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Penelope Featherington knew a lot about words. She'd taken to reading at an early age, far earlier than her sisters according to their governess.
Her mother had been appalled.
Portia believed, as most mothers of the ton were wont to, that young ladies should focus on learning dance, needlepoint, and music. All skills that would inevitably lead to finding a husband. Reading would only fill one's mind with confusing thoughts.
But for Penelope, it was quite the opposite. Books were simple. Stories were told, mysteries were uncovered, and inevitably a conclusion was reached that was, for the most part, satisfying. Words were an easy way to escape the monotony of her everyday life.
Up until the moment she met Eloise Bridgerton, that is.
Eloise had expanded Penelope's entire worldview. Words for Eloise were not just merely stories and make-believe; they formed a tough armour around equally thickened skin. They were her way of projecting herself onto the world, even if it wasn't quite ready for her. She spoke almost lyrically; every word that fell off her tongue was steeped in her own intellect. They were pompous, pretentious, and perfect.
Penelope devoured each and every one.
Eloise was one of the few in her acquaintance who acknowledged Penelope, and Penelope was quite possibly the only person who actually listened to Eloise. So their friendship grew quickly, and before long they were attached at the hip. Until Penelope was presented a year earlier than Eloise.
Penelope had quickly faded into the shadows and, to no one's surprise she was swiftly deemed a wallflower.
That was when she'd found her power: she was invisible.
No one took any notice of her, but she took notice of them. Words were no longer just a story on a page, or a long-winded soliloquy from her closest friend. Words could be weapons. Whispered remarks of poison from dukes and baronesses floated around ballrooms. Footmen and maids snickered and shared torrid tales down hallways. Withering gentlemen and marriage-minded mamas exchanged notes on bachelors as they eyed dancefloors. And Penelope heard them all.
That's when she began to write.
Lady Whistledown was her last laugh. Her words were callous, diverting, and scandalous; the ton lapped up every single one. Penelope had taken their phrases and profited from them with a nom-de-plume that put both fear and excitement in the eyes of her readers. Bullies, like Cressida Cowper and even Penelope's own mother, were at her mercy. So when they spouted off their unkind and spiteful opinions on Penelope's appearance or her lack of suitors, Penelope was able to let them wash over her mostly unharmed. She had Whistledown, she had Eloise, and she had… Colin.
Colin, who she'd been in love with since she was fifteen. He used his words thoughtfully, introspectively, curiously. They were his way of discovering the world and his place in it. He was charming and quick-witted, but most importantly to Penelope, he was kind.
And so she loved him from afar. She would take any words he shared with her and hide them in the deepest chambers of her heart, to be carefully protected and re-lived when she needed them most. She would sometimes lay awake at night and let his words float over her.
'You're very good, you know.'
'I must escort Miss Featherington to the floor.'
'Penelope, what a barb!'
Then the letters began to arrive.
The first correspondence had been a polite missive sending his condolences on her father's passing. She'd spent days crafting her response, hoping to appear interesting, charming, like someone who wasn't a plain, insipid wallflower. It was a whimsical and romantic distraction from her grief.
Soon their letters were travelling back and forth across oceans.
Despite the loss of her father, and the confusing feelings that came with that, these were quite possibly the best months of Penelope's life. Her soul had been in those carefully written notes. She had kept every single one of his letters, every envelope with her delicately swirled name carefully wrapped and hidden under her floorboards. Each and every word was sacred, something to be cherished.
Yet Penelope had always known that while Colin was made for her, she was not made for him.
She knew that eventually, he would find a lovely beauty to marry, a diamond of the first water. And Penelope would watch on with a broken but accepting heart, because she would always have his letters, his words that were so vibrant and thoughtful were hers. She would always have this part of Colin.
It wasn't until he returned to Mayfair that she realised those notes had given her something dangerous as well: hope.
