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Lord Anthony Bridgerton walked into the ballroom with his usual aplomb, his keen eyes already surveying the room. It took no more than a couple of minutes after they greeted their hosts for his mother to let go of his arm to join Lady Danbury for a turn about the room. Eloise tried to sneak away, but with a one-look exchange, Benedict immediately went after her to keep her out of trouble. He watched to make sure his brother reached her in time, sighing at the situation. Had it been up to him, he would've shipped Eloise to Aubrey Hall or to their aunt in Bath, but his mother had argued that it would raise suspicion to remove Eloise from her debut season, even after what she had done. The compromise was that Eloise was to have a chaperone at all times. And she was expected to apologise to Penelope profusely.
The first one was easy enough to accomplish. But since Penelope was still furious with Eloise, the second one was a work in progress. The hope in their home was that they managed to get into, at least, speaking terms once more, since Penelope had ceased her visits to the Bridgerton House after her epic, astounding lambasting of Eloise, a fact that had the entire family, especially their mother, Colin and Hyacinth, most put-out.
His gaze tracked across the ballroom once more, trying to catch a glimpse of red hair, while he remembered that day, no more than a week since, that had changed everything.
Anthony was brooding.
He knew he was, but the Viscount felt he earned a little bit of sulking after his absolutely resounding failure in finding a wife. He knew he had brought it upon himself by foolishly focusing all his efforts on the Diamond, wasting precious time trying to win the approval of her annoying sister, instead of that of his chosen bride, then doubling down on it when it became clear things weren’t going well. And he would’ve gone through it too, had it not been for Miss Edwina’s courage to call the whole thing off, once she saw the mess he made. He couldn’t even resent her for that.
He could resent her unbearable sister and the triumphant look in her eyes whenever she saw him, though.
In the end, he would likely finish the season the same way he started it. Without a wife. Without even a possible candidate. He didn’t even know where to start to look for one, since his initial plan had not given any fruits.
He was still trying to come up with a new strategy to try and find the perfect Viscountess - though he loathed to give up any of his requirements - when he heard a thin crash, followed by a giggle.
He stopped in his tracks, looking up and down the corridor he was on, suddenly aware of the suspicious lack of any maids or footmen in the area. He cast his mind back to who it might be.
His mother had gone to visit Daphne, and, before she left, informed him that she would be taking siblings E through H with her. And it was far too early for her to have come back already, especially considering how close Daphne was to giving birth. She and the siblings she had taken with her would very likely dine with the Duke and Duchess, so it couldn’t be them. Which then left a very shallow pool of suspects.
Anthony had seen Colin leave the house in a carriage just half an hour ago, and while he might have returned already, it didn’t seem likely, which left only one person.
The only possible culprit was Benedict. But he wasn't one to giggle. Not only that, the voice was rather high-pitched and feminine, and his brother knew better. He knew he did. It was never an explicit rule between the two of them, but it didn't need to be. Or so he thought. He hoped, because if his brother had actually brought one of his mistresses to their family home, his mother would have to forgive him, but she was losing a son.
Anthony was already making mental plans, tallying up all that he would need to teach Colin to act as his heir, while reaching for the door when another giggle sounded out, followed by a triumphant hum. Unsure what was happening inside, but knowing that it couldn't continue, he barged into the room, a shout already forming on his lips. The sound that came out of his mouth instead was closer to a surprised, scandalised cry.
There was no Benedict in sight.
Or anyone from his family.
Instead, there was Miss Penelope Featherington, blindly stumbling around the room, fighting against her day dress, trying to get it off, while cursing like a sailor and giggling like a child doing something wrong.
Anthony was frozen for half a second before he turned back to the corridor, checking if there were any servants nearby, before closing and locking the door. That had been enough time for Miss Penelope to win the fight against the yellow silk and successfully take her dress off and chuck it with surprising accuracy and strength towards the fireplace. It was only thanks to Anthony’s fast reflexes that he managed to stumble forward and intercept it and save it from burning.
“No! Lord Bridgerton! Why would you do that?” She whined and stalked forward, hands out, already trying to reach the dress in his hands.
“What is the meaning of this?” He managed, even though out of all the thoughts scrambling inside his head at the sight of little Miss Penelope Featherington flushed pink, clad in only her slippers, stockings, gathers, a chemise thin enough that he could almost see it through and baby blue stays, the loudest one was how Lady Portia Featherington should be horse whipped for hiding what was likely the most beautiful pair of breasts he had ever seen.
“Give it back!” She marched forward, practically climbing on him to reach for her gown, completely unaware of the effects she was having on him.
“Miss Penelope, please!” He begged, trying to keep the dress away from her, but also trying to fight back against his reaction to her warm, soft body dropped over him. “Stop this instant! You need to put your gown back on!”
“No! I refuse!” She pushed him with surprising strength, and he tripped backwards a couple of steps. Even more surprising was the thunderous look on her face and how low and commanding her voice was. He had barely ever heard her speak above a whisper before.
“Miss Penelope, that is enough. Please,” he tried a different approach.
It struck Anthony as rather curious that she was behaving in such a way. To be perfectly honest, had it been anyone else, he would've probably just closed the door behind him and sent a couple of maids to deal with whatever this was. But this was not anyone else. This was Penelope, family friend since she was five, sweet, shy, prim and proper Penelope. He knew immediately something had to be wrong.
