Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Penelope felt warm. The moment she stepped into the hired hack after the ball, she knew she wouldn't last long—sleep was inevitable. The estate was dreadfully far from Bloomsbury, and exhaustion clung to her like a second skin.

It had been an endless day. A morning trip to the market with Eloise, a lively luncheon with her rambunctious family, an afternoon spent guiding Hyacinth through her calligraphy exercises, followed by a chaotic visit to the modiste with her mother and sisters for final adjustments. And then, to top it all off, the most insufferably dull ball in the history of balls.

She was done.

Leaning her head against the carriage window, she surrendered to slumber. It wouldn't be the first time. She knew the routine—the jolt of the carriage stopping, the footman rousing her, the sleepy shuffle inside.

However, this didn’t make sense.

She wasn't in the carriage.

She was in bed.

Without a stitch of clothing.

And someone was next to her.

Penelope blinked, her vision hazy as she stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Not that she made a habit of studying ceilings, but she could appreciate them on occasion. 

Such as the first time she stepped into the Queen’s hall during her debut. Now that had been a ceiling worth admiring. Ornate, gilded, breathtaking. She had almost, definitely if she were being honest, tripped while gawking at it.

This ceiling, however, was nothing even remotely remarkable.

It took a moment for her mind to catch up, sluggish and disoriented.

Then came a slap.

A sharp sting bloomed across her cheek, jolting her fully awake.

“You are unbelievable!” a furious female voice hissed.

Penelope had endured many abrupt awakenings at the hands of Prudence before, her sister had an uncanny knack for theatrics, but this was beyond the pale. Even for her. 

“Prudence, please! What is the matter with you?” she spluttered, throwing her hands up in protest, only to briefly pause at the deep and husky baritone of her voice.

Silence. Then—

"Prudence?!" the woman shrieked, her voice laced with fury. "Is it Prudence who is knocking at your door, then?"

Penelope barely had time to process the words before the woman threw back the covers and scrambled to put on her clothes. Meanwhile, the pounding at the door continued, each knock hammering straight into Penelope’s already aching head. Between the slap, the shouting, and the infernal noise, she felt as though she might simply combust.

She sat up, wincing, and forced herself to take in her surroundings. The room was unfamiliar, richly decorated but not ostentatious and she could tell it was still dark outside.

Then her gaze landed on the woman standing by the bed, her back turned as she pulled on a red gown. Long brown hair cascaded down her back in familiar waves, and as she spun around in a flurry of fabric, Penelope’s breath caught in her throat.

Siena Rosso.

The Siena Rosso.

The most famous opera singer in London.

Penelope’s breath hitched. Her mind was already struggling to keep up, but as she reached for the sheets to cover herself, a new horror struck her—

Her breasts were… gone.

Flat. Broad. Muscular?

Panic surged through her veins. This had to be a nightmare. Some bizarre, fever-induced hallucination.

Before she could make sense of it, Siena let out an indignant huff.

"I'm such a fool for helping you and coming back here. Now it makes sense why you'd want to end our affair. To hell with duty and responsibility—you just wanted to shackle Prudence ! You are despicable, Anthony Bridgerton."

Penelope froze.

No way in hell.

Anthony despised social events. He had successfully avoided them for most of his life, but ever since Daphne’s debut, they had become an inescapable torment—one tedious obligation after another. He had neither the time nor the patience for such nonsense. Frankly, he preferred reading about the events in Lady Whistledown rather than suffering through them himself.

Tonight was no different. He had done exactly what was expected of him—attended the ball, lingered just long enough to be seen, then excused himself under the guise of urgent business matters. Said “business” was waiting for him at White’s, conveniently located at the bottom of his glass. Several times over.

At some point, his inebriated self had stumbled into Siena Rosso outside the club, and one thing had led to another—straight to his bachelor lodgings. Unfortunately, that was where his memory grew hazy, as he had promptly passed out the moment he hit the bed.

He must have been deep in his cups, because even in sleep, he felt like he was moving. Oddly, his chin was propped against the most comfortable pillow he had ever encountered, cradling his head as he slept. Goose feathers? Imported linens? Whatever it was, he had to commend his staff for the purchase. For once, he didn't care how much it had cost, he needed at least three more.

Then, abruptly, everything lurched to a halt. His head jerked forward.

His eyes snapped open.

He was in a… carriage?

Had he fallen asleep sitting up? No. That didn’t make sense. The club, Siena, the pillow—

The pillow .

Was not a pillow.

It was breasts .

Round, full, glorious breasts.

Breasts that were his own.

Panic surged through his veins. This had to be a nightmare. Some bizarre, fever-induced hallucination.

He looked upon his hands, and what used to be strong, rough, and veiny hands, now were tiny, dainty, and soft. 

Am I a woman? Where am I? What is going on?!

Before he could make sense of it, the carriage door swung open.

“We have arrived, Miss.”

Anthony peered out of the carriage, taking in the darkened streets. It had to be the middle of the night. What the devil was a woman—because he was now certain he was a woman—doing out at this ungodly hour without a chaperone?

"Miss? Mr. Brooks is waiting."

Mr. Brooks? Oh no. No, no, no.

Was this woman—was he—sneaking off to meet a lover?

Panic clawed at his throat. He needed to put an end to this madness immediately.

"Take me home," he managed to say, startled by the unfamiliar sweetness of his own voice.

The footman arched a brow, clearly intrigued. “Very well. And how exactly do you intend to pay me, Miss? Without collecting your coins from Mr. Brooks?”

Anthony froze.

Had he died in his sleep and gone to hell?

A special, tailor-made hell designed to punish him for every single time he had paid a woman to warm his bed?

Anthony had no coins. Not a single bloody farthing.

For a brief, reckless moment, he considered making a run for it. But if he wasn’t already dead, these men would certainly make him dead if he tried to flee without paying.

So, with a resigned sigh, he stepped toward the open, lantern-lit doorway. The space beyond smelled of ink and paper, and as his eyes adjusted, he realized—a printing press?

Before he could make sense of it, a man, presumably Mr. Brooks, glanced up from his work, looking expectant.

"What do you have for me tonight? It had better be good. Your mistress is getting too demanding."

Oh, wonderful. This woman—this body he was now inhabiting—worked for a Madame, as they were commonly known.

Anthony cleared his throat. "What would you like from me?"

Mr. Brooks frowned, clearly confused by the question. "The usual?"

The usual? What the hell is the usual?

Anthony forced a polite smile. "Could you be more… specific?"

With an exasperated sigh, Mr. Brooks pointed to Anthony’s chest—more precisely, to his cleavage.

For a long moment, Anthony simply stared at him.

Well. That was direct.

Of course, the man wanted the—uhh—the pillows.

If their positions were reversed, Anthony likely would have asked to see them immediately as well.

Except, he reminded himself grimly, I am the light-skirt in this particular nightmare.

All right. Deep breath. No blushing. No fidgeting.  

Even as a woman, even in someone else’s body, he was still Anthony bloody Bridgerton. Confidence was second nature.

Steeling himself, he reached for the neckline of his dress, hands only slightly shaking—

Then his fingers brushed against something.

A piece of parchment.

Without thinking, he pulled it free.

Mr. Brooks sighed in relief. "Thank goodness you have it. You scared me for a moment."

Anthony barely had time to process his words before the man snatched the parchment from his hand and began reading.

"This is a good one," Brooks hummed approvingly as he skimmed through the contents. "Your mistress gets better every time. Here are your coins."

Anthony blinked as a small pouch of money was pressed into his palm. He had absolutely no idea what had just transpired, but if it meant not having to have relations with Mr. Brooks and avoiding a violent end over an unpaid fare, he wasn’t about to question it.

"Thank you for doing business," he said smoothly, hoping to sound convincing.

Mr. Brooks eyed him with mild suspicion. Anthony forced a pleasant smile, then turned on his heel before the man could scrutinize him any further.

Once outside, he paid the carriage driver and quickly decided to release them from their service. His bachelor lodgings weren’t far, and frankly, after the sheer absurdity of this night, a walk in the cool air might do him some good.

Perhaps once he reached his rooms—his real rooms—he could sleep off whatever hallucination this was.

When Anthony arrived in front of his building, a flicker of unease crept up his spine. The candles were lit in his apartment.

That was wrong.

His hand instinctively went to his pockets to retrieve his key—only to remember, rather violently, that he no longer had his pockets.

Bloody hell.

Muttering a curse, he crouched to retrieve the spare key he always kept hidden. Except—it wasn’t there.

His pulse quickened. Who the devil was in his rooms at this hour? His head throbbed as fragments of the night pieced together. He had been here last. Right before waking up in this body. He had been here with Siena. And then…

No. No, it couldn’t be.

Panic mounting, he banged on the door. “Is anyone there? Open the door!”

He pounded again. And again.

Finally, the lock clicked. The door swung open to reveal a very disheveled Siena Rosso.

She took one look at him, sighed dramatically, and muttered, “Good luck with him, Prudence .” Then, with an air of complete exasperation, she brushed past him and disappeared into the night.

Prudence?

The name hit him like a death knell.

Heart racing, he fumbled with the ties of the cloak, fingers clumsy and desperate. As he let the hair fall loose, a wave of unmistakable red curls cascaded over his shoulders.

No.

No, no, no.

If he wasn’t already dead, he was about to be.

Am I stuck in Prudence Featherington’s body?

As soon as Penelope heard the door click shut, she bolted upright in bed.

The sudden movement sent something soft brushing against her thighs.

She yelped.

What—what was that?

She shifted, and it—whatever it was—moved with her, bumping against her skin again.

Panic flared. She glanced down, but the dim lighting made it difficult to make out details. Still, she had a very strong suspicion about what she was dealing with.

If she had to guess, it was probably related to the appendage she had seen in sculptures and certain works of art.

A hysterical little laugh bubbled up in her throat.

She almost reached down to touch it, but the thought made her recoil.

No. I shouldn’t.

That felt wrong.

This wasn’t her body. It was Anthony’s.

Swallowing hard, she forced herself to walk, legs wobbling slightly, and made her way to the full-length mirror across the room to confirm her suspicions.

The reflection staring back at her was not her own.

It was his. She was him.

Anthony Bridgerton.

And dear heavens above, he was Adonis himself.

Chapter Text

Anthony stood frozen in the doorway long after Siena had rushed past him, his mind struggling to keep up with the impossible reality before him as he held the door open.

Red curls tumbled over his shoulders, catching the dim light. He stared at them, panic rising once more.

This had to be a nightmare. Had to be.

That was the only logical explanation. And Anthony Bridgerton was a very logical man.

And yet…

Everything felt too real. The crisp night air chilled his skin. The scent of honeysuckle and vanilla clung to him—no, to her, to Prudence Featherington’s body.

Who would have thought Prudence smelled so sweet? Or, even more baffling, that she ventured out alone in the dead of night to conduct business? Was the Featherington family truly in such dire straits? He knew of her father’s gambling debts, but this…

Still, the pillows were more intriguing.

He certainly would have noticed them before. Of the Featherington sisters, he would have wagered Penelope to be the most endowed—not that it was easy to tell beneath the gowns she usually wore.

But on the day of her presentation, she had looked so lovely that he had done a double take. It was impossible not to notice them.

She had been so different from the girl he had seen countless times before—quieter, always lingering in the background, yet sharper than most gave her credit for.

And now that he thought about it, if any of the Featherington sisters had more than half a brain to conduct business, it was Penelope too.

She was one of the few who could keep up with Eloise’s endless debates, and Hyacinth was always delighted when she visited, eager for her help with sums and calligraphy.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, it struck him.

He moved at last, shoving the door shut behind him as he rushed deeper into the room, searching desperately for a mirror.

And when he found one—

It wasn’t Prudence’s reflection staring back at him.

It was Penelope’s.

I'm in Penelope Featherington’s body.

—

Penelope stood frozen in front of the ornate, tarnished mirror, mouth agape as she took in the sight of her—no, Lord Bridgerton’s—completely naked body.

Good heavens.

Were all men built like this beneath their endless layers of clothing? Surely not. Surely Anthony Bridgerton was an exception.

His chest was broad, sculpted with muscle, and—he had hair there. Somehow, that suited him. It made him look even more… well, masculine. His thighs were thick, strong, solid. And as for his…

She didn’t know the proper term.

For now, she would simply refer to it as the appendage.

The appendage, which she absolutely was not going to touch. That would be wrong.

However, if it moved naturally and happened to brush against her legs again, well, that was simply inevitable. Not her fault in the slightest

To distract herself, she planted her hands on her hips— oh, he was firm —and experimentally began bouncing from side to side.

She was far too distracted to hear the approaching footsteps behind her.

"Well, at least one of us is in high spirits about this."

The voice—her voice—startled her so badly she nearly tripped over her own (well, Anthony’s) feet.

She jumped away from the mirror, instinctively trying to hide—from herself?

Wait. How did she get there?

Who was—

Oh.

Oh.

It wasn’t her.

It was Anthony.

In her body.

“I… I’m… I apologize, I…” Penelope stammered, scrambling to cover herself with the sheets as she stood by the bed, feeling utterly exposed.

“Believe it or not, I have seen my body bared before,” Anthony drawled—in her voice, which was still deeply unsettling. “Though I haven’t done that particular move since I was seven years old.”

“That’s a… very specific memory,” she said hesitantly, unsure how to respond.

“It’s how my memory works.”

“Impressive.”

“My memory or my… assets?” He teased.

“Memory.” She answered quickly. “I don’t have anything to compare your… assets to.”

“Well, I’d apologize for ruining the male body standard for you,” he said with mock regret, “but you ruined pillows for me, so I suppose we’re even.”

“What?”

"Nothing."

Silence stretched between them after their rapid-fire exchange.

Funny, really. They both seemed to react the same way when uncomfortable—spitting words, deflecting with sarcasm, filling the space with anything but stillness.

Penelope spoke first.

"Lord Bridgerton, is it really you?" She was still struggling to wrap her head around the absurdity of it all.

"Who else could it be, considering you are occupying my body?" he shot back, harsher than necessary. But considering the night he was having, he figured he was entitled to a little irritation.

Penelope, however, did not wilt under his tone. In fact, something about standing in his body, speaking with his voice, filled her with an unexpected confidence.

"Forgive me for not being well-versed in the rules of waking up in another body," she fired back. "What guarantees this has happened only to us and not to others?"

He hated that she had a point.

Anthony's jaw tightened, the muscle ticking. “Fine. It is me, Lord Bridgerton. Anthony.”

Penelope nearly burst into laughter at the sight of herself standing there, all stiff and indignant, trying to declare those words in his deep, authoritative tone but it was her voice coming through.

“Prove it,” she said, crossing her arms. Because where was the entertainment in letting this moment pass unchallenged?

“This is ridiculous,” he huffed, planting one hand on his hips and the other on his jaw, looking like he was actually thinking about how he was going to do that.

She smirked. “Ah, the ‘intrepid Viscount tea cup stance.’ I’m convinced now.”

Anthony almost laughed—but he didn’t.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Suddenly, I’m the one questioning whether you’re really Penelope Featherington. I’ve never heard you talk or jest like this.”

“How would you even know? You’ve probably never heard me talk at all,” she countered.

Anthony opened his mouth, then shut it.

She had a point.

To some extent.

Not that he’d admit it. Instead, he bluffed.

“Of course I have,” he said, though the slight waver in his voice betrayed him.

Penelope raised an eyebrow.

Panicked, he straightened his posture, clasped his hands in front of him, and, with the sweetest voice he could muster, curtsied.

“Good morning, Bridgertons.”

That did it. Penelope cracked, laughter bubbling out of her in a way that made him nearly smile, too.

“I do not sound like that!”

“You do. You also sound like, ‘Hyacinth, let’s braid your hair and talk about castles, princesses, and dragons,’ and, ‘Eloise, that book was so interesting.’ ”

“For someone with a memory for specific details, those are awfully generic examples.”

Anthony scoffed. He was running out of things to say in this absurd little battle, so naturally, he did what any desperate man would do—he changed the subject.

“Could you put some clothes on, at least? The sheet you're holding up is not doing anything, and I’m cold just looking at you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Penelope said hurriedly, scrambling to find a shirt. “To be clear, I did not take your clothes off to look at you. You woke up like that.”

“That much I figured.”

“Because Siena was here?”

“No, no. Because I sleep like that. Siena is…” He hesitated.

“Gone,” Penelope finished for him. “I’m fairly certain she ended whatever arrangement you two had.”

Anthony let out a dry chuckle. “I’m guessing it had something to do with her calling me ‘Prudence’ when she opened the door.”

“In my defense, you were the one knocking and shouting in your—well, my—woman’s voice. I was the one who woke up to a slap in the face. I didn’t know where I was, and it was far more reasonable to assume that one of my sisters was waking me up like that than your… mistress.”

Anthony’s eyes widened slightly. He said nothing.

Penelope shifted uncomfortably. “I’m… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere in your affairs.”

“No apologies necessary,” he said, shaking his head. “We didn’t have an arrangement… anymore.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” she said, pulling the shirt over her head.

But as she reached for the breeches, she hesitated. How did these work? Did they simply go up, or was there supposed to be something first?

Anthony, meanwhile, had moved on to his own questions. Far more pressing ones.

“But you have something to explain to me. Why in the world am I wearing a maid’s dress? And why did Mr. Brooks pay me for handing him a parchment that was—” he made a face “—hidden in my cleavage?”

It finally dawned on her.

He had woken up exactly where she had fallen asleep.

Inside the carriage.

On the way to the printer.

To deliver Lady Whistledown.

“It got delivered, then,” Penelope said, deliberately ignoring all of his questions.

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “What exactly got delivered?”

“A pamphlet.”

He scoffed. “Oh, a pamphlet. Marvelous.” His voice dripped with irony. “Do you have any idea what kind of danger you’re putting yourself in? And what kind of pamphlet needs to be delivered in the middle of the night under a disguise?”

Penelope simply stared at him, waiting.

Anthony was a logical man. He was also an intelligent man. So she gave him the courtesy of letting him figure it out himself.

She watched as his expression shifted. First, confusion. Then skepticism. Then, the precise moment the truth slammed into him like a runaway carriage.

His face was drained of all color. His—her—chest rose sharply. His—her—fingers clenched at her sides.

“Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no.” Anthony stumbled back, hitting the edge of the desk. “This—this is—it can’t be—”

He was hyperventilating.

Penelope sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Acting on pure instinct, she grabbed his shoulders—her own shoulders, technically—and guided him to sit down. “Breathe, my lord,” she said firmly. “In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

Anthony barely managed a glare between frantic gasps. “Just—a—little—”

“Shh, less talking, more breathing.” She patted his back, finding this whole situation far more amusing than she should.

Anthony Bridgerton had just realized Penelope was Lady Whistledown. He was Lady Whistledown.

—

Penelope fetched a cup of water, and when she returned, Anthony was sitting still, seemingly lost in thought. She, on the other hand, had given up for now on the breeches, walking around in just his shirt. It was long enough to keep things decent, but still deeply uncomfortable to move in.

“I read Lady Whistledown,” Anthony blurted out, completely unprompted.

Penelope paused mid-step. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a gossip enthusiast.”

“It’s not just gossip. It’s information.”

“So… you’re not mad?”

“As in angry? No. I just don’t know what to make of it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is me being Lady Whistledown more troubling than the fact that you are in my body and I am in yours?”

Anthony let out a laugh—an actual laugh—because the absurdity of the entire situation was just too much. “I suppose not. We should really try to fix this, no?”

“Not that I’d mind having the power and the funds of Viscount Bridgerton,” she teased, “but you would not last a day as Penelope Featherington. So yes, we should probably fix this.”

Anthony smirked. “Is that a challenge?”

“It’s simply the truth. You wouldn’t even make it to breakfast.”

“Breakfast?! What could you possibly endure during breakfast that I couldn't handle?”

“Portia Featherington.”

Anthony sighed. “No further argument needed. Although I have a feeling this won’t be solved by breakfast, unfortunately.”

“Or maybe it will.” Penelope shrugged. “We should just fall asleep again, and when we wake up, we’re back to normal.”

“This seems like too much trouble for such a simple solution.”

“Who knows, maybe we are still asleep and dreaming all of this. But we can’t fall asleep here. You have to go to my house, and I go to Bridgerton House.”

"We should stay put.”

