informally, so that he could return to the conversation as soon as possible. He returned just in time to hear Pen sigh and say, "As far as friends go, you could not find a better one than Eloise. However, she and her sisters live with a privilege that you, I, and many others do not have: the security of knowing your family will always be there to support you."

Anthony halted outside the open doorway and listened as Pen continued speaking. When his wife said, "That security provides her the luxury of talking about the things she'd like to do in her life without having to stick her neck out to actually do them," Anthony heard Cressida agree with a quiet hum. Pen added, "I do not like you, Cressida, any more than you like me. But I understand why you did what you did and I would like to offer my assistance in helping you escape your parents in exchange for your continued and absolute silence regarding my identity," and asked, "Is that something you can live with?"

The girl sat silently for a moment before working her throat and nodding.

"Good. Then let us get started."

~z~

Anthony sat eating breakfast, awestruck, as the two women discussed Cressida's prospects side-by-side on the settee in the sitting area. Pen had a large hardback book with a piece of paper on top of her lap and was scribbling notes as the other girl spoke about her preferences in a husband, including:

Rich

Title optional, but preferred for security

Multiple estates for separation

Not aged

At least somewhat pleasant to gaze upon

Has own interests to keep him busy

Not cruel to women or animals

Bonus for hating her father as much as she does

Their approach to finding potential candidates for Cressida to marry was clinical, detached, and, quite honestly, ruthless. At no point did camaraderie, friendship, affection, or love enter the conversation.

The irony of them employing the very same methodology he had used when he first started looking for a wife was not lost on him and Anthony couldn't help but wonder how many other women viewed their marital prospects the same way.

~z~

"And what about marital relations?" Pen asked Cressida in a matter-of-fact voice once they had their list completed.

"What about them?" the girl asked as she sipped the tea Anthony had brewed for all of them a few minutes ago.

"Do you want to have them or not?"

"I don't know. I suppose I would have to, wouldn't I?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"Several variables. A titled Lord would need an heir, so they would be a requirement in that scenario, at least for some time. However, if you were to marry someone untitled, you could have them as little or often as you want. Or, possibly, not at all."

Cressida put her tea on the end table next to her and furrowed her brow. "I honestly never thought about it. I expected I would have to simply lie there and allow it at his convenience the way my mother does."

Anthony, who had been drinking his own tea at the time, nearly choked on it at Cressida's frank statement. Penelope, however, gave the girl a commiserative smile and clasped her hand. "Gentlemen who will not force themselves on you at their will are few and far between; but, rest assured, they do exist."

~z~

When Cressida left an hour later (finally), it was with a list of names and Penelope's assurance that she would be engaged by the Dankworth-Finch ball (the night before her aunt was due to arrive to collect her for the country).

Anthony closed the door behind her and turned to his wife. "You do realize that Lord Whetherby and Lord Grainger are not interested in women, don't you?"

Pen side-eyed him and said, "Of course," as she collected the tea tray and walked it back to the kitchen. "Just as I know that Lord Pratt is a virgin, Mr. Chalmers treats his mistresses kindly, and Lord Debling has little interest in marital relations beyond procreation."

Penelope sat the tray on the counter, turned around to face him, and added. "Lord Remington cannot engage, Lord Basilo is rather well-liked at the brothels, and Mr. Hemsworth is well on his way to earning a capital-R despite his lack of title," as if she was talking about the weather.

Pen padded toward him and stopped in front of him to say, "Conversely, Mr. Martin, Mr. Devonshire, and Lord Gray did not make the list despite meeting her qualifications due to their rumored proclivities both in and out of the bedroom," before winking, patting him on the chest, and walking away.

Anthony stood there gaping in her wake.

~z~

"What are you doing?" Anthony asked his wife when he walked into their bedroom only to find the bed covered with gowns and other frilly things.

"Packing."

Anthony walked over to his side of the bed and picked up a sheer blue shift he hadn't seen before. "Um, why?"

Pen paused in her task and looked at him as if he was daft. "Because we will need to return to Bridgerton House today."

"Again, I reiterate: Why?"

Exasperated, Pen dropped the dress she was holding onto the bed and said, "I have less than a week to get Cressida a fiancé that her father will accept and I cannot do that with you here distracting me."

Anthony smiled. "But I will be there , too."

"Yes, but so will your entire family."

Anthony ran the shift back and forth through his hands as understanding dawned. "So you are counting on our family to distract me so that I cannot distract you."

Pen smiled. "Precisely."

Anthony shook his head and clicked his tongue three times before dropping the lingerie and walking around the bed to his wife. He leaned in close to her and picked up a tendril of hair. Anthony twirled it in his fingers as her breath hitched and whispered, "If you think I will allow my family to distract me from making love to you whenever I please, you don't know me at all, darling ."

~z~

The moment Anthony and Pen returned to Bridgerton House, they were swarmed with Bridgertons welcoming them home. His mother greeted them each with a kiss on the cheek while Hyacinth and Eloise practically suffocated Penelope with bear hugs. Benedict, Francesca, and Gregory were more subdued, offering each of them casual hugs and smiles. Colin, however, only managed a terse nod to them both on his way out the door.

"Where is he going?" Anthony asked as the door slammed behind him.

"He didn't say," Benedict offered with a pat on Anthony's back.

" He never does ," Eloise mumbled quietly before yanking Pen away from his side and pulling her up the stairs.

~z~

While Pen and Eloise were ensconced in his sister's room talking, Anthony posted the letters written by Lady Whistledown to the men on Cressida's list as his wife requested. Each one advised them of the girl's plight, as well as her eagerness to come to a mutually beneficial arrangement for marriage prior to the Dankworth-Finch ball.

The letters were tailored specifically to each man based upon his needs and desires on the Marriage Mart and played up Cressida as the ideal candidate to fulfill them.

It was astounding how easily Pen was able to wield her quill to bait-and-switch them into thinking Cressida's requirements were theirs.

If he wasn't so proud, Anthony would be terrified.

~z~

The viscountancy came with many burdens, but it also provided Anthony with advantages. Besides the freedom to come and go without question, he could order rooms to be vacated at will. This was exactly what Anthony did when he came upon Rae helping Pen dress for dinner that evening. She was Penelope's maid, yes, but she was his employee. So, when he entered the bedroom and said, "I'll take it from here," to the girl, she obeyed without question.

Pen, who was sitting at her vanity in nothing but her stays, pantaloons, and stockings, pivoted on the bench to face him and hissed, "You cannot simply walk in here and dismiss her like that."

Anthony locked the door and shrugged out of his coat. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and rolled his shirtsleeves as he made his way over to her. When he reached his destination, he leaned down, placed his hands on the vanity behind her to trap her in her spot, and said, "I can and I will," before diving in to capture her lips in an intense kiss.

~z~

"We missed you at dinner last night, brother," Benedict said quietly the following morning when he sat down next to Anthony at the small breakfast table.

"We did not miss you," he replied before sticking a piece of fruit in his mouth.

His brother chuckled, glanced at Penelope, who was once again being monopolized by Eloise, and shook his head good-naturedly at Anthony.

~z~

Since Pen had gone across the street to her mother's for tea, as her and her family had been repairing their relationships since their courtship went public, Anthony decided to do some work in his study (a fact Benedict was ecstatic about). He was well into his weekly correspondence with his solicitor when he heard a perfunctory knock and saw Colin walk in before he could bid him to enter. Anthony pushed his paperwork aside and folded his hands on his desk as his brother sat down in one of the chairs in front of him.

The atmosphere was still tense between them. Colin only gave him a slight nod in greeting before saying, "I need you to apply for a special license on my behalf."

Confused and shocked, Anthony blurted, "What?"

"I am getting married."

Anthony sat up straight and slapped his palms on the desk. "To who? I didn't even know you were courting anyone."

Colin fidgeted in his seat a moment before looking Anthony straight in the eye. "I haven't been. Not officially. The betrothal happened rather… swiftly."

Anthony raised a brow. " Swiftly ?"

Colin nodded once, but held eye contact. "Yes, just as swiftly as yours, I imagine," he said in a voice that dared Anthony to challenge him.

It was jarring to hear such a hard edge to his normally jovial brother's voice. Anthony couldn't help but feel guilty for his part in his brother's pain, so, instead of berating him over his actions, he replied, "Don't worry, Colin, I'm not going to challenge you to a duel over her honor." When Colin cracked a reluctant smile, Anthony continued. "But I do need to know the name of my future sister if you'd like that license."

"Edwina Sharma."

~z~

"Edwina Sharma?" Anthony asked incredulously. "My former fiancé?"

Colin nodded.

"You're serious?"

"She has been a good friend. She understands what it feels like to be betrayed by you and has helped me keep a level head while I work through my anger."

"Colin, I…," Anthony started, feeling as though his brother had kicked him in the gut. But Colin held up a hand to stop him.

"Will you get me the license or not?"

"Of course."

~z~

Trying to work was futile after Colin's bombshell, so Anthony left the study and decided to go outside for some fresh air. He was sitting on one of the swings in the backyard pondering the rift with his brother when his wife found him. She came over and sat down on the swing next to him. "I'm surprised to find you out here," Pen stated as she used her feet to push her swing gently.

"I needed a change of scenery."

Pen stopped swinging and leaned her chin on the hand holding the rope nearest his swing so she could look at him. "Why?"

Anthony looked heavenward and took a deep breath to steel himself to give her news he knew would break her heart again. Then he mimicked her pose and announced, "Colin is getting married."

Pen's eyes widened and she reeled back a few inches. She furrowed her brow and asked, "To who?"

Anthony blew out a self-deprecating breath and answered. "Edwina."

"Sharma?"

"Do you know any other Edwina's?"

"No," Pen answered. "But I confess I am having a hard time processing this news. Edwina? Really?"

"Apparently she had been helping him cope with my betrayal and one thing led to another…"

His words made Pen sit up straight up. "Betrayal? What betrayal?"

"Stealing you from him," Anthony admitted reluctantly. He hadn't told her his estrangement from Colin began well before he found out about Whistledown.

Pen popped up off her swing and came around to face him. Hands fisted at her sides, she stomped her foot and growled. "That little … if I get my hands on him, I swear to God …" she muttered under her breath before bending down and grabbing the ropes of the swing just above his hands and leaned in close so that her face was a hair's breadth away from his, "You didn't steal me, Anthony. You saved me. Colin threw me away like a piece of trash and you picked me up like a treasure. Do not let him guilt you over it. You did nothing wrong."

Pen's eyes were blazing like fire in anger in righteous indignation. But it wasn't over Colin's treatment of her. It was over his treatment of him . Anthony couldn't remember a time that anyone had ever been so ferociously protective of him. Everyone expected him to be the protector. To be the strong one. To fight their battles for them. But not Penelope.

She looked ready to go to war for him.

The feeling of being on the receiving end of that was intoxicating, exhilarating, and arousing as fuck.

Words would never convey what Pen's reaction meant to him.

So Anthony didn't use any.

~z~

Seconds after Anthony lurched himself upward to kiss his wife, she was straddling his lap with her dress halfway up her thighs. He had his arms wrapped around both the ropes of the swing and her body and was happily suckling on her breast just above the neckline of her gown when Pen moaned in ecstasy. Wanting to hear more of that, Anthony braced her body with one hand and slid the other down her torso and thigh to sneak under her skirts. When his finger reached her center and swiped a line up and down her folds through her undergarments, Penelope bucked her hips and tightened her grip around his neck. " Anthony ," she whispered. "We cannot do this here. It is daytime. Someone will see."

Anthony released her breast and buried his face in her chest. Breathing heavily, he continued to stroke her as he warred with himself. His mother and siblings were just inside the house. Any one of them could be looking out the window right now. It would mortify him to let them see the rakish side of him, but, God, did he want his wife. Bridgerton House was his and he should be able to do as he pleased. The fact that he couldn't was maddening.

Reluctantly, Anthony pulled his hand from Penelope's skirts and placed a chaste kiss on her chest. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Pen released her arms from around his neck and lifted his face in her hands. "Perhaps my first duty as Viscountess Bridgerton should be to assist your mother and siblings in finding their new home."

The two of them engaged in a heated stare down as Anthony shifted his own hands to cup her face, too. Pen smirked at him and grazed her thumb along his temple as her pupils dilated with desire and her expression mirrored his own tormented one. Learning Pen was as turned on and frustrated by their lack of privacy as he was, but also knowing she was prepared to do something about it had Anthony uttering, "Fuck, I love you," unbidden before yanking her to his lips for a fierce kiss.

~z~

"My mother knows," Pen whispered to him in bed later that night after they had picked up where they left off in the lawn.

"Knows what?"

"About Whistledown."

Shocked, Anthony pushed himself out from under her and rolled to face her, one elbow propping him up on the bed. "What?!"

She rolled onto her side to face him and propped her head up with her hand. Drawing the thin sheet he'd abandoned up and over her naked body, Pen told him the story of how she'd learned her mother had kept the money Cousin Jack stole from the ton last year and they fought about her methods of "protecting" her daughters. With the Crown's solicitor threatening to expose her, Portia had lamented about what Whistledown would say once the news of her deceit broke. Pen confessed that, in her heightened emotional state, she slipped up and said, "Whatever I want her to."

"So, what now?" Anthony asked, placing his free hand on the mattress between them.

Pen entwined her hand with his. "She agreed to keep it a secret and we are going to work together to figure out a solution to the mess with the solicitor. I thought about revealing myself so that we could claim the money was mine all along, but that would put you and the rest of your family in danger. So, we are still trying to figure it out."

"What if we say it was mine?"

~z~

Pen sighed. "I appreciate the gesture, Anthony. But it would never work. Your books are meticulous. Every "i" is dotted and every "t" is crossed. Mr. Dundas would never believe it without a corresponding expenditure.

Anthony briefly looked down and coughed. "My official ledgers tied to the title are all meticulous, yes. But, my personal ones are, well, not."

Pen sat up and leaned on the hand she'd been propping her head up with. "What are you saying?" she asked as the sheet fell down and pooled at her waist.

Anthony was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of her bare, jiggling breasts and didn't answer right away, so she let go of his hand and pushed him in the chest. "Anthony! Answer me."

He sat up and crossed his legs in front of him. "Father left me some money. Cash. It was in the safe that only I can access along with an old letter he'd written me advising me to use it to 'take care of myself' however I need to when the duties of the title become too overwhelming. I've grown it significantly since his death, mostly through strategic bets."

Pen smirked. "All cash. Largely untraceable?"

Anthony smirked back. "Uhm-hmm."

"So how much is significantly ?"

~z~

Anthony reached out and traced the contour of her breast with his index finger. "How much have you earned as Whistledown?"

Whether Pen's breath hitched at the question or his touch Anthony didn't know. But she let out a shaky, "Just over ten thousand pounds."

Anthony paused his finger's movement and studied his wife, who was clearly serious. "Truly?" he asked.

Pen nodded and then looked between his face and his hand, which had conveniently stopped right on her nipple. Anthony resumed his finger's movement around her areola and back up her breast. "I bet against Will two years ago," Anthony admitted.

Pen gasped and reflexively pulled away from him as she covered her mouth with her hand, shocked by his confession.

Knowing that her father convincing Mondrich to throw the fight was what got him killed, Anthony clarified. "I placed two bets that day. Officially, I bet on him. But, unofficially, I, well, didn't."

Pen slowly dropped her hand from her mouth. "You hedged your bets?"

"I am not proud of what I did. Mondrich is a good man. But your father had been acting stranger than usual. And then Simon told me Will seemed unlike himself leading up to the fight and I figured he was considering whatever deal your father had offered him. So, I used Bridgerton funds to bet on him, but my personal funds to bet against him. The bet against him was too small to be of note to the bookies who were focused on your father's windfall, but the odds were such that any bet, even a relatively minor one, would win big."

Pen worked her throat and looked down at the mattress as she thought about what he said. So, Anthony took that as an opportunity to continue. "I still have the betting slip. We can hand it over to the solicitor to show that was how I got the money to give you."

Pen shook her head and laughed. "No one would believe you'd just hand over that large of a sum to me, even if I was your little sister's best friend."

Anthony cleared his throat and added, "But they would believe I gave you the money to be my mistress."

Pen whipped her eyes up to him. "You want to insinuate that I was your mistress the whole time? That you paid me to sleep with you?"

"We either lie and say we slept together the night of your mama's ball and that I was paying you indirectly to be my mistress upon returning to town or you admit to the Queen and everyone else that you're Whistledown. Which do you prefer?"

"But what about your family?"

"What about them?"

"If you admit to having sex with me before marriage, the Bridgerton name will be ruined."

"My mother, Daphne, and Benedict figured it out a long time ago. The true nature of our relationship isn't a secret from them. I'd be willing to bet half the ton suspected it, too, after our dance at the Innovation Ball. With us married, what can they do? It's water under the bridge at this point."

"I don't know about this, Anthony. I don't want to hurt your sisters' prospects."

"Admitting our affair will hurt them a lot less than admitting you're Whistledown, Pen. You know that. You are my wife. Your family is now my family. Let me help you. Please."

"Alright."

~z~

The next morning, Anthony sent a letter to the solicitor requesting an audience at Bridgerton House as soon as possible. He wasn't thrilled about bending the truth about their relationship to throw Dundas off Portia's scent, but it was a far better solution than outing Pen as Whistledown.

Anthony didn't approve of what Portia did, but he understood why she did it. He would go to any lengths to protect his family, too. He just wondered what else she was hiding.

~z~

Anthony was in the morning room with his wife and family discussing Francesca's imminent wedding to John Stirling when Humbolt announced Pen had a caller: Cressida Cowper.

Since Penelope's office wasn't ready yet, Anthony asked Humbolt to show her to the family study. They had gotten up to leave when Eloise stopped them. "What is she doing here?" his sister spat angrily.

"Yes, I would like to know that, too," Violet asked. "I do not want that woman in my house after what she wrote."

Anthony squeezed Pen's hand, hard, to reign in his frustration. "First of all, this is my house and I can entertain whoever I choose. And, second, Penelope and I are fixing the mess you," he said, looking at Eloise, "made with her in order to maintain harmony in the ton's eyes."

Anthony released Penelope's hand and walked over to Eloise. "People are driven to do desperate things when their backs are against the wall, El. I have no love lost for that girl, but even she doesn't deserve to marry Lord Greer." His mother gasped at hearing the name, horrified. He shared a brief look with her and then turned his attention back to his sister. "You and your sisters have a privilege that few of the other women in the ton have: your family's unconditional support. The fact that I would never force you into a loveless marriage with an aged lord like Greer has blinded you to the realities of the conditions your peers face. Instead of talking about the great things you want to do in the name of women, Eloise, perhaps you could start small and open your eyes and ears and actually listen to the ones around you so that you can be a better friend."

~z~

Cressida was in surprisingly good spirits when Anthony and Pen entered the study. Apparently, she had gotten three offers from the gentlemen on her list and wanted Penelope's opinion on which to choose.

Lord Grainger, Lord Debling, and Mr. Chalmers had all proposed.

With all three men being relatively equal when it came to money, it seemed sex would be the deciding factor.

At that point, his wife kicked him out of the room. Apparently his presence was not required nor desired for their conversation on the birds and the bees.

~z~

Anthony went to his personal study to wait for Pen to finish her conversation with Cressida and was surprised to find Colin there waiting for him.

Anthony said, "Your license is expected tomorrow," as he closed the door behind him. "I only ask that you wait until after Francesca's wedding to share your news with the rest of the family."

Colin stood from his chair and turned to face him. "Thank you for the update. But that's not why I am here." Colin took a breath. "Cressida knows, doesn't she?"

Anthony crossed the room and sat down in his chair. He motioned for Colin to do the same and confirmed Colin's theory with a nod prior to saying, "Pen is handling it."

"How?"

"She is giving Cressida what she wants the most in exchange for her silence."

"Money?"

"No. Freedom."

Colin looked confused for a moment, but then grew solemn. "You know this secret will always be between you, don't you? As long as her identity remains hidden, you will constantly be looking over your shoulder waiting for the next threat to emerge. It's not safe - for any of us."

"I appreciate your concern, Colin. But you need to understand that this secret doesn't hang between us. It's one I have chosen to take on as mine in order to protect my wife. Together, she and I will handle whatever threats emerge."

"Why not just reveal her identity? Surely that would fix everything."

"Or it would make it a thousand times worse. You were ready to strangle Pen when you found out. And you care for her. Imagine what lengths someone who doesn't care for her would be willing to go to for their pound of flesh?"

~z~

Anthony was still deep in conversation with Colin when Penelope walked in without knocking. Upon seeing his brother, she stopped short and a little, "Oh," escaped her mouth. She looked between the two of them and then took a breath before speaking to him directly. "I'm sorry to interrupt. Come find me when you're finished."

Anthony nodded and Penelope turned around to exit only to be stopped by Colin. "Pen, wait."

Pen huffed. "What do you want, Colin? I am not in the mood to be scolded. So, if that is your intent, you can save it for another day."

His brother held his hands up defensively. "No scolding. I promise. I just want to talk."

Pen closed and locked the door behind her. She plopped herself in the open chair next to Colin and said, "So talk."

~z~

When Colin left the study, a sense of relief washed over Anthony. The three of them had finally cleared the air, both over Whistledown and their marriage. While things were likely to remain strained as they adjusted to the new dynamics in their collective and individual relationships, Anthony was optimistic that they could move past this hurdle.

"Well, that was unexpected," Pen said from the doorway, where she had just seen Colin out after a hug and a promise to talk further over tea soon.

"Yes, it was. But I am glad we had the chance to air it all out before Fran's wedding tomorrow."

She locked the door, which had become their standard behavior since moving back to Bridgerton House, and came over to sit on his lap.

"So, who did Cressida choose?" Anthony asked as he wrapped his arms around her.

"Mr. Chalmers."

"Really? A mere mister when she could have had a lord?"

The corners of Pen's mouth edged up in a smile. She reached up and slid her hand through his hair. "Titles aren't everything."

"No. They certainly are not," he replied, squeezing her tightly.

"It turns out that she doesn't desire a cold, lonely bed any more than I did."

He raised a brow. "Is this the beginning of a friendship?"

Pen shrugged. "We certainly have more in common than I thought. But, until she gets that stick out of her ass, who knows?"

"Well, I'm certain Mr. Chalmers will help with that," Anthony mused before leaning in and kissing her on the lips.

~z~

That afternoon, Anthony led Mr. Dundas into his personal study. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me on such short notice," he said.

"I am happy to make time for such a well-respected lord," the solicitor replied. "However, I must confess that I am at a loss to understand why I am here."

"Sit, please," Anthony directed before moving to the sideboard and pouring them each a drink. Once the glasses were filled, he moved toward his desk, put one glass in front of his guest, and then sat down with his own. "I asked to see you because my wife passed me some distressing information about the Featherington estate."

The man, who'd been about to take a sip, placed the glass back on the desk. "Lord Bridgerton, I am afraid I cannot discuss this matter with you," the man stated sternly.

Anthony leaned back in his chair and took a generous sip. He held the glass in his hands and swirled the liquid around as he addressed his guest. "You do not have to discuss anything with me, sir. Simply listen to what I have to tell you."

The man relaxed slightly and said, "Alright," but did not pick his drink back up.

"The money that Portia Featherington attributed to her departed Aunt Petunia was mine."

"Do you take me for a fool, my lord?" Dundas asked skeptically.

"No, quite the opposite in fact," Anthony replied with the perfect amount of indulgence. "It is precisely because you are not a fool that you have the capacity to understand why a peer such as myself would hand over a significant sum of money to the family of the woman he now calls his wife."

The man furrowed his brows as he attempted to understand Anthony's inference. When he didn't seem to grasp what Anthony was saying, Anthony added, "I have known Penelope a long time. But, last year, after her family's ball - the one where Jack Featherington took off - our relationship changed and I began viewing her in a new, more mature light." At the word matureAnthony purposely smirked, which he hoped would lead Dundas to the conclusion he desired. "The money, Mr. Dundas, was a gift to Penelope to commemorate that change and ensure her safety and comfort in her family home until I could provide for her in person again."

The solicitor's eyes widened and he drew in a breath quickly, as if the lamp Lord Hawkin's had displayed earlier in the season turned on. "Oh."

Anthony looked down at his glass contritely. "I am not proud that I didn't immediately ask her to marry me, but last season was tumultuous, to say the least, and I wasn't ready to jump into anything permanent at the time." Anthony lifted his head and caught the man's eye. "Fortunately, I realized the error of my ways and made an honest woman of her."

"Yes. That was quite fortunate , was it not?"

"Yes, quite."

The man leaned forward and addressed him the way Anthony usually does his siblings when he's trying to catch them in a lie. "And you have proof of your, er, gift , to the former Miss Featherington?"

Anthony remained calm and sat forward, too. He placed his empty drink on the desk and stated, "I do not, per se ." Anthony reached for the betting slip and slid it over to the solicitor. "The money was cash. Won two years ago after Mondrich's last boxing match." The man picked up the slip, examining it for authenticity. "When I gave it to Pen, she was concerned about her mother finding out how she got it, so we came up with the idea to attribute the funds to her beloved, but terminally ill aunt on her mother's side."

Mr. Dundas placed the betting slip back on the desk and picked up his drink. Sitting back in the chair, the man took several sips. Anthony forced himself to remain calm and still as the man digested his story. "Your reputation precedes you, Lord Bridgerton. If you say you gave the Featherington family the money, who am I to doubt that?" Anthony bit the inside of his cheek to force himself not to react victoriously, but ended up doing so out of concern when the man continued his speech. "However, the circumstances around Lord Jack Featherington's abrupt departure are still muddy and his document ceding the estate to the firstborn male heir is questionable at best."

"What are you saying, sir?" Anthony asked, jaw now tense.

"Nothing, my lord, other than that I hope both the Dowagers Lady Bridgerton and Lady Featherington will soon be welcoming a new heir into the family. The Crown would be most fortunate to have the barony under such competent management until your son reaches majority, would it not?

~z~

The moment Dundas was shown out of the study by a footman, Anthony closed the door behind him and let his forehead rest on it.

Fuck.

He knew a veiled threat when he heard one.

What was he going to do now?

~z~

"Anthony," Pen said later that night as they were getting ready for bed. "You have been acting strangely ever since your meeting with Dundas. What has you so out of sorts? Did he not buy your story about the money?"

Anthony, half undressed, sat down on his side of the bed, "Yes and no," he replied wearily.

Pen, who had been sitting at her vanity in a sheer green nightrail brushing her hair, got up and walked over to him. Stopping in front of him, she asked, "What does that mean?"

Anthony reached up and clasped her hands. He used his grip to pull her between his legs and rested his forehead against her abdomen. "I do not think he believed me about the money, but he opted not to challenge my assertion."

"That's good, right?" Pen asked, caressing his hair gently.

Anthony took a deep breath and lifted his head to look up at her. "As long as we win your mother's heir race, then, yes."

"I do not understand. What does that have to do with anything?" she asked, perplexed. When Pen shifted her hands to cup his face in them, Anthony explained, "Dundas helps ensure lines of succession. Putting the Featherington barony under Bridgerton purview would be a boon for the Crown. It would make any questions he has about the origin of your mother's money and the legitimacy of the document she filed after Jack's departure irrelevant."

Pen brushed her thumbs up and down his cheeks as she considered his statement. Then her face lit up and she said, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

~z~

Anthony was on cloud nine the entire next day. Although there was no guarantee they would have a boy, as girls tended to run in the Featherington family, there was a chance the entire mess Pen's father left behind would be cleared up in a few months. His wife hadn't yet seen a physician, but she was reasonably sure she was pregnant given the symptoms she'd recently started experiencing, including nausea, breast tenderness, and appetite changes. Upon close examination himself last night, Anthony noticed a definite change in Pen's abdominal area. Despite spending a great deal of time naked with her over the past few days, Anthony had been so stressed out that he hadn't paid attention to her body as thoroughly as he normally would. By Anthony's estimation, his wife was well into her first trimester already, making the date of conception prior to their engagement.

God, his mother and sister would never let him live this down.

~z~

Francesca's wedding was a small but beautiful affair. Anthony happily gave his sister away and then stood proudly next to his wife, who was absolutely stunning in an ombré lilac gown with her hair pinned up in an elegant braid that had matching lilac ribbon running through it, for the ceremony, which was held in their drawing room.

As John toasted Francesca and the rest of the family during the reception, Anthony stood behind Pen with a hand on her abdomen. At first she looked up at him warningly and tried to shoo his hand away, but he refused to budge and she eventually gave in and placed her hands over his and leaned into his embrace.

Anthony had never felt so content in his life.

~z~

Just before Francesca and John departed to his London house, Colin informed the family of his impending nuptials. Much like when he proposed to Marina, his mother and siblings were both shocked and concerned by the news. After a few minutes, though, each of them simultaneously congratulated Colin with hugs while throwing vaguely pitying looks Anthony's way from over his shoulder.

It amazed Anthony how truly unbothered he was by the fact that Kate Sharma would be his sister-in-law. Perhaps the news of his impending fatherhood had made him mellow.

~z~

Anthony opted to arrive early to the Dankworth-Finch ball with Pen and her family. When he entered the event space, he was shocked at how tasteful the decorations were and pleased to be able to witness a tender moment between Pen and her mother as the latter realized Pen had given Varley the money to pay for everything from her Whistledown funds.

Anthony stood in the corner with Finch and Dankworth conversing about the men's investments in gas, oil, and the silk trade while his wife fussed along with her mother and sisters over last-minute preparations. In a million years, Anthony would never have thought he would become part of the extravagant and often tasteless Featherington family, but he was certainly glad he had. For he was hard-pressed to find this level of relaxation in his own house. At home, he could never just be Anthony. His title always set him apart from his siblings both before and after his father's death. In this group of people, however, he was simply Penelope's husband. And it was freeing.

~z~

Anthony was separated from his wife when the guests started entering. Despite her condition, she insisted on helping her sisters with greeting attendees and providing whatever support she could to make the night a success. It was fine by him, though, as it allowed Anthony to spend time with his family. He caught up with the newlyweds, kept Eloise occupied in Pen's absence, and had a close eye on his mother and her companion, Lord Anderson. When Colin arrived later with Edwina on his arm, Anthony made it a point to congratulate them before offering his hand to Kate for a dance.

Kate, like him, had been thrown by the match, but was genuinely happy for her sister. She admitted to always holding a soft spot in her heart for his brother, which she speculated was because Colin was his opposite in nearly every way (with a twinkle in her eye and a sly smile). She was excited for the wedding because it meant she could finally focus on herself. Anthony didn't miss the stares that John's cousin Michael was sending her way, nor the blush that appeared on her cheeks when she noticed them, too.

The Queen, who graced the ball with her presence unexpectedly, was ecstatic her diamond was finally off the market. Her wry comment about having good luck with Bridgertons and blatant you're next stare at Benedict had his brother visibly gulping, much to Anthony's amusement. Cressida, of course, chose that moment to notify the attendees of her engagement to Mr. Chalmers. When Charlotte asked how she pulled off such a feat given her recent predicament, Cressida proudly answered, "Lady Whistledown." At the news that the columnist had facilitated their match, the buzz from the perimeter of the room was practically vibrating. The woman then went on to speak, saying:

"The secrets Lady Whistledown shares are nothing compared to the ones she keeps. I learned that the hard way when I tried to be her. What I didn't realize until that moment was that she has always been looking out for us. Giving a voice to the voiceless. No one knows better than her what happens behind closed doors; so, when I needed to find a suitable husband or risk being shipped to the country in shame, she was the one I turned to for help. Luckily, she extended grace when she would have been justified in slamming the door in my face," Cressida paused and added, "figuratively speaking, of course." This comment resulted in quiet laughter from the attendees. "For the last two seasons we have viewed her as the enemy when she has been our friend. If we cannot trust Lady Whistledown to steer us on this journey, then who can we trust? How many of you have married well thanks to her influence? And how many more of you has she saved from your own foolish choices because she wielded her quill before you could act rashly? Unless you're a Bridgerton," Cressida shared with a wry smile, "you don't have the luxury of marrying for love, so why not do so for happiness?"

Anthony, who was on the opposite side of the room as his wife, immediately zeroed in on her to gauge her reaction to Cressida's speech. Pen was standing next to her mother and holding her hand tightly as silent tears streamed down her face.

~z~

When Cressida stopped speaking, the room grew silent. At first it was a stunned silence, but then it began growing uncomfortable as people began speculating on how Cressida had retained Whistledown's services and whether she knew the woman's true identity. For a moment, Anthony began to panic. What if this only renewed society's fervor to unmask Penelope?

However, the ton was nothing if not fickle. Once Pen's sister Phillipa ran across the dancefloor and yelled for Varley to release the bugs, everyone forgot all about Cressida and Whistledown because they were too busy marvelong at the hundreds of butterflies filling up the space.

Anthony chuckled to himself at his sister-in-law's underrated genius and continued on his journey to meet up with his wife, who had just finished a quiet conversation with Lady Danbury. "My lady," he greeted with a bow and kiss to her left hand just above her ring, when he reached her.

Pen curtsied back and smiled. "My lord."

Anthony kept hold of her hand and pulled her closer. "Did I mention how beautiful you look this evening?" he asked his wife, who was wearing a dark turquoise gown with sequins, short puffy sleeves, and a low scooped neckline. Her hair was pulled back and pinned at the nape of her neck like at the celestial ball with matching pearl-tipped pins. However, tonight, several tendrils were left loose to frame her face elegantly.

"You did," she replied as she brought her free hand up to rest on his chest. "And you look as distinguished as always." Anthony was wearing his usual navy double-breasted coat and black trousers. However, his waistcoat and cravat were the same color silver as the sequins on her gown. "Just distinguished?" Anthony asked.

Pen ran her hand down his torso and added, "Handsome, too." When her hand landed at his waist, she traced the edge of his coat with her index finger and gave him a smoldering look. Anthony blew out a breath to calm his libido, which always instantly got going when Pen touched him, and removed her hand with his free one. Pen pouted at his rebuff, so Anthony asked her to dance. "I have to share at least one dance with my wife before we depart, don't I?" he asked rhetorically.

Anthony led Pen onto the dancefloor as Lord Anderson did so with his mother. The sight of Violet smiling and blushing at his attentions was jarring for Anthony and he had to fight the urge to separate them. However, Pen's, "Leave them be. The more he occupies your mother, the less time she will have to meddle," quickly calmed him.

~z~

"We should not have left so abruptly," Pen admonished when they returned to their suite in Bridgerton House after their dance. "What will people think?"

Anthony yanked his wife to him and began pulling the pins out of her hair. "They will think that we are leaving to fuck each other senseless like the newlyweds we are."

Pen rolled her eyes and reached up to untie his cravat. "We may be newlyweds, but I think we are long past the fuck each other senseless stage of our relationship, don't you?"

With the pins on the floor (twenty-one tonight), Anthony ran his fingers through Pen's long auburn tresses and replied, "Hmm. I never really thought about it."

Pen unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled his shirt out of his pants so that she could run her hands on his bare torso underneath it. "We haven't fucked in quite a while, Anthony. Surely you know that."

Anthony shuddered at the feel of her fingertips on his skin and moved his own hands from her hair to her neck where he brushed his thumbs up and down under her chin momentarily before letting go and tracing his fingers down her shoulders to the neckline of her dress. "No, I suppose we haven't," Anthony agreed prior to pulling the left one down to reveal more of her creamy skin and leaning in to lavish her clavicle with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

~z~

Penelope was certainly taking her time tonight, but Anthony didn't mind. He loved that her confidence had grown so much during their time together that she was comfortable taking control of their lovemaking. Plus, submitting to her desires allowed him a brief respite from always being in control of (nearly) everyone and everything around him.

He was happy to lay on the bed and enjoy the view of her bare tits jiggling while his wife experimented until she found a rhythm she liked. Anthony held onto her hips where they met her thighs simply to touch her rather than guide her. He watched, mesmerized, as his slick cock disappeared time and again into her molten core, and bit his tongue to keep from crying out. Bridgerton House was large, but not so large that sound didn't travel. God forbid one of his siblings rush over to investigate the guttural noises originating from his room and scar them all for life.

Pen, who had been leaning on his chest and tweaking his nipples as she bouced, pushed off to sit straight up. When she placed her hands on his thighs behind her and squeezed, Anthony lifted his legs so that his knees were spread apart and slightly bent and his heels were digging into the mattress. The new position allowed him to thrust up as she pushed down. Conveniently, it added extra bounce to her heaving beasts and made her abdomen wiggle. Anthony slid one hand to knead the roll under which his baby was growing while the other traveled to her clit. Since she was leaning back, he had unimpeded access to the little bud and took great pleasure in tweaking, pressing, and rubbing it as his wife bobbed up and down.

In response to his ministrations, Pen's movements became more frantic. Her hips undulated with alacrity as she sought the orgasm Anthony knew was just around the corner. Wanting more than anything to get her there, Anthony slid the hand that was on her abdomen to her ass cheek. He squeezed it lightly prior to running it up her back and then under her armpit to her breast, where he kneaded and pinched until her body began to tense. As Pen started to become overloaded by the sensations in her body, Anthony squeezed her nipple hard enough to cause a frisson of pain and slammed up into her with the force needed to make him explode inside her. Just like their wedding night, his orgasm triggered hers. Penelope shuddered, let out a feral scream, and collapsed on top of him.

Anthony tried to keep his attention on his conversation with Albion and Harry regarding their recent joint investment in the advancement of steam engines, but it was difficult to do when he kept catching the sight of Penelope's lush derrière in his peripheral vision. She was bent over, along with her sisters, cooing over the welcome new editions to the Featherington family. The babies, all close in age, were laying on the floor playing contentedly as their mothers and grandmothers hovered.

Benedict and Gregory were seated nearby on one of the Featherington family settees arguing over whether Colin's book, An Englishman in India, which was published earlier this year, was appropriate reading material while Hyacinth was off with Varley trying to secure copies of Penelope's latest column.

Anthony smiled when his wife picked up their son, Ledger Edmund "Eddie" Bridgerton, and held him close to her (generous) bosom. Out of all three Featherington sisters, Pen had been the only one to have a boy (a fact that he attributed to his Bridgerton genes), so Eddie was both his beloved son and heir to two titles. Penelope's mother was ecstatic at that fact, not only because it meant all the questions about Cousin Jack went away, but also because it ensured she'd be able to live comfortably at Featherington House for the foreseeable future since Anthony and Pen had no desire to move from Bridgerton House. In an unexpected twist of fate, his mother and siblings opted to move in with the dowager baroness, who admitted to being quite lonely since her daughters moved out.

The arrangement was working out surprisingly well, as Hyacinth and Portia got along like a house on fire. Gregory was taking the arrangement in stride as he prepared to leave for Eton, but Benedict was all-in the moment he met Portia's new lady's maid, Sophie. Benedict's lust for the young woman did not go unnoticed by Anthony and there were several instances over the past few months when Anthony had to remind his brother that he had bachelor lodgings he could move into. Benedict, however, retorted that he could not help him keep an eye on the Featherington holdings if he lived so far away; so, after his the fifth unsuccessful attempt to get him to move out, Anthony simply reminded Benedict to be discreet and asked Penelope to have Varley keep an eye on them.

Anthony excused himself from his conversation and headed over to his wife and son, who was standing with his mother and Portia. When Anthony reached her, he patted his son's head and leaned down to give Penelope a chaste kiss on the lips. As the four of them were bantering over Eddie's handsomeness and how he was his father's son, Hyacinth and Varley returned with the copies of Whistledown.

Pen handed the baby to her mother and took a copy in one hand and his hand in her other before leading him over to the settee by the window. The two of them sat down to read the latest issue as if they'd never seen it before while the rest of their family did the same.

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers still included gossip, but not to the level it used to. At least half of Pen's column was now dedicated to anonymous personal ads. Men and women would write to her care of her printer's office and she would help them facilitate matches based upon her extensive knowledge of the ton. However, since she couldn't work directly with anyone as she did with Cressida, Penelope used the paper to post the qualities men and women were looking for in spouses and interested parties would reply. Penelope then reviewed the replies and helped the originator choose between them through letters. In the past year, Penelope had been responsible for facilitating over a dozen successful, happy marriages. The Queen rescinded the bounty on Lady Whistledown's head and had even engaged her to help her single daughters find prospective husbands who would be happy to live in the castle. So far one of the princesses had found a successful match. Charlotte was so happy to see her daughter happily married that she didn't care that the gentleman had been a duke rather than a prince.

Anthony skipped over the matchmaking section to read the gossip and was astonished to see their own names mentioned (which hadn't been in the draft his footman had delivered last night).

This Author has heard whispers that Lady Bridgerton may once again be with child. Considering the way Viscount Bridgerton dotes upon his wife at societal events (sharing no less than three dances, fetching her refreshments, and accompanying her on walks in dimly-lit gardens from which they return disheveled), this on-dit is not surprising. It is only sad that we will have to wait with baited breath to find out the name of the newest addition to the Bridgerton clan, given that the lord and his wife have opted not to follow the tradition of alphabetical names his sister, the Duchess of Hastings, so conveniently maintains.

"You're pregnant?" Anthony whispered quietly, though he wasn't sure why he did considering that the entire room had gone silent after reading the same paragraph he had.

His wife smiled and replied, "Uhm-hmm," as their families gawked at them in rabid fascination.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

Anthony looked from Penelope to his eight-month old son, who was wiggling in his grandmother's arms, and back. "Two children under two," he observed with a shudder. "God help us."

~z~

That evening, Anthony was laying in bed in his grey robe and nothing else reading a letter from Eloise as he waited for Penelope to finish her bath. (He had offered to scrub her back for her, but she rebuffed his offer of assistance, stating that if Rae helped her, she'd actually get clean.) He was impatient for his wife to return, but was happy to hear from his sister.

Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I would ask how Penelope fares, too, but she has been a far more diligent correspondent than you, so asking would be redundant when I already know the answer.

Anthony chuckled when he read that.

Thank you again for allowing me to travel to Scotland with Francesca and John. I have enjoyed the opportunity to grow closer to Fran, who is my opposite in many ways, and learn all about Scotland's rich history from her husband. You'll be happy to know I've become fairly adept at the pianoforte under Fran's diligent tutelage and can now play three songs on my own.

Anthony would have to send his sister a gift for that. Francesca clearly has the patience of a saint.

Michael and Kate returned from their honeymoon a few weeks ago and have taken up temporary residence in the same wing of the castle as me while Michael renovates his estate. As such, I have had to start sleeping with cotton in my ears to drown out the noises that emit from their room every night. Kate has been rather tight-lipped about their cause, stating that I will find out for myself one day if I marry. She seems happy, brother, happier than I have ever seen her, and confess that I am bewildered by that. She is trapped in the institution of marriage, the very one she vehemently swore off two years ago when you were courting Edwina, and yet does not despair over it. What am I missing?

Anthony wasn't about to answer that question and made himself a mental note to advise Penelope not to either.

Francesca says we will all be returning to London for the holidays, including Colin, Edwina and Lady Mary, who plan to stop here on their way home from India and travel with us. I cannot wait to meet my nephew, who Pen has assured me is adorable. She also indicated that she has another surprise for me. Do you have any idea what it is?

Anthony really had to have a talk with his wife about boundaries with Eloise. Sometimes he thought his sister knew more about his life than he did.

I suppose I should let you get back to your important lordly duties. (If you made it this far, congratulations. There is a first time for everything.) Take care of Penelope for me. (If you don't, I will promptly engage Bridgerton Rule 23. In winter.)

With love,

Eloise

~z~

Fortunately, Anthony didn't have to worry about Eloise's threat, as he had no intention of disappointing his wife. He folded up the letter and placed it on his nightstand just as Penelope came into the room dressed only in his favorite thin blue chemise.

Anthony's robe tented as he took in the sight of her and praised Madame DeLaCroix' genius. The material was a whisper-thin silk dyed a perfect shade of Bridgerton Blue. Through it, he could see the outline of her ample breasts, as well as the dark circles of her areolas amidst perfectly peaked nipples. Anthony's eyes traveled lower and caught on the slight roll of her abdomen before dropping to the dark patch of hair visible between her thighs. " Fuck ," he murmured breathlessly as Penelope approached him.

She crawled onto the bed and straddled his lap, her long fiery tresses falling down over her shoulders. Pen placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned in until he could feel her breath on his face. "That is the idea," she whispered prior to capturing his lips with hers.

~z~

Instead of allowing Penelope to open his robe and slide onto his cock, Anthony grasped her around the waist and flipped them over so that he was on top of her without even breaking their kiss.

Once she was pressed into the mattress under him, Anthony released his grip on her waist. He propped himself up with one elbow and slid the thin strap of her chemise down her shoulder with that hand while the other moved southward to the hem of her chemise. He eased it up slowly until it was just above her thighs and inched his hand toward her soaked pussy, where Anthony immediately teased her swollen clit. Penelope moaned, " Tony ," and arched her hips toward his fingers.

Anthony smirked at the use of her nickname for him, which she only ever used in private (usually in bed) and inserted his index and middle fingers inside her channel. Pen gasped at the contact, which gave him and opportunity to remove his lips from hers and turn his attention to her breasts. He closed his lips around her nipple through the silk and sucked, generating a mewl of pleasure. The fingers that were playing with the strap traced her chest, clavicle, and shoulder with a featherlight touch before moving to the side of her breast. Pen shivered at the feel of his finger tracing up and down her orb. Anthony chuckled, which caused his wife to grasp his cheeks and pull his face back to hers. She commanded, "Faster," and pulled him down. Penelope attacked his lips with hers and pushed her hips into his fingers frantically trying to fuck them like she does his cock. Anthony held out for a few moments, torturing her slowly, but then sped up his pace until she shattered.

He kissed her tenderly as she came down from her peak, though he continued to languidly stroke and rub her core through her spasms. Penelope shifted away from their kiss and opened her eyes, which were still dilated with desire. "What are you waiting for?" she asked quietly as her hands left his cheeks and journeyed down his body to the sash at his waist. Pen untied the knot and spread the panels wide before gripping his erection and urging it toward her opening.

Anthony removed his hand from her quim and used it to push her knee outward so that he could slide inside her heat. His breath hitched once he was seated in her and Anthony dropped his head into her neck. He blew out a labored breath to try to stay in control of his body. No matter how many times he did this, it was always like the first time.

"Anthony, please. I need…" Pen cried, breath quick and body tense.

He lined himself up at her entrance. "I know what you need. But this will hurt."

Pen furrowed her brow. "Hurt? Why?"

"Because it will."

"But why?" she asked, both impatient and confused. Leave it to her to want to know the intricacies of the birds and the bees at the most inopportune moment.

"Do you trust me, Pen?" Anthony asked seriously.

She nodded, so he replied, "Then trust me when I tell you it will hurt, but only this time and only for a moment."

Penelope smiled up at him. "Alright," she whispered. Anthony used that period of camaraderie between them to push past her barrier and stifle her gasp with a kiss.

He broke the kiss and buried his face in her neck. He managed to hold still, barely, as her body adjusted to his invasion and breathed intermittently through his nose to stop himself from following his body's cues to move.

Anthony marveled at the level of desire being inside Penelope had unleashed. He wanted nothing more than to devour her and fought the urge to fuck her into the mattress harder and faster than he'd ever done with anyone before. But, she was innocent and deserved a first time worthy of the honor she had bestowed upon him, so he checked his libido.

"Anthony. Move ," Penelope commanded once her body had become accustomed to him. She squirmed beneath him to illustrate her restlessness and clamped her thighs against his hips to spur him on.

"Are you certain?" he asked, raising his head to look at her.

"Yes," she confirmed, digging her nails into his shoulders and slicing them down his back until they reached his ass, where she squeezed hard enough to make him groan.

Restraint snapped, Anthony shifted a knee up for leverage, pulled back, and ground out "Hold on," before thrusting forward.

Pen must have been remembering, too, because she kissed his temple and repeated her actions from that night. "Move, my love," his wife ordered.

Anthony had no choice but to obey.

~z~

Anthony rolled off his wife onto his back next to her and gathered her into his arms. Penelope snuggled against him and whispered, "I love you," as she drifted off to sleep.

He kissed her temple and replied, "I love you, too," before succumbing to exhaustion himself.

~THE END

In Fragments We Fall

Summary:

"It was me, not Penelope, who–" Eloise chokes through her cries, a haunting replica of a wounded soldier. "She was the only one who knew I visited the rookeries and attended those events Whistledown speaks of. She's p-protecting me, protecting us. She's taken–"

His sister's next words will forevermore torment Colin. "She's taken the fall for us."

The world beneath him crumbles, leaving him to free fall into an abyss.

For God's sake, Pen, what've you done?

Or, in the aftermath of the Queen's threat, Penelope makes a sacrifice.

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

"She is threatening my family, Pen."

Her heart misses a beat.

Then, it starts thundering so loudly in her ears that it frightens her to near immobility.

Glacial winter creeps upon her, like snowfall settling itself on her skin, as she comes to terms with the gravity of Eloise's words.

Penelope can't breathe, her thoughts recalling her gross misdoings that've been conjured by her own mind and written by her own hands. Eloise's confession is the horrific culmination of all her mistakes.

Her complacency in the Queen's inaction against her have all but delivered a doomed fate to her sister in everything but name.

Because of her, Eloise is at risk of being ruined.

Because of her, her whole family just might be.

She ignores the numerous thoughts that chase each other in her mind; they don't matter. Not in this instant, not when her friend needed her.

A glance at Eloise causes her very world to narrow itself to the visage of her best friend's cherubic face, contorted in despair. The sight of it burns through her, as though she'd been branded by a heated iron.

Eloise makes a pained noise, then, and Penelope breaks, recoiling as though she'd been whipped. Heart-wrenched, she stumbles quickly towards her, skirts fluttering as she hurries to hold her friend in her arms.

And Eloise . . . shatters.

For every tremor that she feels emanating from the taller girl's build, wave after wave of guilt and shame drowns Penelope. She holds Eloise tightly against her, regret forming silent apologies in the way she's wrapped her arms around her dearest friend.

Eloise's remorse renders her mute; she finds that there are no words that she can say that would alleviate their circumstance.

Instead, she ponders over the beat of her thundering heart, her contrition growing exponentially at how quickly fate had wielded its sword against her.

She looks ahead, blindly, unable to perceive her surroundings. Eloise still trembles in her embrace, the most delicate she's ever allowed herself to be.

She is threatening my family, Pen.

Unwittingly, in her mind's eye, memories flood through her consciousness.

She sees Eloise, sitting at the chaise they occupy frequently in the Bridgerton drawing room, surrounded by her favourite books. The two of them exchange clever quips and opinion, their conversations often extending past the appropriate hour.

She sees Anthony, in his usual chair by the table, reading the newspaper. His scone has long since been eaten, and his tea has gone cold, yet he remains in his chair. He's not changed the page of the paper — his eyes are busy watching his siblings wistfully.

She sees Benedict between Hyacinth and Gregory, crowding the serving table that's been laid neatly with decorated sweets. They argue over the last slice of cake as he alternates between roles; an instigator and a mediator.

She sees Francesca, sitting primly on her piano stool, ever calm. Her eyes sparkle with unconcealed mirth, fingers dancing across the piano keys, playing a melody that perfectly matches the light-heartedness of her family's contentment.

She sees Daphne, on a settee, looking over a book that she holds little interest in. Her gaze often flits to Eloise, as though she wishes to join her, but is unsure if her presence would be received well.

Violet quietly watches over all of them, her eyes pensive yet serene.

And through them all, Penelope sees Colin.

The boy she's loved from childhood.

The only one who has held her heart from the moment she grew old enough to recognise her feelings for what they truly were.

The same boy who never failed to reply to her letters in the summer following her debut.

The boy who gamely endeavoured to fulfil her request for his written details of a world she never can — and likely never will — see.

The same boy who she nearly ruined her family for.

Because it'd meant protecting him.

Colin, who ensured to greet her at every ball.

Colin, who showed her kindness amidst Cressida Cowper's biting remarks.

Colin, in his family's drawing room, singing and catching her eye.

Colin, lingering in the backwalls of a great ballroom, contented to keep Penelope company instead of dancing with the many other debutants who'd eyed him eagerly.

Colin, who loves his family deeply, so much so that Penelope yearned that she might one day prove to be worthy of such devotion.

The same family that would be irreparably destroyed, should the Queen make good on her threat.

And Penelope can't bear the thought of losing him. Not when she'd come so close to it after publicly revealing Marina's condition. He'd never been the same; his smile less generous, his eyes more hardened, his outlook of the world more jaded.

In betraying her family, she'd lost him.

Her first taste of heartbreak had resulted in many nights of unrest, when the thoughts of unworthiness and doubt began their disruptive descent upon her.

Her heart had never felt so ill at ease, so incredibly torn between her duty to protect her family from scandal, and the boy she's loved for a great sum of her life.

She'd loved Colin, but she'd loved her family too, and if she hadn't been a coward, she might've mustered the courage required to tell him directly of her cousin's scheme.

Ultimately, she'd chosen secrecy. Whistledown's damning column was published, and Penelope instead welcomed the guilt-ridden nightmares that came crashing into her sleep for months before her skin grew thick enough to withstand them.

Her decision then had been the most wretched to make.

Her decision, now, comes easily.

She'd always done what she could to protect the Bridgertons, because they'd shown her kindness when they didn't need to. In return, Penelope — by way of Whistledown — had done her utmost best to shield them from the more nefarious schemes of the other noblemen and women.

Where kindness is shown, loyalty is earned, and Penelope had sworn to herself that she would do everything in her power to protect her Bridgertons.

Even if it's at the expense of her own life.

Her internal consternation, present since Eloise's confession, finally unravels as she contemplates the next course of action.

There's no doubt, no fear in her anymore — these feelings of vulnerability cannot be dwelled upon, not when the people she considers her second family requires her resilience.

