Archive of Our Own

Hyacinth Bridgerton had always been a child of boundless energy, a force of nature too bright to be ignored. And yet, today, the world seemed to turn without her, indifferent to the little girl who only wanted an afternoon of make-believe.

She had set the table with the utmost care, porcelain cups borrowed from her mother’s collection, a teapot filled with nothing but air, and chairs arranged for guests who would never come.

Because no one had time for tea.

Francesca was away in Bath, lost in the quiet elegance of Aunt Winnie’s house, where Hyacinth imagined she walked through grand hallways and read poetry by candlelight, too far away to even think of her little sister.

Eloise had waved her off, eyes full of books and thoughts far too important to be interrupted by childish games.

"Not now, Hyacinth. Later, perhaps."

But later never truly came, did it?

And Daphne… Daphne, who had once indulged her every whim, who had once poured imaginary tea and whispered secrets into porcelain cups, was gone too. Not lost, not far, but no longer hers to claim.

She had a new life now, a new home, a new family. And Hyacinth, left behind in the nursery she had long since outgrown, felt the absence like a fading echo, a door slowly closing on the past.

She had smiled, of course. Said it didn’t matter. "Oh, it’s quite alright! I understand!"

But inside, something small and quiet ached.

She retreated to her room, dragging the tiny tea set behind her like a forgotten dream. If no one would play with her, she would simply play alone.

She arranged the cups just so, straightened her skirts, and lifted the teapot with all the grace and dignity of a duchess, prepared to host the finest tea party for the loneliest girl in all of Mayfair—

When a shadow flickered across her doorway, a soft voice broke the silence.

"Hyacinth?"

It was Penelope.

She had come to see Eloise, no doubt drawn by some grand scheme or lively debate, but instead, her gaze settled on a little girl sitting alone at a table set for ghosts.

Hyacinth did not move, did not betray the sudden tightness in her chest.

"Why are you sitting here all by yourself?"

Hyacinth straightened at once, lifting her chin with an air of nonchalance.

"I am not alone," she declared, gesturing toward the empty seats with exaggerated elegance. "I am hosting the most distinguished tea party of the season. Very exclusive, you see. I am afraid there are no more seats available."

Penelope’s lips twitched as she glanced at the silent, invisible guests.

"I see," she said thoughtfully.

Hyacinth lifted the teapot, pouring nothing into a delicate cup.

"Lady Margaret was just telling me about her dreadful trip to the countryside. Quite a disaster, really."

Penelope pressed a finger to her lips, considering.

"Lady Margaret… wasn’t she eaten by wolves?"

Hyacinth paused mid-pour.

Then, ever so slowly, she lifted her gaze.

"That was Lady Edith," she corrected, with the kind of patience reserved for people who simply did not understand proper tea party etiquette. "And frankly, that is a very improper topic for tea, Penelope."

A beat of silence. Penelope laughed.

A warm, golden sound that wrapped around Hyacinth like sunlight after rain, chasing away the loneliness like mist lifting from a quiet morning.

To her great surprise, Penelope pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Well," she said, smoothing her skirts, "I suppose I shall have to make conversation with Lady Margaret then. Though I do hope she’s not as dull as they say."

Hyacinth blinked.

"You… you wish to join?"

Penelope smiled.

"Of course. But only if I may have the prettiest teacup."

Hyacinth felt something warm bloom in her chest, something that chased away the ache she had not dared to name.

"Very well," she said, smiling so wide it almost hurt. "But you must follow the rules."

"Naturally," Penelope said solemnly. "And what are the rules?"

Hyacinth leaned in, voice hushed, as if she were revealing the secrets of the universe.

"Rule number one: you must always pretend the tea is real."

"Understood."

"Rule number two: you must address me as Lady Hyacinth, Duchess of This Room."

"A most excellent title."

"And rule number three: under no circumstances are wolves to be mentioned."

Penelope pressed a hand to her heart. "I solemnly swear it."

And Hyacinth was no longer alone. For that afternoon, in a world of delicate cups and whispered stories, she was not simply the youngest, not simply the girl left behind.

She was a hostess. A duchess. A queen of her own little kingdom.

And as they sipped imaginary tea and laughed over the ridiculous scandal of Lady Margaret, Hyacinth thought that Penelope always had time for her. Always smiled, always listened, always made space in a world where others were too busy, too preoccupied, too far ahead to notice her trying to catch up. But One day, Penelope would go away, wrapped in a new life, a new family, leaving Hyacinth behind with all the other memories of her past.

Unless … 

— — — — — — — — 

"Anthony or Benedict?" Gregory asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Yes, with Anthony or Benedict," Hyacinth replied, as if the answer were as obvious as the sky was blue. "They are of marriageable age and, most importantly, they will actually remain here. After that dreadful incident with Miss Thompson, Colin is far too preoccupied gallivanting across the continent. But I want Penelope to stay here, with us."

Gregory tilted his head. "I think you’re forgetting a rather important suitor."

Hyacinth frowned. That was unlikely. She had considered everything. Studied the matter thoroughly. Analyzed all possible outcomes. There was no eligible suitor left unaccounted for.

"Who?" she asked, perplexed.

Gregory sighed dramatically, as if the answer were painfully obvious, and gestured to himself.

"Me."

Hyacinth stared at him, blinked. 

"Oh, please, Gregory," she groaned, rolling her eyes so dramatically she might have seen her own brain. "By the time you’re old enough to marry, Penelope will have already been whisked away to some far-off estate by a gentleman who will never let us see her again."

Gregory frowned. "You make it sound like marriage is some kind of elaborate kidnapping."

Hyacinth took a step closer, lowering her voice as if she were revealing a grand truth of the universe.

"If we don’t want Penelope to be swept away by some stranger and forget all about us, there is only one solution."

Gregory nodded, the gravity of the situation settling upon him. "She must become our sister-in-law."

Hyacinth grinned. "Exactly."

A pause. 

"And how, exactly, do you propose to achieve this?" Gregory asked, eyes narrowing.

Hyacinth beamed, grabbing his arm and dragging him forward.

"I was waiting for you to ask!"

Hyacinth marched forward with the unwavering determination of a general leading her troops into battle, dragging Gregory by the arm as they made their way toward her room.

"We strike tonight," she declared.

Gregory nearly tripped over his own feet. "Tonight?!"

"Yes, tonight!" Hyacinth repeated impatiently. "Penelope is staying the night with Eloise. That means she’s already here. It’s the perfect opportunity!"

Gregory wasn’t sure why exactly that made it the perfect opportunity, but he had learned long ago that questioning Hyacinth when she was like this was a waste of breath.

She continued, excitement bubbling over. "We’ll lure Penelope into a room, either Father’s study or the painting workshop, I haven’t decided yet. It depends on the choice of brother in the end."

Gregory frowned. "The choice of brother?"

"Of course! If we pick Anthony, the study makes more sense, he likes to brood in there. If we pick Benedict, the workshop is better, he’s always hiding in there, pretending to paint something profound."

Gregory nodded slowly. "So… we pick a room based on their natural brooding locations?"

"Exactly!" Hyacinth beamed, pleased he was finally catching on. "Then we come up with an excuse to get the chosen brother inside, something he won’t question too much. And then—"

She clapped her hands together.

"We lock the door."

Gregory’s eyes widened. "From the outside?"

"From the outside."

He hesitated. "And… what exactly is supposed to happen in there?"

Hyacinth rolled her eyes. "They’ll be forced to talk. Forced proximity leads to romance, Gregory. It’s practically a rule!"

"And if that doesn’t work?"

"Then," Hyacinth said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "we’ll ensure they are caught together, unchaperoned, with no way to explain themselves."

Gregory gasped. "You mean—?"

"Exactly," she whispered dramatically. "They’ll have to marry."

Gregory frowned. "Isn’t it a little… morally questionable to force two people into marriage just because we want to keep Penelope here?"

Hyacinth scoffed. "It could be so much worse! What if she falls for some awful, humorless man who won’t let her read? Or do any of the things she loves? What if she’s forced to move far away where we’ll never see her again? Think of the tragedy, Gregory!"

Gregory did think about it. And suddenly, the idea of Penelope trapped in a miserable marriage with some horrid gentleman. One who wouldn’t appreciate her wit, who might scoff at her love of literature, who would make her miserable, was simply unacceptable.

And with one of their brothers, she wouldn’t just be loved, she’d be family. She’d be happy. She’d be here. With them.

"You’re right," he said solemnly.

"Of course, I am," Hyacinth said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Gregory squared his shoulders, fully committed now. "Tonight, Penelope is going to have a secret rendezvous with one of our dear brothers."

— — — — — — — — 

Colin had not meant to eavesdrop.

Truly.

He had been minding his own business, reclining in a most comfortable position on his bed, pondering whether he should go for a ride or perhaps sneak into the kitchens for an early evening snack, when he heard it.

"Tonight, Penelope is going to have a secret rendezvous with one of our dear brothers."

Time stopped.

Colin’s relaxed posture evaporated as he shot upright, eyes widening, heart hammering against his ribs.

A secret rendezvous? With one of his brothers?

His mind whirled, spiraling into an abyss of horror. Which one? Which one?!

Did it matter?

No, it absolutely did not.

Anthony? Too controlling. Benedict? Too distracted. Neither was suitable. But what if, what if it was worse?

Colin’s blood ran cold.

What if it was Gregory?

Impossible. Absurd. The boy was barely out of leading strings. And yet… if Gregory thought himself a suitor now, perhaps he had become delusional enough to try.

Colin clenched his jaw. None of them were good enough for Penelope.

And more to the point, she deserved more than some sordid, clandestine meeting in the dead of night! She was a lady. She deserved long, thoughtful courtship. Grand romantic gestures. Flowers. Poetry. Not a single, wretched rendezvous in the dark!

And yet, there were Hyacinth and Gregory, flouncing about in the halls like a pair of mischievous sprites instead of running to warn someone of their brother’s indecency.

Had they no shame?

Had his brother no shame?

Had Penelope lost her mind?!

No. That was impossible. Penelope had always been sensible, logical, practical. Sweet.

She wouldn’t have agreed to something like this. Would she?

Colin’s hands curled into fists.

It didn’t matter. It could not happen.

She had no father to protect her from rakes like, well, his own brothers, apparently. No brother to defend her honor.

But she had him.

And Colin would not let this happen. He was going to put a stop to it. Even if it had to kill one his brother himself.

