Chapter Text
Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
And moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
Well, you have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won
- Falling Slowly
COLIN
Patience is a challenging discipline, Colin decides as he watches the entryway.
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, he eases a finger between his neck and cravat, his gaze fixed on the gold-encrusted double doors. Another name. Another pause. The ceremony stretches on, orderly and unrelenting, his new boots beginning to pinch at the heel.
Daphne has already stood before the Queen. "Flawless, my dear," Her Majesty declared, and Colin had smiled for his favorite sister, felt the swell of relief that her debut was off to a promising beginning. But even then, his attention had already drifted back to the doors.
The Featherington ladies will be announced soon. Surely.
He knows Pen is meant to debut alongside her elder sisters—an economy he has never understood, though rumors of Lord Featherington's gambling habit offer explanation enough. Penelope deserves the dignity of standing alone, the way Daphne had today, the way each of his sisters will. But that is not his decision to make.
It does not matter. Not really.
When she arrives, he will not watch the Queen for judgment, nor search the faces of the ton for approval. He will look only at her. He has already decided this.
Lady Featherington enters at last, Phillipa and Prudence in step beside her, the usually brilliantly clad family rendered nearly indistinguishable by the pale silks and careful coiffures common to every debutante in the room. Colin searches without thinking—counting, then counting again—certain the fault must be his.
Then he sees her.
Penelope trails several steps behind as if forgotten, her gown a pale silver that catches the candlelight differently than the cream every other young lady wears. The choice is deliberate: she is permitted to appear, but not to arrive.
Something hot and protective flares in his chest. This is what her mother thinks of her. This is how little care has been taken. Beside him, Eloise shifts, her forehead puckered in concern. His sister detests anything to do with society, but even she would object to Pen’s treatment on such an important occasion.
But Penelope does not look toward the Queen for approval, nor does she look to the Bridgertons for encouragement. Her gaze lifts instead, drawn upward to the vaulted ceiling painted with scenes of ancient triumphs—figures frozen in acts of glory too large to comprehend.
Lady Featherington gives her sleeve a sharp tug, and she lowers her eyes.
For one brief moment, Colin's gaze finds Penelope's—dark blue and light blue colliding.
Then she turns and runs.
Her retreat is sudden, the skirts of her gown gathered in her hands as she scurries back through the doors from which she came, gone before the room has fully registered her arrival.
A murmur moves through the hall, but Colin cannot hear over the roaring in his ears. Realization swarms his throat, stinging like bees.
Standing there, surrounded by girls who blur together into careful sameness, he understands—too late and all at once—that Penelope Featherington did not fail to arrive.
She arrived, took one look at him, and fled.
One Year Later
PENELOPE
The willow tree by the pond is the perfect escape.
When the first streaks of dawn fingered the sky, Penelope had donned a dressing gown over her nightrail and tiptoed down the back staircase and out of the house, leaving Eloise snoring in their shared bedchamber. It feels faintly illicit, this early departure, a reprieve granted without explanation; a stay of execution in danger of being revoked at any moment.
But no one would think to look for her here. Not today, at least.
The silvery branches sway down over the water like a curtain, creating a bower of invisibility she is, for once, thankful for. She perches on a sun-warmed slab of rock, her book open in her lap, her bare feet dangling in the cool water up to her ankles. She has lounged by this swimming hole for so many summers at Aubrey Hall that it feels less like a place than a habit—one she suspects she is about to lose.
Always she wades in the shallow end. Hugging the shoreline, careful to allow the water to rise no higher than her mid-thigh, her toes keeping firm purchase in the silt floor of the pond. There is comfort in the familiar limits, in knowing precisely where the ground will give way and where it will not.
The morning is already warm, the temperature climbing as the sun continues its ascent. Light filters through the willow leaves in a green-gold haze, dappling the water and her skin alike. The air smells of damp earth and summer growth, sweet and heavy, the day still deciding what it will become.
Soon, she will have no mornings like this. Her hours will belong to schedules and fittings and expectations, to rooms full of eyes that will weigh and measure her whether she wishes it or not. Days filled with embroidery and picking out tunes on the pianoforte whilst she awaits visitors who never come. This quiet feels borrowed. Temporary.
The sound of footsteps crunching on grass makes her look up. Not ten minutes of peace, and she has already been found.
“We need to speak, Pen.”
She lifts her head from her book and frowns. Colin Bridgerton stands over her, eclipsing the pink and purple sky with his powerful form, a scowl marring his handsome features. He is clad in his fencing attire, his white linen shirt transparent with sweat.
“Do we?” she asks, swallowing a sigh.
Little good has ever come of the words we need to speak. She might have known that as soon as she congratulated herself on finding a place no one would think to look, Colin Bridgerton would prove the exception.
He always seems to find her.
Even as children, when she hid herself away—behind the hedges at the far edge of the lawn, beneath the stairs when the house was loud, tucked into corners where she might observe without attracting notice—it was Colin, not El, who had been the one to find her. Not with triumph, as though she had lost a game, but with quiet satisfaction, as though he had been seeking her company all along. Sometimes he would coax her into sharing a book, playing checkers, or taking a stroll. And then there were the times he would just sit beside her and just be, content not to say a word.
“Indeed we do.” He collapses onto the rock beside her in a dramatic heap, crowding close, as though personal space were merely a suggestion. His temples are damp with perspiration, his jaw unshaven. Clearly, he has come straight from his morning exertions to find her.
“Do make yourself comfortable,” she murmurs into her book. “Occupied? No, not I.”
“My apologies. Shall I go?” He tilts away at once, his easy confidence slipping just enough to reveal uncertainty and hurt flashing in his deep blue eyes.
Regret pricks her immediately. She had not meant to wound him. It is only that since he returned from his year abroad last week, something about him has shifted. He has always been kind to her, but there is a new steadiness in his attention, a sense of being held in place for which she has no answer. That gaze is not judgmental, yet it leaves her tight and restless, straining toward a feeling she cannot quite reach.
As he brushes his hands on his tan fencing trousers and begins to rise, she reaches out and catches his arm. “Colin, I am sorry. Please do not leave.”
He exhales, tension draining from him as he drops back onto the rock once more, leaning so close that his linen-clad shoulder brushes the silk sleeve of her dressing gown.
Colin is sensitive, but also quick to forgive and eager to move on from quarrels. His frustration burns hot, but it does not last. She has always liked that about him. Such a refreshing change from the mercurial temperaments at her house, where anxiety ebbs and flows according to the tide of social invitations.
“Will you tell me what ails you?” he asks. “You have been rather distant with me, and I cannot think why.”
She answers her bare toes. “It is nothing.”
“No, it is something.” He nudges her, his elbow warm through her robe. “You are cross with me, Pen. Please, tell me what I have done to deserve your ire.”
She turns to look at him, heat rising beneath her skin. “It is not I who is cross, Mr. Bridgerton,” she retorts.
“Mr. Bridgerton, is it?” He holds a hand over his heart as if wounded, but a smile plays across his lips. As usual, seriousness slips easily from his grasp. “So formal,” he teases.
“You have been behaving in a most peculiar manner. Ever since…” She shakes her head.
She is likely imagining his odd behavior this week.
At times, he is simply Colin, her old friend, quick with a jest and easy company, but something has changed. His behavior is skittish and tense, as if bracing for disaster. She catches him watching her with a peculiar sort of gleam, his eyes dark and large like when he is hungry, but there is no platter of smoked salmon tea sandwiches or mountain of biscuits in sight. When that happens, her insides squirm around and her skin flushes in a way she doesn’t care to examine.
Colin is handsome and kind—a fine gentleman by any measure. She is grateful for his friendship, even if she cannot always account for why he seeks her out so often. By his brothers’ reports, women have flocked to his side since he first came out in society. And although he has never expressed interest in more than a dance or polite conversation, he might have the attention of anyone.
But she does not linger on the question. Penelope has learned not to step where the bottom drops away without warning. Naming things gives them weight, and she has survived by keeping certain thoughts afloat rather than letting them drag her under.
“Ever since what?” he prompts, flashing his dimples in a devastating smile.
A warm breeze carries his scent—sweat and shaving soap and something unmistakably Colin. Something warm settles low in her belly.
“Go on, Pen. Say it.”
