Work Text:
It was, of course, Colin’s fault. Penelope decided this the moment she opened her eyes that morning, her head pounding in protest.
The hazy recollection of the previous evening came tumbling back in fragments: laughter, music, candlelight, and far too many glasses of that wickedly smooth claret Colin had brought back from the Continent.
Since she could not admit to herself that she had been so reckless, it seemed easiest to assign the blame squarely upon his shoulders.
Colin, after all, had insisted the bottle was harmless...“no stronger than ratafia,” he had declared cheerfully. He had poured liberally, with a grin that was almost conspiratorial, and encouraged his sisters to press Penelope to try “just one more glass.”
Eloise had been too busy recounting some dreadful suitor to notice, but Hyacinth had giggled every time Penelope’s cheeks grew rosier. By the end of the evening, Penelope’s tongue had felt unmoored from her usual caution, and her inhibitions had floated away like so many feathers upon the fire.
Now, with the sunlight pressing rudely at her curtains, Penelope buried her face in the pillow and groaned. She remembered enough to know she had said things she ought never to have said, things that had made Benedict laugh until he nearly fell from his chair, things that had caused Simon Basset himself to smirk with infuriating amusement, and worst of all, things that had made Anthony Bridgerton pause mid-gesture as though he had been struck by lightning.
~*~
The conversation, as it often did among Bridgertons, had turned lively and ridiculous. Eloise, with her usual disdain, was lamenting the stupidity of gentlemen who mistook her sharp tongue for flirtation. “I do not ask for perfection,” she had declared, “only that a man should know what a pamphlet is, and not confuse it with a pudding.”
The room had dissolved into laughter, and Penelope, warmed by claret, had leaned against the arm of her chair and let a giggle slip too freely.
“Penelope,” Eloise had teased, narrowing her eyes as only a sister might, “you must admit you have your own secret preferences. Surely you have some idea of what kind of gentleman you would favour.”
Colin, ever eager to torment, leaned closer with a grin. “Yes, Pen, do tell us. Who is your ideal?”
Penelope, light-headed and feeling daring, had waved a careless hand in Colin’s direction. “Not a custard tart of a man,” she had announced to general astonishment. “Soft and Sweet” she gestured vaguely at Colin…who didn’t quite know if he ought to be offended.
“Oh not those, they are soft and sweet and gone in a mouthful. Boring and much too.... fast. Oh no...I should....I should far rather enjoy a chestnut: hard to crack, impossible at first glance, but within… all complex flavor that is worth the labour.” Her eyes, unbidden, had drifted to where Anthony stood by the fire, and the words had taken on a weight far heavier than she intended.
A stunned hush followed her declaration. Colin blinked as though she had spoken in Greek. “A… custard tart? I’m…a custard tart???” he repeated, voice breaking in wounded pride and disbelief.
Eloise let out a scandalized gasp and clapped her hands over her mouth, while Hyacinth dissolved into helpless giggles behind her embroidery frame.
Benedict, by contrast, leaned forward with eyes alight, as if Penelope had presented him with the premise for a particularly delightful sketch.
“Fascinating,” he intoned gravely. “Do elaborate, Penelope. For contemplation, of course.” His grin betrayed him at once, and Daphne’s gentle nudge at his ribs did little to subdue it.
By the hearth, Simon Basset had lifted one brow in unmistakable amusement, his lips twitching as though he too would laugh aloud. Yet it was Anthony who bore the full weight of the room’s attention.
He stood utterly motionless, glass forgotten in his hand, every inch the Viscount except for the faint flush rising at his collar. His younger siblings did not need to hear what Penelope’s words meant; they could read it plainly in the rigidity of his stance.
“Good heavens, Pen,” Benedict said with mock solemnity, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “One might almost think you have spent the Season devouring our eldest brother with your eyes.”
