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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.

Chapter Text

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

As the sun rises on yet another London season, the air hums with the usual excitement—anxious mothers primping their daughters, tailors working tirelessly, and the ton buzzing with speculation over which lucky debutante shall be declared the diamond of the season. The question is: will this year bring new opportunities or the same tired faces and scandals we have all grown so familiar with?

Among the families clamoring for attention, the Featherington household appears determined to make their last remaining daughter an eligible candidate for any marriage-minded gentleman. Miss Penelope Featherington, now entering her third season, has once again returned to the marriage mart. Alas, her former gowns of garish yellows and oranges have not been missed, though one can only wonder if this year’s wardrobe will be any more flattering. Though her lack of success has been a quiet source of sympathy (and not a small amount of gossip), one cannot help but admire Miss Featherington’s persistence. Perhaps this season, with a fresh start and a renewed resolve, she will succeed where she has failed before.

Yet, despite the fresh beginnings, the faces remain the same. The Bridgertons, of course, are always a topic of interest, though it seems the focus may shift away from the usual suspects. After all, with one newlywed in the family, who shall claim the attention of London this year? Will it be the brooding Viscount, whose sudden romantic entanglement last season left us all breathless? Or perhaps it will be a new Bridgerton altogether, though whispers suggest the family’s quieter members may have their moment soon enough. 

And as for those eligible men who have yet to arrive, one must wonder: which of them will rise to the occasion, and which shall remain at the mercy of the match-making mothers’ ambitions?

One can only wait to see what this season has in store. If nothing else, the spectacle will surely be worth watching. 

Yours truly,  

Lady Whistledown

The bustling halls of the Bridgerton home in Mayfair echoed with the excited whispers and footsteps of the family, all gathered outside Francesca Bridgerton’s bedroom door. It was presentation day—a momentous occasion, one that could mark the beginning of a young lady’s journey toward finding her place in society. Yet, as the minutes ticked by, Francesca had yet to emerge from her room.  

Violet Bridgerton, the matriarch of the family, paced nervously outside the door, glancing every now and then at her children who had gathered around her. Benedict, with his usual wry smile, leaned against the wall, trying to keep the mood light. Eloise, ever the skeptic of all things societal, looked mildly bored, but there was a trace of concern in her eyes as she exchanged glances with Gregory and Hyacinth, who were eagerly awaiting their sister’s appearance.  

"Is it supposed to take this long?" Gregory asked, shifting on his feet.  

"Patience, Gregory," Violet replied, though her tone was strained. She turned to Benedict. "Perhaps you should knock again. Maybe she didn’t hear you."  

"I think Francesca can hear you just fine, Mother," Benedict teased lightly. "She’s likely just gathering her nerves."  

Hyacinth, standing beside Eloise, bounced on her toes, her excitement barely contained. "I can’t believe today’s finally her turn! Do you think the Queen will choose her as the Diamond of the Season?"  

"Let’s not get ahead of ourselves," Eloise interjected, folding her arms. "Not everyone finds joy in being paraded in front of the Queen like a prized heifer, you know."  

"Not everyone is you, dear sister," Benedict quipped. "Francesca has always been different—quieter. But today is important."  

Violet sighed, pressing her ear to the door once more. "Francesca, dear, you really must hurry—"  

Anthony and Kate Bridgerton appeared at the end of the hallway, striding toward the group. “Why are you not ready to leave yet?” Anthony asked, his sharp tone cutting through the quiet moment. As the eldest Bridgerton and newly wed Viscount, he rarely had patience for dawdling. His gaze settled on his mother, noting her anxious posture. “What’s going on?”

Violet shook her head, her expression more concerned than before. “Francesca hasn’t left her room yet. We’ve been waiting... for some time.”

Anthony frowned and made a move toward the door, but just as he reached for the handle, a soft melody floated through the hallway. The music, sweet and familiar, drifted toward them from the direction of the drawing room.

Kate’s head tilted, recognizing the tune immediately. “Is that not, in fact...?” She didn’t finish her sentence before turning on her heel and heading toward the drawing room.

The Bridgerton family exchanged puzzled looks before making their way toward the source of the music. As they entered the drawing room, there sat Francesca, her fingers moving gracefully over the keys of the pianoforte, entirely absorbed in the melody. Her face was serene, almost distant, as if she were worlds away from the impending presentation.  

"Francesca," Violet began, her voice soft but urgent. "What are you doing? We are supposed to leave.”

But Francesca did not look up from the piano. She played on, the music flowing effortlessly from her fingers. Violet’s brows furrowed in confusion, and she stepped forward, raising her voice.  

"Francesca!"  

The music halted abruptly, and Francesca looked up, startled. "There is no need to shout, Mama," she said, her voice calm, though a trace of exhaustion lingered in her tone.  

Hyacinth, ever the inquisitive one, piped up from behind. "How did you get down here? I’ve been outside your door all morning!"  

Francesca gave a small, almost dismissive smile as she rose from the pianoforte, smoothing her gown. "I woke up early, dressed myself, and took breakfast in the garden." Her words were measured, as if explaining the most mundane of details.  

"Francesca, darling, it is your presentation day," Violet said,  her voice laced with the worry only a mother could understand.

Francesca turned toward her family, her expression serene but resolute. "And that is precisely why I’m here,” she began, her voice carrying a subtle edge, "but today… it feels like just another day."  

There was a moment of silence as the family absorbed her words. Violet’s face softened in understanding, though the worry remained. She moved toward her daughter, brushing a hand over Francesca’s cheek.  

"My dear, I know it must seem overwhelming, but it is important. This day marks the beginning of your season. You will be introduced to society as a Bridgerton, and we are all here to support you."  

Francesca gave her mother a small, almost weary smile. "I know, Mama."

Violet exchanged a glance with Kate, who stepped forward to take Francesca’s hand. "Let’s go, Francesca. Together."  

With a deep breath, Francesca nodded, and with that, the Bridgerton clan left their home, making their way toward the palace for her presentation.  

**********

Inside the grand presentation room, the Queen sat on her ornate throne, her posture regal, but her expression far from interested. She had seen it all before—the nervous debutantes, the overzealous mothers, the endless parade of young ladies vying for her favor. Each season, it was the same. The only question that remained was which girl would catch her eye enough to become the Diamond of the Season. Today, however, her patience was wearing thin.  

The footman’s voice rang out, calling the next name. "Miss Anne Hartigan. Presented by her mother, the Dowager Viscountess Hartigan."  

The Queen sighed, her fingers tapping idly against the armrest as she barely glanced at the girl curtsying before her. "Next," she murmured, her tone bored.  

The presentation continued, with each name announced in the same monotonous fashion. "Miss Dolores Stowell. Miss Clara Livingston." One after another, the young ladies presented themselves, their nerves on full display, but the Queen’s attention remained distant, her gaze wandering. The day dragged on, and with each passing moment, it became more apparent that this year’s crop of debutantes was not offering much in the way of excitement.  

**********

A grand gathering was well underway, the grounds of a magnificent estate filled with the elite of London. Families mingled, young ladies fluttered about in their finest gowns, and conversations buzzed beneath the warm afternoon sun. Though the Queen was notably absent, the mamas seemed preoccupied. The presentation was a mere formality, and it seemed no one had yet caught her favor. The coveted title of the season’s diamond remained unclaimed.

Among people, Penelope Featherington wandered alone through the gardens. She hadn’t yet had the courage to shed the citrus-colored gowns that her mother insisted upon, and as she moved among the crowds, she could feel the familiar sting of disapproval. Her heart ached as she passed groups of women whispering behind their fans, and yet she had no one to turn to. Not anymore.

Her steps faltered as she came face-to-face with Eloise Bridgerton. Penelope’s heart leapt with hope, her wide eyes searching Eloise’s for any sign of their former closeness. But the words she wanted to speak caught in her throat, and the silence between them stretched.

It wasn’t until Cressida Cowper’s familiar voice sliced through the moment that the tension shattered. "Oh, look! If it isn’t Penelope Featherington, back in a dress the color of…"  

Penelope flinched, preparing herself for what was about to come, her cheeks flushing at Cressida’s sharp tone, the cruel words stinging more than she cared to admit. But before Cressida could continue, Eloise spoke, her tone curt. "Cressida."  

The new friends exchanged pleasantries, their bond now solidified in Penelope’s absence. "Shall we go and get some lemonade?" Eloise suggested, turning away from Penelope. With that, she and Cressida walked away, leaving Penelope standing alone and confused at the sight of her former best friend befriending her greatest bully.

The day had been difficult enough, but this—this cut deep. Penelope stood rooted in place, trying to swallow the hurt that rose within her. Her heart ached, and she fought the urge to retreat entirely, to slip back into the comforting shadows where she had always hidden.

Somewhere across the gathering, Michael Stirling and his cousin, John Stirling, stood in a relaxed stance, their presence already drawing attention. Both men were surrounded by eager young ladies, each one hoping to catch the attention of either Stirling lord. Michael, ever the rake, seemed to enjoy the attention, his green eyes glinting with amusement as he delivered flirtatious looks and rakish smiles. He was in his element, though his thoughts were already wandering elsewhere.

The day dragged on, and as the gathering came to a close, the members of the ton dispersed, leaving behind a trail of gossip, alliances, and lingering stares. For Penelope, however, the day had only cemented her sense of isolation. Alone once more, she resolved that next time, things would be different. They had to be.

The early morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of the Featherington residence, casting a soft glow over Penelope’s bedroom. She had barely slept, her mind racing with thoughts from the previous day. Eloise—her dearest friend, the one person she thought would never abandon her—had been walking arm in arm with Cressida Cowper, her most persistent tormentor. The sight of them together had felt like a dagger to her heart. And as if that weren’t enough, her sisters had gleefully speculated about which of them would take over the household as the new Lady Featherington if one of them would sire a male heir to their family.

Penelope had never felt so alone, so utterly dismissed by those around her. It was becoming clearer with each passing day that she no longer fit into the life she had known. She needed an escape. She needed a husband—not for love, but for freedom. Freedom from her family, freedom from the ton, and most of all, freedom from the constant reminder of everything she had lost.

As the new day dawned, Penelope rose from her bed, determination tightening her chest. If she was to navigate this season, she needed to be seen differently. No more would she stand on the fringes, cloaked in garish gowns that made her feel like a walking spectacle. She would take control of her appearance, of her fate. And the first step in her plan? A visit to her trusted modiste and confidante, Madame Genevieve Delacroix.

With renewed determination, Penelope called for her lady’s maid, Rae. “We’re going to Madame Delacroix’s,” she said simply, rising from her seat. “It’s time I made a few changes.”

**********

By mid-morning, Penelope arrived at the modiste’s shop, her lady’s maid Rae walking beside her. The familiar jingle of the shop’s bell welcomed them as they stepped inside. The air was filled with the scent of fine fabrics and the gentle hum of sewing needles. The shop was quiet, the usual bustle of seamstresses busy in the back rooms, but Madame Delacroix stood at the counter, sketching a new design on a crisp sheet of parchment.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Featherington,” Genevieve greeted her with a smile, her French accent lilting in the air. She set aside her sketch and moved toward Penelope with open arms. “You come early today. What can I do for you?”

Penelope smiled tightly, glancing around the room as if to ensure no one else was listening. She was always cautious when entering the shop, for though Genevieve was her friend and co-conspirator, she could never be too careful about protecting her secret identity as Lady Whistledown.

“I need new gowns,” Penelope said without preamble, her voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of frustration. “And, Genevieve, I do not wish to see a citrus color ever again.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “No citrus, you say? And here I was thinking I would design something in a lovely shade of lemon for you.” She teased, though there was sympathy in her eyes. Genevieve had always known how much Penelope despised the bold, bright colors her mother insisted she wear. “You have grown tired of your usual palette, non?”

“Tired is not the word for it,” Penelope replied, her tone sharp but tired. “I cannot bear another day of being draped in orange, yellow, or any shade that resembles fruit. I need something different. Something that… that feels more like me.”

Genevieve nodded thoughtfully, turning toward the shelves of fabrics stacked high along the walls. She began pulling out various bolts of material, draping them over her arm. Silks, satins, and chiffons in deep blues, soft lavenders, and rich emerald greens.

“What has prompted this sudden desire to change, mon amie?” Genevieve asked, glancing back at Penelope as she moved toward the worktable. “I must say, I have waited a long time for you to declare war on those dreadful colors your mother chooses for you.”

Penelope hesitated, biting her lower lip as she considered how much to reveal. She trusted Genevieve more than most, but the vulnerability she felt after yesterday’s events made it difficult to put her thoughts into words. Finally, she sighed and stepped closer to the table, her fingers trailing over the delicate fabrics Genevieve had laid out.

“I cannot live at home any longer,” Penelope admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “My mother is tolerable at best, but my sisters… I cannot bear their constant judgment, their gossip, their schemes. To live at the whim of either the most cruel or the most simple person I know… I-I must take a husband. It is time.”

Genevieve paused, her sharp eyes studying Penelope with a mixture of surprise and understanding. “A husband, you say? But you have never seemed… eager for such a thing before.”

“I was never eager for it,” Penelope confessed, shaking her head. “I wanted to hold out for love. I dreamed of someone who would understand me. But love has failed me, Genevieve. It is freedom I seek now, not affection. I need to escape.”

Genevieve set down the fabric she had been holding and placed a gentle hand on Penelope’s arm. “I understand. More than you know,” she said quietly. “But tell me, mon cher—who is it that has made you so resolute to find a husband now? Something has changed in you since yesterday.”

Penelope sighed, her gaze dropping to the floor as memories of Eloise and Cressida flashed through her mind. “Eloise has… moved on. She has found new friends. And I, I have been left behind. I cannot continue to be the girl who watches from the sidelines while the rest of the world moves forward. I need a life of my own.”

Genevieve’s expression softened, and she nodded in understanding. “Then we shall make sure you look the part of someone who commands attention.” She returned to the fabrics, selecting a rich sapphire blue silk and holding it up to Penelope’s face. “This color will make your eyes shine like jewels. You will turn heads, believe me.”

Penelope smiled faintly, feeling a flicker of hope. She needed this change, not just for herself but for the woman she hoped to become—strong, confident, independent. “I trust your judgment, Genevieve. I need something elegant, something that says I am no longer the wallflower I once was.”

“Leave it to me,” Genevieve replied with a mischievous smile. “You shall have gowns that are the envy of every debutante in London. But we must also discuss your silhouette.” She picked up her sketchpad and began drawing, her pencil moving swiftly across the paper. “You have a beautiful figure, Penelope, and I intend to highlight it. No more drowning in fabric. Something more fitted, more structured, but still tasteful.”

Penelope glanced at the sketches, her heart lifting as she saw the vision coming to life. “I’ve never felt confident in my appearance before,” she admitted quietly. “But I want to. I want to feel… powerful.”

“And you will,” Genevieve promised. “With these gowns, you will walk into any room, and they will have no choice but to notice you.”

They continued their conversation, selecting fabrics and discussing designs. Penelope felt a sense of excitement building within her, a rare feeling for someone who had spent so long in the shadows. As Genevieve worked, she spoke of more than just fabrics and gowns. She spoke of transformation, of shedding the old and embracing the new.

When the designs were finalized, Genevieve set down her pencil and smiled warmly at Penelope. “It is time for the world to see the real you, mon amie. And believe me, they won’t know what hit them.”

Penelope nodded, her determination growing stronger. She would no longer be the overlooked Featherington daughter, draped in citrus colors and ignored by society. This season would be different. She would find a husband, gain her freedom, and leave behind the pain of her past.

The days of being a wallflower were numbered.

Chapter Text

The night had arrived. The first ball of the season—Lady Danbury’s Four Seasons Ball—was an event that marked the official start of the ton’s social calendar. It was a dazzling affair, the grandeur and opulence of it unmatched by any other. The air buzzed with excitement, and anticipation filled every corner of London’s high society. For Penelope Featherington, however, this night carried far more weight. It wasn’t just another event. It was her chance for transformation.

Penelope stood in front of her tall mirror in the privacy of her bedroom, staring at her reflection. Her fingers smoothed over the delicate fabric of the new gown she wore—one of Madame Delacroix’s masterpieces. The gown shimmered under the soft candlelight, hugging her figure in a way that was elegant but refined, drawing attention to her naturally soft curves without being overly daring. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like she was hiding behind a wall of fabric. Her skin glowed, and the rich hue of the dress made her wide, baby-blue eyes stand out more than ever.

Her fairy-red hair, always something of a point of insecurity for her, had been styled with care. Rae, her lady’s maid, had pinned it to one side, allowing a cascade of soft waves to tumble down her left shoulder. It framed her face beautifully, making her look both regal and feminine. Still, despite the outward changes, Penelope’s heart fluttered nervously.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Penelope whispered, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and fear. She had set her mind on making a change this season, on being more confident and daring, but deep inside, she still felt the weight of her shyness.

“Miss, you look stunning,” Rae reassured her, standing just behind her with a final tug at the gown’s delicate lacework. “No one will look past you tonight. This is your moment.”

Penelope smiled faintly, her nerves still bubbling beneath the surface. “Thank you, Rae. I just hope I can live up to it.”

As the final preparations were made, Penelope joined her mother, Lady Featherington, in the foyer of their home. Lady Portia Featherington, ever the imposing figure, was dressed in her finest gown, a vibrant red that clashed with the more subdued elegance of Penelope’s new look. Portia turned to her daughter, her eyes appraising her critically. For once, however, there was no immediate criticism on her lips.

“I must say, Penelope,” Portia began, her voice carrying an edge of surprise, “I didn’t expect you to look quite so… striking. Perhaps you won’t be the wallflower this year after all.”

Penelope smiled, though the compliment felt strange coming from her mother. There was a part of her that wanted to bask in the rare moment of praise, but she knew better than to take it to heart. Her mother had always been quick to criticize, especially when it came to Penelope’s appearance. Still, it was something.