She was about to, but his nearness muddles her thoughts. The flutter of his eyelashes makes her pulse quicken.
Penelope bites back a growl of frustration—what vexes her, she is not precisely sure. “I should not like to.”
He looks downcast, his eyes on the rock they sit atop, which troubles her more than it should. “You may tell me anything without fear,” he says, hurt shading his voice. “I thought you knew that.”
“If you insist.” She toys with the edge of her book, unaccountably nervous to confess. “It is concerning my debut.”
His expression shifts, his jaw tightening. “What of it?”
She tenses, waiting for him to ask why she ran, why she couldn't face the room, why she failed. The question never comes. He simply waits.
"Why does it trouble you so? I am fortunate to be able to wait until I am nine and ten, and now I might debut alongside Eloise. I am a year behind as it is since Mama agreed to delay me, and she is most anxious that I should make a match.”
Only part of it is true.
She had arrived. She had stood inches inside the doors, the marble floor cold beneath her slippers, the air too close, the room too large. She remembers looking up before she remembers anything else—the painted ceiling, the figures frozen above her. When she looked to the walls, the faces lining them converged in a sickening blur. And then the sudden, unmistakable surge of nausea.
She had made it no farther.
She had fled the room and been ill in the gardens, doubled over in the shadow of the rhododendrons, her carefully chosen gown gathered uselessly in her hands. By the time anyone thought to look for her, the damage had already been done.
She does not say any of this.
It is easier to let him believe the delay was purely physical. Easier to pretend the illness came first, and not after.
Besides, what reason was there to rush? No one was going to court her anyway.
No one is going to court her this season, either.
“Your mother will align you with some third-rate bachelor, no doubt,” he retorts, not bothering to conceal his sarcasm. “Some addled fool with missing teeth and fading hair who wants you to bear him six children in the next six years.”
Relief and anger collide in her chest—relief that he's not asking what she fears, anger that this is what he thinks of her prospects instead.
“Because that is all I am capable of attracting,” she hisses, heat rushing up her throat. “Do I embarrass you with my lack of desirability, Mr. Bridgerton? Well, you are neither my father nor my brother, so you need not concern yourself.”
“Concern myself.” He lets out a rough, startled laugh.
The sound wrongfoots her. It is not mocking, but it needles her all the same, as though she has misjudged the exchange and cannot quite comprehend how.
Damn him, how does he always manage to draw out more of her than she means to reveal?
“A pleasure to amuse you as always,” she snaps.
She closes her book with more force than necessary and folds her arms across her chest. She should get up and leave. Yes. She is going to. Aubrey Hall’s grounds boast dozens of nooks and hideouts in which to enjoy a peaceful hour without interruption from nosy, irritatingly correct Bridgerton boys.
Flicking imaginary blades of grass from her lap, she begins to rise.
“You have no idea, do you?” he challenges.
She pauses despite herself.
“Why you are laughing?” she tips her chin upward. “I have a fair idea of when I am being mocked. You are more transparent than you believe.”
“I shall explain myself on one condition,” he offers lightly, as though she had not spoken at all.
“You misunderstand. I did not ask. I do not wish to know.”
“Ah.” He leans forward, a smug expression plastered across his ridiculously handsome face. “You think you have me puzzled out.”
Before she can retreat, he reaches out and chucks her gently on the chin.
The touch is brief—familiar and teasing—but it sends an unwelcome shiver through her, robbing her breath in a way that has nothing to do with indignation.
Which is precisely why it infuriates her.
“I know I do,” she retorts, her tone sharpening into something snobbish and insinuating. As though he is simple, when she knows he is anything but. Colin Bridgerton may be a charmer, and he plays the part exceedingly well, but a depth of intelligence hums behind those laughing navy eyes and that knowing smile.
He is more substance than meets the eye, and they both know it.
So why is he being so insufferable? Why is he hiding behind this performance?
“Come for a swim,” he says, the words easy, untroubled. “And we shall see how well you think you know my mind.”
The suggestion derails her entirely. Her argument loses its shape, its heat dissipating into something thin and unsteady. An invitation to swim, offered as though it costs him nothing at all—when she can immediately feel what it would cost her.
Her composure.
Her safety.
Perhaps more than she can even understand at present.
Her heart begins to pound in an odd, traitorous rhythm. “No, thank you.”
“May I ask why?”
“You are meant to be fencing,” she says, stalling. “That is fencing attire, is it not?”
“Already done. Promised Gregory lessons before breakfast. As I could not sleep, I roused him early.”
“Why could you not sleep?”
“I shall answer your why if you will answer mine.” He dangles his bargain with a lazy smile.
She scowls. “Never mind.”
“I can never sleep when I have something of import to do the next day.”
“And what did you need to do?” She curses her curiosity even as she asks. If optimism is Colin Bridgerton’s fatal flaw, curiosity is Penelope Featherington’s.
“Swim with my dear friend, Pen, of course.”
Penelope blinks. She landed quite neatly in that particular trap.
“Are we not friends?” His smile deepens, but his eyes do not crinkle with their usual mirth.
She huffs, unsettled by his sheer incomprehensibility. A handsome enigma—he may as well be a piece of art, swept onto a canvas or carved from marble. No actual human being should be this maddening, or this impossible to look away from.
“We are friends, yes. In a manner of speaking.”
His mouth twists. “And what manner is that, that you would be so mean-spirited as to refuse me?
“Meanspirited?”
“It is summer, Pen,” he says, his voice taking on a faint whine. “Our last week of freedom before we must return to town. Back to a rigorous schedule of boring balls and tiresome soirées.”
Penelope presses her lips together. He sounds like when they were children and he was told no more biscuits before supper.
“I thought you quite liked to dance and chatter. You certainly give a fine impression of enjoying yourself. Especially at the buffet table.”
“The joy of éclairs notwithstanding, society is tiresome,” he says, lifting his sweaty shirt over his head with a languid stretch, his form glowing against the pink and purple sky. She absolutely does not look at the flex of his shoulders and the hard, muscled planes of his chest.
“Is it?”
He stands, slanting her a look. “Isn’t it?”
“I suppose.” She wrinkles her nose as he stretches, the muscles in his arms bunching and rippling. He holds out a hand. “Come along.”
“But I do not have a bathing costume.”
“Nor do I,” he says easily, smile flicking down to where she is still seated on the rock. “Though I promise to keep my trousers on, if that is your concern.”
She huffs despite herself.
“It is morning,” she protests.
“A fine time for a swim.”
“I am reading.”
“We shall read together beside the fire later. You know I enjoy having you read aloud for me.” He winks at her, moving toward the edge of the rock where the water is deepest. “Perhaps you might allow me to put my head in your lap.”
She nearly gasps at the suggestion, but tells herself it is nothing. Only familiarity. Only teasing. Colin being Colin.
“I am already wet.” She wiggles her toes. “The hem of my robe is soaked through.”
"Excellent.” He sounds as though he has eaten a frog. “You are already halfway there."
He dives into the water with an ease she has never possessed, tanned and sleek and entirely unfair. Penelope cannot help but envy his physicality. He’s such a Bridgerton.
The splash breaks the stillness, sending ripples fanning outward until they brush against her calves. The water laps higher now, cool against skin warmed by the sun, a startling contrast that makes her draw in a sharp breath. The air feels thicker, too, like soup in her lungs.
She watches, fascinated, as he begins a slow, elegant crawl to the opposite bank and back.
“Well?” he prompts when he breaks the surface, popping up near where she is sitting once more.
She curls her fingers into the grass behind her, pressing them down as though anchoring herself to the earth might keep her safe.
“What if we catch a chill?” she asks, another paper-thin excuse. The air hangs heavy and hazed with warmth, the sun already pressing close against her skin.
He treats her to one of his lethal smiles, water streaming down his face. “The day is very fair.”
“I cannot swim when you’re here,” she protests, her arms tightening across her chest. Beneath her dressing gown, she is already beginning to sweat through her night rail, the fabric clinging uncomfortably.
When they’d come here as children, swimming together was harmless, but this summer Violet had the men and ladies take turns in the water, a concession she suspects was mostly for Penelope’s benefit.
“I won’t tell,” he says, flashing perfect white teeth in another devilish smile.
She bites her lip, considering. If she gets into the water with him, he will be able to see everything. The thin shift she wears conceals little; her body is already outlined by the sunlight and made more apparent by the heat rising from the earth itself.