Penelope gasped, scarlet, but Hyacinth clapped her hands in glee. “She does! She stares at him as though he were syllabub at a feast—only, you know, less wobbly and more… chestnutty.” The child dissolved into giggles again, earning her a sharp look from Anthony that would have silenced anyone else. Hyacinth only grinned wider.
Colin finally found his voice and jabbed a finger toward Anthony. “Well, brother, it seems you are no longer the most eligible Viscount in England. You are now… a nut to be cracked.”
Laughter spilled across the room, Daphne hid a smile behind her fan, Eloise shook her head with theatrical despair, and Simon’s quiet chuckle carried over the din like a bowstring drawn and loosed.
Only Anthony did not laugh; he looked very much as though he might march into the rain and never return.
“I must say,” Simon drawled at last, his voice velvet-smooth, “I have never seen a man so thoroughly undressed by a lady’s eyes in full company.
Remarkable restraint, Bridgerton, that you remain standing.” Daphne smacked his arm with her fan, but her lips trembled with laughter all the same.
Daphne was by all accounts the only sober one among them, as recently any sort of alcohol had started to turn her stomach. But she certainly did not act like it.
Benedict gave a theatrical sigh. “Yes, brother, it appears your armour of Viscountly dignity has at last met its match. One little lady with claret in her veins, and suddenly you resemble a stag cornered by hounds.”
Anthony’s jaw flexed, his gaze fixed on the fire as though it alone might preserve his composure. Penelope, flushed and flustered, could only bury her face in her hands and mutter something about “not meaning custard in an unkind way.”
The laughter that followed rang bright and merciless, echoing off the walls of Aubrey Hall until even Violet, from somewhere down the corridor, called for her children to keep their noise to a reasonable roar.
“Music!” Benedict declared suddenly, rising with theatrical flourish. “Only a waltz will do after such revelations. Penelope must demonstrate precisely how one cracks a chestnut.”
The younger Bridgertons whooped in agreement, Hyacinth nearly tumbling from her seat with excitement. A pair of footmen exchanged long-suffering glances before hurrying to fetch the musicians, who struck up the opening strains of a waltz, still daring enough, in certain circles, to draw raised brows.
Anthony’s protest died upon his lips. To refuse would be to admit he was affected, and that he would not allow. So he crossed the floor with the stiff dignity of a man approaching the scaffold.
Penelope rose unsteadily, her smile luminous with claret-induced courage, and placed her hand in his. A hush fell as he led her into the center of the room.
They began to turn, slowly at first, the sweep of her skirts brushing against his polished boots. Anthony held her with scrupulous propriety: one hand light at her waist, the other firm but distant at her gloved fingers. Yet Penelope leaned closer than any proper lady ought, tilting her face up with a mischievous glimmer in her eyes that stole the breath from his lungs.
From the edges of the room, the Bridgertons watched like a pack of wolves scenting blood. Benedict cupped his chin as if sketching the scene in his mind, Colin bit savagely on his knuckle to hide his laughter, and Eloise shook her head as though wishing the ground would swallow her.
Simon, ever composed, merely folded his arms and murmured something to Daphne that made her choke on a laugh.
Anthony forced himself to focus on the steps, yet every turn brought Penelope nearer, her warmth seeping through the layers of cloth between them. Then, just as he found a fragile rhythm, her small frame had swayed closer, and when the turn of the waltz drew them almost chest to chest, she rose upon her toes.
One gloved hand, far bolder than sobriety would ever permit, pressed against his shoulder and urged him down until his ear hovered scandalously near her lips.
Anthony’s breath caught. He could feel the warmth of her whisper before the words themselves reached him. “You are a chestnut, my lord,” she murmured, her voice velvet with wine and daring. “So hard to crack… but I long to break your shell and taste what is hidden within or have you bestow upon me a pearl necklace.”
The Viscount very nearly stumbled. His jaw clenched, every sinew straining for composure, yet the shiver down his spine betrayed him. From the edge of the room, his siblings saw only the unnatural stillness of their brother....how his hand tightened suddenly at Penelope’s waist, how the colour rose high on his cheekbones.
