Chapter Text
1827 – London
It is, Colin decides as he takes a sip of some truly excellent brandy, surprisingly good to be back in England.
He remains less than delighted about the principal reason for his return, but it was the right thing to do, however little he liked it. The best thing for Thomas.
He is man enough to admit that he shed a few tears in the carriage as it pulled away from Eton the first time. Thankfully, Anthony had been too caught up in his own emotions to notice.
(And this last time.)
But it hardly bears thinking about just now.
Of course, it is also a not-insignificant part of the reason why he finds himself at this particular party at all.
With his son at school, all his siblings married but Gregory, who is presently in his own bachelor lodgings, and his mother ever a social butterfly, Number Five seems exceptionally empty and quiet at night.
Too empty. Too quiet.
Not that he thinks the snug little terrace house he has just taken under lease in Bedford Square will be much better in that respect once it is ready for him to occupy.
As a result, he has begun to consider accepting more of his invitations – enough to please even his mother. Suppers, balls, the opera and the theatre, even – shudder – musicales and poetry readings.
His mother has nagged him for years now, whenever he has returned and by letter, but with this being the first time he plans to spend an extended amount of time in England since Eloise and Francesca’s marriages, she harbors high hopes that he will follow in Phillip and Frannie’s footsteps and remarry in due time.
His marriage of necessity having turned out to be even shorter-lived than his sister’s first marriage and not an especially enjoyable endeavor, he is not keen for his own sake to make a second attempt.
But his mother refuses to accept his resolution, ignores his admonitions that she not get her hopes up, and blithely takes no notice of his protestations that he is merely a bit bored and in need of society.
In fact, she has taken a new tack and become extremely unsubtle in doing so. The twins adore Eloise, you know. And of course: they love having younger sisters.
Thomas has been perfectly happy without a stepmother and siblings. Not to mention that there would be no guarantee whatsoever that whatever woman he might make the mistake of choosing would behave toward his son as his sister does toward Oliver and Amanda. Pointless to take such a risk when remarriage holds such little appeal for him.
He shakes his head and puts it out of his mind. A good brandy makes everything a little more bearable, he thinks with some satisfaction as he takes another sip.
“Mr. Bridgerton!” exclaims Portia Featherington in that false, overly-jovial tone he wishes he could forget, champagne flute dangling from her hand.
Most things, he corrects himself grimly. It seems he has done something grave to very seriously offend the Almighty that He would send Portia Featherington to approach him first this evening. “Lady Featherington,” he says politely, only half-hoping that his dread is not on full display.
Not that Lady Featherington would notice.
Lady Featherington beams at him. “How wonderful to see you, Mr. Bridgerton.”
“I am . . .” He struggles for a polite sentiment. “Pleased to see you looking so well, my lady.”
She titters. “You were always a flatterer.”
“Good to know I still have my charms,” he jokes weakly.
“Very much so.”
He cannot help but wonder at her interest in speaking with him. He thinks he has hardly made a secret of the fact that, while he holds her third daughter in the highest esteem and likes her youngest, neither sentiment could be applied to her. And her daughters are all married – well, three married and one widowed – so she no longer has the need to chase down every even vaguely eligible gentleman on whom she might try to pawn off her girls. One would think she would finally breathe easy after all these years.
And leave him be.
“You are a very worldly gentleman, are you not, Mr. Bridgerton?” she asks abruptly.
“I – er –” He looks at her more closely, wondering if she has any idea that there is more than one way to answer that question. His time abroad being the obvious answer, of course –
She stares up at him expectantly.
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“You may be aware that my daughter was widowed last year. Penelope,” she adds unnecessarily.
He finds it more than a touch offensive that Lady Featherington would assume that he wasn’t aware of such a significant occurrence in Penelope’s life. As if it were unimportant or beneath his notice, when the truth is that Penelope is his friend and therefore Eloise, his most punctual and thorough correspondent, would never have failed to mention it to him, least of all when Penelope is her closest friend. “Yes, I am well aware,” he says tightly.
“She is recently out of mourning,” continues Lady Featherington.
His irritation turns back to dread. Is she trying to . . . matchmake? Good God.
Once upon a time, his mother had been very interested in making that exact match herself. Hopefully she hasn’t let on to Lady Featherington that she has yet to give up her crusade to get him married a second time.
“And she is not yet truly old.”
Indeed, Penelope is Eloise’s age – their birthdays mere days apart – so that makes her just barely . . . one-and-thirty.
“No, she is not,” he agrees with some asperity.
“Which means – I hope and pray – that she has many years ahead of her. However, even with her material needs amply met, I fear it may feel difficult to be alone.”
He narrows his at her, thoughtful. What exactly is she playing at? Trying to tug at his heartstrings, perhaps?
Penelope wouldn’t have to be alone. A rich widow with only one small daughter? Other than to those few to whom she might truly have put the screws in her column, he expects she would be a far more appealing prospect for a man seeking to marry than she was as a debutante.
From what he observed when last he saw her, Penelope left the somewhat awkward girl of her youth behind her, growing graceful and confident –
So confident that she later chose to reveal herself to the ton as Lady Whistledown with the support of Lady Danbury when Cressida Twombley attempted to steal her secret identity, standing her ground rather than let the horrid little sneak get away with it.
When he heard that tale upon his next visit with his family, his jaw dropped. His sisters and sisters-in-law had not been able to stop talking about how remarkable it all was. It was the first and only time that he regretted missing any part of a season.
