Chapter Text
The Featherington household is abuzz with pre-wedding jitters, and it makes for a chaotic morning. Everyone seems to have a tear in a stocking or a ribbon missing except Penelope, who is waiting patiently for the panic to die down. Her mother is in a state of high anxiety – so close to securing an enviable match for her daughter yet petrified of a last-minute disaster preventing it. Recalling their conversation on the eve of her engagement, Penelope knows that Portia won’t relax until she has the official copy of the marriage lines in her grasp.
“Mama,” she says, as her mother tries to force an errant curl in Penelope’s hair into submission. “He will marry me, whether my curls are misbehaving or not.”
Portia, yet to declare defeat in a battle, ignores her and eventually wins this struggle too. Curls firmly in place, they all depart for Hanover Square and as they draw closer Penelope finds herself fidgeting – nerves finally making themselves known. The imposing sight of St. George’s Church reminds her that this is not merely a private affirmation of the feelings they harbour for one another, but the public recognition of a union between families, a connection being forged that goes far beyond matters of the heart. In the eyes of society, this is the day Mr. Colin Bridgerton is to wed Miss Penelope Featherington, by extension tying the Featheringtons to the family of a viscount and a duke – quite the feat indeed. In the politics of marriage, those softly whispered declarations of love and the tender touches that never fail to quicken her heart are of little consequence, but to Penelope they are the only thing holding her together.
As they enter the vestibule, her sisters kiss her cheek and then disappear into the nave, leaving Penelope alone with her mother and Eloise, who has been waiting impatiently for them. From behind the door, she can hear the murmur of voices and the occasional outburst of laughter, a sense of expectation in the air. Eloise smirks slightly and whispers:
“Benedict told me they had a couple of drinks at the Mondrich club last night – nothing excessive – but apparently enough that Colin saw fit to stand up and wax lyrical about his undying love in front of the entire room. The Duke of Hastings was frightened he might say too much and almost tackled him back into his seat.”
Penelope chuckles, imagining the scene, but then she is suddenly overcome with emotion. Her mother might have learnt to suppress a young girl’s fantastical notions of romance and love, but Penelope remembers with acute clarity the dreams that awoke the moment she first laid eyes on Colin Bridgerton. Oh, how she wishes she could go back and give her 16-year-old self the gift of a glimpse into the future – the chance to see her like this in her dramatic white and gold dress, reassuring her that it really is Colin waiting on the other side of that door.
Her mother sighs dramatically, hands her a handkerchief and then pulls out another one to discreetly dab her own eyes. Eloise looks at them both and then huffs irritably as she too is forced to blink back tears.
“We must all pull together,” she says sternly. “It is just a short walk, a few words spoken and alas you will be married. Leave the blubbering to Colin. And Benedict.”
They all compose themselves, just in time for when the doors open, and with a small wink Eloise leads the way.
***
Afterwards, as they share breakfast and feast on the wedding cake in the Featherington garden, Penelope’s memory of the ceremony is a disjointed collection of faces and moments; Lady Danbury’s gloved hands resting on her cane, Hyacinth’s hair bouncing as she is jumping to get her first glimpse of the bride, the back of Eloise’s dress gliding smoothly up the aisle. And then the absurd relief at seeing him there – tall, proud, and flanked by his brothers. Once their eyes locked, she never looked away, holding onto his gaze like a shipwrecked sailor to floating debris. She can only vaguely remember words being spoken, but as she looks over at Colin – currently in earnest conversation with Mr. Finch about the many distinct and delicious flavours of cheese – she sees a flash of sunlight reflected on his finger, and she knows vows and rings must have been exchanged.
“I cannot believe you broke first,” says Gregory irritably to Benedict. “I bet a whole week’s worth on Daphne.”
“Well, who doesn’t tear up at a good wedding,” says Benedict. “And technically, Colin wobbled first. Anthony was unexpected though.”
“Please,” huffs Kate, “I put my bet on him, and I am certain he is lying. A speck of dust indeed.”
Penelope shakes herself free from her reveries and laughs, ready to join the light-hearted conversations, when Briarly comes over to her and quietly announces the arrival of two more guests. She immediately asks him to let them through, and to say that she is delighted to see Genevieve and Theo making their way through the parlour doors is an understatement. Penelope knows it is a flagrant breach of conventions, but she wants them to be part of this day in some capacity.
They play their roles to perfection, Genevieve presenting a box with a dress Penelope supposedly has ordered, but which is really a gift – the realisation of her favourite design on the apartment wall. Meanwhile, Theo is personally delivering the Lady Whistledown paper she wrote last night, saving her personal copy to last and producing a perfect bow – eyes glittering with mischief – as he hands it over.