Moreover, he will be able to see the secret she has kept since she was a little girl.
Colin dives again and resurfaces, shaking water from his hair. It clings to his forehead in dark, wet strands. He looks like some sort of merman or god of the sea, she thinks with a fresh round of annoyance. Before this week, his nearness has never unnerved her, but now…
There is more than one brand of danger lurking in those waters.
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Her gaze flicks to the water, then back to him, then away once more. The truth presses at her ribs, but fear presses harder. If she says it aloud, it becomes real. It becomes something he can see. Something he might pity.
Those expressive eyes flash with hurt, darkening like leaves smattered by rain. “Is it me? I make you uncomfortable?”
“No, Colin. Of course not.”
“Do I frighten you?” he asks, the tick in his cheek marking his concern.
She meets his eyes. “Never once.”
“Then why? The water is the perfect temperature. Cool but not cold.”
“I…” she plays with the tie of her dressing gown. “It is…it is only…”
He tilts his head, kindness softening his expression. He listens the way no one else does—like her words are worth waiting for.
“Go on,” he encourages softly. “I promise that whatever you say, stays here with me. All will be well, Pen. I’m sure of it.”
“I do not know how to swim.”
The words come out in a rush, like a waterfall tumbling over rocks.
It is humiliating, this admission. Especially being forced to confess it to a Bridgerton. They are good at everything. They have tried everything. Pal Mal and tennis, diving and swimming, horseback riding and horseshoe throwing. Penelope never learned to swim because Pru and Phil didn’t like the water, so her parents couldn’t be bothered to show her how. And then, when she would come to Aubrey Hall, she was one of nine children splashing and jumping into the water. It was easy to skirt the shoreline or hide in the shade with the excuse that her fair skin could not take the sun. The latter is not precisely a lie. She freckles terribly.
But Colin is, well, Colin. And he loosens her tongue and lowers her guard in a way no one else can.
“No one knows.” She looks around, not wanting to risk being overheard even though they are a good distance from the house. “Not even Eloise.”
“I know, Pen,” he says, and his voice is as gentle as the lapping of water along the pond’s shore.
“H-how? All those summers we spent together. Why did you never say anything before?”
“Because you did not say anything, and I had no wish to embarrass or upset you.” He swims up to the rock, his face open and earnest. “There is no shame, Pen, and it is never too late to learn.”
“We might swim tomorrow,” she suggests, thinking fast. “Surely the library has any number of books on the subject.”
“No more talk of books,” he says, but it is not an admonishment. His voice is velvet soft. “If you are to learn to swim, you must engage with the practice in real life.”
Penelope searches his face, looking for some trickery or jest. It is unfathomable to her that someone with an advantage would not exploit it. Even among a family as kindhearted as the Bridgertons, a deficiency like this is worth being teased over at the very least.
But Colin has never teased her. Not about this. Not once in all those summers.
“Allow me to render this small service for you,” he begs. “I am not—there is not much in life I am good at. I have nothing to offer, really.” He swallows, and she watches his hand skim across the surface of the water, his gaze lowered as though he cannot bear to meet her eyes. “Please.” He lifts his eyes to hers. “Let me help you.”
Something in his voice—the vulnerability, the earnestness—stills her protests. He is asking her for something, she realizes. Not the other way around.
“Very well,” she says.
COLIN
Colin forces himself to look away.
Penelope sits on the slab of rock above the pool, her shift clinging damply to her knees as the cool water laps at her ankles.
The sight of her—lush and pink and soft in the morning light—threatens to drown him. It had taken every scrap of his self-restraint to behave like a gentleman when she removed her dressing gown, to keep his eyes trained anywhere but on the gentle curves revealed by thin, sunlit linen.
His heart pounds, his throat feels thick; his hands beneath the water are shaky and clumsy.
He tells himself, sternly, that this is not the moment to want.
He has loved Penelope Featherington since he was four and ten years old. Ever since she moved in across the square and befriended his sister and effortlessly charmed his nine family members, one by one. His conversion had been instantaneous—one look into those sweet blue eyes and his heart was hers. The dreams had only begun more recently—on the eve before her eighteenth birthday. Night after night. Penelope, glowing in a pearlescent gown with one of those ridiculous overgrown bird feathers perched atop her gleaming copper curls. Only on Pen, the feather never looked ridiculous.
Now, today, he feels he finally has a chance. To be alone with her. To show her how much he cares.
Pen never could resist a challenge, even if convincing her takes some time. He has always admired that about her—her quiet courage, her willingness to try even when fear bares its teeth to snarl and nip at her heels.
She slides down the surface of the rock gingerly, testing the bottom with her toes as she glides toward him.
He nods his encouragement and smiles. “That’s right. Come to me.”
Then the ground drops away more sharply than she expects.
She flails, breath hitching, hands scrambling back for the rock, clawing at its face in utter panic. “It’s deep here!”
He is at her side at once, water sloshing in his haste to get to her. He places a soothing hand on the small of her back. “You are well, Pen. Everything will be well.”
He eases her fingers from the rock one by one, acutely aware of the trust in that small surrender. “Put your arms around my neck. I can stand here. I will not let anything happen to you.” He meets her sky blue eyes, the little flecks of gold in them shimmering beneath the sun’s rays. “Do you trust me?”
She nods, but the true answer is in the way her hands settle against his skin—tentative, then certain. In the way she allows her weight to shift toward him. The thought of being permitted to touch her already has him trembling.
He grasps her waist and draws her under with him, bending his knees and submerging them until the water covers their shoulders. Her bare legs brush against his, and he is keenly aware that there is nothing between his hands and bare, inviting flesh.
She flushes, mortified as she grips his shoulders. “I’ve only waded in past my knees. I kept waiting for the day El would discover me and laugh, but she never noticed. Not that I blame her. Only I am not sure which is worse—to be teased or to never be seen at all.”
Colin exhales softly through his nose. Eloise rarely notices. Not when it matters. And he is struck anew by how much Penelope has learned to manage alone. Living in a home where she is all but ignored. Her trials and fears and needs unnoticed by people who are supposed to love and care for her.
“It is not such a terrible thing,” she adds quickly, defending herself. “Not everyone learns to swim.”
He does not argue with her. He simply waits until she is ready.
Dragonflies skim the surface of the pond, the water lapping quietly around their tangled legs. He holds her loosely, giving her the space to decide what comes next, though every part of him strains toward her, alert and ready. There is nothing he would not do to protect her, no sacrifice he would not make for her life to be easier or more fulfilling in some small way. Teaching her to swim is a simple enough task; he should have done it long ago.
She lifts her chin, a small, resolute motion that makes him smile.
“How shall we begin?” she asks.
Knowing she has chosen to trust him with her safety, with her secret, floods him with pride.
He has wanted to court her for longer than he cares to admit. Had been waiting—a foolish, lovestruck lad—for her debut last year, certain that once she was presented to the Queen, he might finally step forward with intention. Flirt with her in the gardens afterward. Write his name on her dance card at the Season’s first ball. Request to call on her the next day as a serious suitor. Lavish her with attention and affection. He had rehearsed it all in his mind, every careful step down to the flowers he would bring and the candy he would buy.
She had arrived.
He recalls the moment with painful clarity: the pale silver of her gown, the way his breath had stalled at the sight of her standing there at last—just as she had in his dreams. For one suspended instant, the world had narrowed to her alone.
And then she had looked at him.
And turned away.
She had fled the hall without a word, gone before her presence had even been registered. Whatever followed—whatever excuses had been offered later—had never answered the question that lodged itself in his chest and refused to budge.
She had come. She had seen him waiting. And she had run.
He could not court what had not been presented. He knew that. He obeyed the rules, no matter how foolish. And yet, the next day, when the doors of the Featherington House remained closed, something in him splintered anyway.
He carried her retreat with him like a private wound, worrying at it until it reshaped itself into rejection. That she had understood his intention and recoiled from it. That being seen by him had been too much. That she had chosen distance rather than discomfort, silence rather than explanation. And he’d thrown himself into planning the voyage that was meant to be their honeymoon.
Alone.
The fear followed him everywhere—across the Channel and back again—that one day another man would not wait, would not hesitate, and Penelope Featherington would belong to someone else before he ever found the courage to ask why she ran.