“I can’t. Rather, you can’t.” Penelope pointed at herself. “If I—you—am discovered here, I'm ruined. And then we would have to marry.”

Anthony absorbed her words, and for the first time—but certainly not the last—he was struck by just how different their lives and freedoms truly were.

“…Still sounds better than breakfast with your mother.”

Penelope laughed. Was he serious? “We have to go home. Our homes. And if we wake up and we’re still not back in our own bodies, you come find me at Bridgerton House.”

Anthony wasn’t used to letting someone else call the shots, much less Penelope Featherington. But he was completely blind in this situation and couldn’t think of anything better himself.

“Alright. I have a carriage nearby.”

“Do you trust them?” Penelope frowned. “It still puts you—me —in a compromising position to share a carriage at this hour.”

“At any hour, really.” Anthony sighed. “See? It’d be easier if we just got married.”

Penelope laughed again. She wouldn’t have guessed Anthony Bridgerton had such a sense of humor. Though, something told her he wasn’t even aware he was being funny. Anthony wasn't sure why she laughed every time he mentioned marriage, but decided to not dwell on it for the time being.

Anthony stood from the settee and extended a hand to himself—to her. It was an odd sight: Penelope Featherington helping Anthony Bridgerton stand.

“I… can you help me with the breeches?” she asked hesitantly. “I’ve never worn them before.”

Anthony blinked. Then smirked. “Scandalous.”

“Oh, hush. Just help me.”

He knelt before her, gathering the breeches in his—her—hands, then hesitated. Their eyes met.

“This is deeply inappropriate,” Penelope said, her breath hitching. She didn't mean for him to be down on his knees to help her.

“I do believe we passed inappropriate when you paraded my body around naked,” Anthony countered, his smirk only growing.

She rolled her eyes, though her face—his face—was noticeably red.

"Alright," Anthony sighed, crouching slightly as he guided one of her—his—legs into the breeches. "Just step—yes, like that. Now the other."

Penelope huffed. "I knew this much. I wasn’t sure about the layers. You don’t wear anything underneath?"

"This is enough to get you in the house. Now fasten them."

She exhaled sharply, fumbling with the front and his manhood. "I can’t. It’s… it’s in the way."

"It usually is," he muttered dryly. "You have to move it, adjust it inside the pants."

Her hands flew back. "I’m not touching it."

Anthony sighed, long and suffering, and before he could think better of it, he stepped in and did it himself. He adjusted it quickly and went straight to fastening the breeches himself, but as he did, Penelope caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror when she looked to the side.

Seeing herself touching his body like that sent a strange sensation rippling through his limbs. And then…

"What is going on?" she blurted.

"What do you mean?"

She glanced down in horror. “Is it usually this tight?”

Anthony froze. Bloody hell. He was an idiot—an absolute idiot. Of course his body would react like that under her touch, even if his mind wasn’t thinking that way.

Clearing his throat, he forced a casual tone. “Erm… no. It will pass. Just—think of something else.”

“But I wasn’t thinking about anything! ” She shot him a panicked look. “Anthony, help! It hurts, almost.”

His face burned hotter than the fires of hell. “I am not helping you with that. Just ignore it.”

“Can you at least explain what’s happening?!”

“If I do, it won’t go away, darling. ” He flashed a slow, infuriating smile.

She wanted to punch him. Hard. But she hesitated—because it was her face. And she really didn’t want to damage it.

“Fine,” she murmured. “Let’s just leave.”

Anthony smirked. “If it happens again when you wake up, use cold water.”

“I really hope we’ll be back in our own bodies by then.” She said, wincing at the discomfort. She didn't think that walking around with something between her legs could get any worse but it did.

He chuckled, far too amused for her liking. “For your sake, darling, so do I.”

Chapter Text

The carriage ride back to Mayfair was… educational .

Penelope was convinced they’d wake up in their own bodies by morning, but Anthony remained skeptical. By way of precaution, he took it upon himself to explain what she should expect—besides the occasional need for cold water. 

From getting up to relieve himself ( herself? ) to dressing and handling his usual morning routine, he covered every essential detail. The plan was simple: interact with the family as little as possible to avoid suspicion, then retreat to his study, where she would wait for his return.

Penelope gave him a hasty but thorough briefing on life in the Featherington household. Marina had recently left for the countryside to marry Sir Phillip Crane, following Lady Whistledown’s latest revelation that had exposed her pregnancy.

Penelope had braced herself for Anthony’s outrage, but to her surprise, he simply looked relieved that she had managed to stop Colin from making a mistake. If anything, the Bridgertons had come out unscathed—her own family, however, had not.

The scandal had further tarnished the Featherington name, leaving Portia Featherington in a frantic state. Convinced that her remaining daughters’ prospects were now nonexistent, she had become even more desperate to see them married. She strictly instructed him to keep his head down, nod along, and say as little as possible until he could make it to Bridgerton House.

Penelope also gave him precise instructions on how to enter unnoticed and find her bedchamber. Anthony had never paid so much attention to anything in his life—one misstep, one wrong door, and his already fragile dignity would be obliterated.

—

The following morning, Anthony was jolted awake by the unmistakable, ear-piercing voice of Lady Featherington.

"Penelope! Why are you still lounging about? I’ve seen the dead rise with more haste than you!"

A sharp smack landed on his backside.

Anthony lay frozen in shock, eyes wide as he struggled to process what had just happened. He prayed, hoped, that he was still dreaming. That Penelope’s theory had been correct, and that he would wake up in his own bed, in his own body.

But he wasn’t. He was still Penelope. And worse, he was now at the mercy of her mother.

"Are you listening to me?"

He groaned, burying his face in the pillow before lifting his head just enough to mutter, "I'm fairly certain the Queen herself can hear you. Must you be so loud?!"

That sentence had sounded like a death wish.

Portia Featherington crossed her arms, her fingers tapping against her lips as she regarded her daughter with a scrutinizing gaze.

"If only your appearance matched your sharp tongue, you might actually find a husband this season and amount to something," she said, her smile laced with bitterness.

Anthony had never in his life heard a mother speak to her daughter that way. He had certainly been on the receiving end of his mother’s sharp words before, but they had always come from a place of love and expectation, not cruelty.

But what astounded him even more was what Lady Featherington had chosen to criticize.

Not her defiance.

Her appearance .

And that confused the hell out of him. If there was anything remotely worth criticizing, it was the ghastly dresses and the overly intricate hairstyles—both of which were her mother’s doing.

“Agreed. If only the dreadful gowns you force me to wear didn’t hide all my features,” he said, pushing up from the bed and strolling toward the mirror. Penelope’s reflection stared back at him, clad in a white nightdress that framed her curves perfectly.

Portia scoffed. “Trust me, child, it is for your own good that your dresses conceal the extra stones you carry.”

Anthony stilled, his hands instinctively tracing the shape of her body. They had agreed they could touch each other’s forms when necessary —and this, proving a point to Portia Featherington, he decided, felt absolutely necessary. A slow, defiant smirk curled on his lips.

“Men happen to like my appearance,” he said firmly.

Portia blinked, momentarily thrown. “Men? What men?”

“Just… men. Men who paint women, for example.” He lifted his chin, feigning confidence.

Her unimpressed stare made it clear she wasn’t interested in the opinions of bohemian artists—only titled gentlemen. So, he added, “And I know Lord Bridgerton does.” 

That got a reaction. Portia laughed. A sharp, dismissive sound. “The Viscount ? Silly girl. Aim lower. A Mister would do for the likes of you.”

Anthony clenched his jaw but forced himself to stay composed. “Well, I’m off to break fast with the Bridgertons. Eloise says Lady Bridgerton requests my presence.”

Portia sniffed. “Lady Bridgerton? I’m surprised she hasn’t cast you aside like she did the rest of us after that disgrace with Marina.”

Anthony stilled. The tension with Marina and Colin’s doomed engagement still lingered in the air, although Daphne helping Marina with Sir Phillip did help everyone move on from it. Except Colin, perhaps. Yet, despite everything, the Bridgertons had never placed blame on Penelope. Even he , now knowing she had been aware of the truth all along, was beginning to understand—no one would have believed her. And perhaps, Lady Whistledown had been a necessary evil.

He lifted his chin. “Lady Bridgerton considers me family in her heart,” he said firmly. “And one day, I just might be on paper as well.”

Portia’s brows lifted in surprise before her lips curled into something shrewd. “Oh… I see. I didn’t think you had it in you, Penelope.”

He frowned. “What now?”

“You plan to entrap the Viscount.” She folded her arms, as if the matter were obvious. “That would be the only way he could ever look at you as a potential bride—if he had no other choice but to do so.”

Anthony barely masked his disgust. He shouldn’t be surprised, after all, Portia had tried to pull the same manipulative trick with Marina. But for her to believe Penelope would stoop so low? That she would scheme and deceive him or his brothers when she had more opportunity than any woman in the ton and had never once acted improperly?

He was offended. For her.

“She would—” He caught himself, pulse kicking up. “I mean, I would never entrap Lord Bridgerton. Or any of his siblings, for that matter.”

Portia simply hummed in response, unconvinced.

“And that is where you show your weakness.” Portia’s voice was smooth, calculated. “If you want to marry a man with a title , that is the only way for you. Think about it—unless, of course, you’d rather I promise you to the next elderly lord in need of an heir.”

She watched the flicker of unease on Penelope’s face and seized the moment. If her daughter was so suddenly interested in marriage and deluded enough to believe men found her attractive, Penelope then might be more open to entrap a handsome man like the viscount if she understood what awaited her.

Portia cleared her throat. “Since you seem so eager to discuss marriage, I believe it’s time you learned what happens in the marital bed .”

Anthony blanched. “Please, no —” His voice was strained, his will to live visibly diminishing.

But Portia continued, undeterred. “The man inserts himself bare into your secret place. It will hurt . So you lie still , endure it, and allow him his pleasure. It will be over before you know it.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Then he repeats the act over and over again, until you are with child. That is how you beget an heir.”

Anthony groaned, dragging a hand down Penelope’s face. This was a new level of torment. But despite the unbearable situation, a single thought grounded him: Thank Goodness Penelope wasn’t the one hearing this firsthand.

No— he would teach her properly.

If, of course, he became her husband.

Portia clapped her hands, oblivious to his inner suffering. “Now, make haste. We most certainly do not want to keep your precious Bridgertons waiting. And we both know you’ll need ample time to make yourself at least presentable .”

Portia swept out of the room just as Penelope’s lady’s maid, Rae, stepped in.

“A horrid start to your morning, Miss. Your mother surely knows how to dampen your spirits.”

Anthony exhaled, still rattled. “Did you hear her?”

“The entire house did, Miss. She was not trying to be subtle.” Rae rolled her eyes before offering a small, reassuring smile. “Pay her no mind. You always look lovely, and you need no entrapment scheme to get married and escape her and your vapid sisters.”

Anthony barely contained the urge to snort. Instead, he managed a smile through the looking glass.

“Now, let’s get you ready,” Rae said cheerfully. “Something a little less yellow for your visit to the Bridgertons? Perhaps some soft waves in your hair instead of those dreadful coils your mother insists upon?”

Anthony had no idea what she meant, but she sounded like she was trying to help. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely pleased that Penelope had at least one ally in this suffocating household.

Before he could brace himself, Rae stepped forward and began tugging down the sleeves of his dress.

Anthony stilled.

In the mirror, porcelain shoulders emerged, delicate and bare. The fabric rustled against skin as it fell away, revealing the most glorious pair of breasts he had ever seen. And he had seen a few.

Heaven help him.

His mouth went dry as he stared, mesmerized, and unprepared for the sheer reality of Penelope’s body.

A nudge to his arm jolted him from his trance. “Step out, Miss,” Rae instructed.

He did, but only because his limbs were moving without his permission. The dress pooled at his feet as Rae dipped a cloth into warm water, wrung it out, and began to glide it over his— Penelope’s —arms, then along his neck, down his back. The sensation was strange, intimate in a way he hadn’t expected.

Rae knelt, dipping the cloth again before running it over his calves, his thighs— Heaven above —then, mercifully, she straightened and handed him the cloth.

“Finish up, Miss, while I fetch your dress for the day.”

Anthony barely heard her. He was still staring at the reflection before him, at the soft, unfamiliar curves of Penelope’s body. He shouldn’t be looking. He shouldn’t be doing this.

And yet… It was necessary. She needed this. Right?

His hand moved slowly, almost reverently, using the cloth to wash the valley between the breasts while his other hand traced the curve of his waist, the softness of his stomach. A gentle touch over his skin, lower now, lingering… just a moment longer .

A sudden shuffle behind him snapped him back to his senses. Damn it. He hurriedly wiped down the rest of himself—rushing through the inside of his thighs, through his secret place, as Portia so fondly called it—before hastily dropping the cloth into the basin with a tiny splash.

He turned just as Rae approached with a dress in hand.

Anthony took one look at it and grimaced. “That is less yellow?”

Rae smirked as he helped him into the dress. “It’s the best I can do for you today, Miss. Shall we?”

“I’ll be down in a moment,” Anthony said gently.

Rae nodded and slipped out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Anthony took a step back from the mirror, exhaling slowly before turning his attention to the room. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular—just something, anything , that might help him make sense of Penelope. There was something disconcerting about having seen her naked body and not knowing much about her, except her biggest secret.

His gaze drifted over the small writing desk tucked into the corner. A neatly stacked pile of parchment, an inkwell with dark blue ink, and a few books with worn spines sat atop it. But what caught his eye was the quill.

A green quill.

Anthony frowned. It looked oddly familiar. 

—

Anthony made his way to Bridgerton House, Rae walking beside him as they crossed the street. Though she made a point to escort him, he was pleasantly surprised when she simply turned back toward Featherington House once he reached the door.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall Penelope ever having a chaperone at his home. That realization made their plan of discreetly meeting in his study remarkably easier to carry out.

Once Rae was out of sight, he slipped through the side entrance, grateful for his familiarity with sneaking into the house unnoticed. Unfortunately, doing so in a dress made moving swiftly far more difficult than usual.

The house was still quiet, early by Bridgerton standards, so he hurried up the back stairs, careful to avoid any creaking steps. He wasn’t sure if Penelope was even awake yet, but he made his way to the study regardless.

As he pushed open the door, a familiar voice greeted him.

“You’re here early,” Penelope teased from behind the desk, a knowing smile on his face.

Anthony closed the door behind him and sighed in relief.

He had no response. None whatsoever.

“I could say the same about you,” he replied, taking in the sight before him.

Penelope—in his body—was dressed in a mostly formal state: a crisp shirt, breeches, waistcoat. The standard attire for lounging at home. She looked so focused immersed in the papers in front of her, with ink splatters on her nose and jaw.

“Glad to see you managed the breeches on your own.”

“Your valet helped.”

Anthony stiffened. “He touched you?!”

Penelope arched a brow. “He touched you, technically speaking.”

It was irrational, completely absurd, but the thought of another man being that close to Penelope—helping her dress, adjusting her clothing— unsettled Anthony.

Because even though she was in his body, she was still Penelope . And what if the young, charming valet stirred feelings in her?

Not that he thought his valet was charming .

"How do you like your dress?" she asked, all too amused.

"Not only the color hurts my eyes, the fabric is itchy and why does it cut right in the middle of your chest?!" Anthony huffed, tugging at the stays.

"It’s not nice, is it?"

"It’s barbaric. When we get caught alone and have to get married, you are not wearing these at home."

"Can you stop saying that? We are not getting caught or being forced to get married."

Anthony groaned and flopped into a chair, glaring down at himself. "The pillows deserve better. This is absolute torture."

Penelope snorted. "The pillows? Really?"

"What? They’re very... nice. Especially with nothing covering them."

Her mouth fell open. "You—you looked ?”

Anthony shrugged, all innocence. "You said I could look and touch when necessary. It was necessary."

She stared at him, heat rushing to his cheeks. "Oh. Yes, of course. Did you… touch them too? I just assumed that Rae…”

“Rae was very helpful, indeed,” Anthony said, clearing his throat. “But she’s a busy woman and told me to… take over for her while she handled other preparations for me. You. ”

Penelope went still.

The image of herself—Anthony in her body—touching her, tracing over curves that she had only ever known through the indifferent routine of dressing… It left her unsettled.

Had his touch been soft or firm? How much pressure had his fingers used while washing her skin? Did her body shiver? Had he enjoyed it?

And just like that—

The breeches were tight again.

Not again.

This was starting to get embarrassing. There was no way Penelope was going to ask Anthony for help again—she already knew exactly what he would say.

She took advantage of the desk in front of her, shifting slightly to keep herself hidden as she tried to will the problem away.

Twice now, her body had reacted this way, and both times, either Anthony in her body was too close or she had been having unruly thoughts about him—about them . There had to be a connection. She wasn't sure why it sprung like that, but now was certainly not the time to dwell on it.

Thinking about it only made things worse. She needed a distraction. Think of something else, she told herself, remembering Anthony's advice. Anything else.

She took a deep breath, forced her eyes onto the ledgers in front of her, and spoke.

"Anthony, you really should mind your decimal points."

"How—What?!" he spluttered, caught completely off guard.

"You almost bankrupted Aubrey Hall," she continued smoothly, tapping the page. "You allotted £8,000 for landscaping and garden maintenance when it should have been £80."

Anthony blinked. "I would have checked again before handing it over to my steward, you know."

Penelope arched a brow. "Or you could say 'Thank you, Penelope.' It isn't at all difficult."

Anthony smirked. She really did have a sharp tongue.

"Have you been doing mathematics this whole time?"

"I quite enjoy it. And your work still needs to be done. I have no intention of being blamed for accounts falling behind while I’m in your body."

Anthony stood and stepped closer, leaning on the desk to glance at her work. He was hoping to find a mistake— just a small one —so he could correct her in return. He didn’t particularly enjoy being wrong, and he certainly wasn’t used to being bested. But to his surprise, there was nothing to fix.

Instead, his eyes landed on the green quill resting on his desk—the same one he had seen in Penelope’s room.

"I noticed you had the same quill in your chambers. Where did you get it?" He ran a finger over the feather as he spoke.

"Eloise and I bought them at the market yesterday. I didn't realize she had bought one for you as well."

"She didn’t. I needed a new one and found this in the drawing room.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed slightly. "So you used the quill yesterday too?"

They both stilled. It was a long shot, but it was the only activity they had both done before the switch.

"Do you remember the vendor?"

"Yes, it was an Irish couple. Perhaps we could start there."

Anthony straightened, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. "Seems like you'll be escorting me to the market, Lord Bridgerton . One might even say it's a courting activity."

She rolled her eyes, but he could see the small twitch of amusement on her lips.

Chapter Text

Penelope and Anthony had agreed to meet downstairs by the side entrance to avoid drawing attention when leaving together. Not that they could truly conceal the fact once they reached the market, but at the very least, evading the Bridgerton Inquisition seemed like a solid plan.

Penelope—in Anthony’s body—left the study first, making her way down swiftly, keeping her gaze averted. Anthony, in Penelope’s body, lingered a few moments before stepping out into the hallway. He had nearly reached the stairs when a familiar voice called out.

“Penelope!”

Hyacinth’s excited cry was immediately followed by the sound of her hurried footsteps. Before he could react, she threw her arms around him in an eager embrace. Startled, Anthony hesitated before awkwardly returning the hug.

He wasn’t unaccustomed to hugging Hyacinth, but now that he thought about it, it didn’t happen all that often. At least not this early in the day. Yet the way she naturally gravitated toward Penelope struck him. She had sought her out without hesitation, as if it were second nature.

Wrapping his arms around her, he noted how strange it felt to be the same height, to feel her face so close as they embraced.

“Come break fast with me,” she said brightly, “and then you can help with my project outside!”

“I apologize, Hyacinth, but I don’t have time today. I have a… commitment,” he said cautiously.

Hyacinth pulled back, narrowing her eyes. “Then why are you here so early?”

Damn. That was a very good question. Too good for him to conjure up a convincing excuse on the spot.

“I came to pick up a book Eloise borrowed,” he blurted out.

Hyacinth’s face lit up. “Oh! Then let’s go to the library. I think Eloise is already up.” Before he could protest, she took his hand and pulled him along.

This was bad. Very bad.

Eloise would see through him in an instant.

As soon as they stepped into the library, Eloise sprang up from her seat, already speaking at such an alarming speed that Anthony barely processed the words. He was, however, acutely aware of her complete disregard for personal space as she spoke so close that he could feel every word—along with an unfortunate amount of spit—on his borrowed face.