She had seldom met his eyes, and most certainly had never lifted her voice at him. When he truly thought about it, he wasn't sure she had ever even addressed him directly at all. But there she was, glaring at him, practically baring her teeth, in her undergarments, refusing to put her clothes back on.
He took hold of her arm, praying to every Saint who might hear him that no one came across them in that situation, and manoeuvred her towards the settee - and away from the fireplace - and sat her down, before trying once more.
“Please, Miss Penelope. This is highly improper. You need to put your gown-”
“I'm not going to! I hate it! I hate it! I despise that gown, I despise that colour, and I'm never wearing it again!” She practically growled at him.
“I- I understand that, but certainly you must see-”
“No! I'm never wearing that ridiculous thing or anything else my mother has commissioned for me! I am tired of being the laughing stock of society because she has no taste! I already have to deal with the indignity of her half-backed schemes, not to mention my father's vices still haunting us from beyond the grave! I will not spend another day clad in those monstrosities! If I am to be a failure, then so be it, but let it be by my own design!”
Anthony was shocked silent.
For one, he had never heard her say half as much in a single breath. But also, the dreadful picture she painted and how blind he had been.
If he was being perfectly honest, he never spent much time thinking about Miss Penelope, but when he did, it was always as someone vaguely Bridgerton-adjacent. In some corner of his mind, he had acknowledged that her gowns always tended to be exaggerated creations, in the most eye-watering colours men could think to create. But he never fully acknowledged that thought. She was his sister's bosom friend. All his sisters adored her, in fact, and even Gregory seemed to have a soft spot and bit of a crush on her. He knew her to be a quiet, intelligent, gentle sort of girl, but that was all.
He was a little embarrassed to remember that he had genuinely thought yellow was her favourite colour and that her gowns were of her own choice. It had never crossed his mind that they were something inflicted upon her.
“Well,” He cleared his throat, trying to find a way to convince her to put the dress back. As much as he understood her protests - and he did understand then, he had fully functioning eyes, after all - this was highly unusual and improper. Looking over at her again - and pointedly ignoring her generous bosom, or how her soft thighs seemed even thicker now that she was seated - Anthony tried to understand what was going on.
It was clear something was wrong.
He would've thought she might be drunk, but while she was flushed, and her movements were jerky and clumsy, her speech was clear, and her eyes seemed very alert.
“Well,” he repeated uselessly, trying to find a line of thought that might illuminate the situation he found himself in. Voluntarily locked inside a room with a young lady of the ton. “Miss Penelope,” he started, deciding to try to have her put her gown back on again later, “I was unaware you were even visiting at all. I understand that Eloise has gone to visit Daphne with our mother. Were you hoping to find her?” He tried, sitting on the chair near the settee she was on, and she giggled, shaking her head and leaning forward, motioning him to get closer. Anthony gulped and bent towards her, forcing his eyes to stay on her face.
“Eloise never planned to visit the Duchess at all. She told your mother she forgot she had agreed to take tea with me, and it was far too late to cancel when she remembered, and she wouldn’t want to be rude. So Lady Bridgerton allowed her to stay behind.” She leaned back onto the upholstery, looking up at the ceiling like it was the most interesting thing she had ever seen.
“Oh? And where is Eloise?” He urged, worried that his sister was in a similar state as Miss Penelope, wandering around the house where she could fall down the stairs, or something equally terrible, at any moment.
“I don’t know. Probably at the print shop.” She shrugged.
“What print shop?”
“In the West End. She has been visiting there for months. She likes the assistant printer.”
“What?” Anthony shot up from the chair before stopping himself. He certainly couldn't just leave Miss Penelope alone in such a state. And he didn't even know exactly where Eloise was. “Where exactly is she?” He demanded, and she snorted a laugh.
“Worry not, my lord. She has been there plenty of times.”
“That is not… That is worse!”
“She will be alright, Lord Bridgerton. At the print shop, I mean. I cannot guarantee her safety when she gets back. I have half a mind to pour an entire pot of that blasted tea down her throat when I next see her.”
“Oh? What tea?” He asked, sitting down again, having a feeling he knew what tea she was talking about, but needing confirmation.
“Eloise told me about Mr Bridgerton's incident during the week at Aubrey Hall. She said she managed to pilfer some from Colin's belongings and invited me to try it with her.”
Anthony shot up again, ready to storm through every print shop in London, before stopping and looking back at Penelope, who seemed completely at peace, pulling her hair out of its coiffure with the same glee she had as she shed her dress.
“Miss Penelope-”
“I hate this hair. It makes my head hurt,” she whined quietly, and Anthony sighed, seeing the tangled mess she was making, before sitting beside her and shooing her hands away. Thankfully, he had enough practice in being a maid for his sisters.
He saw her relaxing and leaning back as he managed to untangle and brush through her curls. He was surprised her hair was so long, her red tresses reaching down her hips. He was even more surprised by the absurd number of pins that he pulled out. The pile formed on the desk by the settee was enough to fill two or three boxes full, he was sure.
