legacydowney94

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Title: For Benedict’s Eyes Alone

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Note: Penelope was born in 1786 and taken in by Lady Danbury in 1796.

Note Two: This is for an EXPLICIT plot bunny that will have explicit sexual content. It will also have explicit language and this plot is for 18+.

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Bridgerton House, 1815 - Anthony’s Study

The late afternoon sun filtered through heavy damask curtains, casting lazy stripes of light across the polished mahogany desk cluttered with sealed letters and a half-filled inkstand. Anthony Bridgerton, Lord Bridgerton himself, lounged back in his leather chair, fingers drumming rhythmically as he sifted through a batch of correspondence. The scent of fresh parchment and the faintest trace of Kate’s lavender perfume lingered in the air.

The quiet was broken by the soft click of the study door opening, and in stepped Kate, her eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint Anthony knew too well, followed closely by Penelope Featherington, who carried an air of calm composure—though Anthony detected a flicker of excitement beneath her serene mask.

“What are the two of you plotting now?” Anthony asked, arching a brow as he settled deeper into his chair, the corner of his mouth quirking into a knowing smile.

Kate shot Penelope a sly look and gave her a gentle nudge with her elbow, silently urging her to spill the beans. Penelope’s lips curved into a delicate smile, the kind that suggested she was about to drop a bomb wrapped in velvet.

“You know, Anthony,” Penelope began, her voice measured and smooth like honey, “I am Lady Whistledown. My columns—well, they serve a purpose beyond mere gossip. They’re a shield, designed to keep your family clear of scandal.”

Anthony nodded, his intrigue growing. “Indeed. I’m the one who ensures your society papers get to the printer without you having to sneak out under cover of darkness.”

Penelope’s smile deepened, eyes gleaming with a secret. “Tonight, I’ve written two columns. One is… special. For your brother Benedict’s eyes only.”

Anthony sat up straighter, interest piqued. “Special how? And why the secrecy?”

Kate leaned in, her voice low and teasing. “Because it’s not the sort of column you’d want circulating among polite society.”

Penelope crossed her arms, the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s a column meant to drive Benedict mad.”

Anthony chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re a devious little minx, Penelope. Fine. I’ll make sure to get the columns as soon as they arrive and personally deliver Benedict’s.”

“And make sure he reads it in the drawing room,” Penelope added, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I want to witness the fallout firsthand.”

Kate wrapped an arm around Penelope’s waist, a warm gesture of camaraderie. “Consider it done.”

Anthony rose, the faint creak of his chair punctuating the moment. “Anything else I should know before I become the courier of scandal?”

Penelope gave a mock-innocent shrug. “Just remember — the sooner Benedict reads it, the better. The suspense is killing me.”

With a grin, Anthony followed the two women out of the study, already imagining the look on Benedict’s face when he unraveled Penelope’s carefully crafted words.

As they reached the door, Anthony called to a passing footman, “Make sure the incoming Lady Whistledown papers come straight to me. No one else touches them.”

The footman bowed, and Anthony’s mind raced, already plotting the perfect moment to deliver the tantalizing secret.

———————————————————————Bridgerton House, 1815 - The Drawing Room

The drawing room at Bridgerton House was alive with the warm hum of familial chaos—layered conversation and the clinking of teacups, the rustle of skirts, the occasional giggle or sigh of mild exasperation.

Penelope Featherington sat poised on the edge of the settee beside Kate, her fingers lightly curled around a delicate teacup she had no intention of drinking from. Across the room, her eyes drifted—again and again—toward Benedict Bridgerton. He was tucked into the corner in a high-backed armchair, legs crossed in that casual elegance he never seemed to realize he possessed, his sketchbook resting on one knee, the charcoal in his hand hovering mid-air.

Kate leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You look like a fox staring down a particularly fine pheasant.”

Penelope’s lips curved, her voice equally low. “He has no idea what’s coming.”

The rest of the room was a portrait of domestic bliss. Eloise was waxing poetic—and slightly irritated—about what this edition of Lady Whistledown would surely contain. Francesca’s fingers drifted across the pianoforte, coaxing a soft, unintrusive melody into the air. Colin, back from his latest escapade, was deep in conversation with Simon and Daphne, the three of them laughing over something scandalous and likely half-true. On the floor, Gregory and Hyacinth squabbled over cards, and Violet sat in her embroidery chair, sipping her tea with the quiet dignity of a queen.

Then the door opened.

Anthony strode in with the air of a man thoroughly enjoying his own private joke. In his left hand, a neat stack of Lady Whistledown’s papers. In his right, a single, folded sheet.

Eloise practically pounced, snatching the larger stack without so much as a hello, already scanning for salacious tidbits. Anthony, unbothered, moved to stand behind Benedict and extended the lone paper like a royal decree.

Benedict looked up from his sketchbook, one brow arching in curiosity. “Just one for me? How flattering.”

Anthony merely smirked. “It’s…personal.”

Kate’s grip on Penelope’s hand tightened in excitement.

Penelope held her breath.

Benedict unfolded the paper and began to read.

Lady Whistledown’s Special Edition Column

(For Benedict’s Eyes Alone)

Dearest Gentle Reader,

This is a special edition column written for a very special reader.

I’m speaking to you, Mr. Benedict Bridgerton.

You, Mr. Bridgerton, with your dreamy blue eyes and that charmingly crooked smile, and that voice—smooth as melt-in-your-mouth chocolate.

You’ve ruined me without ever touching me. And oh, how I dream of your beautiful, artistic hands—of what those long, talented fingers could do if only they were on me.

I wonder… does your tongue only spin tales of art and wit? Or does it whisper darker, delicious things, too?

You may not see me, but I am very close to you. I have spent many afternoons watching you. I know the way your lips curl when you smile, when you tease your siblings. I know how your laugh softens your whole face.

And I wonder… are those lips as soft as they look? What would they taste like? I long to find out. I ache for it.

You visit me in my dreams, over and over again. Each time you leave me gasping, ruined, drenched in want. And I wake up—always—hungry for more.

If you knew the things I long to do with you… the things I long for you to do to me…

Even now, as I write this, my body burns for your touch.

You already know who I am. All you have to do is open your eyes and see.

Yours truly, in heart, body, and soul—

Lady Whistledown.

Benedict blinked. Once. Twice.

His lips parted, but no sound escaped.

He read it again, slower this time, his eyes trailing the words like they might vanish if he moved too quickly. By the third reading, he was visibly flushed, the faintest tinge of pink rising high on his cheekbones and spreading to his ears.

Penelope watched him closely, heart hammering in her chest. She could almost feel the moment he reached the line about her dreams—gasps, puddles, want. His jaw flexed.

Kate leaned over with a smirk and whispered, “He looks as if he’s just been slapped and kissed at the same time.”

Penelope suppressed a giggle, biting her lip.

Across the room, Anthony had taken up position beside the hearth, arms folded, watching his brother squirm with open amusement. He sipped from his own teacup like it was the most fascinating bit of theater he’d seen all year.

But Benedict—oh, poor, sweet Benedict—was desperately trying to act like he hadn’t just read a filthy love letter from a ghost in the parlor.

He folded the paper once. Then again. Then unfolded it and glanced at it, eyes darting back to certain lines, his chest rising and falling with the shallow rhythm of a man thoroughly unprepared for this sort of literary ambush.

Then, his eyes lifted. Slowly.

He scanned the room.

No one else was reacting. Not a single raised brow. Not even Eloise, who’d been so certain she was the subject of half of Whistledown’s sharper barbs.

Benedict’s gaze landed on Penelope for just a beat too long.

She smiled at Kate. Casually. Innocently. Like she hadn’t just set a man’s entire nervous system ablaze.

Then she looked away, feeling Benedict’s eyes still on her. If she met them now—too soon—it would give everything away.

Kate raised her teacup to her lips, murmuring behind the rim, “He’s unraveling.”

Penelope didn’t reply. Her heart was still unraveling, too.

———————————————————————Bridgerton House, 1815 - The Drawing Room

Six weeks.

It had been six bloody weeks since Anthony strolled into the drawing room, smug as ever, and handed Benedict a special edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

But it wasn’t gossip. It wasn’t even news. It was a literary striptease. A confessional masquerading as fiction. And it was about him.

An erotic fantasy dressed up as a column, written in lush, teasing prose that scorched his skin without so much as a touch. She wrote of him—his smile, his hands, his voice. The way he’d ruined her. Without ever having laid a single finger on her.

Benedict had read it every night since. Every damn night. It haunted him, whispering itself into his ear like a secret lover in the dark. He could quote it, word for word, burned into his mind with the heat of a branding iron.

And it was driving him mad.

He had theories. Suspicions. Possibilities swirling in his head like smoke. But nothing concrete. Nothing provable.

One name kept rising to the surface, again and again: Penelope Featherington.

A sweet childhood friend of Anthony’s. Adored by Kate. Loved by the Bridgerton women. Always around lately—too often to be coincidence. The damned girl was everywhere—in the drawing room with his sisters, the garden with Kate, the bloody library where she’d somehow taken over his favorite chair.

And now, she was here for dinner. Again.

She left hints—mischievous turns of phrase, bold little barbs—but none of it was enough. Not yet.

But tonight? Tonight, he was about to get all the proof he needed.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The Dining Room

The long table was crowded with laughter, silverware, and far too many emotions. Every Bridgerton was present, as well as Simon Basset and—of course—Penelope Featherington.

Benedict sat in his usual place to Anthony’s left, directly across from Kate. Penelope was seated beside Kate, perfectly poised, perfectly composed. A wolf in honey-colored lace.

He stabbed at his roast beef, chewing in silence as Anthony, Kate, and Penelope chatted. He wasn’t listening, of course not. He was merely observing.

“Penny, are you still staying for drinks after dinner with Kate and I?” Anthony asked, tone far too casual.

“Of course I am,” Penelope replied with a sweet little smile. “Although I may need to leave early so that I don’t have to make Lady Danbury stay up late waiting for me.”

“Nonsense,” Anthony said, smirking. “I already sent her a letter to inform her that you won’t be returning home until tomorrow afternoon.”

“You are insufferable,” she huffed, rolling her eyes, but the corners of her mouth curled up in amused affection.

Benedict watched the exchange through his lashes, his fork hovering in the air. She was relaxed, unbothered—brilliantly, maddeningly brazen.

“Don’t mind him, Penny,” Kate chimed in. “Now tell me, have you read anything interesting lately?”

“Oh, terribly interesting,” Penelope replied, her voice light and dangerously amused. “I just started reading a book about an artist who doesn’t realize that his brother’s dearest friend is in love with him.”

Benedict froze. A tickle crawled down the back of his neck.

Kate leaned in, conspiratorially. “Tell me more. I must know.”

“Well,” Penelope began, tilting her head, “it’s a rather erotic story. The heroine is secretly in love with a man she’s known for years. A younger brother of a very close friend. She dreams about his hands—how talented they are. She wonders if his lips are as soft as they look, and if his tongue is as clever as his fingers. She says his voice is smooth… like chocolate that melts in your mouth.”

Benedict’s fork paused halfway to his lips.

“There’s this one scene,” Penelope continued, eyes sparkling, “where the artist finally corners her. He doesn’t touch her at first, not properly. He simply shows her what his hands can do. He makes her beg—silently, of course. She doesn’t say a word. She just shatters.”

The clink of metal on glass rang out like a shot.

Every head turned toward Benedict, who sat rigid at the far end of the table, fork now lying forgotten on his plate. His eyes were locked on Penelope, unblinking.

The room held its breath.

Violet Bridgerton watched him with maternal concern. Eloise and Colin were stifling giggles. Even Gregory looked curious.

But Benedict? He was somewhere else entirely. He was in that column. He was in her story. He was cornering her in the dark and showing her exactly what his fingers could do.

And Penelope?

Penelope simply took a sip of wine and smiled sweetly at Kate.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – Anthony’s Study

After Dinner.

The fire was crackling merrily, casting flickering gold light over the dark-paneled walls of Anthony’s study. The viscount himself was uncharacteristically sprawled on the floor in front of his desk, glass in hand, grinning like a boy at mischief.

Penelope and Kate were tucked together on the settee, the picture of elegance—if elegance included flushed cheeks, breathless laughter, and Kate nearly in tears from trying to stifle a giggle.

Benedict stepped into the room and paused, one brow arching as he surveyed the scene.

“What the devil are you three cackling about?” he asked dryly.

Anthony raised his glass in greeting, his smirk positively sinful. “Come, brother. Sit, drink. Join us in our literary debauchery.”

Intrigued—and more than a little suspicious—Benedict made his way to the drinks cabinet, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and settled into the armchair beside the settee. The women were still giggling, Kate pressing a hand over her mouth, Penelope dabbing delicately at the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“You all look like naughty children who’ve just set fire to the vicar’s garden,” he said, settling back with a sip of brandy.

“Oh, worse,” Anthony replied cheerfully. “Much worse.”

“We were discussing the subtle art of erotic writing,” Kate added, still breathless. “And how absolutely un-subtle it can be when the author has… intent.”

Benedict felt the first stirrings of heat at the back of his neck.

Penelope turned her head slowly toward him, her eyes demure, her voice like velvet dipped in honey. “It’s quite fascinating, actually,” she murmured. “The way the right words—when placed just so—can make a woman feel… warmth in her body.”

Anthony sputtered on his drink, coughing into his sleeve. Kate let out a bark of laughter, entirely unladylike and unapologetic.

Benedict, meanwhile, went very still.

He was staring at her—really staring. Not at the curve of her lips or the fall of her hair, but at her eyes. That look. That glint of knowing. That maddening sparkle of a woman who had secrets she was daring him to uncover.

“Warmth, is it?” he said, low and careful, as though the word itself might catch fire.

Penelope tilted her head, sweet as summer sin. “Of course,” she said simply. “All good writing is meant to stir the reader, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Some more than others,” Kate added under her breath with a wicked grin.

Anthony was wheezing now, laughing helplessly, sprawled on the rug like a man who’d just witnessed divine comedy.

Benedict took a long, slow sip of brandy, his gaze never leaving Penelope.

She’d all but confessed. Without confessing at all.

And he was so close to breaking.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The Upstairs Landing

Midnight

Benedict had slipped away from Anthony’s study long before the hour struck midnight, claiming a sudden need to work on a sketch. A harmless lie. He wasn’t holding a pencil tonight. He was holding his breath.

He knew she’d leave soon—Penelope always did when she thought no one was watching. But he was watching. He had been watching her for weeks.

So he waited.

Hidden in the shadowed alcove at the top of the stairs, tucked between a pair of decorative columns and an armoire too large to be practical, he waited.

And then—soft footsteps. A rustle of skirts. The telltale hum of a woman tipsy enough to hum, but not so far gone she’d lost her grace.

Penelope.

She had just stepped onto the landing when a long-fingered hand shot out and curled gently around her waist, pulling her into the dark.

She gasped, only to find her back pressed to the cool wall, her body framed by two strong arms, and her breath caught in her throat as her eyes locked on his.

“Benedict,” she whispered, his name falling from her lips like the first secret of the night.

“Six weeks, Penelope.” His voice was low, rough, and honeyed with frustration. “Six bloody weeks I’ve been trying to work out the identity of Lady Whistledown—and then tonight, at dinner, you give yourself away like it’s a game.”

Her eyes glittered in the half-light. “So you assume I’m Lady Whistledown?” she asked, innocent as sin, lashes fluttering like wings.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” he murmured, stepping closer until only a breath of air lived between them. “But then I remembered everything that column said. The way you watch me. How you’re always here—how you’ve always been here. Since you and Anthony were practically in nappies.”

He paused, his voice dipping into reverence. “You can’t deny it anymore. I know it’s you.”

“Well,” she said, entirely too calm, “you figured it out faster than Anthony did. Took him nearly a year—and catching me at the printers.”

Her hands lifted to grip the front of his waistcoat, poised on the edge of pushing him away… or pulling him in.

“I’ve read that column every single day,” he confessed, leaning in. “It’s burned into me. I live with those words now. I’ve memorized every filthy, perfect line. And then you go and quote it at dinner like it’s a book recommendation—in front of my entire family.”

He stepped even closer, crowding her deliciously against the wall. His breath fanned across her cheek.

“I’ve been losing my mind.”

Her smile turned dangerous.

“Did you like it?” she whispered. “Did it leave you waking up hard and wanting? Did it make you feel hot… hungry… for just a taste?”

A tortured sound slipped from his throat. “God, yes. I haven’t thought properly in weeks.”

Her lips brushed against his ear. “Then what,” she purred, “are you going to do about it?”

He growled.

Low. Animal. Unrestrained.

And then he kissed her.

Not gently. Not sweetly. He devoured her.

His mouth crushed against hers, desperate and searing. She gasped into the kiss, fingers tangling in the lapels of his waistcoat as she pulled him closer, lips parting to let him in. The kiss turned hot, filthy, open-mouthed and hungry. And just to be a menace, she nipped at his bottom lip—light, teasing.

And that’s when—

“Ahem.”

A very deliberate throat cleared from the shadows.

Benedict froze, panting, as his gaze turned slowly toward the landing.

There stood Anthony.

With Kate.

Both smirking.

Penelope slipped out from beneath Benedict’s arm with infuriating grace, smoothing her gown as she stepped lightly into the hall.

“Good night, Benedict,” she called sweetly over her shoulder, her voice thick with laughter and triumph.

He could do nothing but stare after her, chest heaving, hands still twitching with the phantom feel of her body.

Anthony clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, far too smug for a man who’d just witnessed his brother nearly combust. “Enjoy the rest of your night, brother.”

Kate grinned as they disappeared down the corridor. “Sweet dreams.”

Benedict stood in the alcove, dazed and slightly ruined.

And he knew—oh, he knew—this wasn’t over.

Not even close.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – Penelope’s Guest Room

The fire had long since burned down to a soft glow in the hearth, shadows dancing lazily across the walls of Penelope’s guest room. She sat at the writing desk in nothing but her shift and robe, hair loosened, cheeks still flushed from that kiss.

Her hand moved steadily across the parchment, her lips curled in a knowing smirk. She didn’t bother disguising her handwriting—not this time. This wasn’t for Whistledown. This was for him.

For Benedict.

The letter was filthier than anything she’d dared put in the column. No pretense, no metaphor. Just want. Raw and exquisitely shameless.

Your body was against mine and you were hard, Benedict. So thick I could feel you through every layer of my gown, pressing into me like a secret you didn’t want to keep. I could feel you twitch when I bit your lip.

You kissed me like you meant to take me right there against the wall. And I let you. I let you ruin me, over and over again, in my mind. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since I got back to my room. I’m still dripping, Benedict.

Do you know what you do to me? I dream of your mouth on my skin. I dream of your fingers inside me. And the next time you snap? I want to see how far you’ll go.

No lies. No pen names. Just me. Yours.

—P

She blew gently on the ink to dry it, folded the letter with deliberate care, and tucked it into an envelope, unsealed.

It was a risk, and it thrilled her.

She knew Benedict had left his sketchbook in the drawing room. She’d seen it herself—half-tucked under the armchair where he’d abandoned it in his rush to play artist-turned-lover.

Barefoot and silent, Penelope slipped down the stairs like a phantom. She found the sketchbook exactly where she’d expected, opened it with reverence, and nestled the letter between two pages: one half-finished sketch of a woman’s bare shoulder and the untouched leaf behind it.

Let him find that in the morning.

Let him burn for her the way she burned now.

With her task complete and her heart pounding, she returned to her room undetected. She crawled into bed, letting the sheets cool her flushed skin, and finally closed her eyes.

But sleep did not come easily.

She drifted off slowly, sinking into dreams where Benedict did not stop with a kiss. Where he unfastened every button, peeled away every layer, and made good on every filthy word she’d written.

And in the quiet of her guest room, Penelope Featherington smiled in her sleep.

Because morning was coming.

And so, very soon, was Benedict Bridgerton.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The Drawing Room

The Next Day.

The morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the drawing room, casting a warm glow across polished floors and rich furnishings. The house was alive with quiet conversation and the soft clinking of teacups.

Benedict was in his usual spot—his favorite armchair by the window, a steaming cup of tea forgotten on the table beside him. He had only just retrieved his sketchbook, ready to pick up where he’d left off the night before. His fingers flipped through the familiar pages, his mind half on the curves of charcoal lines and half on the memory of Penelope’s kiss.

And then he saw it.

A folded slip of paper nestled between his last sketch and the next blank page.

His brows drew together as he opened it, lips parting slightly in curiosity.

Penelope, across the room, was speaking with Kate and Anthony. Her tone was soft, pleasant, polite. She played the part of the perfect guest as though she hadn’t just written him the filthiest confession he’d ever seen in his life.

His eyes scanned the letter once. Then again.

And again.

With each word, Benedict’s entire body locked up. His breath caught in his throat. His jaw clenched so tightly it ached. One hand gripped the edge of his sketchbook, the other trembled around the letter. It was pure, unfiltered want laid out in black ink—for him. About him.

Her words weren’t merely vivid—they were searing. And intimate. And utterly shameless.

She wrote about the feel of his body, the hardness she felt pressed against her belly, how his kiss had left her dripping. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

She had dreamed of him. Of his hands, his tongue, his voice.

And she’d signed it.

No pseudonym. No initials. Just Penelope.

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t think.

Across the room, Penelope’s gaze flicked toward him. Just once. Subtle. Innocent. But the glint in her eyes told him everything—she knew exactly what part he was reading.

And she looked so pleased with herself.

Just then, Humboldt appeared in the doorway. “The carriage is ready to return Miss Featherington to Danbury Manor,” he said with a polite bow.

Penelope turned toward him with a warm smile. “Thank you, Humboldt.” Her voice was sweet as ever, untroubled.

Anthony and Kate rose with her, offering their farewells as they moved toward the front hall. Penelope gave one last polite smile to the room, the picture of grace and serenity.

But just before she turned away, her eyes found Benedict’s.

And she winked.

Benedict sat frozen in his chair, heart hammering in his chest, letter still clutched in his shaking hands.

He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to chase her down and drag her back upstairs—

—or fall to his knees and beg her to write another one.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The Hallway

Just after Penelope’s departure

Benedict was still clutching the letter like it was the last thread holding him together as he left the drawing room in a daze of want. His steps were fast and determined, each stride echoing against the marble as he made his way down the hall.

He had one destination.

The back door that led to the stables.

The fastest way to Danbury Manor.

But before he could reach it, a figure stepped into his path—tall, composed, irritatingly knowing.

“Where are you off to in such a rush, Benedict?” Anthony asked, tilting his head, voice casual but eyes sharp.

Benedict didn’t slow down. “Danbury Manor,” he said tightly, voice rough with restrained desire. “I’ve got unfinished business with Penelope.”

Anthony raised a brow, crossing his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. “Ah. So you did find the letter, then? She mentioned she wrote one. Said she slipped it into your sketchbook like a secret she wanted you to earn.”

“I found it.” Benedict’s eyes were dark with intent, jaw set. “And now I’m going to give her everything she asked for.”

He didn’t even glance at his brother as he brushed past him, footsteps growing louder, heavier, as he stormed toward the stables like a man possessed.

Anthony let out a low whistle, grinning as he watched his brother disappear.

A moment later, he felt Kate slip up beside him, warm and smug.

“Well,” she said, watching Benedict vanish through the back doors, “looks like someone’s getting his inspiration back.”

Anthony chuckled. “Mm. Just hope Lady Danbury’s butler is prepared for what’s coming.”

They both turned and headed back toward the drawing room, arm in arm and far too satisfied with themselves.

—————————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1815 – En Route

Just after noon – Rain pouring

Benedict didn’t wait. He didn’t ask. One of the stable hands shouted something after him as he threw open the doors, but he ignored it.

He saddled his stallion himself, fingers shaking with adrenaline, soaked through with rain before he even got the bridle buckled. His heart was pounding in his throat, his breath ragged—but it wasn’t exhaustion. It was need.

The sky split open above him, and still he mounted.

He pressed his heels to the horse’s sides and surged forward, thundering through the wet, muddied path that twisted through the woods between Bridgerton House and Danbury Manor. The trees were wild shadows around him, leaves shivering in the downpour, thunder growling low like a warning.

But he didn’t stop.

The letter—her letter—was tucked safely into the inner pocket of his waistcoat, its presence burning against his chest like a brand.

Every word was etched into his bones.

I’m still dripping, Benedict.

Next time you snap, I want to see how far you’ll go.

God, he had no plan. No words. No speech prepared, no clever charm. His thoughts were soaked and scattering like rain off his shoulders.

But he knew this:

The moment he saw Penelope Featherington, he was going to kiss her.

No. He was going to claim her—with lips, with tongue, with hands, with everything he had been holding back for weeks.

The rain poured harder. His coat clung to him, soaked through, curls plastered to his forehead, boots slick with mud. And still he pressed on, whipping past trees and brambles, the manor just beyond the bend, rising through the haze like salvation.

He was soaked to the skin. Half-wild.

But nothing—not propriety, not thunder, not the devil himself—was going to stop him.

Penelope had asked what he would do.

Now, she was about to find out.

—————————————————————————

Explicit Sexual Content Begins.

Danbury Manor, 1815 – Penelope’s Room

Late afternoon. Rain still falling.

Penelope stood in the quiet hush of her chamber, the rain tapping gently against the windows like a metronome to her thoughts. She’d shed her day dress, now clad in nothing but a thin linen chemise that clung softly to her figure, the fabric brushing her thighs as she moved.

Lady Danbury was away for a royal visit, and Penelope had the manor to herself. Even the staff had been granted leave for the evening. It was the perfect solitude—an evening meant for writing her next Whistledown column… or another letter. A scandalous one. One Benedict would never forget.

She was reaching for her inkwell when she heard it.

“Penelope!”

The voice was muffled by distance, but unmistakably male—hoarse, urgent, almost broken.

She crossed the room swiftly and opened the door just as heavy footfalls thundered up the stairs.

And there he was.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Dripping wet. Hair plastered to his forehead. Breeches soaked, coat clinging to his tall frame. His eyes locked on hers—and he looked feral.

“Benedict,” she gasped, breath catching in her throat.

His gaze raked over her, eyes flashing dark and wild, and then—he was on her.

Three strides, and he had her face in his hands, pulling her into a kiss so filthy, so consuming, it knocked the very breath from her lungs.

“You wanted to know how talented my fingers are,” he growled against her lips, voice rough with rain and restraint. “And how skilled my tongue can be. I’m going to show you.”

Before she could reply, he swept her into his arms as though she weighed nothing—her squeak of surprise lost in his lips—and carried her into the room.

He set her down gently by the bed, his eyes never leaving hers, and with slow reverence he lifted the chemise over her head.

She was bare beneath.

And he groaned—low, raw, and unmistakably carnal.

“On the bed,” he commanded, voice ragged. “Spread your legs. As far as they’ll go. And do not move an inch.”

Penelope obeyed instantly, climbing onto the bed, lying back against the pillows, thighs parted, anticipation trembling through her.

Benedict began stripping, his wet clothes hitting the floor in a heap. When he stood before her fully bare, she nearly whimpered at the sight of him—his cock already hard and flushed, heavy with desire.

He crawled onto the bed slowly, stalking her like a lion would his prey, but he didn’t touch her. Not yet.

His face hovered above hers, and their eyes locked.

“Tell me this is what you want, Penelope,” he whispered, voice tight with restraint. “Say it. I need to hear it.”

She reached for him, brushing her fingertips over his jaw. “I want you, Benedict. Take me. I’m yours.”

His forehead dropped to hers, and his voice broke with need. “You are mine now, Penelope. Mine.”

He kissed her then—slowly, reverently—before trailing his lips down her jaw, her throat, the delicate curve of her collarbone. He paused between her breasts, placing a kiss over her heart, before taking one nipple into his mouth and lavishing it with his tongue, his fingers toying with the other.

Penelope writhed, a gasp escaping her as he moved lower, tongue dancing down her belly, his fingers ghosting over her hips.

Then he settled between her thighs.

A single, reverent kiss to the top of her mound, then another to her inner thigh. She was trembling already.

“Oh God…” she gasped as his fingers slid through her folds, gathering her slickness. He gave a smug little smile.

“Dripping, just like your letter said,” he murmured. “So perfect.”

He slid one finger inside her—slow, deliberate, coaxing her open with gentle reverence. Her walls clenched instinctively around him, and he added a second, curling them just so—

Her head fell back. “Benedict!”

But he wasn’t done.

He lowered his head, lips finding her clit, and sucked it gently into his mouth. His tongue swirled, lips sealing over her as his fingers worked her open, steady and skilled. Her thighs shook around his shoulders.

And then she shattered.

She cried out his name as her release tore through her, his tongue still coaxing every wave, his fingers slowing but never leaving her until she came down soft and languid.

He crawled back up her body, licking a slow path up her skin until he was once again hovering over her.

His hand came to her cheek, thumb brushing gently across her flushed skin. His eyes—so soft now, but still burning—met hers.

And then, with one long, slow stroke, he slid into her.

Penelope gasped, eyes flying open at the sharp, aching stretch as he claimed her maidenhead. She didn’t look away. She held his gaze, breathing through the fullness, the pressure, the intimacy of it all.

“Benedict,” she whispered. “Please.”

That plea was all it took.

He pulled nearly all the way out, then thrust back in slowly, deeply. His left hand cradled her jaw; his right moved to hook behind her knee, lifting her leg high around his waist.

“Marry me, Penelope Featherington,” he said, voice breaking. “You’ve ruined me—with your words, your kiss, your body. Ruin me every day for the rest of my life. Say yes.”

“Yes…” she moaned, hips rising to meet his. “Yes… yes. I’ll marry you, Benedict—just don’t stop.”

Her inner walls clenched around him as he thrust again, harder now, deeper.

He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, control slipping fast.

And then he gave her everything.

Every dark thought, every heated dream, every moment of tension and torment and love he’d held back for years.

And when she came again, she pulled him with her.

—————————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1815 – Penelope’s Room

Later, as the storm quiets

The rain had slowed to a gentle patter against the windows, like the earth was finally exhaling.

Benedict lay beside her, one arm beneath her head, the other wrapped around her waist, anchoring her to him. Penelope was curled against his chest, her cheek resting just above his heart, which beat with the slow, steady rhythm of peace and satisfaction and a love that had finally been freed.

She was warm, boneless, radiant with afterglow, and yet she felt more awake than she had in weeks.

“You didn’t have to gallop through a thunderstorm to make your point, you know,” she murmured against his skin, smiling into his chest.

“Yes, I did,” Benedict said, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Your letter demanded it.”

She giggled softly, her fingers drawing lazy circles on his damp chest. “You really did read it closely.”

“Darling,” he whispered, voice hoarse and reverent, “I could recite it from memory. I’ve never been so hard in my entire bloody life.”

She flushed at that, hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder.

“And now you’re blushing after everything I’ve just done to you?” he teased gently, nudging her chin with his knuckle so she’d look at him.

“I was bolder on paper,” she admitted shyly.

“You were a goddess on paper,” he corrected, serious now. “And in reality, you’re even more dangerous.”

He leaned in and kissed her again—soft this time, languid, unhurried. The kind of kiss that promised more, but without rush. The kind that said you’re mine now, and I’m never letting you go.

When they finally broke apart, she smiled up at him. “You did ask me to ruin you for the rest of your life.”

“And I meant every word.”

He slipped out of the bed for just a moment, retrieving a clean robe from the nearby armoire and wrapping it around her shoulders. Then, without ceremony, he scooped her into his arms once more.

“Benedict—what are you doing?”

“I’m not done worshipping you,” he said with a grin. “We’re going to the bath.”

—————————————————————————

Danbury Manor – Lady Danbury’s Bathing Chamber

A little while later

The bath was already drawn, as if the house itself knew what they needed. The scent of lavender hung softly in the air, and candlelight shimmered against the water’s surface.

Penelope sank into the warmth with a contented sigh. Benedict followed, positioning himself behind her so she could rest against his chest, his long legs bracketing hers beneath the water.

For a while, there was only silence—save for the occasional splash and the hum of their shared heartbeat. He washed her slowly, reverently. His fingers lathered soap down her arms, over her breasts, across her thighs. There was no rush, no lust-driven frenzy now.

Just devotion.

When she took the cloth and returned the favor—gently smoothing it down his back, her fingers ghosting over his shoulders and ribs—he nearly groaned.

“This feels dangerous,” he murmured. “You touching me like this.”

“Are you worried I’ll ruin you again?” she teased, leaning her head back on his shoulder.

“I hope you do.”

—————————————————————————

Danbury Manor – Penelope’s Room, Later that Night

Moonlight glowing, hair still damp

They returned to her bed wrapped in towels and affection, limbs entwined beneath the covers.

Penelope lay with her back to him, and Benedict traced soft, sleepy patterns along the curve of her hip.

“When do you want to tell your family?” she asked drowsily.

“Tomorrow,” he replied. “At breakfast. When Mother is least expecting it. Colin will choke on his tea. Eloise will faint.”

“I can’t wait,” she murmured.

He reached over to the side table and took something from his coat pocket—a small velvet ribbon, one she’d once worn in her hair.

“I didn’t have a ring,” he said softly, “so I hope this will do for now.”

She turned toward him, eyes wide, heart fluttering.

“You kept that?”

“I’ve kept everything,” he said simply, tying the ribbon around her finger. “You’ve been mine since I knew how to want. And I want you forever, Penelope Featherington. Will you marry me?”

Her eyes shimmered. “I already said yes.”

“Say it again.”

“Yes,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his. “A thousand times yes.”

—————————————————————————

And in the quiet hush of the manor, beneath the last sigh of rain and the lull of candlelight, they drifted into sleep—twined together, spoken for, ruined in the most glorious way possible.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Title: The Wallflower and The Wicked

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Note: Penelope was born in 1786 and taken in by Lady Danbury in 1796.

Note Two: This is for an EXPLICIT plot bunny that will have explicit sexual content. It will also have explicit language and this plot is for 18+.

———————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1796 - The Drawing Room

Lady Agatha Danbury sat poised in her elegant drawing room, the delicate china cup balanced carefully in her hand as she leafed through the worn pages of a well-loved book. The afternoon sun filtered softly through tall windows, casting gentle shadows across the ornate rugs and polished furniture. A quiet moment of peace—until the steady knock at the door broke the silence.

One of her footmen, Evan, stepped inside with his usual respectful bow.

“My lady, Miss Penelope Featherington has arrived. She wishes to see you,” he announced, voice low but clear.

Agatha’s brow lifted slightly, curiosity knitting across her face. Penelope? Alone? Without a letter? The child’s sudden appearance was unusual enough to prick her careful instincts. Setting her teacup down with measured calm, she rose with the grace of a queen surveying her court.

“Show her in, Evan,” she commanded softly, her voice laced with a hint of concern.

Moments later, the door creaked open, and there stood Penelope Featherington—ten years old, flushed with tears and breathless from running. Her small frame trembled as she took hesitant steps into the room, clutching her small hands tightly to her chest.

“Aunt Aggie,” she blurted out, her voice cracking with the weight of unshed tears.

In an instant, Lady Danbury was across the room, arms unfolding to enfold the trembling child. Her voice dropped to a gentle murmur, rich with warmth and strength.

“What has happened, my sweet little cub? Tell me everything.”

Penelope’s sobs wavered as she poured out her heart.

“Mama and Papa have taken Prudence and Philipa to Paris for the summer… and left me with that cruel governess. She—she tore my A Midsummer Night’s Dream to pieces and threw them in the fire. And I’m not allowed to eat without her permission. When I do, it’s only soup and water, like I’m some stray.”

Lady Danbury’s eyes darkened with quiet fury. The injustice was a knife to her soul, but her voice remained calm, almost regal in its conviction.

“Well, that simply will not do. No child under my watch will suffer such cruelty. You will come to live with me, Penelope. Not just for the summer, but for as long as you need.”

Penelope blinked, surprise and relief mingling in her wide eyes. “You mean… I could stay here? With you? Really?”

“Of course, darling. You are my goddaughter. You belong here now.” Lady Danbury smiled softly, brushing a stray curl from Penelope’s face. “I will see to it personally that you want for nothing.”

A fragile smile broke across Penelope’s lips as she wrapped her arms tightly around her godmother’s waist.

“Thank you, Aunt Aggie. Thank you…”

Behind the scenes, Lady Danbury wasted no time. She summoned her footmen and maids, their orders sharp and clear: collect Penelope’s belongings from Featherington House, and send word to Queen Charlotte herself that Penelope Featherington is now under the care—and protection—of Danbury Manor.

———————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1802 - The Drawing Room

The late spring sun spilled into the drawing room, bathing the space in golden light that danced across the polished wood floor and glinted off the delicate porcelain knick-knacks Lady Danbury had collected from every corner of the Empire. Seated upon the rose-colored settee, her legs curled beneath her, was sixteen-year-old Penelope Featherington—no longer the tearful, frightened girl who had once sought refuge in this very room, but a young woman in bloom. Her coppery curls were pulled back with blue ribbons, and her pale green muslin gown was ever-so-slightly rumpled from lounging, but she hardly noticed.

She was far too engrossed in the book resting in her lap: Love in Excess by Eliza Haywood, a scandalous novel she’d “accidentally” stumbled upon in Lady Danbury’s private collection—one she had, in fact, been strongly encouraged to read.

Her eyes widened as she turned the page, cheeks coloring at the words dancing across it.

“…his lips, trembling with desire, sought hers in a kiss that was not chaste, nor brotherly…”

Penelope gasped softly, fingers tightening on the book, heart racing for reasons she was only just beginning to understand.

“That is most certainly not the type of book a young lady of sixteen should be reading.”

The voice was smooth, amused, and far too close.

Penelope squeaked, clutching the book to her chest as she spun around. “Simon!”

Behind her, Simon Basset—now eighteen, taller than ever, and insufferably smug—leaned lazily against the back of the settee, his brows arched in mock scandal as he peered at the title over her shoulder.

“You great oafish brute!” she huffed, brandishing the book like a weapon. “What are you doing, sneaking around like some ghoul in the night? Spying on me while I read, no less!”

“I wasn’t spying,” Simon said, lips twitching. “I simply walked in and noticed you were reading with such rapture—your cheeks flushed, your lips parted like a damsel in one of those horrid melodramas—and naturally, I had to investigate the source of your literary ecstasy.”

Penelope narrowed her eyes and gave him a solid whack on the arm with the spine of the book.

“Ow,” he said mildly, rubbing the spot. “Violence doesn’t suit you, sister.”

“You are not my brother,” she snapped, though without real heat. “You are an interloper with a knack for showing up precisely when you’re least wanted.”

Simon grinned. “That’s what all little sisters say.”

“I am not your little sister,” she muttered again, but the fight had already left her. She dropped the book into her lap and crossed her arms. “And for your information, Aunt Aggie is well aware of the book. She gave it to me.”

Simon blinked, then let out a bark of laughter. “Of course she did. That woman is a menace to polite society.”

“She says a young lady should be well informed of the material act between a man and a woman before she’s flung into a marriage with some man who might not care if she’s educated or terrified.” Penelope’s tone was prim, though her ears were pink. “She said ignorance is not a virtue, especially when it comes to something so… vital.”

Simon raised his hands in mock surrender, straightening with a smirk. “My apologies for interrupting your scholarly pursuits. Please, do continue reading your scandalous tale of passion and peril. Don’t let the presence of your infinitely more interesting, far more experienced elder brother disturb you.”

He executed an over-the-top bow, one hand pressed to his chest like a court jester, then turned and strolled out of the room with that maddening, self-satisfied chuckle that Penelope had come to associate with every minor irritation in her life.

“Infinitely irritating, you mean,” she muttered as she watched him go.

Then, with a dramatic sigh, she flipped the book open once more.

“…his hands traced the soft curve of her neck…”

She paused, biting her lip.

“Well,” she whispered to herself, “it is rather educational.”

———————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1805 - The Drawing Room

The evening light was fading into a soft twilight as the Bridgerton family gathered at Danbury Manor for dinner. The manor, with its grand tapestries and flickering candlelight, felt alive with the low hum of polite conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Tonight, for once, Simon was conspicuously absent—no mischievous older brother antics to distract Penelope as she sat quietly on the edge of a velvet settee, her gaze flickering toward the cluster of Bridgertons gathered near Lady Danbury.

“If he scowls any harder, I fear his face might just freeze that way,” Penelope murmured to herself, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

A gentle chuckle from her right made her glance sideways, and there stood Benedict Bridgerton, a rakish grin playing about his mouth and an easy charm in his eyes. “Anthony’s been scowling like that since he was twenty. I doubt he’ll ever stop. I’m Benedict,” he said with a slight bow.

“Penelope. Penelope Featherington,” she replied softly, a quiet confidence in her voice as she returned his gesture with a polite curtsy.

“Don’t worry about Anthony,” Benedict said with a shrug. “He’s not all that bad… just has his moments.”

Penelope hummed thoughtfully, her attention drifting back to Anthony, who remained statuesque across the room, his jaw tight and eyes sharp.

Then Lady Danbury’s eyes flicked toward her, a sly smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Penelope, come over here for a moment,” she called.

Both Lady Bridgerton and Anthony looked up at the mention of her name, curiosity flickering in their eyes.

With a playful roll of her eyes, Penelope turned to Benedict with an exaggerated curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me, Benedict, I am being summoned by Aunt Aggie. It’s been a pleasure meeting you and sharing in your brother’s torment.”

Benedict chuckled warmly, bowing his head as she gracefully rose and crossed the room.

“You summoned me, Aunt Aggie,” Penelope said cheekily, tilting her head.

Lady Danbury’s gaze sharpened, her tone low and teasing. “That cheeky tone might work on your brother, but it won’t work on me, cub.”

Penelope met her aunt’s gaze with an innocent smile, then slowly turned her eyes toward Anthony Bridgerton, who was watching with a tilted head and faint, unreadable expression.

“Penelope, I would like you to meet a dear friend of mine,” Lady Danbury began, gesturing with elegance. “This is Lady Violet Bridgerton, and this is her eldest son, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.”

“Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope said, curtsying with soft grace. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Hello, dear. The pleasure is mine,” Violet replied warmly, a gentle smile crinkling her eyes.

“My Lord,” Penelope said, turning her attention to Anthony with a demure curtsy, though she never once broke eye contact.

“Miss Featherington,” Anthony answered with a bow, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

Penelope’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk as she appraised him with mock innocence. “Hmm… you’re prettier up close.”

Lady Danbury let out a sharp cackle, and Lady Bridgerton hastily covered her mouth to suppress a smile.

“She called Anthony ‘pretty,’” piped a nine-year-old Eloise from across the room, giggling. Daphne, thirteen, stifled her laughter behind a gloved hand, and seventeen-year-old Colin laughed so hard he was practically gasping for air.

Anthony’s jaw twitched involuntarily as he glanced at his siblings, then back at the smirking Penelope.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” Penelope said with faux politeness, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But if you’ll excuse me, I promised the younger children a story.”

With a soft smile to Lady Bridgerton, Penelope dropped an affectionate kiss on Lady Danbury’s cheek, then shot Anthony one last slow, deliberate look before turning away.

Benedict, grinning from ear to ear, was quick to follow her, already claiming her as his new favorite person.

———————————————————————

St. James Palace, 1807 - The Debut.

The grand marble foyer of St. James Palace was a flurry of silk, satin, and fluttering fans. Debutantes milled about like nervous swans, clinging to their mamas, adjusting feathers, bodices, and gloves, while their anxious whispers filled the high-vaulted space like the buzzing of bees before a storm.

Penelope Featherington, however, stood still and serene, her arm linked through Lady Danbury’s. She was a vision in white and gold—though she would have rather been anything else.

“Why white, Aunt Aggie?” she muttered under her breath, eyes scanning the sea of pale gowns with faint horror. “I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and looked like a ginger ghost.”

Lady Danbury snorted, giving her arm a firm pat. “You’re hardly the first to think that. But it’s not like Her Majesty gave you a choice, cub. White and gold it is. Has been for generations. And don’t fret—you only have to wear it for a few more hours. Then you can burn the bloody thing if it pleases you.”

Penelope let out a long-suffering sigh but didn’t complain further. Her name hadn’t been called yet, but the tension in the room was sharpening like a blade.

An hour passed before the gilded doors opened again and a footman, expression bored and voice sharp, called out:

“Miss Penelope Featherington, ward of Lady Agatha Danbury.”

As Penelope stepped forward, the chatter in the room dipped to a hush. But it wasn’t reverent silence—it was the kind sharpened with cruelty, the kind that crawled beneath the skin. She could hear them—whispers like poisoned honey.

“Too round in the face—”

“That hair…”

“She ought to be grateful anyone looked twice—”

Penelope kept her chin lifted, back straight, eyes hard despite the bloom of heat in her cheeks. If she let them see her falter, they’d pounce. So she wore her scowl like armor, soft but lethal, and let it steady her.

But not everyone was cruel.

Off to the right stood the Bridgertons. Violet offered her a warm, encouraging smile, eyes shining with genuine kindness. Benedict, bless him, pulled a ridiculous face—cheeks puffed out and eyes crossed—making her stifle a laugh. Colin threw her a quick thumbs-up like he was cheering at a country fair.

And then… her eyes found him.

Anthony Bridgerton.

Their gazes locked like magnets. It had been happening more and more lately—across crowded rooms, in fleeting moments. There was something in his eyes. Something unreadable, unread, and unrelenting. Penelope tilted her head ever so slightly and smirked, then let one slow, deliberate wink flutter his way as she passed by where he stood.

