Chapter Text
"Ah," Colin began, in between chuckles with six or seven of the ton's eligible bachelors. "I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington," he scoffed, his words slurring slightly. "Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife."
As a flurry of yellow skirts, vibrant red curls, and choked sobs ran away from where the gentlemen stood laughing in the Featherington gardens, Reginald Fife rejoiced in Colin Bridgerton and his blunder.
He truly is the most oblivious of their rather large brood.
"Perfect," Fife said, while casting a downright haughty smirk Colin's way.
Colin could not help but return the half-smile. "What's perfect, now? Whatever do you mean, Fife?"
"Ah, Bridgerton," he replied as he took another hearty sip of his brandy. "Your timing is impeccable, and so is your choice of words tonight. But I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Colin frowned, possibly too inebriated to care. He shrugged before swallowing the rest of his drink in one gulp. He then grabbed a fresh glass from a passing footman.
What Colin said was exactly what Fife had hoped for. He was thrilled, but he wasn't heartless—though he found it useful and enjoyable to appear so. He would allow Penelope Featherington the night—nay, the rest of the week—to mourn the friendship she'd thought she'd had with Colin... possibly the future of love she wished she could have shared with him, too. But come the off-season, she'd better be prepared to accept Reginald Fife in her country home sitting room—his own estate being conveniently near, making it the perfect arrangement for an off-season courtship.
Bright and early on his first full day out in the country, Fife had a gorgeous bouquet in one hand, a box of expensive chocolates in the other, and a lovely pocketbook journal in his left breast pocket, all for Penelope Featherington.
Penelope Featherington.
He could not believe he was actually in his carriage, off to seek a courtship with the intent to marry the youngest Featherington daughter...
What a bald-faced lie.
Because, honestly, who else should he be courting? It was no secret that Penelope had been a long-time friend of the Bridgertons, and they were exceptional judges of character. They would never associate with someone who could possibly harm their reputation or their prospects. She was known as the woman with her nose perpetually stuck in a book, but all that told him was that she was well-read and intelligent. Her reputation as a so-called 'wallflower' showed him that the spotlight did not interest her in a way that she craved being the center of attention.
She only wanted to be seen as a person worth seeing... as did he.
And maybe that common ground might be enough for them to blossom, for a true partnership to grow, for a—
“What in the bloody hell?!”
As Fife's carriage swayed through the entrance to the Featherington estate, he saw four familiar carriages outside, with four familiar footmen, and four familiar drivers.
Norton, Cho, Reynolds, and Barnes. God damn it. Damn it all.
Penelope had always appeared destined to be a Bridgerton. She had shared a familiar relationship with every last one of them, which in all honesty, was entirely overwhelming for Fife.
How could one be friends with eight people—nine if you count the dowager viscountess? I barely have a few, and even that is exhausting.
However, it was always Colin’s constant presence that had hindered a few of the sensible gentlemen of the ton from pursuing a courtship with Miss Featherington.
In a twist of fate, sheer luck, or blatant inebriation, Colin's careless words at the end of the season had not only reignited his own appreciation for Penelope Featherington but also allowed it—and spurred four other eligible men to vie for her favor.
This will not do.
Fife was vexed. He had gotten just the same fifteen minutes as the rest of them, when he was hoping to occupy Penelope's entire calling hour.
All the men brought flowers. All the men brought chocolates. Cho even brought a book of poetry, but made the mistake of selecting Byron. Penelope was an intellectual. She would have much preferred Wordsworth or Pope, or perhaps a novel by that Lady!
Barnes had insisted on reciting a sonnet aloud, only for Norton to interrupt with a flourish of his own bouquet, causing Penelope to suppress a laugh behind her gloved hand.
Fife wanted nothing more than to talk to her, yet he could not fully express how much he actually knew her in a meager fifteen minutes.
He spent most of the time defending his presence, explaining away his friendship with the vapid Cowper chit—which he only maintained to keep up appearances, but could not explain in depth with only fifteen. Bloody. Minutes.
Before he knew it, his time was over.
He bid farewell, reaching out for her hand to kiss. The moment his own gloved palm touched her fingers, he'd felt a swoop in his belly and saw a faint pink blush form in her cheeks.
How promising.
He bent forward, his gaze never straying from her blue eyes, as he lowered his mouth and placed a chaste kiss on the back of her hand.
"You shall be seeing me again, Miss Featherington," he whispered against the soft, thin linen fabric covering her skin.
"That is quite presumptuous of you, my lord."
He smiled a rakish grin, one he was certain would have her swooning... Until she laughed. Nay, snorted.
"That does not work on me, I am afraid. But, I believe you will find your footing," she said, a small secretive smile and a flicker of mischief passing over her face, too quick to note or decipher.
As he placed her hand back on her lap, he rose, straightening his coat with deliberate precision. His gaze met hers, earnest and unwavering, as he spoke. "Then I shall endeavor to be nothing but sincere and loyal as I show you how well-matched we naturally are."
That, however, worked.
Penelope's mouth dropped slightly in surprise, a quiet gasp escaping her lips as she looked him over. Assessing his every miniscule movement, searching his visage for any hint of a jest or lie. Seemingly satisfied, she cleared her throat, evidently flustered by the moment of vulnerability Fife had displayed, before saying her farewell.
His gaze softened at her goodbye, and for a fleeting second, he allowed himself to wonder if she felt it too—the quiet, unspoken connection between them the moment their hands met, trembling at the edge of possibility.
As he walked out the manor and to his carriage, he pondered on whatever else he could do to win her over. To truly show her that he was the best gentleman for her.
He was left with no choice but to lay out all his cards, and to surprise her with the one thing he had in an advantage over all the other gentlemen that came to call on her today. The one thing he knew meant more to her than anything else.
He knew her. He knew her.