“You are really very good at that, my Lord. Is it from being an older brother to four sisters and from your mistresses, I wonder?” Anthony almost swallowed his own tongue, but managed to keep enough of his composure to croak out:
“Sisters.”
“That makes sense. I don’t think you would spend time brushing their hair when you could be doing other things, I suppose,” she giggled, and he coughed, trying to keep his wits about him.
“You seem quite well informed.”
“I know more than you could ever dream of. It is my business to know,” she giggled again, shaking her loose head, making her loose hair dance against her skin, before beaming at him and melting against the upholstery.
“And would you happen to know where Eloise has gone?” Anthony tried to keep his focus on finding Eloise, so he could ground her for the rest of their lives, instead of the fact that Miss Penelope, with her hair down and her simple shift, was considerably more difficult to ignore than she had any right to be, or how soft and inviting her flushed bosom and thick thighs looked as she settled further into the settee.
“Of course, I know. I told you! The print shop.”
“Yes, you said that,” he tried to keep his composure, understanding that her current state of mind wasn’t the best for such a situation. Then it occurred to him that if this tea could do this to shy, sweet Penelope - and he had already seen how Benedict was affected by it - what would it do to Eloise, and the urgency came back tenfold. “Please, Miss Penelope, this is important. Can you please pay attention for a moment?” He brought a hand up to her cheek, trying to guide her gaze to him gently. “Where is Eloise?” She took a deep breath, her blue eyes almost fully black as she tilted her head.
“You smell so good,” she sighed, taking hold of his arm and bringing his pulse to her nose. “Hmm… Like wood and leather.” She buried her face into his wrist and took a deep breath, and Anthony felt like his heart was going to gallop out of his chest, his cheeks and neck burning. “With a hint of vanilla and black pepper. Oh, it’s so good… I could bathe in it.” Anthony felt like he had drunk an entire bucket of sand; his mouth was so dry as he watched Penelope nuzzle against his wrist, barely even able to think about how many times he himself used that little trick on a woman. He was now feeling the full effects of it, and the woman in front of him wasn’t even aware of the effects she was having on him.
“Lord…” He groaned, torn between the heat climbing on his body and trying to find his sister. “Eloise. Penelope, please,” he begged, and her hold on him loosened, and he snatched his arm back like a scandalised damsel. “Please, tell me where Eloise is. If she is under the same effects as you-”
“Oh, she didn’t drink the tea.”
“She didn’t?” He grabbed onto that and allowed himself to feel relieved. “So she isn’t out and about completely out of her senses.” He shot Penelope an apologetic look, but she was too far gone to be insulted by his blunder.
“No, she is out there, completely out of her senses. But fully by her own choice and with no aid of mind-altering substances of any kind, beyond her ridiculous sense of self-importance and her unwavering belief that consequences are somehow beneath her,” Penelope sneered, glaring at the teapot on the table in front of them, and Anthony almost whistled at the venom in her tone. “Just like all Bridgertons.” She turned a sarcastic smile his way, and Anthony would’ve felt offended if he hadn’t been genuinely impressed with her eloquence and fire. He could understand why she was friends with Eloise, if she was such a little harpy beneath her quiet demeanour.
“Yes, well…” he cleared his throat, trying to figure out what to do next. Eloise wasn’t in any immediate danger - if one didn’t count Anthony’s plans, which ranged from sending her to a nunnery and, once again, fraticide -, so he could afford to wait for his sister to return home, which gave him time to think and come up with an appropriate punishment for her.
He barely had time to fully feel the relief when, in a flash of red, Penelope lunged forward, and they fell into a completely absurd situation. Even more absurd.
In Anthony’s defence, he had been watching her. He had been keeping an eye, because he didn’t know what she might do next, and, well, to be honest, the vast and soft expanse of skin on display was far too much for him to completely ignore. But Eloise had temporarily consumed his attention, and that was all the opening she needed.
He looked away for barely a second, and she was gone.
Across at the table, the yellow silk already in her hands, and she was fast, faster than he would've credited, already turning toward the fireplace with unbridled glee and determination. He shot to his feet and immediately introduced his shins to the edge of the low table with a crack that he felt in his back teeth. He said something that he would later feel was forgivable given the circumstances.
She had made it halfway to the fireplace by the time he cleared the table, and he reached her just as she was reaching for the fire, fingers already loosening on the silk. He caught her arm and hauled her back. The dress dropped to the floor, and then her full weight came back against his chest, and they went down together, him first, her landing squarely on top of him, and all the air left his body.
Penelope barely noticed. She practically bounced back and was already reaching for the dress.
"No- Absolutely not-" He grabbed for her, catching her arm again, then losing it as she twisted. She got a hand on the dress. He got a hand on her waist. She drove her elbow back into his stomach with no hesitation whatsoever, and the breath he had only just recovered left him again.
“That is enough!” He gasped, taking her firmly by the waist, and in one motion lifting her from the ground and depositing her flat on her back. He rushed to swing himself over her, planting a knee on either side of her hips and catching both her wrists and pinning them to the floor above her head, the dress still agonisingly within reach of her fingers.
He was completely out of breath, his shins still smarting from their introduction to sharp corners, and his ribs throbbing from her surprising strength and uncommon aim.