Anthony didn’t flinch. But his eyes followed her like a storm cloud.

Penelope stepped forward to face Queen Charlotte. The monarch was dressed as regally as ever—an elaborate tower of feathers upon her head, jewels glittering like stars. Penelope dropped into a graceful curtsy, holding it with practiced poise.

Queen Charlotte, never one to offer unwarranted kindness, gave her a subtle, approving smile. Just enough to be seen. Just enough to make the whispers feel small.

When Penelope exited the presentation chamber, Lady Danbury was waiting, a rare softness in her eyes.

“There now,” she murmured. “The hard part is done. And you never have to wear that ghostly frock again, cub.”

Penelope let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank God.”

The ballroom opened not long after, and society spilled into it with all the grace and greed of peacocks in full plume. Lady Danbury wandered off to exchange biting barbs with Queen Charlotte, leaving Penelope momentarily adrift.

But not for long.

“Penelope Featherington,” came a familiar voice, smooth with amusement. “You look absolutely miserable.”

She turned to find Benedict Bridgerton at her side, holding out a glass of champagne like a peace offering. She took it with grateful fingers.

“That’s because I am miserable,” she replied dryly. “This dress is awful, I’m being judged by everyone with a nose, and my shoes pinch. But thank you for this.” She raised the glass and took a sip.

“I saw the look,” Benedict said, grinning. “That wink. A masterstroke.”

Penelope blinked innocently. “What wink?”

“Oh, don’t play coy now,” he said, laughing. “Anthony nearly choked on his own pride.”

“Well, he makes it so easy to tease him,” she said sweetly, swirling the champagne in her glass.

Benedict leaned in slightly, his voice low. “We have an audience.”

She tilted her head and peeked around him subtly—sure enough, Anthony stood not ten feet away, stiff as a statue, his gaze fixed and unreadable, lips pressed into a hard line. He wasn’t pretending not to look. He was just… looking. Watching.

Penelope sipped her champagne and smiled. “Do you think he’ll finally snap if I tell him how devilishly handsome he looks this evening?”

Benedict groaned. “You’re a wicked little minx, Penelope. When he does snap, I beg you—do it in private. I don’t want to witness that explosion. Or be caught in the blast radius.”

Penelope giggled, eyes still on Anthony. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

Anthony still hadn’t moved. Not an inch. But she could see the tic in his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides.

She lifted her glass to him in a silent, mocking toast.

———————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1813 - The Ballroom

Six seasons.

Six years of silks, dances, champagne, and polite society pretending she didn’t exist.

Penelope Featherington had not had one suitor call upon her since her debut at twenty-one.

And honestly? That was fine.

Because for six years, she had been far too preoccupied with a far more entertaining pursuit: slowly, artfully unraveling Viscount Anthony Bridgerton with every smile, every wink, every accidental brush of her fingertips.

And if the viscount had ever once told her to stop—well, maybe she would have.

But he hadn’t.

Not once.

And so the game continued.

Now twenty-seven, Penelope stood poised in the grand foyer of Danbury Manor, her arm linked with Lady Danbury’s as they greeted guests arriving for the ball. Lady Danbury offered them a stiff, knowing smile, while Penelope received no more than polite nods—or worse, studied avoidance. She could’ve been a particularly well-carved statue for all the notice they gave her.

Not that it bothered her anymore.

“Some people,” Lady Danbury said dryly, hands resting atop her cane, “just don’t have good taste. Or eyes. Or brains.”

Penelope’s lips quirked. “I accepted my fate the day I debuted. If they wish to treat me like part of the wallpaper, then I shall be the most captivating wallpaper they’ve ever ignored.”

The last to arrive—fashionably late as always—was the Bridgerton family. Violet swept forward first, elegant as always, and pulled Penelope into a warm embrace.

“My dear, you look radiant.”

“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope replied with a smile.

Colin followed, winking mischievously before earning a light smack on the arm. Daphne received a kiss on the cheek, and Benedict bowed dramatically enough to make Penelope laugh.

And then came him.

“Welcome, Lord Bridgerton,” Penelope said, voice dripping like warm honey. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, her smile slow and sinful. “And may I be so bold as to say that you are looking positively sinful tonight?”

Violet and Lady Danbury had just swept into the ballroom, leaving Penelope and Anthony deliciously alone in the entrance hall.

Daphne giggled behind her fan and followed after them. Colin coughed violently, clearly masking a laugh, while Benedict simply smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Anthony inhaled slowly, as though summoning the strength of ten armies. “Miss Featherington. You look lovely,” he replied stiffly, through what appeared to be gritted teeth.

Her smile curved into something wicked.

“I do wish you’d call me Penelope, my lord,” she murmured, stepping closer. Far too close. So close that with every breath, her breasts lightly brushed the fabric of his waistcoat. “Or you can call me anything you’d like, truly. I’m not one to object.”

Anthony’s nostrils flared. His gaze flicked—traitorously—down her neckline and then snapped back up. But not quickly enough.

“My lord,” she said sweetly, tilting her head, “your cravat is crooked. Here, allow me.”

Before he could protest, Penelope reached up, fingers delicately adjusting the snowy white linen. The tips of her breasts pressed softly into his chest with each small movement, and Anthony Bridgerton stood like a statue carved of fury and want.

From behind him, Colin murmured to Benedict, “I think he’s actually going to explode.”

Benedict pressed his lips together, fighting off a laugh. “He’s trying so hard not to combust. It’s admirable. And doomed.”

“There we go,” Penelope said, brushing the newly straightened cravat with a final pat before her hands slid—far too slowly—down his shoulders and chest. She looked up at him with a demure smile that did nothing to hide the heat in her eyes.

“You’re perfect again,” she whispered, like she was bestowing a blessing.

Anthony didn’t move. His jaw ticked. His hands were fists at his sides.

She stepped even closer for one last, wicked stroke of her game. Turning as if to walk away, she allowed her body to graze his, silk brushing against wool, her lips just barely brushing the side of his jaw as she whispered, “Do try to behave yourself, my lord.”

Then, with a devil-may-care smile, she turned to Benedict.

“Oh, Benedict, do come with me—I have something terribly important to tell you.”

Benedict, ever the devoted co-conspirator, extended his arm with a theatrical flourish. She slid hers through it, radiant with the satisfaction of a woman who had just set a bear trap and left it wide open.

Anthony didn’t breathe until they were halfway across the foyer.

Colin, now laughing fully, received a withering glare from his eldest brother. Anthony stormed into the ballroom with the wrath of a man who didn’t know whether to throttle someone—or kiss her senseless.

—————————————————————————

Meanwhile, in a quiet corner near the punch bowl…

“You’re actually going to kill him,” Benedict said with a grin, sipping from his champagne flute.

“Don’t be absurd,” Penelope replied, swirling her glass idly. “I don’t want him dead. I want him devastated. Flustered. Desperate.”

Benedict gave her a long look. “You want him in love with you, Pen.”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes softened—just for a moment. “Well. If he’s going to ignore me, he can at least do it while burning. That’s only fair.”

And across the ballroom, Anthony Bridgerton watched her like a man shackled to a desire he could no longer contain.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The East Wing

Penelope Featherington had never felt more at ease than she did in the east wing of Aubrey Hall.

Violet’s invitation for her to stay the month had been presented with warmth and sincerity, and Penelope had graciously accepted—though she suspected Lady Bridgerton had a deeper purpose for the offer. Whether matchmaking or mischief, she wasn’t sure.

The room she’d been given was quiet, tucked away from the chaos of Gregory and Hyacinth’s enthusiastic daily adventures. Officially, it was chosen for her peace of mind.

Unofficially?

Benedict had suggested it specifically because it gave Penelope an entire wing to herself—and because he knew precisely how close it was to the one hallway Anthony used when retreating to the library after dinner.

The possibilities were endless.

Benedict had just rounded the corner from the library when he spotted his eldest brother headed toward the stairs.

“Ah, Anthony! Perfect timing.” Benedict clapped a hand onto his brother’s shoulder, all cheerful ease and hidden intent. “Could you be a dear and fetch Penelope for dinner? Mother’s summoned me for something.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes at his brother’s overly innocent tone.

“Why can’t a footman—?”

But Benedict was already disappearing down the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “So kind of you! Ta!”

Anthony exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before turning toward the east wing.

It was fine. It was fine. He would knock. She would answer. Fully dressed. He would relay the message. She would come down. Perfectly fine.

He knocked once, firm and professional.

“Come in,” came the lilting, honeyed reply.

Anthony stepped inside—and immediately wished he hadn’t.

A soft rustle of fabric. A gasp—his own, barely muffled.

Penelope stood in the middle of the room, backlit by the fading golden sun, clad only in a corset, stockings, and confidence. She had clearly just stepped out from behind the privacy screen, the laces of her dinner gown loose and trailing behind her like a silk promise.

She glanced over her shoulder, and when her eyes landed on him, she smiled—slow and knowing.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she greeted, like a cat acknowledging her favorite mouse. “How can I be of service to you?”

He swallowed hard. “Benedict asked me to inform you that… dinner is ready.”

Her eyes danced with delight. “How thoughtful.” She turned fully to face him, lifting her arms to slide them into her gown with a grace that should’ve been illegal. “Would you mind terribly lacing me up? I simply can’t manage on my own.”

Anthony stood frozen for a beat too long. His body wanted. His mind screamed for restraint.

And then—God help him—he stepped forward.

“I… suppose I can assist.”

She turned around with a soft hum, presenting her back and holding her red hair up with one hand, exposing the delicate nape of her neck. He started threading the laces, his knuckles brushing against bare skin that burned hotter than fire. With every soft tug, her body shifted under his hands, pressing back just enough to unnerve him.

Her sigh—a soft, satisfied sound—nearly undid him.

His fingers fumbled slightly. She didn’t correct him. She arched.

He tied the final knot and stepped back.

But she turned before he could flee, the gown hugging her curves like it had been painted on. She stepped into his space, hands pressed gently to his chest, gaze locked onto his with a boldness that made his knees weaken.

“Thank you for the help,” she whispered. Then, with the softest of touches, she leaned up and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t passionate.

It wasn’t chaste.

It was a promise.

She pulled away slowly, letting her fingers trail down his chest as she turned. “Best not let dinner grow cold,” she said over her shoulder, leaving him standing there—struck dumb, unkissed, and wholly undone.

—————————————————————————

Aubrey Hall — The Dining Room

By the time Anthony entered the dining room, his composure was shot to hell.

Penelope was already seated—in his chair, no less—smiling sweetly between Benedict and his own empty place. She turned her head as he approached and gave him a soft, innocent smile that nearly drove him straight back up the stairs.

She was whispering conspiratorially to Benedict, eyes sparkling, fingers lightly tapping the rim of her glass.

“You minx,” Benedict hissed under his breath. “You actually kissed him!”

Penelope’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Only the corner. I left the rest for later.”

Benedict choked on his wine.

“I am so proud of you,” he whispered dramatically. “My little agent of chaos.”

Penelope chuckled softly and turned her head to glance at Anthony—who had just sat down stiffly beside her. Their eyes met.

She didn’t look away.

Instead, she held his gaze, tilted her head ever so slightly, and winked.

Anthony Bridgerton was not a man easily undone.

But Penelope Featherington was not a woman easily resisted.

———————————————————————

Explicit Sexual Content Starts Now.

Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The East Wing

Penelope’s Room - Midnight

The scent of lavender clung to the air, thick and heady, curling through the shadows of the dimly lit room. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting golden light over the bed linens and polished wood floors.

Penelope stood barefoot on the plush rug, towel in hand as she slowly dried her legs. Her bath had been indulgently hot, the kind of warmth that lulled her muscles into loose contentment and turned her thoughts—dangerously, deliciously—toward him.

She had just reached for the silk robe hanging by the door when a knock echoed sharply through the room.

Startled, she slipped the robe over her shoulders, the damp heat of her skin steaming slightly beneath the soft fabric. She tied the sash with a casual tug, still glistening from the bath.

“Come in,” she called, voice light and unbothered, as though she weren’t half-dressed and dripping candlelight.

The door opened—slowly. Just enough for him to slip inside.

Anthony.

He shut the door behind him with deliberate care, but when his eyes rose to find her—standing still near the firelight, her hair loose and curling at the ends, her robe clinging in all the right places—his breath left him in a quiet, strangled gasp.

“Lord Bridgerton?” she asked innocently, but her lips curved like sin itself. “What a surprise.”

He said nothing at first. He simply looked at her—devoured her—his gaze tracking the rivulets of bathwater that glided down her throat, over the dip of her collarbone, and disappeared into the parted edges of her robe.

Her name on his lips would’ve sounded like a prayer, if not for the rasp of sheer need behind it.

“Anthony,” she corrected softly, stepping forward with calm boldness. “Did you need something?”

His jaw clenched. “Why do you torment me?”

She tilted her head, eyes bright with mischief and something softer. “Do you not like it? Should I stop?”

He reached out—slowly—and wrapped his hand around her wrist. His thumb brushed the pulse fluttering beneath her skin.

“You’ve been tormenting me since the day Lady Danbury introduced us,” he said, voice low and edged with reverence. “Since 1805, I’ve been helpless to it. You look at me like you know exactly what I’m thinking, and then you touch me in ways no gentleman should allow. You smile, and I forget every rule I’ve ever obeyed.”

She moved in closer, until the only space between them was breath.

“What are you going to do about it?” she whispered, eyes locked to his, issuing a challenge and an invitation.

His fingers slid from her wrist to the sash of her robe.

Slowly—so slowly—he tugged it loose.

The silk parted, gliding off her shoulders like liquid moonlight and puddling silently at her feet.

She stood before him bare, every inch of her glowing in the firelight—soft, warm, and utterly his undoing.

A growl caught in his throat.

Then he was on her.

His mouth claimed hers with a passion barely leashed, hands gripping her waist as if he feared she might vanish. The kiss was rough with desire and tender with longing, and when he broke away, it was only to drag his lips down the delicate line of her throat, across her breastbone, and lower still.

He sank to his knees before her, reverent and ravenous.

He kissed the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, until she trembled and leaned back against the door for support. One of her legs lifted—guided by his hands—to rest on his shoulder.

Then his tongue met her, and she cried out softly, fingers tangling in his curls, grounding herself in the storm of sensation.

“Anthony,” she moaned, her hips rolling against his mouth.

The sound of his name on her lips shattered the last of his restraint.

He groaned against her, devouring her, his fingers sliding between her folds to press into her—first one, then another, moving with precision and growing intensity. Her walls fluttered around him, her breath catching, body trembling as the peak loomed.

She shattered like glass in his hands.

Her release tore through her with a choked cry, and he held her steady, fingers still curling gently inside her until the tremors faded. When he finally pulled away, he looked up at her from his knees with dark, heavy eyes—and licked his fingers clean.

Penelope’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She was still recovering, boneless against the door, when he surged to his feet and kissed her again—kissed her like he meant to make her feel it for days.

She tasted herself on his tongue, and she moaned into his mouth.

When she yanked his shirt off his back and let it fall without care, he made quick work of the rest. His breeches joined the mess of garments on the floor, and then he was lifting her—scooping her into his arms as though she weighed nothing.

He carried her to the bed.

Laid her out like an offering.

Positioned himself between her thighs as if it were where he was born to be.

With one hand, he stroked himself slowly, watching the way she looked up at him—flushed, radiant, and waiting.

He ran the head of his cock through her folds, savoring the slick heat of her arousal. And then he paused—eyes meeting hers in wordless question.

Penelope didn’t answer with words.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him in.

He groaned as her tight heat engulfed him, and he buried his face in her neck as he stilled, breath ragged.

She gasped, body adjusting, but she didn’t flinch. Her arms wrapped around him, her lips pressing against the edge of his jaw.

“Anthony… please,” she breathed.

He moved.

Slow, gentle thrusts at first—learning the rhythm of her, the pace that made her moan. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, whispered her name like a man who had waited too long to say it this way.

“You feel… so good,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with awe.

She rolled her hips, and his cock slid deeper, hitting the spot that made her cry out, nails digging into his back.

“Oh—don’t stop,” she begged.

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

The dam broke, and he moved harder, deeper—matched to her rhythm, driven by her pleasure. She clung to him like she never wanted to let go.

Their moans, gasps, and whispered names filled the room like a symphony built on hunger and trust.

And when she shattered again beneath him, calling out his name like a vow, he followed—spilling inside her with a low, broken groan, lost in the feel of her, the scent of her, the sheer rightness of her.

———————————————————————Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The East Wing

Penelope’s Room - Dawn

The golden fingers of morning crept slowly over the bed linens, warming the space where passion had been feverishly sown. A fire still glowed dim in the hearth, as if reluctant to die out entirely, and the world outside remained quiet—caught in that breathless stillness before daybreak.

They had made love again—slow and unhurried the second time, as though the very act were a form of worship. Then they’d fallen asleep, limbs entwined, tangled in each other like ivy, like fate, like something that had always meant to be.

Anthony stirred first.

He groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering open to find himself still wrapped in the warmth of her. Penelope lay against him, soft and perfect, her bare skin pressed to his, her leg curled possessively over his hip. His cock was already hard—aching and nestled perfectly between the folds of her body, damp and ready from the night’s indulgences.

He didn’t think.

He just moved.

A slow, shallow roll of his hips, a push forward, and he slipped inside her with sinful ease.

She moaned softly in her sleep before her eyes fluttered open, heavy with pleasure.

“You,” she murmured, voice husky with sleep, “are insatiable.”

He laughed, breathless and already unraveling at the edges. “And gloriously ruined by you. Body, mind, heart, soul—I’m yours, Penelope. Utterly. Irrevocably.”

The words spilled from him like a vow, like truth. His movements grew deeper, more intentional, as he shifted to hover above her once more.

She arched up to meet him, her breasts brushing against his chest, and her lips parted in a moan that curled in the air like smoke.

“Yes… yes… yes. You are mine,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust alike.

“Say it,” he gasped against her throat, his pace quickening. “Say you’re mine. I need to hear you say it.”

Her hands clutched at his shoulders. “I’m yours, Anthony,” she cried. “All yours.”

That did it.

His thrusts grew harder, more urgent—his body answering hers in a rhythm as old as the stars. He kissed her like a man desperate to remember every inch of her, worshipped her with every roll of his hips, whispered praises against her skin like prayers:

Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.

Penelope’s cries built steadily as he struck that devastating spot inside her again and again, and her fingers raked down his back, claiming him in red crescents.

“Anthony!” she sobbed as her orgasm crashed through her.

He followed with a broken, guttural groan as her body clutched around him, pulling him deeper into the spiral. His hips stuttered, then pressed flush against her as he pulsed inside her, filling her completely.

He collapsed against her, still inside, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling from the force of it all. He buried his face against her neck and simply breathed.

Minutes passed—or maybe only seconds—before he stirred again.

“I should go,” he murmured, still breathless, dragging his fingers gently down her arm. “Before someone realizes I didn’t sleep in my own bed. I’m rather attached to my head.”

Penelope smiled, lazy and deliciously satisfied. “Then we’ll need a good alibi. Meet me in the stables after lunch,” she said, her voice laced with mischief and promise. “We can go for a ride.”

He blinked. Then laughed—a low, rakish sound that made her toes curl.

“I like the way your mind works, Miss Featherington.”

She arched a brow. “I am a genius, or so I’ve been told.”

Anthony kissed her one last time—deep and possessive—before slipping from the warmth of the bed. She watched him dress with open admiration, her chin resting against the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded and utterly shameless.

He winked at her before quietly slipping out of her room, the door shutting with a soft click.

Penelope lay back against the sheets with a dreamy sigh.

She was thoroughly, gloriously ruined—and for once, she didn’t mind one bit.

———————————————————————Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The Garden

Lunchtime

The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and the garden of Aubrey Hall was in full summer bloom—roses spilling their scent into the air, bees humming like nature’s gossiping aunts. Violet Bridgerton, ever the orchestrator of domestic harmony, had declared it far too beautiful a day to waste indoors. Thus, a charming luncheon had been arranged beneath the shade of the old sycamores, with a long linen-draped table adorned with crystal jugs of lemonade and delicate sandwiches stacked like miniature architecture.

Penelope Featherington sat nestled between Benedict and Anthony, as had become custom over the years. A habit born of comfort, familiarity—and perhaps, lately, a certain undercurrent of wicked amusement.

The seating arrangement had once been innocuous. Now it simmered with secrets.

Penelope, for her part, looked every inch the innocent guest—her curls kissed by sunlight, cheeks flushed from a morning well spent, and lips slightly parted in the kind of smile that could either be pure mischief or post-coital satisfaction.

Benedict, seated to her right and as perceptive as ever, narrowed his eyes.

Something had shifted. He could feel it in the air, taste it in the sudden tension that clung to the garden like honeysuckle. Penelope was glowing, and Anthony—stoic, controlled, prone to clenching his jaw until it cracked Anthony—was lounging beside her with a rare, distracted softness about his expression. As though he’d finally stopped denying himself something vital.

Benedict didn’t need confirmation. But then again, he got it anyway.

Penelope caught his eye. Her smile curled. She offered him a slow, smug nod—the kind that screamed victory and sin in equal measure. Benedict raised his brow, then looked away with a knowing smirk, shaking his head.

“I do not want to know,” he muttered under his breath.

At that moment, Violet looked up from her salad, beaming as if the entire garden were hers to bless.

“Penelope, dearest,” she said sweetly, “you look lovely this afternoon. Positively glowing. Did you sleep well last night?”

Anthony, mid-sip of lemonade, sputtered—nearly choked.

Penelope didn’t miss a beat. She tilted her head and offered Violet the picture of angelic sincerity. “Thank you, Violet. I struggled to fall asleep, so I asked one of the maids to draw me a warm bath. It was blissfully soothing. Truly helped me relax… afterward, I slept so well I was reluctant to leave my bed.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to her, wide and wild for half a second. She didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Her tone said everything.

Benedict, now trying desperately not to laugh into his wineglass, looked like a man witnessing divine comedy.

“How wonderful,” Violet cooed. “A warm bath is a gift from the heavens, I always say. And what do you plan to do after lunch, my dear?”

Penelope reached casually for her glass, her other hand sliding stealthily beneath the table to rest on Anthony’s thigh with the grace of a woman fully aware of her power.

Anthony sat bolt upright.

“I thought I might visit the stables,” Penelope replied sweetly, tracing a slow circle with her thumb just above his knee. “Borrow a horse. The weather’s too fine to ignore. A peaceful ride will do wonders for my thoughts. Sometimes a little solitude is just what a woman needs.”

Anthony was no longer breathing. His hand found hers under the table and gripped it tight.

“That sounds lovely,” Violet said, entirely oblivious to the erotic warfare unfolding beneath her linen and silver. “You’ll have a wonderful time, dear.”

“I certainly plan to,” Penelope replied, her voice like honey laced with sin.

Benedict leaned toward her, voice low and amused.

“You wicked little minx,” he murmured. “You’re not going for a ride alone, are you?”

Penelope didn’t answer. She merely sipped her lemonade with exaggerated innocence, the corners of her mouth twitching with delight.

Anthony, meanwhile, sat stiffly beside her, eyes fixed on his plate, completely wrecked, and already counting the minutes until the stables.

———————————————————————Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The Stables

Penelope stood poised within the soft shadow of the stables, the scent of hay and horses hanging thick in the summer air. A stable hand guided a gentle mare toward her, already saddled and ready. With practiced ease, she thanked the boy and allowed him to help her mount. Her movements were graceful, deliberate—an echo of the slow-burning anticipation curling in her belly.

With a tap of her heel, the mare began a gentle trot.

She kept her expression serene as she rode past the garden where the Bridgertons still lingered over their midday repast. But as her gaze locked with Benedict’s, her composure cracked just enough to reveal a wicked smile. His returning smirk was a clear acknowledgement.

He knew. Of course he did.

—————————————————————————

The Trails

Anthony was waiting just beyond the curve of the wooded trail, his stallion grazing lazily nearby as he leaned back in the saddle with an ease he rarely permitted himself. But when he saw her, his posture straightened, sharp with desire.

Penelope steered her mare toward him. The moment she was within reach, he leaned forward and gently took hold of her reins, drawing her close. She was smiling before their lips met, her heart already fluttering like a wild thing.

When he pulled away, the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.

“About ten minutes beyond that ridge,” he murmured, “there’s a small lake. Quiet, untouched. Benedict and I used to escape there as boys… but now I have far more tempting reasons to visit.”

Penelope arched a brow. “Lead the way, my lord.”

His groan was half amusement, half arousal. “Minx.”

—————————————————————————

The Lake

The trees parted to reveal a hidden Eden—clear waters sparkling in the golden light, a gentle riverbed winding through a bank of wildflowers. It was secluded, secret. Perfect.

Anthony dismounted swiftly, tying his stallion to a low branch before striding to Penelope’s side. He reached up, strong hands encircling her waist as she slipped from the saddle, her body brushing down the length of his own in a touch that was far too fleeting.

She didn’t linger. Instead, she stepped forward, taking in the scene, her back turned to him—her bare shoulders illuminated like sunlit silk.

But Anthony had no patience left for scenery.

He was behind her in a heartbeat, his lips grazing her shoulder, then the delicate curve of her neck. One of her hands reached back, tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. The other slipped boldly between them, pressing against the hardness beneath his breeches.

He growled, low and dangerous, and his fingers were already at her laces—undressing her with reverence and haste. Fabric slid to the grass like petals, baring her skin to the breeze and to him.

“You wicked creature,” he rasped. “Were you like this all through breakfast? And luncheon? Nothing beneath that gown?”

She glanced over her shoulder, unabashed. “I told you I wanted another ride before the day ended.”

Without warning, she walked into the water, sinking slowly until it reached her waist, the sun catching in the droplets that clung to her skin like diamonds.

Anthony stared, stricken by the vision of her—then began undressing as if the very fabric offended him. When he waded in to meet her, she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him down into a searing kiss.

One hand found her center and slid between her folds, his fingers parting her with practiced ease. He slipped two inside, curling just right, his thumb tracing slow, sensual circles over her clit.

She moaned his name against his throat.

It didn’t take long. She came with a shudder, her body clenching around his fingers, her breath caught between gasp and cry.

And he could wait no longer.

He sheathed himself inside her in one slow, aching thrust, groaning as her heat enveloped him. They moved in the water—slowly, sweetly—each motion a promise.

But then he began walking toward the bank, never letting her go.

He lowered her gently onto the riverbed, the mossy ground soft beneath them. Still inside her, he lay back, hands splayed across her hips, eyes locked to hers with quiet reverence.

She moved above him with aching grace, her hips rolling in lazy, deliberate circles. Her clit slid against his stomach, drawing gasps from her throat as she chased her pleasure. Her breasts pressed to his chest, her lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.

He reached for the back of her neck and drew her down into a kiss that was more claim than caress. Dirty and raw, teeth grazing, tongues tangling.

She began to lose rhythm—every thrust bringing her closer, her body coiled tighter and tighter.

“I love you,” Anthony gasped suddenly, forehead pressed to hers, his voice rough with vulnerability. “I love you, Penelope.”

That was all it took.

She shattered above him, her body wracked with release, her scream echoing through the trees. His own climax followed instantly, buried deep inside her, every pulse of his cock echoing with the force of it.

She collapsed atop him, breathless, boneless, the aftershocks making her tremble against his skin.

He held her tight, one hand stroking her back, the other twined in her hair.

Silence settled between them, heavy with meaning.

Then softly, timidly, she spoke. “Did you mean it? When you said you love me?”

He turned his head to kiss her temple. “I did not know what it was I felt for so long. But now… now I know. I love you, Penelope Featherington. With everything I am.”

She smiled, soft and radiant. Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes—those stormy, tortured eyes that now held nothing but awe.

“I love you too, Anthony Bridgerton,” she whispered, then bent to kiss him.

It was slow. Tender. A seal of something far more eternal than a tryst at a hidden lake.

———————————————————————Bridgerton House, 1813 - Daphne and Simon’s Wedding Breakfast

Though their time at Aubrey Hall had come to its bittersweet end, the flames between Penelope and Anthony refused to dim. In fact, they burned ever brighter—hot, secret, and dangerously irresistible.

They stole away when they could. Whispered kisses in shadowed corridors, urgent touches behind closed doors, and nights that left them breathless and aching for more. Only Benedict knew—and, being the loyal friend and chaos gremlin he was, he said nothing. Just smirked knowingly whenever the pair returned with flushed cheeks and rumpled clothing.

On this particular morning, the whole of the Bridgerton family—and half of London—had gathered at Bridgerton House to celebrate the wedding of Daphne and Simon. The wedding breakfast was in full swing: laughter bubbling over champagne glasses, music playing in the background, and the scent of roses mingling with the scent of scandal waiting to happen.

Daphne stood radiant beside her mother and Lady Danbury, deep in some discussion about Parisian lace and florals for her new home. Meanwhile, Penelope lingered near the fireplace with Simon, who looked far more relaxed than usual—likely because he was no longer the Duke everyone was speculating about, but rather the Duke everyone was watching.

“You’d best treat her well, brother,” Penelope said sweetly—but there was steel behind the smile. “Because if you do not, it won’t be Daphne’s actual brothers you need fear. I will challenge you to a duel, and I won’t miss.”

Simon’s brow lifted, amused but not dismissive. “Your warning is well-heard, sister. I am no fool. I’ve seen how fiercely you love, and how sharp your claws become when someone threatens those you care for.”

Penelope gave him a side-eye worthy of her honorary title as Lady Danbury’s heir. Then, satisfied, she gave a regal nod. “Good. Now go. Dance with your wife or she’ll have me to scold next.”

Simon chuckled, bowed gallantly, and headed toward Daphne—leaving Penelope to scan the crowd. Her breath hitched when she saw Anthony standing across the room, watching her like he hadn’t just had her in his arms the night before.

He tilted his head ever so slightly—an invitation.

She smirked, the corner of her mouth curling with mischief. Then he disappeared through a side door.

Penelope waited a beat—just enough to seem innocent—before slipping away from the crowd. She moved silently through the halls, her slippers soundless against the rug-lined floor, until she saw him.

He was waiting at the end of the corridor, half-hidden in the shadows, eyes hungry.

The moment she reached him, Anthony caught her hand and pulled her along at a brisk pace. They reached his study, and as soon as the door closed behind them, she was pressed against the wall, his mouth already on her throat.

“I need you now,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “Please, my darling girl…”

Her only answer was to hike up the skirt of her gown. He groaned as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist. With one hand, he freed himself from his breeches, and in one fluid motion, he was inside her—deep, hot, home.

Penelope gasped, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. “You feel so good,” he groaned, lips trailing along her collarbone. “I could live between your thighs for the rest of my life.”

“You need to be quick,” she breathed, “or we will be caught.”

That only spurred him on.

His hips snapped forward, fast and desperate, his mouth silencing her moans with a searing kiss. Her back arched, the heat building fast, faster, until she was clutching at him, nearly falling apart.

Anthony’s hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and flicking in rhythm with each thrust. The tension coiled tighter and tighter—

She cried out into his mouth as her climax hit, and he followed immediately after, spilling into her with a groan that rumbled against her chest.

They trembled together, his forehead pressed to hers as he struggled to stay upright.

When he finally slipped out of her, she was still panting softly against the wall.

He adjusted his breeches, then helped smooth her skirts with trembling hands. His mouth found hers again, slow and lazy this time—less hunger, more reverence.

“I love you,” Anthony whispered, brushing his nose against hers.

“I love you too… my lord,” she teased, eyes sparkling.

He growled playfully against her lips, which only made her giggle as she fixed her hair.

She nipped at his bottom lip before stepping back. “You know I only call you that to torment you.”

“I know,” he said with a sigh, “and I love you all the more for it.”

Then, as quickly and quietly as she had come, she slipped out of the study unnoticed.

Anthony remained for a moment, staring at the closed door with a dazed smile.

“One day,” he whispered to the empty room, “I’ll make you my wife, and we’ll never have to part again. My wicked little minx.”

—————————————————————————

When he returned to the drawing room, the world had not ended. The music still played. The champagne still flowed. The Ton still gossiped.

But his eyes found Penelope instantly.

She was standing with Benedict, who was clearly whispering something wicked in her ear. She rolled her eyes—but when she looked at Anthony, she smiled. Soft, secret, and just for him.

Benedict caught his brother’s eye and smirked, raising his glass in silent, smug congratulations.

Anthony simply smiled back. For once, he felt no need to posture. He already had what he wanted most.

———————————————————————Bridgerton House, 1814 - Penelope’s Room

The eve of Violet Bridgerton’s Midsummer Night’s Ball

The whole of the ton was abuzz with anticipation.

Violet Bridgerton, doyenne of the season and hostess extraordinaire, had announced a ball unlike any other: an enchanted evening under the stars, steeped in silvers, purples, and blues, with masks veiling secrets and moonlight unveiling hearts. The whispers called it “The Midsummer Masquerade,” and society was already gasping over who would wear what and with whom they might waltz beneath the chandeliers.

But high above the gossiping world, tucked within the stillness of Bridgerton House, another kind of magic stirred.

Penelope Featherington lay in her bed, the fire in the hearth long since dimmed to embers, the night humming softly beyond her window. She wore only a gauzy nightdress, the fabric light as air, her body warmed by the hush of summer.

The door creaked open—just a breath, just a moment—and then she felt him.

Anthony.

He slipped into her bed as if he belonged there—and in truth, he did. He had made a habit of slipping into her life, her heart, her very soul, and never once had she wanted to turn him away.

Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her close until her back was cradled to his chest.

“I have something I wish to ask you,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of her head. “Before my mother’s ball.”

“Mmm. Ask away,” she replied, her voice thick with sleep, but tinged with affection. She snuggled in closer, one hand resting over his where it lay across her stomach.

He was quiet for a moment—so quiet that her heart began to pick up speed.

Then, softly, “Marry me?”

Penelope froze, and then slowly turned in his arms until she was facing him.

“I want to walk into that ballroom knowing you’re mine—not just in secret, not just in stolen moments. Mine in name. In future. In everything.” He lifted his hand, and in it was a ring—his mother’s ring, delicate and radiant, glinting in the moonlight. “Will you be my wife?”

Her breath caught, tears pricking at her eyes as she looked from the ring to his hopeful, boyishly nervous face.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” she whispered, a smile curling her lips. “Who else would I tease for the rest of my life, if not you?”

He let out a breathless laugh, so full of joy it nearly undid her. With trembling fingers, he slid the ring onto her finger, and then he was kissing her—soft, slow, full of everything he could not say in words.

She guided him down between her legs, her nightdress riding up easily over her thighs. He wasted no time, shoving his breeches off and tossing them carelessly to the floor.

Then, with reverence, he sank inside her—slowly, inch by delicious inch. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he began to move, their bodies aligning like constellations drawn together by fate.

Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. He stroked into her with unhurried purpose, like he had all the time in the world—and he intended to spend it all on her.

“What color will your gown be?” he whispered, never breaking rhythm. “I want to match with you.”

“A midnight blue gown,” she breathed. “Silver stitching like stars. A silver mask.”

He groaned softly, pushing deeper, one hand reaching to lift her thigh higher. The shift in angle made her gasp, the sweet ache blooming as he hit that perfect spot again and again.

“Then my mask will be silver,” he promised. “And my waistcoat, midnight blue. We’ll be a matching pair. Even behind masks, I will always find you.”

Her fingers tangled in his hair as she arched into him, her body singing with every slow, reverent thrust. He worshipped her—not just with his body, but with his eyes, his hands, the quiet awe in his breath as he looked at her like she was the moon itself.

The world outside could wait. For now, they had each other, wrapped in love, moonlight, and quiet promises.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Room

The warm scent of shaving soap and lemon balm lingered in the air as two Bridgerton brothers sat side-by-side in identical chairs, white towels wrapped snugly around their freshly shaven faces. A valet had just retreated with a respectful bow, leaving the quiet hum of preparation hanging between them.

Anthony leaned back, legs crossed, gazing into the crackling fire.

“I asked Penelope to marry me last night,” he said evenly, as though he were commenting on the weather.

Benedict didn’t even blink. “I knew you’d combust eventually. The pressure’s been building for years. Frankly, I’m shocked your skull didn’t crack open the day she called you ‘prettier up close’ at Lady Danbury’s dinner party.”

Anthony arched an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “She was nineteen.”

“And absolutely savage. Wrecked you beyond repair, I dare say.” Benedict grinned wickedly. “I watched your jaw tighten like a vice. Poor, poor Anthony. Felled by a woman barely out of the schoolroom and armed with nothing but freckles and flirtation.”

Anthony huffed. “You’re not… upset, then? That we were intimate before an official engagement?”

Benedict gave him a look. That look. The one that screamed really, brother?

“Penelope’s been devouring erotic novels since she was sixteen,” he said. “She’s the sort of woman who knows exactly what she wants—and makes sure to get it. You’ve just been too thick to notice that she’s wanted you since you were twenty and insufferable.”

Anthony didn’t argue. Instead, he quietly absorbed the words as Benedict leaned back smugly.

“And as her best friend, I’ve been privy to every single scheme she’s ever concocted to torment you. I assure you, your ruination was very much planned.” A pause. “If you thought I’d be scandalized, you’re not nearly as clever as Mother claims you are.”

Anthony chuckled, a soft sound. He didn’t deny it. Not anymore.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House – The Midsummer Night’s Ball

Anthony had not seen Penelope all day—and it was beginning to drive him mad. He had played dutiful host, greeting guests with charm and poise, but his eyes had constantly searched the crowd, his mind fixed on only one thing.

Her.

And then, he saw her.

A spark of deep red hair, glowing like firelight under a silver mask. Midnight blue silk poured over her curves like water, embroidered with tiny silver stars that seemed to shimmer with every step.

Penelope Featherington.

His fiancée.

His future.

Their eyes locked across the room. She smiled—soft, secretive, meant only for him.

And around them, the whispers began.

“Who is she?”

“Have we met her before?”

“I’m going to ask her to dance.”

Not bloody likely, Anthony thought darkly as he cut across the ballroom without hesitation.

“You look sinfully wicked, my little minx,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Only for you, my lord,” she whispered back, that playful lilt in her voice lighting him up from within.

He bowed, offered his arm, and she placed her hand in his with a grace that belied the smirk she wore.

Together, they stepped into the center of the floor as the music began. Eyes followed them. Tongues wagged. But neither of them noticed—there was only each other.

From the edge of the ballroom, Violet Bridgerton leaned toward her second son.

“Benedict… who is your brother dancing with?”

“I would tell you, Mother,” he said with a sly smile, “but Anthony insisted he get to reveal it himself. After the ball.”

Violet raised a brow but said nothing. Her eyes, however, watched her eldest son closely—and she saw it in an instant. The tenderness in his smile, the way his gaze never strayed. He was in love.

And so, she smiled.

Elsewhere, Lady Danbury watched with a quiet hum of satisfaction. She recognized that silver mask—she helped choose it, after all.

“That boy never stood a chance,” she muttered to herself, sipping her punch. “Not from the moment she called him pretty at nineteen.”

—————————————————————————

Midnight – Anthony’s Study

The ball was in full swing when Anthony and Penelope slipped away, masks still in place, hearts pounding with shared mischief.

In his study, behind the closed door and flickering candlelight, they removed their masks.

“You truly do look stunning, Penelope,” he whispered, pulling her to him.

“And you, devilishly handsome,” she replied with a smirk.

“Minx,” he growled fondly.

With nimble fingers, she began to unsnap his trousers, guiding him back toward the settee like a woman on a mission. He didn’t resist. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to.

She climbed atop him, skirts bunched around her waist. He filled her in one long, slow thrust that stole her breath and made his hands tremble against her hips.

“You fill me so well, my lord,” she murmured, biting gently at his ear.

His groan was guttural. “That’s because you were made for me. Mine, Penelope. Just as I am yours.”

She rode him slow and sweet, her hips rolling as she leaned in to kiss his throat, his jaw, his lips.

“Anthony, please,” she breathed.

He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Still buried inside her, he stood, her legs clinging to his waist, and laid her across the polished wood of his desk. He drove into her with quick, deep thrusts, each one dragging a moan from her throat. Her face buried in his neck, her cry muffled by his cravat as she shattered around him, her body trembling.

He followed with a harsh groan, spilling into her with a growl of her name.

“You,” he panted, still inside her, “are going to be the death of me.”

Penelope grinned wickedly. “What a glorious way to go, my lord.”

—————————————————————————

Back in the Ballroom

They returned separately, masks in place, dignity intact—mostly.

Violet, Lady Danbury, and the Bridgertons were gathered in a cozy little corner when Penelope approached from one side and Anthony from the other.

“Penelope, you look lovely,” Violet gushed. “Doesn’t she, Anthony?”

“She certainly does, Mother,” he said, eyes locked on her like she was the sun itself.

Penelope inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord. May I be so bold as to say… you look devilishly handsome this evening?”

Benedict choked on a laugh.

Anthony huffed. “Minx.”

She winked.

Eloise squinted. “Did I miss something?”

“Yes,” Colin said dryly. “Since when does he not scowl and clench his jaw when she teases him?”

“Since last summer,” Anthony said. “When Penelope stayed at Aubrey Hall and ruined me completely.”

Penelope beamed, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.

Eloise’s eyes widened. “Is that a ring?”

Colin choked on his champagne. Daphne let out a delighted gasp.

“You’re engaged?!”

Anthony nodded. “I asked her last night. She said yes.”

Squeals. Cheers. Violet and Lady Danbury swooped in, declaring themselves wedding generals.

“Congratulations,” Colin said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Simon raised his glass. “You do realize she’s going to torment you for the rest of your days?”

Anthony smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Benedict smirked. “You were doomed from the start. I’m just relieved you finally pulled that stick out of your arse and admitted it.”

Anthony scowled—but then turned to Penelope, who was watching him with all the warmth of a thousand Midsummer nights.

She winked again.

And Anthony… smiled.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Title: Taught by Candlelight

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Note: This is for an EXPLICIT plot bunny that will have explicit sexual content. It will also have explicit language and this plot is for 18+.

———————————————————————

Featherington House, 1815 - Penelope’s Room

Penelope Featherington had long resigned herself to the fate of spinsterhood.

There were no suitors at her door, no poetic declarations, no flowers sent in secret, nor longing glances cast her way at balls. She had become invisible—unless someone wished to laugh behind a gloved hand or whisper behind a fan. And if she was to live a life untouched by love, then so be it.

But desire? That was a different matter entirely.

She was tired of reading about the pleasures of the flesh, of turning the pages of hidden novels with flushed cheeks and a racing heart, only to be left aching and unsatisfied. The passionate, illicit moments shared between a man and a woman leapt from ink and paper into her imagination with too much intensity to ignore. She wanted more than words. She wanted to feel it. To be touched. To be known in that way.

To have a man’s hands learn the shape of her body, and his lips whisper against her skin what books never quite captured.

But she could not risk gossip. She could not risk shame.

She needed someone she could trust.

Someone who would not mock her curiosity or ruin her for it. Someone who would not see her as foolish or greedy for wanting more out of life than embroidery, tepid tea, and the lingering scent of lavender sachets in her drawers.

Only two men in all of society held her trust like that: Anthony and Benedict Bridgerton.

Anthony, for all his protective, elder-brother energy, was utterly out of the question. He had always treated her like a younger sister—sharp, loyal, and entirely blind to any trace of womanhood in her. She could never bear the thought of even entertaining such a notion with him. She would rather die.

But Benedict…

Oh, Benedict.

He was something else entirely.

Witty, charming, mischievous, and deeply observant. He had an artist’s soul, eyes that saw too much and hands that looked capable of both creating beauty and destroying restraint. There had always been a warmth in his gaze when he looked at her—not the cold pity she was so accustomed to, nor the polite tolerance she wore like a second skin in most rooms. With him, she felt… seen. Not as the wallflower. Not as the Featherington girl. Just Penelope.

And that was dangerous. That was intoxicating.

She thought of him and felt heat bloom low in her belly, settling between her thighs like the softest kind of ache. It grew stronger each time he spoke her name with that crooked smile, as if it tasted better than any other word on his tongue.

And so, on a night where her longing outweighed her fear, she did something quite mad.

She sat at her writing desk, lit only by the soft flicker of a candle, and penned a letter with a hand that trembled.

Dearest Benedict,

I beg your forgiveness for the hour at which this reaches you, and for the boldness of what I now ask.

Would you meet me in the east garden, at midnight? There is something I wish to ask of you—something I do not dare write upon paper. I trust you. I trust you more than I can say.

—Penelope

She read it once. Then twice. Her pulse hammered beneath her collarbone.

And then, with her heart thundering, she sealed it with wax, pressed it into the hands of a sleepy footman, and gave clear instructions that it be delivered into Benedict Bridgerton’s hands alone.

There was no turning back now.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - The East Garden

Midnight

The garden was bathed in silver. Moonlight spilled like liquid over marble and trimmed hedgerows, glinting off the dew-drenched petals of the night-blooming flowers. A breeze whispered through the leaves, rustling the air like it, too, was holding its breath.

Penelope paced along the gravel path, her slippered feet crunching quietly as she gnawed at her bottom lip.