But for now, she is here. Choosing him. Asking him to lead, to guide her into the unknown.
“We begin with the simplest thing,” he says, steadying his voice. “Hold your breath, Pen.”
She does not ask why.
She inhales deeply, her chest expanding as she fills it. When she nods her readiness, he draws her down with him, deeper until they are fully submerged. Her fingernails dig into his arms, her eyes closed tight, her hair floating in a copper cloud about her face. He lifts them both to the surface almost immediately. She opens her eyes, stares at the bank and at the water, and then into his eyes, droplets gleaming on her strawberry lashes. “I did it,” she says. And then again, as if it were a moment of immense triumph, “I did it!”
He throws back his head and laughs.
Drawing her back to where she can stand, he begins her first lesson, teaching her how to put her face in the water without panicking, how to blow out through both her nose and her mouth. Unsurprisingly, she is an apt pupil, and they take turns blowing bubbles beneath the surface while the other watches, giggling. Below the surface, he makes faces and tries to speak, and his reward is her bright, gleeful laughter.
They practice for a while longer—her confidence growing with each small victory—before he judges her ready for the next step.
Finally, he teaches her how to float on her back.
“I shall sink,” she says, frowning down into the clear water.
“No,” he tells her softly. “The water will hold you.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
His mouth curves. “Then I will.”
Slowly, carefully, he eases her back. One arm slides beneath her neck, firm and steady, while the other settles at her waist, anchoring her as the water rises to meet her. Her skin is warm beneath his palm, her body lightened by the water, and the combination makes him acutely aware of every point of contact. He feels the moment her muscles tense, her instinctive brace against falling, and then the quieter moment when she yields—when she allows the pond to take her weight and trusts him not to move.
Her breath stutters, then evens. The tension drains from her petite frame inch by inch, and he adjusts without thinking, hands shifting minutely to keep her level, to keep her safe. Holding her like this feels startlingly natural, as though his body has always known how to do it, his hands moulding to her like an artist to clay.
She floats on her back, eyes fixed on the sky.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now stretch your arms out to the side.”
She does, unsteady at first, her untried motions making the water curl around them like loosened ribbons.
“Colin!” She gasps his name as she struggles. “Do not let go.”
“I am not going anywhere, Pen. You’re safe, I swear it.” He adjusts his hold on her hips, the thin material of her shift gliding through his fingers. “Let the water do the work.”
“I am trying,” she says, her voice tight with concentration.
“Let us speak about something to distract you. What shall we discuss?”
She hums, seeming to cast about for a topic. “Who taught you how to swim?”
“My father,” he answers, a wistful warmth threading his voice. “He taught all of us. Except Hyacinth, of course. Even Gregory learned to tread water when he was barely more than a babe in arms.”
She is quiet for a moment, absorbing that. He can feel the tension easing from her body, the water taking more of her weight as she gives herself over to the pond, letting it hold her. He loosens his grip on her waist—searching for the balance between reassurance and buoying her confidence. Her neck and shoulders relax by degrees, her eyes drifting closed.
“That’s excellent, Pen. You’re doing splendidly.”
“You are an excellent teacher. As good as your father, I would wager.”
There is undeserved admiration in her tone, and he flushes beneath her praise—he should be the one praising her—but he straightens all the same and gives her waist a brief, grateful squeeze.
“Father taught each of us when we were quite young,” he continues. “Said it was important. Said the water was nothing to fear.”
“I wish I had known him,” she says.
He smiles, though she cannot see it. “He would have adored you.”
They bask in peaceful stillness for a time, drifting together toward the center of the pond. Water murmurs around them; a bird stirs somewhere in the reeds. Pen’s breathing evens, slow and steady against the quiet.
Then he asks the question that has long troubled him: “Why did you never allow me to teach you before?”
She sputters, and he fears that she might draw herself upright and shrink from him once more—but she stays where she is, floating, her body still learning the pond’s patience.
What hurts is not that she doesn't know how to swim; what hurts is that he had to guess. That she would not tell him.
“Because I did not wish to be a burden,” she says at last. “Not to you. Your mother has always been so kind to me—inviting me to stay, sitting with me beneath the tent, and sipping lemonade while the rest of you played Pall Mall or climbed trees. And the rest of you included me whenever you could.” Her voice thins. “I know you pity me. You need not.”
His hands remain beneath the water; he neither tightens nor loosens his grip on her.
“I have never pitied you,” he says quietly.
He lets the words stand on their own, lets her feel that he has not moved—that he is still there, steady and unchanged, holding her where she is. Showing her with his body that the man he is here in the water is the man he wants to be for her in every aspect of life. Steady. Reliable. Unchanging. She is teaching him the art of patience, and he makes a silent vow to wait as long as it takes.
“You are… everything,” he continues, softer now. “Smarter than the lot of us. Clever. Kind. I..we love having you with us.”
It is an understatement for how he feels, but as much as he dares admit at present.
When her breathing has steadied and her body has learned the water’s hold, he says gently, “I am going to let go now, Pen. You’re doing wonderfully.”
“You will stay right here?”
“I shall never leave your side,” he promises. “If you become frightened, simply say the word.”
“All right.” She squeezes her eyes shut, and he releases her to the pond.
She floats on her back, then opens her eyes, fixing them on the sky. He follows her gaze to a cloud shaped like a butterfly, then looks back at her, wonder curling in his chest. His hands hover just beneath the surface, close enough to reassure her without touching.
“You are wrong, you know,” she says quietly.
“What about?” His voice is careful, as though the wrong word might tip her under.
“You have so much to offer.” Her gaze never leaves the sky. “You are kind and generous and a good listener. You make people feel… real. As though what they say matters. As if their needs are important, no matter how silly.”
Her words land like a blow—unexpected and devastating. For so long, he has believed himself superfluous, charming yet unnecessary. This grace, this appreciation for his simple character, feels unearned.
“Nothing you need could ever be silly, Pen.”
The water breaks nearby; a sudden, sharp splash as a small creature darts from the reeds into the pond.
Penelope squeals.
She lurches upright, arms flying around his neck. Her legs scramble for purchase and find his waist instead, wrapping around him instinctively, her thighs squeezing tight. The water sloshes violently; her soaked shift pressing against his bare chest. He can feel every heated inch of her. Her soft belly, her full breasts, her nipples stiff from the coolness of the water.
Colin freezes.
Then instinct takes over. He wraps an arm around her back, steadying them both as her fingers dig into the back of his neck. Her heart is racing, her breath coming in quick, startled bursts against his throat.
“It is only an animal,” he murmurs, brushing a wet curl from her cheek. “A duck, most likely. I have you.”
She does not loosen her hold.
Her arms remain locked around his neck, her body pressed close, trembling. He tilts her chin up with gentle fingers, his thumb skimming her jaw. "I have you, love," he repeats.
He longs to beg her for the chance to hold and protect and keep her always. To be hers. To cherish her. But he is distracted by her parted lips, her eyes dark with want, fixed on his mouth. He has been trying not to touch her as he longs to, to handle her. But restraint feels a distant memory.
He leans in to close the scant space between them.
His mouth presses to hers—questioning and reverent. She shivers, a quiet sound escaping her as she clutches him tighter.
“Are you cold?” he whispers against her cheek.
“Yes,” she nods, her hands on his shoulders.
Confusion flickers through him. He may never have a chance like this again. Every instinct screams at him to hold her closer, but he loosens his grip, fingers flexing against the curve of her waist. "Do you wish to get out?"
“No.” She shakes her head, breathless. “Warm me.”
Her hands curl and settle around the back of his neck. Tightening her legs around his hips, she draws him closer, deeper, her body pressing into his, the water rippling around them. His sinking heart floats to the surface.
A low groan tears from him before he can stop it. He captures her lips again, still moving slowly but deeper, the tip of his tongue darting out to run across her lips, tasting her skin, sipping droplets of water from her face, warm and sweetened by her skin. She welcomes him like a flower seeking sunlight, soft and responsive.
He pulls back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are wide and dazed, her lips parting around gasping breaths. He lingers there, suspended, waiting for some sign that she wants this as much as he does, that he is not merely indulging a hunger he has carried alone for years.
“I have imagined kissing you for so long,” he confesses, part in apology, part in hope. “I did not wish to imagine it any longer.”
