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Chapter Text

He is in Paris when he surrenders.

It is one full month into his tour, and while surrounded by exquisite food and even better views, part of him is still stuck on Mayfair, and the night that changed everything between him and Penelope. 

Distance had not done anything to calm the storm of thoughts about her. In a way, it has amplified them: he has not sent her any letters, and thus, because his itinerary was not shared with anybody but family, Penelope would not know where he is and so there are no letters from her. The comments she would surely make about his love for French pastries, his tendency to take at least three days to become used to being on a ship once more, and about every bit of culture around him were nonexistent, and with them, Colin found, so was some of the excitement about his journey.

The very first day he arrived in Paris, he sat down at the small desk provided with his lodgings, took out a blank piece of paper and his writing materials, and decided to write to her…only for the words to never come.

It was quite disorienting. He had been perplexed the entire day after, even more so when his efforts proved fruitless once more as he tried again. Talking with Penelope had always been easy, but writing with her was another experience. His hand always flew over the papers, words appearing as fast as he would write them and spanning the entire length of the page before he was forced to search for another blank one to continue. She was the one who received his most comprehensive, deepest, longest letters, and she always responded in kind, even when she would write that her off season was not as interesting as his.

Questions, comments, jokes…she gave him all of it and more, and he tried to share as much of his tour as he could, knowing and feeling her curiosity in between the ink of her letters. Sitting down now, and staring at yet another blank paper even after an entire week and half in Paris, Colin lets out a frustrated sigh and drops his head on his hands, leaning into his elbows.

He does not know where to even begin. Their unfinished conversation haunted him, and although he thought of continuing it even through paper, he decided that it was too much of a risk. If anybody were to intercept their letters…

But what else is he to do? The silence between them is heavy and he carries it with him with every day that passes. He is torn between the disbelief and anger of her writer persona and the fondness he holds for the girl he has known half his life. He currently exists in the middle of those two ends of the spectrum, all nervous hands and deep frown, wondering how her days go and if she is sharpening her wit for the start of the next season. Does she write his letters with the same quill as she does her column? Has he, unknowingly, ever fed her a piece of gossip he should have kept to himself? Is Lady Whistledown the true face of her person, or is it merely the mask she puts on to govern over the rumor mill of the ton?

He does not know how to reconcile both of those parts of her, how to think about them as one instead of facets, and so he gives up and leaves the desk, throwing himself to his bed and staring at the ceiling in hopes it holds at least a small answer as to what he is supposed to do now.

His sleep is fitful, but when he wakes, his tiredness is enough to withhold the need to write something perfect. He is barely awake as he grabs the quill and starts writing, and by the time he is finished, the page is filled with half finished sentences, apologies, questions, anything that could have been written about their…situation was put on the paper. His handwriting is atrocious, and the words make less sense the more he wrote them, but his head feels just a little bit lighter.

The letter is folded and sealed with wax before he stops. Penelope’s name stares back at him, hastily written in his urgency to send it, but his mind is slowly sharpening and suddenly his words seem entirely too inappropriate. The way they had left things…would she welcome his letters? And if so, did she not deserve something better than the ramblings of a man half awake? A man who barely even knew how he felt about her reveal, and who had not yet found the answer of how to move forward?

How pathetic would he look? In front of such a…published writer! No, he could not send this. His words, this ones at least, should remain close to his chest. It was a start, though. Now without the pressure of his unorganized thoughts, he could begin a proper letter and reach out to her and perhaps find a way to communicate everything he was feeling.

Yes, he would do that. He would write another letter, a proper one, and with that things would get easier. Their correspondence will grow and, if he is lucky, he will have been able to work through all of this before stepping foot in English soil again.

As he puts the letter away in between the pages of his new journal, he steadfastly ignores the voice hissing from inside his head—‘coward, coward, coward, coward’—and sits down to review the next couple of destinations on his journey. 

His mother finds him deep in maps, quill tracing lines all over the miniature countries that have small notes written on the sides of them. He has reduced his itinerary to twenty cities, which is just on the edge of permissible, but he knows there are about five of them that he will only be able to visit if the circumstances allow it.

“Dearest?”

“Mother,” Colin greets, ripping his attention from his work and gifting her a smile. 

Violet enters his study, eyeing the mess on his desk as she walks closer until she is standing right in front of it. “You have been shut inside here all morning. Has something happen?”

“Not at all,” He replied. “I am merely finishing the planning of my next tour. I loved my time in Greece, but I must admit I am curious about other parts of the world. I intend to visit at least fifteen of these cities.”

He pushes the map towards her, fingers excitedly pointing to the ink circles around his planned stops. His mother hums, and indulges his explanations about everything he hopes to see in between the streets of Rome, or Paris, or Spain, or Germany, and she waits until his words trail off to gently push the map back towards him.

“Are you alright, mother?” Colin questions, catching the way her eyes flicker from his maps to him.

“Yes, I am well, it is simply…” Violet sighs, and he can recognize the small signs of nervousness: the hands fiddling with each other, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. Her feet carry her to the right side of the desk, leaning against it, and looks down at him with what he can only describe as worry. “Is everything all right, my dear?”

“Of course,” He answers, shrugging. “Why would it not be?”

“Are…are you sure another tour so soon is such a good idea?” Violet asks, words slow and hesitant.

Colin clears his throat, unknowingly straightening in his chair. “Is there a reason why I should not go on one? I do enjoy traveling, mother.”

“I know you do, and I love that you have found something that you are so passionate about, but…” She breathes in, as if bracing for something, and reaches for his hand, which he offers quickly. “I just wonder if your love of traveling is truly the only reason why you are so eager to leave, that is all.”

“I do not understand,” Colin says. “Why else would I do it?”

And the way she looks at him then—like he is nothing more than a child pretending he is a grown up, with the same glint of worry and pity that she used to have back when he was small and needed her arms for comfort—makes him tense. His hand starts to retract, but his mother holds on tightly.

“I believe you are searching for something,” Violet states. Her voice is soft, a barely there whisper with the type of tone meant to sooth. “And whatever that may be…I do not know if you are going to find it out there. I…grow worried that your travels are nothing more than a means of escape.”

“You are wrong,” Colin says, and his own ears catch the sharpness in the words. “I simply enjoy traveling. There is no need for escape, I assure you.”

He has always loathed lying to his mother, always feeling the words scraping by his tongue and heavy with shame and guilt, but this time he swallows it all and keeps his face impassive. A look at her eyes, and he knows she is aware of his lie. The happenings of last season—Marina, her deceit, his humiliation—sit between them, unspoken but recognized, and a part of him is wary of his mother bringing forth the issue of months past.

