Work Text:
Red.
It’s always in his dreams, wisps of fiery ginger hair brushing over his face. Creamy skin pressed against his, warm and tantalising. Lush pink lips and the lingering feeling of that kiss, the one that will haunt him for eternity.
Each time Colin says the same thing.
There is a question I have been needing to ask you.
And each time she presses a finger to his lips, and he wakes.
*
This time the sun is beaming directly into his eyes, making him wince. He is still paying for his choices two nights ago, when he spent an overly extravagant evening at White’s playing cards and recounting his latest journey to Albania. It was out of character to have so much whiskey, but he was sick of Benedict accusing him of being “morose” and a “spoilsport”.
He has been trying, in fact, to enjoy his youth. He has sworn off women again, but not life’s other pleasures. He journals constantly. He tries excellent wine. Most recently he has taken to climbing mountains, spending long evenings watching a sunset and then sleeping under the stars. He’s now seen more of the world than anyone he’s ever met—with the exception of Lord Debling.
Perhaps it is true that he spends more time away, jokes less, smiles less. There is less to smile for, somehow, without Penelope here. Not even by missive, as married women cannot receive letters from eligible bachelors.
Do you not find it lonely?
When he dresses and heads down to the Bridgerton tea room, it’s Benedict who greets him. “Morning, brother. Sleep well?”
“Mmph,” Colin replies, downing a biscuit immediately from a nearby tray. “No. I don’t think the London weather agrees with me.”
“Time to be off again?” Eloise is lounging on the couch, novel in hand. Since Cressida Twombley was married off, she has elected to shun society and spends most of her time in novels.
“Possibly,” he replies. “I have no destination in mind yet.”
“What does it matter as long as you’re as far from here as possible,” she murmurs sourly. Eloise also seems lonelier than ever, and sometimes Colin wishes dearly that she had been his brother instead. Or, more dangerously, that the world was different.
“I wish you would take me with you,” Gregory complains as he sets down his grammar book. “I want to go to Spain and see the Alhambra. You made it sound so regal.” He is starting to look alarmingly grown-up, though not quite enough to go traipsing the continent with Colin. Even his voice has dropped.
“We should all go,” Hyacinth says, smoothing out her baby blue dress. “Anthony has gone to India multiple times, Francesca lives in Scotland, and even Daphne took a holiday to France.”
Violet replies patiently, “They are all married, dearest.” Her fingers are swift and sure in their embroidery, but she pauses to send an unsure glance at Eloise, as if realising an error.
Eloise does not react or even lift her eyes from the page. She merely comments, “You’re too tall now for Colin to smuggle you in a suitcase. You’ve missed your chance.”
Hyacinth sighs, flopping onto the piano chair in an undignified fashion. “It’s so boring. I wish something exciting would happen.”
The maid comes in with a series of pamphlets on a silver tray. A new Lady Whistledown is rarer these days, though well and alive each season. “Well, Whistledown is here,” Benedict says. “Your wish is her command.”
“Not for Gregory and Hyacinth, please,” Violet instructs, as if that ineffectual statement will keep those smugglers away from their contraband. She begins to peruse one herself. “I do hope we are not mentioned this time. I cannot take the strain today.”
“None for me,” Colin says, pouring a cup of tea. “I have no interest in hawking her gossip.”
“I’ll take one for later,” Benedict says. “My day is lacking in entertainment.” Eloise also takes one silently.
It’s Violet who reacts first, with a startled gasp. “Oh, dear…” Her lilac glove covers her mouth.
“What?” Hyacinth shoots up eagerly. “Did something happen?”
Benedict’s eyes scan the page, and he says softly, “It’s about the Deblings.” Colin’s heartbeat begins to thud loudly in his ears as Benedict reads aloud, “Lord Debling, after one year presumed missing in his brave pursuit of the Northwest Passage…has now been declared deceased…condolences to his widow, Lady Penelope Debling, and her son Albert Debling…”
Eloise makes a sound like a wounded animal and flees the room in tears.
*
It is sickening, sometimes, the way the heart cannot be controlled.