They could not hear her words, but the effect was plain: the mighty Viscount undone by a whisper.
Penelope lingered close, her lips brushing the air by his ear, her breath far too warm, far too intimate.
Emboldened by claret and the safety of music swirling around them, she let another whisper slip, softer still: “My Lord, when at last I could finally peal back the shell… I could find the middle so tender, so sweet, I long to taste it slowly… lest it be over too hastily.”
Anthony’s pulse thundered in his ears. The words seared through him more surely than flame; he could almost feel them imprint upon his skin. His hand, meant to guide her with measured restraint, betrayed him with the faintest tremor. He forced his gaze above her head, anywhere but her flushed, radiant face. At present it was very very difficult to think clearly or form any thoughts apart from: Good God...oh Lord.
Across the room, Benedict’s mouth twisted as though suppressing an unholy laugh, and Simon’s shoulders shook with silent amusement. Daphne covered her lips with her fan, eyes wide at the impropriety unfolding in plain sight.
The younger Bridgertons leaned forward like conspirators at a play, straining to read each twitch of their eldest brother’s face. They could not know Penelope’s words, but they saw well enough the Viscount’s torment.
Penelope swayed nearer still, rising once more upon her toes, so that her lips all but brushed the shell of his ear. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur, husky with daring. “There was a tale, in a French volume… it spoke of a lady who cracked a chestnut not with hammer or knife, but with her lips… and tasted the sweet white within until not a drop remained. I too would diligently drink it all to the last drop.”
Anthony’s entire body went rigid. His hand faltered at her waist; his throat worked, but no sound emerged. The image suddenly struck him with indecent clarity, searing through the armour of his self-command. For the briefest instant, his eyes fluttered shut, as though the effort of not picturing it required all his strength.
Around them, the Bridgertons noticed only that their brother stumbled half a beat in the dance, his colour rising near to crimson.
Benedict smothered a bark of laughter against his sleeve, Simon tilted his head with wolfish amusement, and Colin muttered an incredulous “Good Heavens ” under his breath. They could not know what Penelope had said, but they saw how their Viscount trembled as if scorched.
Abruptly, Anthony halted mid-step. The music carried on, but he no longer could. With a stiff bow that was more command than courtesy, he seized Penelope’s hand and guided her firmly from the center of the floor. “That is enough,” he said, his voice clipped and perilously tight. “Miss Featherington is… no longer fit for company.”
He all but delivered her to Daphne’s side, his jaw locked, his colour betraying the storm beneath. “Sister,” he ground out, “see her safely to her chamber at once.” Daphne’s eyes flicked from Penelope’s flushed face to Anthony’s own and widened, but she merely nodded, slipping an arm around Penelope’s waist as though to shield her from further spectacle.
Behind them, however, there was no shielding Anthony. Benedict was doubled over in silent laughter, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Colin bit his lip, eyes darting downward before shooting wide in shock, then stifling an undignified snort. And Simon as usually cool, unruffled Simon, merely arched a brow and murmured with wicked delight, “Well, Bridgerton, it seems your shell is not quite so uncrackable as you pretend.”
As Daphne looped an arm about her friend and began to steer her toward the corridor, Penelope let her head loll back against the Viscount’s broad shoulder for one last, daring breath.
Her lips brushed close enough that only he could hear, though the peril of proximity made his blood freeze.
“Lord Bridgerton,” she murmured, her voice velvet with claret and mischief, “you know where my chamber lies. Should you change your mind… I would gladly let you spill your cream for me to taste.”
Anthony’s vision blurred. His breath came sharp as a blade, and for one mad instant he feared the room might hear the thunder of his heart. His siblings, seeing only the fire in his eyes and the mortifying tension in his stance, erupted in muffled hilarity.