She does not, and only stares at him, his hand still cradled in hers. For a long moment there is nothing but silence and stares, and he wonders who will breaks first. His hand grows sweaty in between her fingers, and he can see the way her mouth opens and shuts, apparently indecisive of her words. 

“Twenty cities is quite the task,” Violet speaks at last, smiling at him, though it does not reach her eyes. 

“I believe I am up to it,”

“Of course,” She says. “I do hope you enjoy yourself, dearest…but I do believe you must be a bit careful. Traveling, learning, all of what you do on a tour is a great, most valuable experience indeed…but do make sure not to lose yourself out there.”

“I assure you, I am always careful,” Colin replied. “And I hire expert guides. No harm will come to me.”

Violet nods, though she doesn’t look mollified by his answer. Even so, she tightens her hand around his once before letting it go, straightening from the desk and quickly smoothing down the crease on her dress that had formed during their conversation.

“I will leave you to continue your planning,” She says. One of her hands reaches out, caressing the side of his face with the tenderness that only a mother could muster. “But you will stay until the season ends, yes?”

Colin purses his lips. “If I leave two weeks before that, then I could—”

“—until the season ends, yes?” Violet interjects, and there’s desperate insistence in her voice, enough that he doesn’t have the heart to contradict her.

“…until the season ends,” Colin confirms, nodding once. “The day after it does.”

Violet nods, seemingly at peace with his answers, and gifts him another smile before walking away and leaving, closing the door after she has crossed it. Colin stays seated, eyes placed on where she had stood moments before, unable to shake off the feeling that he and his mother had been communicating about different things.

He keeps writing letters, but he never sends them. 

He never seems to get them right. They are either too short, too mechanical in their delivery, or overly emotional, all full of rambles and questions that pour out of him like a flood. He had to buy a small bag just to contain them all, Penelope’s name and his wax seal welcoming him each and every time he has to put another letter away.

It is two months into his tour now. Two months of joyful traveling and unrelenting curiosity, all while doing his best to ignore the way his heart stuttered whenever something would irrevocably remind him of the one person he held most dear.

The trouble of such a thing is that there was not just one thing that carried meaning for him in regards to Penelope. A flash of yellow clothing would have his neck swiveling around. The taste of Parisian chocolate and the smell of old books in the libraries he wandered into would have her name upon his tongue before he forced himself to remember that she was not in his presence. 

He filled the letters with all of this. The places he discovered, the food he ate and relished in, the history that bled into the streets he walked around…anything and everything that made his mind even whisper her name ended up as ink across a page, the words desperate to share and have her write back in return. Did she like his descriptions? Was there anything she was curious about? Maybe she would have a funny comment or three that would make his experience all the richer.

It is the case in the letter he is holding at the moment, all filled with the wonderings of a man who is just about to embark on the perilous adventure of crossing the Alps. He thinks she would marvel at the sight of them, a most imposing image of what nature is capable of: snow dusting the peaks of the mountains, the grass softly swaying against the harsh winds, and the marks of past travelers in the shape of the roads he must take to cross the Mont Cenis pass. 

Perhaps she would balk at the way the journey was traveled: his carriage dismantled, taken apart to be carried by his guides in different horses while he himself is being ushered into a sedan chair even when he insists that he would like to feel the way his boots meet the ground. His safety is, as his guides have reminded him often enough, of the utmost importance. It would not do well to have him hurt in any sort of way.

He writes about all of this, and for the first time since he started the one sided correspondence, he does not write about Lady Whistledown. His letter mirrors the ones he used to write to her a season ago, all ramblings and questions about things Penelope would find an interest in.

“Would you like me to deliver that to the post, sir?” 

Colin startles from his place resting against the wall of the sedan chair. One of his temporary guides stands in front of him, pointing at the letter in his hands. 

“Oh, this…” Colin hesitates, and looks down at the folded letter once more.

It has been two months of silence, and at this point, he has started to wonder how much more he can take before Penelope consumes the entirety of his thoughts. Perhaps…one letter might be the answer he has been looking for, even if it is not the confrontation he has been seeking.

“Ah, yes, if you would just give me a moment,” Colin says, and quickly takes out his quill and inkpot. Awkwardly balancing both of those things in his arm, he scribbled the address of his lodgings in Turin, and waits for it to dry before folding it and handing it to the guide. “If you could be so kind as to make sure it is send in haste, I would be most grateful.”

“As you wish, sir,”

The journey through the Alps begins, and Colin decided that when Penelope answers he will make sure to finally start a proper conversations about her…other activities.  

He should have checked the fullness of the flask before leaving his home.

Although weddings were long—this one most of all, because very few people could boast about the fact that the Queen of England herself was there and had been the patron of the event—there was not much use for his flask while inside the church itself. It was all but empty, only a quarter of the liquid remaining, which he knew to be more than enough for the duration of the ceremony before the wedding breakfast was to take place and he could drink whatever the footmen were carrying around.

The one thing Colin did not anticipate was for Anthony’s wedding to be stalled.

If he is honest with himself, he cannot even comprehend fully what happened, but he did see the way his oldest brother and the oldest Sharma sister looked at each other before the chaos of the youngest Miss Sharma running away from the altar caused everything to stop while the guests were herded to wait outside.

The sun’s heat beats down from above and makes his cravat feel suffocating while he gulps down the last few drops of whiskey from his flask, once again lamenting the fact that he failed to fill it to the brim before leaving for the church.  

He sighs, staring at the now empty flask, absentmindedly closing the cap the readying himself to put it away—

“A celebratory drink? Have you succeeded already, Colin?”

Penelope arrives at his side quietly like she does most of the time, but does not stay that way. Her smile is soft but her eyes shine with the same teasing glint he has become accustomed to. He returns her smile, forgetting about his previous lamenting of the empty flask, and puts it away on the inner pocket of his tailcoat.

“Only if whatever I am looking for can be found at the bottom of this flask,” Colin answers. The taste of the whiskey is not enough to mask the bitterness in his tone.

“I am certain you’ll find your purpose one day,” Penelope says. “Everyone must, eventually.”

She is…completely earnest about her words, like she always is, and he cannot help but feel comfort in the wake of her confidence. She sounds entirely too sure about him as well, which stirs an odd mix of fear and excitement that he does not know where to place. He stares at her, tilting his head in consideration, unable to help his sudden curiosity.

“Have you found yours?” 

Penelope chuckles, looking down for a moment before sweeping her gaze across the garden. “Of course not, but…I imagine it to be something both animating and satisfying. The type of venture that speaks not to who I am but rather…who I am to be.”