The way a horrible giddy laugh nearly leaps into his throat when he realises, fully, that Penelope is a widow.
He should be devastated for her loss.
He should be grieving for her son.
At the very least, he should be thinking of poor Francesca, herself a widow not one year.
Instead he feels buoyed with hope, and with it, cast down in abject, bottomless terror.
*
The line of carriages goes around the block. The funeral is held at St. James’ Church, in the same place the couple was married. (Colin had not attended, yet he remembers every tidbit and scrap about the Deblings that made its way to him.) There was no viewing, of course, as there is no body.
He thinks of Lord Debling dragged down into the watery depths of the ocean, and shudders.
Then the thought is banished. Under the vaulted ceiling, light slanting onto her pale, shrouded face, he sees Penelope for the first time in years. One lock of hair has escaped her veil, a lick of flame in a sea of black. She stands next to a beautiful oak casket, closed shut on nothing but air. Her little boy, his hair only a shade paler than his mama’s, holds her hand and fidgets. There is a pile of objects on the table beside her: tasteful bouquets, rosemary sprigs tied with ribbon, handkerchiefs and the like.
The Bridgertons draw closer, passing by her sisters, who are fanning themselves lazily next to their doltish husbands and a brood of little daughters. He hears Philippa murmur, “I look terrible in black.”
Prudence replies with nasty pleasure, “You do indeed.”
Yet Lady Featherington is trembling and pushing back tears as Violet takes her hands and murmurs her sympathies. “Thank you. My poor Penelope,” she says, pressing a glove over her mouth. “I thought she had finally found her happiness. And poor Albert, my only grandson with no father.”
“I have been in something akin to her position,” Violet says, clutching at Lady Featherington’s hands. “It was not easy. It would be my honour to give her solace and comfort in her grief.”
“Thank you,” Lady Featherington says. “You are too good.” Then they are ushered on.
It’s Violet who first speaks to Penelope, saying gently, “My dear, I understand your pain. When you are ready, please seek me out.”
“I will,” Penelope says quietly, smoothing down little Albert’s hair. The boy already looks weary of the unending procession stretching out before him, and Colin thinks back to his own father’s funeral and feels a pang of guilt. No child should lose his father so young.
The other Bridgertons murmur their condolences as well, but she seems numb to them, merely nodding. It is hard to discern through the black lace shielding her grief from public view. Still, Colin knows that this is an overwhelming amount of fawning attention—pure misery for her shy and private nature.
When Eloise reaches her, both women still, eyes meeting. Eloise chokes out, “Penelope…”
Colin would bet a dear sum that there are tears in Penelope’s eyes. She shakes her head as if to say, I cannot, and Eloise nods, placing one hand awkwardly on Penelope’s arm before yanking it away.
Penelope is heartbroken.
She truly loved Lord Debling.
His heart is shattering with hers.
Then he is in front of her, and with her unreadable eyes swathed in mourning black, he can hardly muster the courage to speak. He forces out, “I am so sorry, Pen.”
It is barely audible as she whispers, “Lady Debling.” She swallows. “I’m Lady Debling now.”
Hot shame courses through him, and he bows reflexively. “Of course,” he says. “And I am so sorry for little Albert.”
She nods tightly, pursing her lips, but it sounds genuine when she says, “Thank you, Colin.”
His feet carry him away, but his heart remains behind.
*
Three weeks pass, and he cannot wait for the appropriate month before he calls.
In fact, he does not tell anyone where he is going. He simply appears on her doorstep, dressed uncomfortably in black on a hot summer day and holding a large bouquet of white lilies. Her maid looks a bit alarmed to see him, but ushers him into the receiving room.
The whole room has Penelope’s taste: beautiful light greens and large airy windows, simple and the very picture of elegance. There is hardly any sign of Lord Debling’s influence outside of his portrait, which gazes down sternly as if to say, A visitor so soon after my passing?
He hears a pair of tiny footsteps hurtling past the doorway, and then her voice. “Albert! Slow down. Rae, will you see to his lunch?”
“Of course, m’am. You have a caller.”
