Chapter Text
Yeah, my, my such a sweet thing
I wanna do everything
What a beautiful feeling
Crimson and clover over and over
Aubrey Hall, Kent
October 1814
Miss Penelope Featherington,
I hope you will forgive the forwardness of this letter, but I find myself compelled to write to you. Though we are not often in correspondence, you have been a constant presence amongst our family, and we all see you as one of us – even me.
In truth, I scarcely know how to begin. It has been some weeks since the Danbury Ball, and yet the events of that evening linger in my mind—not least because of my brother’s careless and cruel words. While it is not my place to speak for Colin, I cannot remain silent knowing the pain his thoughtlessness must have caused you.
Please allow me to extend my sincerest apologies on his behalf. Though I know they do little to mend the hurt, I hope they might at least reassure you that you are far more than the sum of one man’s unkindness.
And yet, Miss Featherington, I fear I am writing for reasons beyond simple apology. It would be disingenuous to pretend otherwise. I must admit that I find myself wondering how you fare in the Irish countryside, far from the comforts of home, and whether you, like me, are navigating the weight of a broken heart.
I do not presume to understand the entirety of your feelings, but I know something of loss, of disappointment, and of the crushing sense that one’s best efforts will never be enough. It is a bitterness that lingers, a shadow that refuses to lift, no matter how one might wish it away. In my own despair, I have found myself wondering how one carries such burdens alone—and so, I write to you, if only to say that you are not alone.
I know that we have not been close, but should you ever feel the need to unburden yourself, please know that I would be honored to listen. You strike me as someone who has long carried more than her fair share, and if I may be so bold, I would like to offer you a place to lay even a small portion of that weight.
It is a strange thing to find solace in shared sorrow, but I hope that perhaps, in some small way, we might find understanding in one another.
Most respectfully,
Lord Anthony Bridgerton
Featherington Cottage, Ireland
October 1814
Dear Lord Bridgerton,
I must admit I was quite taken aback when I received your letter. Of all the people in the world who might think to inquire about my well-being, I had not imagined you among them. Not because I think you incapable of such kindness—far from it—but because I never thought myself someone who might warrant it.
And yet, I find myself deeply grateful that you took the time to write to me. Your words were a balm to wounds I have done my utmost to conceal. You were right to suspect that your brother’s remarks cut me deeply, though I suspect you might not fully grasp why.
It was not merely the words themselves, cruel though they were. It was the humiliation, the confirmation of what I have long suspected the world thinks of me. That I am someone to be pitied, dismissed, or worse, ridiculed.
That I can be dismissed so thoroughly by someone who calls me his dearest friend hurt more than just the simple heartbreak.
But I digress. This letter is not meant to be a recitation of grievances, but rather a thank you. Your letter reminded me that, though I feel as if I walk through this world alone, there are those who see me, even when I believe myself invisible. For that, I cannot thank you enough.
You mentioned in your letter that you are navigating heartbreak of your own. Though I cannot imagine the circumstances, I wanted to say this: it is no small thing to endure pain that feels insurmountable, and it is no small thing to speak of it, even in passing.
If you should ever feel ready to share what burdens you, I would be honored to listen. But if you are not ready, I hope you will know that such readiness is not a thing to be forced. Healing, if it comes, arrives on its own time.
I must confess, life in Ireland has been as grey and cold. The countryside is beautiful, but it feels far too quiet after the ceaseless din of London. My sisters do their best to entertain themselves, though I suspect they would rather be anywhere else. My mother is, of course, endlessly displeased with me, which has been the one constant no matter where we reside.
There was, however, one bright moment I thought to share. The other day, I found myself walking through the fields when I came across a little cluster of snowdrops pushing through the frost. They were small, fragile things, and yet there they were, defying the chill and blooming all the same. I like to think there is a lesson in that, though I’ve yet to decide what it might be.