However, now no longer protected by distance and time, her words were stuck in her throat. Her pithy replies, her wit, her earnest worship of him came out as mere stuttering. She had been flustered and nervous, but once again his kindness had washed over her, soothing her.
'You are my friend.'
'Our relationship has developed so naturally over the years'
'I will always protect you, Penelope.'
'You are special to me.'
It was not just his words but his actions too. He touched her, held her hand, grazed his fingers along the bare skin of her arm, coating her with gooseflesh. He danced with her; he sought her out in every room, confided in her and listened to her. He stood up to her uncle, protected her and her family. Penelope's hope had bloomed, the petals of it expanding and floating in her chest.
She never dared voice it aloud, but the thoughts were there nonetheless, flitting around her mind, tantalising and seductive.
What if he felt the same way?
What if Colin Bridgerton loved her too?
And then she'd heard the truth of his feelings. The truth of him. In his own words.
‘Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.’
—
He knew where to find her; it wasn't difficult.
She was always at the edges of a room, watching on as the ton whipped and waltzed around her. She would wear a knowing smirk, her eyes lighting up whenever she heard a morsel of something scandalous. She was clever; perhaps even more so than him.
He'd only realised once they'd started exchanging letters the year prior. She weaved her words like a seamstress, his eyes chasing the thread of them, his mind exploding in colour as he followed along. They were enchanting, like sorcery. He would fall into her letters and land right next to her in the Featherington drawing room, watching on as her sisters said or did something inane, laughing right alongside her.
He would join her on her walks in the countryside, admiring the cold and quiet winter around them, the crunch of frost beneath their boots. He would sit with her by a fire, the warmth caressing him as she thought about her future, about escaping the piercing and injurious eyes of her mother.
She reflected on his words with the same kind of wonder; he could feel it in her letters. He wrote prolifically about his travels, much to the chagrin of his family but to Penelope, it was never quite enough. She always asked for more detail, for more stories, for more of him.
So he in turn sought out more adventures, more experiences to spin into tales to share with his friend back home. When she wrote to him, he felt bigger than himself. More important. As if there was so much more of him to discover and share with the world. Penelope seeing him this way almost made it feel true.
He had thought that they would fall into a similar pattern when he resumed his travels, the same back and forth that had driven his adventure the previous year. But he had been writing into an ether; Penelope did not send him one note in return.
Initially, he'd been concerned that something had happened to her but then had been comforted by the thought that Eloise would surely have let him know if this were the case. He'd held off on writing any further when his third letter to her had received no reply. He needed to retain some of his dignity, after all.
However, after a month had passed and still he heard nothing, he gave up and gave in.
He wrote to her every day. Countless letters filled with his thoughts, his experiences, the people he met on his travels. He hoped he might write something so interesting he'd be able to coax a few words out of her.
The silence was overwhelming.
His return to Mayfair had been disconcerting. Everything was the same, except that it wasn't. Anthony was in love and still frustrated by his reckless siblings. Benedict was drinking and whoring, his art a distant yearning memory. Daphne was chasing after her own child and pregnant once more. Eloise still rejected the idea of ever marrying and men in general, yet seemed lost. Francesca was preparing for her debut. Gregory was excelling at Eton and rambunctious as ever. Hyacinth was playing pranks on Gregory and had become close allies with Kate's dog, Newton. And Violet was looking on at all of this with love and exasperation.
But Penelope had disappeared.
It quickly became apparent that she and Eloise were no longer friends, although no one knew why. Eloise was exceedingly close-lipped on the matter. On Colin's return, he had tried calling on Penelope at her home, fronting the Featherington household with a nervous smile and his calling card, but he had been sent away with an indifferent wave of Mrs Varley's hand.
And now, here he was at Lady Danbury's ball, observing her.