Penelope looked up at him. Then she giggled.
"That," she informed him, with great satisfaction, "was so fun!"
"I am delighted," Anthony said, through his teeth, "that one of us is enjoying themselves."
She giggled again, twisting her wrists experimentally against his grip, testing it, and he tightened his hold before she could get any ideas. He was very careful not to think about anything other than the dress and the fire and the immediate logistical problem of how he was going to get all three of them away from the fireplace without releasing her.
He was very carefully not thinking about how soft she was beneath him, or how her chest rose and fell against his, or how her hair was spread out across the floor around her like a halo, and that, in addition to the red in her cheeks and his position atop her, brought flashes of a similar, but very different situation to the forefront of his mind.
He was absolutely not thinking about any of that.
"Right," he said, with as much authority as a man could muster while straddling a woman on the floor of his family's study. "Eloise. The print shop. You were about to tell me more."
Penelope blinked up at him serenely.
"Was I?"
"You were," he said firmly.
"Hm." She considered this. Her eyes drifted toward the dress. He shifted his knee slightly, bringing his ankle around her thigh, stopping any further movement from her. He prayed again that no one would decide to walk into the room at that moment. There was no way in heaven or earth that anyone would believe him if he had to explain what led to this moment.
"What did you want to know?" She refocused on his face, apparently unbothered.
"Everything," he said. "Start with why Eloise has been visiting a printer's assistant unchaperoned for months without anyone in my family being any the wiser."
"Oh, right," Penelope said. "She was looking for Lady Whistledown," Penelope said.
He knew that. Or rather, he had known it, and then believed it to be over. Eloise had declared, loudly and with considerable conviction, that she was done with the whole business. He had been relieved. He had considered the matter closed.
He had been a fool.
Through Penelope's unhurried, unfocused, and yet surprisingly coherent ramblings - delivered with the serene randomness of someone who had entirely lost the ability to prioritise information and had absolutely no concept of alarm - Anthony was given, piece by mortifying piece, a complete picture of everything he had missed. Everything that had been happening in his own house, under his own roof, without his knowledge or consent, while he had been congratulating himself on having the situation well in hand.
He had thought the worst of it was Mrs Wilson. The previous season - the memory of it still made his jaw tighten, and his ears burn - their housekeeper had come to him and his mother to inform them that Miss Eloise had gone through her personal belongings and accused her, to her face, of being Lady Whistledown. His mother had been mortified. He had been furious. Eloise had been confined to her room for a week and made to apologise. Mrs Wilson - bless her heart - had called it a childish fancy, and not taken it seriously, but thought it best to warn them. He had called it the most embarrassing thing his sister had ever done.
He had been so certain that had been the worst of it.
Then Penelope informed him about the Queen’s interest in Eloise’s search. How, during the previous season, Her Majesty had learned about Eloise's search, and his sister, rather than doing the sensible thing and quietly retreating, had apparently leaned into it with her characteristic disregard for consequences. That had eventually come to nothing, mercifully, but the fact that it had happened at all, that Eloise had managed to make her obsession visible enough to attract royal attention - because she was loudly, publicly accusing Lady Danbury, for all that was holy, of being the author - made him feel ill.
And then there was John and Fred.
Apparently, Eloise had blackmailed and bribed their footman and their carriage driver - two of the family’s most loyal men, who had grown up alongside them - into ferrying her around Bloomsbury and the West End at all hours. In the family carriage. With the Bridgerton coat of arms on the door, visible to every soul in London with functioning eyes. At first, she had been looking for Whistledown. When the search led her to Mr Sharpe at the print shop, she had continued to use them to get there. The same carriage. The same crest, visible to all. The same spectacular indifference to what any of it might look like or how it might affect her or the family.
And then, naturally, there was Mr Sharpe himself. The printer's assistant who had been helping Eloise with her search, and who had, somewhere along the way, taken her to political rallies. Unchaperoned. More than once. And toward whom his sister had apparently developed feelings that went considerably beyond gratitude for his research assistance.
Anthony was going to need a moment. And a drink. Or two. Or twenty. Or maybe half of the blasted tea Penelope had might be enough to get his mind out of the back and forth of complete despondency at his spectacular failure and murderous intent towards his sister.
He had thought he had some understanding of what was happening in his own household. He had thought he had a reasonable grasp on the movements and activities of his family. He had been, it turned out, operating under a series of comfortable delusions that Penelope Featherington had just systematically dismantled while lying, giggling, on the floor of his house.
Eloise had been lying to everyone.
To his mother. To him. To Penelope. Cancelling plans, using her as an alibi, borrowing her name and her friendship as cover for months. And then today, when Penelope had come here in good faith to patch things up between them, after a row they had about his sister’s recklessness, and Eloise had chosen instead to use what was to be their reconciliation to put her in this vulnerable state to try to manipulate her into submission. But she had refused to help Eloise even in this state.
He looked down at Penelope. Still flushed, still loose-haired, still pinned beneath him, completely carefree and content and unaware of how insidious the situation really was.
"You said," he managed, "that Eloise was looking for Whistledown at the print shop. Did she have particular reason to believe this Mr Sharpe might be of assistance?"