She had never been so eager to see him , and for the first time in his life, he fully understood why people tended to take a step back when Eloise got too enthusiastic.

Anthony barely had time to process the chaos unraveling around him.

“Pen! Have you read Lady Whistledown? I can’t believe she keeps finding out all these things about people. That woman is like the devil—no rest for her,” Eloise declared, shaking her head in exasperation.

Anthony’s stomach twisted. It took him a second to realize who she was actually talking about.

His throat went dry. “Eloise, please, don’t speak ill of her like that. She’s intelligent and… and she provides a great service to all of us.”

Eloise and Hyacinth exchanged a look of utter confusion.

“She just destroyed your family’s reputation,” Hyacinth pointed out, “and she always calls you a walking citrus fruit, among other things. How exactly is that a service to you?”

Anthony fell silent.They had a point.

Now that he thought about it, Penelope was particularly unkind to herself in the columns. He’d have to ask her about that later.

“You know what I mean,” he said weakly, already knowing how unconvincing he sounded.

Eloise tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Are you alright , Pen?”

“I’m fine, I just… I need to go.” He turned abruptly, but Hyacinth grabbed his arm.

“Wait! You said you were here for a book Eloise borrowed.”

Before he could come up with a reply, Eloise cut in, her brow furrowed. “You mean the one you just gave me yesterday? I’m still reading it.”

Anthony cursed internally.

“Right. Forget I said anything. I don’t know where my mind is,” he muttered, trying once again to escape.

Eloise’s expression turned to one of concern. “You really don’t seem well, Pen. Oh—wait. Are your courses coming soon?”

Anthony froze.

No. No, no, no. 

That couldn’t be happening. 

Not today. Not while he was stuck in her body.

His heart began to race. His breathing turned shallow. He hadn’t even considered that possibility.

He didn’t notice he was hyperventilating until Hyacinth and Eloise rushed to steady him, guiding him into a chair as Eloise called frantically for help.

Anthony squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to calm down. Breathe.

He pictured Penelope whispering soothing words to him, just as she had when he first realized the truth about Lady Whistledown.

Moments later, his mother and Benedict burst into the library, their faces etched with concern.

“Penelope, dear,” Violet said with concern, taking a seat beside her. “You look pale. Have you eaten today?”

Anthony forced himself to slow his breathing, his gaze flickering to his mother—so close, so attentive. He had felt her concern before, of course, but this felt different. More personal.

“Yes, I have,” he lied smoothly. He needed to get out of there. Penelope was waiting for him. “Thank you, but I must leave.”

Violet frowned. “Well, since you came all this way, why not stay a little longer? We’re heading to the modiste later, but until then, I have a new embroidery technique I know you’ll love.”

Anthony struggled not to grimace. He could not think of anything less exciting than a new embroidery technique.

Before he could formulate an excuse, Benedict chimed in. “And I wanted to show you the progress on my sketches—the ones you asked about the other day.”

Anthony blinked. The ones she asked about?

How had he never noticed this before? The way his family doted on Penelope, how naturally she fit into their daily lives. She wasn’t just a visitor in their home—she was part of it. She knew what Benedict was sketching, what Violet was embroidering, what Eloise was reading, and even what Hyacinth was working on outside. Meanwhile, he —the actual head of the household—had no idea.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, heavy and unsettling.

They must have noticed something shift in his expression because Eloise suddenly declared, “She doesn’t look well. I still think it’s her courses.”

“Eloise!” Violet scolded, while Benedict barely stifled a chuckle behind his knuckles.

“How about, for once, you all ask Miss Penelope what she wants to do?”

Penelope, in Anthony’s body, stepped forward from behind them, her tone firm yet measured.

Everyone turned to face her, startled.

“Anthony, you’re up and dressed early,” Benedict noted, brows raised. “Are you meeting someone?”

“I have a… commitment,” Penelope answered, unknowingly echoing Anthony’s earlier words. Then she pressed on, eyes scanning the room. “But that doesn’t answer my question. How about, just for a change, you ask Miss Penelope what she would like to do today?”

A stunned silence followed. Anthony, in Penelope’s body, caught the flicker of pride in his own eyes. He felt an unexpected warmth in his chest—proud that Penelope was using his body to stand up for herself.

“I mean,” Penelope cleared her throat, suddenly wondering if she’d been too harsh, “I’m sure she enjoys your interests and activities, but surely, she must have wishes of her own.”

The Bridgertons stared at her as if Anthony was possessed. And, truthfully, they weren’t entirely wrong. Sensing their suspicion, Penelope quickly put one hand on her hip and adjusted her stance to intrepid viscount’s teacup stance.

Like magic, the tension in the room dissipated. The family collectively exhaled, reassured by the familiar gesture.

Anthony bit back a chuckle. She’s good.

Hyacinth was the first to break the silence. “Well, Penelope, what would you like to do today?”

Anthony didn’t hesitate. “I’d like very much to go to the market.”

Eloise frowned. “The market? We just went yesterday.”

“And is there a law preventing one from going to the market two days in a row, Eloise ?” Penelope shot back, surprising even herself. There was something intoxicating about the power in Anthony’s voice, the weight it carried. She was beginning to enjoy putting the Bridgertons in their place without jeopardizing her relationship with them.

Anthony, still in her body, was highly entertained. She had found her voice—in his voice.

No one responded, too stunned to argue. So Penelope turned to Anthony and extended a hand, her voice rich with mock courtesy. “I happen to be going to the market, Miss Penelope. I would be delighted to have your company.”

Anthony grinned. “That is a most gracious offer, my lord. ”

He stood, smoothing the skirts of his dress before stepping toward her.

Violet looked pleasantly surprised.
Eloise’s mouth hung open.
Hyacinth beamed from ear to ear.

Benedict, ever the opportunist, smirked. “In that case, I’d be happy to offer my services as chaperone for the likes of you.”

Anthony and Penelope exchanged a quick, silent glance. Sneaking out was no longer an option, which meant a chaperone was inevitable. Given the choices, Benedict was their best bet.

On one hand, he knew Anthony better than anyone and could easily sense if something was off. But on the other, how could he possibly suspect that they had swapped bodies? More importantly, of all the Bridgertons, Benedict was the most inclined to let them have their privacy.

Anthony gave Penelope a subtle nudge with his eyes. Say something.

“Right,” she cleared her throat, slipping back into her role. “That would be most welcome.”

—

Penelope, in Anthony’s body, sat beside Benedict in the carriage, while Anthony, in Penelope’s body, sat across from them. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, thick with unspoken tension. Benedict observed them curiously—something was off.

Anthony, or rather, Penelope in Anthony’s body , sat too stiffly, his back unnaturally straight, legs almost crossing in a way no self-respecting viscount would sit. Meanwhile, Anthony in Penelope’s body was slouched far too much, legs widened, a posture unbefitting a lady of the ton.

Benedict’s gaze flickered to Penelope—no, Anthony—in the yellow gown. With her curls loosened, she looked softer, more woman than girl. But as the carriage rolled along, the gentle bounce of the ride made something else bounce along with it.

Benedict wasn’t trying to stare, but he must have, because suddenly Penelope’s voice—high-pitched and full of indignation—cut through the air.

“Is there something on my face?”

Benedict blinked. “What? No, nothing—”

“Or perhaps something around five inches below my face?” Anthony shot back, scandalized. He quickly grabbed a nearby fan and held it over his chest. “Mr. Bridgerton, you cad! ”

Benedict’s mouth opened and closed in shock. “W-What—?”

“Lord Bridgerton, your brother is leering at me.” Anthony turned to Penelope, looking for support.

“You do look rather lovely today,” Penelope offered, barely suppressing a smirk.

Benedict threw up his hands. “What is going on with you two?! Is there something amiss? Miss Penelope, I apo—”

“I believe,” Anthony interrupted smoothly, eyes glinting with mischief, “after ogling at me, you may drop the honorific, Benedict. ”

Benedict scoffed, feigning innocence. “I was merely admiring how different you look today, Pen. It’s quite fetching, really.”

Penelope, in Anthony’s body, cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Fetching?”

Benedict grinned. “Yes, quite. A softer look suits you. Perhaps you should wear your hair like this more often.”

Now Anthony was really bothered. It was one thing for Benedict to stare, but it was another entirely for him to openly compliment Penelope—while he was in her body, no less. And worse? She seemed flattered by it.

Penelope, still basking in the rare and unexpected praise, tilted her head. “I agree.”

Anthony seethed.

This was going to be a long day.

—

They arrived at the market, and Anthony instinctively moved to step out of the carriage first—only to realize, belatedly, that he was expected to wait for assistance. Penelope, already on the ground, turned back and extended a hand to him.

Suppressing a sigh, he accepted it, allowing himself to be helped down as gracefully as possible.

As they began walking, Anthony slid his hand under Penelope’s arm, linking them together without warning. Penelope stiffened in surprise, shooting him a sharp look.

Anthony merely grinned. “It’s rude not to offer your arm, Lord Bridgerton. I could slip and fall.”

Penelope let out a breathy chuckle. “We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“I should hope not. My face is far too pretty to meet the pavement.” He smirked, waiting to see if Penelope would take the compliment.

Her cheeks turned pink and she hesitated for only a moment before responding smoothly, “Once again, you are most correct.”

Benedict, trailing a few paces behind, watched the exchange with growing bewilderment. Was little Penelope Featherington flirting with Viscount Anthony Bridgerton? Now he was too intrigued to keep his distance.

Penelope leaned down slightly, whispering under her breath, “We have to get rid of your brother.”

Anthony, far too amused by the irritation in her voice, shot her a teasing glance. “Our first time out, and you already want to ditch the chaperone? Pray tell, my lord, what exactly are your plans for me?”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Someone is enjoying this far too much. I’m serious , Ant—Miss Penelope. We need to find the quill vendor without him watching our every move.”

Anthony glanced around, an idea forming. He suddenly turned and called out, “ Mister Bridgerton! ”

Benedict strolled up beside them, raising an eyebrow.

“Lord Bridgerton was just saying,” Anthony began smoothly, “that he wanted to order me a new gown for the next ball. Would you be a darling and see if the modiste can fit us in for an appointment this morning?”

Benedict looked between them, clearly suspicious. “Is that so?”

Penelope hesitated but knew this was their best shot at slipping away. Forcing a gracious smile, she added, “Madame Delacroix speaks highly of you and your… taste, Benedict. Perhaps you could also help set aside some fabrics and colors for Miss Penelope. Nothing citrus, please. ”

Benedict narrowed his eyes slightly. He wasn’t a fool—he knew they were trying to get rid of him. But curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to play along. After all, he trusted Anthony not to compromise a lady in broad daylight—no matter how strange this sudden connection between them seemed.

“Of course, brother. Miss Penelope,” Benedict said, his tone laced with amusement. “I’ll see what I can do. Stay in the market and in view, will you? ” His words carried a warning, though his smirk betrayed his intrigue.

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving them alone.

When Benedict was far enough, Penelope turned to Anthony with an incredulous look.

“Are you out of your mind? A dress?”

Anthony shrugged. “Forgive me for wanting something more comfortable than this travesty.” He tugged at the fabric of his gown with clear distaste. “It itches, it scratches, and my chest hurts.”

Penelope’s expression softened slightly. “Oh. So you’re doing this for you, then?” she asked, her voice quieter.

“Obviously,” Anthony replied—though not very convincingly. Because, in truth, he wasn’t doing this for himself at all. He was doing it for her. But he knew if he admitted that, she’d resist.

Still, Penelope shook her head, exhaling. “You do realize that this looks like a courting gift? And an expensive one at that.”

Anthony raised a brow. “Can I ask why you’re so opposed to marrying me?”

Penelope blinked. “What?”

“You know, it was funny the first time you shut me down, but now it’s just bothersome .” Anthony crossed his arms. “Would it be so horrible to be my wife?”

The moment the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. A few heads turned, onlookers pausing to glance.

Anthony cleared his throat. “My husband, I mean.”

Penelope looked as though she wanted to sink into the cobblestone street. “First of all, could you lower your voice before you make it sound like Penelope Featherington is publicly proposing to Lord Bridgerton?” she hissed.

Anthony clamped his mouth shut.

“Second,” she continued, exasperated, “ how is that even a question? I just… I never considered it.” Her voice softened. “I didn’t know it ever crossed your mind.”

“Well, it hadn’t,” Anthony admitted. “Not until recently.”

Penelope frowned. “How recently?”

Anthony opened his mouth—then promptly closed it when he spotted a vendor. His eyes lit up with relief. “Look! Are they the couple who sold you the quill?”

Penelope scowled, recognizing the blatant deflection. But for now, she let it slide.

“Yes, that’s them.” She turned towards the small vendor stall, her gaze softening slightly. “They’re the older couple who run the shop together. Very kind, but you must let me do the talking.”

Anthony placed a hand on his chest, looking scandalized. “You wound me, Lord Bridgerton. I am perfectly capable of making conversation without incident.”

She arched a brow. “Are you? Because just now you practically shouted a marriage proposal in the middle of the market.”

Anthony pursed his lips. “That was not a proposal. It was an inquiry.”

“Sounded like a proposal.”

“It wasn’t. This time it wasn’t, at least.” He muttered under his breath.

Penelope smirked. “Well, I certainly hope not. Because if that’s the best you can do, then I pity the woman who ends up with you.”

Anthony huffed but said nothing as they approached the stall. He could prove her wrong later when the time came to actually propose.

Chapter Text

Anthony and Penelope approached the stall side by side, his hand still slightly hooked through her arm.

The older man behind the counter lit up with recognition the moment he saw them.

“Good day to ya, miss! Grand to see ya again so quick. I trust the quill brought ye your wish?” he said with a knowing smile, his gaze shifting to Anthony.

Penelope and Anthony exchanged a puzzled glance, but before they could respond, the man’s wife chimed in with a grin.

“Fine choice, miss. And a handsome fella at that.”

Anthony’s confusion gave way to amusement almost immediately. He liked her already.

“I used to look like that back in the day,” the old man added with a wink.

“You did, dear,” his wife said, patting his arm fondly—though her tone suggested polite disagreement.

Penelope leaned forward, frowning slightly. “What do you mean the quill brought me my wish?” Then, realizing her mistake, she quickly corrected, “Her wish. I meant her.”

The couple shared a brief, knowing look. Clearly, they understood more than they let on.

“You see,” the old man said, his Irish accent lilting with warmth, “these quills… they’ve a touch o’ magic in ’em. Same as words’ve got their own power, these do too. They’ve a way o’ revealin’ things—show the world from a different vantage.”

“Fresh perspective,” the woman added. “That’s what they do. Especially when used on a night like last.”

“Vernal equinox,” the man explained. “Or lent, as you would call it. Time for new starts, it is—plantin’ season, wakin’ energy, all of it. And when the veil between wishin’ and truth gets just a wee bit thinner. If ye used the quill an’ made a wish—spoken or not—might’ve been enough to tip the scales, come midnight.”

The logic was shaky at best, and yet… the timing lined up. The switch had happened at midnight. Still, the explanation felt absurd. Although, the whole situation was.

Penelope stared at the couple, then at Anthony.

“What sort of wish you made,” she asked slowly, “that could possibly result in this?”

Anthony rubbed the back of his neck, clearly just as bewildered. “I can’t think of anything in particular,” he admitted. “The more important question is—how do we reverse it?”

The old man let out a knowing chuckle. “Ah now, so ye’re learnin’ what ye wished for ain’t quite what ye’d hoped, is it?”

Anthony’s eyes flicked toward the green quills neatly arranged on the table, doubt creasing his brow. “I’m not even sure what I wished for. So what now—we just pick one up and politely ask to switch back?”

The old woman smiled, her eyes twinkling. “A heart’s want is no small thing, love. To undo it, ye’ll both need a wish stronger still. One that comes from the both of ye, not just one.”

“Both of us?” Penelope echoed, arms crossing instinctively.

The man nodded. “Ye can’t take the wish back alone, now. The spell tied yer fates when the two of ye used the quills at the same time. Only together can ye be unbound, see?”

Anthony and Penelope exchanged a long, uncertain look.

“It seems ye two have much to think about,” the woman said kindly.

“And not much time,” the old man added more gravely. “Ye’ve three days from the moment the wish took hold. If by midnight on the third day ye haven’t both wished for somethin’ ye want more than what ye first asked for—well then, this life ye’re livin’ now? It’ll be the one ye’re stuck with.”

Penelope swallowed hard. Anthony looked like he suddenly needed air.

Three days.

And neither of them had the faintest idea what they’d wished for in the first place.

—

“We’re doomed. We’re never getting our lives back,” Anthony groaned as they trudged slowly toward the modiste to meet Benedict.

Penelope shot him a flat look. “Sometimes I’m genuinely amazed your family is so successful. You spiral and hyperventilate the moment anything unexpected happens.”

“I do not spiral,” he snapped, then sniffled. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m being so emotional—” He paused, eyes widening. “Please tell me Eloise is wrong, and your courses aren’t coming any time soon.”

“First of all,” she said, aghast, “it’s wildly disrespectful to blame a woman’s emotions on her courses. Second, no—they’re not due.” She cringed slightly. “But, I’ve noticed that stress and mood can affect it, so you really do need to calm down.”

“I apologize, my lord,” he replied with surprising sincerity. “I speak from experience, living with five women under one roof, but I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Penelope blinked, momentarily thrown. She couldn’t remember a time when Anthony Bridgerton had apologized to her without a defensive remark or a smug counterpoint.

“Let’s… focus on the actual problem,” she said, shaking off her surprise.

“I can’t live in your house forever,” he groaned, throwing his hands up.

She giggled. “Ah, I see where this is going. Let me guess—if the switch becomes permanent, you want us to get married.”

“Well, do you have a better idea?” he shot back. “You’ll need me to act as me, and I’ll need you around to pretend to be you.”

“Or,” she said with emphasis, “we could just break the spell.”

“Did you not hear what they said? It depends on what we wished for—and we don’t even know what that was!”

Penelope fell quiet, then said softly, “I think I might.”

Anthony turned to her, brows raised. “What? Was it to become an overworked viscount with a taste for brandy and meaningless flings? Who lives like he might die tomorrow, so he doesn’t have to face today? How could any wish of yours cause you to land in my body?”

She met his gaze with quiet certainty. “I’ve always wished… to be heard. To be seen. I never thought about it being my strongest wish, though.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

It was humbling and painful for Anthony to hear it. While she had longed to be seen, he just in that moment realized what he had always wished for, and it was the exact opposite of that since his father passed away.

“I wished…” he began, almost whispering, “to be invisible. I wish I could run away sometimes, without any of the consequences. Live my own life where no one expects anything from me.”

Penelope looked down at him, his expression distant, the weight of his words hanging heavily between them. She’d always seen Anthony as the composed, capable viscount, constantly managing his family, fulfilling duties, and upholding appearances. She had never stopped to consider the pressure of being watched, scrutinized, and expected to lead. Never imagined that any part of him would ever want to be someone like her.

She didn’t know why, but out of all the things she could’ve said in that moment, she landed on the simplest and silliest one: “There’s more to you than you let on.” She grinned, as he looked up at her. “And here I thought you had just wished for better pillows.”

Anthony’s serious expression broke into laughter—warm and genuine. Somehow, in a short period of time, she already knew exactly how to disarm him and help him be at ease.

“They are very nice though,” he said with a grin.

Penelope blushed, but she smiled too. “Well, that was some progress. We both know what we wished for.”

“And now we are supposed to find something we both want more than what we have wished for our whole lives. Easy.” Anthony said, his tone dripping with irony.

“Let’s try to stay close to each other until we sort this out. Maybe Eloise could invite you to stay over tonight?”

“A sleepover? With Eloise?” he asked, deadpan.

“It’s either that,” Penelope said dryly, “or waking up to my mother slapping your behind again.”

Anthony stared. “How did you know that—?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I am you, remember?”

—

When they arrived at the modiste, the front door was locked, which was odd for the middle of the day. Still, Penelope knew where the spare key was kept. As she reached for it, Anthony gave her a pointed look.

“What? She helps me with the pamphlet sometimes,” she muttered, unlocking the door.

“Wait. Maybe the door is locked for a reason.” Anthony said, pulling her by the arm before she entered.