Then she pushes open the door, and her green eyes round in surprise. She is, of course, in full black, but in a simple and elegant cut. Smooth waves of red hair curl around her face, soft and delicate. “Colin.”
He holds the lilies out. “Lady Debling. I…I know it is too soon to call, but I could not stay away longer.”
Penelope nods and take the lilies from him, placing them on the table. “Well, I am less afraid of scandal now that I am a lady. You are certainly a more welcome guest than my sisters. Sit and I will call for tea.”
He sits obligingly. “This is a finely decorated room.”
She offers him a small smile, and his heart thumps violently. “Yes, well, Lord Debling let me have my way with the furnishings. He said he would hardly be home anyway, so there was no need to preserve anything on his account.”
“You have excellent taste.”
She shrugs. “I merely chose what would make me comfortable. The library is much larger than previous.” The maids roll in the tea service, and a silence falls as they arrange and depart.
Colin shifts forward on the sofa across from her. “I am afraid to be impertinent, but I wanted to see how you were.”
Penelope bites her lip. “To be honest, it is strange to lose a husband that one hardly knows. Sometimes I do grieve for him, but it is hard to know if I am grieving a man or…or a possibility.”
He nods, encouraging her to continue.
“We did have a honeymoon, but by the time he knew I was with child, he had already reached Canada. He could not turn back. And what truly breaks my heart is that Albert will never know his papa.” A stray tear graces her cheek, and he fights the urge to cross to her side. “I fear I will not be up to the task of raising a boy on my own.”
Colin shakes his head. “Albert is lucky to have a mother who is warm, loving, clever…” He trails off, realising the danger he finds himself in. “You are plenty capable, Lady Debling.”
“Pen is fine,” she replies. “I think it was a fit of pique. It is a bit fun to have you call me Lady.”
He grins at the return of some ease in her countenance. “Then you shall be Lady Pen to me whenever I call.”
“Call…so you are not returning to your travels?”
He did not mean to imply this, but she cannot know that once it leaves her perfect lips, it is law. “No, I think I would like to remain here for a while.” She nods, then looks down at her dainty hands folded in her lap.
At her wedding ring.
“Did you love him?”
She laughs, though it is jagged. “He kept me in comfort. That’s what he told my mama when he proposed,” she says, smoothing down her dress. “One of the largest homes in Mayfair, twenty-four staff, a fleet of curricles, and a husband who travelled so often and would let me manage my own estate. Sometimes it felt like a dream.”
Colin fidgets with his cuff. “You were always worthy of such a life, Pen.”
Her gaze travels up to the portrait of Lord Debling above them. “I am…I am grateful for him. He allowed me my independence, my privacy, my security. He gave me a son and heir, so that I have such an allowance for life. I have no need to remarry or compromise from here on out. It is a good life, and long ago I released the idea of romantic love.”
He swallows, his heart sinking. “You cannot mean to be alone forever.”
“I am not alone, Colin. I am a mother. I am a daughter. I am an employer and a woman of society. Nor do I lack occupation or diversions.”
He bows. “I did not mean offence.”
She offers him a strange look. “Do you still seek it for yourself, then? Love?”
He sips his tea, attempting to steady himself. “I don’t know. Love has already made a fool of me.”
I hear Penelope may be getting a proposal tonight.
“With Lady Crane?” she asks innocently. “You could not have known, Colin.”
He exhales slowly, thinking about Penelope leaving him on a ballroom floor, chasing after Lord Debling, seeking a match with a man who saw her worth before it was too late.
The only mistake was me ever asking for your help in the first place.
“Yes, I suppose you are right.” He sets down his teacup and stands abruptly. “May I call on you again?”
“Uh, of course,” she says, hurrying to her feet. “Whenever you like. I have longed for the company of a friend.”
He wants to stay forever, and yet he fears that another blow will collapse him. “Good day, Pen.”
“Good day.”
He departs, forlornly wondering what his foolish hopes had risen for. She has everything she could want, except the company of a friend. This time, he will squash his pride and be that friend.
