Chapter Text
5 May 1813
Lady Holmes’s ball had quickly become overwhelming.
Penelope had managed to gather plenty of gossip, thanks to Mr. Holmes’s complete lack of discretion when relaying his observations to his friend.
Fortunately for her, he had no interest in acknowledging her presence. The only remark he had made in her direction was a casual comment about the melancholy of being left out of the festivities, if not for Lady Bridgerton’s intervention, ensuring her sons danced with her.
It was that very comment that solidified her decision to leave early. She was certain that, had she not been standing there, he wouldn’t have said anything else.
He wasn’t cruel, just eccentric and utterly indifferent to social niceties. He spoke about the world exactly as he saw it, without embellishment. Perhaps that was what made his words sting all the more.
Because he was right.
And the realization hurt.
Every dance she had shared with Colin, those moments she had cherished so deeply, had been nothing more than a gesture of pity orchestrated by his mother.
She blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. Then, careful to avoid drawing Mr. Holmes’s attention again, she quietly made her way toward her mother.
Summoning what little courage she had left, knowing full well her mother would not take kindly to an interruption, she took a steadying breath and asked, “Mother, may I take my leave early? I’m not feeling well.”
Lady Featherington’s irritation was immediate but expertly masked, as expected. Penelope knew she wouldn’t hear the end of it the following day, but for now, she was relieved they weren’t making a scene. She just wanted to leave and not return, and for that, she needed permission.
“Penelope, dear, we’re not even halfway through the evening,” her mother chided.
Mustering all the contrition she could, Penelope pressed on. “I know, Mother, but I truly don’t feel well, and I wouldn’t want my presence to ruin the evening for you or my sisters.”
Lady Featherington regarded her for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely only a few seconds. Then, with a sigh, she relented.
“All right, girl. Go home and rest. We’ll discuss this tomorrow. And be sure to send the carriage back.”
“Thank you, Mother, I will. Good evening.”
Without waiting for her mother to reconsider, Penelope turned on her heel and left the ball behind.
***
It didn’t take Penelope long to stop by the print shop, deliver her latest article, and continue on to Siena’s house.
She knew her friend had the evening off, and when she had left the ball, Lord Bridgerton had still been in attendance. She was certain she could steal some time to vent.
Despite their differences, Siena was the only one who truly understood her, who made her feel seen.
Sometimes, Penelope thought it was unfair to Eloise and even Colin. They were her friends, yet she kept parts of herself hidden from them.
Other times, though, she wondered if they had ever really wanted to see her at all, just like her own family.
The thought pulled her mind back to Lord Bridgerton.
He had first noticed her at Siena’s by chance, but ever since, she had felt his gaze lingering on her. Even the servants had taken note.
Should she speak to him before the rest of the Ton, or worse, their mothers, caught on?
So far, he hadn’t reacted openly, aside from his initial shock, visible discomfort, and a few direct questions to Siena.
And yet, she knew he was not a patient man. He might soon tire of waiting for a discreet opportunity and simply make his move.
Perhaps at a ball.
Because, as Mr. Holmes had so bluntly pointed out, Lady Bridgerton ensured her sons danced with her. The Viscount, ever the dutiful son, would be seen as nothing more than a gentleman honoring his mother’s wishes, while sharing a few unremarkable moments with a wallflower.
***
As always, being in Siena’s company had allowed Penelope to relax. They had even indulged in a little wine, something she really shouldn’t have done.
Fortunately, if she felt any after-effects, she could easily pass them off as lingering symptoms of the malaise that had prompted her early departure from the ball.
A stroke of genius, really, at least, that’s what she giggled about with Siena.
But all good things must come to an end.
It was late enough that, even with the haze of alcohol, she knew two things for certain: her family had returned home and retired for the night, and so had the Bridgertons. Which meant that Lord Anthony Bridgerton was likely on his way to the very house she was about to leave.
She had spent a long time in Siena’s arms, soaking up every ounce of comfort her friend could offer. But just as she was about to slip away, the door swung open, revealing the very man who had ruined her evening in the first place.
***
The Holmes ball had been as insufferable as ever.
Dealing with the Holmes brothers was agony, while the elder might have been tolerable, enduring the younger was nothing short of torture.
After ensuring his family had returned home safely, Anthony changed and set off for Siena’s house. He knew she would be home; there were no performances scheduled that evening.
Upon arriving, he retrieved the keys and opened the door.
Of all the things he might have expected to see, nothing could have prepared him for the sight before him: Penelope Featherington, completely enveloped in Siena’s embrace.
The same girl he had seen at the Holmes ball not long ago.
The moment the two women noticed him, they separated.
What stunned him even more was how swiftly a neutral mask settled over young Penelope’s face. It wasn’t the first time he had seen her here, and yet, the sight of her in this place never ceased to unsettle him.
Lost in thought, he barely registered her sudden movement until she was already slipping past him.
“Good evening, Lord Bridgerton. I wish you a pleasant evening,” was all she said.
For a fleeting moment, he considered stopping her, perhaps even insisting on escorting her home in his own carriage. But before he could act, she disappeared into an unmarked carriage, vanishing into the dark of the night.
***
Once safely seated in the carriage heading home, Penelope allowed herself to reflect on her brief interaction with the Viscount.
Anxiety settled in her chest, a persistent, nagging weight.
She had been lucky so far, too lucky, perhaps. His shock, his hesitation, even his silence had worked in her favor. But luck was a fickle thing, and she knew better than to rely on it.
Daphne’s debut had been an unexpected shield, keeping the Viscount preoccupied, but that protection wouldn’t last forever. With each encounter, now disturbingly frequent, the risk only grew.
Unlike her father, Penelope refused to gamble with her future.
She would speak to the Viscount first, before he could act on his suspicions. Before he could do real damage.
She would not leave her fate to chance.