“Yes, she is probably having lunch and does not want to be interrupted. You know the French and their food.” Penelope answered, naively.

“Oh, I know very well. ” He replied, still not convinced. But Benedict knew they were coming, so maybe he was overthinking it.

They stepped inside, the familiar scent of fabric and perfume lingering in the air. All seemed quiet—until they reached the back room.

Penelope froze. Then gasped.

What she saw was Benedict pressed firmly against a thoroughly disheveled Genevieve, her back arched, hands gripping the edge of the cutting table.

What she couldn’t see from that angle were his trousers around his ankles, and her skirts bunched up at her waist. 

And even though Genevieve cried out in clear delight, to sweet, sheltered Penelope—experiencing all this for the first time—it sounded like distress.

Anthony tried to pull her back to leave, but she lunged forward without hesitation.

“Unhand her right now!” she shouted, her voice deeper and far more commanding than she intended.

Benedict’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide in horror.

Genevieve shrieked and tried to cover herself, twisting away.

Anthony groaned and buried his face in his hands, not knowing if he should laugh or feel horrified.

“What do you think you are doing?!” Penelope shouted, shoving Benedict back and stepping protectively in front of Genevieve.

“What do you think we were doing?!” Benedict barked, hastily pulling up his trousers. “Bloody hell, Anthony! You could have just turned around—or knocked! How did you even get in?”

Genevieve, now attempting to smooth her hair and dress, cut in sharply. “Because Penelope knows where the spare key is! You didn’t tell me your brother was with her!”

Penelope turned to her, still deeply concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I was,” Genevieve snapped. “I might’ve even been great, had you not barged in like a lunatic. Siena said you were odd the last time you met, but I never imagined this level of madness.” Her gaze raked over Penelope-as-Anthony with suspicion.

Penelope blinked, thoroughly bewildered and still trying to piece everything together. Before she could respond, Anthony stepped in, clearing his throat and mustering his most diplomatic tone.

“Our apologies for the intrusion. Clearly, the viscount was a bit too eager for me to see the fabric options you selected for my dress,” he said smoothly, trying not to laugh.

Genevieve narrowed her eyes but huffed. “This way, chérie,” she muttered, turning toward the display room. 

As Anthony followed her, Benedict stepped in front of Penelope, his expression thunderous.

“I gave you the privacy you asked for. Was it really too much to expect the same in return?” he growled, seething.

Penelope had never seen Benedict so angry before. He was always sweet and gentle with her, which made his current fury all the more jarring. She still hadn’t fully pieced together what they’d walked in on, and confusion clouded her expression as she tried to make sense of it.

“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “I truly thought… you were hurting her.”

Benedict’s expression shifted as he studied her. Everything about today had been strange—Anthony defending Penelope, inviting her to the market, the odd behavior in the carriage… and now this. His brother looked utterly lost, as if he had no idea what Benedict had even been doing with Genevieve.

“I think you need help,” Benedict said finally, stepping back with a concerned look. “I’m worried about you.”

“Help? Why—I’m fine,” Penelope replied, eyes wide.

“No, you’re not. What is going on?”

She didn’t think there’d be any harm in telling Benedict the truth—but at the same time, if he had even the slightest suspicion that Anthony had gone mad, this would surely confirm it. So instead, she decided to keep up the act for as long as possible. That meant giving him a convincing answer.

“Perhaps we should talk about it over drinks,” she suggested smoothly. “What do you say to White’s tonight?”

Benedict raised a brow, clearly unconvinced but curious enough to go along with it. He gave a slow nod.

Penelope smirked, satisfied.

She’d always wondered what went on inside the infamous gentleman’s club—and now, she had the perfect excuse to find out what secrets and scandals were being discussed among the lords.

—

Genevieve began laying out fabric samples for Anthony, her hands still trembling slightly as she tried to steady her breath from what had just occurred moments earlier.

“I should explain… what you saw—” she began, voice low.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Anthony interrupted quickly, raising a hand to stop her.

“But you must understand—”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a wince. “Truly, I don’t.” 

It amazed him that Penelope herself had never had the birds and the bees conversation, but he had now been subjected to it twice in less than a day in her body.

He was avoiding eye contact, staring down at the swatches like they might swallow him whole.

Genevieve smirked. “Well, with the new dress I have in mind for you, it won’t be long before you attract a proper suitor.”

Anthony’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s time you learn what happens between—”

“And I will come to you when it is absolutely necessary, thank you,” he said, holding up a hand like a shield. “Now. About the dress?”

Genevieve chuckled but wisely moved on. “It will be magnificent.”

Chapter Text

Penelope should have been more nervous—after all, she was surrounded by unfamiliar men who could easily sense something off about Anthony. But instead, she was ecstatic. The sheer thrill of finally stepping foot inside White’s, of getting a glimpse into the mysterious world of gentlemen’s gossip and vice, was enough to drown out her nerves.

Anthony, on the other hand, was not pleased when he heard about her evening plans. But he had his own evening to worry about.

Benedict remained suspicious. After the bizarre episode at the modiste, he’d been keeping an even closer eye on his brother. And now, at the club, things weren’t adding up.

He noticed how Penelope lingered at the entrance, waiting for him to lead the way and choose a table, something that had never happened before. And the way she looked around, wide-eyed and hesitant, like a first-time visitor… It was unsettling.

Maybe this was it. The moment his brother finally lost his mind.

Anthony hadn’t been himself all season. First, there was Daphne’s disastrous debut—trying to pair her with Nigel Berbrooke , of all people, then challenging his own best friend to a duel. Colin’s engagement debacle followed not long after. Mistake after mistake, one more absurd than the last.

Now, Benedict wondered if it had all caught up with him.

Could memory loss be a symptom of prolonged mental strain? It certainly seemed that way. And if it wasn’t already documented in the medical journals, he’d make sure to mention it to their friend Thomas Dorset. Perhaps Anthony could be studied. Maybe even helped.

Benedict was lost in thought when he noticed Penelope ordering drinks.

“I’ll have the usual,” she said, choosing to play it safe. She knew Anthony drank whisky at home, but perhaps at White’s he preferred something else—something more specific, more ritualistic.

Benedict’s gaze narrowed. That may not have been as safe a bet as she’d hoped.

“Tell me, brother,” he asked slowly, “what is your usual?”

Penelope’s stomach twisted. Anthony was infamously particular, down to the temperature of the drink, the precise measure of liquid, even the brand. She just didn’t know yet what those specifics were.

“Whatever takes the edge off, I suppose,” she replied breezily, flashing a smile that was just a touch too wide to be Anthony’s usual expression.

Benedict wasn’t fooled. “You’re going to need it,” he said, settling back into his chair, “if you’re finally going to tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

Penelope hesitated but she needed to tell him. If anyone could help her and Anthony navigate the next two days and give them moments alone to try to untangle this mess, it was Benedict. But she also knew that the moment she confessed, he’d likely drag her out of White’s before she got a single juicy piece of gossip. And she wasn’t ready to leave just yet.

“What do you say to a game of cribbage first?” she offered.

Benedict raised an eyebrow. He hated losing money to Anthony, and admittedly, Anthony usually wiped the floor with him at cribbage. But something told him his brother might not be at the top of his game tonight.

“Care to make it interesting?” he asked. “Say, a shilling or two per game?”

Before Penelope could answer, Lord Fife and Lord Wilding perked up from the nearby table, intrigued by the talk of a wager.

“Gentlemen,” Fife said with a grin, swirling his brandy, “since cribbage is tragically exclusive—just two players at a time—might I suggest a more elegant arrangement? A duel of wits and wooden pegs. Two matches. Two victors. One final showdown. Winner takes the glory… and whatever wager we dare attach to it.”

“I like it,” Benedict nodded. “Anthony versus Wilding, and myself versus Lord Fife. The winners face off in the final round.”

“Excellent,” Fife agreed. “And the losers? They pay and fetch the drinks after each round, naturally.”

Penelope gave a small, controlled smile—she was getting better at remembering that Anthony rarely smiled openly. But she was good at this game, so she couldn’t resist raising the stakes.

“Losers also owe the winner a boon.”

The men glanced at each other, intrigued. After a pause, they each nodded in agreement, and the group made their way to the game room.

Penelope made short work of Wilding. To her surprise, the man had no real strategy, only bravado. Perhaps he had other virtues, but card playing clearly wasn’t one of them. For now, she happily attached his worth to his miserable hand, it made her feel sharper.

Benedict and Fife, meanwhile, were evenly matched. Their game was tight, each move a dance of cleverness and subtle bluffs. It wasn’t until the final round when Fife pulled an unexpected twenty-point hand out of nowhere that he finally edged ahead.

The drinks flowed freely, supplied dutifully by the round’s losers. Benedict noticed that Penelope was not keeping up with all the cups, but perhaps he wanted to stay sharp in the competition.

Now, it was Penelope versus Fife. One final match. One ultimate champion. Bragging rights. Boons. 

Penelope was starting to feel warm, and she couldn’t quite tell if it was the rising tension in the room, the drinks coursing through her, or simply the heat of too many bodies in close proximity. Likely all three. She wasn’t used to wearing men’s clothing, let alone long sleeves, so without thinking, she rolled them up.

That’s when she got distracted.

Anthony’s forearms were… impressive. Defined. Veins tracing over firm muscle, the kind of detail she never paid attention to before.But now, seeing it from this vantage point, she suddenly understood why gentlemen’s tailoring kept them hidden. A tingle fluttered through her as she passed a hand absently over the exposed skin, marveling at the strength she’d never fully appreciated.

“Are you quite alright there, Bridgerton?” Lord Fife’s voice cut through her thoughts. He was watching her, eyebrows raised in amusement.

Penelope cleared her throat and straightened, adjusting her expression back into something smug and unaffected.

“I believe it’s my deal,” she said coolly, picking up the deck, “and your undoing.”

She shuffled the cards with precision, her fingers swift and practiced, radiating confidence. With every flick and snap of the deck, she regained her rhythm—one card at a time, back in control.

A small crowd gathered near their table. Word had gotten out that Viscount Bridgerton was on a winning streak. And not his usual brand of icy precision, but something different. Witty. Bold. Dangerous.

Penelope was in the zone. She played fast, not careless, and she kept her banter sharp. She had already dismantled Lord Wilding without breaking a sweat. Now, all that stood between her and victory was Lord Fife, a seasoned player with a reputation for charming his way to a win.

Fife leaned back in his chair, watching her with calculating eyes. “You’ve been full of surprises tonight, Bridgerton,” he said, sipping his brandy. “I must admit—I rather enjoy this new version of you. Less brooding. More... bite.”

Penelope smiled thinly. “Perhaps you’ve only ever played with half my faculties engaged. Tonight, I brought the rest.”

Fife chuckled. “Then I look forward to seeing what’s left when I take them from you.”

Benedict had his doubts before that his brother had lost his mind, now it was basically confirmed. He didn’t recognize Anthony at all. His brother hadn’t spoken like that since they were a lot younger and more reckless.

The room leaned in with each point scored. Penelope felt the pressure mounting but refused to let it show. Anthony had a reputation to uphold and for tonight, that reputation was hers to protect.

When Fife misplayed a hand, just slightly, she took advantage of it right away. 

“You’re bleeding points now?” she said, her voice low and smug. “I’ll be offended if you make this too easy.”

“Don’t count on it,” he shot back, but the strain in his tone betrayed him.

The score climbed and she was leading by inches, but leading all the same. Each sip of whisky added fire to her veins, as small as her sips were. The warmth, the heat of attention, and the thrill of outplaying them all were intoxicating. She felt more alive than she’d ever felt in her own body.

She’d stopped trying to act like Anthony some time ago. Now she was just herself—with better posture and significantly more arm muscle. She let loose every quip, every perfectly timed remark she usually saved for Whistledown. And the men were eating it up.

Across the table, Fife was sweating now, tapping his fingers, as if he could summon better luck by sheer force of will.

Then came the final round.

“Double or nothing, Lord Fife. Don’t be a coward.” She said, keeping her expression neutral. But inside, Penelope was elated. She always wanted to talk like that to him. 

Fife held his breath, eyeing the score then Penelope. Her face was a mask, unreadable. Bluff or not, he wasn’t about to fold in front of an audience.

He nodded. “You’re on.”

Penelope dropped her final card with a flourish. A manly flourish. “That’s game.”

The room broke into scattered applause, some cheering and a few groans from men who’d clearly placed bets on the wrong lord. Wilding clapped Fife on the back, laughing loudly at his expense, while Benedict blinked between the board and Penelope. When he thought he knew everything about his brother, he just kept surprising him. 

Fife stood with mock solemnity and bowed deeply. “Well played, Bridgerton.”

Penelope rose too, biting back a grin. “And don’t forget the terms. I believe that’s four shillings, a drink, and a boon.”

Fife whistled low as he handed over the coins and waved for a round. “Name the boon, and it’s yours.”

Penelope thought for a moment, weighing her options. Then a wicked grin curled at the edges of her lips. This felt like the perfect opportunity to watch Anthony scramble for once.

“I would like for you to dance with Miss Penelope Featherington at the next ball,” she said, voice casual.

Fife blinked, clearly surprised. “What? Why?”

“She could use some fun on the floor,” Penelope said with a careless shrug. “She’s always been a good friend of the family.”

“I’d like that,” Fife said after a beat. “In fact, I think a lot of men would. She’s known to be kind, clever… a bit shy, sure, but that’s hardly a flaw.”

Penelope paused, momentarily thrown aback. That wasn’t the reaction she expected. She’d half thought he might laugh or scoff, maybe even demand a different boon. But instead… he sounded genuine. Sweet, even.

As her silence lingered, Fife raised a brow and added, “But don’t you think your brother will be upset?”

Penelope snapped out of her thoughts. “My brother? Who, Benedict?”

“No, Colin,” Fife said plainly, as if the answer was obvious. “Honestly, most of us are just waiting for him to get his head on straight.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by that and was now too intrigued to think of a good follow up question.

Then he gave her a teasing grin. “But if you insist, it’d be a boon to me as well. The view from overhead must be spectacular.”

Penelope nearly choked on her drink. She covered it quickly with a polite cough and a tight smile. Fife was clearly waiting for a reaction.

With perfect calm, she echoed one of Anthony’s earlier lines. “The pillows are very nice, indeed.”

Fife let out a loud laugh, caught completely off guard. Penelope watched him with cool satisfaction. So that’s the kind of thing men talked about. Charming.

“Anthony,” Benedict cut in, his voice suddenly firm, “I believe it’s time to go.”

“The night’s just getting started, Second Bridgerton,” Fife grinned, lifting his glass.

“And the entertainment’s only now arriving,” Wilding added, gesturing toward the entrance with the lazy flick of a finger still holding his drink.

Penelope turned just in time to see a group of women entering the club—curves, confidence, and far too much perfume. Her eyes widened. She had been curious, sure, but there was no way she could convincingly carry on as Anthony in that crowd.

“I believe you’re right, brother,” she said quickly, rising from her seat.

But as she turned to leave, one of the women approached her, gliding forward with a mischievous smile.

“I’ve heard the whispers, my lord,” she said, her voice like silk. “That your talents extend far beyond parliament and business.”

Penelope blinked. “Have you now?”

“Oh yes. Among us ladies, your reputation is quite... extensive. They say the tongue you use for sparring knows just as well how to give pleasure.”

Penelope froze. “Hmm,” was all she could manage.

Before the woman could say another word, Benedict stepped smoothly between them, placing a hand on Penelope’s shoulder.

“The Viscount already has plans tonight,” he said with a polite, practiced smile, steering her firmly toward the door.

They left behind a disappointed pout from the woman, but Penelope barely noticed, her ears were still ringing from the word tongue .

—

Anthony wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of spending the evening listening to Eloise rant, again, about Pride & Prejudice . But somehow, that still seemed more tolerable than waking up at Featherington House one more time.

Still, the thought of Penelope alone at White’s was enough to tie his nerves in knots. He tried not to imagine it and his anxiety quickly became buried beneath the weight of Eloise's third retelling of the same Jane Austen plot point.

Eventually, he managed to excuse himself, citing a need for a book from the library. Once alone, he inhaled deeply, grounding himself as he walked into the room. He was just about to sink into a chair when the door creaked open.

Colin stepped in. “Pen? Are you alright?” he asked gently, moving closer.

Anthony stared at him, stunned. First of all, Colin had no business calling him by a nickname. Second, he should’ve turned around and left the moment he saw him standing there alone. It was nighttime, and Anthony was wearing a robe, for heaven’s sake. And third, he absolutely should not have been holding his hand.

Anthony dropped it like it had burned him and took a step back.

“That is highly inappropriate, Mr. Bridgerton,” he hissed, keeping his voice low. The last thing he wanted was for Penelope and Colin to be discovered in a compromising situation and forced into marriage.

Colin blinked, clearly taken aback. “Should I get you some water? You don’t sound well.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“You called me Mr. Bridgerton . And you backed away like I’d—well, never mind. Is this about Marina?”

Anthony nearly groaned. He was skating on thin ice, and Colin was inching closer to cracking it wide open.

“What about Marina?” he asked carefully, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“You tried to warn me she loved another. I didn’t listen,” Colin said, voice soft with regret.

Anthony stared at him. He had always seen Penelope and Colin as friendly, but now he began to reconsider just how deep, or how intimate, that friendship might have been. He wasn’t surprised Penelope had tried to protect Colin before exposing the truth in her column… but the tenderness in Colin’s tone unsettled him more than he expected.

“I hear your brother tried to talk to you, too,” Anthony said, unable to resist. “Perhaps you should apologize to him as well.”

Colin narrowed his eyes slightly. “Is that why you’re acting strange? What did Anthony say to you?”

“Not much,” Anthony replied, attempting casualness. “We might’ve touched on it when we were at the market today.”

“The market?” Colin repeated. “Did you… enjoy going with him?”

Anthony blinked. Was Colin jealous? Of Penelope? 

It was almost too ridiculous to entertain. He almost married her cousin. But the way Colin looked at him—soft, uncertain, careful—was not how one looked at a sister’s friend.

“It was… productive,” Anthony replied carefully. “And he’s not terrible to look at.”

He wanted to draw a line somewhere, but lying on Penelope’s behalf didn’t feel quite right. He was fairly certain he’d heard her say those exact words about his body.

Colin’s eye twitched at that. “I’m sure he enjoyed your company as well.”

“I hope so,” Anthony added lightly, earning a strange look from Colin. “Eloise is waiting for me, I should head back. Could you wait here a moment so we aren’t seen leaving together?”

Without waiting for a reply, Anthony made a swift exit, leaving Colin to frown after him.

Back in Eloise’s room, she spoke up the second he walked in.

“Did you find the book you were looking for?”

Anthony cursed inwardly. The encounter with Colin had completely derailed his cover story.

“I… didn’t. Perhaps we could talk about something else?”

“Sure. Well… Oh!” Eloise brightened. “Did you ever find out how a woman becomes with child?”

Anthony choked on his breath, coughing. “I think… your mother might be better suited for that conversation. She did have eight children, after all.”

“I’m not so sure my mother actually knows,” Eloise said skeptically. “Who in their right mind has eight children on purpose? And I’m fairly certain Daphne didn’t know either when she got married. I overheard them arguing once.”

Anthony blinked, surprised. His father had always told him that gently bred ladies were left in the dark about such things, and it would one day fall on him as a husband to enlighten his wife. Still, he would have expected his mother to better prepare her daughters.

“All I know,” he offered carefully, “is that the main culprit seems to be men . Which is why young ladies aren’t allowed to be alone with them.”

“I’m safe then,” Eloise scoffed. “I’ve no desire to be around men. I wish I could wait another year to debut, but Anthony would never allow it.”

Anthony startled at the mention of his own name.

“Why do you say that?”

Eloise let out a sharp breath. “I suppose he just wants us all married, and out of his house and his hair as quickly as possible. I can’t blame him, really. It must be a burden, looking after all of us, especially without a wife.”

Her words settled like a weight in Anthony’s chest. She wasn’t entirely wrong and worse, he felt guilty she felt that way.

“You should talk to him,” he said softly. “He might be more understanding than you think.”

Eloise shook her head. “He needs a wife. He should focus on that next season instead of forcing me into marriage.”

“What makes you so sure that’s what he needs?” Anthony asked, curious now. “Besides needing an heir.”