Her calm heart settles the storm clouds that've tormented her before.

It's time I make things right.

Determination straightens her spine, emboldening her, as she pulls away from her embrace with Eloise.

She looks into her blue eyes, so much like Colin's, and vows, "It will be alright, Eloise."

I will ensure it.

~~~~~~~~

She's learned many things over the years she raised Whistledown.

The first — never to underestimate the working-class. Her unexpected partnership with Madame Delacroix is evidence enough that intellect cannot be measured by scholastic knowledge alone.

The second — befriend the right person, and they'll open doors that have once been bolted shut. Her demand that the newsboys were paid a higher sum resulted in an extended audience; Whistledown's words now reached right through the border with Scotland.

The third — resourcefulness is learned. Her years lost in the shadows of the ballroom walls, listening, observing, had concluded in a priceless armoury of tools that've been ingrained in her personal knowledge.

These lessons come together, now, to substantiate her confidence in the plan she's concocted.

A plan that she would've otherwise been appalled by, had she not been tainted by a taste of an earned power.

Penelope folds her letter and seals it with a crimson stamp.

She runs the tip of her finger over the wax embossment, feeling as though it was a guillotine blade that hung precariously over her fate.

She can't help but wonder — had she not been so pressed for time, would she be able to think of a better solution?

No, she tries to convince herself, this is the only way forward.

Tucking the letter into her cloak, Penelope stands from her writing desk, refusing to let her doubt find shelter within her.

Before she can make her way to her bedroom door, three knocks resound from the other side.

"Penelope," her Mama whispers shortly afterwards, pushing her door open.

She's struck dumb at the sight before her.

There are foreign tears in her Mama's eyes that speak deeply of the fear she harbours for her daughter. The image sears itself into her mind, fuelling her regret, all at once allowing shame to root itself at the forefront of her heart.

It takes monumental effort for her not to break down, to weep and to beg for forgiveness.

This is her Mama.

Her Mama who, while misguided, had done everything she could for Penelope and her sisters.

Her Mama, who did not disown her when she'd revealed her identity earlier in the evening. Instead, she'd listened, for once, and had tried to dissuade Penelope from her plan.

The broiling shame pulls her chin down; she can't bear to look at her mother like this.

The mask she's worn since her admission slips ever so slightly at Mama's next words, "Penelope, it isn't too late. Come with us." She steps forward, her hands reaching out towards her. "I cannot leave you to the wolves. I will not."

"And I cannot let my actions hurt you. Or my sisters. No, you must leave, Mama," she shakes her head, taking her mother's hands in hers. "For your safety. We know not of the outcome yet, but before a verdict is made, you'll at least be far from our English shores."

"You can come with us," Mama insists, gripping onto her hands tightly. "We can all move far from here. We can all do better. Please, dear girl, I cannotlose you."

She looks up at her mother, devastated, because there'd been nothing she wanted more than the simple confirmation that her mother truly loved her.

Her resolve wavers slightly, temptation chipping away at the high walls she guards herself with.

The distant sounds of impatient footmen outside their household breaks her reverie, a welcome distraction that succeeds in reminding Penelope of her plan.

She squeezes her Mama's hands. "You have the money from Whistledown secured?"

Her mother nods, the tears in her eyes finally falling now that she sees that she can't be deterred. "Please, Penelope, come with us. I can protect you, dear heart. I'll—"

"God willing," Penelope breathes, allowing her mask to fall away for just a brief moment, "We shall see each other again soon. I will find you once I am able to. I promise."

She releases her mother's hands and tugs her forward, hugging her tightly, her face pressed into the crook of Mama's neck.

She whispers, "I love you, Mama, be safe," and leaves the fallen pieces of her heart lying in space between them.

~~~~~~~~

She pulls her dark cloak over her shoulders, acting fast.

Her walk is quiet, her head is bowed. She is but a mouse moving in the dead of the night.

It is only when she reaches the back entrance to their gardens that she unexpectedly finds herself faltering.

With every step she takes further and further from the comforts of the Featherington household, her childhood memories become heavier burdens carried on her back.

In the gardens, she sees her younger self, playing with Eloise.

She sees her Papa, strolling with Mama, heads bent in conversation.

She sees Prudence and Philippa, younger and much, much kinder, holding her hands as they attempt to teach her better posture.

She sees Colin, waiting patiently for Eloise at their main door.

A lifetime of memories.

A lifetime of instances.

A life, at a time.

Her mask breaks, and the tears fall, yet Penelope forces herself to continue.

She must move on.

Her family will be safe.

The Bridgertons will be safe.

No one else will be hurt.

She trudges forward, a desperate woman holding on to the last dregs of her dignity, towards her judgement day.

~~~~~~~~

The maids whisper amongst themselves.

They hold in their hands something pertinent.

It is from King George, they whisper, to Queen Charlotte. It is sealed with his insignia, addressed to 'Lottie.' It is the first letter he has sent her since his . . . illness. We must pass it to the Queen. It is treasonous to not do so.

They fret — who should be burdened by the responsibility of delivering the ailing King's letter?

Eventually, a decision is made.

~~~~~~~~

The handmaiden slips pass the Queen's loyal footman named Brimsley. She is too unassuming to be taken notice of. She holds nothing to her name but concealed red hair and eyes the colour of a spring's sky.

It's only natural that she slips through notice, carrying a basin of water meant for the Queen's foot bath.

She enters the Queen's room easily, setting her basin by the foot of the extravagantly large bed. She moves to straighten the bedding, and as she does so, a piece of parchment falls from her dress pockets and onto the Queen's bed.

The handmaiden continues about her chore, purposefully ignorant of the letter's convenient hiding place behind the Queen's thick quilts.

Satisfied, she leaves, her obligation fulfilled.

The other maids who have tasked her with this monumental responsibility do not know the truth, though.

His Majesty has not written.

And well within the letter hides a more complex revelation.

~~~~~~~~

"Eloise!" her mother calls, voice cutting through the morning air.

She startles awake.

For a moment, she's engulfed in decapitating fear, recalling her encounter with the Queen in her carriage the afternoon before. Her heart falls far below the hardwood floors of her bedroom, and she finds herself suffering the pitfalls of anxious desperation that've haunted her for nearly a day.

"Eloise!" There's an alarm to her mother's voice now.

She grips onto her blanket, regretting every moment she had allowed herself to partake in Lady Whistledown's foolish gossip.

Despite her mother's calls, she can't summon the strength needed to stand from her bed; the terror has somehow moulded her body with the comforts of her quilt.

Three urgent raps on the door interrupts her thoughts.

She breathes in deeply, shutting her eyes, refusing to acknowledge them.

"Eloise, please," her mother pleads, then, in a tone she's never heard from her before, "it is Penelope."

She sits upright so quickly that she instantaneously becomes light-headed. She ignores it, pushing aside her beddings, nearly tripping, as she hurries out to greet her mother.

She pulls the door open.

The sight before her is unfamiliar.

Unfamiliar, and unwelcome.

Her mother's blue eyes are tinged red, bloodshot and weary. Her nose runs, just a little, and there are twin spots of maroon high on the top of her cheekbones. Exhaustion is blended with so much unease, lining the uncharacteristic slouch of her shoulders.

She holds her breath, unable to think the unbearable.

"Eloise," She shudders at the way her mother's whisper might as well have been a shout. Wrinkled hands reach out to hold her limp ones, moving slowly, as if Eloise was an animal not to be spooked, and she hears the very words that changes the world as she's known it. "Penelope and her family have disappeared."

~~~~~~~~

Queen Charlotte has lived many lives.

In the early days of her youth, she quite enjoyed the luxuries of the royal blood.

She enthusiastically partook in several social events. She found great pleasure in her long hours at the modiste, and above all, relished in her many, many conversations with the ladies of the German high society.

Her life had been simple as a girl. She'd assumed that her life would remain immovable in its repetitiveness.

It was simple.

It was safe.

Until her ascension as Queen, that is.

Gone, then, were her companions.

Gone, then, were her humorous conversations.

Gone, then, were her confidants.

But time is an odd teacher — an object that remains stationary no matter how much you resist against it.

She'd fought it, had screamed into the ether, had done everything in her power to fight the changes, before she finally admitted defeat.

Sophia Charlotte subsided to the crown, forever lost. And, in her place, Queen Charlotte was born.

She thinks about this, now, as her fingers trace the words written in the parchment. She cannot yet decide her next move. She cannot depend on her ladies in waiting; there is not one, save for Lady Danbury, who will be willing to provide counsel. Not without something to gain for themselves.

The sender's handwriting is elegant, pleasing to the eyes. The choice of words and careful structure can only imply that it is written by a noblewoman.

Each sentence is cautious, yet tinged with a sharpness that underlies a coveted subtlety. It insinuates that the noblewoman is intelligent — not quite a scholar, but presumably well-read.

The concise paragraphs are fruitful in getting the lady's intentions across.

This is what intrigues Charlotte the most.

With each calculated line, the sender had drawn her cards.

Your Majesty,

There is no better game than one that invites chase. Indeed, the thrill of being close enough to mark, yet nowhere near enough to do so, keeps a great many of us unrelenting in our mortal desire to succeed. To win.

To become victorious, one must outwit the runner.

I have heard whispers that you wish to form an alliance.

And I believe it is within our best interests that we speak, so that we may outline the terms of agreement between us. I maintain no interest in political schemes, but even I am aware that the tides of change have arrived in our English shores, and the people grow restless with the whispers of radicals whose voices have only grown louder.

Miss Eloise Bridgerton is innocent — one cannot presume to hold my quill whilst bounded by duty to an honourable family like hers.

Instead, one must disappear into the background, plastered to the wall. One must have their eyes open, their ears well attuned, if one is to learn the secrets that fall from willingly loose lips.

Like a butterfly that flits across a garden of flowers.

If you wish to speak to me, you need but to summon Miss Penelope Featherington.

I look forward to our conversation.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

Charlotte has pondered beheading.

She has entertained thoughts of stoning.

Banishment from the English soil, for both the Featherington girl and her family, after their reputation has been thoroughly sullied — yes, that would be an acceptable punishment far crueller than death itself.

Yet . . .

She is also fascinated.

The years since Whistledown began publishing had been a welcome distraction for her.

Her Farmer George is lost to Venus and the constellations, where she can no longer reach him. They keep him secluded, far, far away from an audience.

Far away from her.

It is a forced isolation, disguised by protection, as he alternates between his differing realities. In contrast, Charlotte had remained frozen in a time where they had been happy.

Time has taught her the greatest lesson of all: that it is defined by choice.

And Charlotte has made hers, all those years ago.

She's long since lost her Farmer George, and yet she continues to stay between the heavens and the earth, for no other reason but to wait for the chance that she might get a glimpse of the man she knew he once was, the same man who is buried beneath his convoluted mind.

In her solitude, she desperately sought for distraction.

A distraction that had eventually found its home in a gossip columnist.

"Your Majesty," a footman interrupts her deep pondering, apologetically bowing his delayed greeting. "Miss Featherington has arrived."

She raises her hand and gestures her silent permission to let the girl in.

He bows a final time, then walks out of the room quickly.

She waits a beat, then, a short girl with hair the colour of a raging hearth-fire enters the room. She curtsies, pledging her allegiance. She bends low enough to prove her loyalty to the Crown, though when she looks up, she meets Charlotte's gaze unwaveringly.

It is not her outstanding hair that strikes her quiet.

Nor is it the disdainful eyesore of a dress so offensively yellow that she finds herself silently questioning the girl's sanity.

The girl continues to keep her chin up, eyes never once leaving hers. Her expression is neutral, disposition calm.

She is an empty canvas.

Yet her eyes are fashioned in steel, nearly silver in the light of day.

The strength she finds in them reminds Charlotte of the icicles that hung from the windowsills of her old home in Mirow during the winter.

Tinged an unnatural shade of blue, she allows herself a moment to look at the girl properly.

Unassuming, yes, but not displeasing to look at. Her beauty is understated; not the kind that men would wage war for. Her features are kind, almost, her body soft — the perfect embodiment of a debutante just waiting for a suitor to call upon her.

"Come forward, Miss Featherington. You may have a place at the settee opposite my own."

She watches the girl move forward obediently.

She does not falter in her stride.

A memory, once forgotten, flits across Charlotte's mind as the girl obeys her Queen's command.

Charlotte is seven-and-ten, deciding that she will not relent in her chase for independence.

She paces, staring at a wall littered with uncut vines. It is not her decision to run that supports her inaction, but the fear of mortal injury, and the uncertainty of whatever awaits her beyond the wall.

But Charlotte was not raised to be a coward.

She gathers her skirts and starts her ascent.

Charlotte purses her lips, eyeing the girl. She barks, "I require a private audience."

Footmen and handmaidens leave the room swiftly, till there is nothing but the Queen and the young girl.

"Am I truly to believe that you are Lady Whistledown?" Charlotte questions, biting and direct. "You attract no attention; certainly, you have not called for it until this very day."

"I am, Your Majesty." She replies, subdued. With the room empty, her declaration resonates loudly.

Charlotte scoffs. "You take me for a fool, then, do you?"

"I believe Your Majesty holds intelligence that lies beyond the far reaches of our natural world." The girl states, her tone betraying none of her true emotions. Her hands are clasped behind her back.

Such a curious thing.

The girl does not hesitate to meet her stare, tenacious despite the situation she's put herself in.

"You are close with the Bridgerton girl," Charlotte pauses, attempting to remember the name. "Eloise, I am told she is." She smirks, "How coincidental — not a day after I state my . . . prerequisites to her, and you come forward. Are you not simply protecting your dear friend?"

The girl — Miss Featherington — shakes her head. "I assure you, Your Majesty, Miss Eloise Bridgerton is innocent. She has been but an overtly obsessed reader of my work. And though I have been studious in maintaining anonymity, even I am not malevolent enough to let someone innocent be ruined, Your Majesty."

Charlotte raises an eyebrow. "You would sully your family's reputation over a . . . friend?"

"If it meant that I sleep with my conscience pure, and their well-being secured, then, yes, Your Majesty."

Unusual.

Charlotte cannot help but feel nostalgic.

It is as if she has seen a reflection of the girl she once was in Miss Featherington, resolute and determined. Hungry for the world to listen to her voice.

Despite the righteous anger that stirs within her, she cannot help but feel the slight twinges of endearment. She ponders for a moment, continuing to watch the Featherington girl, before she finally decides.

"I will require evidence," Charlotte declares, "that you are Whistledown. Only then will I think of a suitable punishment."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Miss Featherington shifts her skirts, her hand disappearing quickly, before she pulls out a piece of parchment. She raises it so that it is within Charlotte's line of vision. "I had thought that you would hold such a stipulation and prepared this—" She waves the parchment slightly, "—in advance."

The girl was clearly trained by an experienced governess; she does not hand the parchment directly to Charlotte. Instead, she leaves it atop the table between them.

One must outwit the runner, indeed.

Miss Featherington then pulls a quill and a jar of ink from her pockets. Without waiting for Charlotte's further remarks, she begins writing.

Watching the girl work is an art, in and of itself.

Her quill is sure.

Her fingers are nimble.

It is clear that the girl is well-practised.

Doubt is non-existent in her; she does not scratch amendments on the paper, her thoughts flowing clearly and confidently onto the page. Her experience is evident by the way she holds her quill at a certain angle, so that she may minimise the ink that inevitably stains her fingertips.

Charlotte watches on, half in anticipation, half in near-enchantment. Her usual impatience is quelled by how quick the girl writes, her words chasing each other.

After a while, Miss Featherington finally puts her quill down.

Despite herself, Charlotte waits for the girl's next move.

Miss Featherington simply turns the parchment, so the words face her. She takes the paper eagerly in her hands, her curiosity winning over propriety, and she reads it as though she was starved.

She commits to memory key details of the story given to her, knowing they will play a significant role much later.

"If Your Majesty would be so gracious as to grant me a chaperone with a footman and a handmaiden, I will be glad to take them to my place of publication, where they can bear witness to my publishing process. By midday peak, this very same column will be printed and delivered to Your Majesty." Miss Featherington states, ever placid, as though she were commenting on the weather.

Charlotte looks up from her reading, surprised, "You invite scrutiny to your family's reputation in this issue. You imply that you are complicit in treasonous acts."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Interesting.

"Very well," Charlotte relents, finding much enjoyment in the turn of events. "I shall grant your request and assign a guard as an addition to your entourage. I cannot have you escape before I proclaim my punishment." She rises. "By noon, I expect to see this same writing delivered to me by my personal secretary."

She stands, calling forth the self-assurance her reign has granted her.

The girl's neutrality is maintained; Charlotte is pleased to know her opponent is not so easily cowled.

"By twilight, we shall see if a beheading is imminent."

~~~~~~~~

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It goes without saying that where there is smoke, there are indeed flames – the sort of which fuels envy, incites resentment. Flames that force the hand of many players to give up their draw, to empty their pockets.

And where there are flames, there is inevitable destruction.

Much like the utter ruin that Lord Archibald Featherington left in the wake of his untimely demise – indeed, without a firm hand to guide his dowager wife and their daughters, the family has been left desolate. Penniless is not a word that can describe the cobwebs that line the emptiness of their accounts.

Whether it is because of the lack of a familial leadership or their empty pockets, this author had believed that the battle between destiny and our disgraced Featheringtons had found its permanent ceasefire.

That is, of course, until this author had uncovered yet another one of the Featheringtons' many secrets.

It has been revealed that the young Miss Penelope Featherington has allowed herself unchaperoned visits to the rookeries.

It is known that her secretive manoeuvres imply a more devious scheme at play. So devious, in fact, that some say she has been spotted enjoying the company of political radicals.

It leads one to wonder — what other activities has the young Miss Featherington partaken in?

And what of those unchaperoned visits; might we expect an elopement?

Or — perhaps even more damning — can we expect to see Miss Featherington amongst the banner men of the French radicals, revolting against our esteemed monarchs?

Perhaps it is prudent, then, for this author to also speculate Her Majesty's next move in response to this grievous sin, for it is with little remorse that I write to you this next truth:

The young Miss Featherington has been summoned by Her Majesty to Windsor Castle, with nary a soul for accompaniment. Perhaps by twilight, the Queen will pass her judgement on this young woman.

~~~~~~~~

"It was me, not Penelope, who—" Eloise chokes through her cries, a haunting replica of a wounded soldier. "She was the only one who knew I visited the rookeries and attended those events Whistledown speaks of. She's p-protecting me, protecting us. She's taken—"

His sister's next words will forevermore torment Colin. "She's taken the fall for us."

The world beneath him crumbles, leaving him to free fall into an abyss.

For God's sake, Pen, what've you done?

Behind his lids, she's all he sees.

His Pen, the girl he'd known for the longest time; his first friend.

His Pen, who'd listened when no one else would; his sole confidant.

His Pen, who'd given him the confidence to pursue his passions, to soldier through the tumultuous end of his first love — his constant motivator.

She'd always been dear to him, and as he'd grown older, she'd become someone he cherished.

Colin cannot move, cannot even attempt to fathom the words that spill from his sister's mouth. He refuses to — if he does, then it makes the situation even more real.

He's only just returned, and already he finds himself once again losing someone precious to him.

No, something in him whispers, a touch terrified, this is worse.

He forces himself to open his eyes in a weak attempt to regain control over the anguish he feels. He watches — as he always does — the reactions of his family to Eloise's confession.

Anthony is rigid, arms folded so tightly behind his back that the fabric of his waist coat stretches precariously over the width of his shoulders. There is that vein that pulses by his temple, a telling image of the broiling fury beneath his stoic facade.

His mother holds Eloise in her arms, concern temporarily overruling her appalled contrition, as she attempts to console his sister.

Even Benedict — spirited and free — is rendered speechless, the copy of Lady Whistledown's latest column still held loosely in his right hand.

"Anthony," his mother calls, "see that Hyacinth and Gregory are taken to their rooms."

His eldest brother does not move, only clenches his jaw tighter.

"Now."

Benedict stands abruptly and walks towards their youngest siblings. "I shall handle this, Mother."

"Wha — no, brother! We must know what happens—"

"Hyacinth." For the first time, Benedict's tone is unerringly firm. It stuns their youngest sister into subservience, and he places his hands on her shoulders, steering her away from the room. Gregory complies with his older brother's unspoken command, trailing after them quickly.

Colin catches Benedict's solemn gaze as they leave the room.

The door closes shut behind them.

"What were you thinking, Eloise?!" Anthony explodes, a beast finally unleashed. "I admit, we have been far too lenient in entertaining your eccentricities. I, myself, have been distracted by my personal matters, however—" He cuts himself off, closing his eyes for a moment, in a feeble attempt to contain his anger.

He takes a deep breath, releases it, and says flatly, "Your very oddities have caused the detriment of an innocent person. Because of you, your friend is ruined. The Featheringtons are ruined. They will be shunned, outcast from society. Penelope will be lucky if the Queen even gifts her survival. What you have done are grounds for treason!"

At Anthony's outburst, Colin feels as though he'd been dipped into a lake half-frozen in the late autumn.

By all things that's holy, he knows Anthony's words hold the truth.

The Queen, according to Whistledown, already has Penelope in her clutches. Her sentencing can be proclaimed at any moment. Given the severity of the lies Penelope has adopted on Eloise's behalf, they can lose her.

He can lose her.

Forever.

The world collapses beneath him, threatening to bury Colin in its rubble. His chest constricts, as though it wanted to implode from the inside, and he loses strength in his knees.

He crashes into the settee in a heap.

His mind, his soul, is consumed with thoughts of Penelope, frightened and alone.

Her image in his mind's eye is sufficient enough for a phantom hand to reach into his chest and clench around his heart, constricting it till he feels as though it might explode under such intense pressure.

His breathlessness returns, and he balls up his fists tightly, attempting to regain his composure at the immense despair that washes over him.

She's all he can think of, now, through the ringing in his ears, through the acute tension that's imprisoned his lungs.

Pen, with her bonnet, laughing at his humiliated self while he attempted to stand from where he had fallen.

Pen, with her books, sitting in their drawing room with Eloise.

Pen, with her quill, writing to him during his sojourn across Europe.

Pen, in a ballroom, barely reaching his chest, as they danced.

Pen, alone, at the mercy of the Queen, paying for the sins she did not commit.

Pen, his Pen—

He could lose her.

Pen would be gone to him, if he does not do something, anything, to dissuade the Queen from declaring the unthinkable.

And he cannot allow that to happen.

He will not.

Colin blinks, then, willing himself to return to some semblance of normality.

Beyond him, Anthony continues to lash at Eloise, rage anchoring his temperament into something monstrous.

Mother doesn't attempt to reproach Anthony. Disappointment furrows her brow, yet compassion binds her to his sobbing sister, who grips onto their mother's sleeves like an infant seeking consolation.

Colin stands, the image of the last time he'd seen Penelope burnt into his mind's eye.

He leaves the room, determined.

~~~~~~~~

Despair drapes itself across her shoulders, allowing little room for breath.

The Queen has the latest issue of Whistledown in her hands, her shrewd eyes moving across the contents of the pages, as she compares her draft with the printed publication.

And Penelope holds no more cards up her sleeve— her only salvation is found in the confines of the Queen's mind. Even if she had not been a believer in a higher deity, she finds herself praying, wishing, willing for there to be some mercy.

She likes to think that her Mama's instincts are quick, this time around. She hopes they have escaped, perhaps with Cousin Jack, to the Americas, where the laws of the English empire cannot touch them.

She hopes Prudence and Philippa finds peace with each other, wishes fervently that they may seek their true loves in a place far, far, away from the judgement of the ton.

Finally, after an eon, the Queen puts the column down.

"It appears you speak the truth, then." She tilts her head. "You have always implied the gift of foresight in your writings — what do you think I shall do next?"

There is no one else but the two of them.

Penelope is fighting a losing battle with herself; she can't find the strength to keep her ruse.

Behind the great doors of the Queen's private study, she knows there are footmen and handmaidens who have their ears pressed against the oakwood. She knows the news will spread from them, first, and soon to the courts, once their Queen has made up her mind.

Penelope cannot play a game that she has already lost; to continue to do so would be suicidal.

So, she says, simply, "I await your judgement, Your Majesty," and holds her hands clasped tightly together, right where the Queen can see them.

She pretends that the tremors that threaten to overwhelm her are inconsequential, that they may subside soon.

She has accepted her fate.

Eloise will be safe.

Colin will be safe.

An innocent family will be spared, and Penelope can only hope to do better in another life.

"Clever girl," Her Majesty muses, and there's a slight pull to the corners of her mouth. "You refuse to state your preference, knowing I will either do the opposite, or be in total agreement. You are still playing our game."

She does not respond.

"A decision like this requires calculation. A meagre girl like you holds no understanding of just how much power you have obtained. No," she shakes her head, "you cannot fathom how easily your words manipulate consequential minds. You are a danger to us. A danger to me. And you have caused your Queen offense; one that I do not take lightly."

Her Majesty's eyes harden. "You shall be confined within this room until tomorrow, after I have spoken to my counsel." She rises. "Pray that I am to receive the right advise."

Penelope waits until she leaves, before she succumbs to her hopelessness.

She falls to the ground, a hand held over her chest in a superficial attempt to calm her heart.

If she could revert to her younger self, if she could just take command of time and put a stop to the very moment she had agreed to give her first print to the Featherington's solicitor.

If she could have simply told Eloise that it had been her all along, that she was Whistledown — maybe then, maybe then—

Her vision turns blurred; in her mind, her memories are strong and clear. Her father and mother. Eloise. Her sisters.

Colin.

The people who mean the most to her, who she finds herself willing to die for.

Perhaps this is my true punishment, then, she thinks, the tears she's suppressed finally falling onto the skirts of her dress. To live in this moment where anguish lies with my maybes.

~~~~~~~~

A man has his ways.

A determined man, however, devises them.

Colin waits by the horses, his tapping finger against his family ring the only indicator of his stress. His face is impassive, eyes observant, as he watches the men revolve around him, paying him no attention.

He is just the third son; he holds little significance when overshadowed by his commanding eldest, and charismatic second.

Unsurprisingly, he goes unnoticed in public.

He takes no offense to the fact, however. He knows it is a blessing.

How else will he be afforded seclusion, otherwise?

He waits for an infinity, then, a carriage finally pulls into the loading bay. The cargo they carry are simple produce but are no doubt the freshest that their agricultural lands can offer. A few maids step out, perhaps for a brief respite after an arduous journey, whilst the coachmen drop off their seats, eager to tend to their horses.

Colin walks swiftly towards them.

"My good men," he enthuses, plastering a smile. "Am I to believe these are produce for His and Her Majesty?"

"Indeed, milord." The younger coachman replies, to the detriment of his older companion, who jabs an elbow towards him. "I mean — no-no, milord. This is for . . . the, um, the palace staff." The older one, perhaps no more than nine and ten, smoothly interjects.

"I see." Colin raises a hand to rub against his neck. "Yes, I am sure the produce to be all and well." He claps the younger boy on the shoulder, mimicking a friendly gesture he reserves for Gregory. "Long live the King and Queen."

Colin takes his leave, equally as brisk as his random arrival.

~~~~~~~~

He is three-and-ten.

His mother lies in a hospital.

The doctors say they will require his payment in advance, should he wish for them to treat her.

He is three-and-ten.

His eldest brother has joined the war efforts.

He has not received a letter from him since then.

He is three-and-ten.

A young fop approaches them, cloaked in leather and coloured in deep auburn. There are no hints of hardship in his chiselled features. His shoulders are broad and unburdened, hands pristine.

He leaves after greeting them strangely, and it is only long after the young boy has reached the palace grounds does he realise that his pocket has an odd addition.

It offers five hundred pounds in exchange for information.

It is enough to pay for his mother's medicine.

It is enough to pay their landlord's demands.

It is enough.

The boy is three-and-ten.

His decision is made.

~~~~~~~~

It's not the Queen that comes for her.

The Prince Regent does.

She stands, frozen in her place, her breath caught in her throat.

"Good evening, Miss Featherington." He smiles gently, his age showing their prominence in the lines on his forehead. A deep-seated exhaustion hides beneath his blue eyes, so different from Colin's cobalt shade.

She forces her body to move.

Curtsying as low as she can with her dress, she keeps her head bent low. "Good evening, Your Majesty."

"I shan't be long, do not be concerned." His words are jovial, as if they weren't about to speak on her death sentence. He gestures for her to take a seat, and she does so, her movements cautious.

The guardsmen stay rooted in their positions — three at each door and window, effectively blocking any hopes of escape.

She is trapped.

She sits, disallowing her fear to show itself in the lines of her body.

"Might I join you, Miss Featherington?" The Prince Regent asks politely, moving so that he stands in front of the settee across from her.

It's not as though she can refuse the would-be King of England.

She nods, "Yes, Your Royal Highness."

"I'm not one to procrastinate, so I shall cut to the chase." The Prince Regent smiles, seated comfortably in the chair opposite hers. His hands rest easily atop his knees, and he's leaned forward a bit, as though to imitate an interested conversationalist. "I've heard that you've met the Queen today, have you not?"

She nods again. "Yes, Your Royal Highness."

"And you are to be punished for treason, correct?"

Penelope's breath draws quick, but she doesn't yet yield. "That is to be decided, Your Royal Highness."

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. "Am I to believe you've not committed treason, then?"

She bites down on her lip, hard enough that she nearly draws blood. "If one reasons that the unbiased reporting of the ton's gossip is considered treasonous, then, yes, I am in full agreement with your assertion."

"They did not tell me you were quite so stubborn." The Prince Regent chuckles, his rigid posture loosening ever so slightly. "I had been expecting tears and pleas; your refutation is quite intriguing."

She doesn't reply, feeling as though she's balanced herself at a precarious cliff.

"Nonetheless, I am here to offer you an escape." And his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You have a crime you've not yet been punished for, and I have an alternative solution."

Penelope presses her lips together. She struggles not to fidget.

"When I heard from my advisors about your little meeting with my mother and what it entailed, I was amused." His smile evolves into a light laugh. "I admit, I care not for the menial gossip of our English high society. My concerns are far greater, as you can imagine."

"I should hope not, Your Royal Highness," she cuts in bravely. "The demands of ruling an empire takes precedence over such minuscule chatter. Though, it stands to reason . . ."

She trails off purposely, waiting for him to take the bait.

He does. "Go, on."

"Such chatter often reflects one's opinion, does it not, Your Majesty? These small conversations are windows to the more sinister thoughts we keep. When listening carefully, one learns many things. Thinks many thoughts. Sees what others do not." Penelope tilts her head, a wry grin stretching her lips. "Gossip is knowledge, and knowledge is—"

"—power." The Prince Regent George finishes, his left eyebrow twitching.

The falsehood of his polite expression dissolves to reveal a more genuine smile, an odd mirth sparking a glimpse of the man bearing the weight of the crown. He chuckles, "How fascinating to meet a lady who does not fear to speak her mind. They did not tell me how refreshing it would be. Had I known so, I might have implored our Queen to further your stay in the palace."

Hope bubbles in her chest, rising fluidly, nearly choking her with its intensity.

"Alas, I must fulfil my royal obligation, no matter how pleasing it is to hold a conversation with one much like yourself." He crushes her hope, pursing his lips.

She fights a lonesome battle with herself in an attempt to maintain her composure.

He leans forward, the mirth is gone in his eyes. He's turned serious. "See, Miss Featherington, I am in a dilemma. Every day that passes, Napoleon's war continues on. We are at an important precipice, and though I am confident that we — and our allies — will win, I must ensure we secure our future. We are the greatest empire in the world, and we must fulfil our obligation in proving so."

"Your Royal Highness," Penelope takes a deep, shaking breath. "Forgive me, but I do not see what this has to do with me."

The Prince Regent only smiles indulgently. "You are an unassuming woman. Pretty, I will admit, but not quite so beautiful that men will pledge their loyalty to you. Yet, Miss Featherington, you have somehow managed to not only gain the support of the masses, but you have also influenced them with your words. You have, astonishingly, done so well in mastering the art of observation that you seem to be unaware of the potential of your skills.

"My mother sees you as a dangerous tool. If used wrongly, you can harm the welder. I, however," he leans back, spreading his palms out in a manner that doesn't reassure her, "I see you as a weapon."

She tries to swallow against her dry throat. "And how might you employ me in battle, Your Royal Highness?"

The Prince Regent laughs, and Penelope finds herself shrinking into the cushions of the settee, her earlier fear returning in its full force.

"How delightful it is to meet a woman who possesses such quick wit." He remarked, his smile fades into a smirk, smugness overpowering the candid disposition he'd been wearing as a cloak.

He stands with the flourish of a man who holds the world's powers in the palm of his hand. "You shall be my bird, Miss Featherington — that is my offer. A bird who I will send to every corner of Europe, so that she may gather the information we need to win the war. A bird who will flit from country to country, all-seeing, ever hearing. A bird who will come back to tell us, tell me, what secrets our foes keep.

"We shall win the war not with battle, Miss Featherington. No," he shakes his head, stepping around the table that stands between them, moving closer to her, "that will not be quite so fulfilling."

She looks up at him, watching his expression, noticing how he struggles to contain the bloodlust in his unchallenged gaze. By the clenching of his jaw and the tense corners of his eyes, Penelope comes to a terrifying conclusion.

"You seek Napoleon's destruction from the inside." She states, the words hissing from between her teeth. "That is the reward you're after."

Another smile, wider this time. "Indeed."

"And if I refuse, Your Majesty?"

"Then the Queen will have your head."

Penelope considers her options, her mind whirling. Finally, she stands, and takes a step closer to the Prince Regent, calling forth a confidence she had long since buried. "If I accept, will Your Royal Highness agree to my terms?"

His condescending joviality vanishes instantly. "You are the one whose death is imminent, yet you are so bold to believe that you can give me conditions?"

She raises her chin, looking up into his eyes defiantly, finally embracing the fury that had simmered under her petrification. With all the force she holds in her body, she tells him, "I will not apologise for the strength and fortitude I've earned in my years as Whistledown. I will share my terms, and Your Royal Highness can accept them, or I shall gladly die knowing even the great ruler of England fears an unassuming woman like myself."

His eyes narrow.

A beat.

Then—

"Very well. Name your terms."

~~~~~~~~

"It is out of our hands, now, Eloise," Anthony sighs. The glass of brandy he'd poured himself now lies empty, though Colin could see his brother's fingers already twitching towards the bottle again. "The Prince Regent himself has deigned the Featheringtons innocent. He's shown his support for them, has even proclaimed it to everyone far and wide."

Colin grits his teeth, stealing Eloise's retort at their eldest. "And, yet, Penelope isn't back with us."

He paces a worn path across Anthony's study, infuriated with himself. The rage that he'd kept tightly bounded under the surface felt as though it would soon erupt, engulfing everyone near him in its viciousness.

The Prince Regent's announcement lay crumpled on the floor, taunting him.

Colin's not an idiot.

Slow, perhaps. Obtuse, even.

But even the slowest of learners still make progress, when backed into a corner.

This, however, this is a scheme even Anthony — the wisest of them all — cannot decipher. They'd gathered in secret, all four of the eldest siblings, hoping to reconcile their individual ideas. Maybe, then, Eloise had uttered, we'd be able to understand what's to become of Penelope.

He bends to pick up the parchment once more, unfolding it with zealous fingers. He reads through every sentence, the words already deeply etched in his mind, looking for any clue that might point them north.

All he sees are fanciful praises, dressed in the descriptions of loyalty and sacrifice that Penelope had displayed during the hunt for Whistledown. Had he not been so distrusting of the situation, Colin might've felt pride bursting through his chest.

Benedict takes the paper from him. "You can keep reading it, brother. But the words will not change."

Colin doesn't miss the way his older brother tucks the paper neatly into his breast pocket. Even as aloof as Benedict had often been with Penelope — they seldom interacted — he could see that his brother was equally intrigued at the mystery before them all.

"What if it's the truth?" Anthony stands, his glass now replenished. He waves his free hand through the air in flourish. "Maybe Penelope did, in fact, know who Whistledown was and used that knowledge as leverage."

"Pen is with me nearly every hour of every day." Eloise cuts in, scowling at their eldest. Colin squeezes the bridge of his nose, a headache forming behind his eyes. "She wouldn't have had the time to find Whistledown."

"Was she, Eloise?" Colin finally snapped. "Did you forget how you would sneak away to the rookeries? Does it not occur to you, then, that she might have followed you?"

His sister is stunned into silence.

He stands straighter. "Anthony is right; we must consider that the announcement bears at least some semblance of the truth. Whistledown couldn't have known about the rookeries, unless she herself had spotted Pen."

He thinks of her fiery red hair, eye-catching even under an ostentatious bonnet. Anyone in Mayfair would recognise the Featheringtons from their hair alone; any lowborn would have certainly stopped dead in their tracks at such an uncommon sight.

Colin finds himself biting back an insurmountable rush of blind fury at the danger his wayward thoughts implied.

"He has a fair point," Benedict comments, nodding once. He shrugs. "Red-haired women were often popular in the brothels."

Colin inhales sharply, sorely tempted to throw his own glass of brandy at his brother, who looks at him immediately in alarm. He raises both hands, palms out, in preemptive surrender. "Be calm, brother. I did not mean that in the way you think I did."

"It is not that." He shakes his head, attempting to dispel his lingering fears of Penelope having been maliciously accosted. "I cannot . . . I cannot seem to tolerate the thought of Pen, alone, in such a perilous area. If she'd been hurt—"

He halts his words, denying the thought to even rise.

Benedict softens.

He walks over to where Colin stood, placing a placating hand on his shoulder. "It's pointless to think such thoughts, Colin. We'll be of no use to Penelope if we continue to drive ourselves mad with maybes." He turns to Eloise. "That goes for you, too, sister."

Colin can feel Anthony's gaze on him at his admission. He turns to face his eldest brother, as though he were a child ready to be reprimanded.

Anthony merely continued staring at him as he fidgeted uncomfortably, exposed to his brother's piercing evaluation.

Finally, Eloise breaks the tension. "So, we find ourselves at stuck at this hurdle, then. Penelope had likely followed me," at this, tears form again in her red-rimmed eyes, "in an attempt to . . . to try and m-maybe protect me. Still doesn't explain how she knew who Whistledown was."

"Perhaps she didn't." Benedict mumbles. Colin turns to look at him, shrugging off his hand on his shoulder. His brother drags a hand over his face, then runs it through his hair. "To have the Prince Regent clear their name like this, she must have known something else, something far more sinister. Something that would force the Crown to send her and her family away."

Colin prides himself to be a master at controlling his emotions. He had no other choice; when Father died, their family dynamics altered so significantly that he no longer felt as though he could confide in his true feelings with his siblings.

How could he, when his two older brothers were preoccupied with dividing their duties between themselves, in the wake of their father's demise?

How could he, when his younger siblings grew despondent, unable to quite grasp that Father would no longer regale them with the comical tales of his youth?

How could he, when his mother wouldn't dare look at him for the few years that passed in the aftermath, solely because he'd been most unfortunate to take after his father's looks?

Losing Penelope had brought forward the devastating sentiments he'd tried to diligently bottle, and his frayed patience wears thin.

He rubs at his temples, his frustration bleeding into the harshness of his movement. He tried to collect himself, refusing to fall back on the memories that no longer serve him.

"Does it matter?" He finally says. "Penelope is out there, God knows, likely alone. Without a trusted companion. What use is our debate over the Crown's actions? We should be focused on finding her instead."

"Then what would you suggest we do, Colin?" Anthony puts his drink down, before crossing his arms across his chest. "We know not where they've sent Penelope."

Colin's silence bounces off the enclosed walls of the study.

He fights an internal resistance with himself, unsure whether to reveal what he's found. He'd never been strategic; Colin had always preferred simplicity. Life itself was already a struggle — his station did not demand responsibility out of him, a privilege that he did not take for granted.

But this was Penelope.

He finds there's very little he wouldn't do for her.

"You know something," Anthony breathes, inquisitive as he'd always been.

All eyes turn to him, then.

Colin grits his teeth.

~~~~~~~~

Shrouded in the midnight darkness, with only the stars to accompany them, a carriage has begun a journey to Portugal.

In it, a woman — no longer to be known by her noble birthright — sits, holding a worn letter. It's nothing but a simple page, its contents unworthy to be remembered.

It only speaks of a man's travels.

Yet it is dear to her, for it had been the first letter she'd received from him since he had initially departed.

She holds it tightly to her, this unconventional token. Despite its simplicity, the relief she finds in the words helps to tame the anxious flames of unease that slither across her body, raising perpetual gooseflesh.

"We shall reach the docks soon, milady," is all the warning she gets.

She turns to face the window, and ignores her reflection, pressing her face against the cold glass as she resigns to her fate.

Unknown to her, a substantial distance away, the letter's sender bids farewell to his family.

"You are sure about this?" His eldest brother asks. "I can hire someone else to do this."

"No," he rejects the offer quickly, "I cannot trust anyone else. It must be me." His reason is not quite so pure — he is selfish, for once in his life. "It is far too important. She is too important."

"What will you do, then, when you bring her home?" His second eldest jests, his smile teasing, though his eyes speak of his genuine curiosity. "Will you marry her?"

The response is swift. "If it ensures her continued protection, yes."

A pause.

"Bring your bride home, then," their eldest clasps him on the shoulder. "You will always have our support."

He nods, gripping the forearm of his brother, finally shedding the lighter cloaks of boyhood to don the heavier mantle of a man.

Princess Augusta is all but seven years of age when she falls in love with being in love.

In her father's absence, her Mama sings songs of fair maidens and knights, of dalliances under the sweet summer sun. At night, the honeyed lullabies that accompany her to sleep promises a love waiting to be learnt.

So, Mama sings, and Mama dances, always with a giggling Augusta.

She grows, and as she does, she learns that love is not in the closed door of her father's study, perpetually locked.

Love is in the lines that wrinkle around her mother's eyes.

It is in the soft hands that brush through her hair, a constant reassurance.

It is in the careful words her Mama speaks to their servants, always gentle, but never compromising.

Augusta grows, and as she does, she learns to search for a love that is not limited to clipped conversations over supper. She grows, knowing that what her father and mother share is simply transactional.

A mere necessity.

She grows, and she learns that love cannot be forced.

It must be nurtured.

Augusta is five-and-ten years when she first meets him.

He is tall, his body well-muscled beneath the formal attire. His hand covers hers, twice as large, as he presses a kiss to her gloved knuckles. She's struck speechless at how handsome he looks, his strong features only just emerging from the gentle slopes of boyhood.

It is his eyes that she remembers the most, however, for they spoke volumes where propriety limits the words he is allowed to speak.

"It is my delight to introduce to you my son, Eugène de Beauharnais," the emperor says, and the image of the short man standing side by side with his lanky heir is nearly laughable.

She smiles at the man, demure, just as Mama had taught her to.

There is an odd, manic glint in the emperor's eyes as he watches Augusta's reaction.

The short man takes command of their conversations, circumventing subjects she is unable to contribute insights to. After the first greeting, she admittedly does not place her attention with the emperor and his handsome son.

She, instead, allows her mind to wander, deep in thought about the engrossing passages of a novel she has yet to complete.

When dinner is held, Father concedes his position at the head of the table to His Imperial Majesty with a joviality she is not accustomed to.

Beneath the furniture, however, Mama reaches for her hand and holds it tightly.

Augusta's patience finally wanes, and it is only when she stifles a yawn that Father calls for an end to their dinner, inviting their visitors to his study before they depart.

The servants clear their plates, and Mama steals a bowl of bayerische crème, smiling at her indulgently. "I know you were not quite so fulfilled with your meal, my darling. Take this and finish it in your room. I shall come wish you goodnight later."

She bids the emperor and his son farewell, bowing as low as she can, and retreats to her room.

The evening creeps into the dark recesses of midnight, but her Mama does not come to see her yet.

She is staring up into the carved ornaments of her bed, when she hears the familiar voices of her mother and father growing louder in volume.

Mama is in distress.

She trots quickly to her door, where she presses her ear against the great oak and focuses on the echoing dispute beyond it.

"And what would you have me do?!" Father shouts. "Deny our emperor and doom us all? You know better than anyone that he is a madman!"

"I only ask that you fight for our daughter!" Augusta feels tears collect in her eyes, unused to her gentle mother's misery. "You are marrying her into a deranged man's family — you have already dishonoured us by doing so! I will not stand for this, Maximilian, you cannot take my daughter away from me —"

Even through the thick hardwood, Augusta hears the slap.

Body trembling, she goes to hide under the covers of her beddings.

She holds her hands over her ears and wills for slumber to possess her.

It does not.

~~~~~~~~

On January 14, 1806, when she is six-and-ten, Princess Augusta is wedded to Eugène de Beauharnais.

Their marriage is a symbolic gesture from Napoleon, further strengthening his ties to Bavaria.

The princess assumes her new role as Vicereine of Italy, and she is admired by their people for her grace and elegance.

Her mother never forgives her father.

And the young princess does not see her beloved Mama ever again.

~~~~~~~~

The woman before Harry is slight.

Her green dress is dark enough to appear closer to black in the dimming light of the evening that filters through from the window behind him.

Her red hair is pulled back into a loose braid, hands clasped to her front. She holds no other belongings except for a purse.

Her youth oddly reminds him of his younger sisters, sequestered in London, far away from the monstrosities of war.

"Miss Penelope Featherington, sir," his subordinate informs him, giving him an equally befuddled look. "She is sent here as an aide by Lord Wellington, under strict orders from His Royal Highness."

He passes Harry a letter. "Lord Wellington wishes for you to read his endorsement of her expeditiously."

The girl's head bends lower.

"Surely they jest." He puts the letter on his desk and folds the rest of his papers away, wary of the other man's presence in his war room. He moves around the table, closer to the pair. "She is young — too young. Too . . . dainty," he clears his throat. "She will not survive."

The soldier does not respond to him.

He turns to the young lady. "Miss Featherington, you must excuse my befuddlement. We were not expecting His Royal Highness to send us someone of your standing."

He's heard rumours, though, through the hushed conversations between his men.

The copy of the Prince Regent's proclamation of the Featheringtons' valour in unmasking a treasonous writer is amongst the many parchments that litter his tabletop, confiscated from his men after it sparked spirited discussions that were more conspiracy than it was verbal observation.

He clears his throat. "We were expecting someone else." Someone lowborn, he doesn't say, someone whose name is not sacred enough to be besmirched. "The role that you are expected to do . . . it will be trying."

"May I speak freely, sir?" She asks him, finally lifting her gaze from her feet.

He's once again stricken at how young she truly is.

She's pretty, indeed, though incomparable to the other candidates that've come his way before.

Her cheeks still bear the traces of girlhood, twinged pink and plump. Her nose is admirable; small, befitting the contours of her face. Her full lips are painted a soft maroon hue, though cracked.

Her eyes, though.

They remind him of his beloved Juana.

Hauntingly strong, fearsome with determination. Yet resigned to an uncontrollable fate.

What were they thinking, sending someone like this to me?

Harry's seen men with eyes like hers.

They don't return from the battlefronts.

He turns back to his table, fetching a clean teacup. He takes the jug of water he keeps beside his papers and pours her a drink.

Offering it to her, he nods his approval.

She takes the cup but doesn't drink from it. "I understand your apprehension, sir, and I must admit that I am to be entirely dependent on you and the knowledge that you are required to impart upon me.

"Consider that," she closes her eyes briefly, and underneath them, he sees the purplish-blue of unrest marring the delicate skin. When she opens them again, her blue eyes are steeled with a tenacity that reminds him of himself, "much like you, I have debts to pay."

"You are a lady of noble birth, Miss Featherington." He shakes his head. "Surely, there must be some mistake."

"Are you questioning His Royal Highness's decision, then?" She challenges.

He clenches his jaw.

Much like Juana, indeed. Stubborn.

"I am only concerned for your well-being, Miss Featherington."

"As much as you were concerned about the prisoners that were promised freedom in exchange for their service in the war?" She raises her chin, her eyes hardening into sapphire stone. "The same prisoners who only saw the freedom they were promised when they died in the battlefront?"

Harry takes a sharp breath.

He glances at the young soldier still standing beside the woman. "Take your leave."

The man nods, leaving quickly. He closes the door behind him with the precision of a man whose hands have expertly handled gunpowder.

"How did you know that?" He demands, standing to his full posture.

His eyes bear down on her, fighting the tendrils of a begrudging admiration. In any other situation, Harry would be impressed; had she been a man, he certainly would be, and he'd have invited her for a drink.

The woman refuses to concede to his anger, her hands still clutching tightly onto her purse. Her shoulders roll back as she retorts, "You have your secrets, and I have mine. You have your ambitions, and I've thrown mine." At this, he hears her voice tremble slightly. "Tell me, Sir Harry, would you rather stand there and question His Royal Highness's decision, or would you rather we expend mutual trust that we both play our parts in ending the war?"

Before he's able to respond, she takes a step closer, her eyes softening slightly. Her grip on her purse relaxes minutely. "Wouldn't you want to finally return home to your wife?"

And Harry finds himself in lack of speech for the second time.

He feels his heart quicken at the mention of his Juana, and the familiar yearning he struggles to contain nearly breaks through his indifferent composure.

There were very few living men who knew of his wife — a deliberate decision on his part. The lesser people knew of her, the safer she would be.

Her continued safety — despite how tenuous it was — was his only tether to sanity.

And Harry cannot quite grasp how Miss Featherington knew of Juana.

She continues to stare at him with a knowing gaze.

He resolves to keep his opinions to himself; some things are better left unsaid, after all. "Very well, Miss Featherington. I propose a truce. Your silence for mine."

She raises her cup of water in agreement, the gesture ironic. "To our victory."

Harry feels an unfamiliar surge of embarrassment rise from within him, unused to being castigated so easily. She smiles, then, and the very expression changes her outlook entirely.

He blinks, momentarily distracted, then rescinds his earlier thoughts of how he'd believed the young lady to be in lack of an eye-catching beauty.

He shakes his head, once more disconcerted at how quickly he'd been proven wrong.

"I shall escort you to your living premises, and we shall talk more about our next course of action."

It's only when he returns to his war room that he's struck with a realisation.

The young Miss Featherington had not only expertly evaded his question.

She'd countered with an attack that struck close to his heart, and delivered a blow that effectively rendered him too incoherent to retaliate.

Perhaps she is not quite so helpless, he thinks, rolling his quill between his thumb and index finger, eyes staring blankly at the pages of Lord Wellington's correspondence he's not gone through. This one hides her weapons well.

He recalls her earlier demeanour; meek and servile. Barely looking up from ends of her dress.

Too well.

~~~~~~~~

She is there, in his dreams, every night, existing only in memories.

A faint thrill of her laughter.

A glimpse of a smile.

A scent of bloomed oranges and jasmine.

Each time he wakes, resentment turns his mouth cotton. An odd pressure makes itself known from within his temples, and he finds himself often needing several moments of reprieve before he feels minutely functional.

In the initial days since his abrupt departure from Mayfair, time passes torturously slow for Colin, as he alternates between suspense and fury over the unjustness that've been dealt to Pen.

He's armed with only the knowledge that she is barely a day ahead of him, though the information itself was a double-edged sword that struck him in his chest.

Too late, something in him taunts. Always too late.

Colin can only hope his plan to have Anthony and Benedict's continued correspondence with the young footman he'd bribed would bear some level of result by the time they've docked.

Until then, his days drag along excruciatingly, a vast contrast to his initial experience on tour.

On his first sail in the past summer, Colin had thought he'd known true exuberance. Kissed by the sea, with wind sweeping curls into his hair, he'd spent hours in the daylight until his skin pinked.

The experience inspired his earliest letters to Pen.

He'd been a boy, then, deliriously elated over his newfound independence, and desperate to bury the humiliation Miss Thompson — Lady Crane — had brought upon him.

To Colin, happiness was in the sound of the waves breaking against the bow of the ship.

Joy was in the sunlight that stained his hair lighter, unhindered by the shadows of the buildings that framed London.

Exhilaration was the conversations he'd have with strangers, blissfully nescient of rank and social standing.

All of which cease to exist, now.

Happiness isn't in the waves; it lies far beyond the horizon, carried by a girl he'd crossed an ocean for.

There's no joy to be had in the sunlight; not when it reminds him of the unsightly, near obscene shade of marigold dresses that Lady Featherington favours for Pen.

Exhilaration is replaced by his grim determination — his conversations with strangers are stilted, now, and strategically purposeful.

"This one is too quiet," the children say as they dance around him from his fixed position on the ship's deck.

"This one looks murderous," the men whisper at his back, as he paces, emulating a caged animal.

"This one is lost," the women murmur, as he passes.

Colin ignores them all.

~~~~~~~~

She drowns in the first month.

Her initial days are spent reading an endless stack of papers detailing the histories and backgrounds of faceless strangers.

Penelope continues to suffer sleeplessness, knowing her time to be limited — her night terrors return in such intensity that she finds herself preferring to keep awake.

Sir Harry does not tell her, explicitly, the reasons behind her forced study. But the insinuation of the bitter work she's required to put in lies between each sentence that describes the events that've transpired over the last one-and-ten years since the war started.

There's no stone she can leave unturned.

Her days bleed into nights as she locks herself in her designated room, coloured in muted warm tones from the ever-burning candlelight.

Penelope does not sleep.

She does not rest.

In the still of night, with just her parchments for company, she abandons any lingering hope for someone else to save her.

The time for wishful thinking has passed.