“Thank you, Mama,” Penelope said softly, not quite sure how else to respond.

Both ladies exited the house and climbed into the carriage that would take them to Lady Danbury’s ball. Penelope’s sisters, Prudence and Philippa, had already left with their husbands, eager to make their own entrances as married women. Penelope’s heart pounded as the carriage rolled through the dark streets, her mind spinning with thoughts of the night ahead.

As they neared Lady Danbury’s grand estate, the glow of lanterns lit the sky, and the sounds of carriages and laughter filled the air. This was it—the beginning of a new season. The ball to set the tone for all that would follow.

The carriage halted, and Penelope took a deep breath as the footman opened the door. “You can do this,” she whispered to herself. She stepped out, the rich fabric of her gown flowing gracefully around her.

**********

On the other side of London, Michael Stirling was in no mood for a ball. Standing in his bedchamber, he stared at his reflection with irritation as he fumbled with his cravat. His patience had worn thin from the moment the season began. He had enjoyed the flirtations from a few days prior, but now, the reality of entering the season with a mission—one assigned by his mother, no less—was beginning to suffocate him. He had to find a wife, and fast. The prospect of it made his skin crawl.

“I swear, if I ever see another cravat again, it will be too soon,” Michael muttered under his breath as he yanked at the knot for the third time. 

The door to his bedchamber swung open, and in walked his cousin, John Stirling, with a teasing grin on his face. “Struggling, I see? I would have thought a man of your experience would know how to dress himself by now.”

Michael shot him a dark look. “I have no patience for your teasing tonight.”

John chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh, come now, Michael. You’re entering the season as one of the most eligible bachelors in London. There will be no shortage of ladies eager to be the future Lady Stirling. Surely that’s something to look forward to?”

“Hardly,” Michael replied with a scoff, finally managing to secure the cravat. “I’ve no interest in playing the ton’s game. But if I must, I will.”

John stepped closer, his tone softening as he clapped his cousin on the back. “You never know, Michael. You might be surprised by what—or who—you find this season.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, his expression dubious. “I doubt it.”

With that, both men left the Stirling residence in Mayfair and made their way toward Lady Danbury’s ball. The streets were filled with carriages, all headed in the same direction, the air buzzing with excitement and gossip. Lady Danbury’s balls were always a spectacle, and the Four Seasons Ball promised to be no different.

**********

Lady Danbury’s estate was nothing short of magnificent. The sprawling mansion was aglow with light, its grand windows casting a warm golden hue over the gardens below. As the guests arrived, footmen ushered them into the towering ballroom, where chandeliers sparkled overhead and garlands of flowers adorned every surface. The theme of the ball was evident from the decor—each corner of the room represented a different season, with vivid spring flowers blooming near the refreshment tables and autumn leaves cascading down the walls near the orchestra.

John and Michael entered the ballroom together, their dark, tailored coats fitting them perfectly, and instantly drew the attention of several guests. A few young ladies batted their eyelashes in their direction, and Michael, always the more social of the two, offered them a charming smile.

They hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the ballroom before they were accosted by an older gentleman—Lord Berwick, a distant acquaintance—who immediately launched into conversation about the latest developments in the wool trade. John engaged the man politely, while Michael’s eyes wandered around the room, his mood growing more sour by the minute. He wasn’t here for conversation about business, nor was he interested in idle gossip.

On the opposite side of the ballroom, the Bridgerton family stood in a small cluster. Violet Bridgerton, ever the proud matriarch, watched as her children conversed with the guests. Anthony, with his wife Kate on his arm, engaged in light conversation with Lord and Lady Sheffield. Benedict, his usual mischievous grin in place, stood nearby with Eloise, who was fidgeting uncomfortably in her gown. Francesca, newly debuted, was standing beside them, her quiet demeanor contrasting with the lively energy of the room.

Not far from the Bridgertons stood Cressida Cowper, her sharp eyes scanning the room for anyone of interest. She cast a sideways glance at Eloise, her new friend, who seemed utterly disinterested in the frivolity of the ball. The two of them exchanged a few words, though Eloise’s gaze drifted elsewhere, clearly preoccupied.

The Queen, seated in her private balcony alongside Lady Danbury, observed the unfolding events with a practiced eye. Her presence loomed over the ballroom, though she appeared uninterested in most of the guests. That was, until the Featherington family made their entrance.

The grand doors at the entrance of the ballroom opened, Lady Portia Featherington led her two eldest daughters, Prudence and Philippa, along with their husbands. Their garish attire—bright, bold, and attention-grabbing—was exactly what the ton expected from them. But it was Penelope, entering behind her family, who stole the spotlight.

As she removed her cloak, the room seemed to pause. The emerald-green gown shimmered under the chandelier light, and Penelope’s soft, cascading waves of red hair framed her face beautifully. Her transformation was undeniable. No longer the overlooked Featherington daughter in citrus-colored monstrosities, Penelope looked every inch the woman she had always wanted to be.

Her heart raced as she took in the sudden attention, feeling the weight of every gaze on her as she descended the grand staircase. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to keep her head high. She was determined not to shrink away from the attention this time. She would be noticed.

Lady Danbury, observing from her perch with the Queen, raised an intrigued eyebrow. “Well, well,” she murmured, her tone carrying approval. “I have always found Miss Featherington to be an intriguing young woman, but tonight… she has certainly come into her own.”

The Queen, though less expressive, nodded in agreement. “Indeed. It seems this season may prove more interesting than the last.”

Penelope made her way across the dance floor, making her way toward the refreshment table, trying to remain composed despite her pounding heart. She had done it. She had managed to make her entrance, but she could feel the weight of the ton’s gaze upon her. 

Let them look. Let them see.

From across the room, Michael Stirling’s gaze fell upon her. The crowd, the noise, and the endless conversations all seemed to fade into the background as his eyes locked onto her figure. There was something about her—her graceful movements, the way her blue eyes sparkled beneath the light—that captured him. She wasn’t like the other women in the room. She was… captivating.

For a moment, their eyes met. Penelope, feeling his intense gaze on her, looked up, and their eyes locked. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized the man staring back at her—tall, dark, and undeniably handsome. There was something about the way he looked at her that made her heart skip a beat.

Michael’s jaw tightened, he stood rooted in place, momentarily lost in those eyes. They were unlike anything he had ever seen before. Something about her—about the quiet strength in her expression, the vulnerability beneath her poised exterior—drew him in.

Penelope quickly averted her gaze, her heart racing. She turned back to her lemonade, willing herself to stay calm, but the moment lingered.

Michael Stirling had never been one to be easily captivated. As a rake, he had flirted his way through countless balls, charming women with nothing more than a playful smile and a well-timed compliment. Yet, as he stood in Lady Danbury’s opulent ballroom, surrounded by the swirling colors and glittering jewels of London’s elite, his focus was fixed on one woman.

The moment their eyes had met, something within him had shifted. He had never seen her before—at least, not like this. Her transformation was striking. The rich emerald gown she wore clung delicately to her figure, her red hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulder, and those wide, baby-blue eyes had pulled him in, leaving him momentarily breathless. When she had averted her gaze from his, it was as if the spell had been broken, and he needed a moment to regain his composure.

As he stood there, still reeling from the intensity of that brief exchange, one of the gentlemen beside him—an acquaintance from his days in Scotland—noticed his distraction.

“Who is she?” Michael asked in a hushed tone, his eyes turned back to the men standing beside him.

The man followed Michael’s gaze, his brow furrowing for a moment before recognition lit his eyes. “Ah, that must be Miss Penelope Featherington,” he said, with a hint of amusement. “She’s the youngest of the Featherington brood. Not often the center of attention, but it seems tonight is different.”

“Miss Penelope Featherington,” Michael echoed, testing her name on his lips as if it held some kind of power over him. And perhaps it did. His gaze sought her out once more, and there she was—her emerald-green gown contrasting beautifully with the pale, gold-draped surroundings. She seemed composed, but there was a softness to her, a vulnerability, that tugged at something deep within him. He had never been this drawn to a woman before, not like this.

He made his decision. He would approach her. He would ask her for a dance, perhaps more than one. She had captivated him, and for the first time in a long while, Michael felt something stir within him beyond the casual flirtation that had defined his life until now.

With a deep breath, Michael set off, weaving through the crowd with a purpose and determination that was unmistakable. His eyes never left her form as he made his way across the ballroom. He ignored the curious glances and whispered comments from the guests he passed, his attention focused solely on the woman who had, with just one look, captivated him. Every step brought him closer, but just as he reached the halfway point, disaster struck in the form of the matchmaking mamas.

“Oh, Lord Stirling! How fortuitous to see you here!”  

A voice shrill enough to break glass halted him in his tracks. He turned to find Lady Bolton bearing down on him, her daughter in tow. Miss Bolton was pretty enough, but her simpering smile and constant chatter made Michael’s teeth grind. He had no interest in her, nor in the prospect of polite conversation, but societal expectations dictated that he entertain them.

“Lady Bolton, Miss Bolton,” Michael greeted them with a tight smile, trying to keep his impatience hidden. He wanted nothing more than to extricate himself from this situation, but as he was well aware, to brush them off too hastily would only draw more unwanted attention.

“We were just saying,” Lady Bolton continued, “what a lovely season this is shaping up to be. My daughter was simply hoping that you might save her a dance tonight.”

Miss Bolton looked up at him with hopeful eyes, but Michael’s mind was elsewhere. Over Lady Bolton’s shoulder, Michael stole another glance in Penelope’s direction. She was no longer alone. Two young men had made their way to her side, engaging her in conversation. The pair, who were clearly interested in making her acquaintance, bowed before her with respectful charm. He felt an unfamiliar twinge of something in his chest—was it jealousy? He didn’t have time to examine the feeling.

“I would be honored,” Michael said, his voice distant as he quickly scrawled his name onto Miss Bolton’s dance card, hoping to end the conversation as quickly as possible.

But it was no use. Just as he thought he might escape, two more match-seeking mamas approached, each dragging their daughters along, all eager to secure a moment of Michael’s attention. He inwardly cursed his reputation as one of the most eligible bachelors in the room, feeling as though he were drowning under the weight of societal obligation.

Every time he glanced over at Penelope, his frustration grew. He watched as the two young men standing with her continued to make conversation, clearly captivated by her. Her cute, rounded cheeks took on a slight pink hue, and she gave them both small, shy smiles. Her hands fidgeted in front of her, her fingers playing with the delicate lace of her gown. It was endearing, the way she seemed to retreat into her natural shyness after walking into the ballroom with such bold confidence. She looked beautiful, yes, but more than that, she looked… real. 

Michael couldn’t help but be intrigued by the way her demeanor shifted. She was confident, and yet still held on to a vulnerability that made her captivating in ways he had never noticed in other women. 

Then, to his dismay, from the corner of his eye, he watched as Penelope lifted her wrist, revealing her dance card. Both young men eagerly signed their names. The expression on her face was a mixture of bashfulness and pride, as if she was still surprised by the attention she was garnering. When the two men bowed and retreated, leaving her momentarily alone, Michael could see the way she glanced around the room, her eyes darting nervously as she clutched her dance card. Michael’s stomach twisted at the sight, and he cursed the fact that he was stuck in the company of these matchmaking mothers.

How was it that every other man seemed to have access to her, while he remained trapped in a conversation he had no interest in?

High above the ballroom, Lady Danbury had taken note of the scene unfolding before her, a knowing smile spreading across her face. From her vantage point next to the Queen, she could see everything—the desperate attempts of Michael Stirling to free himself from the clutches of the mothers and their daughters, and the growing interest from others toward Miss Penelope Featherington.

"It seems Miss Featherington has gathered quite the attention tonight," the Queen remarked, her tone neutral but with an undercurrent of amusement.

Lady Danbury, ever the sharp observer, gave a knowing nod. "Indeed, Your Majesty. The girl is coming into her own. I’ve always thought there was more to her than meets the eye."

The Queen’s gaze flickered to Michael, who was now visibly trying to extricate himself from the horde of matchmaking mothers. Her lips curled into the faintest of smiles. "It seems Lord Stirling is rather taken as well."

"Taken or thwarted, I’d say," Lady Danbury mused, her eyes twinkling. "But he doesn’t seem like a man to be easily dissuaded."

"No," the Queen agreed with a glint in her eye. "He does not. This season may prove more intriguing than we expected."

**********

As the night wore on, Michael’s frustration only grew. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t seem to get to Penelope. Every time he thought he had an opening, another mama would pull him into conversation, or one of the daughters would insist on dancing with him. He was forced into the role of polite gentleman, when all he wanted to do was cross the ballroom and ask Penelope for a dance.

At one point, he finally managed to free himself, only to glance around and realize that Penelope was already engaged in a dance with another gentleman. She was graceful on the floor, her smile shy but genuine as her partner twirled her around. Michael clenched his jaw, a wave of irritation washing over him.

He watched her from afar for the rest of the evening, his gaze never quite leaving her form as she moved about the room. At times, she would disappear from his sight, only for him to spot her moments later, always either in conversation or in the middle of a dance.

John sidled up beside Michael, “You seem rather tense, cousin,” John teased. “What is it? Could it be that you’re actually interested in one of the young ladies tonight?”

Michael shot him a warning glance. “Do not start with me, John.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “I saw the way you were looking at Miss Featherington. You didn’t take your eyes off her all night.”

Michael’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. John wasn’t wrong. Penelope Featherington had consumed his thoughts from the moment he had seen her, but despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to speak to her, let alone ask her for a dance.

“Well, whatever it is you’re feeling,” John continued, clapping his cousin on the shoulder, “you’d best act on it soon. I hear she has captured the attention of quite a few men tonight.”

Michael let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I will speak to her,” he muttered. “Just not tonight.”

John raised an eyebrow, amused by Michael’s uncharacteristic seriousness. “I’ll hold you to that, cousin.”

As the guests began to filter out of Lady Danbury’s estate, Michael stood near the door, watching as Penelope left the ballroom with her family. She looked radiant, even in the dim light of the night, and as she climbed into the carriage, their eyes met one final time.

Michael nodded to himself. He would find her again. He had to.

And when he did, nothing would stop him from making her his.

Chapter Text

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The start of a new season always promises excitement, and Lady Danbury’s Four Seasons Ball did not disappoint. With all the familiar faces returning to the ballroom, one might have assumed the evening would play out like any other—glittering gowns, whispered secrets, and the endless quest for a match. Yet, this author was pleasantly surprised to see that some things never stay the same.  

Take, for instance, the youngest Featherington. Miss Penelope Featherington, known far more for her tendency to blend into the background than to command attention, arrived in something other than her usual citrus-colored gowns. An emerald green number, if one can believe it. How she convinced her mother to allow such a departure from tradition remains a mystery, but this author is not one to argue with success.   

What is even more surprising is the sudden interest the young Miss Featherington seemed to garner from the gentlemen of the ton. Some suitors within the span of a single dance? And both leaving their names on her dance card? One can only imagine what sort of magic she worked, for it was certainly not her usual charm of silence and observation that drew their attention.  

Still, we must wonder—will this new attention endure, or will the glow fade as quickly as it appeared? Only time will tell, dear readers. And as for the rest of the evening’s proceedings, one cannot help but notice that not all the excitement lay with the usual families.  

The Bridgertons, always a point of interest, were notably present, though there was little in the way of new scandals or developments from their corner of the room. One can only hope this season brings something more intriguing than polite smiles and perfect curtsies.  

Lastly, this author could not help but notice a pair of unfamiliar yet very attentive eyes fixed on certain ladies of the ton. No doubt these new faces will make themselves known in time, but for now, they remain a delicious mystery.  

Yours truly,  

Lady Whistledown

It had been an unexpected yet thrilling start to the season. As Penelope Featherington lay in her bed that morning, sunlight filtering through the drapes, her mind drifted back to the previous night. She had danced—not just once, but multiple times. And not a single dance had been out of pity. The lords who had led her across the floor had done so with genuine interest. For the first time in her life, she had been seen. She was no longer invisible.

Penelope sighed contentedly as she replayed the memory of the ball. The ton had noticed her, truly noticed her. It had been a remarkable night, one she would always remember as the beginning of her path to freedom. Freedom through marriage. The very thought sent a flutter of excitement through her, but there was another image from the ball that she couldn’t shake from her mind—the intense gaze of a tall, handsome, green-eyed man who had watched her from across the room. Who was he?

As the memory resurfaced, Penelope bit her lip. There had been something magnetic in his eyes, something that had stirred something deep within her. Penelope hadn’t known at the time who the stranger was, but as the night had progressed, whispers in the ballroom had revealed his identity. Lord Michael Stirling, a Scottish nobleman. She didn’t know much about him beyond that, but she had heard enough to gather that he was no ordinary gentleman.

Penelope shook her head, pushing thoughts of the mysterious Lord Stirling from her mind. He was of no consequence to her now. He had never approached her, after all. She had other matters to focus on. The ball had been the first step in her plan, and now, she needed to continue moving forward.

A soft knock at the door pulled Penelope from her thoughts. Her lady’s maid, Rae, entered the room with her usual quiet grace, carrying a bundle of fresh linens for the day.

"Good morning, Miss Penelope," Rae greeted with a warm smile. She was more than just a maid to Penelope. At only eight years her senior, Rae had become a trusted confidante, a friend who understood her better than anyone.

"Good morning, Rae," Penelope replied, sitting up in bed. "I suppose it’s time to start the day."

"Indeed, my lady," Rae said as she set down the linens and moved to help Penelope prepare for the morning. Together, they chose a soft pink day dress—one of the new pieces Madame Delacroix had crafted for her. The fabric was delicate, the cut flattering, and the color gentle and feminine. It was a far cry from the garish citrus hues her mother usually forced upon her, and Penelope felt a quiet thrill of satisfaction as she slipped into the dress.

