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Chapter Text

“Hyacinth!” The shrill screams from those close enough to see her fall into the lake, unconscious after hitting her head on the way down the pier, steal the attention of everyone in attendance of the impromptu picnic at Aubrey Hall.

As does the second splash when Penelope, who had been standing closest to her, dives in after.

She's read too many stories of how drowning can happen quickly and she doesn't even hesitate, doesn't even think, her mind is so blank with pure panic that she just acts on instinct. The instinct to protect this family that feels more like one to her than her own.

(She has memories of swimming in a lake much like this one with friends when she was younger–before the move, before she left the few people she had made friends with–the locals of the nearby village she had befriended before her mother found out and forbade her from seeing them ever again.

And despite the tender ache those memories bring her, she’ll feel relief later on for still remembering how to do it.)

Because she is already underwater, forcing her eyes open as she reaches out frantically for Bridgerton blue amongst refracted reeds and hazy green-tinted water, she doesn't hear the third splash that enters the lake at her back until she's managed to grab a hold of her small arm, and then strong arms are pulling both of them back into the light.

She gasps for breath as her eyes adjust and she distantly notices who has Hyacinth in his arms, but her attention is quickly turned to the girl herself when fear pierces her chest, waves of panic that swarm her like the lake water that almost took the life of this little girl, when she sees her eyes are still closed.

Not her, please. She pleads silently, not knowing Lord Bridgerton is begging the same.

He places her gently on the edge of the pier, Benedict frantically fussing over her unconscious form as Violet has already screamed for a doctor and the rest of the family is behind them on the small pier that can barely hold them, faces stricken with fear and worry.

Anthony’s face is drawn tight, though not as tight as the hold he has on his own fear and worry, needing to push it aside so he can focus on bringing her back.

Penelope's mind blanks as she watches anxiously with the rest how Benedict tries to wake her, as she holds on to the side of the wooden post to keep her balance amongst the water that reaches at her breasts.

He tries propping her on her side with the help of Anthony who's still standing next to her and they alternate between forcibly patting her back and shaking her to expel the water from her lungs, calling out to her hoping she will respond, while all of them grow more and more agitated at her non-response.

Penelope's hands clench as much as her heart the longer it goes on, knowing time is of the essence, and her panicked breaths increase and it feels like she cannot breathe right alongside this beautiful girl that has stolen her heart with her kindness and light.

Please, please… she pleads, as every deity she's ever read about flashes through her mind and–

She freezes in epiphany.

Like a beautiful strike of light from the heavens themselves, knowledge she remembers from one of the many medical texts she's read pops into her mind at the recollection of deities:

“to breathe the breath of Isis…”

Her eyes widen in recognition as she remembers the information and yells over the frantic calls of Hyacinth’s name from her family, desperate to save this girl.

“Move!”

Seeing no time to explain why or what she knows, she shoves them aside in her haste to get on top of the pier, heedless of her sopping dress, when she shoves Benedict aside, and in the face of such uncharacteristic behavior (and shock from what they are starting to become more and more certain is the beginning of another loss, another period of unending grief) he can do nothing but what she says.

Anthony on the other hand, is much less reluctant to do so when anger makes itself known on his expression as he tries to keep a tight grasp on his quickly unraveling feelings–as tight as his hold on Hyacinth, believing, however irrationally, that he can keep her soul, her light, with him if he holds on tight enough.

He cannot lose her. He cannot. Not his girl. This cannot be the last time he holds her in his arms.

(Not again.)

“Miss Featherington, this is not the time!” He fiercely growls.

She locks gazes with him and with a certainty that belies urgency, she asserts,

“I know what I am doing, trust me. I will bring her back.”

The fear overtakes his face for a moment, desperate to try to control this situation that cannot be controlled, before he sees the resolute determination in her features, the absolute knowing in her stance and relents, albeit begrudgingly, as he moves his shaking grip to her small hand instead.

(Afraid, perhaps that if he actually lets go, he will never get her back.

…Just like their father.)

Penelope, certain in her knowledge, gets into position as she mentally recalls:

“To renew the breathing a strong person may blow his own breath into the patient’s mouth with all the force he can, holding his nostrils at the same time. When it can be perceived by the rising of the chest or belly that the lungs are filled with air, the persons ought to desist from blowing, and should press the breast and belly so as to expel the air again; and this operation may be repeated for some time, alternately inflating and depressing the lungs so as to imitate natural respiration.”

Minutes pass as they all watch with bated breath and Anthony drops his head and begins to despair, starting to become more and more certain it was a terrible mistake to leave the life of his most precious girl in the hands of a little chit, just what in the hell was he thinking? If he and Benedict just kept at it a little long–

And then he hears it.

The absolutely beautiful sounds of coughing and hacking break him from his thoughts as the air also fully enters his lungs once again.

Cool relief overtakes the heat of panic, and the tension is snapped from his body like a marionette cut from its strings, and his body falls forward to press his forehead gently against Hyacinth's stomach from his place in the water when she finally lays down from expelling the water from her lungs, reveling in the marvelous feeling of her belly expanding with beautiful breaths as he closes his eyes, breathing in sync with her.

Penelope herself is feeling much the same as she rests a shaking hand next to Anthony's head, feeling the breaths expand her ribs.

She can do nothing but close her eyes in relief as well, thankful to the Goddess Isis, this beautiful goddess of protection and healing, feeling blessed by the Deity herself.

A collective breath of relief can be heard from the rest of the family and guests, as tears and sobs are both stifled and released, just as a maid arrives nearly out of breath to inform them that the doctor has finally arrived.

Benedict leans in next to Penelope who opens her eyes, and he grips her shoulder tight as a few tears escape him at the sharpness of his relief and he silently thanks her, at a loss for words.

(They all are.)

She cannot muster a reassuring smile as the lingering pain and fear of what could've been prevents her from doing so, but she does manage a solemn nod and a tightening of her lips in a vague imitation of a smile.

He moves forward to take a disoriented Hyacinth in his arms to carry her back to Aubrey Hall where the physician awaits, jostling Anthony who forces himself to let go of her reluctantly, but also knowing it is necessary.

The others begin to trail behind the light of this little girl they can't live without, and the guests are led back inside, but Eloise remains behind at other end of the pier, wavering between going and staying as she also wants to ascertain the health of her friend who is like a sister to her, and ultimately decides on watching from afar as her sister in blood is taken to the house while waiting for her sister of the heart.

Penelope, exhausted by the emotional upheaval and the physical exertion of resuscitation, sighs as she leans back, finally, with her hands in her lap and her legs to the side, restricted from her saturated dress.

Her movement catches the attention of Anthony, who has also been trailing Hyacinth with his eyes, as he flicks them up in front of him once again.

Anthony watches her, haloed by the sunlight that streams through the trees, and muses, for a moment, how Penelope seems almost Saint-like, deeply grateful and amazed that she brought his little girl back to him, to them.

He is about to attempt to convey his gratitude to this girl he severely underestimated when his words are robbed from his lungs and his breath hitches a little, eyes transitioning from intent amazement to intent lust.

In all the commotion and desperation she hadn’t even realized she did not take her gloves off and now they are not only restricting her movement, they are starting to increase her discomfort, so she improvises to take them off.

And Anthony can do nothing but watch as she–almost in slow motion–peels her gloves off with her teeth.

He dips his chin down slightly as he stares with darkened eyes, entranced as those soft-looking, petal-pink lips part as her teeth bite the white satin of her translucent gloves, pulling upward and exposing the creamy white skin of her neck.

His mind goes blank as heat starts to overtake his body, this time for a completely different reason, and he cannot even blink until she is done and it is only then that he realizes the state of her.

Dark, damp, titian red hair that, in the commotion, has become dislodged from its hairstyle, clings around her porcelain face, her creamy neck and shoulders, its softness starting to shine through as it continues drying. A lone drop of water from the hair strands that cling to her neck traces her skin gently as it falls southward, and Anthony’s mouth goes dry.

It is ironic that the sight of her wet should cause such mouth-drying want to overtake him, but he can hardly be blamed when that lone drop of water directs him, miraculously, to the rest of her.

That dress, while being less unsuitable than the others her mother forces her to wear, does nothing to hide her voluptuous curves, and Anthony's mouth manages to find dampness once more when it waters. So much so, he can only swallow slowly as he continues taking her in, taking his time with it, savoring it.

The weight of the damp fabric has been pulled down by the force of gravity, and Anthony finally realizes that those dresses are fucking deceiving.

Her fucking lush breasts are heaving from the force of her breaths as she tries to calm down the adrenaline in her body (adrenaline he is also feeling, but for a very different reason), and he cannot take his eyes from them.

Images start playing in mind, vivid in their mental manifestation, of how, exactly, they would feel like in his hands, in his mouth, and his lips part unconsciously, breaths coming a little faster.

He manages to keep going, leading his eyes down and catches the dip of her luscious hips that have become more pronounced in this position, and he is suddenly overcome with a need to have them in his hands as he flexes them at his sides, trying to get a hold of himself.

When he finally, finally, gets to her gorgeous thick thighs, his imagination is deliciously assaulted by images of him wrapping them around his hips, his shoulders.

His eyes close at that last thought, as the tension in his body escalates, pulling him taught like a wire, tightening everything down to his teeth.

He grounds them, desperate to maintain control against the waves of lust that wash over his whole body, gut swooping and heat pooling low in his abdomen, and he breathes out slowly, nostrils flaring, futilely hoping they will dissipate the tiniest bit.

When he opens them again he almost wishes he hadn't.

(Almost.)

She has taken to wringing out her luscious, red hair and the action not only exposes her beautiful, creamy neck again, it also moves the bodice of that infuriating dress the slightest bit, and a gap is created in the front where the barest peek of her nipple shines through, like a beacon for the waves of his lust as they come back full force once again, breaking against his restraint.

His lips part again and he feels his head tip back slightly, helplessly, when he can feel the phantom weight of it in his mouth, resting on his tongue, and his breathing becomes heavier, the hunger in him ready to burst through and he cannot look away.

It is a complete miracle that she has not noticed as she is staring out into the lake with a faraway look in her eyes, but he struggles with his body, his mind.

It is only by the grace of his sister’s call that he snaps out of it, and he remembers she is his sister's friend.

And he is a gentleman.

He closes his eyes again at the thought, grasping at his composure with desperate hands and measured breaths.

He needs to get out of here.

He huffs harshly at the urgency to leave and quickly rips off his drenched coat, tossing it on the pier, roughly pushing aside his suspenders before he yanks at his cravat to be able to have more unrestricted movement and places his hands on the edge to pull himself up with the force of his arms.

In his need to flee though, he has miscalculated the distance between the two of them, and so, just as he drags his body onto the pier to stand up, so too is Penelope preparing herself to stand as well.

In unison, they both heave themselves up, unraveling themselves to each other, eyes catching in an inescapable intense gaze as they make their way to standing, mere inches from each other.

Being taller than her, he towers over her as water drips from his body, translucent white shirt showcasing everything an unmarried lady should not be witness to.

Penelope's eyes dip down involuntarily and with the light of the dappled sunshine through the trees, he can see her pupils dilating in her crystal eyes, and he knows his own have not gone back to normal.

Her lips part as her gaze glides upwards again, slowly, tracing the wet, toned planes of his tanned skin, and he swears he can feel it, as she tilts her head back and locks eyes with him again.

Both of their breaths have become heavier and he can do nothing, be nothing when his mind blanks as it drowns in her marine-blue eyes, in his lust.

The melting, honey-thick heat that engulfs them is the only thing that matters, the only thing that exists and the tension is only rising and he instinctively feels that it’s about to brea–

“Come on, Pen, what's taking you so long? We need the doctor to see to you, too! And you, Anthony!”

They both blink back to reality and look away just as quickly, moving and trying to regain their composure as they do so.

Anthony, once again overtaken by the need to flee, quickly grabs his things and walks so quickly he nearly jogs (though, if he were to be asked, he would say he was merely walking briskly, as there is no way he would ever run away from some little chit) leaving them behind as he rushes inside.

Penelope, upon reaching Eloise, is encircled in a tight hug, eyes still red-rimmed and nose pink, trying, in vain, to communicate the depth of her gratitude and love and worry in the strength of her arms as she squeezes her.

Penelope hugs her just as tight, grateful that everything will be alright.

As both Anthony and Penelope make their way back to the house though, they can't help but be utterly bewildered by what just occurred, wondering,

What in the hell was that?

•

After having a warm bath and change of clothes, Hyacinth is declared well, but in need of rest for at least three weeks (to which she protests vehemently, but is resolutely and soundly out voted), and soon it is Anthony’s turn in his room (where he fled) after he has also gotten dry.

He goes through the routine distantly, no stranger to being given a check up as he was very rambunctious as a child (it's hereditary, with the exception of Frannie, it seems).

Mostly, his mind is caught in the after images of what transpired earlier.

The intense lust that gripped him has since abated, but still lingers at the edges. He tries to forcibly blink it away when he feels it start to ramp up at the memories, but it keeps coming back, like the grip just won't let him go.

It confuses him immensely, considering he has never once glanced in her direction, and why would he, when he thought her a mere girl his family was friendly with?

Now though…

He closes his eyes against the memories again, memories that remind him of just how much she is no longer a girl anymore.

He breathes out slow, willing the lust to abate again.

What is wrong with him?

He’s no stranger to lust, knows intimately how it works and what it feels like–has plenty of experience with it.

But this?

He’s not sure he's ever had such a visceral, raw reaction to a woman before.

Not even the elder Miss Sharma.

(He does not dare cross the line by thinking her name, even within his own mind.

He knows he could never take it back.)

And thoughts of her confuse him further.

He remembers exactly what he felt the first time he laid eyes on her, riding across the way on her horse, a vision in the early morning.

He was astonished by her beauty, and then doubly so when she didn't fall all over herself to cater to him, and instead had the gall to insult him in the same breath.

No one had ever done that before.

It was exhilarating.

Something new.

Amidst the predictable, droll routine of his massive responsibilities, here she appeared, a ray of sunshine illuminating the way.

And exactly everything he does not want.

(Cannot have, comes the thought from the back of his mind.)

He shakes his head and holds his head in his hand, dismissing the physician when he imparts concern.

None of this matters, anyway.

He is courting her sister.

And if there's one thing he's learned the hard way, is that when Lord Bridgerton makes a choice, that choice has consequences and he refuses to throw away everything he's worked so hard to attain for mere attraction.

To either of them.

(What he hasn't noticed though, is that he has already begun to cross the line and call Penelope by her name within his mind, instead.

Ever since he gazed at her like a supplicant at the altar of a Goddess, when he compared her to a Saint.)

•

He stays in his room for a while longer after the physician leaves, trying to catch up on some paperwork that needed doing, but ultimately ends up reclining in the seat of his desk, brandy in hand as he stares at the ceiling while rubbing at his lips with his fingertips absently.

When he catches himself remembering Miss Sharma, remembering Penelope, he visibly shakes his head in frustration and runs a hand through his hair roughly, annoyed at being distracted by women.

As if he hadn't learned that lesson with Sienna.

No, emotion will never have a place in his marriage, best to get those notions out of his head once and for all.

(Like it could be so easy to change the direction of the heart.)

It's better this way, Anthony reminds himself, as happiness has no place either.

Not when he knows the countdown is growing closer.

He runs into Penelope on her way to see Hyacinth after she is also declared well, when the physician calls out to her and pulls her aside to commend her for her quick thinking and knowledge to which she blushes furiously and Anthony suddenly remembers he still hasn't thanked her.

(Isn't sure he will ever be able to convey his gratitude for saving Hyacinth's life, for giving them back all their lives.

How does one express their gratitude for that?

He thinks there isn't enough time in one lifetime.)

He ultimately decides it isn't the best time when the rest of his family congregates around her in the hallway of Hyacinth's room.

His mother can hardly speak as she sheds tears in gratitude and lingering fear and heartbreak, gathering her fiercely in her warm arms as she clings to Penelope, overcome at the fact that her daughter in name has saved her daughter in blood.

Penelope clings to her as well, and if a few tears escape her eyes now that the adrenaline has gone and the sheer terror she didn't let herself truly feel earlier comes back, it's softly ignored by everyone, knowing how she does not like to be put on the spot.

His sisters and Gregory take turns enveloping her in hugs and whispering heartfelt words of gratitude to which she immediately dismisses, further cementing herself as an honorary Bridgerton in all their hearts.

(Even Anthony, as much as he tries to remind himself that she's supposed to be like another sister to him and nothing more.

He roughly pushes away the fact that he wavers at all is telling in and of itself, and forcibly reminds himself, instead, of his engagement plans.

His life plans.)

Even Lady Danbury and Simon take turns grabbing one of her hands and giving her a heartfelt look and small smile, grateful as well that this sweet girl has saved the little girl they consider to be family, a smile she returns a little shyly to each of them.

Benedict also envelops her in a strong hug, still unable to form words to convey his sheer gratitude, resting his chin delicately on the crown of her head, even going so far as to softly pet her hair a little, like one would a sister.

And Anthony convinces himself to allow them this moment, despite the fact that it is not at all proper, because they need the reassurance.

(They all do.)

Colin though…

Colin lingers.

He holds her tight, tears beginning to prick his eyes again as he rests his cheek on her head as well, and he murmurs soft words of gratitude and praise, to which Penelope blushes and holds him just as tight as they rock back and forth, for a whole three minutes. (He counted.)

Which is fine.

It is merely the emotion of the moment that has brought up intense affections, and he will let her go soon and all will return to normal.

(This is what he tells himself, at least, if only to keep himself from intervening at the blatant lack of propriety, and is entirely surprised his mother says nothing to stop it.

It's fine though.)

He manages to control himself in the end, shifting in his spot to dispel the tension in his body which ultimately brings the attention of Penelope now that Colin has finally let her go.

He manages to give her a heartfelt, lingering nod as well to convey what he can't put into words at the moment, and she gives him a small smile and tiny nod in return.

She's grateful he decided to trust her, in the end, and the little voice in her head that reprimands her at every turn (the one that sounds exactly like her mother) settles down for a while.

(One day–the rest of the family hopes–they'll be able to convince Penelope of how much she is loved in return by them.)

Hyacinth is asleep by the time they check on her, so they decide to leave her be, and realize, when the commotion settles, that it is now time for dinner.

Before they enter the dining room, however, the Sharma family takes Anthony and his mother aside to convey their heartfelt concern and relief that everything is okay.

(Even the elder Miss Sharma gives him a warm look of sympathy that lights her eyes in a different way than the usual way they ignite with a challenge.

And he is reminded that she knows loss just as he does.

He also gives her a warm look and a nod of gratitude, softened by the emotions of the day, and the look lingers in his mind all throughout dinner.)

Now that things are much calmer in Aubrey Hall, as much as they can be anyway, they gather around the table, Anthony making sure that Miss Sharma is seated to his right (her future place), and does his best to act only cordially with the other two women at the table, refusing to let himself be distracted.

(It only works so much, though, when he remembers both their looks of warmth.)

When the conversation noticeably lags between Miss Sharma and himself, however, things become a tad awkward, but he refuses to let that bother him.

They merely need time to get to know one another, is all. And they'll have all the time they need once they're married.

(Anthony continues charging ahead at full speed towards his engagement with Miss Sharma, much to the frustration of his family, but what else is new?

They are never happy with him, anyway and he cannot delay any longer.

He's running out of time.

…And if he's fiercely trying his absolute best to keep what happened with a certain red-head away from his thoughts…well, at least in the privacy of his own mind he is the only one who knows he’s failed.)

•

They manage to have a (somewhat) peaceful dinner sans Hyacinth, much to her consternation, after deciding to leave Pall Mall for a week–the day before the ball–unanimously deciding to retreat to their rooms early for the night, emotionally exhausted by the day's events.

And yet, there are still two who cannot seem to find the peaceful relief of sleep.

Penelope cannot help but go back into the library and try to find more medical texts of any kind that she can, worried that something else might happen to someone she loves and she will be left helpless.

She refuses to be helpless.

Not if she can help it.

Helpless is what she feels each time she's stuck in a ballroom wanting nothing more than to be noticed, included, only to be overlooked instead, invisible.

Helpless is what she feels when she's back in Mayfair, in a house that treats her much the same.

But here, in the home of these beautiful Bridgertons, she was finally useful, finally seen.

And she never wants to feel helpless again.

Of course knowledge cannot account for actual experience, she knows, but at least she will not be caught unawares, and perhaps even provide valuable insight for any emergencies that may arise.

And that thought appeases some of the fear that's still left over in her heart, feeling like she has some sort of control over a situation that could be considered uncontrollable by those who don't have the knowledge.

For she knows the importance of knowledge, how it can help, how it can hinder and in a society that has given her no rights she will take any advantage she can get.

She's deep in a text on how to bind wounds and look for signs of infection when she hears the door of the library open and Lord Bridgerton walks in, but stops, with his hand on the door, upon seeing her curled up on the chair next to the lit fireplace.

They both still when they lock eyes, and remember at the same time, exactly what happened the last time they had done so.

The tension starts to set in, now that they noticed they are completely alone this time, no Eloise to act as an unintentional chaperone.

Anthony is the one who forces himself out of it first, reminding himself of every reason this is a bad idea, and immediately apologizes, falling back on his manners.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you, Miss Featherington, I was merely trying to ascertain if anyone had left the fireplace lit by mistake. I’ll leave you to it. I bid you a good night.” He gives her a cursory nod, and shifts to turn back before a thought occurs to him and he stops.

He finally has a chance to try to convey his gratitude, his immeasurable reverence for the miracle she performed.

And while he knows it is a terrible idea to remain here with her, especially with the images still lingering in his mind, his sense of honor is greater–ingrained in him since he could learn, and he is nothing but a gentleman.

And a gentleman would express his sincere thanks as clearly as he can.

(At least this is what he tells himself, anyway.)

He moves back into the room and leaves the door almost closed, in an attempt to give them both privacy and decency, and walks as close as he dares towards her (which is not much).

He stands before her, hands clasped behind his back (to appear polite, he tells himself) as he tries to find the words.

Now that he's closer though, distance notwithstanding, he sees how the nightgown she's wearing, sans robe because she is so close to the fire, is nearly translucent and his eyes can track the barest hint of an outline, to which he blinks against and looks away quickly, not daring to go down that road.

He is a gentleman, he reminds himself as he clenches his teeth a bit in self-chastisement for straying.

Penelope has not taken her eyes from him since he stepped through the door, trying, in vain, to forget the confusing feelings he inspired earlier–feelings she has not had a chance to fully sift through to try to understand.

So mired in thoughts is she, that she has even forgotten to stand up and curtsey to her host, though she remembers not to speak first, as it is against propriety to initiate conversation with someone of higher rank, and the reminder to follow the rules appeases some of the uncertainty in her mind.

“I apologize again, if I am disturbing you…I merely–” he falters in his explanation, unsure and a little apprehensive about conveying the depth of his feelings, but he pushes through, needing to do this.

“I was wrong to dismiss you so when Hyacinth–” he clenches his jaw, not daring to let the rest of the words through, lest the universe take it as a challenge. He tips his head down and turns his head away, trying to regain his composure as he squeezes his hands behind his back, before turning to her again.

“What I am trying to say is that I do not think I could ever convey to you the depth of my gratitude for saving her life, and if ever you are in need of anything, please do not hesitate to ask. I will do whatever is in my power to make it so.” His eyes are illuminated by the flames of the fireplace, melting them into molasses, and she thinks it is fitting for the sincerity she finds in them.

She is ensnared for a moment, stuck in the thick molasses of his eyes, as she digests the heartfelt words of this man, this lord, that has never directed such a gaze in her direction before, as he has always been the image of gentility, earlier incident notwithstanding.

“While I appreciate that you would give me such assistance at all, my Lord, it is not necessary. Truly. I love Hyacinth. And there is nothing one would not do for the ones they love.” Her eyes have melted into a sea of devotion and Anthony's breath leaves his lungs for a moment.

It is here that he recognizes the depth of love this sweet woman has for his family, and the tension in his body abates a bit.

He was ready to do anything that she asked, perhaps for the rest of his life if he is honest, as only one favor would never be enough to repay her for this divine act she committed.

Giving someone that kind of power over him, however, still causes uneasiness to slither under his skin, as he is the one who is used to being in power– needs to be really, to ensure the safety of his family.

But knowing she will never hold it against him?

That appeases his gut, his soul the slightest bit, and he gives her a slow, lingering nod, eyes tightening a bit with emotion.

“The offer will still be on the table, however, for whenever you choose to use it.” He presents softly, and starts to make his way back out of the room.

“I shall leave you to your…?” He falters a bit as he realizes he doesn't know what she is reading exactly and finds himself curious to know what could keep her here so late at night.

“Medical texts, you know–just in case.” She supplies, ducking her head a bit, feeling a little improper as it is not reading material that is suitable for a lady, and she half-expects chastisement from the ever proper Lord. (Not that it will stop her from continuing, albeit in a more discreet manner.)

He stares at her, for a few seconds, and Penelope tenses in wait.

He comes to the conclusion that that is precisely what saved Hyacinth’s life and his respect and esteem for her escalates even higher than it already had previously.

“How remarkable. You saved Hyacinth's life by reading about it?” He asks, voice low, awed and immeasurably impressed, the lingering image of her haloed in sunlight appearing again, behind his eyes, and he is reminded of how she looked Saint-like–a thought that comes, unbidden, but that he cannot find within himself to disagree with.

Penelope ducks her head fully this time, surprised he didn't chastise her and embarrassed at being complimented so sincerely, as she is not used to it–not to this level and by a man she so greatly respects.

If anyone were to deserve such reverent admiration, it is this caring man before her, one who would do anything, be anything for his family.

His brusque manner might mislead others to believe he doesn't care, but Penelope knows.

Observant as she is, she can see, clear as day, how he would walk through fire for his family–perhaps because the juxtaposition of her own has exposed to her the stark differences between the two families.

(And they are deep. Chasms, really.)

So to be praised by someone she holds in such high esteem?

She cannot help it when a warmth suffuses her entire chest, her heart.

She nods slowly, unable to find words, and gives him a shy smile as her cheeks heat up.

He stares for a moment more, stunned as he slowly shakes his head in incredulousness and gives her a small, slow, astounded smile in return.

If that is what she could do merely by reading about it, he can only imagine what she could do if she had a proper education, one without any limitations whatsoever… Anthony muses, tipping his head to the side as he stares at her in a mixture of amazement and contemplation (and not that he’ll ever admit aloud– fondness).

(And he becomes that much closer to understanding Eloise.)

A bit reluctantly, he manages to pull himself out of it what another astonished shake of his head, and starts to make his departure with a slow,

“I’ll leave you to it then, Miss Featherington. Off to save more lives.” He says teasingly, giving her a small smirk as he tips his head in goodbye as he heads to the door.

Penelope's eyes trail him as he leaves, and locks eyes with him again when he looks back as he is closing the door.

She leaves shortly afterwards, careful to wait a sufficient amount of time just in case, as she can no longer concentrate on what she was reading.

She goes over everything that happened before she sleeps, pondering the state of her emotions and reaches the conclusion that the earlier interaction at the lake was simply a fluke, a misinterpretation on her part, and is merely glad that she is on better terms with the Viscount.

(It doesn't stop her from dreaming though, about soft, brown eyes and the feeling of laying gently in a sun-lit lake with waters thick enough to be mistaken for molasses.

…Nor does she notice how she never once thought of Colin since.)

As Anthony lays down for the night, he gazes up at the ceiling while resting a hand behind his head, replaying everything in his mind as well, and arrives at the conclusion that it has merely been a long time since he has lain with anyone, so of course he would latch on to the first pretty girl he encounters in such a scandalous way.

And he feels more centered with such an assessment, finding ease in the knowledge that he isn't a scoundrel that preys upon family friends.

One less problem to worry about, he thinks and is glad he didn't run into the elder Miss Sharma, as well.

(It doesn't stop him from dreaming though, about being caught between the Earth and the Sea.)

•

Early the next morning, Penelope wakes up to finally go check on Hyacinth and is entirely unsurprised to find Anthony asleep in a chair next to her bed and Gregory curled up beside her.

She does her best not to wake them, as she comes to check on her symptoms based on the text she read last night and is careful not to wake up Hyacinth as well.

She doesn't succeed however, as the amateur examination involves touching and she’s met with sleepy, sea-foam green eyes.

Hyacinth wakes up with a deep inhale, one that belies a deep, restful sleep and the lingering worry in Penelope's heart eases some.

She gives Penelope a sleepy smile, acknowledging her by her name in a raspy whisper.

“Pen.” Which elicits a warm, tender smile from the woman herself, and she takes the chance to check her pupils for any signs of head injury. (And loses some more tension when she finds none.)

Hyacinth stares at her for a bit, before speaking in a soft whisper, as she had heard Anthony come in much earlier after her mama had left. (It seems the entire family is taking shifts in watching her. Even Lady Danbury, sometimes.)

“I heard I have you to thank for saving my life.” She punctuates it with a small, heartfelt smile and tears prick at Penelope’s eyes a bit when her eyes flick to the bandaged wound on her temple, at the thought that she would never have gotten to see that smile again if she had not stumbled upon that blessed text, once again thanking the Goddess Isis softly, in her mind.

Please continue to watch over her, she pleads in supplication upon this generous Goddess.

She swallows against her tears a bit, not wanting to cause anymore distress to this beautiful little girl that has stolen her soft heart from the moment they met.

“Thanks are never necessary when it comes to the ones you love.” She whispers back, and she thinks perhaps there is a bright side to this tragedy-that-could-have-been, as she has finally been able to communicate, in part, some of the all-encompassing love she has for this beautiful family.

At this, Hyacinth's eyes prick with tears as well, dissolving in sea-foam, as she begins to understand that this lovely woman who is her wonderful friend holds such affection for her, as well.

They hold on to each other's hand tightly, for a long moment, before they let go and Hyacinth allows Penelope to resume her examination.

(Neither of them notice how Anthony has not been asleep since he came in.)

•

Penelope has noticed how the Bridgertons have started to gravitate towards her more in the coming days.

They have started to include her even more in their conversations, repeatedly asking for her opinions and genuinely wanting to hear her thoughts, even teasing her more pointedly, and initiating touch more often.

(Even Colin, as much as her traitorous heart flutters at the soft looks he gives her.)

A pat here, a friendly squeeze there, the girls (especially Hyacinth) even lean on her more when they sit next to her.

It's like…

She's actually part of the family.

Everytime she notices, her throat gets a small lump and she can feel her eyes begin to prick with the beginnings of tears. (They never say anything when they notice, but they hold her a little closer.)

The warmth that suffuses her entire being radiates outwards, towards the tips of her fingers and toes, towards the crown of her head, like she's enveloped in a blanket.

She feels seen.

She feels…loved.

And once again she becomes humbled by this beautiful family that has so much love to give, and wonders how she became so blessed to know them.

She's not entirely sure how she will ever be able to go back to her stone house, with its cold walls and even colder inhabitants, alone and invisible once again.

But she forces the thought away, because she doesn't want these treasured moments to become tainted by them.

(She wants to be able to remember them vividly when she's alone again–a light amidst the dark.)

So for now, she smiles (her eyes a little too wet, but no one would dare call her out on it), and carries on like this is normal, even though she’s so grateful for these lovely moments of kindness they almost make her weep.

The Bridgertons had been aware that Penelope's home life was far from ideal, but they never realized just how far from ideal it was until they noticed how small, gentle moments to include her and make her feel wanted made her look like she couldn't handle so much kindness. (Except Eloise, of course, but she would never divulge her secrets like that.)

It made them soften in sadness whenever they noticed and resolved to continue until she finally accepted the fact that she is wanted and appreciated, no matter how long it takes.

Anthony noticed too, as much as he tried not to.

In between moments of trying to connect with Miss Sharma, of trying to win over her sister, his eyes would be caught by the soft moments he would witness between Penelope and his family.

And then, he heard it.

He had been in the middle of the drawing room, bickering with the elder Miss Sharma, getting caught up in the heat of verbally sparring with this (begrudgingly) attractive woman with fire in her eyes, when all of a sudden, his ears were caught by beautifully unrestrained laughter.

It caught all their attention, as they had not heard Penelope laugh like that since she was a child, when she would come over to spend time with Eloise and their younger siblings. She was always sure to laugh demurely, or perhaps even giggle–if Eloise said something particularly impertinent–as is expected of a lady, but this?