— — — — — — — — 

Colin had never been so absorbed in dinner before.

Which was ironic, really, because he was hardly eating at all.

His plate remained mostly untouched, his fork hovering suspiciously midair as his eyes darted across the table, tracking—no, hunting, his brothers. Every interaction, every word, every fleeting glance directed at Penelope was carefully catalogued, analyzed, and deeply scrutinized.

His intense focus did not go unnoticed.

"Colin, dear," his mother’s gentle voice broke through his thoughts. "Are you feeling unwell? You’ve barely touched your food."

Colin blinked. He had made a mistake. He had drawn attention to himself. A true investigator never compromised his cover.

Quickly, he forced a smile and shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth, chewing with what he hoped was convincing enthusiasm.

"I’m quite well, Mother," he assured her, though it came out slightly garbled. "Just… appreciating the meal."

Violet raised a skeptical brow but let it pass.

Crisis averted.

Colin returned to his surveillance.

So far, everything seemed normal.

But the most scandalous of secrets always seemed normal, until they weren’t.

His gaze landed on Anthony first.

Predictable. Reliable. The ever-dutiful head of the family. He was exactly as he always was, half his attention on the conversation, the other buried in estate matters, occasionally grunting in response to whatever was being discussed. Dull.

Colin nearly sighed in relief.

And then, a thought struck him.

Anthony was too old for her.

Not just older, too old.

A decade stood between them. An entire era of life. Penelope had never been particularly close to her own father, was that what she sought in Anthony? A father figure?

Colin nearly gagged on his wine.

No. Absolutely not.

If he let his thoughts go down that road any further, he would be physically incapable of keeping any food down. Anthony was eliminated as a suspect.

Which left—

Benedict.

Colin’s eyes narrowed as he turned his attention to his second eldest brother.

Benedict was in high spirits tonight, laughing, teasing, throwing out one joke after another, seemingly at everyone’s expense. Including Penelope’s.

Especially Penelope’s.

A casual observer might find his behavior charming. They might say he was being his usual, easygoing self, full of wit and mischief.

Colin was not a casual observer.

He was a man on a mission.

And Benedict was behaving suspiciously.

Colin’s grip on his fork tightened as he mentally noted all the ways one might rid themselves of a brother without causing a scandal.

Dueling was out of the question, Benedict was an artist, far more adept with a paintbrush than a weapon, but still a better swordsman than Colin. That would not end well.

Perhaps an accident…

Something subtle. Something undetectable.

A sound shattered Colin’s spiraling thoughts.

A laugh.

Bright. Full. Unrestrained.

It rang out like the chime of bells, warm and alive, lighting up the dim candlelit dining room.

Colin’s head snapped up.

His eyes landed on her.

Penelope had a hand over her mouth, her cheeks flushed with mirth, as she attempted to regain her composure. Around the table, the rest of his siblings chuckled in shared amusement.

And who, pray tell, was the cause of such widespread delight?

Benedict.

Of course.

Colin barely restrained the low, guttural noise rising in his throat, somewhere between a growl and a scoff of sheer disapproval.

That was his laugh.

Or rather, it was a laugh meant for him.

He had always been the recipient of that particular laugh, the one that slipped free before she could school her features into their usual careful composure. The one that made the corners of her eyes crinkle and her nose scrunch just slightly. The one that—

Damn it all.

Colin shifted in his seat, his knee bouncing under the table as his frustration festered.

Penelope had always been a little restrained in public, polite, pleasant, never too loud, never too bold. But here? With his family? She was at ease. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

Or rather, he was too comfortable with her.

Look at Benedict, acting as if he had done nothing wrong, as if he weren’t planning something entirely inappropriate with Penelope this very evening. Look at him, making her laugh like that, like some kind of, some kind of bloody charlatan.

Colin fumed.

He had no right to behave so nonchalantly when he was mere hours away from whisking the poor, sweet, innocent Penelope into a secret meeting where—where who knew what might happen?

Because, surely, she had no idea what she was agreeing to.

She was a lady.

A good lady.

She had been charmed by a rake, a fraud, a silver-tongued scoundrel.

Benedict could have anyone.

Dozens of debutantes would leap at the chance to marry a man of his stature, even one without a title, but from such a respectable family. And if not a debutante, there were plenty of other options.

Colin scowled.

Benedict could throw himself at any one of those fluttering ladies desperate for a husband, or even one of the city’s many whores. But no. No.

He had to set his sights on her.

On Penelope.

On HIS Pen.

A sudden, dreadful realization gripped him.

Had Benedict actually chosen badly?

Penelope was witty. Intelligent. Clever. She was excellent company, always smelled delightful, and—

Colin’s breath hitched.

She always kept a bit of cake aside for him at balls.

She was his best dance partner.

He had always suspected that she was the perfect height for an embrace, her head aligning just at the level of his chest, while his own would rest comfortably atop hers.

And, well.

She was rather pretty.

No, not just pretty. Lovely.

Beautiful.

Colin barely noticed as chairs scraped against the floor, the dinner party dissolving as his family began retreating for the night.

Slowly, stiffly, he stood.

He had a mission.

And he would not fail.

Colin Bridgerton was going to sabotage the hell out of this rendezvous.

— — — — — — — —

Colin Bridgerton was not paranoid.

He was simply… hyperaware. Attentive. A man of keen observation and quick deduction.

Which was why he now sat in his darkened chamber, motionless, breath held, ears finely tuned to the sounds of the house, listening, waiting, for the betrayal to begin.

His fingers tapped absently against his journal, though he was not writing. He was not even reading. He was simply staring at the pages, where words from his past travels mocked him.

How was a man to focus on his literary aspirations when treachery lurked just beyond his very door?

It was either this or storm into Benedict’s room and demand answers. Where was he meeting her? When? What, precisely, were his intentions? But Colin knew his brother. Benedict would only laugh, deny everything, perhaps even fabricate some nonsense about Colin being overly dramatic.

And then what? The secret rendezvous would continue behind his back, unchecked, unmonitored, unsabotaged.

Unacceptable.

No, he needed proof. Cold, undeniable proof.

And so he sat, trying, desperately, to distract himself, thumbing through the pages of his first travel journal. The writing was, admittedly, terrible. A mess of half-formed thoughts and clumsy descriptions, each sentence stumbling over itself. Hardly the work of a future great writer.

Not that anyone would ever read it.

These pages existed only for him, to be revisited on sleepless nights, when the walls of society felt particularly close, stifling, unbearable.

His fingers drifted lower in the drawer, brushing against old letters.

Letters from home.

His family’s responses to his travels had been… minimal. A few polite inquiries about his health, sporadic mentions of the weather, brief reassurances that no, no one had died (except, of course, when someone actually had). But they had never truly engaged with his stories, never asked for details about the sights he had so eagerly described.

So he had stopped describing them.

Stopped wasting ink on uninterested eyes.

But Penelope had written back.

Every. Single. Time.

He had sent condolences when her father passed, words far more comforting than the formalities one might expect. When he had written, without truly expecting a reply, she had responded.

She had asked about his travels.

Not the polite, distant kind of questions, but the genuine ones. The ones that made him want to tell her more.

And so he had.

A single letter had turned into two. Then three. Four. Five.

Until suddenly, he had found himself writing to her throughout his entire journey, sharing details that no one else had bothered to hear.

He had not considered, at the time, the inappropriate nature of such frequent correspondence.

A gentleman and a lady unmarried, exchanging letters filled with personal thoughts? Unthinkable. But he had enjoyed them too much to care. And perhaps he still did.

A sound.

Colin snapped out of his thoughts, eyes darting to the door.

A quick glance at his pocket watch.

Slowly, silently, he rose, cracked open the door, and peered out into the dimly lit hall.

And there she was.

Penelope.

Moving with purpose, quiet but not cautious.

Colin did not hesitate.

He followed.

Step by step, mirroring her movements, keeping to the shadows.

She led him away from the bedrooms, away from the common areas. A more secluded part of the house. Perfect for a secret meeting.

Colin clenched his fists, barely containing his fury. The audacity. The recklessness. Did they truly believe no one would notice? Did they think themselves so clever?

But then, wasn’t it too early?

Servants were still awake. People were still about.

Surely, if this were truly a romantic rendezvous, it would happen later, under the safety of deeper nightfall.

Colin hesitated. And yet, he continued. Because what if he was wrong? What if this was exactly what it seemed? What if Benedict was already waiting, smirking in the darkness, ready to, Colin’s stomach turned. No. He had to catch them now.

Suddenly, Penelope slipped into a room.

Colin’s pulse thundered in his ears. He could wait. He should wait. Let Benedict arrive, let them be caught in the act. And yet, He could not wait. With a decisive breath, he grabbed the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The room was cloaked in shadows, the dim glow of candlelight flickering against the towering bookshelves, illuminating rows upon rows of bound knowledge. A large, inviting armchair and an even more inviting settee sat at the center, their plush cushions positively conspiring to lure unsuspecting visitors into their comforting embrace.

Of course, Colin thought with a scoff. The library.

Where else would she choose for a secret rendezvous? It was so Penelope. Quiet, hidden, perfect for hushed exchanges and scandalous whispers among the pages of forgotten literature.

His grip on the door tightened. He had followed her through the halls like a man possessed, a righteous detective, a hero of justice, or perhaps an unhinged fool, but that was a thought for another time. Now, he had her. Cornered. Caught. Exposed.

Except—

She wasn’t exactly acting like a criminal.

Instead, Penelope drifted through the shelves, her fingers trailing along the spines of books in a touch so reverent one might think she was selecting a holy text rather than a novel.

Colin frowned. This was not the behavior of a woman engaged in a secret affair. This was the behavior of a woman engaged in… literature.

His theory, his very sanity, demanded she be here for something wicked.

But there she was, completely unaware of his presence, flipping through pages like some charming, oblivious menace.

Colin inhaled sharply, forcing himself back into the role of his own imagined detective drama.

With the precision of a master spy, he pushed the door shut slowly, quietly, ensuring a grand moment of revelation—

Creeeeeeeeak.

The sound sliced through the silence like a dagger.

Penelope jumped violently, letting out a tiny, startled gasp, her hand flying to her chest. Her eyes, wide and golden in the candlelight, locked onto his with pure, unfiltered panic.

Ah. Perhaps he had overdone it.