“My heartfelt congratulations to you Mrs Bridgerton,” he says. “And you, Mr. Bridgerton,” he adds as Colin joins them, tipping his hat and grinning in response.
Just like she had predicted, her mother’s exuberant joy means that even servants and kitchen staff get to partake in the festivities in between duties, and with so many guests leaving and arriving intermittently, Genevieve and Theo do not seem out of place in the milling and ever-changing crowd, now buzzing with the rumour of Lord Fife’s pending engagement to Lady Twombley.
After a while, Penelope has had enough of all the attention and retreats under the shade of a tree. She leans her cheek against the cool bark and sighs in relief, just as an arm around her waist announces the arrival of her new husband. He proceeds to take her hand, inspecting the new ring with a joyous air.
“Why are you hiding here,” he says quietly, in a way that reminds her of all their stolen conversations at balls and soirees, “isn’t the bride meant to command all the attention on a day like this, rejoicing loudly in the successful acquisition of a swoon-worthy and – objectively speaking – very handsome husband?”
“And deprive mama of her moment of triumph? I couldn’t.” She chuckles as she watches Portia holding court by the half-eaten cake. Then she makes the fatal mistake of looking up.
Like so many times before, the world seems to stop as she meets his eyes, only now, she no longer has to worry who sees or what they will think. So she gazes deeper, imagining that she can trace the history of all the looks he has ever bestowed upon her, from polite attention to friendly acquaintance and brotherly affection – then hurt, followed by uncertainty and awakening desire. And now, those eyes are full of love, darkening with the storm clouds of unbridled passion. He moves closer, his breath tickling her ear.
“I think it is time we left, as I should very much like to spend some time alone with my wife,” he says, not even trying to disguise the hunger in his voice. She shivers despite the warmth of the day, and immediately knows that they cannot stay a moment longer.
Their belongings are already packed in readiness for their departure, so all that remains is to bid their families and friends a tearful farewell before they head out on their journey. After a seemingly never-ending stream of toasts, well-wishes and hugs, Colin has had enough and grips her firmly around the waist, almost throwing her into the carriage. This time however, it is Penelope who pulls the curtains firmly closed.
***
She has lost track of space and time. Though aware that they have reached the inn where they are spending the night, she cannot remember what the room looks like in the light of day. Her whole existence is reduced to lips on lips, tongue on skin, hands blazing hot trails wherever they touch and their moving bodies, connected as one, relentlessly pushing each other over the edge, again and again. His heated adoration leaves no room for crippling self-consciousness – Penelope feels like the wild woman he showed her in the mirror, a sinful Goddess driving her lover to distraction.
As they collapse once more, bodies slick with sweat, she suddenly throws her head back and laughs. Colin, still breathing heavily on top of her, props himself up and looks at her in wonder.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “I was just wondering if I shall ever need to eat or drink or walk again. If you say no, I will still be the happiest of creatures.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he says, kissing her nose. “I don’t think I could go on without eating, not if you wish for this kind of enthusiastic service to continue.”
“Oh Colin,” she laughs. “I think forgetting about food is the highest compliment you could ever pay me.”
He slaps her bottom playfully and gets up to organise some sustenance. As he gets dressed, she watches the flickering light of candles on his skin, and forgets once again what it is to be satiated. How will she ever drink her fill of him?
When the food tray has been demolished, she already knows what she wants to do and pushes him back on the bed, where he lays flat on his back, smirking at her impatience. Then, she slowly starts kissing her way down his chest, licking his nipples, and nuzzling the soft trail of hair on his abdomen. His whole body has tensed up, and he moans quietly, hands gripping the sheet, as she gets closer.
“You don’t have to, I wouldn’t expect you to,” he whispers, caressing her curls with a shaking hand.
“I am dying to,” she replies and is pleased when his hand convulsively grips her hair as he takes a sharp breath and swears before getting up on his elbows.
“I need to see this,” he says. His eyes are black, the hair is mussed up and falling in sweaty tendrils over his forehead, his lips are pink and swollen. Her beautiful husband.
“I wish Benedict could paint you like this for me,” she says, before licking the clear fluid collecting at the tip.
She cannot quite place the taste, or say whether it is salty or bitter, but the growl he emits is more wild animal than man. When she tentatively takes him in her mouth she is rewarded with more inarticulate sounds, and as she experiments to figure out exactly how he likes it, she reaches down to relieve her own arousal. His eyes remain fixed on her as she worships him with her lips and tongue, until he starts trembling uncontrollably and she sees his head rolling backwards.