"You look lovely, Miss Penelope," Rae said, stepping back to admire her handiwork.

Penelope smiled softly at her reflection, feeling a sense of peace wash over her. "Thank you, Rae. I think today will be a good day."

Rae’s knowing smile only widened as she finished adjusting Penelope’s gown. "I’m sure it will, my lady."

**********

Once ready, Penelope made her way to the morning room, where her mother, Portia Featherington, was waiting for her. Portia, ever the commanding presence, sat at the table with a copy of the latest Lady Whistledown pamphlet in hand. Penelope paused in the doorway, her heart skipping a beat as she took in the sight of her mother—rarely did she feel at ease in Portia’s presence, but today there was something different in the air.

Portia looked up from the pamphlet as Penelope entered the room. Her gaze flickered over her daughter’s appearance, and for a brief moment, something like pride passed over her features. "Ah, there you are, Penelope," she said, her tone lighter than usual. "I must say, you managed to gather quite a bit of attention last night."

Penelope sat down across from her mother, a mixture of nerves and excitement bubbling in her chest. "I… I did, yes," she replied, trying to remain calm.

Portia’s lips curved into a small smile as she set the pamphlet aside. "Your emerald gown—even if it wasn’t to my taste—did seem to favor you," she said, her voice carrying a rare note of approval. "You looked quite… pretty last night."

Penelope’s cheeks flushed with surprise. Praise from her mother was almost unheard of, especially when it came to her appearance. so rare that it left her momentarily speechless. She felt the warmth of the compliment wash over her, but it also brought a sense of disbelief. Had her mother really just called her pretty?

She struggled to find her voice but managed a soft, "Oh."

Portia waved a hand, dismissing the sentiment. "I must ask,... why the change?" she asked, her sharp eyes narrowing as she studied her daughter. "Why the new image, the departure from the family’s colors?"

Penelope hesitated for a moment, unsure of how much to reveal. She couldn’t mention Colin, or Eloise, or the heartache that had driven her to seek change. Instead, she took a deep breath and offered the safest explanation she could. “I’ve decided that it’s time,” she said, her voice steady. “I want to find a husband this season.”

Portia’s gaze remained fixed on her, unblinking, as if weighing her daughter’s words. But as Penelope spoke, something seemed to shift in her mother’s demeanor. Portia’s sharpness softened, just a fraction, and for the first time, Penelope felt as though her mother truly saw her.

"I see," Portia said after a long pause. "You’re serious about this, aren’t you?"

Penelope nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. "Yes, Mama. I am."

Portia leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping lightly on the table. "Well, then," she said slowly, "if this is what you want, I will help you. We will make sure you secure a good match."

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected this. She had braced herself for criticism, for a lecture about not dreaming above her station, but instead, her mother was offering her support. Relief washed over her like a wave, and for the first time in a long while, Penelope felt a glimmer of hope.

"Thank you, Mama," Penelope whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Portia nodded, her expression unreadable, though there was a glimmer of something in her eyes—something almost maternal. "The only thing I ask," Portia said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "is that you let me handle some of the arrangements. I will let you choose your gowns, but I will ensure the gentlemen you meet are… suitable."

Penelope smiled, her heart swelling with gratitude. "I’ll keep that in mind," she said softly, feeling the weight of her mother’s support for the first time.

Portia patted her hand—a rare but genuine gesture of affection. "And remember, a well-placed smile and a clever comment can be your greatest weapons in this social battlefield. Use them wisely."

Penelope couldn’t help but smile at the advice. It was so very Portia—practical, strategic, and calculated. "I will, Mama."

As they continued their breakfast, discussing the season and its prospects, Miss Varley, the Featheringtons’ butler, entered the room with a curious smile on her face. "Lady Featherington," she said, her tone carefully neutral, "there are callers."

Portia raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Penelope before turning back to the butler. "Callers?" she repeated, her voice filled with surprise.

Miss Varley nodded, her eyes twinkling as she turned her gaze toward Penelope. "Yes, my lady. There are callers for Miss Featherington. They are waiting in the drawing room."

Penelope’s heart skipped a beat, and a blush crept up her neck. "Callers? For me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She hadn’t expected this so soon. What would she say? What would she do?

Portia stood up, her expression unreadable but clearly pleased. "It seems, Penelope," she said with a small, satisfied smile, "that today is the beginning of your path to finding a husband. Shall we?"

She extended her hand to Penelope, who took it, her heart racing with a mixture of excitement and nerves. Together, they made their way to the drawing room, Penelope’s mind spinning with anticipation. She had never received a caller before. This was new, exciting, and terrifying all at once.

As they approached the drawing room, Penelope steeled herself for what was to come, her mother’s hand squeezing hers in silent encouragement.

**********

The drawing room felt like a world unto itself as Penelope Featherington entered, her mother Portia close by her side. The familiar scent of fresh flowers filled the air, mingling with the soft chatter of conversation. But what caught Penelope's attention most was the sight that greeted her as she stepped into the room.

Three gentlemen. Not one, but three callers, each holding a box, carefully wrapped with ribbons. Penelope’s eyes widened, surprise and a touch of disbelief washing over her. She had never received callers before—not once in her three seasons. The men before her had danced with her at Lady Danbury’s ball the night before, and now they were here, in her drawing room, asking for her time. It was all so new, so exciting.

Portia, ever the astute observer, noticed her daughter’s wide-eyed expression and gave her a little pinch on the back, nudging her back to reality. "Stand tall, Penelope," she whispered with a smile, her voice carrying a hint of pride.

Penelope straightened, her breath steadying as she greeted the three men with a polite, if somewhat shy, smile. "Good morning, gentlemen," she said, her voice soft but steady. She recognized each of them from the previous night—gentlemen who had not only asked for her hand in a dance but had seemed genuinely interested in her.

The first to step forward was Mr. Victor Parkhurst. Tall, with a strong, broad-shouldered frame, Victor was the eldest son of a successful merchant. His family had only recently risen in fortune, gaining entry into the ton, but there was something genuine in his gaze, something that put Penelope at ease.

He bowed respectfully, offering her the box he held in his hands. "Miss Featherington," he said, his voice warm and steady, "it was an honor to dance with you last night. I thought you might appreciate this gift—a token of my admiration."

Penelope’s cheeks flushed pink as she accepted the box, her heart fluttering. "Thank you, Mr. Parkhurst," she replied softly, glancing at the beautifully wrapped package. "That is very kind of you."

As they settled into chairs, Portia, ever the vigilant chaperone, sat nearby, her gaze sweeping over the room but allowing Penelope to handle the conversation on her own.

Mr. Parkhurst began the conversation with easy grace. "I hope you found Lady Danbury’s ball to your liking," he said, his eyes focused entirely on Penelope. "It was my first time attending such an event, and I must admit, I was rather overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all."

Penelope smiled, finding comfort in his honesty. "It was quite grand, wasn’t it?" she replied, her tone thoughtful. "I, too, found it overwhelming at times. But it was lovely."

Mr. Parkhurst nodded, his expression softening. "I imagine such events must feel different when one is constantly under the scrutiny of the ton. But you, Miss Featherington, seemed to handle it all with such grace."

Penelope blushed again, feeling a warmth in her chest at his words. "Thank you, Mr. Parkhurst. I tried my best, though I must confess, I’ve never been entirely comfortable in such settings."

They continued to converse, exchanging thoughts about the ton, the pressures of society, and the subtle joys of quieter pursuits. Penelope found herself enjoying the conversation far more than she had expected. Mr. Parkhurst was sincere, kind, and patient. He didn’t press her or make her feel uncomfortable. When the conversation turned to her hobbies, Penelope admitted, with a slight blush, that she adored reading, especially romance novels.

"Romance novels?" Mr. Parkhurst asked, his brows lifting with curiosity. "How very intriguing. I must say, I would not have expected that. What draws you to them, Miss Featherington?"

Penelope smiled softly, twirling the edge of her sleeve between her fingers. "I suppose it’s the idea of… possibilities," she said, her voice thoughtful. "Romance novels show that there’s more to life than what’s expected of us. They remind me that dreams, no matter how fanciful, have value."

Victor Parkhurst looked at her with admiration. "An admirable view, indeed," he said, his tone sincere. "I think dreams are what make life bearable, don’t you agree?"

Penelope nodded, her heart swelling with gratitude. Mr. Parkhurst’s words resonated deeply with her, and for a moment, she allowed herself to imagine what life might be like with someone who understood her so well.

After a few more moments, Mr. Victor Parkhurst excused himself with a bow, leaving the next suitor to take his place.

**********

Mr. Edwin Bartlett, who had been waiting patiently, stepped forward with a gentle smile. The second son of a minor baronet, Mr. Bartlett had a more reserved air about him, but there was a glimmer of intelligence in his eyes that intrigued Penelope.

"Miss Featherington," Mr. Bartlett greeted her with a slight bow, his voice calm and measured. "It was a pleasure to dance with you last night. I’ve brought you something that I hope might interest you." He handed her a beautifully bound book, its leather cover worn with age but well-cared for.

Penelope’s eyes lit up as she took the book into her hands. "Thank you, Mr. Bartlett," she said, running her fingers over the cover. "I’ve never seen a copy like this. It’s beautiful."

Mr. Bartlett smiled, pleased by her reaction. "It’s an old favorite of mine—an early edition of a collection of essays from Oxford. I know you enjoy reading, so I thought it might be a pleasant addition to your library."

Penelope’s smile widened. "I’m sure it will be. I look forward to reading it."

As their conversation unfolded, Mr. Bartlett spoke with ease about his time at Oxford, his interest in political philosophy, and the intellectual pursuits that occupied his days. Penelope found his conversation stimulating, and though he was more reserved than Mr. Parkhurst, there was something steady and reliable in his demeanor that Penelope appreciated.

"Tell me, Miss Featherington," Mr. Bartlett asked, his voice quiet but curious, "how do you see yourself as a wife? What would you hope for in a marriage?"

The question gave Penelope pause. It was a personal, almost intimate question, and yet, there was no malice or pressure in his tone—only genuine curiosity.

"I suppose I would hope for a marriage built on mutual respect," Penelope replied after a moment of thought. "I’d like to be a partner, not just a wife. I want to make decisions with my husband, not have them made for me."

Mr. Bartlett’s lips curved into a small, approving smile. "A wise answer, Miss Featherington. I think any man would be fortunate to have a partner as thoughtful as you."

Penelope blushed once again, grateful for his kind words. Their conversation flowed easily after that, touching on various topics. Penelope found herself enjoying Edwin’s company. He complimented her on her sincerity, and when their conversation drew to a close, he left with a bow, his smile lingering as he departed.

**********

Finally, it was—Lord Charles Wycliff, the Earl of Camden. Lord Wycliff was by far the most distinguished of the three. His bearing was regal, his posture confident, and his eyes sharp and discerning. He had an air of quiet authority about him that made him stand out in any room.

"Miss Featherington," he said in a deep, smooth voice as he offered her a small, elegantly wrapped box. "A token of my appreciation for the dance we shared last night."

Penelope accepted the box with a nod, her pulse quickening as she met his gaze. Lord Wycliff was known for his aloofness, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he saw more than he let on.

As they settled into conversation, Lord Wycliff asked her about her preferences, her favorite pastimes, and what she enjoyed most about life in the ton. Though his questions were polite, there was a boldness to his demeanor, a directness that made Penelope slightly nervous but undeniably intrigued.

"And what, if I may ask, do you enjoy most about the books you read?" Lord Wycliff inquired, his gaze unwavering. "Romance, I believe, was mentioned?"

Penelope hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yes, romance," she admitted softly. "There’s something… hopeful about it."

Lord Wycliff’s lips curved into a small smile, his brown eyes glinting with amusement. "Hopeful, indeed," he said. Then, in a more daring tone, he added, "And I must say, your eyes—those bright blue eyes—are as captivating as any heroine’s I’ve read about. Like the sea, I think, both beautiful and impossible to ignore."

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. She had never been complimented so boldly before, and she wasn’t sure how to respond. She glanced at her mother, who raised an approving brow, as if to say, You’re doing just fine. "Thank you, my lord," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lord Wycliff seemed satisfied by her reaction, and before long, their conversation turned to more practical matters. As the time neared for him to leave, he stood, bowing respectfully to both Penelope and her mother.

"Lady Featherington," he said, his voice firm and respectful, "I would like to request permission to be Miss Featherington’s escort to the upcoming theater show."

Portia raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased but cautious. "You may," she said, a smile tugging at her lips. "But, of course, the final decision belongs to my daughter."

Lord Wycliff turned his gaze to Penelope, stepping forward to take her hand in his. He brought it to his lips, brushing a light kiss against her knuckles. "Miss Featherington," he said softly, "will you do me the honor of accepting my invitation?"

Penelope glanced at her mother, who gave her a small, encouraging nod. With a quiet breath, Penelope looked back at Lord Wycliff, her heart racing. "I would be honored, my lord," she said with a shy smile.

Lord Wycliff’s smile widened slightly, and with a final bow, he took his leave. Penelope watched him go, her mind still reeling from the morning’s events.

**********

After the callers had gone, Penelope and her mother sat down together in the drawing room, the weight of the morning still sinking in. Portia, for once, seemed genuinely pleased.

"You’ve done well, Penelope," she said, her tone softer than usual. “It seems you’ve attracted quite the attention this season.”

Penelope smiled back, still feeling the excitement and disbelief of the morning. “I suppose so.”

Portia reached out and placed a hand on Penelope’s. “I want you to know, dear, that I will not pressure you into choosing the wealthiest or the most powerful. You will make your own decision in time. But know that I will be here to offer advice and support, when you need it.”

Penelope felt a warmth bloom in her chest at her mother’s words. For the first time, she felt as though her mother truly trusted her to make her own decisions about her future. "Thank you, Mama," she whispered, her heart full of gratitude.

Portia nodded, offering her daughter a rare, genuine smile. "We will find the right match for you, Penelope. Now, let’s make sure you are ready for the theater. After all, you have quite the escort."

Penelope couldn’t help but smile, feeling a sense of pride and anticipation for what the rest of the season would bring.

Chapter Text

Penelope sat at her small desk in the quiet sanctuary of her bedchamber. The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the delicate paper and ink before her. It had been two days since she’d entertained her callers, and still, she felt the thrill of it. She had danced, received callers, and, much to her surprise, Lord Wycliff had sent her flowers—two beautiful bouquets over the past two days. Each one had been perfectly arranged, bursting with color and life, a testament to the attention she had garnered since Lady Danbury’s ball. And now, Penelope Featherington was the subject of gossip.

Lady Whistledown had mentioned her in the latest pamphlet. The ton was buzzing, talking about her newfound attention, her change in appearance, and the fact that she had not one but three callers. The whispers, the glances, the subtle nods of approval—it was all so new, so overwhelming. And yet, Penelope felt alone in the midst of it all.

She thought of her past, of the days when her closest companion had been Eloise Bridgerton. But that friendship, once her refuge, had fractured. The hurt still lingered, even if she tried to push it aside. But in the absence of Eloise, a new friendship had blossomed—one Penelope had not expected.

Francesca Bridgerton.

It had all started with a simple note during the off-season, a small gesture from Francesca after learning of Penelope’s falling out with Eloise. The note had been kind, empathetic, and, more importantly, it had offered a lifeline when Penelope had needed it most.  Since then, their correspondence had grown. Francesca, though quieter and more reserved than her siblings, had always been kind. Letter by letter, they had found common ground, their quiet, introspective natures drawing them together.

Penelope reached for a fresh sheet of paper, her mind already composing her next letter to Francesca. She needed to share everything—the excitement of Lady Danbury’s ball, the feeling of being noticed, and the sheer astonishment of having callers. But more than that, she needed to confide in someone about her mother's surprising change of heart. Portia Featherington had shown a side of herself Penelope had never seen before—supportive, encouraging, even proud. It was bewildering, and Penelope needed Francesca’s perspective.

With a soft sigh, she dipped her pen into the ink and began to write:

Dearest Francesca,

I must share the most extraordinary events of the past few days with you! It seems the new season has brought with it more surprises than I ever could have imagined…

Penelope’s words flowed effortlessly onto the page as she recounted the events of the past few days. She detailed everything—the attention she had received, the callers, and how Lord Wycliff had asked to be her escort to the upcoming theater show. She described the feeling of being seen for the first time, of stepping out of the shadows and into the light. And, of course, she mentioned her mother’s unexpected support—how Portia had encouraged her, even praised her, in a way she had never done before.

When the letter was finished, Penelope folded it carefully and sealed it with wax. "Rae," she called, summoning her lady’s maid.

Rae appeared at the door with her usual quiet efficiency. "Yes, Miss Penelope?"

"Please have this delivered to Miss Francesca at the Bridgerton house," Penelope said, handing over the letter. "I would like for her to receive it as soon as possible."

Rae nodded and left to carry out the task, and Penelope was left alone once more, her thoughts swirling with the events of the past week.

**********

At the Bridgerton household, Francesca sat in the drawing room, her fingers gliding over the keys of the pianoforte. The soft melody filled the room, though her siblings seemed oblivious to the music. Eloise sat nearby, a book in hand, though her attention seemed more on the room than on the words before her. Gregory and Hyacinth were locked in a spirited game of chess, their competitive natures in full display.

Francesca continued to play, losing herself in the notes, until the butler entered the room. He approached with quiet precision and bowed slightly.

"Miss Bridgerton," he said, "there is a letter for you—from Miss Featherington."

A smile immediately spread across Francesca’s face. "Thank you," she said, standing and taking the letter from the butler’s outstretched hand. Penelope’s letters were always a welcome distraction, and Francesca relished the chance to hear from her friend.