“Colin?!” she whispered, still looking as though he had materialized out of thin air for the sole purpose of terrifying her into an early grave. “You nearly frightened me to death!”

Colin exhaled, momentarily guilty. That had not been his intention. He had wanted to catch her red-handed, not send her straight to the afterlife.

“I suppose I’m not the person you were expecting, then?” he drawled, arching a brow, the weight of his suspicions pressing down on every syllable.

Penelope blinked.

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as though her words had tangled themselves beyond repair.

“I—I wasn’t expecting anyone to be awake in this part of the house,” she managed, voice too high, too rushed, her fingers gripping the book she had just pulled from the shelf as though it were a shield against his accusations.

Colin narrowed his eyes.

She was flustered.

Caught.

Guilty.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “Hmm.” He let the sound stretch out, weighing it between them like a heavy stone. “I must admit, it’s the perfect place not to be disturbed.”

Penelope’s brows knitted together, confusion flickering across her face.

“…Are you quite well?” she asked, eyeing him with something alarmingly close to concern.

Colin stiffened.

No, Penelope. He was not well. He was a man standing in a dimly lit library at an ungodly hour, tracking his brother’s supposed illicit love affair, only to find her, perfectly alone and acting as though he were the strange one.

He crossed his arms over his chest, the muscles of his forearms flexing beneath the rolled sleeves of his entirely too casual shirt. He had been in comfortable evening wear, barefoot save for his socks, prepared to spend his night hunting moral deviants, and now he stood here accused of illness instead.

“I am exactly as well as one can be,” he said tightly, “when faced with the undeniable proof of… whatever this is.”

Penelope’s frown deepened. “Are you feverish?”

Colin blinked. “What?”

“You barely ate at dinner,” she said suspiciously, her gaze flickering over him as though truly assessing his health for the first time. “That’s hardly like you.”

He stared at her. She stared back. Oh, she was good.

If he didn’t know exactly what was happening here, he might have actually believed this was nothing more than a simple, innocent library visit.

He might have believed the sweet, pink flush on her cheeks was merely the result of the candlelight, not guilt.

Colin stood his ground, feet planted firmly against the thick Persian rug, arms crossed as if he were an officer of the law rather than an inexplicably furious man in his evening wear. His shirt sleeves were still rolled up, his hair was an utter disaster, and, most infuriating of all, Penelope looked at him as though he were the one acting strangely.

She tilted her head, her golden curls catching the candlelight in a way that should not have been distracting, but was.

“I am perfectly fine,” Colin declared, his voice low and sharp. Decisive. Commanding.

That should settle it. That should reinstate some semblance of control.

Unfortunately, Penelope Featherington had never been one to abide by the laws of reason, or his increasingly fragile patience.

“Are you, though?” she asked, skepticism written all over her face.

Colin’s jaw tightened.

“I am not the one wandering alone in the middle of the night, Penelope.” His words landed like a gavel striking wood, firm, inarguable, an inquiry posed as an accusation.

She blinked.

Then, horrifyingly, she laughed.

“You really are not making much sense tonight, Colin,” she said, shaking her head, a small smile playing at her lips. “Perhaps you should consider going to bed.”

Colin made a strangled noise somewhere between a scoff and a growl, his frustration bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove.

“I said I am fine.”

Penelope eyed him critically. “Are you certain?”

His hands twitched, one raking through his already disheveled hair, the other settling at his hip, his fingers digging into his waistcoat as if to physically restrain himself from combusting.

“I am the one asking the questions here, Pen!” he snapped.

Penelope took a step back.

Her eyes widened, “Why, pray, would you be asking questions?” she ventured, her voice slow and deliberate, like one might speak to a volatile creature one was unsure how to tame.

Colin groaned so dramatically he might as well have collapsed onto the floor in despair. His hands found his hair again. Then his shirt. Then the air. God help him, he was spiraling.

“Something is clearly bothering you,” Penelope observed, ever too perceptive, her brows furrowing.

Colin exhaled sharply.

“Yes, Penelope. Something is, in fact, bothering me.”

His words were slow, deliberate, as though speaking to a particularly dense individual. Colin’s stance was tense, his jaw locked in what could only be described as a state of controlled outrage. His eyes, dark with some unreadable emotion.

“Do you even realize how reckless you’re being?” His voice, clipped and precise, cut through the quiet like the sharp edge of a blade.

“Oh, yes, I must take great caution, Colin. Who knows what a book might do to me at this hour?” she mused, her tone drenched in amusement, though her lips twitched ever so slightly.

Colin exhaled sharply, his already precarious patience unraveling at an alarming rate.

“In addition to being reckless, you are also insufferably insolent,” he bit out, his gaze hard and unyielding.

Her brows furrowed as she registered the sheer gravity of his expression. He wasn’t joking.

Oh.

"Colin, I really think you should—"

"Has no one ever told you that it is neither prudent nor appropriate to meet a gentleman, if one can even call him that, in secret?" His voice dropped, heavy with accusation.

For the first time that evening, Penelope felt her own frustration rise to match his.

She didn't understand, what was he even suggesting?

"Oh? And where exactly is this so-called gentleman?" She swept her hand across the empty room, eyes flashing.

Colin narrowed his gaze, nodding slowly.

“Perhaps I arrived too early... or...” He let the sentence hang ominously in the air, his gaze sweeping the room as if expecting a shadowy figure to materialize from behind a bookshelf.

Quite suddenly, his expression shifted.

“Or perhaps I was not as discreet as I thought, and you heard me approaching, giving him time to flee.”

His eyes snapped back to her, expectant, accusing.

Penelope blinked once, then twice.

Then she watched, in complete bewilderment, as Colin took several deliberate steps around the room.

And then, dear Lord help her, he began speaking to the furniture.

“I know you’re here.” His voice rang out into the silence. He turned slowly, scanning each corner.

Penelope gaped at him. "Colin—"

"Come out now, if you are a man. Face the consequences."

He was grinning, but it wasn’t the sort of grin she was accustomed to. It was a madman’s grin.

“I had no wish to escalate things this far, but for the honor of Miss Featherington, I will not hesitate to challenge you to a duel.” His voice boomed, ringing off the walls, and, good heavens, he was actually checking behind armchairs.

Penelope nearly lost all sense of reality.

“Colin, you are being absolutely ridiculous!” Her voice rose, both in urgency and rising panic. “You’re going to wake the entire house!”

Colin whirled on her, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“Is that not the point, Penelope? If not, then what exactly is the purpose of all this secrecy?”

And then, just as suddenly as his theatrics had begun, he stopped. Completely. His expression went ashen, his eyes darting over her face as if seeing something horrifyingly new. His throat worked once, then again. And then, voice low, strangled, almost desperate, he murmured:

“Tell me he means to marry you, Pen.”

Silence.

“Tell me he has not taken liberties—” He cut himself off, visibly swallowing against some unbearable thought, before running a shaking hand through his already disastrous hair.

Penelope had had enough.

"Colin, calm yourself. I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

He exhaled sharply. "I am perfectly calm." He was not.

She eyed him with flat skepticism.

"You, on the other hand, should be far more concerned for someone who has just been caught red-handed."

Her jaw dropped. “Caught red-handed—?! I maintain that you are being utterly ridiculous!”

Colin glowered. “You should not, under any circumstances, find yourself alone with a man. You don’t know what they are capable of, they are—”

“That is quite enough!” Her voice rang sharp, cutting through the madness like a dagger.

Colin froze.

His body stiffened, and in a matter of seconds, she marched past him, chin held high, fury radiating from every inch of her. He waited, heart pounding, for the inevitable slam of the door behind her.

But it never came. Silence.

“It’s stuck.”

Colin whirled. “What?”

Penelope’s hand hovered over the unmoving doorknob, her face unusually pale. She swallowed hard. "It’s—it’s stuck."

Colin strode forward, placing his own hand over the knob. “Let me. It’s an old door.”

She stepped aside.

The door remained firmly, stubbornly, tragically closed. After several attempts, he turned back to her.

She stared at him, stricken.

"It’s locked." Colin inhaled, exhaled, "Right. That’s... unfortunate."

Penelope spun in a small, panicked circle, her eyes scanning the room. “There has to be a key. We just need to—”

Colin cleared his throat. “This door only locks and unlocks from the outside.”

She stilled. Slowly, she turned. “What.”

Colin gave a sheepish shrug. "My father changed the lock years ago. Something about keeping Eloise from barricading herself in here every time she had an argument with our mother.” He huffed a small, nostalgic laugh. “She was very... determined.”

Penelope stared. Horrifyingly, she looked like she might actually cry. "What do we do? If someone finds us here, we’re ruined."

Colin's heart clenched painfully. The thought of being caught alone with Benedict did not seem to rattle her half as much as being trapped in a room with him. He swallowed past the bitter taste rising in his throat. “A maid will come in the morning. No one will know.”

A long pause. Penelope squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and, with the cold precision of a woman who had had quite enough of this nonsense,declared : "I will take that side of the room, and you will take this one. We are not speaking.”

Colin sighed, utterly defeated. "Fine."

Colin lowered himself into the armchair with a quiet sigh, stretching his legs out before him, the worn leather creaking beneath his weight. Across the room, Penelope perched on the banquette, her back to him, shifting ever so slightly as she attempted to find a comfortable position.

He watched her, not quite meaning to, but unable to look away.

The earlier tension still hung between them like an unfinished symphony, but now, with the absurd notion of Benedict’s presence fully exorcised from his mind, Colin felt something else creeping in, a quiet, uncertain awareness.

She moved again, tucking one leg beneath her, then huffed softly, readjusting. The candlelight flickered, catching the rich auburn of her hair, the soft curve of her shoulder as she sighed, resigned to the discomfort.

Colin understood. If they were to spend the night in this godforsaken library, they might as well find a way to endure it with some measure of grace.

So, after a long moment, he too shifted, rolling his shoulders before sinking deeper into the chair. The tension in his body unwound, ever so slightly, though his mind remained at war with itself.

He should say something. A jest. A harmless remark. Anything to dissolve the strange weight in the air. But the words tangled before they could leave his throat. Instead, he exhaled, a long, quiet breath, and tilted his head against the back of the chair, closing his eyes.

Penelope shifted once more before finally settling, stretching out on the banquette, still facing away from him. Her small sigh was barely audible, but Colin heard it, felt it, as if the weight of the moment had pressed it out of her.