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” she whispered fiercely, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Penelope Featherington, what in God’s name are you thinking? Benedict is not going to agree to this. He’ll laugh. He’ll be horrified. You’re going to die of shame before dawn and—”

“How do you know what I will or will not agree to?” a voice drawled from the shadows.

Penelope startled, freezing mid-pace as the voice slid around her like warm honey. Her heart stuttered.

“You haven’t asked me anything yet, Penelope,” Benedict continued, stepping out of the darkness.

He looked like a sin plucked straight from a dream—barefoot, tousled, and dressed in nothing but his linen shirtsleeves and breeches, as if he had come straight from bed. Which, considering the hour and her scandalous request, he likely had.

“You… you came?” she asked, stunned.

“You summoned me,” he said with a small smile, stepping closer. “I could hardly ignore a midnight request from Penelope Featherington—especially when she claimed it was important.”

Her breath caught at the way he said her name, low and warm, like it was something precious. The moonlight softened the sharp lines of his face, giving him an almost otherworldly glow. He looked like temptation personified, and she—she was trembling.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then, just as quickly, she snapped her lips shut.

“Penelope?” he prompted, gentler this time.

She swallowed hard.

“Can you teach me about the pleasures of the flesh?” she blurted, her voice breathless and shaking. Then, as the full weight of what she’d said hit her, her cheeks flamed red. She turned her gaze to the hedgerow, anywhere but him. “I—I mean—”

Silence stretched between them like silk.

Then, softly: “Why me?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I trust you. And… I may or may not be attracted to you.”

The confession left her in a rush of air, as if she’d been holding it in for years. Perhaps she had.

She heard the crunch of gravel and then felt the feather-light touch of fingers beneath her chin. He tilted her face upward, coaxing her to meet his gaze.

“You trust me, truly?” he asked, voice rough with something more than surprise.

“With my life,” she said, without hesitation.

His eyes searched hers for any sign of fear or uncertainty. When he found none, he bent his head and kissed her.

It wasn’t a ravenous thing. Not yet. It was slow, deliberate, and reverent—as if he were testing the weight of her lips against his, committing the shape of her mouth to memory. It was a promise more than a kiss. A beginning.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven, but his voice was steady.

“I will show you everything I know,” he said, his tone dropping into a dangerous purr. “I will teach you how to touch yourself. How to understand the way your body sings when it’s touched just right. I’ll teach you how to please a man. What he likes. What I like.”

Penelope’s breath hitched, her eyes still closed, her lips parted from the kiss.

“But not tonight,” Benedict continued, pressing his forehead to hers. “Tonight was only about the first kiss. The first surrender. The first step.”

She trembled at the feel of his warm breath ghosting over her skin.

“I’ll send you a letter,” he murmured into the shell of her ear, his lips brushing the delicate skin there. “With a time. A place. Come prepared.”

His lips slid along her jaw, slow and deliberate.

“Because when we meet again,” he whispered, “I intend to take my time. To worship you. To make you feel things you’ve never even dared imagine. I want your body to remember my touch even in your dreams.”

Penelope whimpered—soft, stunned, and barely audible.

“I want you to dream about me tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing her cheek. “And I will ask you about those dreams, Penelope.”

Her knees threatened to give beneath her. She was light-headed, breathless, utterly undone.

“Now go,” he said, voice thick with restraint. “Before I lose my composure and worship you right here, in the garden, under God and moonlight both.”

He pressed one final, lingering kiss to her cheek, warm and maddeningly gentle.

She didn’t speak—she couldn’t. Her legs carried her away on instinct, her heart thundering in her ears as she fled back toward Featherington House.

Benedict watched her go, lips curled in a lazy, satisfied smirk.

He had always been drawn to Penelope Featherington. Always admired the fire beneath the lace and softness. But now—now he had been given permission to ignite it.

And he fully intended to set her ablaze.

———————————————————————

Featherington House, 1815 - Penelope’s Room

Penelope woke with a gasp, her chest heaving as the remnants of a dream clung to her skin like sweat on a midsummer’s night. She blinked against the hazy morning light pouring through her curtains, her heart racing as if it were still chasing something through sleep.

“Damn it, Benedict,” she muttered breathlessly, pressing a hand to her flushed cheek. “You just had to tell me to dream about you.”

And dream she had—scandalous, wicked things that left her skin tingling and her thighs pressed together under the covers. His voice had haunted her in slumber, low and coaxing, his hands mapping every inch of her with reverence and hunger. She shivered.

The door creaked open, and her maid bustled in with the soft click of morning slippers and a chipper hum.

“Time to rise, miss,” she chirped as if the world hadn’t just ended and restarted in Penelope’s imagination.

Penelope sighed, dragging herself from beneath the sheets and trying very hard not to think about the way her body still throbbed with remembered pleasure.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The Drawing Room

Benedict was seated by the window, sketchbook in hand, though anyone paying attention would note that the pencil hadn’t moved in some time.

His eyes drifted toward the door every other second, and when it finally opened to reveal Penelope, his pencil slipped and made a jagged line across the page.

Penelope entered with her usual grace, her cheeks tinged with pink, though whether it was from the heat or from something else—well, Benedict had a delicious guess.

“How are you, dear?” Violet asked warmly, her hands folded over her teacup in that practiced, maternal elegance that made all feel safe and welcome.

“I’m doing much better today,” Penelope replied gently as she took a seat beside the matriarch. “Mama has finally given up on trying to find me a suitable match. Apparently, I’m not marriage material in her eyes.”

Violet’s expression softened into a frown, but Penelope shrugged and added, “But that’s alright. I would rather be a spinster and happy than married to a man who would mistreat me and leave me miserable.”

“Well, I dare say the definition of suitable might need re-evaluating,” Violet murmured as she gave Penelope’s hand a comforting squeeze. “You deserve happiness, Penelope. Not some forced union with a man who can’t see your worth.”

Their conversation turned to the upcoming ball and the latest society gossip, but Benedict had heard enough.

He snapped his sketchbook shut—not with irritation, but intent—and rose to his feet, crossing the room until he stood just behind Penelope.

“Penelope,” he drawled, voice rich with meaning, “what a pleasure it is to see you.”

The corners of Violet’s mouth twitched upward as she sipped her tea, quietly amused by the charged exchange blooming between her son and the red-haired young lady.

Penelope looked up at him through her lashes. “Hello, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, her voice softer now, colored with flirtation that only he would recognize.

“Mother,” Benedict said, keeping his tone perfectly polite, “would you mind terribly if I stole Miss Featherington away for a walk in the garden? I’ve a sketch I’d like her to see.”

Violet arched a knowing brow. “As long as Penelope agrees, I see no harm in it.”

They both turned to her.

Benedict offered his arm, his mouth quirking at the edges. “May I escort you on a walk, Miss Featherington?”

“You may, Mr. Bridgerton,” she replied, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm.

Their touch lingered just a second longer than propriety allowed.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The East Garden

They strolled slowly, the gravel paths crunching beneath their shoes as birds chirped in the canopy above. The scent of roses curled through the air, sweet and heady. They looped through the blooms in silence, but there was tension humming between them like a bowstring drawn tight.

Benedict eventually guided her toward the secluded east side of the garden—the same place where everything had begun.

Once they were shielded by the tall hedges and overhanging willow branches, he stopped, turning toward her.

Gently, he released her arm and placed his hands at her waist. He eased her back until her spine met the rough bark of the willow, his body just inches from hers.

“Are you familiar with the property I own? The cottage?” he asked, his voice low, brushing the shell of her ear.

“Yes,” Penelope breathed. “You go there when you want to be alone… You don’t keep staff. You like the solitude. You take care of everything yourself.”

He smiled against her neck, lips grazing the delicate skin there. She shivered.

“Meet me there. The day after tomorrow,” he murmured, brushing his lips lower, down her throat. “We’ll spend the weekend together.”

Penelope’s heart raced in her chest like a wild thing.

“I’ve already written to Daphne,” he continued, his fingers trailing along her waist as his mouth explored the tender slope of her shoulder. “She’s agreed to send you a letter inviting you to stay with her at Hastings House. That will be the story for our families. But you, you, Penelope, will be spending the weekend with me.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

“Is that alright with you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, barely able to find her voice through the haze of sensation.

“Good,” Benedict purred. “Because I look forward to hearing you moan my name.”

And then—finally—he kissed her. Not gently. Not teasingly. But with the hunger of a man who’d imagined this moment too many times. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hands steady as they held her close, like he never intended to let her go.

———————————————————————

Featherington House, 1815 - Penelope’s Room

Penelope could hardly contain the butterflies fluttering in her belly as she broke the wax seal on the delicate envelope.

As expected, the letter inside bore Daphne Bridgerton’s familiar, sweeping hand—an “invitation” to spend the weekend at Hastings House, cloaked in all the proper phrases that would never raise suspicion.

She descended the stairs with the letter in hand, her expression carefully neutral as she approached her mother.

“Mama, I’ve received an invitation to stay with Daphne for the weekend. She’s asked me to accompany her on a quiet retreat.”

Portia, who was lazily reclining with a cup of tea and half a scone, merely waved her off.

“Do as you like, Penelope. Perhaps some time away from Mayfair will do you good—though do try not to return with more freckles, hmm?”

Penelope curtsied dutifully but said nothing. Her thoughts were far from freckles and decorum. All she could think about was him.

—————————————————————————

My Cottage, 1815 – The Carriage Ride

The carriage arrived promptly the next morning. Penelope, her modest traveling bag clutched tightly in her gloved hands, stepped up into it—expecting solitude.

Instead, she found Benedict Bridgerton already seated, long legs stretched out, one arm draped lazily over the back of the bench.

“Surprise,” he said, voice smooth as velvet. “I thought we could share the journey. Begin your education early.”

His smile was warm and wicked, the kind that made her entire body flush with anticipation. That slow, simmering kind of want.

Penelope’s eyes widened, her lips parting slightly in surprise, but she nodded and smiled, the blush creeping up her cheeks unmistakable.

“I… I think that would be most agreeable,” she whispered, taking the seat opposite him.

The carriage set off, wheels rumbling softly as they made their way out of London, away from Mayfair’s ever-watchful eyes and into the wild quiet of the countryside.

For a time, they made idle conversation—about art, the weather, whether Colin had finally taken up poetry again in earnest. But once the city gave way to rolling green hills, Benedict’s gaze sharpened, his smile fading into something far more serious. More intimate.

He shifted forward, kneeling between her legs on the carriage floor, his hands resting lightly on her knees.

“Are you ready for your first lesson, Penelope?” he asked, his voice low, nearly a growl. It was not a question asked lightly. It was a promise.

She exhaled shakily, heart hammering in her chest. “Yes,” she whispered, already breathless with anticipation.

Benedict leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, sensual kiss. There was no rush, no desperation—just the careful building of tension, the kind that curled low in her stomach and stole the very breath from her lungs.

His mouth traveled downward, brushing kisses along her jaw, down her throat, pausing to nuzzle just above her bodice. His lips traced the edge of her décolletage, pausing at the delicate curve of her collarbone, where he licked and gently nipped.

Her hands gripped the cushions beside her, trembling.

Benedict’s fingers found the hem of her dress and began to inch it upward, slow and reverent. When he reached her calves, he paused only to caress the soft skin there, his thumbs brushing circles into the backs of her knees.

By the time her skirts were gathered around her waist, Penelope was nearly trembling.

He tugged gently, drawing her forward until her hips rested at the edge of the seat. Then, with a look of such hunger and tenderness that it nearly undid her, Benedict bent and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee.

Another to her thigh.

And another.

Each kiss was soft, careful—but beneath them was heat, growing and growing.

When his mouth finally found her center, he groaned aloud, as if the taste of her had undone something in him. His tongue parted her folds, slow and languid, tasting her like a man savoring something he had craved for years.

“Benedict,” she gasped, a strangled moan escaping her lips as her fingers tangled in his hair, instinct guiding her now.

He hummed against her, the vibration of it making her cry out softly. When he sucked gently on the swollen bundle of nerves, she nearly buckled.

Then—his finger. One, slow and steady, sliding into her heat as he continued his wicked rhythm with his mouth.

She arched off the seat, panting, moaning, completely lost to the sensations overtaking her.

He paused only long enough to murmur against her skin, “That’s it, Penelope… Let go for me.”

And she did.

With a soft, broken cry of his name, Penelope came undone beneath his mouth, her body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

—————————————————————————

Explicit sexual content starts now.

My Cottage, 1815 – The Sitting Room

The last rays of the sun painted the windows gold as they stepped inside the small, welcoming cottage. The air was warm, fragrant with dried herbs hanging near the hearth and the faint scent of beeswax polish.

Penelope’s cheeks were still flushed from the carriage ride — her lips slightly parted, her eyes glassy with the echo of pleasure. She wandered the sitting room with quiet, nervous energy, hands brushing over the tops of chairs and along the carved mantle.

“You don’t need to be nervous,” Benedict said softly as he came up behind her, his palms sliding gently over her sides. “You’re safe here with me, Penelope. I won’t do anything you don’t want. You lead the way, always. And right now, I thought… a light supper might ease us in.”

His voice was warm, steady. Anchoring.

Penelope let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That would be lovely, Benedict.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder, soft and unhurried, before slipping away toward the modest kitchen.

Upstairs, she let herself breathe. She undressed slowly, shedding the weight of society with each layer until she stood in her chemise alone. Over it, she pulled a silk robe the color of blush roses — sheer, whisper-light, and tied at her waist. She wore nothing beneath.

Barefoot, she returned to find Benedict laying out plates on the low table: delicate finger sandwiches, a summer salad with vinaigrette, sliced apples with honey. All her favorites.

Their fingers brushed often as they ate. The soft crackle of the hearth filled the spaces between their words. It was simple. Intimate. The quiet before a storm of longing.

When they were finished, Benedict rose and offered his hand.

“Come with me.”

She did not hesitate.

—————————————————————————

My Cottage, 1815 – Benedict’s Room

The bedroom was lit by flickering candlelight and the slow, pulsing glow of the fire. The bed was turned down, the sheets freshly pressed, and every surface hummed with quiet tension.

Benedict stood behind her once again, lips brushing the curve of her neck, his hands sliding up her arms to the sash at her waist. He pulled it loose with a gentle tug and slid the silk robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

He had already undressed down to his breeches, but even now, with her body bared before him, his hands were patient. Reverent.

She turned to face him.

“I want to see you,” she whispered, her hands moving across the bare expanse of his chest, fingers dancing over the fine trail of hair that led downward.

He groaned softly at her touch, eyes fluttering closed. When her fingers found the buttons of his breeches, she undid them slowly, watching his face the entire time.

He stepped back, sliding out of them, letting them fall to the floor. His cock stood proud and flushed, the tip glistening with need, and Penelope’s breath caught in her throat.

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, steady and sure. She reached for the hem of her nightdress and pushed it off her shoulders in one graceful motion. The fabric pooled around her feet.

Benedict’s breath hitched.

“You are…” His voice was hoarse with awe. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

He stepped forward and drew her close, hands on her hips, skin against skin. He kissed her slowly, deeply, and when she trembled against him, he lifted her into his arms with ease, carrying her to the bed as though she weighed nothing at all.

He laid her down like something precious, kissing down her throat, across her collarbone, until his mouth found her breast. He suckled gently, tongue circling the peak while his other hand rolled and tugged the other nipple, teasing it to stiffness.

Penelope moaned softly, her back arching into his touch.

His hand slid lower, across the soft curve of her belly, until it found her sex. She was slick — more than ready. He groaned against her skin at the discovery.

“So ready for me already,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her sternum.

Two fingers slipped into her, slow and deep, curling inside her walls. She gasped, clutching the sheets. He added a third, stretching her gently, preparing her with infinite patience.

Her legs trembled.

“Benedict—please,” she whispered.

He kissed her belly, then her lips. “I’ve got you, darling. Just hold on to me.”

He withdrew his fingers and wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, stroking it once, twice. He guided himself to her entrance, his body trembling now too — not just with arousal, but with emotion.

“This is going to hurt, love,” he said softly. “But only for a moment. I swear, I’ll make you feel so good after.”

“I trust you,” she whispered.

He positioned himself at her entrance and looked into her eyes. Her hands came to rest on his back. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, drawing him closer.

With a deep breath, he pushed forward, breaching her tight heat inch by inch until he reached the barrier of her maidenhead.

“Eyes on me,” he murmured, voice tight with restraint.

And then — he thrust forward, firm and fast, breaking through and sheathed himself fully inside her.

Penelope gasped sharply. Her eyes welled with tears, but she never looked away. Benedict leaned down, kissing them from her cheeks, whispering soothing words against her mouth.

He didn’t move — not yet. He let her adjust, his breath warm on her neck.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered. “So perfect. So brave.”

She nodded, blinking through the sting of pain.

Then — he pulled out nearly all the way, leaving just the head of his cock inside her, and slid back in with aching slowness.

This time, her moan was low and shaky. Her hands clutched at his shoulders. He adjusted his angle—and found the spot inside her that made her cry out.

Her back arched. Her lips parted in stunned pleasure.

“There,” he said, smiling against her neck. “You feel that? That’s just the beginning.”

He began to move—slow, deep thrusts that filled her completely, his body grinding against her in a rhythm that was both tender and primal.

Penelope held on, gasping his name, lost in the feel of him—his skin, his breath, the way he filled her with every stroke. And in his eyes, she saw everything she had ever dreamed of: not just desire, but devotion.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The Drawing Room

They were back in Mayfair.

The chaos of the ton, the pristine polish of Bridgerton House, and the ever-pressing hum of polite society had resumed — but Benedict’s mind was leagues away. Still tangled in silk sheets. Still buried in the memory of her moans. Still undone by the way Penelope’s body had arched beneath his, and the way her soft lips had whispered his name like a prayer and a command all at once.

He was a man haunted, but in the best, most ruinous way.

He did his best to act normal — whatever normal meant anymore — but it was a lost cause. His body ached for her, his heart had started to thrum in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like Penelope. He was, without a doubt, absolutely, devastatingly ruined for anyone else.

And the worst part? She wasn’t helping.

In public — especially in the presence of his family — she was poised and proper. She still asked about his art. Still smiled politely. Still engaged Lady Bridgerton in discussions about fashion and philanthropy and bloody floral arrangements.

But her eyes? Her eyes were fire.

Every glance she cast his way was a private invitation. A lingering caress. A memory revisited and a promise of more to come. And today, as she sat with his mother, talking about the upcoming ball, she glanced over at him with that subtle, knowing smile and a gleam in her eyes that very nearly made him groan aloud.

Benedict clenched his jaw, fingers digging into his thighs beneath the cover of his coat. He couldn’t move — not unless he wanted to walk out of the room in full retreat, scandalously tented trousers and all.

“I must be going, but I look forward to seeing you tomorrow night, Viole,” Penelope said sweetly as she rose. Then she turned to him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Her tone was polite. Her eyes were anything but.

He didn’t follow her out — not with his mother still seated beside him — but his gaze lingered on the sway of her hips as she walked away.

He would be seeing her soon. And not just at the ball.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 – The East Garden

Midnight

The moonlight spilled across the east garden like silver silk, casting long shadows beneath the weeping willow.

Benedict waited. Pacing. Fidgeting. Burning.

He spun at the sound of footsteps.

“You look like you’re about to explode,” Penelope teased, stepping out of the shadows, the pale light catching the curves beneath her cloak.

“That’s because I am,” he growled, closing the distance and crashing his lips onto hers.

The kiss was molten. Her hands flew to the back of his shirt, twisting in the fabric as he pressed her backward toward the tree. His breath was ragged. His need, unrelenting.

He hoisted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her against the bark, hidden deep in the shade of the old willow.

One hand slid under her dress, fingers trailing up her thigh. His cock ached in anticipation.

“You’re already so wet for me, love,” he murmured, voice dark and reverent.

“I’m always wet for you, Benedict,” she whispered, just before he thrust into her with a low, desperate moan.

“Gods, you’re a minx,” he breathed, his thrusts slow but deliberate, grinding his hips to brush perfectly against her swollen clit with every motion. His mouth found her throat, her jaw, her ear — murmuring soft praise and filth alike between kisses.

She clung to him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other buried in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Oh, there—right there, Ben—don’t stop,” Penelope gasped, her back arching against the tree.

He could feel her pulsing around him, growing tighter with each thrust. His hand found her clit again, fingers moving in time with his hips, coaxing her up, up, up—

A sudden snap of a twig.

They both froze.

Instead of retreating, Benedict clapped a hand gently over her mouth and pressed his forehead against hers, eyes wide.

“Who’s out there? Benedict, is that you? I thought I saw you come this way,” came Anthony’s voice, too close, too curious.

They were hidden, thank the heavens, wrapped in shadow.

But Penelope’s body was already trembling. He could feel her climax hovering, trembling just beneath the surface.

So he didn’t stop.

He thrust harder. Faster. His fingers rubbed more firmly against her clit. Her eyes flew open, pleading. He kissed her fiercely, swallowing the moan that tore from her as she climaxed, her whole body shaking around him.

The sensation dragged him under with her. He buried himself deep, pulsing inside her as his own release overtook him. His knees nearly gave out.

They clung to each other, panting, trembling, trying not to laugh or sob or groan again.

As the footsteps grew nearer, Benedict pulled out, gently and quickly. They both scrambled to right themselves — dresses smoothed, breeches refastened, hair adjusted.

With one last, searing kiss, Penelope slipped into the shadows and out of sight.

Benedict stepped into the path just as Anthony approached.

“There you are, brother,” Anthony said suspiciously. “What are you doing out here this late?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Benedict replied casually, licking his lips to wipe away any trace of Penelope’s lipstick. “Came out for a walk.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes, gaze scanning the garden. “Were you with someone?”

Benedict let out a soft laugh, brushing a hand through his curls. “If I was, wouldn’t they still be here? I’m alone. Come on. I think I can actually sleep now.”

He turned and walked toward the house, entirely too casual.

Anthony lingered, eyes darting through the shadows.

He saw nothing.

But something told him that was exactly the point.

—————————————————————————

Hastings House, 1815 – The Duchess’s Ball

Anthony’s eyes were sharp, sharper than a tailor’s needle. Since the night before, when he’d nearly caught Benedict deep in the very act with Penelope Featherington, he’d been suspicious — and suspicious he remained. Benedict wore a mask of casual charm, too casual, as if daring Anthony to catch on. So he watched. Watched Benedict dance his way through the crowd, watched the way women fluttered in his wake. But nothing. Not a single slip.

Then Benedict turned, all devil-may-care and polished grace, and extended a hand toward Penelope.

“Miss Featherington, may I have this dance?” he asked, bowing with that easy charm.

Penelope’s cheeks bloomed pink, but she answered softly, “You may, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He led her to the floor, the string quartet striking the first notes of a gentle waltz. Their hands met, fingers entwined, and the world around them melted into melody.

Leaning close, Benedict whispered, “You’ve ruined me, Penelope. I hope you’re aware of that?”

Her breath hitched, a shy smile flickering as she whispered back, “I am now. When I first asked you to teach me, I never thought I’d fall for you. I knew I was drawn to you, but not this much.”

He swallowed hard, voice dropping lower, thick with longing. “I have a confession. I agreed to teach you because I wanted you. Always have. But as I showed you how to feel pleasure, I fell deeper—into love. I want to court you properly, then marry you, so I can have you as often as I desire—without fear of being caught.”

Penelope’s eyes shone bright, her hand tightening around his. “I want that too, Ben.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that promised forever, and squeezed her hand gently, fighting the urge to steal a kiss in front of the entire ton.

—————————————————————————

Hastings House, 1815 — The Upstairs Library

The dance ended, but the night was far from over.

Benedict and Penelope slipped away, silent shadows stealing through the corridors until they found refuge in the upstairs library. What neither realized was Anthony’s sharp gaze was still on them, trailing quietly behind.

The moment the door closed, Benedict pulled her close, lips devouring hers as he carried her to the chaise lounge.

His hands moved beneath her dress, tracing the warmth that waited for him.

“Ben, please,” Penelope moaned, voice trembling as he kissed the sensitive skin of her neck.

His free hand unsnapped his breeches, freeing the aching length that pressed against her. Slowly, reverently, he stroked the tip along her slick folds, savoring the taste of her.

“Gods, Penelope, you feel so good,” he growled, hips rolling to brush her clit with every thrust.

Her head fell back, eyes fluttering as he found that perfect spot inside her.

“There—please, right there, Ben. Don’t stop,” she begged.

He obeyed, relentless and tender all at once.

“I could spend forever like this,” he murmured, “with you wrapped around me, soaking wet, moaning my name.”

He shifted, gathering her belongings and pressing them to her chest, sealing them away as if protecting a treasure. From this new angle, his strokes hit deeper, faster—her thighs trembled under the wave of pleasure building inside her.

Her body shook, and with a guttural cry, she screamed his name.

“Fuck, Penelope!” Benedict shouted as he collapsed onto her, both trembling with release, their kisses slow and lazy as the world melted away.

Then—*

The door slammed open.

Anthony stood in the doorway, eyes blazing.

“What is this?” he demanded.

Benedict and Penelope scrambled, fixing their disheveled clothes, caught like stars in a sudden storm.

“I can explain,” Benedict said, stepping forward to shield her.

Anthony crossed his arms, voice sharp. “Then you better have a good explanation.”

Benedict’s gaze locked on Anthony’s, steady and unwavering. “I love her.”

That was all he could say—because nothing else was worth saying.

Penelope stepped out from behind him, voice calm but fierce.

“He didn’t initiate this. It was my idea. I knew I’d be a spinster. But I wanted to feel pleasure, so I asked someone I trusted. The only two men I trusted were you and Benedict. I could never entertain such notions with you, Anthony—you’re like a brother to me. You’re handsome, sure, but not my type. I trust Benedict with my life, and I fell in love with him along the way.”

Benedict’s eyes softened, full of love and quiet joy, as Penelope looked directly at Anthony.

Anthony exhaled sharply, the tension breaking just enough for a sly smile to curve his lips.

“You better be getting married soon,” he grumbled, half-joking but full of brotherly warning. “Don’t make me regret keeping this secret.”

Penelope smiled softly and nodded.

Then Anthony turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Alone again, they breathed in the quiet promise of what was to come.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 — The Drawing Room

Benedict began courting Penelope openly the very next day.

The entire household noticed.

Anthony, for his part, grumbled like a thundercloud every time he caught the pair sitting a little too close — knees brushing, fingers twined, lips whispering things no chaperone would ever approve of.

But while his mouth muttered complaints, his eyes betrayed him. A soft smile tugged at the corners of his lips whenever he saw Benedict kiss her knuckles, brush a curl from her cheek, or look at her like she hung the stars in his sky.

The rest of the family was positively glowing.

Colin had blinked in surprise when he heard the news, but was quick to clasp Benedict’s shoulder and offer his support. Daphne nearly cried with joy — for her best friend and her older brother. Eloise pretended to gag dramatically every time Benedict looked at Penelope with hearts in his eyes, but everyone could tell she was pleased. She only rolled her eyes like that when she was happy.

Francesca smiled, wise and knowing as if she’d seen it coming all along. Gregory, cheeky as ever, pouted and asked Penelope why she hadn’t waited to marry him instead — much to Benedict’s exasperation. Hyacinth, ever the romantic, clapped her hands and squealed, declaring it was “true love!”

And Violet Bridgerton? She was already halfway through wedding plans before Benedict had even thought about proposing. Napkin colors. Floral arrangements. String quartets. The works.

Despite their now-public affection, Benedict and Penelope still found stolen shadows, hidden alcoves, and quiet rooms where they could be deliciously improper. Passion, once sparked, refused to be extinguished.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 — The East Garden

Midnight

That afternoon, Violet dropped a hint over tea that was about as subtle as a trumpet in a chapel:

“I’ve finalized the wedding plans, my dears. We simply need to choose a date.”

Translation: Propose, Benedict Bridgerton. Now.

So he sent a message to Penelope, asking her to meet him where it all began — the East Garden.

She was already there when he arrived, bathed in moonlight, looking every bit the goddess who had bewitched him completely. She smiled up at him, soft and sure.

He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

“Penelope Featherington,” he began, voice trembling with emotion, “you have ruined me completely.”

She laughed, breathless and glowing.

“I have wanted you long before you ever came to me, asking about pleasure. I loved you in silence for years, and every moment since has only made me fall harder. I want to wake up with you in my arms. I want to fall asleep with you wrapped around me. I want to make love to you every morning and every night — slowly, scandalously, reverently. I love you. So I ask you this not as an artist, but as a man who is hopelessly, irreversibly, unapologetically yours…”

He dropped to one knee, pulling a ring from his coat pocket, shimmering in the moonlight.

“Will you marry me? Be my wife, my muse, my everything?”

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she whispered, “Oh Ben… my answer was always going to be yes. I love you, too.”

He slipped the ring onto her trembling finger, then stood and swept her into a kiss that tasted like forever.

She pulled him down to the grass, not once breaking the kiss. His hands slid beneath her skirts, her fingers working quickly at his breeches. He was already hard, and she was wet and ready for him — always. He slid into her with practiced ease, with reverence.

“Don’t hold back, Ben,” she whispered, breath ghosting across his lips.

He growled low and obeyed, setting a brutal, unrelenting rhythm, thrusting deep and sure. Her legs locked around his waist, hips rising to meet his, clit brushing with every stroke.

“I love you, Penelope,” he groaned against her skin. “I can’t wait to call you my wife.”

“I love you, Ben,” she moaned, arching her neck as he kissed down her throat.

The East Garden filled with the sounds of their bodies — the slap of skin, the rise of moans, the electric hum of passion and promise.

“Benedict!” Penelope cried as her climax shattered through her, dragging him with her. He came with a roar, burying himself deep as her body pulsed around him.

They lay there, still connected, chests heaving. Clothes were eventually straightened, but neither moved from the grass, tangled and breathless and utterly undone.

They didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until it was far too late.

“Well, so you weren’t alone that night,” came Anthony’s dry voice. “You told me you couldn’t sleep.”

Benedict groaned, dragging a hand down his face as Penelope giggled beneath him.

“You very nearly caught us in the act that night, brother,” Benedict said, smirking.

“If you hadn’t covered my mouth,” Penelope added cheekily, “he would’ve heard the moment you made me fall apart.”

Benedict puffed with pride. Anthony blinked, mouth parted in mild horror and awe — not at the act, but at the fact Penelope Featherington had said it so boldly.

Recovering his composure, Anthony huffed. “For the love of—try to wait until after the wedding, would you?”

But before he turned to leave, Benedict gently took Penelope’s hand and kissed her knuckles — her left hand — the diamond ring catching the moonlight.

Anthony saw it.

And though he muttered something about improper engagements and unrepentant younger brothers, a smile tugged at his lips as he walked away.

_____________________________________________

Featherington House, 1815 — The Drawing Room

Penelope sat gracefully on the edge of the chaise, hands folded neatly in her lap, though her heart pounded in anticipation. Her mother was in her usual armchair, sipping lukewarm tea and pretending not to glance suspiciously at the door every few seconds.

Then—

“Mr. Benedict Bridgerton, here to see you, Lady Featherington,” announced Briarly, holding the drawing room doors open with practiced flourish.

Benedict stepped inside with effortless elegance. His eyes found Penelope instantly and softened in a way that made her heart somersault.

Portia Featherington rose slowly, her smile strained and tight. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“I have already asked for Penelope’s hand,” Benedict replied smoothly. “She has accepted. I am here to inform you that we are to be married.”

He turned then, smiling fondly as Penelope stood and looped her arm through his.

There was a stunned silence — brief, but heavy.

“Did you trap him into marrying you?” Portia snapped, eyes narrowing, lips curling in distaste.

Penelope’s voice was steady. “I don’t have to trap a man to marry me, Mama. Benedict and I are marrying because we love each other.”

Portia opened her mouth, but Penelope didn’t stop.

“And no,” she added with quiet finality, “we won’t require your assistance in planning the wedding.”

Portia blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Lady Bridgerton has already made all the arrangements,” Penelope said, her tone polite but unshakable. “Every decision has been made with Benedict and me in mind — not your aspirations, and not your preferences.”

Portia stared, mouth agape, her teacup trembling slightly in her hand.

Benedict, still beaming, guided Penelope gently toward the door.

Just as they stepped through it, he leaned down, his voice low and meant for her ears alone.

“Rae is packing up your room now. Our footman will take everything to Bridgerton House. My mother believes I’ll be staying in the cottage… but after the house quiets down, I’ll be sneaking into your room instead.”

Penelope gave his arm a soft squeeze, her smile radiant as she tilted her head up to him.

“Only a few more days,” she whispered, “and we’ll never have to sleep apart again.”

They stepped out into the hallway, leaving Portia still frozen in stunned silence — her daughter’s spine straighter than ever, and her future brighter than Portia had ever dared to imagine for her.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 — Penelope’s Room

Two days before the wedding.

Just after midnight.

Benedict moved like a shadow through the halls of Bridgerton House, every creaking floorboard a personal insult to his stealth. He had only just reached the door to Penelope’s room — hand outstretched, heart already racing — when a soft creak echoed behind him.

At the end of the hall stood Anthony, arms crossed, a knowing smirk dancing on his lips.

“Couldn’t sleep, brother?” Anthony asked lightly, his voice far too smug for such an ungodly hour.

Benedict exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “Shove off, Anthony.”

As if on cue, the bedroom door opened. Penelope appeared, wrapped in a soft robe, her hair loose and curling about her shoulders. She leaned against the doorframe, all mischief and moonlight.

“Are you quite done teasing my fiancé yet, Anthony?” she asked sweetly, raising an eyebrow.

Benedict turned to grin at her like a man completely bewitched. “Did you hear that? Her fiancé.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “You’re both hopeless. Go on then—just try not to wake the entire bloody house with your marital enthusiasm.”

Penelope giggled as Benedict slipped his arms around her waist and spun her into the room, the door closing quietly behind them.

“I missed you,” he whispered between kisses he rained across her cheeks, her nose, the curve of her jaw.

“You saw me at dinner,” she replied softly, laughing as his lips brushed her ear.

“That was hours ago, Penelope. I was suffering.” He kissed her again, slower this time. “But now… now you’re mine.”

The kiss deepened as they drifted toward the bed, a trail of clothing left behind like breadcrumbs. Their bodies met with reverence, skin to skin, soul to soul. He pressed her down onto the mattress, their mouths never parting.

Benedict guided himself into her with a slow, aching thrust that made them both sigh.

“Benedict…” Penelope whispered, her fingers tangling in his curls, her legs winding tightly around his waist.

He kissed along her throat, down to the swell of her chest, and back up again. “You feel like home,” he murmured, voice rough with love and want.

Her nails raked gently down his back as he began to move, his strokes slow and worshipful. A moan built in her throat, and she bit down on his shoulder to stifle it.

The low growl that rumbled in his chest made her clench around him.

“God, I love you,” he breathed, resting his forehead against hers as his pace grew more urgent.

“I love you too,” she whispered, her eyes shining as they met his. They moved together, like waves drawn to the same tide, a rhythm written only for them.

Their climaxes hit in tandem, a shuddering crash of pleasure and emotion, gasps mingling in the hush of the night. He collapsed against her, his face tucked into her neck, her body wrapped around his like a ribbon of heat.

They lay there, panting and smiling and glowing in the aftermath. Slowly, Benedict rolled them to their sides, pulling her with him. He stayed inside her, his arms tight around her waist, as if afraid she might drift away.

“Only two more nights,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face.

“Then I’ll be yours forever,” she whispered sleepily.

“You already are,” he said, and kissed her gently. “But I’m greedy. I want forever and every night too.”

Outside, the moon slipped through the curtains, bathing them in silver. Inside, they lay tangled together — lovers, partners, soon-to-be husband and wife — counting down the hours until the world knew what their hearts already did.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 — The Upstairs Hallway

The Next Morning.

The first blush of sunlight filtered through the curtains when Benedict stirred awake, tangled in the warmth of Penelope’s bed — and her body. He kissed her slowly, languidly, his lips moving against hers in the unhurried way that said I wish I could stay here forever.

She smiled sleepily and mumbled something that sounded like mm, again later, before burying her face in the pillow. Benedict chuckled softly, slipping from the bed with practiced ease. He dressed quickly, moving quietly through the room as not to disturb her, but paused once more to kiss her forehead.

“Go back to sleep, my love,” he whispered. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

She murmured a faint sound of agreement, already drifting off again.

He crept out of the room and into the hallway—only to stub his toe on the corner of a table. He let out a very undignified, “Bloody hell!” in a hushed rasp, hopping once before catching himself.

Then — click — the soft, damning sound of a door opening.

His mother’s door.

Panic surged. Without thinking, he darted down the hall and into his own room, shutting the door as softly as humanly possible. He pressed his back to it, holding his breath as he heard Violet’s footsteps pass by on the way to the stairs. After a moment of silence, he let out a breathless laugh and muttered, “Saved by sheer dumb luck.”

Rather than risk sneaking out again and earning another lecture — or worse, one of those looks — he washed up, changed into fresh clothes, and waited.

Eventually, the sounds of Bridgertons rising for breakfast filtered through the house. He opened his door cautiously, peeking out like a cat testing the waters after a storm.

And of course.

There was Anthony. At the top of the stairs. Arms crossed. Smug smile so intact it should be illegal.

“Must you always look so self-satisfied when you catch me sneaking around?” Benedict huffed, stepping fully into the hallway with the air of a man defeated by fate.

Anthony raised a brow. “It is my solemn duty as the eldest to ensure the safety of my siblings… and to absolutely relish every chance I get to mock your lack of stealth.”

“You only caught me this morning because you caught me last night,” Benedict pointed out with a smirk. “You didn’t see me sneaking out the first night. Or the second. You just stumbled upon us after the fact. So really, you haven’t caught anything except your own inflated sense of authority.”

Anthony rolled his eyes with the sigh of a man who was somehow both exasperated and entertained. “Careful, brother. Arrogance is unbecoming in a groom.”

They made their way down the stairs together, both slipping into their usual seats at the breakfast table — Anthony at the head, Benedict beside him, and Penelope sliding in on Benedict’s other side, like she belonged there.

(Which, of course, she did.)

“Good morning, dearest,” Violet greeted, looking up at Benedict with a warm smile. “When did you arrive?”

“I only just came in,” he replied easily, flashing his most innocent smile. “Ran into Anthony in the foyer.”

Violet hummed, satisfied, and turned her attention back to her conversation with Eloise.

Under the table, Benedict’s hand found Penelope’s thigh, his fingertips warm and familiar. Her hand slid over his, fingers interlacing instinctively. She gave him a soft squeeze, her lips twitching in a small, private smile.

He leaned a little closer, his voice a breath in her ear.

“Good morning, fiancée.”

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to. Her blush and barely-contained grin said everything.

—————————————————————————

The Church, 1815 — Penelope’s Bridal Suite

It was nearly time.

Penelope stood in the soft morning light, her dress a dream of pale seafoam and delicate white lace — the color matching Benedict’s eyes, not by coincidence but by design.

Her maid Rae had long since departed, having left her hair twisted into soft, intricate curls and her cheeks flushed with a natural, glowing warmth. Now it was just Daphne and Violet, fussing lovingly over every detail, smoothing lace and fastening pearls with the reverence of preparing a queen for her coronation.

“You look beautiful, Penny,” Daphne whispered, blinking fast. “Oh, I think I’m going to cry.”

Penelope laughed, though it caught in her throat. “Don’t you dare, because if you cry, I’ll cry.”

“How am I not supposed to cry?” Daphne said with a watery smile. “My best friend is marrying my brother. That means we’ll really be sisters now.”

She took Penelope’s hands gently, and for a moment, the two of them simply stood there, breathing in the impossible weight of love and change.

Violet stepped closer, eyes shining. “You truly do look beautiful, dear. You always have been. I’m just so very glad you’ve found someone who sees what we’ve always seen — someone who will remind you every day just how radiant you are.”

Penelope blinked fast, her voice soft and steady. “Thank you, Violet. I’m the lucky one. I get to be loved by Benedict Bridgerton.”

Before Violet could dab at her own eyes, there was a knock at the door.

“Is it safe to enter?” came Anthony’s voice, cautious but amused.

Daphne grinned. “You can look, brother. Come, Mama — it’s time for us to take our seats.”

She kissed Penelope’s cheek, linking arms with Violet as they slipped from the room.

Anthony stepped in and paused.

He stared at Penelope, his usual sarcasm held in check by genuine affection.

“Benedict is one lucky man,” he said, offering her his arm. “You look stunning, Penelope.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” she replied with a shy smile.

“You ready to become a married woman?” he asked, brow raised, teasing only slightly.

“I was ready the day he proposed,” Penelope said, her voice radiant with certainty.

Anthony chuckled, shaking his head fondly as he led her from the suite.

—————————————————————————

The Church, 1815 — The Chapel

The chapel was full — a sea of lace, pearls, and eager whispers — but Benedict only saw one thing.

Her.

As the music swelled, the doors opened, and there she stood on Anthony’s arm, his bride. His muse. His entire heart made flesh.

Everyone rose. Heads turned. Gasps were heard.

But Penelope only smiled at him — as if no one else existed.

Benedict felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes and let them fall freely. He was about to marry the love of his life; what use was composure now?

When they reached the altar, Anthony leaned in between them and murmured with a smirk, “Try to keep the scandalous debauchery to private locations, if you please.”

Before Benedict could respond, Penelope arched a brow and replied coolly, “No promises, Anthony.”

Anthony chuckled, and with a theatrical sigh, took his seat beside Violet — who was already dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

The archbishop stepped forward.

“Please be seated,” he called gently. “We shall begin with the vows. Mr. Bridgerton, you may go first.”

Benedict took Penelope’s hands in his, steady despite the tremble in his voice.

“Penelope,” he began, “you are the air that I breathe, the stars to my sky, the heart to my soul. You are my light in the darkness. My best friend. My muse. My everything.

“I have loved you silently for years, and now I will love you forever without hesitation. I will always remember to tell you that I love you and that you are beautiful. I will love you in sickness and in health, through every struggle and every joy. You will never fight alone, because I will always be by your side.

“I will love you until my dying breath… and beyond.”

The crowd was already teary-eyed when Penelope began, her voice soft but unshakable.

“Benedict… I never knew love could feel like this. But I’m glad it’s you I feel it with.

“You’ve taught me how to love myself, how to see my own worth. I never saw myself as beautiful — not truly — until I saw myself through your eyes.

“I promise to love you, support you, encourage you, and comfort you. To be your partner in everything. You are not just my best friend, Benedict. You are my soulmate. My greatest plot twist.

“And I will love you until the world stops turning… and long after.”

There was not a dry eye in the room.

(And if you asked Anthony about it later, he’d swear he merely had something in his eye. A bug, not a tear.)

Benedict reached up and gently wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb.

“Mr. Bridgerton, do you take Penelope Featherington to be your wife?”

“I do,” he said without hesitation.

“And do you, Miss Featherington, take Benedict Bridgerton to be your husband?”

“I do,” she replied, eyes never leaving his.

“Then by the power vested in me by God and the crown,” the archbishop declared, voice rich and warm, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Bridgerton, you may kiss the bride.”

Benedict didn’t need to be told twice.

He kissed her softly, slowly — a kiss tender enough for a chapel, but filled with promises of breathless, fevered kisses still to come.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends. Penelope isn’t a shy wallflower around the people who she is comfortable with, she is confident, sassy and witty. But when she is out in public in front of the ton she is a shy and overlooked wallflower.

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Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Drawing Room

After marrying Simon and moving out of Bridgerton House, Daphne Bridgerton’s visits had become fewer and farther between. Yet every time she returned, it was as if no time had passed at all—except this time, something had changed. And she was sharp enough to spot it.

From her seat near the window, teacup poised in her hand like a seasoned debutante (though she was long past the need for such affectations), she watched her brother Benedict with mild, growing suspicion. He wasn’t just seated beside Penelope Featherington—her best friend since girlhood, the cleverest redhead in all of Mayfair—he was close. Comfortably close. Their knees nearly touched on the settee, and Benedict, normally fidgety in social situations that didn’t involve charcoal or canvas, was settled and still. Content.

And then Penelope laughed softly, a quiet thing that still seemed to light up the entire drawing room. She leaned in slightly, her fingers brushing against the edge of Benedict’s sketchbook.

“It’s beautiful, Ben,” she said, her voice wrapped in something warm and admiring. “You really captured the essence of that wildflower patch in the garden. The looseness of the stems, the way they lean toward the sun—it’s lovely. Have you thought about sketching it at night? With the fireflies… and the night sky behind them?” Her thumb lightly grazed the corner of the page as she spoke.

Daphne watched as Benedict’s entire face softened, the line of his jaw easing, his eyes losing their usual distant, daydreaming glaze. His lips parted, and then curved—slowly, helplessly—into the kind of smile one doesn’t just hand out freely.

And then it happened.

He melted. Truly and utterly melted when she called him Ben. Not Benedict. Not Mr. Bridgerton. Just Ben—like she had always known he was something more than a rake with a sketchpad and a charming grin.

Daphne’s brows rose subtly, her interest now officially piqued.

She was so consumed by the tableau unfolding before her that she didn’t even hear the study door creak open behind her, nor did she notice the familiar sound of Anthony’s boots on the polished floor until he came to stand beside her, arms crossed and brow already furrowed.

With one look at her expression, he sighed.

“You are not to interfere, sister,” Anthony said under his breath, his voice low and warning.