As she moved toward the settee, the rustling of the letter caught Eloise’s attention. Eloise’s eyes narrowed as she glanced at her sister. "Is that from Penelope?" she asked, her voice sharp and tinged with irritation.

Francesca, undeterred, nodded as she sat down. "Yes, it is," she replied simply, turning the letter over in her hands before breaking the seal.

Eloise’s frown deepened, her tone growing harsher. "Why do you seem to be so close with her?" she demanded. "You don’t know her like I do, Francesca. You should stay away from her."

Francesca looked up, meeting Eloise’s gaze with a calm but firm expression. "Penelope is a good friend to me, Eloise," she said softly. "She and I understand each other in ways that perhaps you don't."

Eloise bristled, her fingers tightening around the edges of her book. "You do not know what she’s like," she snapped. "She—"

But Francesca cut her off, her voice still calm but now edged with quiet determination. "If you would be honest with me, Eloise—if you could give me a reason why I shouldn’t be friends with Penelope, then perhaps I would listen to you. But you haven’t. You’ve kept whatever happened between you two a secret, and until you’re ready to share it, I will continue my friendship with her."

Eloise opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Francesca’s unwavering resolve caught her off guard, and for a moment, she seemed to falter. Francesca, however, didn’t wait for her to recover. "I won’t stop being her friend just because you say so, Eloise," she said quietly but firmly. "Penelope is my friend."

With that, Francesca rose from her seat, clutching Penelope’s letter as she made her way toward the door. Gregory and Hyacinth, having witnessed the exchange, quickly followed their sister, eager to hear more about their favorite redheaded friend.

Once in the privacy of her room, Francesca sat down at her writing desk and opened the letter. As she read Penelope’s words, a smile played on her lips. She could practically feel her friend’s excitement leaping off the page, and she couldn’t help but giggle at the thought of Penelope navigating the ton’s attention for the first time.

But as Francesca continued to read, her mind drifted back to another letter—a letter Penelope had sent her months ago. In that letter, Penelope had confessed the hurtful words Colin had said about her, words that had broken her heart. Francesca had been ashamed of her brother, furious even, but Penelope had begged her to keep it a secret, insisting that it wasn’t worth bringing up.

Now, as she read Penelope’s latest letter, Francesca couldn’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction. Penelope’s life was changing, and Francesca couldn’t be happier for her friend.

With a soft chuckle, Francesca reached for her pen and began to write her reply, eager to share in Penelope’s joy and offer her own thoughts on the unfolding season.

The night of the theater show had arrived. Penelope stood before her mirror in her bedchamber, the soft glow of the candles reflecting off the luxurious sapphire blue silk of her gown. Rae was making the final adjustments to her hair, which had been styled into an elegant bun at the back of her head with some tiny and soft curls adorning her face. Tiny pearls were sewn into her hair, sparkling delicately, complementing the intricate silver embroidery of her gown.

Madame Delacroix had once again outdone herself. The fitted bodice hugged Penelope’s form with elegant precision, the delicate silver embroidery catching the light with every movement. The sweetheart neckline was adorned with small pearls, adding a touch of grace to the design. The full skirt, made of layers of taffeta, rippled like water with each step she took, creating a mesmerizing effect that left Penelope feeling like she was gliding rather than walking. The hem of the dress was subtly embellished with tiny beaded stars, sparkling as they caught the light. The soft tulle draping across her shoulders added to the gown’s elegance, highlighting her neckline and giving her an ethereal glow. 

Penelope ran her hands nervously over the fabric, her heart racing. She looked different. She felt different.

"You look radiant, Miss Penelope," Rae said with a satisfied smile as she stepped back to admire her. She reached for a small glass bottle of lavender and rose perfume, dabbing it gently on Penelope’s neck and wrists.

"Thank you, Rae," Penelope whispered, her voice barely audible over the fluttering of nerves in her chest.

As Penelope descended the stairs, Rae following close behind, her mother, Portia, and Miss Varley stood waiting in the foyer. The moment Portia laid eyes on her daughter, her usually stern expression softened into something resembling pride. Portia wasn’t one to openly compliment, but the glimmer in her eyes spoke volumes.

“Penelope,” Portia began, her voice uncharacteristically soft, the faintest hint of approval hidden behind her composed exterior. “You look… well, quite nice.”

Penelope smiled, though she felt a bit awkward under her mother’s rare praise. "Thank you, Mama."

As Portia and Penelope prepared to leave, Miss Varley, who had always been more of a maternal figure to Penelope than her mother, leaned in and whispered in her ear, "You look radiant, my dear. Your Mama is proud."

Penelope’s heart swelled with warmth at the unexpected compliment. She nodded, offering Miss Varley a small, grateful smile.

With that, Penelope and Portia entered their carriage and set off toward the theater. The night air was cool, and the streets were alive with the sounds of carriages and chatter. Penelope gazed out of the window, her heart fluttering with anticipation. Tonight was not just another night—it was her first major outing of the season with Lord Wycliff as her escort. And while she couldn’t ignore the whispers of excitement that swirled around her, there was also a quiet nervousness. What would the evening bring? Would Lord Wycliff continue his pursuit? And what about the mysterious man with the piercing green eyes who had watched her so intently at Lady Danbury’s ball?

**********

Meanwhile, at the Stirling Mayfair estate, Michael Stirling was adjusting his cravat in front of his own mirror, his mood bordering on irritation. He had spent the entire evening preparing for this moment—tonight, he was determined to finally approach Miss Penelope Featherington. For two days, thoughts of her had filled his mind, her image seared into his memory—the way she had looked at the ball, her shy yet captivating presence, the mystery in her baby blue eyes.

"You seem more tense than usual, cousin," came the teasing voice of his cousin, John Stirling, as he entered the room. He leaned against the doorframe with a grin. "Eager to see someone tonight, perhaps?"

Michael shot him a dark look but said nothing as he made another attempt at his cravat. The truth was, he was eager—eager to see Penelope Featherington. 

"Miss Featherington," John continued with a knowing grin, "I hear she is quite the talk of the ton these days. You might want to prepare yourself for some competition."

Michael’s hands stilled, his jaw tightening at the thought. The idea of Penelope being courted by other men—men who weren’t him—didn’t sit well. He would find her tonight. He would speak to her.

"Let’s just hope she isn’t already engaged for the evening," John added with a wink as he turned to leave.

Michael rolled his eyes, but the seed of worry had already been planted in his mind. What if Penelope was already spoken for tonight? What if some other gentleman had already captured her attention? He cursed under his breath.

Both Stirling men left for the theater, their carriage winding through the bustling streets of Mayfair. Michael’s nerves were on edge, though he tried to maintain a composed exterior. He didn’t know why, but something about Penelope Featherington intrigued him beyond the usual fleeting fascination he felt with women of the ton. She was different—there was a quiet strength in her, a mystery he longed to unravel.

**********

The theater was lit up like a grand palace, its windows glowing with the warm light of chandeliers, and the sound of soft music filled the air as Penelope and her mother stepped out of the carriage. The streets were alive with the laughter and chatter of London’s finest, all dressed in their finest evening wear. Penelope’s heart raced as she looked up at the grand building. Tonight would be different. She was no longer the invisible wallflower of the ton. She was someone now.

As she entered the theater with Portia by her side, Penelope marveled at the opulence around her. The walls were lined with gilded mirrors, and the air was filled with the soft strains of the orchestra playing in the background. The well-dressed guests, men in finely tailored suits and women in sparkling gowns, filled the space, their fans fluttering as they made conversation.

Unbeknownst to Penelope, across the room, Michael Stirling stood in a small group of men, pretending to engage in conversation while his eyes continually darted toward the entrance. He had been waiting, scanning the crowd for any sign of her. The minutes stretched on, each one feeling like an eternity, and just as he was beginning to lose hope, John elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

“There she is,” John murmured with a knowing smile, nodding toward the entrance.

Michael turned, and his breath caught in his throat.

There she was.

Penelope Featherington stood at the entrance, wearing a sapphire blue gown that shimmered in the light, her hair styled elegantly with pearls woven through the soft bun. She wasn’t as tall as the other ladies in the room, but she didn’t need to be. Her presence commanded attention. She moved with a quiet grace, her cheeks flushed with the slightest hint of nervousness, and yet she stood out among the crowd as if she were the only woman in the room.

For a moment, Michael forgot how to breathe. She was breathtaking. And then, just as he was about to move toward her, a tall man stepped in front of her, blocking her path.

Michael’s jaw clenched as he watched the man—Lord Wycliff, if his memory served him correctly—bow to Penelope and kiss her hand. The two exchanged a few words, their conversation seeming cordial, but Michael couldn’t shake the sudden rush of jealousy that surged through him.

Who is he to her? Michael wondered, his mind racing. Before he could act, the trio—Lord Wycliff, Penelope, and her mother—began to move toward a private box, Lord Wycliff guiding them with confident ease.

But just as they neared their destination, an acquaintance of Lord Wycliff intercepted him, pulling him into conversation. For a moment, Penelope stood with her mother, waiting, and Michael knew this was his chance.

He hesitated for a brief second, doubt flickering in his mind. But then John’s elbow nudged him again, and with a deep breath, Michael began to walk toward her.

As he approached, her scent hit him—lavender and roses, delicate and sweet. His heart pounded in his chest, and before he could stop himself, the words escaped his lips in a soft murmur. "So beautiful."

Penelope, startled, turned toward the voice, her eyes widening when she saw how close Michael was to her. For a moment, she simply stared, her mouth slightly open in surprise.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, her voice tinged with confusion.

Michael’s pulse raced as he realized how forward he had been. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like a fool. "Forgive me," he stammered, "I-I did not mean to… I just…," he averted his gaze for a brief second.

He cursed himself inwardly, taking a breath to steady his nerves. When he looked back at her, he forced his most charming, rakish smile and straightened his posture. "Allow me to introduce myself properly, Miss Featherington. I am Lord Stirling, Earl of Strathmore."

Penelope’s initial surprise softened as recognition flickered in her eyes. She remembered him now—he was the man who had watched her so intently at Lady Danbury’s ball. Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she curtsied and greeted him.

"Good evening, Lord Stirling," she said, her voice quiet but steady. She exchanged a quick glance with her mother, who watched the interaction with thinly veiled curiosity.

Before Michael could say another word, Lord Wycliff returned, his presence commanding attention. With a polite cough, he drew Penelope’s gaze away from Michael. "Miss Featherington, shall we make our way to our box?"

Penelope smiled shyly and nodded. "Of course, my lord."

Lord Wycliff bowed slightly to Lady Featherington before offering his hand to Penelope. But before she took it, Penelope glanced back at Michael, her expression soft. "Have a pleasant evening, Lord Stirling," she said, her voice as sweet as the lavender that lingered in the air.

Michael stood there, watching as Penelope took Lord Wycliff’s hand and allowed him to guide her away. He could only watch as she disappeared into the theater, her sapphire gown shimmering under the golden light.

As the box door closed behind her, Michael let out a small huff of frustration and returned to John’s side, who had been watching the entire scene unfold with amusement.

"So, how did it go?" John asked with a teasing grin.

Michael sighed, shaking his head. "I spoke with her, and… it seems she already has an escort for the evening. But,” with a sideways glance to his cousin, he continued, “I am not done yet.” His gaze drifting back to where Penelope sat with Lord Wycliff.

John chuckled. “No, I do not imagine you are.”

The night was still young, and Michael Stirling was not a man to be easily thwarted. 

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

As the lights dimmed and the theater show began, the rich melodies of the orchestra filled the air, casting a romantic spell over the entire room. Penelope Featherington sat quietly in her private box, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she tried to focus on the stage before her. But no matter how much she tried, her thoughts kept drifting back to the idea of marriage and freedom, to what she truly wanted for her future.

Her mother, Portia, sat beside her, watching the performance with a dispassionate expression, while Lord Wycliff, her escort for the evening, sat on the other side of her, his presence both comforting and unnerving in equal measure.

Penelope had always thought that marriage would bring her freedom. Freedom from the constraints of her family, from the judgmental eyes of the ton, and from the loneliness that had settled deep in her heart. But now, as she sat there, her heart torn between two desires, she wasn’t so sure. She had always imagined herself marrying for love—once, she had even thought that love would be with Colin Bridgerton. But that dream had been shattered the day Colin had so cruelly declared her undesirable.

Still, somewhere deep inside her, Penelope knew that a part of her still longed for a love match. She wanted someone to see her for who she was, to truly care for her—not just as a means to an end. But was it possible to find both love and freedom? Or would she have to choose between freedom and the romantic ideal she had once held so dear? And was Lord Wycliff the man who could give her either?

The performance on stage was a romantic one, and with each passing scene, Penelope found herself feeling more conflicted. Her gaze wandered away from the stage, drifting across the theater, taking in the lavish décor and the well-dressed audience. Her eyes traveled from the grand chandeliers to the familiar faces of the ton. And before she realized it, her eyes locked with a pair of intense green eyes watching her from the opposite side of the room, on the ground level.

Michael Stirling.

He was sitting beside his cousin, Lord Killmartin, his gaze fixed solely on her. The look in his eyes was undeniable—focused, intent, and almost possessive. Penelope felt a sudden heat rise to her cheeks, her heart beating just a little faster under the weight of his stare. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her fan, and though she tried to maintain her composure, she felt flustered by the way his eyes held her.

Michael, on the other hand, felt a surge of pride when he saw Penelope blush under his gaze. He had been waiting for a moment like this all evening, eager for any acknowledgment from her. It was a small victory, but it made him feel as if, in that moment, he had connected with her in a way no one else had. But before he could savor the moment any longer, Penelope quickly averted her eyes, breaking the connection between them.

Her gaze wandered around the theater once more, and this time, it landed on Lady Danbury’s box. The older woman sat surrounded by acquaintances, her sharp eyes surveying the room with quiet amusement. When Lady Danbury caught sight of Penelope, she offered her a knowing smile—a smile that Penelope returned, though she had no idea what Lady Danbury found so amusing.

Then, beside Lady Danbury, Penelope noticed a blonde man with striking blue eyes. He was unfamiliar to her, someone she had never encountered before. Though Penelope prided herself on knowing the ton’s secrets as Lady Whistledown, this man was a mystery. As if sensing her curiosity, the blonde man leaned in toward Lady Danbury, whispering something in her ear. Lady Danbury’s smile grew wider, and her gaze shifted back to Penelope with even more intrigue.

Penelope’s heart fluttered. What is happening? she wondered, her thoughts racing. But before she could dwell on it further, Lord Wycliff’s voice interrupted her reverie.

"Miss Featherington?" he said softly, his voice drawing her attention back to him.

Penelope blinked, realizing she had been lost in thought. "Yes, my lord?" she replied, her voice quieter than usual.

Lord Wycliff smiled, his expression warm and slightly teasing as he reached out and took her left hand in his. His fingers lightly caressed hers, sending a soft shiver up her spine. The gesture was small, discreet enough that it went unnoticed by everyone else, but to Penelope, it felt intimate.

She blushed, lowering her gaze to hide the warmth spreading across her cheeks. Lord Wycliff leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear as he murmured teasing words—playful, gentle comments that made her giggle despite herself.

"You hide your smile behind your hand too often, Miss Featherington," Lord Wycliff whispered, his voice laced with amusement. "It’s quite charming, but I do wish you wouldn’t."

Penelope blushed again, feeling the heat of his words wash over her. She glanced at him shyly, her hand rising instinctively to cover her smile once more. "I can’t help it, my lord," she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It’s a habit."

Lord Wycliff chuckled, his tone playful as he leaned in even closer, as if sharing a secret just between the two of them. "Well, perhaps it’s a habit I can help you break."

The exchange was light, filled with soft laughter and teasing smiles, but it was enough to make Penelope’s heart flutter in a way she hadn’t expected. She felt flustered, in a good way, by his attention. He was kind, charming, and there was a tenderness in his touch that made her feel special.

Portia, watching the interaction from her seat, kept a careful eye on her daughter. She could see how easily Penelope leaned into Lord Wycliff’s teasing, how natural the connection between them seemed. It was a relief, in a way. Portia had promised to let Penelope make her own choices, and while she felt a strong urge to intervene, she held back. Penelope was making her own decisions, and Portia, for once, was determined to respect that.

**********

Across the room, Michael Stirling sat fuming in his seat. His eyes were fixed on Penelope and Lord Wycliff, glaring at the easy, intimate way they interacted. He saw the way Penelope blushed, the way she leaned in closer to Lord Wycliff as they whispered and laughed together. And it made his blood boil.

Why is she so into him? Michael thought angrily. He had tried, time and time again, to speak with her, to find a moment where he could get to know her better. But every time, something—or someone—got in his way. And now, here she was, completely absorbed in her conversation with Lord Wycliff, while Michael was left on the outside, watching from afar.

John, ever the teasing cousin, nudged Michael’s side, pulling him out of his thoughts. "You may as well go and kill that poor lord," John whispered with a grin. “You’re glaring at him as if you’re ready to challenge him to a duel.”

Michael shot his cousin a dark look. "I’m calm," he muttered, though the tightness in his voice betrayed his true feelings.

John chuckled softly. "Right. Because glaring daggers at a man is the definition of calm."

Michael exhaled, forcing himself to relax. “It’s nothing. I’m just... annoyed.”

“Annoyed? Or jealous?” John teased, clearly enjoying his cousin’s discomfort. “Come now, Michael. Admit it. Miss Featherington has gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?”

Michael didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed on Penelope. “She’s... intriguing,” he admitted quietly, more to himself than to John.

“Ah, intriguing,” John echoed, grinning. “I see. Well, if I were you, I’d stop staring and do something about it before Lord Wycliff sweeps her away entirely.”

Michael clenched his jaw, knowing his cousin was right. He couldn’t stand here glaring all night while Lord Wycliff continued to charm Penelope. As the show continued, Michael watched Penelope from afar, his mind racing with plans and possibilities. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way to speak with her again.