His gaze, which had wandered absently over the spines of books and the flickering candlelight, returned to her, and that was when he noticed.

Her nightgown. Light. Too light. Not scandalous, no, nothing indecent, but certainly not suited for a night spent locked in a library with a man. He blinked, a slow, heavy realization sinking in. Where was her robe? Surely, she had intended to bring it. Had she forgotten it in her chamber in her haste?

A new thought crept in, uninvited and unwelcome, perhaps she had been too distracted, too eager to meet Benedict.

Benedict.

Colin’s jaw tightened.

Where was the damn coward, anyway? Had he abandoned her? Had he left her to wait here, alone, dressed like this, with nothing but fading candlelight and the bitter taste of disappointment?

Colin’s fingers clenched around the arm of the chair.

If that was the case, if Benedict had truly made her hope and then failed to show, then he would have more than words for his dear brother in the morning.

His gaze drifted back to her.

She lay quietly now, her breath slow, almost rhythmic, but he could tell she wasn’t asleep. Her posture was too tense, her hands too carefully placed. Her hair, that riotous mass of auburn curls, spilled over the cushion, catching the candle’s glow in a way that made his stomach twist.

She had always been kind, generous, full of life, full of sharp wit that never failed to disarm him. She was comfort and challenge in equal measure.

And she was beautiful.

No—not just beautiful.

There was a richness to her beauty, something deeper, fuller, like a painting one could stare at for hours and never quite take in completely. Her cheekbones, the soft bow of her lips, the impossible blue of her eyes. And then,Colin swallowed, her body.

She was not delicate, not fragile like the simpering debutantes who seemed to drift through ballrooms like pale specters. No, Penelope had form, had presence, like the statues of goddesses he had seen in books. Soft curves, warm skin, a shape meant to be admired.

His mouth went dry.

For God’s sake.

He was trapped in a library with her, she was angry with him, and here he was, noticing—noticing—when he should be thinking of solutions, not of the way the candlelight played against the curve of her hip.

Colin exhaled sharply and raked a hand through his hair. Control yourself.

She was already unhappy with him. The last thing he needed was to make things worse by acting like some moon-eyed fool.

His duty was clear: keep his wits about him. Ensure the night passed without further incident. See to it that she was comfortable, that she was safe. And, most importantly— Stop looking at her.

Colin did everything in his power not to look at her.

His gaze flitted from the bookshelves to the intricate carvings along the walls, to the faint smudges of ink on the desk nearby. He counted the flickering candle shadows, traced the elegant swirls in the woodwork, studied the uneven placement of the books, anything at all to keep himself occupied.

A sound.

Soft, barely there, yet impossible to ignore, a mixture of a whimper and a sigh, something caught between discomfort and surrender.

His head turned instinctively.

She was shivering.

It was no wonder, the winter nights in this house could be merciless, and at this hour, no fires burned in this part of the estate. The cold crept in like an uninvited guest, settling into the stone floors, coiling around the walls, stealing warmth from the air itself.

Colin scanned the room, his gaze darting over books, furniture, there. An old armoire stood near the far wall. He crossed the room, opened it with silent hope, and, bingo. A blanket. Not thick, not nearly enough for the bitter night air, but something.

He moved back toward her with careful steps, as if approaching a skittish animal. The last thing he wanted was to wake her if she had finally found sleep, but as he gently draped the blanket over her shoulders—

She startled, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he murmured.

Penelope turned her head slightly toward him, her expression soft with drowsy surprise. “It’s nothing, I just… didn’t hear you coming.”

“Perhaps because of the sound of your chattering teeth,” he teased lightly.

She let out a breathy, amused scoff. “Sorry if it’s keeping you from resting.” Her voice dipped, almost sheepish. “I hadn’t planned on staying long, just to borrow a book and return to my room. If I had known I’d be trapped here, I would have brought something warmer.”

A pause. Then, with a wry chuckle, she added, “Actually, if I had known I’d be trapped here, I probably wouldn’t have come at all.”

Colin smirked. “Ever the master of foresight.”

Penelope huffed a small laugh and tugged the blanket closer, curling into it. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. Then, as if sensing the need to clarify, “For the blanket.”

He nodded, offering a small smile before retreating to his chair.

Minutes passed in near silence, save for the occasional creak of the old house and the soft rustle of fabric as Penelope shifted beneath the blanket.

Colin, on the other hand, was distinctly not comfortable.

The chair was small.  No matter how he adjusted, legs stretched out, arms folded, shifting from side to side, nothing helped. The longer he sat, the number his limbs became. He let out a frustrated groan.

From the banquette, Penelope stirred. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” she observed, turning onto her side to face him. “Perhaps we should switch places.”

“Absolutely not.” The response was immediate, firm, as if she had just suggested something outrageous.

Penelope blinked. “Why not?”

“Because you’re warm, and I will not be responsible for you freezing to death.”

She raised a brow. “And you think I’ll be responsible if you end up with a broken spine?”

Colin sighed, running a hand over his face. This was absurd. Of all the things he had anticipated for the evening, an argument over seating arrangements was certainly not one of them.

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Colin, I can’t in good conscience let you sleep like that. You’ll be miserable by morning.”

He gave a tired shrug. “I’m already miserable. I might as well see it through.”

Her lips parted slightly, as if to protest, then pressed into a thin line. He could see it, the flicker of concern, the reluctance to argue further.

There was a shift in her expression. She lifted the blanket, just slightly, just enough to signal that there was, in fact, another option.

Colin stared at her.

“I’m perfectly fine here,” Colin replied, his voice stiff, his cheeks burning.

Penelope let out a frustrated sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to break your back, and I’m going to freeze to death. This way, we both win.”

Colin shut his eyes for a moment, inhaling slowly through his nose, willing himself to regain some sense of control.

His voice was steadier when he asked, “Are you still cold?”

Penelope shifted under the blanket. “The blanket helps, but the room is still freezing. Or rather, it’s... glacial.” She hesitated, then peered at him. “Aren’t you cold?”

Colin opened his mouth to insist no, of course not, but the words never came.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t even thought about it.

He had been too preoccupied, first with the unsettling idea of her meeting Benedict, then with her comfort, her warmth, her shivering frame, the way the candlelight cast soft shadows along the delicate curve of her cheek, too preoccupied with her to consider himself.

And now that he did, yes. Yes, he was cold. Very cold.

A sharp realization shuddered through him as he looked down at himself, a light shirt, a thin pair of trousers. He had stormed out in such a rush, so fixated on stopping something that had never even happened, that he had left himself entirely vulnerable to the bitter night air.

Penelope tilted her head, waiting.

Colin cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Perhaps,” he admitted at last, grudgingly, “a little.”

She rolled her eyes. “A little.”

He scowled. “Fine. More than a little.”

Penelope didn’t say anything at first, just studied him, her expression unreadable. In a quiet, matter-of-fact tone, she said, “Then stop being stubborn and come over here.”

Colin swallowed. Hard. His pulse stumbled. He couldn’t. Could he?

"Colin, don’t make me beg," Penelope murmured, her voice softer now, almost teasing, almost pleading.

Still, he didn’t move. Perhaps it was his own hesitation, his own conscience waging war against something entirely irrational.

But when he met her gaze, saw the way she tucked her hands beneath the blanket in an attempt to preserve what little warmth she had, he sighed, defeated, and nodded.

What was he doing?

His throat tightened as he stepped forward.

Penelope, sensing his movement, shifted back slightly, making space for him.

The banquette was small. Colin studied it as though he were calculating a battlefield strategy, because truly, this required just as much care.

There was room for them both, yes, but only if they lie down close.  His fingers twitched at his sides. This was improper. Unthinkable.

She was a lady. She was his friend. He had to preserve her virtue. Protect her innocence.

“Are you coming or not?” Penelope arched an impatient brow.

Colin exhaled sharply through his nose, then, with the resignation of a man walking toward his own demise, he lay down.

The cushion dipped beneath his weight. The space between them vanished. And suddenly, he could feel her. Not just see her. Not just hear her. But feel, The soft brush of fabric against his sleeve. The warmth of her body so close to his. The subtle rise and fall of her breath.

Colin clenched his fists, keeping them firmly in his lap, as though the very act of moving might unravel him entirely.

Penelope let out a small gasp, barely more than a breath, but in the stillness of the library, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Colin tensed instantly.

"Are you alright?" His voice came out sharper than intended, laced with concern

Penelope let out a soft, breathless laugh. "Very well. And you?"

Colin hesitated.

What could he possibly say?

That he was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from her? That the delicate fabric of her nightgown left far too little to the imagination? That he could feel the heat creeping up his collar, threatening to betray thoughts he had absolutely no business having?

No. Of course not.

So instead, he swallowed thickly and gave the safest answer he could muster. "Fine." As if that word could contain the chaos unraveling inside him.

He shifted slightly, pressing his hands behind his back, as though that might somehow prevent any accidental, or disastrously intentional, contact.

Penelope, ever observant, noticed the movement.

"I should turn around," she suggested, voice light, thoughtful. "It might be better."

Better? He could have kissed the heavens in gratitude.

At least then he wouldn't feel the ghost of her breath against his neck. Wouldn't have to battle the image of her chest so perilously close to his.

Yes. This was a far more sensible arrangement.

Or so he thought.

Because the moment she shifted, the moment her back pressed against him, Colin realized, dear God, this was worse. Her curves molded against him in a way that left no room for pretense.

Colin held himself rigid, every muscle drawn tight as a bowstring, his body hovering at a careful distance.

There was no chance he would get any rest like this.

His mind spiraled, questioning every single decision that had led him to this moment. Why had he gotten out of bed this morning? Why had he only eaten half of his breakfast? Why had he—

"For this to work, you know… the whole warming up thing… you have to get closer," Penelope murmured.

Colin’s breath caught.

He was on the verge of protesting, of saying that this was highly inappropriate, that a gentleman would never—

"Please, Colin. I’m freezing."

His last thread of restraint snapped. Who was he to deny her anything?

Slowly, carefully, he let go of the tension in his limbs, inching closer, pressing his front against her back.

She melted against him, soft and warm despite the cold. Colin clenched his jaw, every single inch of her a new discovery. Every curve, every dip, every delicate fold of fabric, intoxicating … it wasn’t enough.

The words tumbled from his lips before he even had time to register them, slipping through the haze clouding his mind. "I’ve heard that body heat spreads better… without clothes to trap it."