Penelope's mouth curved. Small and private and utterly different from every other expression she'd worn in the last half hour.
"Well," she said. "That is the funny part."
“The funny part?”
"If Eloise had paid the slightest bit of attention to anyone other than herself," Penelope said, as one might talk about the weather, "she would have realised I am Lady Whistledown the day I published my first column."
Anthony's hands went slack.
It was involuntary. A full, physical loosening of every muscle, the kind that happened when the mind simply refused to keep pace with what it had just received. His hands left her wrists. He sat back on his heels and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose and breathed, trying to stave off the headache he felt coming. He was going to die today. He was sure of it.
While he was having his dramatic breakdown, Penelope moved like a flash, once more.
She had the dress before he had fully registered the loss of her wrists, already twisting toward the fireplace with a sound of pure triumph, and he lunged forward, catching both her hands in his, the dress crumpling between their fingers, and hauled her closer.
"No," he said. It came out rather more ragged than he intended.
Penelope looked at her hands. Looked at his hands around hers. Looked at him. Then she dissolved into giggles.
Anthony held on. He did not let go of her hands. He did not trust himself to let go of her hands. He knelt there on the floor of his study, sat atop Penelope, holding both of her hands in a tight grip while she giggled helplessly beneath him, and took stock of his situation.
His sister had been lying to his entire family for two seasons. His footman and his carriage driver had been bribed and blackmailed into complicity. Eloise had attracted the personal attention of the Queen in her search for Lady Whistledown, which had been conducted at considerable risk to the family name, from directly under his nose, without his knowledge.
Lady Whistledown, who had just informed him, with the casual certainty of someone remarking on the weather, that she was Penelope Featherington.
Who was currently giggling.
On his floor.
While he held her hands.
"Are you quite finished?" he asked.
She giggled harder.
"Penelope…"
"I'm sorry," she managed, not sounding remotely sorry.
"You wrote about me," he declared, deciding that composure was best served by moving forward.
"I did." Penelope brightened immediately. “Yes. But you will have to be more specific, Lord Bridgerton. You’ve done a lot that was worth writing about. Even if I didn’t publish everything I know.” She giggled once more, her eyes bright and her cheeks even more flushed now.
"You called me—" He stopped. Drew a breath. "You referred to me, in print, as a—"
"A rake," she supplied helpfully. "A capital R Rake, I believe, was the precise phrasing." A beat of perfect satisfaction. "That edition sold very well. You made me a rather pretty penny, my lord."
Anthony stared at her.
"I," he said, "made you a pretty penny."
"You did." She nodded with great sincerity. "I’m very thankful. I’d say my coffers were nicely filled, but I don’t have coffers. My money is under the floorboards of my room. Which is overflowing, much thanks to you and your family. Although I really do wish you had made my job a little bit easier and didn’t continuously test how far I can manage the ton biweekly. Considering our current… position, I’d say I might as well wish for wings."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down at their joined hands, at the dress still crumpled between their fingers, at Penelope Featherington watching him with bright, dark eyes, perfectly pleased with herself and entirely unrepentant.
"I don't know," he said finally, "whether to be offended or flattered."
"I can’t choose for you," she answered, tilting her head while her eyes raked across his face in a very pointed way. "But hopefully you won’t make whatever you’ve chosen public, so I have to yet again clean your mess," she spoke with an enormous smile, and Anthony felt both offended and guilty because, thinking back on it, Penelope did clean up quite a bit of their family’s less stellar moments. He held her gaze for a moment. Then, against every reasonable instinct he possessed, he felt something that was almost a laugh trying to work its way up his chest. He suppressed it firmly. "The sideburns," she said with finality, as if she had come to a conclusion.
He blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You look very handsome. You are handsome. All Bridgertons are."
“Thank you…?”
“It’s not a compliment. It’s a fact. All Bridgertons are handsome, the sky is blue, Cressida Cowper is a cow. Just facts.” Anthony snorted out a laugh. She pulled one of her hands free before he could even think to react and lifted it to his face, lightly caressing his temples, his cheek, his jaw. "But those sideburns did you no favours. They aged you terribly." She tilted her head, and Anthony gulped, trying to keep his mind focused. Although he couldn’t quite remember what he was supposed to be focusing on.
“I-” Anthony felt his jaw tighten. "I rather thought my sideburns," he said, "were distinguished."
Penelope considered this with every appearance of genuine deliberation.
"Distinguished," she repeated, continuing her exploration of his face, and Anthony blinked hard, trying to remind himself she didn’t know what she was doing, that she was under the effects of the tea. And even if she wasn’t, she was a young lady who probably had no concept of how much her touch could affect him, even if she was Lady Whistledown.
"Yes, distinguished." She giggled in response.
"Distinguished. Like Lord Rutledge," she offered. "And Lord Greer."
"I—" He stopped. "What?"
"You looked distinguished like the sixty-year-olds from Parliament." She said it with perfect pleasantness.
"I am not—" He caught himself. He was arguing about his sideburns. He was kneeling on the floor of his study, holding the hand of an intoxicated woman, while she caressed his face, and he pretended to be unaffected, arguing about his sideburns. "I am thirty years old."
"And now you look like it."
“They were distinguished," he repeated, with less conviction than he would have liked.