He'd tracked her all evening, hoping to find a moment with her alone so he could uncover the source of her silence. But so far, she'd been hidden behind the fortress of her mother. Their eyes had met once over the crowd of the ballroom. Something had flashed across her face when she saw him, making his heart lurch in his chest. And then it was as if her eyes had become stone. A cool and impenetrable wall. Colin had felt a prickling heat rush through him, his anxieties demanding that he race over to her and fall at her feet. Instead, he sipped on champagne and waited.
Finally, her mother was distracted by Penelope's eldest sister, Prudence, and Penelope was alone. Colin immediately waded through the crowds toward her, leaving behind a slightly insulted Benedict, who had been mid-story. He'd just reached her when he realised Lady Danbury was at her side. Neither of them had noticed him yet, and he hesitated. While he certainly hadn't wanted to talk to Penelope with Portia present, Lady Danbury wasn't exactly an ideal conversation partner either.
"-dance?" he overheard the tail end of Lady Danbury's question.
Penelope's cheeks flushed a pretty pink, her lips pursing as she replied, "No one has asked."
A frown tugged at his lips. It rankled him that no other gentleman had approached her, that no one else could see just how wonderful she was. He was about to step forward with his hand out when Lady Danbury's words stopped him.
"And what of Mr Colin Bridgerton? He has been a loyal dance companion in the past. Has he not requested your company on the dancefloor this evening?"
Penelope scoffed. Lady Danbury's eyebrows raised as Colin's stomach fell.
Lady Danbury continued her prying, "The young ladies of the ton have been in a twitter since his return. Given your closeness with the Bridgerton family, I would have thought that you might also feel some excitement."
Penelope rolled her eyes and took a sip of her lemonade. "Those ladies have no sense."
Lady Danbury laughed. "While I find I cannot disagree with you there, Mr Bridgerton is-"
"He's a third son, he spends most of his time aimlessly travelling, and he has no intentions on the marriage mart," said Penelope. "He may flirt with them, but he is not a serious suitor, and to believe otherwise is foolish. I am focused on finding a husband this Season, so no, I am not in a twitter, as you say, about the return of a gentleman who has no bearing on my future."
The words left his mouth before he could think. "A frank assessment, Miss Featherington."
Lady Danbury and Penelope spun as one toward him. Penelope's eyes widened, the tips of her fingers whitening as she clenched her glass of lemonade, the flush on her cheeks creeping down her neck.
After a few excruciating moments of silence, one in which even Lady Danbury couldn’t bring herself to break, he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back and offering Penelope his hand. "I find myself in want of a dance partner this evening. Would you do me the honour, Miss Featherington?"
She hesitated, her teeth trailing her lower lips as she considered his hand before her. But Lady Danbury was their witness, and it would be improper for her to reject him. So with a grimace that was entirely insulting, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
Not for the first time, Colin was nervous in Penelope's presence. Whilst in the past, his nerves had been borne out of finding the right words to impress her, this time, he was worried about what she would say. There had to be more to her unkind assessment of him than just the fact that he did not seek to marry. It had felt personal, pointed.
He was determined to find out why.
—
Weeks later, she had forgiven him. He had more than proven himself to be her friend this Season. In fact, he had been an ally on the marriage mart, he had vetted all potential suitors, he had coached her in attracting them and he had encouraged and built her confidence every step of the way.
Colin Bridgerton, it turned out, would have made an exceptional marriage-minded mama. Something she often liked to remind him of to see the combination of consternation, humour and pride that flitted across his face.
She'd enjoyed her time with him this Season. They'd finally felt like equals.
Knowing that he would never see her in a romantic light had taken a pressure off her heart that she hadn't even realised was there. She was more herself than she ever had been. Her words flowed freely, unencumbered. She spoke with wit, confidence, personality. She spoke shamelessly, as if she had nothing to lose, as if there was nobody to impress. He would never fall in love with her, and she was content in that knowledge.
She was herself, unapologetically.
It wasn't until she saw him in her family's rose garden once again surrounded by his friends laughing and chatting in the fresh evening air, that she realised she was yet to trust him again.
