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The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue through the tall windows of the Aubrey Hall library. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, stirred only by the occasional flutter of pages or the gentle breeze from the open window.
Penelope Featherington, dressed in a soft blue muslin gown, was curled into the corner of a velvet settee, a novel open on her lap and a tray of scones beside her. Across from her sat Eloise Bridgerton, who was currently rolling her eyes so dramatically Penelope feared they might get stuck.
“Mr. Darcy, again?” Eloise said with a groan. “Pen, I adore you, but your affections for brooding men with superiority complexes are frankly concerning.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes playfully. “And what would you know about romance, Eloise? The closest you’ve come to swooning is when you found that pamphlet on women’s suffrage hidden behind the prayer books.”
“Better that than sighing over fictional men who spend half the book being insufferable,” Eloise retorted, grabbing a scone from the tray. “Honestly, if I hear you mention Mr. Darcy’s ‘fine, tall figure’ one more time—”
“Well, it is rather fine,” Penelope quipped, snatching a scone of her own. “And you’re just jealous because your literary taste runs to pamphlets and political manifestos.”
With a mischievous grin, she lobbed her scone across the room, intending to make Eloise flinch. But her aim, while passionate, was tragically poor.
The scone flew past Eloise’s shoulder, sailed in a perfect arc, and struck none other than Lord Anthony Bridgerton squarely in the face as he stepped through the library door.
There was a stunned silence. Eloise burst out laughing loudly, unladylike, and thoroughly unrepentant. The thud of baked goods against Viscount cheekbone echoed louder than it ought to have in such a refined space.
“Oh my goodness,” Penelope gasped, leaping up, horror washing over her like a tidal wave. “Lord Bridgerton! I—I am so terribly sorry! I didn’t see you there—I didn’t mean—are you hurt? Is your—your face alright? Oh dear heavens, I hit your face—”
Anthony, still holding the crumb-laced evidence of the assault, blinked. His lips twitched as he fought a smile. “Well. That’s certainly the warmest greeting I’ve had all week.”
Eloise snorted inelegantly, nearly dropping her own scone. “You must admit, it was a rather good throw. She’s got the arm of a footman.”
Penelope’s cheeks were scarlet. She wrung her hands together, flustered beyond words. “I assure you, my lord, it was a moment of complete idiocy—I beg your pardon. I should never—”
“Anthony,” he interrupted gently.
Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He stepped forward, brushing crumbs off his cravat. “Everyone else calls me Anthony.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
“You’ve spent weeks here,” he added, his voice low and smooth. “You’ve endured Colin’s endless monologues on travel, played whist with my mother, debated reform with Eloise, and thrown food at me. And still, I remain ‘Lord Bridgerton’?”
Penelope stared at him, caught somewhere between mortification and breathlessness. He was smiling now, an amused, lopsided grin that made her stomach flutter. And he was close. Far too close for someone she’d just pelted with baked goods.
“I—” she stammered, “I didn’t think it appropriate. I mean, I didn’t presume to—”
“Presume,” he echoed, his voice almost teasing. “After what we’ve been through together in the last two minutes, I should think we’re far past formalities.”
Behind them, Eloise let out a theatrical sigh. “Honestly, if the two of you start quoting poetry at each other, I shall throw myself out the window.”
Anthony chuckled, his gaze never leaving Penelope’s. “May I offer a truce, Miss Featherington? In exchange for forgiving the scone, you’ll consider calling me by my given name.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She tried once, then again, the single word tangling in her throat. His name, his true name, felt too intimate, too dangerous to utter aloud. At last she whispered, “I… I cannot.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then his smile softened, warm and devastating. “Then I suppose,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, “I shall simply have to earn it.”
Her heart hammered in her chest. Oh, she thought. That might be even worse. And entirely too wonderful.
Anthony had not meant to become a watcher.
Yet in the days that followed the infamous scone incident, he found himself increasingly still. Observing. Noticing.
He told himself it was curiosity. That she had unsettled him — the scone had been humiliating, after all — and he was simply ensuring no further baked goods would come flying at his head.
But that was a lie, and he knew it.
It began innocently. He passed by the drawing room one morning and paused at the sound of Benedict’s laughter, deep and unrestrained. He paused, just out of sight, and peered in.
Penelope sat cross-legged on the carpet beside Benedict, her sketchbook balanced across her lap, charcoal smudged faintly on her fingertips. Her cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but animation, the kind that came from being thoroughly teased.
“I was being serious,” she huffed, nudging Benedict with her elbow.
Benedict raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the half-finished portrait she'd been sketching. “You gave the man the chin of a Roman emperor and the eyebrows of a villain from a Gothic novel.”
Penelope snorted. “It’s called dramatic flair.”
“It’s called poor anatomy,” Benedict said, laughing as he reached for her charcoal. “Here—may I?”
She handed it over with mock reluctance, and he gently adjusted a line, murmuring as he shaded. “If you soften this here, and curve the jaw just a touch, you see?”
She leaned closer, eyes intent, nodding. “Oh. That is better. How do you make it look so effortless?”
“I’m a Bridgerton,” he said airily. “We excel at charming mediocrity.”
She laughed, bright and unguarded, and reclaimed the charcoal to continue. Benedict reclined on one elbow beside her, watching her sketch with the fondness of an older brother. “You're getting good, Pen. Truly.”
From the doorway, Anthony stood still, one hand on the doorframe. He should have kept walking, should have announced himself, but instead, he remained, silent and unseen.
She never laughed like that with him.
Later that afternoon, he caught sight of her beneath the oak tree with Hyacinth. The youngest Bridgerton was animatedly telling a story about an elopement involving a stable boy and a French governess, while Penelope sat behind her, weaving a delicate braid into her wild curls.
“And then she threw herself into the lake,” Hyacinth declared with a dramatic gasp.
“Did she?” Penelope asked, her eyes warm. “Or did she push him in?”
Hyacinth’s face lit up with delight. “Ooh, yes! That’s even better.”
Anthony smiled faintly, unnoticed from the window.
The next morning, he found them poring over maps in the morning room — Penelope and Colin, heads bent close, discussing Roman aqueducts and Grecian temples.
“If you follow the Appian Way,” Penelope was saying, tracing a line with her fingertip, “you’d come upon the old tombs. But I suppose you'd prefer the coast.”
Colin tapped his chin. “You think so?”
“I know so,” she said confidently. “You never stop talking about the sea.”
Colin looked at her with brotherly amusement and affection. “You know me far too well.”
And that stung, far more than Anthony cared to admit.