"If you say so, my lord." The corners of her mouth were doing something he found deeply irritating.
"I do say so."
"Then I am sure they are," she said, in the tone of someone who was sure of no such thing.
He stared at her. She looked back at him, serene and flushed and entirely too comfortable for someone pinned to the floor, and he became aware, not for the first time and with no less inconvenience than the previous times, of exactly how warm she was beneath him, and how her eyes in this light were not simply blue but something considerably more complicated than that, and how her mouth, curved at the corners in that insufferable almost-smile. She was still looking at him, her hand still curved against his jaw, and then her thumb moved, just enough, and brushed the corner of his mouth.
He stopped breathing.
She was looking at his lips, the same way she looked at everything else this afternoon with complete, unguarded attention. Her thumb moved a little, just a small caress over his lips; her touch was so light it was almost nothing and was in fact the opposite of nothing, and he leaned in.
"You really are," she breathed softly, "very handsome." Her breath was a little short, and he realised, so was his.
She pulled him towards her and kissed him.
It was soft and unpractised and curious and utterly certain. And it knocked every thought clean out of his head.
His hands moved without his permission, one finding her waist, the other sliding to the curve of her neck, tilting her head back to a more comfortable angle, and he kissed her back.
Properly.
The worry went out of his shoulders all at once, like a knot coming loose. She made a small sound against his mouth when he pulled her closer, her lips parting, and he felt rather than heard his own groan, low and involuntary, and he lost the last of his better judgment entirely. He leaned into her, and they went down together, and he followed her descent without breaking the kiss, one hand still curved around her neck, the other pressed to the small of her back—
The world tilted.
He became aware, in rapid succession, of the following: that he was no longer on top, that Penelope was, that her hands were free, and that she was sitting up with a triumphant expression as the dress was successfully dropped on the fireplace.
He didn’t even have time to think, oh, no, before the flames took over.
"Yes!" She threw both arms above her head.
Anthony could only stare at the fire, watching the yellow silk curling and blackening at the edges, while Penelope sat astride him, arms raised, absolutely triumphant.
"You-" He scrambled up, depositing her unceremoniously to the side, and lunged for the fireplace. "For the love of God, Penelope-"
He managed to get two fingers on the hem, but he knew it was too late. He pulled the dress out regardless, dropping it onto the hearthstone and beating out the remaining flames with his bare hands, and when it was done, he stood there looking down at what remained. Which was not much. A singed, blackened ruin of yellow silk that would never be worn by anyone ever again.
She had won.
He stood there for a moment, breathing hard, hands smarting, and allowed himself to feel the full weight of his defeat.
Then he turned around, ready to - he wasn't entirely sure what - yell, cry, sigh. Address the kiss. Address Whistledown. Address the ruins of the dress. Address the general catastrophe of the last hour and a half and what in God's name they were going to do about any of it.
So, he turned around only to find Penelope asleep on the floor.
Curled slightly onto her side with one hand tucked under her cheek and her ruined coiffure spread out around her, breathing slow and even, with a completely peaceful expression.
Anthony looked at her for a long moment.
Then he pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and stood very still until he was reasonably confident he was not chasing off this headache. He then got up, crossed to the door, opened it, and with a moment of hesitation, where he looked back to check if Penelope was still curled up and asleep, he practically ran through the corridors, hoping to find anyone who could fetch him, Mrs Wilson.
He found a housemaid at the end of the corridor - the only soul in the entire wing, which told him everything he needed to know about how thoroughly Eloise had planned the afternoon - and sent her for Mrs Wilson with instructions to be quick and quiet about it.
The housekeeper arrived in under two minutes. She took in the room in one measured sweep - the ruined dress on the hearthstone, the smell of smoke, Penelope curled asleep on the floor with her hair down and her gown conspicuously absent - and then looked at him with a professionally blank expression, though her eyes betrayed her judgment.
"Yes, I know how this looks.” He cleared his throat, feeling his ears burn at the situation. “I came across Miss Penelope in this state," Anthony said. "There was an incident. With the fire. I did what I could."
Mrs Wilson looked at his singed fingers. At his open cravat. At the general state of the room.
"Of course, my lord," she said.
"I tried to- I understand this- Eloise.”
“Ah! Of course, my Lord.” Of course, that was all the explanation she needed. Anthony thought he had reached the bottom, but Eloise had a handy shovel. “Shall I have someone move Miss Penelope to Miss Bridgerton’s room?”
“I will do that.” He cleared his throat again at her eyebrow raise. "With you, of course. Accompanying us. To make sure nothing untoward happens!" Nothing more happens, but she didn’t need to know that. “I meant-”
"Miss Penelope keeps several gowns in Miss Eloise's wardrobe," Mrs Wilson said, already moving toward Penelope. "She's been leaving things here for years. I'll have her settled and changed before she wakes." She paused. "The servants' stairs will be quieter."
“Of course,” he agreed with haste, thankful she had interrupted him from looking even more guilty than his ramblings made him seem.
He didn't let himself think about it too carefully. He crouched down, gathered Penelope up, and she didn't stir. She was tiny and fitted perfectly in his arms, which gave him nothing logistical to focus on. Just Penelope, warm and entirely unselfconscious, her head nestled on his neck like they had done this a thousand times before.
