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“Were you ever punished as a child?”
Colin hadn’t meant to hit her.
Eloise had been pestering him all morning, tugging at his sleeve, poking at his ribs when he ignored her. His brothers were far older and left him out often, and he was closer in age with his sisters, though he had no interest in playing dress-up or pretend families. Neither did Eloise, hence why she bothered him so often.
“You’re being so boring, Colin! Come play with me,” she whined, again and again, until something inside him snapped.
“Leave me alone!” He shoved her. Not hard, at least that was not his intention. How was he to know that she’d stumble backwards, lose her footing, and graze her knee?
Then, a voice—calm, steady, and unmistakable.
“Colin?”
Colin’s stomach clenched.
His father stood in the doorway, his gaze even but heavy with something Colin had never been on the receiving end of before.
Disappointment.
Eloise ran, still blubbering with tears, but Colin stayed frozen, heat creeping up his neck. He hadn’t meant to do it. It was just a shove.
His father said nothing at first, only gestured for Colin to follow.
Colin’s legs felt leaden as he trailed behind him to the stables. The scent of hay filled the air, but it did nothing to settle the nervous knot in his stomach.
His father turned to face him, his expression unreadable. “What have I always taught you, Colin? A man does not raise a hand to those smaller than him.”
Colin’s throat tightened. “She was bothering me.”
“That is no excuse to hit your sister.”
The anger in his father's voice was quiet and unwavering, rather than loud and aggressive. Somehow that was worse.
Then, his father reached for the riding crop.
Colin’s breath hitched. His father had never hit him before. He’d hit Anthony before, and Benedict certainly, but not him. Never him. He opened his mouth, ready to promise he wouldn’t do it again, that he was sorry, that it wasn’t his fault, that—
The first lash came down.
Sharp. Stinging. Not cruel, not brutal—but enough.
Colin’s eyes burned, but he refused to let the tears fall.
“The lesson you learn today,” his father said, voice measured as he set the crop aside, “is that you do not raise your hand against a girl or woman. Never. Understood?” Colin clenched his jaw to keep from crying as he attempted a nod. His father sighed, running a hand down his face, and when he looked at Colin again, his expression had softened. “Go on, your mother will be looking for you,” he said, nodding toward the house. “I am going to take a walk with your sister.”
Colin hesitated, something thick and unfamiliar pressing against his ribs. He wanted to say something—what?—but the words wouldn’t come.
So he just nodded, turned on his heel, and walked away.
That was the last time Colin ever saw his father.
An hour later, the screaming started.
He didn’t see his father’s body. Only the chaos, the horror, the doctors shaking their heads. The wails of his mother, the tears of his siblings. And all Colin could do was listen, his breath shallow. If I hadn’t pushed Eloise, he wouldn’t have taken her on that walk.
If I had just—
If I—
He dug his nails into his palms and swallowed the sobs down until they turned into silence.
An hour later, it was Mrs Wilson, the housekeeper, who found him curled up beneath his bed, his face blotchy from crying.
“Come now, Master Colin,” she said gently, crouching down before him. “All your siblings are having dinner. You should come and eat something.”
Colin shook his head fiercely, pressing his face into his arms. “I don’t want dinner,” he mumbled, voice thick.
She attempted a joke. “It’s not like you to turn down food, now—”
“I want—” He hiccupped. “I want my mum.”
Mrs Wilson softened her voice further, reaching forward to caress his curls. “Your mother isn’t feeling well at the moment, darling. But she loves you very much.”
Colin sniffled. “I want Anthony,” he whispered.
Mrs Wilson hesitated. She could see the way Colin was shaking, could hear the way his breath hitched with the effort of holding back more tears.
“He’s… preoccupied,” she said carefully. “Come out from there, love. It’s all right.”
“It’s not,” Colin croaked, his small body trembling. His voice broke as he rasped, “It’s all my fault.”
Mrs Wilson’s breath caught. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, reaching out again, this time managing to stroke his cheek. “No, no, darling, none of this is your fault.”