The moment the sentence was spoken, he froze. What had he done?

His pulse pounded, hammering in his ears. His heart slammed against his ribs. His skin burned hotter than any fire in the library’s empty hearth.

She was going to be horrified. Mortified. She was going to call him disgusting. Tell him to get up. To move away. To leave her alone and—

"If you’ve heard that…"

Colin stopped breathing.

Then what? his frantic mind demanded.

"Then maybe you should—"

"Pen," he cut in, voice barely more than a whisper. "This is… inappropriate." His throat felt tight, his entire body tense again for an entirely different reason.

"But you’re the one who—"

"I know," he rasped. "And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—"

"You’re just trying to help me," she murmured. "I promise… it doesn’t make me uncomfortable."

Colin exhaled sharply.

She was right, wasn’t she? He was only trying to help. And a true gentleman, a real friend, would never let a lady freeze.

Colin hesitated for only a moment before shifting away from her.

His fingers found the hem of his shirt, and with slow, deliberate movements, he pulled it over his head. The cold air bit into his skin instantly, a stark contrast to the fire smoldering beneath it.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and carefully settled back behind her, his body now bare from the waist up, closer than before.

Penelope made a small sound, a soft, hummed noise, like she had just curled into the most comfortable blanket.

Colin turned his head slightly, startled by the sound, by the way it sent a shiver, not from the cold, down his spine.

"Should I lower my nightgown too?"

His breath stopped. Completely. His mind short-circuited, his heart stumbled over itself. Had he misheard? Surely, surely he had misheard. Because there was absolutely no way, no way, that Penelope Featherington, the proper, kind, sweet Penelope, had just asked if she should— No. He had misheard. He must have.

Colin’s pulse thundered in his ears. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, stuck, useless. What was he supposed to say? Yes? No? God help him, what was the right answer?
Colin’s mind fractured into a thousand thoughts, each more dangerous than the last.Even though she was facing away from him, even though he would see nothing, the mere idea of Penelope, bare, pressed against him, was enough to send a bolt of panic straight to his chest.

His breathing turned uneven, shallow, too loud in the silence. His hands twitched where they rested at his sides. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, touch her, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone.

If she lowered her nightgown, if she pressed her bare skin against his, her soft, generous curves, her breasts, unbound, only a whisper away from his hands— No.

No. Absolutely not.

His muscles went rigid. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to find a single, rational thought in the storm of chaos inside him.

“Penelope,” he managed, though his voice didn’t sound like his own, too low, too tight, almost desperate.

She shifted slightly, the movement sending a wave of warmth from her back to his chest.

“Yes?”

His fingers dug into the cushion beneath him. "You—you don’t have to do that.”

A pause. Then, a quiet, almost hesitant, “I know.”

Colin forced himself to take a breath, to remember who he was, to remember who she was. To remember that this was Penelope, his friend, his—

God help him.

“You should keep your nightgown on,” he said finally, the words leaving his lips in a rushed, strangled whisper.

She didn’t respond right away, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. “Alright,” she murmured.

Colin closed his eyes. Relief, sharp and overwhelming, crashed into him.

He could feel it, the way she had stiffened, how she was no longer soft and pliant against him. Had he made her uncomfortable? Of course, he had. He cursed himself silently.

It became apparent that she was not recoiling from him in discomfort but rather seeking a better position, trying to arrange herself in what little space the narrow banquette allowed her. She was trapped, between the wooden backrest and his body. Dear God, in her shifting, she moved against him. Not purposefully, not even knowingly, but the effect was the same.

A slow, torturous press of her hips against his own. A brief, devastating friction. Colin had not been prepared. A sound escaped him, low and strangled, before he could catch it.

Penelope froze.

And in the heavy silence that followed, the only thing to be heard was his breathing, ragged, uneven, impossible to control.

“Are you—are you quite well?” she asked, her voice small, laced with concern.

“Hm.” A sound, not a word, he dared not trust himself with more.

She did not question it further.

Silence settled between them once more, thick and pressing, Colin knew then that he would find no rest this night.

From the moment he had realized they were locked in this cursed room, he had suspected as much. But he had assumed it would be the worry that kept him awake, the discomfort of an unforgiving chair, perhaps even the cold.

Not this.

Not her.

Not this exquisite, unbearable torment of being pressed against her, shirtless, her scent filling his lungs with every breath he took.

It was agony. It was bliss.

And if someone demanded the secrets of the Crown Jewels from him to put an end to this torture, he would keep his lips sealed and suffer gladly.

His mind betrayed him, pulling forth every stolen moment, every glance held a second too long. He had spent years convincing himself that she was just Penelope. His friend. His confidante.

But had he not noticed, again and again, how time had shaped her? How, over the years, she had transformed from a young girl into a breathtaking, intelligent, utterly captivating woman?

Had he not allowed his gaze to linger too long when they danced, his height affording him a view that, God forgive him, he had no right to indulge in?

Had he not stolen glances at her décolletage as she laughed at one of his jests, the soft rise and fall mesmerizing him, her joy making it all the more impossible to look away?

He had been raised to be a gentleman. He had tried to be a gentleman. And for the most part, he had done a commendable job.

But now, trapped here, his body molded to hers, her warmth seeping into him, setting his very skin aflame—

Colin was so lost in his thoughts, dark, reckless, utterly unbefitting thoughts, that he failed to notice what was happening. Or rather, what had already happened.

His body had betrayed him.

It had responded to her warmth, to her softness, to the maddening press of her against him, to the memories that had no place in a gentleman’s mind but had taken root in his nonetheless.

And so, when she shifted once more, just a small, unconscious adjustment, he felt the way her curves, her infernal, exquisite curves pressed into him.

And only then did he realize. He was hard.

Dear God. A wave of panic crashed over him, hot and suffocating.

His breath hitched, his muscles locked, his very soul froze in horror. Surely, surely she hadn’t noticed. She couldn’t have. She was innocent, blissfully unaware of such things.

Colin clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth might crack. He needed to breathe. He needed to think.

He needed to regain control. Over his body. Over his mind. Over this stupid, reckless, entirely inappropriate reaction before he humiliated himself beyond repair.

But Penelope was full of surprises.

When she moved again, deliberately, devastatingly, exquisitely, her hips pressing back with more precision, more pressure, slower this time, 

He groaned. Loudly. Deeply. Darkly.

The sound seemed to reverberate through the very walls of the library, through the very air between them.

Penelope stilled.

“…Did I hurt you?” she asked hesitantly, her voice small, uncertain.

“No.” The word escaped him low and rough, barely more than a breath. A mistake. A damning, utterly foolish mistake.

Because now she was shifting again, turning toward him,  And dear God in heaven, she was only making it worse.

The movement dragged her against him, the friction unbearable, igniting something raw and desperate inside him.

Instinct took over. His hands shot out, finding purchase at her hips, holding her still.

“Don’t.” The word was a plea, a warning, a prayer for salvation.

"But—"

Colin exhaled sharply, a sound of pure despair. Of course she wouldn’t let it go.

He knew her too well. She never let anything go.

“Pen,” he ground out, “please—don’t ask.”

“So I’m not supposed to question why it was improper for me to be alone with an imaginary gentleman earlier…” she said, her tone sharp, frustrated. “…And now, I’m also not supposed to question why I can feel something—something hot, something hard—pressed against me?”

“Explain it to me.” Penelope’s voice was soft, uncertain, but insistent.

Colin squeezed his eyes shut. Dear Lord, she would be the death of him.

“Explain,” she continued, shifting just slightly, a movement that made him swallow a curse, “because I do not understand.”

His fingers tightened on her waist, an unspoken plea for mercy.

She hesitated. “I only meant—have I hurt you? I feel as though I might be… crushing something.”

Colin choked on air. Oh, she was crushing something alright. And as if determined to end him completely, she continued, her words slow, careful, utterly ruinous:

“It’s just that… I can feel something.”

He braced himself.

“…Something that wasn’t there before.”

His breath caught.

“…Something that seems to be…” she searched for the words, “growing. Becoming harder and bigger”

Colin jerked as though burned, his body betraying him further, his cock twitching at her words.

Penelope gasped. The sound was small, but it shot through him like lightning.

“I—I didn’t mean—” she stammered, and then, as if truly seeing the state of him, she let out a strangled little sound of realization.

He wanted the floorboards to split open and swallow him whole.

“I only meant that you don’t have to—” she swallowed, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter, almost… gentle. “You don’t have to spare me, Colin. I am not naive.”

He stilled. She was still pressed against him, her warmth searing through the thin barrier of fabric. She took a careful breath.

“I know that this position must be… uncomfortable for you.” A pause. And then, hesitantly, “Because of my weight.”

Colin’s eyes snapped open.

His mind, already a mess of heat and longing, was too slow to catch up to the horror of what she’d just said.

“Penelope Featherington,” he said, his voice a strangled rasp, “if you dare suggest such a thing again—”

But the words died in his throat, because suddenly, she was shifting again.

Colin could not, would not, let her think such a thing about herself. Yes, she had curves, but it was those very blessed, cursed, torturous curves that drove him to the brink of madness. It was her softness, her shape that made his mind wander to places no gentleman’s mind should ever stray.

And she thought she was a burden?

He was going to perish. Right here. On this damned banquette. Of mortification, desire, or sheer poetic agony, whichever took him first.

Fine. If he was to die, let him die telling the truth.

“Penelope,” he croaked. Then cleared his throat. “You are not hurting me.”

She stilled.

He inhaled sharply, forced himself to continue. “You are not—” he swallowed the lump in his throat, “crushing me.”

A pause. Then, because fate had a twisted sense of humor, she asked, “Then what am I doing?”

Oh. Oh, no. Colin felt heat crawl up his neck. His body tensed so hard he might snap in half. He had come this far. There was no turning back.

“…I am,” he hesitated, hands tightening around her waist, “aroused.”

“Aroused?”

Colin squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“…As in aroused aroused?”

His entire soul left his body.

“Yes, Penelope,” he muttered, voice hoarse, wretched. “Aroused aroused.”

She made a sound, a tiny, breathless, entirely dangerous sound.

Colin let his head fall back against the banquette. He was done for.

“Because of… me?”

He let out a shaky, tortured breath.