He followed Mrs Wilson through the servants' door without a word.
In Eloise's room, he set her down on the settee as carefully as he could manage and stepped back.
"Mrs Wilson," he said.
"My lord."
"I trust—"
"Of course, my lord," she said simply.
He nodded, then looked at Penelope one last moment. At her unbound hair, the flush still in her cheeks and the peaceful expression on her face.
“And Mrs Wilson. If you would be so kind as to send my sister to my study once she arrives.” He looked at his housekeeper once again, his face going cold at the thought of what Eloise had been doing. “And make sure there are a couple of sturdy footmen by the door. For her safety.”
He found her hidden in the shadows, near the refreshment table, with a glass of lemonade in her hand.
Her gown was simpler than usual, without so many ruffles and bows, but a particularly unfortunate shade of apple green that clearly betrayed her mother's choice. It was still better than yellow, but he doubted Penelope would agree.
Her hair was different, too. The whole arrangement was less severe than he was used to seeing; her curls were softer, closer to how they looked that afternoon in his house. He thought about how he wouldn't have noticed it a month ago. Now, all he could think about was her. Her soft curls. How long they were, how they draped over her, framing her face, her body in red. How they made her skin appear even more luminous, her eyes almost glowing in contrast.
He watched as she moved next to a window, closer to a group of gentlemen who were talking amongst themselves. She settled just beside them, the men completely unaware of her presence, and, even more importantly, her attention. He had learned soon enough the particular tilt of her head when something - someone - caught her attention. He noticed how her lips would stretch into a grin, then press together as she rearranged her expression into a studied nonchalance. He noticed how her eyes would widen, just a smidge, when she overheard something particularly scandalous, and, even though he knew from back studying all her publications that she was more likely not to publish anything truly ruinous than she was to do it, she would still tilt her head down in a way that seemed to exude shyness, but he now knew was concentration.
He had also noticed how she had been avoiding him.
Since that day, she had ceased her visits to the Bridgerton house altogether, although he learned that she had met Hyacinth, Gregory, and Violet twice over in the park, and was more than happy to keep them company. He also had seen her gladly accept Colin’s offer to dance, as well as Benedict’s to help him escape some of the more persistent debutantes chasing after him. She even kept up exchanging letters with Francesca, and had visited Daphne and Simon in the middle of that week, and had apparently spent the entire afternoon entertaining Daphne with gossip from the ton - really, when he looked back on it, he couldn’t believe his family hadn’t figured it all out already.
There were only two people Penelope Featherington seemed to be adamant in having nothing to do with: Eloise, for obvious reasons, which he completely understood, and him, for equal obvious reasons - to him, at least -, but which he vehemently didn’t understand, or agree with.
Anthony had been respecting her distance. He didn’t like it, but he had respected it, and he had given her the time she seemed to need. He was a reasonable man. He understood that the afternoon had been unusual, that she needed time to come to terms with what had happened.
One week was enough, however. Especially when he couldn’t keep her out of his mind. She was in his every waking thought, and when he went to sleep, she followed him there as well. A week was more than enough. They would talk that night; he would make sure of it.
He was fairly certain that she had lost him amid the crowd. There was no way she could have missed him, or his family, when they entered the ball; he knew that. Their name was announced, and they tended to garner some measure of attention, he knew that. Anthony was aware of her attention, even if he had never managed to catch her looking, so he was aware of the weight of her gaze. But he had spent his time watching her, studying her, and he had picked up on some of her tricks.
He learned early that week that Penelope was as sneaky and skittish as a fox. At the slightest sign that either he or Eloise seemed to be preparing to approach her, she always managed to be at the furthest possible point from both of them at all times, and if there was any danger of an encounter, she would simply vanish from the room and come back in a different spot. So, he stopped trying to approach. Eloise didn’t. And Anthony knew she would lose Benedict at some point in the night, and was ready to use her stubbornness to his advantage.
He had been watching her for the better part of two hours when he finally had his opening. Eloise successfully sicced a couple of debutantes on Benedict and slipped away from him. While Eloise was busy watching to see if Benedict would notice her departure from his side, Penelope moved towards the doors leading to the gardens, thereby losing Eloise.
But not him. For the moment she moved, so did he. He had been close enough that he managed to follow right behind her, mere seconds after she made her escape.
It was something else he had noticed by watching her. At some point in the night, she would always disappear. From fifteen minutes to anywhere up to an hour and a half. Some of those times, she was delivering her article. Sometimes, she just needed a reprieve from the crush in the ballroom. He learned she would always go into the garden, rather than stay inside the house, if she had a choice. He thought it was half because of the fresh air and the night breeze, half because couples also often tended to prefer to use the cover of gardens rather than risk getting caught in a room inside the house, and if she caught someone out there while taking a break… Well, two birds and all that. She was nothing if not efficient.
Penelope was sitting on a bench, hidden by tall hedges and illuminated by the moonlight, looking lovely and at peace. She turned around when he walked into the area, hands clasped behind his back, even though he was very careful not to make a sound.
"Lord Bridgerton."
"Miss Penelope." He stopped a few feet away and simply looked at her, calmly.