He needed to act—soon.

The first act of the theater show ended, and the room filled with the soft murmur of conversation as the audience shifted in their seats. Penelope, still blushing from Lord Wycliff’s teasing, felt the need for a moment of reprieve. The attention was overwhelming, and though she enjoyed his company, she needed a moment to herself to gather her thoughts.

"Excuse me, mama," Penelope said, turning to her mother. "May I have a few minutes by myself? I’ll stay close, I promise."

Portia hesitated, her eyes scanning Penelope’s face before nodding. "Very well, but don’t stray too far, Penelope."

Penelope smiled gratefully and stood, excusing herself from Lord Wycliff with a soft smile. "I’ll be right back, my lord," she said, her voice gentle.

Lord Wycliff nodded, his gaze lingering on her as she left the box. "Take your time, Miss Featherington."

Penelope stepped out into the corridor that connected the private boxes, the sound of footsteps echoing softly on the marble floors. She walked slowly, letting the cool air of the hallway calm her. After a few moments, she found herself in a small corridor that led to a private balcony. The view overlooked the entrance of the theater, and the night outside was calm and peaceful, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight.

Penelope stepped out onto the balcony, taking a deep breath of the cool night air. It had been quite an evening, full of new experiences and emotions she wasn’t sure how to process. She had enjoyed Lord Wycliff’s company more than she had expected, but there was still a part of her that felt conflicted. Was this what she truly wanted?

As she closed her eyes and let the quiet of the night settle over her, a soft noise startled her. She turned quickly, her heart racing, and there, standing in the shadows of the balcony, was Lord Michael Stirling. His tall frame was bathed in the soft light of the moon, and his gaze was fixed intently on her.

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest as she took a step back, startled by his sudden presence. Michael, noticing her reaction, took one hesitant step forward before stopping himself. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her.

**********

Michael's POV

Michael Stirling sat in his seat, each passing second adding to his frustration. The more he watched Penelope and Lord Wycliff, the more his chest tightened with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Was it jealousy? Resentment? Perhaps a combination of both. He had never been a man easily rattled by the attention of women, but with Penelope, it was different. She had been occupying his thoughts since that fateful moment at Lady Danbury’s ball, and now, watching her enjoy the company of another man, was nearly unbearable.

As the first act of the show came to an end, Michael exhaled heavily, not realizing he had been holding his breath. His eyes remained locked on Penelope as she rose from her seat and excused herself. There was something ethereal about her tonight—the way her sapphire gown shimmered under the golden light, the way her hair glistened with delicate pearls. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

Michael watched her leave the box, and the moment she disappeared from sight, he felt a surge of panic. Was she leaving? Was this his last chance to speak with her? His pulse quickened, and before he could think it through, he made up his mind. He would follow her.

As he rose from his seat, John, ever the perceptive cousin, gave him a knowing look. "Going after her, are we?" he asked with a mischievous grin.

Michael gave a curt nod, already making his way toward the door. Would it be too bold of me to seek her out now? he thought. But the truth was, he didn’t care. He needed to see her, needed to talk to her.

He moved through the theater with a determined pace, his eyes scanning the hallway until he finally spotted her in the distance. Penelope was standing on a small balcony, her back to him, her figure bathed in the soft light of the full moon. She looked otherworldly—like a vision out of a dream. Her dress, her hair, her very presence captivated him.

For a moment, Michael stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. What was he going to say? How would he explain his sudden need to speak with her? But before he could gather his thoughts, his foot shifted slightly, making a noise that startled her.

Penelope turned sharply, her wide blue eyes meeting his, and for a brief moment, he saw the fear in her gaze. She took a few steps back, clearly surprised—and perhaps even scared—by his sudden appearance.

Damn it, Michael cursed inwardly. The last thing he wanted was to frighten her.

**********

Michael held up his hands in a gesture of peace, taking a slow breath as he tried to gather his thoughts. "I—I’m sorry," he said, his voice softer than usual. "I didn’t mean to scare you. I just…"

He paused, searching for the right words, but nothing seemed to come out as smoothly as he hoped. He wanted to tell her that he had been thinking of her since the first ball, that her presence had unsettled him in the most delightful way, but none of that felt appropriate. Instead, his mind raced with all the things he wanted to say—I wanted to get your attention. I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been seeking you out. I’m captivated by you.

Penelope, seeing his hesitation, remained silent for a moment, her blush deepening. She took a small step back, clearly unsure of what to do, her mind racing as well. She had not expected to see Michael Stirling in such an intimate setting. And why, of all things, was he seeking her out?

Finally, she spoke, her voice tentative. "I should leave," she said quietly, her hand already moving toward the door. "I—Have a good…"

But before she could finish, Michael’s voice rang out louder than intended. "No!"

The single word, spoken with too much force, startled both of them. Penelope jumped slightly, her eyes wide with surprise, and Michael immediately cursed himself for his outburst.

He ran a hand through his tousled curls, clearly frustrated with himself. "I’m sorry," he muttered, his tone gentler now. "I didn’t mean to shout. I just… I wanted to talk to you, Miss Featherington."

Penelope hesitated, her brows furrowing in confusion as she looked at him warily. "About what?" she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

Michael blinked, momentarily taken aback by her directness. "What?" he asked, as if her question had thrown him off balance.

"You said you wanted to talk to me," Penelope clarified, crossing her arms lightly in front of her. "So, what do you want to talk to me about?"

Michael stood there, feeling slightly foolish. He had come after her with no real plan, driven only by his desire to speak to her, but now, under her curious gaze, he felt as though all his words had deserted him. Still, he knew he couldn’t let the moment slip away.

"I…" He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. "I wanted to make your acquaintance properly. We didn’t have much of a chance at Lady Danbury’s ball."

Penelope watched him carefully, her expression a mixture of curiosity and doubt. She didn’t know him well—only his name, his title—and yet, here he was, seeking her out in a private moment, asking for her time and attention. It was strange, and yet… something about his presence unsettled her in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

She offered him a small, tentative smile. "Well, we are here now," she said softly. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stirling."

Michael smiled, feeling a rush of relief wash over him. But just as he was about to speak again, Penelope took a step toward the door, her resolve clearly set. "I should return to my mama and my escort."

The word escort stung, and Michael flinched slightly at the reminder. Lord Wycliff was still very much a part of her evening. He watched as Penelope prepared to leave, feeling the weight of his frustration settle on his shoulders. But before she could disappear, he spoke again, his voice steady this time.

"I was wondering…"

Penelope paused, turning slightly to look at him. "Yes?" she asked, her gaze meeting his once more.

Michael swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest. "I was wondering if… if you would be amenable to reserving a dance for me at the next ball?"

Penelope’s eyes widened in surprise at the request. She didn’t know him well—certainly not well enough to agree to a dance so readily. Why is he asking me for a dance? she thought, her mind racing. She hesitated, unsure of how to respond.

For a brief moment, it seemed as though she might refuse, but something in Michael’s expression—something almost vulnerable—made her pause. There was something more, something deeper, and for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Penelope found herself nodding.

"All right," she said softly. "I’ll reserve a dance for you."

Michael’s smile widened, his heart lifting at her words. "Thank you, Miss Featherington," he said, his voice warm and sincere.

With that, Penelope turned and made her way back toward the private boxes, her thoughts swirling with confusion and curiosity. As she entered her box once more, her mother, Portia, looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Everything all right, Penelope?" Portia asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

Penelope nodded, offering her mother a small, reassuring smile. "Yes, mama. Everything is fine."

But as the second act of the theater show began, Penelope’s mind kept drifting back to her encounter with Michael Stirling. There was something about him that she couldn’t quite shake. His intensity, his determination… it was all so different from the light, teasing nature of Lord Wycliff. Yet, as the night wore on, Lord Wycliff continued to make her laugh, continued to charm her with his wit and kindness.

As the evening drew to a close, Penelope felt a strange sense of satisfaction. The night had been good. She had enjoyed herself, and she had made a new acquaintance in Lord Stirling. But as she climbed into the carriage with her mother, her mind couldn’t help but linger on Michael’s request for a dance.

It had been a good night. A very good night indeed.

Chapter Text

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

The theater was alive with spectacle a few nights ago, but it was not just the performers on stage who commanded attention. No, indeed! The true show unfolded in the private boxes, where the ton gathered to bask in the social glow. Among the glittering crowd, one pairing in particular seemed to catch every eye—and perhaps a few hearts.

Miss Penelope Featherington, a young lady who, until recently, has managed to blend quite successfully into the background, made her first public appearance with a caller last night. The lucky gentleman? None other than Lord Wycliff, the ever-dashing Earl of Camden. Together, they occupied a private box, where it became immediately clear that Lord Wycliff had taken a certain interest in the youngest Featherington.

Though Miss Featherington’s romantic prospects have long been the subject of quiet speculation, last night’s theater show was a turning point. Lord Wycliff, it must be said, proved to be the most attentive of escorts, his focus unwavering as he and Miss Featherington exchanged whispered confidences, accompanied by no small amount of laughter. Whether this attention will lead to something more remains to be seen, but one cannot deny that Miss Featherington looked positively radiant in her sapphire blue silk taffeta gown—a gown that managed to turn heads, despite her own attempts to avoid attention.

The Featherington family, never one to shy away from the public eye, can surely feel some sense of pride that their youngest daughter has made such a striking first impression this season. Only time will tell if Lord Wycliff’s attentions will bear fruit, but for now, the ton can be certain that Miss Featherington is no longer the wallflower we once knew.

As for other notable figures in attendance, whispers abound concerning a certain Lord Stirling, the Earl of Strathmore, who has recently made his presence known in our fair city. Lord Stirling’s interest remains a mystery, though this author suspects there may be more to uncover about the Stirling men. Perhaps we shall have to wait and see what new entanglements arise as this thrilling season unfolds.

Until then, my dear readers, keep your eyes open and your ears sharp, for there is always more beneath the surface than what meets the eye.

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

The day had begun quite pleasantly for Penelope Featherington. She found herself enjoying the rare luxury of time spent with friends, free from the pressure of the ton’s watchful eyes. Penelope, accompanied by Rae, her loyal lady’s maid, had ventured to the market to pick up a few necessities. Joining them was Francesca Bridgerton, whose quiet and thoughtful nature had always made for an excellent companion. The two ladies share a delightful camaraderie.

Their trip to the library was a highlight of the morning. Penelope had her heart set on purchasing a new romance novel, one to lose herself in during quieter moments, while Francesca was searching for a pianoforte guide to improve her skills. Their time together was filled with teasing, shared laughter, and a healthy dose of gossip. As the conversation shifted naturally to the latest events of the season, Penelope found herself confiding in Francesca about Lord Stirling’s unexpected approach during the theater night.

Francesca’s brows knitted together in concern as she listened, but Penelope was quick to reassure her that nothing improper had taken place. Still, Francesca was skeptical. “Alone in the theater, Pen? That sounds… bold for a man of his standing.”

Penelope smiled, brushing off her friend's concern. “He didn’t do anything untoward, I promise. It’s just… I don’t understand why he’s taken an interest in me. He asked for a dance at tonight’s ball.”

Francesca’s lips quirked into a teasing smile. “Perhaps he finds you intriguing. You certainly have become quite the catch this season, Penelope. It’s no wonder the men are starting to take notice.”

Penelope laughed softly, though her thoughts still lingered on Lord Stirling. “I don’t know if I’d call it that, but I must admit… I’m curious. Why me, of all people?”

Francesca squeezed her arm playfully. “Well, we’ll find out tonight, won’t we? Promise me you’ll tell me everything once the evening’s over.”

“I promise,” Penelope agreed with a giggle. They parted ways soon after, both promising to find each other at the ball later that evening.

The ballroom was a glittering spectacle by the time Penelope and her family arrived. The ton was already gathered in full force, with every notable family in attendance. The Bridgerton clan stood prominently at the far end of the ballroom, as usual, their presence commanding attention. The Stirling men, with their striking presence, were already engaged in conversation with several gentlemen, while the Cowpers, with their sharp eyes, scanned the room, no doubt making critical assessments of everyone in attendance. Lady Danbury, as always, stood near the Queen, watching over the proceedings with a keen eye.

Penelope entered the ballroom slightly later than most, accompanied by her mother, sisters, and their husbands. Tonight, she wore one of her finest gowns—a light violet silk organza ballgown, truly a sight to behold. The gown was magnificent, made from layers of silk organza that gave it a floating effect as she moved. The bodice was adorned with silver embroidery, intricate swirls of vines and delicate flowers that extended down into the voluminous skirt. Her neckline was lined with small amethyst gemstones, adding a touch of sparkle to the rich color of the gown. Her hair, pinned back but with soft curls cascading down, completed the look of a princess stepping into a fairy tale.

Michael Stirling, lost in his own thoughts, missed her entrance entirely. His mind had been preoccupied with the events of the last few days and his growing curiosity about Penelope. He had intended to find her the moment she entered, but it wasn’t until he heard the sound of her soft laughter that his attention snapped back to the ballroom.

His eyes quickly scanned the room, searching for the source of that familiar sound, and then he saw her. Penelope Featherington, standing not far from him, engaged in conversation with Mr. Victor Parkhurst, one of the young men who had called on her earlier in the week. Her gown, a light violet that seemed to shimmer under the candlelight, made her look ethereal—like a goddess. Michael felt his breath catch for a moment. She was stunning.

Mr. Parkhurst, with his usual warm smile, asked Penelope for a dance. “Miss Featherington,” he said, bowing slightly, “I would be honored if you would reserve a dance for me this evening.”

Penelope smiled graciously and accepted. “Of course, Mr. Parkhurst.” She extended her wrist, allowing him to sign his name on her dance card.

Mr. Parkhurst bowed again and added with a charming smile, “I shall come fetch you when it is time for our dance.” With that, he took his leave, leaving Penelope with her mother.

Penelope’s brief reprieve from attention didn’t last long. Within moments, Lord Wycliff approached her, his presence as commanding as ever. “Miss Featherington,” he greeted her, “I do hope you’re enjoying the evening thus far.”

Penelope smiled, feeling the familiar warmth that came with his presence. “I am, thank you, my lord. And yourself?”

Lord Wycliff chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I must admit, the evening is vastly improved now that I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you again.”

Penelope laughed softly at his jest, her nerves easing in his company. “You always know how to say just the right thing, Lord Wycliff.”

“Only when the right lady is present,” he teased, his gaze holding hers. “I must say, Miss Featherington, you look absolutely radiant tonight. That gown suits you perfectly.”

Penelope blushed, flattered by his attention but feeling a bit emboldened herself. “Well, it would seem you’ve noticed, my lord. I was starting to think you only came for the music.”

Lord Wycliff laughed warmly, clearly pleased by her teasing. “Ah, you wound me, Miss Featherington. I assure you, the music was the last thing on my mind.”

Their conversation continued in the same lighthearted manner, filled with laughter and playful jests. Penelope felt at ease with Lord Wycliff, her nerves calming in his presence. But just as she let out another soft laugh, she caught the eye of Michael Stirling across the room.

Michael had been watching her. When he saw her laugh—when he saw the way she blushed and teased Lord Wycliff—he felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much it would bother him to see her in the company of Lord Wycliff, again. His gaze was intense, focused solely on her, and for a moment, he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

She’s beautiful, he thought, watching the way the light violet gown made her look almost ethereal. But then, he saw it—the way Lord Wycliff leaned in closer to her, the way he whispered something in her ear that made her blush. Michael’s jaw tightened. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

His thoughts spiraled. Was Lord Wycliff courting her? Had he made his intentions known? The season had only just begun, but Michael couldn’t shake the sudden, overwhelming sense that time was slipping away. Penelope might not be spoken for yet, but how long would that last?

Just as his frustration grew, Lord Wycliff took Penelope’s wrist, signing his name on her dance card with a smile. He whispered something else in her ear—too close for Michael’s liking—and she laughed again as she nodded in response. Michael’s fists clenched at his sides as he watched their interaction. He had to do something, but before he could act, Penelope was joined by another figure—Francesca Bridgerton.

Francesca slipped her arm through Penelope’s, smiling brightly as they exchanged greetings. Michael’s gaze followed them as they walked away together, their laughter carrying through the air. He stood there, frustrated and unsure of what to do next.

**********

As the night continued, the ballroom was filled with the soft rustle of gowns and the lively hum of conversation. Penelope, standing near her mother, took in the scene with a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. She could see that the ton was in high spirits, enjoying the spectacle of the season’s second ball. Her heart fluttered as she wondered how the night might unfold—particularly with the promise of her first dance with Lord Wycliff still to come.

Lord Wycliff appeared beside Penelope with a smooth, confident smile, his dark eyes twinkling as he looked at her. “Miss Featherington,” he said softly, bowing slightly, “it is time for our dance, I believe.”

Penelope’s heart skipped a beat as she smiled and extended her hand, allowing Lord Wycliff to guide her onto the dance floor. “Indeed, my lord,” she replied, her voice calm despite the excitement bubbling within her.

As they stepped onto the dance floor, the soft strains of music filled the room, signaling the beginning of the Regency reel. It was a lively, animated dance, one that allowed for conversation and laughter as the partners moved together through the steps. Penelope felt a rush of exhilaration as she took her place, her fingers lightly resting on Lord Wycliff’s hand.

Lord Wycliff’s gaze never left hers as they began to move, his touch steady and reassuring. “You look beautiful tonight,” he murmured, his voice warm and sincere. “I must say, you’ve quite outdone yourself.”

Penelope blushed, her eyes briefly lowering as she smiled. “Thank you, my lord. You are too kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” Lord Wycliff replied, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I speak only the truth. And if I may be so bold, I must say I find your company to be the highlight of the evening.”

Penelope laughed softly, her heart fluttering at his words. “You are bold indeed, my lord,” she teased back, feeling a growing sense of ease with him. “But I appreciate your honesty.”