Only she can save herself.

~~~~~~~~

He receives a letter almost immediately after arriving at his inn.

He rips it open, fingers shaking from exhaustion, and greedily reads Anthony's missive, skimming through the introductory paragraphs prefacing his family's general health and well-being.

Finally, as the letter draws to a close, his brother divulges the information he needs.

On other matters more relevant to your interests, Benedict is adamant that I disclose what our young acquaintance has unearthed — Lord Wellington, Field Marshal of our British Army, has unintentionally disclosed that Sir Harry Smith has undertaken an auburn-haired apprentice.

Their exact location in Portugal cannot be traced. As you can imagine, war has no fixed residence. This is as far as our informant would have us, so you must exercise caution moving forward.

The next lines are scratched to non-existence, implying his brother's hesitance, before the letter continues.

Liaise with the bow street runners, let them be extensions of your eyes and ears. Go to disreputable taverns, if you must, where many highborn men lose their sense of judgement. The whores are abundant and more exotic there; it is improper but necessary. That is where you may begin scouting for potential . . . connections.

I humbly ask that you do not speak of this to Benedict. Should he discover you are to be engaged in such provocative measures, I fear that he would insist to accompany you on your travels.

He runs his fingers over the other omitted lines, before finally arriving to Anthony's final words. You will be attempting to find a needle in a bottle of hay, but you must not lose hope.

And Colin is not a fool.

He knows he's far, far, out of his depth.

He knows his search for Pen may very well be useless; it may take years, even.

He knows he's never been tactical; he's had no reason to be.

Anthony was the eldest, his father's heir to the title of their birthright.

Benedict was the second son, a spare, though arguably as important as their eldest was.

Colin . . . simply existed.

He had no formal education on politics, had not even cared enough to be concerned with the matter.

But, for Pen, he finds himself recalling every piece of advice his brothers had presented to him.

He pours over journals of the more established military men in the ton, evaluating the conveyed insights.

He studies a procured war map, identifying routes through the different countries, attempting to find a pattern.

He reads, and reads, and reads, and reads, until his eyes water with fatigue.

For Pen, he forces himself to try, to throw caution into the wind and exert his utmost effort in making the decisions that will prove to be crucial for his solitary cause.

Because she matters.

All the time, to him, she matters.

Finally, a week after his arrival in Lisbon, with his doubt secured behind the restraint of his resolve, he hides his coats and accessories, and exchanges clothes with an accompanying servant.

He tells his valet, "Take me to Cais do Sodré."

~~~~~~~~

In her second month, she sees the full extent of Sir Harry's unholy rage for the first time.

They sit in the war room with a military counsel, and what had started as an innocent enquiry by a low-ranking officer regarding Penelope's presence had quickly escalated into a contentious disagreement.

Sir Harry and Lord Wellington exchange verbal assaults in the war room, ignorant of their audience, each insult growing in its torrid offense.

The older of the pair had insisted on hastening Penelope's assignment as an operative, citing the urgency the Prince Regent had impressed upon him.

But the younger officer will not be moved.

She feels the weight of her inconsequential presence like the suffocating air of a heated summer's day. She keeps her hands pressed to the top of her thighs, resenting the tears that threaten to fall, her heart beating so loudly she can barely hear Lord Wellington's next words.

"You are compromising yourself, sir. Thread carefully; you still speak to your commander."

She watches Sir Harry rise to his full height, towering over the man.

Even from a distance, Penelope can see the absolute fury on his face, and struggles to place the typically stoic man from the abhorrent creature that's surfaced before them all.

In the past month since her unorthodox arrival at the barracks, Sir Harry had been her sole companion.

Her trust in him had been hard-earned; to ensure her virtuous safety, he'd prohibited her from journeying any further than an arm's length away. She'd reciprocated by confiding in him of her past mistakes, releasing the shackles of anonymity, hoping that they may fester a friendship that would build loyalty.

The days spread into weeks, and eventually, enough ground breaks between them so that Penelope stops doubting the man's sincerity.

Simply because he had, not once, doubted hers.

Once, when she'd been all but five years of age, she had wondered what it would be like to have an older brother.

"Then you wouldn't be quite so free, poppet," Mama had laughed at her then, "for a brother would have your wings clipped."

But her regulated proximity to the officer had been a glimpse of that outlandish possibility she'd once entertained as a child.

In the month since they'd been introduced, she found herself a friend in Sir Harry.

A brother, almost.

How could she not?

She'd seen him at his most sensitive, opening letters from his dear wife.

She'd seen him, agitated, punishing his men who spoke out of turn against her.

She'd seen him, mournful, as he writes letters to the families of the men who have fallen in battle.

And now, she becomes the unwilling witness to the gravity of a war lord's wrath.

Penelope's breath catches in her throat as Sir Harry hisses through his clenched teeth, "You send her out there, my lord," the term is nearly derogatory in his deep voice, "and she will be found out as a spy almost immediately. You are sending a lamb for slaughter. She is not ready."

"You would defy your commanding officer's orders, boy?!"

Penelope flinches at Lord Wellington's shout, cowering into her seat.

"Send her, then," Sir Harry challenges. He crosses his arms. "Send her and I resign."

Lord Wellington jolts his head back, unable to restrain his shock.

Sir Harry's resignation is a threat the Commander cannot afford to challenge.

Lord Wellington's eyes grow wide, shoulders falling back in disconcertment, and Penelope sees his gaze flit between her and Sir Harry in confusion.

His resounding frown draws deep lines on his face, before he finally straightens his stance and orders, "Leave us."

The command is clear.

They leave the room, and Penelope stands from her seat at the back of the table on shaking legs. The adrenaline of the bitter discussion has not left her yet; in her mind, she's begun to draw various conclusions.

Concern is a pit in her stomach as she ponders over her assignment.

Worry pulls her lids apart while she lies on her bed ruminating over Sir Harry's efforts in ensuring her survival.

Guilt builds the base of her irritation with herself, only serving to fuel her frustration.

She must do better.

She must be better.

She does not sleep that night.

Sir Harry visits her in the morning, wearing the same clothes he'd worn the evening before.

His expression is haggard, as though he harboured the weight of the world atop his broad shoulders. The frown he wears appear to be permanently etched onto his face, marring his relative youthfulness.

Oddly, she's reminded of Anthony.

"A month," He exhales, finally, his voice gruff. He rubs a hand across his face. "That is all he is willing to concede."

She steps back, feeling the world spin beneath her feet. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. When she's managed to calm her heart, she blinks her eyes open, a false serenity masking her true emotions.

Sir Harry leans against the doorway to her room, watching her in sympathy.

The exhaustion behind his eyes mirror a lifetime of atrocities he's borne witness to, and for a moment, she thinks she sees an echo of the man he used to be when he states, simply, "I owe you my deepest apologies, Miss Featherington. I was not able to further compromise with the Commander without inciting unnecessary judgement over our friendship."

She grimaces. "While I appreciate that you regard me as a friend, we cannot control the decisions of those who are stationed above us. There is no need to apologise."

"You must understand," he shifts, "it is not for my lack of belief in you that I deem you unfit for immediate duty. You are quite unparalleled with your unique ability to observe, to learn. I've seen you in the library, dead in the night, pouring over transcriptions. Amongst the spies that I have been sent, you are the one I'm most hopeful will succeed."

She swallows against the lump in her throat. "You hold me to such high a pedestal, sir. I may disappoint you yet."

He shakes his head. "It is precisely for your aptitude that I claim you are not ready. If we send you out, now, when you are most vulnerable—"

Sir Harry does not finish his sentence.

Then, he looks down, and quietly confesses, "You remind me, sometimes, of my dear wife. Sending you out into uncharted territories, alone, feels as though I've affronted her."

"You must love her so."

He looks up at her, a rueful smile stretching his lips into the ghost of the young man he truly is. "Very much, yes."

"Will you humour me, Sir Harry?" She asks, waiting for his reply. He nods. "What would your wife have done, if given a situation quite like mine?"

The smile draws wider.

"She would have called me a fool. Insisted that preparation is only the ideation of will. By the time the sun rises tomorrow, she would have stowed away in a carriage bound for a ship to Italy, defying my wishes."

And Penelope sees it clearly, then.

Sir Harry's true fear wasn't in her failure, but in his.

Fear for a war, lost, with lands razed and innocent souls dearly departed.

Fear for his comrades, who shields him, and who he defends in return — a true loyalty that can only be formed when confronted by death.

Most of all, Penelope sees his fear for his beloved, who he fights for, so that they may have a future together.

"Your wife is a smart woman," she tells him, understanding gentling her tone.

He closes his eyes at her remark, lost in his reminiscence.

Penelope resents what war has done to the man. Should she fail, it is him who stands to lose greatly.

His reputation, his wife.

Everything that he has built will fall like the leaves in autumn, unbearably slow, until only a skeleton is left.

Gritting her teeth, she forces abandonment to her fears. "I will not fail, Sir Harry."

His eyes flit open, an open vulnerability shining through the cloud of reticence in his gaze.

She does not waver.

"A month is all I need to prepare myself." She vows. "Then, send me to Italy so I may inhibit even a mere semblance of your wife's tenacious courage."

~~~~~~~~

By a sheer stroke of luck, Colin eventually finds a tavern frequented by British soldiers.

Under the guise of simple clothes and ruffled hair, his beard unkempt, he blends into the crowd.

Here, in the darkest corners of Lisbon, Colin is as far from his rank as he can possibly be.

There's only a handful of soldiers in the tavern, though they grow rowdier with each pint of ale they gulp down.

He knows that the soldiers' secrets are bounded to their chests by their blind loyalty to their crown.

But Colin is a patient man.

He sends pint after pint of liquor to the men. Increasingly, they mince their words, the alcohol loosening their lips until, finally, they grow reckless enough to forget themselves.

He finds a seat closer them, ears attentive, as he fiddles with his half-emptied glass.

"So, we're all sat in t'room, and Smith and Wellington start bloody squabbling over this lass." One of the soldiers says, regaling his story to the small audience that've gathered around his group. "Dunno why. She's not all that bloody pretty. Got decent tits, I'll give 'er that." He pulls the woman he's got in his lap closer to him, leering, "Of course, your tits are far better."

Colin clenches his jaw so tight; he feels an odd twinge in the back of his tooth.

Grimly, he thanks the stars that the man is entirely distracted by his ale.

He clears his throat, assuming the accent he'd learned from a passing footman. He forces his laugh through his clenched teeth, clapping the soldier on the back, asking loudly, "Did t'lass 'ave red hair?"

Had the soldier been more sober, Colin has no doubt he would've been suspicious at his poor attempt at impressions.

Instead, the man nods enthusiastically, his intellect entirely undermined by the liquor, and raises his pint in cheer. "Aye, such pretty hair, t'lass had. I reckon, if she wasn't so shielded by the top brass, I would'a had her in me bed, that red hair wrapped 'round me wrist, while I fucked her in her—"

Colin sees nothing but vermillion painting over his vision

Then, he snaps.

He slams his glass onto the man's head, his atrocity flaring to a level he'd not known he was capable of.

The woman screams, scrambling to stand up quickly as the soldier falls backwards. He drops from his stool, too intoxicated to defend himself.

The tavern's patrons remain unfazed by the violent display, too accustomed to brawls between roisterers with pent up energy. Some of the other soldiers laugh, clapping Colin on the back, which serves to only fester the rage that's evident in his shaking fists.

He stands, and for a moment, revels in the blood he sees gushing from the head wound he'd imparted on the other man.

Had he been so sure that the woman the soldier so degradingly spoke of wasn't Penelope, Colin might have allowed a narrow gap for mercy to slither its way through.

But the man had, in fact, come dangerously close to describing Pen – his Pen–

He forces his thoughts to stop, gritting his teeth harshly, and returns his attention to the soldier before him.

The man lies in a pool of his own blood, unconscious from the moment Colin had hit him.

He's tempted to leave him to rot where he rightfully belonged.

He takes a deep breath, stepping away from him, body already itching to do much, much worse.

The only thing that stops him from leaving entirely is the fact that the soldier and his revelation had been the first advancement he's had in months.

He's a necessary evil, he thinks to himself, though unconvinced.

Bile rising steadily up his throat, he finally bends over, picking up the soldier by his lapels. He sits the soldier upright in his stool.

It's only when he raises his hand to call for a barmaid to replenish their drinks that his sees the bloodstains on his sleeves.

It's not the stark contrast of crimson against the cloth that jars him.

Instead, Colin comes to a startling realisation that he'd do far worse to the man, should he learn he'd compromised Pen.

No.

With an almost grotesque glee, he thinks he might even enjoy partaking in enacting such violent brutalities.

~~~~~~~~

"You have your cloak?"

She nods.

They draw closer to the border.

Penelope tries to calm her heart.

Fear cannot exist in this space between the girl she's left behind and the woman who now steps into a new life.

Her resolution draws a straight line down her back, tightening her shoulders, refusing to emulate any likeness of her imprisoned insecurity.

"You have your belongings?"

She nods again.

"You have—"

She sighs. "Harry, your concern is touching, but a nuisance I cannot bear. The more you press upon me these repeated questions, the more I am sorely inclined to shove you out this carriage."

He chuckles lightly but does not respond to her.

Finally, they come to a stop.

She grabs her purse, one hand already pushing the door open.

"Penelope," he starts, halting her movement.

When she turns to face him, she's startled to see his eyes grow serious, his frown deep. Enclosed in the carriage and contrasted against the copper interiors of rotting wood, the Commander's right-hand man looks uncharacteristically unsure.

"It is our agreement, Harry," she chastises him softly.

He reaches over to grasp her shoulder, sighing deeply. "I know. It is just . . . if I could have enough time, perhaps—"

She shakes her head. "What? Committed treason against the Prince Regent just to save a woman entirely unrelated to you, causing a scandal that would upheave the entirety of Mayfair, as you perpetrate the greatest offence of disrespecting your innocent, dutiful wife?"

He clenches his jaw.

She laughs humourlessly. "My fate was already decided when I agreed to the Crown's terms, Harry. We will not fail."

"No," he looks at her then, with eyes far sterner than his years. "We must not fail."

She nods once, grim.

He sighs again. "Go, then. I shall collect you in a fortnight so we may discuss your progress."

She pushes the door open and steps surreptitiously into foreign grounds. She does not look at him as she closes the carriage door.

She walks determinedly to a future unknown to her, leaving the ghosts of her past trailing behind her.

~~~~~~~~

A young woman, slight in her build, slips into the palace.

The guards don't question the movement.

They keep their eyes straight forward in a silent allegiance to the enemies of the royals they served.

The young woman walks through the gates, her head held high, her hair the very image of the flames that they imagine would creep up the cobblestone walls once the war is won.

A man stands, alone, barely visible in the tree line. He carries no weapon. Even from the distance, his tall stature is imposing; a war lord whose military triumphs precedes him.

He watches the young woman disappear into the palace grounds, waiting until she is nothing but a standard face amongst the servants, and raises a fist.

The signal is seen.

The guards move quickly, reforming their lines against the entrance.

The war lord leaves.

~~~~~~~~

Despite himself, the soldier's hands shake.

The nobleman's eyes flash, murderously intent.

The soldier swallows nervously, wiping his hands on the fabric of his breeches. "I apologise for my captain's ignorance, sir. When he ran away with your coin, he was unaware that you were Lord Bridgerton's brother."

"You presume that I care about your menial excuses." The nobleman's calmness is irksome to the soldier; the detached voice he keeps forces the hair on the back of his neck to rise.

The soldier takes a tremulous breath, "I-I was only — only following my orders, sir."

"And yet you had him promise you half the sum in exchange for a lie, so that he might disappear back into your barracks without my knowledge."

The soldier does not reply.

He's spilled blood.

He'd fought for a king whose crown is worn by another.

He's seen his fellow soldiers fall victim to the devastation that war unleashes on naive men. Their faces, forever carrying the forlorn gaze of a lost soul, are indelibly etched into his mind.

And should he garner even a speck of the courage he's long since lost to look at himself soundly in the mirror, he suspects he'll see the same, vacant stare.

Yet, for all that the war has disillusioned him to life beyond the stabbed bodies on his bayonet, the soldier has never feared anyone much like the nobleman before him.

It's in the man's eyes – this thirst.

He is vindictive.

Unspeakably so.

It's in the tensed outline of his broad shoulders, carrying an invisible weight.

The soldier has only ever seen men like him on the opposite side of the battlefield.

They'd been savages.

"An unfortunate circumstance it is, then," the nobleman finally breaks his silence. He shifts, resting his weight on his back leg. "That your dear captain was killed recently at the battlefront. I imagine you must be frustrated."

The soldier finds himself lacking yet another response.

"You dream of rising above your station, do you not?" The question is smooth, nearly enchanting.

Lured by the derailing change of subject, the soldier hesitates, then nods.

"Perhaps you might humour me, then," the nobleman continues, leaning closer to the soldier, his blue eyes frigid. "Might you tell me of your family's lineage and background?"

The soldier's palms grow sweaty. "I . . . I lost them, sir."

"How peculiar," the man straightens, his expression shifting into something sinister. "That my associates tell me your family resides in Whitechapel. Your mother, a beggar. Your sister, a whore. Your brother, contracted as a footman despite his boyhood. Your father, imprisoned for murder. Yes," he stresses the word, "remind me once more — what is your lineage?"

The soldier swallows. "You know not of what you speak."

"I know enough." He smirks. "You have a family to protect."

"And you, sir? What do you know?" The soldier asks boldly. "You are a highborn, lost in your senseless balls and soirees, growing richer as the bodies of my friends lie rotting in a foreign land. You, who has been born with a golden spoon, you—"

He bites his tongue, then finishes simply, "You, who cannot presume he knows the lengths an impoverished man will go to, so that he may put bread in his mother's hands. Tell me, sir, what game do you intend to play?"

The nobleman smiles widely.

"Not a game, but a trade." He steps closer to the soldier. "Your information, for my coin. Your loyalty, for my endorsement. My orders, for your family's safety." He stretches a hand. "Shall we come to an agreement?"

~~~~~~~~

The young woman moves quietly through the palace, her steps light.

Her striking red hair is hidden under a cap, sewn from the rags given to her. The older handmaidens tut over the woman's youth.

She takes quickly to her duties, limbs agile and mind still bright. She does not question her orders, only carries them out with a faultless precision that are the markings of an experienced maid.

They don't see that her fingers bear fresh callouses abnormal for a woman of her lowborn station.

They don't hear her manner of speech, soft and delightful, a voice too delicate to be hosted in a servant's throat.

They fail to observe how she takes a routine walk around the palace grounds every fortnight, with only a lantern for company, and disappears into the treeline a significant distance away.

The young woman effortlessly slips through their notice, as simple as though she had always been a fixture in the palace. She does not talk unless spoken to, does not look at anything else but her task on hand.

She is a servant, in every sense of the word.

Shortly after her arrival, an under maid is caught in a scandalous entanglement with a royal guard.

The young woman is selected to take her position; her meek demeanour is a testament to her unquestionable competency.

Then, in the bleakness of the Italian winter air, a chambermaid abandons her work, mysteriously vanishing into the endless night sky. The older servants are not envious of her — her escape sacrifices her security.

The young woman is hastily asked to oversee the responsibilities the chambermaid had recklessly deserted, a role she gladly accepts.

As the snow hardens into solid ice, Princess Augusta's lady's maid is tried for treason for mishandling the viceroy's youngest child.

She is beheaded, her body burnt to a crisp, and the chestnut locks of the long hair the lady's maid had favoured can now be seen hanging on the back walls of the palace's exterior gates.

The young woman is, again, promptly rewarded elevated duties.

And deep into the shadows of her dark bedroom, as the young woman retires for slumber, nameless faces torment her consciousness.

~~~~~~~~

Power, he learns, turns a weak man corrupt.

Power, he finds, turns a contented man ravenous.

Power, he decides, is what a man truly desires.

He gathers his advisors, on a mournful Sunday. They know him well enough to understand why they gather at an oak table in Elba. They fear him too much to question otherwise.

Napoleon's tasted power once.

He's seen what it can do.

And he wants more.

His stepson's eyes are enervated, bottomless pits of fatigue in his relatively young age. They bear into him with the wariness of a man who has seen far too much.

But there's no shame to be had in the continuous education of the young; Napoleon believes it is an investment in securing the future of his family's reign.

In his native tongue, his threatening words are frighteningly eerie. "We have allowed the eagle-nosed man to grow far too arrogant. He believes they've won the war."

A chorus of furious whispers rumble throughout the table.

He avoids his stepson's disappointed gaze.

"We must correct his assumption, comrades," he says instead, his smile a menacing sneer. "It is time we take back what's ours."

~~~~~~~~

Augusta knows what true love is.

True love is the gentle words you speak to your precious person when they feel as though the weight of the world is upon them.

True love is the gentle hums that comforts you as you lay shivering in your bed, illness coating your vision a grey haze.

True love is the ultimate act of devotion.

Eugène is but a handsome stranger to her on their wedding day. He refuses to meet her gaze as they exchange vows, staring ahead resolutely, his eyes hardened and mournful.

She does not feel hurt by his nonchalance.

She imagines her indifference to him merely mirrors his own.

And Augusta understands.

She has prepared herself for a life of locked studies and casual dialogues over a meal. She knows herself to be more than ready to partake in a marriage where husband and wife do not interact, save for the occasions where they are to fulfil their marital responsibilities.

But she was not prepared for Eugène's firm hand, holding hers, as he guided her through their wedding celebrations.

She was not prepared for his constant presence in their drawing room, nimble fingers playing melodies she recognises were her Mama's favourite songs.

She was not prepared for his inquisitive questions, asking for tales from her youth — her dreams, her hopes, her ambitions.

"I do not have ambitions, Your Highness." She tells him earnestly. "I am here only to serve our great empire."

"Perhaps." He responds. "Tell me — in the books you hold dear, what were the tales that enthralled you so?"

An odd warmth floods her cheeks. Quietly, she says, "Friedrich Schiller's poetry . . . they are beloved to me."

His brows raise, and then he laughs heartily. When he calms, his eyes are warm, and Augusta feels at odds with her racing heart. "So, there it is, then, your ambition — you long for a purpose beyond our palace walls, because grace is the beauty of form—"

"—under the influence of freedom," she finishes.

His answering smile is wide.

They fall in love in the spring.

By the autumns and winters that followed, it blossoms into their three beautiful girls.

Now a wife and mother, Augusta finds out that love is fulfilling.

And, when nurtured, love sustains your beating heart, allowing room for trust to build into friendship.

She also learns that love is lonely.

Eugène is called upon, often, by his father. For weeks on end, she does not see him.

Her heartaches grow as her children does, and memories of her own father's locked study haunt the outskirts of her dreams.

She does not want the cycle to repeat itself.

But as the war rages on, and her heart becomes helplessly more guarded, she discovers that love is unjustly cruel.

~~~~~~~~

"Kempt used to call her Sir Harry's shadow," the soldier tells him, over a pint of stale liquor. "She is by his side most times."

Colin forces himself to take a breath.

He reminds himself that his fury does not reward him what he desires the most — it only serves to hinder him, constantly clouding his judgement.

It does not stop the uncomfortable heat from scratching across the confines of his chest, demanding emergence.

"Go on," he hisses, clasping his hands together.

"Napier is tight-lipped; he refuses to speak on Sir Harry's behalf. Sometimes," his informant nods to himself, eyes looking up as though lost in recollection. "When Kempt speaks of the young woman, Napier looks only at us. It is unspoken, but it is clear he expects our discretion."

Colin cannot help himself. "Do they speak unfavourably about her?"

"No, sir."

"What else does Kempt say about her?"

"That she is but a visitor, an honoured guest of His Royal Highness." The soldier shrugs. "We do not think it so, but the oddity of the young woman is insignificant when compared to other matters that are far more pressing."

There must be something in Colin's expression that he notices. He hastily adds, "That is, I do not mean that the woman is insignificant, only that—"

Colin raises his hand, cutting off the man. "I do not want to hear of it. Do you know where Sir Harry keeps her?"

Even the thought itself — of someone else keeping Penelope — is enough to stoke the unidentified flames within his torso into a near inferno. He finds himself straining to keep his thoughts controlled, to not be so derailed, to reorient his musings into more productive deliberations.

He fails, ultimately, when his informant shakes his head morosely. "War does not allow us a fixed stay at any location. We move to places that are advantageous to us, as our commanders will it. We cannot afford such luxuries.

"Regardless of that, I am also from a different regimental battalion than that of the war lord, so I know not where his troops are stationed. Kempt and Napier only serve as his trusted correspondents to our commanders."

Colin leans against his seat, releasing the tight hold of his hands. He rubs at his temples, pressing the tips of his fingers against the phantom pains from within his skull. "Sir Harry's last place of residence, then?"

"Lisbon, sir."

"And Kempt?"

"The same as Sir Harry."

He bites back a curse. "I expected specifics."

"That is all that I know of, sir, I promise you." The soldier raises his hands in surrender. "I have tried every possible means to find out more about this . . . shadow that Kempt speaks of. But our soldiers . . . they do not betray our war lord. They will not."

He relents; the pounding in his head has only worsened. He stands up and pulls from his pockets the payment he'd promised the soldier. "Come back to me when you have information of substance, then."

The other man takes the money.

Colin turns to leave, aggravation evident in his slouch.

"Sir?"

He pauses in his stride.

"Is she truly worth it?"

This time, Colin embraces his rage.

He pivots to face the man, nearly snarling, "Are you questioning my loyalty to a dear friend?"

"Sir, please, you misunderstand," the soldier hurries to quell his anger. "The efforts you expend, the lengths you have gone to, the extent of your actions — they are not mere examples of your commitment to your lost—" the man stops himself, then continues, his tone unsure, "friend."

The soldier tilts his head, brows furrowed. His eyes assess Colin with an empathetic gaze. "These are acts of devotion, sir."

~~~~~~~~

There's a strange sadness to the princess.

Penelope recognises it.

She's seen it before in her mother, as she raised her and her sisters.

The princess's half-dead eyes only brighten to their fullest when in the company of her beloved children.

Yet every so often, her gaze drifts to the empty hallways, her longing apparent.

Penelope can see it, clear as day.

The princess is only five-and-twenty, but loneliness is her succubus, draining her of life until there is nothing but a functional shell. She only exists, never quite living, and Penelope is not quite heartless to not feel pity for her.

But she cannot allow herself to feel anything more than sympathy for the despondent vicereine.

She intends to make good on her vows.

To Harry, who continues fronting an exhaustive siege against their enemies.

To her Mama and her sisters, whose future will remain unsecured until she returns in triumph.

She must not fail.

So, she swallows any dregs of compassion that surface within her and goes about her tasks. Her eyes are ever seeing, her ears always listening — there is nothing that escapes her notice. She plays her role perfectly; a submissive, quiet young girl named Clare, living to serve her mistress only.

It's an arduous process, but eventually, the older maids begin sneaking her desserts that the princess and her children do not consume.

The palace guards — those whose loyalties are still chained with their exiled ruler — stop tracing the routes she takes within the palace grounds.

Until finally–

"Clare," the princess calls, "inquire one of the house stewards for the spare key to my private study. I require your aid in locating a book missing from my personal collection."

She finds an elder woman in the back gardens, tending to the weeds that grow in the shift of winter to early spring. She keeps her voice calm, free from the tremors that erupt from the anticipation that courses through her tensed frame.

The princess had not allowed anyone else to enter her private study, save for the house stewards.

"It is her most sacred sanctuary," the chambermaids had informed her when she'd first arrived, "not even the viceroy was allowed in."

Penelope knows her position is precarious.

She's seen the princess carry the letters her husband sends her to her study, where she does not surface again until the oil lamps are nearly burned through.

Always, when she returns, her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Traces of tears track paths down her powdered face.

The study is always locked.

The steward passes the key to Penelope, who grips onto them with all the strength her fingers possess. She nods her thanks to the steward and makes her way back to her mistress.

"Stay calm," she hears Harry's voice guiding her as she hurries up the staircase to Princess Augusta's study. "Against all odds, even when faced with the most heinous of acts, you must stay calm. Do not leave room for doubt."

She reaches the study and knocks, just to ensure her solitude.

There is no response.

She inserts the keys into the lock, turns it, and the door comes unlatched.

The room is clearly loved.

Parchments scatter across a great desk sitting in front of a curtained window, ornately decorated in hues of copper-brown and gold. The carving on the wood is intricate, an homage to the masterful craftsmanship. Across all sides of the study, lines of shelved books adorn walls.

And in the centre of the room, a smaller table occupies her utmost attention.

For, lying on top of it, are letters.

Penelope moves closer to the table, peering at the ones that've been opened.

Mostly, they are letters from her mother. A brief glance at them feels as though it was a horrid intrusion to the venerated relationship between a mother and her daughter — a bond so strong that it extends past the pages and touches her worn heart.

She finds herself abruptly missing her Mama; the ache for her family stretches across the chasm that's split her heart.

"Do not yield." She hears Harry's voice once more. "You will be tried; temptation will seek to lure you into a trap of your own making. Do not waver."

Penelope takes a deep breath, stirring her focus back to the letters.

She moves page after page of parchment, until she sees an unopened letter from the princess's husband. She takes it from where it lies underneath the other stationery, and gingerly looks at the embossment, committing to memory the exact shape.

She recognises the insignia — it's a seal from Napoleon's office, an embossment whose art she'd spent hours in her earlier months memorising.

Penelope knows her time is limited.

The princess expects her presence soon.

No matter her inattention, a lady that is not waited upon is a lady who's affronted, and Penelope cannot risk her assignment.

She resolves to return at night, when her mistress is asleep, and goes to return the letter back to its original position.

She leaves.

~~~~~~~~

The boy is three-and-ten.

His mother is finally treated with medicine her body direly needs, and their landlord has been paid.

His brother still does not write back from the battlefront.

The boy does not expect him to.

The boy is three-and-ten.

His existence is irrelevant to the interests of the Field Marshal and the Prince Regent. He stands with the other footmen, guarding the entrance to the latter's study.

They all stare ahead resolutely, their faces blank.

"And what of my bird?"

"Sir Harry informs me that she has made impressive advances in the past month alone, Your Royal Highness. She serves as an Abigail to the wife of the little corporal's near-bastard son."

"I expected nothing less," the pseudo king chuckles. "A most amiable woman, indeed. It is pleasing to see my foresight bearing fruits this early."

"Indeed, Your Royal Highness."

The commander does not appear convinced.

"You seem hesitant, Commander. Speak your mind."

The other man appears to pick his words carefully. "Your Royal Highness . . . when the war is won, and our banners are raised across Europe, your bird will no longer serve a purpose."

The Prince Regent does not reply, contemplating the commander's words.

"What do you imply, Commander?"

"Sir Harry has grown attached to your bird." A pause. "He threatened to resignwhen I ordered him to release her to her assignment as you requested."

The Prince Regent's resulting retort is quick. "You cannot allow for that to happen — he is too valuable."

"A deduction that I heartily concur with, Your Royal Highness," the commander placates him. "But Sir Harry's newly acquired insolence is but a mere example. Your bird is perhaps too exceptional at twisting significant minds. Your bird inspires loyalty. Where such behaviours are practised, certain risks are bound to follow."

"What do you suggest?"

"Your next move, Your Royal Highness. Your bird has taken flight. You must find a way to clip your bird's wings."

The boy is three-and-ten.

He cares little for the exchange between two of the most powerful men in England.

His mother still requires treatment, and he still has dues to pay.

In his next errand to the outer fields of London, he pauses at the markets, where a tall gentleman waits at the carriages.

"Mister Bridgerton," the boy greets the man.

~~~~~~~~

My Dearest Augusta,

Every day that I am away from you and our girls, my heart grows void of any further joy. I long for the days where we lay in the sun, your head on my shoulder, as our beloved Joséphine runs circles around her young sisters.

In the brief moments of my respite at night, I imagine the empty space beside my frame to be filled by your being. You are the sole occupant of my dreams, my only oasis in the nightmare that is the routine of my daily existence.

My father assures me that the military campaign in the spring will be our final swan song. Until then, I shall work tirelessly to ensure our great leader achieves his objective, for my utmost desire is to return to you and our girls.

When my father takes his rightful seat on his throne, I would have fulfilled the terms of my agreement with him, and we can finally retire to the life I once promised we would have.

With the hope that you might find it in your heart to forgive me for leaving you, I will endeavour to keep my letters a regular occurrence.

Forever Yours,

Eugène

~~~~~~~~

She does not wait for the next fortnight.

She tells the elder house steward that her mistress has issued a request for a foreign tea, requiring a journey to the markets on the outskirts of the piazza mercanti. The footmen and guards arrange a carriage for the lady's maid, unwilling to bear the ire of their esteemed vicereine.

Shielded by the crowds, Penelope's short stature is a blessing — she disappears into the steady stream of merchants and hagglers, effectively evading notice from her escorts.

In an alley, just off the main road, she waits.

A cloaked figure arrives, barely ten breaths after; the man's steps are quick and practised.

He keeps his head down as he takes his place beside her.

"Are you alright?" Harry's familiar, deep voice asks after her, and Penelope allows gratitude to loosen her rigid posture. She nods, and he continues, "I was not expecting to see you so soon since our last conversation. What has happened that you've hastened our conference?"

She wrings her hands anxiously, peering up at him. "I was granted access to my mistress's private study." Understanding knits his brows together, and he tilts his head, willing for her to continue. "In there, I read a letter from the viceroy. He wrote of a campaign in spring, that Napoleon intends to return to France."

Harry's eyes widen. "He is exiled."

"But he will return. If he has the viceroy's assistance, who's to say his other advisors are not following suit?"

"We must make haste," Harry exhales. "A letter to Lord Wellington. To the Prince Regent. We must inform them immediately of Napoleon's return. There is no time."

"A letter will not suffice," Penelope shakes her head. "The matter is urgent. You must call for a counsel and devise a strategy. Your troops are scattered across the region; it will take weeks before you can gather them, and once you do, Napoleon would've taken back France."

He runs a hand through his hair. "It may take weeks before the generals agree to such a gathering."

"Then you are left with little choice. Send the letter, then call for a meeting with Lord Wellington. Gather your strategists, your general counsel. You may not be able to stop Napoleon's advancement, but there is still time to form alliances. Let the tyrant have his initial victory — our triumph will taste all the sweeter when we shatter his complacency."

Harry looks at her, his stern eyes the very image of a man incensed. "Your point is fair." Then, he softens. "Since when did our little bird grow such claws, ordering commanding officers to her whim like this?"

She rolls her eyes, the corner of her lips lifting slightly. "You speak as though I did not learn from the army's most feared man."

"Return to Portugal with me," Harry says, pushing himself off the wall. "You've done well enough. With Napoleon marching to France, your duty is done. We cannot risk losing you at such a pivotal moment."

"My mistress—"

"Penelope," he calls, and she startles, having not heard her birthname for such a considerable time. "You've done enough."

"Lord Wellington may not think as such."

"Then he shall have to reckon with me."

"He is still your superior."

"And we are assets he cannot afford to lose."

She shakes her head. "Your arrogance is dangerously pernicious. We cannot always be right."

Harry does not reply, but when he does, he simply states, "You are afraid."

Penelope forgets how observant he is.

"You cannot allow yourself to be ruled by trepidation. The future will come as it does; we cannot control our fates. But we can make do with what we're given." He bends, so that he catches her eyes. "You have shown that you are capable of such bravery, little bird. You have proven that you are stronger than most men, where it matters. You did not fail."

She takes a shaking breath.

"Two days," she announces, "I shall require that much to prepare my ruse for the princess. Then we shall meet at the backwoods at dusk."

~~~~~~~~

Colin shifts in his seat, the fabrics of the uniform ill fitted against his taller build.

Beside him, his informant cannot be settled.

"Be calm," he finds himself telling the soldier. "Lest you attract unwanted attention."

"The men may recognise you, sir," comes the man's response. "You are a Bridgerton — your family's name is perhaps the most prestigious of the nobles."

"We passed the visual observation of your commanding officers, did we not?"

The soldier nods, swallowing nervously.

Before he can respond, a brawny man approaches them, his uniform patched with the shine of medals buffed to perfection. "Officers! Move. Our generals must not see you dawdling like this."

Colin nods his head furiously, inhibiting a false sense of chastisement. "Of course, w-we shall occupy ourselves." He pauses. "Where do you require our presence?"

"Right on through that tent," the burly man points at a pavilion. "I hear Sir Harry was the first to arrive. You might introduce yourselves to the war lord, fatten yourselves up." He grins. "Make sure he remembers your names so that future historians may associate yourselves with him."

Colin smiles brightly, stretching his lips wide enough to show teeth.

Had the other man not been blinded by his worship of the esteemed officer, he might have seen how Colin's smile is more threatening than it is friendly.

The name — Sir Harry — is vulgar to his ears.

Colin's patience is all but diminished; the man he'd been seeking for six months will finally face his reckoning.

"Let us go, then," his informant nudges him. "So that we may be afforded such a luxury."

They trudge towards the awning determinedly, anticipation quickening their steps until they reach its archway.

For the briefest moment, Colin hesitates, standing at the entrance.

Bring home your bride.

He raises his chin, defiant, and enters.

~~~~~~~~

Horror, in all its monstrous form, reveals itself to her in the realisation of her worst nightmare.

Her blood is ice in her veins.

Her heartbeats roar in her ears.

Her vision is narrowed into only one person, her person, her—

"No."

"Penelope?" Harry asks her, immediately concerned when he hears her astonished gasp.

He moves closer, his frame shielding her from view. He bends slightly to better read her expression. "What is the matter?"

She does not move.

Does not even breathe.

Standing at the entrance, dressed in military regalia far too small for his stature, Colin Bridgerton stares right at her.

When Arthur is five, his brothers mock his illiteracy.

At his age, their eldest was prodigious in all matters that required negotiation; his mother lauded the older boy's conversational skills, citing instances how his words would often sway favour to his side.

At his age, their second son had begun showing early indications of an intelligence well suited for politics. His father had claimed he would one day serve as prime minister; to anyone who would listen, his son was the brightest boy alive.

Arthur was only five years of age.

He'd simply wanted his mother and father to look at him with the same pride they'd bestow on his brothers.

And at his age, the damage is already done.

His brothers' taunts eventually harden him.

His father's disapproval of his lack of motivation forces him to grow out of childhood quickly.

His mother's indifference to his attempts at spirited conversations introduces him to a lifetime of unrequited interests.

So, as he grows, instead of learning how to hold an effective discourse, and immersing himself in academia that bears little significance to his passions, Arthur learns something else entirely.

Cruelty.

He covets his physicality, first.

Where his eldest employs ornate words to bend another's will to his, Arthur uses his brute strength.

Where his other brother strives in parliament, Arthur uses deathly strategy to take power for himself.

His legacy becomes a cruelty necessitated by the neglect of his parents, a cycle that he does not break.

His legacy is his rapid ascension through the military ranks.

His legacy is the favour he gains from the Prince Regent.

His legacy is the awed looks his brothers give him, when Napoleon names him an enemy.

His legacy is in the unprecedented shift of power in his family dynamics; the third son ranking above them all as a reward for his military successes.

His legacy is in his new title — His Grace, the first Duke of Wellington.

The same legacy that is now threatened by a mere sparrow.

He'd underestimated her, once.

He had thought the girl was but a fleeting entertainment piece for his simple-minded ruler; what good could a gently bred lady do, when placed at the frontlines of a war she knew nothing of?

So, he had his scribe write a nonsensical endorsement of her, meaning absolutely nothing, to the boy he'd spent years grooming to be his successor.

Not a month later, the girl had Harry threatening to resign.

Because he had wanted to protect her.

Because she had somehow bewitched him to renounce his loyalty to Arthur.

The humiliation that his esteemed war lord had impressed upon him, the same boy he raised with the cruelty that'd been seared into his every action—

It is unforgivable.

The little bird cannot be the cause of his downfall.

And he would see to it that he does not suffer such disgrace again.

~~~~~~~~

A boy is three-and-ten.

His mother waits for him at the hospital.

His landlord questions his sudden wealth.

He stands, his posture never once folding despite the tensed muscles in his lower back.

He is indifferent to the world around him, only entertaining himself with his thoughts.

Behind him, he hears:

"I had assumed you would be off to the trenches, Commander. I am fortunate to have caught you before you head for battle."

"I am always at your service, Your Royal Highness. Have you decided on what is to be of your bird?"

"Yes." A pause. Then, "Send the little bird to France. If the war does not claim her there, then perhaps the visuals of its casualties will be enough to turn her malleable."

The response is swift. "As Your Royal Highness commands."

~~~~~~~~

Brother,

I write to you with a grave heart.

Our acquaintance has shared his insights on the weather that is to come. It is not the kind we had been expecting. The storms we must accommodate will break households and unleash the fury of the gods on us all, if we do not take action to prepare our lands as best we can.

Your wounded sparrow, one so darling to you, will be adversely influenced by the thunderstorms. Its flight will be impeded, and all our efforts in securing its continued freedom will be for naught.

I seek your return to England so we may discuss this in detail. Anthony has married, his attention otherwise occupied by the charming Miss Kathani Sharma — now Bridgerton — so the matter rests on my belligerently inadequate shoulders. Rest assured; I shall exert my every effort into ensuring we may all arrive at the outcome we hope for.

Should you not feel inclined to come back, I am prepared to make provisions so that I might personally attend to you, instead, and insist upon our eldest's premature return from his honeymoon.

The storm is coming.

We must band together to weather through it.

Your affectionate brother,

Benedict

~~~~~~~~

There, in a dress carrying the shades of autumn, with her brilliant red hair pulled away from her face in a loose braid—

There, with her cheeks flushed pink, a striking contrast against her blue eyes; the colour a perfect mimicry of the cerulean oceans he's crossed—

There, with her full lips parted, staring back at him with an odd expression, horror intermingling with an almost grotesque glee shadowed by the situation they both find themselves in—

There, as though she were a mirage—

Pen.

His Pen.

Colin has never felt relief as he does in this very moment.

Like the strings from a marionette, all lingering forms of his anxiousness leaves his body, returning what little sanity he's retained for himself in the months since he'd begun his long search.

Before he's able to take even a step towards her, a tall man steps in front of Penelope. His larger build shields her from view, his shoulders entirely engulfing her form.

The heat in his chest flares into a raging blaze, colouring his perception with a crimson fog.

Something monstrous in him yanks at the chains of his self-control, an unholy fury he's never once entertained, now resuscitating at the sight of someone beloved in a state of damning compromise.

Someone pulls at his elbow, and Colin nearly shoves the offending hand away, blinded as he is by the sight before him.

No, no, no—

"What are you doing?!" He turns, snarling as he does so. "Unhand me."

His informant jumps back at his hostility.

He shakes his head, swallowing once, then his eyes hardens and his grip on him becomes firm. "You cannot cause a scene, sir. You are risking your identity, and we will all be damned. Do not forget yourself."

Colin pulls his arm away from the man, irrationality at the forefront of his vengeful mind. "She is right there. You cannot expect me to maintain my inaction."

"You must." The man shoves him to the furthest corner of the tentage, shielded by the shadows of the other men.

Most do not pay them any attention, while the few that do, merely look away in practised disinterest. "These men will not hesitate to remove you from the gathering if you attack Sir Harry. And if they do, where shall you find yourself again?"

He crosses his arms, returning his gaze to where he'd seen Penelope.

The man's back still faces the rest of the room, though his head is bent in conversation.

It is the familiarity of the audacious movement between the two that nearly breaks his control.

He finds himself struggling to breathe, as though a great weight presses itself onto his chest. He thinks not even the world, tilted on its axis, could lift the phantom pressure constricting his ribs.

Colin cannot identify the godawful emotion that courses through him, as he watches in morbid curiosity.

Then, Pen — Pen — lifts a dainty hand, settling it on the bicep of the man.

And Colin has never once felt the need to be quite so vulgar. He thinks it below him; there are far better ways to express himself.

He had always thought so.

Until now.

"Fuck," he growls, feeling the word roll off from his tongue with grim satisfaction, as his eyes track how the man lifts his other hand to hold it over hers. It is barely a touch, barely a caress, a simple hold of a man providing reassurance, yet—

He has never been able to resist Pen.

As a boy, he had felt a righteous responsibility for his sister's dear friend. With no brother to be mindful of her, and an absent father, he'd felt needed by her.

For the third son of a noble family, who had no other purpose except to simply exist, it had been invigorating to be needed.

He could never resist Pen, not when he would look into her eyes and his will crumbles before her like the ruins of an ancient city.

He doesn't blame the man for being unable to resist comforting her, not when he's been on the receiving end of her pleading gaze before.

The empathy does not stop the blaze in his chest from incinerating whatever's been left of his restraint.

Colin finally breaks.

He takes his first stride, no longer able to bear the distance between them. He moves too quickly for the deft hands that've handled him before; darting out of the way, barging in between two officers who curse at him loudly.

But the man does not stop holding Penelope's hand.

He shifts a little to the right, and somehow, through the masses, Pen's face comes into his line of vision.

Her eyes, wide with unspoken terror, captures his unexpectedly.

It's only then that Colin realises just how different she looks.

Gone is the girl whose memories he holds close every night.

Gone is the girl who would dance with Eloise in the lush gardens of her family home.

Gone is the girl with the ruddy pink cheeks who had laughed and laughed and laughed with him, so joyously, so boisterously, that for a moment — one life-altering moment — he had forgotten about his father's death.

Now, in another's arms, he sees a woman whose eyes mirror his own; lost, frightened, and irrevocably damaged by grief.

Colin feels as though his world upends himself.

For her eyes mirror his.

The same eyes that reflected loss.

The very same eyes that he had promised, had vowed, to all that was good and holy, wouldn't ever touch Pen.

For fear of losing her.

For fear of losing the sunshine that she emulates.

He stops, his heart thundering in his ears; a rhythm that drowns the noise surrounding him.

Her pain is palpable to him, an entity that finds its space in between his heart and lungs. The shock that runs through him obliterates any other thought, any other emotion, leaving him breathless with its magnitude.

He's never felt helplessness as he does, now, watching the single most important person to his being become entirely impotent.

Pen's eyes don't leave him as tears start forming in them.

Her tears fall, and as they do, Colin feels as though his heart splinters into a million fragments, grating at his innards.

Pen's gaze flits to the side, then, distracted by a sudden commotion that gathers at the tent's entrance.

"His Grace, the Duke of Wellington!" A soldier announces, and the crowd within the pavilion grow excited.

Bodies begin swarming his, and Pen's face become lost in the masses.

Once, when he was five-and-ten, Colin had run away from his boarding house in Eton.

Beyond miserable at the lack of like-minded individuals he could consider friends, frustrated at the legacy his exceptional eldest brother and artistically inclined second had left, he saw no other option and simply ran.

As far as he could.

Until the boarding house could not be seen. Until the horizon came closer and closer to him, hiding behind the deep woods. Until the voices of his school fellows and teachers no longer taunt him.

He'd been lost, and beyond afraid. He'd spent the greater part of two days wandering about the woods, fighting his own hunger, blindly praying to whatever god he knew of—

Once, when he was three-and-twenty, Lady Crane had ushered him into a room. There had been no chaperone. She had looked at him with her large, brown eyes, a siren's call for a man who was not yet grown and had parted her lips just so.

He'd been terrified.

Of the whispers that would've followed.

Of his mother's disappointing stare.

Of enraging his older brothers, who had been his only guiding hand in the absence of his father.

Once, when he was four-and-twenty, Colin had forgotten to disclose his whereabouts to Pen. They wrote so often, it had felt as though she had always been right beside him.

For weeks, as he traversed the ocean between Greece and Italy, he had worried himself until he grew ill.

How could Pen write to him if she did not know where to address it to? How would she respond to the details of the ancient Grecian sculptures he had described to her, the crystalline waters that reminded him so much of her eyes, the marbled ruins of a time long since passed?

In the span of a few weeks, dozens of letters, all addressed to her, were born from his hands. He found that he could not stop, did not want to, and it wasn't until he ran out of parchment that he finally reached the conclusion of his manic behaviour:

He simply missed her.

Not even a day after Colin ported in Italy, he boards the first ship that would take him back home.

To her.

Of all the fears he had experienced, though, none of them could compare to the utter devastation that ravages through him when he loses sight of Pen through the horde that comes between them.

"No, no, no, no!" His cries are lost in the cheers of the crowd, as they engulf him entirely.

~~~~~~~~

"Harry, he's here."

She grips his upper arm, hands clenching in response to the panic that overwhelms her entire being.

Her heart cannot be calmed; it thunders in her ears, a loud noise that occupies her sole attention. She hears faint whispers from Harry, feels his hand come up to cover hers, but all Penelope can see is Colin, staring at her with an expression that dangerously threads the border of inappropriate decorum.

It's easy to entertain her once-dreamt fantasies, for a brief moment.

When she had first begun her assignment, she'd longed for a saviour. Someone who would take her hand and gallop them both to safety beyond the sunset.

She had yearned to be released from the punishment of her actions, had prayed for it, even, and as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks slid into months, Penelope's hopes taper into a childhood fantasy.

She knows better, now.

She knows that her survival is a product of her continuous endeavour in her own self-preservation.

A woman cannot entertain her childhood fantasies.

She can only be haunted by them.

"Who do you speak of?" Harry asks, twisting his body around, searching.

"Colin."

Despite her focus on Colin, she feels Harry's hand tighten over hers. "The Bridgerton boy? You mean—"

"He must've come here by happenstance." She tears her gaze from him, staring right into her friend's concerned eyes.

His face morphs into a familiar scowl, his blue eyes darkening as he begins to comprehend the gravity of the situation that they find themselves in. "I must leave, Harry, he must not know what I do! It will endanger our entire operation—"

It will endanger him.

She breaks away from his worrisome glare, her own eyes unable to resist looking back at Colin.

She jumps.

"He's coming closer. Harry, he is making his way—" Shockingly, tears begin to form, marring her vision, as she starts feeling short of breath.

Beside them, Harry's comrades look on, curiosity warring with indifference. She faintly recognises the younger of the pair — the man is a constant fixture beside Harry at the forefront of every war meeting.

"Harry," he asks, "what is the matter?"

"A complication," Harry replies, bringing a hand to his face, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He exhales harshly. "A complication that puts our entire assignment at great peril."

Though unspoken, the man steps closer, his stout, athletic build forming a barricade between Penelope, Harry, and the rest of the men.

Beside him, their other accompaniment pushes his attention back to the rest of the officers, his outlook threatening frostbite on those who dare to stare at the war lord and his companion.

Their unspoken declaration of support is an agonising reminder to Penelope of her perilous circumstance.

She clutches at the war lord's sleeve, growing lightheaded, barely registering her friend's soothing words. "Calm yourself, Penelope, you must remain composed. Do not draw any further attention to yourself. I will handle this."

It is only the grace of a higher being that provides the greatest of all distractions.

Off in the entrance, surrounded by an entourage of army officers, the Duke of Wellington makes his grand arrival.

His presence sparks a frenzy amongst the officers.

They rush to greet the man, abandoning their posts from the sides of the pavilion. As if they were deprived children greeting a father returning from his long absence, the men flood to the commander, effectively cutting off her visage of Colin.

Harry's comrades remain at their sides, their allegiance only to the war lord.

She forces a breath through her trembling lips, the force of her sudden faintness pulling her body into a crumpled state.

"Penelope," he calls her name, in a tone that commands her attention. She looks up at Harry, his eyes battle-hardened and authoritative. "May I hold you?"

She nods.

Harry's arms wrap around her, a brace she had not known she needed until it was offered. The clean smell of pressed linen is a relief, his closeness more than welcome.

Damn him, she curses Colin, a litany in her mind that bears no significance,damn him!

All her efforts in forgetting her past, the extent of the sacrifices she has made to ensure she's buried Pen, yet a single glimpse of Colin still — somehow, after all this time — manages to completely unravel her.

"I must take you back to Juana," Harry tells her, voice low, pulling her away from her thoughts. "We must leave. Now." He starts pulling her to the back opening, moving quickly.

Penelope stops him. "No, Harry, you must remain here. You are needed by the duke. Your duty demands your presence here."

She feels his arms grow tense around her. "You are compromised, Penelope. You cannot possibly think I will let you run away by yourself. It is too dangerous!"

Their voices are drowned by the roar of the joyous crowd, eager to gain the attention of their revered commander.

"I can take her to Juana. I will ensure she is safely delivered to your wife," the man closest to them offers. He looks at Penelope, then at Harry. "The Commander only listens to you, Harry. Your input and wisdom are requisite to him. To our cause. At this pivotal stage, the decisions we make now can either win or lose us the war."

"I cannot abandon a friend—"

"You must." The man takes another step, his hand reaching up to grasp at Harry's shoulder. "We swore an oath to protect our King and Queen and to fight in their name, until our last breath is drawn. We are bounded by duty to protect our people. You must not forget this now."

Penelope uses the opportunity to disentangle herself from her friend, wary of the passing time. She cannot see Colin's familiar face through the crowd, not yet, but the risk of his continued pursuit of her still remains.

The familiar tick to Harry's jaw surfaces, and she knows he's made a decision.

"Take her," he acquiesces, shoulders dropping in defeat. He rubs a hand over his tired face, then straightens. "See that she reaches my wife. If I hear not a word of her arrival by midday tomorrow, know that I will come for you."

The other man only smiles at the warning. "It is gratifying to know how little you think of me."

"Do not doubt my earnestness, Charles." Harry warns, his eyes flashing. He tilts his head towards Penelope. "She is important to the Crown, and is thus important to us, too."

His words go unspoken, but she knows he thinks it — she is important to me.

She fights the wave of gratitude; there is no time for reticence.

She thinks, instead, I cannot fail him.

The man — Charles — loses all casual demeanour. "I understand." He turns to her, stretching a hand. "Let us make haste."

Loyalty, borne out of duty, is a dereliction to faith.

Loyalty, borne out of friendship — of that between her and the war lord, as of Harry and Sir Charles — is the success of trust.

She takes his offer, grasping onto his deft fingers, left with no other alternative but to trust that Sir Charles will not betray his friend.