*
The next time he calls, she is on the grounds of Debling House with Albert, pushing him on a swing. Albert’s cries of delight are audible. “Higher, Mama!”
Colin stills near the gate, watching this tableau of innocence with some emotion. If that had been his son, he would have known this happiness.
As if she would have accepted his suit, so many years late. His fantasies play traitor against him endlessly.
She turns. “Colin! Sorry, I did not realise you had called.”
“Do not stop on my account.” He offers a low bow to Albert. “Albert, may I have the honour of pushing you on the swings?”
Albert kicks his feet insistently. His eyes are nearly as green as hers, his hair a burnished copper. “Higher!”
“As you command, sir,” Colin says. As he rounds the swing, his arm brushes against Penelope’s, and even through his coat he feels the sensation keenly.
She smiles, but with some confusion. “Is this really how you want to spend your visits?”
He grins back. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve become quite the dramaturg.” But they spend a wonderful afternoon in the garden, and again the next week, and the next.
*
After six months, Penelope re-enters society, still in black but with some fine jewels and a cascade of gorgeous curls to match. He had not considered until she set foot in a ballroom that she is a wealthy widow now. Though she cannot dance, certain gentlemen of lower rank are tripping over themselves to offer her a bow or fetch her a lemonade.
He appears at her elbow. “It seems you have caused a stir.”
She shakes her head. “To imagine how they would have treated me when I was still on the marriage market, and to see this behaviour now…I wish I could be flattered, but to be honest, it makes me queasy.”
He cannot resist a flirtation, however brief. “You would make it easier for them if you looked worse in black.”
She swats him with a fan. “Not you, too.”
There is a loud tapping of a cane as Lady Danbury makes her way over. “Lady Debling, it is good to see your return to company.”
Penelope curtsies dutifully. “I wish it felt that way.”
“You may yet find your pleasure as a widow. Perhaps someone should offer you such a perspective.” She offers an arm. “Walk with me.”
Penelope shoots Colin a look of wonder before she is whisked away, leaving him feeling inappropriately bereft.
*
He does travel again, just a brief trip for a winery investment in Italy. Even surrounded by the stunning vistas of Tuscany, something feels wrong, as if he has abandoned little Albert. Fresh pasta, flowing wine, grand cathedrals, none can divert him enough to stop missing London.
He returns on a rainy day, and before heading home, he steps into Debling House. The maid stops him in his tracks. “There is a caller already, sir.”
He hears the faint strains of a familiar voice. “Is that my sister Eloise?”
The maid fidgets, and he continues past, lingering outside the door. He hears Eloise say, “I am sorry I did not call sooner. I missed you terribly, Penelope.”
“And I you,” Penelope says, audibly emotional. “I have not always shown it, but you were irreplaceable to me.”
The maid says, “My lord, please.” He waves her away, missing some words.
Eloise again. “You were right, you know. I was jealous of everything you accomplished. You are the most talented, brave person I have ever met.”
“Please, you don’t have to. I lied to you and I hurt you, and I have been terribly selfish.”
“But Penelope, I didn’t really see you. I looked, but I didn’t see. What you wanted. What you were capable of. I assumed that you were just like me.”
“We may still be a little alike.”
“Well, I have no children, thankfully.” They both laugh. “But you may be right.”
The maid raises her voice. “My lord, that is a private conversation.”
“Who’s there?” Eloise calls.
Colin begrudgingly steps through the door. “Hello, Eloise.” The girls are sitting on the couch together, hands clasped, an untouched tea service laid out before them. His stomach rumbles.
Eloise looks outraged, as expected. “Colin? What are you doing here?”
“Visiting, just as you. I have a gift for Albert from Tuscany.”
Penelope looks a bit pale and nervous. “Welcome back. Were you listening?”
He grimaces. “Only a little. I apologise. I was caught by surprise.”
Eloise stands, giving him a suspicious look, and he knows he will be questioned when he returns. “Well, I will take my leave for now.” She catches Penelope’s hand. “Take tea with me tomorrow? I have so much to tell you, but I am certainly not doing it in front of Colin.”
