Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton had returned to London, just in time for the season.
Penelope Featherington was the first to see him from her bedroom window. It was an ingrained habit of hers: watching the street from afar, yearning for a glimpse of him heading out for a riding session to brighten up her dreary mornings.
He leapt down from his horse with a big grin on his face. Perhaps it was simply a product of time and distance building up her flights of fancy towards him, but it seemed as though each time he returned from his travels he was more masculine and handsome than when he departed. Then he turned and she caught a glimpse of the familiar jovial grin on his face and he was her Colin once more, the same boy she had known all her life.
This year, his hair had grown long, was slightly curling at the ends, and adorably tousled from the horse ride. He sported a tan that spoke of exotic beaches and cliffside trails, and the brown jacket stretched across his broad shoulders gave him the air of a well-travelled adventurer.
Penelope's traitorous heart skipped a beat when his head lifted, for a brief second, in the direction of her window. It probably meant nothing, perhaps a bird had caught his eye. His head snapped back towards Bridgerton House as the Bridgertons–of various sizes and colours and speeds–tumbled out of their front door to greet him, a flurry of cheery greetings and embraces and laughter.
Penelope withdrew slightly, keeping her curtain partially drawn to hide herself from view as Eloise Bridgerton stepped forward, reluctantly allowing herself to be gathered into her brother's strong arms.
Heartsick, she glanced away.
She had not seen Eloise in weeks. Colin for even longer.
With a trembling hand, Penelope drew her curtains closed, and retreated to her bed. It would not do, she told herself, to long for the Bridgertons. A heavy stinging formed behind her eyelids, but she resisted the desire to burst into tears. She would simply end up with a headache to match her heartache, and a blotchy face to boot.
She slapped her face lightly with her own hands, and then lay splayed across her bed for several moments, staring at the bed canopy and willing herself not to cry. She failed utterly in her task.
The two people she loved the most in her life both bore the name Bridgerton. Her dreams of love and happiness and the future had always featured them, and it was not an easy thing to extricate those long held fixtures from what she knew her future would probably become. She did not know how to still the ache in her heart, or how to make that feeling of unbearable loss go away.
After some time spent indulging in tears, Penelope gathered herself together and swiftly wiped her face with a spare handkerchief.
With a bracing breath, she went downstairs to join her family for breakfast, and managed to get through the rest of the day without needing to retire to her room to wallow.
She had come to terms with the fact that Eloise would not forgive her. For weeks after their fight, Penelope waited for something to happen. In the beginning, when she still retained some hope that they would reconcile, she had sent letters to Eloise, explaining herself and apologising. All of those letters had been returned unread. Then, as she began to lose hope, she waited for her secret to reach the Queen's ears. But that did not happen, either. Penelope wondered what Eloise was thinking, and whether her old friend was waiting for the season to begin before exposing her.
Which meant she was stuck in purgatory, tenuously living each day not knowing what would become of her. Deep, deep down she still hoped and prayed: Eloise still cares for me. She has not revealed my identity. She does not wish for my life to be destroyed.
She could not be certain, however, and Eloise refused to speak to her.
Thus was each day fraught with internal turmoil. Penelope felt dread at the thought of the upcoming season, but also knew she could not continue doing nothing about her situation. She had to seize hold of her life somehow and find a way out of this predicament.
Halfway through the off-season, Penelope came up with a plan.
A decently sized injection of funds into their family coffers had come as a surprise last month, courtesy of the stash beneath Penelope's floorboards. Her solicitor was sworn to silence–which was probably unnecessary–he was highly discreet, the sort of man who would carry such secrets to the grave.
Ostensibly, the money came from a distant, hitherto unheard of Great-Aunt Edith. Said aunt had been a widow, who had met Lord Featherington in his childhood once and been rather fond of him. She was saddened to have outlived him, and wished for her modest inheritance to be left to his youngest, unmarried daughter.
Upon receiving said inheritance, Penelope had set up an allowance for Portia, as well as a small amount to be put into Prudence's dowry.
Two days after Colin Bridgerton's return to London, Penelope stood in the front hall of Featherington House and announced, "I am off to the modiste, Mama."
Lady Featherington waved her off, preoccupied with waiting for Prudence's caller.
Portia had reluctantly agreed to let Penelope decide on her own wardrobe this season after her offer to plump up Prudence's dowry–a negotiation she was proud to have won.
She left Grosvenor Square and walked the short distance to Madam Delacroix's shop. It was a sunny day, quite lovely weather in fact, and many of the Ton's elite were already out and about, preparing for the social calls and promenades of the afternoon.
Lady Danbury's ball would be held that very night, and Penelope, too, was preparing for it.
The Modiste was closed at this time of day, usually, but Penelope was a special customer.