"You shouldn’t be here." She got up, and her eyes darted towards the path back to the house, but he was on the way. He took a step to the side, leaving her escape wide open.
"Or perhaps, I am exactly where I’m supposed to be," he countered, with a soft smile on his lips. He took two careful steps, but made sure to give her space still. He didn’t want her to feel crowded. “I rather think we are overdue for a conversation, are we not?”
She squared her shoulders, like she had prepared for this, though she looked like she hoped it would never happen.
"Lord Bridgerton, I think it would be best if we both agreed to put the events of last week behind us. It was an unusual afternoon, and I was not myself."
“I disagree.”
“I- Pardon?”
“I think you were more yourself that afternoon than in the decade you’ve been friends with my family. Maybe, even, your entire life.”
“Lord Bridgerton, I-” She stopped herself.
“I would like to court you.” He said it directly, without preamble, and Penelope choked.
"Let us not get ahead of ourselves," she said, when she had recovered herself. "I understand that your honour demands it, but we do not need to make any hasty decisions, Lord Bridgerton.”
“It is not a hasty decision.”
“You are a Viscount Bridgerton. I am a Featherington. My family's reputation is—" She paused, searching for a diplomatic word and abandoning the attempt. "We are not precisely what anyone would call an asset to a family like yours. The association alone—"
"I'm a Bridgerton," he said simply. "We have weathered considerably worse than a Featherington connection. Often, with your timely intervention, when situations got dire indeed." He tilted his head. "I think we'll manage."
“Furthermore,” she pressed on, through gritted teeth, “while what happened that afternoon was highly irregular, no one knows about it. If we remain quiet about it and don’t interact beyond the norm, it should not put us in any danger of ruination. This encounter, however, doesn’t help. It has gone on for far too long, already. We are alone in a dark corner of a garden. Should anyone find us, or even get a suspicion of impropriety, we should be forced to marry. And that would be rather disastrous, so, my Lord, we should-”
“Marry,” he said.
“Yes, exactly, which is why—”
"Penelope." He said her name with a patience that was somehow more destabilising than impatience would have been. "I want to marry you. That is not a consequence I am trying to avoid."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. He watched her with that same settled expression, giving her time to reassemble herself, which she appreciated and also resented.
"Be that as it may-" she managed finally, after clearing her throat. "There are practical considerations that make the entire proposition. My lord, I have no dowry. My family has no money to speak of. My father's debts have left us in a position that is, frankly-" He almost smiled.
"Laughable," he offered.
"I beg your pardon?" She blinked.
"That, as an argument," he said, "is laughable. Particularly against me." He took a step toward her. "I am wealthier than many a Marquis and even some dukes, Penelope." Another step. "And I have it on good authority that someone has a rather impressive sum saved, under their floorboards, if I’m not mistaken."
Her cheeks went bright red.
"That is entirely beside the point-"
"You are correct," he agreed amiably. " Your lack of dowry is not a consideration. Even if you had it, I wouldn’t have accepted it. I don't want your money." He stopped in front of her, close enough now that she had to look up to hold his gaze. "I want you."
She opened her mouth again, but nothing came out.
“Your hair looks lovely tonight.” He smiled, throwing Penelope off at the change in subject. He reached forward to touch a wayward curl with his finger, slow enough that she had time to reject it, if she wished.
“Lord Bridgerton…” He hummed to signal his attention while he twirled a curl on his finger. “We barely know one another…”
“You are correct. Your revelations during that afternoon taught me much about you. It taught me how your hair is impossibly long, with beautiful, soft curls that look like fire when the sunlight hits it just so. How you absolutely despise yellow. How eyes light up when you are particularly pleased, how your eyes squint when you smile wide and unbidden. How soft your skin is, how sweet your lips taste.” He took a final step forward, but stopped when she put a hand on his chest. “I can’t say I know much. I still don’t know why you started as Lady Whistledown, or how you do it. I still don’t know why you continue to allow her mother to choose your gowns. I still don’t know why you refuse to meet my eye, even during that very night, in your incandescent fury. I still don't know what your favourite colour is.”
He took her wrist and brought it slowly to his face. She immediately recognised it with a mortifying clarity, and he couldn’t do anything but watch as he breathed in the same way she had that night. He looked into her eyes as he pressed a soft kiss on her pulse. Then the barest suggestion of teeth.
“I also know I want more. I want to know all there is and more. I want everything with you. If you don't share my desires, then so be it.”
"Lord Bridgerton…" she started. He brought a hand to her cheek. "Anthony," she whispered, as if she couldn’t decide if she was asking him to get closer or away. Then she leaned into his touch. His fingers traced her temple, her cheekbone. His hand cradled her jaw, and his thumb found the edge of her lower lip, the ghost of a touch, and she had entirely stopped pretending she was going to step away.
He leaned in. Slowly. Until there was almost nothing between them.
"If you don’t feel the same, tell me so, and I will try to stay away. But let the situation be resolved. Let us face this head-on and make a proper decision about it instead of pretending that afternoon didn't happen. Instead of pretending that afternoon didn't change something fundamental between them."
She looked at him for one long moment, and Anthony felt his heart freeze in his chest at her hesitation.
Then she pulled him down and kissed him.