“She is an eligible widow; she need not be alone if she does not wish to be,” he points out mildly.
“Well, the thing is . . . as I imagine you know well, Mr. Bridgerton, remarrying is not always the right choice after the untimely demise of a spouse.”
“Indeed,” he says slowly, suspiciously waiting for a small but or however or even so or and yet or that said.
“And I believe it would be the wrong choice for my daughter.”
“I see,” he murmurs, now utterly baffled at this inexplicable turn of events.
“However –”
Ah, there it is.
“It is quite reasonable for a woman of her years to want companionship.”
Uneasily, he makes a noncommittal noise.
“But as she has a good fortune and a child and therefore no need or inclination to remarry –”
Another noncommittal noise because he cannot believe he is trapped in this conversation.
“Might you have any recommendations?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Recommendations,” she repeats a touch impatiently. “Any lonely gentleman friends of yours I should ensure that she meets?”
He chokes on his drink. “My lady,” he says disbelievingly when his airways are finally clear, “surely you cannot be asking me to recommend to you potential –” Can he even say it?
“Lovers,” Lady Featherington supplies in an undertone.
“For your daughter,” he finishes, equally low.
“What of it?” Lady Featherington asks shamelessly at normal speaking volume. “It’s a most sensible solution. Surely you of all people would understand, being in much the same position. I cannot imagine that you would provide anything but good counsel to your beloved sister’s dearest friend.”
And his friend!
But for God’s sake, why he is stuck on that in the middle of what might be the most bizarre, discomfiting conversation of his thirty-six years on this earth?
“Should I be offended that you didn’t even consider me?” The joke – jokes being his instinctual weapon in discomfiting moments like this – slips off his tongue before he can stop himself. He’s always been too impressed with his own quickness. What in God’s –
“Oh no, not you.” Lady Featherington shakes her head quickly.
His pride is oddly pricked.
“One must be realistic.”
A prickle of . . . something crawls up his spine. “Realistic?” he echoes.
“A woman like Penelope and a man like you? Felicity might –”
“Lady Featherington,” he grinds out, “please do let me stop you before you say something you regret.”
“No, I don’t think there were any regrets in my future,” she says brightly.
“I will –”
“Colin!” his mother exclaims, in much the same tone Lady Featherington greeted him.
Oh no. She’s drunk, too. Dear God.
Too, because that’s the only explanation he can think of for the conversation he was just forced to endure, that Portia Featherington had over-imbibed.
Then again, her lack of appreciation for her third daughter is nothing new.
“I will leave you two to catch up,” he says, practically running from the pair, so desperate to get away that he doesn’t even care about the possibility that his mother might bring Lady Featherington over to her way of thinking instead.
—
Having stepped out only briefly to refresh his much-needed drink, he returns to the ballroom and lingers at the edge until he spots Felicity Albansdale – the only Featherington with any sense besides Penelope – chatting animatedly with Eloise, Hyacinth, and Kate. He sidles up to them and quietly tells her, “I think your mother is not feeling well. You may want to have your carriage brought ‘round.”
She gives him a concerned look. “What happened?” she asks uneasily, a world of concern in that single question.
“We had the most . . .” He struggles for a polite word and just barely manages to come up with one. “Unusual conversation just now.”
“Unusual how?” Hyacinth asks interestedly.
He sighs, not wanting to embarrass poor Felicity any more than necessary, but really, she ought to know. “I was asked my thoughts on suitable lovers for your sister.”
Felicity groans under her breath. “She didn’t! I’m so sorry. I thought she was joking.”
“Joking?” Eloise echoes, eyes wide with a mix of interest and disgust.
“She said just earlier today that Penelope would do well to take a lover, that a second husband would only be a hindrance. But I didn’t think she was serious. Good heavens. How mortifying. Pen would die if she knew –”
“Please don’t worry about that,” Colin interrupts. “I’d never say a thing to anyone else. I just thought you should know to avoid any further . . .” He trails off vaguely.
“Yes, of course, thank you.” Felicity nods at them all and rushes off as fast as she can in such a crowded ballroom.
“Penelope supports her. Of course, she doesn’t want Penelope pledging her troth and her fortune to a second husband, especially one she might actually love,” Eloise mutters in disgust. “Not that Pen wishes to, but her mother must be afraid that she’ll change her mind.” She shakes her head. “I don’t actually disagree with Lady Featherington’s reasoning at all; it’s her reasons – her selfishness – that appall me.”
“To be fair,” says Kate, “and you know I would rarely bother to do so with her because she does not deserve it – even if it is to her personal benefit, she also likely sincerely believes it to be to Penelope’s benefit. Think about how marriage has treated her.”
It is true that Lady F has not had an easy time of it, but that hardly justifies –
“And where is Penelope tonight, by the by? I should like to say hello.”
Kate gives him an odd look he can’t decipher.
Eloise shrugs. “Not here.”
Scowling slightly, Hyacinth whispers, “Lady Hartside has never forgiven her for Whistledown’s comments about her stingy lemonade glasses.”
“She has banned our friend for such a ridiculous reason and yet you all choose to come here?” he asks, sincerely confused. “Her mother and sister choose to come here?”
“Pen says that for us to boycott Lady H’s parties would make her feel victorious, like it has gotten to her.”
He follows the logic, even if he doesn’t fully agree with it.
“But that’s not to say we need to stay very long,” Kate informs him.
Eloise and Hyacinth let out identical sighs of relief.
He finishes off his drink, handing the glass to the nearest footman, and goes to sort out the carriages.