Her eyes are still set on the scene around them, taking in all of the people mingling about. Colin focuses only on her. Her smile has shifted, smaller now but with much more warmth as she speaks, as if imagining what her future would look like and what steps she must take to arrive at it. She has not made mention of anything specific, but he already knows that, when she finds what she is looking for, she will hold it with both hands and never let it go. That is a type of confidence he has never known, but that he is now lucky enough to witness. 

“My purpose will challenge me to be brave and witty,” Penelope continues, giddiness sweeping into her tone. “My purpose will propel me far beyond the watchful glare of my mama. My purpose…shall set me free.”

“What could possibly measure up to all of that?” Colin murmurs, smiling down at her and reveling in the answering giggle that burst from her mouth. “Your dreams are grander than you let on, Pen.”

“Yes, they are…mere fantasies, but…” Penelope shrugs softly, now returning her gaze to him. “I do believe we must allow ourselves those private moments so we may face reality armed with our reveries.”

She must be magic, he thinks, to be able to calm the raging storm inside his mind. 

He had done it before. Wonder and dreamt about what his life could look like, searching for something that would make his feet stay still and his heart become full. He cannot remember the last time he did not worry about the future—perhaps it was back when his father still drew breath, when life did not seem cruel and he could still laugh and run around with no sense of inadequacy hanging over his shoulders—but the more he did, the more it reminded him of what it was: a mere fantasy.

He thought he found the answer with Miss Thomp—Lady Crane. Someone to hold and protect and who could give him something resembling what his mother had found with his father: love and a family to raise. The sight of her had made him pause to take her in, admiring her beauty, and when she started to accept his advances, he thought that was all there was to it: a single moment in which you simply know.

And now he stands here, an entire season later with nothing but a half forgotten scandal to show for it and resentment for what his mind had gotten him into. Was he not grown enough to differentiate between reality and fantasy? Did he not know better than to believe that his dreams were better off inside his mind? 

He still remembers the moment Lady Crane told him that it was true, and the subsequent feeling of his stomach curling in shame and anger as he tried to make sense of how he had ended up there. As he stepped out of the room and tried to leave all his hurt behind, he remembers thinking that perhaps Anthony had been right about him: an immature, green boy who did not know he was being fooled because he had chosen to dream instead of looking at his reality.

His tour had allowed him to lick his wounds and become a better version of himself, one that did not heed fantasies and looked for something else to be instead of the third brother with no purpose who was still treated as a child. Someone who could stand tall at the side of his peers. Someone that could inspire pride in his family and friends. He was not quite there yet, but it was a start: to forsake fantasies and feverishly look for something to do with his life.

Standing here now, taking in Penelope’s words, Colin takes a moment to stare at her and let his awe show in his face. Perhaps, if she is to be believed—and she is, always; there is not one moment that he can recall where she has been anything less than loyal and honest—dreams are not the cruel things he has deigned them to be for the past months. 

“Lady Crane was…right about you,” Colin says, and it takes his mind a moment to acknowledge that he has started speaking. 

“Lady Crane?” Penelope asks, her voice taking on a slightly higher, nervous voice. She clears her throat, taking her eyes off him for a moment. “What did she say?”

Colin smiles. “That you cared for me. That you would never forsaken me. I am beginning to believe that now.”

Penelope pauses, and he sees the way her smile freezes for just a second before it grows, her lips pressing into each other as she tries to smother it. He does not. His smile is soft and big, his words hanging in between them and plunging them into a silence that is not uncomfortable but is riddled with…something.

Whatever it is or might be is broken by applause. He turns to the side, watching as a footman clad in red holds up a long knife, gesturing to the enormous wedding cake sitting in the middle of the garden.

“It appears we had better nab a piece of cake before it is all gone,” Colin comments, eyeing the eager people waiting just as the footman starts to slice into the dessert. His stomach grumbles, a reminder that he has not eaten since breakfast, and he turns and looks at Penelope one last time before bowing shallowly.

He manages to take three pieces before the footman sends him away, and delights in the taste of the frosting and the slight kick of the rum in the sponge, all while replaying Penelope’s words in his mind.

She does not write back.

He knows that there is a frame of time for letters to be delivered and for an answer to come, but when four weeks go by without a single clue of her possible answer, Colin starts to worry. Had she done it? Had she printed the beastly words he uttered that night and, by consequence, scorned herself in the public eye? Is that reason for her silence? 

The only thing that stops him from spiraling into those thoughts is the fact that his family, the ones that bothered to write back anyways, have not mentioned anything about any trouble befalling the Featheringtons, nor have they written something pertaining to Penelope in any way that might point towards something stopping her from writing back. Eloise, when discreetly questioned by one of his letters–because she is the one who should know if something was amiss with their mutual best friend–simply replied with: ‘Since when do you write to Penelope?’. He did not bother to answer.

He questions the owner of the place where he stays every day until the time arrives to leave, and even then Colin makes sure to leave his next address in case her letters are somehow lost in the chaos of the post and its workings, and does the same thing on the next four cities he visits with no answer from her.

His next letters are shorter, questioning about her lack of response and sometimes riddled with small jokes about how long the post takes. Once he even dares to send a small gift that could perhaps close the gap that had unwillingly fallen between the two of them: a flower, yellow and lively, plucked from the grounds of the Alps and preserved after being pressed inside the pages of his journal. He sends the letters with no hesitation, making sure to pay a handsome amount for it to be delivered as quickly as nature allows, and he tries to enjoy the surroundings of his new destination with as much excitement as he can gather.

He is never fully able to put her out of his mind, though. As much as he tries to ignore the weight of her silence, she follows him everywhere: the red of the sunset matches her hair, and the ocean in the coastal towns he visits would feel jealous of the color of her eyes. In every bookstore he steps into he can almost hear her voice, coyly telling him about whatever book had occupied her attention for the time being. 

It becomes unbearable when his guide takes him horse riding, an activity that he has never been proficient in, but one that holds a special place in his heart because of a day with strong wind and a devilishly yellow head covering. This time, when he stumbles into the mud, there is only his guide’s chuckles that answer his clumsy movement instead of a girl with teasing in her eyes.

“If you hold on tighter to the ropes, sir, then—”

“That wasn’t very well done of me, was it?”

“I would say. Perhaps your horse is simply not fond of you,”

“That, or perhaps it was that head covering that greeted me in the face,”

“It was not my fault, the wind blew it away! Are you alright?”

“I do not wish to continue this,” Colin interjects, harsher than intended. He straightens himself, glaring down at the mess the mud has made of his clothes, and shrugs tiredly at his guide. “I will be retiring early.”