“Because our father had the same responsibilities, maybe even more, and he was happy in a way that Anthony is not . I’m sure our mother had something to do with that.”

Anthony smiled, feeling a sharp sting behind his eyes. Eloise noticed, sitting up and wrapping her arms around him.

“Pen, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“What? No, I—” Anthony tried, clearing his throat.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Eloise said gently. “I know we’ve always talked about being spinsters together, but… you told me you wanted a marriage like my parents had.”

Anthony couldn’t speak for a moment, the words striking a chord deep in his heart.

“I did,” he murmured at last.

He had long given up on the idea of love after his father’s death. Watching his mother endure that kind of grief had left a mark on him, made him wary of attachments that could one day shatter. And yet, growing up, he had seen the way his father picked flowers for his mother, smiled at her like she was the most precious thing in the world. He’d witnessed them grow fonder, more in love with each passing day.

He had forgotten, until now—until Eloise’s words—that once upon a time, he’d wanted that too.

Eloise watched him with a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “You know… if you married one of my brothers, we could be sisters.”

Anthony let out a low chuckle. “True. Who would you suggest?”

Eloise pretended to consider. “Well, I did just say Anthony needs a wife.”

He raised a brow. “You’re trying to pawn me off on your least favorite brother? I thought you liked me, Eloise.”

“That’s not fair,” she protested. “I only want the best for you, Pen. And if you really want to marry, you couldn’t do better than him. He’s loyal, responsible, and yes, he can be grumpy but he’s been like a father to us too. His main flaw is being so serious all the time… and that’s where you come in. You might just be the sunshine he needs.”

Anthony wasn’t used to hearing compliments or any feedback from his siblings, especially not ones like this. Despite her earlier words, it warmed him to know Eloise saw that he was trying, in his own way.

He had barely spent a day with Penelope, and yet he already believed she would make a fitting wife. At first, his interest was admittedly sparked by her physical traits. But the more time he spent with her, and the more he saw his family through her eyes, the more convinced he became that they would be well-suited. And now, hearing Eloise—someone who had known them both for years—express the same sentiment, it only strengthened his resolve.

Perhaps he should ask again soon. He'd been rejected by Penelope thrice (?) by now, but he was determined to keep her. She could handle being asked once more, and hopefully, this time she'd finally say yes.

“Well then,” he smiled. “Now if only he’d agree to it.”

Chapter Text

Penelope sat across from Benedict in the carriage, still riding the high of her cribbage victory. The thrill of the cheers, the attention, the way she'd let herself speak freely. It was exhilarating. For once, she hadn’t been pretending to be anyone but herself, and they had liked it.

Then she caught sight of her reflection in the window—smiling too brightly, too wide to pass for Anthony’s usual restrained smirk. She was sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, ankles crossed to the side like a proper lady. Not very Viscount of her.

Benedict’s arms were crossed, and he was staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Spill it.”

“Wasn’t that fun?” she said quickly, trying to redirect. “I haven’t had fun like that in ages.”

“Fun?” he repeated. “Since when do you go looking for that kind of fun?”

She fumbled for an excuse. “Well, the season’s practically over. Daphne’s married. We’re still… financially secure. Seems like a good time to celebrate.”

Even as the words came out, she knew they were flimsy. Too many, too fast. She was letting the adrenaline get the best of her, and her grip on the act was slipping.

Benedict leaned forward. “Anthony, I swear—you are not leaving this carriage until you tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

Penelope stared at him. He wouldn’t believe her anyway, how could he? But somehow, in the haze of whisky and victory and sheer absurdity, it suddenly felt less terrifying to say the truth out loud. Maybe it would just come off as a joke.

“I’m not Anthony,” she said plainly.

Benedict blinked, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees to study her more closely.

“Who are you, then?” he asked, voice low and curious.

She faltered. He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t scoffing. He actually believed her. At least, he believed something was off. That was both encouraging and deeply concerning.

“Are you a long-lost twin?” he continued. “A doppelgänger?”

“No, no. Nothing like that, I…” she began, but Benedict cut in.

“What did you do with Anthony?” he asked, suddenly intense, leaning in closer. His tone wasn't accusing exactly, but there was a sharp edge to it, like he was trying to read her every twitch and breath.

She should have felt cornered, possibly intimidated. But instead, her thoughts drifted in the most unhelpful direction possible.

He smells different.

Not bad. Just… not Anthony. There was something woodsy and warm about him, laced with brandy and something like cedar. It hit her all at once that this was the first time she’d been close enough to smell another man since waking up in Anthony’s body. And apparently, that was now where her brain decided to go.

Her eyes darted away. “He’s fine,” she muttered, trying to focus. “He’s… safe.”

“Where is he?” Benedict asked, his voice low and a little incredulous. He knew it was a ridiculous question—knew this whole conversation was bordering on madness—but if this was just Anthony pulling some elaborate prank, he could always blame the whisky later.

“At Bridgerton House,” Penelope replied calmly, keeping her answers vague on purpose.

Benedict sat back, eyeing her with narrowed suspicion. “I see,” he said slowly, the gears in his head visibly turning. “So, which is it then? If I had to wager a guess, I’d say... long lost twin.”

Penelope laughed, genuinely amused. “Not a bad guess, actually. But I’m afraid it’s more delicate and more complicated than that.”

Benedict raised an eyebrow. “More complicated than a secret sibling trying to steal Anthony’s title and fortune?”

She tilted her head. “Is that what you think is happening?”

“Well,” Benedict said, spreading his hands, “why else would anyone want to be Anthony?”

Penelope gave him a look.  “To be respected. To be seen , to be heard . Yes, maybe that comes easier with his title and fortune… but that’s not what I wished for.”

Benedict’s posture shifted, the suspicion in his eyes giving way to something more uncertain. “What do you mean, what you wished for ?” he asked, almost whispering, like he was afraid of the answer.

Penelope took a breath, held it, then let the words tumble out before she could stop herself. “Anthony and I… we used a magical green quill. On the vernal equinox. It granted our strongest wish, by switching our bodies.”

She stared at him, willing him to believe it. “Benedict… it’s me. Penelope.”

Silence settled over the carriage for a beat.

And then Benedict burst out laughing . Full, belly-aching laughter that filled the space and made Penelope blink in surprise.

He still had his doubts Anthony would pull something so funny and elaborate as this. 

“This is the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Brother, you’ve truly outdone yourself. I thought maybe you’d just snapped from sheer exhaustion, but this? This is gold. Although, I must say, the evil twin angle would’ve been a bit more believable. You might have missed your call to join an acting company.” 

“I’m serious , Benedict,” Penelope said flatly.

“Right. Then prove it.”

Penelope leaned in. “How else would I know that you and Eloise sneak off to smoke by the swings in the garden?”

Benedict froze. His smirk faltered. That was not public knowledge. Not even private knowledge, at least not to Anthony , who would’ve surely scolded them both if he knew.

“Or,” she continued smoothly, “that you’ve been practicing your light and shadow techniques.”

Benedict’s mouth parted slightly, eyes narrowing with dawning disbelief. Anthony had never even blinked at Benedict's sketchbook. Penelope, on the other hand, always asked to see what he’d been working on, and she was particularly interested in the human body.

“And how would I know,” she added, “that your mother was slightly disappointed Daphne’s initials didn’t change when she married, because it meant she didn’t get to embroider new linens for her?”

Benedict sat back, stunned.

“Or that Eloise is currently reading three novels at once, and Hyacinth has been building a fort outside using the good drapery rope?”

The color drained slightly from his face.

Penelope folded her arms. “Believe me now?”

Benedict’s expression morphed in real-time—humor, horror, dawning realization.

“That would definitely explain your insane behavior at the modiste earlier today,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face like he was trying to physically make the day make sense.

“About that,” Penelope cut in, tilting her head. “What were you doing, by the way?”

“I... I’m not answering that.” His voice pitched an octave higher than usual.

“Fine.” She said, although it wasn’t fine and she was annoyed he wouldn’t say it. “Can you at least explain why my breeches get... tight sometimes?”

Benedict practically choked. “You’re asking me?”

“You’re the one with years of experience in a male body,” she said with a perfectly straight face.

He snickered, unable to help it. “Alright. Have you noticed this happening under any, uh, specific circumstances?”

Penelope thought for a moment, dead serious. “Well, at first it happened when Anthony was fastening my breeches. And then again when he... told me he had touched my, um, pillows.”

Benedict’s face contorted. First in amusement. Then in horror.

He froze, going very still. The laughter died in his throat as the full implication finally hit him. “Wait.”

Penelope raised her brows. “Wait what?”

“If you’re in Anthony’s body...” he said slowly, like each word carried the weight of a revelation, “then Anthony... is in your body.”

Penelope tilted her head. “Well, yes. Where did you think he was?”

Benedict was still reeling, his face somewhere between scandalized and traumatized. “ Anthony is in your body?! ”

“Don’t change the subject now, you were explaining…”

“You told me he was safe! He is not safe alone with Eloise!”

“He is fine ,” she insisted, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s definitely safer with her than he was at my house.”

Benedict’s eyes widened in slow horror. “ Good Heavens, your house. He slept in your bed? He got dressed in your body , and… and he saw you naked?! ”

Penelope gave a half-hearted shrug. “It’s a given, isn’t it?”

“How are you so calm about this?!”

She sighed. “Believe me, I was shocked when it first happened. I screamed. I nearly fainted. Now? It’s… nice, even. In a weird way. Except for the annoying discomfort between my legs that you still refuse to explain to me.”

Benedict looked like he was about to combust. “ You’ve seen him naked too. ”

Penelope scratched her temple. She didn’t know what she was expecting by sharing this with Benedict, but she surely didn’t expect this much of a theatrical ordeal. 

“It was inevitable, naturally.” She said after a deep breath. “Now, we need your help. We only have two days to fix this before it becomes permanent.”

—

Anthony woke early, as usual. He’d wanted to wait up for Penelope to return from White’s, but sleep had won out. Part of him was anxious to imagine what she’d gotten up to. The other part was genuinely curious, achingly so.

He slipped a robe over the nightdress, deciding it was far too early to summon a maid just to get dressed. Quietly, he stepped out of the guest room and made his way toward the study. If Penelope was truly so determined to do his job better than him, maybe she’d already be there, tackling the day despite the long night.

But when he pushed open the door, she wasn’t inside.

Benedict was.

“Miss Featherington,” Benedict greeted with an easy smile, lounging on the settee like he owned the place. “Good morning.”

Anthony blinked. “Good morning. I… apologize. I must have gotten turned around.”

He hoped it was convincing enough to why he ended up at Anthony’s study. What Benedict was doing there was a mystery too, but at least not improper.

Benedict stood and walked toward him, far too slowly for Anthony’s comfort. “I, for one, am glad you did,” he said with a warm glint in his eye. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have the privilege of seeing you like this.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I was right, you look absolutely exquisite with your hair down.”

Anthony’s jaw dropped. Scandalized didn’t even begin to cover it.

Were all his brothers this inappropriate with Penelope?

“That is… very improper of you to say, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Is it now?” Benedict grinned, clearly reveling in it. “More improper than touching a gently bred lady’s pillows ?”

Anthony groaned. Of course, he knew.

He really should’ve known Penelope wouldn’t last long pretending to be him at White’s.

“Hilarious, truly,” Anthony muttered, rolling his eyes.

“You do look beautiful, brother. More than ever,” Benedict said with a teasing smile.

Anthony stepped back, a touch too quickly. “Just because it’s me doesn’t mean you can stand that close. It’s still her body.”

He hated how Penelope’s body seemed to react, however slightly, to Benedict’s nearness.

“Are you blushing for me ?” Benedict said with a smug grin. “I never knew I had that effect on Penelope. Good information to have.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes. The man must have a death wish.

“Why must you prolong my torment?”

Before Benedict could recover from his laughter, Penelope walked into the study and froze, surprised to find them both there.

“Lord Bridgerton, your brother is pestering me again,” Anthony said with theatrical exasperation.

Penelope covered her mouth as she laughed. “I’m sure you can handle it, darling.”

“You’re no help,” Anthony huffed. “And I can’t believe you told him.”

“We need his help if we’re to sort this out,” she said, walking further in. “How else are we supposed to spend any time in private? And don’t say ‘get married,’ because we wouldn’t be alone until after the wedding anyway. He can cover for us.”

“I wasn’t going to suggest that,” Anthony said, a little too quickly. “At this moment, at least.”

“We have until tomorrow night. We need all the time we can get.”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You’re right.”

Benedict stared at them, stunned silent. Now that they stood side by side, it was painfully clear that Penelope was in Anthony's body, and Anthony in Penelope’s. And what was more intriguing perhaps, was the way they were bickering like a married couple.

He blinked. “You’ve only been like this for a day , correct?”

They both looked at him.

“Yes,” Penelope replied.

“...And you’re already married for ten years, apparently.”

Penelope groaned. Anthony grinned.

—

Against his better judgment, Benedict had agreed to help and left them alone in the study. The two of them sat down next to each other on the settee, the silence between them oddly comfortable.

“You had a late night last night,” Anthony said, but since it was Penelope’s voice, it came out sounding like a jealous wife scolding her husband for staying out late.

Penelope smirked, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I can see now why men prefer to be out than at home. It was exhilarating.”

Anthony smiled at her, feeling a strange mix of happiness that she’d had the experience and a pang of sadness in his heart. Her words made him think of her father’s endless late nights, while he couldn’t recall a time when his own father wasn’t at home with his family.

“Well, not all men,” he said, his tone more thoughtful than he intended. Penelope rolled her eyes playfully. “But now I’m curious, what made it so exciting?”

Anthony was fairly certain she didn’t drink like most men did, and he didn’t think she indulged in other vices either. But there was something in her expression that told him this was about something else.

“I was able to speak my mind,” she said, her voice tinged with an excitement he rarely heard from her. “Everyone listened. I made jokes, teased, wiped the floor at cribbage, and they cheered me on. I’ve never felt so... alive. It was like they actually admired me.”

That feeling of warmth and pain hit Anthony again. How much it must have meant to her, to be seen and heard in that way. He could almost feel the weight of those words, how much she had craved that kind of acknowledgment.

“That would never have happened to me in my body,” she continued quietly, the words more reflective now. “Not to mention that I wouldn’t even be allowed inside a place like that. But beyond that... no one would take me seriously as a worthy opponent. Not the way they did last night.”

“I’m glad my body could provide that experience for you,” he said, the words slipping out without much thought, but his voice sincere.

But Penelope’s eyes gleamed mischievously. She leaned in, her voice lowering to a teasing tone. “Speaking of experiences your body provides... what is it about your tongue, Anthony?”

Anthony froze, eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“When I was leaving, a woman approached me and mentioned your tongue,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement. “Apparently, it’s quite the topic of conversation. Some maneuvers you make with it, she couldn’t stop gushing.”

Anthony blinked, his face red as he tried to form a coherent thought. But none materialized.

“But really, what is it? What could you possibly do with your tongue that would get women whispering in corners?”

“Oh, so I was the gossip of the night? That’s fantastic,” Anthony replied, trying his best to deflect, though it came out more flustered than he intended. “There wasn’t anyone else for them to talk about?”

“Well, I did hear Lord Cho mention Miss Kenworthy,” Penelope said with an exaggerated air of gossip. “Not only was she beautiful and smart, but apparently she also had hips made for... Tupping?” She raised an eyebrow. “Apparently, that’s an important requirement for a wife because all the men seemed to agree.”

Anthony looked one second away from sinking his teeth into his own fist.

“I’m more worried about Miss Goring,” Penelope continued, her tone now laced with amusement. “I heard she... ‘shattered’ all over Lord Fife’s hand.”

Anthony choked a s a horrified chuckle escaped him.

He was appalled.  Had men’s conversations always been this degrading toward women and he’d just never realized it was the norm?"

“Lord Fife didn’t confirm or deny it,” Penelope said with a sigh. “So, I guess we’ll never know for sure.”

“He does not talk about his… exploits. Despite his bravado, Lord Fife is a... gentleman, like me.”

She arched a brow, amused. “I’m glad you think so. He’s dancing with you tonight.”

Anthony blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“He lost the game to me. There were coins, drinks, and a boon on the table,” Penelope explained with a casual wave of her hand. “My boon was that he dance with you. At first I thought it would be funny, something to make both of you squirm. But then he smiled. Genuinely. He was excited, even. So... I think it’ll just be funny for you now.”

Anthony stared at her, stunned. “You thought he wouldn’t enjoy dancing with you, that it would be a joke? Why do you do that to yourself?”

She looked away for a moment, her expression shuttering. “You’ve been in my shoes for over a day now. Is it really so hard to imagine why? Look at me. Look at what I wear. What people see when they look at me. What they think of my family.”

Her voice softened, but the ache in it was unmistakable. “There’s one ball left in the season, and I’ve only danced once. With Colin. And only because he was trying to avoid Cressida Cowper.”

Anthony felt guilty. She wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t change everything she had endured this season, but he could make sure she ended it on a high note.

“You know,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “the last ball of the season is the one people remember. And it’s the Duke and Duchess’s first time hosting, so you can imagine—it’ll be the talk of the ton .”

Penelope looked at him, curious.

“You have a brand-new dress waiting for you, one Madame swore would fit like a glove,” he continued. “And you already have one lord on your dance card. You will be seen, Penelope. Not as Viscount Bridgerton, the most eligible bachelor. But as Miss Penelope Featherington, the most eligible debutante in the room.”

Her breath caught, and her eyes shimmered. She was frustrated with Anthony so often, but this moment made her falter. The realization that he had orchestrated something to make her wish come true in her own body was more than she was prepared for.

“Well,” she said with a sniff and a half-smile, “considering I not only preserved but enhanced your reputation in the games room, I suppose it’s only fair you uphold mine on the dance floor. I may have only danced once, but there were whispers about my skills.”

Anthony stood, smoothing the front of his robe before offering her his hand.

“Then show me,” he said simply.

Penelope blinked. “Show you?”

“If I’m going to protect your reputation, I need to know what I’m doing. I don’t know the lady’s steps.”

Her lips twitched at the corners, amusement cutting through the emotion. She slipped her hand into his, already preparing to lead.

Penelope caught the curious expression on Anthony’s face and offered a small smile. “I learned to lead so I could help my sisters practice,” she said, beginning to sway them gently from side to side. “If their skills reflect my own, I’m afraid I’m not a very good leader.”

But Anthony didn’t laugh.

“Their shortcomings have nothing to do with how you lead,” he said, his voice soft but firm.

Penelope met his gaze—easier now, given the shift in height—and held it. “The same applies to you, you know. Since you told me about your wish… I’ve been wondering.” She hesitated, then asked, “You didn’t wish to disappear because you think your family would be better off without you… did you?”

Anthony took a long breath, eyes unfocused for a moment. “I make so many mistakes,” he admitted quietly. “Maybe they would be. Or maybe Eloise is right, and I just need help.”

Penelope’s lips curved. “You had a nice evening with Eloise, then?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “About half of it was nice. But… if I hadn’t been in your body, I don’t think I ever would’ve understood how my siblings really feel about me.”

She tilted her head, amused and touched. “I’m glad my body could provide that experience for you,” she said, her voice a low echo of the words he’d once spoken to her.

Anthony faltered at the way she said it, and in the next moment, he stepped on her toes. “I’m sorry—”

“There’s no need to apologize,” she said quickly. “You’re doing a good job, Anthony. Dancing... and with your family.”

He looked at her, something vulnerable and quiet in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Knowing Anthony was getting his wish, too, eased something in Penelope. They made an unexpectedly good team, and with that comfort came confidence. Enough to start testing limits, even teasing him now and then.

“You’re just really bad at one thing,” she said, voice low, teasing. “Answering my questions.”

Anthony blinked, caught off guard. “I—”

“What does your tongue do?” she asked, slowly licking her lips, the glint in her eyes both mischievous and curious.

He knew he shouldn’t encourage this conversation, but he very much wanted to answer her. He was certain words wouldn’t suffice. Some things couldn’t be explained, they had to be shown.

But the logistics were suddenly much more complicated. Being shorter was one thing; staring at his own face, his own lips… it was disorienting. Still, he pushed past it, closing his eyes to center himself. Gently, he cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones, guiding her to lean in.

Penelope’s hands held him steady at his waist. She followed his silent cue, their lips now just a breath apart…

A knock on the door.

They froze.