She knew them. All of them.
She played soft duets with Francesca in the parlor, neither speaking much, but glancing and smiling in that silent language shared by quiet souls. She stood in the hallway with Eloise, listening with calm patience as his sister declared her latest radical dream to open a school for girls, or perhaps become a politician’s wife and reform Parliament from the drawing room.
“You could do both,” Penelope had said gently. “You only have to choose who you want to be first.”
She even helped Gregory rig a ridiculous prank involving a false letter and Colin’s boots filled with jam, and when the latter cried out in dismay, Penelope had laughed so hard she nearly fell over, clutching Gregory’s shoulder as they cackled in victory.
She was part of them. Entwined in the very fabric of the house.
Except with him.
To Anthony, she was still Miss Featherington. Still skittish and composed, still standing too straight, too careful, too distant when he entered a room. Still calling him Lord Bridgerton like she hadn't thrown a scone at his face just days before.
She was warmth to everyone else. A confidante, a sister, a companion.
To him… she was polite. And it was driving him mad.
He sat in his study that evening, the memory of her laughter still echoing, and tapped his fingers against the desk. The edge of her voice, low and sincere when she encouraged Eloise. The glint in her eyes when she teased Benedict. The reverence in her silence when she played the piano.
How could one woman be so many things to so many people?
And how had he, of all people, managed to be the one left outside of it?
The rain had come in softly that afternoon, trailing down the tall windows in gentle rivulets. Anthony passed the music room intending only to retrieve a book, but the strains of a quiet duet drew him to a stop.
Inside, Francesca sat at the pianoforte, her posture graceful and precise. Seated beside her, not playing but turning pages with gentle attentiveness, was Penelope.
Anthony watched as Francesca stumbled slightly on a difficult passage.
“Too sharp,” Penelope murmured softly, not unkindly.
Francesca gave a self-deprecating sigh. “I knew it. Start again?”
“You always do,” Penelope said with a smile, already flipping the page back. “But this time, play like no one's listening.”
Francesca rolled her eyes. “You're listening.”
“Yes,” Penelope replied, “but I don’t count.”
Anthony leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. Penelope's voice had been soft, almost shy, but her effect on Francesca was obvious: his younger sister sat straighter, fingers more confident on the keys. They played through the piece, a melancholic little tune that lingered in the air long after it ended.
“Lovely,” came a warm voice from behind Anthony.
He turned to find his mother, Violet, standing beside him, hands loosely clasped. Her gaze, however, was not on Francesca.
“She's very kind with them,” Violet said softly.
Anthony made a noncommittal noise, arms folding across his chest. “She’s… adaptable.”
Violet smiled faintly. “That’s one word for it.”
Two days later, the sun returned, and with it, the garden came alive with color. Anthony stood on the terrace, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea as he watched from a distance.
Penelope was seated beneath the rose arbor with Hyacinth and their mother, Lady Bridgerton. A tea service was laid out in a haphazard arrangement, made chaotic by Hyacinth’s excited storytelling and even more animated gesturing.
“She said that, to his face?” Penelope gasped, covering her mouth with a gloved hand.
Hyacinth nodded solemnly. “And then Mama said it was unladylike, but I think it was perfectly fair.”
“Then I support you entirely,” Penelope said, lifting her teacup like a toast. “The gentleman clearly deserved it.”
Violet laughed softly. “Good heavens, Penelope, you’re going to undo what little influence I still have over her.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Penelope said, her tone light. “She’s already far cleverer than the rest of us. We’re only pretending to guide her.”
Hyacinth beamed. Violet smiled, too, but her eyes shifted, just briefly toward her eldest son.
Anthony sipped his tea without tasting it.
She kept doing that, his mother, catching him watching. She said nothing, of course. Violet Bridgerton never said what she didn’t have to. But her glances lingered, curious and knowing. As though she were tallying something. As though she saw him in the act of something he hadn’t yet admitted to himself.
And still… Penelope never sought him out. Never lingered near. Never looked to him as she did the others.
She was right there. Warm with all of them. And cool with him.
Still Lord Bridgerton.
And it was becoming unbearable.
The arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Hastings brought a palpable brightness to Aubrey Hall, not because of their titles, but because of their daughter.
Amelia Basset, age just over one year, had the entire household in her tiny grip by the time tea was served.
Penelope was seated on the rug, skirts spread out like a calm sea around her, as Amelia waddled determinedly into her lap, arms outstretched. With practiced ease, Penelope scooped the child up and lifted her high, causing a squeal of delight that echoed through the drawing room.
“Again, again!” Hyacinth laughed from the settee.
“Do not encourage her,” Daphne said dryly, though her eyes sparkled. “She’ll have Penelope tossing her about like a sack of flour before dinner.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Penelope replied, though she was already bouncing Amelia gently in her arms, her expression softened into something wholly unguarded.
Anthony stood by the mantel, unnoticed and unwilling to move. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Penelope’s hair had come a little loose, a copper strand curling at her cheek. Her cheeks were flushed, her laughter easy, her arms cradling the child with the kind of instinctive tenderness that stirred something deep and unfamiliar in him.
He watched as Daphne joined her on the floor, rearranging the baby’s bonnet while Penelope murmured something that made the duchess laugh, really laugh, the way she had as a girl before marriage and motherhood. Even Simon, usually stoic, sat nearby, quietly amused as Amelia reached for his cravat and Penelope gently redirected her hands.
Anthony felt the twist in his chest again.
It was not jealousy, precisely, but something adjacent to it. Longing, perhaps. Or the sharp awareness that he was the only person in the room to whom Penelope did not extend that same warmth.
Not just his siblings anymore, but Daphne, too. And Simon. Even his damned brother-in-law had won her easy smiles.
And he… he was still on the outside. Watching.
He turned his gaze to his mother, who was sipping tea and doing a rather poor job of hiding her delight. She caught his eye and tilted her head, her expression unreadable. Except… it wasn’t unreadable to him. He knew that look.
It said: Are you quite finished pretending not to care?
Anthony looked away first.
Later that evening, as the household settled into its usual rhythm of post-dinner lounging and quiet chaos, Anthony found himself cornered in the sitting room, not by scandal or responsibility, but by two women who rarely failed to get what they wanted.
Violet sipped her brandy, just a touch, as she always did after a long day. Daphne, legs tucked beneath her, was lounging on the sofa with the same feline ease she'd possessed since girlhood. They spoke of nothing in particular until Violet turned to him, suddenly casual.
“You’ve been staring quite a lot lately.”
Anthony choked slightly on his drink. “I beg your pardon?”