Penelope runs.

~~~~~~~~

It is only when the crowd parts that Colin is finally freed from the bodies that compress his own.

He stretches his neck, rising on his toes, eyes straining past the decorated hats that crowd around him.

But it is too late.

Penelope cannot be found.

He clenches his jaw, desperate now, and starts to make his way to the back of the covered pavilion.

"Men!" A deep voice calls, louder than the rest, in a tone so authoritative that Colin himself pauses in his actions.

The crowd parts, carrying him with them, and a path clears for the same dark-haired man who had been with Penelope. He stands, tall, his back straight and chin raised.

Now, as Colin finally sees the man in his entirety, he cannot help but feel partially cowed.

The man's uniform is adorned with embellishments that are direct trophies for his military triumphs.

His coloured surtout is a jarring visual for its stark difference against the ordinary tones of the other soldiers. Metal ornaments hang heavily from his neck.

The message is clear — this is a man whose very presence demanded power.

It is not the man's finery that causes Colin to pause, but the man's eyes, hardened into granite.

His expression is otherwise neutral, his lips pressed in a thin line.

In between the furrows of his distinctly strong brows, Colin recognises the man for who he is.

"The war lord," he hears the officers begin to whisper excitedly, echoing his thoughts.

He grits his teeth.

The man moves with a built purpose, confidence outlining his form. He keeps one hand on his sword as the other carries his feathered hat by his side; the military equivalent of a royal crown.

Beside him, another man walks steadily, his uniform not as impressive as the war lord, though his place by the man's right-hand is a clear indicator of the value he presents.

Pen is ostensibly absent from his side.

As though she had been but a mirage.

A figment of his internal desires.

For a moment, Colin finds himself questioning his sanity. Had he not seen Pen? Had he been erroneous; was the woman he'd seen earlier merely someone who looked like his Pen?

Then, the war lord makes a mistake.

His eyes drift to him, despite the crowd, impassive but acknowledging, and Colin's found his answer.

Perhaps, had he been younger, Colin's baser instincts might have been controllable.

The boy he once was had the expectations of societal adherence impressed upon him.

Exercise respect for those stationed above you, be chivalrous regardless the temperament of the lady you wait upon, and above all, maintain your honour as you would the legacy of your father.

He lived through his adolescence believing that the world existed within the boundaries of such stringent rules.

The man he is today, however, damns his ingrained principles to hell.

His body moves before he can consider his actions.

His impulse propels him forward, muscles tensing, as he finally, finally, unleashes his tightly bounded wrath with a monstrous vehemence.

He strides to the man, pushing his way through, calling upon all the years he'd been at Eton wrestling with the other boys in his class.

Before he manages to reach the officer, his right-hand man deftly puts himself between them. "Soldier!" He barks, then shoves at him, the impact resulting in a blow that falls right at the centre of his torso.

The force of the man's shove knocks him breathless.

He stumbles, momentarily blinded by the dark spots that litter his vision, before muscled arms wrap themselves around his body in a tight restraint.

He takes a stuttering breath, anger his only fuel, and prepares himself to launch yet another assault.

The officer's right-hand man draws his sword, eyes sharpening with a bloodthirsty glint.

He's but the image of a perfect soldier.

The man takes a step forward, movement quick, and presses the blade against Colin's neck.

He flinches at the cold metal cutting into the exposed skin from his cravat but keeps his gaze on the man before him.

Colin will not waver.

He will not cower.

He stands, firm, fury and courage amalgamating until it is the very foundation that roots his feet.

"Kempt," the war lord warns, coming beside his opponent. He puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it, his frown deep. "Enough of this."

The man — Kempt — reluctantly sheathes his sword, obeying the war lord.

"Release me!" Colin yells, his voice echoing throughout the covered pavilion like the roar of a man backed into a corner. He pulls at the arms that constrict his movement, derangement his only ally.

"You dare disrespect your commanding officer?" One of the other soldiers hisses at him, his arms winding around his own, pulling him further away from the pair in front of him. "Are you a mad man?"

"Where is she?" Colin spits at the war lord, twisting to face him, using all his strength to free himself from the growing number of men who seek to suppress him. He ignores the jabs to his ribs, but the ever tightening seize of the physical pressure besieging his body is difficult to repress. "Where is she?!"

The war lord does not answer.

His eyes, behind the mask of indifference, bear remnants of sympathy that only serves to enrage him even further.

"Take him away," Kempt orders.

Before the men can fulfil the command, another voice calls out, "My good men, what do we have here?"

Colin turns, attention momentarily diverted to the Field Marshal.

The Duke of Wellington looks back at Colin, jaw slack.

He holds his hands at his hips, poised as though to reprimand, but then he catches Colin's glare and immediately brings himself to stand at attention. "Mister Bridgerton."

At the mention of his last name, the restricting arms fall away from him quickly. He hears the men curse, hurrying to create some distance between them.

He shoves himself forward, pulling at his tattered coat. "Your Grace."

"This is quite — I cannot even begin to express my astonishment." The Commander clears his throat, breaking away from his casual posture to stand in front of Colin. "I beg of you to forgive my forwardness, Mister Bridgerton, but you must understand just how perplexed we are to see you amongst us."

"Yes," Colin tightens his fist, turning to look straight at the war lord. "I am here to collect my dues."

"Perhaps this is a conversation meant to be held in closed rooms, sir." The man replies evenly, unfazed by his ire.

Colin very nearly launches himself at the man once more. "Why? Is the fearsome war lord afraid I might expose his grievous violations of propriety?"

The war lord only raises a brow, rising to the challenge.

"I concur with Sir Harry," the commander interrupts, eager to quell his anger. "We shall speak about this separately, gentlemen. Mister Bridgerton," he addresses him, taking a step closer, "might you wish to excuse yourself to enjoy some refreshments? My valet will be glad to escort you to our private dwellings, not far from here."

Colin takes a deep breath.

"We are at war, Mister Bridgerton," Sir Harry says, then, his voice drops to a low warning. "Here, in these foreign lands, your title will not bring forth servitude. I do not recommend you continue your obstinance."

The commander immediately rebukes the man. "Boy, do not forget yourself."

"Tell me, Your Grace," he addresses the duke, rising to his full height as he stares down at him. "Would you rather we waste such precious time entertaining this child when Napoleon's forces are marching their way to Paris as we speak?"

He might kill the man from where he stands.

Beyond the devastating humiliation that floods through Colin at Sir Harry's admonishment, he hears the murmurs supporting the war lord's sentiments at his back.

The commander struggles to formulate a response.

"You have my word, Mister Bridgerton," Sir Harry offers a hand to him. "I will seek for you after my business with the generals and commander is settled."

Colin slaps away his outstretched hand, pride still smarting from the war lord's comments. "Step carefully, sir. When the war is over, and life resumes as it does, your affront will not be disregarded." He stands up straighter, and an impervious part of him is distinctly pleased to find that he's not that much shorter than the other man. "I urge you to reconsider your attitude; there are other ways beyond your beloved military that can bring about your personal ruin."

~~~~~~~~

Reflecting the moon and stars above them, the languid Tagus River's gentle swells offer comfort to Penelope.

In her mind, she sees nothing but Colin's face.

In her mind, she sees the boy she had loved — who she still loves, despite all these years.

In her mind, she sees their shared past.

There is Colin's flushed cheeks, as he stammers an apology over his muddied appearance, having fallen in an accident she'd inadvertently caused.

There is Colin's hands, clapping merrily along with their youngest, as Francesca plays a buoyant tune on their grand piano.

There is Colin's eyes, her favourite shade of blue, staring earnestly at her as he tells her, "You really are very good."

The man she'd seen today was tormented.

He'd seem taller, more muscled. His shoulders appeared broader than it used to be, his waist tapered neatly into his breeches. His jaw, chiselled. His cheekbones, sculpted. His strongest features — his eyes, his nose, his lips; Penelope had been horrified with herself.

She'd forgotten how he'd looked like.

And, oh, did she yearn to reach out to him.

To have crossed the space between them, to stretch her hands up to where she may reach the deep lines of stress that've emphasised the valley between his brows.

To have held him, even if it would've been momentarily, and relish in his presence.

To indulge in her fantasies, for what would've been the first and final time.

But Penelope is not a child.

And she cannot grant herself the luxury of indulging her past self.

Colin's presence had steered her into a panicked distress unlike anything that she had experience.

What good was all her practise, if the mere sight of him blew her restraint into disarray?

What good were Harry's teachings, if she couldn't bring herself to enforce them when it mattered?

Faced with the ghost of her past, she had nearly forgotten herself.

She had nearly failed.

It must not happen again.

"Penelope?" A soft, gentle voice calls her name.

She turns.

Two tanned hands, outstretched, presents a gratifying consolation.

She takes them, allowing herself to be pulled into the orbit of the taller woman's build. She rests her head on the crook of her neck, her thoughts calmed, and for a moment, pretends as though she were in the presence of one of her elder sisters.

"You cannot stay out here for long," Juana whispers into her hair, gentle but firm. She pats at her head, affectionate, and Penelope finds herself longing for her sisters. "The night is cold. Come in."

She nods, fighting back her tears, and pulls away.

"I must leave, Juana," she tells the older woman. "I am endangering you and Harry by my continued presence in your home."

Her dark eyes, highlighted by the lantern beside them, bears into her own. Here, nestled amongst the stars with the river as their sanctuary, it is easy to forget that the beautiful woman is wife to a war lord.

Her full lips press together in contemplation, her eyes darting about Penelope's own face, tracing for any signs of fear.

Then, she nods, once, and brings a hand to cup her face. "Where will you go?"

She looks away. "To France. Harry has secured an assignment; my final one. I am to be a nurse for Napoleon's army."

The hand on her face drifts to her chin, forcing her to look at the other woman.

Juana frowns, the expression marring her alluringly defined features. "I am wife to the most feared soldier in the British army. I am the lover of Napoleon's enemy. I have lived many lives over the time I spent supporting my husband's cause. Do not lie to me, Penelope."

She closes her eyes, inhaling a steadying breath. When she opens them again, she confesses, "The Duke of Wellington sent me a missive, a few days ago. It was signed by His Royal Highness. I am bounded by my duty to see that his command is carried through."

"Harry is your commanding officer," Juana reminds her. "Why was he not told?"

"Because they know he will not let me leave." She states simply.

"Foolish man," the other woman sighs. "My husband has never learned how to separate his personal relations from his vocational strategies. You are right, of course," she shakes her head fondly, "Harry thinks of you as a sister. As do I. And he would not put you through such risk."

"And you?" Penelope asks her, bravely bringing her hand up to ghost over Juana's light grip on her chin. "Will you let me take my next flight?"

"If you feel you must, passarinha." Juana twines her hand with hers. "You must leave before Harry returns. I will tell him what you told me, but you must understand — should you fail to write to him regularly to detail your well-being, both of us will march to France to bring you back."

~~~~~~~~

The highborn is a beast, caged.

Against the dark colours of his war room, Mister Bridgerton is a fixture severely out of place. A man like him, unmarred by the revolting consequences of war, does not belong in the same room where death is planned.

He can't help but feel grossly envious of the man.

What must it be like, to not have the blood of thousands of men in your hands?

What must it feel like, to look at someone with practicality, and not know all the ways they can be killed?

What must it look like, to walk freely, unburdened by the loss of innocent lives?

He clears his throat, announcing his presence. "Mister Bridgerton."

The man stops his pacing, whirling around to face him.

Harry braces himself.

"Where is she, Smith?" He snarls, as though Harry's surname is a curse. "I saw you with her; I know you keep—" at this, the man's face devolves into a resentful sneer "—her somewhere, someplace."

He raises his hands, palms facing the Bridgerton son. "What relation do you keep with her, to order such a demand? You are not family, and you are not married. You have no claim to her."

"She is not safe here." The nobleman hisses through gritted teeth, lunging to grab the lapels of his coat.

He steps to the side instinctively, his reflexes quick.

Somehow, Harry thinks about the commander, assuaging his generals at the pavilion.

To speak alone to the Bridgerton boy, he had to outwit his commanding officer; he'd needed to ensure their distraction.

So, he'd left him, deliberating with the other generals over parchments after parchments of military strategy that were derived from the few months he'd spent locked in his war room.

The same plans that could not have been thoroughly conceived, were it not for Penelope's forewarning.

He returns his attention back to Bridgerton. "And you assume she would be safe in Britain?"

"This is a war region!"

Harry considers the man before him. "What do you know of her safety, Bridgerton? What are the lengths you would go to, so you can ensure it?" He thinks of the Prince Regent, and Penelope's elevated role in the aftermath of their agreement. "What do you know of her?"

"I know that I will cross the ether for her, if that's what it takes to secure her safety. I know that I will gladly give up my birthright, if that is what circumstances demand. I know that I have spilled blood," he lurches at Harry again, this time finding a successful purchase in the fabric of his collar, "and I will do it again, if it means I am closer to finding her."

This close, Harry can see the monster lurking behind the man's eyes.

This close, he can see the utter wreckage the man is.

This close, he can see the fear the man hides so well, trapped behind his rage and bounded by his desperation.

Not fear for himself.

No.

But fear for Penelope.

This close, Harry sees his own eyes — hardened by war, yet motivated by his love for Juana — reflected in Bridgerton.

"Penelope told me there was not a soul who loved her when she left Mayfair." He tells the man. "It seems that she is mistaken."

The man releases his hold on Harry.

"You love her."

The man does not answer.

"Answer me truthfully, Bridgerton, and I will tell you what you want to know."

Harry sees it clearly, now.

The reason for the man's lunacy as he confronted him earlier, uncaring that he would be exposing himself.

The reason for his frustration, evident in the impatient way he had demanded answers out of him, barely entertaining any other matter of conversation.

The reason why he stands, in front of Harry, apathetic to a war lord's command.

He imagines, had Juana been in a similar happenstance, he would've done the same.

He knows he would've done far worse.

Bridgerton looks at him, eyes tortured.

And Harry remembers.

How he had been loathed to admit his love for Juana, for fear his enemies would use his sole weakness against him. Even the thought of his wife, compromised, is enough to incite his fears to surface from the depths of his detached rationality.

How, despite his antagonism towards her in his final attempt to withdraw emotionally, she had remained steadfast and true to her love for him.

How, regardless of how many lives he's taken, and how many children are orphaned because of him, she refuses to forsake him.

Harry pities the noble.

He tells him, softly, "It is not my place to tell you what you should or should not feel." He pauses, allowing a rare vulnerability to seep into his tone. "When I first met my Juana, I was unyielding. She was, to me, the sun. I could not allow my storms to permeate her radiance.

"Love finds a way, when it is true. Sometimes, it is as obstinate as you are. Sometimes, it creeps upon you, in increments.

"A memory, shared. A secret, kept. A letter, sent. The same way you don't notice the breaths you take, until you stop, and you realise its importance.

"So, I ask this again," Harry finishes, "do you love her?"

~~~~~~~~

Later, when Harry arrives home with a young man, both of them breathless from exerting their strengths in ensuring their rapid arrival, Juana will lament over her decision not to plead for Penelope to continue her stay.

Later, when she recognises the fear in the young man for what it is, Juana will cling onto her husband's hand, a silent prayer forming on her lips.

Later, when the young man urgently mounts a stolen mare, despair present in his trembling form as he begins a chase, Juana asks Harry, "Will he find her?"

He answers, "He loves her, so he will."

~~~~~~~~

Her ship is bound for sail at noon tomorrow, when the tides are high.

By then, she would've abandoned her name. She's not decided, yet, what her new identity will be. She listens closely to the inn's occupants, learning the way their tongues twists around certain words, practising their accents.

When she boards the ship, she will have nothing but a bag that carries her spare clothes, and her purse.

Penelope Featherington will cease to exist.

As it is meant to.

She sits at the rotting desk, barely standing on its four legs, carefully straightening the crinkles on the parchment that is her only precious belonging.

Her fingertips trace over Colin's name, signed at the bottom of the page.

He will be safe, she thinks. The war cannot touch him. I must not fail.

Three knocks, in rapid succession, resounds from the door to her hired bedchamber.

She does not get up; she will pay the innkeeper before she leaves in the morning.

Instead, she turns her attention back to the letter, the words on the page already seared into her memory like a beloved song.

Every word rewrites itself in her mind, stored away in her heart.

No matter what life she lives, no matter whose name she takes, perpetually, there will be—

Yours, Always,

Colin

The knocks come again, and she sighs deeply before standing.

She walks to the door, gripping the handle, and pulls it open.

Her heart stops.

"Pen," is all she hears, before strong, wiry arms come wrapping around her waist, pulling her up into a broad chest.

Her nose hits his collarbone, her feet lifted off the ground. He cradles her to his chest, one hand cupping the back of her head as he winds it up her upper body. His other arm finds a home around her waist.

He smells of fresh linen, leather, and sweat.

His heart beats hard enough that she feels it echo her own.

He is home, to her, and Penelope almost loses herself in the sensation.

Do not yield. No matter the circumstance.

She brings her hands forward, the action a necessary betrayal to her heart's desire. She pushes away from him, palms over his muscular torso.

"Colin," she finds her voice, barely able to keep it from breaking, "what are you doing here?"

He only allows her enough distance to put a meagre space between their bodies, loosening his arms. He sets her back to the ground, bending his body so his face is nearly pressed against hers.

"Juana told me where you would be," he answers, his blue eyes shining with the tears that haven't fallen.

She refuses to acknowledge the emotion she sees in them, pushing further away from him instead. "How do you know—"

He only tightens his hold, her question interrupted.

"I've searched for you for so long, Pen," he breathes, pressing them closer still. He leans his forehead against hers, and Penelope's own stuttered inhalations pepper the minuscule space between their faces. "Are you well?"

"Colin, please. You—" She stops, her mind racing.

Do not yield.

She decides to burn her final bridge.

~~~~~~~~

"Are you so arrogant to believe I would be well?" She asks him angrily, her face methodically contorting with rage. "How little you must think of me, to insinuate that I would be pleased to be in your presence."

He recoils from her harshness.

He darts his eyes over her, attempting to read whatever thought is written in her expression.

Here, with only the warm light emanating from the oil lamp that sits on a decrepit desk, he finds himself reconciling the contours of her face with the girl in his memories.

Her cheeks are not as full, her lips are chapped, and the tip of her button nose is stained red.

But she is still every bit his Pen.

Despite the distance.

Despite the time apart.

She is still his.

Using his momentary distraction to her advantage, she shoves him away from her.

"You are in danger, Pen," Colin tries again, stepping closer, ignoring how she mirrors the movement to add another step between them. "The entirety of Europe will soon devolve into war. You are not safe here. I only mean to—"

"I do not need to be saved," she snarls, and insolence tilts her chin up. "I am where I wish to be."

He scoffs, then turns to face the room.

He spots her belongings, loosely packed in a small bag, just a few sparse clothes barely enough to cover her for winter.

He clenches his jaw at the sight, silently noting to ensure he brings her to a modiste soon. He bends and begins to gather her things into the bag lying at the foot of her bed.

"Stop, Colin!" She shouts, moving forward to take the sack from him. She pulls at it roughly, though it remains immovable in his stronger grip. "You have no right to do this!"

His answering laugh is bitter in its solemnity. "We shall talk properly once I have ensured your safety. You do not know the complexity of the situation you find yourself in, Pen. This is the only way."

"You cannot make me come with you." She shakes her head, azure eyes flashing with fury. "I will not go."

"Just why are you fighting this?!" He yells back, dropping the bag from his hand. He moves closer so he grips the top of her shoulders, his need to have her closer to him overshadowing propriety.

"Because I was not born with a cock between my legs, and therefore cannot do as I please." He gapes, shocked, at the vulgarity falling from her lips. "Because you are the one who cannot grasp that the world does not, will not, cannot revolve around you and your family."

"You do not have to pretend anymore, Penelope," Colin shakes her. "Harry told me of your contract with the Prince Regent. How, and why, it came to be. I am here, now, to tell you that you do not have to fulfil it. When we marry, you shall bear our Bridgerton name, and we will be under the protection of our title."

She stills.

Quicker than a bolt of lightning, her stony expression shifts, flickering between several emotions.

Anger, he sees between the delicate furrow of her brows.

Then, exasperation, nestled in the corners of her lips, pulling them down.

What comes next shatters him.

"You arrogant, love-worn imbecile," she whispers, rejection colouring her tone piteous. "You think I want you?"

And Colin has known pain.

He has had grief as his shadow since the day Father died.

Grief over the tragic loss.

Grief over his mother's descent into melancholy.

Grief over his older brothers' forced acceptance of the roles they had not been prepared to undertake so quickly into their lives.

Grief over his younger siblings, who will not remember what it had been like to listen to Father's laugh, to have his hand pat your head reassuringly, to have him blow at your scrapes gently.

Grief turns you strong.

But, before it does, grief destroys you first.

Yet he's not felt such agonising bereavement quite like this.

Penelope continues, her voice still low, devoid of any of the warmth and kindness that've been the qualities he'd loved her for. "Do you honestly believe I did not relish in the power that Whistledown gave me? Did you think me a helpless victim of a scheme not of my own doing?"

He falls back, releasing his hold on her, the world beneath him falling apart. He tries to breathe through his heart breaking.

She tilts her head to the side, raising a brow. "I've been glued to walls my entire existence. I mattered to no one — do you know what that does?" She pauses, then, "It turns someone lonely. When a voice is unheard for too long, it loses reason to speak. And I was unwilling to let that happen to me.

"Whistledown was born from me, because I wanted revenge." She smiles, deathly saccharine. "Bullied by those who thought themselves above me, judged by others who looked at my loveless mother and bore no sympathy for her struggling daughters. What was it, you said?"

She changes her voice, speaking mockingly, "You are Pen. You do not count."

Colin has never regretted anything more in his life.

"Tell me, Colin," she asks of him, "why do you think I wrote about Marina, despite knowing how much you loved her?"

His fists are stone against his ribs, where he's crossed his arms in an attempt of self-comfort.

She doesn't wait for his reply.

"I thought you were a friend," and the word feels like a dagger through his gut, "yet you did not heed my advice. You would've married her anyway, because what did I know? All that mattered was what you wanted. What you desired. I resented your freedom of choice. So, I did what I do best — I wrote."

"You — God, Pen, what are you saying?" He shakes his head, denial heavy on his mind. "This is . . . this is unlike you."

"Then you did not know me."

"I—"

He turns towards the desk, his mind in a riotous disarray.

"Who could want you, Colin?" She asks his back, her voice still soft and deadly. "You are a third son, spoiled by his mother's love, unburdened by the responsibilities that your brothers bear."

Colin imagines himself falling, in fragments, the pieces disappearing into the crevices of the woodwork panels.

He had never imagined Penelope using his deepest insecurities against him.

Now that she had, now that he knows what she truly thought of him—

He loses the strength in his legs and braces his hand against the unsteady desk.

His vision is blurred with the unshed tears he does not wish Penelope to see, but through the anguish within him, his hand comes into contact with a parchment.

He blinks at it dumbly.

It's clearly loved.

Crinkles cuts through the writing on the page.

There are smudges from fresh ink, as though the recipient had patiently traced over each letter of every paragraph so that it may not fade.

It is his letter.

The first of many he's written to her.

Colin finally understands, why Penelope could be so cruel.

Because she must be.

The letter sits on the desk, innocent, but it signifies a lifetime's tether between him and her. A life they'd shared, and the promise of the life they'll live, if only Colin swallows the pain her words had imbued.

He's spent his younger years running.

From his father's death.

From Lady Crane's deceit.

From his lack of purpose.

Here, in a dilapidated inn, desperate to keep him safe — in the most twisted of all ironies — his purpose is found.

And he will not run from it.

This time, Colin will stay.

He takes the letter as he hears a voice within him whisper, "Love finds a way, when it is true."

~~~~~~~~

He turns back to face her, with renewed vigour.

His eyes are soft.

Gone is the doubt she'd planted.

In its place stands the same emotion she could not name, for fear that the knowledge might utterly ruin her.

He is every bit still the boy she's loved, and yet, every bit of the man she knows she'll still love despite it all.

He raises his hand, and in it, Penelope realises her grave error.

Colin holds his letter, having lifted it from the table she left it on.

Her most precious belonging.

Colin wastes no time; he walks to her, every step purposeful, until their bodies press against each other.

"You say all that, and yet you keep this?" He asks. "You claim you want power, yet your sentiment retains such a meagre piece of parchment?"

He's close enough that she can see the vivid darkness of his irises, proportionately enlarged.

His breath is sweet, brushing against her cheekbones.

Then, he wrenches himself away, striding back to the desk. "If you believe yourself to want such power, despite its costs," he issues her a dare, unlatching the oil lamp's enclosure. "Then you will not care when I burn this."

He holds the letter over the flame.

Before she can stop herself, she gasps, her body stepping forward.

Colin's smile only widens at her crack in her armour.

He drops the letter on the table.

"If you do not want me, truly," he stands to his full height and walks determinedly back to her. He leans down, ensuring his face is right in front of hers. "Then tell me that you do not love me."

He comes closer, his nose lightly brushing against hers, "Assuredly."

His lips trace the apples of her flushed cheeks, "Fervently."

And his bright eyes bear down on hers, finally breaking her mask, "Loudly."

Her splintered resistance finally shatters.

She closes her eyes. "I cannot be with you, Colin."

"Why not?"

"Because I refuse to abandon my assignment."

"Then, don't." He pauses. "We will find a way through, together. You need not be alone in this."

"Think of your family, Colin," she thinks of Eloise, beloved and dear to her, "the risk that you will put them through."

"It is because of them that I found you." She opens her eyes, stunned. "You are loved, Pen. By all of us. It is only right that we do this."

"I cannot be with you," she tells him again, with less conviction.

"Say it, then. That you do not love me."

She does not.

He looks at her fondly, and she thinks she sees their shared lifetime reflected in his blue eyes.

He asks, "You love me?"

She nods, heart in her throat.

"Good," she hears, "because I love you," then his lips press against hers.

Blood rushes to her face, and she gasps at the impression his lips leave on her.

He is gentle, but firm.

He cradles her face, his forefinger and thumb caressing the outline of her chin, each touch sending shivers down her spine.

His arm comes around her, winding itself up her body until his hand cups the back of her head, pressing her closer to him still.

Penelope's tears finally fall, a lifetime of her love delineated in the way she reaches up to hold his face, surrendering herself.

Her fingers trace the harsh outlines of his features, feeling the prickly edges of his jaw, committing to memory its sensation.

Colin's lips become urgent against hers; he crushes her to his chest, freeing the arm he's wrapped around her.

She feels the ghost of fingers trace the curve of her bosom, and she gasps.

He pulls away from her, then, and when he does, his eyes are dark, staring at her like he's wanted her his whole life.

Penelope is suddenly aware of a wetness between her legs, a feeling she's never experienced before.

Here, in front of Colin, where he stares at her like she's something precious to him, she feels wanted.

The thought raises gooseflesh on her arms.

"Not like this," Colin exhales, his hands forming fists that press heavily against the bottom of her spine, low enough that it rests lightly on her derrière. "I will not have your first experience of passion marred like this."

He takes a deep breath, then steps back reluctantly.

He releases his hold on her, his hands sliding around her waist as though he couldn't help himself, before he grasps onto her wrists.

Penelope twists her hands so that she holds his larger ones tightly in her grip. She asks him, "How would you envision it, then?"

His answering grin is filthy. "You on top of me, my name on your lips, as your finger bears my ring."

"You still wish to marry me?" She looks at him, ignoring how his words send a heated flush down her navel. "Even knowing what I've done?"

"I intend to make me yours," he pulls her to him, and she feels a hard length press insistently at her belly. "Just as I intend to make you mine. In every and all ways."

She pulls at his waistcoat, tugging lightly, and tells him honestly, "But you have me, already. Since the moment we met." She presses her face to the centre of his chest, shielding her expression from his watchful eyes. "I love Eloise, but I love you more. When she told me the Queen had threatened her, threatened you, I—"

She stops herself.

Colin's heart beats reassuringly strong underneath her listening ear.

He holds her dearly to him, their breaths mingling in the resounding silence, their mutual ardour lost in the aftermath of her confession.

"I am sorry," remorse turns his voice into a soft rumble above her, "for not having realised that I loved you sooner." Quieter, still, he asks her, "You meant all that you said to me earlier, did you not?"

She nods. "Harry taught me that half-truths are easier to utter than entire lies."

His hold on her tightens briefly at the mention of Harry's name.

"I owe him my life," she warns him, defensive of her friend. "And it is why I must leave for my next assignment."

He lifts her chin, eyes fervent, and is about to respond when they're startled by the loud knocks on the door.

A letter slips through the thin sliver of space between the door and the rickety floor panels of her bedchamber.

Colin unwraps his arms around her, keeping only his grasp on one of her hands. They walk, united, towards the curious parchment. He bends to take the missive, ignorant of the dirt lining the wooden flooring.

Her lips part in shock.

It bears the Crown's insignia.

Miss Penelope Featherington, the letter addresses her.

She takes it from Colin, tearing it open with trembling hands.

~~~~~~~~

Miss Featherington,

I would have been contented to wait until you returned to our shores, but Buckingham house holds many secrets. The ones that escape the palace often trickle into rumours spread by imploring minds, and the ones that do not creeps up our walls like vines.

Alas, my own sparrow tells me that our game might not ever be resumed — a notion that I shall not entertain, for I do so enjoy partaking in these little amusements between us.

In exchange for your participation, I offer you this:

The Commander has found your family. He hosts them in his private dwellings, by a cliffside in Scotland. It is not a consensual stay.

Their presence at his estate is leverage in case you do not survive the war.

Your move, little bird.

C. R.

~~~~~~~~

Something in her breaks, turns ugly.

Something in her snaps away; a remnant of the girl she had been, perhaps, surviving against all odds.

Something in her changes.

And she embraces it.

"I might just kill him," Colin seethes, pacing angrily across the length of her bedchamber. His coat is undone, cravat hanging loosely around his neck. "Be done with it, now, and burn his body."

Penelope does not flinch from the brutality his words imply.

She thinks the punishment he speaks of is far too much kindness.

They have taken her family.

They have taken her family.

The thought of her Mama's pleas for mercy, of her sisters' fright, brings about a thirst for vengeance that grows with every moment she ponders over the betrayal.

Seated atop her makeshift bed, the part of her that's turned wicked grows restless.

It demands retribution.

She thinks of her Mama, resilient through all their familial detriment, denying herself love in favour of security.

She thinks of her sisters, each retreating within themselves, unable to show kindness because they had not known what it was.

And all of them had not been generous to Penelope.

They were far from perfect.

But she'd loved them all the same.

And now the duke has challenged her.

"The commander thinks he's won," she whispers, the first thing she's said since they've read the letter.

Colin stops his pacing, coming to kneel in front of her, as though he was but her obedient servant. He rests his hand at the top of her knee, eyes never once leaving hers.

"They've broken my terms of agreement." She tells him, ghosting her hand over his as she twines their fingers together. "I had only asked that they ensure my family's security, that they safeguard our reputation."

"That's why you had them frame you as a hero for unveiling Whistledown," Colin realises. "The Prince Regent's proclamation was your ruse to ensure your family had a way to return home."

The viciousness that's long been dormant inside of her finally awakens at the reminder of what they've taken from her, releasing the final vestiges of her innocence.

"They are two of the most powerful men in all of Europe, Colin," the words pull from her teeth like molten lead, "and they believe they can do whatever they please simply because they are entitled to. They have exhausted my patience, having been a pawn in their insipid little games for so long."

"I am with you, Pen. Whatever you decide."

She looks at him, contemplating, then leans forward so that their foreheads press together.

She closes her eyes.

"You will not like what I have planned."

~~~~~~~~

A footman hurries to the private study of King Maximilian, carrying a stack of letters.

He does not look at the sealed waxes, each bearing a mark of some esteemed royal or nobleman.

He only thinks about his next duty.

Had he looked closer, though, he would have seen an abnormality.

In the stacks of letters, a single parchment lies glaringly incongruous, for it bears the military insignia of the British forces.

Its intriguing context outlines a proposal to safeguard the King's future beyond the war, as well as that of his daughter, Princess Augusta, and her husband, the Viceroy of Italy, Eugène.

And, at the bottom of the page, Sir Harry Smith has signed his endorsement.

The footman knocks on the door, three times in succession, and leaves the stack of letters by the side table of the study, remaining blissfully unaware that the same letter is about to change the course of history.

~~~~~~~~

"Brother," Anthony greets, opening his arms to hug the younger man.

"We were not expecting you to return home so soon," is Benedict's uncertain response, muffled, as he knocks his head against the viscount's shoulder.

"I would have appreciated a warmer greeting," the viscount jests as he disengages, the joy from the early days of his marriage still lingering in his demeanour.

"I assume you received Colin's letter?"

Anthony shakes his head, opening the lid of his favourite whiskey, and pours them both a glass.

He gives one to his younger brother and takes a sip from his own, relishing in the sharp burn that makes itself known in the back of his throat.

"I received one from Miss Penelope Featherington," he admits instead, and Benedict jerks in shock.

"How?"

"I am unsure, either, but she has asked for . . . discretion. For what is about to come."

The younger man frowns. "Are you purposefully withholding the truth from me? I must tell you; Colin asked that I should do the same to you."

"They are being careful," Anthony surmises, taking another sip of his liquor. Benedict mimics the movement, nearly finishing his. "If they mean for me to keep what I know to myself, and for you to do the same, it can only mean—"

"That we are being watched."

The two men stare at each other, forming an agreement in an unspoken language that only true siblings learn from the time of their birth.

Anthony nods, then stands, ignoring the unsteadiness to his gait.

The viscount straightens his waistcoat. "Let us give them a show, then."

Notes:

Author's Note:

Hey, again!

We've reached the halfway point! As a way to celebrate our progress (please feel free to skip this, or kindly excuse my unasked-for rambling), I thought I'd share some of my thought processes coming into this body of work.

At the heart of the story, I'd wanted to show how the decisions we make affect those around us, even if we don't know them just yet. Different lives beget different experiences, and sometimes, our paths connect in ways we don't see unless it's told from a third perspective (hence why the multi POV tag).

I struggled immensely; apart from the tonal change from my usual writing style, the voices of Pen and Colin didn't seem right. I wanted to write a tale of two lovers caught in a war; not regurgitate whatever's already been written in several history books.

I'd been ready to give up; had even started archiving several of my earlier drafts.

It wasn't until I finally decided to go with my gut instinct to try one last time, to humanise these historical figures.

And as I did, the words came easier.

(Again, I apologise for the unwarranted ramble; I'm just so excited to have reached this point with you!)

Sincerely, thank you all for your lovely enthusiasm and continued support for In Fragments We Fall. We have two chapters left – but what a ride it's been with you (I promise this is the last time you'll see me ramble like this).

Till next time!

Chapter 4

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The quill in her hand feels foreign, now.

It's an odd, flimsy bark of wood. If one's not careful, they can break it easily.

Yet, for all its simplicity, there's never been a tool far stronger than it when combined with a decisively sharp mind.

Penelope dips the tip of the quill into the dark ink, her fingers remembering what she's once lost.

When she puts her thoughts to the written word, it's as if she's unmasking the parts of herself that she'd been forced to hide.

The words flow easily, like the memories that surge through one's mind when lost in recollection. Every sentence, every paragraph — it feels as though she's claiming back power.

Her power.

She forgets herself, lost as she is with the way her hand recalls its dance with her thoughts, and it's only when Colin leans his chin on her shoulder that she's brought out of her stupor.

She leans her head against the side of his face as his arms find its way around her shoulders.

It's quiet for a moment, then—

"You are sure about this?" Colin asks, unwrapping an arm from her as he points to her signature. "They will know who you are."

She turns her head, pressing her lips to his cheek once, twice, and then a third time. Warmth spreads under the skin that her lips touch, and she smiles, contented.

"Let them come find me, then."

She puts her quill down beside the moniker she was once known as.

Lady Whistledown, it reads.

~~~~~~~~

For as long as Eloise can recall, Pen has always been by her side.

When her father died, and her older sister withdrew within herself, it was Pen who she turned to for comfort.

When her Mama disappeared into her room in grief, it was Pen who held her hand and distracted her with tales of brave knights and their various adventures.

When society — and, in time, even her own siblings — began comparing her to ever radiant Daphne, Pen would often point at herself, jesting about her own physical visage.

Pen was the first person who would listen to her ramblings, even when she'd speak in circles.

Sometimes, in the privacy of her own room, Eloise finds herself entertaining the thought of loving Pen more than she's loved her sisters.

And, while she often battles the guilt that comes along wth her errant, wayward secret, she still wishes fervently to have been born in a different life, with Pen by her side as her family.

She had feared losing Pen, when Lady Featherington debuted her a year early. The terror that wracked through her, at the mere thought of her sister — in everything but name — being entrapped by a lowly man . . .

There is a vision, in her mind.

In the gardens, with books piled around them and the gentle breeze of a spring's clear ceiling curling their loose braids, Eloise and Pen would grow old together.

There is no use for a man, in her vision.

There is no heartache, where her mind yearns to go.

There is no losing the one she cares so deeply for, where her daydreams meet her ambitions.

Eloise thinks there's nothing that she would be unwilling to do for Pen.

It's why her beloved friend's sacrifice tears her apart, even now, in the months that's passed in the aftermath.

It's why she's grown desolate, grieving, even though she holds onto the dangerous hope that Pen is in someplace, thriving.

She's never had reason to pray, purposefully, before.

But in Pen's absence, in the chasm that she's left, Eloise fills it with prayers that her friend may be returned to her, unharmed.

As the months trickle slowly, with nary a word from her friend, Eloise's fears grow, despite Anthony and Benedict's efforts in assuaging her.

They tell her, be calm, sister, Colin will find her.

They tell her, she will be safe, sister, Colin will find her.

They tell her, she will come home, sister, Colin will find her.

But Eloise has never been patient.

She's never once listened to the voices who try to reason with her, disputing her own beliefs.

And when she receives a letter, signed by no one, but whose words are oh so familiar and, pertinently, beloved, Eloise realises that to be a knight, one must first gather the courage to run after their own adventure.

So, she packs her beloved letter into the pockets of her long skirts, dons a cloak, and presses some coin to her maid's palm.

The latter looks the other way as Eloise slips pass the gates.

~~~~~~~~

Portia Featherington has spent her entire life ensuring her girls' security.

Whatever love she's lost from her own mother and father, from her husband, she's given tenfold to her girls.

She had not loved Archibald, couldn't even stand him, but when her father had sold her off like one would with a prized mare, she went willingly.

Portia had never dreamt of fairy tales — she knows they do not exist in the world.

And she'd been prepared to play her role; be her husband's trophy, birth their children, and live her life separate from those who ruined hers.

But then she'd held Prudence, barely a minute old and crying her poor lungs out. Odd thing she'd been — her pink skin crumpling around her little face as she screamed her unhappiness, having arrived earlier than expected.

Portia never once understood what love was; her father was absent, her mother's only obsession was with vanity, and her brothers ignored her presence altogether.

But as Prudence quieted in her arms — this small, tiny little person, nestled into the crook of her elbow — she knew she'd found her purpose.

Philippa came, two years after Prudence, and she was every bit as loud as her older sister. Yet, in her mother's arms, the infant quieted, as her sister once did, and Portia's heart swelled twice as large.

Then, Penelope.

She'd been smaller than her sisters.

Like Prudence, she'd been forced to give birth earlier than her expected date.

But unlike her eldest, little Penny was quiet. She only cried, once, enough for her accoucheur to be reassured that the little babe was truly well.

She vividly remembers how he'd placed Penny in her arms, the infant barely fitting at all, given how small she'd been.

And all it took was just one look at her youngest's peaceful face, her eyes closed in contentment, her button nose sniffling as she grew acquainted with her mother's scent, and immediately—

My beautiful, beautiful little girl.

A mother does not acknowledge she has favourites.

But it's no secret that she does have one.

And Penelope is hers, having burrowed her tiny being into Portia's heart, beneath decades of sensibility.

Her girls were her family.

Her girls were her life's work.

Her girls were the fairy tales she never believed in, only for her to realise that they most certainly do exist.

Her girls were the love she never had.

And it is because of her love for her girls that she'd persevered through Archibald's growing cruelty.

A man, with power, is dangerous.

A man, who's lost it, is brutal.

And Portia had loved her girls far too much to subject them to the barbarity that's become of her husband. As much as she detested the possibility of losing them, they would be safer in another's arms, than in her own.

Such is the strife of a mother — your position in the lives of your children, no matter how beloved they are, is only temporal.

So, she debuted her daughters, had worked hard to find secured matches. Love can be learnt, but as she's grown to understand, the handling of coin is a far more pertinent skill to master.

And all of her efforts, all of her strife, had been for naught when Cousin Jack— conniving, scheming man that he was — had turned them over to a bow street runner.

"You are to remain here until the Duke of Wellington deems you free." The man's tone had been plain, as if commentating on the weather. "Should you be concerned of any risks to your wellbeing, rest assured that my men have regular patrols around the duke's premises."

There is no escape, is what the man does not say.

Portia has never felt incensed as she had been.

For a fortnight, since their forced arrival, she's paced around the entire premises.

Observing.

Listening.

Learning.

Her two older girls do not leave her side, frightened as they are in a situation so unfamiliar to them. They cling to her, as if they had regressed to being children once more.

And yet, Portia cannot help but fear for her little Penny, now lost to her.

Her brilliant little girl had reassured her of the scheme she'd plotted, had even promised her that she would come find them, and for months, as they moved freely between the small towns of Ireland, she held the belief that all would be well.

And had it not been for Cousin Jack and his greed for coin, they might've survived.

Portia could've finally held all her girls in her arms once more.

"Today's paper, milady," a male servant informs her, interrupting her reticence, and places the newspaper atop the table in front of her.

She nods at him, releasing him back to his duties, and takes the paper from its place. Europe Braces for War as Emperor Returns from Exile, the headline reads.

A piece of parchment slips onto her lap.

Alarmed, she glances up, her eyes darting to the servants. Unusually, their backs face her, each of them busying themselves with a menial task.

One appears to brush imaginary dust off a vase.

Another is tending to a hearth that does not exist yet.

A third servant attempts to fix the already neat cushions to a settee.

And all of them, curiously, do not look at Portia as she flips the parchment.

Even the night sky must yield to the might of the sun when daylight breaks.

One must be prepared for it when it does.

Penny

She looks at the headline, then looks at the parchment, realisation dawning upon her.

~~~~~~~~

There is a saying — hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

What is does not say — purgatory is a sanctum of peace when compared to the wrath of a mother, wronged.

Portia crumples the note in her fist, then walks calmly over to the newly tended to hearth.

She throws the parchment into the fire, watching as the paper incinerates.

When she turns, her face is stone.

Her eyes, however—

Her eyes burn.

~~~~~~~~

She stays at the ramp of the ship, her hand still firmly in Colin's.

Above them, the ship's steward makes his boarding call, his voice already hoarse.

As if the sun understood the storm that clouds her own heart, the day is downcast, with remnants of a morning's rainfall bearing the promise of a continued turn in weather.

Colin squeezes her hand. "You must go, my love. Before I lose all sense of control and take you back with me."

"I do not wish to go," she confesses, voice quiet and aware of the other couples beside them who have yet to be separated.

His hand tightens its grip over hers in response.

The steward yells the final call, and Penelope readies herself for her farewell.

Colin pulls her to him, then, an arm resting around her waist as the other finds itself gripping onto her hand. He turns her so she faces him, raising her hand to his lips, his eyes earnest as he kisses the back of it reverently.

"I still do not approve of this plan, for it means that we will be separated." He murmurs, his lips rough, pressing insistently against her skin with every word. "But as it is your wish, it is thus my command. I will," he raises his head, letting go of her hand so he cups her chin, "find my way back to you as soon as my business with the Bavarian royals is complete."

She sees the trepidation in his face, stated clearly in the lines between his brows that form as he frowns.

"Do not think for a second that I do not wish to be with you," she shakes her head furiously, "I love you, Colin. But for this to work, we must be patient. Our separation will only be temporary."

She reaches up to smooth away the consternation in his furrowed brows, and he's quick to pull her hand to his lips, where he presses an imprint onto the palm of her hand.

"Go, then, and ensure that you write to me," he orders, letting go of her, then nudges her towards the ramp that will take her to another life.

Colin's handsome face contorts with the same agony she feels is present in her face; an ache within her heart that grows in the chasm that opens at their impending separation.

"You have my heart, and you have my soul. Take them with you, and remember that I love you, no matter what happens." He declares, folding his arms behind him, his eyes glistening with the tears he valiantly tries to withhold.

She stops looking at his face; if she does, she'll lose her nerve.

"I'll come find you," he vows, holding his arms behind him tightly, restraining himself. "Wait for me."

But Penelope isn't quite as strong.

She stretches on her toes, balancing her hands on his biceps, and tugs him towards her. He is malleable under her touch, unresisting, and she presses her lips to his cheek.

"Always," she replies, and Colin turns quickly so his lips capture hers before she can withdraw completely.

They stand there, suspended in time, Penelope's heart in her throat as its beats become a steady harmony in her ears. She reaches into the pockets of her skirt and pulls out a piece of parchment and a key, then presses it to Colin's chest.

His hands reach to take the items from her, as his tongue traces over the parting between her lips, almost as if he were tasting her.

She pulls away, breathless.

"Farew—"

He steals the word from her lips, a hand holding the back of her head desperately, pressing her face to his in a firm hold.

He pulls back slightly, dragging his lips so it traces the bridge of her nose, until he presses a kiss to her forehead. "Don't say the word, Pen, so it doesn't become real."

She stays quiet.

A clanging of bells echoes throughout the port, and she runs out of time.

She pushes away from Colin, grabbing her bag from where they've stored it at their feet, and hurries up the ramp.

There, in Porto de Lisboa, Penelope finds courage in the love that she's left behind.

There, on a ship bound for France, she discovers that her love will transcend the distance between them; a trial that they must weather, for a chance at a future they might have together.

There, as Colin remains rooted in his place by the boarding deck, she allows herself to be mournful.

There, as his form disappears into the horizon, the vengeance that she's tamed comes roaring back to life, seeking a retributive justice.

~~~~~~~~

"I had assumed your business was concluded after your demented spectacle," the soldier states blandly, disdainfully eyeing him as he takes the seat across from him.

Colin grins, showing his teeth. "And leave you destitute? What contractor would that make me, then?"

His informant clenches his jaw. "You'll find that I now bear little tolerance for your games, Mister Bridgerton. Today," he raises his glass of brandy in a mocking toast, "I celebrate my impending death."

Colin clucks his tongue, taking the glass from him. "You waste good liquor for such an unfathomable thing."

"It is—" the man stops himself, taking a deep breath. "It is not quite so inscrutable. The Commander and Sir Harry has ordered us north. We are set to journey within the next week. For many of us . . . it will be our final post."

Colin looks at the man, swirling the liquor around the glass he still holds. He says simply, "You lack a will to live."

He struggles to even allow the concept to take root in his mind; a monumental task, considering that Penelope is constantly at the the forefront of his every thought.

Now that he's found his purpose — Pen — Colin will endeavour with his utmost diligence to see that their future together is secured.

Pen is his reason to live, and he cannot imagine courting suicide when she remains dependent on him.

"I have no one to live for." The soldier shrugs, interrupting his thoughts.

"What of your family?"

"They already think me dead."

"Such little faith you have."

"It is the truth," the soldier leans back in his seat, baring his jugular in a rare form of subservience. "I have not received a letter from my little brother since I left to serve our King."

Colin reaches into his coat, producing an envelope. He slides it over to the man. "Some coin, then, for consolation."

To his credit, the soldier hesitates. Eventually, the temptation for easy money outweighs his conscience, and he takes the envelope from him.

"What do you want?"

Colin's answering grin is sharp. He watches as the man's wariness bleed into discomfort at the blatant display of his bloodlust.

"Bring me to Sir Harry Smith. I shall need to speak to him."

The soldier's brows raise. "Have you not had your fill, humiliating yourself as you did in front of the war lord and our commander?"

"I don't see it that way," he disagrees, then puts the glass of liquor down. "Ultimately, my objective was realised."

His informant seizes the opportunity and takes the glass from its place atop the table. He pulls it to him quickly and takes a sip, his eyes still gauging Colin's.

Finally, he deduces, "All that trouble, just for a woman?"

His jaw ticks. "She is not just any woman. She is my bride."

"Bride?" The soldier scoffs. "She's turned you into an errand boy."

His hands clench. "A role that I am lucky to have been offered."

Another laugh hisses from the disbelieving officer. "She must possess such wondrous skill in the bed, considering that she's bewitched you so."

Colin feels his muscles tense, and his shoulders stiffen. He leans forward in his chair, closer to the man, feeling the palpable shift in his back as his temper flares into disproportionate levels.

He regards the man as though he were fickle, bringing his clenched fists to his front, and clasps them tightly on top of the table. "I urge that you do not misstep, sir. A word against her is your personal reckoning. Do not test me."

The soldier jerks his head back in alarm, and Colin finds himself gratified when he chokes through his drink.

Placing his glass down hastily, his informant sputters, "F-forgive me."

"You will do well to remember this, soldier." Colin stands, calling forth the confidence he's earned over the months since he'd first searched for his love. "You have not loved as I have, as I still do, so you will not understand the true meaning of sacrifice. A pity it is that you do not think yourself capable — or even worthy — to engage in the greatest substance that life can offer.

"Had you done so, confidently, then you would not resign yourself so quickly to your uncertain fate. And—" he points at the envelope the soldier still holds, "—you would've taken comfort in the fact that those who love you unconditionally will always find their way back to you."

The soldier frowns, then opens the envelope.

Colin feels a surge of pity for the man, as he pulls a parchment from within the encasement.

He knows, already, what it contains.

"Our usual tavern, three days from now," he orders instead, purposefully not telling the man what the letter comprises of. He straightens his waistcoat. "I expect to be apprised of your progress."

He leaves as the man's tears roll down his stubbled cheeks.

~~~~~~~~

Brother,

I am told that my letter will reach you this time, but even if it does not, I will keep writing to you.

Mammy is getting better by the day, though she remains in turbulent waters. The doctors say her recovery is coming along smoothly, but we must still be prudent in managing our hopes.

Every odd Sunday, when the palace grants me some spare time to attend to my personal matters, I meet our sister at the church, and we pray.

I do not know what she prays for — I do not ask — I only know what I pray for, and that is for us all to be reunited.

Mister Bridgerton, the second brother, is timely in his payments. I am grateful to him because he often brings a sweet treat, and his kind gesture reminds me of when you used to do the same.

Sometimes, when Mister Bridgerton is unavailable, the Viscount himself comes to meet me. He does not bring sweet treats with him, and his stern demeanour frightens me, but he once showed me another way to calm the horses.

Occasionally, I look back on his teachings, and wonder if our father might have done the same.

There is so much more I wish to say to you, but I will reserve them for another letter. Until then, know that I will continue to strive to be as brave as you are.

Your loving brother

~~~~~~~~

Penelope Featherington's letter sits in the fireplace of his study, a pile of ashes amongst the remaining embers.

Her words are still ingrained in his mind. How could they not be, when her instructions have been so clear and concise?

For a young woman of her stature, he'd not expected such articulation.

Clearly, they've underestimated her.

Had she been a man, Anthony has no doubt she would've made a fine solicitor. Impressed as he is with the scale of the plan she's outlined, and the allies she's made in such a short span of time, he still cannot help but retain some doubt.

Colin trusts her, he reassures himself, and you trust him to do what is right.

He rolls his quill between his fingers, lost in thought, until he's startled by a soft knock at his door before it opens.

Kate peers around the gap between the door hinge and the room, her body still standing outside his study.

Immediately, he feels his unease subside — by a mere fraction, but still a welcome relief — and grins widely.

He puts his quill down and stands, opening his arms, "Wife," he greets happily.

Her answering smile is blinding, leading Anthony to push back all self-deprecating retorts at himself for having been unequivocally stubborn that he'd nearly risked losing her.

She pushes her way into the room, her brown eyes softening, and walks quickly over to him. She slides her hands up his arms, fingers grazing the lining of his shirt, before she winds them around his neck.

He holds her close to him, inhaling her fragrant perfume, allowing it to be his sole focus amidst the chaos within his mind.

"You seem troubled, husband." She comments, raising a hand and twining it around the back of his hair, tugging loosely.

"I am," he confesses, only ever allowing himself to shed his stoicism around her. "The matter overseas has grown exponentially difficult to manage."

"Might you share your burden with me?" She asks, resting her head on the crook of his neck. "A problem spoken of is a problem that's halved."

He nods, burying his face into her luscious black locks at the top of her head, where notes of jasmine meet lavender, and takes a deep breath.

Finally, he closes his eyes, his mind not quite as convoluted as it'd been earlier. "Colin's beloved has provided some insights regarding Lord Cowper's lands."

"What did she speak about?"

"That the man has no inclination to save it." He pauses, considering just how far he might allow Kate to shoulder the burden.

As if she's read his mind, she pulls at his hair, tight enough to cause a wince. "Ow," he complains, freeing a hand to swat hers away.

"You do not keep things from me," Kate warns, pulling away from the circle of his arms. She takes a step back, her heart-wrenchingly beautiful face reproachful.

Her dark caramel eyes are playful but hold a level of admonishment that he pays attention to, for they speak of her true thoughts.

He swallows, a flimsy excuse already brewing at the top of his tongue, when she interrupts him, "We promised, Anthony. No more hiding."

He exhales, head dropping in defeat.

Kate steps back into his arms, wrapping her own around his waist.

Burying a kiss into the center of his chest, he feels her lips even through the material of his shirt, a sensation that even now — as they've transitioned past their honeymoon — brings forth an arousal he fights to contain.