It had been Benedict who had elicited such laughter (much to Anthony's annoyance, and then subsequent confusion at the emotion), and had a huge grin overtake his face in self-satisfaction.

And try as he might, Anthony could not take his eyes away from her.

She looked radiant.

Her skin seemed to glow with it, highlighted by the blush on her cheeks and then she threw her head back from the force of it, exposing her neck, and suddenly he was back at the lake, drops of water tracing down her smooth skin and–

He blinks hard against the memory, unwilling to become trapped in lust again, bloody hell, she's a family friend–no better than a sister, and he's in the middle of the bloody drawing room, for Christ’s sake.

It's just been too long, is all.

(He doesn't stop to think, however, how he’s been having more and more trouble getting rid of those thoughts about Penelope than he does of the elder Miss Sharma.)

He tries to turn his attention back to the elder sister, trying to remember what they were fighting about in the first place, but to no avail.

So he excuses himself to his study, intent on reminding himself of the one thing he knows without a doubt that he's proud of. The one thing his father made sure to instill in all his boys and the one thing he's glad he left him with, despite everything else.

He is a gentleman.

Despite all of his past rakish exploits, and everything that happened with Sienna, he has always made sure to treat women with respect, always making sure they give consent to any acts that happen between them, even when the acts committed could not be labeled as gentle.

And feeling that way about a genteel lady who has just bestowed such a miracle unto them, a miracle he would equate with the power of a Saint–for they hold holy power, and there is nothing more holy for Anthony than his family–is less than respectful.

So he takes his leave, and chastises himself for even daring to have the thought.

He is to marry Miss Sharma, he reminds himself, and this is anything but gentlemanly.

(He dreams that night, about falling through a seemingly endless marine-blue sky and waking up right before he hits the earth–a meadow, full of flowers.)

•

It becomes a nightly routine for Penelope, going to the library under the cover of night to continue reading as many medical texts as she can get her covetous hands on, when she hears Eloise come in.

Ever since the incident, it seemed as if all the Bridgertons had taken to holding her closer too, as if they were afraid of losing her as well–Eloise most of all.

When she had revealed how she knew what to do when Hyacinth…when the incident occured, Eloise tackled her in a hug, praising her insight and quick-thinking, and Penelope felt overcome with emotion at being praised so fiercely.

She should be used to it, considering Eloise does not know any other way to be but fierce–fiercely loyal, fiercely loving, fiercely brave. But she is still getting used to the fact that she could warrant it.

(Especially with the little voice in the back of her head–her mother's voice, she knows–that always makes sure to tell her she’s hopeless.)

“I was wondering if I could join you...” Eloise fidgets somewhat by the doorway, as if Penelope would ever refuse to spend time with her sister of the heart.

She smiles, a soft, “Always,” passing from her lips, a sure invitation.

Eloise gives her a relieved smile, half-wondering if perhaps she was smothering her friend too much, with how tight her hold had been these past few days. (She couldn't help it, she’s tired of losing people, and she knows she'll have to give her back to her horrible family when they return.)

“What are we reading about tonight? I've decided I would also like to learn, and there can never be too many people with the knowledge to help.”

“If you aren't squeamish, I found these works about bringing first aid to the injured by Professor Esmarch, translated from German into English by German Princess Christian, if you're interested?” She said with a teasing smile, knowing Eloise would take the bait.

“We had that here?! A woman's published works?! ” She exclaims, incredulous as she rushes towards her.

“Well, technically the works were published by men –it says in the title–which is probably why you didn't notice before.” Penelope gives her a little smile.

“Gimme!” Eloise snatches the book out of her hands before she can even blink, and she giggles.

Eloise, already next to her in the settee, mirrors her position, curling her legs under herself, too.

She stops though, at the sound of her giggle and looks at her for a long while, a fond look in her eyes.

“You've been doing that more, lately, have you noticed?”

“Doing what?” Penelope tips her head to the side in playful askance.

“Expressing happiness.”

Penelope stills, her eyes sobering from her mirth, as she takes in her words.

She had, hadn't she?

She had slowly let herself enjoy these moments with this family instead of desperately clinging to them, knowing she would have to return back to her house.

(She noticed, in the back of her mind, that she never referred to it as home anymore.)

“What can I say? Prolonged exposure to Bridgertons guarantees happiness.” She says quietly, much more quietly than the quip warranted, considering she means it more than she could ever convey.

Eloise shares a small, tender smile, and Penelope thinks maybe she did manage to convey some of it.

•

It is during one of those nightly escapades where Penelope ended up waiting later than usual to go to the library that she finds herself alone with him again.

The door had been left ajar enough that one could see through, and she debated, for a moment, whether to intrude upon whoever was in there, before deciding to quickly retrieve a book, unwilling to let go of her studies for even a day, and taking it back to the bed chamber she is residing in for her stay.

She knocks softly, alerting whoever is in there that she is going to pass through, before walking in and leaving the door open, only to turn around and find Lord Bridgerton in the middle of work, it seems, reclining sideways on a desk with a book in hand, looking at her with eyebrows raised in askance.

“Yes, Miss Featherington, did you need something?” He makes sure to keep his eyes on hers the entire time, adamantly adhering to the principles that have been ingrained in him since birth.

(But at the same time, he tries not to get distracted by her unbound hair, which has the unfortunate consequence of reminding him of the lake.

It doesn't exactly work, though, when he has to blink away the images and he ticks his jaw in self-chastisement.)

She curtsies, ever respectful, and it rankles him, slightly, seeing her defer to him, despite knowing it is the proper thing to do.

(Perhaps because he has seen how close she has become to the others, but not him.

Only because he wants her to feel comfortable around him given how close she is to the family, of course.)

“My apologies, my lord, I merely came to grab another book and I’ll be on my way.”

And he cannot help but be impressed again, wondering how many books she has gone through already, with a smile on the edges of his lips, softening his countenance, at the reminder of how utterly devoted she is to helping his family that she so loves, too.

Perhaps…perhaps if he focuses on this part of her, the one who so aligns with his views, his goals, he will be able to look at her with the eyes of another pseudo brother, as well.

(And rid himself of these traitorous thoughts.)

“I will help you.” He moves to get up.

“It is not necessary, my Lord.” She cuts him off, putting her hands out to make him stop.

And he does, confused, leaning against the desk again, book discarded as he gives his full attention to Penelope.

“Would it not be easier for both of us to find the book you are looking for?”

He begins to wonder if she is always unwilling to ask for help, for even the simplest things.

(Similar to himself, he doesn't realize.)

“Oh–well, you see, I don't know what book to look for, exactly…I was sort of hoping to wander around to see what catches my fancy…” She says self-consciously, feeling a bit silly in front of this proper Lord, but still determined to learn, and she begins picking at the sides of her robe, inadvertently bringing his eyes down to her attire.

She moved closer as she began talking, in the direction of the shelves as she looked them over, which brought her right in front of the lit fireplace, giving him a begrudgingly clear view of the outline of her body, the one he only had a glimpse of last time.

His eyes trace her luscious, unbound curves, almost without his consent, and he closes them at the last second, hoping to trap them from going any further.

He must be going insane to latch on to her like this, merely because he was witness to her in an indecent state.

And he refuses to disrespect her further.

She is a family friend, and as good as his sister. He repeats to himself.

And suddenly, he needs her gone. If only to have a reprieve from these ridiculous thoughts.

He is a gentleman, for God’s sake, and a mere girl will not be his undoing.

“I insist, Miss Featherington.” He nods his head to punctuate his seriousness, moving to help her as she catches sight of a book that is slightly above where she can reach, and he doesn't stop to think as he reaches across to grab it before her, just as she is standing on the tips of her toes to reach it.

She stiffens as she feels the heat of him at her back and as he distantly realizes the position they're in, he begins to physically feel this thing that seems to come into being whenever they are near each other, and still silently pleads for her not to make it worse.

Don't turn around, please, don't turn–

But she does.

(Because of course she does, she couldn't make it easy for Anthony, could she?)

She quickly slides down from the tips of her toes as turns around warily, half in surprise and half in question and his eyes are led down involuntarily to her person.

His eyes trace over the soft skin of her neck she has inadvertently bared to him (in offering, whispers the dark place inside him he does not wish to give voice to), sliding down, almost caressing, to the creamy white skin of her décolletage, opened to him when she turned around, a reminder of everything those damned dresses can no longer hide from him.

His heart rate picks up, so much so, he begins to feel his blood rushing through his veins and he wrenches his gaze up in a last ditch effort to remain respectful and ends up trapped in darkened marine-blue instead, damnit.

Their breathing increases without their conscious knowledge, perhaps in instinct to breathe each other in, as they stand in each other's space.

Mere inches, once again.

How can this mere girl–because that is what she is, he tells himself, despite her…womanly figure, she is still too young for him to be having such thoughts about her–cause such an intense reaction?

She is as good as his sister.

(He doesn't stop to think how the lady he is so intent on marrying is even younger than this so-called girl, because he isn't really thinking about her as a lady with thoughts and feelings, but rather as a means to an end.

It's easier that way, for both of them.)

Something about the proximity between them, as if the closer they are, the harder it is to separate them, suffuses a tension that makes no sense.

If what he feels when he’s near the elder Miss Sharma is a flame, being in Penelope's presence is akin to being stuck in the middle of an inferno, and he does not understand it.

It's as if seeing her as the woman she is becoming has unlocked something in him, a force that is greater than him and he feels helpless against it.

Everything seems to slow down as they become caught again, there is no other word for it, like flies caught in honey–apt, for it seems to always feel like the tension between them grows thick as honey, making them unable to move, unable to think.

His mind starts going blank again, and his focus narrows down only to her. Her eyes, her lips, her face, her being, and there is no space for anything else.

He feels helpless against the images that play in his mind, of grabbing the backs of her luscious thighs and lifting her up to press her against the bookshelves, knowing they would be solid enough to steady them; of leaning his face down and dragging his tongue from the base of her throat all the way into her mouth as he takes his time with her; of learning her taste, of learning her cries, of, of, of…

Does she feel it too? He can't help but wonder in that vague sort of way that seems nebulous.

And that is what snaps him out of it–as quick and sharp as a slap to the face, and he rears back as he tears his eyes away, unwilling to let himself drown further. (Feeling terrified he will never be able to surface again, if he does.)

He hates feeling helpless. Refuses to.

No. It is merely attraction, and it will pass. He tells himself.

He barely manages to hand her the book with a polite,

“Miss Featherington,” and a quick nod in her approximate direction and walks (runs) away, shutting the door on his way out.

(He tries hard not to think about the succulent scent of honeysuckle that seems to stay on his person, even after he has already dressed for bed.

…And fails.)

•

Penelope notices, as the days go by, how out of place the younger Miss Sharma feels amongst the Bridgertons.

As much as they try to include her, because of course they would, it is in their nature to shine a warm light on all those who draw near, she just doesn't seem to connect with them.

She’s friendly with them, of course, as she also has a warm light she shines to everyone (Penelope knows for sure, when she managed to compliment one of her ridiculous dresses and mean it), but the sharper edges that pop up between the siblings go over her head.

Possibly because the elder Miss Sharma is never that way with her, so she has never been exposed to it, exposed to how that can be used to express affection as well.

(Even the sharper edges are tapered with soft cotton, she knows, for they are still said with exasperated love, but love nonetheless, unlike the jagged spears from her own family.)

The elder Miss Sharma, on the other hand, has no problem fitting right in. Possibly because she had to become the caretaker of the family, her sources tell her, and so she knows how to wield words as both shields and spears, and she is never one to turn away from a fight.

And fight she does, with Lord Bridgerton, at any and every opportunity, for the smallest things and she can tell it grates on her sister, as she does not like when there is discord amongst a family.

Penelope can see how they both enjoy it though, in the barest flicker of flames that ignite their eyes, like they relish the challenge.

She is not blind, she knows there is attraction between the two of them, she can see it in their body language whenever they're near, like they can't help but gravitate towards each other–

(Strong cedarwood, the feeling of drowning in eyes that feel like molasses–)

She quickly blinks the memory away, reminding herself that she saw wrong and to not get any ideas in her head, as there is no earthly way he would ever feel that for her, and that it doesn't matter, as he is already on his way to marrying Miss Sharma.

Though she can't help but wonder if Lord Bridgerton has chosen the right Miss Sharma to marry.

She keeps her thoughts to herself though, as it is not her place, but what she can do is help the younger Miss Sharma to feel more at home here, as it seems it will soon be hers.

She goes and sits next her on one of the tables placed outside, as they had all agreed to sit outside for the weather.

(Even Hyacinth, who was under strict watch from her mother and her elder siblings. No matter though, Gregory never left her side.)

“Good day to you, Miss Sharma, lovely weather we are having, is it not?” Penelope begins, a friendly welcoming smile on her face.

Penelope knows what it is to feel like an outsider (even in her own house), and she so wants to assuage that feeling, as she knows how alone it can make one feel, even amongst friends.

(Something she wishes she could do over with Marina, but she digresses.)

“Hello to you, as well, Miss Featherington, and please, call me Edwina.” She gives her a lovely smile, every bit a Diamond without trying, and Penelope brightly smiles back at the prospect of another friend.

“Only if you call me Penelope, as well. How are you finding Aubrey Hall?” She inquires politely, wondering how she can get Edwina to feel more comfortable around her.

At this question, Edwina turns to the table where Benedict watches with amusement as Lord Bridgerton and the elder Miss Sharma bicker over something or other, and her smile falters a little before she gains it back.

“I find it utterly charming. How can I not? There is much history here and the grounds are breathtaking. And the family is very lovely as well.” And Penelope can tell she means it, but she doesn't want Edwina to feel like she has to be a perfect Diamond every second of every day.

“I know we do not know each other well, Edwina,” she begins tentatively, unsure if she's crossing any lines here, “but I would like it very much if you were to know the depth of my desire to have your friendship.”

Edwina looks at her in surprise at this, as it is very much known that debutantes are not exactly encouraged to make friends–true friends–and to know that Penelope wishes to, deeply so, well, it makes a small warmth bloom in her chest at the thought.

“And perhaps this is too forward of me,” Penelope continues, a little abruptly, mistaking her surprise for astonishment at her impropriety, “but I know what it is like, to feel like you don't belong, and if you have ever felt that way while staying here, I would like you to know that I am willing to listen to your concerns, if ever you should have need of me.” She imparts softly, as softly as she hopes the words will land for Edwina’s consideration.

Edwina visibly softens (like Penelope hoped) and she sends her a smaller, but no less genuine smile.

“Thank you for gifting me the pleasure of your friendship, Penelope. It is truly an honor to be considered your friend, as I have seen how you are with the Bridgerton family, and I know they are lucky to have your friendship, as well.” At this, Penelope blushes, unused to being told her friendship is something to covet.

She continues, “I was witness to your heroic act with Miss Hyacinth, and I know having such a brave friend will definitely be a boon for me this season. As such, if you are still willing, I will gladly take you up on your offer of friendship.” A shy smile graces her face in sheepish askance, as if Penelope would retract her offer so easily.

Her blush turns brighter at the act of being called heroic, as she would never have used that word to describe herself and she dismisses it, thinking this is just Edwina's sweet nature shining through, accepting with a kind,

“Always.”

The two ladies share a smile, soft moment broken when Daphne comes with Augie and the atmosphere turns lighthearted once again.

(Daphne had also noticed how out of place Miss Sharma seemed to feel, and felt relieved when Penelope went to go speak with her, as, if there were ever someone who could make anyone feel welcome, it would be sweet Penelope.)

Anthony, shaken as he is by his intense attraction to Penelope, has instead leaned more fully into the one thing he knows, as much as he realizes how wrong it is.

(And perhaps, in the back of his mind, way deep in the back, in the space he can feel is dark and vast, like a cavernous labyrinth, he might even be grateful for this distraction at least, for it keeps him from thinking about a different distraction.

One that terrifies him, not that he'd ever admit it.)

While he is undoubtedly annoyed at Kate for being unwilling to concede her point in the fifteenth argument they've had that day, he also cannot help but be unwittingly excited at the same time, that there is someone who could keep up with him–who won't just agree with him because of his status, but rather be brave enough to question him, to inspire his mind and begrudgingly, his lust.

How could he not, though?

When her chocolate brown eyes would glint with a challenge that makes desire bleed through his veins, as much as he knows it shouldn't. It was the forbiddenness of it that made it that much sweeter, that much more tantalizing and Anthony was only human.

It has been too long, after all.

And lust–lust was intimately familiar to Anthony, it was as easy as breathing for him, as it was the only thing he had complete control over–his own body and who he shares it with.

Not that he'd ever cross the line with his soon to be sister-in-law, he reminds himself, but the idea of it is too irresistible to let go of, just yet.

Especially when he knows what awaits him in his marriage–he'll take what he can get.

He’ll leave it when it's time, he's sure.

(He tries not to think about why it's easier with Kate than with Penelope, as that would require genuine introspection, and that he was unwilling to do, as he knows–in that instinctive way he refuses to give conscious thought to–that once he opens that Pandora’s box, he will never be able to shut it again.)

He looks away from her in frustration of his own feelings, how easily he seems caught between two women he has no business thinking about, when he unintentionally catches sight of Penelope with Edwina and stares a bit, noticing how Penelope was trying to make Edwina feel welcome and he begins to feel ashamed of himself.

It's what he should be doing, but instead he's over here giving in to distraction by Miss Sharma, much like he said he wouldn't be.

And there was Penelope again, taking on the things that should be his responsibility, and he feels shame and anger bubble up deep within him, so deep in fact, it feels like it's coming from the very earth itself.

He’s always failing them, isn't he?

Always in some way.

He cannot keep doing this. Playing around with these ladies like he has all the time in the world.

(Like he isn't just waiting for the other shoe to drop.)

He grits his teeth at the reminder.

He should know better.

His gaze had lowered in self-admonishment and anger at himself, but when he raised it again, he became caught in Penelope once again.

The sight of her lovingly carrying Augie stirred something in him. Something he very much did not want to name, but could not help but be ensnared by.

Perhaps it was the achingly soft look in her clear blue eyes.

(…Or perhaps, it was because it seemed like a glimpse into the futu–)

He abruptly clears his throat in shock and rapidly blinks his eyes, trying to regain his composure, and turns back to Kate, interrupting her conversation with Benedict, and quickly comes up with an excuse to get the hell out of there, and flees.

(Daphne noticed.

Of course she did, she's only been watching Anthony closely ever since she mistook the elder Miss Sharma for the woman he was courting, what with how clearly the chemistry between them simmers.

Now though…

She has begun to reevaluate her previous conclusions, as she had thought the previous incident with Penelope's laughter to be mere surprise.

And she thinks she knows what is happening, but she needs more information to be sure.)

•

“Are you going to tell me what it is that you think you're doing with these ladies, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?” Comes the unwelcome voice of Simon, as he intrudes upon Anthony’s study late one night.

He flicks his eyes up to look at him in annoyance before glancing back down to the ledgers he's looking over, completely ignoring the question.

“Am I going to have to go get Benedict as a referee?” He continues, leaning against the closed door with a cheeky smile on his face.

Simon has changed, since falling in love with Daphne.

He’s become even more playful, more quick to smile and less prone to stoicism, less guarded.

It's also made him more insufferable.

He closes his eyes in exasperation and concedes defeat, closing the ledgers he has no chance of focusing on anymore.

Simon notices and lords his petty victory over him with a smug smirk.

“What's it going to take for you to let me get back to work?” He asks with a hand pinching the middle of his brow, already feeling the headache forming.

“Don't ask like you don't know exactly why I'm here.” Simon raises a pointed eyebrow.

“Daphne.” They say in unison, an answer to an unspoken question.

“Well, come on then, out with it.” Anthony motions with his hand, the universal sign that means get on with it, as he leans on his elbow, ready to get this over with.

Simon smirks again, pleased to be on the other side of this interrogation. He takes it a step further when he comes to stand in front of Anthony's desk with a mocking grave look on his face as he stands in an intimidating stance and crosses his arms.

“What are your intentions with Penelope?”

Anthony rears his head back in surprise, not expecting this question at all, as he had been careful to stay far away from Penelope in front of the others, and their…interactions had only ever been when they were alone.

Did someone see them? Anthony internally panics.

No. They would never hear the end of it, if they did.

And he cannot lose this chance.

He cannot lose sight of his goal.

He decides to go for denial, despite knowing it won't work, because he needs to know what they know. (And whether they'll tell anyone.)

“In case it has escaped your notice–shocking, I know, what with your preoccupation with my sister–I am courting the younger Miss Sharma, and not Miss Featherington.”

The unimpressed look on Simon's face is an answer itself, as anger would've surely taken its place had either of them been witness to what has occured with Penelope one too many times.

(A fact that fills him with shame again, and makes his resolve to stay away from her that much stronger.)

“The pining looks you seem to send her way suggest otherwise.” He almost seems to pity Anthony as he says it, and the anger is quick to take over his face instead.

How dare he?

How dare he waltz in here like he knows even a modicum of what is transpiring in Anthony's head when he hasn't even been around to be called a friend?

Too busy with his perfect life.

Well, not all of them get to have that luxury.

“I am not pining over some little chit that is much too young for my tastes. She is a family friend and nothing more, and if this is all you came to say then you can go back to your perfect life, with your perfect wife, and your perfect child, and leave the rest of us to deal with our own families. You know nothing of what I am facing here and I don't need your criticisms on top of everything else!” His face hardens, a physical shield that won't let anyone pass further as he points an accusing finger at his friend.

Simon, on the other hand, is not at all surprised by Anthony's reaction, in fact, he seems to come to an understanding because of it.

He says nothing though, as he nods calmly and turns to leave, knowing whatever he would say would only bounce off that shield Anthony has so clearly constructed.

(As he always does, when confronted with things he’s too scared to think about.)

Turns out Daph was right though, and he owes her several pounds now, as he had hedged his bets with the elder Miss Sharma.

Things have become infinitely more complicated.

(It pains him to admit though, that Anthony's claims are not completely unfounded and he resolves to do better.)

•

It is during one of their nightly excursions that Eloise imparts some surprising news.

They were deep into what to do in case of fractures, when Eloise begins with, “If I tell you something do you swear to keep it a secret?”

And that raises the alarm bell in Penelope's head, as Eloise is usually never one to shy away from secrets as she thinks they are exciting in a society where they must always follow rules, and the last time she had said that it was about looking for Whistledown.

She manages to appear calm however, and swears,

“Always, El. You know that.”

Eloise fidgets a little before blurting out, “I have been going to Bloomsbury in secret.”

Penelope had been half-expecting something worse, and the tension eases a bit at that. (But only a bit, as she was genuinely worried about being discovered by her.)

“What, again? You know you could get in trouble for that–are you still on about looking for Whistledown?”

“No, this isn't about Whistledown–well, it was at first, but while I was there I met the most interesting group of people, and I just knew I had to keep coming back, you should hear what they talk about–it's revolutionary, and there's this one gentleman–more of a gentleman than these so called Lords of the ton–his name is Theo and he works in this publishing sh–”

And Penelope stops listening when a rushing sound fills her ears as she panics.

She knows Theo–is a friend of hers actually, one of the few she can call that–and she knows exactly the type of groups he involves himself with (it's part of the reason they are friends).

It's not that she disagrees with their views, on the contrary, she wholeheartedly agrees, and is not at all surprised that Eloise also agrees (she had even pondered the idea of telling Eloise about them before she dismissed it, afraid of being discovered and afraid it would get Eloise in trouble, and now the worst has come to pass).

That's not the problem.

The problem is the attention the group attracts.

Namely, the Bow Street Runners.

The exact people she knows she has to avoid.

She's no idiot, she knows what she's doing is highly dangerous and impractical– ruinous, but she can't stop. She’s only human.

And all she's ever wanted is to be seen, even if it's only a part of her that gets to be heard.

(Though now, with the amount of love and support that the Bridgertons are bestowing upon her, she wonders if she still needs to hold onto it so tight in her covetous hands.

If, perhaps, she can finally let go of this venture that has served its purpose.)

She feels immensely guilty though, because it was precisely her own selfish need to be recognized that has dragged Eloise and her whole family into trouble that could no doubt ruin them.

And she refuses to let that happen.

(She won't stand by, helpless, as they suffer the consequences of her actions. Even if it means giving up this thing that is a conduit for her deepest desires.

She won't lose them. They mean too much to her.

Especially now that she knows how easily she can lose them.

And she wonders, for a moment, how not even the news of her father's murder inspired such fear in her.

Perhaps because he was never really a father to begin with.)

So she resolves to finally tell the truth, to see if she can impress upon her the utter gravity of the situation, and let the chips fall where they may. At least she can be satisfied in the knowledge that she tried.

(And she tries, in vain, to convince herself that she will be satisfied with just that, and not absolutely terrified at the outcome.)

“I have to tell you something, Eloise.” Penelope doesn't dare look her in the eyes quite yet, expecting fury and perhaps even a one-way ticket back to the misery of her house. Maybe forever.

But she's willing to do this for her, for them.

So strong is her need to protect that she can physically feel it, deep into the marrow of her very bones.

(Doesn't mean she can stop the shaking of her hands though, nor the sharp, twisting spear of fear and beginnings of heartbreak at the idea of losing them just as she found them.)

Eloise noticed Penelope stopped paying attention halfway through, just as she noticed the war of emotions that played across her face, beginning with panic and ending in fear, and confusingly, pain.

And she just knows–feels it, really, in that way that animals can sense impending change, that whatever leaves Penelope’s lips will alter everything.

“I am Lady Whistledown.”

The words seem to echo in the empty space despite the fact that she said them quietly, and Eloise blanks.

The words of her thoughts–limitless as they usually are on any given day– quiet and all that's left is the replay of images of the events that happened since the beginning of Daphne's season.

Anger arrives first, as the ferocity of her being is so quick to jump to the passionate emotions first. It's what she finds safest, a way to guard the softer feelings that she hides inside, the ones that can actually be hurt.

“You were Whistledown this whole time?” She spits out just as quietly, though far more venomously as she waits for an answer she’s not sure she wants to hear.

Penelope still hasn't looked at her, eyes filling with tears, and she only nods, unable to find any words to explain. Though if she's honest, she's not sure Eloise will want to hear any of it.

And that's fair. She deserves it for keeping it a secret from her, no matter her reasons, she fiercely admonishes herself, sounding a lot like her mother, pulling herself down even further, thinking self-flagellation is what she deserves.

(No matter that's she’s wrong, and that self-torture is never the way to show the depth of one’s love.

It’ll take some time for her to discover that, though.)

Behind the anger that was so quick to form though, there is a betrayal so deep it seems to fissure in her chest, at the thought that she couldn't be trusted enough by her own sister to share this part of her.

As if she would disparage her for it, hate her for it, when Penelope knows she would never be anything but encouraging.

And she falters, suddenly, as the thought breaks through the red-tinted haze of her anger, stilling it long enough to allow the words to form.

And she thinks back to these past days with her family, and all she knows of what life is like in Penelope's house, how even the smallest kindness makes her look so heartbreakingly fond, like it's going to be the last time she will ever be witness to it.

And suddenly her eyes fill with tears, too, at the fact that that is exactly why she didn't tell her.

That she would ever believe that she could be hated for daring to be who she is, yet still trying because she cannot bear not to be.

They spill over cheeks, eliciting a sob as she realizes how alone her beautiful friend must feel, her sister, that she believes she can't turn to those who love her, because she thinks she’ll be turned away at the drop of hat.

And at the thought of being turned away, she remembers Marina, and her sobs become more piercing.

She knows Penelope, she is her sister for Christ’s sake, she knows her.

And she knows Penelope would have done everything in her power to help Marina, help Colin, and that the idiots probably didn't listen to her, as she knows her brother well, and how pig-headed he can be, and the fact that Marina was exposed means Penelope was left no choice.

She chose her family against her own, so deep is the immensity of her love for them.

Penelope startles at the first sounds of Eloise’s cries and finally looks up, and the beginning fissures of her heartbreak crack fully at the sight.

She made her sister cry.

Eloise never cries.

Not unless she is truly, completely hurt.

Her selfishness, her vanity, her cruelty made her true sister cry, and she only had herself to blame.

She scrambles from her side of the settee and gets on her knees in front of Eloise, a plea for undeserved, desperate forgiveness despite knowing she shouldn't even hope for it.

The words spill with no conscious thought, only the need to make her stop.

(She would prefer her fury to this.)

“M’ sorry, so sorry, please, I beg of you–please stop, please, I don’t deserve your tears, please–I was wrong, I was wrong to keep it from you, I was wrong to do it–please, please, please–”

Penelope closes her eyes, not even allowing herself to cry, believing she doesn't deserve the release, so she does not notice her own tears, hoping the small reprieve of not having to see Eloise’s own tears will help her keep begging her to stop.

She can feel nothing but the waves that crash over her, leaving her breathless, but unable to cease begging.

And Eloise…Eloise can only spill her heartbreak through her eyes at seeing her friend beg for something that does not need forgiveness.

She wants her to stop crying, too.

So she leans down to her, gently, shaking through her sobs and softly places a hand on Penelope's cheek, a sob hitching sharply in her throat when she feels her flinch under her hand.

She thought she was going to hit her.

Eloise would never hit her.

And the fact that she doesn’t know that, that she expects it, squeezes her heart so painfully she can do nothing but place her hand over her own chest, hoping it will lessen the pain, even a little.

And she so wants to lessen Penelope’s pain, too.

So she gives her the words she deserves to hear.

“...I’m sorry.” She whispers, gently, hoping her fierceness is tempered enough to convey how much she means it.

Penelope's eyes pop open at that, and she cannot help but stare in awe.

She half-wonders if she’s dreaming, painfully reaching for a fantasy that cannot possibly be true.

“...I’m sorry you thought you couldn't tell me. I'm sorry you thought you had to hide it from me. I’m sorry you felt so alone.” Her voice wavers as she speaks through her tears, desperate to make her see.

Penelope can do nothing as she stares up at her helplessly, an undeserving peasant at the foot of an Empress, as she processes these words she’s not entirely sure are spilling from her lips.

(But daring to hope, the slightest bit, that they could be real.)

Her lips part in amazement, the words stolen from her very thoughts.

And miraculously, Eloise keeps speaking.

“I know you. I would know you anywhere, under any name, and the only reason I did not believe it was you is because I had always believed you would tell me first. But I understand now, that you felt you couldn't. And I'm sorry you feel that way. ” Her voice gains strength as she keeps speaking, the sobs abating, tears cooling on her cheeks.

(And the fissures of her heart begin to mend again, this time stronger than ever before.)

These beautiful words, of forgiveness, of understanding, of knowing, break Penelope all over again as she finally allows the sobs to break through, finally allowing herself the release.

She curls up against Eloise’s knees from the force of it, hands covering her face as she cries harder when she feels her gentle hand stroking her hair, soothing her as a sister would.

(And she also feels the fissures in her heart begin to mend again, this time stronger than ever before.)

When the tears finally end, on both sides, Eloise slides down towards Penelope, enveloping her in a hug as she tries, in vain, to convey her love and appreciation and comfort, as she squeezes her with all her might.

(Lowering herself, to being on equal footing to a peasant.

Or more fittingly, as two sisters who seek to show each other the depth of their love.)

•

After, when they have finally calmed down, they sneak back in Penelope's room, where they finally have a chance to lay everything out in the open.

“No more secrets,” they promise, and mean it, for the first time.

Penelope begins by telling her all the ins and outs of her business and how she sends her columns (much to Eloise’s excitement).

And then Eloise follows by telling her everything of Theo–how they met, the conversations they've had and Penelope realizes something.

Eloise has no idea that she has feelings for him.

Feelings like Penelope does, for Colin.

(And she does not dare go to the place in her mind that thinks about Anthony, as those are not secrets but misunderstandings, and will always stay that way, she fiercely believes.)

And she knows she has to share this particular secret so Eloise can understand.

“I have had feelings for Colin since I met him.” She blurts out, trying to get it out before she convinces herself not to.

Eloise looks to be in complete shock as she stares at her.

“How…did I never notice?” She asks faintly, mentally going over every interaction they've had together since they met.

“It's precisely the reason I told you, El. I do not think you would recognize it unless you had a first hand example of it.”

Eloise's eyebrows scrunch in confusion, and Penelope explains.