The other man perks up in curiosity. “Oh? Sir, I was under the impression that you wanted to visit—”

“—it will still be here in the morning,” Colin interrupts once again, absentmindedly wiping off some mud with his hands. “I wish to rest. There is…much on my mind.”

He does not stay to hear the guide’s answer. His feet are as quick as he can allow them to be without attracting attention, the moisture sweeping through his clothing quickly enough that he is shivering by the time he reaches the place where he has been staying for the past three days.

A look at the owner of the place is enough for his hopes to be quieted. A shake of the head tells Colin that there is still no answer to the multiple letters he has sent, and at this point in time, he can no longer lie to himself like he has done for the past weeks: Penelope is not answering him out of her own will. Her silence is on purpose.

Colin clenches his jaw, stepping into his room and stripping off his clothing. His movements are restless, throwing the soiled shirt and pants to the floor with little care, which leaves him standing in only the interior layer of his outfit. He stands before his desk, staring at the fresh sheet of paper he had left out in preparation for the letter he wished to write as an answer for the one he hoped to get, which now he knew would never come.

Why was she not answering? Did she not want to work this out between them? 

He sighs, falling into his chair, and lets his hands hide his face away. He could send a mountain of letters, but there were still more than three countries between them by now. If she does not wish to reply, there is little he can do about it with the distance, but he simply cannot…give up. Not when it comes to her, not like what she appears to be doing. Did their friendship mean so little to her that she could throw it away with silence and no explanation?

…No, that could not be…could it? Penelope was not—She did not—She was important to him, very much so, and he knew—thought or knew?—that he, too, was special to her. She said so herself, did she not? The night of the Featherington ball…the very same night that everything changed.

“Why ever would you listen to Penelope Featherington of all people?”

“‘I would never court Penelope Featherington, not in your wildest dreams’,” 

“Is that the reason why your joke landed so well with the gentlemen? Because they knew poor, little, stupid Penelope did not know that her friend was laughing about her at her back?”

“And I never, in my wildest dreams, could I have guessed that somebody who calls himself my friend would be so embarrassed by me that he had to all but shout how ineligible I am to anybody who dared to listen in.”

Colin grimaces, powerless against the memories. Her words ring in his ears, every single one of them untrue and all of them courtesy of the brutish way he had behaved that same night. He could blame the alcohol all he wanted, how it had muddled his senses and made his mouth bigger and more biting, but that was a small excuse for his selfishness and inconsideration. For someone who was always praised for thinking of others, there is nothing but shame and guilt at the mere thought of how Penelope must perceive him now: cruel, unthinking, foolish.

He stares at the blank paper until his eyes burn and his head feels even more lost, but there is no answer to be given through silence and guilt. He drops into his bed carelessly, barely able to position himself in a somewhat comfortable tangle of limbs before he is dragged to a restless sleep.

He is back there once more. 

Penelope stands before him, glassy eyes and trembling lips as she tightly holds Lady Whistledown’s latest draft in her hands. He stares at her, pulled between anger and disbelief at the secret he has learned and with his senses compromised by the alcohol in his body.

They are fighting. Hissed words and wide eyes as they throw accusations at each other. She reaffirms her pride in being Lady Whistledown, in what she writes and the business she has created. He cannot comprehend it. Does she take pride in ruining the lives of others?

He asks her so, stepping closer. His frame is imposing against hers, the height different large enough that it has him looking down at her, but Penelope does not cower. She stands defiant against him, nodding and repeating her words—‘I was, am, and will continue to be Lady Whistledown’—even when he takes yet another step closer.

Their bodies are separated by a mere inch now, both of their chests heaving as the conversation draws to a tense impasse. His questions flutter all around his mind, being kept at bay by the anger that courses through his veins. He stares at her, and he knows this is Penelope…but to think of her as Whistledown seems impossible at this moment. 

 “My sister, your best friend, and your cousin, Penelope…how could you?” Colin asks, voice rough and just loud enough to reach her within the small distance between them.

“Everything that I wrote about them had no hidden motive, it was for protection,” Penelope murmurs, staring up at him. Her arms hang at her sides, body still.

“Protection?” He wonders.

“Yes, protection!” She hisses, swallowing nervously, taking a deep breath. His eyes flicker to her chest for a quick moment, lips falling open at the movement of her body as she inhales and exhales. A shake of the head is enough to startle him out of it, but her lips tremble before her next words, and he is unable to do anything but stare at the way they move. “Eloise was consorting with radicals and people were starting to notice, Colin, and Marina…she loves George, even after he has perished in battle. Nobody else would have been enough for her,”

“You ruined her,” He states, and for a sentence that should have been said in anger, his words sound flat as his eyes seem unable to rip them from her mouth, catching the second-long bite in which her upper teeth catch her lower lip.

“I protected you,” Penelope whispers, one of her hands coming to rest against his chest. She must be able to feel his heartbeat even through the layer of clothing and muscle, hammering rapidly at her gesture. “I protected you, Colin. She was manipulating you. She chose you and did everything she could to secure a marriage with you while knowing that her heart and her womb belonged to another. You…you desire love, Colin, do you not?” You would never have been happy with her,”

“You…do not know that,” Colin says, voice soft, and less assured that he thought it would be.

“Do I not?” Penelope questions, and steps closer, her body now flushed with his. “You always said you desired to have what your parents had. Has that changed?”

“No,” He answers, voice stilted. His body has gone stiff, not in discomfort, but from the torrent of desire that rushes through his spine. 

“Do you truly believe you would have been happy with her?”

Penelope is speaking and he hears the words, but his mind is too far gone now. She is pressed up against him, chest against his ribs and hand still splayed over his heart. He is only now noticing the way he has unknowingly leaned down, neck and back bent to allow his face to be closer to hers. 

Her eyes seem to beckon him forward, shining in the low light of her bedroom while her voice tapers off into a soft, angelic whisper. He feels his mouth open and close, empty of words as he stands there, hands fisting at his sides and face barely an inch from her own, feeling the warmth of her breath on his. A moment passes, dragging on…and then he gives in.

He presses his lips against hers, desperate. A startled sound from her mouth makes him pause, and he is about to break the kiss before she grabs him by the collar of his tailcoat, bringing him closer. He has no nights at brothels or days spent with a mistress to draw experience from, but his kiss is frantic and all he wants to do is commit the taste of her mouth to memory.

His hands wander, closing around her hips as he walks her back until she is pressed up against the wall at the side of the window. One of his hands cradles the back of her head, fingers threading into the locks of her hair, half undoing the high tuft while softly massaging her scalp as his teeth bite softly into her lower lip.