But Colin just squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could shut out the world. “It is,” he whispered. “If I hadn’t—” His breath stuttered. “If I hadn’t hit Eloise, he wouldn’t have taken her outside. He wouldn’t have—”
A sob broke free from his throat, raw and hurting.
Mrs Wilson felt her own eyes sting. “Colin,” she said firmly, “your father loved you. And nothing you did or didn’t do could have changed what happened.”
Colin didn’t answer. He only curled in on himself tighter, as if trying to make himself small enough to disappear.
Mrs Wilson sat there for a long moment, her hand still stroking his hair, waiting for the storm of his grief to quiet, for him to feel safe enough to come out. He didn’t attend dinner, but she left a full plate by his door, with extra chicken (which she knew was his favourite). He wolfed it down, despite himself.
***
Three days had past, and Colin hesitated outside his mother’s door, clutching the small napkin full of lemon drops he’d saved to enjoy on his own. The hallway felt too quiet, too heavy, like the whole house was holding its breath. He had never known a world where his mother wasn’t bustling about, where her laughter didn’t warm every room she entered. She hadn’t even left her chambers since his father’s death.
He knocked lightly, but there was no answer. He tried again. Still nothing.
Slowly, he pushed the door open and peeked inside. The curtains were drawn, casting long shadows across the room. His mother lay curled on her side, facing away from him.
Colin swallowed, his throat tight. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. He just knew he wanted her.
Without a word, he climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle her too much. He lay down beside her, small and warm against her back. For a long time, he just listened to her breathing, slow and uneven.
From his pocket, he pulled out the lemon drops. They’d been a birthday present from Mrs Wilson—no one else had remembered.
Carefully, he unwrapped one and placed it beside her hand.
“I saved the best ones for you,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath.
His mother didn’t move. For a moment, he thought she hadn’t heard him. But then, her fingers twitched, brushing against the sweets. Slowly, she picked it up, turning it over in her palm.
Colin held his breath.
And then, she reached back and placed a hand over his.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t turn to look at him. But she held on.
Colin squeezed her hand, his eyes stinging, and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. He didn’t need her to say anything.
She was still here. And for now, that was enough. Happy birthday.
***
The study felt too big, too cold. Anthony stood behind their father’s desk—his desk now—his expression unreadable as he finished speaking.
“It’s done, Colin. You leave in two weeks.”
Colin shook his head violently, his breath coming fast. “No. No, I’m not going.”
Anthony’s jaw tightened. “You are.”
“No!” His voice cracked, his chest heaving. “I don’t want to go, I don’t—” His hands curled into fists. “You can’t make me!”
Anthony exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Colin—”
“I won’t leave Mama! I don’t want to go! We all need to be together!” His words tumbled out, desperate, frantic.
Anthony’s expression flickered, something pained and weary passing over his face before it hardened again. “Colin, this has been arranged for months. You cannot miss the—”
“I don’t care!” Colin shouted, and before he even realised what he was doing, he lunged forward, shoving Anthony with all his strength. It barely made the older boy stumble, but Anthony winced, his mouth pressing into a thin line.
“You think I want this?” he said, his voice nearly breaking. “You think I want to send my little brother away?”
Colin’s vision blurred with tears. “Then don’t,” he whispered. The familiar, comforting presence of his eldest brother, Anthony, who had always been there, who had always protected him, was changing. Anthony was no longer just his eldest brother, the one who took care of him when he was little, the one who made him laugh. He was a Viscount, now.
Anthony sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going, Colin.” His voice was gentler now, but no less firm. “You need structure. Routine. Eton will give you that.”
Colin let out a choked sob. “I’ll be all alone.”
Anthony hesitated just a second too long.
Colin’s chest ached, the weight of it crushing. He backed away, shaking his head. “You don’t care,” he said, voice thick. “None of you care. You’re a terrible brother, and you’ll make an even more terrible Viscount! You’re not Papa, and you never will be!”