I hope you and your family are finding ways to pass the time at Aubrey Hall. Eloise would never forgive me if I failed to inquire about her well-being, so I must ask—how is she faring? And what of the others? I imagine your siblings keep the house lively, no matter the season.
Thank you again, Lord Bridgerton, for your letter and for the kindness it contained. I hope you know how much it meant to me.
With esteem,
Penelope Featherington
Aubrey Hall, Kent
November 1814
Dear Miss Featherington,
Thank you for your reply. It left me feeling a rather curious mixture of relief and guilt. Relief, because it seems I did not overstep in writing to you—though your words were far more gracious than I deserved—and guilt, because your letter only confirmed how thoughtlessly my brother wounded you. I can only hope that, with time, the ton’s memory will fade, leaving you to be seen as you truly are: remarkable.
You asked about my own heartbreak, and I find myself compelled to share the truth, though it is a truth I have not yet spoken aloud. Not to my family, nor to anyone else.
Kate...Miss Sharma...left for India shortly after the season ended. We quarreled during one of her last days here, and her parting words were that my love—such as it was—was not enough.
I cannot say she was wrong. I suspect, in many ways, she was right. My love has always been tied to duty, to the expectations placed upon me. Perhaps it is inevitable that someone like me, whose every thought is tethered to what must be done, cannot love in the way someone like her deserves.
Even so, hearing those words from her lips felt as though they might shatter me. And perhaps, in some ways, they did.
I have spent the weeks since wondering what it is about me that is so lacking. Whether there is something within me that I cannot give or that I will never be enough for anyone. And now, I find myself at a crossroads: to continue trying, or to give up entirely. You seem to be a woman with an enviable sense of clarity, Miss Featherington, so I ask you—if you were in my position, what would you do?
In lighter news (for I fear this letter has grown far too heavy), I thought you might like to know that Eloise has become the terror of Aubrey Hall. She’s taken to playing pranks on me and my brothers at every opportunity.
Just yesterday, she artfully placed splotches of tea in Benedict’s sketchbook, which he failed to notice until he presented the "sketches" to me. His indignation was utterly delightful to witness. I’m quite certain I’ll have paint in my tea as retribution, but it will be worth it.
I must also say that your anecdote about the snowdrops was one of the loveliest things I have read in recent memory. There is a poetry to the way you write about even the smallest of things, a reminder that beauty exists, even in the frost. I hope you will share more of your daily musings with me, for they have been a most welcome distraction from my own brooding thoughts.
Warmly,
Anthony Bridgerton
Featherington Cottage, Ireland
November 1814
Dear Lord Bridgerton,
Thank you for your reply, and I must apologize for the delayed response. Your honesty, though unexpected, was deeply moving. I can only imagine how difficult it was to put those words to paper. For what it’s worth, I do not think there is anything about you that is lacking.
In fact, if I may be bold, my lord, I would wager that Miss Sharma left not because you were not enough, but because she doubted her own ability to match what you so freely offered. Sometimes, love is not a question of worth but of timing, and perhaps the world simply did not align in your favor this time.
As for your question—what I would do in your position— I feel woefully unqualified to answer. I do not know that I could ever summon the courage to love again after being told my love was insufficient. But you, Lord Bridgerton, are braver than I, and if anyone is capable of finding love again, I suspect it is you.
Life here in Ireland continues as dreary as ever. I have tried to find beauty in it, as I did with the snowdrops, but some days are harder than others.
This morning, at breakfast, I dared to take an extra slice of bacon. My mother, ever watchful, remarked that it was no wonder I had yet to secure a husband when I had such little regard for self-control. She said it loud enough for the entire table to hear, of course, and though I tried to brush it off with a smile, it lingered with me far longer than I care to admit. I know, or at least I fear, that I am not someone gentlemen admire.
I wonder, Lord Bridgerton, how you manage it—being a man so often in the public eye, with every action scrutinized and every choice dissected. How do you let the comments of others, both kind and cruel, bounce off you? Is there a trick to it? Or do you simply pretend not to hear them, as I so often try to do?