He distracts himself by wrapping both his arms around her shoulders, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

"I do not believe she wrote of Lord Cowper's ill intent towards his lands as a mere observation. She was Whistledown," he says, thinking of the revelation the young woman had included in her missive, "it's expected she would know of such detail."

He takes a deep breath.

"I think," and he pauses again here, "I know that what she's written about him is something of importance, but I cannot quite grasp what she means."

"Allow me to try," is all his wife replies, and she twists in his arms to peer at the parchment containing his thoughts. "Her letter?"

He points to the fireplace.

"Ah." She nods. "Practical."

"A necessity," he insists. "It is a matter of utmost confidentiality. I do not want to implicate our servants, should their eyes see something they should not. Even the most loyal bends their knee when desperate."

Kate — whose intelligence is equal, if not more, than her unsurpassable beauty — is quick to reason with his various scratchings. They both look over what he's written, silent and pondering.

Until—

"She means for you to ally with him."

He frowns. "Preposterous. Why would I ally myself with that disgusting excuse of a man?"

"Precisely because he is that revolting," Kate looks up at him, her face calm, but her eyes are as stormy as a spring's rainfall. "She means for you to use what you now know of him as leverage. Take his barren lands," her hand traces over a segment of the page, "and then turn it profitable."

He looks at her, alarmed, having not arrived at the same conclusion as she did. "You must be jesting. I cannot revive a desolate land."

"Is it truly a wasteland," Kate questions, clucking her tongue, "or merely the effect of an imbecilic man whose arrogance refuses to acknowledge that his workers know better than he does when it comes to cultivating fertile crops?"

Anthony purses his lips together, considering.

"Speak to him, my love," Kate encourages him, her hands finding its home on his biceps, rubbing at his tensed muscles soothingly. "The Cowper land is substantial; and where there is coin, so will there be loyal servants."

"This is . . . uncouth." He tests the word, already feeling the blood pound around the side of his temples. "It is dishonourable to have to resort to such devious schemes. There has to be a better way."

"A necessity," she echoes, withdrawing from him. "She is to be considered family, yes? Since Colin has claimed her for his bride?"

He nods, then smiles wryly at the memory of his younger brother's determined expression before he'd left to chase her.

"Then, as family," at this, his heart nearly bursts with pride at his wife's loud proclamation, "we must protect our own."

~~~~~~~~

A young woman with eyes the colour of a summer's day enters the military hospital. Her intense, scarlet hair is tucked neatly under a cap, pulled away from her face.

She keeps her head down, her hands clasped at her front. She lines up with the rest of the voluntary nurses, an eclectic mix of women who've come near and far so that they may all serve a higher purpose.

Her eyes are downcast, face impassive, and she's neutralised her expression to befit an empty canvas.

The head nurse does not check her identity; time is valuable in war, and none of it should be wasted on matters that do not benefit their ruler's objectives.

When contrasted against her companions, the young woman is far more composed and resolute. Despite her youth, she holds herself with a quiet strength, her eyes hardened with the promise of experience beyond her years.

In the weeks to come, the young woman works with fast fingers, her disposition calm.

She does not gag when tying a tourniquet over dismembered limbs.

She does not waver when a doctor deems a patient too broken to be fixed, and quietly urges the nurses to let the reaper collect a soul.

She does not flinch at the insults a damaged man hurl at her, as she tends to his gaping wounds.

She never once yields.

Despite the atrocities.

Despite her fellow nurses slowly losing their minds over the guilt of the lives lost.

Despite the harrowing cries of the boys — barely men, grown — who cry for their mothers when death arrives at their doors.

Against the tumult of the soldiers who arrive from the frontlines, discharged from active combat as a result of their injuries, the young woman's voice quietly reasons with even the most obstinate of men.

It is no surprise, then, that when the head nurse receives a missive from a general requesting to send for assistance to the armies in the United Kingdom of Netherlands, she is swift with her response.

She writes the young woman's name, amongst a list of other nurses who've proven their worth.

When the month of June takes the relics of the late spring, it concurrently ushers in a group of solemn nurses to the battlegrounds of Napoleon and Wellington's armies, just behind the frontlines.

The Emperor of France himself greets their arrival with flourish. While most of them grow flustered with his enthusiastic praise for their indomitable spirit, the young woman maintains her placid temperament.

She is but a sparrow in a den of lions.

With her head down, her eyes glued to the edges of her dress, it is easy to forget her presence.

And as many of the said nurses fawn over the emperor, lauding his victories, the young woman disappears into the lions' lair.

No one notices the small smile that tugs at the corner of her lips.

~~~~~~~~

Your Majesty, King Maximilian,

I shall not insult your intelligence by assuming that you have not heard of Napoleon's intent to reclaim power. Neither shall I assume that you did not bear any role in the resurgence of his thirst for a new reign.

Instead, in the name of your beloved wife's memory — may she find her eternal rest forevermore peaceful — I shall disclose a forewarning that would be relevant to your political interests and, in time, your lineage's continued survival.

Napoleon fancies that he has the upper hand. He believes he has won back France and seeks to re-establish his power over all of Europe.

I am here to tell you that we know of his intent – as a matter of fact, we welcome it.

For, come summer, our forces will lay siege to France and all of Napoleon's allies on a scale the world has not known. He shall taste victory first, so that when we inevitably assert ours, his humiliation will be drawn on all our armours as we raise our banners and partake in the celebration of his loss.

We offer you a choice, now.

Speak to your son-in-law. Seek to change his mind; have him rescind his support for Napoleon and maintain a neutral position.

When the war is won, you shall have my endorsement — and that of the Commander of the British Army's — that you may continue your reign and live out the rest of your life with your remaining family, free from the tyrant.

If there is ever a time to fight for your daughter, this would be the moment.

I urge you to consider the better path forward, if not for your daughter's sake, then for the legacy you will leave behind.

Sincerely,

Sir Harry Smith

Brigade Major of the British Army

~~~~~~~~

Strange as it is, Kate does not feel as though much as changed since she's become married.

Even as a spinster in her earlier years, she'd enjoyed a level of independence that a proper lady couldn't. Not because she was afforded it, but simply because she was too stubborn to accept a life shackled by conformity to unreachable standards.

And even as Anthony knelt before her, his eyes soft, his handsome face — for once — cleared of all consternation, she remained steadfast in her refusal for her independence to be confined within the restraints of her title and womanhood.

He'd promised her love, and through it, committed to ensuring her individuality as his wife and viscountess.

And had she not loved the man before, she was certain she would fall in love with him again, and again, and again.

Locked as she is in her thoughts, Kate finds herself grateful for the trust and independence her husband has so willingly granted her.

Had he not, she wouldn't have been able to act upon Penelope Featherington's request, so passionately written that her once hardened heart wrenched.

Kate had been moved by the young woman's desperate plea, and even if they had never once met, she found herself relating to the Featherington girl.

Unseen, unheard, she recalls a line from the letter, and despite my efforts, no one looked and listened. So, I learned to blend into the shadows, to use the quiet spaces to my advantage, and to take my victories.

Yet, as heartened as Kate was by the vividness of the same sentiments that Penelope echoes, she still cannot quite grasp what Penelope's request circumvents.

She pulls the letter, tucked neatly into her bosom, and rereads the last few paragraphs:

I should like you to meet Lady Danbury, at the confectionery down by Oxford. I urge you to be discreet; take not a lady's maid, but only a footman and a hackney carriage. The latter of which is unrecognisable and will assist you in your discretionary endeavours.

I have given Lady Danbury and the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton a separate request, and I imagine that once you meet with them, our individual roles will become clearer.

Colin and I cannot thank you enough for your generous assistance; know that we will hold this to our hearts, deeply, and will strive to ensure we return the favour when your time of need arrives.

The carriage slows, then, signalling her arrival. Kate tucks the letter back into its place and brushes the tendrils of her long, black locks out of her face.

The door opens, and the footman she's borrowed from Anthony holds his hand out. She takes it, stepping primly down the steps of the carriage, and looks up at the store before her.

Through the glass-stained windows, she sees the silhouettes of Lady Danbury and her mother-in-law, just as Penelope had mentioned.

She straightens her spine, curiosity sliding down her back like a warm cape, and she walks towards the confectionery with the conviction of a determined woman.

Pushing the door open, she realises that the store is empty.

Lady Danbury sits with Violet by the back, their cups of tea between them already empty.

Her mother-in-law is quick to stand at her arrival, her worried expression melting into one of relief. She hurries over to Kate, opening her arms to hug her closely. "My daughter," she breathes, "I hope you've been well."

Even as a woman grown, Kate fights the warmth that rushes to her cheeks at Violet's genuine affection towards her. "I have," she responds, then pulls away so she's able to look at her clearly, "and you, Mama?"

"My new dowager home still needs some work, but I find that I am settling faster than I expected. The silence can be a little . . . disconcerting, after all the years I've spent running after Anthony and his younger brothers and sisters."

She smiles. "They miss you, Mama. We all do. We wish to see more of you."

"As I do, too," Violet's eyes turn watery, then she shakes her head, letting her arms fall away from Kate. "Nevertheless, I believe we have more pressing matters to discuss."

Lady Danbury clears her throat, tilting her head in their direction. The fearsome woman has mirth in her eyes, though her passive face betrays it. "Yes, good afternoon as well to you, Lady Bridgerton."

Kate flinches a little at her new title.

"Oh, you must start to familiarise yourself with the term," the older woman laughs, noticing her discomfort.

"In time, perhaps." Kate sighs, then gestures for all of them to take their seat.

Settling into the side chairs of the table before them, she ignores the various treats, pushing aside the cutlery to make room. She pulls Penelope's letter and places it on the table.

"Three weeks ago, I received a letter from the youngest Featherington girl. She requested me to meet you two, though she did not elaborate why. I can only assume it's because she is attempting to divert unnecessary attention?"

"Astute as ever," Lady Danbury remarks, taking the letter from Kate. She opens it and reads through the contents quickly, then passes it to Violet, who follows suit.

"Did Penelope say anything of substance to you both?"

"She has asked me to," Lady Danbury pauses, contemplating her next words, "relay my opinion to the Queen of the European royals. Though, I am admittedly out of my depth — I do not quite know of them; I am of Sierra Leone. Our ties with the English are far stronger."

"And what of you, Mama?"

Violet frets, her eyes darting between Lady Danbury and Kate. She takes a deep breath, then confesses, "She informed me that the Duke of Wellington has imprisoned her family in Scotland, some time ago. I . . . I have been discussing with Benedict on a plan, maybe, to aid in their escape. A week ago, I managed to establish a means of communication between myself and the Dowager Baronness Featherington."

"Violet," Lady Danbury gasps, her hand flying to her throat.

Kate feels as though her eyes might fall from their sockets, staring at her mother-in-law with the magnitude of the shock that courses through her at the confession.

To her credit, Violet tilts her chin defiantly. "I did what I thought was right, and I will not apologise for it."

"You always did show partiality for the youngest Featherington," Lady Danbury muses. "As surprising as it is to see you act so atypically, a matter which I will be happy to discuss in detail, I still do not quite understand how this coincides with what she's requested of me."

Kate leans towards the older woman, her thoughts colliding into a uniformed tangle. She opens her mouth, an idea formulating at the tip of her tongue, when a cloaked figure steps into the store from the back entrance.

All three women pause, their breath stilling, as their blood runs cold.

Then, the hood of the cloak drops, and Eloise's familiar face looks up.

Her lips stretch into a wry smile, making it clear she'd been eavesdropping. "Lady Danbury," she says, by way of greeting, "perhaps we shall be foremost honest with each other and endeavour to disclose any secret pertinent to our situation, as my mother so bravely has done."

The young Bridgerton woman tilts her head towards the queen's trusted lady in waiting. "So, I shall echo my sister's question to you once more — did Penelope write to you with any concerning matter, little sparrow?"

The eldest of their group raises her brows, clearly taken aback.

Then, her expression swiftly changes, her eyes hardening.

She stiffens her spine. "Very well, then. I see that young Penelope has begun crafting her moves, so I will honour her wit. Come, let us talk."

~~~~~~~~

A young housekeeper takes the spare key to Princess Augusta's private study and unlocks the bolted door.

When he enters the room, he sees parchments scattered across the tabletop of a great working desk. Books stand in uniform across the shelves that outline the four walls of the room, and every so often, there's an empty space between the volumes that signifies a missing novel.

The housekeeper thinks of his lover, looking at the collection, believing that his darling bride would love a similar working room in their future household.

From the distance, he hears a pattering of footsteps, and he quickly makes his way to the broken oil lamp.

"Ah, yes," the princess sputters as she hurries into her study, "I had been looking for you."

"The head steward told me you needed the lamp replaced, Your Royal Highness," he explains meekly, curling into himself, as though he expected admonishment. His grip on the lamp tightens.

The princess is quick to smoothen her stern expression. "It is alright, there is no need to fear. I simply needed your assistance with a broken chaise; it seems my daughters have forgotten all manner of propriety and found themselves too enthusiastic in their play."

The young housekeeper does not respond, only grips the broken oil lamp even tighter.

"I shall leave you to it, then," the princess stalls her leave, clearly reluctant to end the conversation. The young housekeeper can't help but feel a rising sympathy for the lonely woman.

She smiles softly at him, her eyes reticent, and takes her leave.

~~~~~~~~

Little is known about Princess Augusta's private study.

As rumour would have it, the princess is meticulous about keeping her disorder in the way that she's left it.

Some of the palace's housekeepers bemoan the parchments that litter the tabletops, and occasionally, even the panelled floor. Some, when given enough ale to elicit a confession, will rage about the nonsensical manner in which the princess's private journals and letters are organised.

They don't know that her mess is intentional.

The princess's letters from her husband are conversations she holds dear to her guarded heart, meant for her eyes only. The journals that she keeps are the stories she'll never write.

But even as thorough as the princess is with her bookkeeping, it's no surprise that even someone as scrupulous as her forgets the contents of her earliest written thoughts.

In between the first few journals, hidden in the back corner of her study, several pages of music scores, painstakingly annotated, is pinched between the pages of a leather-bound book.

And, had the princess remembered that she once kept such sheet music, she might've recalled who had written them, and why she'd kept them in the first place.

As dawn breaks upon the palace grounds one morning, however, these same scores of music disappear, as does her journal.

~~~~~~

A footman hurries along to King Maximilian's study, his right hand clutching a stack of letters while he grips onto a parcel between his left arm and the side of his body.

He leaves the items by the side table of the perpetually locked room, whose only occupant never once allows entrance to his most private sanctuary.

The man knocks on the door three times, his common alert to the king behind it, then steps back and strides forward to complete his next order of business.

~~~~~~

Colin watches as the footman's uniform burns amongst the hearth, inciting a black smoke to crawl up towards the twilight sky. In a pebbled alley, between two decrepit buildings whose feeble structure causes them to nearly lean on each other for support, it's easy to pretend as though he were a poor man finding shelter amongst the shadows.

He crosses his arms, his patience waning, as dusk nearly settles into night.

Finally, a slouching hooded man turns into the alleyway, his hands within his pockets.

The other man looks up, and when he does, Colin is nearly alarmed at the wearied caution in his navy eyes. He clenches his jaw, pushing himself off the wall he's leant on, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Smith looks at the burning pile of clothing. "It is done, then?"

"Yes," Colin replies. "If the little corporal's son had not been persuaded to withhold his cleverness from his father before, he should be entirely inclined to do so once the Bavarian king writes to him."

"The letter you snuck in came from Penelope, yes?"

He glares at Smith, resenting the familiar way he calls his bride.

The war lord rolls his eyes at him, having seen the way his fists clenched. Colin nearly loses his temper; he presses his lips together in an effort to maintain his calm. "It is signed by Whistledown," he informs the officer instead, "she felt that it was not yet time for her to reveal herself to the king."

"Your bride never fails to astound," Smith remarks. "Always keeping her intentions concealed."

Despite himself, his resounding grin is wide and proud. "She must, if we are to win our game."

"Our?" Smith questions, raising a brow.

"Yes," he nods, his grin dissipating at the officer's obvious distrust. "You take umbrage with my support for my future wife?"

"No," the war lord shakes his head slowly, his frown deepening. "I only fear that should you misstep, it is Penelope who will be implicated."

"Then you clearly do not know, then," Colin curls his lip in disgust, "just how great the distance I intend to go for her. I do not need nor seek your trust in me, but the mere thought of you doubting her — now that I cannot accept."

The war lord sighs. "I trust her, Mister Bridgerton. It is you who I do not hold the same sentiment for."

"Do you?" He demands, stepping closer to him. "Had you trusted her completely, then you would know that she is not the player of the game, but the maker herself."

The man before him clenches his jaw, his eyes as hard as stone as he scrutinises him. After a while, the tough set to his shoulders fall, giving way to his resignation.

He sighs again, this time releasing a long breath of enervation, and tilts his head towards the exit of the alleyway. "Then I accept my mistake and strive to no longer repeat it," he relents, surprising Colin. "Will you join me for a drink, Mister Bridgerton? It may be my last, and I should like to have company."

He frowns at the man. "You did not spend your last night before your deployment with your wife?"

"Juana is in a ship bound for England, now. It is the safest there." He watches Smith rub at his face harshly, as though he were physically removing a mask. "Should I fail, she will be protected. Just as you and Penelope fight to secure your future, so are we."

When he looks up to catch Colin's gaze, the war lord doesn't exist in him, and what's left is a young man who has too much to lose and too little to gain.

And Colin may be a different man that he'd been from when he left Britain. The green boy who only hoped and never fought, who ran and never once thought of staying rooted to his purpose — that same boy resurges at the sight of a young man in need of a companion.

He straightens his back, letting an easy grin pull his lips into a soft smile. "We shall toast, then, to securing both our futures."

~~~~~~~~

Two men arrive at a crowded tavern, where many other soldiers have gathered to spend their coin on a last hurrah.

When the night deepens, the other officers grow boisterous and rowdy, many disappearing with their newly acquainted female companion. The two men stay at their designated table, their tall statures crouched over several pints of ale.

They don't speak about the war.

It does not exist to them, not for that one night.

When exhaustion pulls their lids heavy, the two men leaves a bag of coin resting amongst the empty glasses.

Morning takes with it the distraction of an ordinary but pleasant night.

And, as it does, the two men separate.

One goes to join his commander in the frontlines, the broad length of his shoulders heavy with the burden of his military position.

The other dons an enemy uniform, the substantial expanse of his back tensed with the weight of expectations.

They do not say farewell.

There is no need to.

A farewell is the implication of permanently parting ways; a concept that neither man refuses to acknowledge.

They merely nod to each other, eyes reflecting their shared obligation, and tells each other, "Good luck."

~~~~~~~~

Maximilian has never once doubted his love for his country.

A patriot, his mother once called him, but a fool.

For his love of Bavaria, for his hopes that he may reform the old traditions that plague his country and resulted in its destitution, he'd paid a hefty sum.

He still remembers Napoleon's offer — France's support and coin, for his daughter's wedded ties to his pseudo son.

And while he's never felt any of the life altering love that all the great poets say one will feel when holding your child to your breast, he'd imagined himself to be fair at the very least.

So, he'd agreed to the mad man's terms, and gained a crown for his daughter's shackles.

For the love he had for Bavaria.

And, by God, did he love his country.

He loved its winters, and its summers, and the seasons that stretch between them.

He loved the baroque architecture of his city, would often spend days locked away in his study, evaluating the reports of the various artistic movements that had grown in popularity within his beloved Munich.

He loved his people, who were not quite so lavish, and had little fear of his titles. To them, he was not a king, but merely Maximilian, a friend who they danced with during the summer and winter festivals.

He loved his country.

He'd do anything for it.

But then he lost his wife to sickness, and his daughter stops writing her regular letters.

A strange thing, love is.

Love is not just the breathlessness stolen from you when you first meet a stranger.

Love is not just the first words you recall when that same stranger introduces themselves.

Love is not just the first impression you're left with of that stranger, feeling at odds with yourself, as though you cannot quite comprehend that you've just met someone who is bound to change your life.

Love grows, in increments that you don't see.

And when his wife passes and his daughter becomes lost to him, Maximilian finds himself regretting every decision he's made to arrive to his current state.

Two letters and a journal sit before him, well-read for the thousands of times he'd carefully dissected it.

The first is signed by Sir Harry Smith, whose words cuts deep into him, as though he understood every aspect of the struggles that've deeply perturbed him.

The second is relatively short.

Your Royal Highness,

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but heavier still is the heart of the man who bears it.

The years have been unkind to you, and perhaps even crueler when the barter you once wagered with the little corporal only led to your burnt bridges between your wife and daughter.

Love is an oddity, however, because it never once leaves once it finds you.

And, as you stand at the crossroads of destiny, I should hope that these gifts will help to steer you to the path that may urge you to start rebuilding.

Your Obedient Servant,

Lady Whistledown

The journal is his daughter's, written from the observant eyes of a young child.

In it, she details how she'd sit outside his study, waiting for the door to be unlocked so she may invite him for a dance.

In it, she's written how hard she practises her pianoforte, so that when she plays her mother's favourite music for her Papa, he might be proud at her progress.

In it, she's composed her own poetry, and all of them, she's dedicated to her dear father.

And, pressed between its pages, music scores serve as bookmarks.

They're the same musical notes that he'd once composed for his now deceased wife, a lifetime ago, that she's immortalised into writing and had passed onto their daughter.

It'd been a memory, lost and forgotten, for him.

But for her, it had been the promise of his commitment to her for the rest of their lives.

Maximilian takes his quill and parchment, then, his mind settling.

He starts writing a missive.

My son, Eugène—

~~~~~~~~

At the very least, Portia knows she's not alone in this.

She knows someone is watching from the shadows.

She does not hesitate to use the knowledge to her advantage.

The servants become her allies, passing letters to her that detail every movement of the duke, entrapped as he is in Europe. They hint at the timing in which the guards patrol the premises, and Portia hasn't persevered her entire life to be ignorant of what the information implies.

So, she searches for a pattern.

She observes the time taken for the guards to change.

She notes the spots they frequent.

She listens to the unspoken conversations they have with each other, as they switch duties.

On a day when the clouds turn grey, insinuating a downpour, Portia finally sees the deviance.

A guard limps into his patrol, his head bent down. When he takes his place standing at the back gates of the duke's dwellings, there is an odd gait to him — as though he is unused to the weight of his uniform.

And as the other guard leaves his position, shoulders eased at the relief of his duty, the man's replacement finally glances to the balcony where Portia sits.

She freezes.

Benedict Bridgerton looks back at her, his face unsure but determined, and through the immense distance between the ground floor and the balcony she's located herself in, Portia sees him nod once.

She nods back, then pushes herself off the railing.

~~~~~~~~

Love is an exercise in trust, Penelope learns.

She knows she guards her heart as well as Colin's; every action she takes, now, matters infinitely more than it had before.

The pity she'd felt for the princess, locked away as she was in a palace far from her true home, transforms into empathy when she realises the true gravity of a forced separation from the very substance of your soul.

Her trust in Colin must never waver, must not yield, to the doubt that stirs from the circumstances she finds herself in.

There cannot be room for it.

She recalls Princess Augusta's forlorn looks at the lonesome hallways of her grand palace, the emptiness within her eyes signifying the discontent she internalises, never once able to act upon it because of her station.

Unlike the princess, Penelope can't afford for consternation to find its home in her heart.

Instead, she holds on, dangerously, to the belief that Colin will return.

His last letter assures her that he's to come home soon; a fact that becomes the first thing she thinks of when she wakes, and the last thought she prays for when her eyes drift shut.

His love is echoed in every word, every sentence, every paragraph in which he recollects their shared history.

Because, somehow, despite the distance between them, he knows her.

He knows that the screams of the injured soldiers have become a cacophony of noise surrounding every corner of her fatigued mind.

He knows that she can't remove the memory of blood that splatters on her hand, the gore that she's borne witness to; atrocities that are so unbearable that they've become unspeakable.

He knows that she drowns, under the immense guilt, under the shame, that floods through her when a man dies under her assisting hands.

The war takes, and takes, and takes, and takes.

And Colin, beloved as he is to her, with entire countries between them, somehow knows all of this.

His letters are hard-won triumphs for Penelope.

Reminders, they become, for a woman who grows increasingly disillusioned that life exists beyond the struggle of a war that neither side will win.

Love is an exercise in trust, and trust is the root of every belief.

And belief ultimately finds its foundation in purpose.

He will return, she promises to herself, as she waits for her fellow boarders to fall asleep, the three of them — including Penelope — piled into a room they share, in a small shack just a stone's throw away from the tents that serve as a makeshift hospital.

You are doing this so you can secure your future, she reminds herself, swiftly standing from her bed as the soft snores of the other women imply their rest.

She slips pass the sleeping workers and opens their shared cupboard.

She takes her bag, pulling out the bundled clothing from within it. She pinches the large stack under her arm, then stands, her movements quiet.

She leaves the resting nurses to their slumber and steps out of the shack.

Before she takes even a step out into the darkness of the field before her, two arms encircle her waist.

Penelope's resulting scream is immediately silenced by a large hand that clamps over her mouth.

His scent — imprinted as it is in her memory — is what she notices first.

Then the hand over her mouth releases its hold on her, and familiar fingers trace over her lips, once, twice, then slides further down so that it pinches her chin towards her captor.

The arm around her waist loosens, allowing for enough distance for him to shift her weight against his body, turning her so she's finally able to see—

"My love," Colin very nearly croons. "Have you missed me?"

Under the moonlight, with nary a soul to witness their reunion, Penelope thinks even the bright stars bears no brilliance when compared to the man who wholly owns her entire being.

His smile is wide, stretched over his teeth, and his eyes shine with a joy she feels reciprocated from every fibre of her body.

In the light of the moon, Colin's handsome face is especially dear to her; even the shadows under his eyes and the faint hint of a distinctive jaunt to his cheekbones are aspects of him that she loves.

He caresses her chin, leaning closer to her.

She closes the distance, stretching on her toes so she may reach around his neck, drawing his body to hers. She presses the side of her face against his neck, feeling his strong heart drum reassuringly against her collarbone.

He nuzzles the side of her ear, lips pressing against it to whisper, "I told you I would come find you."

"You did," she says, finally able to breathe. "I'm glad."

"Don't you think I'm due for a reward?" Comes his response.

Penelope hides her smile against the crook of his neck, her arms tightening around him. "What do you seek?"

"A kiss," he replies quickly, sincerity in every syllable. "For my heroism."

"My brave knight," she chuckles, pushing against his chest slightly so that his face comes into her view. "Come collect your reward, then."

His hands come up to cup both sides of her chin, thumbs lightly stroking her face, each movement disseminating a wave of desire within her, despite the fragility of the circumstance behind their reunion.

"Gladly," he says, and comes closer, still.

He leans his face down, lips angled, and when his lips touch hers, Penelope finds herself returning home.

There is no poet in the world, no single writer, not a soul, who she believes is capable enough to describe the sheer phenomenon that is a moment's passion shared between two lovers.

Colin presses harder against her, and opens his mouth a little, his tongue tracing her lower lip in a movement that she can only describe as reverent.

And, despite her inexperience, she allows her instincts to take momentary rule over her mind, desire only fuelling her response, and opens her mouth in the most natural reply to his non-verbal question.

His tongue slips into her mouth, tasting her, and Penelope's breaths stop.

Immediately, Colin pulls away, but allows only a short distance between his face and hers.

She finds herself gratified to see that he's equally affected by her as she is with him. Against her navel, she feels his hardness, clear evidence of just how much he wants her.

The thought of it — substantiated by the way he stares at her, his pupils dilated — causes her to nearly abandon all other pressing matters, and to merely let their mutual desire find its most unrefined conclusion.

"You—" he gasps, his breath fanning across her face. "You test my tenuous resolve, woman."

"Unresolve it, then," she challenges, pressing the front of her body against his bravely. Colin's hands form fists against her lower back. "I wouldn't mind."

"Not like this." He shakes his head, as if willing himself to return from the stupor that's settled between them. "I will not have you when we're not yet married."

She snorts, "Now you are concerned about propriety? Colin, dear heart, in all the time we spent together in our youth, exactly how many instances did we arrange for a chaperone?"

His grin is bright, joviality turning his face young again. "This is different, and you know it. We've gone about this the wrong manner, for the longest time. I will be damned if I do not do at least one proper thing right by you."

"Oh, God," she groans, "please do not tell me you wish to court me."

"Why? Do you not wish to be courted?"

Exasperated, she removes her arms from where they twine around his neck and slides her hands down, where she grasps his biceps. She squeezes them in reproach when he pouts at her.

"Should you court me," she sighs, attempting to contain her internal pleasure at his innocent implication. "Would that not signal other eligible bachelors to do the same?"

The change in him is laughably immediate. "You're right. I rescind that thought." Then, he nods, his eyes earnest, "We shall marry as soon as we reach Mayfair. I will write to Anthony to have him prepare a special license."

She laughs, allowing for the jubilation of their reunion to ease the trepidation within her heart. "You are dear, Colin, oh, how I love you so."

He blinks rapidly at her proclamation, and through their closeness, she feels his heart stutter a rhythm so quick that she wishes it were a melody she could eternalise.

Colin withdraws an arm, finding her left hand, and he grasps it tightly. He brings it up to his lips, where he repeatedly kisses her knuckles. He keeps his eyes on hers, alight with emotion, replying gravely, "And I love you, too."

She twists her hand, tracing the back of it against his cheekbones. He leans into her touch, eyes closing briefly.

Finally, she retracts herself from the haze that their reunion had brought upon, and asks, "The task is done, yes?"

He nods.

"We must make haste, then," she sighs, and pulls away from him entirely. She bends, picking up the fallen bundle of clothing behind her. "I overheard the head nurse speaking to a general about two nights ago. There is to be a war meeting held tonight, which Napoleon himself shall lead."

He takes the clothing from her, ever supportive, and delicately pulls at the fabric to examine it in detail. "I suppose we shall see for ourselves whether your plan has come to its fruition. If Eugène de Beauharnais takes his seat by his father's right hand, the war is as good as won."

"Which is why we must attend," she deduces grimly, her hands moving to separate the clothing. She hands Colin's to him and takes the parts that are hers. "I trust your tongue remembers French?"

His eyes slant into something devilish, his smile becoming lascivious as he leers at her. "My tongue remembers many things, Pen."

She rolls her eyes, though she thinks the warmth in her cheeks betray her false modesty. "Be serious, Colin, please."

He returns to his earlier earnestness. "Conversationally, I am well versed. But I'm afraid my responses to them may not come quite so naturally. That is to say; my accent is not perfect."

She nods, thinking hard. "Then we shall have you reenact a drunkard. No one will be the wiser. Many officers have taken to drinking their fears away; you shall not be the exception."

"And what of the matters in England?"

She twists her lips, contemplating. "It may take time before the pieces start falling into place. I can only hope that they do so before we return home."

"Let us not waste any more time, then," he removes himself entirely from her, then offers a hand. "Shall we?"

She takes it, intertwining their fingers.

~~~~~~~~

Eugène is a mad man's son.

But, in the years prior to his adoption, he'd been Alexandre de Beauharnais's son.

His father — his real one — was the best man he'd ever known.

And as he watched the guillotine fall upon his Papa's head, his mother's face pressed against the back of his shoulder, Eugène had vowed to himself to do everything in his power so that he might take vengeance upon the men and country who had so wrongfully judged him.

At just three-and-ten, his father's head rolled across the scaffold, and everything that's been the best part of him died along with his Papa.

At just three-and-ten, Eugène learns to build strong walls to surround his heart, shielding it forevermore.

At just three-and-ten, the boy that'd been Eugène de Beauharnais dies with his father, buried beneath the pieces of his mother's broken heart.

The years pass, and a mad man promises to aid him in his quest for vengeance. He accepts the commitment, having had nothing left to lose, and unleashes the full force of his inherited military prowess in exchange.

He had every intention to die at the battlefield in Italy.

As the mad man took France and became the tyrant emperor, the vengeance he sought was quickly overruled by the horrors his adoptive father committed.

The same horrors that'd been born from his own hands, crafted with his mind, and implemented through his orders.

And even in the years that've passed since his Papa's early demise, Eugène never once forgot his lessons with him.

One cannot experience true triumph if another is in strife.

Lost in his own head, living only for the sake of existing, he'd expected to spend the rest of his life wallowing in his regret, serving an emperor that he'd been bounded to by duty.

Until her.

His Augusta.

Like the sun that paints the sky in shades of marigolds and tulips, she'd brought back meaning to his life. Had shown him that his life's purpose hadn't simply been to avenge his father, but to celebrate the legacy he's left behind.

He loved so deeply that he finally understood why his mother never once retained the same smile she had, back when his father lived.

And when his daughters were born, Eugène had wanted to retire from the mad man's counsel.

The atrocities the emperor committed would end with him.

"One last conquest," his adoptive father had said to him, "and then I shall release you from your station. You will be free to pretend that you've not dirtied your hands just as much as I have."

He stares at the three missives in front of him, now, as he finds himself standing at the crossroads of fate.

The first is a letter from his father, announcing a war meeting and requesting his attendance. Eugène knows what it entitles; his father means to collect from him ideas and solutions. A way forward so they may win the war.

The second is from his father-in-law, urging him to reconsider his loyalty to their emperor.

The third is from his wife.

She's not written back to him since he'd departed from their residence as punishment for the lovesick man. He promised her a life where he would not abandon her as her own father did, and he'd broken his vow.

She pleads for him to see sense, now.

She'd begged for him to return, so that their girls might see their father once again, and they would not forget that he existed.

That he loved them, all of them.

That he may rescind his support to his father and pledge his neutrality, in hopes that when the British forces arrive with their allies to defeat Napoleon, their family might be spared from a death order.

Her fear is real.

But her love for him is now lost.

She tells him of how her father had arrived at their residence, and for once in his life, begged her for forgiveness.

Through the burnt embers of their frayed relationship, he'd reached out a hand, and sought to rebuild.

The same way Augusta offers to do the same for him.

He stares at the parchments and forces himself to abandon strategy.

Eugène stills, closing his eyes, and wills for his mind to listen to the demands of his heart.

~~~~~~~~

There are very few instances in which Charlotte finds herself stunned.

Brimsley's confusion stitches his brows together, even as he claps his hands behind his back, his posture at a practised ease.

If she quiets, she thinks she can hear the whispers of the servants, who murmur amongst themselves in excitement.

"Impossible," she gasps, holding the gazette, staring at the familiar title with growing concern.

~~~~~~~~

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Did you miss me?

Notes:

Author's Note:

Hey, again!

We're reaching our last lap! Everyone doing good? This was by far my favourite chapter to write, and I hoped you liked reading it as much as I had fun writing it.

Till next time!

Chapter 5

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

"What game must this Featherington girl be playing?" Charlotte demands, her agitation forcing her to pace throughout the room. "How on earth did she manage to publish her column, ensconced as she is in the lands of our enemies?"

"The girl is intelligent, Your Majesty," Lady Danbury remarks, holding her own copy of the latest Whistledown. "She already proved as such when she avoided your sentencing and agreed to your son's contract."

Charlotte pauses, mid-stride. "What do you suggest I do, now? The ton believes Lady Whistledown had been unmasked; it is why my son released the proclamation. To have her publish again goes against the very terms of their agreement; it is treason."

The Queen shakes her head, inhaling a deep breath as though to calm herself.

She continues, "I had expected she would seek my assistance after I revealed to her the information you sought for me. I had thought that it would be a favour that I could seek compensation for, when the time is right. Instead, she incites blasphemy, ridiculing the Crown by her publishing once more."

The older woman shifts in her seat, the wood of her cane clacking against the table at the movement. "Your Majesty, she has not written anything of substance yet. She's merely announced her return. There is still time to publicly denounce Lady Whistledown once more — the ton does not know her identity. Perhaps it is time they do."

"It is not her identity that is the golden goose," Charlotte nearly snarls through her frustration. "Her writing influences powerful minds. Many already consider her words to be the truth. I should know — I once thought the same."

"Perhaps she seeks revenge," Lady Danbury suggests. "The duke imprisoned her family in Scotland. Did we really believe that she would simply pass over such a grievous offence?"

Charlotte pauses her pacing, considering her words.

Unbidden, she sees her Farmer George in her mind's eye.

She recalls the enclosed room and how his screams echoed throughout the chamber.

Her fury — broiling and astronomical in its intensity — had her hastily ordering the banishment of the presumed doctor who had hurt him so.

"Until the little bird sings her next song, we should not concern ourselves with what-ifs." Lady Danbury cajoles. "Now, shall we proceed to discuss matters that hold far more importance, Your Majesty?"

Charlotte merely stares at her lady in waiting. "What on earth could possibly be more pertinent than Whistledown's return?"

"The disappearance of her family from the duke's private dwellings, Your Majesty," the other woman puts her teacup down. She stares at Charlotte meaningfully. "The servants' whispers have unveiled to me something new — the Dowager Baronness and her girls have somehow found a way to escape."

"How?"

"Fortitude, I suppose," Lady Danbury purses her lips. "It seems to be a common trait shared by the Featherington women."

For the first time in an exceedingly long period, Charlotte struggles to speak.

The poor girl, she thinks, she is to be orphaned soon.

"They will not survive Scotland. The terrain—"

"I will do my best to determine what has become of them," Lady Danbury vows.

"See to it that you do." Charlotte takes another breath. "If Whistledown's return was prompted by the idiotic misdemeanours of my son and his ambitious commander . . . I should be—" she stops herself, briefly, then more carefully continues, "—curious to see just how far her wrath extends."

~~~~~~~~

"Could you not have found breeches that were more proportionate to my form?" He complains, pulling at the uncomfortable stretch of fabric around his crotch.

The waistcoat that fits down his torso is almost as ill-fitting.

Penelope's resulting chuckle feels as though she'd reached around his heart, clenching it. "I think you look rather fetching, my love."

He grunts, shifting his posture. "I feel as though I am one sit away from embarrassing myself."

"It was the best I could do," she tells him, by way of apology. "It's only for one night, I promise."

"I want it noted in our marital agreement to exclude such heinous articles of clothing." He presses his lips together, considering, then wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to his side.

He leans down, bending himself nearly in half as he presses his lips to the side of her neck. "In fact, I want it noted that we should be rid of any clothing altogether, for the majority of our honeymoon."

Her response is immediate; her next breath arrives in a sharp inhale, and she reaches a hand up to push his face away.

Colin doesn't need to look at her to know that her cheeks are flushed.

Instead, he raises his own hand to grasp hers, lifting his head only slightly so that it nuzzles the side of her jaw. "Colin," Pen admonishes, though he hears how half-hearted it comes across, "you must be serious, please."

He pulls his face away, eyes looking over her.

Under the illuminated night, with just a lantern to serve as their source of light, her seraphic features are serious, yet her eyes relay her true emotions — she is everything that he's wanted, and everything that he hadn't known he did.

She meets his gaze willingly.

"There's my Pen," he remarks, and bends closer to steal a kiss. He shifts, letting go of her hand, and puts a respectable distance between them.

He reaches with his fingertips to tap at her wrinkled nose. "You enjoy my jests; you just refuse to admit it."

"We are quite literally in the middle of a war," she huffs, though her eyes never once lose their bright mirth. "I find it admirable how you can be so composed and facetious despite the gravity of the situation we find ourselves in."

He takes to pinching the bridge of her nose; she responds by shaking her head free from his grip. "There is some merit to forcing joy out of such grievous circumstances, Pen. For instance, it means that I get to see the girl I've loved all these years resurfacing once more from the mask she so skilfully wears."

She turns worried, then. "I meant to ask — are you not bothered at all by it?" She slides her hands up, meticulously detailed even now, as she smoothens the lapel of his uniform. "It is not . . . desirable, what I do."

He curls his forefinger under her chin, gently tugging it upwards.

Whatever expression she sees on his face must be sufficient to quell her doubt; immediately, her frowning brows cease their furrow, and the tensed outline to her clenched jaw eases.

He's quick to reassure her, exuding every ounce of the love he guards for her, "I love you, Pen. So much that it frightens me, sometimes; the magnitude of what I feel for you."

She sighs, her body relaxing into his. "You are too good to me."

He scoffs, pinching at her chin as though he were scolding her, and proceeds to wrap both his arms around her waist. "I urge you to rescind that thought. Abolish it. Throw it into the river of your mind and allow it to sink. You'll find the opposite is quite true."

"Are we to argue over this, then?" She asks, tilting her head, though a small smile pulls at the corners of her lips. "For eternity? Who loves who more?"

"Oh, yes," Colin nods, squeezing her once. Releasing her, he compensates his withdrawal by taking her hand. He pulls them both forward in the direction of the field camp. "I look forward to such lengthy debate."

She walks by his side, swinging their hands between them.

For a brief moment, he pretends.

He pretends that they aren't ensconced in between the crossroads of Quartre Bras, just behind the frontlines where hundreds have already met their doomed fates.

Instead, he thinks to himself, privately, that they're out on a midnight stroll; unlikely as it were, but romantic all the same.

Here, where the bodies of dead men lie just over the mountain ranges and hills that surround them, he pretends they're home.

Here, he sees in his mind's eye a vision of his utmost desire — Penelope, by his side, where death doesn't shadow them.

Here, war doesn't plague them.

Here, he is simply Pen's, and she is his, and they are two lovers under the blessing of the innocent moon and a million stars.

As though she'd been privy to his unspoken thoughts, Penelope's hand squeezes his. "I quite enjoy this, you know," she whispers, a secret that they both silently pledge to keep between them. "If I close my eyes and pretend, I imagine we are promenading in a park."

His grip on her tightens.

Off in the distance, he sees the warm light of a busy camp, and knows their time of pretence will soon end.

He procrastinates, slowing his strides, and Pen echoes his movements indulgently.

"I do, too," he tells her, already feeling his earlier jubilance taper into his practised impassiveness. "But as you said — patience."

Her thumb rubs his gently, the touch a balm that he allows himself to relish.

"Maybe we should make a list," she suggests, as they get closer to the camp, readying themselves to confront a situation neither of them has had experience in. "Of all the things we wished we had done together, when we lived in Mayfair."

A list of reasons to keep fighting, he hears what she does not say, to keep us persevering.

"Marriage, of course, would be at the top of our list," Colin announces heartily, and it's by happenstance that the hand in his is her left.

He brings it up to his lips briefly, kissing right over the skin where she is to wear his ring.

Her pleased hums are like soft songs to his listening ears.

He grins and drops their joined hands.

"Alright," she allows.

He glances at her, inherently pleased by the blush that lingers across the middle of her cheeks.

They walk on in comfortable silence, and soon, they're able to see the tents.

Soldiers scatter outside their rugged housing, some cleaning their guns, others their bayonets.

All of them carry the same weight to their shoulders, visible even under the darkness of the night sky.

"I should like to dance," she confesses, as they get closer to the camp.

"Did I not have my name on your dance card?" He questions, instinctively keeping his voice low.

He sees a few women loiter across the field and remarks separately, "You were right, Pen. Even in the most abominable circumstances, we men are still ruled by our baser characteristics."

"I should like for us to dance as sweethearts," she answers his earlier question, the softness of her voice a near velvet lilt.

She clears her throat.

When she speaks next, there is a distinct difference to her tone as she responds to his other comment. "I credit Harry for imparting such knowledge about the presence of concubines in military camps. I merely assumed it would be the same for the French."

He grits his teeth, perpetually antagonistic whenever the name of her commanding officer is spoken on her lips. "And did he ever—"

"No," she's quick to deny. "Harry would never implicate me in that way."

One thing we can agree on, at least, he thinks to himself.

The out-skirts of the camp is now within a walkable distance.

Already, some of the soldiers fix their gazes on them. Their eyes slide over Pen, not even acknowledging her presence, and instead greedily eyes the medals on Colin's stolen uniform.

"Pull me closer to you, and keep a hand on my bottom," Pen tells him, voice still soft but urgent, barely a whisper. "Now, Colin."

He obeys her command, slouching, and turns his smile sloppy.

Despite himself, he feels the twinges of embarrassment warm the tips of his ears when his hand finds her derriere.

He becomes deeply appreciative of the darkness for proving to be a natural disguise.

"Now stagger," she whispers hurriedly.

He does.

A few of the soldiers look away, though one cackles morbidly as they pass him, finally entering the unchartered waters of enemy territory.

"Remember to slur," her advise carries itself lightly over the still, nighttime air. "And be as lecherous as you can be. Do not concern yourself with propriety; you must not waver. Play your part, and do not yield."

"Oui," he replies.

~~~~~~~~

Even in his youth, Anthony knows he'd possessed a unique talent for economy and politics.

Once, as a boy barely grown, he'd entertained the thought of rising above his station, to be a significant presence in the House of Lords.

He'd spent his years in Eton chasing that dream, ensuring that he'd finish top in the class, year after year after year.

Benedict, who was only a few years younger than he'd been, and was therefore susceptible to being his school fellow, often complained about the inexplicable standards and esteem he'd set for the Bridgerton sons.

But Anthony had not cared.

He had a dream to fulfil, after all.

Then, Father died, and his dream could no longer be realised.

So, he turned to the legacy that his father left in the wake of his abrupt departure. He vowed that he would do everything in his power to see that his father's efforts in maintaining their lands would not be for waste.

Still, though, Anthony yearned.

He'd lost the purpose he'd cultivated from his young age, had burned his dreams along with the remnants of the idealistic boy he had once been.

From its ashes, he pulled forth a desire to not simply maintain his father's legacy, but to build his own.

"You have never been known to be discretionary in your humility, Lord Bridgerton," Lord Cowper remarks, his hands clutching onto his glass of liquor tightly. "Your Bridgerton lands are the most fruitful in all of England, the most prosperous. You have no such need for more."

"Except that we do," he tells the man, taking a sip from his own glass.

"I had thought that you Bridgertons were an honourable lot." The man's grin turns into a sneer, his eyes bearing into Anthony's. "What would your father say, I wonder, knowing that his son is the antithesis to the very virtues he once used to preach?"

He puts his glass down harshly, the liquor spilling over his hand.

Clenching his jaw, he reminds himself to keep his composure.

There is so much more at stake.

"There is no shame in being ambitious," Anthony forces his reply through his teeth, assuming the most diplomatic stance he can take. "As you have been, with the gambles you undertook that resulted in your family's financial ruin."

Lord Cowper's eyes narrow into slits, his mouth pressing into a thin line. "You do not know what you speak of."

He smirks, leaning back on his chair. "Then I suppose I can take this contract," he snatches the document from its place atop the table between them, "and have it redone. I hear Mondrich seeks some coin to refurbish a part of his club. Perhaps my family's money is better invested there."

Beneath Lord Cowper's beard, he spots his tell — a slight tightening to his jaw and a twitch by the corner of his left cheek.

He knows he's got him.

"No need to be quite so hasty, Bridgerton, I did not say I would refuse your offer," the older gentleman shakes his head.

Anthony recalls Penelope's information.

He decides to bait the man.

"Prove it, then," he slides the contract back to him. "I expect to receive your signed copy by twilight today, should you want my solicitor to deposit the full amount to your accounts by noon tomorrow."

The Cowper household had barely survived winter.

Anthony knows that the older nobleman's greed and desperation for coin would be at the forefront of his decisive carelessness.

Lord Cowper validates his deduction and walks right into his trap. "You can have my agreement now—" and the viscount bites the inside of his cheek at his triumph "—and have the money in before the night starts."

The man takes a quill, his eagerness evident in his haste, and signs on the agreement without even looking through its contents.

He does not think to wait for the ink to dry before passing it back to Anthony's waiting hands.

The viscount takes the document and, for the first time in decades, feels as though he's on the precipice of rediscovering his forgotten passions.

"Good," is all he tells the lord.

~~~~~~~~

There is a difference between a ruler and a sovereign.

The latter merely exists on their inherited titles. Their reign is unmemorable — future historians will only know of their name and their claim to the throne.

Their subjects will forget them, eventually, and their faces will blur into the hundreds that've come before them, and the thousands that comes after.

A good ruler leaves behind a dynasty.

They do not take the throne.

They earn it.

And to earn a legacy, one must be willing to do whatever it takes — commit atrocious acts, betray those closest to you, and instil a guttural fear amongst your most loyal allies.

The tyrant emperor ruminates over this now, recollecting his many triumphant battles in his lifetime, each conquest growing bloodier as his power grows.

Italy was his stepping stone.

Egypt was his practise field.

Austerlitz was his first test, Prussia his advancement, Spain his promotion—

The emperor only has one last subjugation.

For, despite his relentless efforts, the British empire has not fallen.

But Napoleon vows to avenge his bruised pride.

He will see to it personally that his penultimate ambition — to conquer the entire continent and assume his ascension as the ruler of all of Europe — will be achieved.

He watches his men ready an ambush at Ligny, already imagining the crown he will wear as he drags Eugène de Beauharnais's decapitated body across the city of Paris.

~~~~~~~~

Here's what history implies — a sovereign is merely a puppet.

Here's what history does not say — a ruler, a true one, is the person who pulls on the puppet's strings.

~~~~~~~~

An officer and his concubine staggers into the tent.

The man's uniform is decorated with medals, and his chestnut curls are in a disarray. His lips are parted, and his weight is mostly carried by the suffering woman he leans heavily on, clearly too drunk to walk straight.

They look the other way; it's not an entirely uncommon sight.

From the length of the table alone, a handful of other officers have adopted the same drunken habit.

No one blames them.

War is difficult.

The newest drunkard topples onto a spare side seat, his body listing to the side. The woman he has with him is far slighter than he is, though not a single man offers to assist her.

Only the two other concubines in the tent wince in sympathy for her.

Finally, the woman sits the man in a more appropriate manner, tugging with all her might at the dead weight of his arm around her shoulders.

Under the shadows of the dark tent, it's easy to ignore their combined presence. Most of the men's attention are focused on the other entrance of the canopy, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their esteemed leader and his marshals.

The drunk officer props his chin on his hand, tilting his head to the side as though he were fighting sleep.

Behind him, his concubine disappears into the back corner, her small stature blending easily into the darkness.

The other women take no notice of her, their attention otherwise preoccupied by their own companions.

Both the drunk officer and his concubine notice that the first five front seats at the head of the table are empty.

Their interest, however, is solely in the unoccupied seat to the right of the emperor's chair, the latter of which is emblemed with gold and silver.

The extravagance of their leader's mock throne, contrasted against the rotting oak of the side seats the other officers and marshals occupy, distinguishes the clear difference in station and rank.

Finally, after a substantial wait, the leather flaps are pulled open to reveal an awning, and one by one, Napoleon's trusted war lords enter the tent.

The officers stand with uproarious delirium, excitement bubbling over tension, as they applaud their superiors.

Even the drunk man sobers enough to pay his respect.

Each of the little corporal's advisors take their seat.

They don't look at the other officers, though. They don't acknowledge their presence nor bask in the exuberant appreciation of theirs.

Instead, their bodies are tense, and their chins hang close to their chest.

The muscles between their shoulders are tight, and their fists are nearly stone from where they've placed them on top of the table after settling in their seats.

The officers in the tent grow uneasy; their generals' behaviour is unexpected, a significant departure from how they'd been like in their past military conquests.

"There is something wrong," they whisper to each other urgently in their native tongue, the words dancing around each other as they voice their concern. "They are lacking confidence."

"Hush," others are quick to silence them, "still your tongue if you want to keep it. Do not let them hear."

The drunk officer — perhaps not quite so drunk anymore — sits straighter in his chair, listening intently to the conversations around him.

Behind him, his concubine has moved stealthily in the shadows; to others, her actions seem as though she is merely appraising future bed partners.

Flustered as the men are with the new participants of their war counsel, a thread begins to unravel at their generals' questionable behaviour.

The concubine manages to sneak closer to the head of the table, lingering behind an elaborately large light fixture sitting atop a makeshift desk.

She watches the faces of the generals, darkness draped as a cloak around her body, very nearly turning her invisible.

Before them, a war map rests above a mounted standee, with little figurines positioned to represent the battalions of their armed forces.

A commotion resounds from the main entrance of the large tent, and with a flourish, the emperor barges in.

The men rise to their feet, their rapturous greeting of their ruler echoing throughout the camp.

The emperor looks at his officers, beady eyes assessing each of their decorated uniforms, voracious to ensure that the men he intends to speak with are those whose rank befits a conversation with the future ruler of Europe.

And, in perhaps the most crucial moment of all, the emperor — known for his strategical prowess and attention to detail — falls victim to his own inflated ego.

He fails to realise that out of all of his gathered soldiers, one such uniform is made entirely out of painted steel instead of gold.

He makes a mistake, and skims his gaze pass the not-quite-so-drunk officer.

Satisfied with his evaluation, he raises a hand, signalling for the men to cease their applause.

The crowd falls immediately silent.

He takes his seat at the front of the table, clasping his hands together as he sets them on the tabletop.

"Boys," he greets, his voice a deceptive baritone.

The generals steal a glance at the empty seat by the emperor's right hand.

"Eugène is not here," the officers on the far end of the table mumble to each other, "has he deserted?"

"How are we to survive?!" Someone pulls on the now-sobered soldier's arm with distress. "It was Eugène who won us Italy and governed over our tactics for the rest of our successes. Without him—"

"Are you quite done being witless simpletons who panic at a slight inconvenience," the emperor raises his voice, banging his fist against the wooden tabletop. "Or shall we discuss our military efforts like real men?"

Silence engulfs them all.

"Are-are we waiting for a-anyone else, Your Majesty?" A nervous officer bravely asks, his voice trembling, soft but deadly in the way it carries over the contemplative table.

All of the generals turn to look at the man, their brows raised. Their eyes widen in alarm.

There is ice in the emperor's words when he asks, "Are you questioning my order, soldier?"

"N-no, Y-your Majesty."

"I shall forgive your insolence, just this time. We are, after all," he clasps his hands together in front of him, "celebrating both the impending victory in this war and imminent death of a traitor who has since defected to Bavaria."

The generals look at each other nervously, then at Eugène de Beauharnais's empty seat.

One of the older generals takes his cup of wine, raising it high, and proclaims, "Here, here."

The men copy the movement.

To the concubine's observant eyes, however, she sees the way their hands tremble and their eyes shake.

To the sobered officer's attentive ears, he hears what his comrades do not say — we are doomed.

The emperor smiles indulgently, a picture of calm confidence.

He shifts in his seat, then puts his hands under the table where prying eyes cannot glimpse the conspicuous tremor of his fingers.