Anthony’s face tightened, his mouth opening like he might argue, but Colin turned and ran, his sobs echoing through the hallway as he fled.
On the day he was to leave for Eton, the carriage stood waiting in their long driveway and the horses shuffled impatiently, their breath misting in the crisp morning air.
His siblings had gathered to say goodbye. Eloise, standing beside Benedict, who held Gregory, scowled at the carriage like she could banish it with sheer force of will. Francesca and Daphne hovered nearby, shifting uncomfortably. Even little Hyacinth, cradled in the nursemaid’s arms, gurgled softly, blissfully unaware. Everyone looked so solemn, he couldn’t bear it.
His mother hadn’t come. He’d known she wouldn’t, but it still hurt. She barely left her room these days. Barely spoke. He knew she was grieving, he was too, but all he wanted was for her to look at him and say she’d miss him. That she didn’t want him to go either.
Anthony stood closest, his expression carefully composed. “Write to us, okay?” he said. “And I’ll come and visit when I can.”
Colin swallowed hard but didn’t speak.
Daphne stepped forward, her brow creased in concern. “Colin—”
He took a step back. If he let her say something kind, he might break.
“Come on, let’s go,” Anthony said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder, steering him forward. Colin jerked away.
“No.” His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care. “I want to go on my own.”
Anthony looked affronted. “Colin—”
“I said I want to go on my own!” His fists clenched at his sides. His throat burned. “Just go back inside. I don’t want you here.”
A heavy silence settled over the group.
Anthony hesitated, his eyes searching Colin’s face, but Colin couldn’t meet his gaze. He couldn’t look at his brother and see the man he was being forced to be instead. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
“Colin…” Anthony’s voice cracked, just a little, but Colin couldn’t let his guard down again. Anthony was trying to be his Viscount, and his father, and everything in between—but Colin just missed his elder brother.
With a defeated sigh, Anthony turned away and walked back toward the house, and Colin felt his chest tighten. One by one, the others followed.
Eloise hesitated the longest. “I still think it’s stupid,” she muttered. Then, softer, “I’m sorry they’re making you go.”
Colin nodded. And then she was gone, too.
The coachman cleared his throat. “Master Bridgerton?”
Colin climbed into the carriage without another word.
The wheels creaked forward. He stared out the window as home disappeared behind him. No one had even waved.
He was glad.
If they had, he might not have been able to stop himself from jumping out and running straight back home.
***
The months blurred. His mother was pregnant. His father was dead. Colin was thirteen, and everything was changing.
Hyacinth was born in June. And in August, Colin packed his things and was sent away.
Eton was not a place for grieving boys.
Eton was a place where boys became men. Where there were rules, and lessons, and discipline. Flogging Fridays, they called it, like a joke. Like tradition. The younger boys whispered about it in hushed voices, their faces pale, their hands wrung together.
Colin sat stiffly at the edge of his bed in the cold, dimly lit boarding room. The walls were lined with wooden panels, their colour a muted brown. He could hear the sounds of laughter and shouting echoing from the courtyard, but Colin couldn’t escape his own thoughts.
A month ago, his father had struck him. He could still feel the sting on his back, cutting through his shirt, marking his skin as it had marked his soul.
Colin never got to apologise, never got to tell his father how much he loved him, never got to beg for his forgiveness. Instead, he was left with the gnawing feeling that he was the reason his father had died. If only he hadn’t hurt Eloise. If only he hadn’t been so foolish.
Every night, Colin lay in his narrow bed, his pillow wet with tears.
He missed his mother. He missed Anthony. But most of all, he missed the comfort of home. Eton felt like a foreign place, a prison of sorts. He had always been a sensitive child, and he had never quite fit in with the boys around him, especially having grown up closer in age to his sisters than his elder brothers, who’d leave him out and tease him for being a baby. The boys here were tough, and they saw Colin’s softness as a weakness.