The visual tugged at her heart, tearing at the stitches she'd carefully sewn over the past few weeks. The memory of that night and those words crashed around her, icy dread pooled in her stomach. She knew she should leave, return to the safety of the ballroom. Instead, she was a statue, watching on from her place behind a column as the men teased and gossiped, trails of smoke floating in the air above them.
"Penelope Featherington," crowed the odious Lord Fife. "You cannot be serious, Dankworth!"
Penelope flinched, her nose started to sting, her cheeks ached. Her body was trembling, as if trying to escape from itself. Yet still, she stood and listened, her masochistic heart pounding in her ears.
"I've heard more words out of a dormouse, although I suppose it's always the quiet ones that-"
"Watch yourself, Fife," interrupted Colin, his voice like steel.
Fife rounded on Colin, his smirk tearing at his cheek, his eyes gleaming, "Don't tell me, Bridgerton, you've changed your mind? You would court her?"
"Without a doubt."
Fife threw his head back and laughed, his friends next to him awful echoes. Colin stepped forward, his shoulders stiff, his hands clenched.
His voice was a deep growl as he spoke his next words. "She has a keen wit, she is kind, she is clever, and she is beautiful. Any gentleman would be the luckiest man alive to court her, to marry her. Speak another word against her, and I will not hesitate in demanding satisfaction."
Penelope fled.
She hitched her skirts, her calves burning as she sprinted from the garden back to the safety of her room. Her chest heaved against her stays. She didn't realise she was crying until she sat on her bed, the salty tears pooling at the corners of her lips. Her stomach sank as she felt the familiar petals uncurling in her chest. With his words, Colin Bridgerton had once more, unknowingly, given her hope.
And she was furious at him.
—
"Love? Penelope, dear, love matches are for novels or great beauties. They are not for-"
"Wallflowers?"
"I was going to say practical-minded ladies."
Colin winced. He'd been slowly trailing after Portia and Penelope while they promenaded, utterly unaware that the Bridgertons were just behind them. The sun was bright against the uncommonly blue London sky, and it seemed that the entire ton was outside enjoying the spring warmth. So it was easy to blend in.
He knew he shouldn't be listening to Portia and Penelope discuss her marriage prospects, but when he'd heard Penelope's mention of love, he couldn't help himself. He wanted to storm over and shake Portia, rattle some sense into her. Penelope deserved love.
She deserved the world.
He'd been trying to convince Penelope of this for weeks. She'd been steadfast in her resolve to find a husband this Season, no matter that she had failed to develop an emotional attachment to any of her suitors. Originally there had been three potentials. Marcus Anderson was charming but seemed more interested in chasing widows. Harry Dankworth lacked the sense and brains to keep up with Penelope; she'd die of boredom. And finally, Lord Debling. The man was eccentric but quiet and, more importantly, rich. Penelope had quickly honed her focus on him.
Over and over, again and again, she would explain that Debling would offer her the independence she craved. He hadn't understood until she had told him, in a hushed whisper in the alley behind a printer shop, that she was the most notorious gossip columnist in all of London.
She was Lady Whistledown.
Of course, she wanted independence. In fact, she needed it.
She wanted to continue her business without any trouble from her husband. Plus, if she were ever to be discovered, a wealthy husband would ensure her protection.
Colin loathed the idea.
He was fearful for her and did not trust Debling to be able to provide her with the full protection she required. He did not trust him at all. There was something strange about him, something just beneath the surface that scratched at Colin. His words were flowery and shallow. They were a mask. Colin just wasn't sure what they covered, and he was concerned for his friend. Yet Penelope did not hear his words of warning, or more likely, she chose to ignore him.
She continued writing Whistledown and accepted Debling’s courtship with an enthusiasm that grated on Colin. All the while, Colin watched anxiously from the sidelines, pestering her to pay his words some mind. But the more he tried, the more distant she became, irratation curling at her lips and her tongue. Her words became shorter, snappier, dismissive.