“I think you have feelings for Theo–who is also my friend, by the way.” She tacks on quickly at the end as smiles a little sheepishly.

“You what?! What do you mean, I have feelings for The–and what is that about being friends–we’re going to circle around back to that, but first, what?!” Eloise flails around incredulously at the mere thought.

“I can tell by the way you talk about him, El, I know because it's the same way I talk about Colin, try as I might to hide it.” Penelope's eyes soften somewhat, even though she has already decided to give up on him.

(Painful as it is to realize that the object of her affections would never see her the way she wants to be seen by him.)

“But…but he…and I…and you don't truly think–” She cuts herself off as she thinks about it.

Thinks about every interaction they had, the playful teasing, the compelling conversations, the gentleness and respect that he always shows her, not just because of her station, but because he genuinely believes that all people should be treated with respect and she stills, frozen at the realization.

She has feelings for Theo.

Damnit!

She shuts her eyes, half-annoyed at herself for being like all those other debutantes that fall so easily for any member of the opposite sex that deigns to give them any attention, before she also realizes that thought is not very fair.

She did not mean to have feelings for Theo, just like she's sure Penelope did not mean to have feelings for Colin (she is still getting used to the thought), as she knows her sister, and how erroneously she believes that she is not worthy of love and therefore would not dare to have feelings for someone so above her station, lest she burden them.

And her face crumbles, as she remembers what Penelope had to endure when Colin courted Marina, and then what she had to do, just to save her idiot brother from himself.

(Penelope deserves better than that. She deserves someone who will see her as she wants to be seen, deep down, Eloise muses.)

“Did you realize?” Pen asks tentatively, bringing her back to the present.

And she knows that she has.

Eloise closes her eyes, knowing how improper this relationship is, and as much as she hates following the rules, she knows that any divergence from them can also hurt her family’s reputation.

And reputation means everything in the ton.

She hates it, but she hates the idea of causing any more pain to her family even more.

(Especially after Hyacinth…)

And she realizes that this is the reason Penelope told her.

She opens her eyes and looks down, in acceptance. (Sadness.)

“I have to stop seeing Theo, don't I?” The rhetorical question is more of a statement, really.

Penelope chews at her bottom lip, saddened as well that just when Eloise found someone she connected with, someone other than her family and her, she has to give them up, for her family.

“Just like I have to give up Whistledown.” She also states quietly.

She finally came to the decision when Eloise finally forgave her. (Though Eloise still maintains that there is no need for forgiveness, something Penelope is still trying to believe.)

This family means too much to her, especially with how dangerous this venture is, and how one small mistake could make them suffer the consequences.

And she cannot bear that. Not now that she knows how quickly their time can be cut short at any moment.

She would rather just enjoy her time with them for as long as possible, and hold the memories tight when she is no longer with them.

She has to protect them.

And no amount of power could ever be more important than this family that she loves–

“You can't do that!” Eloise cries indignantly.

Penelope can only stare.

Of course she does.

There's no other way.

She cannot have everything she wants, not if she wants this family safe.

“This is your voice we're talking about! More than that–this is your identity. Whistledown is part of you, cutting her off means cutting off a part of yourself, and I cannot allow you to do that.”

She blinks in surprise, not expecting such opposition. She thought for sure Eloise would agree.

(And her heart warms at being so understood.)

“While I very much appreciate your words, El, you know that won't be possible.”

(And the words don't sting as much as they would have, because she knows now, that she's not alone.)

“To hell with what's possible! Why should we behold ourselves to their rules when they won't even treat us with the respect we deserve?!” The fire ignites behind Eloise’s eyes, and Penelope smiles.

She loves that Eloise would get so angry on her behalf, that she would choose to defend her instead of desert her and she's suddenly glad that she decided to tell her.

“Trust me, El, I know it's not fair, but it's what's right for your family. I cannot put them in danger, I couldn't live with myself if I did.”

Eloise can see the logic, can see that Penelope is terrified of losing them, of being the reason they are hurt and she becomes furious all over again.

“Why should we have to restrain who we are just for the good of society?! Whose good are we actually protecting here, because there is nothing good that I can see about this!” She raves as her anger overtakes her, at the injustice of having to listen to a society that won't even deign to listen to her.

“It's just the way things are, El.” And as much as she hates the words, how they feel like ash in her mouth, she knows it's true.

The fight goes out of Eloise at the words, water dousing the fire in her eyes and dragging her down with the weight of it.

And Penelope hates it.

She hates that women aren't allowed their passions, that they aren't allowed their words, their own happiness without the express permission of a man, she hates it.

It makes her blood boil and coils tension throughout her body because she knows she cannot do anything about it.

“...Then, let's give them a last edition to remember.” Eloise declares, some of the fire coming back.

And Penelope is warmed by it, even as a shocked, “What?” slips out.

“Why shouldn't we go out with a bang? Let's make them miss you–pine for you because they will never get another edition again, we’ll make them regret it.” And the fire blooms into an inferno, this time using inspiration as kindling instead of indignation.

And Penelope cannot help being enraptured by the idea.

Why shouldn't they make them regret it? They all act like Lady Whistledown is the bane of their existence, but they moan all the days they go without her.

They love the scandal.

How can they not? When their existence itself is filled with the same old parties and the same old people doing the same old things.

If she must be forced to give it up, why not have one last hurrah and make them regret it in the same sentence?

And she grins, a small ferocious thing, absolutely taken with the idea.

“I know just when to do it.”

And they begin to make plans.

•

The day has come to play the infamous Pall Mall and poor Hyacinth is forced to watch underneath the tent with her mama, Lady Danbury, Lady Mary, Simon, and Augie, much to her annoyance.

To appease her the slightest bit though, Anthony gives her the Mallet of Death, an action that lights up her face and brings a small smile that's both teasing and satisfied to Anthony's face before he walks back to the rest of them that also watch with mirroring smiles.

Varying calls of “Yes! Finally!” and “This is the year you're going down Ant. Just you wait,” can be heard across the lawn and Anthony only smirks.

He doesn't actually need it to beat the rest of them, he knows.

It was only ever a status symbol, anyway.

(…And he can admit, to himself at least, that the reason he was so attached to that mallet is because it represents the one time he can fully be himself with his family, and he can forget, for a time, that they don't hate him.)

The eyes of the elder Miss Sharma trail him as he makes his way back, having seen the exchange though not completely understanding the significance, but knowing he has done something remarkably sweet for his sister that he so adores, and the opinion she has of him in regards to her sister nudges up, the slightest bit.

(Doesn't mean she can just forgive the terrible words he said at Lady Danbury’s ball, though.

She loves her sister fiercely, and she refuses to give her over to someone who will not care for her heart as much as the rest of her.)

Everyone picks differing colors, with Anthony choosing the darker blue of the shades available, feeling his competitiveness overtake him as he takes off his gloves for a better grip.

Penelope had wanted to opt out, knowing how competitive the Bridgertons can get based on the stories Eloise would relay to her, choosing instead to stay next to Hyacinth, but they wouldn't let her.

She tried to hide the smile that overtook her face at being so accepted by this wonderful family, but she doesn't think she fooled anyone.

(A fact that made Anthony's face soften the slightest bit as well, before he remembered himself.

Which Daphne and Simon noticed, of course.)

So she stood there, with the lighter of the blue shades in hand as Eloise, Colin, Frannie and Gregory attempt to relay the instructions and rules that are more like suggestions than actual parameters for the game, interspersed with commentary from Benedict and Daphne.

Anthony watches from afar, unwittingly taking notice of the way her face lights up when she interacts with his family as he stands next to Miss Sharma and her older sister as he also tries to explain.

He, however, is not willing to give away any state secrets, but he notices the glint of competition in Kate’s eyes as she grips her pink mallet a little harder and meets her challenge with his eyes as he smirks, feeling his blood heat. (Forgetting his intent to focus solely on Miss Sharma, for a moment.)

There's no way a novice will beat a weathered champion like himself, but he'd definitely like to see her try.

He tips his head in acceptance of this silent challenge and turns back to the lawn, ready to start and checks on Penelope again without meaning to.

He overhears that they are teaching her that she needs to be sneaky and cunning to win the game and he blinks when he notices the split-second smirk that graces her face before she shifts her expression into wide-eyed innocence.

What was that?

In all the time he has known her, while long in years but not actual knowing, he had never seen any expression that even hinted at her being capable of deception.

It makes him reevaluate what he knows of her and it reminds him that he had never seen her mired in lust either, but that didn't mean she wasn't capable of it.

(Water dripping, clinging fabric, heaving breaths, darkened eyes–)

His gut swoops at the remembrance and he blinks hard as he rolls his shoulders back to dispel it, thinking he can shake it away if he tries.

Head out of the gutter, Bridgerton, for Christ’s sake. It's just been too long, is all.

He blinks away the images with only minor difficulty, and yells at them to get started, in an effort to distract himself from his frustration, as he escorts Miss Sharma and Kate towards the first hoop.

The first few rounds are as usual; Anthony is in the lead no matter how much they try to divert his ball with his siblings trailing behind him in differing places.

What isn't usual is that Kate is right behind him (a fact that his siblings incessantly cheer on) and Miss Sharma has already been booted out by the fourth hoop.

Nor is it usual to find out that Penelope is, by far, the sneakiest player they've ever met.

She plays like it's chess instead of Pall Mall, but her intent isn't to win, oh no–it's to sabotage.

(She knew she had no chance of winning her first game, so she figured she'd have fun with it.

And how could she not? When this beautiful family so sweetly welcomed her into their hold, skin warm from the fierceness of their love–when they so wanted to include her?

Of course she has no choice but to include herself, as well. She does not wish to keep herself apart anymore.

Not when she knows now, more vividly than ever before, that she must enjoy every second she has with them.)

She played innocently the first few rounds, but by the time the fourth hoop came, she let loose.

When she hits Benedict’s ball so far he must retrieve it in some far away bushes that make him lose a turn, they all look at her in astonishment, as she smiles, self-satisfied.

(Hyacinth and Eloise cheer the loudest.)

They're all surprised at this turn of events, but once the initial shock has worn off, they revel in having another competitive spirit amongst them, one who fits so well within their dynamic in a way they had not expected.

After that, it's no holds barred against her, as they had all been going a bit easier on her considering what she did for their sister, but now in the wake of this revelation, they gleefully take her into the fold with them.

They attempt to sabotage her as well, still holding back a bit by only sending the ball into nearby bushes or trees thinking it will deter her, but considering they quickly find out she has no qualms with getting her hands dirty–a fact they take delight in–they outright attempt to get rid of her ball completely instead, by shooting it as far away as possible so that she either misses a turn or forfeits, all of them against her and Anthony (the player with the longest winning streak).

She takes delight in it too, glad to be a part of this game with this wonderful family, that she can't even be annoyed when Colin finally manages to throw her ball so far away she has to go trekking in some trees, and she knows she'll probably miss a turn too many and will have to forfeit.

As she’s making her way there, she notices another ball thrown in the general vicinity of her own and she smirks, wondering who else was sabotaged. And when she finally gets there, she sees it's Anthony’s–right next to hers in the middle of a small bog–and turns around at the sound of rustling behind her.

They smile at each other when their eyes meet, and Penelope asks,

“Who threw it?” Teasing smile at the edge of her lips.

“Kate.” He rolls his eyes, annoyed that she managed to get the better of him.

She takes note of the fact that he called her by her first name instead of her title, and shores up her belief that there's something between them, despite the fact that he's courting Edwina.

She could see it amongst the competitiveness that made them go head to head, the sparks that lit up between them at the friction.

(Unbidden, the phantom images of the incident in the lake spring up in her mind–water dripping, clinging fabric, heaving breaths, darkened eyes–before she hastily pushes them from her mind, dismissing them.)

She wonders how Edwina can't see it. But then again, why would she ever suspect her doting older sister would ever be an obstacle to her happiness?

It's not her place though, and she would not ever divulge such information in Whistledown, either. Not just because it would expose her, but because she really doesn't want to bring scandal to this family if she can help it.

(And despite knowing it isn't her place, how complicated the situation is and how much it could hurt Edwina, she believes the longer they wait, the more painful the fallout will be.

She learned that lesson with Marina.

So she decides to see if she can speak with Edwina, to help her see how much her and Anthony would not be happy together, for if anyone deserves such happiness, it is sure to be this sweet girl she now proclaims a friend, and this caring man before her.

…And if she could hit two birds with one stone and just nudge the elder Miss Sharma and Anthony towards each other the slightest bit so they realize they can find happiness together instead of apart, well, it really is the very least she could do for this wonderful family.)

So she ignores it and lets the teasing smile grow on her face, feeling more at ease around him amidst the spirit of competition that frees its players from the expectations they're expected to uphold (here in the Bridgerton ancestral home, anyway).

“I think you're met your match, Lord Bridgerton.”

(And means it in a more literal sense than he realizes.)

He scoffs in response as he turns his head away in mock offense, though there's a smile playing at the edges of his lips at her banter, enlivened as he is by the game and his own competitiveness, he forgets, for a moment, his resolve to stay away from her.

“I assure you Miss Featherington, she is no match for me.” He turns back to her as he says it and catches her gaze without meaning to, lending unintentional weight to the words he spoke offhandedly.

They both still for a second at the sudden tension, and abruptly turn towards their prize in the center of a large puddle of mud.

Anthony comes closer to stand next to her (but still at a respectable distance) as they inspect their challenge, both of them trying to shake off the lingering tension, and Anthony mentally barates himself for being caught in yet another compromising position with Penelope.

He resolves to get this over with as fast as possible so he can go back to his game and to the girl he is courting.

He measures the distance with his mallet and immediately knows it won't work, and he starts searching the ground to see if he can find a longer branch and perhaps tie it to his mallet with a handkerchief, not realizing Penelope has already moved.

Considering this is one of the dresses she hates and she's already (gleefully, if she's honest) done her worst, she figures she might as well go all the way and finally get to sacrifice this dress in the name of sport (a worthy cause, she thinks).

And if she can help keep Anthony from ruining his actually nice clothes, well, that's just a bonus.

Just as she's lifted her hem, mallet in hand, and started into the seeping mud, Anthony turns around and notices her, and his resolve flies out the window.

“What are you doing?” He asks in alarm.

Believing his alarm has to do with the rules of propriety being violated at the state of her dress, Penelope thinks it a little exaggerated, considering it is just a dress, not like she's putting her life in danger or anything. She knows how to be careful and the mud isn't even that deep.

It's not like there's any need to impress Colin anyway, he'd never look her way twice. She thinks sarcastically, though it still hurts to acknowledge that she isn't worthy of his attention.

(What she does not know, however, is that Anthony's heart started racing in panic at watching her walk in the mud, mind flashing back to the exact moment Hyacinth slipped and fell in the lake.)

“Getting our balls out of the mud.” She says, like it should be obvious.

Not wanting to distract her with the force of his panic, lest she try to hurry to him and have the worst occur, he tries to convince her to come back another way, focusing on a lady’s vanity, instead, as it seems to work on his sisters, sometimes.

“Come out of there, that's no place for a lady–your dress will be irreparable at this rate. Come, give me your hand.” He half-chastises as throws his mallet to the ground, getting close enough to pull her out while trying to calm his heart.

She smiles at his genteel manner, a gentleman through and through, that he would actually believe a dress like this is worthy of saving.

“It's no trouble. I actually think a little mud can only improve it, my lord.” She says with a playful smile and mischievous look in her blue eyes as she leans in a little like she's imparting a secret, and his eyes unconsciously dip towards her chest for a second.

He grits his teeth in frustration and renewing panic when he realizes his tactic won't work.

Who knew Penelope was not prone to vanity like the rest of the ladies? Damn.

He tries to get his panic under control so he can focus on getting her out of there and makes another attempt, not wanting to rush her into coming to him.

“If you would only have patience with me, Miss Featherington, I assure you I have this well in hand. There's no need to put yourself at risk.” He impresses upon her as he reaches out, wanting her out of there right now.

She gives him a look that's part teasing and part challenge, as well as a small smile that veers towards the edges of smirk and steps back from him (causing his heart rate to spike), deeper into the mud.

He clenches his hands at his sides to keep himself from lunging in after her as the adrenaline courses through him, lest she give chase, and his breathing starts to pick up, darkness hazing at the edges of his sight, his panic mixing with anger at how she's treating this like a game.

Why won't she just listen to him, damnit?

She thinks it’s silly that he is taking this so seriously, and is also, frankly, more than a little annoyed that he thinks she cannot handle something so simple merely because she is a woman.

So she stands there, in the middle of the mud, eyebrow raised in defiance, still with a teasing smile on her face, trying to keep the mood light instead of giving in to Anthony's confusing seriousness.

It is only a game, after all.

And Anthony feels his sight narrow down to her and all the ways this could go wrong–

The longer she's in there, the higher chances she has of slipping at the slightest shift and–

She. Just. Will. Not. Listen. To. Him.

Anthony’s body tenses as his blood heats, flames of anger overtaking his panic, beginning at the base of his spine and radiating outwards, finally making him feel more in control–

And he revels in it.

She doesn't want to listen to him?

Fine.

He’ll make her see reason.

He grits his teeth and slowly tips his chin down in determined irritation, his eyes taking on a darker look at her blatant disobedience.

“If you don't get out of there Miss Featherington, I will be forced to make you. So I'll give you this one chance to come back here.” He says, voice low, eyebrows raising as he slowly bobs his head up and down to emphasize his seriousness, threat clear in his words.

Her annoyance spikes when he scolds her like a child and she scoffs in offense.

“Anthony, it is only some mud–you are acting as if I am about to walk off a cliff. In the time that we stand here arguing I could've already moved them.” She shifts like she's about to start moving again, not noticing his name has slipped out, darkened by her frustration.

(But he has.

And it sends a spike of heat of a different nature coursing through his veins at her tone as he imagines her using it under other circumstances.

Forgetting, for a moment, that he is a gentleman.)

She will do what he says, damnit.

He is a Viscount.

He has the power here.

His eyes darken further and his head tips to the side slowly, dangerously, tightening his hands at his sides.

“You have until the count of three to move back here.” He threatens, voice beginning to deepen with unintentional desire, her disobedience setting his natural dominance aflame.

(And though he knows he shouldn't, that this isn't the time for it, he cannot help it when a small part of him hopes she’ll disobey him again.)

She freezes, face twisting in offense and slight incredulity, veering towards outright anger at the fact that he would assume she would jump to do whatever he says just because he uses that imposing tone.

They may have started to become closer acquaintances, and he may possess higher ranking than her that makes it well within his right to correct her behavior, but to outright treat her like a misbehaving little girl?

She’d like to see him try, she declares fiercely within her mind, the force of it igniting a fire behind her very eyes.

The tension between them escalates as they glare at one another–unwavering earth clashing against the sea–thickening the air around them, making it clear neither is willing to back down.

And she makes her choice.

“One…” He begins slowly, still daring to count.

She’ll make him lose instead by taking his in sweet revenge.

“Two…” He enunciates, further declaring his threat with a slow, grave raise of his eyebrows, just daring her to try it.

He tenses, ready to lunge as he can see her intentions clear as day, hyper focused as he is on her, and he knows she's made her choice.

He doesn't even make it to three when, between one blink and the next, both of them strike at the same time, racing deeper unto the muddied earth as Penelope throws her mallet to the side.

And just as she's leaning down to grab hold of the blue spheres, Anthony wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back in an effort to get her the hell out of there and back to safety.

He miscalculates his strength though, and they both slip as he turns, leading them to crash on their sides, but not before Anthony turns her in his arms in an attempt to take the brunt of the fall.

The breath is stolen from their lungs as they land, mud splattering all around and over them.

The force of the fall knocks his passionate anger out of him, replacing it with overwhelming concern as the worst has come to happen and what was he thinking? He probably made it worse–oh God, is she still conscious?

His breathing speeds up when Hyacinth's unconscious face flashes in front of his eyes and he closes his eyes, desperately trying to force it away, to stop shaking, so he can focus on Penelope.

He unintentionally clenches her in his arms and wrenches his head down to look at her, desperate to see that she's still awake–

And his heart stops when he sees her eyes are closed.

No.

No.

This cannot be happening again. It can't.

His chest starts heaving for breaths, but he can't breathe, can't find the air to fill his lungs, as his face transforms with horror.

Flashes overtake his sight, overlapping the image of Penelope with Hyacinth–with his father and he is lost, consumed in a space of darkness that juxtaposes his feelings of loneliness against the vastness of it.

Why must they all leave when he wants to hold on to them the tightest?

Why must this be his fate?

Is he truly so unworthy of love that he cannot even hold on to those he holds dear?

That they'll all leave him sooner or later?

And he'll be alone, so alone and never–

“–thony! Anthony! Please answer me–are you hurt?! I need to check your eyes to see if you have a head injury, please just, open your eyes for me.”

And by the sound of her voice, like a beacon that lights his way through the cavernous darkness that has overtaken his mind, his soul, he makes his way back.

She is awake.

And he can do nothing but dissolve in his relief, taking in the sight of her being okay, being safe in his arms (as he still hasn't let go of her waist).

Penelope, upon actually falling because of this stubborn man, closed her eyes in exasperation as she geared up to yell at him for making everything worse, and finally opened her eyes to give him a piece of her mind–

Only–

There in the mud in front of her lay Anthony, looking at her with unseeing eyes, face contorted in fear and gasping for breaths that he couldn't seem to find, unconsciously squeezing her waist and she felt immediate concern overtake her instead.

She tried saying his name, his title, anything to get him to respond and she starts panicking because what if he's hurt? This is exactly what she was afraid of–those close to her being hurt and she can't do a damn thing to help them and–

No.

She refuses to be helpless.

She does have knowledge to help with.

The thought helps her loosen her grip on her panic and she closes her eyes, and takes a slow breath, in and out, more steady by the time it's emptied from her lungs.

She guides them both up to a sitting position and doesn't even attempt to move Anthony’s hands from her hips because it seems like that is the only thing keeping him from completely passing out. (And he is holding on so tight she's not sure she will be able to, either.)

She peels her sullied gloves off and gently places her hands on his mud-splattered face, hoping the skin-to-skin contact will help him find himself again and begins speaking to him clearly and loudly.

“Anthony. Anthony. Anthony! Anthony!”

By the time she gets to her pleading instructions, Anthony has come back to her, and she exhales in cool relief, noting distantly that his pupils don't show signs of head injury by the sun rays that illuminate them, and is glad that she could do something to help even the slightest bit.

Clarity has returned to his gaze, seemingly melting the earthen hues of his eyes into molasses, and Penelope becomes caught in it–memories from her lake dream, the library flashing behind her eyes.

Anthony has become caught–freed, really–in her gaze as well, a breath of fresh air as clear as the sky above them, bright after the darkness that dragged him down and almost swallowed him whole.

Nothing else matters but the fact that they are alright, safe, and nothing else exists outside of this moment, as they breathe in sync, a warm feeling of relief and contentment enveloping them.

Then all of sudden, the loud cheers of a winner break through, bringing them back to the present, and they both look down at the same time to notice the position they're in.

In her determination to bring him back to her, she had not realized she'd ended up sitting on her knees between his legs, bringing her nearly face to face with him as she grasped his face with her bare hands.

They immediately let go of one another, trying to bring back at least some form of propriety (composure) to this situation, before Anthony thinks better of it and grasps at her arm with slight desperation as they are still surrounded by mud, halting her in her kneeling position as she was getting up.

“Please wait, Penelope, at least let me get up first so I can help you get out of the mud.”

Penelope dismisses his concern, thinking he needs more help than she does at the moment telling him,

“It is not necessary, I can get out myself if you would just–”

“Please.” He pleads, interrupting her and Penelope blinks at the sudden severity of his tone and suddenly something clicks into place.

The reason why he was so serious about getting her out of the mud, why he couldn't breathe when they finally fell.

He wasn't injured.

He became trapped. In a memory.

The memory that haunted her too, when she had first closed her eyes that night after the incident.

Only his was a memory that now existed twice.

Once for a father. Once for a sister.

A sickening thud as a body falls, and arms that can't seem to make them stay with him.

And Penelope’s face crumples in heartbreak for this man who is terrified of losing his family, because he knows–better than most–how it can happen in the most mundane circumstances.

“I’m okay, Anthony. I’m okay. Nothing happened, and nothing will happen, I promise you.” She whispers softly, gently, trying to ease his panic.

“How could you possibly know that?” He whispers back, pleading gaze searching her own, as if trying to find the answers within the sky of her eyes.

“Because I won't let it.” She vows resolutely as she looks down at him, a veil of protection and healing coating her words, bringing with it the fresh air that enters his lungs unhindered, once again.

His expression relaxes a bit at her vow, believing, for a moment, that she can make anything happen by the force of her words alone.

(And he stares up at her once again, wondering, this time, how the fire behind her eyes makes her appear less Saint-like and more like a Deity–a Goddess protecting her domain.)

•

When they return with their prize, completely covered in mud from head to toe, everyone stares at them in utter bewilderment.

“What were you two doing over there?!” Eloise exclaims in confusion.

They glance at each other, locking eyes for a second, before remembering themselves and they look away just as quickly, Anthony slightly clearing his throat while Penelope's cheeks heat.

(A fact that does not go unnoticed by several people, including, but not limited to, his mother, Daphne, Benedict and Kate.)

“We were clumsy with our footing, is all.” Anthony declares, hoping they'll drop the subject.

(Not a chance.)

Now that the shock has worn off, the rising sound of laughter and giggles fills the air, and they can only imagine what they look like.

“Now if you'll excuse us, we must get ourselves cleaned up, if you don't mind.” He continues, still trying to maintain the dignified image of a respected Viscount even while covered in mud.

(It fools no one.)

He nods to them in a refined manner and gives a cursory nod to Penelope as well, anxious to put as much distance between them as possible after such a revealing show of vulnerability.

It is not becoming of Lord Bridgerton–the mantle he wears on his exhausted shoulders, is what he tells himself.

(Exposing his heart like an offering was never part of the plan, is the thought that occurs.)

He begins to head inside as he drops their mallets and balls into the grass, boots squashing with drying mud.

(And if he can hear the now hysterical laughter and teasing insults that trail behind him and it distracts him the slightest bit from his inner turmoil, a small smile at the edge of his lips at having been the cause of such laughter from his family, even at his expense, well…no one else need know.)

Penelope's eyes aren't the only ones who trail behind him, cheeks brightening in embarrassment, especially in front of such esteemed ladies like Lady Bridgerton and Lady Danbury, as she makes her way inside with a lady's maid, in an effort to preserve the propriety they left long ago.

(Kate’s eyes follow him too, even long after he’s entered.)

•

She holds on to them, Mary and bon, a little tighter after the incident in the lake.

(Perhaps, even, a little too tight.)

Especially when she remembers the neverending months afterwards when Mary was nearly catatonic.

It makes her wonder, again, about everything she needs to appreciate about them, to do for them.

(And she wonders if she should come clean, before immediately dismissing the thought, scared, perhaps that this will be the thing that finally pushes them away and she'll be left alone, again.

No, she’ll fix it before they ever find out, just like always.)

Which brings her to her current thoughts.

She doesn't know what to make of him.

On the one hand, he infuriates her like none of the arrogant men she has ever encountered, and she's encountered plenty. Men who tried to tell her what was best for her family, who tried to demean her just because she is a woman and therefore incapable of making her own choices.

Men who saw women as mere burdens.

Yes, she was no stranger to that fact. How could she not be, with the society that they live in?

But to the disgustingly, vulgar degree that she heard from Lord Bridgerton himself? And then have him claim that she should be used to it, that it was the way of the world, like she should just accept the fate of all women and be grateful to even take up the same space? As if it is not wrong to degrade an entire sex solely based on the way they were born?

Her blood still boils at the mere thought of it.

And she visibly shakes herself to dispel the fury it provokes, lest she go find the nearest gun and shoot her frustrations out.

…But on the other hand–the tantalizing one–he also provokes more than just absolute fury.

Every time they lock eyes and she can see the fire lit behind them–sometimes embers, sometimes full on flames–the fury takes on a different hue, something entirely new.

And she does not understand it.

How she could absolutely despise someone and yet…

Everytime he comes near her, she has just the barest urge to lean in closer.

And that is the thing that infuriates her even more.

That she should want him anywhere near her with his disgusting views.

(But she does concede, however begrudgingly in the back of her mind, that the fact that he is willing to fight against her instead of backing away with his tail between his legs is what catches her eye.

The challenge he inspires to her bored mind.

Bored of these endless parties with these bland Lords that she so easily intimidates.)

But then…she sees how he is, with his family.

How he was that day at the lake, his despair at the mere thought that he would lose his sister, how relieved he was when Miss Featherington brought her back, almost miraculously.

And it makes her waver in her righteous fury at him, for it makes her wonder if the man she saw at the lake could actually believe those hateful words he spewed.

It even makes her wonder if perhaps the reason he so loudly proclaimed them was because they were all part of the gruff persona he displays–the one of the ridgid Lord Bridgerton–even towards his own family at times.

(She knows because she herself is like that.

And she knows for a fact that the care and worry and love that she saw from that man at the lake means there is no possible way he could completely believe them.

And she wonders if he, too, denies himself for the sake of his family, before she dismisses it.

It is too soon to tell.)

If only he wasn't so infuriating.

So she buries these confounding feelings, and does what she does best–her best, that is, for her family.

And that absolutely means getting that arrogant Viscount away from her sister.

(Especially when she noticed the look he gave Miss Featherington.)

•

Back in his room, Anthony reclines in his chair and stares at the ceiling again, brandy in hand.

He can still see the fire in her eyes when he closes his own, imprinted in his mind like the afterimage of the sun (fitting, for the sky of her eyes seemed to hold the very sun itself).

Can still feel the warmth of her bare hands on his face–warmed, he thinks, by her genuine care–the softness of her skin lingering on his own, and he flexes the hand he used to raise her from the soft earth.

Remembers how they lingered for a moment, holding on to each other's sullied hand (a physical reminder of how much they're willing to break the rules to help each other), before they let go and tried to pretend nothing was amiss.

He squeezes his eyes against the phantom sensations, trying to will them out of his mind by physical force alone.

It is merely because he is beholden to her for what she did for Hyacinth that he seems to be paying more attention to her, is all.

What happened earlier was just…

Just…

Frustrated at being unable to come up with an excuse, he tips his head back against the cushion and pushes against his eye sockets with the hand not holding the brandy.

He can explain away the physical attraction, but the moment in the bog?

That was more than attraction. That was…

That was too close to the realm of feelings.

Feelings he will not allow himself to have.

She is a family friend–as good as his sister, for God’s sake, and he refuses to even entertain the thought even in his own mind.

(Just as he refuses to acknowledge that it is too late, as he has already entertained those thoughts, and the cracks have already started deepening.)

She trusts him, damnit.

And he refuses to betray that trust.

There is nothing to be done because nothing can ever happen.

(Even though he can almost taste it whenever she is near–)

He roughly wipes his face, thinking he can just as easily wipe away the memory from his mind.

He is a gentleman.

And nothing will get in the way of his plan.

He stills at the mention of it.

His plan.

But it's not entirely for him, is it?

It's for them.

To leave them in the safest hands possible. To know he has done his duty to the best of his ability–and that means a marriage that has no possibility of ever dissolving in grief, of not leaving his widow a shadow of the person she once was.

Of course Miss Sharma will grieve his passing, he knows her to be kind-hearted, but she will get over him soon enough and do her duty well, caring for and preparing the future heir.

She would even be free to remarry, should she so choose.

And the Viscountcy will remain assured.

(And if his aims align with the lessening of his own fears, well…that is just happenstance.)

For them, he reminds himself.

Resolved, he sits up as he opens his eyes and downs the brandy, this time with a feeling of steeled determination, knowing what he must do.

(He forcibly elects not to admit, even to himself, how the decision feels a lot like he’s speeding up his trip to the gallows.)

•

Penelope, for her part, is also staring at the ceiling from her bed before dinner.

She keeps seeing the fear on his face, in his eyes, the way he seemed to actually believe her when she said she would never let anything happen to them.

(And she feels a warmth spread through her chest.)

She'd never had anyone display such raw belief in her before, in her abilities, not to this level.

No one besides Eloise has ever done anything close to that, her dear sister of the heart, and now to know that someone she so greatly respects also believes for even the barest of moments that they can leave the life of their loved ones in her hands?