Her gowns only needed some finishing touches, and would all be delivered over the course of the next two weeks. Madam Delcroix had ordered the silk and trimmings for Penelope exclusively, promising her that the end product would be worth the expense.
She had not been wrong.
Penelope had never worn dresses so fine in her entire life. The beadwork and embroidery on the ball gowns were so intricate and meticulously stitched they would have not been out of place in the Queen's own wardrobe. Her new walking dresses were smart and fashionable. Moreover, each and every one was perfectly cut to suit Penelope's figure. She stared into the mirror, astonished at how different she looked–like a completely new person.
Genevieve had outdone herself. Penelope told her so, congratulating her on overcoming such a challenge.
"The challenge is not in making you look ravishing, my dear."
Penelope opened her mouth to say that a correction was unnecessary, but the modiste was not finished.
"That is easily done. You possess a pretty face, a substantial bosom, and a complexion that Englishmen love to write poetry about. You need not worry in that regard, Penelope. No, the true task at hand is making others change the way they see you. They have been trained to think of you in one way, and you must challenge that preconception and make them perceive you anew."
Gravely, Penelope nodded. At least she had one friend left in London–although this friend was more of a business partner than a chum.
"I shall return in a moment, my dear. I must receive a delivery at the back of the shop. Do not move, or you will dislodge all my pins."
"I shall remain perfectly still," she promised.
She fully intended to keep said promise, and truly, she did not move, except an itch began to form under her left arm, right between her ribs, and so she had to scratch it.
A shower of pins immediately seemed to pour onto the ground.
"Drat!" she muttered, and hopped off the stool to pick up the pins.
Of course, she pricked herself in the process, and let out a loud, unladylike curse. She was alone–it did not matter.
"Penelope?" said a familiar voice.
Penelope whirled around in shock. That voice was unmistakable. She felt, suddenly, that the room was devoid of air. His effect on her had never changed.
Colin Bridgerton stood there, holding a fistful of ribbons, completely incongruous with his surroundings. The bric-brac of the shop made him look even more masculine than he had seemed two mornings ago from her bedroom window.
Penelope's heart sank.
Unfortunately, six months of separation did not equal six months of forgetfulness. It was as though that time had not passed at all as Colin approached her with a smile upon his face. She was transported back to the past, before she’d had her heart broken. She was just Penelope again, bursting with love and excitement to see him, and he was just Colin, equally as happy to see her.
If only she had not overheard him.
If only she could simply keep adoring him and hanging onto his every word.
Your love is an unrequited fantasy. Indeed. Marina had been right in her appraisal. The fantasy was over.
But here he was, unexpectedly, his presence washing over her like a glowing sunrise. A part of her was bitter that she could not have the joy of basking in his attention without the shadow of her heartbreak tainting their time together.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice a bit shrill. She could not help staring at him and drinking in his appearance. Devastatingly handsome as always, and looking much more like the Colin of her memories: clean-shaven, the scruff from the morning of his arrival completely gone.
"I heard your voice," said Colin, sounding like he always did: friendly, warm, easy. "It seemed like you were hurt, so I came to check. Are you alright?"
She said curtly, "Fine, thank you."
"I am so glad to see you," he said, giving her a charming smile.
"And you, Colin." She considered calling him Mister Bridgerton, but it felt awkward and too confrontational. She had hoped her brief and obligatory responses to his detailed letters would have been enough of a hint–but it seemed Colin had not received the message.
Whatever Colin was about to say was intercepted by Madam Delacroix returning to the fitting room, her horrified gasp making them both cringe.
"Mister Bridgerton! "
The volume of her whisper, ironic in its loudness, made Colin take a small step backwards. "Madame Delacroix!"
"Have you lost your mind? You cannot be here!"
Colin's face dropped, in an almost comical fashion, and if Penelope were not so appalled herself by this development, she might have laughed.
"How did you get in? The shop is closed!"
"The door was open. I just–" He held up the bunch of crumpled ribbons in his fist, "I was looking for a gift, for my sister Hyacinth, you see, and I heard Miss Penelope cry out–"
"Pricked my finger," she interjected warily, showing Madam Delacroix the tiny red dot on her thumb.
"–Quite, so I came in to make sure all was in order."
"Be that as it may, you cannot be so careless! What if Miss Penelope had been undressing? What if the dress was not finished?"
She made a show of clapping her hand over her mouth, absolute horror in her expression.
"I am perfectly proper," said Penelope, shooting Genevieve a hard, meaningful stare. "Mr. Bridgerton was simply acting out of concern for my well-being."
The woman sniffed, and then, faced with both their concerned expressions, gave a relenting shrug. "Very well. As it seems nothing scandalous has happened, we shall not speak of it again. You must go before anyone arrives to witness this little breach of etiquette."