“Because of you,” he confirmed. Then, against all logic, against all reason, against every last shred of his dignity, he went on—

“Because you are here, pressed against me. Because you are warm,” he continued, each word his ruin. “Because you smell like vanilla and jasmine and… something sweeter.”

Another breath.

“Because I can hear your breathing, and feel your breathing, and, God help me, I am thinking of things I should not be thinking of.”

He clenched his jaw, mortified, utterly ashamed.

“That is what you feel against you, Penelope. Not pain. Not discomfort.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Pleasure.”

A tiny, muffled noise.

Colin stiffened.

…Was she laughing?

“Pen,” he warned.

Another noise.

She was laughing.

“Penelope Featherington, I swear—”

“I—” she gasped between giggles. “I am—I am not laughing at you, I swear!”

Colin groaned, pressing his hands over his face. “You are absolutely laughing at me.”

“No, it’s just—” she giggled again, and the delicate tremor of it sent her body pressing, shifting, dragging against him.

Right against his problem.

Colin sucked in a sharp breath.

Oh. God.

She was still laughing, still moving, completely unaware—

Until he dropped his head into the curve of her neck with a low, ragged groan.

Penelope froze.

Colin’s grip tightened around her hips, his fingers digging in as if that alone could keep her still, could keep him from losing himself completely.

“Penelope,” he rasped. A warning. A prayer. A curse. Colin was a man dangling over the edge of a cliff, and Penelope, sweet, infuriating Penelope, was shoving him off with both hands.

She didn’t listen. Of course, she didn’t listen. Instead, she moved again.

A deliberate shift of her hips. A slow, intentional press.

Colin made a terrible, wretched sound, muffled against the delicate skin of her neck.

He felt her shiver.

“How does one know if a woman is…” She hesitated. Then, in a voice far too innocent for such a sinful question: “…aroused?”

Colin forgot how to breathe. A bomb went off in his brain. And his traitorous, insufferable, absolutely scandalous body responded with alarming enthusiasm.

Dear God, he was going to disgrace himself. He squeezed his eyes shut, bit down on his tongue, prayed for divine intervention. None came. Because Colin Bridgerton had never been in this situation before. Unlike his brothers who had experience, who had frequented brothels, who had seduced and been seduced and walked away unscathed, he had not.

He had not touched a woman like this. Had not been touched like this. Not even when he was engaged. Not even in the briefest, weakest moments of temptation.

But now? Now, he was pressed against Penelope Featherington, half-naked, aching, desperate.

She was asking him about female arousal. He was not surviving the night.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “…I beg your pardon?”

Penelope shifted, and he nearly blacked out.

“I only meant,” she said, her voice soft, thoughtful, devastating, “how does one know? Is it the same for women?”

She wasn’t teasing. She was genuinely curious.

Because, of course, she was. Penelope, with her sharp mind, her endless questions, her insatiable need to know everything.

Colin clenched his jaw, fighting for his last shred of dignity.

“I—” He swallowed hard.

“This is not… this is not an appropriate conversation, Penelope.”

She let out a small huff. “Neither is this situation, Colin, and yet here we are.”

Oh, she was impossible. Colin let out a strangled laugh, half in agony, half in admiration. Then he made a grave, grave mistake. He turned his head. And his lips, foolish, reckless things, brushed against the bare skin just beneath her ear.

Penelope gasped. A sharp, involuntary little sound. 

“…Oh.”

Colin exhaled slowly, his entire body burning.

“Yes,” he murmured, his lips still hovering near her skin. “That,” he rasped, “is how you know.”

Colin had abandoned all sense of morality. Gone was the gentleman, the upstanding Bridgerton, the man who prided himself on self-control. All that remained was desire.

It had taken hold of him, seeped into his bones, and now, it ruled him completely. His lips were at her ear, his voice low, unraveled, intoxicating.

“That,” he murmured, his breath fanning over her skin, “is a sign of arousal.”

Penelope shivered. Colin smiled, his grip on her hips tightening. She was so wonderfully responsive. He let his lips brush the delicate skin just behind her ear, the softest of touches, a mere whisper of contact.

Penelope inhaled sharply, her breath catching in her throat.

Colin’s own breath shuddered. He tilted his head, his mouth hovering over her pulse point. And then, with the recklessness of a man who knew he was past salvation, he pressed a kiss there. Soft. Lingered. Indulgent.

Penelope made a noise, not quite a moan, but not far from it.

His fingers curled against her hips, his grip firm, possessive. His body burned. His self-restraint? Gone.

"That," he whispered against her skin, his lips ghosting over her throat, "is another sign."

His mouth moved lower, trailing a path along the graceful curve of her neck. A series of reverent, stolen kisses.

When he reached the delicate spot where her pulse thrummed wildly beneath his lips, he lingered. Savoring. And when Penelope gasped, her body arching instinctively, pressing closer, seeking more, Colin nearly lost what little remained of his sanity.

His fingers dug into her waist. He pulled her back against him. Flushed, breathless, perfectly molded to him. His lips curled against her throat.

“Yet another sign,” he murmured, half-amused, half-devoured by need.

His hand moved then, slow, deliberate, utterly sinful. Trailing along her side, mapping the curve of her waist. He felt the shiver beneath his fingertips, the way her body reacted to his touch.

Colin let out a quiet chuckle, his breath warm against her neck.

“That,” he said, grinning wickedly, “is most certainly a sign.”

He moved higher. His fingers grazing just beneath the swell of her breasts. A teasing touch. A featherlight promise.

"If you are aroused," he murmured, "this part of you—" he brushed his fingertips so gently, so fleetingly, it was almost cruel "—would be terribly sensitive."

Penelope trembled.

Colin’s breath hitched. He should stop. He did not stop.

His hands, large, warm, trembling with restraint, cupped her breasts through the fabric of her nightgown.

Penelope made a sound. A sound so sweet, so utterly devastating, it sent fire straight through his veins. She arched, a sharp, unbidden movement, pressing herself into his hands.

Colin, helpless, desperate, completely undone, groaned. A deep, guttural sound against her throat. His hips jerked forward. A seeking, instinctual, unforgivable movement. His cock, thick and aching, pressed against her soft curves.

Colin should have stopped. He knew he should have. But Penelope had whispered please , and there was no force on this earth, nor in the heavens, that could make him ignore a plea spoken in such a soft, breathless voice.

His hand moved lower, hesitating, pausing just above her stomach, where he could feel the frantic rise and fall of her breath beneath his palm. He waited, searching for a sign, permission, though he wasn’t even sure he had the right to ask for it.

And then, she moved.

A shiver ran down his spine as she arched the smallest fraction, just enough to seek him out, to close the space between them. Colin felt his throat go dry, his pulse hammering so loudly he feared she might hear it.

"Penelope…" His voice was hoarse, a warning, a plea, he didn’t know which.

"Please," she said again, clearer this time, and he was undone.

His fingers grazed the delicate fabric of her nightdress, tracing the gentle slopes he had never allowed himself to touch, lingering over the silk-soft skin left exposed. He couldn’t suppress the quiet, helpless sound that escaped him at the sheer warmth of her beneath his touch.

Lower. His hand drifted down, trailing along her thigh, cautious yet burning with restless reverence. He wanted to remember this forever, every tremor beneath his fingertips, every unsteady breath she took.

He could feel her warmth and then, God .

His forehead dropped to her shoulder, a strangled groan muffled against her skin. "Penelope…" He could do nothing but breathe her name, as if it were a prayer, a vow, a descent into inevitable ruin.

She was warmth and softness, and he was a man on the edge, one step away from surrender.

"Colin," she whispered.

He lifted his head, his lips grazing the delicate spot behind her ear, his breath coming in uneven gasps.

"Pen," he murmured, his voice raw, unsteady. A nervous, almost delirious chuckle left his lips, as if he knew there was no saving himself now. "This is clearly a sign of being aroused, you’re wet."

"Is that… a good thing?" she asked, her voice small, uncertain.

Colin squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the heavens for testing him like this. A good thing? If only she knew the effect her words had on him, how they stripped him of his last shreds of self-restraint.

"Penelope," he breathed, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple, his lips warm and reverent against her skin. "It is a very, very good thing."

She relaxed slightly at his reassurance, though her breath still came in short, uneven gasps. Colin should have stopped there, should have let her settle into the comfort of his words, but he was a selfish man, at least when it came to her .

He lowered his voice, letting it rasp just enough to betray the war raging inside him. "The more aroused you are, the more your body responds," he murmured, his fingers still tracing delicate, aimless patterns against her thigh. "And you, my beautiful girl—" he swallowed hard, barely containing a groan as he let his palm press just a little closer to her heat, " you are absolutely drenched."

The sharp gasp she let out sent a bolt of heat straight through him.

"Colin!" she squeaked, her whole body tensing as if she had only just registered exactly what he was touching, how he was touching her.

He grinned, half delirious, half mortified, and let his forehead drop to her shoulder with a dramatic groan. "For the love of God, do not say my name like that, Pen. I am barely a man as it is."

She let out a breathless, nervous giggle, but then— then she moved, shifting against him, the smallest, most innocent adjustment of her hips. But nothing about it felt innocent.

Colin's grip on her thigh tightened, and his breath came out in a rough, shuddering exhale.

"Penelope," he warned, though his voice lacked any real conviction.

"Sorry," she whispered, sounding anything but.

"Liar."

"Please," she pleaded once more, her voice so soft, so utterly devastating , that Colin felt as though she had wrapped her hands around his very sanity and squeezed.

"Please what?" His voice was barely above a whisper, rough, hesitant, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile moment they were caught in. His hand remained frozen against her center, his fingers barely curved, a featherlight pressure that made his own head spin.

Penelope exhaled sharply, her body tensing as if she couldn’t believe he would make her say it. As if she expected him to understand without words.

And perhaps he did.

But if he was about to commit himself to ruination— their ruination—then he would have the privilege of hearing her say it.

"Touch me," she whispered, her voice trembling yet sure. "Please, Colin."

His throat bobbed, and something broke inside him.

His fingers moved before his mind could catch up, brushing tentatively along the seam of her heat.

Holy. Hell.

He had not been prepared for this.

The warmth. The slickness. The absolute perfection of her beneath his touch.

"Good Lord," he rasped, his forehead dropping against the nape of her neck as though the sheer force of the moment had stolen his strength. "Penelope—"

She sucked in a sharp breath, her fingers clutching at his forearm where it wrapped around her waist.