Daphne blinked up at him, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “Interfere? I haven’t even said anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered. “You’re staring like a hawk circling a fox den.”

“I’m merely… observing.” She turned back to the pair on the settee. Penelope was animated now, hands gesturing lightly as she described the way moonlight reflected on petals. Benedict was gazing at her like she hung the bloody moon herself.

Anthony followed her gaze and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Daph—”

“Fine. I won’t meddle,” she relented, though her tone made it very clear she still had her doubts about his hands-off approach. “But I will be watching. Closely. At least until I have to leave and return home. Someone has to keep an eye on things.”

“Someone? Or you?” Anthony asked dryly.

“Me, obviously.” She folded her arms across her chest, chin lifted in that infuriating, familiar way.

Anthony rolled his eyes with brotherly fondness and leaned down to press a brief, affectionate kiss to the top of her head. “Just—let it breathe, Daphne. He’s terrified. If you poke at it, he’ll bolt.”

Daphne huffed but said nothing more.

As Anthony left the drawing room, he cast a final glance at his brother—who was now smiling like a man entirely undone—and at Penelope, who seemed blissfully unaware of the havoc she was wreaking. He smirked, just slightly.

Poor Ben, he thought. He’s already halfway in love, and he doesn’t even know it yet.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Wildflower Patch

Just after midnight.

The world had gone quiet, save for the gentle hum of crickets and the occasional rustle of wind through leaves. Moonlight spilled across the garden in silver streaks, bathing the wildflower patch in a soft, ethereal glow. It was the kind of night that felt like a secret—intimate and fragile, as though even the stars were holding their breath.

Benedict Bridgerton sat cross-legged on a thick wool blanket, his sketchbook open on one knee, charcoal smudging his fingertips. His coat was discarded beside him, sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he worked in quiet concentration. Fireflies blinked lazily around him, their glow a gentle echo of the stars above, dancing over the foxgloves, buttercups, and bluebells.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it—not since she’d suggested it earlier in the day. The wildflowers at night, with the fireflies and the stars behind them. The idea had rooted itself in his mind like ivy and refused to let go.

He was just shading the curve of a poppy’s petal when the wind shifted. A delicate breeze floated through the patch, and with it came a familiar scent—lavender, lilacs… and ink.

He looked up sharply.

There she was.

Penelope Featherington, wrapped in a soft cream shawl over her nightdress, her fiery curls loose and tumbling around her shoulders like living flame. The moonlight kissed her skin, casting her in silver and shadow. For a moment, she looked like something out of a dream. A muse made real.

“I saw the candlelight from my room,” she said softly, her voice like silk brushing against his thoughts. “And I figured… well, I figured you would be here.” Her eyes were warm, inquisitive. “May I join you?”

Benedict blinked as if trying to remember how to speak. He nodded quickly and shifted over, smoothing the blanket beside him. “Of course,” he said, voice a little husky. “Please, sit.”

She smiled—that smile, the one that always hit him squarely in the ribs—and lowered herself gracefully onto the blanket beside him, her fingers brushing his knee as she tucked her legs beneath her. The touch was barely there, but it sent sparks up his spine.

“It’s such a beautiful night,” she whispered, tilting her head back to gaze at the sky. Her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed in deeply, letting the scent of wildflowers fill her lungs. “It feels like the world is holding its breath.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Because he was too busy looking at her.

At the way the moonlight softened her features. At the gentle rise and fall of her chest. At the faint curve of her lips. She glowed.

“I can think of something far more beautiful,” he murmured.

Penelope turned to him slowly, her brow faintly furrowed in question—until she saw the look on his face.

She stilled.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Because Benedict wasn’t smiling playfully. He wasn’t teasing. There was no artistic detachment in his eyes. No familiar banter perched on the tip of his tongue.

He was looking at her. Really looking. His gaze was soft, reverent, as though he were staring not at a girl he’d known for years but at something holy. There was longing there. Wonder. And—God—love.

The air between them shifted. Dense. Electric.

Penelope’s lips parted slightly, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest like it was trying to escape.

“Ben…” she breathed, and even that one syllable trembled.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked away.

The garden, the fireflies, the entire world—faded.

There was only this.

Only them.

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Aubrey Hall, 1814 - Hearts and Flowers Ball

The chandeliers in the grand ballroom of Aubrey Hall glittered like a thousand captured stars, throwing flecks of light across the polished marble floor and the swirling silks of gowns in every imaginable shade of pastel. The scent of roses and jasmine clung to the air, mingling with perfume and candle smoke, and the music—the music was sweeping and full of promise.

It was Violet Bridgerton’s Hearts and Flowers Ball, a beloved tradition that marked the very height of the season and was spoken of in the same breath as Lady Danbury’s soirées and the Queen’s garden parties. The entire ton had turned out in full force, each guest bedecked in their finest, and the Bridgertons were in rare form.

But Benedict Bridgerton wasn’t focused on the splendor or the society.

He was looking for her.

It had been weeks since that night—since Penelope Featherington had joined him in the wildflower patch under the stars. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t kissed her. Had barely spoken of what passed between them. But the memory of it—of her scent, her laughter, the softness in her eyes—had haunted him every moment since.

He hadn’t seen her yet tonight, and it left him restless. He scanned the crowd as he stood near the edge of the ballroom, drink in hand, smiling politely but feeling like his whole body was humming with anticipation.

Then he saw her.

Penelope entered through the wide double doors that led from the back garden, her hand resting delicately on the crook of Anthony’s arm. Benedict froze, the breath catching low in his throat.

She wore a gown of midnight blue—deep and rich and studded with tiny crystals that caught the candlelight like constellations. Her hair was partially pinned but allowed to curl freely, a few wisps tumbling over her bare shoulders. She looked like the night sky come to life.

She looked like that night.

Behind her, Daphne and Simon followed, but Benedict barely noticed them. Daphne, however, was scowling fiercely over her shoulder—her eyes fixed on none other than Cressida Cowper, who stood nearby simpering like an overfed cat. He filed that away for later, curiosity flickering briefly before fading.

Because then—then Penelope laughed.

Anthony had spun her effortlessly into a waltz, her gown flaring around her like a comet’s tail. Her laugh was soft and surprised, and Benedict felt it all the way in his chest, like a tremor beneath his ribs.

He wasn’t jealous—not exactly. He knew Anthony thought of Penelope as a younger sister, that he’d likely whisked her onto the floor to cheer her up. But it still did something to him. Still lit something up inside him, watching her spin and smile in someone else’s arms.

And Anthony, being Anthony, noticed.

As they danced, he leaned in and murmured in her ear, “I believe my brother has not taken his eyes off of you since you walked into the room.”

Penelope flushed, her gaze flickering briefly—nervously—toward where Benedict stood.

“Benedict looks at everyone, Anthony,” she said quietly, trying to brush it off with a small, practiced smile. “I’m just Daphne’s best friend. He doesn’t see me as anything more than that.”

Anthony arched a brow, the corners of his mouth curling into something suspiciously knowing. “I know that to be a lie.”

Penelope blinked.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t be blushing like that,” he said, still twirling her effortlessly across the floor. “And more importantly—I saw you. That night. In the wildflower patch at Bridgerton House. The way he looked at you, Penelope… that was not the look of a man who only sees his sister’s best friend.”

Her smile faltered, and she looked down, lips parting slightly.

“What are you afraid of?” Anthony asked gently, his voice devoid of teasing now, older-brother serious.

Penelope’s blue eyes lifted to meet his, shimmering with something fragile and aching. “That this is all a dream,” she whispered. “That I’ll wake up and it will be gone. That he won’t return my feelings.”

She swallowed, looked away.

“I’ve loved him since we were children. Since he tried to teach me how to draw and I ended up smudging ink all over my face,” she added with a soft, sad laugh. “It would destroy me if I lost him. I’d rather keep him as a friend and love him in secret… than risk losing him forever.”

Anthony exhaled through his nose, his expression softening into something that might’ve been admiration. “You’ll never know unless you try, Penelope. You’re braver than you think.”

She didn’t answer.

So he pressed, “How can you expect him to catch you if you’re too afraid to let yourself fall?”

The music slowed, signaling the end of the dance. Anthony guided her into a final graceful spin before offering a deep, practiced bow. Penelope curtsied without thinking, her heart pounding in her ears.

As he led her off the floor, she was still tangled in her thoughts, cheeks warm, lips parted. So she barely registered the moment Anthony shifted toward his brother and leaned close.

“Take her out to the garden,” Anthony murmured into Benedict’s ear. “Then follow the path toward the clearing by father’s grave. No one will bother you there. I’ll keep Mother distracted.”

Benedict’s eyes widened just slightly, but Anthony was already gone—vanishing into the crowd with the practiced skill of a man on a mission, likely heading toward Violet with some absurd distraction about flower arrangements or seating charts.

Benedict looked at Penelope.

And Penelope—finally—looked back.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he offered his hand.

She hesitated for only a heartbeat.

And then she took it.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814 - The Clearing

If you were to ask Penelope Featherington how exactly Benedict Bridgerton had managed to sneak her out of a crowded ballroom—past chattering guests, meddling mothers, and a sister who noticed everything—she wouldn’t have an answer.

One moment, she’d taken his hand.

The next, they were outside—under a sky spangled with stars and wrapped in the hush of night. The lantern-lit garden faded behind them, and all that remained was the sound of their steps on the path and the soft whisper of summer leaves. The scent of roses clung to the air, mixing with something older—lavender, lilacs, and something wholly him.

And then… the clearing.

A quiet, sacred space. The same clearing where the Bridgertons came to remember their father. A gentle breeze stirred the trees around them like the breath of the past itself.

Benedict brought her to the center and stopped. He didn’t let go of her hand.

“Ben?” she asked, her voice no louder than the hush of wind through grass.

He turned to face her, the look in his eyes unmistakable—the same look he’d worn that night in the wildflower patch. Like she was made of stars. Like she was the only person in the world. And maybe, to him, she was.

“I have something to confess,” he said gently. “So please, don’t interrupt. Let me say everything I need to. Just—just let me get it out, and then you can say whatever you like. Or nothing at all, if you prefer.”

Penelope nodded slowly, lips parted. Her heart was pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

“I love you, Penelope,” he began, and the words poured out like a tide that had been held back for far too long. “And not just the sort of love one gives to a friend. I’m in love with you.”

Her breath caught.

“You’re not just Daphne’s best friend to me. You never have been,” Benedict continued, his voice cracking just slightly, warm and rough with emotion. “I see you, Pen. I’ve always seen you. The real you—sharp and curious and brave. Not shy. Not invisible. Never invisible to me.”

Her lips trembled, her whole world narrowing to his eyes, his voice, the space between them that seemed to crackle like lightning in a storm.

“I even know about Lady Whistledown,” he admitted softly, as though it were a secret too delicate to breathe too hard around. “And it only made me love you more. You’re brilliant, Penelope. You’re fearless. You’re everything.”

He said it like a prayer. Like an oath. Like a man laying his entire soul bare at her feet.

Penelope blinked rapidly, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. “Do you really think all of that about me?” she asked, barely able to get the words out.

“Of course I do,” Benedict said, stepping closer now, his voice almost a whisper. “I love you so much I can’t think straight half the time. I wake up thinking about you. I fall asleep hoping I’ll dream of you. If I don’t see you during the day, I feel like something’s missing, like I’ve left part of myself behind.”

He reached for her with hands that shook just slightly, cupping her cheeks so gently it made her breath catch. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

Nothing stood between them now—not fabric, not fear, not time.

The heat of his palms against her skin made her heart ache in the best possible way. His touch was reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

Penelope raised her own hands and rested them lightly over his wrists.

“I love you too, Ben,” she whispered, voice trembling but sure. “I have for so long.”

His shoulders sagged with visible relief, a soft laugh breaking from his throat like sunlight through clouds. He pressed his forehead to hers, their breath mingling, their hearts thundering.

“Thank God,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.

And then—then he kissed her.

It was not the hungry, desperate kiss of fairy tales. It was gentle, the kind of kiss that made promises rather than demands. It tasted of every quiet longing, every unspoken word, every night she’d dreamed of this moment and dared not believe it would come.

It left them breathless. It left them changed. It left them ruined for anyone else.

Because love like this—secret and slow and finally spoken—was a kind of magic that could not be undone.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814 - Hearts and Flowers Ball

They stayed in the clearing longer than intended, wrapped in moonlight and the quiet, dizzying joy of finally being seen and chosen. But eventually, the sounds of distant music and the knowledge of curious siblings tugged them back to reality.

Still hand-in-hand, Benedict and Penelope slipped through the gardens like shadows and returned to the glittering ballroom. A new song had just begun—an elegant waltz drifting through the room like a lullaby. Without hesitation, Benedict turned to her with a grin that was all boyish mischief and tender awe.

“May I have this dance, Miss Featherington?” he asked, offering his hand with an exaggerated flourish.

Penelope laughed, light and full of wonder. “You may, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He twirled her gently into his arms, and they joined the crowd on the floor—though to them, it felt as if they were the only ones there.

From a corner near the refreshment table, Anthony watched with a quiet sense of satisfaction. Daphne stood beside him, one arm tucked through Simon’s as she sipped her lemonade with a puzzled squint.

“Am I seeing things,” she asked slowly, “or is that our brother dancing with Penelope?”

“Oh no, you’re not seeing things, dear sister,” Anthony replied, smirking smugly. “Our brother has finally told Penelope how he feels. And judging by those smiles—and the fact that they returned through the garden doors—I’d say the feelings are very much mutual.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “You scoundrel. You gave him the idea to sneak out of the ball, didn’t you?”

“I merely encouraged him to speak his truth,” Anthony said, all faux innocence. “The sneaking and swooning? Entirely his own doing.”

Daphne swatted his arm, but her smile was blooming despite herself. “Honestly. Between the two of you, I don’t know which is more dramatic.”

Simon chuckled softly and leaned in toward her. “At least this time, the drama seems to be ending happily.”

Out on the dance floor, Benedict and Penelope remained blissfully unaware of their audience. They moved together like they were made for it, perfectly in step, his hand firm at her waist, her fingers curled trustingly in his. Every glance exchanged between them spoke of silent promises and a love long-held and finally returned.

The candlelight caught the midnight blue shimmer of her gown—the very same shade as the night sky that had watched them fall in love. His eyes never left her. And hers never stopped glowing.

They didn’t yet know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight—here, now—they had each other.

And it was more than enough.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends.

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Aubrey Hall, 1815 - The Library

October 25,1815

It’s been a year since Anthony Bridgerton was left at the altar by Miss Edwina Sharma and his offer of marriage was venomously turned down by Miss Kate Sharma. The Sharma Family left London a fortnight later without a single look back, and the social season came to an end.

The Bridgerton Family had left Mayfair and headed to their country home for the off-season. Among the family was Penelope Featherington, who had been a member of the family since Daphne brought her home when they were four years old. Penelope was close with the whole family and she was always welcome with open arms and happy smiles.

It was late when Anthony made his way to the library, assuming that everyone would be asleep. But when he entered the room, he was greeted with the sight of Penelope Featherington curled up on the settee with a book.

She had a blanket tucked loosely around her shoulders, her legs folded beneath her, and a nearly burned-down candle set beside her on the table. Her hair was hanging freely down her back, tousled slightly like she had just gotten out of bed—or more likely had been up reading for hours. The warm golden light gave her the appearance of some dream conjured by flickering firelight and ink-stained pages.

Anthony had never seen Penelope so relaxed before. He had seen her covered in mud as a young girl, laughing with Daphne over some game in the garden. He remembered her in ghastly yellow frilly dresses her mother forced her to wear, her cheeks red with embarrassment and frustration.

But seeing her like this… it was as though he were seeing her for the first time. She was beautiful. Not in the sparkling, polished way the ton demanded, but in something softer, something truer. She was warmth and comfort, mystery and wit. She may not fit into society’s narrow mold of beauty, but to Anthony—in that moment—she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to finally come in and have a seat, my lord?” Penelope asked without looking up, her voice feather-light but undeniably amused. The title was a teasing afterthought, and she knew precisely how he’d react.

Anthony huffed, predictably, as he stepped further into the room. “You know how I feel when you address me by my title, Penelope.”

“I do,” she replied, lifting her eyes to him now with a sparkle that danced just like candlelight. “But it’s so much fun teasing you.”

He scowled at her, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him—it twitched, ever so slightly, toward a smile.

“You are one of the few people who can laugh at me while I’m scowling at you,” he commented, slouching down further in the armchair beside her, legs stretched out like he meant to stay awhile.

“That’s because I grew up with you, Anthony. I know who you really are, so I have no reason to fear you.” Her voice dropped to a gentler note, and she gave him a small, shy smile that twisted something deep inside him.

There was a beat of silence, warm and not awkward, where the house itself seemed to breathe with them. The ticking of the grandfather clock, the gentle flutter of turning pages.

Penelope glanced at her book again, but she did not pick it up. Instead, she shifted, tugging the blanket over her legs and then holding it open just slightly in invitation. “You look tired. Would you like to share the settee?”

Anthony arched a brow at her. “Tempting me into scandal, Miss Featherington?”

She rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed. “No one else is awake, and I have no intention of ravishing you on a chaise lounge.”

He smirked, dryly. “Pity.”

She threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing softly for the first time in days. He didn’t move to the settee, but the space between them had changed—melted.

They didn’t say anything else after that. Penelope picked up her book again, but this time, she read aloud. Her voice was soft, melodic, rich with quiet amusement and emotion as she recited the words. Anthony leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, his head tilted slightly toward her.

He wasn’t listening to the story—not really. He was listening to her. To the cadence of her voice, the way her words wrapped around him like the coziest wool blanket. And though he would never admit it aloud, in that moment he felt more at peace than he had in over a year.

Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and inside the library, the secret grew—unspoken and safe in the flickering candlelight.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1816 - The Drawing Room

Penelope was visiting the Bridgertons—a common occurrence, as natural now as breathing—but this particular evening was special. She had been invited to join them for dinner, but it wasn’t just any dinner.

It was her birthday dinner.

They had celebrated it every year since Daphne had once let slip, in horrified disbelief, that the Featheringtons never did. And so, like clockwork, the Bridgertons made it tradition. A warm, affectionate rebellion against the neglect she had grown too used to.

Candles glowed gently around the drawing room, dancing over familiar wallpaper and the silver frames on the mantel. Laughter echoed faintly from the hallway where Hyacinth and Gregory had been shooed away from peeking at the cake. A fire crackled, and Penelope stood there in the heart of it all, soft and stunned and glowing.

“I know you said that you didn’t want any gifts this year, Penelope dearest,” Violet Bridgerton said with that warm, dignified voice of hers, a touch of mischief curling at the edges. “But I simply could not resist.”

She extended a carefully wrapped parcel, and Penelope—blushing, flustered, and nearly tearing up—accepted it with both hands. “Thank you, Lady Vio—Violet,” she corrected herself, soft and sincere. “You really didn’t have to.”

“But we wanted to,” Violet said gently, eyes shining.

Penelope peeled back the wrapping with trembling fingers and opened the velvet pouch tucked inside. From it, she poured a black ribbon necklace into her hand. It held a single teardrop stone—deep, brilliant, unmistakably Bridgerton blue—nestled like a secret against black velvet.

“It’s beautiful,” Penelope whispered, her voice a little breathless as her fingers brushed over the cool surface of the stone.

“You are welcome, dear,” Violet said, her smile serene. “Daphne picked it out especially for you.”

Penelope’s heart ached in the best way. For all the things the ton saw her lacking—fashion, family, fortune—this family, this home, had always loved her completely.

She stepped forward and embraced Violet, who folded her into a maternal hug without hesitation, cradling the back of Penelope’s head with a gentleness that had never once existed in the Featherington household.

Just then, Humboldt stepped discreetly into the room and bowed slightly.

“Dinner is served, my lady.”

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1816 – The Dining Room

Violet led the family into the dining room, where candlelight gleamed off polished silver and the scent of roasted duck and sugared root vegetables filled the air. The chairs were set with careful precision—yet somehow, effortlessly, Violet guided Penelope to the seat next to Anthony.

As the others took their places, chattering and laughing, Penelope turned her head ever so slightly, catching Anthony’s eye.

But he was already looking at her.

His gaze was steady—intense in a way that made her throat go dry. He didn’t speak, didn’t smirk, just held her there for one second too long before he turned to pour himself a glass of wine.

Dinner began, and conversations fractured pleasantly around the table. Colin was recounting a harrowing adventure involving a pastry cart and a goat. Eloise was arguing with Benedict over poetry and the concept of marriage. Gregory was trying to steal Hyacinth’s dessert early.

Amid the chaos, Anthony shifted his hand under the table, inching closer to Penelope’s. Slowly. Deliberately. Until their pinky fingers touched.

The contact was subtle—scandalously innocent—but it sent a jolt through her body like a spark catching dry tinder. She froze, her breath catching as though she’d been struck. Her gaze flicked sideways again.

Anthony was watching her with dark, unreadable eyes. The corner of his mouth barely moved, but it was there—approval. A challenge. Want.

His gaze drifted from her eyes to her lips, slow and unhurried. A look that said things. Terribly improper things. The kind of things that made her skin feel too tight and her corset too constricting.

She held his gaze with as much calm as she could muster, willing her face into a practiced mask of polite amusement even while her insides flipped. She didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t dare.

By the time dessert was served, she was certain her cheeks were flushed from more than just the wine.

Eventually, dinner wound down. Gregory and Hyacinth were sent off with yawns and protests. The older siblings peeled away to the music room or study, and Penelope began to gather her shawl in preparation to leave.

Then Anthony brushed past her and, in the brief moment no one else was watching, slipped a folded piece of parchment into her hand.

Midnight. The garden. Behind the rose trellis.

Her heart was no longer beating. It was galloping.

—————————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1816 – The Garden

Midnight arrived like a lover’s secret.

The Bridgerton house slept quietly behind her, every window aglow with warm memories and genteel dreams. The garden was wrapped in silver moonlight, the roses nodding gently in the breeze like they too were waiting for something to happen.

Penelope stood just behind the rose trellis at the far end of the garden, her breath caught in her throat. She had worn a borrowed cloak and nothing more fanciful than her usual evening dress, but she felt like she’d stepped into the pages of a novel. One of the scandalous ones hidden at the bottom of her book trunk.

She turned as she heard the sound of his boots on gravel.

Anthony approached without hesitation, his expression unreadable and shadowed in the moonlight.

“As you requested, my lord, I am here,” she said softly, voice teasing but breathless. A half-smile played on her lips.

“You just love to tease me with my title,” he replied, voice rougher than it had been at dinner. That sharp edge of control. Of hunger.

She only smiled in reply—mischievous, unrepentant.

That was all the invitation he needed.

His hands rose to cup her face with aching reverence, his thumbs brushing her cheeks as if memorizing her features by touch. Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t tentative. It was fire. It was everything they had been holding back since Aubrey Hall. Since candlelight in libraries. Since stolen glances and fingertip touches and years of unspoken yearning.

Penelope gasped against his mouth, and then she was kissing him back, pouring every ounce of hidden desire into the kiss. She clutched at his coat, standing on her toes, desperate to be closer, to feel every inch of him against her.

And somewhere between the hedgerows and the stars, they gave into it. All of it.

He laid her down gently among the wildflowers and the roses, careful even in his feverish want. And there, beneath the moon and behind the trellis, Anthony Bridgerton worshipped her like a man starved—and proved precisely why they used to call him a rake.

But only she would ever get to see him like this now. Only her.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends.

———————————————————————

Hyde Park, 1799 — The Day a Friendship Bloomed

The late afternoon sun shimmered on the surface of the Serpentine, casting golden light on the winding paths and laughing carriages of Hyde Park. The spring air was perfumed with lilac and promise, but none of it reached Penelope Featherington as she trailed behind her sisters, shoulders hunched and face flushed with humiliation.

Prudence Featherington wrinkled her nose. “You are so clumsy, Penelope,” she said, flicking a speck of nonexistent dust from her bonnet as if Penelope’s presence had somehow sullied her ensemble.

Philipa, never one to miss an opportunity to echo her elder sister, chimed in sharply, “Must you always be an embarrassment to the family every time we go out? Mamma says we are on display, and you insist on tripping over your feet and gawking at the trees like a common goose!”

Penelope’s head dropped further, fiery embarrassment welling in her chest. Her gloved hands twisted nervously at her sides, and she blinked hard against the tears prickling at her lashes. Speaking would only invite more cruelty, and so she stayed silent.

But before Prudence could issue another jab, a voice — crisp, refined, and unmistakably unimpressed — cut through the air like a rapier.

“Well, I don’t believe she’s being an embarrassment at all,” the voice said firmly. “But you two, on the other hand, are being unspeakably rude. I feel dreadfully sorry for Penelope — having to admit that she is related to either of you.”

Penelope’s head snapped up. A girl with dark curls, perfectly coiffed, and eyes like a stormy sea stood a few paces away, hands clasped neatly in front of her and a raised brow arched with exquisite disdain.

“Who do you think you are?” Prudence sneered, flustered.

“I’m Daphne Bridgerton,” the girl replied coolly. “And unlike you, I know how to behave in public. I suggest you both remember where you are — Hyde Park is not your drawing room.”

Prudence and Philipa spluttered but said nothing more. With a huff and a swish of their skirts, they turned on their heels and stalked off toward their mother’s waiting carriage, leaving Penelope blinking in disbelief.

Daphne stepped closer and smiled, softening her tone. “Come along, won’t you? It’s far more pleasant walking with someone who isn’t constantly trying to wound you.”

Without hesitation, she offered her arm.

Penelope hesitated for only a heartbeat before slipping her arm through Daphne’s. Her heart fluttered nervously in her chest, unused to kindness, especially from girls her own age — and especially in public.

“I’m Daphne, by the way. Daphne Bridgerton,” Daphne said again, turning her head slightly as they began to stroll. “My family lives just across the square from yours. I’ve seen you before, you know.”

Penelope dared a glance sideways. “You have?”

“Mmm.” Daphne gave a small smile. “I always thought you seemed rather lovely. Quiet, but lovely. And now I know — you’re also dreadfully patient, considering how insufferable your sisters are.”

Penelope let out a tiny, surprised laugh, and Daphne grinned.

“I’m Penelope Featherington,” she said quietly, voice still unsure, but touched by warmth.

“Well, Penelope Featherington,” Daphne said brightly, “I’ve decided I like you. I think I’ll keep you.”

Penelope blinked. “Keep me?”

“As a friend. A best one, actually. That’s what best friends do, you see. They stick up for each other. Even in Hyde Park. Especially in Hyde Park.”

Penelope smiled — a real smile this time. It bloomed slowly, shy and unpracticed, but it lit up her whole face. No one had ever said they liked her before, much less claimed her as a best friend.

And as the two girls wandered off arm in arm, the sounds of the park fading into the soft rustle of trees and the whisper of new beginnings, Penelope thought — perhaps for the very first time — that she might not always feel so alone.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1800 - The Backyard

The sun dappled through the tall oaks that lined the back gardens of Bridgerton House, casting shifting shadows across the lawn as the sound of laughter filled the warm afternoon air. It was a rare day when all eight-year-old Penelope Featherington could forget she was a Featherington at all, and simply exist as herself — especially when it meant escaping to the Bridgerton estate.

A gingham blanket had been unfurled beneath the shade of a tree, and Penelope sat cross-legged beside her best friend, Daphne Bridgerton, who was cheerfully weaving flower crowns with alarming concentration. Nearby, the Bridgerton boys — Anthony, Benedict, and Colin — were engaged in a game of catch, the ball sailing between them in a blur of energy and occasionally chaotic grace.

“If you were allowed to choose the color of your dresses, Penny,” Daphne asked, her voice dreamy as she looped another daisy into her creation, “what colours would you choose?”

Penelope blinked up at the sky for a moment, then tilted her head thoughtfully. “I love the colour of lilacs. And lavender too, like the ones that bloom along the path in Hyde Park. A soft blue would be nice. Or an emerald green.”

She looked down at the hem of her pale yellow dress with a faint grimace. “They wouldn’t clash with the colour of my skin. Or my hair. I think they might even look… nice.”

“You’d look beautiful in all of them,” Daphne said with the unshakeable certainty of a best friend.

From a short distance away, a voice drifted over the grass — not loud, not boastful, but soft and sincere.

“I think you would look lovely in those colours, Penelope.”

Penelope’s head snapped up in surprise. So did Daphne’s. They both turned to see Anthony Bridgerton — thirteen years old and the picture of future Viscount-y seriousness — standing awkwardly a few feet away. The cricket ball he’d been holding slipped slightly in his fingers, and a blush immediately crept up his neck, staining his cheeks with unmistakable embarrassment.

Anthony cleared his throat as if he hadn’t spoken at all, eyes suddenly fixated on a patch of daisies like it held the answers to all the world’s questions.

Benedict, never one to let such a moment pass quietly, elbowed his elder brother with a grin. “Well then, Anthony,” he said under his breath, “shall I fetch you a bouquet of lilacs now or later?”

Anthony muttered something unintelligible — likely a warning — and turned on his heel, stalking off with stiff dignity. Benedict followed at a leisurely pace, still chuckling, while Colin scampered behind them yelling something about the cricket ball being his now.

Penelope and Daphne were left staring in stunned silence for all of three seconds before they both dissolved into giggles.

“He said you’d look lovely,” Daphne whispered gleefully, bumping her shoulder against Penelope’s.

Penelope ducked her head, her cheeks glowing almost as brightly as Anthony’s had. “He didn’t mean to say it.”

“No, but he did,” Daphne sing-songed, waggling her brows with great satisfaction. “And now you’re blushing too, like a character in one of Mama’s novels.”

Penelope giggled again, twisting a blade of grass between her fingers. She wasn’t sure what to make of Anthony’s words — or the strange flutter they’d caused in her chest — but she did know one thing: it was the first time a boy, especially a boy as important as a Bridgerton, had said something kind about her. Something that made her feel seen. Not invisible. Not a joke.

Just… lovely.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1801 - The Backyard

The garden at Bridgerton House had become a kingdom of laughter, shadows, and the golden light of early evening. Shrubs became castles, trees were battlements, and the soft rustle of spring leaves whispered secrets between childhood friends.

“Count to fifty, Daphne!” Colin called from somewhere behind a rose bush, already half-hidden and giggling like a fiend.

“Fifty is so many!” Daphne groaned, but obeyed, covering her eyes with one hand and leaning against the old oak near the fountain. “Fine! But if I find Anthony first, I’m telling Mama he stole the last lemon tart!”

“That was you, and you know it!” Anthony shouted back, already sprinting toward the far side of the garden.

Penelope, now nine years old, was darting along the hedge line, her heart pounding with delight. The game had started innocently enough — just another afternoon of running barefoot through trimmed grass, shrieking with glee and daring each other to hide in the silliest of places.

But now, in the glow of this golden hour, Penelope wanted very badly to win. She was always the one found first. Not this time. Not if she could help it.

She spotted a low-hanging willow tree near the back corner of the garden and made a beeline for it, her skirts hiked slightly in one hand. But as she ran around the base of a tall elm, her slipper caught on an exposed tree root, thick and gnarled like a serpent coiled just beneath the grass.

Penelope yelped as she pitched forward, her knees hitting the earth with a dull thud. The breath rushed from her lungs, and her elbow scraped roughly against the ground. She lay there stunned for a moment, the sting of pain prickling at the corners of her eyes. A tear slipped free, unbidden.

Before she could even sit up, footsteps thundered toward her — not Daphne’s light ones, but heavier, faster.

“Penelope!” Anthony Bridgerton’s voice rang out as he dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you alright?”

His brows were drawn together, face flushed not from running, but from worry.

Penelope blinked up at him, her cheeks hot with a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. “I’m alright,” she said softly, brushing at her skirts. “The fall just startled me is all.”

She tried to sit up properly, but her hem was tangled in the root that had betrayed her. Without hesitation, Anthony reached down with gentle fingers and carefully freed the fabric, his touch light and practiced despite his age.

“There,” he murmured, then offered her his hand. She took it without thinking — small, delicate fingers wrapping around his larger ones — and he helped her to her feet with a quiet steadiness.

“Thank you,” Penelope said shyly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her green eyes flicked up to meet his, just for a moment.

Anthony looked like he wanted to say something else, but the shout of “Ready or not, here I come!” rang out from Daphne, followed by Colin’s cackling from somewhere behind the gazebo.

The spell broke like a soap bubble in the sun.

Anthony gave her a quick nod, his ears faintly pink. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to hide before Daph finds us both and gloats for the rest of the week.”

With that, he turned and took off running, and Penelope hurried after him, the ache in her knee forgotten in the excitement and the odd little flutter that lingered in her chest.

For a girl who often felt like the last one noticed, Anthony Bridgerton had a way of seeing her like no one else ever had.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1802 - The Backyard

The afternoon was mild, the kind of spring day that made the whole world feel gentle. Birds chirped lazily in the hedges, and the scent of honeysuckle drifted on the breeze. A blanket had been laid out once again beneath the same old elm tree, worn in all the right places — a quiet little kingdom Penelope and Daphne had claimed as their own.

Penelope Featherington, now ten, sat cross-legged with her bonnet tossed carelessly beside her, strands of red hair slipping free from her braid. She was stringing tiny white wildflowers into a chain, though her fingers moved slowly, her thoughts somewhere far away.

“Daphne…” she asked softly, her voice unusually hesitant. “Why is your brother so kind to me?”

Daphne paused mid-sentence in her book, lowering it to look at her best friend with a curious tilt of her head. “Which brother? All of them are kind to you, Penny.”

Penelope glanced up, then back down to her hands, which were now nervously plucking at the fraying edge of the blanket. “Anthony,” she said, almost in a whisper. “He always goes out of his way to speak with me. He checks on me during games, he helps me carry things when he doesn’t have to… and sometimes, when he thinks I’m not looking, I catch him staring at me. He has this… this soft smile on his face. Not like the ones boys do when they’re teasing. It’s different. And I don’t know why.”

There was a beat of silence. The wind stirred the leaves in the trees, rustling like whispers in the distance.

Daphne set her book down entirely now, folding her hands in her lap as she studied Penelope more closely.

“I don’t know, Penny,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. “But… perhaps he secretly fancies you.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “Fancies me? But I’m just a child.”

Daphne shrugged, her voice low and careful, almost conspiratorial. “He’s seventeen now. Practically a man, but not quite. Still young enough to feel things and not know what to do about them. And you’re kind, clever, and sweet. Maybe he’s confused, or maybe he just… likes you, but doesn’t think he should because of the age difference.”

Penelope was quiet for a long time. Her fingers resumed working on the flower chain, slower now, more delicate.

“That makes sense,” she murmured. “He’s so grown-up compared to me. And I’m still…” She looked down at her hands, small and freckled. “Still little.”

Daphne gave her a reassuring smile and leaned against her shoulder. “Well, lucky for both of you, no one stays little forever.”

Penelope hummed softly, thoughtful. The idea of Anthony fancying her was strange — not unpleasant, just… unexpected. It fluttered around the edges of her mind like a moth drawn to candlelight — warm, soft, and not quite ready to land.

And so the two girls sat in silence beneath the elm, the flower chain growing longer between them, as the future quietly tiptoed one step closer.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1804 - The Backyard

The gardens of Bridgerton House had always been filled with light — of laughter, sunlight, and the rustle of summer leaves stirred by children’s games. But since Edmund Bridgerton’s passing the year before, even the birds seemed to sing more softly, as though in reverence.

Penelope Featherington, now twelve, stood quietly at the edge of the familiar backyard, her fingers gently twisting the fabric of her gloves. She hadn’t visited in months, not since the funeral. She had wanted to — desperately so — but her heart ached too deeply for the Bridgertons to burden them with her presence. She’d watched from across the square instead, lights flickering behind windows, shadows moving slowly through mourning.

Today, however, Daphne had invited her again, and Penelope had come with her arms full of lemon biscuits and nervous hope.

They sat beneath the shade of the old elm — their tree — where flower chains had once been strung between fingers and secrets whispered with giggles. Now, the silence between them was weighty, but not cold. It was the kind of quiet shared between friends who didn’t need to fill every second with words.

Daphne’s voice, when it came, was soft — almost fragile.

“Penny… do you think that Anthony will be alright?” She fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “He hasn’t been himself since Papa died, and I’m worried about him.”

Penelope looked over at her friend, heart tugging in her chest. Daphne’s face was thinner now, her eyes ringed with the quiet weariness of someone too young to carry so much sorrow.

“I think that in time, he will be,” Penelope said gently. Her words were deliberate, careful — like setting stones across a river. “He was thrust into the role of Viscount too soon. Into a world of duty and responsibility before he had the chance to grieve as a son.”

She picked at a loose thread in her dress, eyes focused on the earth. “He knows you’re all counting on him to be strong. And so he’s trying. But carrying all of that… it changes a person. I don’t know how long it will take before he feels like himself again. Maybe a year. Maybe more.”

Daphne nodded silently, her lips pressed together.

Penelope reached over and placed her hand lightly over her friend’s. “Go easy on him, Daphne. Don’t scold him too harshly if he makes mistakes. He’s trying his best — even if it doesn’t look like it. That’s the thing about grief… sometimes the strongest ones feel it the most, but show it the least.”

A tear rolled silently down Daphne’s cheek. She didn’t brush it away.

“Thank you, Penny,” she whispered. “I needed to hear that.”

Penelope squeezed her hand once before letting go. “I love your family as if it were mine. I know you’ll all be alright in time. Even Anthony.”

Somewhere deeper in the house, the faint echo of footsteps sounded. Penelope glanced toward the sound, but didn’t move.

And in the quiet hush of the garden, the two girls sat — not as children lost in play, but as young women beginning to understand the ache of growing up.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Drawing Room

The drawing room of Bridgerton House was alive with fluttering fabric, chattering voices, and the soft rustle of paper as Violet and Daphne darted between chairs and side tables, finalizing plans with a fervor only wedding preparations could demand. Silk ribbons draped over every available surface. Candles flickered. A harried footman entered, was handed a note, and disappeared again — nearly tripping over a floral arrangement on his way out.

Penelope Featherington, now twenty-one, sat quietly on the edge of a settee near the far window. She was surrounded by sprays of peonies, lilies, and forget-me-nots, carefully sorted by color and fragrance. Though she was not a Bridgerton, no one questioned her presence — not when she had been there for so many years, not when Daphne leaned on her like a second shadow.

Still, she kept to the corners of the room when she could. It was easier that way — to observe, to help, to stay useful and unnoticed all at once.

She was comparing two ivory-hued roses when she sensed a shift in the air. A presence. Someone standing just beside her chair.

She looked up slowly, fingers still resting on the petals.

Anthony Bridgerton.

He wasn’t looking at her — not yet. His gaze was fixed on the array of blooms before her, jaw tight, brow furrowed in thought. His presence always felt a bit like thunder before a storm. Heavy, heady, and waiting.

“Are you alright, my lord?” Penelope asked, her voice quiet but laced with concern.

At the sound of her words, Anthony’s shoulders stiffened — visibly — as if she’d struck some invisible chord.

He exhaled sharply through his nose and finally turned his head to look at her. His gaze was intense, but not unkind.

“How many times,” he said, voice low, “must I tell you that you are allowed to call me Anthony when we are in the privacy of my home? With my family? We’ve known each other since we were children, Penelope.”

Her brows lifted, eyes glittering with that familiar gleam of sharpness she rarely let show in public.

“Oh, my apologies, my lord,” she replied sweetly. “I must have forgotten that detail. It’s just — you’ve been so very busy, what with your endless Viscount duties. Surely you haven’t the time to chat with shy little redheads who hide behind flower arrangements.”

Anthony’s lips quirked. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile either. Something softer. Something reserved.

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached down, fingers brushing through the pile of flowers until he found what he was apparently looking for — a single pale pink rose, perfectly in bloom.

He plucked it carefully, then held it out to her.

Penelope blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

“Do you have a preference?” he asked, almost too casually. “For the table arrangements, of course.”

She took the rose from him, her fingers grazing his for the briefest second. “No preference. They’re all quite lovely.”

Anthony held her gaze just a moment longer, as though weighing something unsaid. Then, with a quiet hum, he stepped back.

And walked away without another word.

Penelope stared after him, the rose resting gently in her lap.

She didn’t know whether to smile… or scream into a cushion.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814

The countryside had bloomed with spring’s tender colors, and Aubrey Hall, ever regal in its timeless grace, stood ready to host yet another season of society’s games and glittering masks. The Bridgerton family had taken residence in their country home in preparation for Violet Bridgerton’s upcoming Hearts and Flowers Ball — an annual event so storied that debutantes whispered of it like it was a fairy tale and a battlefield all in one.

Among the invited guests was the esteemed Sharma family. And though Miss Edwina Sharma had officially captured the attentions of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, it was her elder sister, Miss Kate Sharma, who lit matches beneath his temper and unwittingly stirred embers he could not quite name.

Anthony, ever the dutiful suitor, danced through the motions with Edwina — the smiling, polite, perfectly agreeable choice. But when Kate entered a room, it was as if a storm followed her in, and his gaze was pulled to her like tide to the moon. Yet even that — the friction, the fire — was not love. Lust, perhaps. Rebellion. The sharp edge of resistance.

Daphne Bridgerton, now Duchess of Hastings, had returned to Aubrey Hall with her husband and her watchful eyes — the latter of which rarely left her eldest brother. She watched as he shifted, spoke, laughed too lightly, clinked teacups with Edwina, argued with Kate — but still, still his gaze drifted.

Drifted to her.

To Penelope Featherington.

Penelope, who was not speaking to him. Who hadn’t spoken to him in weeks, perhaps longer. Her manner was calm, detached, polite but distant — the way one might behave at court with a monarch they did not trust. Her posture gave no offense, her tone gave no affection. She floated through the days like a woman who had learned how to guard her heart behind the quiet armor of usefulness.

And she was always doing something.

If she wasn’t with Daphne discussing the ball or choosing music, she was shoulder to shoulder with Benedict discussing his latest oil sketches — eyes wide with genuine interest, laughter tumbling freely when he made some ridiculous metaphor about paint being “an expression of emotion’s deepest scream.”

Other times, she let Eloise shove pamphlets into her hands with scrawled titles like “The Scandal of the Male Vote” and “Why Marriage is Economic Warfare.” Penelope listened, nodded, and occasionally offered an idea that made Eloise beam like a general gaining a co-conspirator.

She played the pianoforte softly with Francesca in the evenings. Asked Colin about the rare spices he’d brought home from Greece. Let Hyacinth crawl into her lap during card games. Laughed with Gregory as they battled over chess — and always let him win the first game.

To everyone else, she was a balm. A fixture. A friend.

To Anthony, she was torment.

Every room she entered became a test of will. Every laugh that wasn’t his to earn, every smile that didn’t tilt in his direction, scraped against the parts of him that no title could fix. He found himself searching for her in crowds, listening for the sound of her voice even as he nodded along to Edwina’s pleasant commentary about garden arrangements.

She hadn’t touched him, spoken to him, or even looked at him longer than politeness demanded.

And yet…

It was Penelope who appeared in his mind when the rooms were quiet and his thoughts were not. Penelope who lived in the ache just behind his ribcage. Penelope, who had once given him a rose and sass in the same breath — and who now refused to even say his name.

Daphne noticed.

Daphne noticed everything.

And while she said nothing aloud — not yet — her eyes narrowed just slightly whenever Anthony lingered near Penelope. And her hand twitched with the urge to throttle her brother anytime he made a choice that looked like cowardice.

If he so much as thought of hurting Penelope — whether through silence, arrogance, or some half-baked attempt at “doing the right thing” — she would rain holy hell down upon him in front of God and every guest at the Hearts and Flowers Ball.

Because Daphne knew what love looked like. And it wasn’t found in a curated courtship or a convenient match.

No, love looked like ache. Like stolen glances across drawing rooms. Like silence that said everything. Like the way Anthony Bridgerton looked at Penelope Featherington — and the way Penelope pretended not to notice.

But Daphne? She noticed. And she was just waiting for one of them to stop being a bloody idiot.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Study

The house had returned to its usual calm. No wedding dresses rustling through hallways, no scandalous whispers slithering beneath doors. The aftermath of the failed wedding between Anthony Bridgerton and Edwina Sharma had been swept under the elegant rugs of society — but the debris still lingered in the corners of his mind.

Kate had departed for India not long after. There’d been no dramatic declarations, no parting kiss, not even a lingering glance. Just silence. And relief. The realization crept in slowly, like fog crawling over the moors — quiet, undeniable, and suffocating in its truth.

He was never in love with Kate Sharma. Or Edwina. Or any of the women his mother paraded before him.

He had never been in love at all.

Until now.

Anthony sat hunched at his desk in his study, the ledgers before him long forgotten, his fingers clenched around a quill that had left an inky blot on the edge of the parchment. His mind was miles away — chasing the shape of a smile, the sound of laughter, the scent of lilacs. His mind was with her.

A knock rapped softly against the doorframe. He didn’t look up.

“Brother.” A voice like bells and mischief slipped into the room. “Have you finally realized who actually holds your affections?”

Anthony’s head jerked up. Daphne stood just inside the door, arms crossed, an unmistakable smugness tugging at her lips.

It hit him all at once — like a strike of lightning to the heart, a storm breaking open in the middle of a sunlit day.

Penelope.