Relief was evident on Colin's face at Genevieve's promise of discretion. Penelope forced a polite smile, and privately wondered why he continued to corner her in unseemly places when he was so frightened of being caught with her.
Ah–because she did not count.
He did not care about seeing her in a state of undress because he did not see her as a woman. Bitterness welled up inside her, and she pushed it back down. She had to stop caring at some point, Penelope told herself sternly. Her world and self-worth could not revolve around Colin Bridgerton's opinion anymore–she would never be anything but a frumpy little girl to him.
"Shall I see you at Lady Danbury's tonight?" he asked.
Penelope managed a nod, feeling quite sorrowful about it. He would ask her to dance, and she would have to dance with him, as no one else would ask and her blasted dance card would have plenty of spots available.
"Fantastic," he said. "I shall see you there!"
Genevieve, one of the sharpest women in all of London, seemed to have taken notice of Penelope's nosediving mood. One did not become a successful modiste in the Ton without a good eye for observation–and she was very good at reading Penelope's emotions in particular.
"Before you go, Mr. Bridgerton–" With a gleam in her eye, Genevieve turned to him, "Since you are here, and I am here, and there is to be no scandal, you must give us your opinion, as a gentleman."
"Certainly," said Colin agreeably.
"She looks absolutely beautiful, does she not? The colour is very similar to the signature Bridgerton blue, but with a touch of silver–very elegant. It makes her hair positively glow and her cheeks look like… ah…"
"Fresh cream," Colin supplied.
"Yes! Peaches and cream."
“Very apt,” said Colin happily, his gaze holding admiration that Penelope wasn't used to. "You look very pretty in that dress, Pen. Well done, Madam Delacroix."
"It is a simple matter to make a dress beautiful when one is designing it for a form as fine as Miss Penelope's."
Genevieve's eyes twinkled in a way that Penelope did not like. The modiste waved her hand in a careless manner, drawing attention to the daring bodice of the gown. Colin's gaze followed the movement. Penelope resisted the urge to cover herself, and let him look.
"Indeed," he said, after a beat. He averted his gaze, clearly uncomfortable–and Penelope wished a hole would simply open up in the ground to swallow her up.
Genevieve winked at her, and went to settle the bill for the ribbons.
"He will be thinking of your fine form for the rest of the day," said the modiste with a laugh, after Colin excused himself and departed. "Gentlemen do not look at bosoms like yours and forget them easily."
Penelope did not think so. Not Colin, not about her.
Genevieve was simply teasing again, speaking about the other sex in a worldly manner that Penelope did not fully understand–she found it rather maddening. She was Lady Whistledown, but her breeding made it impossible for her to ask for enlightenment. It was not certain that the modiste would provide any explanation, anyway. She thought Genevieve rather enjoyed her naivete.
She looked at her own chest, and wondered if gentlemen really found this part of the female anatomy so irresistible. Even her Mama had alluded as such–Penelope remembered the lessons she had given to Prudence last season, instructing her to fan herself in such a way as to highlight her bust to their cousin.
In moments like this, she longed for Eloise’s sardonic rejoinders and frustrated rantings. Thinking of Eloise caused a sharp pain in her heart, so Penelope forced herself to turn her attention back to the task at hand.
“Almost perfect,” said the modiste with satisfaction, adjusting her hem a final time.
Penelope gazed at herself in the mirror. Fresh cream, he had said. Her skin was indeed fair and blemish free, and the blue of the silk complemented her hair very well. Perhaps she could have a little confidence, after all. She would never look like the Edwinas and Daphnes of the world, but she was just a little bit pretty in her new dresses, and there might be a gentleman out there who would take notice.
She simply had to avoid Colin Bridgerton like the plague, and keep well out of his thoughts so that this hypothetical gentleman would not incidentally overhear him telling the entire Ton that she was not worth courting. With that humbling thought, Penelope changed back into her orange walking dress, feeling a bit like Cinderella after midnight. She lingered in the shop for a while, running her hand over bolts of silk and muslin.
When she deemed it safe enough to head out, Penelope handed off the envelope hidden in her reticule, gave the normal instructions, and then bade the modiste her goodbyes.
A groan immediately threatened to leave her as soon as she stepped onto the street. Colin had not gone home as she had hoped.
He was standing at the corner of the street with his footman, who was holding the box of ribbons he had acquired. Why on earth he had come out with a footman for such a small task was a mystery–but Penelope made up her mind to not find out the answer. She also told herself she did not care who Colin Bridgerton was buying ribbons for as it clearly was none of her business.
He told her, anyway, after greeting her with a raised hat–as if she did not see him, tall and insufferably handsome. Her glance at the footman must have clued him in on her irrepressible curiosity–unfortunately, occupational hazards were hard to tamper down.
“I lost Hyacinth's present on the journey home, so I must make it up to her with the most dear ribbons I can find. She is determined to be the girl with the most ribbons in her possession in all of London.”