That she can be counted on with that level of trust?

(It should be noted that she still doesn't know that the Bridgertons have already started to think of her that way, considering they have all walked in on her making her daily check-ups on Hyacinth.

And she won't for a while longer.)

It makes her inspired to prove herself. To prove that he is right to count on her because she will do anything for them.

Anything.

Whether through the dissolution of Whistledown or through the procuration of her very knowledge.

And she knows she can't control everything, knows she cannot will the universe to not to hurt these precious people she carries in her heart.

But if she could keep them with her for just a little bit longer?

She would brave the God of the Underworld himself.

Osiris.

(And if the thought of Anthony’s soft brown eyes as he gazed at her in total belief, for the most solid of moments, still makes her heart race, well, she’s the only one who knows.

And she’ll never share.)

•

He finds his mother at his father's grave.

Unsurprising, as she can always be found here when she wants a moment alone. (Alone with him.)

He sits next to her quietly, unwilling to disturb the quiet just yet.

She acknowledges his arrival with a small squeeze of his hand and he notices now, how often she's been doing that to him, them (even Penelope), since the incident in the lake, like she's afraid if she doesn't keep reassuring herself that they're all still here with her, she'll lose herself (again).

He turns her hand over in his and relishes this contact.

(It makes him believe, for a moment, that they all might not truly hate him like he has been believing for so long.

But then he remembers why he's here, and so he presses on.)

“In all the commotion of the impromptu picnic the first day, and then…the incident–” he’s still afraid to say the words aloud, “I did not get a chance to ask you for something important.”

And his mother finally turns to look at him.

She knows why he's here. Knows what he is asking and what he is doing and has the barest idea of why he is doing it, but what she cannot puzzle out are his reasons for it.

He has no need to rush this marriage–this one specifically, because she can see how incompatible they are, yet he rushes on ahead like he has no time to even get to know her, at least.

She knows he’s scared of losing those he loves, she's afraid of it too, but she knows love cannot be rushed or pushed away like he is so determined to do.

(And she can't help but try to hold on to him, on to all of them, tighter, especially with such a stark reminder of the brevity of life.)

And she so wants to clear him of that notion, so she quietly asks Edmund for guidance and begins,

“Are you certain she is the one?” Half-wondering how much he is willing to tell her.

“She is everything I need in a Viscountess. She is the Diamond.” He recites like he’s had to convince himself of that thought and she cannot hold back any longer.

“Even though there are two others who turn your head more than this girl you declare is perfect for you?” Her skepticism and slight admonishment shine through despite her best efforts, at the sight of him being so willfully obtuse.

He bristles at the begrudgingly accurate insinuation, at the admonishment, as if he is a child still in his leading strings and not a full-fledged Viscount who knows what he's doing.

(Knows all too well what he is doing.)

“I assure you I will be faithful to my future Viscountess. These…distractions will pass.”

(They have to.)

And she can see in his eyes, no matter how much he shutters them, that they are not mere distractions.

(Perhaps one more than the other.)

She stares at him, mostly in heartbreak, at the insinuation that love could ever be a distraction from duty.

“Or perhaps it could be your greatest strength, Anthony.” She suggests quietly.

He tenses involuntarily, unwilling to tread down that path and lashes out.

“Well I would know, wouldn't I?” He says–accuses really, just as quietly, but with a sharpness that cleanly hits its target.

She flinches at the reminder and he feels it in his own chest, regret piercing right through, too.

He is always hurting them, isn't he?

She sees now, that the depth of this pain won't be fixed with a few mere words, so she says what she hopes will at least make him pause long enough to think before she leaves.

“As much as Edmund would be proud of all you have done for us as a family,” she begins, and feels him still again, “I know he would never want you to give that ring to anyone you believe to be less than the love of your life.”

(And he realizes she never let go of his hand once, even when he hurt her, and the stinging words feel less like a reprimand and more like a call for reprieve from these terrible burdens he’s been carrying, for just a moment.)

•

(He does not propose to Miss Sharma that evening as expected, much to the relief of mostly everyone present.

Even Edwina herself, as confused as she is about it.)

•

Penelope is the one that finds her, the next day, out in the gardens for a stroll, trying to organize her thoughts.

Edwina had noticed how she did not fit in with these Bridgertons, for as lovely and welcoming as they were with her and her family.

She was soft where they had sharper edges, more kind where they were cynical and teasing.

And that was not a bad thing.

Her didi always complemented her kindness, calling it a virtue and an honor to behold, as there were many in their society, both here and at home, that did not possess even an ounce of it.

(Which she doesn't truly believe because that makes her think there are people who are undeserving of kindness, and that can never be true.)

But she knows she is an outsider, as even Kate seems to fit in more and her sister is known for being prickly (which Edwina thinks just makes her soft edges shine more).

It makes her wonder, if she could not even manage a game of simple Pall Mall with them, how could she be expected to be a part of their family?

It is in the midst of these thoughts that Penelope comes to join her, and she feels relief that her friend has come to check on her, for as sweet as she is, it is almost as if she was called by Edwina's very thoughts.

(Heaven-sent, she playfully muses.)

They merely walk together, enjoying the company of the other, much as people who are more introspective tend to do.

And it is when they reach a bench amongst the flowers that Edwina finally finds the words to relay her thoughts.

“I know you probably think I am hurt by not receiving the proposal everyone was expecting, but to tell you the truth, it did not hurt as much as I thought it would. Is that wrong of me?”

At the admission, Penelope blinks in slight astonishment, certain that she would have to work hard to make Edwina see that Anthony and her are not a match.

Perhaps she was the one who did not give Edwina enough credit.

“Did it not hurt because you are worried of rushing too fast, or because you have realized you do not have feelings for the Viscount?” She probes delicately, trying not to scare her off, but also trying to steer her to figure out her own feelings.

Edwina ponders for a moment.

She recalls how excited she was to have the dashing Viscount be the one to reach out to her, to give her such attentions when she had never really experienced that before.

Of course, the other lovely gentleman that showered her with attentions had captured her interest, her excitement, but when Lord Bridgerton was willing to be honest with her, telling her he is a man of actions and not words, she was swept off her feet, certain that it was a sign that this was going to be the love story she would finally get to experience in real life instead of only in her books.

But then she noticed how stilted their conversations were, how they petered out so quickly. How he spent longer interacting with his sister even though they spent most of the time fighting.

At first, she was willing to excuse his distractions because of what happened with Miss Hyacinth, but as the days passed on, she could not help but feel it was her that was the problem.

The one that did not fit within this family.

And it makes her wonder if maybe she was wrong about the Viscount, that maybe he is not the one meant for her.

That maybe the actual person that is meant for her is out there, somewhere, waiting for her to grow into herself so she can become someone who leads alongside her future husband, instead of being a mere burden.

(Much like she feels sometimes with her own sister, when she notices she denies herself things because she thinks Edwina and Mama need them more.)

And she finally comes to a decision, the uncertainty lifting from her shoulders.

“Perhaps it is improper for me to say, but I have begun to question this courtship with Lord Bridgerton.” She states diplomatically, trying not to put the blame on anyone, as it is only a matter of incompatibility.

“It is not improper to take a moment to think through something that affects the rest of our lives.” Penelope hastens to say, trying to prevent Edwina from talking herself out of this discovery.

“This is what the courtship period is about, Edwina, a chance to see if there is compatibility between the two of you. And I believe that it is a good thing you realized this now, rather than later when it could become much more complicated.”

And Edwina smiles at the unwavering support and wisdom of her dear friend.

She feels relief at being able to unburden herself to someone who is unbiased.

Of course, she knows her didi would always listen to her, but she also rather thinks that Kate would quickly push her to find another match as soon as possible, and she is unsure if she herself wants that anymore.

So the idea that someone would just listen instead of just jump straight into action unfurls the tension that had been accumulating within her.

“It almost feels forbidden of me to say, but I also think I should like to wait before getting married.”

Here in this space without judgement, Edwina is willing to admit these words she is not sure she could say to Kate, as she has been pushing so hard for Edwina's marriage, that she is unsure of how they will be received.

And Penelope is once again surprised and even proud of the wisdom of Edwina, for being courageous enough to think of her own wants and needs instead of merely what her family wants for her.

Especially in a society that considers marriage the only recourse for a lady.

Though she shouldn't be surprised, she is Kate’s sister after all.

“I think it is incredibly brave of you to choose for yourself instead of letting others choose for you, Edwina.” Penelope gives her a fond smile along with her words.

Happy to have been called brave, as people never associate that word with her, usually only with her fierce older sister, Edwina’s smile becomes blinding as a warmth blooms in her chest.

“It really is a boon, to have a wonderful friend such as you, Penelope.” And she blushes at the compliment, unused to such praise, also feeling a similar warmth rising in her chest at having another friend to call her own.

Their friendship seems to deepen at the affirmation, and they stay together amongst the flowers, leaning towards lighter topics, and then enjoying the silence once again when they notice the stirrings of blessed breezes that bring the scent of flowers swirling amongst them.

A little haven of their own, away from the usual chaos.

•

When the Featheringtons arrive with the other guests Penelope's heart both stops and sinks like a stone.

Not just at the thought that she will now have to go back with them, away from the warmth of the Bridgertons, though that has much to do with it.

Mostly, it's because she sees Cressida on the arm of her cousin. And there can only be one reason for that.

“They are courting?!” Eloise voices the thought in a harsh whisper.

At this, Colin and Edwina both turn in surprise.

(She was glad to see that Edwina could finally start getting along with some of the Bridgertons beyond mere formalities or awkward jests, she’ll think later.)

The look on Colin’s face turns sour, as he remembers how Cressida would treat Penelope as if she were not fit to breathe the same air, and he wonders just what in the hell is Jack Featherington is thinking?

Could he not see how vile she was? How she could never make a good wife as she had no kindness in any part of her body?

He shakes his head in admonishment as he tries to focus on comforting dear Pen instead and leans closer to her to get her attention.

“He’ll realize what a mistake he's making before long, Pen, you’ll see.” He gives her a small encouraging smile, hoping it will get her to smile too.

Penelope looks up at him, feeling a bit warmed in her heart that he sees how distressing this is for her, and is willing to help her find comfort.

She really is grateful for these Bridgertons.

Edwina, for her part, does not truly realize why this development is so distressing to Penelope, but she is an encouraging friend, and she hopes to be able to soothe this dear friend of hers that showed her such support in her own troubles.

She places a gloved hand over Penelope's, and squeezes it in comfort, also giving her a small smile.

And it is this that finally causes a smile to unfurl on Penelope's face, small and tentative, though no less present and she begins to feel a small hope that things might turn out all right.

That is, until Penelope hears the news from Colin as he tries to change the subject.

He is to visit Marina in her home.

And her heart twists in her chest at the thought that he still won't let her go.

Perhaps she should not have intervened, she admonishes herself.

She thought she had been protecting him from her deception, but now…

She thinks if only she had forced them to speak to each other, to share with each other…

Perhaps he would be a happily married man.

And as much as the thought hurts, it is not as intense as it could've been, which confuses her the slightest bit, before she dismisses it, thinking she is just clearly more worried (excited) about her future plans with Eloise.

(What she doesn’t realize quite yet, however, is that she has already given up this infatuation completely, placing it down gently the way one does with fragile things.)

Today is the day Whistledown ends.

She and Eloise have already written the article, certain it will be impactful, and now all that is left is going to deliver it to Theo during the cover of the ball.

Penelope has managed to convince Eloise to use the opportunity to say goodbye to Theo, as she had already been planning to avoid him rather than confront her own feelings.

And Penelope will make sure to give them all the time they need for it.

(And her vow sparks in her veins once again, rising on the wings of stout determination.)

She will protect them, at all costs.

(Anthony is counting on her, her mind whispers, wispy in the way half-formed thoughts are.)

•

Kate decides to observe her opponent in a neutral place away from her bon and most of the Bridgertons to ascertain more about this Viscount.

Is he more the man at the lake, or the Lord of Bridgerton house?

Can he truly be reasoned with, if she tries hard enough?

And the best place for that is the hunting party.

(Which she actually is excited about, as she had not been allowed to pick up any weaponry since coming to England. Reminding her of another reason she was glad to go back to India.)

She had been expecting more of a fight, more disparagement when she suggested she go, and it seemed she was about to be right before he stopped himself from speaking.

Something that surprised her, as she had never seen the Viscount avoid an opportunity to speak his mind (most of the time without thought, she thinks peevishly).

He actually looks at her as she says it though, instead of just gearing up to make his next insult, and contemplates his answer, like he's gaining new perspective, new insight into a side of the women in their society that he had previously not given thought to.

And he agrees quietly, much to the surprise of Mr. Bridgerton and Kate, who are left speechless.

This haughty Viscount, the one she so clearly heard disparage her entire sex, is the one who has conceded to treat her as an equal in a sport that mainly caters to men.

She stares, almost as if looking at him for the first time.

(And she supposes she is as, for once, it seems he has lost that façade he’s always wearing, the one that vaguely carries his shape, but never seems to fit perfectly.)

What could possibly have changed him to that degree in such little time?

Was it truly only the terrible experience of losing yet another family member? Or was it something more?

(And she watches discreetly, along with Mr. Bridgerton, the way his gaze drifted to where Miss Featherington sat with Edwina and two of his siblings across the distance and stayed there, for a tad longer than proper, before he remembered himself.)

As they make their way across the forest, he even suggests they follow Kate as she informs them of the tracks she sees. And most of them follow her, except for a select (arrogant) few.

And she notices how he does not engage with her as he used to, can tell by the way the fire in his eyes doesn't burn as bright, the way his eyes keep turning towards the sky.

Oh, he still goes through the motions, how can he not, when it's second nature to him?

But he seems distracted, and she is reminded of the look he shared with Miss Featherington, when they came back covered in mud, and then earlier at the table.

And she becomes more certain.

She has to get him away from Edwina.

(She only hopes he can be reasoned with, but she's willing to fight if pushed.

She always will.)

•

Anthony, still intent on gaining Miss Sharma’s hand in marriage, intends to make his intentions known at the ball, despite the words his mother left him with.

(Or perhaps because of them, as his father might not have wanted him to have a marriage without love, but he is not here to see it.

Does not know the things he must do to keep this broken family together.

To lessen their pain if he can help it.

And the steel beams of his determination start to bend with the weight of his burdens.)

What he doesn't count on, however, is Penelope.

(Of course.)

Illuminated by the candlelight of the chandeliers, his head tips back slightly as his eyes are drawn upwards to her from the moment she walks in.

(Depicting perhaps, a worshipper gazing at a divine force greater than him.)

She stands on the balcony of the stairs, head tipped to the side slightly, gloved forearms gently leaning on the railing, overlooking the ballroom in apparent contemplation.

(A Deity, considering her domain.

He blinks away the afterimages of her kneeling above him in the mud, the lake.

He roughly pushes them down, hoping they will seep through the very earth itself, never to be seen again.)

He visibly tears his gaze away, looking around for Miss Sharma, thinking, perhaps that the sooner he gets this over with, the quicker he can go back to pretending nothing has changed.

(Even though everything has, he dares not acknowledge.)

He catches Daphne’s gaze, as well as Simon's and he knows they’ll have words later.

Damnit.

He clears his expression, adopting a neutral expression and moves into the fray, resolving to ignore the woman in pink.

(The exact shade of the blush that bloomed on her chest–he ticks his jaw to stop the thought in his tracks.)

He finds her, standing next to her sister, of course, who gives him a warning look that he ignores and takes Miss Sharma's hand to lead her to the floor after asking her permission.

Edwina was still trying to find the courage to speak to her sister, worried about disappointing her, but ultimately knowing she has to stop this sooner rather than later, for everyone’s sake.

She could hardly turn down the Viscount though, as this is neither the time or place.

Their dance is as expected, now that the veil of infatuation has been lifted, and she sees how they are not at all compatible in the slightest.

He dares not even look her in the eye, seemingly trying his hardest not to look in any particular direction, and doesn't even attempt to initiate conversation with her, even though it is only polite to do so.

She can see that he also feels this union would not be a happy one, and she wonders why he would force himself to do so when he clearly does not want to.

Perhaps it is because it is expected of them, as the Diamond and the Most Coveted Bachelor?

She does not think it likely, as the Viscount seems much too obstinate to cater to the whims of society.

…Or perhaps there is a deeper reason? One he feels he must do no matter his own personal feelings?

And she is suddenly reminded of Kate.

Kate, who would do anything, be anything for them even at the cost of her own happiness.

She sees how much Kate holds back for their sake, how much she longs for connection as well, and her heart twists with the realization, as she recognizes that he, too, would do anything for his family.

And an idea pops in her head.

Perhaps…perhaps they would make a better match than she and Lord Bridgerton ever did.

And she can see how it makes complete sense.

There is a reason they are always fighting–it must be the beginnings of attraction!

She knows of that, she's seen it in the romantic novels she's always reading, and one of the most famous recurring themes for the couples is how thin the line between hate and love can be.

Of course! How did she not notice–it was right in front of her eyes this whole time!

She would do anything for her dear sister as well, and if she can give her this happiness, she will do everything in her power to do so!

And her face lights up at the idea of finally getting to help her didi in return, when she already does so much for them.

But how to start, she wonders?

She has much to think over now, and she can only hope she is not too late.

She won't let it be. Not when her sister's happiness is at stake.

•

Miss Sharma and Penelope’s new found friendship has a downside, he notices.

It means she is next to Miss Sharma, meaning she is standing next to him.

And as much as he tries to keep his attention away from the woman in pink, he can barely hear what Miss Sharma is discussing as Penelope is right there.

(Eloise is nowhere in sight, probably hiding from their mother somewhere, while Kate is currently dancing with Thomas Dorset.)

He does his best to act normal, cordial but not overly friendly, and does not dare look her in the eyes for more than a second.

(Not with images that still linger every time he blinks.)

He pays attention though, when he hears Miss Sharma's next words.

“–oh! Isn't this one of your favorite dances, Penelope?” She doesn't wait for an answer before she turns to Anthony, speaking a bit louder to be heard over the extended opening piano notes of a slower tune as they wait for everyone to arrive at the dance floor.

“You should take her to dance, my lord! Penelope has not been in the best of spirits, you see, but perhaps a turn about the dancefloor with you, Lord Bridgerton, can help her take her mind off of it?”

And he freezes.

Penelope cannot hide the surprise on her face as she tries to interject, but Miss Sharma won't hear it.

He discreetly tries to look around for Simon, for his brothers–he would settle for Colin, if it meant he would not have to do this.

“Oh, please Lord Bridgerton, the dance is about to start!”

And Anthony has no choice, really.

Not if he does not want to make a scene.

(It is what he tells himself, at least.)

He finally turns his whole body towards her, finally looking at her completely and their eyes lock.

(Like he knew they would.)

Now that there is no distraction from her, she is all he sees.

And he cannot stop himself, really, when he holds a hand out for her with the expected question, a beat too slow and too intent to be casual.

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

“You may, my lord.” She dutifully answers as she slides her hand into his, where they stand for a beat longer than necessary before he leads her to the dance floor.

“I’m sorry about this, Lord Bridgerton.” She whispers (and forcefully ignores the warmth from his hand).

She understands Edwina is just being her sweet self, but she feels embarrassed about forcing Lord Bridgerton to dance with her.

She only hopes he’s not too annoyed, as she subtly looks around for Kate, hoping she won't get the wrong idea, and notices that she's at the far end with Mr. Dorset, speaking amongst others, and she worries for a second, that she may be too late to get her and Anthony together.

(A worry that Edwina shares, too.

What neither of them know however, is that Kate is already looking for other prospects for Edwina, confident in her ability to dissuade the Viscount and finally resolved to talk to her sister, to help her see she deserves a marriage with love, not a business arrangement.)

He can't even muster a response at the feel of the heat of her hand, the way it spreads outwards towards the rest of him, and he vaguely notices the background noise of the ballroom dampen as his senses all become attuned to her.

(It's that heat again, the honey-thick one he can almost taste–

No. He is a gentleman and he will remain that way. )

He clenches his jaw slightly, body tense, as they step into position, determined to get through this as efficiently and detached as possible, resolute in his intention not to get swept away in her, as they bow to each other.

And just as he is beginning to believe he might get through this unscathed when they commence the first few steps–keeping their touches to only two palms pressed between them as they anchor each other through slow turns, to only the barest impression of touch between entwined palms as they step towards each other, and only the vaguest feeling of heat as they pass each other, backs facing–

The turns begin.

Holding one of her hands, she must sweep a leg outwards in an arc around him to lower herself then slide upwards into him, back nearly touching his front, and he cannot stop his eyes from closing at her proximity.

His breathing increases against his will and all he can feel is her.

Her heat travels up his chest as she makes her way upwards, slow, on the edge of fully touching, but not quite, and he forces himself not to tense his hands and pull her back into him those scant few inches, nostrils flaring as he tries to control his breathing through clenched teeth.

Only his attempts at composure lead him to inhale her damned, sweet scent.

(It still makes his mouth water.)

He swallows as he opens his eyes to keep himself grounded in the present and then immediately wants to close them again at the sight.

His eyes were drawn down towards his partner, positioned as he is over her shoulder and he can see the way her breathing speeds up at his proximity, the way she breathes out shakily when she feels his breaths on her skin, the way the gooseflesh travels down towards her breasts.

He feels his heart beat uptick with adrenaline, can feel the heat begin to consume him, how it swoops down south and rests, coiled and heavy, in the depths of his gut.

And he just knows that when he turns her around again it will take all of him not to pull her in and taste her mouth.

(They haven't been this close since the library, since the bog.)

The tension pulls taught between them, just like he knew it would, when he turns her around and she meets his gaze, pupils dilated.

And they still have the rest of the dance to go.

The next few steps are a teasing of tension all their own, as she places her hands above his shoulders, and he, on her hips–feeling his jaw flex at the dip he knew would feel perfect in his palms–to keep each other from slipping, as he lowers himself to sweep his leg backwards in a slow arc around them, this time, bringing him nearly face to face with her.

Mere inches once again.

(Their eyes do not leave the other’s as they do manage to slip, only deeper into each other.)

And then it is her turn.

And when she lowers herself, his gut tightens as he swears he can feel the heat of her breaths against his coat, all the way down to his skin, heated as it has become at their teasing nearness.

He breathes out slower this time, through parted lips to keep from letting the images go further in his mind.

It doesn't work.

(...Oh, the things he could teach her…his eyes close at the thought. )

Each time they come closer to each other all they can sense is honeysuckle and cedarwood and warmth–

He shifts his grip as he turns her in his arms again only this time, he does press her back against his chest, arms crossed, as they gaze up at one another.

(Only because of the dance, of course.)

It feels like they are the only two in the room as they turn, so close they are to one another they can hear each other breathing.

He lets go of one hand to lead her in a spin before he raises their arms between them as they step side to side, facing opposite directions with their shoulders almost touching, tension mirrored in its physicality as they lower their hands–a beat too slow compared to the other dancers–forearms pressed up against each other, while their other hand rests behind their back, as they continue in another slow circle, holding onto each other with their hands, their eyes.

(An echo of the tension that comes into being whenever they are near the other.)

It becomes a haze, this dance.

Warm touches, a soft deepening of breaths, eyes that close involuntarily–

Until their steps lead them into the position they started in.

And the haze lifts.

(Reality returns, unwelcome.)

And Anthony can only stare as Penelope blinks and recovers first, tipping her head down in respect as she curtsies low, though the distance left between each other brings her too close to him, and he holds his breath as he follows her with his head when she lowers herself to the ground, still caught in the gravitation of her.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Bridgerton.”

He swallows as he merely nods in response.

Colin comes for her next, as the start of a quadrille can be heard and he cannot even muster the annoyance he usually gets when he sees them close, still mired in the haze of their dance.

He blinks a bit too hard as he tries to get himself under control in his walk back to Miss Sharma.

Daphne stops him on the way, with a look that he resolutely ignores, tipping his head in slight acknowledgment, trying to calm himself.

He knew this would happen and he still–

He clenches his jaw, his hands, in self-admonishment before he reaches Miss Sharma and makes his excuses to get some air.

He paces a bit, trying to get a hold of himself in a secluded space away from prying eyes.

He cannot forget his plan.

Penelope will not make him forget his plan.

He refuses to let himself get distracted–for this is all this is, a mere distraction–not when he is so close.

It is only attraction and it will pass, he repeats to himself over and over.

(Chants, really, thinking perhaps that he can invoke the words to become manifested in reality.)

He stops and runs a hand through his hair roughly as he exhales harshly, needing to relieve tension, but not wanting to chance it in case anyone comes this way.

And as if on cue, Daphne appears and he cannot help the aggravated look on his face as he turns away, absolutely not wanting to hear it.

“Save it, Daph.”

She ignores him, of course.

“You mind telling me what that was in there?” The annoyance in her tone only aggravates him further.

“Contrary to your belief, I do not owe you an explanation, now please leave me alone. ” He still hasn't turned, choosing instead to direct his words out into the moonlit gardens hoping he can wait her out.

“You may not owe me an explanation, but you do owe Miss Sharma one, Anthony. You remember her, don't you? The girl you formally asked to court?”

Her patronizing tone does its job, annoying him into turning around and answering.

“I know exactly what I am doing, Daphne, do not treat me like a child when I have been your patriarch for over a decade.” His eyes narrow, daring her to question him.

“Then stop acting like one, Anthony.” She moves in, completely ignoring the warning tip of his head and near-hisses, “Stop pretending that there is nothing between you and Penel–”

“Keep your voice down.” He warns sharply as he looks around discreetly, panicked slightly that someone would hear and get the wrong idea.

Because it is wrong.

“There is nothing between us, and you of all people should know how precarious a lady’s reputation can be. Leave it alone.” He deepens his voice, hardening it in an attempt to convey authority.

That invokes Daphne's anger, the insinuation that she would ever forget that a lady's reputation is possibly the most precarious thing about their society.

“It is precisely because of that I will not!” She barely stops herself from shouting in outrage, restraining her body in an attempt to maintain composure.

“You cannot keep your composure just being in the same room as her, how exactly are you supposed to do that once you are married?” She tries to search his gaze, incredulous that he thinks he can still go through with this marriage.

He fidgets as he avoids her gaze, turning his head away, unwilling to concede (believe) that she has a point.

“This was merely an unforeseen circumstance, and it will never happen again.”

He turns back to her in determination and looks her straight in the eyes as he declares,

“I will make sure of it.”

Certain that he can control this, like he’s always controlled everything else.

(He resolutely ignores the utter disaster of Daphne's season, confident that he can at least control this.

He has to.)

Her head tips to the side in wry scepticism, a disbelieving smile on the edges of her lips as she slightly scoffs.

She has no doubt that he will try to.

But she saw the looks between them.

They may have been able to disguise it as part of the dance, as it is part of the choreography, but the intensity?

The intensity she can spot from a mile away, and he cannot hide that forever.

(She would know–it was how she and Simon were, after all.)

“You're making a mistake, Anthony.” She raises her eyebrows at him, trying impress upon him her seriousness.

As if he does not know exactly what he is doing.

“Apparently I need to remind you again that I have been the head of this family for over a decade, Daphne. I know what is best for us. Do not presume to question my choices.”

A warning to stop treading down this path.

(He cannot. He cannot talk about what awaits him.)

“I am not the one questioning, Anthony. It is your own heart that wavers.” She shakes her head slightly at him, her eyes widening in concern that he is forcing himself to make this choice.

The mere mention of his heart being in any way involved in this causes his anger to spike (in defense, perhaps, of his fear), prickling at skin and tensing his body with the force of it, driving him forward into Daphne's space to make sure she hears him loud and clear.

(He will never let his heart waver.)

“Your counsel is not only unnecessary, it is unwanted, for not everyone views the world with such frivolity, like you, Daphne. I alone know what is best for this family and it is not a marriage based on something as fickle as attachment. So do us both a favor, and desist. ” He stares her down, eyebrows raised in a grave manner, willing her to leave.

She stares right back, trying to see past this wall he has raised, trying to find some semblance of her brother in there, to see if she can somehow get past it and help him.

But she finds the walls too high, too thick, made of pure, dense earth, and she knows she has no chance when all she sees is Lord Bridgerton.

She gives him one last look before she turns to leave, face dropping slightly in defeat and perhaps even pity, which only has the unintended effect of darkening his eyes as his anger deepens.

Pity is for the weak.

And he will never be weak.

He is stronger than this.

It is only attraction and it will pass, he reminds himself yet again.

(It should be noted that Anthony also has the erroneous belief that it is only through self-torture that one can show the depth of one's love.

…But he won't come to that realization for a while longer.)

It will pass and then he will finally be able to look at her with the eyes of another pseudo brother.

(His gut twists at the mere thought of looking at Penelope as his sister, for she has never felt so far from it.

Not when just being in her presence brings to mind the things he had been trying so hard to leave behind.

Not when her closeness is overlapped with her taste, her feel, her cries–)

He fiercely shuts his eyes closed and shoves his hands into his eye sockets, trying to push out the thoughts–

He is a gentleman, damnit!

(But Penelope makes him forget it, comes the whisper from that deep place inside him, the one he vehemently ignores.)

He is brought out of it when he begins to hear faint whispering–so faint he almost wonders if it's coming from inside him again, before he sobers–and he sees two cloaked figures discreetly make their way through the gardens, heading straight towards a carriage.

Desperate to find any excuse not to think about his warring thoughts, he decides to follow these two ladies, for they are obviously ladies judging by the pitch of their voices, and distantly wonders if he’ll need to make some speeches about propriety.

The words that are being whispered do not register at first, but when they do, they freeze him in place.

Because the words that are being whispered by the voices he now recognizes as Eloise and Penelope are ones he never thought he'd hear.

Ones he is not even sure he actually heard, but he could not have mistaken them for anything else.

No, he could never mistake this.

Eloise and Penelope are Lady Whistledown.

Chapter Text

•

His shock contains his movement like he's moving through cement, so he can only watch as they pay Penelope's driver, the one that brought her here, and drive off, before he manages to regain his senses and takes off like a shot in time with his anger and worry towards his own driver on the other side of the space. 

It irks him to lose so much time just to get into his own carriage, and to tell a nearby footman to tell his family he is not feeling well (extra coins included), but he has no choice if he wants a chance to catch these impertinent, stupid girls!

Because that is what they are acting like, misbehaving little girls that are way in over their head. 

The adrenaline that sparked though his body has no chance of stopping now, not until he drags them back into the safety of their home, and so his only recourse is to dispel it through the shaking of his legs and fidgeting of his hands the longer he goes without seeing them. 

His anger is mostly a mask for his terror though, for he knows what is at stake if they are caught. 

(Their lives.)

His heart is squeezed into a vise at the mere suggestion of the thought and he tenses, shutting his eyes against the darkness of terror that seeks to pull him down into that cavernous place within him that has no way out. 

(No way but her, it reminds him.) 

And it pulls him deeper, almost consuming him at the thought of losing her, of never seeing her again, of never getting to grow old togeth–

He growls fiercely against the avalanche of his own thoughts, and shoves his face into his hands, still angry as well as he cannot deal with this right now. 

No. Not now. 

Now he has to keep it together to bring them back safe. 

Anything else is inexcusable. 

•

Penelope had been tense and excited all day, much like Eloise.

Though the thoughts promptly left her mind with that dance. 

(Closeness, steady warmth from both nearness and breath, cedarwood–) 

She blinks rapidly to dispel the memory, the heat under her skin, swallowing a little when she feels her breathing uptick the slightest bit.

She knows she shouldn't even entertain the thought, but she could not help the racing of her heart at the intensity of his gaze. 

She knows he was just focused on the dance, as that is how it is meant to be danced, but the look in his eyes–

No. 

It is merely because she had never had the opportunity to dance it with anyone, so of course having such a gaze upon her would cause her heart to flutter. 

It is only because he is handsome, she can admit. 

He is a Bridgerton, after all. 

She would know, after being in love with Colin for so long. 

If it had been Colin, she would probably be in a worse state, she's sure–at least they were not in such close proximity with their dance. 

Perhaps she is lucky it was Lord Bridgerton and not Colin with whom she danced. 

(She dares not give conscious thought to the vague feeling that would not be so.)

Besides, he already has his perfect match. She can only hope there is still time. 

(She feels her heart twist a bit at that before she pushes against it again, unwilling to be swept away by ridiculous feelings.)