Penelope laughs. “Yes, please.” She stands, and they catch each other in a tender embrace. Then Eloise leaves, not without a choice glare for her brother, and he is alone with her.
“Happy news,” he says, plopping onto the opposite sofa and seizing upon a finger sandwich.
“Yes, I think so,” says Penelope, looking giddy. “I find I cannot believe it.”
“Well, I am glad to see you so delighted. It suits you.” He polishes the sandwich handily, reaching for another.
“I rather think so,” she says coyly, reaching for a sweet. “Have you any good tidings of your own? What about your journals?”
He shakes his head. “For all your editing, I do not think any publisher will bite. I must be content with knowing I have laboured at something worthwhile.”
“Do not give up hope so soon, Colin.”
He gazes back at her, unable to resist the draw of her pretty, concerned eyes, her full lips. He is so used to her mourning colours that he has nearly forgotten the constant shadow of black on her person. “You are too good, Lady Pen. What has been on your mind?”
“N-nothing! Why do you ask?” Yet she colours, a pink flush suffusing her peaches-and-cream skin.
“What an intriguing reaction.” He leans forward to pour himself tea. “Come, you must confess.”
“I-I cannot.” She shakes her head. “It is a delicate matter, and rather inappropriate for a man’s ears.”
“Pen, I am your friend. You can trust me.”
She hesitates. “W-well, as a wife, I was awakened to some of my…” She swallows again. “Desires. And I have been alone for far greater time than I have been widowed.”
A hot flush burns under his collar. “I see.”
“I have enquired with Lady Danbury if a widow may come to an arrangement, as gentlemen do.” Her flush grows even darker.
Colin clears his throat, taking a hasty sip of tea.
Her face falls. “I knew you would disapprove.”
“No, of course not, Pen. You are…” He struggles for words. “You are still a young woman with much life ahead of you.”
She gives him a little smile of relief, and it stabs him to the core. It is childish, but it feels as if he will lose her again. “Of course, it is not so formal as a club. Yet I hear plenty of widows do as such, and I have little fear for my reputation now that I am secure. It is only…well, I fear that I will lose my nerve.”
He freezes, terrified by his own audacity. How could he deign to take advantage of such an opening?
How could he not?
With a quick glance into the hallway, he says in a low voice, “If it is not disagreeable to you, we could come to such an arrangement.”
Her eyes go wide with shock. “Colin, be serious!”
“I am perfectly serious, Pen. Remember that I was your first kiss. I have not forgotten it.”
She scowls at him, still pink. “I remember.”
“Like you, I have sworn off marriage. Yet I can satisfy your desires and still remain a trusted confidante. You will have no worse a reputation than my visits already procure.”
Penelope bites her lip, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “You would not be opposed to…such activities with me?”
His eyes darken as they catch hers. “You are a beautiful and desirable woman. How could any man in his right mind be opposed?”
She takes in his gaze for a long moment, and he feels his insides roiling with trepidation. Then she offers the barest of nods. “I cannot risk being with child.”
“That will not be necessary. I am concerned with your pleasure alone.” He practically flings himself to the door to lock it. “Where’s Albert?”
“Napping.”
He nods curtly, then sidles in next to her on the couch and reaches for her hand. Her gloves are fine mesh, and he begins to tug the fingers off one by one, then reaches for the other. She simply watches, mesmerised, as he begins to pepper a trail of light kisses up her arm and to her neck.
When he begins to kiss at her neck with passion she lets out a soft breath and tugs at his hair. The action goes straight to his groin, but he is determined to be slow and teasing. His tongue traces her collarbone, and is rewarded with a soft little cry.
His hands slide down to her ample bosom, heaving with anticipation, and he has to release a groan as he squeezes. “You are driving me mad, Pen.” He reaches behind to deftly release the buttons of her black gown until the bodice slides low enough to free one breast. He begins teasing the pink nipple with his mouth, listening ardently as her noises grow higher and breathier.