“A lofty goal, to be sure,” she remarked. "The trip was uneventful otherwise, I hope?"
He offered her his arm. She hesitated, but the footman was there to chaperone, and it was not too far of a distance to walk. He had waited for her, obviously, so she knew it would not be an easy task to shake him off without giving him the cut directly.
With a lot of luck, she would marry soon. Colin would sail away to some far reach of the continent. Their connection–bright with the glowing halo of childhood and burnished by their mutual coming of age–would fade away as the days went by, a brief halcyon memory. The past would become distant. Penelope would find peace and fulfilment in marriage and childbearing. Her future did not have a place for him.
But how could she communicate this fact to him, without alluding to the conversation she had overheard?
“I have heard about your falling out with my sister,” he said after a moment’s silence. “It is most unfortunate. If you do not wish to impart the details, I will not pester you for them.”
She smoothed the bit of her skirt that had been bunched up in her sweaty palms, hoping the creases would not be difficult to remove. A numb sort of relief floated through her–here it is, she thought, the perfect excuse.
"I am never to darken your doorstep again," she quoted, the words still sending a stake through her heart. "For as long as I live."
She could tell Colin wanted to smile at what he considered Eloise's dramatics–he thought this was a silly spat and not the relationship-ending break that it truly was.
"Do not take her words to heart, Pen," said Colin. "Eloise does not speak for our entire family. I assure you, Bridgerton House will always welcome you. In fact I suspect you shall soon mend your friendship and laugh about it at the next ball."
His reassurance rankled–so condescending in its ignorance–but she could not tell him that Eloise would never forgive her.
"Besides, Eloise does not decide who I am friends with–I decide. You are Pen, and we shall always be on good terms."
We are not on good terms, she wanted to say. You said pretty words to me, danced with me, and then turned around and told all your friends that you do not see me as a woman worthy of your attention. You have broken my heart, and I never wish to speak to you again.
Futile words built up inside her with nowhere to go. She did not want him to know that she had heard him say those devastating two sentences. Her pride, bruised and battered, still insisted on maintaining appearances. He did not care for her, so why should he know? Her heartbreak would simply be another reason for Colin Bridgerton to pity her.
She'd had enough of that from him.
"Perhaps," she said, with a shrug. "I shall not dwell on it, do not worry. I will be busy this season."
"Busy? With what?" He peered curiously at her. "Is something happening I do not know of? Your letters were brief, and you did not mention anything–it is not about your cousin, is it? Has he returned?"
Her answer was curt. "No."
"Is there some new difficulty?"
Only that you have returned. "No."
"Do not be afraid to tell me if something is amiss," Colin said, so earnestly that the old Penelope would have positively melted under his beseeching gaze.
She looked at him and wondered why she had not realised it before: Colin wanted to rescue her. He liked playing the champion. Everything he had done last season–it was not about protecting Penelope Featherington. It was about Colin Bridgerton being important and vital and doing dashing, heroic deeds.
"There is nothing amiss," she replied, her voice taking on a forcibly chilled politeness. "I am simply looking forward to the season."
A perplexed, uncertain smile graced his features. "Oh. That's nice."
There was a long, awkward pause. Penelope hated it.
"I would like it if–" She bit off the rest of her sentence, reminding herself to stay civil. I would like you to stay away from me.
"What would you like, Pen?"
He tilted his head and looked at her kindly, almost as if he were speaking to one of his younger siblings–a twinge of anger surfaced all of a sudden, making her feel bold enough to want to knock him off kilter.
"I would like to marry," Penelope said bluntly.
She looked him directly in the eye, daring him to disagree.
"Right." Colin gave a slow nod of the head, clearly taken aback by the declaration. His eyes had gone wide, giving him a look that was reminiscent of cornered prey.
It seemed that the heavens were intent upon tormenting her.
"Not you," she managed to say evenly, although she felt tumultuous waves rocking the boat that was her composure.
"No, of course not," he agreed hastily, embarrassment evident on his face.
Penelope looked away, lest he notice the flash of pain that she feared might show on her face.
“Why do you wish to marry?” he asked.
What was it about Bridgertons and asking this question, she wondered despondently. Why did they think of her as this dreamless, hopeless wallflower despite claiming to be her friend?
“I have always wanted to marry,” she said. “What young lady does not? What other purpose should we yearn for?”
She had told him once that her purpose would set her free. It was still true: marriage would free her from her mother’s control and allow her to escape the lonely prison that was spinsterhood.
They had arrived at Grosvenor square, saving Penelope from having to continue this painful conversation with him.
“Thank you for your escort,” she said, curtseying quickly as good manners required her to. "Good day, Colin."
She felt his eyes boring into the back of her head the entire way up the steps to her front door.