Daphne smirked into her teacup. “You really ought to be more discreet, dear brother.”
“I don’t know what either of you are talking about,” he muttered.
“Oh, I think you do,” Violet said gently. “You watch her. As if you’re trying to solve a riddle only you are slow to understand.”
Anthony scowled. “She avoids me.”
“Does she?” Daphne asked. “Or does she merely treat you as you treat her: formally, distantly, with enough politeness to build a wall?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Violet reached over and touched his hand, eyes warm. “My dear boy… Penelope is not one to demand attention. She gives hers freely, but she expects nothing in return. If you want something different, you must be the one to show her.”
There was no accusation in her voice, only quiet truth.
Anthony left the room with his jaw tight and his heart louder than it should have been.
The next afternoon, Penelope was in the rose garden, trimming a few unruly stems with practiced care. She did not hear his footsteps until he was nearly beside her.
“Miss Featherington,” Anthony said.
She startled slightly, then gave him a brief, polite smile. “Lord Bridgerton.”
There it was again, that title. That wall.
He exhaled slowly and spoke before he lost his nerve. “What must I do to convince you to call me Anthony?”
Penelope blinked, caught off guard. Her lips twitched. “Hmm… do you mean in general conversation, or only after another baked good hits your person?”
He nearly smiled. “Either. Both.”
Penelope looked down at the rose she was clipping, feigning contemplation. “Well. I believe such familiarity must be earned.”
“Then name your price,” he said, voice low.
She glanced up at him, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Three lessons. If you want me to say your Christian name, you must first prove yourself capable of teaching.”
Anthony folded his arms. “Go on.”
“One lesson in shooting,” she said, ticking it off with a gloved finger. “One in riding. And one in Pall Mall.”
He stared at her. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about wagers.”
A pause. He expected her to laugh it off. To wave her hand and walk away.
She didn’t.
Instead, she tilted her chin in challenge, and something in his chest pulled taut.
“All right,” he said, to her evident surprise. “You have your lessons.”
Penelope blinked. “Truly?”
“I am a man of my word.”
She bit back a smile, as though not entirely certain he was serious. “And if I fail to master any of them?”
“Then I shall continue to endure the agony of being Lord Bridgerton to you forevermore.”
Penelope laughed, soft and delighted. “You’re absurd.”
“Perhaps,” he said, unable to look away from her. “But I’m determined. Shall we begin tomorrow?”
She nodded, suddenly flushed. “You may regret this.”
“Doubtful,” he said, and turned on his heel before he could say anything else foolish, like how he was already in far deeper than he cared to admit.
Later that evening, Penelope and Eloise found themselves in the breakfast room, not for breakfast, but because Hyacinth had hidden the last of the lemon cake there, and Penelope had stumbled upon the stash entirely by accident.
Eloise, having followed the scent of sugar and scandal, was now sitting cross-legged on the table while Penelope perched in a chair, fork halfway to her mouth.
“So,” Eloise said, biting into her own slice. “You and my brother.”
Penelope froze. “Which one?”
“The brooding one. The eldest. The one who looks at you like he’s trying to work out whether you’re a painting or a puzzle.”
Penelope scoffed, too quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m rarely ridiculous,” Eloise said primly, licking icing off her finger. “You two were speaking in the garden today. Closely.”
Penelope sighed. “He asked me what it would take for me to call him Anthony.”
Eloise blinked. “He asked you that?”
Pen nodded. “So I told him he’d have to give me three lessons: one in shooting, one in riding, and one in Pall Mall. I was joking, of course, but he agreed.”
Eloise’s eyes narrowed like a hound catching scent. “That’s… strange.”
“Exactly,” Pen said, relieved. “He’s clearly bored. Or maybe Daphne or your mother put him up to it. He probably pities me, or feels guilty I hit him with that scone.”
Eloise made a face. “Oh, come on. You think he’s going to drag himself through riding lessons out of guilt?”
“Well, he is very serious about his titles and obligations,” Pen said. “Maybe he thinks befriending me is part of some moral duty.”
Eloise looked at her like she’d sprouted another head. “Pen, he’s not that noble. If he were, he’d be teaching Gregory how not to get caught during pranks. Instead he’s making a project out of you.”
Penelope picked at her cake. “We’re friends, Eloise.”
“Friends who don’t call each other by their Christian names?”
Penelope faltered.
Eloise grinned, triumphant. “You like him.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I don’t—” Penelope caught herself, sighed, then muttered, “Fine. Maybe. A little.”
Eloise’s smile softened. “He likes you too, you know.”
Pen looked down at her plate. “If he did… he wouldn’t have waited until now to notice me.”
Eloise said nothing for a moment, then slid off the table and wrapped an arm around her.
“Maybe he’s only just figured out how to look.”
The morning air was crisp and cool, dew still clinging to the grass as Penelope made her way across the back lawn toward the small clearing beyond the orchard. She found Anthony already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a pair of pistols laid out on the table beside a neat box of ammunition and a stack of targets.
He looked entirely at ease, of course he did, like he’d been born with a rifle in one hand and a title in the other.
“You’re early,” she said, smoothing her gloves as she approached.
“You’re late,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Penelope raised a brow. “That’s because I had to change twice. I wasn’t sure if you meant a proper shooting outfit or something more... theatrical.”
“I would’ve accepted a dueling gown,” Anthony said dryly. “But this will do.”
She rolled her eyes and stepped closer, peering at the pistol resting on the table. “So. Are we going to shoot apples off a branch, or is that too ambitious for a first lesson?”
Anthony picked up the pistol and handed it to her carefully, guiding her fingers around the handle. “Let’s begin with not shooting your own foot.”
“Reasonable,” Penelope said, glancing at the target across the field. “Just out of curiosity… is it normal to feel like one’s arm is too small for this entire activity?”
“You’ll adjust,” he said. Then: “Why shooting, anyway?”
Penelope hesitated, then grinned. “Eloise is always going on about being the best shot in the family.”
“She is the best,” Anthony admitted. “At least, the loudest about it.”
“Exactly. And I got tired of hearing her boast. I thought I’d try my hand.”
Anthony’s lips twitched. “So this is an act of vengeance.”
“Let’s call it curiosity.”
He stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him through the layers of her dress, and gently adjusted her grip. One hand at her elbow, the other guiding her wrist. “You’re holding it too high. Let your shoulder relax.”
“I am relaxed,” she said, though her voice sounded less than convincing.
He leaned in just slightly. “You’re stiff as a marble statue.”
