Chapter Text
The season of 1815 dawned upon Mayfair with its usual splendor and anticipation. The grandeur of Mayfair was a stark contrast to the quietude of the Featherington country estate. The air buzzed with renewed excitement, the streets filled with carriages carrying ladies in vibrant gowns and gentlemen in crisp, tailored coats. The return to the city marked the beginning of another dance of courtship, gossip, and intrigue. Yet, for one young lady, this season promised something different—a final chance to seize her fate.
For Penelope Featherington, it was her third year on the marriage mart, though it felt like an eternity. As her family’s carriage rolled through the cobbled streets toward their London townhouse, she stared out the window of her family’s carriage as it clattered through the cobbled streets of London. The familiar sights passed by in a blur: the grand façades of the townhouses, the trimmed hedges, and the whispers of the ton that drifted on the breeze. She had faced these roads before, each season hopeful yet filled with dread. But this time, there was a steely resolve beneath her calm exterior.
She pressed her gloved hands together, reminding herself of her newfound determination. This season, she vowed, would be different. She would find a husband—not for love or passion, but for freedom. Freedom from the stifling influence of her overbearing mother, the chattering presence of her sisters, and, most of all, from the haunting connection she held to the Bridgertons, who, until now, had formed the very core of her world.
Eloise Bridgerton, her dearest best friend, had slipped away, the bond they once shared fractured beyond repair from her secret, she is Lady Whistledown. And Colin… The thought of him no longer brought the sharp pang of longing it once had, though the dull ache remained. He had left her behind, with cruel words and with cruel indifference. There had been a time when her heartbeat was only for him, but after the end of the last season, she understood that some dreams were never meant to be realized.
This season, she would play the game differently. She would be bold where she had once been timid. Calculating where she had once been overlooked. And most of all, she would not wait for love. No more lingering in the shadows, hiding her desires behind a smile. She was done waiting for a fairytale to unfold. This time, she would write her own story.
But fate, it seemed, had its own plans.
As the Featherington carriage made its slow journey back to the familiar streets of London, a different carriage was making its way down from the Highlands, toward the heart of the season’s festivities. Though with a far different purpose. Lord Michael Stirling, newly titled Earl of Strathmore, arrived from Scotland with a reputation that preceded him. Known as a capital R rake, he was as elusive as he was charming, his presence in any room like a gust of fresh air—or trouble, depending on who you asked. He came to London with his cousin, Lord Killmartin, both men aware of the expectation set upon them by their families. Marriage. An heir. Stability. It was all the same song he’d been hearing for years.
“Find a wife this season, Michael,” his mother had insisted. “The Stirling estate needs a lady.”
He’d laughed it off, of course. Women were delightful company, each a new dance, a new challenge, but marriage? A single woman to keep his attention for the rest of his life? Impossible. Or so he believed.
Until now.
The first ball of the season was grand, an event of glittering lights and swirling colors. The ton was out in full force, eager for a fresh start, eager to forget the scandals of the past. Michael Stirling, leaning casually against a marble pillar, surveyed the room with his usual detached amusement. His green eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on beautiful faces, admiring lovely forms, but not one held his gaze. That was until he saw her .
Who is she?
She was intriguing. She stood near the far end of the room, a vision of fiery-red curls and soft, pale skin, her lips curved into the most delicate of smiles. Her gown, though modest compared to the peacock displays of other women, only served to enhance her natural beauty. She was not the most eye-catching woman in the room—no , she was something far more dangerous. But it was her eyes that captivated him. Wide, baby-blue eyes that seemed to hold secrets. Her movements were graceful yet restrained, her chin slightly dipped as if shielding herself from the room. There was a shyness about her that beckoned to him, a quiet confidence that seemed to whisper, I am not like the others.
And for the first time in his life, Michael Stirling felt something shift.
His usual banter died on his lips, his easy charm replaced by an unfamiliar, intense pull. He had never been captivated by one woman before—not like this. She did not seek attention, and yet she captured his, in an instant. And for the first time in his life, the chase didn’t seem so simple.
Her eyes scanned the crowd, feeling as if she were watching from a distance. She had attended countless balls, and yet each one felt the same. The same stares, the same judgments, the same weight of expectation pressing down on her shoulders. And then, across the room, she felt it —the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
As Penelope lifted her eyes, she met his gaze across the ballroom, and for a fleeting moment, time stood still. The noise around him faded, the swirl of dancers became a blur, and all he could see were those eyes, staring back at him with a mix of surprise and curiosity.
The season had only just begun.