~~~~~~~~

Penelope's heart is a stuttered rhythm beating loudly in her ears.

Right in front of her, Napoleon Bonaparte sits at the head of the table, his slight form exacerbated by his tall generals beside him.

Yet, the man carries himself with a terrifying candour; his beady eyes are narrowed, lips pursed, and his brows are stitched together as the men before him debate their ideal strategy.

She hadn't known, at the time of her first month, the reason why Harry had insisted on her attendance at all his war meetings.

Standing in the shadows, with the tyrant in front of her, she now understands that it'd been to train her.

The terrain depicted in the war map is unfamiliar to her eyes, but the positioning of the battalions isn't.

Even then, she thinks in awe as she easily identifies the placement of the troops, Harry had such foresight.

The men speak quickly, with terms she's wholly unfamiliar with, and she finds herself cursing that she hadn't taken to learning French as diligently as her Mama insisted she should.

Hindered by her lack of comprehension for their verbiage, she redirects her focus on assessing and memorising how the generals situate their battalions.

She starts praying to any listening god that Colin would be able to glean as much information as possible from his side of the table.

A quick glance to her left tells her that he's paying rapt attention to the table's head, his eyes equally — if not substantially more — meticulous in evaluating the war map mounted as a centrepiece.

She doesn't miss the way the emperor's generals steal glances at Eugène de Beauharnais's empty seat, doesn't overlook how uncertainty outlines itself in every furtive look they give each other, the more that their ruler speaks.

Their actions tell her everything she needs to know.

The men have lost their confidence.

Her plan had not failed.

Not yet, she corrects herself, eyes locked on the soldiers as they point at several components of the war map. Until Napoleon himself raises the white flag, it is still not done.

The men's conversations suddenly grow more heated in argument, and a scuffle between two of the older generals begins.

They start changing the position of the figurines, the small objects between them seeming more and more like weaponised tools with their increasing vitriol.

She steals another glimpse at Colin.

He catches her gaze for the slightest instance, then looks back at the war map. The moment is short, but it's enough for her to see the warning in his eyes.

Do not look away, he seems to say.

She returns her attention to the top brass.

Napoleon points at another part of the map, agitation pinching his voice. He glares at the general who sits to his left when the man protests the action.

Penelope doesn't need to understand French to know when the tyrant had threatened death upon the man; it becomes an obvious conclusion from the way the latter curls in on himself.

The rest of the table turns deathly silent afterwards.

Napoleon shifts in his seat, leaning against the back rest. He folds his arms over his chest, defiant.

She sees it, then.

It's in the tick beneath the right side of his jaw.

It's in the way his fingers drum the sides of his rib cage.

It's in the insecurity seeping into his demands, bringing his voice higher from its previous low tone.

The emperor asks a question, and when no one responds to it, he nods his head.

He stands, pushing himself away from the table, evidently concluding his counsel.

Napoleon leaves, and for all the grandeur his arrival had granted him, it might as well have been a funeral at his departure.

The men erupt.

Penelope seizes the opportunity for her escape and moves quickly, striding to the back entrance of the tent.

She stretches an arm, her hand grazing Colin's back, letting him know of her withdrawal.

She taps at the exposed skin of his neck, three times. He tenses under her touch, enough to acknowledge her tacit instruction.

She disappears the same way she arrived, with no one the wiser.

~~~~~~~~

At the three-minute mark, Colin excuses himself.

It is taxing, pretending to be someone else.

His awe in Pen only exponentially grows — what little significance was his supporting act, when compared to the scale that she'd once operated in?

He finds himself itching for a quill and parchment with the urge to write everything he's heard and seen.

There's not a single detail that can be amiss.

It's a treacherous empowerment, to bear such secrets that had the potential to change the course of history.

How had she managed this, he thinks to himself, shaking his head, as he stumbles out the tent.

"Soldier," a uniformed man calls him urgently from his side, before he manages to walk five steps away from the improvised shelter.

He pauses, heart in his throat.

"Comrade," he swallows the sudden fear, and turns, greeting the man. His French somehow manages to release itself from his tongue in a satisfactory manner. "What is the matter?"

"Your woman—" The other man points at the tent opposite of them, "—says she is waiting there, as you instructed." He raises an eyebrow, leering. "She is not quite the same as the rest of the concubines I have seen loitering around the camp. She is rather compelling. Perhaps when you have had your fill, I can have a taste?"

Colin clenches his fists, seeing red at the man's insinuation. "Find someone else. She is mine."

The other officer jerks his head back, staring at him incredulously. Then, he snickers. "You fool — she will leave you for one of the generals. Was that not the reason why she went with you to the war meeting? So that she may scout for your replacement?"

For a moment, he entertains the thought of swinging around and pointing the gun he's hoisted on his waist at the man, just for the gratification that the inexplicable fear on his face would bring.

And had he furthered his insult on Penelope, Colin knows he would've pulled the trigger.

Do not yield, he remembers her advise, surfacing as he nearly breaks character.

He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough that he feels a distinctive sting. Instead of goading the man further, he turns on his heel, marching towards the other tent.

The man's laughter grates at his back, like a thousand needles scratching against his spine.

He takes a deep breath in an attempt to tamper his anger, then pulls open the flaps of the tent's entrance.

Just as the man had said, Pen waits for him, pacing a distance between the two bedspreads.

She startles at his entrance, her azure eyes widening, before her body sags with relief.

He rushes to gather her in his arms, his hand automatically fitting itself against the back of her head. He's tempted to remove her cap so he can bury his hands in her soft curls, but he absolves to resting his head on hers instead.

His respite is immediate from the moment he feels her stuttered breaths through the fabric of his shirt.

"You astound me, Pen," is the first thing he tells her, giving life to the thoughts that have been repetitively resounding within him. "I do not think I make a convincing spy."

"You were convincing enough," she soothes, her hands rubbing up and down his arms. She presses her face to his chest. "The other soldiers were too focused on the tyrant to have scrutinised you."

"I couldn't help but wonder," he shudders, "at all the times you've dealt with this alone. I have never felt such thrilling nervousness; I couldn't even breathe right."

He feels the faint pressure of her lips against the fabric his shirt. "You did well, my love. Thank you."

He cups her jaw, lifting her head so he stares into her eyes. "There is little I wouldn't do for you, Pen," he says, recalling his earlier bloodlust.

She smiles meekly, reaching up to touch the side of his face. "As I would, for you." She straightens, drumming her fingers against the outline of his jaw. "Now, what did you hear?"

Colin clenches his jaw. "Two battles, held at the same time. One will be used as diversion, whilst the other will be fighting the Prussians."

Pen grips onto his shirt, her eyes growing somber. "These are the two battalions I saw them position on the map?"

He nods, drawing her tighter to him, his body dictated by his instincts to protect her even as they're weeks away from the battle. "The larger army — the one that will fight the Prussians — will be with Napoleon at Ligny."

"We must get this information to Harry—" she pulls away from him.

He stops her, his arms binding her body to his.

"They are going to sacrifice men," he expresses, horrified at the recollection of Napoleon's own words, "those troops that they'll send to Quartre Bras, those boys—"

She puts a hand over his mouth, her eyes grim but resilient. "There is nothing we can do. We may be able mitigate the number of lives that will be lost, but to do that, we must see that Harry gets this information expeditiously."

Colin's unease returns. "You did not hear them, Pen. Their troops and artillery greatly outnumber ours. They're sending men to the battlegrounds in Quartre Bras because they can afford to."

"Yet they've lost Eugène de Beauharnais," she shakes her head fiercely. "He is their strategist, the best of the lot of them. Napoleon's men have absconded their confidence; they will be clumsy in executing their plans. It's imperative that we ensure Harry makes provisions in his strategy for the outcomes of Quartre Bras and Ligny."

He takes another deep breath, fear drying his mouth. "Are you not afraid, Pen? Our plan relies on the success of the war. If Harry fails — if we fail —"

She bites her lip, her hand returning to stroke his cheek. "It is not too late for you to turn your back, Colin. I have never wished for you to experience such consternation."

He frowns, releasing an arm so he cups the back of her hand on his cheek.

He looks at his beloved, invoking every bit of his passion for her, as he states, "I will never forsake you, Pen. Your burden is mine to share. The only life who I have a vested interest in protecting is yours. I cannot bear to lose you, love, it will kill me."

He pauses, his heart hammering hard enough that he fears it might thunder through his chest. Then, quietly, he asks, "Do you still doubt my love for you?"

The tears that form in her eyes are daggers right through his gut. "I do not, Colin, but this is not the life I would have wanted you to have lived."

"A life with you is all that I intend to have." He grips onto her hand, hoping that the desperation in his eyes is enough reassurance. "Please do not put so little value to your life when mine is solely dependent on yours."

Her tears fall, and he catches them with his lips, pressing his face closer.

He closes his eyes and kisses away her tears, tasting the salt on his tongue.

Colin unwraps his hold on her, cupping her face in his hands.

He holds his entire world between his palms, and for the first time in a long while, he prays.

"We will not fail, Colin," she whispers.

~~~~~~~~

Secluded away in a Bavarian palace, Princess Augusta gathers the courage to once again knock on her father's locked study.

This time, she is permitted entry.

When she pushes the door open, the similarity of her father's study to hers is a jolting realisation.

"Daughter," her father greets her, standing from his desk. In his hands, he holds various parchments, all of which he sets aside as Augusta steps into the room.

"Father," she responds, though her reception of him is stilted and awkward. "I had wondered if you would be joining your granddaughters and myself for dinner?"

He nods, "Yes, I will be with you shortly." He clears his throat, looking down at his desk. He bends, searching through the scattered documents, until he finds an envelope. "This arrived for you earlier."

She walks quickly to him, taking it from his hands.

The waxed seal is not an emblem she recognises.

"This does not seem to be from Eugène," she remarks. "His ship would not yet have been ported."

Her father purses his lips, before finally disclosing, "The seal is foreign. I have seen it before, and its contents gifted me your renewed trust. However," he clucks his tongue, "you did not hear of that from me."

His discretion intrigues her.

He winks at her, his smile wry, and Augusta sees the glimpse of a man who once promised eternity to her beloved Mama.

"I shall make my way down for dinner," he announces, stepping his way around his study.

Augusta waits until her father retreats entirely from the room, then takes a paper knife to open the envelope.

Your Royal Highness, Princess Augusta,

By the time you should receive this letter, I expect that you and your daughters will be sheltered at your familial home, with your husband's return imminent.

As the dream of your family's reunion becomes increasingly concrete, I should like to formally disclose the events that had led to your return home.

Your Royal Highness, I was once much like you.

My father was absent for most of my childhood, and as a result, my mother strived to fill the gaps he left. My family was not cruel, but neither were we happy.

It is a vicious cycle, regardless.

When you harbour a deep love that's unrequited, it manifests negligence; sometimes, for yourself, and others, for your children.

And, with every day that passed as your husband remained by the emperor's side, I saw your love for him fall into fragments that, eventually, you no longer had purpose to retrieve.

Watching you love your daughters, as my mother loved me, I could not let the cycle repeat itself. Not when your father still lives and there is still a chance that your ties may yet still be rejoined.

Perhaps, this time, stronger than before.

So, I did what I could to lift the bandages that once blinded your father's eyes — he, who had been the maker of your cycle of torment.

I wagered that through an honest disclosure of your childhood experiences and a reminder of the love he might once have had for your Mama, he would be humbled enough to prioritise his family's needs for the first time.

Please do not misconstrue the intentions of this letter — it is not blackmail, but a modest request.

I do not seek coin nor a title — either of the two are burdens that bring forth the worst of men. Like you, I seek for a purpose far greater than such menial concerns.

Instead, I humbly seek your friendship, and through it, I would hope to receive your endorsement.

Just as you had wished for your family to be reunited, I long for mine to be whole as well.

Your Obedient Servant,

Miss Penelope Featherington

"Lady Whistledown"

~~~~~~~~

When the nurses wake from their slumber, they do not notice the change immediately.

In the cupboard they share, it occurs to none of the women that the items from within the old hutch have reduced in amount.

The difference is only felt when they present themselves for duty, and the head nurse asks, "Where is the young one?"

In time, as the head nurse reassigns responsibilities, the caregivers who remain will gossip about the ineffable young woman who disappeared into the night.

In time, they will discover that her name was never registered, and her identity was never known.

In time, they will call her a ghost; a restless lost soul whose life was wrongly taken.

They will speak of her spirit haunting the makeshift hospital, drifting between the injured, serving as an usher to the life beyond the realm of men.

The woman's disappearance becomes a fable, and the fable eventually dissipates into nothingness.

The young nurse disappears into forgotten history, her story blending into countless others whose tales will never be told.

~~~~~~~~

She feels Colin practically seething beside her.

"I am glad you are well, Harry." The officer tightens his arms around her. "Your written replies were sparse and far in-between, I had worried—"

"War has no fixed residence," he reminds her gently. "I am surprised you managed to find me so quickly, sequestered as you were with Napoleon's forces."

"I have an informant," Colin interjects, and his hand finds its place on her waist, tugging her away from the other man.

To his credit, Harry appears nonplussed at her lover's reaction, keeping his arms around her. "I cannot say that I am surprised. Desperate men are weak to bribes, especially when the reward is a considerable amount."

Penelope pats at his back. "You should be more concerned. A loyalty that's bought can be dangerous."

"War is never fair," she feels him shrug, the words dragging from him as though he's said them through his teeth.

Colin clears his throat, interrupting their reunion. "I must insist that you release my bride at once, Smith. It is not appropriate for you to hold her as you do."

Even without looking at him, she can feel Harry rolling his eyes at her lover. He pulls away from her. "Your jealousy is concerning, Mister Bridgerton. Penelope is not a toy, and you are no longer a child."

Despite herself, she feels her cheeks warm at the insinuation.

"Let's see how well you fare when a man propositions Juana in a similar manner," Colin dares him.

"Ah, that is the difference between us," the war lord's expression remains stoic, though his voice drops dangerously. "Your upbringing commands that you still hold a modicum of respect for me. I, however, do not share the same sentiments. I would have gouged your eyes out for even looking at her in the wrong manner."

"Will the both of you cease this ridiculous measuring of swords?" Both men whip their heads to look at her, obviously shocked at her blatant crassness. "Honestly."

Colin, at least, looks appropriately chastised.

"Forgive me, my love," he draws her closer to him, away from Harry. "I shall reserve my animosity towards Smith for another day."

She groans.

Harry ignores him, expertly diverting the subject of their conversation, "While I am grateful and glad to receive your company, I cannot imagine the circumstances that have forced your urgent action."

Penelope glances at their surroundings.

The afternoon sun warms the back of her neck; a sensation she might have felt all the way down her back, had it not been for Colin's stature shielding her from the heat.

The other soldiers who loiter around the field camp occasionally sneak looks past their way, their forced apathy entirely obliterated by their curiousness.

A few have even gotten closer, flagrantly making their presence known as they linger several steps away from them.

"Not here," Penelope shakes her head, deciding to keep the matter as private as they can. "Too many ears."

"Alright," Harry allows, and gestures for them to follow him. "My quarters, then."

The terrain of the camp which Harry and his troops have chosen to settle in is harsher than that of the French.

They trudge through the mud and grass, while Penelope curses under her breath every time she trips over her skirts' edges.

"Here," Colin's voice balances itself softly at her back as he helps to lift her skirts. She blushes at his forthcoming gesture, but the effect of his thoughtfulness is immediate — her steps become lighter.

They arrive at a modest tent painted beige in colour, with a small banner of the British flag hung from its awning.

Harry pulls it open, inviting them in.

They enter, and Penelope pulls her skirts from Colin. She takes his hand in his, twining their fingers.

"I only have the one chair," Harry rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He takes a step towards the chair in a presumptive motion, gesturing towards her. "Take a seat," he tells her, and she does.

Colin takes his place by her right side, resting his free hand on the chair's backrest.

"What is so urgent that you require such a private audience?" Before her, the war lord's eyes narrow. He crosses his arms over his expansive chest, the fabric of his coat pulling at his broad shoulders.

She looks at Colin, then at Harry.

"Might you be in possession of a map for Quartre Bras and Ligny?"

~~~~~~~~

Harry glances to his left, where the commander sits atop his horse at the very forefront of their calvary unit.

The Duke of Wellington's face betrays no singular emotion, and reluctantly, he's forced to admit the slightest bit of admiration for the man's ability to remain steadfast despite the impending catastrophe.

Off in the distance, he sees a long line of dark blue — the colour of Napoleon's army.

He takes a sharp breath at the sheer size of it.

"Your little bird is right, once again," the commander remarks plainly, his low voice bland. Harry hears the quiet gratitude, however, when the duke continues, "Had we focused all our efforts in capturing Quartre Bras, we would have suffered far more losses than the little corporal. Holding off his army in Ligny, as you recommended, seems to have worked well in our favour."

The long line of ocean deep blue comes closer, and right at the front, Harry spots Europe's false emperor.

He does not reply to the commander, thinking of all the letters he's yet to send to the mothers of the men who perished in the battles at Quartre Bras and Ligny.

The duke asks, "When will the rest of the Prussian battalions that you provisioned arrive?"

Harry's words are forced from between his clenched teeth. "It is not known, Your Grace. It could be within the hour, or in a few days. Until they do, we must continue to defend Waterloo, right down to our last man."

From the corner of his eye, he sees the Duke of Wellington nod once in agreement.

The line of blurred midnight blue becomes increasingly clearer — he's able to see faces, now, as well as the bayonets and guns that are the chosen weapons of the warriors that stand before them.

The large canons behind the frontlines roll ominously towards them, their muzzles three times as big as an ordinary man's head.

Just as Penelope had warned him.

Harry's jaw clenches.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. Behind his lids, he sees a glimpse of Juana, waiting for him by the dock, her anxious face wrinkled with worry.

He exhales slowly, feeling as though every second that passes is an eternity in and of itself.

Finally, he straightens astride his own mare, his hand tightly gripping onto the reins.

When he opens his eyes, Harry Smith does not exist.

In place of the young man, a war lord possesses his body, bloodlust turning his restrained wrath loose.

Before them, Napoleon and his forces continue to advance.

In true clarity, Harry bears witness to the insurmountable size of the French army.

Beside him, Charles whistles lowly. "I should thank you, now, brother. For a lifetime of wisdom and friendship. It appears that we may very well not survive what is to come."

Harry's hands shake from the tension that reverberates throughout his body.

"We will," he announces, loud enough so that the men behind him can gain confidence. Then, deafeningly, he yells, "For the King, and for our country!"

"Charge!" The duke supplements, an order so loud that there is no other response but to obey it.

Harry pulls on the reins of his horse, and gallops into utter mayhem.

~~~~~~~~

Violet sips on her tea, observing the way daylight permeates through the drawing room, painting the walls with a smattering of sunshine.

Eloise sits opposite of her, Kate by her side, and the two quietly looks through a piece of parchment.

There is a lightness to Eloise that she has never seen before.

Her daughter's hands are sure, her posture confident.

A contrast to the months that've passed since she'd lost her dearest friend.

In the time since then, Eloise appears to have blossomed from the unruly shackles of girlhood.

The young woman before her is calm, and sure, and so incredibly passionate that Violet feels as though her heart might burst from joy.

Kate guides Eloise's quill, firm but nurturing. She points to segments of the parchment, voicing her opinion eloquently without malice — a feat that, had it been any other person, Eloise surely would have taken offence.

Instead, the two women keep their heads bent together, hard at work.

Footsteps resound from the distance; a clattering of boots whose noise grows louder as it draws closer.

Five breaths later, as she pours tea into a new cup, Benedict's unmistakable voice greets them. "Good morning, family."

Her two daughters look up, startled by his entrance. "Brother," Eloise greets, and Kate stands, pushing herself away from the table.

The movement is precise and calculated; she blocks Benedict's view of Eloise's work, who is quick to shove the parchment into the pockets of her skirts.

Violet watches her son intently.

Benedict is an artist.

And, as such, misses not a single detail.

His eyes flash at his sister's actions, and for a moment, they all hold a collective breath when he opens his mouth.

Violet clears her throat, distracting him. "Would you like some tea, Benedict?"

Her son's gaze flits to her, then to his sisters, and then back again.

She holds his stare, keeping her face neutral under his scrutiny.

She tells herself that Benedict is an artist.

And, as such, has supreme control over subjects he chooses to interpret.

His narrowed eyes softens as he deliberately ignores the tension in the room. "Yes, thank you, Mother."

She passes the cup to him. "It is done, then?"

The look that passes between them is meaningful.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Eloise and Kate straighten their posture, listening carefully to Benedict's next words.

"Yes," he breathes, and the smile he unleashes is proud. "May I suggest we take a brief respite to Aubrey Hall?"

~~~~~~~~

A boy is three-and-ten.

The tears that fall from his face is errant and unstoppable.

He ignores the worried looks that his fellow footmen give him, gathered as they are in the servant's hall. His older superior puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

The boy's hands shake, clutching onto the newspaper with reverence, and despite his age — despite knowing that he is soon-to-be a man — he allows himself this one moment of vulnerability.

In a bold, large font, the headlines read, "Peace Declared: End of Napoleonic Wars Brings Joy Across Europe."

A boy is three-and-ten.

His mother will soon be granted leave from the hospital.

His sister has since taken a new assignment as a seamstress.

He has been granted permission to visit his father from where he is imprisoned.

A boy is three-and-ten.

He had prayed fervently.

He had worried incessantly.

He had worked persistently.

A boy is three-and-ten.

The newsletter says that nearly ninety thousand men died in the last few battles of Napoleon's Hundred Day War.

The writer tells their readers that there are far more wounded.

The description of the battlefield is astonishingly detailed within the gazette, horrific even to one's imagination.

But he cares little for the casualties of war — to him, there is only one clear fact that he rejoices over.

A boy is three-and-ten.

His beloved brother will finally come home.

~~~~~~~~

Sometimes, in her sleep, she hears the voices of the people she's wronged.

There is the under maid whose only sin was to love.

There is the chambermaid whose disappearance was fuelled by a threat to expose her sordid dalliance with a married palace advisor.

There is the lady's maid who'd been goaded into choosing death over her husband's continued abuse.

There are the men who did not survive their injuries, and the ones who did — only to live a life ruled by the horrors that they've seen.

There are the boys whose wounds were too great yet continued to hold on to the thinning thread of life — only to be ignored in favour of those who had a greater chance of survival.

The voices don't stop their haunting chorus.

They grow louder, night after night after night, until their song becomes a collective screech of imbalanced instruments.

And in the times that she's taunted by such dreams, she wakes, screaming, as she sees the phantom shadows of blood staining her hands.

As she trembles in the arms of her beloved, her eyes unseeing, her ears still echoing the evocative hymns of the people who she has sinned against, she realises — there are no winners in war.

~~~~~~~~

The small group of lords stands in greeting when the viscount enters the club.

The man sits, eyeing the rest of the group with shrewd eyes.

He crosses his arms over his chest, refusing an offered drink, and waits for one of them to break the wintry silence.

Eventually, Lord Fife clears his throat. "We appreciate your time, Lord Bridgerton — I understand it is no easy feat to provision a portion of your busy schedule to attend to us."

"Speak what you must, Lord Fife," is all the viscount says.

"We have heard about the deal you brokered with Lord Cowper," Lord Remington, perhaps the least suspicious of them all, chips in. He gives the viscount a reassuring smile.

"And?"

"We wish to do the same," the man replies, then gestures to the lower form of his body, perpetually encased within a bath chair. "I cannot speak for the rest of the gentlemen gathered here, but for me, specifically, it would be far wiser — and kinder — for me to sell my estates to someone far more capable."

The viscount tilts his head, contemplative. "You could sell it to another willing buyer; why not them?"

"Because your family is the richest of all of Great Britain. You have a reputation, Bridgerton, perhaps the strongest amongst all noblemen."

The viscount shifts in his seat, a glint in his eyes, as he appraises the men before him.

Finally, he nods, "Very well, gentlemen. Let us confer the terms of purchase."

Later, in the privacy of his own study, the viscount drafts a letter.

Dear Miss Featherington, he writes, it is done.

~~~~~~~~

Eloise holds Kate's hand tightly.

The man — Pen's publisher — looks over the parchment she'd passed to him.

The same parchment that had been born from her hands, that contained the insights she entrapped in her mind.

He looks up, his grin missing a few teeth. "I reckon we ought to renegotiate about my slice of takings."

Kate's grip turns deathly.

Her sister straightens her shoulders, her eyes growing sharp, and her smile turns glacial in nature. "Perhaps you ought to reconsider our initial offer, lest we choose to select a different publisher."

The man snorts, then tucks the draft under his arm.

"Right you are, milady." He bows mockingly. "I suppose it was worth a try. I'll get this sorted by first light tomorrow."

Eloise exhales the breath she's been holding, relieved.

She turns, her dark cloak swirling with her, and pulls her hood over her head.

~~~~~~~~

Lady Whistledown's Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

While we celebrate our great victory against the tyrant emperor, and as His and Her Majesties, King George and Queen Charlotte, emerge as the leaders of a new era of peace, this author should like to share the whispers that have floated from our great European allies.

It is with great pride that this author announces a shocking revelation about the young Miss Penelope Featherington, who so skilfully unmasked this author's identity that His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent George, had proclaimed his praise for her deed.

But as this author had asserted in her previous article announcing her reentry into society — fearful she is not, and it is with renewed humility that she returns to the ton to divulge the information that our newspapers will not publish.

It is, thus, with utmost care that this author discloses what has since become of the youngest Featherington daughter.

In the winter season before the tyrant emperor marched onto France, Miss Featherington befriended Princess Augusta of Bavaria in her travels.

It is believed that through this unlikely friendship between the princess and Miss Featherington, the latter had pleaded with the former to convince her husband to maintain neutrality in the war.

The very same husband whose appointment had once sat him at Napoleon Bonaparte's right hand.

And while this author does not disprove the Duke of Wellington's impeccable dexterity of his military prowess in the penultimate battles that secured our King and Queen's triumph, it is pivotal that we do not neglect the efforts that others have made to turn the tides in His and Her Majesty's favour.

This author should like to think that, through her relations with the princess, the young Miss Featherington has inadvertently secured the duke his victory.

She is — should this author be so bold to proclaim it — a hero.

The likes of which, this author hears, is set to return to our English shores within the next week.

~~~~~~~~

It takes every ounce of his self-restraint to not betray the turmoil he feels brewing within him.

Whistledown's column is a crumpled heap on the table, nearly torn to shreds from his frustration.

Arthur had expected to receive a hero's welcome upon his return home.

He had won the war for his King and country. He had not failed, and Britain's banners are now raised all over Europe.

He is feared by Napoleon, and those who support him.

It was for that single reason alone that he'd commissioned the fastest ship to take him back to England, eager as he'd been to receive the praise of the Crown.

Instead, as soon as he'd stepped ashore, his steward handed him a copy of the latest publishing of Lady Whistledown's Society Papers and informed him of the Prince Regent's request for an urgent conference.

"Commander," the Prince Regent calls him now, striding into the private study that Arthur had been ushered into by a palace footman.

Agitation drapes itself across the prince's shoulders, weighing them down.

Arthur readies any sort of excuse on his tongue.

"Your Royal Highness," he bows.

The Prince Regent simply takes his seat on the chaise, collapsing in a heap. "You miscalculated," the man accuses, and he waves Whistledown's gazette in his right hand.

The obvious insinuation is a perilous affront to his pride.

Arthur clenches his jaw, tight enough that the back of his teeth protests the movement. "It is but a minor impediment."

"I fail to understand just how you believe this atrocity to be of little significance," Prince George very nearly shouts, sitting straighter in his chair. "You recommended to send my little bird to France, and I did. But instead of losing spirit, she only soared higher. This," he shakes the column, anger controlling the tremor of his voice, "is evidence enough that you are clearly out of your depth."

"This is still rectifiable," Arthur cajoles, leaning towards his King's heir. "She does not yet know that I host her family in my private estate."

The prince is not quelled. "How can you be so sure she does not know? She was able to publish Whistledown outside of England. She has allied herself with the Bavarian royals. She has your war lord personally escorting her back to England. The girl is intelligent, and you have clearly underestimated her."

The commander's fists are stone against the top of his thighs.

He opens his mouth, ready to defend himself, when he becomes involuntarily enlightened by a compelling idea.

In his mind's eye, he remembers the third Bridgerton son.

The young man had thrown an unholy rampage, demanding to see the Featherington girl. The sight of the man in the throes of his damning misery was entirely unbecoming of a nobleman.

He remembers how disgusted he'd been at the man's pathetic behaviour.

But even Arthur — who admittedly is perhaps the most disillusioned when it comes to matters of the heart — is not blind to the reason why the man would necessitate such an egregious outburst.

Love.

Arthur's eyes narrow in thought, and he presses his lips together in introspection.

The Prince Regent continues to eye him critically, impatience unmistakable in the way he shakes his leg.

The commander grins slowly, a different type of bloodlust making itself known from within his conscience. "There is still a way to contain her, Your Royal Highness."

The future King of England tilts his head, his curiosity non-verbal.

Arthur continues, "I believe you shall need to summon the Bridgerton family."

Notes:

Author's Note:
Hey, again!

I know I promised 5 chapters, and I really did intend on keeping to that promise, but as I approached the 30k word count on what would have been the last chapter alone, I just knew something had to give.

So, split up into 2 parts and an epilogue, with each chapter released regularly in the next two weeks, I present to you: the beginning of our ending.

Till next time!

Chapter 6

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

A boy is three-and-ten.

He has no need for extra coin, now.

His mother rests at their new home, far, far away from the slums of Whitechapel.

His sister takes pride in the clothes she sews; it is a far cry from her previous occupation.

His brother comes with him to visit his imprisoned father.

His family grows back together, no matter how disparate they once were.

He is happy.

But a boy is only three-and-ten.

He is grateful for the Bridgerton sons.

At first, he is thankful for their coin.

Then, he is appreciative of their warmth.

Finally, he becomes obliged to them — a boy, only three-and-ten, whose loyalty to the Bridgerton family is unwavering, for the sole reason that they had been the ones to pull him out of strife.

A boy is three-and-ten.

When he overhears the Prince Regent and the Duke of Wellington's plot, he decides where to place his loyalty.

He makes a quick and urgent trip to the markets, where Mister Bridgerton awaits him every week for some news.

He tells the man what he's heard.

He tells Mister Bridgerton how the Prince Regent and the Duke of Wellington seeks to destroy the Bridgerton name.

He tells him of the duke's more sinister plans — to use them as leverage to control a little bird that the boy knows nothing of, with the threat of death upon the entire family.

A boy is three-and-ten.

He watches Mister Bridgerton struggle with the delivered news.

He prepares himself for the worst.

A blow, perhaps, dealt to the side of his face, or a verbal assault of his being. Most men, as the boy has learnt, turn their hurt outwards.

But Mister Bridgerton only offers a sweet treat to him, though in his eyes, he is a man standing in line to be hung at the gallows.

A boy is three-and-ten.

He adds another prayer to his weekly church service.

May milords and miladies be safe.

~~~~~~~~

Benedict sees the world as he does a canvas — empty.

But not in the blandest sense of the word.

Empty, because there is always space for imagination to take root in the more creative areas of one's mind.

Empty, because the colours that paint one's life is dictated by experiences and perspectives, conjoined into a singular palette that formulates opinion.

Empty, because a canvas is consistently renewable.

After all, art is subjective.

And so is life.

He knows it's a bohemian means of thinking; but, then again, he'd learnt such insights having been worlds away from Anthony, who was ever practical and domineering.

Benedict's unique perspective of and for life was a concept only he and his father ever understood, since both of them never quite took to academia. His disposition is unlike Colin, who wields the power of the quill as though it were a fencing sword.

Even sweet little Gregory, young boy that he is, shows more promise in his intellect, having already discovered he had a knack for more cerebral conversations.

But despite the glaring differences between his siblings and himself, there is a common denominator amongst all of them — from the head of their household to their matriarch, to their cynic and to their introverted musician, to their writer and to their baby brother and sister:

Love, and duty, for family.

Always.

Before tragedy struck, Benedict had imagined his empty canvas to be splattered with the brilliance of yellows, and green, and blues — pink, too, when he's adventurous.

An eclectic mix, fitting for an eclectic family.

Then Father died, and Benedict's canvas turned black.

There had been no grey.

No cast of white.

No flimsy neutral tones that belied the potentiality of the resurgence of other colours that are far less bleak.

His canvas was just, simply, black.

And, for the longest time, he'd operated under the pretence that if black were to be his canvas, then black would be the essence of his soul.

That is, until he succumbed to the darkness and effectively blinded himself to his own family's needs.

Before he knew it, his elder brother asks him to be his second to a duel with the Duke of Hastings, after the latter had compromised his younger sister. Anthony had him vow to take care of their family in every way that mattered.

In hindsight, it'd been an event that could have been entirely avoidable, had Benedict been diligent enough to fulfil his brotherly duties and ensure Daphne wouldn't be left alone no matter her insistence.

Instead, his sister had nearly been shot.

The memory — Anthony's scream and Daphne's shocked gasp — becomes an angry red taint against his black canvas.

Then, in the season after, Anthony had run himself ragged searching for the perfect viscountess.

But his desperate hunt for a wife hadn't been because he was lonely and hurting from the songbird who tore his heart to shreds.

It'd been because his older brother had started to buckle under the weight of the immense expectations and pressure he'd had to bear.

Anthony nearly ruined them all in scandal, as the younger Sharma sister left him at the altar after realising her love — no matter how little the potential — wouldn't, couldn't, ever be reciprocated.

Not while her older sister held his whole heart in her elegant hands.

And had Benedict been more compassionate, and observant, perhaps he might have offered to share the burdens Anthony shouldered.

After all, the weight of the world would be far easier to carry if Atlas had a friend to help him.

Instead, Benedict once again ignored his sibling's plight, and crimson — ugly and jarring — swipes itself on his black canvas at his new transgression.

What truly changes Benedict, though, is Colin.

He still remembers, to this day, how his father had introduced a belligerent Benedict to the newborn infant.

"This is Colin," Father had put a hand on his head, gently turning him so he stares into the pile of bundled clothing, "Your baby brother."

Colin had been ugly.

He had scrunched skin and a frowning face. He looked more like a pink rat than he did a baby.

But he was Colin.

And he was his brother.

He remembers the anguish that'd been present in his brother's face, as Eloise stuttered her way through Penelope Featherington's sudden disappearance.

The look he had didn't belong on anyone.

Losing the Featherington girl — who Benedict always suspected Colin had been sweet on — altered his baby brother into a wretched, vengeful menace.

Benedict would do anything — jump into the River Thames in the dead of winter, dance with Hades, or even offer himself up for proverbial slaughter — if it meant that his brother wouldn't ever have to wear that bereaved look ever again.

He could have saved them all the trouble, if he had talked sense into Colin, all those years ago when he'd first stared after Penelope the summer he returned from Eton and discovered infatuation.

And if he had, perhaps the boy's head would have come on straight enough to realise that the love he harboured for the red-headed girl was anything but platonic.

Instead, he watched his younger brother devolve into bitterness, as he chased after the ghost of a woman who — by all accounts — proved to be braver than Benedict could ever dream of being.

So, he decided to start anew.

He'd taken his black canvas in the aftermath of his brother's departure and burned it right into ashes.

He vowed that he would be useful this time.

He would be the brother his siblings needed him to be.

An anchor.

A voice of reason.

A servant to his family's needs.

It may not be enough to atone for the sins of his past, but at least he had a new, empty canvas.

A canvas whose unfilled spaces are now threatened to be washed in hues of blood red by the malicious intents of men who play at being gods.

Benedict has never had reason to be vengeful, before.

He does now.

"I can arrange for a hired carriage to take all of you away from here," Anthony tells the older siblings gathered in his study. "Francesca, at least, is a few days away — I still have time to coordinate her escape separately."

His brother's hand is fisted at his side, as the other grips onto his wife's. "For the rest of you, however, you must make haste. Take only what you cannot exist without. The boy said the Crown will come at dawn tomorrow; there should be a significant distance between yourselves and them that you can leverage."

Benedict's heart pounds in his ears.

"You expect that we would leave you behind?" He nearly snarls, furious at the thought.

His metaphorical canvas becomes tinged with scarlet.

"It will be alright, Benedict," his older brother smiles at him, though it does not reach his eyes. "I cannot abandon our station — as head of our household, I must bear the dignity of standing our ground."

"Benedict's right," Eloise, perhaps his favourite sister of them all, moves to stand beside him. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "It will do us no good if we are to separate."

Anthony frowns, tension evident in the tendons of his neck. "Think of the children, Eloise. They do not deserve this; they are too young. We must afford them the chance of a life beyond what the Crown seeks from us."

All of them go quiet at the thought of their resting youngest, asleep in their beds.

Lulled to rest by their watchful mother, peaceful and precious, they're utterly oblivious to the turmoil that will soon come.

It's Kate who breaks their silence, her voice soft but steadfast. "I am sure my mother will be more than glad to host them."

He despairs at the thought of his siblings sequestered far, far away from them, but Benedict knows they're left with no other choice.

Anthony, always the first to pull several steps forward, immediately starts his planning.

He lets go of Kate's hand, rubbing at his temples. "Over the border, to Scotland. Then a ship, bound for India. Those of you who wish to join them should step forward now."

None of them do.

His brother looks at his wife pleadingly. "My love—"

"No," is all she tells him, and she puts a hand on his chest. "I will remain here, where I belong. With you."

"It is your home country; you know it best — there is no one more suited, and no one more needed."

Kate's hand fists at the fabric of Anthony's shirt, trembling, as the truth of his words becomes undeniable.

Benedict's hopelessness returns, in an overwhelming volume that takes his breath away.

Beside him, Eloise slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "They will all need a chaperone," she whispers to him, clearly having made her decision to stay with Anthony, "and it must be you."

He clenches his fists, torn, as Anthony looks away from Kate. He catches his brother's sorrowful gaze.

The words that pass between them go unspoken.

Atlas offers half his load to him, an action that rips apart the very canvas Benedict had sworn to start anew with.

His older brother looks at him now, with the eyes of a man awaiting his sentence, and a haunting request that has Benedict sorely wishing death upon the beings who'd caused such misery.

He takes the offered weight, nearly crippling with the burden, and clasps a hand over Eloise's.

Benedict will not be blind now.

He will serve his duty to his family.

He grips onto Eloise's hands, hoping that she feels reassured, and nods at Anthony.

~~~~~~~~

Gregory wakes to callous hands patting at his head.

He squints at the figure above him, vision still bleary from the remnants of sleep.

"Benny?" He asks, the nickname accidentally slipping from his tongue as the figure shifts, and the moonlight catches on his brother's face.

His older brother puts his hands under his shoulders, lifting him upright. "We must make haste, little brother. Is there any material of importance that you feel you cannot live without?"

Gregory tilts his head, confused at the question, but still answers his brother truthfully. "Anthony's pocket watch that he gave to me, and a painting."

He points across his room, where the said painting is proudly hung.

It'd been a gift from Benedict.

"I'm afraid you can only bring the pocket watch, then," his brother tells him, after a moment.

He pulls him from his bed and starts shoving him into a dark cloak; one much too large for him, as the ends of it reaches the floor.

"What—" he starts, a million questions floating through his lethargic mind.

Benedict pinches at his chin. "I promise I will tell you what is happening later, but only if you do what I ask you to do. Please, little brother. If there is ever a moment for you to be obedient, I pray that this will be it."

Gregory is frightened by the look on his brother's face.

He huddles into the too-large cloak, feeling goose-flesh all over his skin. "Okay, Benny."

Benedict taps at his jaw when he sees the acceptance. He puts him under his arm.

Beyond his bedroom door, he hears Hyacinth's own questioning voice, ever loud and persistent. His mother shushes her, accompanied by the more dulcet tones of his sister-in-law.

"Come along, now, little brother," Benedict orders, nudging him along.

~~~~~~~~

Their main door is wide open when the guards come for them.

There is no need for gravitas.

There is no need for drama.

There is, simply, the puzzling sight of Viscount Bridgerton and his sister, sitting on a settee, their expressions oddly—

Bored.

The bow street runner jerks his head back, entirely befuddled by them.

"You're late," the viscount sighs, and he stands up, straightening his waistcoat.

The man holds his head high, dignified, as his shoulders pushes backwards. He does not look at anyone else but their leader, who eyes him warily.

His sister rises slowly, observing each and every one of the guards, like a lioness about to pounce.

"Well, then, gentlemen," Lord Bridgerton clears his throat. He smiles at them, defiant and vicious, "Where shall you have us?"

~~~~~~~~

Charlotte stares at the letter in her hands, winter setting in her veins, as her heart pounds a deafening rhythm in her ears.

She knows that the life of a royal has always been solitary — one's purpose is solely confined within the tall castle walls, bearing only the weight of continuing your heritage as the power of government and influence continues to slip pass your fingers.

It is not unbearable, and it is not ruthless, this life is, but there is simply no joy in wearing the crown.

To be a ruler is to accept that the decisions you make is not perpetuated solely from your own intelligence; to be an effective leader, one must humble themselves to understand that they are merely marionettes whose strings are pulled by men far wiser than they could ever be.

She looks at the letter now, disbelieving.

"Your Majesty; Lady Agatha Danbury," a footman announces, and she looks up to see her only unbiased counsel.

The older woman's cane clatter on the timber beneath their feet as she makes her way into Charlotte's private drawing room. "Are we in a period of crisis, Your Majesty? This is the fourth summons I have received from you within the past fortnight."

Charlotte stretches her hand, holding the parchment out to her.

Lady Danbury steps forward and takes the letter, resting her weight on her favourable side as she quickly peruses through its contents.

She watches the other woman closely, denoting the very moment where her eyes widen in disbelief.

"It seems that the little bird isn't quite so little, after all," Lady Danbury folds the letter. She looks up at Charlotte, her eyes serious, lips downturned. "A griffin, she is, whose claws she wields as a threatening weapon."

"My stupid son," Charlotte seethes, fury straightening her spine. "His foolishness has only furthered Miss Featherington's influence."

Lady Danbury puts the missive on the tabletop, handling it delicately as though it were canon fodder. "You must react at once, Your Majesty; from what I know of the Bavarian royals, they keep close ties to with the rest of the European monarchs. The same ties that have already strengthened with their alliance in the war. Should they get the Prussians on their side—"

"—my nephew would not dare—"

The other woman scoffs. "Your Majesty, I urge you to be as rational as you can be — His Royal Highness will not derelict his duty to his country out of loyalty for the relation he barely keeps with you."

Charlotte struggles to find a retort suitable enough to counter Lady Danbury's.

"The letter is endorsed by King Maximilian and his court, authored by Princess Augusta and Eugène de Beauharnais." The older woman points at the piece of parchment in emphasis. "It is acknowledged by their allies who have signed the recognition of the act they now threaten to put forward. Quite simply, Your Majesty, you must make your play, or the European royals will bring an end to you and your husband's reign."

Lady Danbury takes a deep breath.

"For the sake of protecting the Crown, I urge that you do what is necessary to put an end to this game before it becomes detrimental to your reputation and legacy."

Charlotte takes the letter from its place atop the table, her fingers tracing the signatures at the bottom of it.

She reads the parchment's contents again, considering. "What would you have me do?"

"There is only one man whose word is law," Lady Danbury says, her voice low and wary. "He, who we all bend our knees to."

Charlotte looks up at her counsel, gripping onto the letter. "You would have me speak to a mad king?"

"No, Your Majesty," Lady Danbury shakes her head, "I urge that you should speak to your husband."

~~~~~~~~

Dear Colin,

You must know that it drives me to the brink of insanity, not knowing your exact whereabouts.

The possibilities are an endless cycle that repeats itself, a ceaseless barrage of potentialities that seem to always result in my ever-increasing anxiety.

I write to you, now, amid my sufferings of bereavement, to let you know that our deceptive foreman has caged our precious bees. Specifically, the first and fifth bees to have come from our nest.

It is precisely because of their distraction that the remaining occupants of our hive have managed to stray to holdings far beyond our foreman's reach.

I had thought that they might have you collect our bees upon your return and drafted this letter to warn you.

And as I wallow in utter turmoil, thinking of everything that I could have done to protect them better, I pray that upon your return, you bring with you the wrath of a scorned hornet.

May you paralyse our foreman, and his assistant, with the venom I know you have always been capable of.

Until we meet again, in safer times, I shall continue to hold on to the hope that those who have transgressed against us will finally have their reckoning.

Do send my regards to your sparrow. I imagine she will not receive the news well; our fifth bee is especially dear to her.

Yours in vengeful spirit,

Benedict

~~~~~~~~

He watches her, outlined by the vermillion hues of the sky.

Against the light of the setting sun, she's tinged with blood orange. The onset of an early twilight touches her skin in shades of sepia and marigold, a vision so captivating that he's unable to look away.

The wind that blows through her long, beautiful red hair is enough to stun him to silence, and from the looks of the small group of men who loiter around the deck near her, he isn't the only one to do so.

Here, with the sunset at her back, Pen is a goddess.

She looks out at the water wistfully, her elbows resting on the railing of the ship, her body turned towards the dying sun as the cerulean waters beneath them deepen to navy.

Colin finds himself wishing he were a painter, like his brother.

Yet I would not have done her justice.

The year that've passed since their separation have been generous to her.

She is a woman to him, now, one who he desires greatly.

Whose body, he wishes ardently, that he may worship.

The winds that cut through their sail pushes her dress around her physique, wrapping the cloth around the more curvaceous parts of her body, emphasising the silhouette of her bosom and thighs.

At the sight, a man behind him whistles lowly.

Colin immediately whirls around to face him but is stopped by a hand gripping his shoulder.

"Go collect your bride, Bridgerton," Smith orders, though the command is softened by his knowing smirk. "I see I've now lost you from our somewhat decent conversation."

"I'd be glad to do just that, but first—" he retorts, pushing Smith's hand away, then turns again to the man who whistled, "Do not even think of repeating what you just did. Look at her all you want, but at the end of the day, know that it is my bedchamber she returns to."

The man cowers, swallowing nervously.

"For God's sake, go," Harry sighs, exasperated, pulling at Colin's collar like one would with an errant child.

The war lord shoves him towards the steps that would take him to the lower deck, where Penelope now looks up at them curiously.

He hurries down the short staircase, eagerness quickening his strides.

"Is something the matter?" She asks, pushing away from the railing when he nears her.

Colin wraps an arm around her waist, the sea giving them the freedom to act carelessly. "Nothing to be concerned about, my love," and because he can't help himself, he presses a kiss to the side of her head.

She huffs. "It did not look like nothing."

"I am sure the ocean merely plays its tricks," he bluffs.

She tilts her head backwards, her eyes searching his. When she finds nothing, she frowns severely. "You do realise this strange rivalry you have with Harry is as petty as it is childish?"

"Is that what he calls it? Rivalry?" He hums. "I had no inclination we were in any sort of competition; if we were, he is far beneath me — ow!" He jolts away from her, rubbing at the spot above his upper breast where she'd pinched him.

She eyes him critically. "I am not endeared."

He swallows, still rubbing at his tender skin. "Well, that must be rectified. Heaven forbids that my bride should not be amused by my efforts to charm her."

She smiles indulgently, then, and Colin knows he's forgiven.

He tests the waters and slowly wraps his arms back around her, pulling her front to his.

When she puts up no resistance, his grin stretches from ear to ear.

"Perhaps I should relish in this now," she muses, her hands resting against his torso, the warmth of her palms a distracting sensation through the fabric of his shirt. "When we are married, I expect that men will be far more careful in their interactions with me."

He shakes his head. "You value the power of your charms too low, love. No matter how big a stone you will wear on your finger, you will still turn many heads."

"Biased," she teases, patting her hands against him. "You flatter me too much."

She sighs, resting her head at the centre of his chest.

He holds her tightly to him, contented to savour the soft moment, but greedy enough to wish for them to be suspended in time.

Above the crashing of the waves against the boat, where her orange blossom scent fuses with the salt of the sea, Colin feels as though the eternity they'd both been chasing after has never been further away.

He knows, as the ship drags them towards uncertainty, that their time together is borrowed.

Limited.

He hugs her tighter to him instinctively, burying his face in the crimson curls that've held his heart from the moment he'd seen them above her dear, dear face.

"I am scared, Colin," Pen whispers, perhaps sensing his melancholy.

"What of?"

"Of what is to come."

He detests the doubt that trickles into her trembling voice.

She fists at his shirt, and her proximity to him feels like a blessing and a curse — a blessing, because he's able to crush her gently to him in response to her distress, and a curse, because there is little else that he can do.

"I have every faith that your plan will work," Colin declares, putting enough space between them so he's able to withdraw his arms from her waist and cup her face with his hands instead. "I trust you to have done what is best for us — all of us."

"The Prince Regent may not see it that way," and the skin between her brows wrinkle in consternation. "He can still declare us both treasonous. And if that happens, Colin, I—"

She chokes.

He waits.

Then, she takes a deep breath.

Releasing it, she says, "I have lost you before. To Marina. I barely survived it. If I lose you again, I — I . . ."

He clasps a hand over her mouth. "I love you, Pen. In this life, and the next, and whatever comes after it. If the Crown orders us dead upon our arrival, I will gladly succumb to the judgement, if it means that you will be waiting for me on the other side of the willow tree."

Her lips press against the palm of his hands, tears flooding her sky-blue eyes.

He lets go of her slowly, caressing her jaw gently, as though she were a sculpture gifted from Da Vinci himself.

"Had we more time," he continues, "I would have married you in Portugal, and again in France, and once more in the United Kingdom of Netherlands. Everywhere we go, I would've declared you mine, and I would've thanked every god that ever existed for such good fortune."

He catches the lone tear that falls from the corner of her left eye.

"So, claim me, then," she tells him, her crystalline eyes beseeching. "You've owned my heart from the moment we met. I've been yours from the beginning. I should like to be wholly yours, in body, if not yet in holy matrimony."

"Pen, we—" He swallows, feeling his thoughts come crashing together at the implications of her words.

He shakes head, forcibly dispelling the lustful images that form in his mind. "I will not implicate you in that manner. I do not wish for you to feel entrapped."

There is hesitation in his voice that he knows she hears.

There is his body's reaction to her words that he knows she feels.

He watches as her gaze turns contemplative for a brief moment.

Very quickly, within a snap second, she unleashes the full force of her pleading eyes, entirely disarming him.

"How can it be entrapment, Colin, when all you will do is to love me?"

He clenches his jaw.

"Please?" She begs, the azure in her eyes utterly devastating him. "If this is the only time we have, it is my greatest wish to have it spent with no regrets."

She strips him entirely of his defensiveness as she stands on her toes, twining her arms around his neck.

"Please?" She asks again, softer this time, desperate and low. "Pretend with me; that all is right. That I bear your last name and host your ring on my finger. Just for the night."

Penelope pulls him to her, and she puts her lips near his ear; arguably the single most seductive act he has ever encountered.

She asks for the last time, "Please?"

Colin has never claimed to be the strongest of all gentlemen.

There is only so much resistance he's capable of.

Pen sighs, her breath fanning across his face, and he feels all sense of propriety leave him.

"As you wish," he pulls away from her, clenching one of his hands into a tight fist.