“Then do not imagine,” she says, moving her small, soft hands to cradle his face. “Kiss me again.”
He obeys.
“Pen,” he murmurs between kisses, his mouth finding hers again and again, though he can scarcely believe he is allowed. Heated, luxurious kisses that taste of sunshine and water and summer.
She presses impossibly closer, her body fitting to his as though it has always known where it belongs. She clings to him, and his hands frame her waist; her shift riding up where her legs are wrapped around him. She brushes up against his cock where he is moulded to his fencing trousers, her center open and hot.
He holds still, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. She has never felt him before—never felt any man—and he does not wish to scare her with the intensity of his desire. He is a dam, her safety, and he cannot break.
“Colin,” she whimpers, shifting against him again.
“Pen,” he moans, closing his eyes in a plea for restraint, “you have no idea what you are doing to me.”
He exhales and drops his brow to her hair, the scent of her filling him. His arms draw her in, his mouth grazing her temple, her ear. “Pen,” he murmurs, her wet curls tickling his lips.
She stills beneath his mouth, her fingers flexing lightly at the nape of his neck, and lifts her head to look at him. “Why do you always call me that?”
“Because you are Pen.” My Pen his mind cries, ever a refrain. He bites his lip. “Do you not like it?”
“I did not say that. It is only—everyone else calls me Penelope. Even Eloise.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes, good.” He shrugs like it is inconsequential, his thumb stroking slowly at her jaw. “I don’t want to be everyone else to you.”
He wants to be special. He wants to be hers.
“You are Colin,” she assures him, leaning into his touch. “And you are unlike anyone else I have ever known.”
The words leave him unmoored—and now it is his turn to cling, dizzy and trusting as they float together.
“Pen,” he whispers again, because it is the only truth he has ready.
He leans in and kisses her again, slow and careful, moving with instinctive reverence. They are both untried in the ways of the flesh; all the knowledge he possesses is from whispered exchanges with boisterous boys and brotherly innuendo. He doesn't know how to make love to a woman. But he knows this woman. He will love her so well. If only she will let him try.
They drift together in the water, the motion gentle, almost lazy, until he begins to ease them back toward the stone ledge where they entered the pond. The water lightens her, carries her partway, and he simply follows, his hands steady at her waist as the shallows rise beneath them.
When the stone meets the backs of her legs, he slides his hands lower, guiding her up and back with care. She is even lighter in the water, easier to lift than he expects, and he settles her onto the warm rock without haste. His palms linger, brushing softly over her thighs, steadying her before he draws away again.
He climbs up beside her, water streaming from his body, and reaches for his discarded shirt, folding it clumsily before placing it beneath her head. The gesture feels almost ceremonial to him—a meager offering, but the only one he has. He wants her to be comfortable. The thought that his scent will linger there, close to her, sends a startled heat through him—a surge of need he does not quite know what to do with.
She reaches for him roughly, dragging his head down so their lips collide. The suddenness of it makes him go weak—it is clumsy and wet and perfect. He yields to the kiss at once, surrendering rather than guiding, letting her set the rhythm. He is helpless to it, to her—lost in a way that feels both terrifying and right.
He slots between her parted thighs, uncertain, before resting against her warmth. He is acutely aware of every place they touch. She is soft beneath his body, yielding in a way that makes his chest ache. He trails his lips down her neck and across her collarbone, her flesh blooming against his mouth. Her response is immediate and thrilling, her hands diving into his hair and pulling lightly, keeping him close.
For a fleeting moment, the thought crosses his mind—how simple it would be to lose himself entirely, to take what is being offered without pause or restraint. The ease of it frightens him. He does not want this to be easy. He wants it to be right. She deserves tenderness, time, a care he is not sure he possesses but is determined to learn.
He dares to graze his mouth across her nipple, through her nightgown, drawing out a soft sound. The quiet gasp is so small, so unguarded, and it leaves him trembling, adrift, utterly humbled by the trust she places in his novice passion. She deserves every ounce of joy that the earth can spare, and she is trusting him to give it to her. Guided by her gasps and moans, he continues, kissing and licking her breasts, until she is writhing and chanting his name.
He slides back into the water, staying close enough that his knees brush the stone. He lifts one hand, hesitates, then rests it lightly at her calf, testing whether he is allowed. He looks up at her, searching her face, letting the question live in his eyes before he gives it words.
“Pen,” he says softly, his mouth near her knee, close enough that he feels her shiver at the warmth of his breath. “May I?”
She looks down at him, hair damp and curling wildly around her face, lips still swollen from his. She does not know precisely what he is asking—neither of them does—but there is no fear in her expression. Only openness and expectation.
“Yes,” she says.
Her confidence buoys him, his nerves settling.
He shifts closer, slowly, deliberately, giving her every chance to change her mind. He gathers the hem of her shift and lifts it with care, baring her to his gaze. His mouth feathers against her, not a kiss yet, but the promise of one, his lips hovering above her pebbled skin where the cool of the water still lingers.
She sucks in a ragged breath. Her body answers him before she speaks again, her thighs easing apart by degrees, her breath growing shallow and uneven.
“You must tell me to stop if you do not wish for this,” he murmurs, the words barely louder than the lap of the lake. “At any moment.”
“I do not wish for you to stop.”
Only then does he press his mouth to her belly, just above the thatch of copper curls between her legs, gentle and unhurried. Her response is instant: a sound, low and broken, her hips lifting to meet him. He lingers there, learning the supple generosity of her flesh, tracing her thighs and belly with his fingers and mouth. This is a lesson for both of them, and one he means to take seriously.
He draws back just enough to look up at her. “Still all right?”
She nods, her hands drifting into his hair again, settling him, drawing him closer and further parting her thighs. “Yes.”
He kisses her again, drifting lower to where she is wet and wanting, the same pale pink as the shells that lined the beaches in Spain. She is slick with desire, and he moves his mouth over her patiently, learning her with slow, careful touches of his lips and tongue.
The unfamiliarity of her taste startles him for a moment—salt and warmth and something uniquely Penelope. He pulls back, uncertain, then returns with new determination.
She tastes like the sea, rich and salty and wonderful. Everything about her feels extraordinary—her warmth, her softness, the way she trusts him with something he barely understands and already treasures.
He wants to drown in her.
“You are so beautiful. So perfect,” he mutters, his voice rough with wonder, his lips brushing over her soft skin as if he were learning a new language. He traces her with mouth and hand alike, slow and worshipful, lingering over every curve, savouring every sigh she gives him. Despite the cool water, she feels so warm beneath his touch, so responsive, that it almost steals the breath from his lungs. “Pen, I never thought…I never dreamed. You are exquisite. Beyond my wildest imaginings.”
“Colin,” she gasps, and he continues, lets himself be guided by her, by the soft, broken little sounds she makes when he brushes one place with his mouth, lingers with his hand in another.
His hand slips on her wet thigh and he has to adjust his grip. "Sorry," he murmurs against her skin.
He is clumsy, yes; inexperienced, but gentle; earnest and desperate to please. His mouth follows instinct more than knowledge and when he traces over a particularly sensitive spot at the top of her sex, her cry rings out over the water.
He freezes, fear ripping through him. “Pen, have I…have I…hurt you?”
“No,” she breathes. “Please, Colin…do not stop.”
Heart pounding, he tries again, gentler this time, and her response is unmistakable. The sound she makes is beautiful, full of something that is not pain at all. It is pleasure— bright and overwhelming, and the knowledge that he can make her feel like this turns his blood to fire. That she would let him be here. That she would allow him to learn how to touch her. To love her.
“Pen,” he whispers against her core before he continues, attentive to every sound, every shiver, every tightening of her body. He wants to drown in her, in the way she reacts to him, in the trust she gives him so freely. His own hardness aching, he kisses, strokes, sucks, and licks, guided by instinct and her soft cries, until her body tightens beneath his hand and mouth, every nerve alive, bracing against something she does not yet know how to yield to.
He loses his rhythm for a moment, too distracted by watching her face, the flush spreading across her chest. He fumbles to find it again, and when he does, her responding moan tells him he's back where he needs to be.
He watches her with care as he loves her—the heat in her cheeks, the way her lips part as she struggles for air, her small, broken cries echoing off the surface of the pond. His hips pump in the water, desperate for friction it cannot provide.