"Lord Debling intends to propose," said Portia, interrupting Colin's thoughts.
Penelope was silent. Her back was to Colin; he couldn't read her. Frustration torched his veins; he needed to know what she thought. He needed to know if she was going to accept Debling. It felt like life or death.
"Brother, are you well?" asked Benedict, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.
Suddenly aware of his surroundings, Colin flinched, his family looking at him with mild concern.
"Quite," he muttered, straightening his jacket as he let himself be pulled back into the crowd. He chanced one last woeful glance at Penelope and Portia as they walked ahead, out of sight and out of hearing.
—
Penelope knew she shouldn't have run.
It felt like she'd been running all Season. From the Queen, whose spies were getting ever closer to Lady Whistledown, from her mother, who was constantly peppering her with insults and unhelpful advice on husband hunting, from awkward conversations with suitors, from Colin…
And now she was running from a proposal.
Lord Debling had finally asked the question. Well, he'd asked the question of her mother, he'd yet to offer for Penelope's hand in person. Which was why she was currently hiding in Eloise's bedroom like a coward.
Eloise was chatting at Penelope, completely unaware of the way her mind was racing. They'd only just become friends again a week earlier. After months of silence and sad, guarded glances, they'd discovered a shared enemy; Cressida Cowper.
Cressida had claimed that she was Lady Whistledown loudly and proudly to the ton, and both Penelope and Eloise had been so mortally offended by this that it had brought them back together. It gave Penelope so much joy to imagine Cressida utterly appalled by this development.
Penelope hadn't realised how much she had missed her friend until they were in each other's orbits again. There was something so comforting to Eloise's ramblings, especially knowing that no matter what happened between them, there would always be a strong sense of loyalty. Eloise had been furious with Penelope at the end of last Season, yet she had not once spilled her secret.
Sisters, true sisters, didn't divulge secrets. Unless it was to one another.
"I'm in love with Colin.”
Eloise stopped mid-sentence. She'd lost her words. Penelope almost laughed.
"I have been since I was twelve," she continued, ignoring Eloise's shocked face. "I've tried to move on. To forget my feelings for him, to content myself with his friendship. But I find that I cannot escape him. No matter how far he travels or how much distance I try to put between my heart and him, he- he haunts me." She could feel tears prickling; she tried to blink them away as her throat thickened. Her voice was hoarse as she continued, "And now Lord Debling has proposed, and I know I should marry him but-"
"You love my brother," said Eloise.
Short, succinct, solemn.
It was entirely un-Eloise.
Penelope nodded and burst into tears. Eloise enveloped her in her arms and held her. No words needed.
They sat like that for a while, the only noise Penelope's muffled sniffing and the clock ticking on her mantlepiece. Penelope breathed in deeply, inhaling Eloise's familiar and comforting smell of parchment, soap and ink. Finally, her heart and her breathing slowed until she felt like she was herself again. Shaky and fragile, but still herself. No matter what happened with Lord Debling, she knew that she would have her best friend throughout it all.
"I should go," she muttered, extricating herself from Eloise's warm embrace.
Eloise attempted to stop her, but Penelope gave her a watery smile and a final hug before exiting the room. She had to go back home and face her mother and Lord Debling. She'd promised herself at the beginning of the Season that she would find herself a husband, and she'd done it. Yet, there was no possible way she could marry him now. Not when her heart would forever ache for Colin.
She'd rather be a spinster.
Penelope was making her way through the doorway when she heard him.
"Debling is proposing." His words were simple, but his tone wasn't. He sounded so… hollow. He was standing out on the pavement, his back to her, talking quietly to Anthony and Benedict.
"Colin," she heard Benedict say. "If there is anything you have to say to Miss Featherington, now is the time to say it. You are running out of time."
"I'm not sure what you mean, brother.”
She heard Anthony scoff. "You've been following her around like a lost puppy all Season. You obviously feel something-"
"She is betrothed," Colin interrupted, his voice firm.