On a lighter note, your mention of Eloise’s pranks brought back a memory I had nearly forgotten.
When we were younger, I spent a summer at Aubrey Hall with your family. Eloise and I were less than 10, and you were 7 and 10.
One afternoon, we decided it would be great fun to play near the lake – it was so clear and beautiful and inviting. Eloise tripped over a root, and I, trying to catch her, slipped right after her. We both ended up with scrapes and tears streaming down our faces, convinced the day was ruined.
That is, until you appeared, looking every bit the big brother hero we so desperately needed. Rather than scold us, you cheered us up and then stepped into the lake with us and spent the next hour helping us seek out the elusive turtle family that lives there. By the time we trudged back to the house, soaked to the bone and laughing, we had forgotten all about our injuries.
It remains one of my fondest memories, though I suppose I should thank you for not mentioning how I tripped a second time on the walk back. Eloise teased me endlessly about it for weeks after.
Thank you, Lord Bridgerton, for your letter and for listening to my ramblings. I find myself looking forward to your replies more than I care to admit.
Sincerest regards,
Penelope Featherington
Aubrey Hall, Kent
November 1814
Dear Miss Featherington,
I find myself at a loss for words, though that is hardly a suitable opening for a letter, is it? Your kindness, your insight, and your unerring ability to lift my spirits with a simple anecdote are a very welcome distraction from my depressing thoughts.
First and foremost, I must thank you for your graciousness. Your words about Miss Sharma have stayed with me, offering a perspective I had not considered. Perhaps you are right—perhaps the fault was not entirely mine. Though, if I am to be honest, I still feel the shadow of doubt lingering. Even so, your letter has brought a measure of peace I did not expect, and for that, I am deeply grateful.
Now, to the matter of your mother’s remarks. Forgive me, Miss Featherington, if I speak plainly, but your mother’s words are utter nonsense. That she could utter such cruelty to her own daughter is both baffling and infuriating. I can assure you that the world is not so bleak as she would have you believe.
You spoke of fears that you are not the sort of woman men might admire. Allow me to put those fears to rest, and please, forgive the impropriety of my words. There are men—myself included, I might add—who find beauty in all forms, but especially in those women blessed with softer curves.
The world may hold its opinions, but I can assure you that there is far more to be said for a woman who carries herself with confidence and grace than for one who conforms to society’s narrow ideals.
And you, Miss Featherington, have both confidence and grace in abundance, whether you realize it or not. I have seen the spark of confidence in you – pray, I deeply encourage you to lean into it. You will quickly find how easily it comes to you; I can make you this promise.
Your memory of the lake had me laughing aloud, which my siblings found rather suspicious. They are convinced I must be scheming something, though I have assured them my days of turtle-seeking are long behind me.
Their subsequent confusion sent me into another laughing fit, leading to my mother insisting we all take tea outside, as being cooped up has clearly gone to our heads.
I have business to attend to for the next fortnight, and so I am afraid my next letter will be sent later than usual. I will endeavor to make it as thrilling as possible, as I am sure to encounter grand adventures as I see to my estates. (These adventures being long carriage rides, late nights, and oppressive solitude. Something of late I find myself not quite enjoying as I once did.)
Your friend, I hope,
Anthony
Featherington Cottage, Ireland
December 1814
Dear Friend (of course you are),
Your family continues to be such an inspiration to me. You are all so full of equal parts chaos and affection. It warms me to know you are surrounded by so much love.
I must confess that your latest letter left me smiling and laughing, though not without a touch of incredulity.
Though I must say, I do not believe for one moment that your turtle-seeking days are entirely behind you. Something tells me that should Eloise or Benedict suggest it, you might still be tempted to wade into that lake in search of elusive reptiles.