She brings herself back to the present, to what she knows she must do. 

And now that the time had finally arrived, she couldn't help but feel melancholy, as well. 

She was saying goodbye to a piece of herself, tonight. 

A huge piece, really, as Whistledown is everything she wishes she could be: confident, bold, unafraid, fierce, and demanding. 

(She’ll realize, soon, that she doesn't need Whistledown to be those things, for they are already a part of who she is. 

…Though there is still time enough, for that.) 

She is resolved, though, about protecting them. 

Nothing matters more to her, and this, this is a testament to her love. 

The ultimate sacrifice for something she has wanted and loved for so long, so deeply, she is willing to kill it herself and lay it down at their feet. 

A family. 

(A Saint who reaches Sainthood through martyrdom.

…Or perhaps, a Goddess, paying tribute to a force she considers grander than her, more worthy.)

She squeezes Eloise’s hand next to her in the carriage, partly to remind herself why she’s doing this and partly to offer comfort. 

She knows Eloise is having a rough time of this. 

How can she not? Being forced to tell the person she has intense affections for that she must never see him again. 

Penelope feels injustice rear up inside her again at society being so backwards they must give up what they love for the sake of it. 

But they have no choice. 

Society will always win, as it is bigger, and stronger, and holds the lives of those they hold dear.

So all she can do for now is squeeze Eloise's hand to let her know that at least she is not alone in this, as they settle in for the long carriage ride to Bloomsbury. 

•

As they arrive, Penelope decides to go in first, if only to explain the situation and give Eloise time to prepare. 

She hears a smooth, “Well, well, if it isn't dear Penny. It's been a while, hasn't it? I've gotten used to seeing you on a schedule.” Theo grins slightly at seeing her, leaning on the countertop. 

He missed his dear friend. He missed her sweetness and her warmth, so different from what he expected of the snide upper class he has gotten used to working for. But can he really be surprised, when she ventured out to do this in the first place? 

He was even proud of her for being brave enough to do it, despite being worried about her safety every time she comes to see him. 

(The thoughts of different attitudes and bravery bring to mind a certain brunette with colored eyes that softens the look in his own. He missed her too, but in a much different way.) 

Despite everything, the sight of him still brings a smile to her face, as it is always good to see her friends, since she cherishes them so. 

“Hello Theo, how are you, my friend?” And rather than merely being polite, she means it, as she always wants to know how her friends are doing. 

“Hmm, can't complain. I get to see my friend again.” And he means it too, a small smile lighting up his face. Growing up an orphan, he doesn't know what it's like to actually have a family, but with Penny, he thinks he finally knows what it feels like to have a sister. 

They share a soft smile, basking in the warmth of their shared affection and Penelope realizes something. 

In all her worry about losing Whistledown and Eloise’s nearing heartbreak, she didn't stop to think about what it would actually mean to stop coming to Bloomsbury. Yes, it means giving up the freedom, the chance to be her own person and make her own choices without being influenced by the ton. But she realizes she’ll miss this most of all. Her friendship with Theo that has begun to feel more like kinship.

She's never had a close brother before (not counting her burgeoning closeness with the Bridgerton brothers) but she rather thinks Theo would be it. 

And now she must give him up too. 

Her smile falters and Theo grows concerned, and she cannot look at him as she says,

“I am not here for joyful reasons, Theo.” 

Theo’s face turns grave at the words and he immediately tenses, expecting the worst. He knows exactly what’s at stake with this venture, for as proud as he is of her for it, he also wishes she would not put herself in such danger for it. 

(And his disdain for society rears up again.)

And just as she's about to blurt out the words to get it over with, to go get Eloise so she can have some time to tell him goodbye so they can leave quickly, she is cut off by a loud commotion. 

The sound of it kicks off Penelope's protective instincts and adrenaline as she fears the worst and she both pales and feels her blood heat up at the split-second thought that Eloise is in trouble and she has no time and she has to reach her–

And she's immediately held back by Theo whose protective instincts and adrenaline were also kicked into high gear as he quickly grabs a piece of plywood and runs to Penny’s side, placing himself in front of her to keep her from running out there (silly girl!) and to hide her as much as possible as they have no time to run away, and he just knows he’ll have to fight whoever has discovered her. 

(And he always will, for Penny.) 

The door tears open before they can form another coherent thought and exclamations that are trying hard not to be loud come from both Eloise and Anthony as they burst through and Penelope freezes. 

“–I know exactly what I'm doing! Do not presume to know–” 

“You know exactly what you're doing? And what is that, pray tell? Is it doing your best to be caught for treason? Because if it is, you’re doing a great job of it–!” 

They turn in unison once they cross the threshold and they both still, for different reasons. 

Eloise did not have enough time to prepare for this (she does not think she ever will), but she at least had been hoping for a little longer before her oaf of a brother practically tore the carriage door open with the fury of the sun igniting a fire within him as he did his damnedest to keep his voice as low as possible as he whisper-yelled at her for being Whistledown and being reckless enough for leaving a goddamned ball for this gossip rag! 

Eloise knows he is just yelling because he is worried for them, worried about being caught and the subsequent fallout of it, but that is the exact reason they are doing this, and if they are trying their best to come to terms with it as they leave it, well, they are only human! 

And she had been trying to tell him this with no avail, that she completely forgot about Theo until she walked in through the door. (And subsequently confusing Theo, as well.)

Anthony, on the other hand, stilled in even deeper fury. 

He was already on the brink of it in a mixture of anger, fear, worry, and apprehension, and in he walks, desperate to get Penelope and leave when he burst through and found some cad standing practically on top of Penelope with a weapon in his hand like Anthony is the one who is the danger. 

Is that what she's been doing here? Cavorting with this, this boy–because that's what he is, a child–while she's off being Whistledown, all this time? 

His hands curl into fists as the tension ramps up in his body, coiling him so tight he feels his teeth ground as his vision begins to tunnel. 

Because of this, Anthony’s eyes catch the moment the boy's grip tightens on Penelope behind him and it snaps him from his binding anger, dragging him forward to get him off of her. 

Penelope, quickly realizing what this looks like (and vaguely feeling a need to explain things to Anthony that she distantly feels confused over) manages to yank herself out of Theo’s grip, much to his consternation and subsequent attempt to yank her back, and places herself in front of him, determined to protect her friend (brother, really, no matter how far apart they might be). 

The spark of protective anger that lights up her marine-blue eyes, dark under the light of the lamps, stops him right in front of her, mere inches from her body. 

It reminds him of the bog, how she vowed to protect them, and he feels seething jealousy that he cannot even deny at the idea that this boy has warranted such deep and fierce protection, when it should only be them who get to witness it (him, his heart corrects distantly). 

They stare each other down; him, in complete jealousy that makes him clench his jaw and his hands to keep from both yanking her away and punching this cad that no doubt took advantage of Penelope’s sweet nature and acquired her worry, her affection; her, in defiance against his obvious anger, unwilling to move an inch until she can be sure the darkness she notices in his eyes–the one that heats her blood in a different way that she does not want to examine right now–abates enough for him to be at least be open to listening. 

Nobody even dares to breathe as this stare down unfolds as they are all poised to action should the situation demand it. 

Penelope, sensing they will get nowhere and feeling their time slipping from their hands, elects to cut this oppressive tension when she says, 

“It is not what it looks like, Anthony.” 

That cuts through his tension, the insinuation that he is blind to what is right in front of him. 

“And just what does it look like, Penelope?” He enunciates, dangerously low, just daring her to try to explain away what is clearly happening here. 

Penelope's eyes narrow at his baiting, and she feels her jaw clenching as well, but she pushes on. 

“We came to say goodbye.” And she feels Theo clench his body in surprise, as she had not managed to tell him yet. 

The action catches the attention of Anthony for the barest of seconds as his eyes flicker back and forth and she manages to catch a flash of hurt, beneath all the cloying anger, which confuses her. 

She came to say goodbye. They hold affections for each other and now she has come to say goodbye. 

He will have to witness their tender parting. 

(There is a part of himself that feels slightly vindictive at hearing they will never see each other again, but it is subsequently overtaken by shame and sadness, as he does not hold her affections.

Nor should he want to, he reminds himself.) 

Before he can go further down the rabbit hole, Penelope continues. 

“We are ending Whistledown.” She says quietly, still melancholic herself at the admission, but knowing it must be done. 

That snaps him back to attention and he searches her eyes, waiting for her to explain. 

“We know how dangerous it is–of course we do–and we realize we cannot continue it. Not if we are to protect the family.” At this, she looks back at Theo and their eyes catch, understanding passing through them, and Anthony's heart clenches at being witness to this tender exchange.  

He tears his eyes away, unable to keep seeing this and clears his throat (a little excessively, one might say). 

“Tonight is to be our last edition, one last hurrah, you might say, to this venture that has brought us so much.” She says this quietly, so quietly in fact, that it is impossible not to hear the sadness behind her words. And he looks at her again, really looks. 

And he realizes this gossip column means a lot to her. 

He doesn't understand why it would, as it is only a mere gossip column, for heaven's sake, but it means something to her. 

Enough to inspire such sadness, such reluctance to let it go.

And she's doing it, for them. 

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest by the dual feelings of warmth that she would be willing to do this for his family, and sadness as well, that she should have to give up this thing that she so clearly cherishes. 

(He is, once again, reminded of all that women are barred from doing for the sake of society.)

He sobers at that, and relents his anger, letting it go as well, for as much as he uses it to intimidate others like one would a weapon, so too, does he use it to shield himself, as well. 

(And he was using it to hide his own fear and jealousy.) 

He relaxes his tense posture, and the action creates a domino effect amongst the rest of them, as they also relax and the tension in the air dissipates (for the most part). 

Since Penelope is willing to give this up, give him up for the sake of his family, the least he could do is allow them time to say their goodbyes. 

And he looks down, mentally preparing himself to be witness to it, because like bloody hell will he leave them alone together for even a second, he’s willing to be understanding, but it can only go so fa–

And then he hears a soft, 

“Theo, can we talk?” 

Which comes from Eloise who’s behind him and his gaze snaps up in confusion, his brow furrowing and a frown emerging in puzzlement.

Why would Eloise need to talk to this boy and not Penelope? 

As such, Anthony can only watch as the boy places the makeshift weapon on the countertop and they move into the corner furthest away from them. (Which is probably the only reason he allows it in the first place.) 

“Please don't get angry at Eloise, she did not mean to develop feelings for Theo, it just happened, and she swears she will never see him again, she just came to say goodbye–” Penelope had mistaken Anthony's confused expression for anger again and rushed to explain before he could get even angrier. 

But Anthony didn't even hear the rest of her words, still stuck on the beginning. 

“...she did not mean to develop feelings for Theo…” 

She. Eloise. 

Eloise has feelings for this boy. 

And he cannot help the utter feeling of relief he feels at those words, at knowing it is not Penelope who holds such affections for him. 

So relieved is he, in fact, that he cannot even find it within himself to be annoyed that the boy is enamored with his sister–because he can see it now, without the haze of anger (jealousy)–how this boy, Theo, also returns her affections as well. 

(He will be annoyed later though, just a bit. 

He is her older brother, after all, before he is a Viscount.) 

And he smiles. 

It startles Penelope, truth be told, as she had completely been expecting anger again, not happiness. 

“So you and Theo are not…?” He asks suggestively once more, just to hear her say the words aloud. 

And Penelope startles again at the insinuation, and she wonders if this was why he was so angry–not because he wanted to protect her honor, but because he was jealous of her and Theo. 

(And the mere thought that Anthony would feel anything close to jealousy–for her seems completely preposterous. 

But that doesn't stop her heart from jumping and then beating faster at the idea of Anthony having feelings for her. 

She does her best to push it away though, because it cannot be true. 

Of course not, she chides herself, it is only because he is such a wonderful man that my ridiculous heart even came up with the idea. 

No, it is Kate who holds his affections and they will be perfect for each other.

There is no other way it could be, she reminds herself.) 

Still, she finds herself telling the truth. 

(Perhaps because she always wants to be honest with him.) 

“No, Theo and I see each other as family. He is the brother I never had, and he sees me as the sister he never had, as well.” She looks across the room at him fondly as she says it, and Anthony sobers again. 

He realizes more fully now, the weight of what she is giving up. 

And he cannot help but be thankful. 

“I am sorry you have to give this up, Penelope, as I can see now, how much it means to you. And you have my eternal gratitude for thinking of my family.” He imparts softly. 

She looks up at him, when he says it, and he can see the sparks of her protection light up her eyes again, and he cannot help but catch fire alongside them, feeling them light him up from within. 

“Always.” An affirmation of her vow. 

He swallows thickly at seeing her protection in the flesh, for it is a mighty thing to behold–the protection of a being so fierce that she is willing to give up anything for it. 

And he is humbled, at the sight of the powerful weight of her love for his family–her family too, for he just knows they love her just the same. 

(And he dares not give thought to that nebulous feeling from deep within him–so deep he can feel it come from the very earth–the traitorous one that wants to add himself to that list. 

He won't.)  

He is reminded as well, that if she can do this for his family–give up one more member of her own that she so wishes to hold on tight to–then he can do what is expected, what is right for his family as well. 

He stares for a long while, hoping to memorize as much of her as can, and then tips his head down, in deference, perhaps, as he murmurs that he will wait for them in the carriage. 

(He will do this–for them–as well.) 

•

Penelope stares after Anthony even after he is gone, still seeing the heavy look in his gaze before he left. 

She thought, for a brief moment, that he seemed…saddened. 

But that can't be right. 

There is no reason he should feel sad because of her. 

No, she concludes, he felt sad for her. 

Because he knows how important family is to her, and her revealing that she thinks of Theo as such and yet is willing to stay away for all of their sakes, must have touched his heart. 

And her heart warms slightly at being so understood by this wonderful man that she respects and holds affection for. Like she does all his family, of course. (Of course.) 

She dares not look back at Eloise and Theo, for she wishes to give them as much privacy as possible, but she can't help but tense, if only to hold herself in place, when she hears faint sniffles and sighs. 

After a moment, she feels when Eloise briskly walks past her, and she looks after her in sympathy. 

It is then that she finally turns around to face Theo. 

And she knows they're thinking the same thing. 

Her dear Theo, her brother in all but blood. 

She still remembers the first time she met him. 

How he didn't take her seriously at first, not because she was a woman, but rather because he assumed she was a sheltered girl who knew nothing of the world, and believed she’d be scared off by the reality of her own venture within a fortnight. 

He came around though, when she remained, and especially when he saw how she treated all of the people who worked for her fairly; talking strictly to the shop owner when he would try negotiating prices, giving more than appropriate wages to the boys that would deliver the columns, even speaking with him politely and with respect when she could've just as easily lorded her station over him and treated him with disdain. 

He figured out that she was a member of high society rather than a mere maid as soon as they spoke. 

He has always been too smart for her. 

(Always will be.)

Her eyes tear up just as Theo’s fill with renewed tears. 

And she runs to him, throwing her arms around his waist as he raises his arms to catch her, slowly enveloping her in deep, warm, full hug and neither of them can stop the tears that spill down their faces, what feel like years of heartfelt, familial love coming to the surface and pouring out of their eyes, their lips as they try to keep it together. 

She doesn't even have to say any words. 

Theo knows why she's doing this–for the Bridgertons, yes, but also for him. To keep him safe from the Queen's wrath as much as she can. 

His brave Penny, always ready to take on the world for those she loves. 

He slowly tilts his head down, desperately trying to prolong the moment, as he rests his cheek on the crown of her head–so small is his sister for someone so fierce.

And he is reminded of Shakespeare in her presence, once again. 

“Though she be but little, she is fierce!” 

And he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing he will never be able to read his words again without thinking of his Penny and Eloise. 

They both swallow down their cries, just feeling that once they start they might never be able to stop, and there is no more time. 

There is never enough time, is there? Not for people like them, who can't seem to hold on to the ones they love. 

They hold on tightly for a moment longer, trying to take as much as they can possibly get from this moment, before his Penny gains the courage to leave first. 

(Of course.

She has always been the braver of them.)

She briskly tears her arms away and rips out the column from her reticule, sharply placing it on the countertop before she bursts out the door, knowing that if she delays a second longer, she will never want to leave again. 

And Theo is left standing in the shop, staring out after them for a long, long while. 

(And if Penelope is unable to stop her tears once she’s back in the carriage, and all Eloise can do is hold her as she, too, tries to control herself…well, no one would dare say a thing. 

…Especially Anthony, who does his best to give her privacy, despite the physical ache he feels deep within the very marrow of his bones, at the need to comfort her–comfort them both really.) 

•

Eloise sleeps over at her room, that night, where they hold each other, after having given their excuses of feeling sick. 

Which her mother did not buy, at first, angry as she was that they disappeared in the middle of a ball and got the truth out of the maid they paid off to claim sickness, but upon seeing Penelope's heartbroken look, and then really looking at her own daughter, seeing the heartbreak mirrored there, she could only relent, worried about what could've possibly caused such pain and fearing the worst. 

It was Anthony that dissuaded her, saying he knew what happened, as it had been the reason he had been indisposed, but that ultimately it was not his place to tell. 

Which did nothing to quell her worry, had only inflamed it, really, but she knew better than to ask, at the moment.

(She hopes they will tell her soon, though, as she hates to see her girls in pain.) 

Penelope's family, for their part, did not even notice she was gone from the ball, nor that she had been feeling sick, when Violet went to give them her excuses, and she felt a deep rage at their indifference. 

She said nothing though, as mere words could never fix the apathetic way they treat their youngest. And she knows all she can do is hold her closer when she is near. 

She despairs a little, though, and holds on tighter and longer than is appropriate as she is saying her goodbyes to Penelope the next day, and she sees her get in the carriage with her relatives, for they cannot be called family, and she knows she won't see her for a while longer. 

She's been feeling more anxious as of late, ever since the incident at the lake and she feels even more on edge at the fact that she will not be able to see another one of her daughters for too long. 

She holds Eloise close as they watch, mildly surprised and worried that Eloise allows it, for all that she gets annoyed at displays of affection.

The whole family awaits on the stairs, as they watch Penelope leave, all with various worry on their faces at seeing her with her relatives, especially after hearing from Colin that her cousin was seen with Cressida, of all people, as they were now apparently in a courtship. 

(Anthony is the only one not present. 

A fact the eldest and their mother take notice of.) 

•

Penelope cannot bear to leave her room the entire three days it takes the Bridgertons to finally come back to Mayfair. 

(Not that her family bothers to check on her.

Only the staff do, worried.)

For all that she deeply declares she will do anything for them, this kind of devotion takes its toll on her. 

(Possibly because this kind of devotion is not devotion at all, but rather closer in the realm of martyrdom, as self-torture is never the way to show the depth of one’s love.) 

It will be a while before she can even go near her quill and parchment, for anything associated with the written word will always remind her of Theo, she believes. 

This, this is the worst part of losing Whistledown, she now understands. 

She can't bring herself to regret it though, despite the pain, the heartbreak, she would never regret meeting him. 

He was the best part of Whistledown, she now acknowledges. 

It doesn't mean it doesn't ache though at how she will never see him again, never get to see his smile or his caring stares, how they could speak of anything (except the Bridgertons, for she held them close and did not want anyone to over hear them by chance) and share their time together. 

He made her feel heard, too.

He wouldn't want her to wallow, though, she knows. 

And the thought bolsters that light inside of her, once again. 

She will keep going, for him. 

•

The day Whistledown is delivered, the Bridgertons are already back, and Penelope is with them, once again. 

Penelope and Eloise tightly hold on to each other's hand under the table they are sitting at, this last hurrah feeling more and more like a deep, clean, piercing through the heart, a sounding cry before an inevitable death, and they do their best not to show it. 

(Anthony is the only one who knows, and he only allows himself one lingering look of sympathy, before he tears his eyes away, unwilling to even give himself the opportunity to look at her, anymore.) 

Everyone else in the room gathers in uproar as Hyacinth reads Whistledown’s last edition aloud, more of a disdainful goodbye than a gossip column. 

Even the Sharma family is caught in surprise, as they had come to visit them again. 

They all seem disappointed that Whistledown has declared she will never write again, and Penelope cannot even muster anything other than restrained heartbreak. 

(It will take time, she knows, to keep going.) 

Edwina, while also intrigued by this mysterious writer, is mostly caught in her preparation of rejecting Lord Bridgerton’s suit. 

She had already spoken to Kate the day after they left, and she had reacted as expected, really. 

Kate had always been against the courtship since the beginning, and so, upon hearing that she wanted to end it, Kate was relieved. 

But she was also already making preparations for the next outing they could use to find her even more suitors and Edwina could no longer hold back, she finally told her how she feels and Kate was left speechless. 

She acquiesced, as there was nothing else she could say, really, but internally resolved to bring the subject up again soon, for there was too much at stake.

All that was left now was to inform Lord Bridgerton himself. 

She managed to ask him and Kate to take a moment in the study, and they left, much to the worry of everyone else. 

As they arrived, Anthony and Miss Sharma took seats on the settee while Kate took a seat away from them, to give the illusion of privacy. 

Anthony could not admit it, did not want to admit it, but now that it seemed the perfect moment to take that final step, he felt uneasiness slithering underneath his skin. 

It felt wrong to even consider it, and it makes him falter even though he knows he needs to push through for the sake of his family. 

(For them, he repeats, over and over, already feeling the dead weight of the engagement ring he went out to buy burning a hole in his pocket.) 

But Miss Sharma shocks the hell out of him. 

“I have asked to speak with you, Lord Bridgerton, to inform you that these past days together in your family home have made me realize how much we are not a match.” 

And he stares at her, unable to do anything else. 

All his carefully laid plans, his preparations both mental and emotional…

They are all for naught. 

And as much as he wants to be angry at his foiled plans, as much as he wants to feel indignant that she did not tell him sooner, all he feels is unadulterated relief. 

The very air seems to return to his lungs as the oppressive weight he had been carrying around lifts from his very being. 

(He feels relieved that she has taken this choice from his desperate hands.) 

Though he freezes at her next words. 

“As such, I have also realized that while we are not a match, you and my dear sister very much are.” She says, a teasing smile on the edge of her lips. 

“Bon, what are you saying?” Kate says, trying to keep her voice level. 

“I am saying I have been blind this whole time, and that the real match here is one between you and Lord Bridgerton.” 

At this, the two in question can only stare at each other in surprise. 

Of course they were not blind to their own attraction to each other, it was what pulled them together this whole time. 

But that was then and this was now, Anthony realizes. 

And he no longer feels anything for her. 

(He can't, not when night and day he is consumed by– 

He roughly pushes the thought away, unwilling to speak even her name within his own mind.) 

Only…

Is that not what he wanted? 

To have a marriage without any chance of developing feelings? 

(And in the back of his mind–his heart, really–he can almost hear the thought that he does not believe he will ever feel anything close to that for anyone else ever again. 

He pretends he doesn't, though.) 

And he realizes the answer to his problem is right here, for marriage to the elder sister seems more tolerable than marriage to the younger one, as they are much more alike, and are guaranteed to at least get along (well, a bit more, anyway than the dull marriage guaranteed with the younger Miss Sharma). 

He even believes they could grow to be friends, true friends. 

(Companionship…companionship is the best he can hope for, now.

And the weight, while heavy, at least settles more evenly upon his heart.

And his steeled determination is renewed once again.) 

“I believe you may be right, Miss Sharma.” He says softly as he turns to Kate, willing to give this a chance. 

(Even as he forces away the traitorous feelings of his heart.) 

Kate, while shocked at first, begins thinking seriously about this proposal of courtship. 

It would solve all her problems really. 

She would not have to force Edwina into something she is not ready for, and she would no longer have to rely on the Sheffields for money. 

They would never have to see them again.

But she has only one doubt, for she remembers all too well how his head was turned by a certain red-head, and she asks Edwina to move to the other side of the room so they may speak quietly. 

“My lord,” She begins as she moves next to him on the settee. 

“I cannot help but wonder why you feel you must marry someone other than the person who has seemed to capture your attentions.” 

He tenses in his seat, and looks away involuntarily as the comment still stings too tenderly. 

(He wonders if it will ever stop.)

At least he knows she’ll never hold back, he thinks wryly. 

He decides to be honest, as honest as he can be, anyway, for if this marriage is to work, they must see each other as equal partners, ready to carry on the weight of the Bridgerton name. 

“I have found that treating a marriage as a partnership is much more efficient and manageable than any other.” 

And Kate assesses him, his words and concludes that while they are rational, which she can respect, his eyes, on the other hand, tell a different story, one she can only see the surface of as he will not let her venture deeper. 

(She has an idea, though. Even if she can never truly guess at the depth.)

Still, it is not her place, and who is she to contradict him if he is willing to carry on with this marriage that will be the salvation of them both? 

So she nods, and they cordially shake hands, a sign of a mutual arrangement. 

(And if it doesn't feel truly right, to either of them, well…

They’ll never tell.)

•

They emerge from the drawing room, much to the curiosity and partial worry from the others, and when they relay the news, there are mixed reactions from all who are present. 

Feelings range from shock, to relief, to concern, to bewilderment…the whole spectrum, really. 

(And even one instance of involuntary sadness, quickly covered up by joy, from a certain red-head that Anthony makes sure he does not even glance in the direction of. 

Of course, it can be no other way, she reminds herself.

She really is glad though, that he can find his happiness, for he truly deserves it.)

They receive congratulations from the whole family, as genuine as they can be really, and the ones who know all try not to look in Penelope's direction too obviously. 

They make plans to inform the Queen herself lest she feel offended at being left in the dark before they leave, and Penelope excuses herself, feeling like an outsider once more. 

(Anthony’s gaze trails behind her for a second, a second too long his family thinks, before he rips it away. 

It's better this way, he reminds himself. 

She holds no feelings for him, anyway, the thought half-forms in the back of his cavernous mind.)

•

Later that day, his mother and Benedict corner him in his study. 

He tries to maintain the façade that he is perfectly alright (as always) and remains brusque in his manners and speech, hoping it will deter them as he does not want to speak of this. 

They don't care, of course. 

“Are you sure this is what you want, Anthony?” His mother asks in concern. 

“Yes, I should think it obvious, considering I have asked her permission.” 

Benedict sighs as he becomes exasperated at Anthony's sarcasm. 

“You know what we speak of, Ant.” 

He tenses the slightest bit before he covers it by shuffling around with some papers, attempting to appear busy. 

(It fools no one.) 

“There is nothing to speak of. I have made my choice, and you all should respect it.” He deflects, hoping they'll drop it. 

(Of course they won't, they would never make it that easy for him.) 

They stare at him in concern, at his unwillingness to give up this farce when he so clearly has feelings for Penelope, they all can see it. 

Violet knows why, and she knows she cannot let him do this to himself. 

“You cannot let fear control your life, Anthony, for a life without love is no life at all.” 

And Anthony stills in absolute fury. 

“You mean like you and father? Hm? You would condemn me to life like that?” He spits out venomously, unable to contain his indignation that she of all people would extoll upon the blasted virtues of love when she left them the day their father died. 

His mother is taken aback by his disdain, so much so her head rears back in surprise. 

“Ant..” Benedict warns, taken aback as well, but unwilling to let him talk to their mother that way. 

And Violet feels a sharp piercing in her chest, as she once again confronts her own actions in those days, months, years where she was not entirely coherent, where she stopped being a mother and stayed stagnant as a grieving wife and she remembers her shame, her constant companion in the nights. 

Her gaze is weighed down with the immensity of it. She knows she cannot go back in time to undo everything that happened (God knows she would, if only so they could have their family whole again), that she cannot go back to to the time her family needed her the most and she knows she deserves his disdain, for she has failed him as a parent. 

And Anthony can see it, he can see the pain he is causing her, but he cannot even feel his remorse, he is so consumed by his fury.  

He needed her, he has always needed her and she was never there for him, is never there for him and he cannot take it. 

He cannot take how it is now that she chooses to act like a mother–right when he is on the verge of finally taking care of everyone. 

The way it's always been, since their father died. 

“Do not presume to tell me what you know of fear, mother. Do not stand there and tell me that you know what it feels like to know that death is at your door, every second of every day, and still have to keep yourself together to carry your whole family on your shoulders. Do not.”

The words come out low, shaking, as if they themselves are being dragged from the depths of his despair, his fear, his fury, dark as they come from that cavernous space within him that seems to have no end. 

Their faces open in complete shock at the revelation as they both flinch back at the ferocity of his words. 

They have no words, no thoughts in their minds as those, too, have been frozen in shock and Anthony gives them no time to collect themselves. 

He has no time for this bloody farce. 

“I expect you both in time to meet the Queen. There will be no more comments against Miss Sharma, as she will be the new Viscountess and I demand you treat her with respect.” He says the words tersely, almost like he did not want to speak anymore, but forced himself to–if only to make it clear what he expects of them, as he storms out of the study, banging the door closed. 

The resounding echo of the door is the only thing that can be heard in the deafening silence left by Anthony's words. 

And their mother and Benedict cannot even muster the will to lift their eyes from the floor, as the meaning of his words finally sink in. 

Benedict can only sit down and put his head in his hands, as the guilt he feels rises in his chest, squeezing his heart in a vise, as the depth of how he has failed Anthony finally becomes clear to him. 

His mother, as well, can only lean onto the desk as the weight of her tears threatens to tear her down, as she realizes she has failed Anthony in every possible way a mother can. 

(Neither can speak, as there is nothing to say, really.) 

•

Meeting the Queen goes as expected, for the most part. 

She is not amused. 

(She had already been in a foul mood with the news of Whistledown's last edition–not that she’d ever admit it–and this was the last straw.) 

She had half a mind to make them go through with it anyway, as she had already proclaimed that the Diamond would marry her Most Coveted Bachelor of the season. 

And the Queen will not be made a fool. 

It is sweet Miss Sharma who manages to dissuade her though, as she vouches for them, explaining how their time together at the Bridgerton ancestral home made it clear how incompatible they are, and that she is ultimately glad that she found out before rather than later, as she is sure a more compatible match is waiting for her, out there. 

At this, the Queen pauses. 

And an idea comes to her. 

Why settle for a Viscount when one can have a Prince?

And she smirks, pleased with herself. 

She agrees, less concerned with who the Viscount has now chosen to be his Viscountess now that she finally has a match worthy of her dear nephew. 

Let them be the ones to figure out how to announce it to the rest of the ton. 

She invites the younger Miss Sharma for tea later in the week, as she is already mentally planning the letter to send to her dear Frederich, and quickly dismisses them. 

They all leave, relieved that at least that is one less obstacle they have to face. 

Now comes the more obvious obstacle: the ever fickle, gossip-hungry ton, especially now that they don't have Whistledown to fill in the blanks. 

But they endure, Anthony and Kate, as they are wont to do for their families, and discover along the way that they have more in common than they thought. 

And maybe even find that they could actually become closer to the realm of acceptable companions rather than adversaries, now that their main point of conflict is no more. 

(And Anthony tries hard, so hard, not to notice that he has been seeing less and less of–her around and unwittingly, scornfully, guiltily, feeling concerned.

His family says nothing, still too ashamed to face him, and completely uncertain as to how to even begin to get him to see reason. 

And he says nothing either, fearing there is nothing left to say.) 

•

Promenades have come and gone, as well as operas and a ball, as they do their best to convey a respectable courtship despite its scandalous beginning and everything is going according to plan, finally. 

And Anthony has never felt more wretched. 

Everyday he wakes up from nightly dreams of–her, her hair, her skin, her smile, her touch, her fire…

That deep, luxurious flame that ignites her eyes when she protects, when she loves. 

More than once, he has dreamt of her standing at the head of a place of worship. 

Sometimes, he comes into awareness in blood red light–looking up at the domed, red stained glass ceiling of a church embellished by baroque architecture; sculpted seraphs of all sizes, gilded in gold and marble throughout the interior; small statues that frame the vaulted ceiling, holding it, carrying the weight of their worship; hyper realistic paintings of religious scenes and figures, all housing the marble columns, niches upon niches filled with statues and arches that reach upwards into the light–

And still, in the face of all this sacred transcendence, his eyes are always drawn downwards to the center of it all–to her.

The Suffering Saint to whom this magnificent church is dedicated stands with her arms out, looking for salvation, displayed on a raised, circular, gilded platform backed by marble statues of imposing angels, enshrined in soft, voluminous, white lace–a mark of her pure desire–spilling golden tears from eyes that search upwards into the red night sky, seemingly bathed in the blood of her martyrdom. 