The sound that leaves her mouth is both unholy and divine, and Colin can do nothing more than pant and dive in again, his body so close to hers now that he would have difficulty discerning where he ends and Penelope begins. 

Her hands have taken to wander through his hair, pulling at it in an effort to bring him impossibly closer, then coming down to cup his jaw. He continues devouring her, breaking the kiss only when it becomes necessary to breathe, but his lips have a mind of their own now. He lowers his mouth into her neck, kissing and sucking in whatever piece of skin he can find, listening to her reaction.

Outside, the fireworks start, muffling the sounds of pleasure that have started to resonate in her bedroom, making him groan against her skin. He needs to hear her. Louder, more.

His hand wanders upwards, hovering over one of her breasts, and he rips himself off her neck just enough to look her in the eye.

“Is this alright?” He whispers, finger flexing above her breast but careful not to touch the fabric of her dress.

“Yes,” Penelope whispers, cheeks flushed and eyes darkened.

He kisses her again, deep and long while his hand covers her breast. Tentative at first, his fingers experiment with their pressure, listening to the moans and sighs that leave her, especially when he wanders close enough to where her nipple is hidden beneath her dress.

His other hand wanders south, pulling her hips towards him, wanting her closer and closer, feeling the tightness in his pants grow unbearable—

Colin gasps, sitting up on his bed quickly enough that his head aches.  Sweat clings to his forehead and neck, chest heaving and hands gripping the sheets. The vivid images stay with him, the sounds and sensations feeling more like a memory than a dream. A look down, and he is baffled at the sight of a wet spot on the front of his breeches, clearly alluding to the fact that he has…finished.

His confusion is strong enough that he does not get up to change, and stays seated against the headboard until the first rays of sunshine stumble through his window. The dream refuses to leave him even after he gets dressed and meets up with his guide, and he spends the entire day thinking about how…delightful Penelope looks with her cheeks flushed and lips swollen, even while berating himself over such thoughts.

It is a week later and Colin has started to believe that he might need to send for a doctor…or a priest.

He has long since left the last city behind, now halfway through Italy, and though his guide is exceptional at taking him into hidden places to explore and has knowledge of where to buy the most delicious meals, Colin knows that his enthusiasm has dwindled steadily with each passing day. 

His eyes feel heavy and his mind is not as sharp as it used to be, both affected by the lack of proper sleep that has evaded him since that blasted dream entered his mind, quickly followed by the same types of dreams each and every time he has tried to chase rest. They have gotten more vivid, somehow: visions of him and Penelope reading side by side, innocent enough until her feet brushes against his calf, and…

They always start out that way: normal, safe, echoes of activities he has performed with Penelope in the past, but it does not take them long to twist and become tainted by his uncontrollable lust. He surely must be the biggest of scoundrels to be objectifying Penelope this way, and it feels even more disrespectful considering the delicate state of their friendship at the moment. 

He cannot even stomach to look at the bag of letters addressed to her that he hauls around with him. Any thought of Penelope at the moment does one of two things: remind him of their frayed relationship, or of his less than gentlemanly dreams, and neither of those offer any shred of help where it is needed. 

“Sir?”

“Yes?” Colin answers, shaking his head, wincing at the throbbing in his temples, courtesy of his three hours of restless sleep. 

“If you do not feel well, perhaps we should look for a doctor,” His guide offers. The accent is thick but he speaks English well enough that the worry and confusion in his tone is apparent.

For a moment, Colin considers allowing him to do so, but the thought of explaining all of his…problems to anybody but himself immediately makes him stiffen. “That…that will not be necessary. I am afraid that my…lack of sleep is not something a doctor can fix.”

“Ah, women, then?”

“Uh, yes,” Colin stutters, caught entirely off guard by the knowing glint in the other man’s eyes. Perhaps, if his guide has any experience with this type of issue—

“Nothing a night at a brothel cannot fix, sir,”

—Oh.

“That is not—you are mistaken,” Colin rushes to explain, hating the way his cheeks flame at the suggestion. “I am merely…on the odds with a friend, that is all.”

“Ah, yes, a friend,” His guide nods, but there is a little smirk at the corner of his lips. “Even so, it is the same: to forget a woman, one must seek pleasure in another. Allow me to introduce you to the finest of establishments in this city. The women here—”

“—I do not wish to visit any type of establishment like that,” Colin interjects, voice unnaturally high, forcing him to clear his throat. “I am not…I do not…I am simply on tour to explore cities’ histories and sample food and drinks that I otherwise would not, that is all. I do not…seek pleasure.”

“Oh, of course,” The man says, words stilted, and looking entirely confused at the admission, as if the words were uttered in an unknown language. 

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, all full of avoidant glances on Colin’s part and of baffled looks from his guide, who stands there as if the thought of a young man on tour that does not step foot inside a brothel is beyond the wildest of thoughts. 

“Nothing wrong with that,” His guide exclaims suddenly, his chuckle nervous. “Every young man must find himself while on tour, in whichever way they decide to do so. Nothing wrong with deciding to…forgo certain activities.”

The words are supposed to be comforting, Colin knows that, but they manage to do nothing more than embarrass him, feeling spoken to as if he was still a boy instead of the young man he has become. He nods absently, urging his guide along the path, ignoring the still confused glances sent his way.

As they approach their destination, he cannot help but remember Anthony’s cutting words from two years ago—‘This is what comes from not sowing your wild oats.’–and, not for the first time since they were uttered, wonders if his older brother was right all along.

He is in Venice when he visits his first ever brothel.

The dreams continue haunting him, and his lack of sleep has become a dangerous thing. His attention is often compromised, either by his slow reaction time due to fatigue, or because he cannot stop thinking of Penelope. Has she read his letters, or did she throw them away without even opening them? What if he were to send another one? Would it make a difference? Would she finally respond after months of silence, or would he be left waiting like before?

He cannot keep going on like this. His demeanor is exhausted enough that the looks he gets from locals are nothing short of curious worry, and the days spent around the city are not enjoyable when he feels as if his body will stop working any second now.

There is one thing he has not tried in regards to getting rid of his dreams, and though he resisted the thought of it before, there really is little that it can do to worsen this entire situation, so he gives in. 

“I…I was wondering if your offer to…show me around was still on the table,” Colin says, right before they make their way back to his lodgings, trying to swallow the nervousness in his voice.

His guide raises an eyebrow. “Is that not what you are paying me to do, sir? Have my services been less than what you expected?”