The other finds hers, and he grips it tightly between them.

~~~~~~~~

Here, with her scarlet curls splayed across the pillow, her bosom heaving as her heart-wrenching blue eyes watches him—

Here, as Colin removes her dress from her body, tantalisingly skimming over her skin, a soft cream under his touch—

Here, where Penelope is a goddess upon their shared bed, her curves exposed and deliciously framed against the warm tones of their room—

Here, she is the object of his deepest longing, waiting for him, free and beautiful and happy—

Here, she is Persephone, and she is Venus, and she is Aphrodite—

Here, she is Pen, and she is his, just as much as he has always been hers.

"Have you done this before?" She asks of him, her breaths shuddering, as he kisses a path across her stomach.

"A few times," he replies, unwilling to lie to her. "On my first travels."

"Who were they?" And her voice holds no semblance of jealousy, only ever curious.

He lets his lips drag further south, hands sliding and kneading down the sides of her legs. "A brothel woman, and then a widow."

Her breath hitches, then, when he reaches her mound. "Colin—"

He hushes her, using a hand to part her legs.

He shifts, kissing the inner parts of her thighs, biting down slightly at the soft flesh as he gets closer to her wet heat.

He kisses her, right at her centre, and Penelope gasps, her body jolting at the sensation.

"Oh," she cries, her hands naturally finding purchase on his hair, twisting her fingers around his curls.

Colin increases his efforts; like a desperate man seeking his own release, he laps at her, his fingers sneaking a path until they find her core.

Pen startles again, her thighs tightening around his body, as he begins playing her body like a fiddle.

She is sweet and tart on his tongue, a heady mix that sets his own lust ablaze. The wetness that spreads from her is a telling sign that his efforts will soon culminate in the reward that he seeks — her first passionate completion.

Encouraged, he goes faster and allows his self-control to weaken in conjunction with her increasingly pleased moans.

"Colin, oh, Col—" She pants, his name sweet on her lips, and now that he knows what it sounds like, it is a melody he wants to spend the rest of his life replicating. "Colin, what — I don't—"

He sucks, hard, and crooks his finger, searching.

Under him, his Pen, his beloved, shatters.

She gasps, then chokes through a moan that she tries desperately to hide. Colin is relentless, intent on riding her pleasure, drawing it out until she's but a trembling, putty mess under his body.

"Please," she begs, nearly breaking his heart as she tugs on his hair, "here, with me, please."

He goes where she wants him to, albeit reluctantly; he'd been eager to bring her to a second completion on his tongue alone.

Colin drags his skin over hers as he pulls himself up, the delicate softness of her an addictive sensory experience against the more rugged texture of his body.

Her touch drifts to the back of his neck, playing at the skin there, the motion setting him to a near blaze with the surge of want that course through him.

She pulls on his chin, impatient.

When her lips find his, there is very little else that Colin thinks he'll ever want in his mortal life.

Nothing, nothing could ever compare to the aphrodisiac that is his lover, malleable and delectable and his.

He parts her lips with his tongue, testing. She doesn't shy away and welcomes him instead, with an equal fervour.

Colin nearly loses his mind at the thought of her tasting her own self.

His hardness presses at her belly, neglectfully desperate.

She pulls away, a hand reaching down his torso, and keeps her eyes on his. "Be with me, Colin, please."

He groans as her hand touches the tip of his length, his restraint rapidly diminishing.

He responds by pushing her thighs further apart, settling himself in the crevice in between.

Pen's eyes are nearly black, the same way he knows his are, as he positions himself at her entrance.

He grabs both of her hands in his, guiding her arms around his neck. "This may hurt, just a little. Breathe, Pen, I promise you that I will go slow."

"You will not hurt me," and her confidence in him is nearly his undoing, "I will be alright."

Unable to help himself, he kisses her, biting lightly on her full bottom lip.

He enters her, then, and his world turns nearly white at his heightened pleasure, enveloped by the tight, wet heat of her.

Colin tenses, fighting the urge to simply give in to his baser instincts, to inherently take her as he's impassioned to do.

He pulls his lips away from her as Pen's light tugs at the hair on the back of his head becomes secondary to his most primal pleasure of being one with her.

Given his substantial length and girth, he knows he must take his time, no matter how much he desires to yield to the part of him who is nearly demented with passion.

He fights the urge, narrowly winning, and inches into her slowly, unwilling to cause her any more discomfort than necessary,

She catches her breath when he pushes in more, finally breathing again as he's told her to. Her body reacts around him, sending him nearly cross-eyed with intense pleasure.

"Are you alright, Pen?" He gasps, shuddering as the tether to his self-control thins immensely.

He buries his face into the pillow right beside her head and tries valiantly to maintain his composure.

"I am," she tells him, her hands smoothing over the expanse of his back, "take me, Colin, let go."

He groans, unable to resist, and finally thrusts into her completely.

Colin is ruined, now.

Nothing in the entirety of the world he's known can ever compare.

In the dim twilight that filters through the window of their shared bedchamber, her hair a riotous mess across their pillow, her body is every bit his.

And now that he's tasted her, now that he's been inside of her, Colin knows he will never be able to stop wanting more.

He bites hard onto the pillow beneath him — the only way he regains what little control he has over his body — as he delicately pulls out his length.

He thrusts into her repeatedly, slow as he'd promised, but growing quicker and deeper as Pen's groping hands on his body become wild with encouragement.

His mind is silenced, driven to near insanity by her moans and pleased gasps, the very same ones that she tries to bury into the crook of his neck.

"Pen, I'm —" his hips stutter, "I'm close. You must tell me if you would like me to finish in you."

She tightens around him, slicker suddenly, and Colin's next groan is nearly a shout.

His muscles tense, becoming nearly steel, and he starts to urgently count backwards of a hundred, willing himself to breathe.

"I want you to, desperately," and he feels her teeth nip at the base of his throat, "but I do not wish for a child just yet."

He resumes his thrusts, his mind's eye already imagining the vision — Pen, round with his child.

It sparks an exigent yearning within him, drawing closer to his release.

He slips his arms around her thighs, pulling at them until they're wrapped around his waist.

He slides deeper in her as he tilts his hips, searching, until—

"Oh, God, Colin—" Pen chokes.

He shifts the placement of his hand between them, urgent now, and finds the tip of where their bodies interconnect.

He times his touch, swirling as he thrusts, and Pen's cries grow louder.

She's a slick, heated sensation beneath him, and Colin draws enough self-restraint to pull his face from where he'd buried it in the pillow.

He stares at her, memorising ever facet of her face as she loses herself in pleasure.

Finally—

"Colin," she gasps, breaking apart from beneath him.

Her eyes close, scrunching tightly together, and her full, bitten red lips part in a silent scream. She tightens around him impossibly, a vice grip that makes him think he ascends to an oasis unknown to men.

He pulls out from her just as he loses his mind, spilling his seed over her inner thighs.

Colin collapses onto her, his body still shuddering.

He gathers her close, arms wrapping around her waist, as they attempt to catch their breaths.

He feels her smile press under his jaw.

"No wonder men and women have such sordid affairs," she remarks, "if this is the outcome of their dalliances, I suppose I cannot fault them for continuously seeking for it."

He laughs, immeasurably pleased. "I give you my body, and that is what you have to say? You wound me, Pen."

He feels her smile widen against his skin. "Perhaps I may need a second example, so I can properly rearrange my thoughts."

Colin takes the opportunity where he sees it, pulling away from her slightly as he grins down at her. "I can think of a few different rearrangements that may assist you in reformulating your opinions."

Her answering laugh becomes his most favourite thing in the world. "I should be more jealous of your two womanly friends who've taught you so well, but I think I would very much like to send them flowers instead."

He allows his smile to turn smug. "Was I truly that good for you?"

She purses her lips, though amusement is heavy in her bright eyes. "I can't be too sure — perhaps I shall need a few more demonstrations of the rearrangements you mentioned?"

"Yes, my love," he twitches against her, and nearly groans at the sensitivity of his length. "But perhaps not quite so soon."

She laughs, and he chuckles along with her, burying his face onto her shoulder.

~~~~~~~~

Isolated in their temporary piece of paradise, Penelope and Colin pretend.

They pretend that they are not hunted by power-hungry beings.

They pretend that Colin's family — and, by extension, Penelope's as well — is safe, removed from the clutches of men who perceive themselves as gods.

They pretend that they are just Penelope and Colin, stripped bare, free from the terrors that plague their every waking thought.

In the morning, when they wake, hours away from their arrival in London, he will hold her closer to him.

A deep reluctance to end their momentary repose will fuel his need to run his hands over her exposed skin in worship.

She will let him; her fingers equally greedy, as she attempts to memorise the contours of his especially dear face.

Colin will trail kisses anywhere his lips can reach —her neck, the line of her shoulders, up and down her arms, the top of her breasts, her stomach—

Haloed by the rising sun, his hair falling into his eyes, Penelope will remind him, "In this life, and the next, and anything after that, I will be yours, always."

Against the linen sheets with forever only as a possibility, her cerulean eyes the most beloved to him, he tells her, "Whatever happens, wherever they force us to go — in yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows — you hold my heart and possess my soul."

The dawn breaks, and a knock resounds on their bedchamber door, bringing their pretence to an end.

By the time they're dressed, Penelope will bear a well-worn mask; a little bird, ready to rake her long claws into the predators who have turned her feral.

By the time he ushers her onto the deck, Colin will hoist a gifted pistol onto his waist; a soldier in everything but title, welcoming the familiar bloodlust for the beings who have incited such hostility within him.

The sun rises fully over the horizon.

A little bird and her mercenary assume their rightful place beside each other on the upper deck of their ship, their hands joined.

A war lord stands behind them, watchful and dangerous.

Ominously, their ship begins its final berth onto the London shores.

~~~~~~~~

When Colin left England a lifetime ago, he'd been a different man.

When he stepped afoot on a ship bounded for Portugal, the only thought he chased was that of his bride.

It's an odd feeling, returning.

There is a modicum of pride, certainly — Pen's hand in his as he guides her down the ramp feels far greater than any other accomplishment he's had in his life thus far.

But there is also the bitter understanding that the man he has become is a far cry from the boy he'd once been.

He's taken liberties with his family's name, and he's dabbled in questionable circumstances.

He's spilled blood, and he knows, now, just how prone he is to invoke such violence within himself.

If it meant that the person who he loved the most would be adversely implicated, Colin would happily commit the most heinous of crimes.

If it meant protecting his family, Colin would gladly allow his sleeping brutality to surface.

He does not mind being involved in nefarious affairs.

He knows, now, that he's more than capable of orchestrating them.

Pen's hand grips his, anchoring him, and he finds the tensed muscles between his shoulders loosen.

A crowd gathers at the dock, eagerly awaiting the return of their brave soldiers. Their excitement is palpable; a living, breathing being that slithers its way around each man, woman, and child.

Beside him, he feels Pen's small hand touch the back of his, tentative at first. He twists his palm, finding her fingers, and holds on to her as tight as he can manage.

When the first soldiers begin trickling down the ramp connecting the ship to the dock, the crowd before them erupts into deafening cheers.

In front of him, he sees Smith stiffen.

"Nervous, are we?" He asks the man, as they wait in line to disembark.

The war lord turns around to glare at him, though it's to little effect; there is embarrassment in his features that he doesn't quite hide effectively.

For all the achievements the soldier has masterfully attained, the man's sheepishness at the uproarious crowd speaks volumes of his deep humility.

Privately, the minuscule part of Colin who begrudgingly acknowledges that he just might admire the man, marginally grows.

Colin sees the insult forming on the man's lips, and is prepared to take the probe, when Pen interrupts them with a light chuckle.

"Surely, you must enjoy even a little bit of the attention," she teases Smith.

They inch closer to the top of the ramp.

"It is ostentatious," Smith glances at Pen, his retort to Colin already forgotten in favour of conversing with her.

"You were proclaimed by the King himself, Harry," Pen's eyes glow with pride, the same way that Colin — albeit reluctantly — feels is mirrored in his. "Listen to their cheers. They call your name."

And it's true.

Beyond the whistles, and the shouts, and the screams, and the sobs of grateful men and women, there is a litany that floats through the crowd:

Sir Harry's name, repeated on the lips of strangers.

Colin watches the war lord grow increasingly uncomfortable and decides to intervene. "Oh, do lift your spirits, Smith. If your appraisal from the people you've won the war for frightens you so, then simply focus on your impending reunion with your wife."

The man's reaction to the mention of his beloved is instant and the tensed outline of his shoulders relaxes.

Before Smith can respond, they arrive at the top of the ramp, and the three of them step cautiously down the steep slope.

"Careful, my love," he tells Pen, as she lifts her skirts slightly. He moves to the front of her, shielding her from the scrutiny of the crowd in case a mishap happens, and she becomes involuntarily exposed.

Finally, they reach the pier.

He hears it first, attuned as he is with anything related to Pen.

"Miss Featherington!" A girl screams.

He feels her become stiff behind him.

The assembly of men, women, and children all start screeching her name, adulation dripping from their cheers.

The crowd turns nearly vicious at the sight of her, pushing against each other in a bid to get closer.

Smith immediately finds his place by Pen's other side, shielding her. Colin releases his grip on her hand and wraps an arm around her waist, tugging her along the pier urgently.

The Crown's guards, presumably stationed at the dock to control the sizeable amount of people, struggle to contain the movement of the crowd.

They bark orders at disinterested ears; at the sight of Harry and Pen, the mob devolves into utter bedlam.

A guard breaks away from the formation and approaches them, his expression cast in stone.

"Sir Harry, Mister Bridgerton, Miss Featherington!" Colin struggles to hear the man's shouts over the crowd.

The guard bows to each of them; the formality almost foreign to Colin now that he's been away for so long.

The man stands at attention in front of them, eyes never meeting any of theirs, meekly staring off in the distance as he shouts, "The Prince Regent requests your company at the palace, at once!"

He grits his teeth, stealing a glance at Pen and Smith.

Their disguised apprehension is a direct reflection of the same anxiousness that creeps up his spine.

Pen finds his hand around her waist and grips it, squeezing twice.

She answers on their behalf, her voice taking the sharp edge of a steel knife, "Take us to him."

Colin inhales a tremulous breath, the crowd behind them blending into faceless strangers.

The guard bows, then turns, marching towards a carriage carrying the King's insignia. Colin grips onto Pen, willing his heart to calm.

Smith's voice comes low, barely audible over the raucous mob; his question for Colin's ears only, "Is your pistol loaded?"

He hears Pen's erratic breaths halt.

Colin keeps his eyes forward, on the back of the guard.

Then, minutely, he tilts his head down and up.

Yes.

~~~~~~~

Her heart stops, then races through its roaring beats; the only sound she hears thundering in her ears.

She struggles to keep her expression neutral, using what little strength she keeps to not yield to the chaos of emotions within her.

"Remember what you've learned," Harry leans in to whisper into her ear, "do not yield."

Beside her, Colin doesn't appear to fare better.

His hand in hers has gone clammy with sweat.

His frown is etched deep into the lines between his brows, his lips downturned.

It's his eyes that is his biggest tell, however.

His typical royal blue is nearly midnight, blazing with a fearsome rage that's barely constricted. Still dressed in the uniform Harry lent to him, he's the picture of a bloodthirsty mercenary, standing tall and entirely ravenous.

The visage of him now is a far cry from the boy she'd grown up with.

For, in front of them, gathered into a loose circle of palace guards, is Anthony and Eloise.

The viscount stands in front of his sister, shielding her.

And though his stature isn't quite as tall and broad as Colin's, his commanding presence — which oddly reminds Penelope of Napoleon's near-suffocating tenacity — is enough to drag an untrained eye's attention solely on his form.

Despite the viscount's obvious tension, she finds that she can't quite focus on him.

For, standing proudly, with her hand gripping her brother's elbow, defiant and angry and everything in between, is Eloise.

Her dearest friend.

Her sister, who she'd sacrificed herself for.

Who she loved dearly.

Who she had sorely missed.

Penelope's breath catches at the sight of her.

Despite herself, tears flood her eyes, and her breath becomes constricted in her chest.

She watches as the tears roll down her friend's cherubic face when her gaze catches hers. Instinctively, she feels her body take a step towards Eloise, yearning to ease some of the pain she must feel.

"Penelope," Harry warns from beside her, alarmed at her squandered self-control.

She wants to scream.

Instead, she takes a deep breath to steady herself.

"I see we are all reunited now, how very quaint." The Prince Regent cheers, calling for all their attention. "I should hope you do not hold malice against me for requesting an audience with you so quickly after your return. I was—" he smiles, exalted, "—keen to be reacquainted with my little bird."

When she turns to face the man, catastrophic fury is a well-worn cloak that drapes over her shoulders, overwhelming her vision with a red hue.

She meets the prince's eyes, keeping her chin tilted up.

The Prince Regent sits on his throne, with the Duke of Wellington standing by his right-hand.

Both men stare her down, the prince with veiled amusement, and the duke with a vehemence she readily confronts with her own.

"Before I pass my sentencing of your collective death," the prince upkeeps his joviality, looking pleased and remarkably disinterested at the same time. "I should like to hear from the man who has been at the centre of all this . . . mischief."

The prince calls upon Colin, "Mister Bridgerton? I was told you have had quite the journey this past year, cavorting as you pleased around Europe."

He looks pointedly at where their hands are joined.

Colin's hand becomes a vice-like grip around hers.

"Would you attest that Miss Featherington has committed acts of treason against the Crown?"

She hears Colin begin to protest, but the prince raises his hand, cutting him off. "Before you spin a tale of lies, I caution you to ensure that you speak of nothing but the truth. Your family's survival is at stake, so I urge that you thread carefully."

Penelope nearly snaps.

Surprisingly, it's Harry who does.

"Your Royal Highness would stoop so low?" The war lord rises to his full stature, the tallest of all of them, his body attuned to the beastly instincts of a soldier whose battle is still unfinished, "How dishonourable it is, to be the Prince Regent and heir to the throne, and yet threaten the lives of the innocent."

"Watch yourself, boy." The duke interjects, stepping forward. "Another word against your prince and I shall label you an enemy of our lands, and have you butchered by your own men."

"Try it," Harry roars, shocking them all, and he steps in front of them, unsheathing his sword.

The guards draw their muskets immediately in response, pointing their weapons right at the war lord.

The room stills.

Then—

"Come, now, gentlemen," the Prince Regent huffs, impatient.

He looks at Harry, having not moved an inch from his throne. "There is no need to spill blood on my palace floors. Have pity for the servants who shall have to clean later. I merely asked a question. Withdraw, now."

The men drop their arms, their rifles hoisted across their backs.

Harry sheathes his sword, staring at the duke as he does so.

He returns to Penelope's side, affirming where his loyalty lies despite not having uttered a word of it.

"Mister Bridgerton?" The Prince Regent calls again, though caution capes his shoulders, turning him tense. "You have a choice, sir. Your family, for the truth."

The would-be king's smile is forced, now.

She faces Colin, her hands pressed to her stomach.

The sight of him battling his internal conflict — his brows furrowed, eyes darting between his brother and sister to the Prince Regent — nearly forces her to teeter on the edge of ruin.

And nothing — absolutely nothing — is a worser torment than seeing her most beloved person suffer.

Her heart breaks, and her chest constricts. She thinks to herself — this is what it must feel like, to be buried alive.

With his family just a few steps away from him and with her by his side; he trembles, breaking apart.

She knows what Colin will choose.

So, Penelope chooses for him.

"I urge you to reconsider your question, Your Royal Highness," she makes an attempt at diplomacy, swivelling to regard the prince, her mind already contemplating different outcomes.

It is, in hindsight, unfortunate that the Prince Regent underestimated just how protective her beloved can be.

It is, in hindsight, Penelope's mistake that she had not considered how deep Colin's love for her ran in the valley of their shared fates.

The prince rebukes, "I was not speaking to you, traitor," and beside her, Colin stiffens.

Penelope hears Harry exhale in a short, suffering sigh.

Then, like a bullet fired from a pistol, Colin lunges forward, shoving her behind him as he points an accusing finger at their pseudo king.

In the span of a mere second, the whole room devolves into absolute pandemonium.

"I challenge you to repeat that statement," and she's never heard Colin speak in such a tone before, the vitriol that rises from within him corresponding with the defensive way his shoulders lifts like hackles, "Say it again, I beg of you—"

Several guards lurch forward to protect the prince and duke, turning their muskets from Harry to Colin.

Penelope feels her heart stutter, then she rushes to grab the back of Colin's waistcoat.

A man's shout distracts her, forcing her attention on its source, her hand missing its intended mark.

She looks on in complete horror as Anthony — stoic, perpetually composed Anthony — descends into utter madness.

The viscount pushes his way through the distracted guards, running to Colin, his fear for his younger brother verbalised in a frantic shout that guts her.

In Anthony's haste to get to Colin, he leaves Eloise, whose own attempt at escape is thwarted when a guard wraps his arms around her waist.

The man pulls her back, ignoring the deathly screams she unleashes, raking her fingernails on any part of him that she's able to reach.

Harry shifts, then, pushing Penelope behind him, and surges ahead.

His harsh push is all she's able to comprehend, stumbling backwards, as the force of it leaves her breathless.

The three men collide in a heap of bodies.

"Brother, no—" she hears Colin choke, a sound that pierces right through her, as he scrambles to stand upright.

Anthony wraps his arms around his younger brother, eyes searching his form for any injuries, just as Penelope fearfully does the same.

Colin nods, his hands grasping onto Anthony's arms, then turns frantically to Penelope.

Eyes wide and face ashen, when their gazes meet, he lets out an audible breath and reaches for her.

Colin grabs her forearm, his hand shaking from where he grips her skin, and pulls her between himself and Anthony.

Harry stands protectively in front of them, his arms spread wide as a barrier. He snarls, "Go ahead, soldiers. Take your aim. Kill me where I stand and claim your victory over your commanding officer; I dare you."

The contempt in his voice causes the hair on the back of her neck to stand, as sheer terror silences her voice and renders her motionless.

"Do not listen to him!" The duke commands. He makes no move to step away from his place beside the Prince Regent. "Bind them all — I command it!"

A beat passes, with everyone standing in attentive cautiousness.

Then, the guards march forward steadily, obliged to fulfil their orders.

And—

There, in their brief hesitation, belies the truth that Penelope is quick to see.

An ember of hope perseveres, as the guards' disheartened eyes speaks of a desired mutiny against the duke's command.

She finds herself hoping — praying — that Harry sees it too.

She glances at Eloise, her heart in tatters, as her dearest friend struggles against the grip of her captor who clasps a hand over her mouth firmly.

Their eyes meet, in between the bedlam.

Guilt becomes an inescapable prison that forces her inaction — it rises up within her, misshapen and bitter.

Penelope's apology passes from her in a caught breath, and remorse contorts her body to the crippling contrition that swells from deep within her.

Eloise shakes her head, her blue eyes terrified but still ever defiant.

Harry's voice slips into a lower register, menacing. He taunts the men. "Why do you not shoot at me, gentlemen? Do not be quelled now; do you not want to know how a war lord bleeds?"

At his words, the guards stop their advance.

Penelope knows, then, that Harry's seen their reluctance as well.

"What is he doing?" Anthony asks, barely a whisper.

"He is testing their loyalty," is Colin's equally quiet response.

The Duke of Wellington finally moves.

He takes a step forward, pointing at the guards, his ire flaring in angry spots of crimson that freckle his wearied face. "Soldiers," he shouts, "obey me!"

But the war lord's presence already has its effect on the guards.

And though they obviously fear the Crown, and dread their glorified commander, Harry effectively garners the guards' support when he says, "I've killed, for you. My men died, for you. For love of our country and all of her men, we've sacrificed for you. Will you abandon me now?"

Their decision comes swiftly.

The men falter, their rifles dropping.

The guards' resolution might as well have been the very tinder that sparks the inferno that ensues.

Enraged, the duke dashes down from the raised podium that hosts the prince, forcing his way through the motionless guards.

He is quick to reach them, clearly an experienced fighter.

But Harry is faster.

He side-steps the commander, whirling around to wind his arms around the man's body, forming constrictions of corded muscle around the duke.

They fall into a pile of wrestling bodies, with Harry on top.

The war lord shoves the commander's body against the carpeted flooring, growling at the man, "It is only out of my respect for your war efforts that I do not shame you in front of your inferiors."

He pushes against the duke, straddling the man's torso.

He spits, "And it is out of honour that I ask you," and he digs the man deeper into the wooden flooring, "do you wish to be seen as our esteemed war leader, or would you rather I strip you of the title I allowed you to claim my credit for?"

The duke's struggle becomes less pronounced.

Harry's hold of him does not weaken.

The commander clenches his jaw, looking up at the war lord.

Finally, he yields, his body going lax. "Release me, boy. I do not wish to fight you."

Harry dismounts himself carefully from the duke, keeping his fists curled around the man's lapels.

But his slight distraction had been all the commander needed.

He shoves Harry's loosened arms away, turning sharply, and propels himself towards Penelope. Harry lunges at the man again, but the split second of difference places him a step behind the duke.

She stumbles backwards, tripping over her skirts, her legs frozen from shock.

And Colin—

His resulting scream is blood-curdling.

He wrenches himself away from Anthony, who shouts, "Brother!"

Penelope's arms propel themselves up against her body, a useless shield, as Colin clashes with the duke. She sees a hint of silver between them — Colin's pistol — and feels her entire world screech to a halt.

The scene turns sluggish, right then and there, as she watches in helpless surrender.

The duke disarms the weapon from Colin's more novice grasp easily, his hands expertly weaving it away from him.

Before Anthony and Harry can reach the duelling men, the sound of a gunshot ricochets off the harrowed walls of the throne room in a deafening pop.

Penelope's heart stops beating for a long, agonising moment.

Then, Colin staggers, his back colliding against her front.

"Colin—" she breathes, feeling as though her heart might collapse within itself from dread. She catches his stumbling figure, the weight of him almost bowling her over. "Oh, God—"

Anthony is the first to reach them, his strong hands grabbing onto each of their arms. His eyes are wild, darting about his brother's form, his lips parted in terror as his brows press together in a fearful line.

"I—"

Her lover exhales, righting Penelope's whole world, bringing forth an intense relief that blindsides her entirely and forces frightened tears to track down her cheeks.

Colin finds her hand, gripping it firmly. "I am alright," he turns to face her, his own navy-blue eyes wide with disbelief.

He looks behind him, right at the hole in the hardwood floors, where the duke had misfired.

Harry snatches the pistol from the commander, then, and shoves the firearm into the man's ribs. The watching guards gasp at the sight, as the war lord finally demonstrates the bloodthirsty derangement that he'd been known for.

He doesn't pull the trigger.

The duke laughs, mad, imprisoned as he is within Harry's hold.

"Do you see, now, Your Royal Highness?" He cackles as he addresses the monarch, who, by some twisted miracle, remains seated on the throne. "How dangerous loyalty can be? How it inspires — nay, provokes — the very same risks I warned you about?"

The Prince Regent looks between the duke and her, alarmed.

Unsure.

And Penelope—

Penelope sees nothing but red.

She tears her hand from Colin.

She steps forward, facing only the Prince Regent, as she feels an earth-shattering fury emanate from every part of her being.

Ignoring the duke, she glares right at the man who'd been responsible for inciting every infraction that have happened to her and her loved ones.

The Prince Regent had been the one to break their terms of agreement.

He must pay, Penelope thinks.

She narrows her eyes at him, curling her upper lip at the man in absolute disgust. "You ought to be wary of who you choose to believe are impotent, Your Royal Highness. For so long, you have been hiding behind your grand palace walls, contented to have your strings pulled by a man whose only priority is to gain power, that you have forgotten that you are not infallible."

The Prince Regent startles, sitting straighter in his seat. "Miss Featherington—"

"No!" She shouts, and ire tenses her shoulders, the outburst echoing throughout the room. "You do not get the privilege of calling my name. You do not get the luxury of even looking at me. You think I am but a little bird who you wish to cage, but I am telling you now; you have wronged a dragon."

Fear laces itself in the prince's eyes as comprehension dawns on him.

But Penelope does not simply thirst for blood.

She wants to spill it.

She pounces on the man's insecurity, rallying a deep breath to execute her tirade. "Heed my warning, Your Royal Highness. Have us all killed, as you said you will, but know that the aftermath will bear tumult on your legacy for as long as history shall remember your reign."

Penelope takes another step forward, as Colin wraps a hand around her wrist, the gesture tying himself to her in case she is mortally compromised.

It's a harrowing weight to bear — her lover's selflessness — when she knows she's the cause of it.

She pushes her shoulders back as anger pounds an angry rhythm through her temples. She warns, "If you choose to call death upon us, be prepared to bear the consequences of an economic crisis when there is no one to manage the substantial amount of land that the Viscount Bridgerton has procured."

The Prince Regent's mask splinters at her revelation.

She turns to look at Anthony, who gravely returns her stare. "The very same lands that nourishes your subjects; whose fruits and grain you, yourself, feast upon for every meal," she says, her gaze still on the viscount.

Anthony's eyes flashes with recognition from the very same sentence he'd once written to her.

Penelope faces the prince once more, twisting her hand so she twines her fingers with Colin's. Through clenched teeth, she asks, "And when the men starve because there is no food and no coin, tell me, Your Royal Highness, who shall they blame?"

The prince cowers into his seat.

But her anger comes in waves, now.

Good, she thinks, let him drown.

Colin's grip on her hand is a reminder of what she nearly lost, and what she still stands to lose.

Incensed at the thought, she takes another step forward, finding it gratifying that her menial action causes the prince to shift uncomfortably on the throne. "Should you deem the starvation of your nation acceptable, and you order our heads to roll, tell me, Your Royal Highness, how will you quell your people's insurgence, when Whistledown has already declared me a hero?"

She looks at Eloise and, for a fraction of a moment, softens minutely.

She recalls the letters they'd exchanged; how Eloise's doubt of her own capabilities nearly hindered her acceptance of Penelope's request for them to share Whistledown's mantle.

I am not as brave as you, she remembers, the words small and missable in the vast expanse of the missive she'd received from her dearest friend.

In front of her now, Penelope sees the bravest women she's ever known.

She draws strength from Eloise's courage and returns her attention to the Prince Regent. "When I die out of turn, with the entirety of Great Britain chanting my name instead of the Duke of Wellington's—" she nearly spits the title, still refusing to acknowledge the scoundrel's existence, "—do enlighten me—"

She looks, then, to the war lord.

Harry stares back at her, still firmly gripping onto the commander.

His brows are lifted, and his eyes are alight, stunned that she — unlike the generals and the duke who had been quick to claim his credits — had not forgotten the role he'd played that led to Napoleon's surrender.

She wields the injustice her friend had been dealt with as a weapon, returning her focus on the monarch, and asks, "Will historians remember the name of someone who's only contribution to history is to sit at the head of a table and reap the benefits of his war lord's strategies, or will generations of leaders cite the actions of an actual martyr?"

The prince crosses his arms over his chest, unable to hide his unease.

With herculean effort, Penelope tilts her head up in defiance, as kindling from the memories of the last year erupts into an inferno within her.

And, with ice in her tone and a fearsome blaze licking up her spine, she launches an arrow right to the man's heart as she asks:

"Tell me, Your Royal Highness, when all that's left of your legacy is economic and societal turmoil, are you ready for your subjects to denounce you?"

Her question is venom, interjected to an already paralysed body.

The whole room is silenced.

The Prince Regent gapes at her.

But Penelope is not cowed.

She does not yield.

She will not.

Colin squeezes her hand.

In her mind, she remembers the very moment she'd seen Colin again for the first time since she left Mayfair.

She thinks about the sacrifices he's made for her, altruistic and courageous.

Brave and bold.

In every moment he'd chosen to stay with her, to fight with her; he's loved her.

Assuredly.

Fervently.

Loudly.

Just as she now does the same.

Her anger feels like a branding iron stuck down her throat, digging into her ribs.

She is Pandora's box, finally unchained.

She shocks even herself, with the hostility that spews from her, as she exclaims, "And lest you conveniently forget all that I've done to fulfil my end of our bargain, allow me to bring to mind everything that I have done, for my country, and for my family."

Penelope shakes Colin's hand away.

She snarls, pointing at her chest, "It was me who risked her life and discovered that Napoleon would march back to France from his exile. It was me who influenced King Maximilian and Princess Augusta to have Napoleon's son rescind his support for his father in the war."

She grits her teeth.

"And," she breathes, clenching her fists hard enough that her nails bite into her palms, "it was me who relayed Napoleon's battle strategies to your camp and allowed your esteemed war lord to provision the resources needed to claim your victory at Waterloo."

She pauses, calling forth the wrath of a scorned woman.

Deadly, with the force of all the horrors she's seen and partook in, she tells the Prince Regent, "I destroyed Napoleon and his allies from inside out. I am the very poison that decayed their legacies, until there is nothing left, now, but the rotting corpses of their transgressions."

Penelope allows the corner of her lips to pull upwards, mocking the man.

"Were you too complacent to believe that I would not do the same to you, when you put a knife through your little bird's back simply because she learned how to fly? Might I remind you, Your Royal Highness, that it was youwho created me."

The Prince Regent looks to the duke, seeking affirmation.

But the commander does not meet the prince's non-verbal query.

Instead, he draws an uncomfortable expression in his staunch features.

He does not deny her contributions.

But neither does he confirm them.

Harry lets go of the man; his revulsion as evident as the sky is blue. He shoves the duke away from him, pushing him towards the direction of the prince.

The duke stumbles, then regains his bearings, and he crosses his arms over his chest in self-comfort.

Attempting to wrangle the narrative back to his deceitful hands, he looks imploringly at the Prince Regent. "Her family, Your Royal Highness," he prompts him.

At his reminder, Penelope scoffs at the duke, her smile breaking into a sneering grin. "You think so little of my competence, Your Grace." And his title sounds like a vulgarity as she hisses it through her teeth. "I know you propositioned my cousin and had him turn my mother and sisters over to you. I know you imprisoned them in your estate in Scotland."

She smirks. "Allow me to tell you something else that I know of, as well — you have failed. My family is safe, now, far from your inept clutches."

The duke's lips part in shock, his expression morphing into one of disbelief.

She leans forward, a beast uncaged, and tells him flatly, "Perhaps, if you treated your servants fairly, they would not have been so quick to accept my coin and whisper your dirty secrets. Perhaps, had you not been so blinded by your own arrogance, you would have known that a loyalty that's bought is a dangerous commodity."

The duke's eyes widen, unable to contain his internal upheaval at her revelation.

But Penelope knows the man well enough.

She's studied him closely in her first month abroad, nearly an age ago, when he'd been but a faceless stranger, whose every detail she'd taken painstaking efforts to memorise.

She knows, exactly, what the avaricious man will do when she backs him into a corner.

Her smile is victorious.

Unnerved by her demeanour, the commander's eyes grow wide with increasing terror.

Anticipation building in her gut, she very nearly breaks her composure when the man proves her guess right.

He uncrosses his arms, extending his hands in front of him, and makes an offer to the Prince Regent. "Then, allow me, Your Royal Highness, to bear the weight of the lands the viscount purchased. It is but an enterprise easily learnt, and our triumph in Europe has freed enough of my time. I shall redirect my attention to this matter and deal with it."

But the prince doesn't stop looking at Penelope.

He sits forward on the throne, leaning his elbows on his knees, eyes never once leaving hers as he becomes progressively nervous.

"And what of my legacy, commander?" He asks.

It is too easy to guess what the duke will suggest — she wishes, almost manically, that he'd make it harder.

The commander clenches his jaw and proceeds to say the exact words Penelope had expected he would, the verbiage nearly word-for-word with what she'd envisioned, "An announcement from the Prince Regent himself," he suggests, "condemning Miss Featherington and the Bridgertons. Have them tried for treason, and then make a spectacle about showing them mercy. It will gain you the people's respect."

Her lips stretch from ear to ear.

She is completely, wholly, entirely wicked with triumph.

The Prince Regent looks to the duke, lost, and is every bit the puppet that she'd accused him of being.

But unlike the two dismal examples of men before her, Penelope has faith.

In the year that passed since she left Mayfair, she'd been forced to witness the more hideous sides of humanity.

She's seen strong men turn into shells of themselves.

She's seen the fall of a tyrant.

She's seen the undoing of her most beloved person as he persevered to save her.

The same person who is the very foundation of her faith.

Who stands by her side readily.

Whose hand traces the inside of her wrist, now, offering comfort, providing trust.

Colin's fingers entwine with her own, in the precipice of this pivotal moment.

His trust, and his love, becomes the only reason why she stands, unafraid.

Stall, she thinks to herself. For just a little more, stall.

Just as the thought crosses her mind, another player makes her way into the game she's constructed.

In a flurry of extravagant skirts and an elaborate wig, Queen Charlotte barrels through the throne room, bypassing the frazzled announcers.

She is Penelope's final card, drawn; the hand that's about to claim her victory.

Beside the Queen, Lady Agatha Danbury stands, her eyes meeting Penelope's.

Her smile is small, but it is prevailing.

She knows, right then, that they've won.

She gives Colin's hand a squeeze, hoping to send reassurance his way.

She glances at Anthony, then at Eloise, hoping to provide them the same comfort that eases her tensed muscles.

The viscount gives her a modest but victorious smile.

Eloise, still held by the lone guard, has tears in her eyes as the two of them silently exchange their shared relief.

"You disappoint me, Georgie," the Queen's voice interrupts their brief celebration, hard-edged with sharpness.

She passes Penelope to reach her son, standing before him, several paces away from where he sits on the throne.

Her back faces them, her visage unclear to everyone else but her son.

The Prince Regent's terrified expression, however, is a clear indicator of the rage that must be displayed on the Queen's face.

She snaps, "I forgave you in the name of our familial ties the first time you went behind my back. You've done it twice, presently, this time abusing the power entrusted to you that I know now you do not deserve — this, Georgie, I cannot forgive."

"M-mother—"

"The Prince Regent only seeks to protect your Crown, Your Majesty," the duke bows towards the Queen deeply, daring to interrupt the two sovereigns. "He—"

"I pray that you do not assume I am lacking, Wellington. You and I both know it is you who seeks to protect yourself. You've used my Georgie as your pawn." She barbs, then, a mother bear provoked. "As a result, you have insulted me. And, by way of marriage, have insulted your King."

The duke cowers.

Penelope smiles in satisfaction.

"Just what were you going to decide, Georgie?" The Queen whirls to face her son, now, exasperation pitching her voice higher. "Death on the Featherington girl and her fiancé's family? Look me in the eye, Georgie, and tell me that you think you can sleep soundly when all of Britain demands for your head when they come with blazed torches. Have we not learned from the French when their revolt led to a tyrant's rise?"

The prince only looks to the duke nervously. "T-there was a plan, Mother, the Duke of Wellington—"

The Queen opens her mouth, eyes flashing, ready to release her wrath upon them all, when a young footman loudly announces:

"His Majesty, King George!"

Penelope turns to face the entrance of the throne room, perturbed.

This was not supposed to happen.

The entire room falls silent as the reigning monarch walks through the threshold with a purpose that drags his feet in large strides.

They bend their knee to the King as he passes them, their respect for the man invoked almost instinctually.

His unexpected presence stuns Penelope into complete disbelief.

Despite all her planning, she had not considered that the king himself would attend to their counsel.

Colin pulls her back to him, an arm immediately finding itself around her waist, attempting to protect her as best he can.

He holds her tightly, and through their proximity, she feels the hard beats of his heart hammer a rhythm that her own mimics.

She curls a hand on the fabric of his waistcoat, tugging him closer.

Anthony shifts, stepping ahead of them, his shoulders pulled back as he assumes his position as viscount and head of their family.

Even the guard who held Eloise immediately drops her, keeping his head and knees bent low.

Penelope tugs on Colin's shirt, anxious, now, to get closer to the brunette.

"Not now," he murmurs, "it is unsafe."

She looks at Eloise, hoping that the other woman sees the apology in her eyes.

Her friend presses herself against the wall, moving quietly. When she notices Penelope's gaze on her, she only nods, her expression grim but determined.

Penelope returns her focus to the King of England, who trudges through the throne room towards his wife.

His steps are heavy, and his eyes are burdened with his ancient experiences, reflected in his wrinkled body.

But though his physical disposition might have seen better days, the man is — shockingly — lucid.

He walks up to his Queen, reaching his hand towards her.

She accepts his offer, slipping her smaller, tanned palm over his freckled one.

The image of the two monarchs, aged and far past their prime, is a jarring sight to behold.

Yet, somehow, here in the throne room of a palace that's withstood the test of time, with their attire still that of the old King's earlier years, it's easy to see how rightfully deserved their crowns are.

Penelope thinks she sees a glimpse of the King and Queen at the zenith of their reign, as they both take a step towards the Prince Regent.

With his wife — his Queen — beside him and the wisdom of an entire lifetime's sovereignty, the King stops in front of the throne.

The same one that his son still occupies.

"You are in my seat," King George states simply.

The Prince Regent is quick to respond.

He stands from the throne, immediately chastised, looking as though he were a small boy scolded.

"Forgive me, Father," he apologises, bowing his head, and gives up the seat to the rightful ruler.

The King takes the throne, still holding on to his wife's hand.

The Queen moves as he does, standing beside him.

Penelope finds herself thinking about the portraits that adorn the palace halls; every painting of the King and Queen has the latter seated, while the former stands.

The implication of their reversed roles is not lost on Penelope, now, despite how simple a gesture the King had made it seem.

She tears her gaze away from them, searching for Lady Danbury, who she finds standing between the duke and herself.

The dowager surveys the scene, flitting her gaze over each of the Bridgertons, before coming to a rest on Penelope.

Not a moment later, the woman walks over to Penelope's side, cane thwacking noisily against the wooden panels.

Her movement is deliberate; pronounced and calculated, targeted at the entity who watches them all in disbelief.

"Was not an easy task, what you asked of me," Lady Danbury whispers to her, leaning close. "But it seems even an old bird—" she looks at her conspiratorially, "— can still hum her morning song."

Penelope gives herself the satisfaction of watching the duke's face as he observes Lady Danbury's actions, understanding dawning in his eyes and turning him petrified.

"Thank you," she tells the dowager, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

The King's voice resonates throughout the room, commanding, "Stand before your king, Prince George."

The heir shuffles to do his father's bidding. He keeps his head bowed and chin close to his chest.

"When I asked that you see through the responsibilities that I am not quite capable of in my current state, do you recall what my stipulation was?" The King's voice is light, a stark contrast to his intimidating stature.

The man is tall, and his body bears the brunt of his age, though his clothes don't betray the actuality of his appearance.

The prince nods, still refusing to look at his father. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Might you refresh my memory? What were my conditions?"

"That I do not disrespect my Queen, and that I do not bring shame upon our empire."

The King lets go of the Queen's hand, sitting straighter on his throne. "So, explain yourself — why is it that the European royals have threatened to band together and denounce their ties to our nation?"

Checkmate.

Penelope sags in Colin's arms.

Her plan had worked — Princess Augusta had, somehow, managed to rally her European counterparts.

"I—" the prince chokes, then clasps his trembling hands behind his back, hiding them from his father. "They have no reason to, Your Majesty. We have won the war for them, and they are our allies."

"Did I not ask you a question, Prince George?"

Intimidated, the man's shaking hands only get worse. He wrings his wrists, flexing his hands, and though his back is to them, Penelope imagines the expression he wears mustn't be flattering.

"If you cannot explain yourself, then perhaps you—" he turns his hardened eyes towards the duke, "—will."

"Your Majesty, I am humbled to—"

"Spare me the flattery, or I stand to lose whatever is left of my thinning patience and take a decision right here, right now. Tell me, commander," the King leans forward, and even from this distance, Penelope feels the sheer force of his undeniable authority, "do you like being the Duke of Wellington?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Do you wish to still be the Duke of Wellington?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Then answer my question truthfully."

The duke shifts his weight from foot to foot, unable to reply.

"Is there no one in this room who can illuminate their King?"

Penelope smooths a hand over Colin's torso, silently letting him know of her intentions.

Then, she pulls herself away from him, advancing before the royals. She bows again to the King, and when she rises, her back is straight with a fortitude moulded from her endured hardships.

"It is because of me, Your Majesty," she tells him boldly, ignorant of the looks that the duke and Prince Regent sends her way.

The King raises an eyebrow at her.

He tilts his head, gesturing for her to continue.

She elaborates, "I am friends with the Princess of Bavaria. When I relayed to her that the Prince Regent and the Duke of Wellington imprisoned my family as a measure of blackmail, she became greatly concerned and engaged her father to rally their relations against the English Crown."

The King appears to consider her words, pressing his lips together.

Then, he turns to his son.

"Listen carefully to me, Prince George, and ensure that you learn this vital lesson that your mother and I now impart unto you.

"Power turns the inexperienced egotistical. Power turns the mistrusting faithless. Power is a ruler's downfall, when they succumb to greed.

"What you choose to do with the power that you are granted will dictate how your legacy will be remembered. I should hope that you internalise this harsh message, as I now choose to bestow upon you an example of what real rulers do with power that they have earned."

Penelope watches the King, enthralled.

She feels Colin's arm go tense around her again, then she's pulled behind his protective form.

His hand bunches the fabric on her dress skirts, just above her waist, a clear sign of his anxiety.

She pats at his sides, willing for him to look at her.

He obeys her silent request, and they lock eyes.

Whatever may come, he seems to tell her, I am with you, always.

She nods.

When she turns back to face the King, she's surprised to see him watching their exchange, his eyes softened and reminiscent.

She sees the Queen's thumb rub his, the motion tender and soothing.

"I ask that you speak to your friend, my lady," King George addresses Penelope, his voice warm. "Let her know that there is no need for such hasty actions. Instead, tell her that your King and Queen extends an an invitation to her and her family, so that they may visit our palace grounds. It is high time we band what remains of the Crown across this continent; we are, after all, stronger together. A single brick is still movable, but piled together, they form a formidable wall."

Colin's arm around her waist loosens.

She gives a tentative smile to the King, nodding sharply, "Yes, Your Majesty."

"And as for your future, and that of your family's," he turns to his Queen, eyes entirely melting with the affection he holds for her, "just as mine did not forsake me, I shall offer the same generosity to you."

He stands, his hand never once leaving Queen Charlotte's. "A proclamation, if you're agreeable," he announces, "from me to our empire, exemplifying your patriotism and delineating the freedom you seek.

"In exchange, I would hope that you let our mutual friends know that your predicament is resolved, and there will be no such need for escalating measures. I will not have my family's legacy be sullied by my son's mistake."

The King waves his hand, the gesture almost as if he directs a gavel. "Let us be done with this."

Colin turns to look at her, the very same navy-blue eyes that she's loved imploringly hopeful.

Their future, once a gamble and always, always indeterminate, finally comes within reach.

For the first time in what seems like a lifetime of consternation, Penelope finally breathes.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The King raises the hand that isn't holding the Queen's, "Now, if my lady and your family would be so kind to take your leave." He gestures to the Prince Regent and the duke. "I shall need a word with these men, alone."

~~~~~~~~

Later, after Eugène embraces her, and her senses are flooded with the forgotten scent of leather and cinnamon, she feels contentment wrap itself around her wearied soul like a forgotten childhood blanket.

Later, as her father shakes her husband's hand, thanking him for the bravery he had displayed when he chose his young family over his ties to his false father, she thinks to herself, "Maybe."

Later, as her daughters tackle their Papa, their peals of laughter melodious against the haunted palace walls that once was her home, she will be reminded of the moments her Mama had held her in her arms, swaying them both around and around and around.

Eugène asks her, "Why did you risk your peace over a lowborn woman?"

Augusta replies, bringing forth the words he once said to her that she never forgot, "Because I sought for a purpose beyond my palace walls."

Under the summer Bavarian sky, as her father and daughters sing the songs her Mama once did, she feels Eugène inch closer to her side.

His movement is tentative and heart-breaking, a shadow of the young man he once was.

He stands near her, and with the gardens before them in full bloom and the promise of a future that had been graciously offered to her, she starts the painstaking process of finding her broken pieces.

Eugène's arm brushes against hers; the action an unspoken sentence that he cannot bring himself to say just yet, but one that Augusta still somehow understands entirely.

They stand together, listening to the sound of their family reconnecting.

She closes her eyes and, lost in another lifetime, she thinks she hears the sound she's longed for the most — her Mama's voice, sweet and gentle, singing the songs that promised her a life worth living.

A tear falls, and she takes a stuttering breath.

Augusta decides to break her cycle.

She steps out of the palace walls she's built in her mind.

Her fingertips ghost over the back of Eugène's hand, accepting his penance.

In return, she offers reconciliation.

Notes:

Author's Note:
Hey, again!

So, there you have it! We've reached the last major chapter and we're wrapping things up in the next one with an epilogue!

How's everyone feeling — good, I hope?

Till next time!

Chapter 7

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

She is only ten-and-eleven, nestled under a willow tree, with Eloise asleep in her lap.

The clouds have gathered, and the sky sinks into the shade of blackberries — soon, it will be time to wake her dear friend and bid her goodnight.

Penelope sits still, her hand gently patting Eloise's head, playing with the brunette locks so different from her brightly coloured ones.

Under the umbrella of wispy leaves that frolic with the breeze, it's easy to lay against the bark of the great tree and gaze into the sky; here is where her imagination courts her daydreams.

"There you are," a familiar voice startles her.

She looks up.

Colin's smile is easy, with just a touch of amusement at the corner of his lips, while his eyes — nearly royal blue in the beginnings of twilight — are nothing but pleased.

"Good day, Colin," she greets him, her own smile stretching wide across her face.

"I had wondered why the afternoon seemed so lacklustre. I suppose the mystery is resolved, now." He nods at Eloise's resting figure. "Might I join you both? I find myself in need of some respite."

She pulls her hand away from its place atop Eloise's head, then pats at the spot beside her. "Of course, it is a free space. Perhaps you," and she tilts her head towards her napping friend, "might prove to be more successful with waking this sleeping beauty."

Colin chuckles, taking his place easily beside her.

His arm brushes against hers, through the fabric of his coat and her capped sleeves. The motion sends a warm flush on her cheeks.

She thinks — if he asks, I shall lie and say the sun is at fault for pinking me so.

"You appeared deep in thought, Pen," he remarks, never moving his arm from its casual position beside hers. "Your introspective contemplation intrigued me; it seems not too long ago that you and El would chase each other through the mud."

She lifts a shoulder, returning her gaze to the clouds. "El had plenty to say about her tiff with Daphne the night prior. She went on and on and on and on—"

She stops herself.

Her arm lifts from its touch with Colin's, as loathed as she is to do so.

She smooths down her friend's hair.

"It just seemed . . ." she bites her lip, a finger curling around a chestnut lock, the same colour on the head of the boy who occupies the seat beside hers. Finally, she continues, "We hear rumours, you see. Of young ladies and their sisters, and how relations between them will strain as womanhood claims us. Like the tides, we hear. Pushing and pulling."

Colin shifts, and whether his closer proximity is intentional, it nonetheless causes her heart to beat faster.

To distract herself, she rambles her thoughts, "I suppose, for El, she was not quite ready to be at odds with Daphne, so soon into our growth. I think," and she looks at her friend's brother, a small but wry smile playing at the corners of her lips, "that she is beyond frightened at the change."

He nods, then follows her example of a casual shrug. "Always the most observant of us all." He pauses, then asks, "And you, Pen? Are you so frightened by such change? You and your sisters are not quite so different in your age, as is El with Daphne."

She twists her lips, considering. "Truth be told, I—" She stops herself again, attempting to find the right words. Carefully, she continues, "I think that we hurt those who we love the most."

"I do not doubt that for a second," he agrees, and he tears his gaze away from hers. He looks at the sky behind the wispy catkins. "Hurt is borne from love, after all."

He turns quiet, and she looks away from him, staring into the same sky he is riveted by.

She knows him well enough now; in a matter of a few minutes, he will change the subject, eager to maintain his lightheartedness.

There can be no such thing as hurt when it is not mentioned.

Beside her, she hears, "What else were you thinking of, Pen?"

It is a question that substantiates her earlier deduction.

She decides to ride the wave he crests, evolved from his need of joviality even amongst the consternation he chooses to ignore within himself.

"I was thinking of how to catch stars," she tells him, her tone light and airy. "I read that they fall in fragments, one by one. Though what happens when one falls, it is not stated."

Colin's resulting chuckles are hinted with curiosity. "Is it an ambition of yours, to catch a star?"

She shakes her head. "It is a wish. Ladies do not have ambitions."

A pinch draws her attention away from the dimming sky. She jumps, nearly dislodging Eloise in the process, and rubs the tender spot on her arm where Colin had pinched her.

She glares at him, but quickly softens when he tells her, "Do not think such things, Pen. A lady can have ambitions and wishes. It does not need to be one or the either. I should know — Eloise does not shut up about this since she discovered Mother's secret copy of Mary Wollstonecraft's A Vindication of the Rights of Woman."

She does not respond.

"Why do you wish to catch stars?" He asks her, when she remains silent, in diversion when her quietness becomes intolerable.

She looks at twilight before her, through the catkins, as lavenders and burgundy mixes with gold-reds, transitioning into just a touch of orange that will bring with it another day's end.

There, beyond the horizon, she finds it in herself to be honest with the boy she holds dearest to her heart.

She answers, "So that I may pick up the fragments of these stars and remember why they once shone so bright."

~~~~~~~~

Here is what history remembers:

The name of a tyrant, and the name of the commander who led the battalions that brought the former to his knees. The battle that ensues between them forever taints history with the bloodstains of the martyrs who died for their righteous beliefs.

Here is what history forgets:

The name of a war lord and his friends, who provided counsel for the commander when it was most needed.

Lost between the written word, the thousands of men who had pleaded to be spared — their names drift with the whispers of the wind, now, as their corpses lay scattered among the ashes of cursed soil.

History remembers, and history forgets.

And memories?

Memories held captive in one's mind becomes a prisoner.

Memories, when written, when said, when remembered, become—

History.

~~~~~~~~

A war lord watches the scene before him.

Crimson meets gold and silver behind mahogany; extravagant in its afforded luxury, furniture inherited from the generations that have come before litter across the lavish interior of the palace walls.

Yet, for all its grandeur, there is little beauty to be remarked upon, when contrasted against a far more striking sight.

In front of him, the war lord observes a family's reunion.

There are tears and trembling bodies, heads buried in the crook of shoulders and desperate clutches of fabric.

It is a vision that heightens his longing for his own; he may be a soldier, but he is also human.

An old bird stands a few paces away from them, observing as he does, before she turns and slips away.

Two lovers embrace, their union uplifted by the relief evident in their unburdened shoulders. Against the sunlight that caress their faces, their youth is brought forward, as the promise of a lifetime becomes an eventuality.

He thinks to himself — how long has it been, since I last held my love?

But a war lord's place in the world is not with society.

The war lord had slaughtered the man he had been when he chose to serve his King.

The price of his pledged faithfulness to his nation is repaid with the commitment of a better life for him and his loved ones.

He's murdered the young man he once was, to cast the agreement in stone.

Had he not done so, his most precious person — his entire world — would have been lost to him forevermore.

The war lord knows his place in the world.

And he knows it is not here, with the family before him.

The woman with hair the colour of a hearth-fire, who has become dear to him — the war lord knows his duty on her behalf is still not quite finished.

Not while a puppeteer still pulls on the strings of his well-worn puppet.

Her game might be finished, but his has just begun.