Other times, he comes into awareness staring at white marble under his bare feet. 

His eyes trail slowly upwards, taking in the ornamental moldings gilded in gold that line the raised, rectangular, marble platform in front of him, eyes catching on dainty feet that are also bare, leading him towards a curvaceous figure draped in clinging, blood red silk–dyed perhaps, by the blood of those who stood in her way–past lush thighs and the soft dip of her hips, past luscious, unbound breasts, barely contained by silk, and the bare, creamy skin, of her arms, her delicate collarbones, catching once more on her titian red hair–on the long, golden headdress that trails into her tresses, seemingly aflame by the feeling of warmth that surrounds him. 

It is only then that he recognizes he is looking upon a Vengeful Goddess where she stands, ever commanding–vibrant, luminescent wings spread wide, ready to swoop upwards into the sky–and at the edges of his awareness he realizes she is framed by the circular ceiling of a marble-white temple built in her honor, open to the night sky; gigantic, towering statues of men holding bowls of burning oil that act as both watchful protectors and pillars that hold up the structure, ever dutiful in their worship; bas-relief carvings of battles line the walls of the sanctuary, vivid in their retellings; and at the far end, a straight pediment stands with gilded pillars, on which smaller statues of goddesses reside, appraising those who enter–

And in the midst of this imposing divinity–the contrasting tones of cool, celestial moonlight and warm, terrestrial fire of this glorious temple–all he can see is her. 

Her and the sparking fire lighting her eyes from within as she stares down those who dare to worship her.

(It is always him at the foot of her altar.) 

The worst of the dreams though, are the ones where he is in neverending free-fall (past wispy clouds, the dying light of the setting sun catching in the corner of his eye) through a sky that is the same color her eyes were when she spoke that sacred vow, and he wakes up right as he is about to hit the earth–a meadow, full of flowers. 

He always wakes up aching. 

For her, for relief, for freedom from this torment. 

(She is the bane of his existence. 

...And the object of all his desires–)

But each day he vehemently pushes away the dreams, suffocating them in the darkness of that cavernous space deep within him, hoping they will die there. 

For he refuses to even acknowledge the thought. 

Let them remain nebulous, he pleads. 

(He refuses to admit he is scared to pray, forever equating worship with her now, no matter who he prays to. 

He needs them to remain nebulous, if only to keep his own sanity.)

He barely speaks to his family now, can't really look them in the eye when he does, only managing small smiles for the younger ones, and snapping at the older ones whenever they make his work that much harder. 

He knows it's unfair of him, he can't control their every movement and that is what the money is for, ultimately. 

He just wishes they could be more responsible, more like the adults they are meant to be. 

(More like family members than can help him with his burden, even just a little bit.

And he reprimands himself for even having the thought, reminding himself that it is his responsibility alone to take care of all of it, to discipline them when the need arises. 

Father could have easily done so, he criticizes.) 

He is absolutely certain now that they hate him. 

(And he doesn't even blame them. 

He hates himself, too.) 

The only bright spot amongst all this darkness is Kate, reminding him of how much she seemed like a ray of sunshine when he first met her. (Lost to her, really.) 

That ray of sunshine, that is less like a spark of something new, has now become a source of warm companionship that distracts him, even a little bit. (Especially when they fight.) 

He even wonders, sometimes, what his life would be like if he had fallen for Kate, instead. 

In another life, probably. 

One where he hadn't been completely enraptured by–

He cuts that one off quickly, squeezing his eyes shut and forcing away the resulting feelings, the luxurious warmth that threatens to–

He growls to himself in frustration, roughly pushing his hands against his eye sockets to keep himself from finishing the traitorous thought, utterly unwilling to go down that road as he curls up in his bed, trying to physically keep himself from unraveling.

He can't.

He refuses to. 

For them, he repeats (daily now), the strained steel beams of his determination once again renewed. 

And he resolves to propose to Kate the next day.

(Just wanting this over with.) 

•

It's as he’s on his usual check-in with Hyacinth before dinner that he wavers in his resolution, steel beams beginning to crush under their own weight, denting the earth.

He’s finally convinced her to take a nap before dinner (before his announcement) and sits next to her watching her breathe, still grateful to see it. 

To see his little girl. 

And he knows it will be a while before he’ll be able to sleep the night fully without coming to her beside. 

He swallows against the tender emotion and decides to leave, lest he wake her. 

And it's as he's softly opening the door that he sees her. 

Them. 

Penelope was also on her way to check on Hyacinth it seems, only she was stopped by Colin, and Anthony–

Anthony freezes. 

Because he can see how unguarded she is from his position, has a clear view of her expression. 

Of the soft, pained look in her eyes as she looks up at him when she blushes. 

And there is no mistaking that she has feelings for his brother. 

He is no stranger to attraction, knows what it looks like and what plays on Penelope's face is more than that. 

It shakes him down to the very foundations of his earth. 

How did this happen? 

When did it happen? 

Does he feel the same? 

He cannot see Colin's expression to ascertain anything and it feels like the breath is leaving his lungs, steel beams giving under the weight of his distress, beginning to crack the foundations of his earth, and he shuts the door quickly before they notice. 

He can't do this. 

He cannot watch her live happily ever after with his own brother from the sidelines, because he has no doubt that his brother is also in love. 

Who wouldn't be? 

Who wouldn't fall in love with such devotion, such care? 

And the thought physically makes him reel back. 

(In time to the cracks that start to fissure within him.) 

And he can't deny it anymore.  

He is completely, entirely in love with Penelope. 

His eyes widen in fear at giving thought to the feelings. 

Feelings he was in denial of, feelings he did not want to ever acknowledge, as he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that now that he has given conscious voice to the thought, he will never be able to take it back. 

He thought he was strong enough. 

Strong enough to will away these feelings before they became anything more. 

No. 

This cannot be happening. 

He squeezes his eyes closed against the images that play in his mind: 

Her fierceness to save Hyacinth, even in the face of his anger, undeterred by it, level-headed enough to make him see reason. 

How she shined in the sunlight, droplets of water adorning her skin, making him want to worship her–a Saint bestowing her miracle, a Goddess providing protection. 

Her, with her resplendent mind on display with the wealth of knowledge she holds in it, how she so deftly wields it. 

Her compassion to him, her devotion to his family, to keeping them safe, to making him feel safe–

And he knows. 

There is no earthly way he could not have fallen for her. 

On his knees, in surrender. 

The ground itself seems to open up underneath him, earth and soil and deep caverns of nothingness as he stares unseeing at the gravity, the immensity of his feelings. 

It is how Penelope finds him when she cracks the door open and sees him standing there. 

She startles for a moment before a breathtaking–no, life-giving smile breaks across her beautiful face, suffusing a deep warmth through his chest, so deep it seems to fill the caverns he was lost in, that she has once again guided him through without even trying. 

And he can do nothing but stare in awe at her–seems it’s what he is always doing when in her presence, even when he wishes he wasn't, and he cannot deny it, anymore. 

So deep, intense is his stare that she is caught within it without even realizing. 

(Seems like she is also always doing that in his presence, too.) 

The Sky and the Earth interlinked with each other, inseparable. 

The sounds of footsteps at the end of the hall is what suddenly brings them out of that plane of existence where only they reigned. 

They blink in unison before they apologize and more out of each other's way, desperate to get some space from each other. 

(But as surely as the two cosmic forces that unite in the creation of the world, the sustaining of it, so too are they inseparably interlinked. 

…And perhaps if they had moved a little sooner, they would've noticed that Hyacinth was not in fact sleeping, as she had been planning on sneaking out of bed to get some sweets, but now…

Now she has some planning to do.) 

•

As dinner is soon approaching, the thought of which is the furthest thing from his mind at the moment, Anthony paces near his father's grave. 

He usually avoids this place like the plague, unable to look upon the physical reminder of the day that everything changed, that died alongside him. 

Their future memories of him, their stories–half of his mother's soul, right alongside his own dreams of the future, his place as their brother instead of their Lord. 

He usually cannot bear to look at it, but today…

Today, he was furious. 

(Terrified, the darkness reminds him.) 

He still hasn't forgiven him for leaving, despite knowing how irrational it is, how much he didn't want to leave them either, but–he can't help it, dammit! 

If only he hadn't left them, his mother would still be whole, be present in the lives of all of her children. 

If only he had stayed to raise his siblings, to be able to do everything Anthony can't even as he tries so hard to be his father. 

If only he was here so Anthony didn't have to choose between love and duty. 

If only–

And then he remembers. 

His breath hitches on a sob and he abruptly stops pacing, tipping his head back towards the open sky (the one that reminds him of Penelope's eyes). 

It is not a choice. It never was. 

Because as much as he loves her, as much as he floods with devotion and sheer longing, he cannot have what he wants. 

(Like always.) 

Because for the barest of moments, he considered leaving everything for her, all of his carefully constructed plans, his fears, everything, when he realized the pure depth of his love.

But then he was brought back to earth by the utter reality of the situation. 

She was never his to have.

His breath hitches deeper with the strength of the cries he tries to keep from leaving his mouth, from leaking from his eyes. 

He drops his head as he paces again, this time in a desperate effort to keep from sobbing, to keep his face emotionless (and only mostly succeeds). 

He stops and his head tips down at the exhaustion that drapes over him, the hopelessness, and he sniffles, ashamed of the few tears that left him, and violently shakes his head to get a hold of himself. 

He holds his head in his hands for a moment, trying, in vain, to contain the immensity of his emotions, the fear, the despair, the love. 

And he remembers that delaying will not help his plight. 

And he resigns himself to watching the love of his life marry his brother, while he spends his last years on earth regretting the day his father left before him. 

(The clouds above him start to darken with an incoming storm, not that he notices.) 

•

It is as she is making her way to the gardens for a walk before dinner that Kate sees them. 

She had gotten lost again in this vast house, taking a wrong turn in one of the hallways that she ended up in the wing where the private rooms reside. 

And she stops abruptly, because she can see through the open door that Miss Featherington and Lord Bridgerton are locked in each other's gazes, and standing much too close to ever be considered proper. 

And she looks on in surprise, for she cannot see the expression on Miss Featherington’s face as she is turned away from her, but she has a clear view of Lord Bridgerton’s and there is no mistaking what is so plainly laid out in his face. 

Though to use the word plainly in regards to the depth of emotion that suffuses from his expression would be to lie, because it is not in any way easy to see it. 

The weight of it, of what it means is not easy to look upon. 

And she knows without a doubt what it is, because it is the same way her father used to look at her mother. 

She knows not why he is so determined to marry another while he is so obviously, hopelessly in love with this woman before him. 

She knows now what a good man he is. How she was correct in assuming those hateful words were mere adornments to the cloak he dons as Lord Bridgerton. 

And she understands now, his change is because of her. 

Love can move mountains, she knows. 

Just as she also knows what she must do. 

•

Penelope, still shaken from the gaze in Anthony’s eyes, so different from the lake, yet so similar in its intensity, can hardly hear what Hyacinth is telling her. 

(Would probably have noticed that she was up to something if she had been paying more attention, but she did not.) 

Why did he look at her like that? Like…

Like he’s in lo– 

Her heart warms even at the half-formed thought.

No. 

No, she must be mistaken. 

Perhaps he was just filled with gratitude once again (unnecessarily) at Hyacinth being safe and sound. So grateful in fact, that it could be seen as tenderly and be confused with love. 

Perhaps he was looking at her as he would another sister? As part of the family? (She can't quite convince herself of that one, as even in her mind it sounds flimsy.) 

Why did it affect her so? 

It was jarring to see after her conversation with Colin, who finally had a chance to tell her what happened with Marina, as she had done her best not to intrude upon the Bridgerton family, now that they were in the process of getting into the good graces of the ton, and being seen with anyone from the Featherington family would not help their cause–a fact the Bridgertons were none too happy about. 

(And she did not want to witness it in person, a voice whispers to her–a voice she dismisses, like always, unwilling to hear it even in her own mind.)

He told her what Marina said about looking to Penelope and she couldn't help but blush, feeling embarrassed about her feelings for him, that he possibly found out and she ended the conversation quickly before he dug too deep, and hastily moved away. 

Only…

As soon as she opened the door, she couldn't help the bright smile that overtook her face, at seeing Anthony again after so long, that she did not realize, fully, how much she missed him, despite the absurdity of it. 

They are only mere acquaintances, despite all those moments they shared, but she had missed being near his warmth as well, like the rest of the Bridgertons. 

(Of course. That was the only reason.) 

And as she kept taking him in, she became trapped in the look in his eyes, and her thoughts faded away. 

It felt…

It felt like she was in the middle of peace and chaos, all at once. 

She tunes back in, vaguely, to hear Hyacinth ask if she would please, please come to dinner? 

She absently agrees before forcing herself to focus and check on her scar, satisfied as the maids are indeed doing their job well, leaving shortly after bestowing a kiss upon her forehead. 

Her mind is immediately engulfed with her musings as she makes her way back. 

He holds no such feelings for her, not when he is so clearly besotted with Kate. 

Who wouldn't be? 

She is everything Penelope is not–resplendently beautiful, so much so, she shines with it, and is always in control, so sure of herself, and so strong.

It is no wonder the Viscount is in love with her.

She can't quite manage to stifle the deep pang of hurt that pierces her chest at the thought of all ways she is left lacking, at the idea of how perfect they are together.

But she dismisses it, because how would she ever stand a chance?

That thought however, she cannot so easily dismiss.

The idea that she would even want to stand a chance stops her cold. 

Does she wish she had a chance? 

But…what about Colin? 

She had noticed when she met him earlier that those same feelings of adoration she was so used to feeling in his presence had lessened, so much so, that it almost felt like she was trying too hard to keep them. 

(Afraid perhaps, in the back of her mind, that if she let them go, if she truly left herself open, those slowly enveloping feelings–the ones that feel as slow and rich and warm as molasses–would fully engulf her and then she would truly be lost.

For she knows he belongs with another.

And he would never look her way, either.

…Except he did, didn't he? Perhaps not the way that she can admit, now, that she wishes he did, but he did look at her with such fondness–such deep, rich, fondness, that she could pretend, for a second, that it was love–)

Oh.

And the mere thought of that, of him looking at her like he loves her breaks the powerful, countless chains that she was desperately trying to use to keep those feelings from overtaking her, and she is lost. 

It flows over her in such luxurious waves, it stills her to her very bones and she has to support herself on the wall so she does not fall over from the sheer power of it. 

She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, slowly, trying to keep herself from being caught under the waves, lest she break completely and never be pieced back together ever again. 

This. 

This is nothing like what she felt for Colin. 

That she could ever believe that it was is laughable to her now–

Except it isn't, because it can never be. 

Just like before, it can never be true, only now instead of mere infatuation–because that's what it was, she can admit it now, with the sheer depth of how much Anthony and her revealed to each other, experienced together–it is a full fledged, deep, abiding love and she has no where to put it. 

Nothing to do with it, but to carry it in her tired arms, as she looks on from afar as he finds his own love and happiness. 

There is never enough time, is there? Not for people like them, who can't seem to hold on to the ones they love. 

Her eyes prick with tears, body shaking from the force of it as she tilts her head back towards the ceiling to keep them from falling, biting her lips to keep in the breathy whimpers she tries to quiet. 

She closes her eyes and resigns herself to her fate. 

It can never happen. 

She has to forget these feelings, bury them deep.

And she despairs, at having to endure yet another unrequited love, because she knows what this is now, love, as she had felt the beginnings of it with Colin, but with Anthony…

With Anthony she knows she never stood a chance.

She takes a few, long moments to find the barest glimpse of composure before she continues walking, doing her best on focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other, certain that if she focuses on anything else, her tears will break free for the whole world to see. 

And if there's one thing she does not want is for Anthony to figure out her feelings. 

Not now when they are barely starting to become friendlier. 

(And though she knows she shouldn't, and she knows she would never cross the line, just seeing his friendly smile from time to time would be enough for her.

It has to be.

Because she knows she could never stay away from the Bridgertons, they are her heart.

As much as the man who resides in the center of it.) 

So absent-minded is she that she pays no mind to where she is headed and finds herself in front of Anthony's study, drawn there, like a magnet, (or perhaps, like two forces that are interlinked) where the door has been left ajar. 

She panics, for a moment, at facing Anthony right now, sure that if she does before she has a chance to hide it, he will be able to tell. 

And she unwittingly hears the tail end of a conversation not meant for her ears. 

“You know not what you speak of.” The deep baritone of Anthony's voice holds a warning in it that stops her in her tracks. 

Is he in trouble? She thinks, concerned, as she snaps out of her inner turmoil for a moment, can she help? Should she enter—

“I know not what I speak of? My lord, I need not but eyes to see what is right in front of me.” Comes the surprising voice from Kate–except it shouldn't be as she knows how they gravitate towards each other.

(And she tenses as the sharpness pierces further, her hands clenching to keep herself from gasping at the intensity of it. 

This is so much worse than what she had to endure with Colin and Marina, not only because of the depth of her feelings, but because there is nothing to object to with this union, because she can tell Kate is a great woman and she has no doubt that she also has feelings for him. 

Who wouldn't?) 

“Whatever it is you think you saw, you saw wrong.” 

(And her heart twists further at hearing the resignation in his voice, confused at what they could possibly be arguing about.) 

“You are telling me that you are still willing to–” 

“I do not need you to remind me!” He nearly shouts, stopping himself at the last minute. 

And even though she can physically feel the separation of her heart, she still hopes they can get past whatever has caused this disagreement. 

For if there is anyone that deserves such happiness, it is surely the wonderful man that is Anthony. 

(At least she will find happiness in his happiness, even though she does not think she will be able to get over her feelings for him in this lifetime.) 

She leaves, as quietly as she came, and makes her way back to her house, where she finally lets go and allows her heart to pour out of her eyes, the cracks manifesting as physical sounds as she sobs, before requesting cold water to soothe the traces of heartbreak from her face. 

•

Anthony knew by the look on Kate's face that she came with the intention to fight. 

And he was already exhausted. 

Exhausted of having to keep up this pretense, of having to pretend he is perfectly content with having to give up his dreams once again. 

Because he can say with certainty now, that he will always dream of her, of being with her. 

And he has no energy to fight. 

He is tired of fighting. 

Has not stopped fighting since his father died. 

Fighting his tears, fighting his heartbreak, fighting his duty, fighting, fighting, fighting–

Always fighting. 

But not with Penelope. 

He closes his eyes at how right everything feels with her. 

With her he feels no need to fight, with her he feels safe. 

That feeling of absolution, of relief that everything will work out that he has been searching for ever since that fateful day. 

She is the embodiment of it. 

His Goddess. 

(Because that's what she is, he knows now. 

She was no Saint. 

Never a Saint. 

Saints are equated with purity, with righteous causes and she has no such compunctions. 

No, his Penelope covets. She is selfish in her wants and fierce in her love, ever vengeful against those who dare hurt those she considers her own, a Goddess protecting her domain.

And he knows he will forever be her supplicant.

No matter how unfair that is to Kate.

He cannot help it. 

Just like he cannot stop the heavens and the earth.) 

He spends a couple seconds with his eyes closed, trying to swallow against the onslaught of emotions, before he manages to get a hold of himself and opens his eyes, the shaky transformation into Lord Bridgerton completed. 

(For now.) 

“What can I do for you, Miss Sharma?” He asks, the picture of propriety (despite the lack of it in this moment, as they are not engaged yet) and assumes a formal position in front of his desk, clasping his hands behind his back.

“You know exactly why I am here, Lord Bridgerton. Let us drop this pretense.” She looks at him in irritation and he understands now. 

She knows. 

But he has no choice now. 

And this could only ever benefit her family as well. 

(Companionship…companionship is the best he could hope for now.) 

“You knew what this was, from the beginning. We both agreed to it.” He states blandly, like this is merely a business arrangement (and for him, it is).

She stares at him, trying to figure out what could possibly make someone do the exact opposite of what they so obviously want. 

And it clicks then. 

It clicks because she is the exact same. 

Always making herself smaller in her heart to make room for those she cares for, those she needs to protect. 

Somehow, someway he has decided this is the only course of action he can take for his family. 

He’s doing it for them, she understands. 

But what difference would it make if he married her? Pedigree? Financial standing–what? 

And she wonders, perhaps, since they are exactly the same in that aspect, if they are not also the exact same in others. 

“Are you afraid of getting your heart broken? Is that why you will not marry the one you love?” Her eyes shining a little too much at the mere mention of her own fear, as watching her father after her mother died made her realize that love could not fix everything. 

And Anthony, still raw from his realizations, his fears, his heartbreak, cannot stand here giving voice to all the reasons he wishes he did not have to do this. 

(He could not bear it.) 

And he is smarting, he knows, from how she so closely hit the nail on the head. 

“You know not what you speak of.” He narrows his eyes, daring her to continue, some of Lord Bridgerton taking over at the thought of confrontation. That, at least, is familiar in the face of all this turmoil. 

“I know not what I speak of? My Lord, I need not but eyes to see what is right in front of me.” She objects, willing him to see that a love like that cannot possibly be hidden. 

“Whatever it is you think you saw, you saw wrong.” He states, voice low as his mask wavers the slightest bit, his eyes and his hands tightening with emotion.

“You are telling me that you are still willing to–” She tries to ask, incredulous that he would break his own heart in this manner. 

(Though she shouldn't be, as they truly are the exact same.)

“I do not need you to remind me!” He explodes as he tries to keep quiet, losing his façade of bland politeness as he drops his rigid posture, overcome with anger. 

“You do not get to stand here, acting like this arrangement is preposterous when you yourself have agreed to it, knowing my attentions were elsewhere.” He reminds her, deepening his voice to convey his authority. 

This is a business arrangement, and nothing more. 

No sympathetic calls for reconsideration. 

No compassionate attempts at trying to understand his feelings. 

(He cannot have any. Not anymore.) 

“Is that what you call it? Mere attentions? Like one cannot see your very soul in your eyes when you gaze at her?” She challenges as she stands her ground. 

He closes his eyes at the correct assessment, unable to deny it. 

She softens at that, not willing to let him do this to himself. 

She would do anything for her family. Anything. 

But she would not cause the slow, gradual death of a person who still lives. 

Because that is what would happen, she knows. 

When someone is kept from whom they love, the light cannot help but be snuffed out from one’s eyes. 

She's been witness to it. Twice. 

And she refuses to watch it a third time. 

“It does not matter.” He admits, quietly, defeated. 

And she cannot contain her bewilderment. 

Because how can it not matter? 

How can love not matter? 

How can it not matter, when it is everything? 

When it is the only thing that matters? 

“How could you possibly say that? How can you say that when the only thing you need to do is–” 

“She is in love with my brother.” And he still has not opened his eyes, unable to witness the reality of these words finally being said aloud. 

It cuts too deep. (So deep, in fact, he can physically feel the fissure that parts the foundations of the cavernous maze within him.) 

And Kate stops cold. 

And her heart breaks for this man who is so like her. Mirror images, in fact. 

For she knows, at least in part, what it feels like to give up the things one loves, dreams of, for one's family. 

(Kate, too, has mistaken the ideal that to martyr is to show the depth of one's love. 

She has not realized, yet, that all her family wants is for her to feel loved by them, instead of being witness to her self-sacrifice. That if she trusted them a little more, or rather allowed herself to trust them, they would not abandon her, they would stand by her as they all figured out how to overcome their obstacles, together. 

That she does not have to earn their love, for love is not a currency of equal exchange, but rather a force that resides in everyone. 

And humanity cannot help but love. 

She has not realized this yet, but she will.)

So deep is her overwhelming sympathy that it almost seems like it is happening to her. 

And her eyes tear up, because there is no way she can fix this. 

She cannot help him, as much as she wants to, as much as she wishes she could. 

For she cannot force Penelope to love him. 

She had hoped, in some distant part of her mind, her heart, that in helping this man who is an exact copy of her, in helping him finally get what he wants, what he has so denied himself, that perhaps it would help heal that part of her that is so frayed and worn from always doing everything in her power to sustain her family. 

(Even at the cost of her own life.) 

But it is impossible. 

This love is impossible. 

And she is reminded again, of how love can't fix everything. 

And so she squeezes her eyes closed, willing the tears to stop, as she sniffles slightly, and swallows the lump from her throat, clenching her teeth to keep her composure, for it is the only thing she has left, as she roughly wipes at her eyes eliminating any traces of emotion. 

And she dons that mask, the one that makes her look in control and unafraid, and does the only thing she can for him. 

“I will expect your proposal at dinner, Anthony.” 

And he swallows at hearing his name from his soon-to-be betrothed (but never again from her lips). 

And he opens his eyes, finally able to have some semblance of shoddy composure, the frayed and worn cloak he always dons as Lord Bridgerton becoming noticeably more tattered. 

(But no less imposing.) 

And a look passes through them, a feeling of equal partnership. And perhaps, friendship. 

(Though they can both feel–deeply in that instinctual way that can only come from a force greater than themselves–that anything other than friendship would never truly feel right.) 

•

When dinner arrives, none are truly ecstatic about it, except perhaps for Edwina, though she starts second guessing when she notices the look in her didi's eyes, much as she tries to hide it. 

It is a look that passes through her eyes whenever she looks at Lord Bridgerton, and it looks a lot like sympathy. 

And Edwina is confused, because what could she possibly feel sympathetic about when she is finally about to get her heart’s desire and marry her perfect match? 

(What she does not realize at this point is that what looks like a perfect match on the outside, does not always denote a perfect match on the inside. 

As one cannot pick and choose who they love.) 

She says nothing though, and resumes her chat with Penelope who sits next to her, right in the middle of her and Miss Hyacinth who is leaning on to Penelope's other side. 

Penelope keeps checking on her discreetly so as not to cause alarm, and tries not to work herself into a panic, as she has read that sometimes the aftereffects of near drowning can show up even months after the event. 

(It works, at least, to take her mind off what everyone knows is about to happen.)

And she tries to be exasperated with herself for agreeing to come to dinner without truly listening, but she cannot seem to feel anything besides rising panic at Hyacinth's increasingly lethargic mood. 

Anthony, on the other hand, has been able to harden himself as much as possible in order to make this necessary choice and he knows the only way he can keep himself that way, is if he dares not glance in her direction. 

(If he had, perhaps he would’ve noticed sooner what was about to occur.) 

A pause has emerged in the conversations and Anthony knows it is time. 

No more delays. 

For there is nothing holding him back now. 

He raises from his seat, the engagement ring feeling like a dead weight in his pocket, a physical representation of the weight he must carry as Lord Bridgerton, and begins his speech. 

Everyone listens, except for Penelope as she can't stop herself from taking her gloves off and checking Hyacinth's pulse, to try and count her heartbeats, and suddenly Hyacinth jumps to her feet, interrupting her and drawing the gazes of everyone. (Including Anthony.) 

And she collapses. 

Penelope and Benedict, who was on Hyacinth's other side, are quick to grab her as shouts of concern, and demands for a doctor ring out, and multiple people run to her side, trying to help, but they are only getting in the way, and Penelope needs space and she cannot seem to be heard–

“Out of the way!” Anthony barges his way through the crowd and carries Hyacinth in his arms, his fear at losing her coming back to him, but he vehemently pushes it away as it is not the time. 

He sharply calls for Penelope, using her first name, and brusquely heads for Hyacinth's bedroom, knowing she will be right behind him and trusting no one else to come to their aid. 

He forces himself not to notice the warmth of Penelope at his back and kicks the door open, uncaring if it breaks, and gently sets her down on her bed, moving to the other side of the bed to hold Hyacinth's hand, so Penelope can examine her. 

There is only so much Penelope can do without a stethoscope or smelling salts, which she relays to Anthony who heads out and finds a maid that was running after them to relay her message. 

After checking her pulse (which seemed normal), and checking the pupils of her eyes by the light of the oil lamp (which were also normal), all they can do is wait. 

Anthony has managed to sit in his usual chair and Is leaning over the bed, resting on his elbows as he clutches her hand and bows his head in apparent supplication. 

(Which he is, to all the deities he has ever heard of, including the one sitting in the chair opposite him.) 

He cannot stop the jittering of his leg, feeling his increasing apprehension at not being able to do anything, and why has this happened again? Can he keep no one–

And suddenly Penelope is there, standing at his side as she raises his face towards her, a benevolent Goddess taking mercy on her supplicant, guiding him through the darkness, and he feels her touch like a holy thing, not meant for mere mortals. 

(Not meant for him.) 

Her soft, bare skin against his own quiets his mind from his fear and worry, and all he can see is her. 

Her, in her resplendent beauty, her surety, her strength, she absolutely shines with it. 

And their gazes lock, the Sky and the Earth interlinked with each other, inseparable. 

And Penelope cannot help the words that spill from her lips, desperate to calm this man she so loves, for she cannot deny it now, even in her own mind. As much as she wishes she could bury it deep within the earth, so it will never hurt her again. 

(But she won't, because as much as she wishes she didn't, she still does not regret it, because she is thankful she gets to experience such a deep, all-encompassing love like this one, at least once. 

Even though she knows for sure now, that she will forever be a spinster.) 

So, of course she cannot help it when she renews her vow to him. 

(One that vaguely sounds like a marriage vow, with the weight that her love adds to it.) 

“She will be okay, I promise. I will protect her with everything that I am.” It sparks in her eyes again, that consuming fire that consumes him, too. 

And he believes her. 

He believes this fierce Woman–for what is a being so hellbent on protecting those they love, but a mere human? 

And he’s helpless, really, in the face of such a deep, all-encompassing love that she holds for his family, that he cannot help it either, when the words spill from his lips into the air between them, a call to devotion. 

“I love you.”

The words, for as soft as they are, rebound across the room and grip them both with the weight of them. 

Neither can move as they stay locked in each other's inescapable gaze, suspended in time as they stare at each other in complete surprise. 

So surprised, in fact, that the words have managed to blank both their minds. 

And the moment seems endless, until the steps of the maids, the doctor and his mother are heard from the open door and he lets go of Hyacinth's hand as he abruptly stands up, mistaking their distance, again, and towers over her with only mere inches from each other, seemingly breathing each other’s air. 

He can physically feel the warm, honey-thick tension begin to slide over him again, and he rips himself backwards, unwilling to be caught in it again, unwilling to do this to Colin. And he rushes out of the door, just as they enter and the only coherent thought he has in his head is a need to get out of there. 

(He wishes he could run away, even though he doesn't, and so, he heads for the next best thing.

What he doesn't realize, however, is that Penelope has run out after him, too.) 

•

He cannot do this to Colin. To them. 

He had no business getting in the way of them with his feelings. 

What kind of a brother is he? 

(One that is never good enough, the darkness accuses.) 

How could he be so selfish? 

How will he be able to look either of them in the eye, now?

How can he possibly face them? 

The freezing, pouring rain distantly registers in the back of his mind as he makes his way to the stables, but he has no space for it. 

No space for anything, but the overwhelming need to flee. 

He’s always running, isn't he? From his emotions, from his turmoil, from her. 

But he can't stop, not now. 

To stop is to break. 

And he still has a proposal to make. 

His heart aches in his chest at the thought, at the mere idea of being wedded to someone other than her under the grace of God. 

(It feels like sacrilege.) 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, trying to keep it together as he finally makes it to the stables, his desperation making him forgo a saddle, and he climbs on, bareback, leading his horse out into the rain at the start of a full gallop.  

And just as he’s finally beginning to feel some semblance of reprieve, the red-haired woman of his dreams runs out in front of his horse and shouts his name like a hallucination, a fantasy that could not possibly be real. 

And everything slows down. 

He can clearly see every raindrop as it falls through the sky illuminated by the moonlight, can finally feel the freezing coldness of them as they slide over his drenched body–can clearly see Penelope, drenched again like that time at the lake, clinging fabric, heaving breaths, darkened eyes–

Instinctively, he tightens his legs as he pulls on the mane and his vision tilts as his horse rears up–

–And he’s standing in the middle of a meadow of flowers, under a sky that matches Penelope's eyes. 

•

Penelope can only stare after him, bewildered by what just happened, by what he said, and she's not entirely sure if she didn't hallucinate it from the sheer force of her own wanting. 

She’s brought out of it, though, by the last person she expected. 

“No, he can't just leave like that! We were finally getting to the best part!” 