Benedict not hearing the whisper but witnessing the reaction buried his face in a cushion, Colin bent double as if struck, and Simon’s low chuckle rolled like thunder. Anthony, for once crimson to the roots of his hair, could only stand rigid as Daphne whisked Penelope from sight.
Anthony dismissed his brothers with a growl and stalked to his chamber long after the laughter had died, but his fury did nothing to ease him. He stripped off his coat with savage jerks, unknotted his cravat, and plunged his face into cold water, all in vain. The image of her, flushed and bold in his arms, clung like smoke to his senses.
When he flung himself upon the bed, there was no peace. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her rising on her toes, felt the tug of her small hand urging him down, heard again that whispered promise ...chestnut, shell, sweetness within. Pear Necklace. Diligently drink.
And then, cruelest of all, the brazen murmur at the door: you know where my chamber lies. The words echoed with the relentless force of cannon fire.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, as though he might push the thoughts away. He prayed for dreamless sleep, prayed not to see her lips, her eyes, her daring smile. Yet beneath the desperate rational plea coiled something treacherous, something that hoped the dream might come.... hoped, and dreaded, in equal measure.
When at last sleep claimed him, it was no mercy. He woke at dawn tangled in the sheets, his body taut with the remnants of dreams he dared not name. The sunlight pierced the shutters, cruel and exposing, and he lay still a long moment, breath harsh in the silence.
Her laughter still rang in his ears, her daring words clung to him like a brand. He pressed his palms over his eyes, ashamed of the images that lingered, ashamed, and yet not wholly willing to let them go.
The scent of her hair, the brush of her lips at his ear, the sweetness she had promised in metaphor and mischief… all of it had followed him into sleep, and worse, had given him pleasure there.
With a groan, Anthony flung back the coverlet and rose, determined to smother every treacherous thought with discipline. Yet even as he dressed, one truth burned inescapable: Miss Featherington had destroyed his composure utterly. And the night had shown him, more cruelly than any jest of his siblings, just how sweet the cracking of a chestnut might truly be.
~*~
Penelope woke the next morning to the unmistakable sensation that her skull had been replaced with a church bell and someone had set the clapper swinging. She groaned, pressing her pillow over her head, but it did nothing to blot out the merciless sunlight pouring through the curtains. Her tongue felt as though she had swallowed a handful of ashes. She in that moment regretted being alive...surly this pain and humiliation in combination was enough to cause a hole to swallow her whole.
A knock at the door roused her out of her stupor further, and in came Colin, balancing a tray of water and bread, with Eloise at his elbow holding a small vial of sal volatile as though she were a physician about to perform a grave operation.
“You look dreadful,” Eloise announced cheerfully, setting the vial on the bedside table. Colin only rolled his eyes and pressed a glass of water into Penelope’s trembling hands.
“Drink this,” he said, though amusement danced in his eyes. “It will not cure shame, but it may prevent your early demise.”
Eloise perched on the edge of the bed, tutting like an old governess. “Truly, Pen, I have never seen anyone attempt to lecture an entire room on chestnuts and custard tarts before.”
At that, Penelope groaned and pulled the coverlet over her flaming face.
~*~
By late afternoon, Penelope had steeled herself enough to descend from her chamber, though her cheeks still burned with every remembered fragment of the night before.
She told herself she would avoid Anthony altogether, but fate, or perhaps the devil, saw fit to place him directly in her path in the long gallery, sunlight slanting across the floor between them like a gauntlet she must cross.
She stopped short, eyes dropping to the carpet, her fingers twisting in her skirts. “My lord,” she stammered, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “I… I wish to apologize for...well, for everything I said last evening. It was most improper, and I...”
Her words broke off as he stepped closer. With one gloved hand he reached out, not to take hers, but to place a single finger gently against her trembling lips. His dark eyes held hers, unreadable yet steady. “Miss Featherington,” he said quietly, “I forgive anything you believe you need forgiveness for.”