“I’m about to …”, he groans, unable to finish the sentence as she pushes him deeper.
“Please,” she says, “I want all of you”.
And as she goes down again, his hand finds her hair once more, and she can feel him spilling in her mouth – shaking, cursing. She has barely swallowed before he is with her, kissing her senseless and joining his hand with hers until she too lies spent, the damp sheets twisted beneath her.
“Come here,” he whispers, moving them up so they can rest their heads on a pillow. “Lie with me.”
She rests her head on his chest as he cradles her in his arms and kisses the top of her head. For a while they just lie there, intertwined, exhausted.
“I never imagined I could love someone so much,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “It is as if I cannot draw breath without you. How could I be so hopelessly blind for those years when I am so utterly in your power now?”
“We weren’t ready,” she says quietly. “I was your sister’s friend, a little girl with a crush on a cute boy.”
“But I encouraged it,” he replies sadly. “Not deliberately, but I forgot my place, I ignored how my actions might be felt and seen.”
“And I interfered in affairs which weren’t strictly my business,” she says. “It is no use berating ourselves, we are here now, and I’d like to think we are better people for it. What I would like to know, is when you started thinking of me as something other than your friend Pen who doesn’t count as a woman, because I had given up on you. I was even half contemplating the kind of man I might accept in a marriage of convenience.”
His arms tighten around her, and he says, in a voice that leaves no room for doubt:
“If you’d have allowed me any say in the matter it would have not happened. I would have begged at your feet to end any such engagement. I knew, even as I sent you my travel diaries, that my feelings for you were not strictly those of a friend, or a brother. And as soon as I saw you standing there with that éclair, I knew I saw you differently. Every dance, every look since then has been the sweetest of torture.”
She looks up and is rewarded with her favourite crooked smile.
“And Lady Whistledown?”, she asks.
“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds”, he quotes with a wink. “I told you, this is not the kind of love that pays any mind to obstacles. Once I knew the depth of my feelings, I simply had to accept that I am also hopelessly in love with Lady Whistledown, savage though she is.” He chuckles and starts twisting one of her curls around his finger. “I was going to propose the night after we kissed, I had planned to do it under star-strewn skies, dropping to my knees, reciting poetry. Blasted Lord Byron!”
She can feel the tears forming as she contemplates his words. He knows her so well, sees her so clearly and despite knowing her flaws…
“You love me,” she says. “You love me like I love you. I never thought …” She stops, trying to collect herself. “I have just loved you for so long Colin, in ever-changing ways but always so ardently. I knew it would never stop and it just hurt. And now, the happiness is almost too much. I’m so used to unrequited love that you catch me by surprise every time you remind me that it is no longer so.”
He moves down so that they lie side by side, facing each other, and captures her lips in the softest of kisses.
“I will never stop reminding you”, he whispers.
***
She has found that the best part about being married is the early morning moment of realisation that he is there, sleeping peacefully next to her. Or half on top of her, as it were. The sticky warmth of the southern European evenings has them kicking off the bed covers at night to lie spread-eagled, side by side, praying for a cool breeze from the open windows. And yet, inevitably, she’ll wake up with Colin covering her like a blanket.
This morning she untangles herself carefully, so he doesn’t wake. She pulls on the flimsy excuse for a nightgown without bothering to tie it and sits down in a comfortable chair to peruse the letters from home. Delivered late yesterday, they had been ignored in favour of spectacular and frenzied lovemaking following their first proper lovers' tiff. She smiles a little bit sheepishly at the memory. Their trip has been remarkably smooth so far. His enthusiasm when revisiting his favourite places – and hers in seeing them for the first time – has helped them avoid disagreements. Long days of discovery have been giving way to evenings of giddy dancing in the moonlight – on one such memorable starry night he even had her in stitches (and tears!) as he delivered an ouzo-fuelled reconstruction of the planned proposal, complete with a word-perfect recital of She Walks in Beauty. Yesterday however, they had managed not just one, but two arguments.
The first one started when she was wandering idly around a quaint little market in their seaside town, taking her time, marvelling at the exotic wares, and soaking up the lively atmosphere. Colin, meanwhile, was getting increasingly impatient as he wanted to show her an olive orchard nearby, and to make it all worse, he was hungry. As he snapped at her, she snapped right back, and their heated exchange turned into a huffy silence. It didn’t end until Colin had devoured a large plate of food in an alarmingly short space of time, upon which he apologised profusely for being an impatient ass.
