Chapter Text
Colin gazed with a heart full of tenderness at his friend, who was now asleep, stretched out on the carriage bench across from him. Her face, so serene and sweet, seemed entirely lost in the realm of dreams. Had he overdone it with the laudanum? Good Lord! He hoped not; he would never be able to forgive himself if she were to suffer from his imprudence. He had had little choice, he thought with a heavy heart, but to proceed this way with her.For a week now, ever since he had read in the chronicle about her engagement to Lord Rutledge, Colin had found no peace. It was impossible for him to imagine her married to an old dotard who was with one foot already in the grave. Nor could he picture those wrinkled claws upon the fine, pale skin of his dearest friend.Penelope shifted slightly on the bench, and Colin leaned toward her to protect her from a potential fall. After all, the bench was small and uncomfortable, but for the moment, it was exactly what was required to transport her safely. The idea of taking her and carrying her far away from London to protect her had come spontaneously, after spending the entire day thinking of how to save her; he was certain she did not want this marriage, there was no possible way.
But what if she did? What if she wanted to marry the old man just to escape that shrew of a woman, Portia? Colin could not simply appear at her door and propose that she go into hiding, nor could he force her to flee. So he did what he deemed to be the most honorable thing. Of course, when she woke up, he would explain everything to her, then he would tend to her properly, care for her, and keep her hidden away until the old lord finally passed on.
He sighed again, relieved, yet also slightly lightheaded from her sweet scent of roses that filled the carriage air. It was as though he had Penelope’s very essence in his nostrils, beneath his skin, down to the depths of his mind—it was pleasing, deeply relaxing even.
The house where he was taking her was, naturally, just a little outside of London. Colin did not want to risk traveling far and without purpose, only to be caught at some inn, though the chances would have been relatively slim, since he was supposed to have departed long ago on a tour of the continent.
He had left the very next day after learning of her engagement and had engineered the plan in the most meticulous manner. First, he had rented a small, unassuming cottage outside of London. Then he had procured the substance, which, though not readily available to just anyone, he had obtained easily enough. And finally, there was the letter, which bid her to come down to the back gate at midnight so he could tell her something of great importance. She had been astonished to see him, for she, like the rest of his family and society, assumed he was already aboard a ship bearing him away to warmer lands. But that had been a mere ruse on his part, a distraction so no one would suspect he was caught in the middle of it all.
He leaned over her again and brushed away a stray lock of hair that had slipped from her braid. Her nightgown had slid off her shoulder, and he stripped off his own coat immediately, rushing to wrap her in its warmth.
He cast a final glance at his pocket watch and knew they would reach the residence in no time at all. He hoped Penelope would not wake until then. He wondered whether he should keep her locked in the room until she accepted her new home, or leave her free, hoping she would be well-behaved enough not to run away. It was still debatable, he thought; it all depended on the reaction she would have the moment she opened her eyes.
The house was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. A single butler, a cook, and a young maid who was to serve as Penelope’s attendant waited at the threshold. Everyone in the household believed them to be Mr. and Mrs. Ledger—newlyweds retired for a time to the countryside, far from the chaos of the city.
“Sir!” the butler said as he opened the carriage door, greeting him warmly.
Colin lifted Penelope into his arms, pressing her against his chest and wrapping her more securely in his coat, like a cocoon of warmth and sweetness. All he wanted was for her to be safe.
“Colin…” she murmured against his chest as he carried her upstairs like a bride, as though she weighed nothing at all, toward the bedrooms.
“Shh… you are safe now. I’ve got you.”
She said nothing more, sinking once again into peaceful sleep, while he held her even closer, as one might hold a child. He laid her down on the clean linens, then drew the heavy wool blankets over her, tucking her in up to her chin.
After days of relentless anxiety, he finally allowed himself to breathe. His sweet friend was safe at last, and he could not have been happier.
He stretched out beside her, on top of the covers, far too exhausted even to remove his boots. Truly, the past week had drained him beyond measure, but he knew that, above all else, she had to be safe.
Colin fell asleep the moment he closed his eyes, slipping into a peaceful slumber while Penelope’s gentle breath brushed his cheek. Perhaps he was too close to her—closer than propriety would allow—but how could he move away when her breath and her scent, surrounding him from all sides, brought him such profound peace?
Her sharp gasp made him bolt out of bed as if burned, forgetting for a fraction of a second where he was and with whom. Penelope was sitting up, her eyes wide and round as saucers, staring at him in sheer panic.
“C-Colin?” her voice, slightly high-pitched, grew increasingly alarmed as her eyes darted wildly around the room. “Where am I?” she asked when their gazes finally locked.
Colin only smiled at her, glad that his plan had largely succeeded and that she had not fled yet.
“You are safe now!” he said, drawing closer to her and squeezing her hand tenderly.