It wasn’t long before the teasing began. It started innocently enough—one of the older boys calling him a “mummy’s boy”, mocking him for still holding on to the shawl he’d taken from his mother’s room when he went to say goodbye the evening before he left, and received no response. It had been a comfort, a small piece of home that he clung to when everything felt overwhelming. He had kept it hidden in his bag, but now, in the cold and lonely confines of Eton, it was the only thing that made him feel safe.
But the other boys didn’t understand. They didn’t care. To them, he was just another soft, spoiled Mayfair boy who couldn’t handle the rigours of their world, an easy target.
One morning, Colin reached into his bag for his mother’s shawl, only to find it in tatters, the fabric shredded.
The laughter echoed in his ears as they mocked him, calling him a baby, a soft, pampered child. Colin’s face flushed with humiliation, and his heart sank in his chest as he tried to hold back the tears. He couldn’t show them weakness—not again.
In class, they continued their barrage of mockery, wearing him down, bit by bit. Colin tried to ignore it, but the words were like daggers, each one cutting deeper, until he couldn’t take it anymore.
When the headmaster entered the room, a silence fell over the boys, but Colin could feel the eyes on him. The headmaster, apparently also seeing Colin as the easy target, called him up to the front. His heart raced as he stood, his knees shaking beneath him. He could feel the eyes of the other boys burning into his back.
“Colin Bridgerton,” the headmaster’s voice boomed. “I see you’re being disruptive, causing trouble for your classmates. And seeing as I taught your brother, Benedict, I find that rather easy to believe. It’s time you learned some discipline.”
The whip was held out before him, and Colin’s body went rigid with fear. His mind raced back to the lash of his father’s horsewhip, the sting, the guilt. The helplessness.
“No, no, no,” he whispered, his voice shaking, but it was too late. The whip came down.
The pain was far, far worse, and as the headmaster continued to administer the punishment, Colin’s body shook uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he could feel the pressure building in his chest, the way it did when he was drowning in grief. The other boys watched, some snickering, others awkwardly glancing away.
Colin collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, his body trembling uncontrollably. His tears fell, not just from the pain of the punishment, but from the overwhelming burden of grief and fear that he couldn’t carry any longer.
“Please, please, please,” he whispered through his sobs, but no one was listening. They never would.
***
When Christmas came around, and Colin was granted three weeks of reprieve, it should have been a time of joy.
He didn’t even bother with his siblings when he arrived, not even with Anthony, who had been waiting eagerly by the door. Colin could barely make eye contact with him, let alone exchange pleasantries. The weight of everything pressed down on his chest like a physical thing.
“I’ll see you at dinner, Colin!” Daphne called cheerfully, but he barely heard her. He simply nodded and walked past her, his head low, making his way up the grand staircase and straight to his room.
Once the door was closed behind him, Colin let out a shaky breath and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. He wanted to scream, to cry, to let it all out—but he didn’t. He hadn’t allowed himself to do that in months, and he couldn’t start now.
Outside the door, he could hear the usual hustle of the household, but all of it felt so far away. Some of the home’s warmth had resumed in his absence, as if everyone had moved on without him, grown from their pain whilst he was still there, at the beginning, suffering.
It wasn’t long before there was a soft knock on his door.
“Colin?” Anthony’s voice called from the other side. There was hesitation in it, unlike the confident, authoritative tone he’d adopted as the head of the family.
Colin sat up, wiping his eyes quickly. “I’m fine,” he called back, though his voice trembled. “I just want to be alone.”
There was a pause. “I know it’s been hard,” Anthony said softly, the door still closed between them. “But I’m here, Colin. I’m your brother. Please talk to me.”
Colin swallowed hard. The walls inside him were crumbling.
He sat at the edge of his bed, his legs drawn up to his chest, his head buried in his hands as Anthony quietly entered the room and sat beside him. Despite everything, despite what Colin wished to tell himself, Anthony’s presence was still a familiar comfort.
Anthony didn't say anything at first. He just sat, watching his younger brother, waiting for him to speak when he was ready.
"I never wanted another dad," Colin whispered. "I just wanted my older brother back. I didn’t want you to change."