“Pen.” He lifts his head, panting. “Look at me, sweetling.”
Her lashes flutter, she opens her eyes, her pupils so wide they have eaten up the blue.
He reaches for her hand with his free one.
As his fingers brush hers, he waits the briefest heartbeat until she turns her palm to meet his. Only then does he lace their fingers together across her belly, anchoring her to him from where he stands in the water below.
“Pen,” he whispers again.
His thumb moves in a small, hesitant circle where she is most sensitive. She is trembling now—and he thinks it is not fear, but something building, something she is bracing against even as she chases it.
“You need not hold yourself so tight, darling,” he whispers. “I am here. I have you.”
“Colin…I do not…” She trails off, her hazy eyes searching his face as though he holds the key to unlock what is about to happen.
He tries to keep the rhythm steady—his thumb, his mouth—but his hand is shaking slightly, uncertain if he’s doing enough, too much, even the right thing at all. Then he lowers his mouth to her again, attempting to work in tandem with his fingers though the coordination feels clumsy and inexact.
He does not know what’s happening either, but he remembers the lesson. The pond. Her body learning to trust the water.
“Let go, Pen,” he breathes. “Float.”
She does.
Transfixed, he watches her release flow through her, her back arching off the stone with a wail, her body bucking helplessly as the pleasure carries her, surrounds her, fills her. He nearly stops, frightened by the intensity of her reaction, but forces himself to continue through it, trusting her body even when he cannot trust his own skill. When it ebbs, she lies back against the stone, breathless and astonished, the tension leaving her all at once.
He is astonished too. Awed. His brothers’ crude tales from the brothels, the bawdy jests from his school friends—none of it prepared him for this. For what it would feel like to watch someone you love come undone in your hands. To witness Penelope, his Pen, trusting him enough to let go completely. This is nothing like what they described. This is sacred.
Then she laughs.
The sound is so bright and joyous and unexpected that it pulls an answering laugh from him. He brings their joined hands to his lips and kisses her knuckles.
He has witnessed something holy. Moreover, he has been allowed inside it.
PENELOPE
She lies on the rock in a loose, boneless sprawl, absurdly reminded of a starfish she once read about in a biology text. Starfish surrender their weight entirely to the tide, their bodies shaped by the water. The way she has been reshaped by Colin. By the heat of his careful, questing mouth; his tender care; his impromptu swimming lesson.
Heart still racing, she stares at the leaves above her, the light shifting as the breeze moves the branches. Birds chirp and the pond gurgles. The morning continues on, as though nothing remarkable has happened.
But something has.
It is not that Penelope has never liked Colin. She has always liked him. That has never been the question. Wanting him, however, is another matter.
Wanting is loud. Dangerous. A thunderclap that announces itself and demands bold, decisive action. But wanting Colin has seeped into her consciousness, like water rising around her ankles before she notices she is wet.
Reasonable girls do not torment themselves with the unattainable. Desire, she had assumed, belonged to other people. Bolder girls. Prettier girls. Girls who were courted and wooed and wed.
And yet.
Something had stirred at his mouth on her skin, something hot and insistent and startlingly alive. A hunger she had mistaken for imagination.
The realization leaves her breathless: the wanting had been there all along, waiting only for permission. Not from him, but from herself.
Her fingers curl against the stone, then loosen. She sits up slowly, drawn forward by curiosity and a craving for more connection.
Colin remains close, watching her from the pond. His hair has come loose from its order, chestnut curls darkened from the water and falling into his eyes. He looks at her with a softness that makes her chest ache. When he smiles, tentative and a little unsure, it feels like an invitation.
She slides down into the water, testing its depth. Yes, she can stand. And if she cannot, she trusts him to hold her. She reaches out, her fingertips brushing his arm. His skin is warm and damp beneath her fingers.
He sighs into her touch like he has been waiting on it for years. Maybe he has.
Her hand drifts upward to his shoulder, then to the nape of his neck, into the damp disorder of his hair. She does not pull. She simply rests there, feeling the subtle tension he is holding back.
In his hands, in his careful mouth, in the reverence of his attention—she has swum. She has floated. She has trusted her body.
This wanting is not wild or shameful. It is love.
She loves him.
“Colin,” she says softly, surprised by the steadiness of her own voice. She swallows, then smiles. “May I…?”
She doesn’t quite know how to finish the question. She only knows what she wants. To make him feel what she feels now—connected, unafraid. Beloved.
“Pen…”
“Tell me what to do.”
Her thumb brushes his jaw as she waits for his answer.
“You could touch me.”
“Where?” Her eyes drift down over his body. His muscular chest, his powerful thighs. The unmistakable bulge in his breeches that she knows is his member.
“Anywhere.”
She bites her lip, considering where to start. She has never touched a man before—what if she is bad at it? But the way he is sucking in lungfuls of air tells her that whatever she does, he will like. She begins at eye level—with his chest. Trailing her fingers through the soft hair there, feeling the muscles beneath tighten at her touch. Learning him the way he learned her in the water and cataloging his responses.
The cords of his neck flex. His eyes close, head drifting back.
She is bolder in the water. Braver when she can feel the ground beneath her feet.
“Will you let me please you?” she asks softly. “The way you did for me?”
His eyes are hazy and hooded when they open, finding hers. "You do not have to, sweet one."
“But I want to.” She pauses, her hand stilling on his chest. “Will you show me how?”
The question hangs between them—an echo of the lesson he gave her. Now it is her turn to learn once more. His turn again to teach, but this time also to surrender.
He unfastens his trousers then reaches for her hand, gentle and deliberate, and guides it lower through the water. She feels the hard length of him before she sees it, and when her fingers wrap tentatively around his base, she marvels at the heat of him.
“It's so warm,” she sighs. He is hard—harder than she expected, yet the skin is soft, almost silky. She doesn't know what she thought it would feel like, but not this. Her grip tightens instinctively, curious.
He hisses, his body going rigid.
She jerks her hand back. “Did I hurt you?”
"No, no—just—" His voice is strained. "Softer. Your grip."
“Oh.” Heat floods her cheeks. She reaches for him again, more gently this time, her fingers wrapping around him with uncertain pressure. “Like this?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “God, yes.”
She explores him carefully, her fingers learning the shape of him. She moves her hand experimentally—up, then down—and his breath catches.
He closes his eyes, fisting his hands at his sides as though anchoring himself.
Encouraged, she tries again, stroking along his length, but her rhythm is uneven, hesitant. She has no idea how fast, how firm. Each movement feels like a question she doesn't know how to ask.
Her hand slips slightly in the water and she has to readjust her hold. When she reaches the tip, her fingers brush over it and he jerks sharply.
“Does it pain you?” she asks, frightened by the intensity of his reaction. His face is tight, his jaw clenched.
“No.” His voice is rough, strained. “It feels much the same for me as it does for you, I believe. It is wonderful. And knowing it is you makes it even more.”
You.
The word settles over her like a revelation. She had given him her trust in the water—her fear, her flailing, her desperate need to find her balance. And he had held her through it with such patience, such care.
Now he is the one struggling for control.
She continues her exploration, trying to find what makes him respond. Up and down, her movements clumsy and unpracticed. Sometimes he gasps. Sometimes he goes very still. She cannot tell which means she’s doing it right.
“Colin, I do not know—show me—”
He covers her fingers with his and she nearly pulls away, thinking she's done something wrong, but he gently adjusts her grip, her angle. Together they move—once, twice—until she begins to understand the rhythm he needs.
His hand falls away but the rhythm falters immediately. She tries to recapture it, too fast then too slow, until finally she finds something close to what they had together.
She's so focused on maintaining it that she almost misses the change in his breathing.
His chest heaves like he is fighting for air the way she was when she flailed and splashed. She’s not sure if this means it’s working or if she's doing something wrong, but he hasn’t told her to stop, so she continues, growing slightly bolder.
Something is building in him. She can tell from the way his cheeks flush, his mouth open as he pants. The way his hips jerk forward despite his obvious effort to stay still. The way he moans her name, opening his eyes to stare down at her with heavy-lidded want.
The feeling between her own thighs returns—that same liquid heat, that same ache. She doesn’t understand it, only knows that watching him flail like this is intoxicating.
His gaze roves between her breasts, her face, her hand moving along his length. There is hunger there, yes—but also wonder. The same wonder she felt when she first floated in his arms.