Penelope blinked at him, visibly bewildered by what he had just uttered. Her reaction suggested, perhaps, that she had felt perfectly safe until now and had no desire to be rescued. Maybe she had wanted to marry, to possess the lord's fortune, and then become a wealthy, beautiful widow. The thought hardened him even further in his trousers, intensifying the erection that had possessed him since the early hours of the morning.
“I do not understand... Was I not safe?”
Colin stammered, scrambling to find a logical reason for why she was here and not in her bedchamber in Mayfair. Theoretically, Penelope had been in no danger; she had been perfectly safe until he had completely lost his composure and abducted her.
The reality of his actions crashed down upon them like an unfortunate condemnation.
Penelope rose from the bed, alarmed, her hair now entirely freed from its braid, and he was left stunned by how beautiful she truly was beneath all those monstrous ribbons and loud dresses. Colin followed her immediately, mourning the warmth of her hand leaving his—a sensation that made him wonder, for the very first time, who was she, truly, to him?
“Good Lord!” she burst out, suddenly fully aware of the predicament he had placed her in.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, squeezing her hand once more, drawn to her more than by gravity itself, which holds all things together in the universe.
“What will my mother say? Or worse, your brother?” Penelope covered her face with her palms, letting out a muffled sob. “And Marina... What will your fiancée say, Colin?”
Ah! Yes... He had not thought of that. In fact, he had not thought of Marina at all from the very moment he had read Lady Whistledown’s chronicle announcing his dearest friend’s engagement. All he could recall was writing a brief letter to Marina informing her of his sudden departure for the continent, adding that, if she still wished it, they could resume their engagement upon his return home. That had been all; the rest of his time had been entirely consumed by the thought of prying Penelope from the old man’s clutches.
“I forgot about Marina,” he said guiltily, though he could have sworn that the corner of Penelope’s mouth had just twitched into a smile completely unfamiliar to him.
“Perhaps it is not too late to return? Perhaps no one has noticed my absence.”
“That is out of the question under any circumstances!” he said, stepping resolutely in front of her, standing like a pillar between her and the door. “You will only leave this place the moment the old lord dies.”
"Are you not being rather dramatic? I mean... Why does the lord and the fact that he is my fiancé bother you so much?"
Colin stared at her like a fish trying to breathe out of water, opening and closing his mouth in search of an answer that would not come. Why did it bother him so much? He asked himself that for the very first time. Perhaps he should set aside the noble pretexts—such as her not wanting this engagement, or the notion that a girl so young and sweet had no business being near a wrinkled man like Rutledge...
"I... I am not entirely certain of the reason, but I will not allow you to ruin your life simply because it is what your mother desires."
Penelope laughed, and the crystalline sound filled the quiet room.
"Do you truly believe my mother wants this? I chose this, Colin! Because my choices were either this or remaining alone, a spinster with no prospects."
He scoffed, placing his hands on his hips and glaring at her in utter exasperation. She was either mad or blind if she believed she would ever remain a spinster, when she had barely made her debut into society.
Colin knew that beneath all the layers of garish, oversized dresses that made her appear even more childish than she already was, Penelope was a truly eligible young lady. He had always seen her hidden charm, her sharp wit, and a gentleness capable of melting even a heart of stone. Beneath all her timidity, Penelope possessed a grace and a sweetness that often left Colin thinking only of how he might spend more time in her presence, wondering how he could steal her away from Eloise more frequently. Now, as his eyes mapped out every part of her face and her voluptuous body, he knew he had been entirely correct. Penelope was the most beautiful young lady in the ton—more beautiful even than Marina, far more beautiful, in fact.
The realization hit him like a fist to the stomach, leaving him breathless.
"I do not know what you think of yourself, but that is nonsense," he rasped, trying to calm his heart, which was now beating strangely fast in her presence.
"You are the one speaking nonsense right now!" she retorted, raising her voice at him. "If I am ruined, it will be entirely your fault, and you will be forced to marry me and have a miserable life together."
Penelope's harsh words nearly brought him to his knees. Was marrying him worse than marrying Rutledge?
"I am returning home this instant!" she said determinedly, brushing past him and heading toward the door.
Well, he would not allow it. He caught her by the wrist and pulled her toward him with force, sending her crashing against his hard body.
"Oh!" escaped her lips, a sound full of wonder.
Colin felt a strange current course through his entire body, akin to a lightning bolt striking the earth. Suddenly, his life as he knew it turned completely off its axis as she looked up at him, her eyes shining through her lashes. How beautiful she was, he thought, fascinated by the way her breasts now pressed against his chest.
Colin was no longer certain if he had leaned down to her or if she had risen on her tiptoes for him. He was not sure who had made the first move, but he knew with absolute certainty the moment he pressed his lips to hers with fervor that Penelope would only leave this place with him as her husband.