Anthony’s finger lingered but a breath, then fell away, though his gaze did not. “There is a saying, Miss Featherington,” he said softly, his voice even yet charged with something she could not name. “In vino veritas. In wine lies truth. Tell me...was it truth that you spoke last night? I had long believed your affections to rest upon my brother Colin."
Penelope’s breath caught. For an instant she considered retreating into deflection, into girlish giggles or a convenient swoon. But his eyes, so searching, so unyielding, held her fast.
At last she shook her head, her voice trembling but sure. “I feel for Colin as I do for Eloise, my lord. As a friend, as a sibling almost. Nothing more.”
Anthony’s jaw eased a fraction, though his eyes did not soften. Something unreadable flickered there relief perhaps? Or maybe something more dangerous. “I see,” he murmured, the syllables carrying the weight of a secret verdict. He inclined his head in measured courtesy, but his gaze lingered longer than courtesy required.
Anthony stepped closer, the space between them shrinking until she could feel the faint warmth of him even through the distance propriety demanded. He reached for her hand, gloved and trembling, and lifted it deliberately to his lips.
His gaze did not waver as he pressed a slow kiss to the back of her hand, then held it still, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. Penelope, caught, dared at last to lift her eyes to his.
“Up until now...” he said, his voice low and steady, “I held myself apart from you because I believed your heart tender towards Colin. And I could not and would not...covet what was never meant to be mine. But now…” His mouth curved with something nearer to anguish than smile.
“Now that I know it is not so, I find myself unable to look at you without feeling the truth of my own coveting. And I slept very poorly last night, Miss Featherington. Do you know why?”
Her lips parted, her voice barely audible. “No.”
Anthony’s grip tightened, just enough that she felt the urgency pulsing beneath his restraint. “Because though my body never left my room, and I never did search out yours as you so… lewdly suggested last night” Penelope’s face flamed scarlet “in sleep, I was not so restrained. Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?”
Penelope’s lips trembled, her gaze flickering down to where his hand still held hers fast. She could have denied it, could have laughed and fluttered her fan as so many ladies might. But something in his eyes, something fierce, unguarded, drew the truth from her lips as though he commanded it.
“My lord…” she whispered, breath catching. “For some years now, my dreams have been nothing but… pictures of such lack of restraint. Of me …of you…of us together.” Her lashes swept down, hiding the blaze in her eyes, but it was too late; the words hung between them like a spark poised to ignite.
Anthony’s breath hissed sharply through his teeth. For a heartbeat he stood utterly still, save for the taut pulse in his throat. The Viscount of impeccable duty, of rigid control, found himself swaying toward her as though drawn by a force older than reason. Only the creak of a distant floorboard reminded him that this was still Aubrey Hall, not the private sanctuary of his restless sleep.
Anthony swallowed hard, his thumb still circling unconsciously over her gloved hand. “Why,” he asked hoarsely, “did you never speak of this? If you felt so… if you dreamed so… why silence all this time?”
Penelope’s eyes glistened, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. “Because my mother says I am ugly. Always. And only last year was my debut. I was so young....still am. Why would you ever look at me, when you had your beautiful mistress, Sienna Rosso? You seemed so ardently in love with her. At least… that is what I thought.”
Her cheeks burned as she forced the words past her lips. “That very day...the day of my debut, Daphne’s too... I saw you. By the carriages, against a tree. You and she… it was poorly hidden. I thought it must mean overwhelming passion, feelings so strong you could not contain them. And I told myself you could never feel such things for me.”
Anthony’s thoughts roared. Shame scorched him for what she had seen, anger blazed hotter still at the cruelty that had planted such doubt in her heart. Ugly? His chest tightened until it ached. How dare her mother? How dare anyone belittle her, when she burns brighter than the whole cursed ballroom?