“Perhaps I’m nervous.”
“Of the pistol?”
“Of the instructor.”
Anthony chuckled a low, surprising sound near her ear, and something fluttered in her stomach.
“Try now,” he said, stepping back just enough.
Penelope inhaled, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The shot cracked across the clearing, startling a flock of birds from the trees. The bullet landed somewhere near the target, not quite on it, but not disastrously off either.
“I didn’t miss completely,” she said, lowering the pistol with a victorious grin.
“No, you didn’t,” Anthony said, watching her with something like astonishment.
She turned to face him. “Does that mean I pass?”
“That means we keep going.”
“And if I somehow beat Eloise’s record?”
Anthony smirked. “Then I’ll owe you more than a first name.”
She flushed, but laughed, trying not to think too hard about what that might mean.
And from the treeline, out of view, Eloise and Benedict, armed with a basket of stolen scones and very poor stealth, watched with matching expressions of suspicion and glee.
Eloise crouched behind the tree line, peering between two branches with an intensity usually reserved for catching Gregory in the middle of a scheme.
Beside her, Benedict lay on his stomach in the grass, popping bites of scone into his mouth as if they were at the theatre.
“You know,” he murmured between chews, “for a man who claims to dislike dramatics, Anthony is putting on quite a show.”
Eloise shushed him, elbowing his ribs. “Did you see the way he leaned in? He adjusted her grip like he was painting her portrait.”
“He does get rather intense when he’s interested in something,” Benedict said. “Or someone.”
Eloise sat back on her heels, crossing her arms. “He’s definitely interested.”
Benedict raised a brow. “Should we be scandalized or delighted?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Eloise replied. “Penelope likes him. Or she did. Years ago. But she doesn’t believe anyone could ever—” She broke off, frowning. “Well. She wouldn’t believe it if he was serious.”
Benedict tilted his head. “You think she wouldn’t trust it?”
“She’s not like us, Ben. She wasn’t raised to expect affection. Certainly not from someone like him. She thinks he’s humoring her. Playing the gentleman.”
“Anthony may be many things,” Benedict said slowly, “but he doesn’t play at feelings. He can be a rake, yes, and a brooding martyr—”
Eloise snorted.
“—but he’s never false.”
“No,” Eloise agreed. “But Penelope doesn’t see that when it comes to herself. She assumes everyone is looking through her.”
Benedict was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. “So if he’s sincere…”
“She’ll need proof,” Eloise said. “Not flirtation. Not games. Proof.”
“Which he’ll give, if he’s truly gone for her,” Benedict said, brushing crumbs from his shirt. “God help him, though. She’ll destroy him if she thinks he’s toying with her.”
Eloise smirked. “Good.”
They sat in silence a moment longer, watching Penelope laugh again as she hit another shot, this one marginally closer to the center.
Benedict whistled low. “He’s in trouble.”
Eloise’s eyes narrowed. “So is she.”
The stables at Aubrey Hall always smelled of hay, saddle leather, and summer mornings. Penelope approached slowly, skirts gathered just above her ankles, her eyes locked on the glossy chestnut mare waiting for her in the yard.
Anthony stood beside the horse, stroking its neck. He looked, as ever, like a man born to command: composed, confident, perfectly at home with reins in hand.
Penelope, by contrast, was not.
“I should warn you,” she said, stopping a safe distance away. “This was your idea.”
Anthony glanced at her. “So was the wager.”
She huffed. “I did ride as a girl. But it’s been years. I’m a little… rusty.”
He stepped toward her, something soft flickering across his face. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I said I would,” Penelope replied, a bit too quickly. “I may be many things, but I am not a coward.”
Anthony smiled, not a smirk, not a tease, but something gentler. “No. You’re not.”
That surprised her. She looked away.
“I’ve chosen someone steady for you,” he continued, motioning to the mare. “Her name is Thistle. She’s docile, a bit vain, but she’ll treat you well if you’re calm with her.”
Penelope blinked. “Thistle?”
“You expected a stallion?”
“I expected something more… heroic.”
Anthony shrugged. “I thought about it. But then I remembered you’re the one who hurled a scone at me and demanded shooting lessons. You don’t need a heroic name. You are the threat.”
She smiled despite herself.
Still, her fingers trembled slightly as he helped her mount. The movement wasn’t awkward, she had done this before, but there was a hesitation in the way she sat, too stiff, too careful.
Anthony noticed. Of course he did. His hand lingered a moment longer at her waist than necessity demanded, steadying her as though she were far more delicate than she believed herself to be. His touch was firm, assured, and she felt the heat of it even through the fabric of her riding habit.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear. “You’re holding yourself like a soldier about to march into battle.”
Her breath caught. “I— I didn’t wish to fall.”
“Then trust me not to let you.”
She glanced down at him. He was still at her side, one hand resting lightly against her boot as if anchoring her to the saddle. The way he looked up at her, steady, intent, and far too close, sent a thrill down her spine. It wasn’t simply reassurance in his gaze. It was something else. Something that made her pulse skitter.
“I am perfectly capable of—” she began, but her protest faltered when his hand slid from her boot to her calf, just long enough to adjust her stirrup. The touch was utterly proper, entirely necessary… and yet she felt it in places that had nothing to do with riding.
Anthony’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, as if he knew. As if he was delighted in knowing. “Better?” he asked softly.
Penelope swallowed, struggling to find her voice. “Y-yes.”
He gave her leg one last, gentle pat before stepping back. “Good. Then hold your seat. The horse will do the rest.”
But as she straightened her back and drew in a careful breath, she could still feel the echo of his touch, burning, impossible to ignore.
And when she dared a glance down, he was watching her with that same devastating half-smile, as though he too knew precisely how thrilling it had been.
“I’ve grown,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Or perhaps horses have shrunk.”
“You’re still holding the reins too tight,” he said gently. “She’ll feel your nerves.”
“I am not nervous.”
He raised a brow. “Penelope.”
She sighed. “I just… I haven’t done this in a long time. And the last time I rode, my governess shrieked so loudly I fell off from sheer embarrassment.”
Anthony reached up and placed a hand lightly on her boot. “Then let’s try this slowly. No galloping. No showing off. Just a short walk. One circle around the paddock.”
She nodded, focusing on her breathing as he guided Thistle forward with the lightest touch. The mare responded easily, and Penelope sat taller, letting herself move with the rhythm.
Anthony walked beside her the whole way, steady and wordless.
“You’re good at this,” she said after a while, glancing down.
“At walking in circles?”
“At making people feel safe.”
He looked up at her sharply, as if surprised by her words.