Penelope Featherington. He saw her in every hallway, every drawing room, every lingering silence. She’d been a part of his life since she was a girl in braids and too-big shoes, following Daphne around like a shadow. But somewhere along the way, she had stopped being a girl and become the woman — the one who had quietly taken residence in his soul without ever asking permission.

He blinked once. Twice. Then whispered like a man half in prayer, half in shock.

“I’m in love with Penelope,” he said, eyes wide, voice breathless.

A pause. Then louder, suddenly alive with clarity.

“My God. I’m in love with Penelope Featherington!”

Daphne’s grin grew impossibly smug. “Well. Finally. Welcome to the conversation, Anthony.”

He looked at her, bewildered. “You… knew?”

“Oh, everyone knew,” she said, waving a hand as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Colin said it first, actually. Benedict sketched you both into the same landscape painting last year — you never noticed? Eloise even started a betting pool.”

“A… betting pool?” Anthony blinked, horrified and yet oddly touched.

“Mm-hmm,” Daphne hummed, delighting in every second of his unraveling. “But I’m the one who’s won, of course. I knew it was just a matter of time. You were unbearable at Aubrey Hall, by the way — glaring at her from corners, scowling every time she spoke to someone that wasn’t you. Honestly, it was pitiful.”

Anthony groaned and rubbed a hand across his face. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? She hasn’t spoken to me since… the Sharmas.”

Daphne’s smugness softened then, giving way to something gentler. “Anthony. Penelope is the last person to give her heart lightly. She was protecting herself — because it hurt her to watch you with someone else.”

Anthony sank into his chair, his heart thudding like a war drum in his chest.

“She’s in the drawing room with Mama,” Daphne said softly. “If you mean it — really mean it — go to her. Show her.”

He looked down at his hands, calloused fingers twitching with nerves. “What… what should I even say?”

Daphne reached for the doorknob and smirked back at him. “Whatever you like. But say it with your whole heart. And preferably… on your knees.”

She disappeared before he could respond, leaving the door open — and leaving Anthony with nothing but his racing heart, a thousand memories of the girl with the shy smile, and a chance to finally, finally make it right.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Drawing Room

When Anthony stepped into the drawing room, the usual hum of the Bridgerton household was in full swing.

Francesca played a soft melody at the pianoforte, fingers light on the keys. Benedict was seated sideways in a wingback chair, sketchpad balanced on one knee, brows furrowed in thought. Eloise was half-curled on the settee, nose deep in a book while Colin lounged beside her, making occasional dry remarks she pretended not to hear. Gregory and Hyacinth were sprawled on the floor, deep into a dramatic game of cards. Daphne stood near the back, whispering something to Simon with a knowing glint in her eyes.

Their mother, Violet, sat in her favorite embroidery chair near the hearth, needle in hand but no longer stitching. And across from her, serene as a painting, sat her.

Penelope Featherington.

She wore a soft blue day dress that made her hair glow like copper fire in the afternoon light. Her curls were pinned loosely atop her head, delicate tendrils framing her face. She looked calm, unaware — devastatingly unaware — of the chaos unfurling inside his chest.

Anthony’s feet moved before his thoughts could catch up.

“Oh, hello dearest,” Violet said warmly. “Would you like some tea?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you, Mother. I have something I would like to say to Penelope… if that’s alright?”

Every movement in the room stilled. Francesca’s fingers lifted from the keys. Benedict’s charcoal paused mid-sketch. Eloise peeked over the edge of her book, Colin leaned forward. Even the children on the floor froze mid-card. All eyes followed Anthony as he strode toward Penelope.

And then — in a move that silenced the world — he dropped to his knees before her.

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat, her teacup trembling slightly in its saucer.

“I’ve been a fool,” Anthony began, voice shaking like a man stripped of all his shields. “I thought marrying for duty was the right thing to do. That love… love was something dangerous. Something to be feared.”

His gaze never left hers.

“But I was wrong. I was so wrong. I was afraid — afraid of giving my life to someone who might love me back. I didn’t realize until now… that I have been in love. For a long time. With you, Penelope Featherington.”

Gasps echoed quietly in the background, but he didn’t hear them. He was only looking at her.

“I’ve been in love with you for longer than I care to admit. You were always there — kind, clever, sharp as a blade and soft as morning light. And I… I was too blind. Too proud.”

Penelope’s hand flew to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.

“You haven’t called me Anthony in weeks,” he whispered.

She swallowed hard. “You’ve been… busy.”

“For weeks I watched you speak to everyone but me. And I hated it,” he confessed with a quiet, bitter laugh. “It made me realize I’d spent years taking your presence for granted. I thought I needed someone practical. Predictable. Someone who wouldn’t… ignite me.”

His voice dropped, reverent. “You set me alight, Penelope.”

She stared at him, lips parted, her heart in freefall. A thousand thoughts scrambled in her head like startled birds, but none of them came fast enough.

“I don’t expect you to say anything,” Anthony continued. “I don’t deserve anything. But I needed you to know — I am yours. If you’ll have me.”

The room was silent. Breathless. Sacred.

Then —

“You are a fool, Anthony Bridgerton.” Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with unshed tears. “Of course I’ll have you.”

Her hands, trembling but sure, cradled his face.

“Do you think I’ve loved anyone but you?”

Anthony exhaled a sound that wasn’t quite a sob, wasn’t quite a laugh. Relief. Love. Wonder. All of it.

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?” he murmured.

Penelope’s fingers brushed his cheek. “Because I was scared. You were always looking at someone else. I thought I was invisible.”

He shook his head, forehead resting gently against hers, their noses brushing. “You have never been invisible to me, Penelope. You’ve always been… everything.”

Just as his lips brushed hers, just as the world narrowed to the space between them—

A loud ahem cut through the moment like a blade.

“Oh do get on with it,” Eloise drawled from the settee, though her eyes were suspiciously misty. “The suspense is absolutely maddening.”

“I knew I’d win that pool,” Daphne whispered triumphantly to Simon, who chuckled.

Hyacinth squealed, Gregory gagged dramatically, and Violet dabbed at the corners of her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

Anthony glanced around the room, laughter bubbling up in his chest.

“We should probably save the kiss for later,” he murmured.

Penelope smiled, radiant and breathless. “I suppose we should.”

But their fingers stayed entwined, and for the first time in a very long while, all was exactly as it should be.

[legacydowney94]

Modern Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope Featherington and Benedict Bridgerton are best friends.

Anthony’s Birthday: July 12, 1999

Benedict’s Birthday: March 3, 2000

Penelope’s Birthday: April 6, 2000

Colin’s Birthday: November 8, 2001

Daphne’s Birthday: January 15, 2004

Eloise’s Birthday: May 20, 2005

Francesca’s Birthday: February 28, 2007

Gregory’s Birthday: October 4, 2009

Hyacinth’s Birthday: December 31, 2010

Simon’s Birthday: August 3, 1998

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 2016 - The Backyard

Penelope Featherington had been best friends with Benedict Bridgerton since they were four years old. Their friendship was the kind people wrote nostalgic teen novels about—barefoot summers in the backyard, blanket forts in the living room, and whispered secrets under fairy lights. She had spent nearly every weekend, every school break, and every long summer at the Bridgerton family home. They may not have shared blood, but they had shared everything else—mischief, movies, music, and even the occasional meltdown over algebra homework.

The entire Bridgerton family adored her. Lady Violet called her my bonus daughter, and the younger siblings clung to her like glitter on a craft project. Even Colin, when he wasn’t busy being a chaos goblin, doted on her. Benedict was her soulmate in the platonic sense, the other half of her ridiculous, creative brain.

And then there was Anthony.

Anthony Bridgerton, the eldest, the responsible one, the golden boy, the reason girls giggled at the grocery store and sighed in the hallways. He teased Penelope mercilessly. Poked at her with his words until she’d either throw a pillow at him, chase him through the garden, or swat his arm while laughing. What no one—not even Benedict—realized was that he didn’t tease her because he thought she was annoying.

He teased her because he was hopelessly, irretrievably, inconveniently in love with her.

It was the middle of summer, and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and cut grass. The sun had dipped hours ago, but the heat lingered in the air like a ghost of the day. Sixteen-year-old Penelope sat alone on the wooden swing beneath the big oak tree in the backyard, gently rocking back and forth. She had a blanket draped over her lap and her eyes turned skyward, counting stars like secrets.

Everyone else had gone to bed.

Well, almost everyone.

Anthony stood in the kitchen, the porch light haloing him in a golden glow as he watched her through the window. Her red hair shimmered even in the dark, and he could tell by the way she fidgeted with the hem of her blanket that something was on her mind. With a quiet sigh and a decision he hadn’t entirely thought through, he padded out to join her barefoot in basketball shorts and a faded t-shirt.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice soft as he approached and slid onto the swing beside her.

She jumped slightly, not expecting company, but then relaxed. “Yeah. Just got a lot on my mind,” she replied quietly, eyes still fixed on the stars, voice just above a whisper.

Anthony let the silence linger for a few seconds, not pushing. Just matching the gentle rhythm of her swing.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offered. “Promise to listen and not laugh. Unless it’s, like, laugh-laugh funny.”

She let out a tiny huff that was almost a laugh. “It’s nothing big. Just… the girls at school,” she admitted, picking at her nail polish. “They tease me because I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

Anthony blinked, caught off guard. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “Apparently, that makes me some kind of loser.” She glanced at him, only half joking. “Shocking, I know.”

Anthony frowned. “That’s bullshit.”

“Anthony,” she scolded half-heartedly, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“I’m serious,” he said, turning toward her. “You’re brilliant and funny and beautiful—uh, I mean, obviously beautiful—and those girls are probably just mad their first kisses were awful.”

That made her laugh, the sound soft and warm. “Maybe.”

They swayed in silence again, the night full of crickets and tree frogs, and Penelope’s sighs.

Then, after a beat, Anthony cleared his throat and said, “You know… we could kiss.”

Penelope’s head snapped around. “What?”

“I mean, only if you want to,” he added quickly, nerves leaking into his voice. “It wouldn’t have to mean anything. Just… two friends, checking the box.”

She stared at him. “Are you serious? You’d really be my first kiss?”

Anthony swallowed, heart hammering a little too hard. “Yeah. I would.”

Penelope watched him for a moment. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t making fun of her. He was serious—and oddly… kind. There was no smugness in his expression, no mockery. Just soft curiosity and nervous hope.

She surprised herself with her answer. “Alright.”

Anthony blinked. “Wait—are you serious?”

“I am,” she nodded, slowly rising from the swing. “I trust you. And we’re friends.”

Anthony stood, suddenly all too aware of how close they were. His hands hovered awkwardly before gently settling on her waist, his thumbs brushing over the fabric of her t-shirt. Penelope’s hands landed lightly on his chest, grounding herself. His heart was racing beneath her palms.

His right hand moved up her arm, then to her cheek, fingers cradling her jaw with a reverence that made her breath catch. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone.

“I’m gonna lean in,” he whispered, almost like he didn’t want to break the spell. “You can stop me at any time.”

She gave a tiny nod. “I won’t.”

And that was enough. He leaned down, slow like the universe had been building to this moment, and kissed her.

It was soft. Warm. Full of quiet promise and unspoken things.

To Penelope, it was sweet and safe—a moment shared between two trusted friends under a blanket of stars.

To Anthony, it was everything. A spark he hadn’t dared dream would ever catch flame.

When they pulled apart, Penelope smiled up at him. “Not bad for a practice kiss.”

He grinned, cheeks flushed. “Yeah. Practice. Totally.”

She didn’t notice the way he looked at her after that—like she’d unknowingly ruined him for anyone else.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 2025 - The Backyard

After sharing his first kiss with Penelope Featherington at seventeen, Anthony Bridgerton never kissed another girl.

He dated, sure—he had relationships, flings, even a situationship or two. But kisses? Those were sacred. Kisses belonged to one girl, one moment, one night beneath a canopy of stars when time stood still. That kiss had been soft and unsure and a little bit sweet, and it had ruined him for anyone else.

Now at twenty-six, Anthony found himself once again in the backyard of his childhood home. But instead of quiet stars and nervous tension, the evening crackled with laughter, flickering firelight, and the comforting scent of toasted marshmallows and mulled wine. They were all seated around the firepit in Adirondack chairs arranged like a campfire therapy circle—his sister Daphne, her smugly-in-love husband Simon (Anthony’s best friend turned brother-in-law), his brothers Benedict and Colin, his ever-chaotic sister Eloise… and Penelope.

Penelope. Glowing in the firelight like a midsummer dream. Her laughter still tugged something loose in his chest, even now, even still.

They each nursed a drink—wine, beer, or spiked cider depending on preference—and somehow, as always happened with this group, they’d ended up playing Truth or Dare. The wine had been flowing, the dares escalating, and now they’d hit dangerous territory: emotional confessions.

“Anthony, truth or dare?” Colin asked, grinning with the mischief of a man who had nothing to lose and every intention of stirring drama.

Anthony smirked and took a long sip of wine before answering. “Truth.” He wasn’t nearly tipsy enough for dares yet. And this was safe. Probably.

Colin leaned back, swirling his drink. “Alright, then. How come you never kissed any of your ex-girlfriends?”

The question hit like a pop fly in the silence that followed. Even Simon raised an eyebrow. Penelope stiffened slightly in her seat, but her eyes stayed on the fire.

Anthony’s jaw twitched as he looked into the flames. “I’ve only ever kissed one girl,” he said quietly. “When I was seventeen. She was my first and my only kiss. It never felt right kissing anyone else after that.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Wow,” Eloise said slowly. “And here I thought it’d be something absurd, like a Pretty Woman rule.”

Anthony let out a soft snort and shrugged, taking another drink, but he couldn’t help the way his gaze flicked sideways—to Penelope.

The game moved on. More dares, more questions. Benedict was made to sing a One Direction ballad dramatically into a spoon. Daphne confessed to once accidentally setting the toaster on fire. Simon admitted to crying during The Lion King (the stampede scene, obviously). The night grew sillier, warmer, messier—until Benedict, with a grin that spelled trouble, turned to Penelope.

“Alright, my platonic soulmate, truth or dare?”

Penelope giggled softly. “Truth.”

“Who was your first kiss, and when did it happen?” Benedict asked with innocent curiosity.

Penelope choked. Actually choked on her drink. She coughed, sputtering as Simon reached over and patted her back.

“Smooth,” Colin muttered, grinning.

Penelope waved them off and cleared her throat. “Skip,” she said hoarsely, setting her drink down.

“You can’t skip!” Eloise protested. “You only get two per game, and you already used yours when I asked if you’ve ever drunk-texted your therapist.”

Penelope’s eyes darted around the circle, landing anywhere but Anthony. Who, to be fair, was now watching her with open intensity. Not curiosity. Not confusion. Something heavier.

She licked her lips and let out a long sigh. “I was sixteen. It was the middle of summer. The clock had just struck midnight.” Her voice turned soft, wistful. “It was with a friend. And no, Eloise, it was not Benedict.”

Benedict held up his hands in mock surrender.

Penelope continued, looking into the fire. “It was soft, sweet, and warm… everything a first kiss should be. He was gentle, and his lips were soft, and… I still think about that kiss every day.”

The silence was deafening. Even the fire seemed to hush.

“You didn’t say who it was,” Eloise said, squinting suspiciously. “That was part of the question.”

Penelope’s smile faltered. Her eyes flicked to Benedict, pleading.

“Sorry, Pen,” he said gently. “It’s the rule.”

Penelope closed her eyes for a beat. And then, softly: “Anthony.”

A pin dropped somewhere in the garden. Then—

“Why did you say Anthony?” Colin asked, confusion etched on his face.

Daphne gasped. “Oh my God!” She clapped delightedly.

Simon smirked. He already knew. Of course he knew. The man was a vault of secrets and smug satisfaction.

Eloise blinked like she’d been hit with a brick. “Wait. Pen—you told me about that kiss in uni. You told me you started developing feelings for him after the kiss but didn’t say anything because you thought he didn’t feel the same.”

“I didn’t think he did,” Penelope said, finally opening her eyes to look at Benedict.

And then—

“Is that what you really think?” Anthony said. The firelight danced across his face, but his voice was pure steel softened by something almost broken. All eyes turned to him.

“Why wouldn’t I think that?” Penelope shot back. “You said it didn’t have to mean anything. That it was just a kiss between friends.”

Anthony stood now, slowly, like a man gathering every piece of himself to finally say the thing he’d swallowed for almost a decade.

“I said that,” he said, “because I thought you didn’t think of me as anything more than Benedict’s annoying older brother. The one who teased you until you hit me, chased me, or tried to drown me in the pool. I have been in love with you since I was eight years old, Penelope.”

Everyone around the fire froze.

Daphne mouthed “Holy shit.” Colin’s jaw dropped. Eloise gripped the arms of her chair like she was watching a drama unfold on HBO. Benedict? He just looked stunned.

Penelope stood, her cheeks flushed. “Well how was I supposed to know that?! You never said anything!”

“I was afraid,” Anthony admitted. “Afraid to lose you. Being your friend… being near you was enough. Loving someone you think you can’t have—it’s like breathing knowing someday the air will run out. It hurts, Pen.”

Their bodies were close now—chests brushing with every breath, their hands twitching at their sides, desperate for contact.

“Then show me,” Penelope whispered, voice trembling.

And he did.

Anthony cupped her face in his hands and kissed her—not soft or careful like before, but deep, aching, desperate. The kind of kiss that says I’ve waited ten years for this. Penelope’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer like the oxygen they both needed.

Around the fire, no one said a word. But Daphne was grinning so hard it looked painful. Simon leaned over to whisper something smug into her ear. Eloise took a long drink, her eyes wide.

And Benedict?

He smiled.

Because his best friend had just kissed the boy who’d loved her since they were kids—and finally, finally, it wasn’t just a memory.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 2025 - Anthony’s Room

No one stopped them.

No one asked questions or raised eyebrows. No teasing remarks followed them as they quietly disappeared from the backyard. The others had simply returned to the game, as if Anthony and Penelope hadn’t just flipped the world off its axis with a kiss ten years in the making.

They crept through the halls of Bridgerton House like teenagers again, stifling laughter and whispering little nothings between stolen kisses. Every few steps, Anthony would tug her into a shadowed alcove or press her gently against a wall, his lips finding hers like a compass locked on true north. She laughed into his mouth, breathless and delighted, her hands tugging at his shirt like she couldn’t get close enough.

By the time they reached his room, they were trembling—nervous, charged, buzzing with adrenaline and want.

Anthony closed the door quietly behind them. The soft click of the lock was the loudest sound in the house.

Then he turned, eyes dark, breath shallow, and the air between them crackled. He reached for her again—one hand curling around the back of her neck, the other finding her waist—and backed her against the door.

Their kiss was fire now.

Hot, claiming, desperate. All the years of longing, of unspoken words and near-confessions, spilled into the way their mouths moved. She gasped as his hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips brushing against warm skin. He groaned when she tugged his sweater over his head, her fingers trailing reverently over the muscles of his chest like she was committing him to memory.

Their clothes were stripped away not in haste, but in reverence.

Every layer pulled back like unveiling a secret. His lips kissed a trail down her shoulder as he eased her dress down her body. She hooked her fingers into his waistband, guiding him to her without a word. They moved in sync, a rhythm already known to them somehow—like their bodies had been waiting for this exact night.

They stumbled toward the bed, hands roaming, skin flushing beneath the glow of the dim bedside lamp. Anthony lifted her like she weighed nothing and laid her down across the covers, his body following hers.

They were naked.

And still—it wasn’t just about the sex.

They paused, their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling as they stared at each other in the soft lamplight. His hand cupped her cheek; hers traced the line of his jaw, eyes wide and searching.

“This doesn’t feel real,” Penelope whispered, voice shaking.

“It’s real,” Anthony murmured. “You’re here. With me.”

“I’ve imagined this,” she admitted, a blush rising to her cheeks. “But I never thought it would actually happen.”

He smiled, brushing her hair away from her face. “It was always going to happen. I just needed to stop being a bloody coward.”

She kissed him again—slow and tender this time, full of promise and permission. And when they finally came together, it wasn’t rushed. It was sacred. Like rewriting every chapter of their story with their bodies instead of words.

Outside the walls of the room, the fire crackled on. Voices rose and fell with laughter, unaware—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—the fact that upstairs, something was being mended. Something was beginning.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1789 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends. —————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Drawing Room

It was a normal day in Bridgerton House. The air was warm with candlelight and the soft perfume of lavender sachets tucked discreetly between the cushions. The family was gathered in the drawing room, a space bustling with cozy chaos and quiet affection.

Benedict stood behind his easel near the bookshelf, a smudge of charcoal on his cheek as he assessed his half-finished sketch of Hyacinth. “If you’d just sit still for one moment—”

“I am sitting still,” Hyacinth argued with a wicked grin, not bothering to hide the exaggerated tilt of her head that ruined his linework.

Colin sat nearby, squinting at a chessboard as he played a game against Gregory. “You’re cheating,” he accused with mock indignation.

“I’m winning,” Gregory retorted, grinning like a cat in cream, “and there’s a difference.”

Eloise lounged on the settee, a well-thumbed copy of The Female Tatler in her hands. “Chess is a game designed to teach men how to be insufferably smug,” she muttered, turning a page. “Clearly, Gregory has mastered it early.”

Francesca played the pianoforte gently, her fingers trailing over the keys like a breeze over water, while Violet sat beside Daphne near the window, guiding her daughter’s hand through the motions of a new embroidery stitch.

“Careful, dear,” Violet murmured with a fond smile. “One mustn’t pull the thread too tightly, lest it bunch the fabric.”

“I think I’ve pricked myself three times already,” Daphne muttered, shaking her hand with a wince. “Perhaps I’m not meant for gentle pursuits.”

In the far corner, Simon lounged in an armchair, one ankle resting on a knee, speaking quietly with Anthony. Despite their rocky beginnings—and the infamous duel that had nearly torn them apart—they had found a new rhythm in the months since Simon married Daphne. The tension had ebbed, replaced by a tentative camaraderie rooted in mutual respect…and just a touch of brotherly exasperation.

“So,” Simon said, sipping his brandy, “are you finally going to stop glaring every time I walk into a room?”

Anthony gave a dry smile. “Only when you stop stealing my sister’s attention with that ridiculous smirk.”

Before Simon could fire back with a quip of his own, the drawing room door creaked open.

Humboldt, the Bridgerton butler, stepped in with the solemn gravity of a man bearing ill news. He approached Anthony and leaned down slightly.

“My lord,” he said in a low voice, “a fire has broken out at Featherington House. Miss Penelope’s maid is in the foyer—she’s quite hysterical and asking for you by name.”

Anthony’s spine went ramrod straight. His heart slammed against his ribs like a war drum. Without a word, he surged to his feet. Simon, reading the severity in his expression, stood immediately and followed him.

They reached the foyer in seconds. Rae—Penelope’s personal maid—was there, trembling and pale, her hands wringing the fabric of her apron.

“Rae,” Anthony said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, calm like still water, but his eyes burned with fire. “What is going on? Where is Penelope?”

“There was—” Rae choked on a sob. “There was so much screaming. Lady Featherington was furious with Miss Penelope. She said… she said your courtship was a fabrication. That Miss Penelope was a liar. When Miss Penelope insisted it was true, Lady Featherington slapped her. They struggled—there was a lamp on the table—it was knocked over. The curtains caught fire.” Rae hiccupped as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Lady Featherington shoved her. Miss Penelope fell—hit her head on the corner of the table. I tried—I tried to get to her but the fire had already blocked the door. Everyone else got out. Miss Penelope—she didn’t.”

For a moment, Anthony didn’t breathe.

Then he was gone.

He ran—like the devil himself nipped at his heels—out the door, across the square, his boots pounding against cobblestones slick from a light drizzle earlier that day. Flames licked at the sky as he neared Featherington House, black smoke curling like fingers above the roofline.

He rounded the back of the house and kicked in the servant’s door, the force of it rattling the hinges.

“Penelope!” he roared, charging into the smoke-filled hallway. Heat clawed at his skin. He coughed, blinking against the stinging haze.

“Penelope!” he called again, his voice raw with panic.

A faint cough answered him.

He followed the sound like a beacon through the inferno until he reached the drawing room. There, on the floor, Penelope huddled against a wall, her arm curled protectively around her face. She was trying to move—but she was sluggish, disoriented.

And then—God above—she screamed.

Anthony’s blood turned to ice.

The left side of her dress had caught fire, the flames licking up from her hip, devouring fabric, skin—

“Penelope!” he shouted, vaulting over a fallen beam. He tore off his coat and slammed it down over the flames, smothering them. His hands burned, but he didn’t stop until the fire was out.

“I’m here,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

He lifted her into his arms. She was light—too light. Her skin was burning hot where it wasn’t cold and clammy. Her head lolled against his shoulder.

He ran again—out of the inferno, through the ruined garden, and back across the square. The moment he burst onto Bridgerton property, gasps rang out from the gathered family, their voices overlapping in a horrified chorus.

“Good Lord—”

“Is that—?”

“Oh my heavens—Penelope!”

“Send for the doctor!” Anthony commanded, his voice cracking with urgency. “Mother, Daphne—I need you both. Now. She’s burned. Get her out of this dress and keep her burns cold until help arrives!”

No one questioned him.

Violet and Daphne sprang into action, skirts rustling like wind through leaves as they followed Anthony upstairs. He took Penelope straight to his room—the largest, the one with the best light and most space for care.

He laid her down gently on the bed.

“Anthony, you must leave,” Violet said firmly but not unkindly, already assessing Penelope with a critical eye. “We need space to work.”

“I—” He hesitated, staring down at Penelope’s still form, at the smudges of soot on her cheek, the scorch marks down her side. His hands were shaking.

Daphne put a hand to his arm. “We’ll take care of her. I swear it.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he nodded once, then let them push him out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And Anthony, Viscount Bridgerton, stood frozen in the corridor, heart splintering like a mirror dropped from a great height, praying that Penelope Featherington would live to hear him tell her just how much he loved her.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Room

The doctor arrived not long after Anthony had been gently, yet firmly, pushed out of his own room by his mother and sister. Now, the hallway outside his chambers had become a vigil, the air thick with worry and tension.

Anthony paced like a caged lion, long strides taking him from one end of the hallway to the other, then back again. His boots scuffed faint marks into the rug. His jaw clenched and unclenched with every passing moment.

The rest of the family stood in a loose cluster, watching him. Francesca and Eloise had taken Gregory and Hyacinth back down to the drawing room after the first hour, their young faces pale and frightened. Colin had gone with them, promising to distract the younger siblings with card games and stories, though even he looked shaken as he left.

Now only Simon and Benedict remained, leaning back against the hallway wall with the quiet patience of men who knew that sometimes all you could do was wait—and stay present.

Benedict watched his brother pace, watched the way Anthony kept running his hands through his hair until it stood in unruly waves. There was soot still smeared along his collar, and his cravat hung loose, entirely forgotten.

“Do you need to be seen by the doctor as well, brother?” Benedict asked, his voice low with concern. “You’ve been pacing like a man with a knife in his ribs.”

Anthony stopped mid-step and blinked, as if only just remembering that he had a body.

“I’m fine,” he replied, though the words sounded hollow. “The fire didn’t touch me. I already checked my hands. Just a little redness from smothering the flames on her dress. It doesn’t hurt.” He held his palms up, almost defensively, as though proving it to himself more than anyone else.

Simon stepped forward slightly. “And your head?” he asked softly. “Because you look like you’re one thought away from collapsing.”

“I cannot think,” Anthony admitted in a harsh whisper, his voice cracking at the edges. “Not until I know she’s safe.”

Before either man could speak again, the door to Anthony’s room creaked open. The doctor stepped out, removing his spectacles and tucking them into his breast pocket. The hallway seemed to hold its breath.

“Miss Featherington is extremely fortunate that you were able to reach her when you did, my lord,” the doctor began in his clipped, professional tone. “A second later and the burns might have been far worse—she could have been left with permanent scarring, or worse.”

Anthony stood motionless, his heart clawing at his chest.

“I have left instructions with your mother and sister on how to tend to the wounds. The bandages must be changed daily. They may be left off for an hour each day—fresh air will aid the healing process. Lady Bridgerton and Miss Daphne have propped her up carefully to avoid irritating the burn sites. Miss Featherington is awake now. She is lucid and aware of her surroundings. With rest and proper care, she will make a full recovery.”

Anthony didn’t wait for another word. The moment the words awake and recovery passed the doctor’s lips, he was already moving.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Benedict said quickly, extending a hand. The physician nodded and shook it before a footman stepped forward to escort him out.

Anthony pushed the door open and stepped inside, then froze just beyond the threshold.

His room had been transformed into a sanctuary of soft candlelight and quiet murmurs. The heavy drapes had been drawn to dim the late afternoon sun, and the air smelled of lavender oil and clean linen. On the large bed, nestled carefully among the pillows, sat Penelope.

She was pale, her copper curls loose and fanned around her face, one side of her gown cut away where her burns had been dressed with clean white bandages. Violet sat on one side of the bed, dabbing gently at her forehead with a damp cloth, while Daphne sat on the other, murmuring something that made Penelope give a tiny, tired laugh.

Anthony’s heart nearly stopped.

“Penelope?” he whispered.

Her head turned slowly toward the sound of his voice, and her smile—though weak—was pure light.

“Anthony,” she breathed, her voice rough but sweet as honey. She lifted her hand, trembling slightly.

He was at her side in an instant, sinking to his knees beside the bed and wrapping his fingers gently around hers as though they were porcelain.

“You’re awake,” he choked out, tears stinging his eyes. “You’re… you’re awake.”

“I’m too stubborn to die from fire,” she whispered playfully, though her voice quivered. “Besides… you still haven’t kissed me under a willow tree, as promised.”

That nearly broke him. He bowed his head, resting his brow against the back of her hand.

“You terrified me,” he admitted, voice muffled. “You could’ve—Penelope, I thought I was going to lose you.”

“But you didn’t.” Her fingers curled weakly around his. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did,” he murmured. “I always will.”

Daphne cleared her throat softly, and Violet rose from the bed with a knowing glance. “Come, Daphne,” she said, touching her daughter’s arm. “Let us give them a moment.”

Anthony barely registered their exit. His world had narrowed to the weight of Penelope’s hand in his, the sound of her soft, pained breathing, and the overwhelming relief that she was alive.

“I love you,” he said, the words spilling from him before he could think to soften them.

Penelope blinked at him slowly, her smile deepening. “You do?”

“I nearly went mad thinking I’d never get to say it,” he whispered. “I love you, Penelope Featherington. I love you more than breath, more than honor, more than every blasted expectation laid upon me.”

Tears shimmered in her eyes.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I love you, too.”

He bent forward and kissed her forehead with reverence, lingering in the space between her heartbeat and his.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Room

Each member of the Bridgerton family made their way into Anthony’s room throughout the evening, one by one, each visit brief and reverent. They were gentle, quiet, like tiptoeing through a chapel—each person needing to see with their own eyes that Penelope was alive, breathing, and safe. Their gazes lingered a little too long, their hands held hers a little too tightly. And none of them missed the way Anthony sat protectively by her side, a sentinel carved from love and fire-born fear.

Daphne was the last of the siblings to arrive. She entered quietly, but her face was resolute, the steel of a duchess resting just beneath the warmth of a best friend. She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she moved toward the bed, eased down on Penelope’s right side, and curled against her like she used to when they were girls sneaking away from dreadful assemblies.

“You are not allowed anywhere near that ghastly woman again,” Daphne said at last, her voice firm, her arms wrapped around Penelope’s good side. “You are my best friend, and I love you. Simon and I are going to sponsor you for the season, and I will not hear a single word of protest from you. Not one.”

Penelope gave a soft laugh, small and broken around the edges, but genuine.

“I won’t fight you on this. Not today. At least… just this once.” She squeezed Daphne’s hand. “I will allow you to sponsor me, Your Grace.”

Daphne huffed in mock outrage. “You are already insufferable and we haven’t even begun fittings yet.”

The teasing faded into something gentler as Daphne brushed a wisp of hair away from Penelope’s forehead.

“Don’t worry about Lady Whistledown,” she whispered, glancing at Anthony, who was still seated vigil. “You can write your column in the morning, and Simon will see to it that it gets to the printer. You just focus on getting better. No deadlines, no scandal sheets—just healing.”

Penelope blinked rapidly, her throat tight. “Thanks, Daph. I’m really lucky to have you as my best friend.”

Daphne smiled, the kind of smile that carried a whole decade of girlhood secrets, stolen sweets, and sisterhood forged in whispers and dreams.

She pressed a kiss to Penelope’s cheek and slowly climbed off the bed, turning to Anthony with softened eyes. She wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, hugging him fiercely.

“You are an idiot for running into a burning house,” she whispered in his ear, voice trembling now. “But I am so proud of you. You saved Penelope. I will never forget that… and I know she won’t either. I love you, brother.”

Anthony didn’t trust himself to speak for a long moment, but he hugged her back, hard.

“I love you too,” he managed, voice hoarse.

Daphne moved to Simon’s side, lacing her fingers through his. She glanced once more at Penelope and gave her a radiant smile before quietly leaving the room.

Not long after, the door opened again and Benedict stepped inside with a sketchpad in hand. He walked quietly to the bedside and settled on the edge, placing the drawing on the table next to the basin.

The sketch was tender and unguarded—Penelope and Anthony in the Bridgerton gardens, arms linked as they walked slowly between rose bushes, heads tilted toward one another in quiet laughter. The affection between them leapt off the page.

“You are not allowed to scare us like that again, Penelope,” Benedict said, placing one hand over hers.

“I promise, Ben.” Her smile tilted crookedly. “Though I doubt Anthony will let me out of his sight long enough to get into trouble.”

Anthony gave a soft grunt in response—half agreement, half warning.

“He won’t be the only one keeping watch,” Benedict replied gently. “You’re family, Pen. You’ve always been. Now, get some sleep.”

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, a brotherly gesture full of emotion he didn’t speak aloud. Then, with great care, he leaned across to Anthony, pressing a kiss to his brother’s tousled head.

Anthony recoiled with a scowl of exasperated fondness.

“Really, Ben?”

“Don’t be dramatic. It’s a moment.” Benedict smirked.

Penelope giggled quietly, her smile sleepy and content, and Anthony’s glower melted into reluctant amusement. Benedict gave her hand one last squeeze, then stood and left the room, leaving them wrapped in a rare kind of peace.

Once she was asleep again, Anthony remained. He didn’t move. He simply watched her, memorizing every inch of her—every freckle and gentle breath, the curve of her fingers curled into the coverlet. His heart ached from the sheer weight of what could have been lost.

“I’m going to marry you,” he whispered, barely audible. “And I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Penelope stirred slightly, shifting closer in her sleep, her cheek nuzzling against his shoulder. She made a soft sound of contentment and relaxed again.

The door opened with a quiet creak, and Violet stepped inside, shutting it softly behind her.

“You need to get some rest, dearest,” she said, her voice the same soothing cadence she’d used since he was a boy. “You won’t be any help to Penelope if you’re falling over with exhaustion.”

Anthony didn’t look at her. “What if she needs something and I’m not there?”

Violet came to stand beside him, her touch warm as she smoothed her hand over his hair.

“Under the circumstances,” she said gently, “I will not ask you to leave her side. But please, get some sleep. For her sake, if not your own.”

His shoulders sagged, the fight finally leaving him. “Yes, Mama.”

She kissed the crown of his head with maternal devotion before turning to Penelope, brushing her fingertips against the girl’s cheek, then pressing a loving kiss to her brow.

“I shall have tea waiting in the morning,” Violet whispered before slipping out of the room.

Anthony remained seated for another moment before rising slowly. His limbs ached, his clothes still smelling faintly of smoke. He changed quietly, moving with the softness of someone sacredly protecting the silence. Then he returned to the bed and gently lifted the cover.

As he lay beside her, Penelope stirred again. This time she rolled into him, draping her arm across his waist and tucking her head into the hollow of his chest. He froze—not out of discomfort, but reverence.

His right arm slid under her, his left hand rising to clasp hers against his chest, right over his heart. The rhythm of her breath began to steady him. Her presence grounded him in a way nothing else ever had.

And as the moonlight spilled faintly across the room, he closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head.

Tears slipped silently down his cheeks.

He had almost lost her.

But he hadn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

Not ever.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Room

Three days had passed since the fire at Featherington House.

Penelope had endured those days with quiet resilience, her pain veiled behind soft smiles and gentle reassurances to the family who had, without question, gathered around her like a fortress.

Now, at last, she stood on her own two feet—still aching, still healing—but able to walk without flinching. It was a victory that made Violet misty-eyed and had Daphne fussing over every tiny detail as if Penelope were about to debut before the Queen herself.

The burns still lingered—angry pink patches on the left side of her back, arm, and thigh—but Violet had worked with the modiste to find a soft day dress in lavender silk, loose and gentle against her skin. Daphne had curled Penelope’s hair into soft ringlets and pinned it up loosely, the style romantic and understated, just as Penelope liked it.

“There we are now,” Violet declared with maternal pride, brushing an invisible speck from Penelope’s sleeve. “You’re all ready for the day.”

“And not a single complaint,” Daphne teased. “A miracle.”

Violet laughed softly. “Now, we’d best make our way to the drawing room before Anthony storms up here and insists on carrying you down in his arms.”

“Again,” Daphne added with a wicked grin. “Honestly, it’s like you fainted once and now he thinks you’re made of spun sugar.”

Penelope giggled, the sound a little breathless but genuine. She slid her hand into Daphne’s, squeezing tightly.

“He’s so adorable when he’s trying to be all strong and stoic,” she said, voice warm with affection. “But you can see it in his eyes, can’t you? He’s going to melt into a puddle at any moment. I love him, truly. I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.”

Violet and Daphne exchanged a knowing look behind her—smiles so wide they nearly burst into laughter. The girl was positively glowing.

“Hopeless,” Daphne mouthed to her mother.

“Gloriously so,” Violet mouthed back.

They descended the stairs with careful steps, Penelope supported on both sides by her two closest allies. Her heart beat just a little faster with each step, anticipation buzzing beneath her skin.

Bridgerton House – Drawing Room

The entire Bridgerton family had gathered in the drawing room, clustered together in various states of mock patience. Anthony stood at the hearth, pacing in tight lines. Every few minutes, he stopped, listened, then resumed his slow, methodical march. His siblings were sprawled about the room watching him like he was the subject of a very dramatic play.

“If he wears a hole in the rug, I’m sending him the bill,” Benedict muttered.

“He looks like a love-sick puppy,” Eloise deadpanned, arms crossed.

Colin snorted. “Correction: a very noble, love-sick puppy. Look at him. All tension and drama.”

Francesca smiled softly, chin resting in her hand. “He’s been like this all morning.”

Gregory rolled his eyes in the way only a younger brother could. “It’s rather pathetic, honestly.”

“It’s true love,” Hyacinth whispered with a dreamy sigh. “It’s just like the novels.”

Then the door opened.

Anthony froze mid-step.

His head whipped around, eyes locking instantly on the figure entering the room—supported by Daphne and Violet, dressed in soft lilac, her hair glowing in the morning light, her smile tender and hesitant and entirely, entirely for him.

Penelope.

She looked like spring after a storm.

Daphne, ever theatrical, twirled her in a circle as if they were on a ballroom floor.

“As promised,” she said brightly, “Penelope is all ready for the day and back to your side, brother.”

Penelope laughed, soft and bubbling, the color rising in her cheeks.

Anthony didn’t move at first. He simply looked at her. Looked and looked, as if afraid she might vanish into smoke again. His face shifted—an entire sonnet of emotion in a heartbeat. The tension melted from his shoulders, his jaw unclenched, and his eyes—oh, his eyes—gleamed with reverence.

“I missed you,” he breathed, finally crossing the room with careful steps, as though she were something holy.

She reached for him before he could even finish the sentence, and he caught her hand in his as if anchoring himself to the earth.

“I was only upstairs,” she whispered teasingly.

“Too far,” he said without missing a beat.

Behind them, the Bridgertons exchanged sighs, smirks, and several very knowing looks. But for once, not a single sibling made a comment.

They didn’t need to.

Because the look Anthony gave Penelope—the one that said he would cross fire again, ten times over, just to keep her safe—said everything.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Garden

Later that afternoon, the air was warm with the scent of roses and honeysuckle as Anthony and Penelope strolled arm in arm through the Bridgerton rose garden. The soft crunch of gravel beneath their feet was the only sound, aside from the gentle rustling of leaves and the occasional murmur of birdsong overhead.

It was a pocket of peace in a world that had been too loud, too frightening, just days before.

Their heads bent close together as they whispered and laughed in hushed tones. Anthony’s hand rested over hers where it lay on his arm, thumb occasionally brushing the back of her fingers. Penelope’s cheeks were tinged with pink, but her eyes never strayed far from his face.

Anthony led them to a secluded corner of the garden, where climbing roses arched overhead and dappled sunlight danced across the stone path. The spot was tucked away, as if the world itself conspired to offer them privacy.

He stopped walking and gently turned to face her. His heart was thudding against his ribs, but his voice—when he finally spoke—was low, reverent, steady.

“I brought you here,” he began, his gaze locked on hers, “because the night of the fire… while you were sleeping, I made you a vow. I told you I was going to marry you. And I meant it.”

Penelope’s breath hitched, her lips parting slightly as she stared up at him, startled by the seriousness in his tone.

“I almost lost you, Pen,” he continued, his voice soft but full of emotion. “And in that moment—watching you lying there, so still—I realized I never wanted to know a world without you in it. I never want to face a day where you aren’t by my side.”

He dropped to one knee in the grass, unbothered by the dirt or the strain of the movement. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a ring—his mother’s betrothal ring, the one his father had once placed on Violet’s finger so many years ago.

“As I stand before you now,” he whispered, looking up at her with eyes shining with love and certainty, “as a man who loves you with everything that I am, and everything I ever hope to be… I am asking you to be my wife. To spend every moment of our lives together. Will you marry me, Penelope Featherington?”

Penelope gasped, her hands fluttering to her mouth as tears gathered in her eyes. Her vision blurred with them, but not so much that she couldn’t see the man she loved kneeling before her, offering everything.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely more than breath. Then louder, clearer: “Yes, Anthony. Yes, I will marry you.”

His smile was radiant as he gently took her trembling hand and slid the ring onto her finger. It glinted in the sunlight like it belonged there, like it had been waiting for her all along.

Before standing, he lifted her wrist—the one faintly marked with the scar from the fire—and pressed a reverent kiss to the skin. A kiss of love. Of devotion. Of a promise kept.

Then he rose, slow and steady, and cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears on her cheeks.

He leaned close, resting his forehead against hers, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers.

“Once we’re married,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “I will kiss your scars every morning before we start the day… and every night before we go to bed.”

A single sob escaped her—half laughter, half wonder—as she leaned into him fully, heart first.

And then he kissed her.

It was not a rushed kiss, not urgent or desperate. It was soft, like silk sliding over skin. It was the kind of kiss that said: You are everything. And I am yours.

Around them, the roses swayed gently in the breeze, and the garden held its breath.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1789 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends. Queen Charlotte, Lady Danbury and Lady Violet Bridgerton are besties.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Aubrey Hall,1815 - Hearts and Flowers Ball

Aubrey Hall shimmered with magic that evening, the scent of blooming roses and lilacs mingling with the warm candlelight. Petals were scattered like blessings across the polished floor, and ribbons of silk swayed in the soft breeze drifting through the open French doors. A string quartet played a gentle waltz in the background, weaving their melodies into the very walls of the house that had seen generations of laughter, heartbreak, and love.

The grand entranceway was abuzz with murmurs of delight and the rustle of silk gowns as guests poured in. Benedict Bridgerton, however, stood just out of the spotlight, half-hidden behind a large floral arrangement, a vision in deep navy and mild panic. He adjusted his waistcoat for the fifth—no, sixth—time, fingertips brushing the small velvet box tucked securely into his inner pocket.

All he could think of was Penelope. His Nel. His muse. The woman who haunted his sketchbooks and dreams alike.

“If you fidget when Penelope arrives, she is going to think something is wrong,” Anthony remarked dryly, suddenly at his side like some exasperated guardian angel.

Benedict startled. “I wasn’t fidgeting,” he muttered, then—at Anthony’s unimpressed look—sighed. “Alright, I was. I am. I can’t help it.”

Anthony raised a brow and clasped his hands behind his back with the solemn air of an older brother about to impart wisdom. “What if she says no?” Benedict asked in a breathless whisper, not even daring to look at him.

Anthony turned to look at his brother with a mixture of fondness and irritation. “Benedict,” he began, then stopped, took a calming breath, and started again. “Penelope is not going to say no, brother. I know what she feels about you—and if you ever repeat this, I will disown you.”

Benedict blinked. “Repeat what?”

Anthony sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Daphne may be Penelope’s best friend, but I was the one she came to when her feelings for you got too big to carry around alone. She’s been in love with you for years, Benedict. She just never thought you’d look at her the way you are now.”

There was a beat of silence as Benedict stared at his brother, awash with disbelief and wonder.

“All you have to do,” Anthony said, softer now, placing a firm hand on Benedict’s shoulder, “is ask her.”

Benedict nodded slowly, as if the motion itself solidified the courage beginning to take root in his chest. His heart still pounded, but it felt more like a drumbeat leading him forward now, not something trying to knock him down.