"Not yet," Penelope heard herself say.
The brothers swivelled around, looking up at her in alarm. She must have been a sight, framed by the Bridgerton's doorway, her cheeks flushed and wet, her eyes still stinging with tears.
Penelope fastened her gaze on Colin. He looked weathered, like the edges of him were blurred. His hair was unkempt as if he'd been erratically trailing his hands through it. His eyes were underscored by an inky purple like he hadn't slept in days. His shoulders were hunched, making him seem smaller, only partly himself. Penelope wanted to run forward and wrap him up in her arms but she wasn't sure how well she'd be received.
Colin walked toward her slowly, stopping a few steps short so they were at eye level. Her lungs hitched; his eyes were a deep navy, a crashing storm.
He reached forward and grasped her hand, his gaze dropping to their intertwined fingers before glancing back up at her again. "Not yet?" he murmured, a tinge of hope on his lips.
Penelope shook her head, her throat constricted by one giant knot.
"Then let me-" He cleared his throat, his hand clenched hers more tightly. "I know that you do not see me as an option," he began, glancing down once again at their hands. "I know that I am but a third son, a traveller, a-"
"I do not see you that way, Colin," Penelope interrupted, the tears prickling at her eyes again. "I wish I hadn't said that, I promise you I didn't mean it, I was just so-"
"It is no matter, Pen," Colin said, his voice gruff as he raised his eyes to hers once again. "What I meant to say- uh, what I mean to say is, marry me."
Penelope gasped. "Colin, you cannot mean-"
"I love you," he murmured, his eyes wide and sincere. "I'm not sure when- but I do. I love you."
Penelope's mind was scrambling, trying to make sense of what was being said. "Colin, if this is because of Debling or some strange sense of having to protect me because of– of–” She glanced nervously at Benedict and Anthony who were pretending to be entirely interested in a pot of petunias. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Whistledown-”
He shook his head, his brow furrowing. "It has nothing to do with Debling and everything to do with you. You're my best friend. You’re my– my Pen. You're beautiful and kind and witty. Every day I try to think of new ways to make you smile, to make you laugh. All I want to do in life is to make you happy. And I know I'm not as wealthy as Debling or titled or-"
"Colin, stop," Penelope laughed, pressing a finger to his lips. "There is no comparing you with Debling."
Colin's eyes dulled as he dropped her hand. "I understand," he muttered.
"No," she said, reaching for his hand once more. "You do not."
He glanced back up at her and swallowed.
Penelope smiled at him, tears thickening her speech as she tried to get the words out. "There's no comparing you with Debling, with anyone, because I do not love him. I could never have accepted his proposal when it's- when it's you I love. Entirely. I have since we first met."
Colin let out something between a sob and a laugh, his lips curving wide across his face. "Truly?"
She could only nod.
He reached up to cup her face, his thumb brushing back and forth across her cheek as he slowly leaned toward her. His lips were soft against hers, gentle, reverent. It was as if time slowed, it was a new way of communicating, tender, pure, heated. She melted into him, surrounded by his scent, his warmth, his arms that had wrapped around her body, pulling her closer still.
But then Colin was suddenly wrenched back from Penelope, the frigid shock of it making her yelp.
"Colin!" Anthony hissed, pulling back harshly on his shoulder. He began to rant loudly about propriety and being a gentleman, but Colin wasn't listening, a broad smile set on his face and eyes dancing as he looked toward Penelope.
"She is to be my wife, brother," he announced loudly, silencing Anthony’s tirade.
Behind them, they could hear Benedict cheer. “Finally!”
As the commotion drew the rest of the family to the doorway, Colin gazed at her with overwhelming admiration.
Penelope felt like she was floating, the petals in her chest at full bloom. There were libraries filled to the brim with words to capture this feeling. Sonnets and novels and soliloquays. Yet in this moment, Penelope could only think of one.
It was love.
Glorious, wonderful, love.