Anthony’s throat tightened at hearing Colin’s words. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it again, unsure of what to say.
Colin’s voice wavered as he continued. "I was so lonely at Eton. I was terrified all the time. I didn’t know how to make friends, and I didn’t know how to fit in. And I know you and Benedict always joke around that I’m too soft and too much of a baby but…I don’t know, I didn’t think I’d have to grow up so soon."
Anthony reached over, resting a hand gently on Colin’s shoulder, but Colin pulled back slightly, shaking his head as if he couldn’t let himself find comfort just yet.
"I know you always tease me about being soft," Colin continued, his voice breaking, “but I want to be strong," He paused, his lips trembling as the tears he had been holding in finally began to fall. "I miss Papa, and I miss Mama, too. And I just…feel like everyone’s moved on without me.”
Anthony felt a wave of guilt crash over him, the sharp sting of Colin’s words cutting deeper than he expected.
"I’m sorry," Anthony finally said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I know I’ve been hard on you, Colin. But I don’t know what I’m doing either. I was thrust into this position as Viscount, and I’m just trying to keep it together. I’m scared too, you know? I’m scared I’m not doing enough for you, for all of us."
Colin looked up at him. He hadn't expected to hear Anthony admit fear, not the confident older brother who was supposed to have everything figured out. But hearing it helped somehow.
"I didn’t want to be harsh," Anthony continued, his voice softer now. "I thought that if I pushed you to be tougher, to grow up faster, it would help. But I was wrong. I don’t want to lose you, Colin. I don’t want you to feel like you’re not enough, because you are. You always have been."
Colin sniffled, wiping his face on his sleeve as he looked at his older brother. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "I just want things to go back to how they were."
Anthony nodded, pulling Colin into a hug, wrapping his arms around him tightly as he whispered, "It’s okay. We’ll figure this out together.”
Colin clung to him, his sobs quiet, and for the first time in months, the weight of everything seemed a little lighter somehow.
***
Years passed.
And then one day, the greatest love of his life, his Penelope, asked him, “Were you ever punished as a child?”
Colin smiled.
Charming. Easy. Laughing like the answer didn’t burn its way up his throat.
Colin had never shared the same bond with his father as his older brothers had. Anthony and Benedict were always the ones riding at his side, fencing in the yard, learning the ways of men while Colin was left behind, deemed too young to join. He was closer in age to his sisters and spent more time watching them play with dolls or act out imaginary families, content to sit in his mother’s lap, nibbling on whatever treat she pressed into his hands. He had always been most at ease with his mother, safe in the warmth of her embrace.
So in the wake of his father’s death, as grief weighed heavily on the house, Colin found himself twofold burdened by guilt. Guilt that his sorrow didn’t feel as sharp as Anthony’s or Daphne’s, as raw as Benedict’s or Eloise’s. Guilt that, while he knew he should, he didn’t ache for his father the way he did for his mother’s distant, hollow presence.
The truth was that Colin did not revere his father the way Anthony did, or idolise him as Daphne did. Instead, his memories are shaped by a single, indelible moment—a mistake Edmund never lived long enough to atone for. He loved his father, of course, but the man his siblings worshipped is, to Colin, was a father he never quite belonged to, and a wound that never fully healed.
Colin, who flinched at the sound of a whip cracking against leather.
Colin, whose breath shortened every time he passed the stables, panic rising in his chest when the air becomes thick with the scent of horses.
Colin, who refused to ride anything but the gentlest of steeds, because the image of a raised crop makes his skin prickle.
Colin, who never spoke of his father. Not once. Not ever.
And whenever someone would tell him, fondly, that he reminded them of Edmund, his smile would falter, and his eyes would darken. Was that the plea of a boy in the distance, silently begging for his father to stop, or was that all in his mind?
Penelope had never questioned why he never spoke of his father like his siblings did, but he knew it played on her mind, an unspoken question—until one evening.
