Chapter Text
Through some miraculous combination of patience and kindness, Penelope’s mother had managed to retain Mrs. Kenworthy as a friend, despite all the scandal the Featherington family had been through over the past few years. It was through this one remaining friendship that the Penelope found herself attending a rarity. The other families she had grown up with—before her father had passed—were always invited to each others weddings, so it was only the Featheringtons who found the invitation to be a novelty.
Emma Kenworthy was marrying Charles Cho in a beautiful summer wedding at a country villa. It was magical, really, and Penelope found herself marveling at the decoration every time she turned a corner. Just as Mrs. Kenworthy had continued to show Portia Featherington kindness, Emma had remained a friend to Penelope. They were not close, but she always conversed with Penelope at social gatherings, and consistently commented something supportive—although perfunctory—on her Instagram posts. She was happy that Emma was living a fairytale. From what she knew, Cho was a good man and treated her well. As Penelope watched the couple exchange their vows, she found herself wishing she could attend more weddings. She loved love stories, and watching one in real life was making her tear up. Thankfully, she was not the first or only person to cry at a wedding. She dabbed at her tears and ignored her sisters’ dry-eyed looks of judgement. But Penelope had cried at their weddings, too, even if they had been much smaller and less magical affairs than this one.
It was during the reception that Penelope found herself out of her element. At the very least, she was wearing an ugly yellow dress that her mother had insisted on. It clashed horribly with her skin and hair, and she wished the wall would just swallow her whole. She was twenty years old and still unable to shake her mother’s authority. She hated herself for it.
She wished Eloise Bridgerton, the friend she had made at university, was here with her, but she had wormed her way out of attending. Some of her siblings would be here. Penelope would have already met the other Bridgertons by now, if she hadn’t repeatedly refused Eloise’s offers to join her family at their country estate. Penelope was flattered by the offer, but didn’t want to put herself in yet another situation where she would be the “other.”
Parties and large groups, although ripe ground for observation, were not where she flourished. She clung to the wall, watching people dance and seeing what wedding drama might unfold, as the cliches found their beginnings somewhere. Sure enough, she witnessed two fights and one first meeting that looked like it might turn into something. Whether that was something real or one drunken night in a hotel room, Penelope couldn’t be sure yet.
She kept her glass full and allowed a pleasant buzz to course through her veins, pulsing with the beat of the music. She itched to get out her notebook and write. She was getting plenty for her next Whistledown blog. She might even be able to do a series on weddings.
Yet there always came a time in the night when Penelope started feeling wistful. Yes, she loved watching stories unfold in front of her, but she also wanted stories to happen to her. She sighed and made her way back to the open bar. She was pretty tipsy by then. She’d had four, maybe five drinks, and the last two had been something with vodka in them. A lot of vodka, it felt like.
Just her luck, she found her mother waiting in line at the bar as well, conversing with a tall, handsome man she’d noticed on the dance floor earlier. She had tried not to stare. He wasn’t part of a Whistledown-worthy story—he seemed to be dancing with his siblings—so there was no use letting her gaze linger. But he was beautiful, and artistically built, and had the most genuine laughter Penelope had ever seen. She’d noticed it a few times while he was on the dance floor. It took over his entire face and body. She longed to know what it sounded like. She longed to be the cause of such unfiltered joy.
It was unfortunate that he’d somehow been roped into a conversation with her mother. Could she save him somehow? But she noticed he had a wide smile on his face, and was laughing genuinely at something Portia Featherington was saying. Well, there it was. His laugh was loud and full and almost boyish. But in what world was he laughing at something Portia Featherington was saying? In her tipsy state, Penelope forgot to hide her reaction, and her mouth fell open. Just then, the man noticed her standing beside her mother.
“Hey!” He greeted her in that jolly voice people got when they were drunk and everyone was their friend.
Her mother turned to look at who he was speaking to. “Oh, Penelope, dear,” she slurred. Oh, her mother was drunk, too. How lovely. Portia put a hand on Penelope’s shoulder and turned to the man. “This is my youngest,” she told him with her most charming smile. She stroked Penelope’s shoulder as if she displayed her affection often. Ha.
“Penelope, is it?” he asked her.
She just nodded, feeling very small next to her mother, as she always did.
“This is Colin,” her mother supplied. Penelope sensed a note of reserve in her mother’s voice, like she didn’t want to be introducing Penelope to this man.
“Hi, Colin,” Penelope smiled sweetly to spite her mother.
“Hi, Penelope,” said Colin. He turned his entire attention to her, and it suddenly felt like her mother was no longer there. He was looking at her in a way nobody ever bothered to do. His eyes were a beautiful, deep blue. She could swim in them. She felt her nipples tighten beneath his assessment, an unfortunate sensation to occur while her mother’s hand was on her shoulder. “Featherington? Are you Eloise’s friend?”
Oh, he must be… “Are you one of her many siblings?”
He grinned cheekily. “Guilty as charged.” Talking to him was so easy, even if her body was reacting like it’d been struck by lightning. Talking was never this easy. Then he said, “Your mum is a boss.” He grinned at Portia and then bumped shoulders with her like she was his pal. The spell almost shattered. Almost.
Penelope just blinked at this scene. Of course this gorgeous man would somehow think her mother was—what?— a boss?
“Oh?” Penelope indulged him, looking toward her mother, who looked a bit embarrassed. She dropped her hand from Penelope’s shoulder and looked vaguely away from both Penelope and Colin.
Colin continued. “Running her own business? That’s badass.”
“You’re doing what?” Penelope hadn’t heard anything about this.
“I’m not—well—it’s new,” said Portia. She straightened back into her signature, proud posture. “I think it will do quite well.”
“She’s going to be an event planner!” said Colin proudly, with a tipsy sparkle in his eyes.
Penelope looked at her mother. “Is she?”
“Yes,” Portia said defiantly. “You girls have all flown the nest. What else am I to do with my time?” Penelope was in her second year at university, and rarely came home if she could help it, preferring to stay in the dorms during unimportant holidays, and taking summer classes in an effort to graduate a year early and properly start her own life.
“Well, good,” said Penelope. “Let her manage someone else, for once.”
“Ah, have some faith in your mum!” said Colin brightly.
Penelope peered at him. “Okay. I will.”
Portia just studied Penelope for a moment, and then, as it was their turn at the bar, turned away from her and ordered a gin and tonic. That left Penelope to look at Colin again, noticing the gorgeous curls in his hair and the way his smile took ever his entire being. But Colin was no longer looking at her. He was shoulder to shoulder with her mum, ordering an rum and coke for himself. And Penelope was ignored.
Despite having come to the bar for a drink, she gave up and let herself disappear again, waiting for another champagne tray to pass her spot against the wall.
She secretly hoped that Colin might find her before the night was over. She just wanted to talk to him again. Being in his presence had been electrifying, and she’d love to experience that without her mother nearby. But he never did find her. In fact, he never even looked in her direction, even though he spent a considerable amount of time conversing with her mother. Had she been seeing things? She knew she wasn’t much to look at, but she had felt the weight of his gaze as he looked at her for the first time. There was…something. If not something romantic, at least some level of intrigue. She grabbed a passing flute of champagne and grumpily resigned herself to wallflower fate.
Who was she kidding? She was Penelope Featherington, not someone who’d ever get picked up at a wedding.