“I imagine it’s why your siblings rely on you,” she added, softer now.
He didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I’m glad it doesn’t go unnoticed.”
Penelope smiled faintly. “It rarely does.”
When the ride ended, and he helped her dismount, her fingers brushed his. She didn’t pull away quite as quickly this time.
Anthony held her gaze just a second too long. “Lesson two,” he said, voice low, “completed.”
She stepped back, breath catching. “You’ll be pleased to know I did not fall.”
“I would’ve caught you.”
She didn’t know what to say to that so she didn’t say anything at all.
Penelope sat beside the wide window, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands. Eloise was perched on the arm of a chair, eyes sharp as ever.
“So,” Eloise began, folding her arms, “the shooting and riding went as expected?”
Penelope smiled faintly. “Better than I dared hope. Anthony is surprisingly patient.”
“Patient?” Eloise scoffed. “I’ve never known him to be that.”
“He’s… different when it’s just us. Less Lord Bridgerton, more… well, more himself.”
Eloise’s eyes sparkled. “That’s very interesting.”
Penelope sighed. “Then came riding. I thought I’d be confident, but it stirred up old fears.”
“Old fears?” Eloise’s tone softened. “What sort?”
“Falling off. Being laughed at. Feeling like a child again.”
Eloise reached over and squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to be perfect, Pen. Anthony clearly sees more than you do.”
Penelope looked out the window, quiet for a moment. “Do you think he suspects how unsure I am?”
“Knowing Anthony, he probably does. And he’s probably determined to help you see yourself differently.”
Penelope’s smile was small but genuine. “I hope so.”
Benedict leaned against a bookshelf, watching Anthony carefully polish a pair of riding boots.
“So, what do you think?” Benedict asked. “Is she actually going to follow through with this madness?”
Anthony paused, setting the brush down. “She’s more capable than she gives herself credit for. She’s afraid, though. More than I expected.”
Benedict smirked. “Afraid of falling off a horse or falling in love?”
Anthony’s eyes flickered toward the window. “Perhaps both.”
Benedict chuckled. “You should tell her she doesn’t have to face either alone.”
“She’d never believe it.”
“Then show her,” Benedict said, clapping a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “And if she’s anything like her family, she’ll appreciate your honesty more than your formality.”
Anthony nodded slowly. “I intend to give her every reason to trust me.”
The Pall Mall lawn had been freshly trimmed, the infamous mallets set out like weapons of war, and the bright pink ball, the dreaded one, was already lying innocently near the start.
Anthony stood near the rack, arms crossed, watching Penelope approach with a mix of amusement and trepidation.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I had to borrow a dress I wouldn’t mind destroying,” she replied. “Eloise warned me this game has a body count.”
Anthony smiled. “Only if Colin’s involved.”
She stepped beside him, eyeing the weapons on offer. “Do I get a proper mallet or do you intend to handicap me with the pink one?”
“I wouldn’t dream of insulting you with the pink,” Anthony said. “Unless you want it.”
“I’d sooner use a tree branch.”
He laughed, truly laughed and handed her a sturdy mallet with a worn, polished grip. “This one’s Francesca’s. It’s balanced. Less bloodthirsty than mine.”
“And yours?”
He lifted it like a knight unsheathing a sword. “The black mallet of death, of course.”
Penelope raised a brow. “Of course.”
The game began easily, with Anthony explaining the rules in a mockingly serious tone while Penelope tried and failed not to grin. The first few shots were clumsy, her swing too high, the ball rolling pitifully to the side.
“You’re not playing croquet with ghosts,” Anthony teased. “You’re allowed to hit it firmly.”
“I don’t want to overdo it!”
“You won’t. Trust me.”
She narrowed her eyes at the next shot, and this time struck with more force. The ball zipped across the grass, knocking into his with a satisfying thock.
Penelope gasped. “I hit yours!”
“And now you get a bonus strike,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Which you can use to send me halfway to the orchard, if you’re cruel enough.”
She bit her lip, considering. “I am learning from Eloise.”
“Well then,” Anthony said, stepping back with mock solemnity, “do your worst.”
With a determined glint in her eye, Penelope lined up the angle and gave his ball a solid whack, sending it flying neatly into a shallow divot of mud.
Anthony stared at the result.
Penelope tried and failed to suppress a smug grin. “Was that cruel enough?”
“You’re learning,” he said, voice lower now, stepping toward her. “But remember, vengeance in Pall Mall is rarely one-sided.”
She tilted her chin. “Are you threatening me, Lord Bridgerton?”
His smile grew wicked. “Anthony. You owe me my name, remember?”
“I thought that was for completing the lessons.”
He stepped closer still, close enough she could feel the warmth radiating from him, his presence utterly impossible to ignore.
“You’ve all but mastered Pall Mall,” he said, eyes fixed on hers. “And I think you’ve secretly enjoyed every second of besting me.”
Penelope held her ground, cheeks flushed, breath quickening. “Perhaps.”
“Then say my name.”
She hesitated, not from fear, but from the weight of it. Of what it meant.
“Anthony,” she said at last, quiet but clear.
He smiled slowly, satisfied, something deeper behind it.
“Much better,” he said.
And then, with no warning, he gently nudged her ball off-course with a deceptively casual swing of his mallet.
Penelope gaped. “That was ruthless!”
He winked. “Revenge.”
The sun was beginning its slow descent behind the trees, casting long golden shadows across the lawn. Penelope and Anthony strolled side by side along the garden path that led from the Pall Mall field toward the house, neither in any particular hurry.
Their laughter had faded into quiet, but the air between them felt charged, not uncomfortable, but aware.
Penelope held her mallet loosely over one shoulder, her other hand brushing her skirts to keep them from catching in the tall grass. Anthony walked with his hands behind his back, deliberately unhurried. Their steps fell into rhythm naturally
.
“You took the shot remarkably well,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
“I’ve had worse losses. Benedict once used my own mallet against me.”
“That sounds like him.”
Anthony smiled faintly. “But I admit… being bested by you stings a little more.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because you’re clever enough to enjoy it.”
She bit back a grin. “Maybe I did.”
They walked a few more steps in silence. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, and a soft summer breeze rustled the trees overhead. The manor loomed gently in the distance familiar, solid, and safe, but neither of them seemed to want to reach it just yet.
“You’ve changed,” Anthony said suddenly, voice low.
Penelope looked up, startled. “Changed?”
“Since arriving. You’re more… yourself. More comfortable.”
She considered that. “I suppose it’s hard not to soften when surrounded by so much familiarity. Your family has a way of… drawing people out.”