The second argument was her fault. When they eventually did make it to the olive orchard they were treated to a meal, and she happened to notice the devastatingly beautiful daughter of the house speaking warmly to Colin. It was nothing new, to encounter people who remember him affectionately from before – some even recognise her name as one of the people he missed from home. But this time, she was reminded of her own flippant words about experiences with exotic strangers in foreign lands. Her insides had turned to ice, and she could barely speak a word during the whole meal. Concerned, Colin had taken her back to their room where she broke down in angry tears, unable to shake the image of him and the dark-eyed beauty in an intimate embrace. Drowning in her old insecurities she had spat ugly accusations as he stood, arms crossed, looking increasingly incredulous.
“Is that what you really prefer, someone dark-haired and olive-skinned and slim,” she’d shrieked, losing her mind completely.
He’d approached her cautiously, like one would a frightened and cornered animal, and wrapped her up in his arms. His voice however, had been quite firm:
“That is not fair Penelope, to punish me for things I may or may not have done years ago, before any promises were made – before I even knew I loved you.”
“But the thought of you and her… you and anyone else…“, she began.
“That kind of thinking is a road to madness,” he said abruptly. “Has it not occurred to you that I have suffered the same? Remember when you danced with Geoffrey Albansdale?”
She vaguely recalled an evening when Lady Danbury had indeed introduced her to a man by that name, and she had politely agreed to the offer of a dance.
“I was mad with jealousy,” he said. “I asked you to dance straight afterwards and you seemed so happy and carefree I thought it was because of him. Later, I drank far too much and complained about him to Benedict – to this day he doesn’t understand what I have against the man.” He held her closer, lowering his voice. “Please understand that the woman of my desires is you. From the day I truly opened my eyes, I have seen only you, Penelope.”
And then it had been her turn to apologise. Thoroughly.
A rustling of sheets brings her back to the present, where she sits at a table covered by empty wine glasses and haphazardly strewn books, letters, new entries in travel diaries, her own scribblings – a trail of chaos only avid writers can leave behind. She looks hopefully over at Colin, but it seems he has simply turned over in his sleep. The Bridgerton curse indeed, she thinks to herself, making a mental note to tick swoon-worthy derriere off the list as she rests her eyes on his sleeping form.
“If you want it, you’ll need to come and get it,” says a sleepy voice from underneath the pillow.
“I am trying to read the letters from home,” she says. “And I am a little worried about Eloise, she does not sound quite like herself somehow.” He grunts, as she keeps turning pages. “People are still talking about Lady Whistledown, but it is settling down. The new baby is doing well, though Kate is exhausted.”
He rolls over on his back, yawning, but there is a glint in his eyes, and his body is displaying every sign of readiness for the day.
“And?”, he enquires, smirking as he catches her staring.
“Your mother is hinting that she wants more grandchildren.”
“Well,” he grins and opens his arms, “what are we waiting for?”
She takes one last look at her reflection in the mirror where she sits, naked except for the gown loosely draped over her shoulders. Framed by the open doors that lead out onto the wrought-iron balcony she sees the azure of the Mediterranean glittering in the morning sun. Her wild-looking hair is flowing around her shoulders, and her normally creamy white skin is covered in freckles where the sun has kissed it.
This is a woman who knows love, she thinks. She is surrounded by it, her heart is full of it and maybe, it has even begun growing inside of her. With that exhilarating thought she lets the gown flutter to the floor and falls into the warm embrace of her husband.
***
Dearest gentle reader,
What, I ask you, is in a name?
Soft as a caress on a lover’s lips, harsh as a curse when spoken in anger and spite, a name can be tainted and shamed – but also redeemed and restored.
Whether this name is acquired at birth, gained by marriage, or adopted as a means of disguise, it carries the despairs of our past as well as the hopes for our future.
I share these musings, dear reader, for the time has come for this author to shed not just one, but two names. In keeping with the wise counsel of Her Majesty the Queen – an illustrious name if there ever was one – my nom de plume, Lady Whistledown, shall as of today be consigned to history forevermore.
The other name I shall part with, is the one by which I have always been known, belonging to a family that has had its fair share of triumphs and tragedies. With time I have come to take great pride in our shared strength and resilience, so please know it is not out of shame that I leave the name Featherington behind.
Instead I invite you all to rejoice with me as I too take those trembling steps down the aisle. Waiting at the other end will be the man I love, and as we exchange our vows, I shall remain the same, yet somehow be forever transformed, entering a world of new duties and dreams, under a brand new name.
I am afraid, dear reader, that this is where our paths will diverge for now. However, you may rest assured that while names might change, my quill shall remain forever sharp – and please know that this is not farewell, but au revoir!
Yours Truly,
Mrs Bridgerton