Penelope jerked back as Anthony’s hands dropped quickly.

“Brother?” Benedict called through the door, far too casual. “Have you seen Miss Featherington? Her maid is searching for her. It’s time to get ready for the day.”

She cleared her throat, composing herself quickly. “Go. You’d better slip out while he’s still in the hallway so he can help cover for you if needed.”

Anthony nodded, flustered. “Right. Yes. Good idea.”

She smoothed her waistcoat and he adjusted the robe around his shoulders as he stepped away to leave.

Chapter Text

Penelope paced the study after Anthony left, her mind spinning. What had she even expected when she asked about his tongue? She had no idea. Though she had never seen her own parents kiss, she remembered glimpsing Edmund and Violet share a brief, tender kiss years ago, and more recently, Daphne and the Duke of Hastings. She had read about kissing too, but with her limited knowledge, she’d assumed it was nothing more than lips touching.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

She needed to know: what exactly did tongues do during a kiss? Did they touch? Move against each other? Was it simply to bring two people closer, or was there some deeper purpose? And did tongues only engage inside the mouth?

The more she thought about it, the more confused and curious she became. Worse, if she didn’t stop wondering about what Anthony’s tongue could do to her, she was going to get uncomfortably warm and tight again.

Her spiraling thoughts were cut off by a knock at the door.

“Anthony? May I come in?”

It was Colin.

She took a deep breath and moved to open the door. It was the first time she had seen Colin since publishing the news of Marina’s pregnancy, and in doing so, crushing his heart. She wasn’t proud of it, but she knew it had been necessary. Even if she hadn’t harbored any romantic feelings for him, she still would have done it. Colin was a good man, too good to be deceived so cruelly.

Still, she felt her feelings toward him starting to shift that night at the engagement dinner—the moment he didn’t believe her warning about Marina. And now, after all the time she’d spent with Anthony, so much of her attention had been consumed by fixing their strange predicament that she hadn’t truly stopped to consider how she felt about Anthony beyond admiring his physical form.

"Colin," she said, almost too softly, her Penelope voice slipping out in his presence.

"I’d like to have a word with you, if you have time," Colin said, looking earnest.

Penelope hesitated, nerves prickling at her skin. Pretending to be Anthony around Colin made her uneasy. She wasn’t sure what their relationship was like now, or whether they had even spoken since the broken engagement. Judging by Anthony’s behavior at the dinner, though, he hadn’t been pleased either.

"Come in," she said, gesturing him inside but keeping the door half open. 

"I apologize for not being myself lately," Colin began. "I'm ashamed of what my actions brought upon our family. You were considerate with me, especially after how strongly you opposed it in the first place. I should have listened when you tried to talk me out of it."

Penelope’s heart warmed at his words, and she wished Anthony were truly the one here to hear them. If she had to guess, it wasn’t often one of his siblings expressed remorse or apologized to him so openly.

"I'm just grateful it wasn’t too late," she replied gently.

Colin let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Is it pathetic that I really wanted to get married?"

Penelope felt guilty for a moment, for taking that away from him.

"No," she started, but the skeptical look on Colin’s face made it clear Anthony probably had thought it was pathetic. She quickly corrected herself, "I mean, you’re young. You have time. Unless… there’s someone else in your life right now you see a future with?"

"Like who?" Colin asked, brows lifting in mild confusion.

"I don’t know," she said carefully, "you and Penelope seem like good friends."

It was a risky move, but this might be her only chance to know for certain how he felt.

"I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington," Colin said, almost laughing at the thought.

Penelope was stunned by Colin’s bluntness. She had always known that if he had truly cared for her, he would have pursued her instead of Marina. But to have him dismiss the very idea of her so easily was a sharper wound than she expected. She was still gathering her swirling thoughts when she heard her own voice from the doorway.

Anthony.

"Well, I never asked you to marry me," Anthony said coolly, his voice laced with dignity.

Colin turned, startled to find Anthony—or who he thought was Penelope—standing there. He opened his mouth to respond, but Anthony didn’t give him the chance.

"I also never told anyone that I wanted you to ask me," Anthony continued, stepping into the room. "And trust me, if I had wanted to trap you, I could have claimed you compromised me plenty of times."

"Pen, I—" Colin tried, but Anthony cut him off again with a withering look. “I’m so sorry.”

"The lady may accept or deny your apology at her discretion," Penelope said then, stepping forward, her voice steady. "And while I am not pleased with how you chose to express yourself, it does make things easier for me."

Both Anthony and Colin turned to her, confused.

"It’s my intention to court Miss Featherington," Penelope announced, lifting her chin. “If she is agreeable.”

Anthony smiled at her, warmth blooming in his chest. He had lost count of how many times he had proposed to her in the past day or so, but now hearing Penelope, in her own way, express a desire to court him gave him real hope. Maybe it was partly to spite Colin, but that was a detail Anthony was more than willing to overlook.

"I am most agreeable, my lord," Anthony said cheekily, flashing a grin. "I always thought you the most handsome of the Bridgerton brothers."

Penelope flushed, and Colin looked utterly astounded. "Penelope!" he cried.

"I must agree with you, Miss Featherington," Penelope added, matching Anthony’s teasing tone. Now it was Anthony’s turn to blush. "But not as lovely as you."

"What?" Colin sputtered, looking between the two of them, baffled. He knew they had gone to the market together the day before, but how could everything have changed so quickly?

"As for you, Colin," Penelope said, turning serious, "you should go away. Travel."

"I know you said you were eager to marry," she continued, "but what you really need is to..."

"Sow your wild oats," Anthony finished without thinking.

Colin recoiled, staring at Anthony in horror. "Penelope!" he exclaimed, then turned sharply to Penelope, grabbing her by the shirt. "Is this what you’ve been teaching her? Did you compromise her so she would agree to this courtship?"

“Colin, step back,” Anthony barked, trying to wedge himself between them. “Let go of him!”

Before things could spiral further, Benedict burst into the study, eyes darting between the trio in alarm. There stood Penelope Featherington, small and determined, wedged between Colin and Anthony, desperately trying to prevent disaster.

He had to remind himself: that wasn’t Anthony. It was Penelope in his brother’s body. And Anthony was the one in her body, standing toe-to-toe with Colin.

“Colin, stop,” Benedict said sharply, striding forward. Normally, he wouldn’t mind letting his brothers go at it, but knowing it was Penelope changed everything.

Besides, it hadn’t been long since he was in Colin’s place, trying to land a punch on Anthony himself. Or at least he thought it was Anthony. No doubt Penelope now saw them all as a house full of brawlers with no sense of decorum.

“Did you know about this?” Colin snapped, turning to Benedict, his hand still fisted in Penelope’s shirt.

“Let go of him,” Benedict said firmly, stepping forward and prying Colin away from Penelope.

Colin scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. “You knew . You knew about the two of them.”

Benedict’s brow furrowed. There was no way Colin could possibly know about the body-swapping.

“No, he didn’t,” Penelope interjected quickly, adjusting her shirt with forced composure.

Colin turned back to her, eyes wild with confusion and hurt. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since your engagement dinner,” Penelope replied without pause. The calm in her voice made both Anthony and Benedict intrigued.

She continued smoothly, “Miss Featherington came to me to express concern about the letters Miss Thompson was exchanging with Sir George Crane. I had other concerns, and we found common ground in our shared disbelief over your... lack of faculties.”

Benedict couldn’t help but snort, covering it with a fist as Anthony—despite himself—let out a very ladylike giggle. Colin didn’t react.

“I’m sorry, brother. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Penelope said, her voice softening with genuine regret. “The truth is, Miss Featherington and I discovered we had much more in common after that and we’ve enjoyed spending time together since.”

Anthony watched her, both impressed and a little awed by how quickly she spun such a believable tale. Then again, he reminded himself, she was Lady Whistledown. Quick thinking was second nature to her. Yet something about the way she spoke, especially the part about enjoying their time together, felt too sincere to be just part of the story.

“Very well,” Colin said at last, though his voice was tight. “I know how easy it is to become friends with Miss Featherington.” He turned to Anthony, looking awkward and remorseful. “I didn’t mean to hurt you with what I said earlier, Pen.”

“No offense taken,” Anthony replied smoothly. “In fact, I was glad to hear it. The last thing I would have wanted was to break your heart by choosing your brother.”

Benedict was utterly bewildered by the entire exchange, but something told him it was safer not to ask questions. In fact, the less he knew, the better. He already suspected he knew far too much.

Meanwhile, Penelope couldn’t help but smile at Anthony’s response. All this time, she had been grateful for being in his body and borrowing his strength, but now she was even more grateful that Anthony was the one standing in hers. The way he defended her, speaking to Colin with a confidence she rarely mustered herself, touched her more than she could express. Anthony sounded sure, unwavering—everything she struggled to be, especially around Colin. And even though Colin’s words had hurt her, Anthony shielded her vulnerability so well that no one would ever guess. If she had been in her own skin, hiding that pain would have been impossible.

Colin gave a small smile before quietly leaving the study.

Benedict stayed behind, crossing his arms as he looked between Penelope and Anthony, clearly waiting for an explanation.

“We’re courting now,” Anthony said plainly.

“Oh, well, that makes perfect sense,” Benedict replied, dripping with irony.

“We might as well be," Penelope added, recalling Anthony’s earlier reasoning. "If we can’t break this spell, it’s better we stay together.”

Anthony smiled at her, pleased to hear her echo his thoughts.

Benedict, however, narrowed his eyes. “If you two cooked up this entire insane story just to be together…” he muttered, beginning to doubt whether the body-switch was even real anymore. Maybe they had planned everything from the start.

“That is not—no! It’s not like we’re telling everyone about it!” Penelope sputtered.

“You should," Benedict said, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "I would pay good money to see everyone’s faces.”

—

It didn’t take long for Anthony to be swept away to the modiste with his mother and sister. Fortunately, the outing worked out well as Genevieve had promised that the new gown for the ball would be ready just in time.

“After we collect the dresses, you two are coming with me to help Daphne set up for the ball tonight,” Violet announced brightly in the carriage.

Both Anthony and Eloise groaned in unison. Violet had expected Eloise’s sour attitude, but she gave Anthony a puzzled look. Penelope usually enjoyed these kinds of activities.

“Penelope, dear, are you feeling alright?” Violet asked, concerned.

Anthony immediately straightened up and unfolded his arms, realizing too late he had been slouching worse than Eloise. He had to sit more properly, more like his mother. And not like his sister, who practically melted into her seat.

Clearing his throat, he tried to recover. “Yes, I… That sounds lovely, Lady Bridgerton.”

Violet’s frown deepened. “I’m surprised you’re not more excited. You’ve been looking forward to this for weeks.”

Anthony felt stupid. Of course Penelope would have been eager, anything was better than being trapped in her own house. He just didn’t know if she truly loved these preparations, or if it was another thing she agreed to simply because his family made her do it.

“Perhaps she has finally come to her senses,” Eloise said dryly. “And I still don't know why I’m involved. I’m positive Daphne would prefer me as far away from her precious flower arrangements as possible.”

“We are supporting your sister, Eloise. It is a big night for her,” Violet said firmly. “Like it or not, you must start familiarizing yourself with these events. Next season, it will be your turn to debut in society.”

Eloise rolled her eyes dramatically, and Anthony felt the tension ripple through the carriage. He caught the disappointment on his mother’s face.

“It does not signify that I intend to marry,” Eloise argued. “Look at Pen’s first season. No suitors, no dancing. It was perfect. She was practically invisible.”

Anthony barely stopped himself from wincing.

If there was ever a moment he was grateful to be in Penelope’s body, it was now. He was glad she didn’t hear this. Eloise meant well, she craved invisibility as much as he did. But knowing how much Penelope longed to be seen, the words stung. His sister should know her closest friend better.

“The season isn’t over yet,” Anthony said lightly, forcing a small smile. “There’s still time for fortunes to change. In fact, your brother has already asked for a dance this evening.”

He thought it wise to gently ease into their announced courtship. After all, Penelope had already declared their intentions to Benedict and Colin. Surely she would extend him an invitation to dance tonight.

For a strange moment, Anthony found himself feeling like a true debutante—nervous, excited, and eagerly anticipating a dance card entry from Penelope.

“My brother?” Eloise asked, raising a brow.

“Which one?” Violet followed, a glint of curiosity in her eye.

Anthony chuckled at his sister’s sarcasm and his mother’s quiet delight. “Anthony.”

Now Eloise was the one smiling, while Violet’s expression shifted to mild confusion.

“I told you he was the smartest one,” Eloise said proudly.

“That is… wonderful,” Violet said, almost to herself. There had been a time when she imagined Colin and Penelope might make a good match being close in age, already dear friends, much like herself and Edmund had once been. But after Colin’s entanglement with Marina, that notion had quietly dissolved. At least for the near future.

Still, the idea of Anthony and Penelope surprised her, and pleasantly so. Of all her sons, Anthony was the one under the most pressure to marry, and Penelope… Well, Penelope was a woman Violet could easily guide into the role of viscountess.

“It is wonderful,” she repeated, this time with conviction. “I had hoped Anthony might consider settling down next season, but if he’s already taken interest in you my dear, that is even better.”

Anthony wasn’t used to hearing such praise from his mother, least of all his personal choices. He let out a soft laugh. Of course she approved; any decision involving Penelope would earn her blessing. How had he not realized sooner how deeply Penelope mattered to his entire family?

“Do you really believe we could be a good match?” Anthony asked, genuinely curious to hear his mother’s answer—especially since he already knew Eloise’s thoughts about it.

Violet took a thoughtful breath before replying. “Anthony can seem difficult to love at first glance. But it doesn’t take long to see he has the biggest heart of all. His sense of duty runs deep, yes, but he doesn’t care for us solely out of obligation. I feel there is real love behind everything he does.”

She gave a small, knowing smile.

“I believe you could help him see that love is not a weakness as he thinks it is, but one of his greatest powers.”

He smiled, letting the emotion rise freely in his eyes. His mother was often stern with him, and though he sometimes wished she would meddle less in his affairs, he couldn't deny that she had made a fair point or two throughout the season.

“I think we can be good for each other too,” he said simply, his voice warm with certainty.

—

Penelope had spent the rest of the day balancing accounts and managing estate business with Benedict’s help. He was impressed by how quickly she grasped duties that had once taken him much longer to learn. Perhaps it wasn’t so far-fetched to think that Penelope and Anthony were well matched and could truly make it work.

Now, they were in the carriage on their way to the ball, accompanied by a reluctant Colin. He would have preferred to skip the evening entirely, having spent the day arranging his upcoming travels as he was set to depart in just two days. There was much left to prepare and consider, but he knew he couldn’t miss Daphne’s first ball.

“I’m glad you’re taking my advice this time,” Penelope said to Colin. “The travels will be good for you.”

“You were most generous with the allowance. I suppose you really do want me as far away as possible,” Colin replied with a half-hearted chuckle.

Penelope sighed. “I’m not trying to tamper with your life. I simply know it’s always been a dream of yours, and I want to help you fulfill it.”

Benedict, listening quietly, understood the weight behind her words. He knew too well that unfulfilled wishes had led to the predicament she and Anthony now faced.

Before Colin could respond, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Hastings House.

Waiting at the top of the steps were the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, Violet, Eloise, and Anthony.

Penelope could hardly believe her eyes. There he was, in her body, dressed in the emerald green gown Genevieve had promised, the black sheer overlay glinting with delicate embroidery under the soft evening light. The gown was stunning, but what caught Penelope off guard was just how well it showed off her figure, particularly her pillows. She must have stared a moment too long, because Benedict cleared his throat sharply and nudged her with his elbow.

“Close your mouth and start moving,” he murmured under his breath.

Snapping herself back to reality, Penelope made her way up the steps, greeting everyone in the proper order: first the Duke and Duchess, then Violet, then Eloise, and finally Anthony.

“May I escort you this evening, Miss Featherington?” Penelope asked.

“It would be my honor, my lord.”

Chapter Text

The gardens were nothing short of enchanting. Instead of using the ballroom, Daphne had chosen to host the event outdoors. The weather had been agreeable in recent days, and after the ups and downs of her early married life, she longed to recreate the magic of the first ball she danced with Simon at Vauxhall Gardens.

No expense had been spared—floral arrangements cascaded from every post, delicate drapery danced in the breeze, and crystal chandeliers hung above the patio, transforming it into a breathtaking open-air ballroom. The music, the cuisine, the ambiance, it was all perfectly orchestrated. A flawless finale to a bustling season and a clear declaration of her elegance as the Duchess of Hastings.

But for Anthony, what made the evening truly perfect wasn’t the setting or the spectacle. It was Penelope.

Penelope, still in his body, looked radiant. Her face lit up with genuine delight as she admired herself in the gown made especially for her. Penelope, who had declared her intentions to court him and had offered to escort him that evening. When she was happy, it was impossible for Anthony not to be. And he found himself wanting—no, needing—to be the reason she smiled like that every day.

“We should dance first tonight,” Penelope said as they made their way toward the refreshment table. “Set the tone and give you some practice before you take the floor with Lord Fife.”

“That’s an excellent idea, my lord,” Anthony replied, calling her by his title now slipped from his tongue with ease.

“Do you know this house well?” she asked, glancing around. “We’ll need to find a quiet spot to write our… pamphlet.”

Anthony raised a brow. “You mean—?”

“Precisely. I’ll have to dictate to you, of course, so the handwriting doesn’t change.”

“Dictate?” he repeated, feigning offense. “You think I’m incapable of coming up with my own commentary?”

Penelope smirked. “I’ll need your eyes and ears. I can’t eavesdrop properly while being you. Besides, we need to make sure your wish is fulfilled too. This is your opportunity to be invisible, remember?”

Anthony chuckled. “I doubt anyone’s overlooking me when I look this good in this dress.”

Penelope blushed. “You think I—you—look good?”

“Absolutely stunning,” Anthony replied without hesitation. Then he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low whisper only she could hear. “But if I’m being completely honest… I still think you’re even more beautiful with nothing on.”

Penelope flushed but she was quick to reply, channeling every ounce of the rakish charm his body naturally exuded. “I could say the same about you. I’ve never had anything to compare it to, but it’s quite impressive. Especially when it greets the morning with such enthusiasm.”

Anthony froze, stunned. He hadn’t expected her to reply, let alone with that level of audacity. A flush of heat spread through him, and then—was he…? Oh. Is that what being wet feels like?

All his senses crashed down on him at once. Their proximity, her scent, the low hum of her voice still lingering in his ear. A shiver ran down his neck, down his spine. The idea of Penelope admiring his body, touching him, left him unsteady.

He was feeling everything. And only now realizing just how much more sensitive the female body was, how heightened every sensation became. Just a few well-placed words had his skin prickling, the fabric across his chest suddenly too rough, too present. He felt the aching need to be closer, to be filled.

Heaven help him, he was going to make an excellent husband after this—knowing precisely where and how Penelope responded to his words, his touch. He wanted to memorize it all, catalog every reaction… but his mind was drunk on desire, the details slipping like water through trembling fingers.

He needed to find that quiet room. And fast.

“May I fetch you more lemonade, Miss Featherington?” Penelope asked sweetly, noting just how flushed he looked. “Or perhaps a fan?”

She was enjoying this far too much, Anthony thought. Though, if he were honest, so was he. Especially if they weren’t in the middle of a crowded ball.

“I’m good for now, thank you,” he replied, adjusting his stance. “Besides, it seems our dance is about to begin.” He almost offered his hand out of habit, but Penelope caught the motion in time and took the lead instead.

As they moved into position, Anthony felt the weight of every gaze. It wasn’t just the usual scrutiny, this was full-on astonishment. After all, Viscount Bridgerton had made it through the season thus far without dancing with a single eligible lady. That he had now chosen Penelope Featherington, of all people, sent murmurs rippling through the crowd.

“So much for being invisible tonight,” he muttered with a smirk.

Penelope’s expression sobered. “If we don’t get our wish fulfilled… we might be stuck like this forever.” Her voice was quiet, almost sad. “I think we can only wish for something more strongly after we fulfill our original wish.”

Anthony looked at her, surprised by the calm that settled over him. “Is it strange that the thought doesn’t scare me like it did yesterday?”

Penelope laughed softly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m serious. Somehow, I feel like… as long as we’re facing it together, we’ll be alright.”

She smiled, genuine and a little fond. “It does make it easier.” Then she leaned in and whispered, “But you do know you’d still get my courses, right?”