“And yet,” he said, his gaze fixed ahead, “you’ve only just begun calling me Anthony.”
She flushed. “It still feels… strange.”
“Why?” he asked quietly. “What makes me different?”
Penelope hesitated. Her fingers tightened around the mallet, but her voice was steady. “Because you’re the one I’ve never quite known where to place. You watch people like you’re always judging, weighing. And for the longest time I thought I was found lacking.”
He stopped walking.
She realized it too late and turned to face him, surprised by the seriousness in his expression.
“You were never lacking,” he said. “Not to me.”
Penelope opened her mouth, but no words came. Her heart pounded in her throat.
“I don’t pretend to understand how you see yourself,” he went on, softer now, “but I know how I see you.”
“How is that?”
Anthony’s eyes swept over her, not with hunger, not with pity, but with something gentler. “Bright. Brave. Brilliant when you think no one’s watching.”
She didn’t move. The weight of his words settled over her like a second skin, unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
“I don’t flirt with women I don’t admire,” he added, lips tugging into the faintest smile.
Penelope blinked. “That was flirting?”
He chuckled rich and warm and just a little dangerous. “God help me, yes.”
She laughed, soft and incredulous. “Well. I suppose I’ll have to learn how to respond to that.”
“I’m happy to give lessons.”
They resumed walking, their hands now just inches apart.
Neither reached for the other, but the space between them felt fragile, as though it might disappear with a single breath.
And for the first time since arriving at Aubrey Hall, Penelope didn’t feel uncertain in his presence.
She felt seen.
Penelope sat on the edge of Eloise’s bed, her legs curled beneath her, picking absently at the fringe of a throw pillow. Eloise stood by the dressing table, unpinning her hair with exaggerated sighs of boredom or exasperation. It was always difficult to tell.
“So let me be sure I understand,” Eloise said slowly. “He teaches you to shoot, helps you ride again without breaking your neck, flirts shamelessly while losing at Pall Mall—”
“He did not flirt shamelessly,” Penelope muttered.
“Oh, you’re right. He flirted very well-manneredly,” Eloise corrected with a dramatic wave of a hairpin. “But the point stands, and now you think he’s done with you?”
Penelope hugged the pillow to her chest. “Not done with me, exactly. I just… I think he wanted something. My comfort, maybe. Or to win some challenge he invented in his mind. And now that I’ve—well, that I’ve given in and started calling him Anthony—”
“Finally.”
“—he’ll lose interest,” Penelope finished quietly.
Eloise turned, eyes narrowing. “Pen. You are not a locked door for him to unlock.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Penelope frowned. “I just—he’s Anthony. Confident, commanding, always so sure of himself. I’m not like the women who usually draw his eye. I’m not bold or dazzling or—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Eloise snapped, tossing the last hairpin onto the vanity. “He already has dazzling. He’s surrounded by bold. You think he’s following you around with mallets and riding saddles because he’s bored?”
Penelope opened her mouth. Closed it again. Eloise’s voice softened. “I don’t think he even realizes how deeply he’s gone. But he’s gone, Pen. He’s in.”
Penelope let out a breath. “And what if it’s a passing thing? A summer affection?”
Eloise moved to sit beside her. “Then let it pass. But don’t shut it out before it’s had the chance to become more.”
Penelope nodded slowly, though doubt still lingered in her eyes. “I just… don’t want to be wrong.”
Eloise smiled faintly. “You never are for long.”
Penelope had been certain that the moment she began calling him Anthony, his attention would fade. She had braced herself for it, the gentle cooling of his interest, the polite but distant nods across the drawing room. Men like him, she told herself, did not linger once they’d won.
But she was very wrong.
The very next morning, she entered the drawing room to find a chessboard already arranged, Anthony lounging in a chair beside it with infuriating ease.
“You play, don’t you?” he asked, rising to pull out a chair for her.
“A little,” she admitted warily.
“Good,” he said, eyes glinting. “I should hate to win too easily.”
Their first game was chaos. Anthony was ruthless, stealing pieces with sly grins and needling commentary, while Penelope far cleverer than she allowed him to believe answered with quiet, devastating counter-moves that left him staring at the board in disbelief more than once.
“You’ve been sandbagging me,” he accused after she took his knight with the smallest, most satisfied smile.
“I’ve done nothing of the sort,” she replied sweetly. “You simply underestimated me.”
He leaned back, folding his arms, that half-smile tugging at his lips. “Dangerous mistake.”
The banter bled into their afternoons when he suggested a stroll through the garden, offering his arm with an easy gallantry that made her stomach flutter. They walked slowly, sunlight slanting through the roses, their conversation winding as naturally as the paths. He teased her about Eloise’s dramatics, she teased him about his need to always be in command. More than once, their hands brushed, and each time, she swore he did not move away as quickly as he might have.
And then there were the riding lessons. They continued those because Penelope genuinely wanted to get better at it, more at ease.
He was patient with her, infuriatingly so, but every brush of his hand at her waist, every murmur of encouragement when he adjusted her seat, threatened to undo her composure entirely. Once, when she managed a smooth trot without faltering, his grin had been so unguarded, so full of pride, that her heart nearly leapt clear out of her chest.
It left Penelope bewildered. She had prepared herself for distance. For absence. For the moment when he would tire of her.
Instead, Anthony seemed only to invent new ways of drawing her closer.
And every game, every walk, every ride, left her less certain of the fragile defenses she had always clung to because with each passing day, she felt herself leaning into him. Trusting him. Hoping for him.
Terrifying, impossible hope.
The rain had settled in for the afternoon, drumming steadily against the tall windows of the drawing room. Penelope was certain most of the household had scattered to other pursuits, but Anthony was waiting when she entered, a chessboard already set between two chairs near the fire.
“You again,” she said, arching a brow.
“You wound me,” he replied with mock solemnity, rising to pull out her chair. “I thought you might enjoy another round.”
“I thought you might have tired of being beaten,” she said sweetly, seating herself.
Anthony gave a low laugh, settling across from her. “The day I tire of being bested by you, Penelope, will be the day I admit defeat in life itself.”
Her cheeks warmed at that, though she busied herself with arranging her pawns. “You are far too dramatic.”
“Am I? Or merely honest?” He moved his first piece with easy confidence, leaning back to study her across the board.
They played in silence for several turns, though silence with Anthony was never truly quiet. His gaze lingered too long, his smile tugged too easily, his every movement a subtle provocation. At last, when she captured one of his bishops, he let out a low whistle.