Anthony gave his shoulder a last squeeze before returning to the door just as a new wave of guests arrived.

And among them—sunlight breaking through clouds—was Penelope Featherington, radiant in a soft blue gown that looked like it had been made to steal breath from lungs. She stood tall beside Lady Danbury, her curls pinned up with delicate care, a violet-jeweled comb glittering like a star nestled in her hair.

Benedict’s breath caught in his throat.

Anthony smiled as they approached, bowing gallantly. “Lady Danbury. Miss Featherington,” he greeted warmly, then bent to embrace Penelope. “You look divine.”

“Flatterer,” Penelope teased, cheeks coloring prettily as Anthony leaned in and whispered something in her ear.

She let out a bright laugh. “You are such a tease, Anthony Bridgerton,” she said, swatting him lightly on the arm. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and something else—something softer—when Anthony nodded subtly toward Benedict.

“Go on,” he murmured. “He’s waiting.”

Penelope didn’t need to be told twice. She turned, skirts swishing, and walked toward Benedict, her every step as sure as a heartbeat.

Benedict looked up just in time to see her approaching, and for a moment, time narrowed to the space between them.

“You look stunning, my Nel,” he said, reverently, as though the words alone could wrap around her and keep her safe.

“Thank you.” Her smile softened into something intimate, something only for him. “And you look very handsome, Mr. Bridgerton.”

Her eyes never left his, even as he offered his arm with a small, boyish bow. She giggled—a sound he would bottle if he could—and gently slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, her fingers brushing against his coat sleeve like a promise.

Without a word, he led her toward the ballroom where the opening notes of a waltz beckoned them like destiny in three-quarter time.

They moved together as one—perfectly in sync, not a step out of rhythm—as if they had been dancing their whole lives for this moment. Neither looked away, not even once, not even when the rest of the world blurred into soft candlelight and music.

Across the room, Lady Violet watched her second son with quiet wonder, her eyes shining. “Look at them,” she murmured, voice thick with feeling. “That is true love.”

Anthony, beside her, nodded silently. For once, he had nothing clever to say.

Because truly—what could he say, when love was unfolding before them in real time, glowing in every glance, every step, every breath shared on the ballroom floor?

—————————————————————————————————————

Aubrey Hall,1815 - Hearts and Flowers Ball

As the waltz drifted to a close, the last notes curling through the candlelit air like smoke, Benedict gave Penelope’s hand the gentlest squeeze. His palm was warm, slightly trembling. He looked at her with that familiar twinkle of mischief in his eye and leaned in close.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

Penelope tilted her head. “Where are we going, Ben?” she asked softly, a giggle bubbling past her lips as he pulled her a step toward the tall double doors leading out into the garden.

“It’s a surprise, my Nel. We are almost there,” he replied, his voice low and reverent, as if the stars themselves might overhear and conspire to ruin it.

She let him lead her, their joined hands swaying between them like a secret promise. The warm night air met them as they stepped onto the stone path, and the sound of laughter and music faded behind them. Crickets sang gently in the hedges. Moonlight bathed the rose garden in silver.

They walked together in silence until they reached the heart of the garden, where the air smelled of night-blooming jasmine and the stone fountain glimmered in candlelight. Rose petals floated lazily across the water’s surface, catching the golden glow like tiny ships adrift in a dream. Lanterns hung from the trees, casting soft pools of light across the hedges and marble benches.

Penelope’s breath caught.

“Oh, Ben…”

Benedict turned to her, eyes wide and heart on display. He took both of her hands in his, his grip warm and firm, grounding. And then—without ceremony, without flourish, just raw, trembling devotion—he dropped to one knee.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

“I am an artist,” he began, voice steady despite the thunder of his heart, “and I’ve always believed I was good with my words and my paintings. But when I look at you…” His eyes searched hers, his voice thickening. “Everything I could say about you—every word, every brushstroke—falls short.”

Penelope’s lips trembled, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

“You are worth more than anything I could say, any painting I could paint. I have loved you since I was seven years old, when I first told my mother I was going to marry you.” His voice cracked softly with the memory. “And now, I am just a man on his knee, asking his muse to change his life.”

He pulled the velvet box from his pocket and opened it with shaking fingers. The ring sparkled under the garden lanterns like it, too, had been waiting for this moment.

“Will you, Penelope Featherington, make me the luckiest man alive—and marry me?”

Penelope gasped, her hands fluttering at her sides like wings. “Yes,” she choked out, eyes brimming with tears. “Yes. Yes, of course I will marry you.”

The sound of her joy broke the night open.

Benedict slipped the ring onto her finger with infinite care, then raised her hand to his lips and pressed the softest kiss to her knuckles. She laughed through her tears, barely registering the fact that he’d already sprung to his feet and lifted her into his arms with a triumphant laugh, spinning her once as her arms flew around his shoulders.

They stayed wrapped in each other, forehead to forehead, laughter and tears mixing freely, as though the world had shrunk to just the two of them, wrapped in moonlight and roses.

But that fragile joy shattered in a single, blood-chilling moment.

“He is mine!” a shrill, unhinged voice rang out across the garden like glass breaking.

Before either of them could turn, a flash of movement—a glint of steel, the crack of gunfire—sliced through the air.

Penelope let out a soft, startled gasp that turned into a choking cry.

A white-hot pain burst through her side and she collapsed against Benedict’s chest as her legs gave out beneath her.

“Penelope?” Benedict’s voice cracked, horror clawing its way through his throat. He caught her before she hit the ground, lowering her carefully, cradling her as she slumped in his arms. Her gown was quickly staining with blood, the color terrifying in the moonlight.

“No, no, no—Penelope!” His voice rose, ragged, nearly a roar now. “ANTHONY!”

Inside the house, chaos erupted. Anthony burst through the doors, flanked by footmen and two of the guards the Queen had insisted be stationed at every event with Lady Danbury present. The blonde woman who had fired the pistol—her hair wild, her eyes manic—was still shouting incoherently, but Anthony silenced her with a barked order.

“Take her. Now.”

The guards seized her, dragging her screaming from the garden as guests crowded to the doors in confused terror.

Meanwhile, Benedict was on the ground, cradling Penelope in his lap, pressing his hands to the wound at her side as if he could somehow will the blood to stop. His fingers were red, his face pale, but his eyes never left hers.

“Stay with me, Nel,” he begged. “Stay awake. You’re going to be alright. Just—just keep looking at me, darling, alright? You promised to marry me. You promised, so you’re not allowed to leave me now, do you understand?”

Penelope tried to smile, even as pain twisted her features. “You… better not… back out,” she whispered, and then her eyes fluttered shut.

“PENELOPE!” Benedict screamed, pressing her closer. “Somebody—bring the doctor! NOW!”

The roses swayed silently in the breeze, and the ring on her finger still glinted in the candlelight.

—————————————————————————————————————

Aubrey Hall,1815 - Benedict’s Room

The room was cloaked in hushed candlelight, shadows dancing across the walls as the doctor worked steadily, hands stained red but movements practiced and calm. Benedict stood silently to the side, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, every nerve in his body screaming with helplessness as he watched the man work to save her.

Penelope lay pale and still upon his bed, her soft blue gown cut away at the waist, stained deep crimson around the wound. Each breath she drew was shallow, labored. Time seemed to twist and blur, stretching each second into eternity.

The doctor finally gave a long exhale as he tied off the last stitch and reached for the clean bandages. He wrapped her abdomen with meticulous care, his brow damp with sweat despite the cool air.

“She’s stable,” the doctor announced at last, his voice low and authoritative as he stood and removed his gloves. “I was able to stop the bleeding and remove the bullet. The wound is clean and stitched, but it will require regular care—cleaning, re-bandaging. There’s no sign of infection yet, but the next few days will be critical.”

The door creaked open, and one of the Bridgerton footmen stepped in to escort the doctor from the room. He nodded his farewell, accepted the coin purse handed to him by Anthony, and was soon gone, the distant sound of carriage wheels crunching gravel the only indication of his departure.

Benedict didn’t wait for the door to fully shut.

He crossed the room in two long strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed as though felled by the weight of the world. His hand reached out—trembling, reverent—and gently curled around hers.

“Nel…” he whispered, voice raw and trembling as he brought her hand to his forehead. “Oh God, Nel, please come back to me…”

He pressed his lips to her fingers, lingering as if he could breathe life into her through touch alone. Her hand felt fragile in his, but warm. Still warm.

“I’ve loved you my whole life,” he murmured, voice cracking. “You can’t leave now, not after you said yes. You said yes. We have forever to live, to love—to laugh, to argue, to grow old together. You promised.”

Outside the door, the hallway was full of tension and tears barely held at bay.

Lady Danbury stood tall and solemn, one gloved hand resting on the handle of her cane, her jaw set like steel. Beside her stood Violet Bridgerton, clutching her eldest daughter Daphne’s hand while her other arm linked tightly with Anthony’s. The two women leaned into him, drawing quiet strength from his stoic presence.

Anthony’s brow was furrowed, and though his expression was grim, his voice was steady when he finally spoke.

“She will make it through this,” Lady Danbury said firmly, the tap of her cane against the wooden floor a punctuation mark to her conviction. “That girl has survived too much to be undone by a jealous fool with poor aim.”

“Of course she will,” Anthony agreed, drawing in a slow, deep breath. “She is Penelope.” His gaze flicked toward the door, toward the woman he’d come to think of as a sister. “The strongest, bravest, kindest woman I know. She once told me to sit down and be quiet while I was shouting loud enough to shake the house. And I did.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “She looked me in the eye, with her little chin up in defiance, and didn’t flinch once. If she can face me like that, furious and pacing, then she will damn well survive this.”

Violet made a quiet, choked sound of agreement and leaned her head briefly against Anthony’s arm. Daphne was silent, eyes shimmering with tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“I should be in there,” Daphne whispered.

“No,” Lady Danbury said, voice gentler now. “He needs this moment with her. We can be strong for them out here, until she opens those stubborn eyes of hers and tells us all we were being dramatic.”

Anthony couldn’t help but laugh softly at that, even through the tension in his chest.

Meanwhile, inside the room, Benedict remained at her side, still kneeling, still holding her hand like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“I’m not going to leave your side,” he said softly, brushing a lock of hair from her temple. “Not tonight, not ever.”

Outside, the Bridgertons and Lady Danbury stood as sentinels in the quiet hall—family by blood and by choice, holding vigil through the night.

—————————————————————————————————————

Aubrey Hall,1815 - Benedict’s Room

The moment Penelope opened her eyes, she was no longer in bed, nor in pain.

She stood once more in the rose garden beside the fountain, bathed in moonlight, petals still drifting lazily on the water’s surface. But it wasn’t Benedict standing before her this time.

It was a man she hadn’t seen since childhood. A man with warm brown eyes, a familiar smile, and a presence that radiated love.

“Edmund?” she breathed, eyes widening. Her voice cracked, and panic gripped her throat. “Oh no… am I dead? I can’t be dead—I just said yes. Benedict proposed and I said yes. I can’t leave him. It’ll destroy him.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the man she had only ever seen in fading memories and portrait frames.

“Oh, my sweet Penny,” Edmund said softly, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around her. His embrace was warm and safe, just like she remembered—like cinnamon tea and home. “You are not dead. You survived the gunshot wound.”

Relief flooded through her in a trembling exhale as she clung to him. “Then… why am I here? And how are you here? This… this doesn’t make sense.”

“You broke out in a fever three days after you were shot,” Edmund explained gently, pulling back just enough to look into her face. “Your poor Benedict—he refused to leave your side. He hardly ate, barely slept. But when the fever worsened, Anthony had to carry him out of the room himself so Violet and Daphne could care for you properly. They cleaned the wound, changed your bandages, and dressed you in a light nightgown so your body could stay cool.”

Penelope listened, wide-eyed, her hand trembling against her chest.

“The fever lasted a week,” he continued, voice heavy with sorrow. “But it finally broke yesterday. And the moment your color started returning, Benedict was back beside you like gravity itself pulled him there.”

“Does that mean…” she asked, breath hitching with hope, “does that mean I’m going to wake up?”

Edmund’s smile lit up his whole face. “Yes, darling girl. You are going to wake up. You have a wedding to plan, after all.”

Penelope let out a shaky laugh, tears slipping down her cheeks. She raised her hand and looked down at the sparkling ring on her finger, the symbol of the promise Benedict made in the garden that night. Her heart ached with love.

“Go on, Penny,” Edmund said, placing a gentle hand over hers. “He’s been waiting for you. We all have. I’m so proud of you both. And remember—I’m always watching. Always cheering you on.”

Penelope opened her mouth to speak, but before she could answer, the garden began to fade. The petals, the fountain, the moonlight—they all melted away into darkness.

And then… pain. Sharp and searing. A gasp ripped from her lips as sensation returned in crashing waves—her body ached, her skin burned, her head spun.

But then she felt it.

A hand in hers. Warm. Real. Steady.

She blinked through the blur and slowly opened her eyes.

The dim golden light of the bedroom greeted her, along with the hunched figure of Benedict Bridgerton, slumped in a chair beside her bed, head resting on the mattress with his hand clasped tightly around hers.

“Ben?” she whispered, her voice hoarse and soft as lace.

His head snapped up instantly, eyes wide, disoriented. He looked around the room wildly until his gaze landed on her.

“Nel?” he choked. “You’re— you’re awake!”

He collapsed to his knees in a single motion, sobbing with pure relief as he kissed her hand, her wrist, the edge of her bandage-covered arm.

“I thought I lost you,” he said, over and over between kisses and broken whispers. “I love you. I love you so much. Please don’t ever scare me like that again.”

Just then, the door creaked open.

Anthony stepped in, balancing a tray of soup, bread, and tea—but froze the moment his eyes locked onto Penelope’s open ones.

He blinked.

The tray slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor with a loud clatter.

“Penelope?” he said, like he wasn’t sure if she was real. Like he was scared she might vanish again.

“Hi, Anthony,” she replied weakly, a small, crooked smile forming on her lips.

He was at her side in two long strides, falling to his knees across from Benedict. Gently, so gently, he pressed his hand to her forehead, his touch feather-light.

“I’m really awake,” she murmured, her voice firmer now, full of warmth. “I couldn’t leave. Not Benedict… not my family.” She turned her gaze to him, filled with quiet love. “My family being the Bridgertons.”

Anthony looked away, trying and failing to keep his tears from falling. He gave a choked laugh and bent his head, pressing his forehead to her hand beside Benedict’s.

The crash of the tray had summoned the entire house.

Violet was the first to arrive, her eyes widening before she covered her mouth and let out a breathless sob. Simon and Lady Danbury were close behind, followed by Eloise, Colin, Francesca, and even Gregory and Hyacinth, their faces pale with worry.

And then—

“Pen!” Daphne cried as she burst into the room, skirts flying. She scrambled up onto the bed like a child, but stopped herself just short of jostling Penelope. Instead, she nestled beside her, laying her head on the pillow next to her best friend.

“You scared me,” she whispered, eyes shining. “Never do that again.”

Violet stepped forward next, standing behind her son and daughter as she brushed a lock of sweat-damp hair from Penelope’s forehead.

“Welcome back, my darling girl,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You had us all so very worried.”

One by one, the rest of the family trickled in—quiet, reverent, full of gratitude.

Penelope, bruised and battered but alive, blinked up at the sea of faces surrounding her.

Benedict was still holding her hand, still kneeling, still in awe.

“Don’t let go,” she said softly, eyes locking onto his.

“Never,” he vowed, and he meant it with every cell in his body.

—————————————————————————————————————

Aubrey Hall,1815 - The Wedding

Penelope’s recovery was a slow, delicate waltz—each step forward hard-won but steady, guided by the ever-present support of Benedict and the Bridgertons. Her body healed stitch by stitch, her strength returned little by little, and her spirit… well, that had always burned bright.

When she was finally strong enough to walk without fainting—though still with a hand on someone’s arm—she called upon Violet, Daphne, and Lady Danbury with the solemnity of a queen summoning her court.

“It’s time,” she had said, voice trembling with something between excitement and disbelief. “We need to plan the wedding.”

And plan they did—with joy, with laughter, with all the chaos a Bridgerton household guaranteed.

Genevieve Delacroix herself traveled from London, her arms full of fabric and her mind full of sketches, insisting that Penelope not lift a single finger. “Non! You are a bride, not a seamstress! I will make you the most exquisite gown here, where you are safe and loved and resting, oui?”

Penelope had cried. Just a little.

The entire family threw themselves into preparations. Violet commanded the household with the ease of a general; Daphne organized vendors like a duchess on a mission; Eloise criticized lace choices with flair; and even Gregory and Hyacinth offered enthusiastic (if mismatched) suggestions for flowers and music. Each sibling had their own list of tasks—Anthony had assigned them like it was a military campaign.

And yet, amidst the flurry, Penelope found herself needing a quiet moment. She asked Anthony if they could talk alone, and he led her into his study, far from the bustle of bustling skirts and shouted fabric opinions.

He closed the door behind them and gestured to the settee tucked near the hearth.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, settling beside her, his usual commanding presence softened by concern.

Penelope smiled, gently clasping her hands in her lap. “I’m feeling well. I don’t feel pain when I walk anymore, and the scar only bothers me when I sleep on it the wrong way.”

Anthony nodded slowly, watching her with the wary tenderness of an elder brother.

“That’s good,” he said. “And the wedding? You must be a little nervous. Big day, you know. And you’re marrying a Bridgerton—we’re a handful.”

She laughed softly. “I’m not nervous. If anything… I’m happy. Excited. And so ready to be Benedict’s wife.”

She hesitated, then looked down, fingers fidgeting. “Actually, I… wanted to ask you something.”

“Penelope,” he said, taking her hands to still them, “you can ask me anything. That’s what big brothers are for.”

Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them. “I haven’t spoken to my mother or sisters since before the Hearts and Flowers Ball. I thought I would miss them. But I don’t. Not really. I feel… relieved. Free.”

She sniffled, then drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t have anyone to walk me down the aisle. And I was wondering… would you? Would you be willing to give me away?”

Anthony didn’t speak at first, just blinked at her, eyes suspiciously wet. Then he smiled—a soft, rare, brotherly smile—and pulled her into his arms.

“I would be honoured,” he whispered into her hair. “You are my little sister now, Penelope. And it would make me proud to walk you down the aisle.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, hugging him tightly.

He kissed the top of her head. “Just don’t trip. I’ll never let you live it down.”

The wedding day dawned with sunshine spilling through the windows of Aubrey Hall like gold dust. The air was thick with lavender and the soft hum of violins.

Inside the bridal suite, the room was alive with feminine energy: laughter, lace, perfume, and the rustling of silk.

Penelope stood in front of the mirror, her cheeks flushed with excitement as Violet, Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Hyacinth, and Lady Danbury fussed around her.

Daphne knelt to smooth the gown’s hem while Francesca adjusted the back. Lady Danbury supervised from her chair with sharp critiques and gentler praise, her cane tapping approvingly when Penelope twirled once—just to see the fabric move.

Genevieve floated around like a fairy godmother, her French-accented instructions filling the air as she placed the final stitches and fluffs.

When all was done, Hyacinth carefully clipped the veil into Penelope’s curls and kissed her cheek before skipping off to sit beside Violet. The others soon followed, leaving only Penelope and Anthony behind the silk curtain that separated the interior of the house from the garden.

He appeared at her side, dressed in his finest, his cravat perfect for once.

“Are you ready?” he asked, holding out his arm.

“More than anything,” she whispered, placing her hand in the crook of his elbow.

Daphne paused just long enough to embrace her once more before making her way down the aisle as Penelope’s maid of honour.

The wedding march began.

The curtains drew back.

The garden was transformed into a vision of floral wonder, but Penelope barely noticed it. Her eyes found Benedict instantly.

The breath left his chest the moment he saw her.

He stood at the end of the aisle, bathed in golden light, looking at her like she was the answer to every prayer he’d never dared speak aloud. His hands trembled at his sides.

When Anthony reached the altar, he pressed a kiss to Penelope’s cheek and gently placed her hand in Benedict’s.

“Take good care of her,” he murmured, before stepping away.

“I intend to,” Benedict replied, eyes never leaving hers.

They turned to face one another as the officiant began to speak, but the words melted away like fog in the sun. They were lost in each other, eyes locked, hands held tight.

“…do you take one another as husband and wife?”

“I do,” they answered, as one.

The officiant smiled. “Then by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss—”

Benedict was already moving, gently cupping Penelope’s face in his hands as he leaned in. Their kiss was soft, slow, and reverent. A promise sealed in the quietest thunder.

The guests erupted into applause, but neither of them heard it.

The reception spilled into the ballroom, aglow with candlelight and music. Laughter echoed off the high ceilings as the guests toasted, danced, and celebrated.

Anthony gave the first toast—cheeky, heartfelt, full of brotherly affection and veiled threats that made Penelope laugh and cry all at once. Even Lady Danbury wiped at her eye, though she claimed it was just dust.

But through it all, Benedict never once let go of her hand. Not for a single second.

She was his muse. His miracle. His Nel.

His wife.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends. Queen Charlotte, Lady Danbury and Lady Violet Bridgerton are besties.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Buckingham House, 1792 - Queen Charlotte’s Sitting Room

The late summer sun spilled golden light through the open French doors of Queen Charlotte’s private sitting room, casting warm patterns on the polished floor. A delicate breeze fluttered the lace curtains, and the air carried the scent of the palace gardens beyond—roses, lavender, and something sweetly wild.

Queen Charlotte was perched regally at a small round table beside her dear friend, Lady Agatha Danbury. The two women were engaged in their customary pastime: sipping tea and exchanging the latest scandalous gossip with all the elegance and sharpness of seasoned society tacticians.

Lady Danbury’s walking stick rested against her chair, though she hardly needed it when seated and locked in intellectual warfare. She raised one perfectly arched brow as she placed her teacup down on its saucer with precision.

They both turned when the ever-faithful Brimsley entered the room, his face unreadable but his arms occupied. He bowed as best as one could while holding a curious, covered basket—and a single cream-colored envelope.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted formally.

“You may step forward, Brimsley,” Queen Charlotte said, her curiosity piqued as she eyed the bundle in his arms. “What is in the basket?”

Brimsley hesitated for the briefest of moments. “It is a baby, Your Majesty.”

Lady Danbury’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Her gaze turned sharp and assessing as she angled herself forward.

“A baby?” Queen Charlotte echoed, incredulous. “What in heaven’s name—”

Brimsley stepped closer, carefully lowering the basket onto the table at the Queen’s gesture. Nestled within, wrapped in a simple but clean blanket, was a sleeping infant, her tiny hands curled into fists like she was already prepared to battle the world.

Lady Danbury placed her cup down slowly, her eyes never leaving the child.

“Where are the parents of the baby?” Queen Charlotte asked, her tone sharpening as she plucked the envelope from Brimsley’s hands.

“They have already gone, Your Majesty,” he replied, his voice tinged with restrained disdain. “They willingly handed over the baby and this envelope. The mother was none too gentle when she thrust the basket into my hands. She spoke not a word, nor looked at the child. I fear there was no love lost.”

Queen Charlotte exhaled sharply and opened the envelope. Her eyes scanned the letter, and with each passing line, her expression darkened into a thunderous scowl.

“The child is named Penelope,” she said at last, her voice low with restrained fury. “Her parents are Baron Archibald and Lady Portia Featherington. They have removed her from their home and do not wish her returned. Their reason? They already have two daughters. Penelope was meant to be a boy.”

She folded the letter with a snap. “They abandoned her… because she was not born as a son.”

Lady Danbury clicked her tongue in disgust. “Barbaric nonsense.”

“Well,” Queen Charlotte said, softening her voice as she leaned over the basket, “do not fret, Penelope. We will find you a home worthy of you.” Gently, she lifted the infant from the basket and cradled her in her arms. The baby stirred slightly, making a small sound before nestling closer into the Queen’s shoulder.

“Charlotte,” Lady Danbury said, her voice calm but steady with purpose, “I believe I have the perfect home for her.”

Queen Charlotte turned her head, brows lifting. “Who do you suggest, Aggie?”

“Me.” Lady Danbury didn’t waver. “I will take her. I will raise her as my own. She will want for nothing, and she shall grow into a young woman with teeth.”

Queen Charlotte blinked in surprise before her lips curved into a soft smile. “You always were full of surprises.”

“I tire of fools, not children,” Lady Danbury said wryly. “And this one, I feel, will be something special. I can see it already. She deserves more than the family who abandoned her.”

“I approve.” The Queen straightened and looked to Brimsley, who was still standing at quiet attention. “Brimsley, have the documents drawn up. From this moment forth, Penelope shall be known as the daughter of Lady Agatha Danbury.”

Brimsley bowed deeply, spinning on his heel with a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “At once, Your Majesty.”

Queen Charlotte returned her attention to the baby. “Since she is to become your daughter, she shall be my niece. Protected by the Crown, raised in good company, and steeped in wisdom and sharpness.”

She ran a gentle finger along the infant’s cheek, the gesture uncharacteristically tender.

“We shall teach her everything she needs to know. Society won’t know what to do with her.”

With that, she handed Penelope over to Lady Danbury, who received the child with surprisingly steady hands for a woman known more for her cane than her cradle.

“She is mine now,” Lady Danbury said quietly. “And I will make sure she knows just how strong she truly is.”

—————————————————————————————————————-

Danbury Manor, 1794 - The Drawing Room

The afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows of Danbury Manor, painting warm golden streaks across the fine carpet and the richly upholstered furniture. In the drawing room, Lady Agatha Danbury sat with impeccable posture in her favorite armchair, her cane resting against her knee, though her hands were gently preoccupied with more precious cargo.

Two-year-old Penelope—cheeks pink from recent play and curls slightly askew—was perched on a footstool near Lady Danbury’s feet, humming to herself while cradling a cloth rabbit in her arms. Her shoes had mysteriously disappeared (again), and a faint dusting of biscuit crumbs clung to her dress, as though she’d emerged victorious from a clandestine snack mission.

The door to the drawing room creaked open, and Lady Danbury looked up with a practiced arch of her brow, her expression unreadable—until she saw who it was.

“Simon,” she said simply, with a tilt of her head.

Ten-year-old Simon Basset stood in the doorway, hands tucked behind his back. His coat was slightly crooked, and his wild curls looked like he’d run a hand through them one too many times, which meant he had been anxious—or thinking. Or both.

But it wasn’t Lady Danbury he was watching. His eyes were fixed on the little girl at her feet.

Penelope turned toward him and beamed, waving her bunny at him like a scepter.

Lady Danbury watched with amusement as Simon stepped into the room, his usually solemn face softening the moment he got close. She hadn’t missed the way he’d taken to the child the moment she’d entered their lives two years ago. It had been quiet at first—offering her his toy soldiers, sitting beside her at mealtimes without a word—but it had turned into something steady and gentle. A rare tenderness in a boy who had seen too much of the world’s cruelty too early.

“Is it time for Star’s nap?” Simon asked, tilting his head toward the toddler.

Lady Danbury’s mouth twitched at the nickname he had given her. Star. Because, he’d explained quite seriously one day, “she’s little and bright and hard to look away from.”

“It is,” Lady Danbury confirmed, smoothing Penelope’s curls with an affectionate hand. “I was just about to take her up to the nursery and read her a story.”

Simon took a small step forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “Can I do it?”

Lady Danbury studied him for a moment, eyes narrowed as if weighing some great and solemn task. “You may,” she said at last. “But only one story this time. Do not let those bright blue eyes of hers talk you into another. She has a talent for bending grown men to her will.”

Penelope batted her lashes in mock innocence, as though she knew.

Simon’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Lady Danbury.”

He held out a hand to Penelope, and without hesitation, she took it—her fingers small in his, her smile wide and sure. Together, they turned and walked toward the stairs like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Lady Danbury watched them go with a shake of her head and a rare, fond smile tugging at her lips.

“Already wrapped around her little finger,” she muttered to herself, reaching again for her teacup.

—————————————————————————————————————-

The Nursery

Time passed, and still Simon had not returned.

It had been nearly forty minutes—well beyond one story’s worth of time, even with Penelope’s gift for dramatic pauses and commentary. With a sigh and a firm tap of her cane, Lady Danbury made her way upstairs.

The manor was quiet, the kind of stillness that made one suspicious.

As she reached the nursery door, she slowed, sensing something in the silence. She gently pushed the door open, prepared to find a pillow fort under siege or a trail of overturned books.

Instead, she paused in the doorway and felt her stern heart give the faintest flutter.

Inside the nursery, the curtains had been drawn slightly, casting the room in soft twilight. Blankets and pillows had been rearranged into a haphazard but earnest fort—clearly constructed with more enthusiasm than engineering skill. One corner had collapsed slightly, revealing a pair of stockinged feet sticking out from under a blanket canopy.

Curled up inside the fort, cheek-to-cheek and utterly still, were Simon and Penelope. She was nestled against his chest, her bunny tucked between them, his arm looped protectively around her. Both were fast asleep, their breathing slow and even.

Lady Danbury stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she simply watched them.

Then, very softly, she said to no one in particular, “God help anyone who tries to hurt that girl. She already has her knight.”

She pulled the door closed with the gentlest of clicks and let them sleep.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1796 - The Drawing Room

The Danbury carriage rumbled to a gentle stop on the gravel drive of Bridgerton House, its glossy black finish catching the late spring sunlight. The sound of carriage wheels crunching stone echoed briefly before a liveried footman stepped forward and opened the door with a practiced flourish.

On the grand front steps, Lord Edmund Bridgerton stood with his wife, Lady Violet, both dressed with the effortless elegance of titled nobility—but their expressions were anything but haughty. They were warm, expectant, and just a little amused. Edmund, ever the gentleman with a heart made entirely of good cheer, smiled brightly as he spotted the familiar silhouette inside the carriage.

Lady Agatha Danbury descended first, her ever-present cane clicking smartly against the stone. She extended a steadying hand back into the carriage, and out stepped a little girl with fiery red curls, bright blue eyes, and a soft yellow dress that fluttered slightly in the breeze.

Penelope blinked up at the tall house, her gaze sweeping from the ivy-covered stone to the gleaming windows and then back down to the perfectly manicured hedges that lined the walkway. She held her small hands neatly in front of her, trying to stand as properly as Lady Danbury had taught her—but her eyes were filled with wonder.

“Agatha,” Edmund greeted with sincere warmth, stepping forward. “Lovely to see you. And this must be Miss Penelope.”

He didn’t wait for a reply before bending down—gracefully for a tall man—and grinning at the small redhead, who blinked up at him like he might be made of sunshine.

Lady Violet rolled her eyes fondly. “You might consider greeting our guest before being charmed by a toddler, dearest,” she murmured.

“Oh, hush,” Edmund said without looking back, offering Penelope a hand. “I have priorities.”

Lady Danbury chuckled low in her throat, pleased. “I thought it was time to bring Penelope to meet the Bridgertons,” she said, brushing an invisible speck from the child’s sleeve. “With Simon off to Eton, she is left with only myself, my staff, and a rather stubborn cat for company.”

“She won’t be without company here,” Violet promised warmly. “Daphne has been begging for a playmate who doesn’t think wrestling is a valid conversation. Please, come in. We’ve tea waiting in the drawing room.”

With a shared smile, the adults began to make their way inside. Edmund had already scooped Penelope up into his arms—after first asking permission, of course—and was carrying her with the ease of a practiced father, speaking to her in the low, merry voice that made even the shyest of children smile. Penelope seemed utterly content in his arms, peeking around his shoulder as they stepped into the grand foyer.

—————————————————————————————————————-

The drawing room was alive with the unmistakable sound of sibling chaos.

Eleven-year-old Anthony Bridgerton was in the midst of a battle that involved throwing cushions at ten-year-old Benedict, who was trying to dodge while dragging eight-year-old Colin into the fray. The laughter was loud, the wrestling messier, and the noise levels just shy of scandalous.

On the carpeted floor, four-year-old Daphne sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her. Her little hands held a porcelain doll, and she watched the chaos unfold with the supreme exasperation of someone who considered herself too dignified for such nonsense. Her doll seemed to agree.

As the door opened, Violet called out in her best version of sternness, which was still gentler than most mothers’ warnings. “Anthony, Benedict, Colin—behave yourselves. We have company.”

The boys immediately stopped, scrambled to their feet, and tried to look as though they hadn’t been moments away from recreating the Battle of Hastings with throw pillows. They bowed, nearly in unison, and offered polite greetings to Lady Danbury, though Anthony still had a stubborn lock of hair sticking straight up from his recent scuffle.

“Very elegant,” Lady Danbury said dryly, eyeing their disheveled appearance.

“They clean up well,” Violet murmured with a smirk.

Edmund set Penelope down gently and crouched beside her. “Penny,” he said, gesturing to the boys, “let me introduce you to the rowdy bunch. That one is Anthony—he likes to pretend he’s far too mature for games, but he always ends up joining them anyway. That’s Benedict. He’s never without a sketchbook and has already developed a talent for charming his way out of trouble. And that’s Colin. He’s been devouring every adventure novel he can get his hands on.”

Penelope took a moment, her eyes narrowing just slightly in the most solemn of toddler assessments. She looked at each boy in turn, then leaned ever so slightly into Edmund’s shoulder and asked in a very serious, very loud whisper, “Are they always like this? They’re louder than Sim. Except when I make him read me stories with silly voices.”

Violet let out an unladylike snort.

“That they are, Penny,” Edmund said with a laugh. “But come along. You’ll love Daphne—she’s not nearly so loud.”

He led her gently to where Daphne was sitting, and Penelope lowered herself to the floor with practiced grace, immediately pulling her skirts into a neat circle around her.

The boys, meanwhile, had taken deep offense.

“We’re not that loud,” Colin said, aghast.

“You were literally shouting ten seconds ago,” Benedict replied with a grin.

“I was not!” Colin protested.

“You threw a pillow at my face,” Anthony reminded him.

“Only because you ducked the one I threw at Ben!”

Lady Danbury arched her brow. “And yet you all wonder why she thought you were noisy.”

Penelope giggled, trying (and failing) to cover her smile with both hands. Her eyes danced with amusement. Across from her, Daphne gave a delighted little gasp.

“I like her,” Daphne declared solemnly. “We’re best friends now.”

Penelope turned to her and smiled. “Okay.”

And just like that, it was decided.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Danbury Manor, 1802 - The Fencing Ring

The garden of Danbury Manor was drenched in late morning sunlight, casting golden beams through the rose-covered trellises and dappling the well-manicured lawns with shifting shadows. The air smelled faintly of lavender and honeysuckle, and somewhere in the hedges, a lark was singing with far too much enthusiasm.

Curled up like a contented cat beneath a tree, Penelope Danbury was utterly absorbed in her book, her slippered feet tucked beneath her, skirts arranged with unconscious grace. A second novel was nestled beside her, waiting in the wings like a backup dancer. The only sound she made was the occasional turning of a page and the soft hum she let out when a line delighted her.

Simon Basset, now eighteen and all long limbs and effortless charm, strolled into the garden with the easy confidence of someone who had no intention of being ignored.

He dropped down onto the blanket beside her with a theatrical sigh and leaned back on his hands. “I’ve decided I’m going to teach you how to fence.”

Penelope’s fingers stilled on the page. Her head lifted slowly, her blue eyes narrowing in suspicious calculation.

“You’ve what?” she asked, her voice flat, as her book slid from her hands onto the blanket.

Simon nodded solemnly, as though announcing the weather. “Fencing. You, me, blades, footwork. The whole thrilling ordeal.”

“You’ve gone mad,” she declared with absolute certainty, folding her arms over her chest. “You want to teach me how to fence. What does Mama think of this… absurd plan?”

Simon’s lips twitched into a slow, smug grin. “Aggie gave her blessing. In fact, she said—and I quote—‘Do try not to sulk too much when she surpasses you, Simon. It would be terribly unbecoming.’”

Penelope gawked at him. “She really said that?”

He nodded with dramatic offense. “She did. Hurtful, isn’t it?”

Penelope pursed her lips, hiding a grin. She tilted her head like a cat contemplating whether to pounce or nap. Finally, she shrugged.

“Alright then. Teach me.”

Simon lit up like he’d won a duel without lifting a sword. “Excellent! Now, go change into the fencing gear I had commissioned for you. It’s in your room. Custom-fitted.”

She blinked at him, stunned. “You had fencing gear made for me?”

“I did,” he said, already standing and dusting off his trousers. “It’s hanging near your wardrobe. Oh—and there’s a cane. Looks perfectly innocent, doesn’t draw any attention. But if you twist the top, a fencing coil springs from the handle.”

Penelope’s eyes went round. “Like a secret weapon?”

“Exactly like that.”

She let out a little squeal and leapt to her feet with none of her usual ladylike decorum. “Why didn’t you start with that?!”

Simon laughed as she bolted toward the house, her book forgotten on the blanket.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Fifteen Minutes Later – The Fencing Ring

Penelope stepped into the fencing ring, a small square of grass bordered by smooth stones and flanked by two thin practice dummies that Simon had set up. She wore her new fencing gear: a fitted navy jacket with silver trim, matching trousers tailored to allow swift movement, and a padded chest guard beneath her shirt. Her red curls were pinned back messily, and her cheeks were flushed with excitement.

But it was the cane in her hand that stole the show—smooth, polished ebony with delicate silver vines carved into its base. The handle was carved from sapphire glass, shaped to fit her palm perfectly. She held it like a scepter.

“I can’t believe you’re really about to teach a ten-year-old girl how to fence,” she said as she stepped into the ring, her boots crunching softly on the gravel.

Simon gave a slow shrug, already dressed in his own fencing gear. “You may be a ten-year-old girl,” he said, taking his stance opposite her, “but you’re also my little sister. Which means you are clever, capable, and more than a little terrifying when properly motivated.”

Penelope smirked. “Flatter me more, I might let you win.”

“Oh, I’m not expecting to win,” Simon said, twirling his sword lazily. “I’m just hoping to survive.”

She laughed, and the sound danced across the hedges like birdsong.

Simon straightened, suddenly serious but never stern. “Alright. First lesson—stance. Your feet go like this,” he said, stepping into the classic en garde position. “Weight evenly balanced. One foot forward, knees slightly bent. It should feel like you’re ready to leap—or pounce.”

Penelope mimicked him, adjusting under his guidance until he nodded in approval.

“Now,” he said, drawing his own sword and pointing the tip gently toward her cane, “unsheath your blade.”

Penelope twisted the handle. With a smooth click, the hidden coil sprang from the cane, unfolding into a sleek, flexible fencing foil. She grinned, wild and bright.

“That,” she whispered, “was so cool.”

Simon chuckled. “Right? Now—hold it like this. Fingers relaxed, wrist steady. Good. Let’s try some simple drills.”

He began to walk her through the basic movements: thrust, parry, retreat, lunge. Slowly at first, then building rhythm, until they moved in tandem like dancers.

Penelope picked it up frighteningly fast. Of course she did.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, laughter and the clash of practice blades echoed through the garden—an odd melody of elegance and rebellion.

Lady Danbury watched from her window, sipping her tea with a faint smirk.

“Oh yes,” she murmured to herself, “the Featheringtons certainly missed out.”

—————————————————————————————————————-

Buckingham House, 1804 - The Garden

The garden at Buckingham House was a slice of heaven painted in pastels and perfumed air. The morning sun filtered through the delicate branches of cherry blossom trees, scattering pink petals like confetti across the polished stone paths. Lilacs clustered nearby, humming softly with the buzz of bees, their scent rich and sweet—almost like spun sugar.

At the edge of the garden, nestled in a pool of dappled shade, stood a wrought iron table with matching chairs, delicately ornate and gleaming white. Seated with effortless grace were two of the most formidable women in the ton—Her Majesty Queen Charlotte and Lady Agatha Danbury. Their parasols lay discarded nearby; they had no need for such things when engaged in something far more entertaining than gossip or embroidery.

They were watching Penelope Danbury.

Across the lawn, the twelve-year-old was deep in conversation with Brimsley, who held her elegant fencing cane while she slipped on her gloves with practiced ease. Her vibrant copper curls were pinned up in a braided crown, a few stubborn strands escaping to frame her freckled cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she teased Brimsley about the unusually grand bow he’d given her upon arrival.

“I swear you’re going to trip over your own shoes one day, Brimsley. You’ll bow so low the earth itself will tell you to stand up straight.”

Brimsley gave her a scandalized look and sniffed. “Her Majesty expects excellence.”

“She also expects flair,” Penelope quipped, snapping her gloves into place. “And I believe I deliver quite enough for both of us.”

From their vantage point, Queen Charlotte gave a fond little sigh, her eyes never leaving the young girl. “Our Penelope has come a very long way from being that tiny bundle left in a basket. It seems almost impossible to believe it was twelve years ago now.”

Lady Danbury didn’t smile often, but when she did, it was always worth witnessing. A small but deeply proud curve appeared on her lips. “Indeed. And to think, Simon had the gall to declare—with all the solemnity of a bishop—that he had decided to teach her how to fence.”

Queen Charlotte let out a low, delighted laugh. “Did he now?”

“He did,” Lady Danbury said dryly. “She looked up from her book, completely unimpressed, and asked him whether he’d gone mad and what I thought of such nonsense. I told him not to sulk too much when she inevitably bested him—it would be terribly unbecoming. He had the audacity to look offended. But once he told her about the cane, she tore off so fast I thought she’d left a cloud of dust behind.”

Queen Charlotte leaned in, amused. “And now she’s been trouncing him ever since?”

“With great enthusiasm,” Lady Danbury replied, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Though she claims it’s the witty banter that truly wounds him.”

Just then, Penelope took her place across from Simon in the cleared area of the garden fencing ring. The grass was soft, the boundaries marked by pale ribbons fluttering on stakes. Simon stood poised, tall and calm, but anyone who knew him well could spot the slight tension in his stance.

Penelope bowed, her cane-turned-sword glinting in the light. Simon returned the gesture, and with a flourish from Penelope that was very nearly theatrical, the match began.

At first, it was all precision—slow, steady movements. Thrust. Parry. Retreat. Reset.

But then Penelope grinned.

“Oh dear brother,” she called lightly, lunging with alarming accuracy. “Is that hesitation I see? Or just the dawning realization that I’ve once again come to obliterate your pride?”

Simon tried to keep a straight face. “You’re lucky I love you, or I’d consider fighting dirty.”

“Please do,” she chirped, spinning nimbly to dodge his blade. “The audience demands a little drama!”

Queen Charlotte laughed aloud. “She’s merciless.”

Lady Danbury raised her teacup with a smirk. “She’s Danbury-raised.”

The match intensified. Penelope danced circles around Simon, peppering him with both blade and barbed commentary.

“Careful, Simon, your footwork’s looking more like a court debut than a duel.”

“You mean graceful?”

“I mean slow.”

When she finally landed a clean point to his shoulder, Simon dropped his sword with a dramatic groan and collapsed onto the grass. “I am wounded. In body and spirit.”

Penelope planted her cane beside him, panting only slightly. “And don’t you forget it.”

From the garden table, Queen Charlotte clapped lightly. “I do believe she has a flair for performance. Perhaps the stage awaits?”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Lady Danbury said, though there was no disguising the fierce affection in her voice. “That girl is going to change everything—mark my words.”

As the breeze picked up, scattering a few more petals onto the lawn, Penelope offered her hand to help Simon up. He took it with a laugh, and they walked back toward the table like they hadn’t just fought like sword-wielding siblings on a battlefield of blossoms.

And far above, the Queen’s banner flapped gently in the wind—watching over a girl who would never again be unwanted.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1806 - The Drawing Room

The drawing room of Bridgerton House was abuzz with soft laughter, the golden afternoon light streaming through the tall windows and glinting off silver tea trays and delicate china. Penelope Danbury sat nestled on a fainting couch beside Daphne Bridgerton, their heads together in the way of best friends with too many secrets and not enough time to whisper them all.

A shared giggle escaped just as the drawing room doors opened with a dignified creak. Lady Danbury stepped inside, sharp-eyed as ever and holding an elegant cane in one gloved hand.

“Penelope,” she intoned with theatrical exasperation. “In your excitement to greet Daphne, you left this behind in the carriage.”

Penelope popped up from her seat as if launched by springs. “Oh! Thank you, Mama.” She scurried over and took the cane reverently, brushing her fingers over the silver accents as if they might vanish if touched too roughly.

Daphne blinked, curiosity piqued. “Penny, when did you get a cane? That’s not just for show, is it?”

Penelope gave her a knowing grin and leaned closer. “My brother had it commissioned for me four years ago. But wait—there’s more.” She turned slightly, twisting the handle with a practiced hand. With a quiet click, the top separated, and she lifted the blade just high enough for the gleam of a fencing foil to catch the light.

Daphne gasped. “Is that a fencing coil?!”

“It is,” Penelope whispered with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Simon’s been teaching me how to fence since I was ten. I’ve been beating him more often than not. He even had fencing gear made for me.”

Daphne clapped her hands over her mouth, giggling behind her fingers. “That is so wicked.”

Their moment was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Is that a fencing foil?” Colin Bridgerton had wandered into the room and was now eyeing the cane like it held the secrets of the universe.

Penelope turned to face him, her smile modest but proud. “It is. Simon had it made just for me. I’ve been training with him since I was ten.”

Colin stepped closer, intrigued, and gave a thoughtful nod. “Would you like to fence, Penelope?”