She loves seeing him like this: hair falling in his eyes, moans falling from his lips. It is savage and desperate and good.
His breath snags, rough and needy. "Pen, ah, good. So good…”
She strokes him quicker, her confidence growing, feeling powerful even as her technique remains uncertain.
His hips rock forward, faster, meeting her closed fist. His hand grips the edge of the rock, knuckles white.
His eyes squeeze shut. His breathing goes ragged, shallow. She feels him tense, every muscle tightening. Then he breaks, a low groan tearing from his throat as he jerks and spills across her hand and into the water.
She freezes, startled, not pulling away but not moving either. She didn't know, didn't expect…
Her hand is still wrapped around him as he pulses, warm and wet in her palm.
Neither of them moves. The only sound is his labored breathing and the gentle lap of water against stone.
When he opens his eyes, there is no hiding what she sees there.
It is love.
***
They lie together in silence, breathing still uneven, the gentle lap of water against stone the only other sound.
Colin shifts first, easing them both onto the grass. Coolness seeps beneath her back, damp where the pond has soaked into the earth. Penelope lies half on her side, half against Colin, her shoulder tucked beneath his chin, his arm curved around her as though it has always belonged. Her shift is still wet, clinging uncomfortably, but she cannot bring herself to care. Everything feels suspended, the world has narrowed to the sound of their breathing and the rustle of leaves overhead.
His fingers drum against the grass beside them—once, twice, that nervous rhythm she knows so well. “Pen—” he starts, then stops. The drumming continues. His gaze finds hers, intense and searching. Then—
“You must allow me to tell you how I feel,” he pleads, his eyes never leaving her face. She can hear the strain in every word, as though he is holding himself together by sheer will. “I love you. I am so in love with you, Pen. I have tried to forget. I have tried to hold back.” His breath stutters. “Knowing you did not…”
His arm tightens around her, his fingers curling into the skin on her arm.
Something has shifted in him. The physical release seems to have loosened his tongue—words spilling out that she suspects he's held back for months, maybe longer. She recognizes this from watching him with his siblings: Colin talks when he cannot bear silence, when emotion threatens to overwhelm him.
“Perhaps you do not love me,” he continues, the words tumbling over one another now, as though he is afraid of what will happen if he stops, “but you might—care for me. Desire me. And after what has passed between us…” He turns toward her, navy eyes bright with unshed tears, his expression humble and unguarded in a way that tears at her heart. “I cannot pretend it did not matter.”
Her mind races. She has read enough novels, heard enough whispered warnings from married ladies to Portia, to know what he might be suggesting. That intimacy creates obligation. That what they’ve done binds her to him whether she wishes it or not.
The thought makes her stomach twist—not with anger, but with grief. She needs to know if that is what he thinks. If that is why he’s saying this now.
She studies him. “Are you saying you touched me so I would have no choice? That this—” she gestures faintly between them, heat rising in her cheeks, “—was meant to bind me to—?”
“No!” He flinches, the word leaving him before she even finishes. He rolls fully onto his side so they are face to face. “No, Pen. Never that.”
His hand curls into the grass near her hip, fingers digging into the dirt. “I would sooner cut out my own tongue than touch you for such a reason. I wanted you. I have wanted you for a long time. And when you let me—when you trusted me—I lost what little restraint I had left.” He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. “If there is fault here, it is mine alone.”
His breath comes ragged, shaky. “But I love you. And we are friends—best friends. That was never a ruse.” His gaze flickers over her face, searching. “I am not asking because I believe you owe me anything. I am asking because I cannot bear the thought of what we shared being reduced to a mistake.”
He hesitates, hope and fear warring in his voice. “Given time… might I dare to hope that you could love me too?”
The naked hope in his expression makes her heart ache.
“Colin, that is not—”
“Is there someone else?”
“What?”
“You may tell me the truth,” he says, pain sharpening his words. “Is there someone you’re hoping will court you? Someone you've set your cap at?” His jaw flexes. “Some gentleman who has already made his intentions known?”
“Wait—”
“Tell me his name,” he demands, desperation spilling over. “I shall duel him at once!”
Her heart twists. He is so earnest, so convinced there must be someone else—someone better, someone she would choose over him. The thought is unbearable.
She almost laughs, though tears sting her eyes. “That would prove quite impossible, Colin.”
“Why?” He props himself on one elbow, gesturing wildly. “Do you think I cannot best him? That I am not man enough? My shot is excellent. My fencing is better than Anthony’s. I learned to box abroad. I ran with the bulls in Spain and worked the lines of the ships to earn passage. I may be of noble birth, but I am a man of fortitude.” He holds up his hands—calloused, strong. “I will fight for you.”
She watches him, this beautiful, ridiculous man listing his accomplishments like he's applying for a position. Her throat tightens with affection so fierce it nearly chokes her.
She reaches out, closing the small distance between them to place her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath her fingers.
“Skill is not the problem, Colin.”
“Then a courtship with me does not interest you.” His shoulders sag. "I know I am not worthy of you now, Pen, but I will be someday."
“You are more than worthy,” she says firmly. “Of any young lady.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“What you are suggesting is impossible."
“Nothing is impossible with love.”
“This is.”
“Pen, please.” His voice breaks. “Do not speak to me in riddles. Tell me plainly the name of the man who holds your heart.”
She draws a breath and turns fully toward him, their knees brushing, the damp fabric of her shift cool against her skin. She has never been braver than she is at this moment.
“Colin.”
“His name, Pen. Do not make me beg. Can you not see I am in agony?”
“Colin.”
“Pen, please!”
“Stop. Listen to me.” She grabs his hand with her free one and places it against her breast. “Colin is his name. Colin is the name of the man who holds my heart.”
Silence stretches between them.
“But…that is my name.”
“Yes.”
“I am Colin.”
“When last I checked,” she says with a giggle.
Understanding dawns slowly on his face. His eyes widen; his breath catches.
“You…” He stares at her as though seeing her for the first time, as though the willow tree has uprooted itself and crashed into the pond. “You love me?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Tears tremble on his lashes. Then—
“Say it again.”
She gives him a wobbly smile. “I love you. I did not realize the truth of it until today, but I do. I believe I have always loved you.”
He makes a sound that is half laugh, half sob, and pulls her into him, forehead pressed to her hair. Her cheek presses against his chest. His hand cradles the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, anchoring her there.
And suddenly, it all makes sense.
The way he had gone quiet after her failed debut. The letters that had come with larger and larger gaps between them, then stopped. His abrupt decision to leave for the Continent. The way he had returned changed—watchful, careful, looking at her as though he were waiting for a verdict in which he would always be found wanting.
He had thought she had fled from him.
She tightens her arms around him, pressing closer, wishing she could go back and speak the truth sooner, wishing she could undo the loneliness he had carried across oceans and back again.
“I love you,” he murmurs against her hair, his voice breaking. “God, Pen, I love you so much.”
“I am sorry,” she whispers into his chest. “For running. For not knowing. For making you think—”
“No.” His hold tightens, and she feels him shake his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
But she does. She understands now—his restlessness, his distance, his leaving, his strange behavior all week. It was never about wanting less.
It was about wanting her more. So much more.
And lying there beside the quiet pond where he had taught her not to sink, Penelope Featherington knows she will spend the rest of her life making sure he never doubts her love again.
COLIN
They are not doing anything improper. They are merely close.
Penelope remains curled against Colin's side on the grass, half-hidden by the slope of the bank and the trailing branches of the willow. Colin is propped on one elbow, angled toward the path.
Then he hears something—a rustle, the crack of a branch. Footsteps, and then whistling. Colin swears under his breath and squints up at the sun. He has been lost in Penelope, and it was only a matter of time before someone came looking. He only prays it is not Eloise. Explaining this scene to her is beyond his capabilities today.
He stiffens and sits up. That movement is what gives him away.
“Oh. There you are,” Anthony’s voice carries easily across the lawn. “I was beginning to think you had drowned.”
Colin pushes fully upright, putting his body squarely between the path and the water’s edge.
Penelope understands at once.
She slips backward, staying low as she moves, ducking behind the willow just as Anthony comes into view. By the time Anthony’s gaze settles on the clearing, only Colin is visible.
“Good morning,” Colin says, attempting to be cheerful.