“Impressive,” he said. “I underestimated you again.”
“Your mistake, not mine,” she replied, biting her lip to hide a smile.
He leaned forward then, resting his forearms on the edge of the table, his voice dropping into something smoother, warmer. “I seem to make that mistake often with you.”
Penelope’s hand hesitated over her knight, her pulse skipping. “Now you… overestimate me, surely.”
“No.” His eyes held hers, unflinching, the firelight catching flecks of gold in their dark depths. “If anything, I don’t give you nearly enough credit.”
Her throat went dry. She looked down at the board, trying to steady herself. “If you mean to distract me, it will not work.”
“Who says I mean to distract you?” His smile curved, dangerously charming. “Perhaps I simply enjoy watching you think. You get a little crease just here—” He gestured lightly toward her brow, his fingers hovering in the air as though tempted to trace it.
Penelope felt her breath catch, her cheeks burning. “Anthony.”
“Yes?”
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” he asked, feigning innocence, though his grin gave him away.
“Turning chess into… something else.”
“Flirtation?” he supplied, delight flickering in his eyes. “Then perhaps it’s working better than I intended.”
She nearly knocked over her rook in her haste to move it, muttering, “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you keep playing with me.”
She dared a glance up and instantly regretted it, for he was watching her as though she were the most fascinating puzzle on the board. Her breath stuttered, her next move forgotten entirely.
He chuckled softly, low in his throat, and shifted a piece with unhurried precision. “Check.”
Penelope blinked at the board, startled. In her fluster, she’d left her king vulnerable. She looked back up at him, narrowing her eyes. “You distracted me on purpose.”
Anthony’s grin was wicked, his voice silk. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you simply let me get too close.”
Penelope’s pulse hammered. The board between them suddenly felt far too small.
Penelope tried to gather her wits, tried to study the board, but his words lingered. Too close.
She shifted in her seat, fingers tightening on a pawn she didn’t mean to move. “It’s only a game,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.
Anthony tilted his head, regarding her as though she had said something profoundly untrue. “Is it?”
He leaned forward, resting one arm on the table, the other draped carelessly along the back of his chair, but his gaze, fixed squarely on her, was anything but careless.
“Anthony,” she whispered, warning and plea all at once.
“Penelope.” He echoed her name softly, like it was something to savor. “You think I come here for the chess?”
Her lips parted. She wanted to speak, to laugh it off, to retreat into the safety of denial, but his voice left no room for it.
“Every piece I move, every trick I play—” he leaned closer, until she could feel the faint brush of his breath, “—it’s only to see how you’ll answer me.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. “Answer you?”
He smiled faintly, though there was no amusement in his eyes, only intent, sharp and molten. “With wit. With fire. With that blush you’re trying very hard to hide right now.”
She swallowed hard, dropping her gaze to the board, though the pieces blurred before her. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“And why not?” His voice was low, insistent. “Because they aren’t true? Or because they are?”
Her breath caught. She dared a glance up at him and instantly wished she hadn’t, because he was already watching her like a man who had stopped pretending this was a game at all.
The fire crackled softly, the rain beat against the windows, but all she felt was the electric nearness of him.
Slowly, deliberately, Anthony reached across the board, not to move a piece, but to brush his fingers against hers where her hand still hovered uncertainly above the pawns. The touch was feather-light, but it stole the air from her lungs.
“Checkmate,” he murmured, though neither of them was looking at the board anymore.
Penelope’s breath tangled in her throat, every nerve in her hand alight beneath his touch. She should have pulled away. She should have laughed, deflected, hidden behind her usual careful words.
But she didn’t move.
And Anthony… Anthony did.
Slowly, as if giving her every chance to stop him, he leaned across the narrow board, his eyes locked to hers. The fire cast warm light over his face, over the fierce, unguarded tenderness there. For a moment, she thought her heart might give out entirely.
“Anthony,” she whispered, though it came out more like surrender than protest.
He stopped, only an inch away, searching her eyes with a kind of desperate reverence. “Tell me to stop, Penelope, and I will.”
She couldn’t. God help her, she couldn’t.
Her lips parted, trembling with the word she couldn’t force out. And that was enough.
His mouth found hers, warm and insistent, but careful, oh so careful, as though she were something precious he feared might break. The kiss was not the polished charm she had always imagined of him, but something far more dangerous: real, aching, intent.
When he drew back, it was only just, his forehead brushing hers, his breath unsteady. “Penelope.” Her name was a vow on his lips. “Let me court you. Properly. No games, no pretense, only this. Only us.”
Her heart thundered. The words didn’t make sense, not on his lips, not aimed at her. She stared at him, searching for the jest, the cruelty, the trick. But there was none.
His thumb brushed her knuckles, still tangled lightly with his. “I mean to marry, Pen. And it is you I’ve already chosen. But I’ll not rush you, not frighten you. Only—only let me try. Let me prove myself worthy of you.”
Her lips trembled, her chest so tight she could scarcely breathe. “You… you can’t mean that.”
He gave a soft, incredulous laugh, as though the very suggestion were absurd. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”
The rain still fell outside, steady and ceaseless, but inside Penelope felt the ground tilt beneath her. Her world, once so certain, had shifted with a kiss and a promise she’d never dared dream.
And God help her, part of her wanted desperately to believe him.
When Anthony finally rose from the table after another kiss, after another quiet vow that he would prove himself, Penelope could scarcely feel her legs beneath her as she stood too. The moment the door closed behind him, she sank back into her chair, pressing trembling fingers to her lips.
What had just happened?
Her mind raced, looping through it again and again: the firelight, his gaze, his words. I’ve already chosen you. Impossible. Absurd. Dangerous.
He couldn’t mean it. Not truly. He had spoken in the heat of the moment, caught up in whatever strange game they had been playing across the chessboard. He was always too confident, too sure of himself, perhaps she had simply been swept along.
And yet he had kissed her. Softly. Reverently. Not like a man amusing himself, but like a man undone.
Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs. She hugged her arms around herself, torn between giddy, reckless hope and the cold certainty that it couldn’t last. That it couldn’t be real.
She was still there, curled in thought, when the door opened without ceremony.
“Pen?”
Penelope startled, nearly dropping the chess piece she hadn’t realized she was still holding. Daphne stood in the doorway, arms folded, her expression difficult to read.
“Oh—Daphne. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to—”
“To hide in here like a ghost?” Daphne stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She came closer, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Anthony just stormed down the hall as though the world had shifted under his feet. I don’t suppose you know why?”