“No, nothing of the sort, I…” Colin clears his throat, grimacing, knowing that he must be more obvious about what he is asking. “I find that you may have been right before…about, uh, certain establishments?”

“…I see,” The other man says, but even with the politeness that he tries to exude, his interested smirk is not quite contained. “Have you given any more thought to it, then?”

“Yes,” Colin nods. “As I said, I believe you may have been right. I would be thankful if you were to point me in the direction of, well…”

“I’ll bring you there myself, sir,” The guide grins, and pats him in the back. “You do not have to be nervous.”

“I assure you I am not,” 

He is. He is nervous, enough that he can feel his hands trembling as he steps inside what his guide has called ‘the finest, most expensive brothel this fair city has to offer’. It’s an inconspicuous building, weathered by time, but its inside burst with luxury. His entrance is quick, standing five steps inside and feeling lost on how exactly to proceed.

Colin is not naïve, no matter what Anthony would have anybody believe. He knows what goes on at brothels. He has heard, more than enough times, about the revelry that his brothers have partaken into, and has fielded more than his fair share of invitation into those activities. He knows, he knows...

…but knowledge is different from experience, which is where he fails completely. His guide wandered off the moment they entered inside, most likely in search of company, and now Colin is left trying not to avoid the eyes of the people closest to him. He asked to come here. He needs to see this through. Perhaps this may just be what he needs to finally be—

—A hand perches on his shoulder, and it takes every bit of restraint that he has to not jump in place. It belongs to a woman, delicate fingers tracing the fabric of his tailcoat as she circles him until she is standing in place. Brown hair, dark eyes, red lips and a glint in her gaze.

He does not quite remember the way towards the private room, or whatever words he managed to exchange with the woman—The Contessa, as she introduced herself. A real title or the mocking of one, he could not say—but he comes back to himself when her hands grip his cravat, undoing it carelessly. 

“I—” His voice is strained, hands digging into bed beneath him. “I am not…”

The Contessa stares at him for what feels like forever, and then smiles. There is curiosity in her gaze, mixed with what he presumes to be pity and surprise. His words refuse to come out, but there is little need for them. His entire behavior has already told her exactly what he seeks to convey, judging by the softening of her expression.

“We are a business,” The Contessa says, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt. “We do not engage with gentlemen who do not want to be here.”

There is a choice there, and for a moment, he thinks of taking it, but the thought of walking out of there with his head lowered and the whispers that would surely follow him, knowing exactly what did not happen inside that room…

I know you are still rather green.

You are a boy caught up in his own fantasies. 

You’re still a child, Colin.

“It is a good thing I do want to be here, then,” Colin says, and does what he does best: plasters a charming smile on his face that hopefully looks better than it feels, and forces himself to relax. “I am simply informing that I am not as…skilled as others.”

The Contessa regards him for another moment, and he gets the distinct feeling that she can read between the lines of his words. Even so, she nods, and presses his shoulders backwards to tip him back into the bed.

It is over quickly, or perhaps not. He truly cannot say, but at the end of it, he is leaving that room with his shirt half undone, hair messy, and lipstick marks all over his neck and jaw. The patrons around catch his eye and wink, some of them grinning and saluting him with their drinks, and Colin can do little more than smile and return nods as he makes his way towards the entrance. 

His guide is there, looking...satisfied, and his grin widens as Colin reaches him. “There it is.”

“Hm?”

“You walk like a man now,” His guide says, patting him on the back. “I saw the woman you went with—Contessa, yes? I have never been with her myself, but the men around here talk. You got quite lucky, having her be the first woman you bedded. How was it?”

If he were less aware of what his guide expects of an answer, Colin would tell him that it was…fine. He is still catching his breath from the physical exertion, and he now knows exactly what it feels to be inside of a woman and reach his climax with anything other than his hand, but outside of it…

It was fine. It was nice…

…it was definitely not the life changing, maturity inducing ritual that his brothers have led him to believe. He feels somewhat unsteady, body pleasantly relaxed but mind still in disarray, which only leads him to believe that perhaps he did something wrong. He should have seen stars in his eyes, no? He should be craving being inside a woman at this very moment, thinking of the sounds she would make, what she would taste like. He should be desperate to engage in such activities once more, and perhaps be indiscreet enough that people would realize that he has finally, finally, become the man he is supposed to be.

None of those things happen, which means he actually did something wrong…or perhaps it is not about doing anything wrong, but more about being. 

So much for sowing his wild oats, as his brother would say. 

 But he cannot speak about any of that. It is not permissible to do such a thing in public, and it is certainly not expected from a man—boy?—of his age to be so…indifferent to sex. There really is only one solution to this if he wants to keep his dignity intact.

Colin smiles indulgently, gazing around the brothel to avoid the guide’s eyes, and answers with as much satisfaction as he can muster. “A gentleman does not kiss and tell.”

The other man chuckles, and pats him in the back again. “Alright, alright…just do remember we are only here for four more days, sir. If you wish to visit again, make sure you have enough time.”

Colin nods, mentally denying the need for a second visit. Surely discovering and experiencing pleasure is more than enough to stave off his lustful thoughts about Penelope.

The dreams do not stop, and he holds out for a day before walking back inside the brothel during the afternoon. Across the room, the Contessa sits at a table alone and catches his eyes. Her smile widens and her hand points towards the door of a room at the back. 

Colin walks towards it, telling himself that he will do better this time around. 

As her lips trace along his jaw, her hand moving north and playing with his belt, Colin forces himself to ignore the way the sunlight streaming through the window catches in her hair—it’s not the right shade of red—and how…impersonal the entire session feels.

He keeps dreaming.

They are different each time and, he is relieved to say, not always the kind of dreams that have him waking up with his breeches tight. It’s always about Penelope, though, and they shift between actual fantasies and memories of them, sometimes conjuring scenarios that are a mix of both of those things. The best thing about it all is that they are not as constant as they used to be: where before he was haunted by them each and every night, it appears that his solution has worked halfway, and now he dreams only every couple of days or so.

The visits to the brothel are not the cure he was hoping for–one that would get rid of the dreams completely–but they tire him enough that his sleep has returned to a somehow manageable schedule that does not leave him completely exhausted, so he continues to go until it is time to leave Venice behind.

He arrives in Rome with the need to visit the ruins, sample the wine, and decides that perhaps another visit to a different brothel in an entirely different city is the answer to his problem. His guide, when asked about what establishments of that kind are available for visit, cannot hide his prideful grin as he takes him towards it. 

He visits often enough that some of the women have started to recognize him, but he pays no heed to that and enters their bed. Each time he leaves he does so with a smile and a promise to come back.