Anthony drew a ragged breath. “Penelope… I am sorry for what you witnessed. It was unworthy of me, and unworthy of your eyes. Sienna and I...” He faltered, his gaze hardening as he forced himself to continue. “What lay between us was not what you imagined. It was… convenience, escape, but never what you believed it to be. I would not have you think...”
Penelope lifted her chin, cutting him off with a blush and a rush of words. “I know, I know. You and Sienna are not together anymore. Everyone in Town knows, if one listens hard enough. She has not one, but three mistress contracts now...with three different gentlemen.” Her lips quirked despite her embarrassment. “I suppose she did not waste time in finding new… comforts. But she somewhat had to after your....abrupt dismissal.”
Anthony stared at her, torn between exasperation and reluctant amusement. Trust Penelope to both interrupt his confession and disarm it with a candor and censure, sharper than any blade. The sting of shame eased only slightly; the image of her, hearing her own mother’s cruelty and thinking herself unwanted, still clawed at his heart.
Anthony’s brows drew together. “How? How could you know such details?” There was no censure in his tone, only startled disbelief, as if she had plucked a secret straight from the air.
Penelope’s lips curved into a smirk, her eyes glinting despite the heat in her cheeks. “Well, Lady Whistledown has quite the network of informants,” she said lightly, though the words carried more weight than he could possibly guess. “And besides…” Her voice softened, shaded with irony. “Nobody notices wallflowers. One hears an astonishing number of things when no one thinks to lower their voices.”
For a heartbeat Anthony simply stared, certain he had misheard. But the sly curl of her smile, the glimmer of mischief in her eyes...it all aligned too perfectly with the sharp quill that had plagued London this past Season. The truth struck him like a bolt of lightning. “Good God,” he breathed, his voice hushed and hoarse. “You are Lady Whistledown.”
Penelope’s cheeks flushed crimson, but she did not deny it. Her chin lifted instead, as though daring him to scold her, daring him to strip away what secrecy remained. The audacity of it...the courage, the cleverness...set his pulse hammering. He should have been outraged, he told himself, should have condemned her deception at once. Yet admiration rose first, fierce and unbidden.
And beneath the admiration, something darker stirred. His mind reeled with the thought of the quiet girl no one noticed, wielding words sharp enough to topple reputations. It was intoxicating. To see her standing before him, trembling yet defiant, to know she had unmasked herself only to him...it sent heat coursing through his veins, a dangerous quickening that no Viscount should feel for a lady in his care.
Anthony drew a breath as though steadying himself, then released her hand only to bow his head slightly toward her. “You astonish me, Miss Featherington. To think it was you all along...the quill that set half the ton aflutter. I should scold you for it, yet instead I find myself… in awe.” His eyes held hers, and for once his voice lacked command; it brimmed instead with reverence.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she might hear. “It was you who exposed Berbrooke’s vile pursuit of my sister. You who cut him down with ink where my fists might have failed. And it was you who revealed the truth of Marina before Colin could make a ruinous mistake. I owe you more than I can ever repay. My family owes you.”
Penelope’s breath caught. She had expected fury, condemnation, perhaps even threats. Instead, she found herself bathed in praise so lavish it unsettled her more than censure would have. Her eyes shimmered, her lips parting, but no words came. For the first time since donning Whistledown’s mantle, she felt truly seen, not as a wallflower, nor a meddling gossip, but as someone whose pen had mattered.
Anthony studied her a long moment, the silence between them stretching like a taut bowstring. Then his mouth softened, his tone deepening to something that carried both affection and resolve. “Tell me, Miss Featherington,” he said quietly, “would you prefer an off-season courtship... private, quiet, so that we might begin the next Season with you already at my side as Viscountess Bridgerton…?”
He took a half-step closer, eyes glinting with that unmistakable Bridgerton mischief. “Or shall I court you openly? Give the ton a spectacle to chatter about while you, at long last, may rub your triumph in every smug, whispering face?”