Now, before I forget, I must thank you for your kind and, dare I say, bold words regarding my mother ’ s remarks. I will not pretend that they did not bring a blush to my cheeks (and perhaps a tear to my eye). It is no easy thing to carry the weight of constant criticism, particularly when it comes from someone whose approval I have longed for my entire life. To hear you dismiss her words so thoroughly — and to speak of beauty in such a way — was, I confess, rather disarming.
You have a talent for saying precisely what someone needs to hear, even if they did not know they needed to hear it. I suspect that is a gift you often underestimate, though I hope you will not underestimate the impact it has had on me. Your words have given me a great deal to think about, and while I cannot promise to suddenly see myself through such generous eyes, I shall endeavor to be kinder to myself.
Your upcoming travels sound, if I may be honest, equal parts tedious and lonely. I hope you find something to pass the time pleasantly – perhaps a book or catching up on correspondences you have been neglecting. If you do not think me too forward, I should like to see you catch up on your sleep, for I know you to be a late sleeper and an early riser.
I will write this letter over a week, updating you as the days pass, and thus providing you with a longer letter than normal once you return and have a moment to read my correspondence.
Life here continues much as before, though I did experience a rather unexpected moment of triumph that I believe will make you smile. My mother hosted a small tea for a few of her friends — an endeavor that would ordinarily fill me with dread. However, when Lady Cowper remarked that my sisters ’ gowns were “ so delightfully youthful ” (a comment I am quite certain was not intended as a compliment), I found myself replying with an ease I did not know I possessed.
“ Indeed, Lady Cowper, ” I said, “ youth is such a fleeting thing, is it not? I do hope my sisters enjoy it while it lasts. ”
The look on her face, Lord Bridgerton, was nothing short of glorious. I am quite certain my mother will find a way to chastise me for it in due time, but in that moment, I felt a spark of something I can only describe as pride. Perhaps your words have had a greater impact than I realized.
I must also thank you for your reassurance that I am not alone in my doubts and fears. It is a strange comfort to know that even someone as composed and steadfast as you feels the weight of expectations.
I cannot help but wonder, though — when you spoke of finding peace, even fleetingly, did it come from within or from the kindness of others? I ask not out of idle curiosity, but because I find myself searching for such peace, and I wonder if I am looking in the wrong places.
Before I close, I must share one final anecdote that I hope will bring a smile to your face. Yesterday, as I walked through the fields near our cottage, I came across a fox. It was a striking creature, with a coat so red it seemed to glow in the afternoon sun. For a moment, we simply stood there, watching one another. And then, as if deciding I was no threat, it darted off into the brush, leaving me both startled and oddly heartened. It felt, somehow, like a small reminder that the world is full of unexpected beauty, even in the most unassuming places.
I hope this letter finds you well and that your travels, however dull they may seem, brought you at least a modicum of peace — or at the very least, some amusing anecdotes to share in your next letter.
Your friend as well,
Penelope Featherington
Aubrey Hall, Kent
December 1814
Dear Miss Featherington,
Your latest letter has been a most welcome respite during what has been a rather taxing fortnight. I hope you will forgive me for the delay in replying; as I mentioned in my last note, I have been attending to the affairs of my estates. Though the work is necessary, it has left me feeling quite drained—physically, of course, but also in ways I find difficult to articulate.
And yet, I must tell you that your words, as always, have lingered with me. They are a reminder that even amidst the most mundane or tiresome of tasks, there are moments of brightness to be found. For that, I thank you.
As promised, I shall share a little of my recent travels, though I fear they are not the grand adventures I might wish them to be. My days have been filled with endless discussions of crop yields, tenant disputes, and the ever-present concern over the estate’s accounts. If this is what it means to be the Viscount, I sometimes think I might have been better suited to Benedict’s life as an artist or even Colin’s wandering spirit.
Yet, amidst the monotony, there was a moment that caught me off guard—a memory that felt as vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. As I stood in the hall of one of the tenant farms, speaking with the steward, I caught sight of an old oak tree through the window.