Anthony visibly paled. “Right. Excellent reminder. Wish renewed.”

Penelope laughed and turned her head to the side, landing her eyes on her mother and two sisters. She was startled for a moment and then remembered she was in Anthony's body. With a small, composed smile, she turned back to Anthony.

“I may have forgotten a minor detail when I announced we were courting,” she murmured through gritted teeth. “Lady Featherington.”

Anthony followed her gaze and spotted Portia Featherington and her daughters watching them like hawks. “Ah,” he said grimly. “Then I fear you’re in trouble, Lord Bridgerton. She won’t be thrilled about a known rake taking liberties with her sweet, innocent daughter.”

Penelope sighed. “She’ll probably assume I blackmailed you into courting me.”

The moment she said it, Anthony stiffened, the memory of Portia’s earlier accusations hitting him squarely. She probably did think Penelope had entrapped him.

“About that…” he started with a wince, but the music ended and with it, their brief moment of privacy. Lord Fife approached with a charming smile.

“Good evening, Lord Bridgerton, Miss Featherington,” he said with a graceful bow. “I must say, you look exquisite tonight.”

Penelope offered a polite smile in return, but Anthony’s expression twisted with irritation—which wouldn’t do, given he was wearing Penelope’s face.

Clearing her throat sharply, Penelope tried to recover the moment. “Indeed, Lord Fife. Miss Featherington isn’t quite used to receiving compliments, though I keep telling her to smile and say thank you.”

“In that case, I simply must keep complimenting her until she gets used to it.”

Penelope blushed at his words and Anthony hated how Penelope's senses and body reacted to his charms.

He gave her a sideways glare but managed a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, my lord.”

Lord Fife extended his hand. “Shall we?”

Anthony took it with a stiff nod, casting one last glance at Penelope. A look that said he already missed being in her arms, and she returned it with equal intensity.

Fife, being his usual perceptive self, caught the exchange. “Should I be apologizing for stealing you away from Lord Bridgerton?” he asked, a knowing smirk on his lips.

Anthony looked up, momentarily caught off guard, but recovered quickly. “I’d prefer an apology for dancing with me only because you lost a bet.”

Fife raised a brow, clearly surprised. “I didn’t expect Bridgerton to share that detail. It seems the two of you are more… familiar than I imagined.”

“Lord Bridgerton tells me everything,” Anthony said with quiet pride. “We’re courting now. So don’t get any ideas from this dance.”

Fife laughed. “Well, he was quick about it. I’ll give him credit for being faster than his brother. If he felt the need to stake his claim before our dance, I’m sure he feared you’d fall for my good looks and charm.”

The way he said it made something tighten in Anthony’s chest. Worse yet, he could feel Penelope’s body reacting to Fife’s flirtation and he hated it.

“He is a very smart man,” Anthony replied smoothly. “And perhaps it’s me who should apologize, in case this gave you the wrong impression.”

“No apology needed,” Fife said with another grin. “I still get to dance with a beautiful woman and enjoy the view.”

Anthony immediately caught the implication, even if he couldn’t prove it. Slapping him would cause a scene, so instead, he stepped sharply on Fife’s foot.

“You should keep your gaze where you step, my lord,” Anthony said with a tight smile. “Rather than the view.”

Fife winced, then chuckled. “Touché.”

---

Penelope was having the time of her life watching Anthony dance with Lord Fife. She couldn’t help the swell of pride as she noted how well he kept up with the steps—especially considering how little practice he’d had. The contrast between Fife’s easy smile and polished movements, and Anthony’s furrowed brow was especially entertaining. She couldn’t help but wonder if, after tonight, she would inherit his reputation for being brooding.

She was still admiring their performance when Daphne approached, with a teasing smile on her lips.

“I’m surprised to see you here, brother,” she said playfully. “I was beginning to think you only came to balls to escort me and glare at anyone trying to approach me.”

Penelope chuckled, remembering Anthony’s overzealous guard-dog routine from the start of the season. She had always found his protective streak admirable, even if it was occasionally over the top.

“I wouldn’t dare miss your debut as hostess, Duchess. Though,” she added with a knowing glance at the dance floor, “I’ll admit I had a few ulterior motives.”

Daphne followed her gaze to Anthony and raised a brow. “So it’s true, then? You’re courting Penelope Featherington?”

“It’s true,” Penelope replied, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Though I fear she still needs a bit more convincing. If you happen to have a few kind words to spare about your brother… Would you share them with her? Tell her he’d make a good husband?”

She spoke with more sincerity than jest, hoping Daphne would understand the deeper intent. Penelope knew how much Anthony still blamed himself for how things had gone during Daphne’s first season. If he could hear from his sister that she still believed in him, maybe it would be enough to make him believe he wasn’t the burden he imagined himself to be.

“Of course,” Daphne replied, a touch surprised by the request.

“Thank you. And… when the time comes, perhaps you could speak to her about other matters too? The kind that might be too frightening if explained by her mother?” Penelope added, her tone light but her meaning clear.

She knew it would be far less intimidating to learn about what truly happened between a man and a woman from someone like Daphne. And if Anthony was still in her body by then—well, the absurdity of it all would at least provide some entertainment.

Daphne let out a surprised laugh, nearly choking. “You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?”

Penelope only offered a sly smirk in response, then swiftly shifted the subject. “May I have the next dance?”

Daphne’s amusement softened into something more tender. Her eyes glistened as she nodded and took Penelope’s hand. “You may.”

---

Anthony was too distracted watching Daphne and Penelope glide across the dance floor to notice someone seizing him by the arm just as Lord Fife had graciously led him to the edge of the outdoor ballroom.

It wasn’t until he was being dragged toward the center again that he snapped to attention, only to be greeted by the smug, all-too-punchable smirk of his brother.

Benedict.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Well,” Benedict said with infuriating cheer, “if I had any lingering doubts about this bizarre affair, they’ve been well and truly erased. Anthony would never dance with Daphne, and Miss Featherington would never speak so foully to me.”

“You’re not answering my question, Mr. Bridgerton,” Anthony ground out through clenched teeth.

“I’m helping your story, obviously. You’re courting my brother, so it’s only proper I show my support—with a dance.”

“You mean to torment me,” Anthony huffed.

“What’s the issue? Did you enjoy dancing with Lord Fife more?”

“He was certainly less impertinent than you.”

“I must give credit to Madame Delacroix. You look stunning in that dress,” Benedict said with an exaggerated grin.

“Please spare me about how you plan on praising Madame Delacroix for her talents,” Anthony warned. “And if your eyes so much as drift downward, you’re a dead man.”

Benedict chuckled. “How am I supposed to look at you if I can’t look down?”

“Look somewhere else.”

“You’re always so serious. No wonder you had to compromise her to convince her to marry you.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Benedict leaned in just enough to be maddening. “Are you saying you haven’t touched her at all?”

And just like that, Anthony understood exactly how Penelope must have felt that day in the market dealing with his arrogant, intrusive questions, completely unaware of how overbearing he was being. Benedict was now the mirror he hadn’t wanted.

“For your information,” Anthony said tightly, “that’s not why she agreed to court me. But if you plan to use that against us, good luck explaining to society that Lord Bridgerton touched Miss Featherington… while being her.”

Benedict paused, blinking at the layered implications. Then he said, softer, “I’m not against you. I just want to understand how it works. If I’m honest… I’m a little jealous.”

Luckily for Benedict, as soon as the music stopped Daphne looped her arm through Anthony’s and dragged him toward the dessert table.

What was it with his siblings tonight? Could he not get a moment to breathe?

---

“Pen, you must try the éclairs,” Daphne said brightly. “And I haven't had a chance to thank you properly for helping me set everything up. I really appreciate it.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he said with a forced smile. It hadn’t been awful… but it also wasn’t something he’d volunteer for again soon.

“I also wanted to say I’m happy for you and Anthony. I’ll admit, he wasn’t my first choice for you among my brothers, but he’s a fine one.”

Anthony had a good guess who her first choice might’ve been. Daphne and Colin were closer in both age and friendship.

“A fine choice, you say?” he replied, then winced. “I wouldn’t blame you if, after this season, you wanted nothing more to do with him.”

Realizing that had sounded far too harsh for Penelope, he rushed to soften it. “What I mean is, he’s always done what he thought was right… even if he was wrong more often than not.”

Daphne tilted her head slightly, studying him. “You don’t sound very convinced about being courted by him. Why did you agree?”

Anthony took a breath and went with what seemed logical. “He’s good-looking. He’s a titled lord. Well endowed—financially speaking, of course.” He coughed, nearly choking on the last part.

Daphne gave him a dry look. “All valid points. But I know you, Pen. Those wouldn’t be enough. Prince Frederick had all of that and even more, and I still chose Simon.”

“You didn't have much of a choice, he compromised you,” Anthony said too quickly.

Daphne’s brow arched.

“I—I mean, Anthony told me… about the duel,” he recovered quickly.

Daphne studied him for a moment longer.

“Let me tell you something about my brother,” Daphne said, her voice calm but certain. “His best qualities are the ones he hides from the world.”

Anthony looked at her, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in her tone.

“You’d never know the lengths he goes to for us,” she continued, “because he doesn’t show it. But we all see it. We live it, every single day.”

“You speak as if you’d trust him with your life,” Anthony said, trying—and failing—to keep the emotion from his voice. “Even after… everything.”

“I do,” Daphne said without hesitation. “Because there was no one our father trusted more to take care of us. And I trusted our father. So I trust Anthony.”

It hit him like all at once. That even after nearly destroying her future, after the duel, the interference, all the mistakes—she still believed in him. Still saw the man their father had hoped he would become.

---

After Daphne walked away, Anthony was trying to quietly enjoy the éclair when he mentally braced himself as he spotted Colin approaching.

“Pen, may I have the last dance?” Colin asked, his tone unusually earnest.

“I’m sorry, Colin,” Anthony said, exhaling slowly. “I’m all danced out for the night.”

“I figured as much.” Colin clicked his jaw, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. “It’s just… I’m leaving soon for my travels, and I thought it would be nice to dance with you one more time.”

Anthony hesitated. Despite himself, he felt a twinge of guilt. With a reluctant nod, he extended his hand.

They stepped into position, and Anthony asked gently, “So you’ve made your decision to travel?”

Colin nodded. “You mentioned it once, back when I was courting Marina. And then Anthony brought it up again today. It felt right, hearing it from both of you. Which is strange, because when advice comes solely from him, I tend to push back. But when it was echoed by you… I don’t know. It just made sense.”

Anthony smiled faintly. Little did Colin know, both times the suggestions had actually come from Penelope. Still, there was a comfort in it—knowing they worked as a team, unknowingly. She had always been perceptive to the needs of his family, and Anthony could make her feel seen by supporting her observations. Maybe they were a good match after all, and Anthony felt more strongly that he couldn’t let her slip away.

---

“You were quite the busy one tonight, Miss Featherington,” Penelope teased as she and Anthony stepped into what appeared to be the library at Hastings House. “Lucky me, I got my dance early.”

“I suspect you are to blame for my crowded dance card,” Anthony replied, matching her tone.

“Only half of it. The other half was purely your charm.”

“I’d say it was a team effort,” he said with a grin.

“Speaking of team effort,” she said, all business now, “have a seat. We have writing to do. If we want this published by tomorrow, we need to finish the column soon.”

Anthony chuckled softly, amused by how authoritative she sounded in his voice. She wore it well—too well, actually. He settled into the chair, gathering parchment and ink, then paused, looking up at her.

“Can I try writing the first line?”

“How much parchment do we have to spare?” she quipped.

“Ha-ha,” he muttered, already dipping the quill. “All right. The final ball of any season is…”

He trailed off and went completely silent for a few moments.

“Writer’s block already?” Penelope asked, eyebrow raised.

“I guess this is harder than it looks. And also—” he shifted uncomfortably—“it's surprisingly difficult to write around… the pillows.”

“The pillows do look rather good in that dress,” she said, smirking.

“They do, don’t they?” Anthony responded, with far too much pride for someone admiring his own borrowed cleavage.

“Very,” Penelope said, and then—without thinking—she grabbed her own chest with both hands and gave it an appreciative lift.

Anthony was startled by her sudden move, but despite his better judgment, he melted into her touch. His breath caught, and a low, involuntary moan escaped his parted lips.

Just in time for Benedict to walk into the library and freeze.

From his perspective, Anthony Bridgerton was standing there, hands firmly cupping Penelope Featherington. 

Benedict blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Without breaking eye contact, he slowly closed the door behind him.

“You have got to be kidding me. Are you out of your damn minds? That’s it—this is too much. I’m done covering for your twisted little story.”

Penelope’s eyes went wide as she stepped back, hastily clasping her hands behind her back.

“Benedict, please—”

“At a family ball?! In Simon and Daphne’s house?!”

“Poetic justice, if you ask me,” Anthony said coolly, smoothing the front of his dress and trying to gather himself after the heat that had just unraveled through him.

“You are so damn lucky you’re in her body right now,” Benedict snapped. “That’s the only thing standing between you and my fist. And you,” he said turning to Penelope, “are lucky it’s not Simon who walked in here or you’d be dodging another punch.”

“I know, it is my fault, really,” Penelope said earnestly. “I’ve just never worn a dress like this before. I got a little carried away.”

Benedict gave her a slow once-over, unimpressed.

“Well, you’d better rein in your other excitement,” he muttered, glancing pointedly at her breeches.

Penelope didn’t need to look down to know what Benedict was referring to, she could feel the fabric of the breeches tightening again. But there was no time to be flustered. They had a column to write and a deadline to meet. She needed to focus.

“Oh, that? Don’t worry,” she said breezily. “I’ve become quite proficient at managing that. You’d be surprised how often it happens, especially around this one.” She clicked her tongue and tilted her head toward Anthony. “He taught me.”

Anthony groaned and dropped his face into his hands, elbows braced on the desk, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

Benedict, meanwhile, looked like his brain had stopped working. His jaw hung slack, words nowhere to be found. It was useless to say that what he taught her was to think of something else or use cold water, so Atnhony just let him assume the worst. 

“So if you’ll excuse us,” Penelope added, her tone infuriatingly casual, “we have some... business to attend to.”

Benedict just stared at them for a moment longer, shook his head, raised his hands in surrender, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I need a drink” before turning on his heel and walking out of the library, closing the door behind him with more force than necessary.

Anthony and Penelope stood in silence for a moment.

“Great,” Penelope said, clapping her hands together with faux cheer. “Alone at last. Now, pick up that quill and pay attention.”

Anthony sighed dramatically but did as instructed, dipping the quill into the inkwell. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy bossing me around.”

“I absolutely do. And I intend to make the most of it while I still can. Now, let’s try again: ‘ The final ball of any season is distinguished by one of two things: anticipation or dread …’”

“Or scandal,” Anthony muttered, earning a chuckle from Penelope then a sharp look.

“Focus.”

---

On the carriage ride back from the printer, they sat across from each other. Penelope was gazing out the window, lost in thought, while Anthony’s eyes remained fixed on her. She didn’t notice.

He couldn’t stop revisiting the almost-kiss that morning, the way her hands had touched him, and how both moments had been most inconveniently interrupted by Benedict. He also thought about their dance, the way her body reacted to his voice and his words. He wanted to return to those moments, yes—but more than that, he wanted to win her over properly. To show her he could charm her, even now.

“Penelope,” Anthony said, breaking the silence.

She turned her head slowly, arching an eyebrow in response.

“Pick up the parchment and quill,” he said, nodding toward the materials beside her. “It's my turn to tell you something to write down.”

She placed the ledger on her lap, settled the parchment on top of it, and picked up the quill, watching him carefully. Something about the command in his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Anthony leaned forward slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. There was a confidence in his gaze that made Penelope’s breath catch, even as she reminded herself she was technically looking at herself.

“Write this,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “He never saw it coming, and he probably never would have, not through his own eyes—The woman who watched the world with quiet intelligence, who lived inside her own mind.”

Penelope blinked, caught off guard.

Anthony leaned back, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. “Well? Are you going to write it down?”

She glanced from him to the parchment in her lap. “Are you a poet now?”

“I’m practicing,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t want you to marry me just because we’re stuck in each other’s bodies and have no better option.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a smile she couldn’t suppress. “We still have a day to switch back.”

“And if we do,” he said softly, “I still want you to choose me.”

She’d grown used to Anthony proposing to her in the last couple of days, but this felt different. What had started as a proposition based on convenience had grown into something more, and Anthony was convinced to make a point.

“Well,” she said lightly, trying to mask the nerves fluttering in her chest, “I’ll need at least three more verses before I’m thoroughly charmed.”

Anthony’s grin widened. “You’ll get five.”

He cleared his throat, smoothed the skirt of his dress with deliberate care, then continued, voice softer now.

“How could he have been so blind to the effect she had on everyone in his family, how they sought her approval, craved her understanding?”

His gaze never left her face.

“How could he have failed to see her beauty? The way her eyes shine when she's happy and how her body was made to be worshipped.”

Penelope kept her quill moving, though her hand slowed at the last line. She tried to ease the growing tension with a teasing tone. “That last one didn’t rhyme.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “I did say I was only practicing.”

“Keep going then,” she said, her voice husky, the quill trembling slightly in her hand.

He met her eyes, his own gaze dark and unwavering.

“As much as it was a privilege to live in her body, to see the world through her eyes… It was also a torment. Because he longed, achingly so, to touch her with his own hands. To know her with his own mouth.”

Penelope’s breath hitched. Slowly, she looked up at him, eyes wide but daring.

“You said you wanted to know what my tongue does,” he murmured. “Write it down so you don’t forget.”

She blinked once, then lowered her gaze and nodded.

“ With his tongue,” Anthony continued, “ he would invade her mouth, seeking the heat of hers with slow, hungry purpose. He would trace a path down her jaw and neck, savoring her taste, leaving behind the sting of teeth and the balm of lips.”

His voice thickened with each word. Penelope’s hand was still moving, but slower now.

“ His tongue was made to etch patterns and pleasure into every inch of her—behind her ear, over the swell of her chest, down the soft curve of her belly… until she commanded him to go further.”

A silent moment passed between them. 

“ To be used by her,” he finished, “in every way she desired.”

Penelope kept staring at the parchment in front of her, eyes tracing the words she’d just written. Her mind was still catching up to what he had said.

Across from her, Anthony didn’t speak. He only watched her, waiting.

“That’s…” she finally said, clearing her throat, “a lot more than I was expecting from… your tongue.”

He gave a small shrug, his lips twitching in a smirk. “It’s a talent of mine.”

She tilted her head slightly, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Can mine do all that too?”

Anthony feigned consideration. “I suppose so,” he said with mock seriousness. “Why don’t we start with the basics, see how that goes?”

He leaned in, closing the space between them.

Penelope leaned in too, her breath catching. “I would like that.”

Anthony reached out and cupped her face—his own face—with both hands, his touch reverent. He closed his eyes, needing to imagine this moment as it should be: her face, her lips, not his own. He let the illusion bloom in his mind as he bridged the final inches between them.

Their lips met—soft at first, exploratory, careful. Penelope reached up and mirrored the gesture, her palms against his cheeks. The kiss deepened naturally, their mouths moving in sync until his tongue traced the seam of her lips and she welcomed him in.

And in that heated exchange of breaths and lips, they kissed like they’d waited far too long and as if they didn't know what tomorrow was going to bring.

Chapter Text

Penelope had never been kissed before, so to declare it the best kiss of her life might not carry the weight of comparison. But there was something in the way their lips moved together instinctively and purposefully that assured her she would never need another kiss to know this was the only one that would ever matter.

He kissed her with a precision and confidence that left her breathless. It made her think that if he was this skilled while borrowing her tongue, she could only imagine what he might do with his own. Their hands remained gently cupping each other’s faces, a tender frame around the passion unfolding between them.

For Anthony, kissing her was nothing short of maddening. Penelope’s body, so attuned to every brush and breath, was driving him to the brink of composure. He could hardly restrain the impulse to lift his skirts and straddle her, to move in such a way that might bring relief to the fire spreading through him. 

And when she cried his name his restraint almost snapped.

“Anthony…” Penelope breathed against his lips, her voice soft and dazed. He slowed, then stilled, his mouth hovering over hers.