They were in the throes of pleasure, lost in each other’s warmth, as they kissed, deeper and deeper, still, until Colin had his wife pressed into the mattress, one hand cupping her soft, full breast, tweaking her rosy nipple, the other trailing down her plush curves, dipping between her thighs. He bit back a moan at how wet she was, how wet she always was, and kissed her again, swallowing her moan as his tongue dipped eagerly.
They’d only been married a month and already they’d explored almost every way you could intimately know another person, her on top, getting each other off at the same time, over the desk, in front of the window. Once he’d even eaten an éclair off of her stomach, licking the cream from her sensitive skin until she was writhing in pleasure, calling his name like a prayer. (That one was a little more depraved than either of them had anticipated).
They were insatiable for one another, and so in love it still took Colin’s breath away at times. How consumed he’d become by another person.
He dipped his fingers between her slick folds and her eyes rolled back as she scratched her nails down his back, an unthinking, fleeting moment of pleasure—
Until the moment shattered like glass.
Colin flinched.
It was instinct, a reaction burned into him, deeper than reason or thought. He pulled away, breath coming faster, his heart slamming against his ribs. The room was dim, the firelight flickering against the walls, but he could see the confusion and concern on her face.
"Colin?" Penelope pushed herself up onto her elbows, her brows furrowed. "What’s wrong?"
“Nothing,” He shook his head too quickly, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Along his spine, where she’d scratched him, the skin of his back prickled with heat. "It’s nothing."
But she wasn’t fooled, of course she wasn’t; she knew him better than anybody.
She reached for him, her hand a whisper against his cheek, grounding him.
"This isn’t the first time you’ve done that, you know," she said softly. "Flinching whenever I touch your back like that. Can I…can I ask why?"
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
How could he explain it? How could he tell her that even after all these years, after all the love and warmth she had given him, there were still ghosts in his skin? That sometimes, when the world was quiet and his guard was down, he could still hear the sharp crack of leather, feel the bite of it across his back?
"Colin," she whispered again, cupping his face, steady and sure. "Please."
He swallowed.
"It was my father," he said, the words tasting foreign in his mouth, the first time he’d spoken of his father in years. "The morning before he died… he horsewhipped me."
She stiffened beside him, her grip tightening ever so slightly.
"What?"
He forced himself to look at her. "I was twelve. I hit Eloise, I…I wasn’t thinking. He saw, and he lost his temper. It was the first and only time he ever did it. But then, later that day, he died."
The silence was thick between them.
Penelope's eyes were wide, her lips parted in something like horror, then trembled.
"Love," Her voice broke, and she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him, pressing her face into his neck. He exhaled shakily, his hands finding their place on her waist, holding her close. For a moment, the ghosts in his skin quieted.
“Is that why you never talk about him?” she asked, gently. “Everyone else speaks of him so fondly, I always wondered…”
"I loved him," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Of course, I loved him, he was my father. But…I never loved him the way I love Mother, the way everyone else loved him. The way I love you."
Penelope was silent beside him, listening.
"He loved me, I know he did, but there was always something between us..." Colin exhaled, shaking his head. "A distance. And I never knew how to cross it. And I’ve always felt so selfish, so sensitive for feeling this way. He was a good father, a good man. And I know the ton has produced far worse—your own father was far worse—but still..."
Soft fingers touched his cheek, guiding his face back to hers. Penelope’s eyes glistened in the dim light, her expression aching with love. "Pain isn’t a competition, Colin," she said. "Just because someone else had it worse doesn’t mean what you went through wasn’t real… or that it didn’t hurt you. But you—you are not him."
He inhaled shakily.
"I don’t want to be," he admitted. "I don’t want to be that kind of father, Pen. I never want Thomas to feel like he has to earn my love, or wonder if I want him. To know that I love him but agonise over whether I—whether I even like him."
Penelope’s fingers threaded through his, squeezing tight. "You won’t be," she said fiercely. "You love so deeply, Colin. You always have. And our son will know that. He will never doubt it for a second."
Colin swallowed, something sharp wedged in his throat.
He turned, pressing his forehead to hers. "I love you," he whispered.
She pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "Always."