It was a tree I hadn’t thought of in years, though it once stood at the center of one of my happiest childhood days. I was perhaps eight years old, and my father had brought me along on a trip much like the one I am now undertaking. He claimed it was time I learned the responsibilities of the title, though I suspect he simply wished for an excuse to spend time with me, just me.
I remember feeling so important, standing by his side as he spoke with tenants and listened to their concerns. At one point, we stopped by that very oak tree for a moment of rest. I climbed its low branches while he sat below, laughing as I tried to impress him with my daring feats.
Later, as we walked back to the carriage, he turned to me and said, "Anthony, being the Viscount isn’t about titles or power. It’s about people. It’s about doing your best for them, even when it feels like your best will never be enough. That’s the only way to live with it."
I didn’t fully understand his words at the time, but they stayed with me. And now, as I stand where he once stood, not nearly half the man he was, I find myself wondering if I have, at the very least, lived up to the example he set.
I share this with you, Miss Featherington, because I find that I can. Perhaps it is the ease with which you lay bare your own thoughts and feelings that inspires the same in me. It is not something I allow myself often—this vulnerability. But with you, it feels safe. I know that your tender heart will hold my thoughts with care.
I do not know how you endure the ton’s simple, closed minds and thoughtless words. I only know that you do so with a grace I deeply admire. And so, if I might offer one piece of counsel, it is this: never doubt the strength that lies within you. You are far more resilient than even you might realize.
Now, I must ask about your snowdrops. Have they continued to bloom, or has the December frost finally claimed them? I find myself invested in their fate, as though they might offer some hint as to the season’s end.
And Eloise has insisted that I ask whether you have taken up any new hobbies while in Ireland. She claims it is her mission to ensure you do not succumb to "utter boredom," though I suspect her motives are less altruistic and more driven by her own restless nature. (I also suspect that she is wary of our continued correspondence. “What would Pen have to talk about with a boring old man like you?” Well. You tell me, Miss Featherington, do you find me boring?)
I hope this letter finds you well, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely yours,
Anthony
Featherington Cottage, Ireland
January 1815
Dear Lord Bridgerton,
It feels as though this letter has been far too long in the making. Your last missive arrived just before the New Year, and I have read it more times than I care to admit. Though I don’t have long to write at the moment (my mother has summoned me for yet another tedious discussion about marriage prospects—or the lack thereof), I simply couldn’t let another day pass without replying.
Your memory of your father moved me deeply. I could nearly picture the scene as you described it: the oak tree, the little boy climbing its branches, and the man sitting beneath it, imparting words that would stay with his son long after he was gone. It is a beautiful memory, and one that clearly shaped the man you have become.
Truly, it feels...a privilege, of sorts, to read about these thoughts and moments of yours. You are, as I have come to learn through our letters, far more introspective than I might have once imagined. It is not a quality often associated with gentlemen of your station, yet it suits you remarkably well.
I find myself eagerly awaiting each of your letters, though I hope that is not too forward of me to admit. They are something of a bright spot in my days, which, I am sorry to say, have not been particularly remarkable of late.
The snowdrops you asked about have managed to persist, though only barely. They are delicate things, aren’t they? I find myself rooting for their survival as if it might mirror my own persistence.
I suppose I should also confess that Eloise has been writing to me rather insistently in your absence. It seems she has taken it upon herself to uncover the "truth" behind our correspondence, though I’ve assured her there is no impropriety or grand secret to speak of.
She will not be satisfied with that, of course; Eloise is not one to let a mystery go unanswered. But I am grateful for her letters, nonetheless. They remind me of a time when our friendship was less...complicated. (As I am sure you noticed, things were tense between us at the end of the season, and though we had a long, tearful conversation before departing for our separate lodgings for the winter, we are still not back to how we were before our…argument.)