Anthony stops a few paces away. His eyes take in the pond, the disturbed grass, Colin’s damp shirt. He does not look toward the willow tree.
“Penelope seems to be missing as well,” Anthony says mildly. “Have you seen her?”
Colin blinks. “Penelope?”
“Yes. Penelope.” Anthony gestures toward the air level with his ribcage. “About this high. Red hair. Pretty. Longtime friend of the family.”
Colin glances, helplessly, at the tree. Then back at his brother. “I—well—”
“Penelope,” Anthony calls calmly, eyes still on the water. “You may come out now. Breakfast is waiting.”
Colin’s empty stomach gives a traitorous rumble.
Then Pen steps from behind the willow, her curls in a wide disarray, fingers worrying the knot in her robe.
Anthony looks at her just long enough to confirm that she exists. And that she is not, in fact, injured.
Colin opens his mouth. “Anthony, we were—”
“I do not wish to know,” Anthony says promptly.
“Oh.” Colin blinks. “Truly?”
Anthony raises an eyebrow. “You are going to court her.”
“Of course,” Colin says immediately.
“And wed her.”
“Yes.”
To Colin’s relief, Penelope nods as well.
Anthony exhales. “Good. Then I do not wish to know.”
“I am not that short, my lord,” Pen puts in, eyes narrowed at his brother.
Anthony considers her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Two apples tall, at most.”
Colin nods in agreement, unable to suppress his smirk. “Large apples, though.”
Penelope turns her glare on him. “You are exceedingly fortunate you are handsome.”
He cannot help his wicked grin. She’s so adorable when she’s aggravated and he loves her more than he can say. “You think me handsome?”
“Perhaps insufferable is a better descriptor,” she replies, crossing her arms.
“Ah, a lovers’ spat. The first of many, no doubt.” Anthony turns on his heel with a chuckle.
“Do try to look respectable by the time you reach the breakfast table,” he adds over his shoulder. “Mother will have questions. And there’s no telling what Hyacinth might say. I imagine the words scandalously romantic will feature prominently in her speech.”
“How did you know I was here?” Penelope asks.
“Because my brother is not subtle with either his attentions or affections. I happened to observe him through my chamber windows this morning.” He pauses, looking far too entertained for Colin’s liking. “Let us say I have never seen a man run quite so fast. I briefly wondered if someone had informed you the house was on fire.”
Then he winks. Winks.
Colin stiffens. Merriment is all well and good, but Anthony has no business winking at Pen. At his Pen.
Colin clears his throat, his face flaming so spectacularly he contemplates whether the lake might provide a merciful escape. “That will suffice. Thank you, brother.”
“You are most welcome.” Anthony’s grin widens. “Truly inspiring velocity, Colin. Well done.”
Anthony takes his leave, still grinning like the insufferable beast that he is.
When he is gone, Penelope sinks back onto the grass beside Colin. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then she nudges him, a broad grin stretching her mouth.
“Inspiring velocity?”
Colin groans, covering his face with his hands.
Then they laugh together.
He glances down at his shirt. It is wrinkled beyond all hope of salvation, still damp in places, grass-stained at the hem. His valet will take one look and despair.
But it smells like her. Violets and something sweeter he cannot name. Something entirely Penelope that makes his stomach swoop deliciously.
He is seriously debating never surrendering this shirt for laundering. Perhaps he could hide it. Claim it was lost. Tell his valet it fell into the pond and was carried away by—
“What are you thinking about?” Penelope asks, watching him with curious eyes.
Colin meets her gaze and smiles. “Nothing important.”
***
The church is packed, every pew filled with faces turned expectantly toward the doors at the back. Flowers spill from the altar in cascades of white and pale pink. Sunlight streams through stained glass, painting the stone floor in jeweled light.
Colin stands at the altar and waits.
Patience, he has learned, is more than a discipline. More than an art. It is an act of faith.
It has not been long. Barely two months since Penelope stood before the Queen. Barely four weeks since he was finally allowed to court her without pretence—to offer his arm, to sign her dance card, to bring her flowers and chocolates and stare at her in openmouthed astonishment, all the love in his heart on display for everyone to see.
He is the first to confess had not waited well. He had called on her every day the rules permitted, and twice on days they did not. He had danced with her at every ball, signed his name to her card with possessive flourish, and glared at any gentleman who dared approach. He had brought her violets because she once mentioned liking them, and chocolates from the shop on Bond Street, and once, impulsively, a book of poetry he thought she might enjoy. His brothers had teased him for being so obviously lovesick. Jealous sods. They only wish they might be so happy.
Shifting his weight slightly, he resists the urge to tug at his cravat, his gaze fixed on the carved wooden doors at the back of the church. He can scarcely believe this is happening, that an hour from now, Penelope will be his.
The organ swells. The doors open.
And there she is—Penelope. His Pen.
She stands beside her mother in a gown of pale pink silk that catches the light, her dark curls pinned beneath a delicate veil. She holds a bouquet of white roses and pale pink peonies. Not trailing behind her sisters this time. Not dressed to disappear. Claiming her place, demanding to be seen.
His throat tightens. She is breathtaking.
They begin to walk. Lady Featherington takes a step forward.
Penelope, however, is as still as stone.
Fear makes his breath catch, his fingers flexing, damp against his breeches.
Little more than a year ago, he stood in the Queen’s hall and watched her flee. Watched her take one look at him across that gilded expanse and run before she could be presented. Before she could be seen. Her skirts gathered in trembling hands, gone before the room could witness her arrival.
He had not understood it then.
Two months ago, she returned to that same hall—without her sisters this time, in a gown chosen to let her shine—and when she rose from her curtsy to the Queen, she had not run. Her gaze had found his across the crowd, steady and sure, and held.
Now she stands at the top of the aisle, and for one terrible, lurching second, Colin’s heart stops.
Not again.
Her fingers tighten around her bouquet, the slight catch in her breathing evident even from this distance. Their guests murmur, expectant, encouraging, but she does not move.
Panic claws at his chest. His fingers resume their restless movement, rubbing together as though the friction might ward off disaster. She will bolt. She will turn and flee and—
No.
He forces himself to breathe. To stay still. This is Penelope. His Penelope. Who faced the Queen a second time and did not run. Who faced her terror of the water and let him teach her to float. Who has already chosen him a hundred times over.
She will not run. She will not.
But God, what if she does?
Then, because he cannot help himself—because he knows what she needs—he assembles his bravery and he smiles. The same smile he gave her at the edge of the pond when she was afraid to let go. He nods, a gentle dip of his chin.
I have you. Come to me.
She takes a step.
Relief doesn’t just crash through him—it detonates. His knees nearly buckle. His vision blurs for a heartbeat before he blinks hard, refusing to miss a single moment of her walking toward him.
She does not rush nor falter. She walks the way she swam; trusting that she will not drown, that the ground will hold her, that he will be there when she arrives.
Every step brings her closer.
And with each step, his chest expands with feelings. Pride. Joy. A love so fierce it threatens to break him open.
The church fades. The onlookers disappear. There is only Penelope, coming to him, her pale pink silk catching the light with each step, her gaze fixed on his face—not lifted to some vaulted ceiling painted with triumphs too large to comprehend, not searching for escape, but steady and certain. Filled with love.
She is not the girl who ran. She is the woman who chose him. Who is choosing him now, with every step, in front of everyone.
Her eyes find his—dark blue and light blue colliding—and this time, she does not look away.
This time, she does not run.
When she reaches him, he extends his hand without thinking.
She takes it, her fingers warm and certain in his, and the tightness in his chest finally eases.
He wants to pull her close, to whisper that she did it, that she’s here, that he loves her. But he settles for squeezing her hand instead, and the soft smile she gives him in return says she understands.
The vicar begins. Ancient words about love and honor, life and worship wash over them, but all he can focus on is Penelope’s hand in his, the way her thumb brushes against his knuckles, the fact that in moments—mere moments—she will be his wife.
When the time comes for vows, Penelope reaches for his other hand.
The vicar pronounces them man and wife.
Colin does not wait for permission. He pulls her close and kisses her soundly, thoroughly, in front of God and everyone.
The church erupts in cheers.
When they finally break apart, breathless and grinning, she leans closer, her voice barely a whisper, and meant only for him—
Float.
###