And Penelope whips her head around to make sure she heard correctly. 

And stares straight into the eyes of an annoyed Hyacinth with the rest of the people who came in to bring her back to consciousness. 

Lady Bridgerton’s face is the first to recover from shock, warring instead between anger and extreme relief.

“Young lady! Do you realize how much you frightened us? Just what were you thinking?” 

“I had to stop the engagement, mama! Anthony was going to make the biggest mistake of his life!” 

The shock comes back, along with understanding on all of their faces, even the staff. 

(Except for Penelope.) 

“...What do you mean by that, Hyacinth?” Penelope asks warily, half-daring to hope. 

But it can't be. He’s in love with Kate. They're perfect for each other. 

…Aren't they? 

“Well, didn't you hear him, Pen? He told you he loves yo–!” 

She doesn't wait for Hyacinth to finish before she's rushing out after him, desperate to catch up after losing those precious minutes. 

Is this real? 

Or is she the one who lost consciousness? She thinks hysterically. 

She pinches herself just to make sure and speeds up as best she can. 

Where would he have gone? 

She thinks, for a moment, of his study but quickly dismisses it, as that is still too close, still too surrounded by people who could possibly disturb hi–

And it clicks. 

The stables. 

She has to tell him, he has to know she loves him, too. 

Only…why would he run away without waiting for her to answer? 

Did he not think she would reciprocate? 

How could he possibly believe that she wouldn't fall in love with someone as amazing as him? 

She begins to feel her love, a powerful, wonderful, radiant force, suffuse her very being at allowing herself to fully feel it. 

And she vows to make him know it, too. 

•

He observes his surroundings for a moment, taking in everything; how the meadow, filled with every flower imaginable, melds into a forest in the distance, how the wildlife pays him no mind. 

And he looks down, impassive, resigned, as he feels a presence behind him. 

“...I was right, wasn't I?” 

“Hello, son.”

Hearing his words, his voice brings back the guilt and shame that he's been carrying for over a decade, a sharp thing stabbing at his heart, piercing thoroughly, vengefully. 

Tears spring up with every piercing motion, spilling over with the force of it, dripping down his face and he shuts his eyes against them, tightening his hands to keep himself from shaking, from reaching out to him as he does not deserve it–does not even deserve to look upon him. 

Not after what he did to him.

And suddenly he’s eighteen again, staring helplessly as he realizes he’s about to lose his father and everything he had been feeling since that day, everything he wished to have been able to tell him, everything he had kept in, locked up tight, only to come out when near black out drunk, finally comes pouring out, unfiltered and distorted by how desperately he tries to keep himself from sobbing for he does not deserve the relief. 

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry, I do not deserve your forgiveness, God, it's all my fault–all my fault. If only I had noticed sooner, run for help sooner, or done something–Christ! I should've done something, instead of just standing there! I should've helped you–you’re my father, for Christ’s sake, and I did nothing, I just stood there! Watching you, watching mother–it should've been me! It should have been–” 

“Anthony.” Comes his name, from the lips of the one person who absolutely deserves to despise him. 

And Anthony does not dare look at him, dares not even turn around. Clenches his hands tightly, instead, feeling unworthy to even be in his presence (and in the back of his mind, he wonders why he did not wake up in hell), and he shuts his eyes tighter, wincing in preparation of the hate he is sure to hear from the man he has always looked up to. The one man he has always wanted to reach, but was never tall enough to even hope for it, was never big enough to fill his shoes and always left wanting. 

And he knows he will deserve it, at least, as he has envisioned this moment in his dreams for years after his father passed, and he knows the outcome. 

Anticipates it, even, as he will finally get the punishment he deserves, and he wonders if this is the path to hell, a confrontation of those he has wronged, penance before reaching the true depths of hell. 

(Self-torture has been Anthony's way for so long that he has erroneously been led to believe it is the only way to show his love, that he even revels in it, as there can finally be relief in receiving punishment, instead of fearfully awaiting his sentence. 

…But this is exactly why he was sent here.) 

“Anthony.” Comes again, voice still as gentle as ever, and Anthony cannot understand it. 

“How could I possibly blame you when it was always going to be my time to go that day?” 

And his eyes burst open, as he stares, unseeing, at the beautiful flowers that surround them as he feels the comforting, warm hand of his father on his shoulder. 

“No matter what you would have done, who you would have called for or sent for, it was always going to be my time.”

And Anthony's face crumples completely with tears at the inevitability of his father's death, the affirmation of it, shaking his shoulders with it, as he tries to keep himself from sobbing.

“I had done what I was meant to do, lived the life I was meant to live, and it was glorious, son–it was heaven on earth. And no one could say otherwise, least of all me. I fiercely enjoyed every second I had with all of you, and I would do it all over again, if given even half the chance.” 

He shuts his eyes again, at the guilt. His father's life was beautiful, but it should have been longer.

“You still seem to have the mistaken belief that everything that happens is somehow your fault, my son, when nothing could be further from the truth. You cannot control everything, least of all everyone, because you do not need to.” 

And he stills, at that, in anticipation of what he will say next, instead of awaiting hatred. 

“Anthony, please look at me, my son.” 

And Anthony can do nothing but obey. 

He turns slowly, still fearful of what he will find on his father's face, and he swallows as he fixes his gaze at his father's feet, at the shoes he has always been trying to fill, the hunting boots he wore when he died. 

He feels the warm weight of his father's hand reach under his chin as he tilts his gaze until he has no choice but to look him in the eyes, and his head tips to the side helplessly as tears escape him again, at the love, the pure unconditional love, he finds there. 

He feels unworthy. 

And his father smiles, compassionate as always.

His father wipes the tears from his eyes and Anthony closes them feeling soothed, forgetting his guilt, for a moment, before he opens them again. 

“The universe is not for you to command, my son. Leave that to the experts. You have done your best Anthony. I know it. I see it. You have gone above and beyond, my most precious son, for I know you have done it all with love and care, and that, that is all I asked for. And I am proud of you, Anthony.” 

And his father can wait no longer for a chance to embrace his son, to finally have him in his arms again, after all this time. 

And the sobs he couldn't allow, the ones he always kept restrained for fear they would never stop are finally let loose, a catharsis all their own, and they pour. 

They shake him with the force of it, a rumbling deep within him that destroys the very foundations of that cavernous labyrinth within him, breaking it down piece by piece until all that is left is pure light. 

A bright, healing, warm light that blooms from deep inside him, so deep he cannot even pinpoint where it begins, but he knows now, that it is irrevocably his. 

He is the light.

He always has been–it was only ever the unwitting, self-imposed prison that he created for himself that kept him from it. 

And that realization brings with it a revitalizing breath of air that seems to permeate every crevice inside him, dissipating the tension he has carried for over a decade. 

The warm arms of his father tighten against him, almost as if he, too, can sense this monumental shift within his son, and they both begin to breathe in sync. 

“I missed you, father.” He admits, softly, achingly. 

“I’ve never left you, my son.” He answers, softly, lovingly. 

And he believes it, now. 

He closes his eyes again, this time in pure relief, and they both stay in that moment, knowing it will forever be theirs. 

•

Penelope can only stare in horror as she’s mired down by the weight of gravity, the weight of time as she is unwittingly witness to how Anthony's horse rears up at his instinctive hold, trying to keep the horse from trampling her, feeling every raindrop that slides down her drenched body, feeling it like she feels the terror and anxiety as the inevitability of what she knows is going to happen comes to full fruition. 

She cannot stop it. 

Could not stop it if she tried, she was too far away. 

She witnesses his body fall off the horse that runs away, down towards the unforgiving earth and swears she can hear his head crack against it, as it feels as if it cracked in time to her own heart. 

She does not notice the desperate shriek of his name leave her lips so utterly consumed by her terror she is, that it leaves no space for anything else. 

No. 

No. 

This cannot be happening.

The love of her life cannot be dead. 

No. 

He can't be. 

She cannot move. 

She cannot move, and he's lying there, dying! 

Dying, because she refuses to believe he is dead, and she's just standing there helpless–

And she refuses to be helpless. 

She will fight the God of the Underworld himself before she lets him take Anthony. 

Her vow sparks in her veins at the thought, igniting full flames that rage into an inescapable inferno (perhaps, in the impression of wings), driving her to finally move. 

(Descending upon him–a veritable Isis wishing to revivify Osiris, gathering together his flesh, binding up his hands, and embracing him…)

She finds solace in her knowledge, knowing that she can turn off her heart and do what needs to be done. 

She knows she cannot move him for risk of spinal injury, even out of the lessening rain, so she checks his vitals as best she can, opening his airways, stabilizing his head and neck, doing her best to put him back together piece by piece, willing the flames of her vow to bring life back into the cold body of her Anthony. 

(And simultaneously restoring her heart at the same time.) 

She turns to his body, finding he has broken his right forearm, and sprained his right ankle, and she forces herself to leave him for a moment, sprinting to the stables where she finds a stable hand and yells at him to get the doctor and some help as Anthony needs to be carried inside, before finding a bowl with some fresh water, some linens and extra wood before heading back. 

She sits on her side next to him, lifting her dress up as she exposes her undergarments before ripping at the fabric and creating makeshift bandages, before lifting her dress higher and taking off her garter. 

She carefully raises his head as she wraps her bandages after rinsing the wound with the water and cleaning it with the linens, before using the wood as a splint to hold his forearm and then bandaging it, turning to his ankle and doing the same with her garter, checking to make sure it is not too tight. 

Finally, she makes herself let go of him, making a small, heartfelt prayer to the Goddess Iris, once again. 

Please, please heal him. Please protect him. 

(–an echo of Isis resurrecting Osiris with the breath of life.)

And just as she is finishing, thankful she does not have to sit here helplessly as she has done all she can, she hears the blessed running footsteps of help. 

She does her best to temper her tears, knowing it is not the time, and manages to get herself under control as she relays to the doctor what she has done, while he kneels down to check on Anthony and he looks up at her, part in wonder, gratitude, and respect as he says, 

“You may well have saved his life, Miss Featherington.” 

Her face crumples as the weight of her guilt comes rearing back, rising higher now that her mind is no longer occupied and she thinks, 

No, it is my fault he almost lost his.

They carry him back carefully, holding his injured limbs separately, and she follows. 

(Will always follow, no matter where he goes.) 

Lady Bridgerton appears to be holding herself together by a thread as well, tears drying on her face as she directs the maids and the men to Anthony’s room when she meets them at the side entrance where Benedict, Colin, and Simon waste no time in helping the others as well, leaving the rest of the Bridgertons and guests to look on, faces twisted in horror and shock. 

They all turn, in unison, to look at her, drenched and shivering as if she had submerged herself in the lake again, and she does her best not to crumble under her fear, her guilt at having to face these wonderful people knowing it was all her fault. 

She forces the words out, knowing they need to hear them, knowing she deserves to be blamed.

Her teeth chatter, from both adrenaline and cold, and her explanation comes out stuttered. 

“I-I r-ran out after him, t-to tell him–” she closes her eyes at this part, the reality of what they are actually dealing with finally coming to her. 

She was going to come between Anthony and Kate. 

Kate who had been nothing but kind to her, who was in love with Anthony, because how could she not be? 

“To tell him you are in love with him?” Kate finishes for her. 

And she winces, shutting her eyes tighter, expecting to be verbally eviscerated. 

“Thank goodness.” Kate exclaims, relieved that Anthony was not alone in his love. 

Mary and Edwina's heads whip towards Kate just as Penelope’s eyes pop open in shock. 

And she is surprised to see everyone is looking at her with tears of worry and compassion and she does not feel worthy. 

The words spill out of her, like her tears, needing them to see how she does not deserve their compassion, to turn it away from her as it will only make her want it more. 

She took Anthony away from them. 

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry–it's all my fault! I should have done something sooner, approached him differently–I shouldn't have gone alone! I just stood there watching him as he–It should've been me, it should have been m–” 

Her eyes had closed again, not wanting to see their compassion turn to hatred even though she knows she deserves it, so caught is she in the waves of despair that had overtaken her, drowning her with it, that she couldn't hear anything over it until she felt small arms wrap around her shoulders, engulfing her in a hug. 

“–That's not true. It will never be true. We love you, Penelope, and we would never want harm to befall you, sister.” 

And Penelope’s breath hitches sharply as she opens her eyes, overtaken with sea-foam green. 

Hyacinth stares back at her, fierce in her resolve to make her see their love for her. 

(A life for a life, so too has Hyacinth saved her from drowning.) 

“It is not your fault.” She proclaims, ever faithful in her resolve. 

And Penelope desperately wants to believe her. 

“It was an accident. You did not push him intending to hurt him, you went out there to stop him, didn't you?” 

And Penelope nods frantically, taking this lifeline, hoping it will lead her to redemption. 

“You went out there to tell him you're in love with him, too, didn't you?” She states softly, her sea-foam green eyes turning softer with it. 

Tears leak out of her eyes again, sniffling helplessly as she cannot deny it. 

“And you saved him, didn't you, just like you saved me.” Hyacinth smiles within her own tears, immeasurably proud of this sister of hers that knows how to save lives. 

But Penelope immediately dismisses it, of course. 

(She still hasn't quite learned how to accept praise and love. 

…But she will. 

They will make sure of it.) 

“I only did what was necess–” 

“You saved him, for without you, he would've undoubtedly gone much farther, in a place where we wouldn't have been able to find him, where he wouldn't have been able to find immediate help.”

And the words lift the weight that had been gathering on Penelope's shoulders, in her lungs, letting her breathe with the knowledge of it. 

And suddenly, she's glad she reached him in time, despite what transpired, because at his speed, what transpired could have been much worse, she knows that now. 

And she clutches at Hyacinth, sinking her face into her neck, feeling more arms envelop her from all sides. 

She weeps in relief, feeling the all-encompassing love she has for this family spread through her, from the core of her being, to the tips of her fingers, to the crown of her head–there is not a single crevice of her body that is not touched by the light of her love–their love. 

And she cannot keep the words in, any longer, for they are not hers, anymore, not really. 

“I love you. I love all of you.” 

She feels shaking then, from everyone else who is also crying and she hears several blessed, heartfelt answers of, 

“We love you, too.” 

And she believes it, now. 

And they stay there, for long moments that feel like hours, in a space and time that feels forever, theirs. 

•

They sit together, father and son, amongst the colorful flowers that surround them, for what feels like hours, and the sun hasn't moved in all that time, before Anthony voices his lingering doubt.

“How am I supposed to go on, now, knowing that I’ve left them?”

In all the fear and guilt and shame that surrounded Anthony at facing his father again, he did not have time to fully contemplate the fact that he is dead. 

Just like he knew he would be. 

He only hopes now that Benedict can succeed where he didn't and his family–

Well…they're probably better off without him–

(Despite his revelation, there are still things he needs to resolve within himself, as this is only the beginning.)

“Regrets are powerful, are they not?” His father interrupts his thoughts before they can go further. 

“Of course they would be, this is our family we are speaking of.”

“Yes, of course family is important. But it is equally important to tend to ourselves, otherwise we have nothing to give.” He smiles gently. 

And his words make Anthony feel seen in a way that melts past his defenses, past everything he had ever told himself in order to make himself believe it, past every erroneous conclusion he now realizes were mistaken. 

“I never meant for you to forget that, Anthony. During all of my lessons, all the duties I imparted to you, all the words of wisdom I had accumulated throughout my life that I hoped would reach you, I never expected that you would forget about yourself in the process.” He places a comforting hand on Anthony's shoulder and he’s transported back to the gardens, to the last time he felt that hand in the physical world. 

“But you are here now. And I finally get to tell you in person, instead of only nudging you along the way.” 

And Anthony stiffens. 

“...What do you mean by that?” 

He couldn't possibly be saying…

But then that means…

“But Hyacinth–” 

“We were always going to meet here, Anthony. Like this.” 

And Anthony can’t move. 

How can he? When his father just told him every decision he has ever made would always lead him to his death, that he was destined to die–

“You misunderstand me again, Anthony.” 

He flicks his eyes back to his father's, desperately searching for answers. 

“You are not destined to die–never to die, Anthony–you are destined to live. I had my time with the living, and now it is your turn.” 

And Anthony can only sit there, bewildered, as he tries to process his words.

And his father smiles, compassionately, like always. 

“My dear son, that you thought my passing would have anything at all to do with yours is perhaps the most erroneous conclusion you have had so far.” 

“Death is not hereditary,” he continues, taking Anthony’s hand in his own, “we live as long as we are meant to, doing the things we are meant to, and then we leave to go on our next big adventure. Such is the nature of life–it can never truly end.” 

And the words soothe Anthony deeply, covering him from head to toe in liquid warmth, as he stares in awe. 

He was not meant to die? 

He was meant to live? 

Then that means…

He is not dead? 

“No, Anthony, you are not.” His father answers his question aloud. 

“You still have much to do. Much to live for.” His father smiles into the distance, like he can see it. 

(And he can.) 

“She is a wonderful woman, your Penelope. I remember her from when she would come visit Eloise in their youth. The sweetest person I could ever hope for, for you, and another wonderful addition to the family. She reminds me of your mother in many ways.” 

Anthony swallows against the lump in his throat, his eyes pricking with tears again at his father's wholehearted approval of the woman he loves. 

“She is.” Is all that can come out, at the moment. 

“She loves you too, you know. They all do.” He imparts softly, knowing the gentle handling of these words is essential to getting them to reach his son, hard-headed as he is, at times. 

(Much like himself, as much as he tried to temper that in his life, with the help of Violet.) 

“Are you sure?” Comes Anthony’s searching gaze, wanting to believe, but having years of evidence to back up his mistaken belief. 

And his father smiles, lovingly taking Anthony's face in his hands. 

“My dear son, how could they not? They love you fiercely even if they do not say it, for it is the way of us Bridgertons. Trust me.” 

And he does. 

He breathes deep with the knowledge of it, for it is knowledge that he accepts, now, as he knows his father will only ever speak the truth to him. 

And his father smiles again, satisfied that the truth he wanted Anthony to know has finally gotten through to him. 

It means it is nearly time to go. 

“You know, Hyacinth is as much a spitfire as the rest of her sisters–probably moreso, and I know she gets that from Violet, much as she pretends she was only ever demure and obedient as a child.” He chuckles in remembrance, the beautiful sea-foam green eyes of his youngest, the ones he never got to see until that fateful day, come back to him. 

And Anthony’s breath leaves him in shock. 

“Send our family my love, Anthony, and let them know I will always be with them.” He leans over to bestow a kiss on Anthony’s forehead, smirking as he never even gives him a chance to recover, as from one blink to the next–

He opens his eyes. 

•

He stares at the ceiling of his room, disoriented, wondering if it was all a dream. 

That is, until he feels his whole body ache. 

He groans at the feel of it, a hundred times worse than any aftereffects from a night out drunk, and he tries to lift a hand to his head, only to find it bandaged and in a sling. 

He looks down at the rest of him, and his heart nearly stops when he sees a beautiful head of luscious red hair laying next to his side, bare hand holding the one that is not bandaged, seated in a chair next to his bed. 

Penelope. 

She stirs, as if hearing the call from his very mind, and raises her head up to look at him. 

And she is sure she is dreaming again. 

She had not meant to fall asleep this time, but she was so tired. 

Every time she closes her eyes she dreams of this, of gazing upon his eyes again. 

(An Osiris, glowing in his resurrection, as sure as it is his domain.)

Their gazes lock, Sky and Earth meeting once again, inescapably interlinked and they cannot, do not want to look away ever again. 

That is, until Penelope realizes this is not a dream at all, but in fact, reality and she sits all the way up, in alarm and shock. 

(For as the days passed, she was beginning to become more sure the dream would remain just that.) 

“How are you? How are you feeling?” She gets up as she begins to lean over to fuss at him, checking him for signs of fever, checking his vitals, his pupils with the oil lamp, his pulse, which is accelerating at the feel of her skin against his, which makes her start to panic–

And all Anthony can do is watch her, drinking her in with his eyes as she makes sure he is safe. 

(He always feels safe when he is with her.) 

Just as she is about to turn away for a doctor, he holds her back, gently holding her hand in his, and she stops, staring at him once again. 

“Stay.” He pleads. 

And she can do nothing but obey. 

She sits down, still unable to look away, and Anthony can see it, now. 

The love her eyes hold, reciprocated back to him in the beautiful Sky of her eyes, like a breath of fresh air after being lost in cavernous darkness for so long. 

“...I love you,” he cannot hold back. 

And Penelope’s eyes prick with tears at the words, also unable to hold back–finally, finally getting to tell him in person, 

“I love you, too.”

•

They bask in each other's presence, merely drinking each other in as they discover the other with their eyes, finally allowing themselves to truly feel the depth of their love. 

(It is immense, expansive in its ever-growing state, a tangible thing–force that warms them fully, starting from the center of their chest, the center of their being and radiates outwards, endlessly.

It will always connect them, they realize, no matter how far apart they might be.

And they never plan to part ever again.) 

His eyes roam over her face, greedily, parched from all of the time he never allowed himself to even glance in her direction. 

(And he knows he will never get tired of merely looking at her. 

For he knew the torture of what it was to forbid himself to.)

He notices with some concern that she seems exhausted, like she has not been sleeping well. 

And he resolves to make sure she is taken care of, from now on.

Still, she looks luminous with the love that radiates from her, hair unbound and loving smile overtaking her face. 

She looks in love. With him. 

This. 

This is what he has wanted for so long, to be loved by this wonderful woman that has captured his heart from the moment she gave it back to him when she saved Hyacinth. To allow himself to love her in sublime return, knowing his heart will be safe with her, for hers will always be safe with him. To have all of her, her strength, her passion, her protection–her. Ever since he gazed upon her at the lake and realized her magnificence, enraptured by her devotion. 

He feels his face soften further at the reminder of when he first fell for her in the most literal sense, without meaning to, yet incapable of stopping it. 

He really had no chance, didn't he? 

He smiles without conscious recognition at how he now realizes that what he had been fighting all along was his own happiness and he was so very tired of fighting. 

He never wants to fight himself ever again. 

He wants peace within himself. 

And he knows he’ll get it, with her.

…And he can't wait. 

(And it is here that Anthony finally realizes that self-torture is not the way to show the depth of one's love, for it was not self-torture that finally allowed him the peace to see it, but rather a conscious decision to love and be loved, in turn.

And she will. She always will.) 

•

She is practically dazed as she finally gets to see him with the light in his eyes once again. 

She's still not sure she isn't dreaming, and she squeezes his hand again, to reassure herself, feeling relief every time he squeezes back. 

This.

This is what she had been wanting for so long. To be loved by this wonderful man who sees her for who she is and loves her for it. Who would do anything for his family, just like she would, and trusts her to do it. He who knows her worth, who treats her as an equal in all things. Who trusts her to stand on her own. Him. She loves him. 

And she smiles when she notices his smile, glad that he is back with her, away from the clutches of that dreaded Osiris, for as much as Isis and Osiris were lovers, and as much as she is grateful to the Goddess for bringing him back, she cannot help but want to keep him for as long as possible. 

Especially now that she gets to have him. 

And her smile doubles in size at the thought, the fact. 

She gets to have her love. 

No more pining, no more self-sacrificial happiness, no more wanting something she cannot have. 

(And it is here that Penelope also realizes that self-torture is not the way to show the depth of one's love, for it was not self-torture that brought him back, but rather the determination to reach out for him, hoping he would reach out, too. 

And he did. He always will.) 

•

It is after sometime, time that seems to have been lost, that does not really matter in the grand scheme of things, that reality seems to come back to them, once again permeating this plane of existence where they will always reign. 

(For love is a plane of existence all its own.) 

She gently smooths the hair from his face, taking care to not move the bandage on his temple, and he cannot help but close his eyes as he leans into her soft touch, basking in every second he gets to be in her presence. 

(For he will never waste another second ever again.)

He opens his eyes again and realizes that now, without the weight of self-restraint, their gazes no longer feel like they are caught in each other. 

Rather, they feel like they are found in each other, intentionally placing their love in each other’s hands, knowing it will always be safe and cared for. 

No sense of urgency, no need to leave as quickly as possible, for he never wants to leave her again. 

(This plane of existence seems to permeate every facet of their reality, instead, and they wouldn't have it any other way.) 

Their attention is drawn to movement on Anthony's other side, and he realizes there is someone next to him. 

He knows who it is, without even needing to check under the mounds of blankets, for he never keeps his fireplace lit in the night, making it colder than the other rooms. 

A sharp inhale can be heard as she wakes up and peeks her head out, sea-foam green eyes taking in her surroundings. 

And she blinks in surprise and confusion (probably believing she's dreaming, just like Penelope did at first). 

When she realizes she is not dreaming, she sits up in utter joy. 

“You're awake!” 

And suddenly Anthony's headache comes rearing back at the sound. 

Penelope, bless her gorgeous heart, is the one who calms Hyacinth down enough, reminding her that she needs to keep her voice low to not cause him anymore pain. 

And Hyacinth whispers an apology, but Anthony cannot even be annoyed because he is filled with so much love for his family. 

(And yes, he is including Penelope. She was family from the moment they met, really.) 

His father was right, he acknowledges as he stares up at Hyacinth’s blinding smile, he is loved. 

By all of them. 

And he’ll make sure to tell them, this time. 

A slow, gentle, heartfelt smile unfurls on his face, softening his eyes even more, and he looks so different than he has all these past months. 

(Years, really.) 

And Hyacinth is surprised at first, because she had always been on the receiving end of smiles close to that, but never the full weight of it, always pulled down quickly by needing to appear stern, or focusing on work, or, or, or. 

But she knows now, it is because of Penelope and that same smile is mirrored on her own face at the fact that her brother, her father, really, for he is the only father she has ever known, has finally found peace. 

“I love you, Hy.” He gently declares. 

(And he will declare it, now and forever more.) 

“I love you, father.” She responds, just as gentle, finally able to say aloud what she has always thought in the back of her mind. 

Anthony's eyes prick with tears at the acknowledgement he will always wear with pride. 

And the words bring back a memory and he has to know. 

“Did you see him, too?” 

And all at once, Hyacinth is transported back to the day in the lake, where she was suddenly standing in a field of every flower imaginable, and turned around to face a man with gentle, hazel-green eyes. 

(A man that if she squinted her eyes, looked a lot like the portrait in Anthony’s study.)

“I thought it was a dream.” 

And Anthony smiles at the gentle realization. 

(Cheeky of his father, to tell him about it at the last second so he couldn't ask.)

And he looks a lot like that man when he does, she thinks.

The tears fill his eyes at the thought that Hyacinth has finally met their father. 

(Was always going to, apparently, and he couldn't be happier at that fact, because that means their father is always looking out for them.) 

“It was no dream, Hyacinth. That was our father.”

And he hears Penelope softly gasp behind him at the realization, and reminds himself to tell her the full story, later. 

Hyacinth looks down in contemplation, remembering snatches of conversation of a dream-like encounter, and she smiles. 

“...He was nice. And funny. He gave me a warm hug, in the end…” She looks away lost in the memory, feeling the phantom sensation of his arms around her, the scent of cedarwood lingering in her mind. 

(He smells a lot like Anthony, she thinks. 

Looks a lot like him too, so much so, she thought her mind had conjured up a version of him to comfort her in her dream.) 

So that's who he was. 

She misses him, of course, in that vague way one misses the idea of someone they've never met. 

But she never felt lacking, not with Anthony, who always did his very best to make sure she never felt it. 

She looks down at him, noticing the faint tears that slip down his face and she gently wipes them away, much like he had when she was younger and hurt. 

“Don't cry. I finally met him, but you're the one I think of when I think of my father.” She assures him. 

And all he can do is tip his head to the side helplessly, in awe of this beautiful child, his child, that loves him so much in return. 

He swallows thickly, trying to keep himself from full on crying, as he doesn't want Hyacinth to feel guilty for it. 

It is only that he is filled with such heartfelt love that it seems to overflow from his eyes. 

He feels a gentle squeeze of his hand and turns his head to see Penelope in a much similar state, holding her other hand to her lips, and trying hard not to sniffle so much as tears flow down her eyes too. 

(When they tell their mother later though, she does nothing to stop her sobs and holds on to her children tightly, feeling Edmund’s presence as she does so.) 

They can all physically feel the warmth of a presence with them, a loving presence, and they know exactly who it is. 

•

Anthony learns Penelope is the one who took his broken pieces and put him back together. 

That she breathed life back into him, in every way that matters. 

Of course.

With his own personal Goddess of protection and healing, could he have expected anything less?

Anthony also comes to find out he's been in a coma for nearly four days, and must stay on bed rest for at least three weeks to recover.

And that Benedict has taken over, seamlessly, in fact. 

He still has to rest for another month and half because of his broken arm and will take at least another week to heal from his sprained ankle. 

(But he is grateful, because the quick medical attention from Penelope meant his bone would heal quickly, as it could've easily been six months instead of the near two.)

And it is as they relay this news to him that Hyacinth interjects eagerly, 

“You know what this means, right?” 

Anthony tips his head gently in askance from where he is propped up slightly on his pillows. 

“We’re scar buddies!” She points to her right temple, the remnant of the scar from the lake, in the exact position where his new scar now resides. 

And he laughs. 

It hurts, too, but it is a reminder that he is still alive, still has a chance to live his life and he couldn't be more grateful. 

By now, it is already morning (the dawn of a new, precious day) and he hears someone come to the door and he instantly knows who it is. 

(The one person he has arguably hurt the worst in his misguided attempt to shield himself from his own feelings. 

And he knows he could never blame his mother ever again, for even the mere idea of a life without Penelope nearly killed him. 

And he is suddenly overcome with a great respect and admiration for this woman who managed to bring herself back from the brink of nothingness, her own cavernous labyrinth where darkness resides, and came back to them, eventually.

And she is still here, for them. 

Always will be, he knows now.) 

She meets his gaze as she softly opens the door and stops, shock overtaking her features for a moment, before pure, unadulterated joy suffuses her face, her being and he wonders how he could've ever doubted her love for him.

(Darkness blinds, he realizes.) 

Tears of utter joy slip down her face as she almost runs to him, but stops herself at the last minute, remembering his injured appendages and settling for a gentle squeeze to his left leg, instead. 

They smile at each other, and Anthony feels tears come again to his eyes. 

(Will they never end? He thinks in playful exasperation. 

But he doesn't mean it. Not really. 

Because these feelings mean that he is finally accepting all the love he has been surrounded by this whole time, and he wouldn't change that for anything.) 

Sensing that there are things that must be spoken between Anthony and Lady Bridgerton (Violet, she keeps insisting), she moves to get Hyacinth's attention so they can give them privacy, but she's stopped by Anthony's hand, who holds her tighter. 

“Stay.” He pleads again, as he is unwilling to part from her so soon, but also completely willing to show her every part of himself. 

(“You cannot show someone your best, without allowing them to see your worst.”)

And she does. (Always will.) 

Hyacinth is the one who leaves to go spread the cheer around and wake everyone up with the good news, leaving the three of them together. 

Violet, who had seen this beautiful exchange of love, of trust, for she knows what Anthony wants to speak of, renews the tears in her eyes, and she knows they have no chance of drying, today. 

And she couldn't be happier that this wonderful woman that she so loves, that loves them all in turn, has also fallen in love with her wonderful son. 

She sits down next to Anthony's legs, close to Penelope, and decides to speak first, for this is a joyous occasion, and she has no need for forgiveness, not when he was right in his anger, and she has no care for any of it now that he has come back to them. 

“There's no need to say anything Anthony, for you were right on all accounts, and what actually needs to be said is that–” 

“I was wrong.” 

She flicks her eyes up to his in surprise at his words. 

“You did what you could, mother. We all did. And blaming you for how you delt with your grief, for what you had to do to come back to us, was wrong on my part. I did miss you, but in the end, you came back, and that is all that matters.” He states, fierce in his new understanding, wanting so much for her to understand, too. 

And Violet is left speechless. 

For so long, she believed she failed as a parent, a mother and to know that he no longer thinks of her as a failure? 

She cannot help her tears of gratitude and love, the love she always feels around her children, including Penelope. 

She feels a soft hand encompass her own and looks down to see her daughter’s hand holding hers, a gentle show of support. 

She smiles through her tears, once again grateful that Penelope has become a part of their family.

She raises their hands and gently presses them to her own cheek as she meets her eyes, a soft show of love.  