He never lets it show how…lonely it all is. How disconnected from himself he feels each time he gets dressed, cracking a joke or two at the still naked woman in the bed. How he might walk like a man now, but he feels as if traveling through fog, with his body pleasantly tired but his mind still restless.

It takes another week of days exploring and nightly visits before he cracks under the pressure of his own thoughts. He arrives back at his lodgings with his clothes rumpled and lipstick marks all over his neck, sitting down heavily on his bed. Where before he would collapse on his back and force himself to sleep, tonight his thoughts run rampant.

His eyes flicker to his desk, spying the small bag carefully placed on top of it. He has not touched it since that first night in which he dreamt of Penelope. He had found it difficult to write to her after their fight, and he had become desperate to write anything after her silence, but now the words simply…do not come. They refuse to be inked, and he is left with a myriad of things that he does not know where to put.

Colin sighs, and against his better judgment, goes and sits at the desk, staring at his recent purchase. A journal, bound in leather, with fresh pages not yet touched by his quill. It had been an impulsive decision, born out of the need to record everything and anything he had seen on his tour, with the goal of consolidating the scattered writings he had been carrying around inside his travel bag. 

His fingers twitch, reaching for the awaiting quill, and hopes and prays that his inability to write to Penelope has not bled into his inability to write personal thoughts. 

It has not. The quill moves quickly through the paper, his mind uncaring about sounding coherent in pages that he knows will never see the light of say, and he writes and writes and writes until his mind feels clearer than it has since he left Mayfair.

By the time he steps foot on English soil again, he feels like a different man.

There is a confidence in him that had not been there before, originating from finally making the most of his tour in the way that he should have done before–the way it was expected–and of achieving his goal of visiting the most cities of his itinerary as humanly possible. His experiences abroad feel greater now, no longer stuck in one place like the year before, and not exclusive to food and history. 

He feels grown–He is grown.

He is also homesick, but that is quickly remedied. He hires a carriage at the port, urging him to go as fast as permissible, knowing that his family will soon be leaving for Francesca’s presentation in front of the Queen, something which he cannot miss.

“Will you not come here and embrace me?”

His exclamation finally startles his family out of their surprise. Hyacinth is the first one to respond, running to hug him with Gregory hot at her heels. His other siblings descend upon him: Anthony and Benedict with their steady, heavy hugs, his sisters with longer ones, and his mother all but smothering him against her.

Colin grins, basking in the joy of returning to his family, and lets himself be pulled towards one of the carriages when it becomes clear that their departure should have been minutes ago.

It is one thing to feel like a man, but it is entirely another to be perceived as one.

His brothers had been the first ones to notice, teasing him about being sturdy, while Eloise made mention of his smooth entrance and quiet presence. The debutants, too, had gravitated towards him and the charm that he had learned and honed abroad.

There are no bored looks as he rambles about whatever ruins he witnessed; no confusion when he does not mention the more…intimate activities; no rolling of the eyes as he recounts the marvel of the food.

There is simply him, a charming smile, and vague descriptions of the places he visited and the people he met.

If this event is anything to trust in, this season is shaping up to be the most comfortable, easy time he has had in society since he left Eaton.

Colin walks around, absentmindedly chewing one of the biscuits he managed to swipe from a footman’s tray, nodding and smiling at the women who catch his eyes and hide their interested grin behind their fans. He has already made conversation with the majority of them, and though it was easy to do so, it was also…superficial, enough that he needs to take a break from it all.

He is lingering by the edges of the garden when he spots her.

Penelope

She has only just arrived, walking behind her sisters, their husbands, and her mother.

The image of her stops him completely. His eyes take her in, searching for any difference between the one he fought with and the one that stands there now. Her dress is familiar, all yellow and adorned in multicolor flowers, and her hair is the same as it has always been. Her tendency to disappear to the back is still there too: she gazes around the garden, moving until she has found a spot conveniently out of the way, and claims it as her own while her family ventures further into the party.

He is moving before he can think it through, like he has done so many times before, pulled by her presence. He sidesteps footmen and barely spares a glance towards the debutants who try to speak to him, managing only a nod in return. He slows down when he is a few feet away from her, caught off guard by the rush of nerves that settle on his chest.

He forces himself to walk the rest of the way, stepping into her line of vision. He recognizes the moment she becomes aware of who he is. The shy, silent demeanor that she wears usually vanishes, replaced by a stiffness in her posture and her eyes that flicker between him and the ground. 

The silence between them is thick and uncomfortable, everything that he does not want it to be,and though he knows they stand on shaky ground at the moment, he cannot let it go on.

“Pen,” Colin greets, his attempt at a smile faltering in the face of her silence. “It is…it is good to see you,”

“Is it?” She asks, still avoiding his eyes.

He answers immediately, the words falling out of his mouth with a kind of honesty that he does not remember having used in a while. “Truly. It feels like I have been absent for years instead of months. You…you look well.”

“...so do you,” Penelope answers, still avoiding his eyes. “Then again, you always have.”

“They wear things like these in Paris,” Colin says, but mentally scolding himself for the comment. Was there nothing else he could have said but to speak of his clothes? “But, well…at the end of the day it is merely clothing.”

Penelope nods, but makes no attempt at continuing their conversation, plunging them right back into the awkward silence he had been trying to avoid. He clears his throat, searching and trying to grasp for the confidence he had not five minutes ago, but it seems to have vanished the moment he stepped foot in front of her.

He is in the middle of trying to string a sentence together when she speaks, tone flat and eyes still refusing to look at him. “Excuse me.”

Colin steps to the side, trained by years of propriety, and stares at her back as she retreats to the entrance of the garden, following in the retreating footsteps of her family. 

The suffocating feeling on his chest grows, staying with him even after stuffing his mouth with the rest of the biscuits and searching for one of his family members to distract him.

He cannot appear in front of Penelope again without a plan, or something akin to it.

He had been optimistic that perhaps seeing her would set his mind at ease and thus allow him to speak to her, but it seemed that her presence had the opposite effect on him. They had barely exchanged words when she left him, standing there with nothing but an inane comment about his clothing and the regret that he could not get his thoughts in order quickly enough.

That situation must not repeat itself, he thinks. He will force his tongue to work next time he sees her, and find a way to sneak away for the talk that needs to happen between them. He is not going to let all of…this…fester between them.

“Brother, please take some of his attention,”

Colin shakes his head, turning to look at Benedict before giving his attention to his oldest brother.

Anthony grins, straightening in his chair and slapping the center of the table. “You…I invited you here to congratulate you on your many new admirers.”