I realize that I am growing far too accustomed to this easy familiarity with you, my lord. I often find myself forgetting the vast chasm that should exist between a Viscount and someone like me. And yet, I cannot bring myself to regret it. There is a kindness in your words that makes me feel less alone. For that, I am grateful, and if it is selfish to eagerly seek it out, so be it.
Now, I must go before my mother sends someone to drag me from my writing desk.
I will address this to Bridgerton House, as I know you return to London a week or so before the rest of the family. I hope you had safe travels, and I very much look forward to your reply, whenever time allows you to do so.
(Regarding Eloise’s comments – you are far from boring, just as you are far from old, my lord.)
Best,
Penelope
Bridgerton House, London
February 1815
Dear Miss Featherington,
Your letter was a most welcome sight upon my return to London. I’ve grown quite accustomed to seeing your handwriting on the envelopes that arrive, and the anticipation of reading your thoughts has become a small pleasure I look forward to amidst the chaos of daily life.
You spoke of familiarity, and I must assure you that it is not yours alone to feel. I find our correspondence remarkably easy, as though the words flow naturally without the need for pretense or caution. It is a rare gift, this ease, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have you as both a friend and a trusted confidant.
I am aware of the challenges that have arisen between you and Eloise. She is my sister, and as you know, her opinions are seldom kept to herself. However, I would not presume to pry into matters that are not mine to know. Suffice it to say, I am certain that whatever discord exists, it pains her as much as it does you.
I hope you will forgive me if I linger on one particular line of your last letter. You wrote that my words make you feel less alone. I can think of no greater compliment. It humbles me to know that I might provide even the smallest comfort, for your letters do the very same for me.
Do you think me selfish if I admit that I am already eager for your next missive? There is something singularly restorative about hearing from you, Miss Featherington, and I cannot quite articulate why. It is as though your words have a way of lifting the weight of the world, if only for a moment.
I shall not delay you further with my musings, but I hope you know that I am, as ever, deeply grateful for your correspondence.
Yours faithfully,
Anthony (please, call me Anthony when we are corresponding, or when not amongst the gossiping ton)
P.S. When does your family return to London? I would very much enjoy seeing you, hearing you speak, the smile on your face when you say something particularly smart or cutting. These letters have been a wonderful gift, but I cannot deny that the peace and calm I feel from your letters will be increased tenfold simply by being in your physical presence.
P.P.S. Forgive me if that was too forward, as you have said, it is difficult to not give in to formality with you.
Featherington Cottage, Ireland
February 1815
Anthony,
Your letter arrived on the dreariest of mornings, and yet it brought with it a lightness that lingered long after I had read your words. It never fails to amaze me how effortlessly you seem to lift my spirits, even from so great a distance.
I have news that I hope you will find agreeable: my family and I will return to London during the second week of March. While I cannot say I am eager to resume the bustling social scene, I confess there is one prospect I anticipate with great fondness—seeing you in person.
It is difficult to articulate how much our correspondence has meant to me, Anthony. This bond we have formed, this exchange of thoughts and confidences, has been an unexpected yet welcome change in my life. It is rare to find someone with whom one can share so freely, and I treasure that more than I can say. You have been, in every sense, a true friend, and I count myself most fortunate for it.
As the days continue their cruel chill with the setting of the sun (much too early in the day for my liking), I find myself daydreaming about the arrival of spring in London and the chance to thank you properly for the kindness and understanding you have shown me. Until then, I shall content myself with your letters, which have become one of the greatest joys of my days.
I will endeavor to write again before our departure, though I fear the chaos of preparing for travel may delay me. If that is the case, know that my thoughts remain with you until we meet again.
Yours,
Penelope (Call me Penelope. Or any such nickname you see fit)
Bridgerton House, London
March 1815
Dear Penelope,
I trust this letter finds you settling back into London with ease. Though I had intended to write sooner, the season has descended upon us with its usual fervor, and I must apologize for my delay. Still, I find myself unable to resist penning this note to you now.