As they moved through the dance, exchanging light banter and smiles, Penelope couldn’t help but notice how easily Lord Wycliff made her laugh, how natural their conversation felt. He was charming, attentive, and, to her surprise, he even had a playful side that she hadn’t seen before. For a moment, she allowed herself to simply enjoy the dance, her worries about the night slipping away.

**********

Meanwhile, as Lord Wycliff led Penelope through the dance floor, another notable interaction was unfolding on the sidelines. Lady Violet Bridgerton, the matriarch of the Bridgerton family, made her way toward Portia Featherington, who stood watching her daughter with a mix of pride and satisfaction.

Violet and Portia had never been particularly close, despite being neighbors for years. Their interactions were usually limited to polite nods at social gatherings, but tonight, Violet had a reason for seeking out the Featherington matriarch. As she approached, Lady Danbury, ever the keen observer, took note of the moment and leaned toward the Queen.

“Now, now, isn’t that an interesting sight?” Lady Danbury remarked with a sly smile. “It seems Lady Bridgerton is making a rather surprising move tonight, Your Majesty.”

The Queen, intrigued by Lady Danbury’s tone, raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you make of it, Lady Danbury?” she inquired, casting a glance at the ballroom.

With a knowing smile, Lady Danbury leaned in slightly, her eyes twinkling. “I remember a time when Lady Bridgerton spoke quite fondly of Miss Featherington,” she said. “Always said how lovely it would be to have her as a daughter, though I believe that particular dream is beginning to fade as this new season unfolds.”

The Queen gave a small nod, her gaze sweeping the room until it fell upon Penelope, who was dancing with Lord Wycliff. “Indeed,” she mused. “It seems Lady Bridgerton’s hopes may not align with the realities of this season.”

**********

Across the ballroom, Michael Stirling stood near the edge of the crowd, his gaze fixed on Penelope and Lord Wycliff as they danced together. His jaw clenched as he watched them move gracefully across the floor, the sight of Lord Wycliff making Penelope laugh stirring an unfamiliar feeling of jealousy in his chest.

Why him? Michael thought, his frustration growing as he watched the scene. He couldn’t understand why Penelope seemed so taken with Lord Wycliff—why she blushed and smiled at him in a way that Michael found both charming and infuriating. It should have been him making her smile like that.

John Stirling, ever the observant cousin, sidled up beside Michael. “You’re going to wear a hole in the floor if you keep glaring at them like that,” John teased. “You might as well admit it, cousin—you’ve got it bad for the youngest Featherington.”

Michael shot him a dark look but said nothing, his eyes never leaving Penelope. He watched as Lord Wycliff took her hand and kissed it at the end of the dance, the gesture bold and too intimate for Michael’s liking. He felt a surge of irritation as he saw Penelope smile, her gaze lowering shyly as she curtsied.

**********

As Violet reached Portia, the two women exchanged polite greetings, though there was a palpable air of curiosity between them. Both women stood with their eyes fixed on the dance floor, their gazes focused on Penelope.

“Lady Featherington,” Violet began, her voice warm but careful. “I must say, Penelope looks absolutely lovely tonight.”

Portia’s lips curled into a smile—one of pride that, for once, wasn’t tinged with her usual ambition. She nodded in agreement. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton. I must admit, she has outdone herself this season,” Portia replied as she glanced at Penelope, who was still flushed from her dance with Lord Wycliff.

Violet nodded, her gaze lingering on Penelope with a fondness that had always been there. “She truly has. She is a remarkable young lady.”

Portia’s smile grew, a touch of softness in her eyes. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The conversation continued, the two women exchanging pleasantries about the season, the ball, and, of course, the transformation they had both witnessed in Penelope. But as the conversation deepened, Violet couldn’t help but mention a subject that had been on her mind.

“It’s wonderful to see her flourishing,” Violet said softly. “But… it’s a shame that her friendship with Eloise has faded.”

Portia’s expression shifted slightly as she glanced at her daughter. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “I don’t quite understand what happened between them. Penelope has been rather tight-lipped about it. But now, it seems she and Francesca have become closer.”

Violet nodded thoughtfully, her brow furrowing slightly. “I’ve noticed that as well. But I must admit, I’m not particularly fond of the new company Eloise seems to be keeping.”

At this, Portia raised a curious brow. “Cressida Cowper?”

Violet sighed, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “Yes, I can’t say I’m pleased. She’s not the sort of friend I would have chosen for Eloise, but I’ve decided not to intervene. At least, not yet.”

Portia hummed in agreement, her eyes flicking toward Penelope, who was now rejoining them after her first dance of the evening. Lord Wycliff, ever the gentleman, escorted her back to her mother’s side before bowing to both Violet and Portia.

“It was a pleasure, Miss Featherington,” Lord Wycliff said with a charming smile. “Thank you for the dance.”

Penelope curtsied gracefully. “Thank you, my lord. It was lovely.”

As Lord Wycliff took his leave, Violet turned to Penelope with a warm smile. “You danced beautifully, Penelope,” she praised, her tone genuine. “And that gown is simply stunning.”

Penelope blushed under the weight of the compliment, her nerves still tingling from the attention she had received. “Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” she said shyly. “I must admit, it’s all a bit overwhelming.”

Portia, sensing her daughter’s uncertainty, placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “You’re doing splendidly, Penelope,” she said softly.

Violet smiled, watching the mother-daughter interaction with fondness. “I have no doubt you’ll be the belle of the ball before the night is through, Penelope. You’ve certainly made an impression.”

Penelope’s blush deepened, and she offered a quiet, “Thank you.” Before Penelope could continue with any conversation with both ladies, Mr. Parkhurst approached them. Politely, Mr. Parkhurst led Penelope to the dance floor again, it was time for their dance.

As the duo of matriarchs stood together, making light conversation, Lady Danbury made her way toward them, her sharp eyes taking in every detail of the room as she approached.

“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Lady Danbury remarked as she joined them, her gaze resting on Penelope with an approving smile. “Miss Featherington is quite the picture tonight.”

Portia beamed with pride, though her expression shifted slightly when Lady Danbury’s next observation reached her ears. “I couldn’t help but notice,” Lady Danbury continued, her eyes now fixed on Michael Stirling, who was watching Penelope from across the room with an intensity that did not go unnoticed, “that Lord Stirling seems to have taken quite an interest in her.”

Portia’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes narrowing as she followed Lady Danbury’s gaze. “Lord Stirling, you say?” she repeated, her voice betraying her uncertainty. She had heard of the man—his reputation as a rake was well-known throughout the women of the ton.

Violet glanced at Portia, sensing her concern. “I’ve heard the same,” she admitted. “But he seems…different tonight. He’s certainly captivated by Penelope.”

Portia pursed her lips, her gaze hardening. “A rake is a rake, Lady Bridgerton,” she replied firmly. “I won’t have my daughter’s reputation suffer at the hands of a man who doesn’t know how to treat a lady with the respect she deserves.”

Lady Danbury, always one to speak her mind, chuckled softly. “Well, Lady Featherington, let’s see if the man proves himself worthy. Even rakes can be reformed under the right circumstances.”

**********

As the lively music filled the ballroom and Penelope’s dance with Mr. Victor Parkhurst came to a graceful close, he guided her back toward where her mother was. Lady Featherington was still in conversation with Lady Danbury and Lady Bridgerton. Penelope smiled as she curtsied to Mr. Parkhurst. It had been a pleasant dance, but not quite like the dance with Lord Wycliff.

As Penelope took her place beside her mother, she glanced at her and noticed the unmistakable tension in her expression. Portia’s lips were pursed, and her eyes kept flickering toward a spot across the ballroom. Curious, Penelope followed her mother’s gaze and found herself locking eyes, once again, with Michael Stirling.

The intensity in his stare sent a shiver down Penelope’s spine. His gaze was filled with something she couldn’t quite place—was it desire or, perhaps, jealousy? There was no mistaking the fire in his green eyes as they bore into hers, and Penelope felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

Lady Danbury, ever observant, caught the exchange between Penelope and Michael and smiled knowingly. “It seems, Lady Featherington,” she remarked with a slight tilt of her head, “that your daughter may have more than one suitor to consider this season.”

Portia, her lips tightening again, responded, “We shall see, Lady Danbury. We shall see.”

Penelope, flustered by the implications of the conversation, politely excused herself and made her way toward the refreshment table. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts, to shake the effect Lord Stirling was currently having on her. As she moved behind a large pillar for some privacy, she took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing mind.

Michael, who had been watching her every move, took the opportunity to follow her. Again. His steps were purposeful, yet silent, as he approached her from behind. He saw her exhale deeply, and the way she shook her head lightly told him she was struggling to regain her composure. The sight of her standing there, lost in her own thoughts, only endeared her more to him.

With a subtle cough, Michael announced his presence. Penelope, startled, spun around and gave him a small curtsy, her eyes wide with surprise. “Lord Stirling,” she greeted him softly, her voice still tinged with the remnants of her nerves.

For a moment, Michael couldn’t speak. The soft light from the chandelier overhead cast a gentle glow over Penelope, making her auburn curls shimmer like fire, and her wide blue eyes—so shy yet so captivating—seemed to hold a world of secrets. He found it impossible to avert his gaze.

Penelope, noticing his silence, furrowed her brow slightly in concern. “Are you alright, my lord?” she asked, her voice pulling him from the spell he had fallen under.

Michael blinked, shaking himself from his trance, “Yes, I—I…“ He stopped and gathered himself, “Good evening, Miss Featherington,” he finally managed, his voice slightly rougher than he intended.

Before Penelope could respond, Michael reached out and gently took her hand in his. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted it to his lips and placed a long, chaste kiss on her knuckles. The touch of his lips lingered longer than was proper. She blushed deeply, caught off guard by his boldness.

Michael straightened, his green eyes still locked on hers. “You look… enchanting tonight,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate. “That gown suits you perfectly.”

Penelope’s cheeks burned even more brightly, her heart racing as she tried to find the right words. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding in her chest.

Michael’s eyes glinted with amusement and admiration as he watched the color in her cheeks deepen. Without thinking, he leaned in slightly and said, “I find myself quite captivated by the color in your cheeks. It is the most becoming shade. What, I wonder, could I do to make you blush like that… always?”

Chapter Text

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat, and she quickly averted her gaze, a shy smile playing on her lips. She was not accustomed to such direct compliments, and they left her feeling both flustered and flattered.

Michael, finding her nervousness utterly charming, felt a deep sense of admiration for her. She was so different from the other ladies of the ton—ladies who had long mastered the art of flirtation, whose smiles were carefully practiced and whose words were chosen with precision. But Penelope was sincere, and that sincerity was refreshing. He found himself captivated not just by her beauty, but by her authenticity.

Hoping to prolong their interaction, Michael made light conversation, asking Penelope about her evening and her thoughts on the ball. As they spoke, Penelope began to relax slightly, though she still felt the weight of his intense gaze on her. There was something undeniably magnetic about Lord Stirling, something that made her pulse race in a way she had never experienced before.

After a few moments, Michael took a step forward, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Miss Featherington,” he said softly, “might I be so bold as to request the honor of a dance or perhaps, if I may be so fortunate, two dances?,” his voice low, almost intimate.

Penelope’s eyes widened in surprise. “Two dances, my lord?” she repeated, her voice filled with hesitation. “But… we agreed on one dance the other night.”

Michael smiled, the kind of smile that held both charm and determination. “Ah, yes, but I find myself wanting more time with you,” he replied smoothly. “Surely you would not deny me the pleasure of being seen with the most beautiful lady in the room?”

Penelope blushed again, her heart pounding at his boldness. She knew that agreeing to dance more than once with him would stir gossip among the ton, but the way he looked at her—the way he spoke to her—made it difficult to refuse.

After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered her eyes, for a moment, and nodded. "All right, my lord," she said softly. 

Michael’s smile broadened as he reached for her dance card, taking it from her wrist with the utmost care. He delicately penned his name for both the cotillion and, more significantly, the waltz.

Penelope’s breath hitched as she realized what the second dance implied. The waltz was the most intimate of all dances, reserved for those who shared a special connection.  As if sensing her doubts, Michael glanced up from the dance card and met her gaze.

“The waltz is my favorite,” he said softly, “and if I am to dance tonight, I would rather it be with the woman who has stolen my attention since the first time I saw her.”

Penelope’s heart fluttered at his words, and she couldn’t help but smile. “Of course,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Michael lifted her hand to his lips once more, placing another lingering kiss on her knuckles. “I shall fetch you when the time comes,” he promised, his voice low and intimate.

With that, he bowed and took his leave, leaving Penelope standing there, blushing. She watched him disappear into the crowd before turning and reuniting with her mother, who stood alone.

**********

As time went on, Penelope was in between conversations with Franchesca or dancing with the gentlemen who signed her dance card. But the night was far from over. Soon enough, Penelope stood beside her mother again, whose eyes were narrowed as she scanned the ballroom. The expression on Portia’s face had shifted from pride to a look of growing displeasure as she watched Lord Stirling approach them with a determined stride. Penelope could feel the tension in the air, and her heart began to race again. 

Michael tilted his head politely, offering a greeting to both women. "Lady Featherington, Miss Featherington," he said, his deep, lilting voice warm but laced with an edge of mischief. His gaze, however, lingered on Penelope, his green eyes glinting with a spark of intensity.

Before any of them could answer, he extended his hand toward Penelope. "Miss Featherington, I believe it is time for our first dance of the evening. Shall we?"

At the mention of "first," Portia’s eyes snapped to her daughter, her expression one of disbelieving concern. "First?" Portia repeated sharply, her tone edged with a mixture of shock and worry. She turned to Penelope, her eyebrows raised in a silent demand for an explanation.

Penelope, feeling the weight of her mother’s stare, swallowed nervously. "Lord Stirling… requested two dances, Mama," she explained quietly, her voice wavering slightly under her mother’s scrutiny. She could see the displeasure in Portia’s eyes, no doubt stemming from Lord Stirling’s reputation as a rake.

Michael, sensing Portia’s disapproval but determined to remain respectful, offered a polite smile. "Indeed, Lady Featherington. I am most fortunate to have secured two dances with your daughter tonight." His gaze shifted back to Penelope, his eyes softening. "I must confess, I find myself quite eager to dance with her."

Portia’s lips pressed together in a thin line, and she looked between her daughter and Michael with suspicion. Still, there was nothing improper in the arrangement thus far—just the usual social maneuvering. But to Portia, it was well-known that dancing with a man, more than once, would initiated some gossips. After a brief, tense pause, Portia forced a tight smile and just nodded at Penelope.

Penelope, feeling both nervous and relieved, placed her small hand in Michael’s as he extended it toward her. His fingers enveloped hers with a gentle but firm grip, sending a jolt of warmth through her. She glanced up at him, meeting his intense green eyes, and together they walked toward the dance floor, the room suddenly feeling both too large and too intimate all at once.

As they reached the center of the ballroom, the music for the cotillion began to play. Michael’s hand rested lightly on Penelope’s waist, and her hand rested in his. The air between them seemed to hum with anticipation as they began to move in perfect harmony. The steps were precise, the movements formal, but Penelope couldn’t ignore the thrill that coursed through her with each touch of his hand.

Michael, for his part, was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his focus. Every time Penelope smiled or laughed softly at one of his remarks, he felt his heart race in response. She was a vision in her light violet gown, her auburn curls gleaming in the candlelight. He had never been so captivated by a woman before—certainly not one as shy, witty and unassuming as Penelope Featherington. And yet, she had bewitched him completely.

As the cotillion came to an end, Michael turned to Penelope, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Miss Featherington, would you be so kind as to indulge me with a turn about the room?"

Penelope hesitated. She knew her mother would not be pleased if she spent too much time with Lord Stirling. "I... I do believe I should return to my mother," she began, though her voice lacked the certainty she intended. She was torn between her desire to be proper and the undeniable pull she felt toward this man. Before she could continue with her refusal, Michael leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "Please," he said, pressing her hand gently against the crook of his arm. "I would very much like to spend more time in your company."

His words, paired with the warm pressure of his hand, made it impossible for Penelope to refuse. She nodded shyly, her heart fluttering as she smiled up at him. "Very well, my lord."

They began their slow walk around the ballroom, moving through the crowd with ease. Their conversation flowed easily, light and teasing at times, serious at others, and Penelope found herself enjoying his company more than she had expected.

As they walked, they passed the Bridgerton family, who were gathered in conversation near the side of the room. Lady Violet Bridgerton’s sharp eyes caught sight of them, and she paused mid-sentence, her gaze following Michael and Penelope as they made their way across the room.

“Isn’t that a sight?" Violet mused, her voice thoughtful. "I cannot help but feel… well, rather surprised by the turn of events."

Her eldest son, Anthony, glanced in the direction of her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly. "Surprised, Mother? Why is that?"

Violet nodded, her lips curving into a small smile. "It’s been quite the night for Miss Featherington, hasn’t it?" she mused. "I had always imagined Penelope as part of our family," she admitted. "As Colin’s wife, to be precise. For years, I thought it inevitable—she was such a dear friend to him. I thought he might one day realize how well they suited, but..." She trailed off, her voice tinged with a hint of regret.

Anthony exchanged a look with Kate, both of them surprised by the revelation. "You wanted Penelope to marry Colin?" Anthony asked.

"Of course," Violet replied with a wistful sigh. "She would have been a lovely match for him. But Colin has always been rather… immature when it comes to such matters."

Anthony, who had always seen Penelope as more of a sister than a potential match for his brother, nodded in agreement. “Colin has been immature in many ways," he remarked. "He took Penelope’s friendship for granted, never truly seeing her. "

Kate, Anthony’s wife, who had been listening quietly to the conversation, glanced at the pair, her eyes softening as she watched Penelope’s laughter spill over. "She deserves someone who sees her for who she truly is," Kate said quietly. "Someone who noticed her from the very first moment."