The words are laced with surprise, contentment, and most of all, pride. His brother is openly praising him, not undertone of disappointment in his tone or badly hidden anger in the way he murmurs. It is everything Colin has asked of and wanted from Anthony, and yet it makes him feel…ill. Discomfort rolls in his stomach, which prompts him to take a generous swig of the whiskey. The alcohol burns his throat and leaves a bitter aftertaste, but it is enough to control the uneasiness that threatened to linger.

“I am not certain that should cheer me,” Colin answers, finger hovering over the rim of the glass, eyes focused where the bottom of his glass meets the table.

He cannot appear before Penelope without at least an inkling of what to say, but he spends the entire time at Mondrich’s thinking about his words and leaves with nothing but defeat.

He promises himself to gather his wit and have a proper, non-stilted conversation with her at the next available opportunity. 

Such a thing presented itself in the shape of Lady Danbury’s start of the season ball. He and his family had arrived on the edge of fashionably late, and greeted the host and the guests they could find before splintering in groups.

Colin ended up by the food, getting through an entire place of small sandwiches before being called over by a group of gentlemen he recognized from seasons past. All of them were in a loose circle, hands around glasses of wine and whiskey, with the arrogance and smiles that men of their station always have hanging around.

He fit into them like he belonged, or at least it felt like it. The circle opened to welcome him in, a glass pressed into his hand, and more than a few jokes about his travels that they had heard from the gossiping debutants and mamas. 

They ask for details, and Colin gives them…or rather, he gives them what appears to be details, uttered with a smirk and leaving just enough mystery to keep them interested. He throws in The Contessa’s name, aware that he embellishes his experience with her far more than he wants to, but his peers look at him with interest and respect, and he finds his mouth running on and on until silence falls across the ballroom.

He turns to the side, searching for the origin of the surprise, and–

She is there.

Penelope

Unrecognizable, and yet familiar.

She is clad in an emerald dress that accentuates her shape, with her hair flowing down in soft curls, going over her left shoulder. Her hands and forearms are hidden beneath a layer of black lace evening gloves. There is a butterfly clip on her hair, matching her necklace. 

She is walking down the stairs, appearing for all intents and purposes like she does not care about every eye on her, back straight but eyes still fighting for somewhere to look at. It is not until she is at the very last step that her gaze finds his.

He is frozen, mouth open, and meets her eyes as she walks across the ballroom. It feels like forever before she turns away, and when she does, he finally breathes in and out and tries to remember what exactly he was saying before her entrance. He clears his throat, taking a deep swig of his wine, and nods absentmindedly at whatever the lord at his side mutters, all the while thinking about how exquisite Penelope looks tonight.

Colin smiles, watching as his companions smirk and raise their eyebrows in interest. Twenty minutes into this conversation, and neither of them had tried to beg off of his conversation. He takes a sip of his drink, relieved that his efforts are reaping its fruit, and is about to answer before someone runs past him…a woman, red hair and emerald dress.

“Pen?” He exclaims. She does not turn around, leaving him worried. “She…she did not look well.”

Lord Stanton shrugs. “The Featherington girl? Why concern yourself with her? I want to hear what happened on some of those late nights.”

“Whatever happened to you, I must say, you are much more fun this season,” Lord Wilding comments.

“Do excuse me, just a moment,” Colin says, passing his drink to the footman at the door.

Locating Penelope is not hard. She is standing off to the side, beneath one of the arches of the building, hand pressed against her mouth while the other grasps the fabric of her dress tightly. A look down, and he can see a rip on the side of the dress, long enough to be noticeable but not enough to be scandalous. There is nobody else out here, which is ideal, so he nods to himself and steps closer, intent on holding at least a small conversation with her. The…other topic can wait for after they have broken this ice between them.

“Pen,”

“Colin,” Penelope greets him even while avoiding his gaze. “What are you doing out here?”

“I am just…getting some fresh air,” He answers, politely ignoring the obvious mishap of her outfit. “Why are you leaving so soon? Especially in such a charming dress,”

Giving compliments is a second nature to him at this point in his life, and though he tries to be honest most of the time, he does slip into a bit of exaggeration every now and then. It is not the case here. He is in earnest, and he hopes he conveys that, but one look at Penelope’s expression tells him otherwise.

“Do not mock me, please,” She says, steadfastly refusing to look at him.

“Mock you?” Colin frowns. “I assure you I am quite serious. The color rather suits you.”

Penelope smiles, so very different from her usual ones–defeated, indignant–and for the first time since he returned she looks at him fully. “Good night, Mister Bridgerton.”

“Wait,” Colin says, unable to disguise the desperation in his voice.”Just–just wait.”

Echoes of steps reach his ears. Two gentlemen walk behind them, their eyes uninterested at the scene in which they stumbled into, paying very little attention as they make their way back into the ballroom. Colin clears his throat, gazing around for any other person that might be listening in, and though there is nobody, he cannot risk the wrong person from finding them alone.

“Perhaps we should have a conversation somewhere more private,” Colin murmurs. “There are…things we need to talk about.”

“There is no need for us to talk about anything,” Penelope denies, roughly rubbing the edges of her eyes. “I believe we said everything we needed to say last season.”

“You cannot honestly believe that,” Colin argues, keeping his voice soft but insistent. “You cannot be content to leave things as we did. There are apologies to be made for the things we said that night.”

“You have already apologized for that,”

“But you do not believe I am honest,” Colin states, feeling the tension exuding from her. “You do not believe I was truthful in my regret, and you…I believe there is an explanation to be had where your…secret activity is concerned.”

“You believe you are owed an explanation?” Penelope scoffs lightly. 

“I believe I deserve one, considering everything you have written,” Colin clenches his jaw, feeling the familiar rush of betrayal and anger at the memory of it all. “And considering how secretive you have been, I do not think you wish for such a conversation to happen where anybody could hear.”

“I do not wish to have such a conversation at all,” Penelope says. “There is no need to revisit old wounds when the outcome will be the same.”

“You do not know that,”

“And you do not know me enough to say otherwise,”

That stung. Colin swallows, jumping from hurt to indignation to frustration in the span of seconds. “I do know you, Pen.”

“You did not know I was her,”

“Because you did not want to be found, so you lied,” Colin shrugs helplessly. “You lied, Penelope. We…we are friends. We do not lie to each other.”

Penelope takes a breath, giving him a look that he cannot decipher. “We only lie to ourselves.”

Her words make him pause, thrown off by whatever the hidden meaning of them is, but he has no time to question her. Penelope leaves him with another ‘Good night, Mister Bridgerton’ and an even wider rift between them.