~~~~~~~~

Their dragged steps are urgent, pattering quickly against the hardwood flooring, as though hunted, when they take their leave.

"I will wait here," Harry tells Penelope, as the doors of the great throne room closes behind them with a definitive bang.

She pauses, her halt pulling Colin's longer strides to a stop as well.

"What are you doing?" He asks of the war lord, jerking to break his fast pace. "We should put distance between us and the royals, lest they change their minds and have us all slaughtered where we stand."

She squeezes his hand in warning, "Be generous with your words, Colin. There are ears within these walls." She glances around the corridor, eyeing the guards who stand in vigil in front of the throne room.

"There is a debt I am owed," Harry answers, and he glances at the doors behind them. "And until it is paid, it is a matter that I must see to its complete end."

In his blue eyes, there is an ocean of barely concealed anger that the war lord restrains.

In his young face, with the expanse of his forehead lined with experiences a man of his youth should not bear, she thinks she sees a boy hiding behind the mask of a soldier, itching to be justified.

Penelope's held breath releases slowly.

Harry's stern face breaks into a smile, barely visible from the shadows casted by the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. "Do not be concerned, Penelope. All is well. I will come find you after."

She shakes her head, "Harry—"

It's Colin who surprises her by taking a step forward, letting go of her hand and instead offering it to the soldier. "I owe you my regard, Smith," he tells the man, who takes his hand and clasps it tightly. "But do not be mistaken — this is not a farewell."

The war lord pulls away from Colin, letting go of his hand.

He turns to Penelope, who wraps her arms around him. "Do not break your vow to me, Harry," and her breath turns tremulous.

He rubs at her back, gentle; the gesture not entirely fitting for the fearsome officer. "Go," he huffs, pushing her away.

She lifts her hand, stroking the edge of his jaw, then turns to Colin.

He stretches his palm to her, and for all that the situation demands urgency, Colin is patient with her. "Home?" He asks, as her fingers twine with his, tentative but unfaltering.

She smiles, a lifetime of strife toppled by the hope that rises from the embers of forgotten dreams and aspiration.

"Home," she asserts, and she grips his hand firmly.

~~~~~~~~

She barely seats herself in the carriage when she hears her name, choked between a breath and a sob.

Then, slender arms drag her towards a lean body, and Eloise's head finds its solace on her shoulder, the sleeves of her dress quickly sticking to her skin as her friend's tears wets the fabric.

Her answering comfort is instinctual, stemming from the years that she shares with Eloise.

She wraps her arms around the other woman, her hand releasing itself from Colin's grasp, and allows herself to close her eyes.

Between Eloise's tears and her hiccuping breaths, Penelope sees their memories flash in her mind's eye.

There is El, in the library, climbing the shelves in an attempt to get the books her brothers hide from her.

There is El, on the chaise lounge, absorbed and entirely lost, having been transported to another realm with a literary work she cherishes.

There is El, fierce but gentle despite being just a child, who holds her hand and promises to be her knight, so they can free themselves from the demands of society.

There is El, who shared her family, when her own had been splintered with her father's absence.

Penelope fights against the onslaught of emotions, the tears pricking her eyes. She hitches her breath, smoothing her hands over Eloise's back.

Colin's hand places itself over her own.

"It is okay, Pen," he assures, quiet, and gentle, and ever so kind — it should not be a surprise to her, now, how attuned Colin appears to be with her.

At his assurance, she loses the battle against herself, and finally relents to the overwhelming relief that floods through her consciousness.

Her sobs wrack through her, in tremors that quake her embrace with her dearest friend.

Distantly, she hears Anthony order their footman to take them home.

"You are not a-allowed to leave my side, from now on," Eloise tells her, when the initial bout of hysteria passes, and their sobs trickle into mere sniffles.

Penelope laughs, albeit shakily, and thinks of Colin when she replies, "I do not think that is possible, Eloise."

"Why?" She pulls away, immediately alarmed. The other woman observes her face, grasping onto her hands. She holds them tightly to her stomach. "Never mind the why, we shall get through it together. I will not allow even the slightest distance between us; it is not permissible."

There, in the way her voice is pitched — the Eloise she's grown with resurfaces.

Penelope has never felt lighter than she does at present.

She shakes their clasped hands, exultant and nearly giddy as she reveals to her for the first time, "I think my fiancé might take umbrage with that."

Eloise's eyes widen at her revelation. "Who—" The other woman stops herself, and she sees on her face the very moment that she realises—

"You," she nearly growls, the sound guttural, as she whirls around to face a suddenly nervous Colin.

"Come now, Eloise," he tries to cajole her, though the action reminds Penelope of a circus man attempting to tame a wild lion, "surely you must have deduced the inevitable in all the time Pen and I spent in private company. I had thought you would have known my feelings for her runs deeper than friendship."

The shriek that comes out of the second Bridgerton daughter makes screeching metal a harmonious melody. "You opportunistic scoundrel!"

"Eloise!" Anthony admonishes, and when Penelope looks at him, she sees him struggling to contain his amusement behind his clenched fist that he presses against his lips.

El, as a child, had been obstinate.

Eloise, as a woman, is unyielding.

She glares at Colin, and there's enough scorn in her twitching brow that alarms Penelope.

The brunette narrows her eyes at her brother, "I just had her back and already you lay claim on her?! She is my best friend!"

"El—" Anthony shifts in his seat beside Eloise, eyes quickly becoming concerned.

Penelope's arms evolve quickly from a welcoming embrace to that of restraints as she keeps Eloise at bay.

Colin is not fazed by his belligerent sister; he huffs, his chest protruding slightly as he squares his shoulders. "I will not take her away from you, Eloise. You are every bit dear to her as she is to you. I would not wish to separate you, not when she loves you so. It has taken me a great many years to realise what I truly feel for Pen — the same number in which I pray that I am granted to atone for, knowing now that she's loved me secretly in the time that I have been too obtuse."

The ire dies in Eloise at her brother's assurance.

She loosens her embrace, and the other woman returns to her place beside Anthony.

She stares at Colin, perhaps reading his expression, and it's only when Penelope reaches her hand to rest it atop of his that Eloise finally settles.

"Congratulations, then," she breaks into a smile, her eyes becoming glass-like with emotions that brighten her face, "it's certainly overdue."

Anthony nudges his sister, his gaze jumping between his siblings and Penelope. The grin he releases is tentative by all accounts, but perhaps the widest that she's seen the viscount afford himself since the death of his father.

"Congratulations," Anthony tips his head, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes. He leans over, slapping his hand gently on top of Colin's right thigh. "It only took your entire youth and the most eventful year any of us has ever lived; but congratulations, nonetheless."

To his credit, Penelope sees that her lover is valiant when he tries to reign in his jubilance.

She forgets herself, as the final chip on her shoulder drops proverbially, and presses a kiss into Colin's shoulder.

He tenses, and then quickly wraps an arm around her.

He beams at Penelope, his face nearly boyish in the afternoon sunlight the filters in through the windows of the carriage, and she hears—

"My goodness," Anthony remarks, "is that how I look when I am with my wife?"

"Do not flatter yourself, brother," is Eloise's reply, "you are much worse."

Colin's smile must mirror her own; he smiles wide enough that the corners of it nearly travels the distance between each of his ears, exalted.

With his free hand, he reaches over to grasp both of Penelope's.

"A dinner," Anthony proposes, calling her attention after the silence stretches in the contentment that falls on them all, "to celebrate the upcoming nuptials and our newest sister's—" he winks at Penelope, who feels her cheeks flush, "—greatest triumph."

She releases a breath as Eloise leans forward, squeezing her knee.

Penelope says, "A triumph I couldn't have achieved if it were not for everyone's trust."

Her friend releases a blinding smile that stretches across her face.

Colin's arm tightens around her. "Do not think so lightly of your own success, Penelope. All of this, everything that we, your family—" and Anthony and Eloise's easy acceptance of her nearly brings her to tears once more, "—have discovered as a result of your clever inferences, have been because you saw something in each of us that we had not."

She looks at this man she loves, feeling her heart swell at his words.

In his eyes, there is gratitude, and there is love.

There is happiness that tethers herself to him, their bond moulded in the forge that'd been their life together.

Anthony hums, "We will be home soon," and Penelope—

My home is here, she thinks, sheltered by the embrace of her lover's firm hold of her.

~~~~~~~~

A commander enters the throne room in the morning of the Heroes Return.

He leaves it as a cowardly mutt, tail tucked between its legs.

The war lord waits for him, emerging from the shadows as a ghoul, pouncing upon the man.

The blue of his eyes is the first thing the man notices, nearly obsidian with the man's thirst for blood.

In the battlefield, it is a sight that brings nightmares upon the war lord's enemies.

In the sunlight that teases the favour of the gods as it paints the palace corridors in shades of warm canary, the war lord's stature should be one of reassurance.

But it is not.

A demon stands, in place of the war lord, with his lips pressed together, repressing a malevolent smile.

"Speak, boy. Do not just stand there and assume I am frightened by you. I made you — a maker cannot fear what he has created." The disgraceful commander spits at the war lord, smarting, in need of asserting his superiority.

"I am here to tell you—" the war lord says, lips pulled away from his teeth, a smile disguising its true form of a sneer, "—that I rescind my resignation."

The man sucks a breath through clenched teeth. "You would leave your wife on her lonesome self?"

"She is the wife of a war lord," the other man stands to his full height, imposing his suffocating presence upon the commander, "she has already sunk her sharp teeth into my jugular; where I go, so does she."

"Do not make me repeat myself, soldier. Speak your mind and stop your dawdling."

The war lord leans closer.

The man's cowardice betrays his otherwise stoicism.

He flinches.

The war lord grins.

"For as long as I live, Arthur," the commander's first name, given to him at birth, is a pistol that the war lord holds against the man's temple, "I will ensure that you will never be regarded by the men you once commandeered. For as long as I wield my sword—" he steps forward, "— this, I tell you solemnly, your forces will never respect you as they do me."

The commander's eyes flash, betrayal bleeding into his wrath. "I will have you destroyed, boy. You do not know what I am capable of. What power can bring you. I encourage you to test me; I will ensure that history will forget you. Your name, your station, and those of your descendants. You will be but a name in the books, your legacy all but forgotten in favour of my regard."

The war lord shrugs, a mad man released from an asylum.

He tells the man, "I do not need history to remember my name; my memories will live on in the minds of the ones most precious to me. My ego is not as frail as yours appears to be — what use is history to me when I will live on in passing conversations and reminiscence?"

~~~~~~~~

A war lord once waited in the shadows, with his hands stained from the blood of the many he's killed. He carries a burden on his shoulders, and beyond his stature, beyond his acclaim, he is known to be a killer.

In his place, an atoning soldier steps out of the darkness that shelters him.

The blood will not leave his hands, but fate demands payment for death with the destruction of his own lineage.

His wife bears no children; in time, they will spend their lives doting on the soldier's many nephews and nieces.

Uncle Harry, they call him, and his will and determination becomes an anchor for the many generations that remembers his name.

History forgets him.

But his family does not.

~~~~~~~~

A servant interrupts their merriment, as the hour draws closer to midnight.

"Sir Harry Smith, my lord," he bows to the viscount, "here for Miss Penelope Featherington."

Anthony stands on unsteady legs, the alcohol clearly compromising his composure. "Invite him in, then, the more the merrier."

Eloise raises her cup, cheering, as Colin topples onto Anthony, his arm draped around his older brother. "Might I suggest you bring forth the best liquor in your collection, brother? We are celebrating a war hero."

"My lord," the servant shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyeing the viscount warily. "He waits in the forecourt of our household. He insists he cannot stay; a Miss Juana awaits him in their place of residence."

Penelope immediately sobers at the mention of Harry's wife.

Colin's posture straightens.

They share a look.

She tilts her head towards the door.

He nods, removing his arm from Anthony.

She pushes away from the table, taking her leave, Colin in her shadow, and Anthony and Eloise in his.

The four of them hurry down the hallway, their footwear heavy against the hardwood floorings, its echoes announcing their crossing as they pass the grand foyer.

As though on cue, the footmen open the doors to the Bridgerton's home.

She sees Harry standing before a black carriage, its sides bearing no insignia.

His arms rest behind his back, ever the serious soldier despite being far from battle. He maintains a neutral expression, his lips pressed together lightly, and even under the moonlight, the war lord's presence is nearly suffocating in its overpowering appeal.

His eyes, though—

When he meets her stare, they shine bright with pride.

For a moment, she forgets herself.

If they weren't under the watchful eyes of her fiancé and his family who does not quite understand — and might not forgive — the friendship between a war lord and a little bird, Penelope might have run up to him and relayed her gratitude with a hug entirely improper for an unrelated man and woman.

The man had been her mentor, her protector.

Had it not been for him, for his insistence on ensuring her safety and survival, Penelope would have drowned, lost to the stars and long forgotten.

This, she knows.

This, she has long since accepted.

And seeing Harry still dressed in his uniform, waiting by the carriage that will soon take him down a road diverging from the one she's chosen — the visual only deepens a split within her spent heart.

It's in the way his eyes have become wistful, with a tangible moroseness—

She feels Colin nudge her. "Go say your goodbyes, Pen."

Her lover's voice is gentle and even with understanding. She looks up at him, and he readily meets her gaze.

There's no doubt in him; only a sadness she suspects he only feels because she, herself, have become mournful.

She reaches up to graze the tips of her fingers against the side of his jaw, feeling the rough beginnings of a stubble he's not had the time to shave since their hasty arrival. "I shall be quick."

She pulls away, quickening her steps towards Harry.

The stoic man shocks her, then.

She sees a tear form at the corner of his left eye, and his jaw clenches tightly.

She breaks.

Damn propriety.

Penelope rushes to gather the taller man into her arms, unable to resist comforting him when he's so clearly in pain. "You promised me you would not cry when you would bid me farewell," she accuses him through her own hitching breaths, her cheeks wet from her tears.

"You started it," he sniffles, his arms around her.

"You said you would leave immediately after we'd met the Prince Regent," she cries, "you said you would not stay. Now look what you've done — we must look like snot-nosed children."

Harry pulls away from her, giving enough distance between them so he's able to wipe her tears away with the back of his hand. "I know I said I would, yet when the time came, I couldn't." He pinches her cheek. "Juana would never forgive me if I did not bid you farewell properly."

She swallows. "Where will you and Juana go?"

"Wherever my King needs me," he shrugs. "Unlike you, Penelope, I cannot break free."

She stiffens. "You know that you can."

He shakes his head. "My duty is not done, not while the duke still occupies a seat with the Prince Regent's counsel. That aside," he sighs, "my presence is of better use in Europe, where many of Napoleon's former territories are in need of assistance."

"I can—"

He clamps a hand over her mouth. "Do not make an offer which your heart cannot be obliged to fulfil, little bird. Here," he removes his hand, and gestures to their surroundings, "this is where you belong. Home."

She fights the next onslaught of tears, feeling incredibly ill at his obvious longing to settle. "You must come visit, when you can. Promise me, Harry. Or Colin and I will search for you."

He nods, a smile pulling on his lips, cracking through the mask he wears as war lord.

A throat clears.

"Perhaps you may wish to cease monopolising my bride, Smith," Colin puts a hand on her back, though the easy grin on his handsome face belies his jest.

Harry exhales, exasperated, and relinquishes his hold on Penelope.

Then, he stuns her completely when he tells her, "Whenever you feel your romantic attention is otherwise better spent elsewhere, Penelope, know that my wife and I would welcome you warmly."

Colin chokes, and Penelope gapes, as the war lord winks.

"I knew it!" Colin breathes. "I'm going to kill you—" he snarls, enraged, and Penelope wraps her hands around his elbow.

"Colin! My word," she gasps, her cheeks far too warm as she intentionally does not look at Harry.

The man dances away from them expertly, evading Colin's lunge, and leaves them with the memory of his laughter.

~~~~~~~~

The year is 1860.

Sir Harry Smith breathes his last breath, with his beloved Juana holding his withered hand.

Behind his closed lids, he sees a courtyard of children playing under the South African sun.

They are orphans, children of the wars Sir Harry have fought in the region, and all of them are his — his eldest, and his youngest, and all those who come in between.

All of them, he raised.

All of them, he loved.

All of them, he now leaves.

Sunshine escorts Sir Harry to his next journey, as the laughter of the children becomes the last thing he hears in the remaining moments of his mortality.

Outside his bedroom, perched on the windowsill, a little sparrow preens itself.

~~~~~~~~

Portia has always harboured dislike for the Bridgertons.

It was not anything particularly nefarious.

She was, quite simply, envious of them.

Violet and Edmund's love match was a story every woman in the ton knew of. The perpetual wallflower captivating the most eligible bachelor of their time, childhood friends whose love eventually encroached into a more romantic territory.

Violet was the same age as Portia when she married Edmund Bridgerton.

Portia, barely seventeen, debuted a year early and was sold to Archibald Featherington, who promised her father security in coin and name; both of which the man have long since besmirched.

It had been awful, the dichotomy between the two of them.

Portia was loveless, and Violet had never known anything else but to love and be loved in return.

But she'd always been practical — envy could not exist where her focus had to be entirely on her girls, ensuring they find themselves in circumstances that would be far better for them.

She'd thought little of Violet Bridgerton after her children had been born, though the envy always remained. After all, the Bridgerton children had two parents who cared for them, while Portia bent over backwards to fill the void that was left by her gambling husband.

She knows, now, what the power of such love does — that it overrules practicality.

When Violet had replied to her letter, promising to do whatever she could to help Portia and her daughters, it had felt like the beginning of a tentative friendship she had not expected would flourish.

The other woman expended no small amount of effort to have her son covertly attend to them from where the Duke of Wellington had imprisoned them and had gone so far as to open a sanctuary in Aubrey Hall to host them.

Portia had struggled, immensely, to relay her gratitude to the Bridgerton matriarch. The task seemed insurmountable for her; how on earth could one demonstrate their deep respects to someone who had saved her and her children's lives?

"You do not need to thank me," she recalls Violet's words, when she'd visited her in the aftermath of Benedict Bridgerton's retrieval, "we are mothers, are we not? We would do everything we can for our children."

And that had been that.

Portia paces the length of the corridor, now, her heart racing.

"This is torturous," Philippa groans, "can they not have their horses gallop any faster?"

"I am sure they are travelling as quick as they can, dearest," she calms her second daughter.

Prudence walks up to Philippa, putting her hands on top of her sister's shoulders. "Stay calm, Pippa. Penny will be with us soon enough."

The exchange nearly brings tears to Portia's eyes, her heart swelling with intense pride.

Their ordeal had pulled her daughters closer to each other, exposed as they were to the dangers that cruel men had struck upon them — from their father to the duke, ceaselessly, they had experienced the worst of men.

And out of their cruelty, and their youngest sister's personal sacrifice, they'd learned.

Funny thing, love is.

It arrives at the most unexpected of times.

"Not fast enough." Philippa bites her lip. "We have not seen Penny in ages. Somehow, knowing she is only a few days away, entices me to take a horse and ride as fast as I can to meet them halfway."

Out in the far distance of the forecourt at the Bridgerton's estate in Aubrey Hall, she spots the carriages.

Portia bites her tongue, hiding her smile. "It appears you do not need to wait any longer, dearest," she turns to her daughters, "ready yourselves; your little sister has come home."

~~~~~~~~

A mother's arms will always shelter her children, no matter how grown they are.

A mother's heart bears the strife of her children, no matter how she disagrees with their decisions.

A mother's strength is bolstered by the love of and from her children, no matter how much she buckles from fate's tests.

Portia holds her three daughters, now, and for all that she's long sworn herself free from religion, she thanks any listening deity.

Her daughters are here, in her arms, healthy and together.

She realises, then, that her home is not in Archibald's familial household, where every corner is a reminder of the life she had once been denied.

Her home is here, with her daughters.

She has made many mistakes in her lifetime.

She has made many wrong choices.

She has failed, over and over and over.

But odd thing, fate is.

It offers her the opportunity to start over, to do better, to love her family as she always should have.

She takes this chance, now, with clumsy but determined fingers.

Portia knows, now, what it had been like to nearly lose her daughters.

It will not happen again.

She opens her eyes and lifts her head, staring over her beloved Penny's shoulder, and meets Colin Bridgerton's gaze.

"Thank you," she mouths.

~~~~~~~~

Colin leans against the doorway of his second brother's empty bedroom.

Perhaps outgrowing the frivolities of his youth, Benedict appears to have cleaned up after himself, well enough that the room before is but a skeleton of a creative mind.

Several canvases, still propped in their stands, are hidden away with cloths that drape across their large forms.

The drawn curtains shield the room in an eternal night.

"Couldn't sleep?" Anthony asks, startling him.

He glances at his eldest, who mimics his stance, standing opposite of him. He stares at Benedict's room, held together in drapes of cloth and devoid of personality.

"Sometimes I wonder," Colin looks away from his eldest, "had I been fast enough, would all this—" he gestures to the room, "— been avoided?"

Anthony sighs. "It is a necessary separation."

"An avoidable necessity."

"Rest assured, brother," and Anthony puts his hand on his shoulder. "Benedict and the rest of our family will come home. News of our success will reach them once they port in Cape Verde; I have made sure of it."

"I do not understand," he shakes his head, reaching up to grip onto his brother's wrist. "Why are you not furious with me? Perhaps, if I'd worked harder, I could've found Penelope earlier, and—"

"We do not control our fates, little brother," Anthony breathes. He twists his hand so that it gently wraps around the column of his neck. "And if we spend our time wallowing in everything that we could have done better, we will never learn to accept failure."

"I am sorry, Anthony," Colin stares at him, the guilt surging, releasing itself in the way he hunches under his brother's understanding gaze. "If it were not for me, you would not be separated from your wife."

"And what of you, brother?"

He clenches his jaw.

Anthony shakes him gently. "There is nothing to forgive, little brother. You are every bit of what you have been through, and despite it all, you've chosen to be kind. In truth," his smile tapers into something sadder, "I am in awe. Your bravery, and your courage, your wit — it feels that I merely looked away from the little boy you'd been, and when I finally returned my focus unto you, my little brother has grown into a man."

He pulls Colin into an embrace, utterly immobilising him.

Colin hears, "Father would be proud," and in the same bedroom that carries the childhood memories of three brothers chasing each other, riding atop broomsticks that are their mares, saving their sisters and mother from nefarious villains—

He finally forgives himself.

~~~~~~~~

Colin is restless.

He's not been alone with Pen for nearly two days.

He'd tried to be understanding, of course.

Pen had not seen her family in more than a year; the few days that they have since been reunited is a small compensation for their time apart.

His patience, as he's horrified to learn, has become far too thin in the ensuing period that had arrived as they returned home.

A patience that now hangs itself by loose threads, for every time he seeks to call for a private audience with Pen and finds that she is otherwise unavailable.

Her mother, frightening enough on her own, seems to have joined forces with Pen's overprotective sisters and a vindictive Eloise.

The latter, Colin can understand. Pen and his sister have always been close, and he knows Eloise well enough to dance around her ire.

Pen's Mama and her sisters' scrutiny of him, however, is a new development that terrifies him beyond comprehension.

And he's the one who had contributed efforts to a war.

It is torturous.

Colin knows he's been spoiled — outside of England, he'd had Pen by his side every waking day. She was the first person whose face he awoke to, and the last he'd see before he fell asleep. Always, she had been within his arms reach, her blood orange scent and crimson locks comforting his senses.

Worse still — now that he knows what it'd been like to have their bodies so intimately entwined, it is all he can think about.

Pen, under him, calling his name sweetly.

Pen, with her long, red curls splayed across a pillow, her mouth opened in pleasure, clutching at his shoulders.

Pen, sighing, caressing the hair at the back of his head, sated and gentle, and every bit his.

Eloise called him love-worn.

Anthony tells him he is but a besotted fool.

He had very nearly attacked them both.

But Colin is nothing but crafty.

He waits, now, by the moonlight and under the cover of the willow tree, a decent walk away from his family's estate.

Oddly, he feels nervous.

He turns back to the mat and pillows he's brought with him, smoothening unseen creases. He picks through the basket he'd packed, wondering if he's brought enough food for their dalliance.

He avoids looking too closely to the hidden side pocket of the hamper.

"Colin?"

He jumps, startled, and turns.

"Pen," he breathes her name, standing quickly. He nearly trips over his own feet, rushing to her, and wastes no time wrapping his arms around her tightly. "God, I have missed you so."

In his arms, her familiar scent is nearly seductive in nature; memories of the night they'd shared comes flooding into his mind's eye, and he shifts his lower body away from his love.

It does not escape her notice.

He finds that very little ever does.

"Clearly," she snorts, and takes a step forward so she presses herself closer to him.

Colin clenches his jaw.

"Stop tempting me, love," he warns, bending them both so he's able to brush his nose against the side of her neck. "I have only just gotten you back from the clutches of your smothering family; I cannot send you back with trembling legs and rosy cheeks. They will have my head."

"They are soon to be your family as well, you know," and the reminder nearly breaks his self-control.

He kisses her neck, right over her jugular, where her heart races. The warm skin there teases him, fuelling his desire by a tenfold, and wretches himself away from her.

Under the filtered light of the moon through the wisps of the willow tree, surrounded by a soft breeze that cradles his love's form so sweetly, Colin's breath catches.

She looks at him with her clear eyes dilated, desire evident in the flush of her cheeks, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

She is a siren, calling to him, and Colin resents that he cannot answer it.

"Do not look at me like that," she exhales, her breath tremulous through her parted lips.

He clenches his fists. "I could say the same about you, temptress."

She inhales, drawing his attention on her heaving bosom. He fixates on the vision, his mind emptying of all thoughts, as caution starts to become less likely. "Colin," she calls his name, in the same way she had when he'd had her under him, and immediately, his control snaps.

He groans, wrapping his arms around her waist, his lips finding hers.

Two days of separation culminates in a collision of passion that takes over his entire body. There is little that exists outside of her full lips, the taste of her tongue sliding against his, and the way his hands gropes at whatever part of her body they can find.

Desperate, and longing, and utterly in love, Colin claims Penelope, barely keeping himself from ripping her bodice.

Impatient, she grabs his hand, guiding it down past her skirts. "Please," she begs against his lips, and it's his entire undoing, "I need you, now."

He kisses a path down her neck, lifting her skirts as he guides them to the mat. He pulls away from her briefly, his free hand searching for a pillow, and slides it under her head. "Can't have your pretty head hurt," he smiles at her winningly, as he forces his passion aside to properly look at her.

She reaches up to stroke the sides of his jaw, the movement forming gooseflesh on his spine. "Always so careful with me," her answering grin, paired with the red hue on her cheeks and her bitten lips, is a sight he tries to brand into his memory.

He closes his eyes and kisses her, then, unable to resist.

"Love me, Colin," she whispers into his mouth.

He nods, tongue sliding past her lips, and bunches her skirts around her waist.

When his fingers find the exposed skin of her mound almost immediately, he bites onto her lower lip, aroused beyond comprehension.

"You were expecting this," he pants, and the thought of her choosing to not wear undergarments to their dalliance becomes the only thought he has in his mind.

"I was," and, bravely, his Pen shifts her hands from where she'd twined them around his neck, lower and lower and lower until she finds the top of his breeches.

Her fingers tease at the buttons, and Colin feels as though he might expire from the lust that overcomes him then.

He trails kisses down her neck, finding purchase at the exposed skin above her bosom, and lets his hand fondle at her wet, heated centre.

Penelope gasps, in the same way he's dreamt of her doing, when he slides a finger into her heat, crooking it just so.

Her response to his attention comes in the form of her unbuttoning his breeches, her hands sliding past his navel, driving him to near insanity when she glides her seeking fingers over his hard length.

He thrusts his finger inside of her, harder, and lets his thumb play at the spot above her opening.

She moans, her back arching, and becomes lost to her desire when her hips begin grinding against him deliciously. She releases his length, drawing her hands away from him as she searches for an anchor to grip onto.

He takes his free hand, grasping both of hers, and pins them down above her head.

He bites on her skin gently, ignorant of how it leaves a mark, and pulls away just enough to commit to memory the enthralling visage she makes.

"You are so beautiful, Pen," he moans, rutting against her thigh as he slips another finger into her. "For days, I had been meaning to tell you—"

Colin bends his head, returning his lips to the crook of her neck, where he tells her, "In the throne room, as you raised your own guillotine against the Crown, whilst everyone else looked at you with admiration, I had to battle my own lust."

She quivers under him, her hips stuttering, as her moans grow louder.

"I had never," he bites her skin again, licking his way to her other breast he'd not yet lavished attention on, "been so entirely undone. You were powerful," he quickens the pace of his fingers and thumb, and his lover chokes through a scream, both of her hands in his becoming sweaty with exertion, "standing before us all, incensed and utterly devastating — I wanted to take you, then, as I do now."

"Colin—" she gasps his name, and he pulls away from her again, feeling his completion nearing at the sight of her lost in the throes of passion. "Colin, Colin—"

"Let go, my love," and he claims her lips, "let go for me."

Beneath him, Pen breaks, her heat nearly soaking his hand as her walls around him tighten, convulsing a rhythm that, in turn, causes him to finish.

His hips thrusts once, twice, and then collapse on the third time, his body shaking at the intensity of the pleasure that courses through him.

He buries his face on the crook of her neck, attempting to catch his breath.

Penelope squeezes his hand, and he lets go, the request unsaid but understood. He removes his hand from her centre.

He rests his hands beside her beloved face, pushing his upper body away from her to look at her properly.

The smile she gives him nearly breaks his heart with the adoration that swells past his ribs, stealing his breath.

"If this is the result of a few days of separation," she teases, and her eyes are bright with joy, "then perhaps we should be left to our own devices more often."

He shakes his head, his lips stretched over his teeth. "Absolutely not. I spent the greater part of a year obsessed with returning to you; I will not stop now."

She laughs, endearing him so, and he leans forward to kiss her, lingering on the sensation of her soft lips under his.

He pulls away after a moment, albeit unwillingly, and bends until he rests his weight on his ankles. He brings the hamper closer to them, rifling through it until he finds the spare cloth he'd packed.

Penelope's resulting guffaw, loud and boisterous and his, has him laughing along with her. "Apparently, I am not the only one who expected something more than polite conversation," she chortles, and the corners of her eyes twinkle with the tears of her mirth.

He attends to her first, taking the cloth, and he wipes her lower body, drying her inner thighs as he pats at her mound

To stop at merely that takes monumental effort; much as he wishes he could continue, their time is limited, and Colin has a different agenda to attend to.

He wipes his hand on the drier parts of the cloth and is about to clean after himself when Pen stops him.

"Let me," she smiles, and he relinquishes the fabric to her.

She pats at his skin, careful not to touch his softening length.

Her caution does little to quell his lust, however, and she smirks at him when he twitches against her.

Embarrassed, he takes the cloth from her quickly, tucking himself away as best as he can.

Before Pen can tempt him any further, he redirects her focus, pulling the hamper forward. He digs his hand into the side pocket of the basket, and when his hand curls around a bundled cloth, he takes it.

She looks up at him curiously.

He clears his throat as he fights the warmth that makes itself known at the tips of his ears. "Perhaps you may want to sit up for this, Pen," he suggests, uncharacteristically shy.

Her eyes widen as they drift to the bundle in his hands. "Oh."

A breath passes between them.

"Oh, it is really happening," she breathes.

She sits up abruptly, accidentally knocking their heads together.

Colin's lips bash against his teeth in a stinging blow. "Ow, Pen, are you—"

She starts crying, then, and he panics. "Pen, love—"

"Yes," she tells him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I have not even asked," he chortles, though his own tears blur his vision. He pushes her form slightly, an action he never thought he would ever do, but one that is necessary as their current situation mandates. "Allow me to ask, Pen. You deserve a proper proposal."

Her chuckle is watery, as are her eyes, and she wipes at her face with the back of her hands.

"You already know what my answer will be," she says, "there is no need for formalities."

"I insist, my love," he croons, shifting his weight.

She tilts her head, looking up at him, precious and lovely and everything he'd risk his life for. "I have had you inside me, Colin," she laughs, "it is too late for propriety, now."

He groans, rolling his eyes, though every bit of him alights with euphoria. "For God's sake, Penelope Featherington, are you going to marry me or not?"

Her resulting laugh, then, becomes his most favourite sound in the world.

She shifts, kneeling before him as well, and loops her arms around his neck, the action a testament to their commitment of ensuring their equality as a couple, now, and wherever Colin imagines the future to take them.

"Yes."

~~~~~~~~

As autumn ends and introduces the next season with wisps of glacial winter breezes—

As Aubrey Hall becomes decorated with hearth fires and hot chocolate—

As the ice kisses soil and the flowers in the gardens become encased in white—

A family reunites.

The eldest breaks into sobs, burying his head into the crook of his wife's neck.

Their second will lose the strength in his legs at the sight of their third, relief stealing his breath, as he frantically wraps his arms around his brother.

The remaining siblings will lump themselves on top of their three older brothers, ignorant of how their impact causes all of them to fall, intentionally disregarding how ice prickles at their skin.

Their mother will search for a woman with bright red hair, whose piercing blue eyes become bloodshot with the tears that she holds back at the sight of her future siblings.

They embrace, a blossomed wallflower and her successor, the warmth that passes between them existing in a mutual fondness for each other.

"Perhaps you would like to greet my bride?" The third oldest will ask, through all the tears and hiccups, eager to divert his siblings' emotional attention.

A beat, then—

A scream.

A gasp.

And all at once—

The red-haired woman is welcomed to the family, tackled to the ground by their youngest as the rest pile on top of her.

Her frantic husband-to-be panics at his family's display of enthusiasm, worried that their combined weight might crush her.

Among the laughter and the excitement of puffed breaths, the woman leans back, relishing in what will be one of her fondest memories.

~~~~~~~~

Benedict's heart stills, for a moment.

"I know you doubt yourself, brother," Colin says from beside him, a hand finding his shoulder and gripping it firmly. "And you must forgive my forwardness at having rudely intruded upon your privacy. But—"

He waves his hand at the display of paintings before them.

"I could not discard these. Not when they so clearly capture the essence of your mind — an intricate beauty emphasised only by such brilliance." A pause. "Your brilliance."

All across the walls of their grand foyer, in place of some of the paintings nostalgically collected by their father, Benedict's canvases are scattered among the great works.

He finds his voice, slowly turning this way and that, his eyes recognising each piece of work he'd created at various stages of his erratic state of mind. "Why?"

Colin's grip on the base of his neck calls for his attention.

He stares into the eyes of his little brother, a man all grown — the boy he'd once protected, now protecting.

"Because there is a special beauty found in all our pain." Colin smiles. "It is called perseverance. An apt way to describe your strongest trait, is it not?"

~~~~~~~~

In the middle of winter, as his bride slumbers, Colin gathers his family, both old and new.

"Family," he greets them, striding into the room.

He settles on a chaise lounge, between Eloise and Portia Featherington. He accepts an offered cup of tea, fighting his blanch when he sips and tastes that the drink is spiked with liquor.

Across from him, Benedict winks, his blue-grey-green eyes mischievous and playful.

He sets the cup down on the table between them, clearing his throat.

"I have unfinished business to settle with the Duke of Wellington," he announces. "And I should like to invite those of you with similar sentiments to come forward and see that we reach a conclusion we are all satisfied with."

Anthony, ever the voice of reason, shifts in his place beside Benedict and asks, "We are at peace, now, brother. We are reunited, our family and the Featheringtons, after a year and a half of storms that we are lucky to have survived. Why put us all at risk once again and break the calm?"

There is admonishment in his eldest's tone.

Kate, in her place by his other side, rests a hand atop his thigh in warning.

Colin might once have been cowed by his brother's justified criticism; the young man he'd been certainly would have bowed his head in shame and apologised for having stepped out of line.

But he is different, now.

He has seen war.

He has been at war.

And he has seen what it does to his most beloved.

Her screams at night, when he'd held her all those months ago, are the reason why Colin thirsts for retribution.

Her trembling hands, when they reach for his, at moments when she forgets where she is and requires an anchor to her present — they are the fuel to the blaze within him that wishes to incinerate the ones who have caused her such trauma.

Her eyes, sometimes distanced and sometimes lost, recalling memories that he is helpless to prevent; they root his resolve.

Colin stares right at Anthony with vengeance colouring his expression dark, allowing his bitterness to pull his brows together, as his shoulders straighten in defence.

"Because he'd hurt her." He pauses, then corrects himself. "Because he still does, with every moment that he is allowed to walk free from the damage he caused. That is an affront that I cannot forgive. That I will not pardon."

His older brother remains unconvinced.

So, Colin leans forward and tilts his head towards Kate. "If the situation were reversed, and Kate had been compromised, would you not move heaven and earth, and call upon hell, to bring those who'd wronged her to justice?"

Anthony's expression clears. "I see."

"I will join you," Portia announces, her voice breaking through the tension that winds itself around each occupant of the room, growing tighter and tighter with every passing moment. "The man imprisoned my family and nearly had my daughter murdered—"

Colin shudders at the memory.

"— and that, too, is a provocation that I intend to respond with the full wrath of a mother, scorned."

Colin hears a fluttering of cloths, then feels a warm hand glide over the expanse of his shoulders.

His mother reaches for Portia's own hand. "May he live in fear," she looks at Pen's Mama, their relationship kindred and built upon their matriarchal bonds, "for the fury of two Mamas whose nests he wrongfully intruded upon."

She looks at Colin, nodding once.

"I'll have you know that I had planned to use Whistledown to spread the rumours about him," Eloise leans onto his side. "Pen may want to give up on Whistledown, but I do not. Anyone who wishes me to stop will need to pry my quill from my dead fingers," and his sister's smile bleeds into something more sinister. "It is a heady feeling, this power. To know that your words mean something, to someone. To know that opinions are formed simply because you willed them to. I wish to use Whistledown's influence for the betterment of those who are voiceless, just as I know Pen had always intended."

He nudges her. "How brave of you, sister. One might even call it knightly."

She beams.

Their mother huffs a laugh, and perches beside Eloise, wrapping an arm around her.

Kate clears her throat, calling his attention, and he watches as she taps at Anthony's thigh, as though to warn him.

She tells him, "I know I am new, and I may not be at all aware of the intricacies that fell upon the family in light of the duke's atrocities, but I have a duty as viscountess to protect my family. And, where my protection lapses, it is my responsibility to ensure I exact revenge on those who have challenged us and expected our failure."

Anthony's hand wraps around hers, and the two exchange a prolonged silent conversation.

Finally, their eldest's shoulders fall back in acceptance, and he refocuses onto Colin. "My viscountess has spoken; I shall support you, brother, as I intend to support my newest sister."

He tilts his head up, a gesture that is meant to point at Penelope's room.

The smile that releases itself from him is equal parts relieved and triumphant.

Benedict's fingers tap against the top of his knee, his nervousness evident. He reaches over to Colin's cup of tea, snatching it from its saucer, and downs the beverage without a flinch.

He places the empty cup back on the table, his eyes downcast.

Then, he sighs.

When he looks up, his eyes are nearly a mirror of Colin's — hostile and malignant, a storm that brews unforgivingly.

"I have been ignorant of my family's qualms for far too long," he begins, wiping the remnants of his drink from the corners of his lips. "I will not be idle anymore. Have me where you need me, brother, and I will do my duty. To you, and to our family." He looks at Portia. "All our families."

Colin's smile stretches, his bloodlust roaring in his ears at the victory.

"Well, then," and he leans his elbows into his knees, "let us begin."

~~~~~~~~

Here is what history remembers:

The Duke of Wellington becomes an enemy of the people of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, when he eventually ascends his rank and assumes the role of Prime Minister.

The working class saw his stubborn resistance to the underrepresentation of the new industrial towns and detested the implied entitlement that the man embodied.

His government called him a hypocrite — for as much as Napoleon had been a tyrannical authoritarian, the Duke of Wellington appeared to have adopted the little corporal's beliefs.

The man's immovable, misguided fallacy becomes his downfall, and history remembers how the people resented the Duke of Wellington when they — the very same persons who he governed — called for a change that he refused to answer.

Here is what history forgets:

There is no smoke without fire.

There is no fire without a spark.

And there is no spark without someone to strike it.

It starts from whispers, from household to household.

It ebbs in the rising costs of goods and materials that trickle from the policies enacted.

It culminates in the papers, where columns of all subject matters disavow the Duke of Wellington.

History remembers, and history forgets.

History forgets a man's war efforts.

Instead, history remembers his downfall.

In front of texts that regale his many victories, there are entire bodies of work that tarnish his reputation.

History eventually brings shame upon the duke's family for generations to come, for his failure at leading his country when appointed its Prime Minister.

~~~~~~~~

"Why did you do it?" Penelope will ask of Colin, several decades later, her withered hand around his, as they sit on their porch.

They watch their grandchildren play in the fields of Aubrey Hall.

"What do you mean?" Is her husband's innocent response.

She watches him, grey and old and bundled in clothes she's knitted for him.

Even in their age, even as his hair has turned white and thin, even as freckles dot his face and his once chiseled bones sag with the years they've spent bearing his youth—

She is still every bit his.

She smiles, settling into her chair. "It is no matter."

The children laugh, and they return their attention to their young ones, fulfilment binding their hands together in an unbreakable hold.

~~~~~~~~

In the spring after the Bridgertons reunite, Penelope walks into the Featherington's drawing room, her heart pounding.

Queen Charlotte's striking figure occupies the chaise that fronts the windows of the room. Her robust attire is nearly an atrocious sight against the more modest tones of the furniture that surrounds her.

She looks at Varley. "You may take your leave, thank you."

"Shall I send for Mister Bridgerton?" Her maid asks, the question loud and piercing — intentional in its severity.

Penelope nods. "Yes, please."

Her maid bows, once towards her, and another towards the Queen.

She leaves, closing the door behind her with a compelling finality.

"Your Majesty," she greets the woman, curtsying as low as she can, hiding her shaking hands beneath her skirts.

"Miss Featherington."

She rises, her chin raised; insolence not quite giving way to the confidence she attempts to bolster herself with.

"An honour it is, for the Queen of England to visit my meagre household." She steps towards the settee in front of the Queen, sitting primly across from her. "I should hope the tea is to your liking."

"It is well enough." The monarch nods. "But I shall not waste our time on such simple topics. You have conversed with me before — you are aware that I favour explicit transparency over flowery words that derives nothing."

Penelope tilts her head towards Lady Danbury. "Then I shall not spare you such strife, Your Majesty. I see you brought your counsel — am I to assume she is here to bargain on your behalf?"

The Queen's smile is disarming. "Clever girl; always a step ahead." She gestures towards Lady Danbury. "We are here to ensure we close all open doors — to put periods to sentences that have otherwise been left hanging. And—"

She shifts, clasping her hands on her lap. "— we are here to present an offer."

"And if I refuse?" Penelope fights the urge to clench her fists. "Will you contemplate my beheading, as you once did, nearly a lifetime ago?"

The Queen takes a deep breath.

Lady Danbury opens her mouth, attempting to speak, but is quickly silenced by the royal. "Allow me," she interrupts the dowager.

"I shall contemplate no such thing." The Queen shakes her head slowly. "Fear leads to oversight and irrationality — I know this, now. I had feared your influence; behind your barbs and beyond your pseudonym, the people believed in you. As did I."

"I have no interest in games," Penelope exhales, suddenly exhausted. She sighs, looking at Lady Danbury. "I did what was needed to survive. I should like to live now, with my lover and my family. What more do you need from me?"

"Company," the dowager interjects, before the Queen can silence her once again. "The weight of the crown is heavy, and while our Queen cannot ask for assistance to bear its burden, she is afforded distractions."

Penelope nearly bursts, incensed by the insinuation. She hisses through her clenched teeth, "I am not a toy."

"I did not say you were one, Miss Featherington," the dowager cajoles, her tone gentle and unimposing. "Merely, we are here, swallowing pride and past mistakes, to exercise humility. We are here, Penelope," and the use of her given name is an oddity that comes from the respectable woman's mouth, "to invite you to our Queen's counsel."

She blinks.

Then—

Laughter bursts from within her, absurdity formed from her disbelief seeping through her expression and cascading into uncontrollable guffaws.

"You—" she gasps, holding onto her stomach. "You once nearly killed me, and now you seek my counsel?" She shakes her head. "Pardon me, Your Majesty, Lady Danbury, but surely you understand just how ludicrous this is?"

Penelope was once a little bird.

She is a dragon, now.

And with the strength of all that she's learnt, of all the burns she's endured, she asks them, "What makes you think I would be willing to provide my counsel, when Your Majesty," she looks at the Queen, "once threatened to have me killed?"

The monarch's smile is sad, a glimpse of the woman that shies behind the glamour her crown presents. "I had to try. The last bird who I employed became a dear friend. As I thought you might be, as well." She glances at Lady Danbury. "Life within the palace walls is abysmal; snakes often sink their fangs into the necks of those they believe may bolster their standings. I had hoped you might teach me how best to spread my wings."

Penelope purses her lips, considering.

The Queen rises, understanding her apprehension. "I am but a letter away," she nods at her, "should you be interested."

She leaves in a flurry of skirts and grandeaur earned through a lifetime of dramatic departures.

Penelope watches as the monarch walks through the doors, her back straight despite the rejection.

Lady Danbury lingers, waiting until the Queen's presence no longer hovers above them.

She limps to Penelope, her cane loud against the wood. Leaning her weight onto her staff, the smile she sends her is reassuring. "She approached me for counsel, when she first contemplated your punishment, and when she did, I saw a curious girl, peeking from the bannisters that hides her.

"I told her to spare you, to instead offer employment. And had she sought my advice sooner; the Prince Regent might not have had the chance to present such an abominable offer to you.

"Our Queen . . . I do not condone all that she has done. It takes infinite patience, and empathy, to understand that her callousness is but a front. She is bounded by her duty to the Crown, to her husband, to ensure that no harm falls upon it — no matter how much she admires the person perpetuating its impairment."

Penelope takes a deep breath. "It does not negate what she did."

"Ah, but we are all infallible, are we not?"

The dowager holds her gaze.

She continues, "I assisted you, Miss Featherington, not because I was loyal to my friend Violet, as you have been with her daughter, and her son. Your wit, your intelligence — do not waste it on pettiness."

Lady Danbury gestures to herself. "I am a relic of a time passed, surviving against the odds that once stacked against me. You are the present, a culmination of circumstances that interconnects the past and the future. And when the seasons change, and a new head bears the crown, another bird shall take its flight. Ask me, Miss Featherington, why I assisted you with the game you so wisely crafted."

"Why did you do so, Lady Danbury?"

"So that those who inevitably comes after you may take inspiration from your story." She stretches her arm, her hand caressing the apple of her left cheek. "And from your story, theirs shall be born."

~~~~~~~~

It takes years, before a decision is made.

But when eventuality marries the changing tides of time demanded from a shift in societal expectations, Penelope does what she does best.

She writes.

~~~~~~~~

She skips into the back gardens of her childhood home, shrouded in the darkness, illuminated by the moonlight and a galaxy of stars that performs a dance across the cloudless sky.

It is not even a minute that she wanders barefoot, the cool summer's air kissing her bare skin, when familiar arms wrap around her waist.

They pull her towards a muscular chest, the scent of cinnamon and smoked leather generous amongst the dew from the light afternoon shower.

"You should be more careful about wandering alone at night," a smooth voice croons, "lest you find yourself in such compromising circumstances."

She giggles, her hands rubbing the arms that tighten around her waist, as the man's head nuzzles her neck affectionately. "Says the mastermind who framed such encounters."

"Pardon me?" He mocks, gasping, as his lips trace a path between her chin and temple. "Might you repeat what you said — mastermind, I believe it was?"

His fingers find purchase in the space between her waist and ribs, tickling her. She laughs loudly, then quickly clasps her hands over her mouth, frightened at the notion that her unhindered chortle might have woken her slumbering Mama.

She slaps at his arms lightly, after the quietness of the night is still maintained. "You—" she accuses, twisting in his grip to face him.

Colin's face in the sunlight is handsome, chiseled and sun kissed. In tones of summer and spring, sometimes, she can't quite believe her love is reciprocated by one whose features are the very description of sonnets from acclaimed writers.

Colin in the moonlight, however—

He is devastating.

He leans his forehead on hers, his eyes like molten sapphire in the darkness. "What does it matter, Pen," he says, his nose brushing against hers, "when tomorrow morning, we shall be wedded."

"This is considered taboo," she tells him, her hands framing his face, stroking his cheeks, enjoying the scratch of his unshaven jaw. "For a bride and a groom to see each other before their wedding — my poor Mama may expire from the scandal if she has not already from all the nerves tomorrow will bring."

"And if fate tests us again," Colin presses a kiss to the tip of her nose, "we shall persist. I have not spent a day without seeing you at least once since we reunited in Portugal. It is a streak I am loathed to break."

She presses her face to his right cheek, curling her arms around his neck. "You bribed Varley, did you?"

"I most certainly did." He nods, then bends his knees and lifts her. "She must have amassed a small fortune by now, from my coin alone."

Under the stars and with the moonlight as their guide, he twirls her gently, his excitement catching as she buries her pleased laughter in the fabric of his nightshirt.

They stay, swaying under the cover of night, as their future rests itself on her empty ring finger, soon to host evidence of a lifetime's commitment.

Colin lifts her again, this time his twirl slower.

When he sets her down, he pulls away slightly, his hand curling around her chin. His thumb strokes the skin there, his eyes on her lips, and no matter the intimacy they've shared before, Penelope's heart clenches at his closeness.

He leans in, his lips pressing to hers, sweet and everything she's dreamt of — from her days as an infatuated girl and up until she's grown as a woman, there is nothing like his offered affection.

She melts into his embrace, parting her lips, besotted and utterly in love with the man before her.

Colin shifts, putting some distance between them.

He leans his forehead against her again, his breath now harsher as he clenches his jaw, clearly battling the lust that flares between them.

He sighs, and in the short space between their faces, he whispers, "I brought you a present."

She kisses the corner of his lips. "You did not have to, but I am sure I will love it all the same."

He pulls away from her and reaches into his pockets.

Then, he presses a letter into her hands.

Her breath catches.

"You kept this?" She gasps, her heart in her throat, as tears form, blurring her vision. Her fingers trace the handwriting on the letter's address, familiar and beloved and the very reason why she'd kept her sanity in the months she had been adrift in a sea of uncertainty.

Colin shrugs, casual and a little shy, every bit her precious, precious person. "You once said you treasured it. And if something is treasured, must it not be preserved?"

She unfolds the parchment.

It is her most cherished item, nearly forgotten in the tumult that ensued after their reunion.

It represents the memories of her childhood, tethered with possibilities.

It is her hopes, and dreams—

Her ambition, stated in plain words, by the only person in the world who she looked at, who looked back, and saw in her more.

~~~~~~~~

Dear Penelope,

When this letter reaches you, I hope that you are not quite so startled at my audacious attempt at contravening what is dictated as acceptable decorum between a gentleman and a lady.

I simply could not contain my excitement.

My quill has never been so eager to harmonise with the parchments I, fortunately, had the foresight of procuring prior to my boarding of the travelling ship that shall sail into Grecian waters.

And should the auspicious weather continue its gentle greeting of my first travels abroad, I expect to set my eager first steps atop foreign soils as early as a week after I sign off on this letter.

It is odd — this excitement that bubbles within me. Sometimes, it is almost difficult to breathe through the exhilaration that the ocean blesses me with.

The wind, foremost, is a delicious sensation when it whips my hair away from my face.

The salt in the air is an acquired taste, but one that I do not think I can exist without anymore.

The crashing waves that demand a meeting with the bow of the ship has become an intricate symphony to my ears, a sound so delicate that I am almost mollified at how quickly it can surge into a devastating thunder.

But it is the colour of the ocean, when the ship pulls into shallow waters, that will forever be a cherished memory.

For their cerulean shade reminds me of your eyes.

It is what inspired me to write this letter — the first of many, should you allow it.

Somehow, as I gazed into the brilliant crystalline waters, enthralling as it is intriguing, my mind always returns to you.

Perhaps, in another life, it is possible that such an invaluable visual can be experienced by you. And until that day arrives, I shall hope that your dreams will carry with them these memories that I hold dear, for they could not exist if you had not persisted in reminding me of what I truly longed for.

From you, I have learned that freedom is not in the constraints of adhering to societal expectations.

Freedom is believing that you are meant for a purpose that is found when you know where to place your faith.

Do you remember, Pen, all those years ago as we sat underneath the willow tree, El asleep in your lap as I attempted a farcical front of maturity?

You said you wished to catch fragments of the sky that fall; you wished to catch stars.

Aboard the ship, you must know, I spend my nights staring into the sky.

I cannot catch stars for you Pen, but I certainly can count and plot them.

Drawn below is an endeavour to capture the stars as well as I can vision them; it is a simple task, and I am aided by candlelight and the strong moon. For every star I count that places itself between you and me, I shall stow my hopes and dreams in them that you might one day find your ambition between the distance of each one.

And, when you find it, I should hope that I will be fortuitously privileged to be by your side to witness how you will pick up the fragments of sky that were once stars and, instead of remembering how they once shone—

Well, I should hope that you will shine in their place.

Yours, Always,

Colin

~~~~~~~~

"I believe there is an item in our list that we have yet to fulfil." Colin's voice is as delicate as her heartstrings, wrapped tenaciously around the fact that he loves her so, more than she's able to comprehend. "And as our impending nuptials creep upon us at dawn, I should like to fulfil it, now, if you permit me to."

She looks up at him as his tender hands wipe away the tears that stream down her cheeks.

"Dance with me, Miss Featherington?" He steps a pace away and offers a hand.

Penelope's breath leaves her.

She takes his hand, takes a step towards him, and under a million stars, under the full light of the moon—

Finally, she shines.

The end