His fingers traced lower, down the length of her slit, slow, reverent, testing, learning . He had no experience in this. No prior knowledge beyond what he had overheard in hushed, drunken conversations among his brothers or read in scandalous literature.

But this was far more intoxicating than words on a page.

"Is this…?" He hesitated, swallowing thickly. "Do you like—?"

A small, desperate noise escaped her throat, and she arched subtly against his hand.

Colin’s breath stuttered.

Yes. She liked it. God help him, she liked it.

So he did it again, this time with just a little more pressure, a little more certainty. And when she let out a quiet, breathy moan.

 
"Pen," Colin murmured, voice hoarse, barely hanging onto the last threads of his restraint. "I want to try something."

She moved her hips again, chasing the pleasure, the delicious friction his fingers were giving her.

He stopped.

Her breath caught, a desperate whimper escaping her lips as frustration coiled through her body. "Why—why are you stopping?" she demanded, breathless, a mixture of disappointment and confusion tightening in her chest.

Colin let out a small, amused huff, placing a kiss on her flushed cheek. "I told you," he murmured, "I want to try something."

"Can we do it after this?" she countered, rolling her hips into his hand again, seeking, urging.

He chuckled, indulgent, weak for her, and gave in for just a moment, circling that sensitive little bundle of nerves with practiced care. The reaction was instant. Penelope melted, her lips parting as a strangled moan slipped free.

Colin's breath stuttered.

God above, he could spend a lifetime unraveling her like this. But no. He had another idea.

Dipping his head, he brushed his lips against the shell of her ear and whispered, "I want to try something that's apparently even better than this."

She froze.

"Better than this?" she breathed, incredulous. "I—I'm not sure that’s possible."

He laughed, a low, rich sound, his grip on her waist tightening as he slid his arm beneath her. In one smooth motion, he lifted her, shifting her, maneuvering until she was lying fully against the banquette, under him.

Penelope gasped at the sudden change in position, blinking up at him.

Colin hovered above her, one forearm braced beside her head, his body a warm, solid weight pressing her down. His gaze burned, dark and intense, the hunger in his expression so overwhelming that her entire body shivered in response.

"There are plenty of things that are better," he murmured, his lips curving into something dangerously wicked.

His lips claimed hers with a slow, consuming purpose, as though savoring the taste of something he had long been denied. It wasn’t a polite kiss. It wasn’t chaste or hesitant. It was the kind of kiss that shattered walls, that rewrote entire histories.

Penelope whimpered against his mouth, her fingers clutching at his shoulders.

Colin’s breath came heavier as he trailed a line of kisses down her décolletage, following the delicate fabric of her nightdress. His mind was hazy, clouded with a desire he had never known before, a desire he had never dared to imagine for her. He hesitated for a moment, lifting his head, searching for permission, battling the desperate urge to claim her completely.

Penelope gave him a small, trembling nod, her lips parting on a breathless sigh. It was silent consent, an invitation, a trust so freely given that it nearly unraveled him. With reverent hands, hesitant yet eager, he pushed the thin fabric from her shoulders, drawing it slowly over her head. And when the garment pooled onto the floor, his lungs forgot how to function.

She was divine.

The flickering firelight bathed her skin in a golden glow, casting soft shadows over the delicate slopes of her body, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist. She was all softness and curves, her beauty so utterly devastating that he could do nothing but stare. Her breasts, full, glorious, maddening, rose and fell with her shallow breaths, their dusky peaks standing taut, either from the cool air or the heat of his gaze. His mouth went dry as a slow, unbearable hunger coiled deep inside him. He ached to touch them. To taste them. To worship them.

“My God, Penelope…” His voice was hoarse, raw with wonder.

She tensed slightly beneath him, as if uncertain, and guilt struck through the haze of his arousal. He lowered his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her shoulder, then lower, tracing the gentle curve of her breast with his lips.

She shivered, her breath catching in a broken sound that sent fire rushing through his veins.

Finally, he closed his mouth over one of those perfect, tempting peaks, his tongue flicking over it with slow, deliberate care. Penelope gasped, a helpless whimper spilling from her lips as her fingers tangled into his hair. Encouraged, he sucked gently, savoring the warmth, the way her body arched toward him, as if instinctively seeking more.

His hands followed the path of his mouth, skimming down her sides, mapping the curves he had dreamed of but never dared to touch. She was impossibly soft, a masterpiece of sensation beneath his fingertips. He could feel the way she trembled, the way her thighs shifted restlessly beneath him, as though even she did not know what she was asking for.

He lifted his head, his darkened gaze locking onto hers.

“Tell me if I need to stop…” His voice was rough, unsteady, laced with a plea he could not voice.

But Penelope, his sweet, innocent Penelope, only wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered against his lips:

“Don’t you dare.”

His mind was a blur of desire and disbelief as he continued his descent. Every inch of her was intoxicating. His lips traced a slow, reverent path down her belly, feeling the way she quivered beneath him, the way her fingers flexed against the sheets, uncertain, expectant.

He had never done this before. Never even imagined himself in such a position, on his knees before a woman, before her , utterly undone by the sheer thought of giving her pleasure.

Penelope gasped as he reached the curve of her hips, the sensitive skin there yielding beneath his lips. He could feel the tension in her body, the way she both stilled and shivered, as though torn between apprehension and anticipation.

“C-Colin,” she whispered, her voice unsure but wanting.

He swallowed thickly, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of her thighs as he parted them slightly, just enough to reveal the glistening evidence of her desire.

His mouth went dry. His body reacted , a sharp, insistent pulse of need that made him dizzy.

Good God.

He had read about this,  of course he had. He had heard stories, had caught snippets of hushed conversations between men who boasted of their conquests. But none of that had prepared him for this. For her. For the sight of her laid bare before him, pink and slick and utterly divine.

He let out a strangled groan, dropping his forehead against her thigh as he tried to gather himself, tried to fight the overwhelming wave of hunger that nearly knocked him senseless.

“Penelope,” he said, his voice hoarse, rough with something too big to name. “You—God, you are—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if the words simply refused to form.

Penelope shifted, propping herself up slightly on her elbows, peering down at him with wide, curious eyes. “Is something wrong?” she asked softly, almost shyly.

Colin let out a strangled laugh. “Wrong?” He lifted his head, looking at her as though she had just asked him if the sky was blue. “Penelope, I—” He stopped, pressing his lips together in frustration. How did one explain to a woman how utterly, devastatingly beautiful she was? How did one confess, without completely embarrassing himself, that just looking at her like this made him feel moments away from losing himself?

Apparently, there was no proper way, because the words that came out of his mouth next were:

“I think I might die.”

Penelope blinked. “What?”

He groaned, pressing his forehead against her skin again, his fingers digging into her thighs. “I knew I was going to make an absolute mess of this.”

Penelope let out a breathless, startled laugh. “Colin Bridgerton, are you telling me that you are—” She hesitated, then bit her lip, amusement dancing in her eyes. “—overwhelmed?”

He lifted his head, glaring at her. “I am suffering, Penelope.”

She giggled then, actually giggled, and the sound sent a rush of something dangerously warm straight through his chest.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she teased, and then, perhaps emboldened by his clear desperation, she shifted her hips, just slightly. 

Colin hesitated for the briefest of moments, his breath hot against her slick, glistening skin. He had no proper experience in this, no roadmap, no guidance except for instinct and a desperate need to please her.

He placed the softest kiss against her center, almost reverent, and lifted his gaze to hers.

Penelope’s chest rose and fell in rapid succession, her breath shaky, her lips parted. Her eyes, wide, dark, and shimmering with something unnameable, locked onto his. 

The heat pooling in his gut was unbearable. He was burning.

And then, ever so tentatively, he dragged his tongue through her folds.

Penelope gasped, a sharp, startled sound that sent a violent shiver down his spine. He felt her thighs twitch, her fingers gripping the fabric beneath her.

she made a sound, God, that sound, a breathless, broken whimper, and his restraint shattered.

He did it again, this time slower, more purposeful.

Penelope arched beneath him, her hand flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck.

"Colin—" His name was barely a whisper, tremulous and pleading.

He groaned into her, the vibrations making her gasp.

This was madness. Utter madness.

He had meant to be careful. He had meant to take his time, to be the perfect gentleman about it. To think. To breathe.

But she was sweet, sweeter than anything he'd ever known. And she was soft, trembling under him, trusting him. 

He flicked his tongue against that sensitive little bundle of nerves at her apex and felt her jolt, her thighs squeezing against his shoulders.

"Colin!" Her voice was high, incredulous, as though she couldn’t quite believe the sensation.

He grinned against her, emboldened, and did it again.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging

"Is—" She gasped, squirming beneath him, her voice breathy, desperate. "Is this normal?"

Colin let out a breathless chuckle, pressing another kiss to her center before glancing up at her.

"Penelope," he murmured, his voice low, rough. "I assure you, there is absolutely nothing normal about how much I am enjoying this."

Her cheeks flamed a brilliant shade of red, and she let out a nervous little laugh. "I—I don’t know what to do."

He smirked, placing a slow, teasing lick just to watch her squirm.

"You don’t have to do anything, sweetheart," he murmured, voice thick with amusement and something darker. "Just let me taste you."

She let out a shuddering breath, her body melting beneath him.

"Okay," she whispered.

His mouth moved against her with newfound confidence, the taste of her coating his tongue, warm and intoxicating. He needed more.

Slowly, he sucked her clit between his lips, teasing it with the barest flick of his tongue before drawing it fully into his mouth.

The response was instantaneous.

Penelope cried out, her back arching, her fingers yanking at his curls as though she were uncertain whether to pull him closer or push him away.

Colin groaned against her, the vibrations making her tremble beneath him.

"Does that feel good, darling?" he murmured between kisses, his voice rough, thick with hunger.

She nodded frantically, too lost to form words, her thighs tightening around his head.

Colin smirked against her skin, though his own need, aching, relentless, was nearly unbearable.

"I need to feel you," he rasped, his breath hot against her slick heat. "Inside. I need—"

He slid one finger into her, and God above, she was tight.

Penelope gasped, her hips lifting from the settee, her hands flying to grip at his shoulders.

"You're gripping me, sweetheart," Colin groaned, pressing his forehead briefly to her thigh as he tried not to rut against the cushions. "So damn tight—"

He pulled back slightly, watching her as he withdrew his finger before pushing back in, curling it just so.