Suddenly she yanks him up into a passionate kiss, and he reciprocates, dizzy as his longstanding fantasies materialise. She pushes his hand down, below the hem of her gown, and he obligingly slides his hand up until he feels the warmth at her centre. For a couple minutes he simply rubs at her core, growing harder and harder as her noises escalate, and then he plunges two fingers in. She cries out, “Colin, more!”
Realising their volume belatedly, he captures her mouth in a searing kiss as his fingers work her into a frenzy. She moans into his mouth, and he is incapable of thought, only a vessel for her pleasure. He works her through an orgasm on his fingers, and she rides him shamelessly, wantonly, more sinful than he could have possibly imagined.
Then she is gasping, coming down off the high as he kisses at her neck, sliding out his fingers and wiping them on a handkerchief. She lays back against the couch, looking divinely sated, and giggles. “Well.”
He cannot help but join in her laughter. “I hope that is not your complete review.”
She rolls her eyes. “I believe you’re hired.” Then her eyes slide down. “Are you not…”
He snatches up a pillow and places it on his lap. “Do not mind me. I had my share of enjoyment.”
She looks at him dubiously, but nods. “You ought to head back soon, you know. We wouldn’t want to cause a scandal.”
He reaches for her hand again, placing a gentle kiss on the back of it. “As you wish, my lady.”
*
Usually, their visits are chaste.
Sometimes, they are not.
*
It happens because he is looking for a toy.
Albert has misplaced a beloved wooden horse named Captain Pony, and Colin is rummaging through drawers in the sitting room when he has the idea to search Penelope’s study. First he rifles through the papers scattered about her desk, all related to the Debling Estate. My word, he thinks, the poor woman is swimming in figures each day.
Then a quick dip into the writing desk’s top drawers, only to have an unfamiliar piece of writing catch his eye. The opening line says, Dearest Gentle Reader…
At first he eyes it in disbelief. What, is she copying lines from Whistledown? Until he reads further, and the unfamiliar text of a new pamphlet begins to swim off the page.
Penelope enters the room and stills. “What’s in your hand?”
He looks up, trembling with fury. His Pen, the one knows more intimately than any other soul in the world, and yet not in the least.
How could she do this? To him? To his family?
To herself?
“What gives you the right to look through my things?” She darts forward and snatches it out of his grasp. “This is not your house!”
He feels that he is encased in ice, moving slowly. “You cannot be Lady Whistledown.”
“I’m sorry, Colin. I did not want you to find out this way.”
“You did not want me to find out at all!” He points a finger at her. “This is why you fought with Eloise. She found you out.”
“She did,” Pen says, chin wobbling.
“And yet you continued!”
“I will not apologise for my work, Colin,” she says. A tear slides down her cheek. “I will only apologise for the pain I have caused you.”
“Penelope, you are a target of the Queen! You have put your life in danger! And for what, for a scandal sheet?”
Her voice drips with disdain. “Yes, Colin, for a scandal sheet. For the chance to make a name for myself in this world. I kept my family’s finances in order for years after my father died, and with them none the wiser. I wrote something that changed society. I have so much power that the Queen fears me, and I no longer need to answer to any man, let alone one who claims to be my friend.”
Colin steps back and lowers his voice grimly. “And your son?”
She lifts her chin defiantly. “He has a mother who can bear to live in this world, knowing she is more than a wallflower or a spinster or a widow of no consequence.”
He shakes his head. “This is madness, Pen.”
“Eloise forgave me, Colin. I know what I have done was hurtful, but you have to know that I have never wished you ill. Never.”
It takes him a moment to piece together. “Marina.”
“It was the only way to prevent her from tangling your fortunes,” Penelope says in a small voice, shaking visibly. “I know now that I ruined your chance at love, and I will never forgive myself.”
He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to shake her until this madness is dispelled.
He leaves.
*
He spends two days at White’s, nearly out of his mind with drink. Anthony and Benedict have to haul him back to home, and even then he remains tight-lipped.
The next day he is lounging in his room, bottle-heavy head aching, when someone cracks the door. Piercing sunlight stabs at his eyes. “Colin?”
“Eloise, please. Not now.”