“Yes, darling?” he replied, breathless. Their noses touched, and for a moment they simply lingered with their eyes closed, sharing breath, memorizing scent and skin. Anthony imagined it was truly her face he held.

“You were right,” she whispered, catching her breath with a smile that curved against his lips. “It is a talent of yours.”

He chuckled, nuzzling her more firmly, pressing his nose to hers. “It’s only as good as the person I’m sharing it with.”

Penelope smirked. “Then… was I good for you too?”

“Very good,” he said with a grin. “I can hardly wait to see what else your tongue can do.”

Penelope let out an unladylike snort, quickly muffled by a laugh, and he rewarded her with a soft peck to the lips, barely needing to move. They stayed like that, wordless for a while. Their faces remained close, a gentle hush falling between them.

“What am I feeling?” Penelope whispered, her voice laced with wonder and hesitation.

Anthony thought about what could possibly be happening in his body after their kiss and before he could find a good way to explain it, she clarified.

“In my body. What’s happening to it? Is it the same sensation I feel when I’m in yours?”

“It’s similar,” he said gently, watching her carefully. “But… different. Your body liked that kiss, very much.”

Penelope gave a breathless laugh. “I’m not surprised. But how can you tell? It’s not as though breeches are tightening.”

Anthony chuckled, the sound low and warm. “No… but something else happens. A kind of… preparation. Your body responds, instinctively.”

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Preparation?”

“For, well—what did you call it? My appendage ?”

Penelope flushed but was too curious to be embarrassed. “May I… feel it?” she asked softly.

Well, all be damned. That is not how Anthony thought their first kiss was going to go. He had been very curious himself of how it all worked, but he hadn’t touched her that way and he would not without her agreement or her knowing what it truly meant. But this was her body they were speaking of, and who was he to deny her. She deserved to understand herself.

He gently took the hand still resting on his cheek and guided it down. He shifted back in the carriage seat, drawing her closer, until she knelt before him. With care, he lifted the fabric of his skirts, and helped her hand find the place she was searching for.

Penelope gasped at the sensation. When she saw the way Anthony and her body reacted to her touch, she wanted to give it more.

She looked up at him, eyes wide.

Anthony’s breath caught. “There,” he murmured, voice nearly a growl. “Lightly—just so. Small circles… yes, like that.”

Her lips parted as she explored, the reactions of her body responding almost instantly. Her other hand gripped his thigh for support. 

Anthony arched against her hand, breath stuttering as the sensation overwhelmed him. Driven by a need for closeness, he pulled her into a kiss, their mouths meeting with a hunger that had grown too strong to contain.

A part of him winced, knowing that it should have been Penelope in her own body experiencing something so personal, so new. But she didn’t seem to mind—on the contrary, she moved with determination, as though she was reclaiming something she never allowed herself to explore.

He let himself melt into the kiss, powerless against her. With a soft exhale against her lips, he let his hand drift downward, brushing along the front of her breeches.

“If we’re doing this,” he murmured between kisses, “then it’s only fair…”

She gasped at the unexpected touch, their lips parting for a heartbeat. Her eyes fluttered open, wide and searching, but not in alarm. There was only trust and anticipation. She’d been waiting for the moment she wouldn’t need to add cold water to it.

Anthony gave her a crooked smile. “I want you to feel what I feel.”

“I want to feel it too.” She pleaded.

They were wrapped in a paradox—his body, her body, his touch, her hand. But somehow, it felt right. They were meeting at the very center of themselves, and in that moment, it was no longer about the spell or the strange magic that bound them.

It was simply Anthony and Penelope.

—

When they returned to Mayfair, Anthony reluctantly made his way back to Featherington House while Penelope returned to Bridgerton House. Neither of them wished to be apart, not after what they had just shared, but Penelope insisted it was for the best. She promised to call on him the following day and, with all the gravity the moment deserved, to officially ask to court him.

There were many things Anthony ought to have been thinking about but his mind was a muddled haze after their eventful carriage ride.

It was otherworldly, truly, to know exactly how Penelope would feel in her own body. He had wondered—casually, hypothetically—but never did he believe he would feel it for himself. And to share that experience with Penelope… someone he had come to admire deeply, someone whose cleverness, compassion, and strength had captivated him.

Penelope, whom his family already regarded as one of their own. Who had inspired him to attempt poetry , of all things, simply because he knew she loved words so dearly. And now, knowing how sweetly she responded to his touch, how she felt, how she tasted, there was no doubt left in his mind.

They were going to have a very, very happy future together.

—

The final ball of any season is distinguished by one of two things: anticipation or dread . For, while those who have been successful in the year's marriage market look forward to flaunting their perfect, joyous unions, others shudder at the thought of spending one last night before the discerning eyes of the ton. 

As they know, indeed, just what the evening signifies, that their time is officially up. And yet, to those who may still find themselves out of both choices and hope, fear not. For who knows when and where one's fortunes may change? 

It appears to this author that the winds of fortune have turned most unexpectedly for none other than the ton’s most notorious Wallflower and its most unrepentant Capital-R Rake. Their courting announcement, delivered just as the season draws to a close, places them in the most enviable position: poised to enjoy both the liberties of the countryside and the indulgences of an off-season courtship. 

Scandalous, indeed.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

—

Anthony had quickly learned that rising early in Featherington House was far preferable to being roused by Portia Featherington’s shrill voice. Still, by the time he entered the drawing room, she was already perched on the settee, a fresh copy of Lady Whistledown’s latest pamphlet in hand. Anthony knew precisely what it said—he had written it himself.

“I must say, I am pleased you followed my advice,” Portia declared, smiling far too smugly for someone who had no idea how little her advice had influenced anything at all. “Who knew you actually had it in you?”

Anthony didn’t return her smile. “I did not entrap the Viscount, if that is what you’re implying.”

Portia raised a brow, undeterred. “Well, that was a very expensive -looking dress you wore last night. One certainly not paid for from our accounts. And I would never choose such a dreary, brooding color for you. Which makes me wonder, was it a gift? Because a gown like that is only given by a man to a wife... or a mistress.”

His blood began to boil. Portia’s insinuation was a dagger dressed in lace, and he was perilously close to losing his temper. But he couldn’t—not when Penelope’s relationship with her mother was already walking a tightrope, and certainly not when it might cause even more strain between them.

He took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay even.

“Whatever you think you know, Lady Featherington,” he said slowly, “you do not.”

“I couldn’t care less how you did it, Penelope dear,” Portia said with a pleased little grin. “I’m just thrilled that you did.”

“Nothing is happening until Lord Bridgerton speaks to me,” came a firm voice from the doorway.

Anthony’s eyes widened. Archibald Featherington had spoken. Truly spoken. He’d heard the man mumble before—usually under the influence and rarely when his wife was around—but this was different. Clear, sober, and unexpectedly authoritative. Portia, for once, said nothing.

The tension between the three of them hung in the air just as Briarly appeared at the door.

“Lord Bridgerton for Lord Featherington.”

“Good day, Featheringtons,” Penelope said with a polite nod as she stepped into the room.

Anthony barely suppressed a chuckle. She had used the same overly formal greeting she used with the Bridgertons he once teased her for. It felt full circle now.

Before Portia could reply with something cutting or grand, Archibald interrupted.

“My study, shall we?”

Penelope nodded and followed him without hesitation. Anthony looked toward Portia, uncertain, but she gave him a quick nod, eyes glinting with mischief as she tilted her head toward the corridor.

Without a word, Anthony trailed after her, both of them now standing just outside the study, eavesdropping like two mischievous children.

Inside, Archibald was already pouring himself a drink.

“May I offer you one, my lord?” he asked, raising the bottle.

Penelope hesitated. It was far too early for liquor by her standards, and she had little confidence in whatever her father considered drinkable. But she figured Anthony might have accepted—politely if not enthusiastically—so she gave a small nod.

“Thank you, Lord Featherington. I imagine you’re wondering why I’ve come.”

Archibald gave a dry chuckle. “I know how to read, thank you. You’re here for Penelope.”

“Yes, sir.” Penelope bit back a grin. She had forgotten how blunt and occasionally amusing her father could be in private. It had been a long time since they’d spoken without the shadow of Portia in the room. “I would very much like to court her.”

Archibald stared into the cup in his hand, his gaze fixed and distant. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Penelope’s eyes. His youngest daughter—so often overlooked—had somehow attracted the attention of London’s most eligible bachelor, and he had done absolutely nothing to deserve it on her behalf.

“My lord, are you quite well?” Penelope asked gently when the silence dragged on.

Archibald shifted in his chair and cleared his throat, as though bracing himself. “Penelope,” he began slowly, “possesses many admirable qualities. They say a father should not have favorites among his children, but I make no pretense of such control. She has always been a ray of sunshine. My little flower.”

Penelope’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected tenderness in his voice. She barely had time to savor it before his tone hardened.

“Which is why I must be frank with you. She has no dowry to bring. None.” He paused. “If this influences your intentions, I would prefer you withdraw now rather than offer her false hope.”

She stilled.

She had known her father’s habits, of course—his gambling, the missing funds—but she never imagined he would say it so plainly. That he would sabotage her future so carelessly, so bluntly. Frustration surged, but she swallowed hard. She was in Anthony’s body. She could not cry. Not here. Not now.

She scrambled for the right words. She and Anthony had decided they needed to stay together if the switch was permanent, so she had to believe that he would be agreeable to not having a dowry. But before she could speak, the door swung open.

Anthony stepped inside, his gaze fierce. He crossed the room in a few strides and stopped behind her chair, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder as he looked directly at Lord Featherington.

“Lord Bridgerton had suspected it, and it does not matter,” Anthony said firmly, though his tone remained warm. “He cares for me. Deeply. He assured me it doesn't change anything.”

Archibald glanced at his daughter, visibly taken aback by her confidence—so unlike the quiet Penelope he had grown used to overlooking. Perhaps there was more to her than he had ever bothered to see. Perhaps this pairing, however unconventional, would suit them both.

“She is right,” Penelope added gently. “This changes nothing about how I feel.”

A beat of silence passed, then Archibald lifted his glass with a dry smile. “So be it. To unexpected attachments… and a most unorthodox courtship.”

Penelope raised her glass with a smirk. “The best kind.”

Anthony chuckled. “Lucky me.”

—

Later that day, Anthony and Penelope found themselves once again at Hastings House, this time for afternoon tea. Daphne had extended the invitation after their conversation at the dessert table the previous evening, and Simon had mentioned he had some business to discuss with Lord Bridgerton—who, of course, was still Penelope.

Though the couple felt hopeful about what the future held, they remained no closer to understanding why they were still trapped in each other’s bodies. The urgency that had once driven their original wish seemed to have faded, suggesting that perhaps it had already been fulfilled or that they had yet to wish for something more.

What they did know, however, was that time was running out. Only a few hours remained before the switch would become permanent.

Anthony and Daphne were seated in the drawing room, tea in hand, while Simon had taken Penelope outside for a private word.

“I’m glad you’re back, Pen,” Daphne said warmly, raising her teacup. “We must do this more often. And I’m sure we will—especially once you and Anthony are married.”

Anthony smiled at the thought, his heart softening. “That would be lovely. Both the visits and the marriage.”

Daphne sighed, her gaze drifting. “I do hope he and Simon patch things up. He hasn’t been around much since the wedding. Granted, we were away, but I had hoped he’d visit more often.”

Anthony noted the subtle thread of hurt in her voice. “I’m certain it wasn’t for lack of desire. He probably didn’t want to intrude on your honeymoon.”

Daphne blinked, then narrowed her eyes in amused suspicion. “Honeymoon? And what, pray tell, do you know about honeymoons, Miss Penelope?”

Anthony faltered, cursing inwardly. “It’s… a time when newlyweds get to know one another better. And there’s uh, the moon and honey, apparently.” Anthony added, trying to sound innocent about the subject.

Daphne laughed. “Well, you’re not entirely wrong. It can be quite romantic under moonlight. And yes, there may be honey involved.”

Anthony wanted to disappear. He did not need thoughts in his head of his best friend and his sister doing anything with honey.

“You know,” Daphne went on conspiratorially, “I really shouldn’t say more. But if you ever have questions about relations between a husband and wife I hope you know you can always come to me.”

Anthony recoiled slightly. “Daphne! That’s highly inappropriate.”

“Oh, Pen,” she teased with a grin. “No need to be so shy. I had no one to talk to, and Simon taught me everything. Well, except one thing.”

Anthony groaned.

“Anthony may be experienced,” she continued, “but talking to another woman can be helpful. Someone not your mother.”

He winced. The very memory of Portia’s talk made his stomach churn. “Thank you, Daph,” he muttered, barely holding it together.

“I can even tell you what to ask Anthony to do,” she offered brightly. “Simon does this thing—”

“I will come to you when I’m ready,” he interrupted quickly, eyes wide with panic. He had to admit he was mildly curious but firmly decided that such knowledge should come when Penelope was back in her own body. Any more and he might actually perish from embarrassment.

—

Out in the gardens, Simon was trying to coax Penelope into a fencing match. But she politely declined, telling herself she didn’t want to embarrass Anthony. She had no idea how to fence, and frankly, she was certain someone would end up injured. Likely herself. Or Simon. Or both.

Simon, however, looked genuinely taken aback by the refusal. He and Anthony usually sparred regularly, and their matches served as both exercise and a way to work out tension while talking about life.

But today, his friend seemed… different. Calmer. More grounded. There was an ease in his posture Simon wasn’t used to seeing in Anthony.

“You do realize,” Simon said with a lopsided grin, “that you’re going to hear about this for the rest of your life? Forfeiting a fencing match to me—without even trying?”

Penelope sighed dramatically, then smiled. “I suppose I’ll just have to live with the shame.”

“And I suppose I’ll have to earn your respect all over again,” Simon replied with a smirk. “Still, I'm glad you came. You haven’t spoken to me since the wedding.”

She looked up at him, brows faintly furrowed. She hadn’t realized Anthony had been keeping his distance. Of course, she knew Simon had compromised Daphne—something Anthony would never take lightly—but it seemed strange he’d still be holding a grudge.

“I’ve been busy,” she said vaguely. “Waiting for you to return to town.”

Simon nodded, his expression tightening. “I’m sorry for how it happened. For how things unfolded.”

Penelope tilted her head, curiosity catching her off guard. “Do you regret it? Marrying because you had to?”

The words tumbled out before she could stop them. She and Anthony were barreling toward marriage themselves, not because of scandal, but because of circumstance—and the fear that it might become resentment later tightened like a knot in her chest.

Simon took a long breath, his eyes briefly fixed on the horizon.

“I regret how I handled it,” he said finally. “But not the marriage. Not Daphne. I still think she deserves better. But she says I’m what she wants… so she gets me.” He offered a quiet, almost rueful smile.

Penelope looked down, brushing a leaf from her breeches. “You are enough, Simon.”

Simon blinked, visibly startled by the uncharacteristic softness.

She cleared her throat, flustered, and tried to recover by shifting to Anthony’s teacup stance. “Not that I’d ever say so again, of course.”

Simon chuckled. “Well, I shall treasure it. And try not to faint from the shock.”

—

After tea, Anthony told Daphne he wanted to take a stroll outside, and they met Simon and Penelope in the gardens. He smiled when he saw the two of them deep in conversation. Whatever she had said—or done—it clearly worked. Penelope had managed to do what he hadn’t: begin to mend things with Simon. He had wanted to reach out for a while, but somehow he never found the time… or the right words. He was grateful Penelope had done it for him.

“Miss Featherington,” Penelope said with a polite smile as Anthony and Daphne approached, slipping easily into her role. “Would you care to take a walk?”

“I’d be delighted, my lord,” Anthony replied, already reaching to hook his arm through hers.

Simon and Daphne exchanged a knowing glance behind them.

“We’ll be close behind,” Simon said in his usual protective tone.

“But not too close,” Daphne added with a wink.

Penelope chuckled as they began walking. She rested her hand lightly over his where it curved around her arm. “How was tea with Daphne?”

Anthony exhaled. “Lovely, until she decided to discuss her marital relations.”

Penelope burst into laughter. “I can’t believe I missed it. My plan backfired!”

“Your plan?” Anthony raised a brow. “You asked her to do that?”

“I did,” she admitted with a sheepish grin. “But I assumed she’d bring it up later. Maybe right before the wedding, not… today.”

“Wedding,” he repeated, the word curling on his tongue with satisfaction.

Penelope glanced at him. “If you still want it, of course. We haven’t had a real moment to talk… and I understand if what my father said this morning gave you pause. We might still switch back, and then…”

“Pen—uh, Anthony,” he said softly, making sure Simon and Daphne were far enough not to overhear. “Nothing has changed for me.”

She turned to look at him, searching his eyes for doubt, for hesitation.

There was none.

Only warmth. Certainty.

She squeezed his arm gently. “Then nothing’s changed for me either.”

Surrendering to their fate—accepting that things may never go back to the way they were before they held those green quills and dared to hope for more than the lives they were trapped in—they held each other.

"I suppose we shall marry, then," Penelope whispered into their shared silence. There was a trace of reluctance in her tone, but it was overpowered by a quiet, undeniable hope.

Anthony looked up at her and smiled. “If I have to live through this with someone, I’m delighted it’s you, darling.”

He stopped walking and turned to her, lifting his hand to cradle her cheek—tracing the skin that had once been his with such kindness and gentleness—things he had never allowed himself to show himself.

He wondered what it would be like, to truly be married to Penelope as himself. He imagined moments full of affection and laughter, even the occasional lovers’ quarrel. And ultimately, he knew no matter which body he inhabited that a life with her would be extraordinary.

Penelope closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, feeling the softness and warmth of the palm that once belonged to her. 

How protected, how adored she felt with such a simple touch. Her mind conjured images of lazy mornings in bed where he as Anthony would have tucked a mussed curl behind her ear. Afternoons tangled in ledgers or gossip sheets. Evenings wrapped in conversation or soft silence, as the man and woman they used to be. She might have once imagined a different life, but now she only wanted this one—however it looked, as long as it was with him

"Will you marry me?" Penelope whispered in his voice.

Anthony opened his eyes and smiled—wide and full of something he hadn’t felt in years. “Yes,” he said, the word leaving him with a breath of exhilaration he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “And while I know I should be more startled by the fact that I’m still in your body… what truly stuns me is that I’m marrying someone who makes me believe again that I could have a marriage like my parents had.”

Penelope’s lips parted, her eyes softening with realization. “Did you ever wish for that kind of love?”

Anthony glanced skyward. “A long time ago,” he said quietly. “When he was still alive. I used to think that if I had to marry someday, it should be like theirs. But when he died, I convinced myself it wasn’t worth the pain. I gave up on it.” He looked back at her, eyes steady. “But now… now I want it again. And I want it with you.”

Penelope’s smile was radiant, blooming with warmth and joy. “When I was younger, I wished for a love like theirs, too.”

She leaned forward then, her hand slipping to the nape of his neck, and kissed him.

But before the moment could deepen, a blinding pain exploded along the left side of his face. The kiss shattered. Anthony staggered, one hand flying to his cheek as his eyes flew open, a curse already rising in his throat.

Simon had punched him. 

"Bridgerton, what the hell do you think you're doing?!"

He opened his mouth. Paused. Breathed. 

And then he smiled. 

Simon punched him.  

Of course— him . Anthony.

It was then he realized, as he looked at Penelope and saw her eyes brimming with tears of joy, her fingertips resting on her lips, that he was back. 

They were back. 

He rushed to Penelope, his hands immediately finding the sides of her neck. He looked at her as she did him—Penelope, truly Penelope—and she looked back with the same awestruck wonder.

Simon was dragging him backward by the back of his coat, but Anthony didn’t care. 

Because Penelope was Penelope. Radiant, beautiful, maddening Penelope. 

And she was his.

He kissed her again, this time urgent and celebratory and absolutely unforgiving, and she melted into him. 

She melted into him.  

And oh, how glorious it was to feel her like this—her pillows and soft curves pressing into him, her warmth wrapping around him, her breath catching beneath his touch. To feel her with his own hands, in his own skin, to know without question that this was real. 

That she was real.

Yes, he’d just been punched. Yes, he’d been caught compromising her—by the very man he’d once resented for doing the same.

But none of it mattered.

Because finally, everything had settled back into place.

Exactly where they were always meant to be.

Fate may have brought them together in the most absurd, impossible way. 

But what happened next, that they would do it together.

And they would not leave it to chance.