A week ago.
The Featherington household was calm, an unusual occurrence for Portia since the social season had commenced. The young ladies were still sleeping peacefully in their chambers, and the woman was sipping her tea in the drawing room, in silence, enjoying the sunny day. Varley had left the latest issue of Whistledown on the table, and Portia relished the fresh society gossip without Prudence’s shrieks or Philippa’s complaints.
“The engagement between Lord Rutledge and Miss Penelope Featherington was certainly unexpected, yet obvious for someone with as few prospects as her. Whatever the case, I wish the newly engaged couple a solid marriage and as many healthy babies as possible.”
Portia choked on her tea. It came out of her nose, throwing the woman into a violent fit of coughing. Such a thing was utterly impossible—her youngest girl betrothed to an old gaffer! Penelope might not be the most eligible debutante, but Portia knew better than anyone that the girl deserved more than that. The woman remained lost in thought for a moment as the coughing subsided and she slowly returned to normal. There was no way Penelope could be engaged to the old man. Rutledge was already betrothed to a widowed woman, and that engagement had by no means been announced as dissolved.
She hurried up to her youngest daughter's bedchamber, the column still gripped in her hand, and knocked on the door, waking Penelope from her slumber. It was not her habit to do so, but the situation certainly merited an explanation, and Penelope was the only one capable of providing it.
"I believe the writer has lost her mind," Penelope said, letting her head fall back onto the pillow. "Mother, the lord has barely spoken to me once. How do you think I would end up engaged to someone who has not even courted me, let alone conversed with me?"
Portia let out a sigh of relief, mingled with fury. She was thoroughly exhausted by the lies that insolent woman penned upon the page time after time.
"So... So you are not engaged?" she finally inquired.
"I would certainly know if it were otherwise."
Penelope flashed her a smile that Portia recognized all too well. That sly, arrogant, and mocking smile that she herself so frequently employed. It was no surprise to Portia to see that, out of all her daughters, Penelope resembled her the most.
"Very well then! I shall leave you to sleep."
The woman rose from the bed, departing the room and tossing the paper straight into the fire. Splendid, she told herself. Now she would have to explain to the entire ton that her daughter was, in fact, not engaged at all.
Now, a week after that event, Portia felt certain she would faint when her Penelope vanished without a trace, leaving her room untouched, with all her belongings and gowns still in the wardrobe. She sighed in defeat. With Marina pregnant and lacking a fiancé, and Penelope gone without a trace, it was clear that scandal was inevitable.
The Present
Their kiss ceased abruptly, leaving them both breathless, their lips swollen and flushed, their hearts hammering in the exact same frantic rhythm. Colin stared fixedly at her, a dark possessiveness swirling in his eyes, his massive chest rising and falling rapidly while he still held her pinned tightly against him.
Penelope took a step back, leaning against the wooden door behind her. Despite the slight dizziness that still haunted her from the laudanum, her sharp mind was already working at full capacity. She looked at Colin and, beneath the mask of a frightened, ruined girl she put on, in the depths of her soul she felt a victorious, almost diabolical satisfaction. Her lie had worked.
When she had placed those foolish words in Lady Whistledown’s chronicle a week ago, she had done so with a precise purpose. It had been an act of desperation, of course, but she could not bear to see Colin walk blindly into Marina's snare—a fiancée who not only did not love him but carried another man's children in her womb. Penelope could not endure the thought of the man she had secretly adored for years being destroyed by such a falsehood. So she had invented her own lie, one so outrageous that she knew it would jar Colin from his complacency. The idea had struck her long ago, when Colin himself had rescued Marina from dancing with the old lord. She knew, or at least hoped, that Colin's instinct to protect her would detonate.
And detonate it did. Only she had completely underestimated the monster she had awakened within him. Colin had not just acted; he had entirely lost his senses, drugging her and kidnapping her, jeopardizing his entire reputation just to possess her and keep her hidden away from the world.
"Colin..." she whispered, raising her hand to her throat, where her skin still held her sweet scent of roses mingled with the heavy, earthy odor of the laudanum he had poured into her glass. "What do you intend to do with me?"
Colin took a menacing step toward her, closing the distance between their bodies once more, and his gaze descended hungrily upon her reddened lips.
"I have already told you, Pen," he uttered in a low, raspy tone that brook no negotiation. "You stay here, with me, until the old man dies, until Marina is nothing but a memory... and until you understand that your only future is by my side."
Penelope lowered her head, hiding her wicked smile in the shadow of her undone hair. She had risked her reputation, she had risked her life, but now she had him exactly where she wanted him: beside her, bound to her, completely at her mercy. One thing was a certainty to her—Colin would eat right out of the palm of her hand, as long as she knew exactly how to give him what he desired, and she knew that better than anyone.