Yesterday afternoon, I happened to glance out the window of my study just as your carriage pulled up to Featherington House. I cannot adequately explain the sensation that overtook me at the sight of you—it was as though a warmth I had long forgotten surged through me, unexpected and entirely welcome. To see you again, even from afar, brought a joy I had not anticipated.
It is a source of great regret that I could not personally welcome you home. There was much to prepare, and I did not wish to impose upon what I imagined would be a chaotic arrival. However, I have taken the liberty of asking my mother to extend an invitation to tea tomorrow afternoon.
Eloise has assured me of her attendance, and I believe Colin will be returning as well. I very much hope you will find it suitable to accept, for I would be most pleased to see you in person once more.
In the meantime, I must tell you how grateful I am for the friendship we have cultivated over these months. Your letters have been an immeasurable source of comfort and clarity for me, and I dare say they have become something I look forward to with an eagerness I would not admit to anyone else. I even hesitate to admit this to you, but even so I know you will be kind.
My staff are extremely loyal and have never strayed – I have entreated my most trusted Humboldt with the task of delivering this letter to your lady’s maid, who I hope will deliver it to you without incident.
Until tomorrow, if you are so inclined.
Yours,
Anthony
Penelope Featherington stepped through the grand doors of Bridgerton House with an ease she had not possessed years ago. Her hair, swept into an elegant twist that cascaded down her back, gleamed in the soft light spilling from the windows. The faintest hint of nervousness colored her cheeks, but her posture was composed, her smile measured.
Anthony stood in the foyer, waiting to greet her alongside his mother and siblings, but the moment his eyes landed on her, the world tilted off its axis.
He felt it like a crash of thunder, a lightning strike straight to his chest. Pure joy and utter terror flooded him in equal measure, leaving him rooted to the spot, his breath caught somewhere between exhalation and disbelief. This wasn’t mere fondness, nor the comfortable camaraderie they had built over the past months. This was something far deeper, far more dangerous.
Anthony Bridgerton, the ever-pragmatic viscount, the man who had vowed to keep his heart guarded, was in love.
It was not a gentle realization. It roared through him, consuming every rational thought. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain it could be heard by everyone in the room. His hands itched with the desire to pull her into his arms, to hold her close and never let go.
He longed to tell her everything—how much her letters had meant to him, how deeply he had come to care for her, how she had become the brightest part of his days. But propriety held him in check, tethering him to the rigid rules of society.
“Miss Featherington,” he said warmly, stepping forward and bowing his head. His voice was steady, betraying none of the turmoil within. “Welcome back to London. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Her smile widened, and Anthony’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton. It’s good to be back.”
He offered his arm, but before she could take it, a familiar voice rang out. “Penelope!”
Colin strode into the room, his face alight with excitement. Anthony felt a surge of irritation that he couldn’t help.
“Colin,” Penelope replied, her tone cool but polite. She did not offer him the same warmth she had given Anthony, and for a fleeting moment, Anthony allowed himself to savor it.
“It’s been far too long,” Colin said, his grin faltering slightly under her composed demeanor. “How have you been? Ireland must have been... well, something of an adventure.”
“I’ve been well, thank you,” Penelope said, her voice smooth and detached. Before Colin could press further, Eloise appeared at her side, her hand slipping through Penelope’s arm.
“I need to borrow you,” Eloise declared, shooting her brothers a look that brooked no argument.
“Of course,” Penelope said with a soft laugh, allowing herself to be whisked away.
Anthony watched her go, his chest tightening with each step that took her farther from him. He should have looked away, turned his attention back to the family gathering around him, but he couldn’t.
She glanced over her shoulder just before disappearing down the hall, her smile bright enough to rival the sunlight streaming through the windows.
In that moment, Anthony knew. She wasn’t just someone he cared for, or someone he admired. Penelope Featherington was home, and he was irrevocably hers.