Lady Danbury, now deep in conversation with Violet Bridgerton near the hearth, smirked ever so slightly. Violet gave her a look—amused, curious, a little alarmed—but neither woman objected.

“I’d love to,” Penelope said, cheeks flushed with excitement.

Daphne grabbed her hand. “Come on! You’ll need to change—you can borrow the use of my room.” She cast a quick smile at Colin, who nodded and disappeared to change into his fencing attire.

As the two girls made their way upstairs, they nearly collided with Benedict, who was descending the steps two at a time.

“What mischief are you two up to?” he asked, one brow arched with practiced suspicion.

“Penelope fences,” Daphne announced proudly. “Simon’s been teaching her. She even has her own gear and a foil hidden in a cane. Colin challenged her, and she agreed to a match!”

Benedict looked Penelope over, from her confident posture to the sparkle in her eye. “Well,” he said slowly, “that’s rather impressive.”

When Penelope returned downstairs, clad in her fencing attire—a fitted navy jacket with fine silver trim, sharply tailored trousers made for swift movement, and a padded chest guard—Benedict gave a soft whistle of appreciation.

“You look positively lethal,” he said, grinning as she showed him the hidden foil within her cane.

“That’s the goal,” Penelope replied, flashing a grin of her own.

The three made their way outside to the lawn where a small fencing area had been set up. Colin was already waiting, stretching and limbering up with a cocky sort of ease.

Nearby, Lady Danbury and Violet had taken seats at a garden table, parasols at the ready and teacups in hand. Lady Danbury looked as though she were attending a grand theatre performance. Violet looked mildly horrified but deeply intrigued.

Penelope passed her cane to Daphne, who held it like a sacred relic. Then, with grace and poise, Penelope stepped into the ring and took her stance, foil raised.

From a bench tucked in the shade of the ivy-covered terrace, Anthony Bridgerton watched in silence.

He hadn’t intended to linger. Truly. He had only meant to pass through and offer a polite greeting. But the moment he’d heard Colin challenge Penelope—his Penelope, the flame-haired girl with the quiet courage and wicked tongue—he’d found himself rooted in place.

Now, as she faced his younger brother with effortless focus, Anthony’s breath caught.

She was poised. Skilled. Brilliant.

He wanted to stop the match, part of him—a rather noisy part—wanting to protect her, shield her, wrap her in cotton and whisk her indoors. But he couldn’t look away.

Because she was winning.

Not just holding her own—but winning.

Each strike was elegant, each retreat measured. Colin was grinning, taking it in stride, but even he was breathing heavier with every pass. And then came the commentary.

“Oh come now, Bridgerton,” Penelope teased mid-feint, “is this how you fence at Eton? No wonder the other schools laugh at you.”

Colin let out a breathless laugh. “You wound me, Danbury.”

“Not yet,” she replied sweetly. “But give me a moment.”

Anthony chuckled softly, eyes alight with admiration and something deeper—something dangerous. She was only fourteen, and he was a man grown, bound by honor and timing. But still… there was something about her.

Something he’d never quite been able to put into words.

By the time the match ended—Penelope victorious by a single touch—the garden was alight with claps, chuckles, and wide-eyed awe.

Colin bowed low with mock gravity. “You, Penelope Danbury, are a menace.”

She curtsied back with a proud smile. “Thank you. I do try.”

From the sidelines, Anthony stood and brushed invisible dust from his sleeve, murmuring to himself with a rare smile, “You do far more than try, Miss Danbury.”

And far across the garden, Lady Danbury raised her teacup to her lips and whispered to Violet, “Watch her. One day, she’ll take the world by storm.”

—————————————————————————————————————-

Buckingham House, 1813 - Queen Charlotte’s Sitting Room

The soft afternoon light filtered through lace-draped windows, casting golden patterns across the plush carpet of Queen Charlotte’s private sitting room. The gentle rustle of quill against parchment was the only sound, save for the occasional flutter of a bird outside.

Penelope Danbury sat curled in a window alcove, legs tucked beneath her, scribbling furiously on a thick sheet of parchment. Her brows were drawn in concentration, her lips pursed as she wrote line after line of scandal with the precision of a seasoned tactician.

Queen Charlotte, seated not far away with a cup of tea in hand, watched her with growing curiosity. She rose from her chair and glided toward the girl she had once held as a newborn. Now, that same girl was a young woman with a mind sharp as any blade.

“My dear Penelope,” the Queen said, arching a brow, “what has captured your quill so passionately?”

Penelope didn’t startle. She simply looked up, her eyes dancing with a secret sort of mischief. “Oh, just a few tidbits whispered behind fans and between dances. You’d be surprised what the ton will say when they think no one of consequence is listening.”

Queen Charlotte tilted her head, intrigued. “May I?”

Penelope nodded and handed her the parchment. The Queen’s eyes scanned the page, pausing midway.

“Is this true?” she asked, one brow rising like the sun. “‘Lord Addams was caught in a compromising position with one of his maids’?”

Penelope gave a prim, almost angelic smile. “Indeed, Aunt Charlotte. He was bragging about it in Hyde Park, right near the duck pond. I was reading under a tree. He didn’t even notice me.”

Queen Charlotte let out a soft laugh, full of delight and scandalized joy. “I love this. You must publish it. But under a pseudonym, of course—we can’t have any foolish lord trying to sully your reputation in revenge.”

“I was planning to,” Penelope said, cheeks pink with pride. “But now that I have your permission, I won’t feel so terribly guilty.”

“Have you chosen a name?” the Queen asked, brushing a fond hand along Penelope’s curls.

“I have,” Penelope replied, eyes glowing. “I will write as… Lady Whistledown.”

Queen Charlotte gave a delighted gasp and clasped her hands. “I adore it. Bold, mysterious, and very difficult to trace. You, my dear Penelope, have come such a long way from that baby girl who arrived in a basket on my doorstep. I am impossibly proud of you.”

Penelope’s breath caught in her throat at the rare, unguarded affection. She smiled—soft, proud, steady. “Thank you. I promise to use this voice wisely. But perhaps… not gently.”

“That,” said Queen Charlotte, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, “is exactly what the ton deserves.”

Penelope turned back to her writing, her quill moving with newfound purpose as she edited and refined each deliciously damning line. Her heart beat steady with purpose and quiet fire.

In the corner, Brimsley stood as he always had—still, silent, loyal. He watched the girl he had once cradled in his arms now wield words like weapons. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

She had grown into something formidable.

Something unforgettable.

Something glorious.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1813 - Anthony’s Study

Anthony hadn’t left his study since returning from what could only be described as a spectacularly idiotic duel. His bruised pride sat heavier than the untouched glass of brandy on his desk. He stared at it blankly, fingers tangled in his hair, trying to silence the echo of his sister’s fury and Simon’s blade clashing with his own.

The door creaked open.

“Not now, Benedict,” he snapped, not bothering to look up.

“It’s not Benedict.”

The voice was soft, but firm—steel wrapped in velvet. Familiar.

His head shot up, breath catching. There, framed by the doorway, stood Penelope Danbury, her cane in one hand and fire in her eyes.

“Penelope,” he breathed. “I didn’t know you were here. Please—come in.”

She shut the door behind her with a soft click, crossing the room without hesitation. Her cane found its resting place against the wall before she settled on the settee, posture poised and gaze sharp.

“I heard about the duel,” she said calmly.

“Did Simon tell you?” Anthony asked, pushing away from the desk to lean against its edge, arms crossed but defenses crumbling.

“No,” she replied. “Daphne did.”

A pause settled between them, heavy and complicated.

“I know what happened. And yes—it was reckless, foolish, all of it. But they love each other, Anthony. They’re going to marry. It just… happened in a way that would send the ton into a frenzy, if it got out.”

He didn’t argue. For once, Anthony Bridgerton—viscount, protector, walking pressure cooker—simply listened.

Penelope’s gaze drifted over the room, as if collecting her thoughts from its very corners. When she spoke again, her voice lowered into something raw and vulnerable. “I’m going to tell you something only four people know. My mama. Simon. Daphne. And the Queen.”

She looked at him then, more serious than he’d ever seen her.

“But you have to promise me—promise me—you won’t be angry or disappointed.”

Anthony pushed off from the desk and sat across from her, knees almost touching. His voice softened. “Penelope… whatever it is, you can tell me. I swear to you, I will not be angry or disappointed.”

A beat.

“I’m Lady Whistledown.”

The air left the room.

Penelope sat up straighter, waiting for the storm. But Anthony simply blinked at her—slowly, as if the world had tilted on its axis.

“That’s how the truth about Berbrooke came out,” she added. “And it’s why what happened with Simon and Daphne will never become society’s next scandal. I… I made sure of it.”

He stared at her—not with judgment, not even with disbelief—but with awe.

He already knew she was clever. Sharp as the foil she wielded with dangerous grace. But this—this quiet, calculated power? This hidden brilliance wrapped in a soft voice and bright blue eyes?

She had outmaneuvered the entire ton, and no one had seen it coming.

“Penelope,” he said, voice rough with emotion. “You continue to astonish me.”

She blinked, caught off guard.

“You’re brilliant,” he added, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Terrifying. And brilliant.”

A soft flush crept up her cheeks. “So… you’re not upset?”

“Upset?” He gave a huff of laughter. “I might still be licking my wounds from Simon, but you, Penelope? You’ve just saved my sister’s future. You’ve saved my family’s name. And you did it all while writing with a damn quill and a secret identity.”

His gaze turned gentle.

“You’re extraordinary.”

She looked down, suddenly shy. But her smile was unmistakable.

“So what now?” she asked quietly.

Anthony leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Now? I pour us both a drink, and you tell me everything you’ve ever heard about Lord Featherstone and that opera singer.”

Penelope grinned. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

And for the first time in days, laughter echoed through the study.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Study

Lady Danbury sat regally on the settee, her cane resting beside her like a silent witness. She watched Anthony pace the length of the study, back and forth, as though he were preparing for battle—or possibly a marriage proposal, which, in her mind, was often one and the same.

“Are you going to finally ask me what you sent for me,” she drawled, voice rich with amusement, “or would you prefer to continue carving a trench into Violet’s floorboards?”

Anthony paused mid-step, running a hand through his curls, nerves tangled in every movement. He turned to face her fully, shoulders squared, expression solemn.

“It’s about Penelope,” he said.

Lady Danbury’s brow arched, though her lips twitched with a knowing smile.

“I imagine you already know that I’ve always had a soft spot for her. Ever since she was four and asked my father—my father, mind you—if my brothers and I were always that loud.” A fond smile crept onto his face at the memory. “I’ve watched her grow from a clever little girl into a remarkable woman, and I’ve spent far too long pretending that my feelings for her hadn’t changed. But they have. They’ve grown stronger with every passing year.”

He paused, heart racing.

“I would like your blessing to court her. If she’ll have me… I intend to ask for her hand.”

Lady Danbury’s expression softened, the steel in her spine giving way to pride. She rose to her feet, cane in hand, and approached him slowly.

“You have my permission,” she said simply, but her eyes glittered like drawn swords. “But let me be clear, Lord Bridgerton. That girl may be sweet as summer wine, but her blade is as sharp as her wit—and both were trained under my roof. If you hurt her…”

She let the words hang in the air like thunder before a storm.

Anthony dipped his head, shoulders relaxing as relief washed over him like a tide.

“I understand. And I promise you—I would sooner fall on that blade myself than let her be hurt by me.”

Lady Danbury gave a small, satisfied nod, then turned toward the door.

“Good. Now go be brave, Viscount. Love doesn’t favor cowards.”

She left him standing there, heart pounding, resolve hardening like tempered steel.

He knew what he had to do next.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Fencing Ring

After receiving Lady Danbury’s permission to court Penelope, Anthony wasted no time. He hurried to change into his fencing gear, knowing exactly where she would be—out in the garden, blades drawn, dancing circles around his brother.

By the time he stepped outside, the match was well underway. Penelope was in her element, foil flashing as she expertly parried Benedict’s lunges with ease and laughter. Her cheeks were flushed, curls tumbling around her face, and her smile was dazzling.

“Do you have a moment for one more challenge, Penelope?” Anthony called, making his presence known.

Penelope turned to him, eyes glittering like mischief itself. “For you, Lord Bridgerton? I always have a moment to spare,” she replied cheekily.

From their place at the wrought iron table nearby, Lady Danbury sipped her tea while Violet watched with misty eyes. Benedict lay sprawled on the ground beside them, utterly defeated and dramatically catching his breath.

“Oh Lord,” Lady Danbury muttered, watching Anthony stride forward, “he’s going to ask her to court him during a fencing match.”

Violet laughed softly, dabbing at her eyes already. “It’s quite on brand for him.”

Anthony and Penelope took their places on the grass, circling each other slowly like old rivals—or old flames.

He lunged.

She sidestepped.

He flirted.

She flirted back—so effectively, in fact, that the Viscount blushed like a schoolboy. His composure faltered for just a second, and that was all the opportunity she needed.

With a graceful flick of her wrist, Penelope disarmed him, sending his foil clattering to the ground a few feet away.

She laughed, bright and breathless, as her eyes locked with his. Her victory was complete.

And then—he dropped to his knees.

“Marry me,” Anthony blurted, voice thick with emotion. “I was going to ask to court you, take the slow, proper road. But then you ruined me—utterly—and I have never been so delighted to be undone. Please, Penelope. Say you’ll marry me and continue to ruin me for the rest of my life.”

From the table, the reactions varied:

Benedict wheezed a laugh. “Fencing’s going to be foreplay for them, isn’t it?”

Violet cried softly, clutching her napkin to her heart.

Lady Danbury simply smiled, cane resting against her knee. “Smarter than I gave him credit for,” she murmured.

“You’re ridiculous,” Penelope said, laughing through the pink rising in her cheeks. “Of course I’ll marry you, you impatient man.”

Anthony surged to his feet, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around with a joy that shook loose every doubt he had ever known. When he set her down, he dipped her back with flair and kissed her—thoroughly, passionately, and with no regard for the audience he’d completely forgotten about.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends.

Soulmate AU where your soulmate hears everything. Every intrusive thought. Every panic spiral. Every steamy daydream.

(Your mental voice is the same as your speaking voice.) ———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - Daphne’s Room

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting golden beams through the gauzy curtains of Daphne’s bedroom. The soft rustle of evening wind brushed past the windowpanes, carrying with it the faint scent of blooming lilacs from the garden below. Inside, the room was aglow with warm light — part candlelit, part kissed by the retreating sun. The walls, still adorned with Daphne’s girlhood sketches and half-faded floral prints, now bore witness to the fluttering excitement of their first steps into society.

Daphne was lying stomach-down on the bed, her chin propped on her hands, while Penelope perched cross-legged beside her, her gown a swirl of pale green muslin and lace. Their slippers lay discarded somewhere near the rug, their hair undone from the day’s earlier efforts, pins forgotten like soldiers fallen in battle.

Penelope lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Benedict still hasn’t figured out that it’s my voice he hears in his head,” she said, a sly smile playing on her lips.

Daphne gasped, her hands flying to her cheeks like a girl half her age.

“You wicked thing! I cannot believe it. My brother! My favorite brother—well, second favorite now, I suppose,” she added with a teasing nudge. “That means… you and I shall be sisters.”

Penelope let out a breathless laugh, her cheeks flushed from both glee and the soft chaos of it all. “If he doesn’t run mad first, yes.”

Daphne flung her arms around Penelope with an excited squeal.

“This is utterly perfect. And horrifying. And perfect again.”

Their laughter trailed off into giggles and snorts, heads bent close together like they had done since childhood. It was then that a gentle knock sounded on the door.

“Girls?” came Violet’s familiar voice, warm and composed. “Dinner is ready, dears.”

“We’re coming, Mama!” Daphne called sweetly, before flopping backward dramatically. “She always catches us mid-gossip.”

As they stood and smoothed their gowns, Penelope offered her arm, which Daphne took without hesitation. They made a charming pair, descending the hallway with the air of two co-conspirators bound for mischief.

At the top of the stairs, Daphne leaned in and whispered behind her hand, “You’re going to enjoy tormenting him with your thoughts, aren’t you, Pixie?”

Penelope’s eyes sparkled like starlight on water. “I already am. Yesterday, during tea, I thought about kissing him in the rose garden — behind the trellis, you know the one? All petals and shadows?”

Daphne nodded, lips twitching.

“Well, he was walking past the tea trolley, and right as I pictured his hand on my waist, he tripped over a chair leg and muttered, ‘Nope, not thinking about that right now.’ I nearly choked on my biscuit.”

Daphne burst into delighted laughter, muffling it with her sleeve. “Oh, that is too good. I would give a week’s worth of ribbon to have seen his face.”

“I nearly cried, truly,” Penelope said, eyes wide in mock innocence. “He’s so very composed, but it’s all an act, I think. Underneath he’s just… unraveling.”

Daphne smirked, one brow arched. “You’re diabolical. I adore it. Are you planning anything scandalous for tonight’s entertainment, or will you give him a moment of peace?”

Penelope paused, as if considering, before her lips curved into a devilish grin. “During dinner? I’m going to imagine him painting me. Shirtless. Lit by firelight. I’ll stare at his hands like I’m desperate to touch them. And his mouth. And his shoulders.”

Daphne made a strangled noise and waved her hands in protest. “Pen! Mercy! That is my brother you’re—! Ugh! No, no, I do not want to hear another word.”

Penelope laughed so hard she had to grip the banister to steady herself. “Then stop asking. I gave fair warning.”

Still muttering about how she needed to rinse her ears with rosewater, Daphne linked arms with her again as they descended the final steps. From below came the cheerful clatter of silverware and Benedict’s voice echoing faintly through the halls, oblivious to the chaos marching right toward him — in both thoughts and footsteps.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Dining Room

General POV

The dining room of Bridgerton House glowed with a warm, inviting elegance, the flicker of candlelight reflecting in the polished silver and delicate china. The scent of rosemary-roasted lamb mingled with freshly baked bread and the soft perfume of lilies in the centerpiece. A quiet symphony of familial chatter filled the air as chairs scraped gently against the floor and napkins were unfurled into laps.

The moment Daphne and Penelope entered, soft laughter bubbled up between them once again. Their eyes drifted across the table, immediately landing on Benedict — who was in the middle of buttering a piece of bread, entirely unaware of the storm approaching.

Penelope bit back a grin, her arm brushing Daphne’s as they made their way to their seats. She settled gracefully across from Benedict and beside Daphne, her gown fanning neatly around her. She didn’t strike immediately — no, the fun was in the anticipation. Instead, she shared a conspiratorial smile with Daphne, who was already covering her mouth with her napkin to hide the smirk threatening to break free.

Benedict, ever the picture of poise in public, lifted his wine glass casually. He swirled the deep red liquid once and brought it to his lips. That was when Penelope pounced — silently, of course.

She thought, her inner voice soaked with honeyed temptation:

“The room is dim, lit only by a few scattered candles. You’re behind your easel, shirtless. Your hair’s messy, as though you’ve run your fingers through it a dozen times in frustration. Your lips look soft—kissable. And your hands, dear God, your hands—they flex with every stroke of the brush. There’s paint on your forearm, smudged at the wrist. Your shoulders are broad. Strong. I want to press my fingers into them to see how you react.”

The effect was immediate.

Benedict took a sip — and promptly sputtered.

The wine caught in his throat, and he choked, eyes watering slightly as he reached for his napkin, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with mild panic.

Violet, seated at the head of the table, leaned forward with maternal concern. “Are you alright, dear?”

Benedict cleared his throat with as much dignity as he could manage. “I’m fine, Mother. Just… went down the wrong pipe.”

Across the table, Daphne had buried her face in her handkerchief and was shaking with silent laughter. Her shoulders trembled as she peered sideways at Penelope, who was the very portrait of innocence — serene, composed, eyes wide with faux concern.

Penelope tilted her head ever so slightly, her voice light and sugar-sweet. “Are you sure that you’re alright, Ben?”

Her eyes sparkled, and her voice curled around his name like a teasing caress.

Benedict turned toward her, his features carefully schooled into charm, but his ears were tinged pink and his brow slightly furrowed. “I’m alright, Penelope. Truly.”

The corner of her lips lifted in a soft smile, not quite smug, but unmistakably pleased. “Good,” she said simply, and delicately took a bite of her dinner.

Benedict, meanwhile, sat ramrod straight, focusing intensely on his plate as if the peas were delivering classified information. The images — her voice — still echoed in his mind like the last note of a scandalous sonata. He shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as though trying to physically shake her from his thoughts.

Daphne leaned over just enough to whisper behind her wine glass, “I give him ten more minutes before he starts sweating.”

Penelope didn’t answer. She simply raised one elegant brow and reached for her wine.

———————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1813 - The Ballroom

General POV

The candlelit ballroom at Danbury Manor was alive with the soft rustle of silks, the glimmer of chandelier light, and the melodic strains of a string quartet tucked into the corner. Society’s finest waltzed and whispered beneath the glow of gilded sconces, but behind a rather stately potted plant, two debutantes were plotting absolute mayhem.

Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton crouched in their secret hiding spot, giggling like schoolgirls, their lemonade glasses clinking faintly as they leaned toward one another in conspiratorial delight.

“What have you got planned for tonight?” Daphne asked, sipping daintily from her glass and eyeing the dance floor. “It has to be something better than the shirtless painting vision from dinner the other night. That one nearly ended him.”

“Oh, I intend to show him exactly how I see him,” Penelope replied with a wicked glint in her eye. She leaned in closer, her voice barely more than a purr. “I’ll start slow—take in the sight of him from head to toe, savor every detail. And then,” she paused, sipping her lemonade with exaggerated innocence, “I may start thinking about what his hands can do. Other than painting.”

Daphne sputtered into her drink. “Penelope Featherington!”

“What?” Penelope laughed, batting her lashes. “It’s not my fault his hands look like sin and salvation wrapped in linen cuffs.”

Neither girl noticed the approaching footsteps behind them until—

“So that’s why Benedict choked on his wine at dinner,” a dry voice drawled behind them. “He was getting an unsolicited mental sketch of himself shirtless.”

Both girls yelped and whipped around.

“Anthony!” Daphne scolded, placing a hand dramatically over her chest. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that!”

“My apologies, dearest sister,” Anthony replied smoothly, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall with the smug satisfaction of an older brother who’d caught his siblings misbehaving. “Though to be fair, I was just walking by when I heard whispers of scandal and torment. And I simply had to know more.”

He turned his gaze on Penelope, one brow arched. “So. You’re the little voice in my brother’s head. A devious little minx, aren’t you?”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed a deep rose, her usual composure momentarily slipping. “He hasn’t figured it out yet,” she mumbled. “But I’ve been dropping hints. Obvious ones, I thought.”

“Well,” Anthony said, a twinkle of mischief in his eye, “don’t let me stop you. Carry on with your wicked fun. Just—do me the courtesy of letting me know when you plan your next mental assault. I rather enjoy watching Benedict try not to combust in public.”

“You won’t have to wait long,” Penelope said, her smile turning slow and positively sinful. “I’m going to be thinking about it very, very soon.”

Anthony chuckled, gave her an approving nod like a general blessing his most chaotic soldier, and disappeared into the crowd.

Benedict stood near the refreshment table, a glass of punch in hand, his mother’s arm gently tucked through his. Violet was in the middle of telling him about Lady Twombley’s tragic hat selection when Anthony strolled up beside them.

Benedict didn’t need to look to know his brother was up to something — he could feel it radiating off him like smug heat. Anthony wore the expression of a man who knew things. Dangerous things.

But before Benedict could demand an explanation, his thoughts were ambushed.

“Those hands—capable of such beauty with a brush. But I wonder how they’d feel trailing down my back, tracing along my spine. I wonder if he’d still be so gentle or if he’d forget himself. Forget everything but me…”

The images came swiftly, vividly. Her voice—that voice—curled around the thoughts like smoke, teasing and slow, sensual and utterly wicked.

Benedict choked on air.

Not drink. Not food. Just air. Because his lungs had stopped functioning properly.

He coughed violently, face flushing pink as he pressed a hand to his chest.

“Are you alright, dear?” Violet asked, genuine concern furrowing her brow. “You’ve got a little flush to your cheeks.”

“I—I’m fine, Mother,” Benedict rasped, his voice hoarse. “I just… I think I need some fresh air.”

He gently squeezed her hand, gave her a rushed bow, and turned on his heel. Anthony, meanwhile, was shaking with silent laughter behind his glass, watching his brother flee like a man set aflame.

Outside, under the cool night sky, Benedict finally breathed.

His thoughts—his mind—had been chaos for days, but now… now, something clicked. The voice. That sweet, honey-smooth voice that teased him mercilessly. The garden. The trellis covered in roses. The Bridgerton house. Details only someone close would know.

Only someone who lived in his world. Someone who had been there, watching him. Laughing with his sister.

And the voice. Oh God, the voice.

It was Penelope.

Penelope Featherington was his soulmate.

And she had known. For weeks.

Benedict broke into a slow, crooked grin. “Oh, Penelope. You naughty little minx. You’ve been teasing me on purpose.”

His thoughts curled like smoke: “I know it’s you now. And I swear, I am going to make you pay for every scandalous thought you’ve ever sent my way.”

Back inside, Penelope was still behind the plant, sipping delicately when the sensation washed over her — a wave of awareness, heat, anticipation.

She froze. Then she blinked. And then her hand shot out to grip Daphne’s wrist.

“Benedict knows,” she whispered, wide-eyed.

Daphne nearly dropped her glass. “He what?”

“He knows that I’m his soulmate. He just figured it out. And—he’s planning to get me back.” Penelope whispered in a frantic rush, eyes darting like she expected him to emerge from the shadows, ready to pounce.

Daphne’s jaw dropped, and she stared at her best friend. “Pixie… you’re doomed.”

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Drawing Room

General POV

Penelope had spent the entirety of Lady Danbury’s ball avoiding Benedict like he was the embodiment of temptation itself—which, to be fair, he rather was. Two days had passed since then, and though she had managed to keep her distance, she hadn’t managed to stop thinking about the look he would give her once he knew the truth.

And now, here she was, seated beside Daphne on the drawing room settee at Bridgerton House, their heads bent together in animated whispers. They were giggling softly, conspiratorial and content, entirely unaware that danger had just entered the room.

Benedict strolled in like a man on a mission, all lazy grace and smug purpose. The moment his eyes landed on Penelope, he smiled—slow and wicked. She hadn’t seen him yet, which made the game all the more delightful.

Then—

“You thought about me in scandalous ways, Penelope darling. Now it’s my turn.”

Penelope’s spine went ramrod straight. Her hand snapped to Daphne’s and her eyes widened in pure, horrified realization.

Daphne’s brows lifted. “What—?”

But Penelope wasn’t listening. She was hearing.

“You don’t know that I have a painting of you hidden away in my studio. You’re draped in green silk, a toga slipping scandalously off one shoulder, like a goddess born of marble and moonlight—more beautiful than Aphrodite herself.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open. Her fan appeared from seemingly nowhere.

“I dream of running my tongue over your skin while tracing your curves with my fingers. Your lips—God, your lips—I want to kiss them, bite them, feel them part beneath mine. I wonder what sounds you’ll make when I finally touch you the way I ache to. Will you gasp? Moan? Whisper my name—or cry it out as you fall apart in my arms?”

Her face was a blazing crimson. The fan was working overtime.

“Pen, are you alright?” Daphne whispered, glancing nervously at her friend’s reddening cheeks.

Penelope didn’t trust herself to speak. Not when those words were echoing in her mind.

Across the room, Violet Bridgerton watched the scene with gentle maternal concern. “Penelope, dear? You look flushed. Are you feeling faint?”

“I’m—” Penelope cleared her throat and gave her a polite, breathless smile. “I’m alright, Miss Vi. Just a bit… warm. It shall pass soon, I’m sure.”

Across the room, by the window, Benedict sat with the sun at his back and mischief lighting his face. He leaned casually against the frame, utterly smug and absolutely triumphant.

He didn’t say a word aloud.

He didn’t have to.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 — The Drawing Room

General POV

Benedict had been basking in his triumph for precisely five minutes when the shift occurred.

He had just stood to pour himself a cup of tea—smiling smugly at nothing in particular, the very image of a man who believed himself untouchable—when it hit him.

“You want to play games, Bridgerton? Fine. Let me show you exactly what I see when I look at you.”

Penelope’s voice curled in his mind like silk over bare skin—warm, honey-sweet, and utterly lethal.

The moment the teacup was in his hand, her thoughts began to unravel in vivid, delicious detail.

“You’re in my bed, Benedict. Shirtless, breathless, and completely at my mercy. Your curls are tousled, your lips kiss-bitten, your hands gripping the sheets because I’m straddling your waist like I belong there—because I do.”

The teacup tilted. Hot tea splashed over the rim, scalding his fingers. He hissed, trying to recover, but Penelope wasn’t finished.

“You whisper my name like a prayer, like a plea, and I take my time with you—slow, wicked, and relentless. I let my fingers trail down your chest, lower, lower still… and when you gasp, it’s music. You want me so badly it aches, and the best part?”

Her mental voice purred.

“You still can’t touch me. Not until I say.”

The teaspoon clattered to the floor.

Violet looked up, concerned. “Benedict, dear? Is something the matter?”

“Fine! All fine!” he said a little too quickly, juggling his teacup and dignity. “Just… spilled a bit. Nothing to fret about, Mother.”

Penelope sat primly across the room, her expression angelic—save for the glint of wicked satisfaction in her eyes. She lifted her own teacup daintily and took a sip, like a woman who had just checkmated the devil.

Daphne was shaking beside her, hand over her mouth to stifle her laugh. “You didn’t,” she whispered, scandalized and thrilled.

“I did,” Penelope whispered back smugly. “He started it.”

From across the room, Benedict gave her a look—a dark, slow, utterly delicious promise.

“Oh, darling,” he thought, sending it to her clear and sultry, “if we’re keeping score, just know you’ve only made it worse for yourself.”

And Penelope?

Well.

She smiled.

Because she hoped so.

———————————————————————

Featherington House, 1813 - The Drawing Room

Penelope sat on the settee by the window, chin tucked in her hand as she gazed dreamily across the square to the elegant façade of Bridgerton House. She was lost in thought—daydreams painted in Benedict’s voice and a thousand imagined kisses—when Briarly’s voice rang out through the doorway.

“A Mr. Benedict Bridgerton here to see Miss Penelope.”

She startled, whirling just in time to see him step into the room. He stood tall and sure, with a bouquet of wildflowers in hand and the look of a man thoroughly in love—and completely unbothered by the presence of a Featherington matriarch.

“Mr. Bridgerton, what a pleasant surprise. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?” Portia Featherington greeted, smile tight as her corset.

“I have come,” Benedict replied evenly, eyes locked on Penelope, “to ask permission to court Miss Penelope Featherington.”

Portia blinked, stunned into silence for a heartbeat too long.

“You really want to court me?” Penelope asked silently, her thoughts a soft tremble in his mind.

He stepped toward her, smile soft and sure. “Of course I do, my darling.”

“Oh! How lovely,” Portia said, her voice artificially bright as she smoothed her skirts. “Of course you have my permission to court Penelope.”

Benedict offered her a gracious bow, then turned his full attention back to the only woman in the room who mattered.

“These are for you,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “And I was wondering if you would accompany me on a walk through my mother’s garden?”

“Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.” Penelope stood, her smile blooming like spring itself. “A walk sounds lovely.”

Her lady’s maid stepped forward to take the flowers, and Benedict offered his arm. Penelope’s fingers curled around his bicep with a playful squeeze.

“Oh, your arm is very big. Nice and strong.”

He sent her a subtle wink as they stepped out into the sunlit square.

Bridgerton Garden, Moments Later

General POV

“Now that we’re somewhat alone,” Benedict murmured, leaning close to her ear, “you can stop calling me Mr. Bridgerton. I much prefer Ben.”

Penelope laughed softly. “You are such a flirt.”

“Well, you started it,” he replied with a teasing smile. “Sending all those thoughts when we’re in public. I quite like this bold side of you, Penelope Featherington.”

“I had to do something to get you to notice me. Nothing else worked,” she said with a sigh, brushing her fingers along the edge of a rosebush. “And I’m not going to apologize for it.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” He stopped walking, his voice gentling. “But you have to know—I’ve always noticed you. I’ve been silently falling in love with you my whole life.”

Penelope stopped in her tracks, heart in her throat. She turned to look at him, eyes wide, vulnerable and glowing.

“I love you too, Ben,” she said quietly.

He took her hands, threading their fingers together. “I only asked your mother for permission because I needed an excuse to get you out here. I’ve something to ask you… and I couldn’t think of a better place to do it than where I first began to love you.”

Penelope tilted her head, curiosity blooming—until he dropped to one knee.

Time stopped.

“I had a speech prepared,” Benedict began, voice trembling with emotion. “But you already hear everything I think. So all I need to say is this: Penelope Featherington, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Her breath hitched. The world spun and realigned.

“Yes,” she whispered, and then with more joy than she’d ever known, “Yes! Of course I will marry you!”

Benedict beamed as he slid the ring onto her finger and rose to his feet, cradling her face and capturing her lips in a kiss that was both a promise and a benediction. She melted into him, heart soaring.

A rustle from the hedges broke the spell.

“Did she say yes?” Daphne hissed from her hiding spot behind the arbor.

Benedict groaned and pressed his forehead to Penelope’s with a chuckle. She giggled, eyes bright.

“I said yes, Daphn!” she called out, barely containing her laughter.

Daphne squealed and darted into view, practically tackling Penelope in a hug. “Pixie, this means we’re sisters!”

The rest of the Bridgertons appeared, some cheering, some teary-eyed, and Violet—gracious and glowing—smiled like she had just witnessed the moon kiss the sea.

And in the center of it all, Penelope and Benedict stood hand in hand, smiling so radiantly that even the sun looked on in envy.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796. Penelope Featherington and Daphne Bridgerton are best friends.

Soulmate AU where your soulmate hears everything. Every intrusive thought. Every panic spiral. Every steamy daydream.

(Your mental voice is the same as your speaking voice.) ———————————————————————

Flashback – Hyde Park, 1796

General POV

The sun shone soft and dappled through the trees, casting flickering golden light over Hyde Park. A picnic blanket lay sprawled beneath the shade of a wide oak, its corners weighed down by a modest basket and a bonnet that had long since been discarded in favor of play. Violet Bridgerton sat serenely, a picture of elegance even in repose, her hands gently rocking a drowsy Eloise in her arms.

Four-year-old Daphne Bridgerton sat cross-legged beside her mother, shoes off, curls tumbling wildly, and cheeks pink with anticipation. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she spotted a familiar figure a few yards off.

“Mama, may I go play?” Daphne asked, already halfway to standing, her finger pointing eagerly toward a patch of grass by the duck pond where a solitary little redhead was poking at a dandelion.

“Of course, dearest,” Violet said, her voice lilting and warm. “Just don’t go too near the water. We’ve had quite enough soggy hems for one spring.”

“Yes, Mama!” Daphne grinned, already sprinting off, curls bouncing behind her like a ribbon caught in the breeze.

She practically launched herself at her friend.

“Pipette!” she cried joyfully.

Penelope Featherington, who had been solemnly whispering to a dandelion seed like it was her personal courtier, lit up with a grin the moment she saw Daphne barreling toward her.

“Daphie!” Penelope shrieked through a laugh, arms opening just in time to catch her friend in a full-bodied hug that knocked them both to the grass.

They giggled until they were breathless, tangled together in a heap of lace and giggles and mismatched ribbons.

“You said you’d come find me!” Penelope declared, her face aglow with delight.

“And I did!” Daphne said, puffing out her chest proudly. “Even though Colin tried to make me chase frogs.”

“Boys are silly,” Penelope said with a solemn nod.

“Very,” Daphne agreed. “But I’m going to marry someone clever. Like a poet. Or a pirate.”

“Can I come too?” Penelope asked, eyes wide.

“Obviously,” Daphne said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’ll be my chief adventurer.”

They clutched hands, pinkies entwined in a sacred little vow as the ducks quacked their approval nearby.

Anthony’s POV

He heard it before he saw it. A voice—soft and bright and full of innocent laughter—like a bell chiming in the back of his mind.

“Pipette!”

“Daphie!”

The laughter echoed in his skull, distinct, clear as day. And it wasn’t his sister’s.

Anthony froze mid-run. His cricket ball forgotten, the tug-of-war with Benedict and Colin dropped from his hands as a strange feeling prickled down his spine. He turned his head slowly, scanning the park until his eyes landed on the source of the sound.

Daphne and a small red-haired girl were rolling around in the grass by the duck pond, skirts flared and ribbon bows tumbling loose. The girl’s voice—he knew it had to be hers.

Her name, he recalled suddenly, was Penelope. She’d only just started visiting the house, but Daphne had already declared her a best friend.

The realization washed over him like a summer rain: She’s mine. My soulmate.

For a moment, Anthony just watched them. Penelope laughed again, and her thoughts fluttered across his mind like the brush of a feather: pure, sweet, and chaotic in the way only a child’s thoughts could be.

“I hope we find a frog and name it Mister Pickle.”

He snorted without meaning to, then startled as a hand landed gently on his shoulder.

“Anthony?” his father’s voice said, kind and grounding.

He turned to see Edmund Bridgerton looking at him with gentle curiosity.

“What has got you so distracted, my boy?”

Anthony hesitated for only a moment before answering in a quiet voice, not quite a whisper, but low enough to carry just between them.

“I found my soulmate.”

Edmund blinked, and then a slow, warm smile bloomed across his face. “That’s a rare and beautiful thing. Who is she?”

Anthony lifted a hand and pointed, heart thudding as if the act of saying it aloud gave it power.

“Penelope. Daphne’s friend.”

Edmund followed his gaze to the two girls still chattering away, now holding hands and doing a little hop-skip-dance.

“She seems a sweet girl.” Edmund nodded thoughtfully. “Are you going to tell her?”

Anthony shook his head, looking down for a moment before meeting his father’s eyes. “Not yet. She’s just a little girl. She wouldn’t understand.”

Edmund’s expression softened. “Wise beyond your years,” he said, ruffling Anthony’s hair. “There’s no rush. When the time is right, she’ll know. You’ll know.”

Anthony nodded, shoulders squaring slightly, a strange sense of duty settling in his chest. He turned back to watch Penelope—his Penelope—just as she shouted something about chasing pirate ships and leapt over a stick.

He smiled.

One day, she’d know everything.

But for now…

He would wait.

———————————————————————

Flashback - Bridgerton House, 1800

Anthony’s POV

Fifteen-year-old Anthony Bridgerton was trying to hide. Truly, he was.

He crouched behind the garden gate, shoulder pressed against the worn stone pillar, hoping the shadow of the old rosebush might conceal him long enough to breathe.

Not that he had a chance, really. He never did. Not when it came to them.

His sister Daphne and her constant companion—his soulmate—Penelope Featherington were a force of nature. Little terrors in ribbons and bonnets, armed with boundless energy and mischievous glee. And somehow, they always found him.

Because he let them.

Because hearing Penelope laugh made something in his chest unravel in the most confusing, delightful way.

Because when she was near, the air felt brighter, and when she laughed, it rang not only through the garden—but inside his mind.

Sometimes it was just an echo. A stray thought that drifted in like a breeze: I hope he didn’t go near the bees again.

Other times, it was clear as day: I like when he calls me Pixie. That’s mine. Just mine.

He pretended not to notice. But the way his heart reacted? That was harder to ignore.

“Pipette!” Daphne’s voice suddenly rang out across the lawn, triumphant and sing-song. “I found him! He’s by the garden gate!”

A twig snapped to his left. He turned his head slowly and caught sight of Daphne—eight years old, cheeks flushed pink from the chase, standing just past the edge of the hedge with a wild, victorious grin. Her curls were half-unraveled and her pinafore was smudged with grass stains.

“Where’s Penelope?” Anthony asked warily, edging back toward the open gate.

Daphne only smiled—too sweet, too innocent—and pointed behind him.

Anthony turned slowly…

There she stood. Penelope. Eight years old. Red hair gleaming like copper fire in the sunlight. Her freckled face was glowing with pride, and her hands were tucked behind her back like she’d known he would ask for her, like she’d been waiting for him all along.

“You’re really not very good at hide-and-seek, Anthony,” she said matter-of-factly, eyes dancing with mischief. “We found you so easily.”

He gave a dramatic huff. “It’s not fair when you split up, Pixie.”

The nickname rolled off his tongue with a familiarity that made Penelope’s grin stretch wider. He didn’t even remember when he’d started calling her that. It had just… happened. Like so many things between them.

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t hide in the same place every time,” she teased. “You’re practically inviting us to find you.”

Daphne snorted, then launched forward. “Get him!”

They moved as one—two swift streaks of pastel-colored chaos—and lunged. But Anthony saw it coming, and at the last second, he twisted out of reach and bolted down the garden path.

“Run, Anthony! They’re gaining on you!” came Benedict’s gleeful shout from the patio.

The rest of the Bridgerton family was sprawled out like an audience to the chaos. Violet and Edmund were seated at the wrought iron table beneath the ivy-covered arbor, watching their brood with amused fondness.

Fourteen-year-old Benedict lounged on the picnic blanket, legs crossed, sketchbook abandoned as he refereed with dramatic flair. Eloise, all of four and already brimming with attitude, was clinging to his side while Francesca gnawed on a crust of bread nearby. Colin, twelve and always the loudest, was collapsed in a fit of laughter that left tears streaming down his face.

“You can’t run forever, Anthony!” Penelope called out, chasing after him on quick little feet, skirts flapping, curls bouncing. “I will catch you one day!”

The words hit him harder than they should have. Something about the way she said it. Like a promise wrapped in play.

I’ll catch you one day.

Please do, he almost thought back—but bit it down. She didn’t need to hear that. Not yet.

“Go, Penelope!” Edmund called out, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Don’t let him get away!”

Anthony skidded to a stop and turned to glare—playfully—at his father. “Et tu, Father?” he called out, hand on his heart in mock betrayal.

Edmund laughed, eyes warm with delight. “All’s fair in love and hide-and-seek, son!”

Violet, ever the queen of composure, hid her smile behind her teacup but didn’t bother to deny it.

Anthony laughed—loud, open, breathless.

And he kept running.

Not because he wanted to get away.

But because he knew, one day, Penelope Featherington would catch him.

And when she did, he wasn’t sure he’d want to run ever again.

———————————————————————

Flashback - Bridgerton House, 1803

General POV

The family was back at Bridgerton House, it’s been a few months since the unexpected death of Edmund Bridgerton. His death hit the family hard, Violet spent many weeks in her room crying and isolating herself. But over time and with help from her children and their love for her she was able to come out of her room. Her children needed her especially her younger children six year old Francesca, two year old Gregory and her newborn baby, Hyacinth.

Eleven year old, Penelope had left the family to grieve and waited for an invitation to visit again, before Edmund’s death she didn’t need an invitation she could visit whenever she wanted. But she made the decision to wait for an invitation.

Eleven year old, Daphne’s letter came not long after she made the decision to wait for an invite.

“Pipette, I need you. Please come to Bridgerton House.” Penelope clutched the letter tightly and as she rushed out of her room and out of her house and across the square.

Anthony’s POV

He hadn’t left the study since they returned to Bridgerton House but he knew Penelope was in the house the moment she stepped across the threshold of the front door. He could hear her thoughts of concern about the family and how she could help them and be there for them in whatever way they needed.

But it was her thoughts about Anthony that were the loudest and held the most concern.

“I hope Anthony’s getting enough sleep. I wonder if he’s eating and if he’s eating enough.”

He wanted to leave his study and go find her but he didn’t, he stayed rooted in his place. His hands clenched at his side and his head bowed and his eyes red rimmed with fresh tears.

Violet’s POV

She still felt the loss of her husband keenly but she needed to be there for her children. She spent too long alone, letting them take care of each other, now it was her turn.

After returning to Bridgerton House from Aubrey Hall, Violet dedicated herself to her gardens and her children. And then came the day when Daphne sent for Penelope.

Violet watched from the window as a flash of redhead streaked across the square and straight for their front door. It opened before Penelope could reach it and there was Daphne throwing her arms around her best friend.

Her daughter’s shoulders were shaking and Violet knew that she was crying on Penelope’s shoulder. She was finally grieving in the arms of her best friend and Violet knew that this would bring the two friends closer together.

When Violet made her way downstairs the two friends were inside. Penelope was asking seventeen year old, Benedict how he was doing, resting a comforting hand on sixteen year old, Colin’s shoulder, letting eight year old, Eloise and six year old, Francesca hold onto her waist, holding little two year old, Gregory in her arms but she never strayed far from Daphne’s side. But Violet did notice Penelope’s eyes taking in the room and looking for eighteen year old Anthony and then dimmed slightly in concern when she didn’t see him.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - Daphne’s Room

Penelope’s POV

“Pipette! Can you come help me with this?”

Daphne’s voice floated from the closet, muffled by a battalion of gowns in various pastel shades of silk, satin, and tulle.

Twenty-one-year-old Penelope was curled up on the settee in front of the window, a book open across her lap, bathed in late-afternoon sunlight.

“Coming!” she called, tucking a silk bookmark between the pages before setting it aside. She didn’t ask questions—she didn’t need to. She would do anything for Daphne. It was trust and love built on seventeen years of friendship and mutual mischief.

“What do you need help with, Daphie?” she asked as she stepped into the closet.