Violet’s gaze lingered on Penelope and Michael, and she nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps Lord Stirling is that someone."

**********

As Penelope and Michael completed their turn about the room, the time for their second dance—the waltz—was fast approaching. Penelope had danced with every gentleman who had signed her dance card, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of Michael’s gaze following her throughout the evening. Every time she turned, it seemed he was watching her, his eyes burning with something unspoken.

Michael, for his part, had been counting down the minutes until he could claim Penelope for the waltz. He had watched her dance with other men, watched them make her laugh and blush, and he had felt an unfamiliar surge of possessiveness every time. He wanted to be the one who made her smile like that, the one who held her in his arms on the dance floor.

Finally, the moment arrived. The music for the waltz began, and Michael made his way toward Penelope, who was standing with Francesca Bridgerton. He greeted Francesca politely, but his attention was solely on Penelope.

"Miss Featherington," he said, his voice low and intimate. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

Penelope glanced at Francesca, who gave her an encouraging nod, but with a teasing smile said, "Don’t keep him waiting, Pen." Penelope blushed and turned back to Michael. "Of course, my lord," she replied, her voice soft and shy.

Michael took her hand, leading her to the center of the dance floor. As the music began, he placed his hand on her waist, pulling her closer than propriety allowed. His touch was firm yet gentle, and Penelope’s breath hitched at the feel of his hand on her. The warmth of his palm seemed to seep through the fabric of her gown, and she felt as though her skin was aflame beneath his touch.

As they moved together in perfect synchrony, Michael’s left hand slowly trailed downward from her upper back to the curve of her waist. His touch was deliberate, slow, and it sent shivers down Penelope’s spine. She gasped softly, her cheeks flushing as she became acutely aware of how intimately they were dancing.

Michael, too, felt the intensity of the moment. The feel of her soft curves beneath his hand, the way her body moved with his—it was intoxicating. He had never felt so connected to another person before, and it took every ounce of restraint not to pull her even closer.

As they continued to dance, Penelope felt herself becoming lost in the moment. Their eyes were locked, neither of them daring to look away. Around them, the rest of the dancers seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the two of them in the center of the ballroom. Even the Queen, seated with her eyes fixed on the dance floor, had taken notice of the pair, a small but teasing smile playing on her lips.

The final notes of the waltz sounded, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on Penelope, and his grip on her waist tightened slightly, pulling her even closer. Penelope winced, the pressure of his hand almost painful, and she let out a soft whimper. Michael’s eyes, which had been focused on hers, flickered down to her lips, his thoughts becoming dangerous when he noticed how her lips were parted, making a small, startled "o."

Penelope, noticing the shift in his demeanor, unconsciously, bit her lower lip, a gesture that she often did when anxious. Michael’s eyes followed the movement, lingering on her lips with an intensity that made her heart race. The closeness of his lips to hers, combined with the palpable energy between them, was overwhelming. 

From the sidelines, Portia watched with growing concern. Her instincts told her to intervene, but Lady Danbury, ever perceptive and astute, laid a gentle but firm hand on Portia’s arm. Her voice was soft yet commanding, carrying a subtle authority. “Do not be hasty, my dear Lady Featherington,” she advised, her gaze steady on the couple. “There is more to this than meets the eye. Let us observe for a moment.”

Penelope’s nervousness intensified under Michael’s unwavering scrutiny. The intensity of his gaze, coupled with the closeness of their bodies, made her pulse quicken. She struggled to suppress her emotions, aware of the mounting tension. With her voice soft and uncertain, she whispered, “Lord Stirling?”

Michael didn’t seem to hear her at first. His focus was still entirely on her lips, and it took her saying his name again, this time with a bit more urgency, for him to blink and return to himself. “The dance has ended,” she said softly, though her voice trembled ever so slightly, betraying the emotions that swirled beneath her calm façade.

Michael seemed to be jolted from his reverie by her gentle reminder. “I—” He shook his head slightly, pulling back a fraction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...” Slowly, he released her waist, his face a mixture of embarrassment and longing. “Forgive me, Miss Featherington,” he murmured. “It seems I got a bit carried away.”

Michael bowed his head, composing himself. “Shall I take you back to your mother?”

Penelope, still reeling from the intensity of the moment, could only nod, her cheeks flushed as she curtsied in return. As Michael led her back to her mother’s side, both of them were acutely aware of the eyes that followed their every move.

When they reached Lady Featherington, Michael bowed once more, offering his apologies for the extended dance. "Good evening, Lady Featherington, Miss Featherington," he said, his voice tinged with regret as he took his leave.

Portia’s sharp gaze followed him until he was out of sight before turning to her daughter. "Penelope," she said firmly, her voice low but filled with concern. "We need to talk."

**********

Michael made his way towards his cousin John, who was standing nearby with a knowing grin. John’s teasing nature was evident as he greeted Michael with a smirk. “You seemed quite captivated out there, Michael. Did you forget you were at a ball and not in a romance novel?”

Michael’s face reddened further but shot John a look. Even then, Michael could not help that the corners of his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Shut up, John,” he muttered, but he couldn’t deny the truth. “Penelope Featherington has a way of drawing one in more than expected.”

As Michael joined John and the other men, he could not shake the lingering feelings from the dance. The memory of Penelope’s blush, the softness of her curves, and the intensity of their shared moment played over in his mind. Despite the teasing from his cousin and the scrutiny from the ballroom’s onlookers, Michael’s thoughts remained focused on the enchanting lady who had managed to captivate him so profoundly.

As he tried to shake off the remnants of his distraction, he stole one last glance towards Penelope, who was now standing by her mother, her gaze turned towards the floor, her posture slightly withdrawn. Michael watched as her mother, with an angry face, spoke to Penelope. Michael felt guilty and cursed himself internally. He resolved to be more mindful in their future interactions, determined to honor the respect and admiration he felt for her, no matter how distracting her presence might be.

**********

As soon as Michael Stirling disappeared into the crowd, Penelope felt the full weight of her mother’s gaze settle on her. Lady Portia Featherington was clearly displeased, her eyes narrowed with a mix of concern and disapproval. Penelope, still flushed and somewhat breathless from the waltz, knew there was no avoiding what was coming next.

“Penelope,” Portia said in a low, firm voice, “what was that?”

Penelope’s heart sank as she realized that her mother had noticed more than she had hoped. She hadn’t expected to be scrutinized so closely, but Lady Featherington missed nothing, especially when it came to her youngest daughter’s prospects.

“What do you mean, Mama?” Penelope asked quietly, her voice timid as she tried to deflect some of the tension.

Portia’s eyes narrowed further. “You know perfectly well what I mean, Penelope. That waltz! And before that, you let Lord Stirling sign his name for two dances, in full view of the ton. Two dances! Do you have any idea what kind of gossip this will create?”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed again, this time out of embarrassment. She hadn’t meant to draw so much attention, but she couldn’t deny that she had enjoyed dancing with Lord Stirling—more than she had expected. Still, she knew her mother was right. Two dances with the same man, would certainly stir the gossip mill.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to seem improper, Mama,” Penelope stammered, struggling to explain herself. “Lord Stirling asked, and I didn’t want to be rude. He was quite… persistent.”

Portia let out a frustrated sigh, her gaze flicking around the room as if to ensure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “Penelope, you must be careful. Lord Stirling may be charming, but he is a rake—a man of reputation who could ruin yours with a single misstep. Do you understand the risks you’re taking by allowing him to show you this kind of attention?”

Penelope nodded, though her heart ached at the harsh truth of her mother’s words. She had always known that her prospects in the marriage mart were delicate, and though she was determined to secure a husband at this season, such an approach as she had had with Lord Stirling might ruin her prospects.

“I understand, Mama,” she replied softly. “But he was kind to me.”

Portia arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Kindness is not enough, Penelope. This is about your future—your reputation. The ton will be talking about this for days, and you cannot afford to have your name tarnished by association with a man like him.”

Penelope swallowed hard, her chest tightening with a mixture of shame and confusion. She didn’t want to upset her mother, but a part of her resisted the idea that Michael Stirling’s attention was entirely negative. There had been something genuine in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her. Couldn’t there be more to him than his reputation?

As if sensing her daughter’s internal struggle, Portia softened her tone, though her concern remained evident. “I know you’re not used to this kind of attention, Penelope,” she said gently. “But you must be wise. You’re doing so well this season, my dear. You have suitors—good suitors—men like Lord Wycliff and Mr. Parkhurst who are respectable and reliable. Why risk it all for a man like Lord Stirling?”

Penelope nodded, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to meet her mother’s eyes. “I know, Mama,” she whispered. “I’ll be more careful.”

Satisfied, though still not entirely reassured, Portia straightened her posture and nodded. “Good. Now, we’ll speak no more of it tonight. We’ll leave shortly.”

As Portia turned to look out across the ballroom, her thoughts still clouded with worry, Penelope stood quietly beside her, her mind racing with questions. What had just happened? The intensity of her interaction with Michael, the way he had looked at her, the way his hand had lingered on her waist—it was all so confusing. 

She was so lost in her thoughts that she barely noticed when her mother began gathering her things, signaling that they were preparing to leave. Her mind was still spinning. Would he seek her out again after tonight? Or had she ruined everything with her suitors? Had they seen the waltz? What will she do if she doesn't get a marriage proposal until the end of the season? 

As they made their way toward the entrance, Penelope caught sight of Michael standing near the doorway, his expression unreadable. For a moment, their eyes met again. His gaze held a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or uncertainty. It was clear that he had been watching her, waiting for her.

But as quickly as their gaze met, Penelope looked away, her mother’s words ringing in her ears. Be careful.

Michael, on the other hand, watched Penelope as she left, his own mind clouded with regret. He had let the moment get away from him, and he feared he might have ruined whatever chance he had with her. He had acted too boldly, too rashly, and now she was slipping away from him.

Chapter Text

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It seems the season is already shaping up to be one of the most scandalous in recent memory. The second ball of the season was not without its fair share of spectacle and as always, it has provided ample material for discussion. And, at the heart of it all?

None other than Miss Penelope Featherington, whose recent transformation has certainly not gone unnoticed. She made quite an entrance in a charming light violet silk organza ballgown, a gown that—despite the soft shade—caught the eye of many in attendance. For the second time this season, her dance card was filled, proving that this formerly overlooked debutante is now quite the subject of interest among the gentlemen of the ton. But, dear readers, as we all know, not all attentions are as favorable as they may first appear.

Lord Wycliff, the ever-steadfast Earl of Camden, has taken a genuine interest in Miss Featherington, a match that, on the surface, would be nothing short of respectable. His gentlemanly nature and ability to make her laugh and ease her nerves in the bustling ballroom is something we should all admire. However, it seems another man has taken it upon himself to cast a shadow over this budding connection.

Ah yes, I speak, of course, of Lord Stirling. The infamous rake, whose reputation as a rake has traveled far faster than any invitation. His behavior at the last ball can only be described as ungentlemanly—no, dear readers, it was almost improper. Lord Stirling’s interest in Miss Featherington has been undeniable, but his conduct on the dance floor? Well, it was far from what one might expect from a man of his station. His lingering touches, his intense stares, and the way he monopolized Miss Featherington’s time with not one but two dances, including the intimate waltz—it was enough to make the most seasoned members of the ton blush.

One cannot help but wonder if Miss Featherington understands the dangers of such associations. Will her suitors—Lord Wycliff, Mr. Parkhurst, and others—continue their pursuit, or will this scandalous display from Lord Stirling make them reconsider? A young lady’s reputation is as fragile as lace, and such bold advances from a man like Lord Stirling could unravel her prospects. Is Miss Featherington about to be swept into a gossip storm that could ruin her once again?

Of course, this ball was not without its usual undercurrents of drama. Elsewhere in the ballroom, whispers could be heard about the Cowper family and their incessant matchmaking schemes, while Lady Bridgerton was seen in deep conversation with Lady Featherington, likely concerned over the very topic we discuss today.

As always, I shall keep my eyes and ears sharp, for there is always more beneath the surface than what meets the eye. For in this season, no secret is safe, and no reputation is beyond the reach of scandal.

Yours truly, 

Lady Whistledown

Two days. Two long, restless days had passed since the second ball of the season. The morning sun streamed through the window of Penelope’s room, bathing her in soft light, but she barely noticed it. Her mind was far too preoccupied, replaying the events of that fateful night over and over again. The ball had been a whirlwind—dancing with Mr. Parkhurst, her easy conversations with Lord Wycliff, linking arms with Francesca Bridgerton as they laughed quietly together. But there was something else that lingered on her mind, something that made her heart race in ways she didn’t fully understand: Lord Michael Stirling.

She couldn’t shake the memory of his bold request for two dances, the feeling of his hand guiding hers as they took a turn about the ballroom. And during the waltz, how close he had come to her. Too close. His eyes never left hers, his hand had lingered on her waist longer than was proper, and his mouth—he had leaned in, dangerously close to hers. For a fleeting moment, she had let herself wonder what might have happened had she not averted her face, had she allowed him to close that gap between them. Right there, in the middle of the dance floor, in full view of the ton. If he had kissed her, she would have been ruined, forced into marriage with a man she hardly knew—a man whose reputation as a rake was known to all.

And yet, she was drawn to him. Against her better judgment, she couldn’t help but feel curious about the man who had seemed so captivated by her.

Penelope sighed, her thoughts darkening as she recalled the gossip she had heard the morning after the ball. While visiting the modiste with her mother, snippets of conversation from other ladies had reached her ears. Lord Stirling, it seemed, had quite the reputation. A rake through and through, a man who had left a trail of broken hearts and shattered reputations in his wake. That was why, when she sat down to write the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s pamphlet, she had been harsh. She hated writing about herself, especially when it cast her in an unfavorable light, but it was necessary. She had to protect herself.

**********

At the Stirling household…

Michael sat across from his cousin, John, at the long, polished breakfast table. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm bread filled the air, but neither man seemed particularly interested in their food. Instead, they were engaged in their usual morning banter, exchanging jests and light-hearted insults, as they often did.

“You seemed quite taken with Miss Featherington,” John teased, smirking as he reached for a scone. “Or should I say, more than taken.”

Michael rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. “You’ve always had a talent for stating the obvious, cousin,” he muttered, cutting into his ham and avoiding John’s knowing gaze.

Before John could respond, the mail arrived, brought in by one of the footmen. A small pile of letters and pamphlets was placed between them on the table. Michael gave the stack a cursory glance, barely interested, until his eye caught the now-infamous Lady Whistledown’s latest edition sitting near the top.

He grimaced. “That,” he said, gesturing toward the pamphlet, “I can live without.”

John, ever curious, reached for it. “You’ve never read Lady Whistledown?” he asked, amusement clear in his tone. “She’s quite entertaining.”

“Gossip,” Michael muttered, pushing his plate aside. “Hardly worth the ink it’s printed on.”

John raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond. Instead, he began to read, scanning the page until his face slowly shifted from casual curiosity to something far more serious. His smile faded, replaced by a frown as his eyes widened slightly. “Oh dear,” he murmured under his breath.

Michael, noticing the change in his cousin’s expression, frowned. “What is it? What does it say?”

John, half-teasing and half-worried, began to read aloud: “The infamous rake, whose reputation,… His behavior at the last ball can only be described as ungentlemanly—no, dear readers, it was almost improper. Lord Stirling’s interest in Miss Featherington has been undeniable, but his conduct on the dance floor? Well, it was far from what one might expect from a man of his station.” 

At the mention of his name, paired with Penelope’s, Michael’s head snapped up, his brow furrowed in confusion. “What?” he asked sharply, his voice low but tense. “Let me see that.”

Ignoring his demand, John continued reading, his tone now more serious. “One cannot help but wonder if Miss Featherington understands the dangers of such associations. Will her suitors continue their pursuit, or will this scandalous display from Lord Stirling make them reconsider? A young lady’s reputation ...”

John trailed off, the weight of the words sinking in. He looked up from the pamphlet, meeting Michael’s gaze, and was met with an expression that had gone from confused to furious in the span of seconds.

Michael’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists on the table. But it wasn’t Lady Whistledown’s scathing words that angered him—it was himself. He had been reckless. He had let his jealousy, his desire, get the better of him. He had allowed his attraction to Penelope to cloud his judgment, and in doing so, he had jeopardized her reputation.

John watched his cousin carefully, noting the storm brewing in Michael’s eyes. “Michael,” he said cautiously, setting the pamphlet down. “You know she’s right. You were… well, you were a bit too forward at the last ball.”

Michael didn’t respond immediately, his mind replaying the events of the ball in excruciating detail. He had been so focused on getting Penelope’s attention, on being near her, that he hadn’t realized just how far he had gone. He had held her too close during the waltz, lingered too long in her presence, and the way he had looked at her… He groaned inwardly, realizing the depth of his mistake. He had let his impulses take control, and now, Penelope’s future could be at risk because of him.

“No,” Michael muttered under his breath, his face darkening with regret. “I was a fool.”

John, sensing his cousin’s self-loathing, leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as he studied him. “You were,” he said dryly, but his teasing tone was laced with concern. “You’ve put her in a difficult position, Michael. And if you keep acting like this, you’re going to drive her—and everyone else—away.”

Michael was silent, his thoughts spinning. He had to fix this. He couldn’t stand the idea of being the cause of Penelope’s downfall. She was too good, too kind, to be tainted by his reputation, by his recklessness.

John, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow at his cousin’s tortured expression. “You’re serious about her, aren’t you?”

Michael hesitated for a moment before nodding. “I am,” he confessed, his voice rough with emotion. “I don’t know how to explain it, but from the moment I saw her…” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I just knew. There’s something about her, John. She’s not like the others.”