The noise she made, high, breathless, sent fire through his veins.

"More—"

That one word nearly ended him.

"More?" he echoed, his voice a rasp, teasing despite the sheer desperation clawing at his gut. "My darling girl, you're insatiable."

He added another finger, stretching her, feeling her pulse around him as she let out a strangled sound.

"Colin," she pleaded, hips lifting, chasing something, something just out of reach.

He needed to see it. To feel it.

He moved his fingers in tandem with his tongue, sucking, stroking, coaxing, until she was writhing beneath him.

"That's it," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Let go for me, Penelope."

She whimpered, her breathing uneven, her body coiling tighter and tighter—

"Colin!" She shattered, a cry leaving her lips, her body trembling violently as pleasure overtook her.

Colin groaned against her as she clenched around his fingers, his name a desperate plea from her lips.

"God, you're beautiful like this," he muttered, pressing one last kiss against her as she came down from the high. "So damn beautiful when you fall apart for me."

She let out a breathless laugh, boneless beneath him. "I—I can't feel my legs."

Colin grinned, pressing a lazy kiss to her thigh. "That's the highest praise I've ever received."

Her fingers carded through his curls, tugging gently. "Come here."

Colin hesitated, then, with one last lingering kiss against her center, crawled up to meet her gaze.

Her face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes dazed. And God help him, he had never seen anything more divine.

"Hello," he murmured, grinning.

She huffed a breathless laugh. "Hello."

He leaned in, brushing a kiss against her lips, savoring the way she sighed into him. His own desire was a raging fire, a painful ache that burned through every inch of him. He could have ignored it, should have, but then, she reached up, cupping his cheek in her warm, delicate hand, forcing him to look at her.

"Colin," she murmured softly.

He shut his eyes for a brief moment, as if that could shield him from the weight of her gaze. But she wasn’t finished, her voice, still trembling from her own pleasure, pushed forward.

"I want to… I want to take care of you."

His breath caught violently in his throat.

"Penelope," he said hurriedly, shaking his head. "You don’t have to—I mean, I don’t expect—at all—"

A small, shy smile touched her lips, and something deep inside him twisted, ancient and undeniable.

"I know," she whispered. "But I want to."

Colin forgot how to breathe.

She wanted to… Oh, God.

He searched her eyes, desperate for any trace of hesitation, any flicker of uncertainty. If she wasn’t sure, he would find the strength to stop this, to pull away, to gather the last shreds of his tattered restraint.

But there was no hesitation. Only quiet determination.

So, very slowly, he nodded.

Penelope bit her lip, her gaze flickering downward as he fumbled with the buttons of his trousers, his fingers clumsy, trembling.

He was shaking.

Cool air hit his overheated skin as he finally freed himself, and God, he had never felt more exposed in his entire life.

Before he could brace himself, her hand was on him.

A wrecked sound tore from his throat before he could swallow it, his head falling back as sensation overwhelmed him.

"Bloody hell, Penelope!"

He wanted to say something more refined, something memorable, but his mind had completely shattered under the devastating innocence of her touch.

Penelope studied him with quiet fascination, her fingers trailing hesitantly along his length, exploring, testing.

A violent tremor rocked through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately.

Colin sucked in a sharp breath as Penelope’s delicate fingers wrapped around him, tentative yet filled with curiosity. His resolve wavered, his body tightening under her innocent touch. He reached for her hand, guiding her movements with a gentle, yet desperate patience.

"Like this," he murmured, his voice roughened by desire. His fingers curled around hers, coaxing a rhythm that made his breath stutter. "Slow at first… yes, just like that."

Her brow furrowed in concentration, her touch growing bolder as she followed his lead. Colin let his head fall back, eyes closing as pleasure curled through him like a slow, burning flame. The sensation of her, so eager, so willing to learn him, unraveled something deep within.

But then he felt something else. Something soft. Wet. The featherlight brush of her tongue against him.

His eyes snapped open, his breath catching in his throat. "Penelope—"

She hesitated, her gaze flicking up to meet his, searching, uncertain. Yet beneath the hesitance, there was something else. A glimmer of determination, of curiosity, of undeniable want. “I want to use my mouth like you do to me”

Colin groaned, his fingers threading through her hair, his restraint slipping like sand through his fingers. "You are going to ruin me," he whispered, his voice barely more than a rasp.

She did not stop. And he could do nothing but surrender to the way she undid him, the way she drew sounds from him that he scarcely recognized as his own. Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, his back tensing, his hands clenching at the fabric beneath him. He whispered words of praise between his ragged breaths, half-formed and reverent, "so perfect," "so good," "too good."

But as the tight coil of pleasure in his abdomen wound itself too tightly, too soon, his eyes flew open once more, seeking hers with frantic urgency. "Penelope… stop, love, you must—" He sucked in a sharp breath, summoning what little control he had left.

She pulled back slowly, her cheeks flushed, her breathing just as unsteady as his, keeping strocking him, Colin felt himself unravel completely, pleasure cresting over him in waves, leaving him utterly undone, his lips parting around a strangled groan as he came onto his chest.

Colin reached for his discarded shirt, using it to clean himself with a haste that was both practical and endearingly clumsy. With care, he set it aside, ensuring it would not make an even greater mess, before turning back to Penelope. Without hesitation, he pulled her into his arms, capturing her lips in a kiss that was fervent, lingering, an unspoken promise in itself.

When they finally parted, breathless and grinning, she let out a soft, contented sigh and nestled against his chest, her cheek resting just above his heart. He let his fingers drift through her curls, the simple act grounding him, soothing him. For a long while, neither of them spoke, simply reveling in the warmth of each other, in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Then, with a voice thick with something almost reverent, Colin murmured, "I cannot wait for tomorrow."

Penelope hummed in sleepy agreement, trailing her fingers absentmindedly along his arm. "Tomorrow?"

"To announce our engagement, of course," he said with a smile, his thumb idly stroking along the back of her hand.

Whatever drowsy contentment she had been feeling evaporated in an instant. She bolted upright, her wide eyes searching his face. "Colin, we—" She swallowed, her hands suddenly restless against the sheets. "We do not have to do that. This… this can stay between us. No one need ever know."

Colin sat up as well, his expression unreadable for a brief, agonizing moment. But then, before she could say anything more, he reached for her hand and held it between both of his, his grip firm, steady.

"I know," he said simply. "I know you would never speak of what happened here tonight. And I would never force your hand, Penelope." He exhaled, gathering his thoughts before he continued. "But I want to marry you. Not because of this." His thumb brushed over her knuckles. "But because it is you ."

She stared at him, lips parted slightly, her breath catching as his words settled over her.

"You are my dearest friend," he said, his voice soft but unwavering. "My confidante. The one person I trust with every secret, every thought, every ridiculous musing in my mind. I love to talk with you, to laugh with you, to be with you." His fingers tightened around hers. "And now I find that I want even more. I want to share my mornings and my nights. My dreams and my doubts. My triumphs, my failures, my joys, my sorrows." He swallowed, his voice rough with emotion. "If we are lucky, I want to share a family with you. I want forever with you, Penelope."

He took a breath, steadied himself, then looked straight into her eyes as he said the words that had been waiting, aching, to be spoken aloud.

"I love you, Penelope."

A small, broken sound escaped her lips, something between a laugh and a sob, and then she was kissing him, soft and sweet and overwhelming in its intensity.

She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his, her hands coming up to frame his face. "I love you too, Colin," she whispered against his lips, her voice trembling but sure.

And as he kissed her once more, slow, deep, utterly lost in her, Colin knew there had never been a single truth in his life as certain as this.

He belonged to her.

And she, at last, belonged to him.

— — — — — — — —

Hyacinth tiptoed through the dimly lit hallway, her excitement barely contained as she reached Gregory’s door. Without hesitation, she shook his shoulder, whispering urgently, “It’s time.”

Gregory groaned, burying his face deeper into his pillow. “Time for what?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“To see if our plan worked, of course!” she hissed, yanking at his blankets.

Muttering something about insufferable sisters, Gregory finally sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Fine,” he relented, swinging his legs over the bed. “But if we get caught, I shall insist it was your idea.”

Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You’re enjoying this as much as I am.”

They crept down the hall to the library, where Hyacinth expertly turned the key in the lock, swinging the door open just a fraction. Gregory reached for the handle, but she caught his wrist.

“We should go,” she whispered. “Give them privacy.”

Gregory frowned. “What? But we—” Then, realization dawned, and he nodded. “Right. Yes. Good thinking.”

They slipped away unnoticed, smug with the success of their meddling.

At breakfast, they sat side by side, casting careful glances at Penelope and Benedict. Nothing seemed different. Benedict was chatting with Penelope and Eloise as usual. Gregory leaned toward Hyacinth. 

“I don’t think it worked,” he muttered. “They look exactly the same as yesterday.”

“Patience,” she whispered back, spooning honey onto her bread. “They’re being discreet. They don’t want anyone to suspect.”

Colin strode into the room, radiating an unusual energy. He was cheerful, perhaps more than cheerful. He pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek and inhaled deeply.

“Something smells delightful,” he announced. “And I am famished.”

Eloise narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you in such a good mood?” she asked suspiciously.

Colin grinned. “Am I not allowed to be happy, dear sister?”

Eloise folded her arms. “Of course you are,” she said, frowning at him.

Colin, still beaming, glanced at Penelope, who had gone rather pink and was very pointedly focusing on her plate.

“And I have some good news,” he added.

Eloise’s eyes flashed triumphantly. “Aha! I knew it.” She whirled to face the others. “Did I not say there was something?”

“Well, technically, we have good news,” Colin corrected, reaching out his hand. Penelope hesitated for only a moment before placing hers in his, her fingers trembling slightly as they curled around his.

The room fell into a hush. Every pair of eyes flicked between them, waiting.

Colin squeezed Penelope’s hand and, with a proud, unwavering voice, declared, “We are engaged!,” 

The silence shattered.

Hyacinth let out a delighted shriek, grabbing Gregory’s arm so tightly he yelped in pain. “Oh my God!” she gasped. “Oh my God—oh my God!”

Before Penelope could react, Hyacinth launched herself at her, wrapping her arms around her in a fierce embrace. “You are really going to be our sister,” she sobbed into Penelope’s dress.

Penelope felt her heart swell at the words. With a watery smile, she stroked Hyacinth’s hair and whispered, “I always have been.”