Penelope blinked, her lips parting in astonishment. For a moment she thought she had misheard, that her imagination, giddy with confession and praise, had conjured the words. But there was no jest in his gaze—only steady purpose, and a glimmer of something perilously close to tenderness. Her heart stuttered once, then twice, before she found her breath again.
Penelope shook her head slowly, still half in disbelief. “My lord… you cannot mean this. You could have any lady in London. I...I am not beautiful, and you know what people say....”
Anthony stopped her with a look so fierce it silenced her instantly. “Enough. Your mother is a fool.” His voice softened but lost none of its conviction. “You are beautiful, Penelope. Do you hear me? Beautiful. You glow when you speak, you catch light like you yourself are aflame, and when you laugh...God help me, it’s impossible not to follow that sound.”
He exhaled, his shoulders easing. “If that’s all that holds you back, then dismiss it. I’ve asked you a simple question: which kind of courtship shall it be?”
Her cheeks flamed, but she smiled...small and shy, though her eyes shone. “An off-season courtship will do quite nicely, thank you, my lord.” Then, hesitating, she added softly, “And Whistledown?”
He huffed a low laugh, rubbing a thumb across her knuckles. “You may continue if you wish. But I do not want you in danger. Take me along...or a footman at least. And perhaps,” his lips curved, “be slightly less biting toward the Queen. She’s meant to enjoy the game, not make you its quarry. Beyond that… be Whistledown if you wish. She’s magnificent—and so are you.”
Penelope hesitated, twisting her fingers together. Another worry plagued her.
He softly spoke to her: "Tell me please...what concerns you?"
“My lord,” she said quietly, “I am very inexperienced in certain matters. Even though I alluded to them yesterday. Everything I know of… affection, I have only ever read in books.. Or experienced through self exploration.”
She swallowed, colouring deeply. Witnessing him groan softly and lightly adjusting his stance. “What I mean to say is…I have never even been kissed. What if I prove a disappointment?”
Anthony’s expression gentled; the fierce Viscount vanished, leaving only the man who loved her. “Oh…my sweet Penny,” he murmured, smiling now, “you could never disappoint me. The only lesson worth learning is the one we shall learn together. What you like...what we like.”
He lifted her hand, then, and bent to kiss her, just once, slowly and reverently nothing more than a brush of lips, yet it carried the weight of every vow unspoken. When he drew back, she was smiling through tears, and he whispered, “A beginning, then. The first of many lessons in happiness.”
Penelope fueled by instinct pulled him back, initiating another kiss. This one was hungry and slightly inept. But it made the Viscount groan just the same.
From behind the tall hedge bordering the rose walk, Violet Bridgerton peered through a delicate gap in the foliage, one gloved hand pressed dramatically to her heart. Beside her crouched Benedict, who looked less like a conspirator and more like a schoolboy caught between laughter and guilt. They had come upon the pair quite by accident, or so Benedict would later claim, but once his mother had noticed Anthony and Penelope standing far too close together, curiosity had quite conquered propriety.
Neither of the onlookers could hear a word, though Violet swore she saw Penelope’s hands tremble and Anthony’s face soften in a way she had not seen since he was a boy with a scraped knee. When at last he bent his head and kissed the girl, Violet gave a tiny squeal of triumph and clutched Benedict’s sleeve. “At last!” she whispered. “My dearest wish fulfilled. She’ll be my daughter yet.”
Benedict stifled a laugh. “You might let them breathe first, Mother, before planning the wedding breakfast.” But even he couldn’t help smiling as he watched his brother and the young lady draw apart, eyes bright and lips curved in wonder. It was, he thought, the perfect ending to a most odd and short courtship and the beginning of what promised to be a very Bridgerton sort of love story indeed. And as Penelope pulled her Viscount down towards herself. Benedict thought not just love...but passion as well. Lots and lots of passion...Benedict almost felt envious. His mother merely exclaimed with glee: "Good God."