“Thank you for bringing him back to me.” 

And she means that in every sense of the words. 

Her love brought him back–the joyful Anthony that was always in there, mired in grief and this new Anthony that they almost lost to the afterlife. 

And Penelope smiles, still unable to comprehend her own magnificence. 

She turns to Anthony, who is watching this exchange with gentle eyes, and merely says, 

“All I did was love him, Lady Bridgerton.” 

Violet squeezes the hand she still holds against her cheek to gain her attention and reminds her with a serious, genuine tone as she catches her eyes again,

“You saved his life, my dear, both of my children's lives. You will call me Mama, for you are my daughter, as well.” 

Penelope's eyes fill with tears this time, at being wrapped in love from all sides, from someone she has always regarded as a mother, and she gives in as she finally says, 

“Mama.” 

She is engulfed in a hug, a hug she has so wanted ever since she was a child and no longer received any for it was considered improper to express such affection, and she feels that ache inside her, the one she always feels when near this wonderful family, but still doesn't quite believe is actually hers. 

The one she has always wanted, and now, finally has. 

And she can feel that ache being soothed with their love. 

She may have saved them, she slightly concedes, but they saved her in return, too. 

And she feels a slight squeeze on her hand, and turns to find he is pressing a gentle kiss to it, staring at her all the while, making sure she knows just how loved she is, by all of them. 

(They talk everything over, from their fears, to their hopes and everything in between, but Anthony chooses to leave the part about his father for when Hyacinth comes back, so they can tell her together.) 

•

It is a while before everyone comes bursting in and he knows Hyacinth told everyone to wait. 

(He’s surprised they listened, honestly. 

It's another thing he loves about his family, he acknowledges, how fierce they are in their love that they cannot wait to make sure the other is alright.) 

When they can no longer do so, however, they burst through the door in true Bridgerton fashion, all chaos and joy. 

Penelope doesn't even try to take her hand from his, like he had suspected she would, considering they aren't even courting (and he is determined to fix that as soon as possible), and he feels proud of how much she trusts them. 

(And he can't help but feel excited, really, that she no longer cares what anyone thinks of them, as he knows how much fun they can have with that.)

Amongst complaints from Benedict about work, smug declarations from Daphne, who has been staying with them this whole time, and enthusiastic congratulations, exclamations of gratitude to Penelope resound louder than any heartfelt inquires of concern for him and he chuckles, as he can't blame them, really. 

She deserves all of the credit, for everything she has done, and more. 

(And in the future, after he and Penelope have established an organization for the learning of first aid for anyone, with the support of the Queen, he will think back to what his father said about having much to live for, and he will laugh.) 

He stares up at her in love and wonder, once again.

(A Deity who deigned to come down to the Earth. 

To him, really.) 

Everyone has gone quiet as Penelope has also looked down at him, resting in a moment of soft appreciation, soft love. 

(Not that they noticed.) 

The rest leave in the complete opposite fashion that they came in, quiet and careful, knowing they need this moment to themselves. 

They vaguely register that they are alone now and move closer to each other (carefully, in Anthony's case). 

Penelope is the one who raises his hand to her lips this time (a blessing, he softly muses). 

They do not need to speak any words, for everything that needs to be said, everything that truly matters has already been said with their eyes, in a true expression of the soul. 

There will be time enough for everything else, they know. 

But for now, they can simply be. 

•

Anthony gets his talk with his siblings, namely the older ones, first, (Benedict, Daphne, Colin and Eloise) and they finally clear the air. 

(He still doesn't let Penelope leave for it, and all of his siblings agree, as she is part of the family. 

Always has been.) 

Tears are shed on all sides as Anthony brings to light everything he had been dealing with, everything he had been carrying, everything he had been hiding and he feels an immense relief to finally have it out in the open, at having no more secrets that he has to keep, at being reminded that he does not have to do this alone. 

He never has, he knows that now. 

Apologies are attempted but he does not let them through, for they are not necessary, it was a prison of his own making that he believed he had to shut himself in, for his family, but he realizes now, how wrong he was to let himself believe it. 

For self-torture is never the way to show the depth of one's love. 

Instead, he tries to apologize for how he has acted all this time, but they don't let him either. 

Apologies are not necessary, they declare, for they were all stuck in grief, and while they could have done more to help him, to help each other, they are resolved to help each other now, for now is all they have.

He smiles softly, in gratitude and holds on a little tighter to Penelope’s hand at their show of love and appreciation. 

He leaves the encounter with their father for last, as he relays the message he left him with. 

The tears come harder amidst their shock, shaken at how close Anthony truly came to leaving them, and they crowd closer, desperate to lay their hands on him to reassure themselves that he is still here. 

He reassures them instead, when he tells them all that their father told them, unwilling to let them go without sharing every second he spent in his presence, and he turns to Penelope as he says, 

“He spoke of you,” gaze softening in remembrance. 

And Penelope's eyes widen as her lips part in awe. 

The man she has always looked up to in the epitome of what it means to care for one's family, the one she wishes she had known longer, that man spoke of her?

She is still surprised at times, that the people she cares about would give thought to her at all (probably because her own family never does). 

“He said you are wonderful, that he remembers you and that you are the sweetest person he could ever hope for, for me and another wonderful addition to the family. And that you remind him of our mother.” He tips his head down to catch her gaze when she turns her face down to hide her tears, but he refuses to let her. 

He finally lets go of her hand, but only to guide her face to look at him to say, 

“And I completely agree with him. I love you, Penelope, and I would love nothing more than to make you an official part of the family. And I can no longer wait to ask, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” 

Soft gasps can be heard, but they don't register it. 

How can they? 

When the center of their world is holding each other's gaze, and this plane of existence is the only thing that matters, the only thing that's real? 

Penelope can hold back no longer when she gently moves forward and places a soft kiss on his lips, whispering a soft, 

“Yes.” 

She leans back in her seat as they only have eyes for each other as their smiles become blinding. 

They are reminded of the other's presence when they erupt in cheers and mocking reprimands to “take care of their Penelope” by everyone, especially Eloise. 

And they laugh, completely uplifted by the joy they feel at finally saying it aloud. 

And Anthony feels, in that instinctive way he now associates with his father, in that deliciously satisfying way that feels like the last piece of something that has been missing for so long finally clicking into place, that this is unequivocally, perfectly, at last–

Right. 

(His mother and Hyacinth are probably the ones who cheer the loudest when they tell them the news, and she comes by later, after everyone has gone to bed, to give them the ring Edmund wanted them to have–Violet's engagement ring. 

They shed tears again that night, at how much everything has changed, for the better, and when they feel a warm presence with them, they know it is him.) 

•

Weeks pass and he is never left alone (not anymore) as there is always a sibling or his mother, or Simon when he is here, (and even one instance with Lady Danbury, when she came to visit) that stays with him. 

And Penelope, of course. 

(Penelope had been able to stay during the days and nights of his coma when his mother had convinced Portia that Eloise needed support during this tragedy, explaining the situation, and Portia, ever one to seize an opportunity, readily agreed, as she saw a chance to bring him and Penelope closer into marriage with the rumors that she would no doubt lead.) 

He gets to see her everyday and he couldn't be more delighted. 

They have to keep up appearances, they know, and the only reason she is allowed to stay for so long during the days now is because his mother assured Portia that they were having daily teas and debutante lessons hosted by Daphne, who Portia has been eager to get on good terms with. 

The nights, however, Penelope manages to sneak back in, discreetly. 

(His mother is fully aware of course, and lets them have their time together, as she trusts Anthony to keep his word. 

…Especially after the stern talking to he took with utmost grace.) 

He muses that she probably learned that from all of her sneaking around as Lady Whistledown and decides to ask her later. 

And it is during one of these escapades that he remembers something, or rather, someone. 

“And what happened to Kate?” He asks, feeling a little guilty that he forgot about her troubles, as irrational as that is, considering. 

And Penelope smiles in remembrance and he can't help but be curious, shuffling against the headboard to sit a little closer to her on the bed where she sits next him (over the covers, obviously). 

“I wouldn't worry about Kate, she’s doing more than well, I’d say.” Her smile turns a little mischievous and he feels heat start to build in him as he remembers the last time she had aimed that smile at him. (Before they fell into the mud, of course.) 

He considers pushing it away, in that vague way that one does unconscious things, but he pulls it into focus, instead, sharpening his gaze on her. 

She hasn't realized yet, but she will.

He is done with restraining himself from his desires, he never wants to hold himself back ever again. 

And he has resolved to enjoy every moment he has with her. 

Now and forever more. 

And that is his vow to her. 

(And if it sounds like a marriage vow, even in his own mind, it's because he means it. 

Oh, he’ll do right by her, that he knows for sure. 

But here, now? 

He wants to know what the love of his life tastes like, to show her his worship through the sipping of her sweet nectar.

He can almost taste it.)

So of course he doesn't hold back any longer–not when she's sitting so close to him, enveloping him in that succulent honeysuckle scent of hers. 

It drives him mad, that he believes it's a glimpse into what she tastes like.

So much so, it's like she can hear the intensity of his thoughts as she turns back to him and he catches her gaze for a moment, weighed with intention, and they both begin to feel the honey-thick heat that always seems to come into being when they are near each other, a result, perhaps of this overflowing love between them, as it thickens the air around them and they finally give in to it. 

They gravitate towards each other, two forces interlinked, and breathe each other's air as both their bodies erupt in gooseflesh at the proximity, and he finally captures her lips in his, using their hands that are still intertwined to steady her mouth as he kisses her, soft and slow, savoring it. 

And his veins flood with utter want, spreading from the center of his chest outwards, bearing heat all the way to the tips of his being at finally allowing himself to feel it. 

It triggers him. 

And suddenly he needs her in his lap, needs her weight on him to remind himself that this is finally real. 

He reaches towards her, desperate to feel her, to finally feel her softness–

But he’s held back. 

He pulls back from her, dazed as he looks down and remembers his fucking sling, and he desperately tries to take it off, if only to feel her with the tips of his fingers that are exposed from the cast, but she stops him, pushing him back and climbing onto his lap, kneeling on top of him while holding on to his shoulders, like she needs to feel him, too. 

He stares up at her again as her unbound, titian red hair encloses them in this moment, entranced by the lust on her face, the loving passion. 

(It seems he is always staring up at her in awe. 

Like a supplicant.) 

He teaches her how to kiss under the glow of the moonlight with his slow, steady devouring of her decadent mouth and never relents for a second, willing to remain in this moment, this plane of existence where they will always reign. 

Warmth suffuses both of their bodies at the utter rightness of it, bringing with it a sense of brightness in their chests, their hearts as it radiates outwards towards the heavens, an act of sacred invocation. 

(Or perhaps, a call to devotion, made for the purest form imaginable.

Love.) 

When they part, they are both breathing heavier, like they were ready for more, but held back, not for the sake of propriety, but because they both know there will be time enough for that, later. 

For they have all the time in the world.

(She leaves before they can fall asleep, as always, and he stares after her even when she is gone, and he silently wills the day they can finally wed to come faster.) 

•

Penelope in love is a thing to behold, they notice.

She’s more outspoken, quick to boisterous laughter (amongst them, mostly), and surprisingly prone to teasing (well, not surprising to Eloise, at least). 

It's like she has finally accepted that she belongs with them, and has fully allowed herself to be just as she is, no pretense, no restraint, just…her.

Happy and in love. 

Anthony in love is a thing to behold, too, they notice. (How can they not?)

He’s more quick to teasing and laughter, more engaged with his family, softer with all of them, especially Penelope. 

(The incessant flirting is nauseating, they’ll say. 

But they don't mean it.) 

It's like he’s finally shed that ridiculous cloak of Lord Bridgerton, realizing perhaps that it is something he can take off, rather than shoulder alone. 

No tension in sight, just…him.

Happy and in love. 

•

Over a month has passed and Anthony heals, with the constant presence of his loved ones, and his body heals too, with the diligent rest and care they have him under, not that he complains, though he still has to take it easy on his arm.

He’s glad to finally have a reprieve from all of the stress, both self-imposed and work-related, that he is not keen to take back the responsibility just yet, much to Benedict’s playful whining. 

(He doesn't actually mean it, as he is willing to give Anthony as much time as he needs, or wants, really.

He has resolved to do better, and he has.

He has decided to put his art on hold, for the moment, as he can always get back to it when he is ready.

Besides, he has the surprising help of Colin as well, who has decided to put his travels on hold as he finds his passion, as Penelope has made him realize he does not need a purpose to find happiness. 

…But when he finally does resume his beloved travels with the intent to write a book, he meets a lovely foreigner along the way.) 

He’s mostly gone back to his usual routine, with the exception of work, and spends his days being an actual brother to his siblings, instead of a confusing mix of pseudo father and Lord Bridgerton. 

(His younger siblings are ecstatic at the change, though the older ones have become more annoyed at his teasing, which he takes delight in.) 

Due to this, he has noticed how much more subdued Eloise is, and he remembers why. 

(He and Penelope had discussed at length everything about Whistledown, and he realized how ingenious and clever his Penelope is at devising such a business by herself from the ground up. 

His immeasurable pride and admiration grew that much more that night. 

…As did the kisses they shared when she playfully showed him her Irish accent.) 

He recognizes what Eloise has given up, and if it is anything like what he feels for Penelope, he recognizes the depth of it, too. 

And he knows he cannot keep her from it any longer. 

He knows all too well what that's like.

So he decides to help her, as a big brother is wont to do. 

(And he knows, at the same time, that he is also giving a piece of her family back to Penelope, as well.)

An idea comes to him, based on something Penelope told him about Theo and he knows it's perfect. 

He consults Penelope during one of the times she comes over and they are mysteriously left unchaperoned.

Her eyes water as she kisses him at his benevolence and generosity, whispering to him what a wonderful and good man he is, and is it ever a wonder she fell in love with him? 

The smile doesn't leave his face for days afterwards.

They present Eloise with the plan later that day and she cries at the possibility of having Theo back, then punches Anthony on the arm that wasn't injured for being witness to her tears, lest she appear soft. 

(He winces, but smiles softly, at being able to do this for her.)

They go to him, under the cover night, together this time. 

Penelope remembers his work schedule and knows exactly when to see him, feeling tears in her eyes at finally seeing her brother again. 

They let her go first, with a hug and kiss on her hand, to give her a chance to speak to him when she couldn't that night, and Penelope is grateful. 

She enters softly, not wanting to startle him. 

And as she sees him bent over the countertop looking over some pages, she notices how different he looks and her heart clenches at the sight. 

She can see the dark circles under his eyes even under the lamplight, and he appears to have lost weight, like he’s been working himself too hard. 

And she knows he has done his best not to give up too, but he hasn't had the support system, the family she does and her eyes tear up again. 

They will never let him go again. 

And so she whispers, softly, delicately, like she hopes it will reach into his tired body and soothe his aches and pains,

“I missed you, brother.” 

He whips his head up at the sound, half-believing he’s fallen asleep on the countertop (again). 

His face drops in disbelief, in awe that his sister could possibly be here, with him, when he had fully believed he would never see her–see them, ever again. 

He asks softly in reassurance, hoping against hope that this could possibly be true,

“Are you really here?” 

Her tears slip at the fact that he asks like he’s been doing it in his dreams and she cannot wait any longer to wrap her arms around him, to finally have her brother back. 

(And she will, she knows they will.) 

He moves to catch her in his arms again, this time in disbelief and wonder rather than unbearable pain and he squeezes his eyes shut at the miracle. 

“What–why…? You can't be here, you know you’ll get in trouble, Penny–” He half drags the words out knowing they must be said, even if it is the last thing he wants.

“I made a promise to you. I knew you would never want me to give up, even when everything felt unbearable, but I did it, because of you.” She stares up at him, tears cooling on her cheeks at how proud she is of herself for continuing even when she thought she couldn't, because look at where it has led her. 

He opens his eyes and looks at her softly, and she just knows he promised the same. 

“We came for you.” 

And his heart lightens at her words for the first time in months that have felt like years. 

She would never lie to him, he knows, so when she says they have come for him, he has no doubt that they have. 

He leans down to give her a kiss on the forehead, reassurance that they are both really here. 

The door swings open and they part as Eloise comes through with who he knows now to be Lord Bridgerton, as Eloise explained last time.  

His dear Penny goes to stand beside Lord Bridgerton and grabs his hand to give him and Eloise some space and he can't help the surprised raise of his eyebrows at that when he catches her gaze. 

(He thought he had detected jealousy when he confronted them last time.) 

Later, she mouths, and he smiles, because they finally seem to have it. 

Time. 

•

Theo is not sure, at first, what to make of their proposal, as he is not used to accepting help to take care of himself. 

He didn't really think anyone cared. 

Until Penelope, that is. 

And he knows, then, that he will let go of his pride if it means having his family back, having Eloise. 

(And possibly, a new family altogether.) 

So, of course he accepts. 

Room and board at the university to become a barrister, if he's lucky. (Like he's always dreamed of, but never dared hope it could be true.)

If not, he’ll settle for a solicitor–his back up dream. 

(With a standing invitation to Bridgerton House, once they finally divulge the truth to the rest of their family.

And yes, they are including Theo, too.) 

They move back into a secluded corner to give him and Eloise a few moments alone, with only one stern look from Lord Bridgerton that Penny lightly smacks him for (but that he quickly catches, before pressing a kiss to her gloved hand–right on top of the ring she wears in secret–a teasing smile on his lips as he stares at her).

He notices how happy they both look when they turn their gazes on each other and feels a corresponding happiness as well, as anyone who can make his Penny happy will always have his favor. 

Eloise notices this too, and softly comments, 

“I can honestly say I didn't see this coming, but now that I have, I can see how right they are for each other. She's happy, Theo, they both are and I am so glad to see it.” She turns to him with a smile that he’s glad to see, too. 

“Are you sure about this?” He softly asks, still willing to give her a chance to back out, not wanting her to regret choosing him since he has nothing to offer but himself.

(Even as he feels hope begin to rise in his chest.) 

“I wouldn't be here if I wasn't.” And that fire he so loves about her, the one that makes him think he would follow her anywhere for, makes an appearance once again. 

And he believes her. 

•

The day comes when they can finally have an audience with the Queen, and they are filled with nerves. 

(Except for Lord and Lady Featherington, who do nothing to hide their glee.)

When they are finally escorted in, the imposing image of the Queen is all they can see and she is not happy. 

“I had expected you here much sooner, Lord Bridgerton and had half a mind to summon you, if not for your brother and the younger Miss Sharma, once again. Do thank your lucky stars you seem to have garnered her favor.” 

The younger Miss Sharma has definitely captured her interest, beyond being a Diamond, and she can even say she has begun to feel affection for the girl. 

(After all, if all goes well, and she believes it will, they will be family soon.) 

Lord Bridgerton stands forward as is his cue and begins a formal apology, 

“And I am ever thankful for your generosity, your Majesty. I do apologize for the wait, as I had been in a terrible accident, I am certain you heard, which could have been fatal had it not been for the heroic Miss Featherington.” He steps back at this to turn towards her, a gentle smile on his lips. 

Miss Featherington quickly steps forward next to Lord Bridgerton not letting herself get distracted by her thoughts as she curtsies politely with a proper, 

“Your Majesty. I only did what was necessary.” 

“That's not the way I hear it.” The Queen says in contemplation. 

Lord Bridgerton hurries to explain, hoping Miss Sharma and Kate told the truth, but unable to be certain and unwilling to let misinformation mess up this chance. 

“What actually occurred was that I was a fool, your Majesty.” He humbly lowers his head against the Queen, against the reality of what occurred and how much he could not fight it, in the end. 

(He is glad he couldn't.) 

The Queen looks at him, intrigued and slightly surprised, as she knows how arrogant these men of the ton are, and he is definitely one of the most notorious. 

Was, now. Apparently. 

Beneath the watchful gaze of his Monarch, he begins, a subject pleading his case:

An admittance of how utterly wrong he was to believe he could will away the feelings that had begun for Miss Featherington, ever since she saved his sister from drowning. 

A fact that garners the impressive approval of the Monarch, at hearing this girl saved two of the lives of her subjects, though she only allows the slightest raise of her eyebrows to indicate it. 

For all of this, Miss Featherington only remains with her head tipped down in deference, a show of humility that further increases, slightly, the Queen’s opinion of this girl who seems different from her family, the one who is not the most favored amongst the ton. 

(A fact the she knows well, for she, too, did not come from such a great family, the Queen thinks as she gives the Featheringtons a once over, noting their greed.) 

A continuation of the circumstances surrounding his two previous courtships, a fact that makes him look fickle in his choosing amongst society, but that here, in the authoritative presence of their Monarch is revealed to be a fight against love, a fear that began the moment their family lost their beloved patriarch, one she well remembers.

(A fight she, too, relates to, when George tried to stay away from her for her protection.) 

And the Queen watches on, enraptured. 

She does love a good love story. And this, it seems, is a genuine one. 

The gazes of her two subjects are drawn together by a force, it seems, as Lord Bridgerton concludes with, 

“The simple matter of the fact is that it took a near-fatal accident for me to get my head on straight, as I believed a marriage without love would keep me from suffering the fate of my parents. A fate I now realize was not one of suffering, but of endurance, for love has no end. And it took this wonderful woman beside me to show it to me.” 

They stand before their Monarch and still it seems they are the only two in the room. 

And the Queen’s countenance cannot help but soften, the slightest bit, in remembrance as she is reminded of how powerful love is, that it will not be restrained nor ignored, and she remembers her dear George, once again. 

(It is the reason she so loves love stories, after all.)

He turns towards his Monarch, voice pitched low as he finally, completely, drops the mask of Lord Bridgerton, the one he has worn for far too long, that has become more hindrance than help, willing to strip away all of his armor for her. 

“And I have come here to respectfully ask you–beg you, really, to please allow us to be together. I know I have made a monumental mess of things, and the women who are involved–our families should not be punished for my grievances, as it was never my intention to turn away your favor, your Majesty.” He swallows thickly as he continues, tensing slightly as he is overcome by the depth of his longing for her to agree. 

(The final dissolution of the Arrogant Viscount, laid bare before the power of his Monarch.)

“I beg, not as a Lord, but as a man in love, to please give us this chance. If you could find it within your gracious heart to forgive my past transgressions, I promise you…” He pauses, his words building, culminating into an intense conviction punctuated in the raising of his hand to his heart. 

(A vow.) 

“...I will humble myself before you, on my hands and knees, your Majesty, every day until you give us your blessing, for I will do anything for this love.” He declares, earnestly, with a shake of his head and slight raise of his shoulders, in helplessness, for he cannot live without it, without her.

And though he knows it is not proper, he cannot keep himself from reaching out to Miss Featherington to at least hold her hand, doing his best to pretend he has not noticed the tears that are beginning to form in her eyes as she is humbled by him. 

(She doesn't let them fall, though, and soon regains her composure, for his Penelope is a strong woman, stronger than anybody gives her credit for–even herself.) 

But she would never let him do this alone. 

(Of course.) 

And so she straightens, head held high as she gazes determinedly at the Queen as she equally declares, 

“We will humble ourselves, your Majesty.” 

And Lord Bridgerton whips his head to look down at her, seeing that spark in her eyes, the one he so loves, as he stares at her sacred conviction, for that is what she has uttered–a proclamation that their love is equal, a sacred thing, everlasting and infinite. 

(He does not believe he would ever stop finding reasons to keep falling in love with Penelope. 

His descent is an infinite thing.) 

At this, the Queen's approval increases exponentially, for a woman who is strong enough to stand by the one she loves deserves admiration. 

(Especially since she can see a hint of herself in this woman, as well.) 

The Queen looks on as they look toward her, their Monarch, the one who holds this power within the ton. 

Her son may take care of matters of the state, but she, she decides the fate of the lives of her subjects and she wields that power well. 

And what she sees before her is a testament to love, for it can change and it can humble, and she can see that it has–an impressive feat for these arrogant lords. 

She can also see that this woman he has fallen in love with, the one she knows does not come from the most reputable family, has a look in her eyes that she recognizes. 

It is a look all powerful women get, when they know what is at stake and are willing to do anything to get what they want. 

(It is fitting, she thinks, that an Arrogant Lord would be humbled by a Powerful Woman.) 

So there is only one choice to make, really. 

“I think all that there is left to say, Lord Bridgerton, is that I expect an invitation to the wedding of the season. After a proper courtship, of course.” She bestows a smirk that veers more in the realm of an actual, genuine smile, but that no one would dare comment on, for it would be unseemly for a Monarch to be considered soft.

Their faces drop in relief, losing tension in their body at being allowed to be together, before quickly recovering and pulling back into the role of decorum, as they are still before the Queen, after all. 

They express their most sincere thanks, one she waves away, but she thinks today has been one of those days that she will remember, for it is not often she gets to witness a true love match. 

(There just must be something about those Bridgertons…)

And she hopes to say the same about her nephew, too. 

•

Kate had been so terrified that night when she learned that Anthony had almost died, that she could not keep the truth in any longer. 

She told Mary and bon everything, for she could not hide that she was not the one in love with Anthony, and that she was only doing it to keep them from becoming destitute as she was no longer keeping in contact with Edwina's grandparents who were willing to provide her a dowry only if she married a suitable Lord. 

They were appalled at first, rightfully so, feeling betrayed that she never told them and how could you do this to us, Kate? 

And Kate’s eyes watered as she could only feel her terror that what she had feared all along had finally come to pass.

They would leave her, now, because she betrayed their trust too many times, how would they not? When she was never really a part of their family in the first pla–

Only to be cut off by the most wonderful of words from Mary. 

“But most of all, we are heartbroken that you would take on all of this by yourself, Kate. We see that you are always taking on everything by yourself and you do not trust us to help you, my dear. And I know that it is mostly my fault for letting you take the burden, and I am sorry. I have not been a true mother to you, my Kate, and for that I am so sorry.” She gently takes Kate’s face in her hands and looks on at her with pure love. 

The kind of love that is so pure it can only mean it is unconditional and Kate's tears finally spill from her eyes, dropping in time with her fears that she now realizes were unfounded. 

(They all hold each other tight that night, and Kate finally feels like she is part of this family she has desperately tried to hold together with longing hands, hands that would’ve undoubtedly been held, for they only needed the courage to reach out first.)

•

When Kate learned what the Queen and Edwina discussed over tea, later, she was surprised and immensely proud. 

Her brave, wise Edwina had managed to convince the Queen that it would be best for her to take some time to work on growing into herself, so she could be a better partner for her chosen husband, as she conceded that there was still much she had to learn in order to be ready for marriage and all that it entails. 

And in a society that does not give its debutantes such time, it is truly a feat that she did so. 

(It was actually the assurance the Queen needed that she had indeed chosen the perfect candidate for her nephew, and after several exchanges of letters that she personally oversaw between them, all that was left was for them to meet face to face.)

She had a feeling that Edwina had found her match though, when she would catch her staring off into space, no doubt thinking of the letters he wrote. 

When they received news that the Prussian Prince was to come to England, Edwina was the one who was most ecstatic to hear it. 

And when they finally met at the ball in his honor, the sparks that lit them up made a smile reside on Kate's face for the rest of the night, even as others looked on at her in pity for her broken courtship due to a suitor that was rumored to have been in a coma.

But she paid them no mind, for all she was focused on was her sister. 

This. 

This is what she wanted for Edwina from the start. 

Despite Edwina's grandparents that forced her hand, she had still hoped to find her a love match, for that is what she deserves. 

And she can see that it is reciprocated, for as much as royalty are taught to mask their emotions, the fact that the Prince chooses not to speaks volumes to his feelings. 

And Kate could not be happier. 

So, of course when the Prince invites them to stay in his home country, they wholeheartedly agree. 

What she had not counted on, however, was him. 

It is as they are being presented to the lovely King Louis Charles and Queen Frederica that she catches the gaze of a man standing close to them, one that looks vaguely like the King with the exception of brown hair and he stares back at her, unwavering in his gaze. 

Kate looks on unwavering as well, for a moment, before she tips her head down and curtsies in deference, for if he is near the King and Queen, there is no doubt he is nobility.

And he is. 

Heir to the Throne, His Royal Highness Prince Alexander II. 

She could not tell the color of his eyes at the distance, but the intensity…

The intensity stays with her long after they've left. 

She dismisses it though, as she did not come here for her, she came here for Edwina and she will do her best to support her with this. 

It is at the ball that was hosted in their honor that she properly meets him this time and she finds she cannot get his eyes out of her mind. 

Grey. 

A cool, steel grey that reminds her of early morning rides on her horse, so early the sun has not yet begun to color the day, but for as cold as the color is, there is no denying its warmth. 

They gaze at her, unfalteringly, giving her his complete attention whenever she speaks. 

She had expected arrogance, considering he is in a place of power, Prince Frederich notwithstanding, as he seems to be an anomaly amongst the nobility she has met so far. 

And as such, she had her defenses raised when she met him. 

She was used to this, used to fighting, to making her place known and so when he completely surprises her with his utmost respect and attention, she falters. 

She was not used to a noble, a man treating a woman with such importance, giving them a place to speak their mind and actively encouraging her to do so. 

It was confounding, yet she could not deny that he had so thoroughly captured her attention.

(It was like they already knew each other, even before they met, and now they were merely catching up on the details, the nebulous feeling forms in her mind, wispy in its half-formed state.)

She has to tilt her head upwards slightly, to look at him, though she never feels like he uses it to intimidate, for he never intrudes upon her space, always careful to keep his hands behind his back. 

(She does notice, however, that he leans in a bit, when they are lost in conversation, like he just can't help himself.)

“I hate to do this to you, as I saw how exhausted you were by the dances with the other nobles,” His accent colors his words softly as he gently tilts his head to the side, looking down at her teasingly, intently, with a small smirk on his lips. 

“But I find I can no longer hold back from wanting to ask you to dance.” His face falls back into intensity, as he watches her reaction. 

And she finds herself saying yes and meaning it for the first time that night. 

There are stares and whispers that surround them, as the Prince is not known for taking dance partners, instead focusing diligently on state matters, preparing for the day he will take the throne. 

But he implores her, voice pitched low,

“Keep your eyes on me.” 

And she does. 

They come closer to slide gracefully into position for one of the English dances they included for them, and her skin starts to tingle in proximity. 

The dark notes of an intense cello unfold in the quieting atmosphere, and she feels a corresponding tension start to build between them, enveloping them with its heat, and her breathing starts to speed up without conscious knowledge.

They move in sync, keeping in perfect time to the music, but it seems secondary to the thick tension that keeps them in a state of nearness that just does not feel near enough. 

The sharp, woodsy scent that surrounds him seems to invade all of her senses, even her tongue, as she seems to have parted her lips unknowingly, like she is in awe of what is happening between them. 

And when he turns her around to hold her against his chest, she cannot help closing her eyes against the slight shiver that rocks through her body at the feel of him sliding his large, strong, gloved hands against hers, the feel of his warmth at her back, the barest pressure of the buttons of his coat to her dress and skin. 

She can hear his breathing speed up in time with her own, feel it slide against the skin of her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, in and out, in and out, for those few seconds of the turn, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. 

She had never been so aware of someone's presence before. 

Never felt like the mere proximity of someone could completely erase the thoughts from her mind.

And when he finally turns her around again?  

All she can see is Grey.  

(The Sky and the Earth meeting as only two magnificent forces can–inevitably and inescapably.)

They only realize the dance is over when they hear boisterous laughter and then the world comes back into focus once again. 

They let go of each other in an effort to maintain propriety and Kate makes her escape, making sure to give him a curtsy for the dance before practically hurrying away. 

(He stares after her, even after she is gone.)

She had experienced attraction before, with Anthony–Lord Bridgerton. 

This was nothing compared to that. 

Where their attraction had been fire, fueled by their constant friction, this was completely different. 

This did not feel like mere attraction, it felt like inevitability. 

Like the greater forces of the universe were leading her to this very moment in time since she was born, where every decision she made, every path she took would lead her here. 

It feels like fate. 

She startles at this in the secluded balcony she managed to find and does her best not to lean into the railing, still trying to keep her composure. 

She is not meant for this, this is what she spent so much time preparing Edwina for, not herself. 

He is a Prince, for goodness sake, and she is no one of importance. 

Nothing will come of this, she tries to convince herself. 

She will see to Edwina and then she will go back to India with her Mama, and become a governess like she intended.