Penelope’s throat closed. “I—he—no,” she stammered, gripping the chess piece tighter.
Daphne sighed, soft but pointed, and sat beside her. “Penelope, I’ve known my brother all my life. I have seen him arrogant, insufferable, furious, even charming when it suits him. But I have never seen him the way he was just now.” She tilted her head, studying Pen with surprising gentleness. “Something’s changed. He has changed. And I think you know why.”
Penelope’s breath caught. She shook her head quickly, her curls brushing her cheeks. “You’re mistaken. He doesn’t mean it, Daphne. Whatever he’s said, whatever he’s done—it isn’t… it can’t be real.”
“Can’t?” Daphne’s brow furrowed. “Or won’t you allow yourself to believe it?”
Penelope hugged the chess piece to her chest like a talisman. “He’s Anthony. He could have anyone. And I’m—”
“Exactly the woman he keeps choosing,” Daphne interrupted firmly.
Penelope’s eyes widened.
Daphne reached for her hand, squeezing it. “I don’t know what he’s said, but I know my brother. If Anthony Bridgerton has told you he means to prove himself, then he will. It may take time, and it may test your patience, but he will. Don’t shut the door on him before he’s had the chance.”
Penelope’s throat tightened painfully. “And if I let him try… if I let myself hope and it all falls apart?”
Daphne smiled faintly, her eyes warm. “Then you’ll have my shoulder to cry on. But Pen, I don’t think it will. I think you may just find he’s already far deeper than either of you realize.”
Penelope closed her eyes, her chest aching with the war between doubt and a dangerous, shimmering hope.
When Daphne finally left her alone, Penelope sat in silence for a long time, the chess piece still clutched in her hand.
And though she whispered to herself again and again that it could not be true, that it could not last, her heart betrayed her with a single, unshakable truth.
She wanted to believe him.
Penelope scarcely slept.
All night she had turned restlessly beneath the covers, her mind a battlefield of doubt and want. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt his breath against her cheek, his mouth against hers, his voice whispering her name like it was something precious. Let me court you.
It was absurd. Reckless. Impossible.
And yet every time she tried to banish the thought, it crept back stronger.
By morning, her head ached from lack of sleep, but her decision was made. She couldn’t keep living half-afraid, half-longing. If she was to be proven right or very, very wrong then she would rather know.
After breakfast, her heart hammering wildly, she gathered what little courage she could and approached him where he lingered near the window, speaking with Benedict.
“Anthony?” Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the chatter of the room.
Both men turned. His eyes immediately intent, searching found hers, and she nearly lost her nerve. But then Benedict, with a too-knowing grin, excused himself and drifted off.
Penelope swallowed. “Would you—would you care for a walk? In the garden?”
For a heartbeat he only stared, as though weighing the words. Then his lips curved, slow and warm. “I would be delighted.”
The summer air was crisp, scented with roses and lavender, the gravel crunching softly beneath their steps. They walked side by side in silence for some time, her gloved hands fidgeting with the ribbon of her gown, his gaze flicking to her now and again with a patience that only unsettled her further.
When the house was at last out of sight, and the laughter of Eloise and Benedict no longer threatened to burst upon them at any moment, Penelope stopped. She turned to face him, her cheeks aflame, her pulse wild.
He halted too, instantly alert, as though sensing the shift. “Penelope?”
Her name on his lips undid her. She drew in a shaky breath, fingers twisting together. “I’ve thought about what you said. About… about courting me.”
His jaw tightened, his posture very still, though his eyes burned. “And?”
She met his gaze, though her knees nearly buckled beneath the effort. “And the answer is yes.”
For a long, suspended moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a sound that was half laugh, half groan of relief, he reached for her hand, tugging her gently closer. “Yes?” His voice was hoarse, disbelieving. “You mean it?”
Her lips trembled, but she nodded. “Yes.”
The word had barely left her mouth before his hand slid to her cheek, and his mouth was on hers. This kiss was different, still reverent, but deeper now, fierce with all the restraint he had held back. She clung to him, her heart breaking open with something that was equal parts terror and joy.
When at last he drew back, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged, he whispered, “You have just made me the happiest man alive, Penelope Featherington.”
She laughed softly, breathlessly, though her eyes stung. “I hope you don’t regret it.”
“Regret?” His thumb brushed her cheek, steady and certain. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that I never could.”
And though doubt still stirred in her heart, for the first time she let herself lean into the possibility that he might be right.
The months that followed became something neither of them had expected.
Without the chaos of the season pressing on them, theirs was a quiet, unhurried courtship: walks in the frosted gardens, evenings stolen by the fire, endless conversations that bared more of themselves than either had shown the world before. Anthony matched her wit with patience, her hesitations with certainty. He flirted shamelessly, yes, but he also listened, cherished, steadied. Every time Penelope doubted, he met her doubts with a truth that was impossible to deny.
By the time spring returned, no one, not even Penelope herself could mistake his devotion.
And now, with bells still echoing faintly in her ears and rose petals clinging to her veil, Penelope Featherington no, Bridgerton now, her heart whispered giddily, sat beside her husband in a carriage bound for their honeymoon.
The horses clattered down the lane, the scent of flowers still clinging from the celebration. Penelope pressed a hand to her flushed cheeks, stealing a glance at Anthony.
He was watching her. Not the scenery, not the road, not even the fading guests waving them off, but her, with a gaze so tender and unguarded it made her breath catch.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, cheeks burning.
“Yes,” he said simply, his lips curving. “I am.”
She tried to look away, but he reached for her hand, twining his fingers through hers. His thumb traced lazy circles across her knuckles, each touch grounding her in the staggering reality that this was no dream. She was his wife.
“I can scarcely believe it,” she admitted in a rush, her voice soft but trembling with truth. “That it’s real. That you chose me—”
Anthony caught her chin gently, turning her back toward him. His eyes darkened with something fierce, something irrevocable. “Penelope. I have always chosen you. From the moment I realized I could not stop looking at you, laughing with you, craving you beside me, I knew. The rest was only proving it to you.”
Her throat tightened. “And you did.”
He smiled then, but it was not his practiced lopsided grin, it was wide and boyish and devastatingly unguarded. “God help me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives still proving it.”
Before she could answer, his mouth claimed hers, the kiss tasting of promise and forever.
When they finally parted, breathless, Penelope rested her forehead against his, her heart overflowing with something she could no longer deny.
“You’re mine,” she whispered.
His hand tightened on hers, steady as stone. “Always.”
The carriage rolled on, carrying them toward the unknown, toward the future, toward everything that lay ahead.
Together.