John’s usual smirk softened into something more genuine. “Well, if that’s the case, then you need to change your approach. You can’t keep acting like a jealous schoolboy, chasing after her with all that intensity. If you want her, you have to show her that you’re serious. That you can be trusted.”

Michael exhaled, leaning back in his chair as he stared at the table. “I’ve made a mess of things.”

“You’re not wrong,” John said with a shrug, “but it’s not too late to fix it. If you’re genuinely interested in Miss Featherington, then stop behaving like a rake and start behaving like a gentleman.”

Michael ran a hand through his hair, frustration boiling inside him. He had never been one to shy away from pursuing what—or who—he wanted. But with Penelope, it was different. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to protect her, to earn her trust.

“I’ll fix it,” Michael said quietly, more to himself than to John. “I have to.”

John, sensing the seriousness in his cousin’s voice, gave him a supportive nod. “Good. Because if you don’t, I have a feeling Miss Featherington will have no shortage of other suitors waiting to take your place.”

With that, they both fell silent, the gravity of the situation hanging over them. Michael knew he had work to do—starting with an apology. He couldn’t afford to let his feelings for Penelope spiral out of control again. This time, he would be careful. This time, he would earn her trust.

**********

Back at the Featherington household… 

Sitting by the window, Penelope was so lost in thought that she didn’t hear her Mama enter the room. Portia, clutching the newest edition of Lady Whistledown in her hand, stormed toward her daughter, her face flushed with barely contained fury. Apparently she had not heard her Mama calling out to her, until she yelled.

“Penelope!” Portia’s sharp voice broke through Penelope’s reverie, making her jump in surprise. She nearly knocked over the small vase of flowers on the windowsill in her startled state.

Penelope turned, her heart racing as she saw the wild look in her mother’s eyes. “Mama?” she asked cautiously, taking in the way her mother’s fingers were curled tightly around the pamphlet.

Portia’s chest heaved with anger as she waved the scandal sheet in the air. “Have you seen this? Have you read what that dreadful Lady Whistledown has written? How dare she! How dare she write such things about you and that rake?”

Penelope flinched at her mother’s words, knowing full well that the ink on that page was her own. But she couldn’t reveal that, not now, not ever.

“Mama, it’s just gossip,” Penelope said, her voice soft and calm, though her heart was thudding in her chest. “The ton will move on to something else soon enough. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Portia exclaimed, her voice rising with each word. “This is not nothing, Penelope. The ton will be talking about this for days—weeks, even! I told you to be careful, and look at what's happened. Your name is now linked to that—that rake, Lord Stirling! Do you think your suitors will still come calling after reading this? Do you?”

Penelope’s stomach tightened as her mother’s words sank in. Would her suitors still come calling? She had been so caught up in her own emotions, in her curiosity about Lord Stirling, that she hadn’t fully considered the consequences. Her reputation was already fragile; could she afford this new scandal?

“Mama, it was just a waltz,” Penelope tried to explain, hoping to soothe her mother’s rising anger.

But her words seemed to have the opposite effect. Portia’s eyes flashed with fury as she stepped closer, waving the pamphlet in front of Penelope’s face. “Just a waltz? Just a waltz, Penelope? He held you far too close, much too close! And it was clear to everyone that he was about to kiss you, right there in front of the entire ballroom. So no, it was not just a waltz!”

Penelope’s breath quickened as her mother’s words hit their mark. She had felt it too, the way Lord Stirling’s hand had lingered on her waist, the way his gaze had burned into hers. And now, because of that moment—because of her own foolish curiosity—her reputation was at risk. She had made it worse by writing about it in Lady Whistledown, trying to control the narrative, but had she only drawn more attention to the scandal?

Before Penelope could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them. Varley appeared in the doorway, her expression unreadable.

“My lady, Miss Penelope,” Varley said, her voice steady, though she glanced nervously between mother and daughter. “You have callers waiting for you in the drawing room.”

For a moment, both Portia and Penelope were too stunned to speak. Callers? After Lady Whistledown's pamphlet?

Portia’s anger melted into surprise, though she quickly composed herself. “Well then,” she said, smoothing her skirts and lifting her chin. “Let us hope that your callers are as forgiving as I would wish.”

As she turned to leave the room, Portia glanced back at Penelope, her expression softening just slightly. “Remember, Penelope, you must be cautious. Do not let a man like Lord Stirling ruin your reputation.”

Penelope nodded silently, her mind swirling with uncertainty. As she followed her mother toward the drawing room, her thoughts raced. Would her suitors still wish to call on her after what had been written in Lady Whistledown? Or had Michael Stirling’s reckless behavior, coupled with her own mistakes, cast a shadow over her prospects once again?

Penelope and her mother walked slowly down the corridor toward the drawing room, the weight of Portia’s earlier words still heavy on Penelope’s mind. After the harsh criticism in Lady Whistledown’s pamphlet, she had half-expected no callers at all. The prospect of facing whoever was waiting for her in the drawing room after what she, herself, had written about her left her feeling both nervous and uncertain. 

As they approached the drawing room, Portia paused for a moment, her gaze flicking over Penelope critically, before pushing open the door. Inside, Lord Wycliff and Mr. Victor Parkhurst stood waiting, each impeccably dressed and holding bouquets of flowers. Their smiles, as Penelope stepped into the room, were warm and genuine—at least, she thought so. For a brief moment, relief flooded through her, though the nervousness in her stomach refused to fully ease.

Portia, ever the vigilant mother, gave Penelope a subtle nudge with her elbow, prompting her to step forward. Penelope blinked and smiled shyly, her heart pounding as she curtsied politely. Both gentlemen bowed in return, their expressions courteous and polite.

The first to approach was Mr. Parkhurst, his kind eyes twinkling as he held out a beautiful bouquet of soft white roses. “Miss Featherington,” he greeted warmly, his voice full of sincerity. “It is a pleasure to see you again. I trust you have been well since the ball?”

Penelope smiled, accepting the flowers with a soft “Thank you, Mr. Parkhurst. I have been well, indeed.”

Their conversation flowed naturally, much to her relief. Mr. Parkhurst beamed as they discussed their shared memories of the ball, and Penelope was struck by how genuine his words felt. He seemed to be completely unaffected by the scandal circulating around Lord Stirling’s behavior, a fact that both reassured and surprised her.

As their conversation came to a close, Mr. Parkhurst turned toward Portia, his tone turning respectful and earnest. “Lady Featherington, I would like to ask your permission to escort Miss Featherington to the upcoming art exhibition at the museum tomorrow.”

Portia, her stern demeanor softening ever so slightly, nodded graciously. “Mr. Parkhurst, I would be honored. I believe Penelope would enjoy such an outing.”

With her mother’s approval given, Mr. Parkhurst turned back to Penelope with a smile. “And you, Miss Featherington? Will you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you tomorrow?”

Penelope’s heart fluttered at the gentleman’s kindness. “I would be delighted, Mr. Parkhurst. Thank you.”

He bowed again, clearly pleased with her response, before bidding both ladies farewell. As he departed, Penelope found herself feeling lighter. Mr. Parkhurst, it seemed, had not been swayed by the gossip. Perhaps not everything had been ruined after all.

**********

Next, Lord Wycliff stepped forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he approached Penelope. In his hands, he carried a bouquet of irises—a vivid violet that mirrored the color of Penelope’s gown from the second ball. Penelope’s breath caught as she admired the flowers, captivated by their beauty.

“Miss Featherington,” Lord Wycliff greeted with a teasing smile. “I thought these might suit you quite well.”

Penelope blushed, her cheeks warming as she accepted the bouquet. “They’re lovely. Thank you, Lord Wycliff.”

Her gaze lingered on the flowers for a moment, and she blushed when she realized she had been staring. Flustered, she called for Rae to take the flowers. “Rae, would you mind placing these in water and setting them in my bedchamber?” Penelope said softly. Rae, ever the dutiful and discreet maid, nodded with a small smile and took the flowers from her, leaving Penelope to turn her attention back to Lord Wycliff.

“I’m glad you like them,” he replied, bowing slightly. “But that’s not all.” From his other hand, Lord Wycliff revealed a small package wrapped in delicate paper and tied with a neat bow. He handed it to Penelope, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “A little something for your collection.”

Intrigued, Penelope untied the bow and carefully unwrapped the package. Inside was a book—Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen. Penelope’s heart softened at the thoughtful gesture, and she smiled widely at Lord Wycliff, feeling truly touched by his consideration.

“I remembered you mentioned your love of romance novels during my last visit,” Lord Wycliff said, his tone light. “So I thought this might be to your liking.”

Penelope felt a surge of warmth at his words. He had remembered. He had been paying attention. “Thank you, Lord Wycliff,” she said softly, her smile brightening. “It’s a lovely gift.”

Their conversation continued, full of light teasing and easy laughter. Lord Wycliff had a way of making her feel at ease, and his playful banter brought out a side of Penelope she hadn’t known was there. She found herself responding with wit and humor, their exchanges filled with an effortless rhythm.

As the mid-morning stretched on, Lord Wycliff glanced toward the window, where the sunlight poured in, bathing the room in a warm glow. “It seems a shame to spend such a beautiful day indoors,” he remarked, a twinkle in his eye. “Would you be amenable to a promenade in Hyde Park?”

Penelope glanced at her mother, who gave a small nod of approval. “I think that sounds wonderful,” Penelope replied, her excitement bubbling just beneath the surface.

As Penelope and Lord Wycliff prepared to leave the drawing room, Varley entered the room, her face composed but with a slight tension in her expression. She glanced between Penelope and her mother before speaking carefully.

“My lady, Miss Penelope,” Varley began, her voice steady but with an edge of apprehension. “You have another caller.”

Portia raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the sudden influx of visitors. “Another caller?” she repeated, her voice tinged with surprise. “Who?”

Miss Varley hesitated for a moment before responding. “Lord Stirling, my lady. He has come to see Miss Featherington.”

A cold shock ran through Penelope at the mention of his name. Her mother’s posture stiffened beside her, and Penelope felt her breath catch in her throat. Lord Stirling? Here? After everything that had happened at the ball? After the scandal in Lady Whistledown’s paper?

Chapter Text

What?! What is he doing here? Penelope’s mind screamed as a wave of anxiety rushed through her. Her pulse quickened, and she instinctively felt herself grow nervous at the mention of Lord Stirling. As she stood by her mother, she could feel the heat of Portia’s anger emanating from her, even before a word was uttered. Portia was furious, and it was evident from the way she tightened her lips and clenched her fists.

“That man again,” Portia muttered under her breath, her voice low and sharp. “He thinks he can come here after the way he behaved at the last ball? I won’t stand for it. We’ll—”

“Mama, please ,” Penelope whispered, cutting her mother off, her tone pleading. She didn’t want a confrontation, not here, not now. “Let’s not do—”

Before Penelope could finish, a small cough interrupted them, and both women turned to see Lord Wycliff standing by with a slightly raised eyebrow. It was clear that both Penelope and her mother had forgotten his presence in the room.

Portia, ever quick to regain control of any situation, turned to Lord Wycliff with a polite but stiff smile. “Lord Wycliff, my apologies,” she said, her voice a little too formal. “I must attend to this matter. But please, remain here with my daughter. Rae will chaperone you both while I handle this… other caller.”

Penelope opened her mouth to protest, but Portia’s expression left no room for discussion. With a nod to Rae, Portia swept out of the drawing room, closing the door behind her. 

Penelope watched her mother leave, her heart sinking. She could only imagine what Lord Stirling wanted, and it unsettled her greatly. She turned to Lord Wycliff, who gave her an encouraging smile, but there was an undercurrent of tension in the air that even he couldn’t dispel. Rae, standing dutifully nearby, maintained her usual composed demeanor, but even she exchanged a concerned glance with Penelope.

In the corridor, Portia’s steps were quick and purposeful as she made her way to the entrance hall where Varley stood, ready to introduce Lord Stirling. Michael Stirling followed closely behind, his demeanor much more subdued than usual, as if he were preparing himself for a battle. When they reached Portia, Varley glanced between her lady and Lord Stirling before Portia gave a slight nod and dismissed her. 

“I’ll take it from here, Varley,” Portia said crisply. “Thank you.”

Once they were alone, Michael bowed his head respectfully. “Lady Featherington,” he greeted, his voice firm but not without warmth. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance again.”

Portia, however, was not in the mood for pleasantries. “Lord Stirling,” she responded with a tight-lipped smile that barely masked her displeasure. “I was informed that you have come to visit my daughter.”

“Yes,” Michael replied, his tone steady. “I wished to see Miss Featherington and perhaps request a promenade with her.”

Portia sighed, shaking her head lightly, a quiet but pointed gesture. “I’m afraid you are much too late, my lord,” she replied. “You now find yourself in quite the predicament. My daughter is already engaged in a conversation with a suitor.”

Michael’s polite smile faltered for a brief moment, but he quickly composed himself. His determination not to be deterred was clear in his eyes. “I understand,” he said, taking a deep breath. “But I would greatly appreciate the chance to speak with Miss Featherington—perhaps just a few words? And, if it pleases her, a promenade later in the afternoon.”

Portia, protective of her youngest daughter’s newfound prospects, crossed her arms and leveled her gaze at him. “My daughter already has an escort for a promenade this afternoon, my lord. I cannot ask her to break such an arrangement. Surely, you understand.”

Michael clenched his jaw but remained respectful. He knew that Penelope’s mother wasn’t fond of him, and for good reason. Still, he wouldn’t give up so easily. “Then perhaps tomorrow,” he offered, “there’s an exhibition at the museum, and I—”

Portia held up her hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. “She’s engaged tomorrow as well, my lord,” she replied, her tone growing more firm with each word.

Michael blinked, trying to mask his frustration, but he was nothing if not persistent. “And the day after?” he asked, hope flickering in his voice.

Portia sighed once again, exasperated. “Now that I think of it, she may be free…”

Michael’s face brightened, though he could sense the resistance behind Portia’s words. She was not going to make this easy for him. Before he could speak again, Portia stepped closer, her expression hardening.

“But tell me, Lord Stirling,” she said, her voice low and serious, “what is it that you truly want here?”

Michael blinked in surprise at the directness of her question. He stayed silent for a moment, unsure how to answer without further irritating her. The truth was, he wasn’t entirely certain himself—except that he couldn’t seem to stay away from Penelope. But how could he say that to her mother, of all people?

What did he want?

He wanted Penelope.

Portia’s eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him struggle to respond. She had seen his type before—charming, rakish men who flitted from one lady to the next, leaving chaos in their wake. And she would not allow her daughter to be caught in that kind of storm. Not now, when Penelope was finally starting to gain attention from respectable suitors.

After a long pause, Portia spoke again, her voice edged with suspicion. “I find it rather disconcerting, my lord, that you are here now, after not only the reckless behavior you exhibited at the last ball, but after everything I have heard about your… reputation.”

Michael opened his mouth to respond, but Portia held up her hand once again. “Your behavior with my daughter was improper, Lord Stirling. You held her much too close, you looked at her as if… as if she were your next conquest. And the ton has been whispering about it ever since.”

Michael’s face tightened with frustration, but he held back the urge to defend himself. She wasn’t wrong. He had been reckless, and it had cost Penelope dearly. 

Portia continued, her voice unyielding. “And now I read about you—in print , no less—your libertine reputation preceding you. Surely, you understand why I must protect my daughter from men like you.”

Michael took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “I do understand, Lady Featherington. That is why I’m here. To make amends.”

Portia raised an eyebrow. “Amends?” she echoed, clearly skeptical.

“Yes,” Michael replied, his voice softening. “I owe you and Miss Featherington an apology. I behaved recklessly at the ball, and I did not consider how my actions might affect her reputation. I put her in a difficult position, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

Portia’s expression softened ever so slightly. An apology had been the last thing she had expected from Lord Stirling. Still, she wasn’t fully convinced.

“It’s all well and good to apologize, Lord Stirling,” she said after a long pause, “but words alone are not enough. The ton is unforgiving, especially toward young women like my daughter. You must understand that this has put her in a precarious situation.”

Michael nodded, his face darkening with regret. “I understand,” he said quietly. “And I intend to do whatever it takes to make things right.”

Before Portia could respond, the door to the drawing room opened, and out stepped Penelope, her small hand resting lightly on Lord Wycliff’s arm. Rae followed closely behind them, her chaperone duties apparent. Penelope’s eyes widened slightly when she saw Michael, filled with confusion and uncertainty, and their gazes locked for a brief moment before she quickly turned away.

Michael’s heart clenched at the sight of her with Lord Wycliff. He tried to contain the surge of jealousy that welled up inside him, but it was clear that Penelope was already moving on—finding attention from other suitors. And it hurt more than he cared to admit.

“Miss Featherington,” he said quietly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil inside him.

Penelope paused mid-step, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and unease. “Lord Stirling,” she replied, her voice steady but cautious.

Michael cleared his throat, his nerves betraying him. “I wanted to apologize,” he began, his voice softer than before. “For the way I behaved at the last ball. I… I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. I acted impulsively, and I should never have put your reputation at risk. I’m truly sorry.”

Penelope blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. She hadn’t expected an apology, especially not one so heartfelt. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond.

Finally, she offered him a small, tentative smile. “Thank you, Lord Stirling,” she said quietly. “I appreciate your apology. And… it’s best we put it behind us.”

Her words, though gracious, felt like a knife twisting in his chest. She was willing to forgive, but her tone made it clear that she was ready to move on. As if sensing his distress she gave him another polite smile before turning back to Lord Wycliff.

Her smile. It was brief, but it was enough to stir something deep inside him, something that only made him more determined to prove himself to her.

With that, Penelope excused herself and exited the house with Lord Wycliff, leaving Michael standing there, watching them. Michael had gone to the Featherington house to make amends with Penelope and apologise, and he had succeeded. But the battle for her heart? That was far from over.