She closes the door behind her, returning the blessed darkness, and sits on the edge of the bed. “She told me everything.”
He sighs and hauls himself into a seated position. “Everything?”
She pulls a disgusted face. “Yes, everything. No more detail necessary, thank you very much. When you are less…this,” she says gesturing to his person, “I shall be terribly cross with you.”
He buries his face in his hands. “How can you forgive her?”
“I don’t know.” She shifts, adjusting her sash and her book. “I was so angry for so long. She hurt people, Colin, and that is a hard thing to get over. But she did not start out that way. She was ignored, and bullied, and we pitied her, and she wanted to show everyone how much more she was.” Eloise laughs, but there are tears in her eyes. “And then one day I realised that she is brilliant. Really, truly, once-in-a-lifetime brilliant. She is the smartest, most ambitious woman I know, and she is my best friend.”
He cannot bring himself to nod, even to acknowledge her words, but they sit heavy on his chest.
Eloise clears her throat. “I am not saying you have to agree with me. I had to choose for myself. I decided that no matter what, I would rather have her than not.”
She shuts the door softly, and he flops onto his back and groans, giving himself back to the respite of sleep.
*
A week later, he’s back at the front door of Debling House with a bouquet of daffodils. The maid shows him into the sitting room, and once again he is in front of her.
Lady Whistledown.
The woman he loves.
She nods. “Thank you for calling.”
He thrusts the bouquet at her, relieved when she accepts it. “I am sorry, Pen. I…I was so angry.”
“No, it is alright.” She twists her hands together. “You have every right to be, after what I took from you.” She waits patiently, but when he remains silent, she asks, “What made you come to see me?”
“Eloise.”
“Ah.” She brushes a ginger curl from her face, her lush mouth twisting with nerves, and he feels his resolve to be stoic waver.
“She…clarified some things for me.”
“Right.” Penelope nods nervously.
“Were you laughing at me when you read my writing? And when you offered to be my editor?”
“Colin, no!” She looks horrified. “I love your writing. I think you are brilliant.”
“You are brilliant,” he says so forcefully that she looks stunned. “You…you are the sharpest wit in London, and I am an idiot.”
Penelope swallows. “You are not, I promise. I…I took great pains to hide my true self, even from the people who loved me best. And it has cost me.”
“You know that you and your family are in grave peril.”
“Yes.” She nods. “I have known.”
“I will stand with you, Pen, no matter what happens. You are my dearest friend.”
Tears well over in her eyes. “Thank you, Colin.”
He nods, glancing over at the window to fight back his own emotions. “I will take your leave.”
“And will you come back?” she asks softly.
He crosses the room, takes her small hands in his. “Always. Even if I am angry, always.”
*
It takes some time to adjust to the new reality. He hears all the details of her life when he visits now, the printing and manufacturing and layouts. It’s surprisingly mundane, but now when he catches Whistledown using a certain barb or turn of phrase, he wonders how he never saw it.
Even Eloise helps with the column sometimes, blithely reporting gossip while stretched across Penelope’s chaise lounge.
Eventually, the fear subsides into pride. Pride that Penelope Featherington, the widowed Lady Debling, has a voice rarer than the finest wine or the choicest bloom.
*
He catches her sighing one day over an Austen novel, and stifles a laugh. “Good book?”
“Colin!” She jumps, then offers him a sheepish smile. “It is terribly romantic.”
“Is it?” He crams a biscuit in his mouth.
“Do not tease me, but once in a while, I like a love story.” She sighs. “Now that I am long past hope, I have to live in the world of fantasy.”
“Past hope?”
She looks at him like he’s a dolt. “Of being loved.”
“But you have been loved.” He wants to shake her with frustration. How could anyone see past this woman?
“Alright, fine.” She shuts the book. “Of being romantically loved.”
He shakes his head. “You cannot believe that nobody has loved you, Pen. You had a husband.”
“For three weeks.” She covers her mouth. “Sorry, that was unkind. It was not love that I shared with Lord Debling, grateful as I am.”
“And what if I loved you?” The words come floating out of Colin's mouth so casually, as if he has not spent five years holding them back, agonising over their contents.
“What?” Her eyes narrow, and his heart races still faster.
“I…I love you, Pen. I have for a long time.”
Her face is a picture of disbelief. “That’s not funny, Colin.”
Lifting from the sofa, he kneels in front of her and seizes her hand. “I mean it. I spent so long trying to feel less, trying to stay away and honour your marriage and your decisions. But I was a fool, Pen. When I interrupted your dance at that ball, it was because I could not stand to see you with Lord Debling.”
Her lip curls and she attempts to tug her hand away. “Do not mock me, Colin. You are being cruel.”
He replies firmly, “I do not mock you. I have tried to stifle these feelings, but for years I have been plagued with regret, knowing that I had been blind to my own heart. Knowing that had you rejected me, I should be better off to know I had not been a coward. When the opportunity came to kiss you again, even once, it was like a blessing from the heavens.”
Her eyes brim with tears. “Please do not say things you do not mean. You were never interested in marrying me, a fact that you bandied about to the entire ton.”
“And I will hurl myself at your feet every day for such idiocy, but I swear to you, Penelope. You have been my first thought every day, not for months but for years. I dream of our kisses. I dream of your eyes. I dream of being even half deserving of your affection, knowing I cannot give you anything you do not already have. I simply wish for you to understand, Penelope, that I have truly and foolishly loved you.” His free hand travels to her face, stroking lightly against her cheekbone.
She trembles, her other gloved hand rising over her mouth. Despair begins to creep in. “Colin, I am still in mourning.”
He sits back on his heels, releasing her. It is done, and there is a strange relief in the pain of rejection lacerating him after so long. “Forgive me. I did not mean to perturb you.”
She is a vision even now, her hands shaking, her red curls slightly mussed. She does not want to hurt him, and he loves her for it, perhaps more than ever. Maybe this feeling will only die with him.
“I…I love you, Colin.”
He freezes.
“I loved you before you ever thought of me. I loved you when I was married, and widowed, and when you—” But her speech is cut off as he surges up to kiss her, his hands wiping the tears from her eyes. When he finally pulls away she laughs wetly, brushing his face with amazement. “I gave up on love because I gave up on you.”
He kisses her again, unable to resist pressing into her. He kisses anything he can reach: her jaw, her neck, her earlobe, the tops of her breasts. She moans but begins to yank off his cravat with determination, and suddenly all hands are occupied in pulling off his shirt, then her dress. He eases her back onto the couch, tickling her calves until she pulls his hair in retaliation. Then he kneels and buries his face between her legs.
“Oh god, Colin!”
He starts out gentle, flicking and sucking teasingly until she grinds out, “More, now,” and then he eats her out relentlessly. He does such a thorough job that she is dripping by the time she has finished, hand plastered over her mouth to hold in her cries, and he cannot wait until they are free to do this in their bed.
After a short recovery, she says fiercely, “Colin, I want you on your back.” He obeys, stripping the rest of his trousers and undergarments. Then he flips them over in one smooth motion, causing her to yelp and giggle. She lowers her face to his, brushing his nose, and he looks into her eyes and wonders how he got so damn lucky.
She sinks down onto him confidently beneath her slip, and he loses himself in sensation, reaching up to squeeze her breasts. She moans in return, and he has just enough presence of mind to prop himself up and suck briefly at her nipples, earning himself a wicked array of sounds. His hand slides to her core, finger stroking until she shivers around him, hot with desire. Then he collapses back, helpless to the pleasure, and raggedly moans as she wrings his orgasm from him with the kind of ruthless efficiency that a man can never recover from.
He does come to, though, and strokes her hair as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. “I am a fool, Penelope, a thousand times over, but you must marry me. I promise to make Albert my son and heir, no matter how many children we have. As soon as your mourning is over, marry me and I will spend every day of my life making it up to you.”
She laughs again, running a possessive hand through his hair, making him wild with desire. “You had better. I am quite a desirable catch now.”
He grins devilishly, moving to kiss her again. “My love, you always have been.”