Daphne peeked out from behind a shelf, hands tucked behind her back and a suspiciously innocent smile on her lips.

“I didn’t actually need help,” she admitted. “I just needed an excuse to get you in here.”

Before Penelope could protest, Daphne pulled out a sleek black box, wrapped with a purple ribbon tied in a perfect bow.

“What’s this?” Penelope asked, blinking at the unexpected gift.

“It’s for you,” Daphne said softly. “Today marks seventeen years since we met and became best friends. Mama helped me commission it. I hope you like it.”

Penelope hesitated, then carefully accepted the box, fingers trembling slightly as she untied the ribbon. Nestled on soft lavender silk was a new quill. Its feather shimmered in deep violet hues, the handle a polished ebony, engraved in delicate script:

Pipette & Daphie – EST. 1796

Penelope’s breath caught. “Oh, Daphie… it’s beautiful. But—I didn’t get you anything.”

Daphne moved to her side, resting her head on Penelope’s shoulder and slipping an arm around her waist.

“You didn’t need to,” she said. “I just wanted to do something special. To show you how much I love you, how important you are to me. You’ve always been there, Pipette. When Papa died, you didn’t try to fix it. You just held me and let me cry, and that was exactly what I needed. You’re my best friend, and you’re stuck with me forever.”

Penelope’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She turned and pulled Daphne into a tight hug, squeezing her like she might never let go.

Neither girl noticed the figure standing in the doorway until a warm voice broke the quiet.

“So I take this to mean that Penelope likes her new quill?”

They both jumped slightly, turning to find Violet Bridgerton watching them with a fond smile.

“I love it, Miss Vi. Thank you for helping Daphne commission it,” Penelope said, still clinging to Daphne, a bright smile on her face.

“You’re welcome, dear. You’re family, after all. Always have been.” Violet stepped forward, gently cupping their cheeks with both hands in an affectionate gesture.

“Exactly!” Daphne grinned. “I was just telling Pipette she’s stuck with me forever.”

“I came up to tell you dinner’s ready,” Violet said, her smile turning playful, “but it seems I’ve stumbled into a flashback—two little girls hiding in the closet, plotting your next scheme to torment poor Anthony.”

“He made it so easy,” Daphne said unrepentantly.

“Poor boy never stood a chance—especially when you two split up and ambushed him from both sides.” Violet chuckled.

“He deserved it,” Penelope added slyly. “And considering how devastatingly handsome he turned out, he’s lucky we don’t start tormenting him again for old time’s sake.”

“Pipette!” Daphne gasped, dissolving into laughter.

Penelope just shrugged, grinning like a fox in the henhouse.

“Never change, Penelope,” Violet said with a soft laugh. “It’s good for him to stay on his toes.”

Still giggling, Daphne and Penelope linked arms and headed out of the closet, whispering and laughing like the little girls they used to be. Violet followed, her heart full, as she watched her daughter and her daughter-in-heart walk side by side—just as they always had.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Dining Room.

General POV

Daphne and Penelope were still filling and whispering when they walked into the dining room and took their seats. Penelope’s usual seat being between Daphne and Benedict, her bright blue eyes taking in the room and stopping briefly on Anthony. He was sitting at the head of the table looking at nothing and resting his fingers on the stem of his wine glass, twisting it around slowly.

Anthony’s POV

He heard her long before he saw her enter the dining room, he’s always heard her. How could he not, her voice has been in his head since he was eleven years old and she was just four. He’s heard everything she has thought over the years, all the horrible things that have been said to her by her own family. All of her happy thoughts, memories and dreams, her wishes. He’s heard everything when she would panic, when she would be excited, when she was exhausted, even when she was crying. He’s heard it all, even her thoughts of him and he still hasn’t told her the truth, that he’s her soulmate.

He has long since been able to hide his thoughts from her, it hurt him to do that to her. But it was something that he had to do to protect her from himself. He loved her, he always has and he always will. But he will not put her through the pain that his mother went through when she lost his father, he could not do that to Penelope.

“He’s lucky we don’t start tormenting him again. He would deserve it.”

Penelope’s voice echoed in his head.

———————————————————————

Penelope’s POV

She was whispering to Daphne when she felt Benedict lean over and his shoulder touch hers gently.

“What have you got there, Penelope?” He asked curiously, nodding at the box in her lap.

“Oh it’s a gift from Daphne to commemorate the day we met. Your mother helped her have it commissioned. It’s so beautiful and I love it.” Penelope explains, gently opening the box so that he could see what it was.

“It is beautiful. Seventeen years of friendship and mischief. How could I ever forget that? You and Daphne always used to torment Anthony. I think he slept with his boots on for a month just waiting for you both to attack him.” Benedict comments with a laugh.

“He’s lucky we don’t start tormenting him again for old times sake. He would deserve it.” Penelope replied, smiling mischievously. Benedict threw his head back in laughter and slapped the table.

The family glanced in their direction to see what was so funny and they saw Benedict silently wheezing and Penelope sitting there in perfect innocence with a seren smile on her face.

“What’s so funny?” Colin asked, wanting to hear the joke.

“Oh Benedict is just remembering past mischief and old wounds.” Penelope replied innocently, sharing a look with Daphne.

———————————————————————

Hyde Park, 1813 - A Promenade

General POV

It was a beautiful afternoon, the sort that made Hyde Park seem like a painting brought to life.

Penelope strolled along the winding path with her arm looped gently through Violet Bridgerton’s, a fond smile on her lips. On Violet’s other side, Lady Danbury’s cane tapped a rhythmic beat as they walked, ever a regal presence beside them.

Just ahead of their little party, Simon and Daphne ambled arm in arm, lost in quiet conversation.

Trailing just behind, Anthony kept a sharp eye on his sister and her suitor. That had been his excuse, at least—his official reason for joining the promenade. But the moment Penelope had linked arms with his mother and strolled away with the women, his attention had slipped from Daphne entirely.

It was Penelope who held his gaze now. It had always been her.

“They really do make a beautiful couple,” Violet remarked fondly, giving Penelope’s arm a soft squeeze.

“He’s as stubborn as a mule,” Lady Danbury snorted. “If anyone can get him to relax, it’s Daphne. And if she can’t manage it alone, we both know she’ll summon reinforcements.”

Both women glanced at Penelope, expecting some sort of giggle or commentary, but she was looking ahead—smiling softly at the sight of Daphne glancing up at Simon, her expression bright and full of unguarded affection.

“I hope I find someone who looks at me the way Simon looks at Daphne,” Penelope thought wistfully.

Anthony’s POV

Anthony had only looked away for a heartbeat—his gaze flickering from Penelope to Simon and Daphne—when he heard it.

“I hope I find someone who looks at me the way Simon looks at Daphne.”

Penelope’s voice echoed through his mind with such quiet ache that it slammed into his chest like a wave.

It was so sudden, so unfiltered, so hers—and for a split second, he stumbled. His boots faltered on the gravel path, and had he not caught himself, he might’ve crashed right into her.

But no one noticed. The day carried on in peace.

Until it didn’t.

“Anthony Bridgerton!”

The yell sliced through the quiet like a knife.

The group halted at once—Violet, Penelope, and Lady Danbury coming to a stop just as Simon and Daphne turned back.

Anthony pivoted instinctively toward the voice.

Lord Nigel Berbrooke was barreling toward him like a puffed-up pigeon, a crumpled piece of parchment in one hand and a triumphant, greasy smile on his face.

“I’ve just returned from speaking to the archbishop!” he bellowed. “He’s granted me a special license to marry your sister. Daphne will be my wife, and there is nothing you can do about it!”

Anthony didn’t speak.

He didn’t even think.

His hand clenched into a fist, and before anyone could blink, it flew forward and collided—hard—with Berbrooke’s nose.

The smaller man let out a yelp and crumpled like a poorly constructed footstool, blood pouring from his nostrils as he clutched his face.

“Anthony Bridgerton!” Violet gasped, more out of reflex than real scolding—because truth be told, her tone held very little heat.

Anthony’s eyes darted from his mother to Daphne, and finally to Penelope.

“We need to leave. Now.”

His voice was clipped. Controlled. Boiling just beneath the surface.

He turned sharply and marched toward their waiting carriage.

“Go on, before Anthony comes back and tries to carry all three of you back himself,” Lady Danbury quipped, waving them forward with a flick of her cane.

Violet moved first, gliding after her son with practiced grace. Daphne and Penelope lingered just long enough to link hands. Together, they stepped neatly over Berbrooke’s prone body.

Daphne’s foot landed a swift, unapologetic kick to his stomach. Penelope’s heel found the edge of the crumpled parchment and tore it straight down the middle with satisfying finality.

The carriage ride back to Bridgerton House was cloaked in silence.

Anthony sat alone on one bench, his jaw clenched, his hand still curled into a tight fist atop his thigh.

On the opposite bench, Daphne was flanked by her mother and Penelope, each woman quietly holding one of her hands.

No one said a word.

And when the carriage rolled to a halt outside the house, Anthony was the first to move—jumping down from the carriage before the footman could even approach.

He helped Violet down, then Daphne, then Penelope, his hands gentle despite the fire still burning in his veins.

The moment her feet hit the ground, he turned and stalked into the house without another word.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Drawing Room

General POV

Anthony was pacing like a caged lion in the center of the drawing room when Violet entered. The only other occupants were Benedict and Colin—everyone else had been wisely ushered off to their rooms or the library.

“What happened at the park?” Benedict asked the moment he saw their mother’s face. “Anthony looks ready to murder someone.”

Daphne and Penelope slipped in silently behind her. They sat close on the settee near the fireplace, whispering furiously, hands flailing with quiet urgency. A Lady Whistledown column was in the works—one that would destroy Lord Berbrooke without dragging Daphne into scandal.

“Lord Berbrooke has been granted a special license to marry Daphne,” Violet said, eyes fixed on her son as he continued pacing.

“Wait, can he do that?” Colin asked, brows furrowing as he looked to his sister in alarm. “Just… force someone to marry him?”

Anthony’s POV

The pain in Anthony’s hand was a dull throb now—forgotten, really—until Colin’s words reignited the fire.

“He’s angry because Daphne rejected his suit. He came to me, tried to strong-arm me into agreeing on her behalf. I refused,” Anthony growled through clenched teeth. “Then he tried to blackmail me. Said he’d expose a moment he caught Daphne and Simon alone in the gardens at a ball. This marriage license? It’s a last-ditch attempt to regain control. He thinks he can scare us into accepting it.”

Then, like a whipcrack, a voice echoed through his mind.

“How can I write a Lady Whistledown column exposing Berbrooke while also keeping Daphne safe from scandal?”

Anthony froze.

Penelope’s voice.

In his head.

His heart stuttered. His eyes snapped to her. His Penelope. Lady Whistledown.

“You’re… Lady Whistledown?” he asked, breathless with disbelief—and awe.

The room froze.

“Anthony?” Violet said gently, cautiously.

Colin’s jaw dropped. Benedict sat down so fast he missed the chair arm and half-fell into it.

On the settee, Daphne and Penelope whipped around to face him.

“What makes you say that, brother?” Daphne asked, a little too calm. Suspiciously calm.

“I heard her,” Anthony said numbly. “She was thinking about writing the next column… about Berbrooke. But without exposing you. I… I heard her thoughts.”

Penelope’s eyes widened, filling with tears. “You can hear my thoughts?”

Anthony stepped forward, hand reaching for her. “I can explain—”

She flinched.

His heart broke clean in two.

“No.” Penelope shook her head, her voice trembling. “You just said you heard my thoughts. The only way you could do that is if…”

“If I was your soulmate,” Anthony finished, unable to hide the truth anymore.

Silence.

“Anthony Bridgerton,” Violet said, voice low and trembling, “is Penelope your soulmate?”

“Yes,” he whispered, eyes dropping to the floor.

Violet’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. Colin made a noise like a strangled chicken. Benedict blinked like his brain was buffering.

Daphne was glaring, fire in her eyes. And Penelope—Penelope was crying, shaking her head in disbelief.

“How long have you known?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Pixie—please,” Anthony begged.

But she flinched again at the nickname, and it cut deeper than any blade.

“No.” Her voice rose. “How long, Anthony?”

He swallowed hard. “Since we were children.”

“Bloody hell,” Colin muttered. Violet didn’t even blink at the curse.

Penelope gasped softly, Daphne clutching her hand tighter. “You’ve known since we were children? And you never told me? Why can’t I hear your thoughts?”

“I—I learned to block them,” he admitted, lifting his eyes to hers. “Years ago.”

“So you’ve heard everything I’ve ever thought. All the awful things my family has said to me, all the times I’ve cried, everything… and you said nothing. Why?”

“I was eleven when I first heard your voice. I knew what it meant. I told my father… and he asked if I’d tell you. I said I would. When you were older. When you could understand. But then he died and I—I couldn’t. I watched what it did to my mother, losing him. That kind of pain… I couldn’t risk it for you. I thought I was protecting you.”

He took a step forward, hand trembling. “I never wanted to hurt you, Pixie.”

Daphne stood now, shielding Penelope behind her as the redhead wept.

“But you did hurt me,” Penelope whispered. “All this time I thought I didn’t have a soulmate. Or that I wasn’t worthy of one. But you were right in front of me, and you didn’t want me.”

“I do want you. I love you,” he said hoarsely. “You are worthy of everything.”

Penelope looked at him through her tears. “I thought you were different. But you’re just like the rest of the ton.”

With that, she let Daphne lead her away. Anthony watched her go, felt his chest hollow out as the door closed behind them. She’d taken his heart with her.

He collapsed to the floor, knees giving out, head bowed so low it touched the rug. His fist slammed against the floor once, then again.

And again.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - Lady Whistledown

General POV

The column arrived when the family was gathered in the drawing room. Every sibling—from Benedict to Colin, Daphne to Eloise, Francesca to Gregory and little Hyacinth—was there. Daphne was still shooting furious looks at Anthony, who hadn’t moved from the chair tucked in the back corner of the room. He was staring out the window, eyes fixed across the square where the Featherington house sat, silent and waiting.

Anthony wasn’t even paying attention to the murmurs around him, so he missed when Lady Whistledown’s column was quietly placed on the table. Voices drifted into his subconscious, but all he could hear was Penelope’s voice echoing in his mind.

And then—

“Dearest Gentle Reader,

This author has a few juicy pieces of gossip for you all. First being Lord Nigel Berbrooke, the man who interrupted a promenade in Hyde Park yesterday between Daphne Bridgerton and Simon Bassett, the Duke of Hastings.

Lord Berbrooke was heard calling out to Lord Bridgerton, who was also in the park that day, walking slightly behind his mother, Lady Violet Bridgerton, Miss Penelope Featherington, and Lady Danbury.

Berbrooke had acquired a special license from the archbishop that would allow him to marry Daphne Bridgerton without her consent. Lord Bridgerton was spotted punching Lord Berbrooke in the nose before glancing at his mother, saying something, then spinning on his heel and storming away.

Lady Bridgerton followed after him, while Lady Danbury waved the three women on before Lord Bridgerton returned and tried to carry all three to the carriage himself.

Lady Bridgerton was quick to follow, but Daphne Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington linked hands before stepping over Lord Berbrooke. Miss Bridgerton kicked the man in the stomach, and Miss Featherington stepped on the forgotten parchment.

But that’s not all about Lord Berbrooke. It seems the man is hiding an illegitimate son and abuses his female staff, threatening them into silence.

The last piece of gossip I have is about our very own Lord Bridgerton. It seems congratulations are in order, for our dear Viscount has found his soulmate.

He has known since he was eleven who his soulmate was but chose to keep it to himself rather than tell her.

Who is his soulmate? I have it on good authority that his soulmate is none other than Penelope Featherington, best friend of Lord Bridgerton’s sister Daphne.

But there was nothing romantic about it when the truth came out. It all came in a heated moment when Lord Bridgerton overheard Miss Featherington and, without thinking, asked her what exactly she was thinking.

The confrontation happened in front of his mother, his brothers Benedict and Colin, and his sister Daphne in the family’s drawing room.

Since learning the truth, Miss Featherington has not been seen at Bridgerton House when Lord Bridgerton is present.

This author would like to send her well wishes. The hurt of learning your soulmate has been in front of you for years but stayed silent must be gut-wrenching. Keep your head up, Miss Featherington, and remember: men are all fools.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown.”

Eloise’s voice broke off at the end of the column.

“Is that why Penelope hasn’t been to visit?” little Hyacinth asked, her voice trembling with concern.

No one spoke for a long moment, all eyes drifting to Anthony.

Violet sighed softly when Anthony didn’t move and explained the situation to her children.

“But why would he keep it from Penelope? I mean, it’s Penelope—the kindest, sweetest, most beautiful person in the world. She’s always been there when we needed her. And not only that, she gives the best hugs,” Gregory said, confusion plain on his face.

Anthony’s jaw clenched tightly, his knuckles whitening on the arm of the chair. For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Then, with a voice rough from days of silence and regret, he finally admitted,

“Because I am an idiot who doesn’t deserve her.”

“He hasn’t spoken since Penelope left days ago,” Colin whispered to Benedict, who silently nodded. Both had witnessed the painful scene when Anthony collapsed after Penelope left the room with Daphne. They knew Penelope needed time to heal before she could ever speak to Anthony again.

“You are an absolute idiot, and if you ever hurt my best friend again, I swear I’ll bury you under the garden gate and plant roses on top. Don’t make me regret lending you a hand,” Daphne huffed, stomping over to stand in front of her eldest brother.

Anthony tilted his head up to meet her gaze; his eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. His voice cracked with despair as he murmured,

“How am I supposed to fix this, Daphne? She won’t set foot in the house if I’m anywhere near.”

Daphne’s tone softened but held firm, her words steady as a heartbeat,

“Because Penelope’s stronger than you think. And she wants to talk—to understand. You’ve got to fill in the blanks, Anthony. And if she forgives you… then you spend every day proving she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you. No excuses.”

The room seemed to exhale together, the tension easing just a bit, wrapped in the silent support only a family could provide—a fragile, hopeful promise in the air.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Garden

With help from Benedict, Daphne led a blindfolded Penelope through the halls of Bridgerton House and out into the backyard.

“What is going on, Daphie?” Penelope asked, her voice light with curiosity as she clung tightly to Benedict’s arm. “Usually when a blindfold is involved, we’re playing blind man’s bluff.”

“It’s a surprise, Pipette,” Daphne said, her voice soft and laced with something almost reverent. “I promise it’s going to be worth it. You just have to trust me.”

And Penelope did trust her. So, with a quiet breath, she nodded and didn’t ask another question.

She felt the warmth of Benedict’s hand slip away when they came to a stop somewhere outside. The familiar perfume of lilacs and roses danced on the breeze, and she knew exactly where they were—by the garden gazebo, the place where everything always seemed a little more enchanted.

Daphne gave her hand a final gentle squeeze.

Then… silence.

Penelope reached up to remove the blindfold, but gentle hands stopped her. The breath in her lungs caught and stuttered when she felt the touch—warm, grounding, and achingly familiar.

Anthony.

“Please…” his voice was low, nearly lost in the hush of the garden. “Keep it on for a few more minutes. I need to explain. And if I see your eyes… I’ll lose everything I’ve planned to say.”

His lips barely brushed the shell of her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

Slowly, Penelope let her hands fall to her sides again, trusting the wind and the moment to carry her forward.

And then—

His voice.

Not aloud, not truly. But within.

He let her hear everything—everything—he had locked away inside himself. Years of silent devotion poured into her thoughts: love unspoken, tenderness disguised in scowls and sidelong glances, fierce protectiveness he never dared to voice.

The truth of why he had stayed silent. Of the guilt, the fear, the overwhelming ache that came with loving her so deeply and believing he didn’t deserve her.

His hands found her arms and drew her gently back against his chest. His forehead rested lightly on the top of her head.

“I really am sorry I kept the truth from you, Pixie,” he whispered. “I should’ve told you long before now. What I did—what I didn’t do—was wrong. I was so afraid of losing you, and the truth is… if I lost you, it would destroy me.”

He exhaled shakily, fingers brushing her arms like a prayer.

“I love you, Penelope. And there’s something else—something more. At night, when the house is quiet, even you asleep… I would lie awake and imagine what it could be like. I’d picture asking you to court me. Walking with you through Hyde Park. Dancing with you—not just at balls, but out here, under the stars, in the gazebo, just the two of us.

I’d let you and Daphne tease me mercilessly, if it meant hearing you laugh.

And when the time was right, I’d ask you to marry me. On our wedding day, I’d cry—and I wouldn’t care who saw. All I’d see is you walking toward me, and I’d forget the rest of the world. You’ve always been beautiful… but in your wedding dress, Penelope, you’d look like a goddess. You’d take my breath away.”

He paused, voice trembling with a tender ache.

“I used to wonder what our children would look like—if they’d have your eyes, your smile… or be a perfect blend of us both.

I miss you so much, Pixie. Please… forgive me for being an absolute idiot and keeping this from you.”

With shaking fingers, he gently removed the blindfold.

Penelope didn’t turn right away. She simply leaned back into his chest and let herself breathe again.

“You are an idiot,” she said softly.

Then she turned in his arms and looked up at him. And when their eyes met for the first time in days, Anthony felt his heart lurch with the force of every emotion he’d tried so hard to bury.

“But you’re my idiot,” Penelope added, smiling through the shimmer of unshed tears.

He stared at her in awe, like she was sunrise after endless night.

She reached up and cupped his face in her hands, gentle and sure.

“I love you too, Anthony,” she whispered.

Then she rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his in a slow, tender kiss that felt like coming home.

Far above them, in the upstairs hallway window, the entire Bridgerton family was gathered—watching with quiet, wide-eyed reverence.

And not a single one of them said a word.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope was born in 1792 instead of 1796.

———————————————————————

Hyde Park, 1797 - The Meeting.

The breeze was gentle that spring afternoon, rustling the wildflowers along the edge of the grassy knoll where the Featheringtons strolled, dresses fluttering like petals in motion. Five-year-old Penelope Featherington was scampering after her mother and sisters, her tiny slippers catching on a root hidden in the grass.

She tumbled forward with a startled gasp, landing hard on her hands and knees. Her bonnet tipped sideways, and her lower lip quivered as she tried not to cry. The sting on her knees brought tears to her eyes, but the sting of being left behind—unnoticed—hurt just as much.

Just as she sniffled and wiped at her cheek with one gloved hand, a soft voice rang out.

“Are you alright?”

Penelope blinked up through her lashes to find another girl her age standing over her, the hem of her pale blue dress brushing the grass. Her curls were the color of spun honey, and her eyes were wide with concern.

“I’m alright,” Penelope whispered, brushing at her scraped knees. “I just hurt my knees a little.”

The girl crouched beside her like a proper little lady who hadn’t yet been taught not to wrinkle her dress. “I’m Daphne. Daphne Bridgerton.” She smiled warmly and held out a hand.

“I’m Penelope. Penelope Featherington.” Penelope took her hand carefully, surprised by how steady and kind it felt.

Daphne tilted her head, considering her new acquaintance. “Do you want to be friends?”

Penelope’s entire face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. “I would love to be friends.”

Without another word, Daphne gently tugged her up by the hand and they both began skipping, skirts swishing, toward the heart of the park where a colorful picnic had been laid out. Daphne didn’t let go.

Violet Bridgerton, seated on a large tartan blanket and cradling baby Eloise in her arms, looked up from a basket of strawberries just in time to see her daughter dragging along a ginger-haired girl with grass stains on her knees and curiosity in her eyes.

“Mama!” Daphne beamed proudly, her hand still linked with Penelope’s. “This is Penelope Featherington and she’s mine now.”

Violet raised her brows in amusement but offered a gentle, welcoming smile. “Is she indeed?” she said, brushing a lock of hair from her face. “Well then, I suppose she must stay for tea.”

She looked to Penelope kindly. “Hello, Miss Penelope. Any friend of Daphne’s is welcome in our family. You may call me Violet, or even Miss Vi if you like. Whichever makes you most comfortable.”

Penelope’s voice was small but sincere. “Hello, Miss Vi. It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Well aren’t you just the sweetest thing,” Violet murmured, her tone soft and warm, already taking a liking to the gentle-eyed girl with a smile like honey.

Suddenly, a flurry of energy approached.

“Who’s this?” came a confident young voice.

The Bridgerton boys had been wrestling on the nearby lawn, grass stains blooming on their trousers like badges of honor. Now they gathered around with the same chaotic curiosity only siblings could produce.

A dark-haired boy with a self-important expression stepped forward first. “I’m Anthony,” he said with an exaggerated bow, his hand over his heart. “The eldest—and most charming.”

Penelope blinked at him, uncertain.

Daphne huffed. “He says that about everything.”

Before Penelope could respond, another boy popped up beside him, his smile askew and shirt slightly untucked. “I’m Benedict,” he said, pushing a curl from his eye. “Do you like to draw? I do. I drew a dragon this morning, but Daphne said it looked like a fat goose.”

“It did,” Daphne muttered.

“I’m Colin,” said the third boy, elbowing Benedict aside like a true sibling combatant. “Don’t let Anthony fool you. I’m the most charming. And the best at hide-and-seek. I once hid in a cupboard for two hours and no one found me.”

“That’s because you fell asleep,” Benedict pointed out.

Penelope giggled, unable to help herself. They were ridiculous—and she liked them.

“I think you’re all very charming,” she said politely, cheeks pink with delight.

Violet stifled a laugh and cradled Eloise, who was now chewing on her own fist with sleepy indifference. “Boys, give Penelope some space or you’ll scare her off before the strawberries are served.”

“She doesn’t look scared,” Daphne defended, taking Penelope’s hand again. “She looks happy.”

Penelope nodded. “I am.”

Just then, a tall figure approached from the lake, wiping his hands on a kerchief. His brown hair glinted in the sun and his smile was easy as he caught sight of the new arrival.

“Well, well,” he said in a voice rich with fondness. “Who is this adorable little wildflower?”

“This is Penelope,” Violet said, looking up. “Daphne has claimed her.”

The man crouched down to Penelope’s level with the gentleness of someone used to comforting small children and rowdy sons alike. “Hello, wildflower,” he said kindly. “You may call me Eddie, if you like. Everyone else does.”

Penelope placed her tiny hand in his without hesitation. “Hello, Mr. Eddie.”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re going to fit in just fine.”

And as the Bridgertons began to rearrange the picnic to make room for one more, Penelope felt—perhaps for the very first time—that she was not just seen, but wanted.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1800 - The Garden.

The sun shone warm and golden over the Bridgerton estate, casting dappled light through the leaves of the towering trees lining the back garden. The air was filled with birdsong, the distant hum of bees, and—loudest of all—laughter.

Fifteen-year-old Anthony Bridgerton dashed across the lawn, shirt untucked, cheeks flushed, and grinning like a boy with no regrets. Hot on his heels was an eight-year-old Penelope Featherington, breathless and determined, her copper curls bouncing beneath the ribbon of her bonnet as she ran.

“You cheated, Anthony Bridgerton!” Penelope cried, pointing an accusatory finger as she chased after him. “You are in so much trouble when I catch you!”

Her words might have sounded threatening if not for the bubble of laughter that burst out of her mid-sentence.

On the wide stone patio, Colin, Daphne, and Benedict watched the chase unfold with great amusement, lounging on the low garden wall like spectators at a play.

“Ten shillings says she tackles him before tea,” Benedict said with a grin, tossing a pebble between his hands.

“She’s small, but she’s terrifying,” Colin added, nodding sagely. “And he did cheat.”

“I taught her how to tackle,” Daphne said smugly, sipping from a cup of lemonade. “If she breaks his ankle, it’s technically my fault.”

From their shaded spot beneath a tree, Violet and Edmund stood arm-in-arm, watching the scene with soft smiles and crinkled eyes. Violet was wearing a lavender day dress and a ribbon that matched Eloise’s bonnet, while Edmund leaned slightly toward her, chuckling.

“One day,” Edmund said with a knowing smile, “he is going to marry that girl. Mark my words, love.”

Violet snorted softly and tapped his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Oh hush. Don’t start.”

“You didn’t say no,” he teased, grinning.

“Because I’m not blind,” she replied with a smirk. “But let the poor boy figure it out on his own.”

In the grass a little ways off, four-year-old Eloise and three-year-old Francesca sat on a picnic blanket surrounded by wooden dolls and wildflowers they’d picked themselves. Eloise paused mid-hair-braiding of one poor doll to watch her eldest brother sprint past with Penelope not far behind.

“Penny’s going to get him,” Eloise announced with glee.

Francesca clapped her hands. “Go, Penny! Go!”

“You said the tree was safe!” Penelope shrieked as she lunged toward Anthony, nearly catching the edge of his sleeve. She stumbled a bit, but righted herself without falling.

“You can’t just say that and then tag me anyway when I was at the designated safe zone!” she huffed, her voice full of righteous fury and more laughter.

Anthony slowed just long enough to grin over his shoulder, dimples on full display. “It was a strategy, Wildflower,” he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it belonged there—and only there. “A very successful one, I might add.”

He didn’t let anyone else call her that. The name had started with Edmund, but somewhere along the line, Anthony had claimed it for himself, fiercely and quietly. It was his way of seeing her—even when others didn’t.

“You were close that time,” he added, turning back into a jog. “But not close enough.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed with mock menace. “I’m going to push you in the fish pond when I catch you!”

“That’s the spirit!”

She took off again, determined and pink-faced, the sun catching in her hair like fire and honey. Behind her, the garden hummed with life—siblings laughing, flowers nodding in the breeze, and the soft murmur of two parents watching a love story begin, quietly and unknowingly, right in front of them.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1803 - The Study.

The Bridgerton home was quieter these days. Not the peaceful kind of quiet that comes from calm afternoons and sunlit reading nooks — no, this was the heavy, aching sort of silence that filled rooms like smoke after a fire. The kind of quiet that settled in your bones.

After Edmund Bridgerton’s sudden passing, everything shifted. The laughter that had once echoed through the halls had dimmed. Violet Bridgerton hadn’t left her bedroom in weeks. Anthony, at just eighteen, had been named Viscount. Overnight, the weight of the entire family had landed on his shoulders — and he hadn’t once allowed himself to set it down.

The study, which once smelled of parchment, ink, and Edmund’s favorite pipe tobacco, now held the sterile scent of dust and a closed window. Anthony stood by that very window, back rigid, hands clenched behind him. He wasn’t really looking at anything. Just staring — out at the garden where once he’d chased a red-haired girl across the lawn.

The door creaked open behind him, but he didn’t turn.

“Anthony?” came a soft voice — small, uncertain, yet unmistakable.

His shoulders dropped just slightly at the sound.

He turned slowly, almost reluctantly, and there stood eleven-year-old Penelope Featherington in her Sunday dress, her curls slightly windblown from the walk over. She looked tiny in the vast doorway, but her eyes were steady — wide with worry.

His gaze met hers, and the red rims around his eyes told her everything before she even reached him.

Without a word, Penelope stepped forward, her shoes making soft clicks on the floor, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist in a fierce, protective hug. The kind of hug that said: I’m not going anywhere.

Anthony blinked a few times, stunned. Then, without hesitation, he folded himself around her, arms pulling her in close like she was the last bit of warmth in a winter storm.

“What are you doing here, Wildflower?” he murmured, his voice gravelly and soft, the nickname falling from his lips like muscle memory.

Penelope tilted her head against his chest, her voice muffled. “Daphne sent me a letter. She said you hadn’t left this room in days. I got worried.” She paused, then added in a whisper, “I wanted to come and check on you. And maybe… give you a hug.”

Anthony let out the smallest, broken exhale — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. His arms tightened, just a bit.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Neither of them noticed the cracked study door, or the trio of faces peeking quietly around it. Benedict, Colin, and Daphne stood in the hall, shoulder to shoulder, holding their breath as they watched.

And when Anthony finally let his forehead drop against Penelope’s hair, his shoulders shaking as silent tears slipped down his cheeks — they exhaled. A collective sigh of relief. Not because he was crying.

But because, for the first time since their father died… he finally was.

———————————————————————

St. James Palace, 1813 - The Debut.

The scent of polished floors, fresh roses, and expensive perfume hung in the air like nerves made tangible. St. James Palace gleamed with tradition — gilded mirrors, grand chandeliers, and every surface shining as though in competition with the diamonds on display. The throne room brimmed with fluttering fans, powdered faces, and the soft rustle of silk and tulle.

Penelope Featherington stood off to the side near Daphne and Violet Bridgerton, trying not to pick at the gloves on her hands.

“Pen, your feather’s tilting. Here — I’ve got it,” Daphne murmured, reaching up gently to adjust the delicate white plume nestled in Penelope’s strawberry-blonde curls.

Penelope gave a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Daph. Are you ready to be paraded before Her Majesty like a prized bonnet?”

Daphne smirked. “As ready as I’ll ever be. But we’re doing this together — just as we always have.”

She linked her arm through Penelope’s, and Penelope squeezed back. Their dresses matched — white and gold, elegant and youthful — and their feathers bobbed ever so slightly in unison, like a pair of twin swans adrift in a sea of debutants.

Violet watched them with a fond, faraway expression. In her mind’s eye, she saw two five-year-olds skipping across Hyde Park hand-in-hand, one declaring the other hers. Time had passed — the girls had grown — but their bond hadn’t changed a bit. Still loyal. Still mischievous. Still tethered like stars in the same constellation.

“Penelope, come here! We are about to be called in,” Portia Featherington snapped, waving a lace-gloved hand impatiently.

Penelope’s spine straightened. Daphne gave her arm a final, comforting squeeze.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered.

Violet leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Penelope’s temple. “You look radiant, my dear. Breathe.”

Penelope nodded and moved toward her mother, hesitating just long enough to let Portia and her sisters go ahead into the throne room. Her heart was hammering in her chest like a runaway horse.

The doors opened.

She stepped inside.

The room was overwhelming — all gilded moldings, sweeping silks, and eyes. So many eyes.

But then she spotted them.

Eloise stood off to the side, hands clasped behind her back, and offered a sympathetic smile. Benedict and Colin were near one of the great columns, contorting their faces in ridiculous expressions. Colin even waggled his brows like a court jester. Penelope had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

Then her eyes found Anthony.

He was watching her from across the room, tall and composed in his dark, tailored coat — but there was a warmth in his eyes, something unspoken. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even lift a hand. But he smiled softly… and mouthed:

I’m proud of you.

Something in her chest unclenched.

She gave him the tiniest smile back — then remembered where she was.

She turned her attention to Queen Charlotte, who sat on her throne with the kind of regal poise that made even grown men sweat. Penelope dipped into a practiced curtsy, eyes low but steady. The Queen observed her with a slow, calculating once-over… then, to Penelope’s surprise, gave a faint, satisfied smile.

She rose and moved on, heart still fluttering like a trapped bird, but she had done it.

The rest of the ceremony blurred in a daze of white gloves and polite bows. At last, Penelope found herself beside Daphne again. Their gowns shimmered under the light, their feathers catching the breeze as they laughed quietly together.

“The hard part is over, Daph,” Penelope said, cheeks still flushed. “Now we get to prepare for suitors to come calling.”

Daphne snorted. “And we will gossip about the worst ones in excruciating detail.”

“Oh, obviously. I’ve already made a mental list of all the ones I will be pretending to faint around.”

They both laughed — not the demure little titters expected of debutantes, but the genuine kind. The kind that made people glance over.

Anthony approached them from behind, voice low and amused. “And what has the two of you giggling like unruly schoolgirls?”

Penelope turned, brows arched. “Oh, nothing of importance. Just discussing the thrilling parade of suitors soon to come knocking at our doors.”

Daphne coughed into her hand to hide her grin as she caught the subtle change in her brother’s expression — the way his jaw tightened just slightly, the way he blinked twice before regaining composure.

Anthony looked between the two girls, then at Penelope directly. His voice was casual, but his eyes lingered a little longer than they should have.

“Well. I daresay the gentlemen of the ton are… not ready.”

Penelope raised her chin, amusement dancing in her eyes. “They’ll have to be.”

And somewhere behind Anthony, Benedict could be seen silently miming a proposal with an invisible ring while Colin pretended to faint dramatically into Eloise’s arms.

Penelope rolled her eyes, but the laugh that bubbled up was light, free, and full of a kind of joy she hadn’t expected to find on the day of her debut.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - Daphne’s Room.

Sunlight slanted through the curtains, golden and gentle, but there was nothing peaceful about the energy in Daphne’s room. She was pacing in a storm of silk and indignation, lips pressed tight between every frustrated mutter.

“I cannot marry that man, Pen,” she snapped, turning abruptly. “Lord Nigel Berbrooke is—he’s vile. Awful. Rude and disrespectful and—and smug! I don’t know what to do.”

She collapsed onto the chaise beside Penelope in a graceless sigh, skirts fanning dramatically.

Penelope, seated prim and thoughtful, bit her lip. Then, hesitantly, she said, “I… may be able to help.”

Daphne turned toward her, eyes narrowing in curiosity. “How can you help, Pen?”

There was a long pause.

“Lady Whistledown,” Penelope whispered, barely audible.

Daphne blinked. “How can she help me?”

Penelope leaned in, cheeks flushed pink. “Don’t be mad… but I am Lady Whistledown.”

Silence.

Daphne stared, mouth parted slightly, as if her brain had tripped over its own corset strings. “…You’re joking.”

Penelope shook her head, heart in her throat.

Then, suddenly, Daphne grinned. “That’s brilliant! Oh, Pen—wait, you’d have to write something about Berbrooke. You’d need a scandal to make it stick. Something solid.”

Penelope nodded, voice still soft. “I already have something. He has an illegitimate child… and he mistreats his female staff. They’re afraid of him.”

Daphne’s expression darkened. “That bastard.”

“I can’t just publish it out of thin air,” Penelope continued. “It has to be something Lady Whistledown overheard. And for that… we need someone to get the household staff talking.”

“What if…” Daphne paused, glanced toward the door. “What if we tell Mama? She’s practically a magician with subtlety. And she hates Berbrooke almost as much as I do.”

Penelope hesitated. Then she nodded.

The two of them slipped from Daphne’s room like co-conspirators in lace slippers, skirts whispering against the hallway floor, hearts pounding with purpose. They found Violet in her private sitting room, curled up with a novel and a steaming cup of tea.

She looked up as they entered. “Well, this is a surprise. What are you two up to?”

The girls stopped in front of her, their hands clasped tightly together.

“Mama,” Daphne began, “you know I do not wish to marry Lord Berbrooke. Penelope has… come up with a plan. A rather brilliant one.”

Violet closed her book slowly, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. “And what plan is this, Penelope dear?”

Penelope took a breath, eyes fixed on the carpet. “I… am Lady Whistledown.”

Violet blinked once. Then stood.

She crossed the room and wrapped Penelope in a warm, fierce embrace.

“Oh, my darling girl,” she said, cupping Penelope’s cheeks. “You are brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. How can I help?”

Penelope looked up at her, cheeks flushed with relief. “Lord Berbrooke has an illegitimate son… and he’s cruel to his female staff. We need someone to mention it in earshot of the maids, someone who knows how to make it travel. Lady Whistledown needs to overhear the right whispers.”

Violet smiled — the kind of smile that should terrify anyone foolish enough to cross a Bridgerton woman.

“You leave that to me,” she said firmly. “You write the column. I’ll make sure the whispers are planted.”

She touched both girls gently on the cheek, one after the other — soft, maternal, fierce. “No one is forcing my daughter to marry a man like that. Not while I have breath in my body.”

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - The Drawing Room.

After confiding her secret to Violet and Daphne, Penelope wasted no time. The quill moved like a blade in her hand—swift, sharp, and filled with righteous fury. By candlelight, she penned the downfall of Lord Nigel Berbrooke with poise and precision.

The next morning, the drawing room was quiet but thrumming with anticipation. Penelope, having let both Violet and Daphne read her draft before sneaking it to the printer, now sat perched beside her best friend, nerves disguised as a calm sip of tea.

“Pen, this is brilliant,” Daphne had said the night before, eyes alight. “If you hadn’t told me it was you, I never would’ve guessed you were Lady Whistledown.”

She passed the paper to her mother, who read it with a brow slowly arching.

“Daphne is right, dear,” Violet said softly. “You’ve written it so carefully, so cleverly—there’s no traceable scandal for Daphne, only for Lord Berbrooke. It’s masterful.”

Penelope blushed but smiled. “Daphne is my best friend. Of course I’d keep her safe.”

Daphne had promptly launched into a delighted hug, which nearly knocked Penelope’s bonnet askew before she slipped out to make the late-night delivery.

And now—morning had arrived, and with it, Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

Daphne and Penelope sat together on the settee, exchanging smug little glances with Violet every time the rustle of paper came from the hall. Outside the room, the Ton was already ablaze.

It didn’t take long.

“Have you seen this?!” Anthony bellowed, storming into the drawing room, waving the scandal sheet like a gauntlet. “Have you read what that woman wrote about Berbrooke?!”

Violet took a delicate sip of her tea. “Yes, dearest, I have.”

Penelope and Daphne shared a look of sheer, victorious delight. Then, in perfect synchrony, they schooled their expressions into polite innocence, like angels framed in lace and ribbon.

Anthony paced, red in the face. “That man is a disgrace. There is no way—no way—my sister will marry him!”

Violet’s eyes sparkled faintly over the rim of her teacup.

Daphne tried—tried—to look concerned, but the corners of her mouth twitched in rebellion.

Anthony turned to his sister, chest still heaving. “You may select your own suitors, Daphne. I won’t interfere again.”

He exhaled sharply, clearly trying to contain whatever fire still lingered in his chest. Then, without waiting for a reply, he stormed back out of the room, muttering something about pistols and poor parenting.

The second he was gone, Daphne burst into silent giggles.

Penelope grinned and leaned in. “That went better than expected.”

Violet, ever serene, smiled behind her teacup. “Ladies, I do believe Lady Whistledown is doing some rather fine work.”

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1813 - The Foyer & Anthony’s Study.

Penelope had barely stepped across the threshold of Bridgerton House when Daphne descended on her like a well-dressed whirlwind.

“Pen, please, you have to talk to Anthony,” Daphne said breathlessly, clutching Penelope’s arm like a lifeline. “He’s been insufferable. He challenged Simon to a duel at dawn. Had I not stopped it, one or both of them could have been dead. He’s locked himself in his study since.”

Penelope blinked. “A duel? With real pistols?”

Daphne nodded furiously. “Real pistols. At dawn. And—well, Simon and I are engaged now. The wedding’s in two weeks.”

Penelope blinked again. “Congratulations?”

“Yes, yes, thank you—but please, Pen. I know he won’t listen to me, but maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Penelope promised gently. “Anthony may not listen, but he’ll at least hear me out.”

Daphne gave a relieved sigh. “You’re the best. Also, you’re my maid of honor.”

Penelope smiled, a little breathless at the whiplash. “Naturally. Now, wish me luck.”

“Good luck!” Daphne called after her.

From the doorway of the drawing room, Benedict raised a brow. “You sent Penelope off to scold Anthony?”

“Of course I did,” Daphne replied smugly, arms folded. “He’ll pretend he’s not listening, but within five minutes she’ll have him sulking like a scolded schoolboy.”

Benedict chuckled and retreated back into the room. “Poor man doesn’t stand a chance.”

Meanwhile, Penelope made her way to Anthony’s study and turned the knob—unlocked, of course. For all his dramatics, Anthony never truly barred the door.

Inside, he sat slumped behind his desk, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him, eyes fixed on nothing at all.

“You challenged a man to a duel, Anthony. With real pistols. What in God’s name were you thinking?” Penelope asked coolly, her voice slicing through the silence.

He startled slightly, then sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Clearly, I wasn’t thinking, Wildflower. I saw him kissing Daphne and I—snapped. I was thinking about her reputation. What Lady Whistledown might write.”

Penelope crossed to stand in front of the window, her tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to worry about Lady Whistledown writing about Daphne and Simon.”

Anthony frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I am Lady Whistledown,” she said quietly, still not turning around. “And I would never put my best friend in the center of a scandal.”

The silence that followed was dense as fog.

Anthony stared at her, stunned. Penelope Featherington—his little Wildflower—was Whistledown? The girl who used to chase him around the garden for cheating at tag? The girl with ink-stained fingers and a spine of steel?

He let out a slow breath. “I should’ve known. You’re the only person who’s ever dared call me out on my nonsense. The only one who’s ever threatened me over a game of croquet.”

Penelope finally turned, a smug smile tugging at her lips. “And I will continue to call you out on your nonsense, Lord Bridgerton.”

“Heavens help me,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You’ll need it,” she said sweetly, stepping closer. “And while we’re on the subject—apologize to Simon. He’s your best friend, and he loves your sister. A misunderstanding like this shouldn’t come between you.”

Anthony groaned softly. “I will. Tomorrow. Just… allow me tonight to lick my wounds in peace, Wildflower.”

Penelope patted his cheek with exaggerated sympathy. “Very well. But if you don’t, Daphne and Benedict will tell me. And I will return to hit you with the heaviest book in the library.”

Anthony chuckled, but the nervous glance he cast toward the bookshelf betrayed him.

“Understood,” he muttered.

“Good.” She gave him one last satisfied nod and turned toward the door. “Now sit here and reflect on your poor life choices. Preferably without brandishing firearms.”

As she left, Anthony leaned back in his chair, staring at the closed door and shaking his head.

“Lady Whistledown,” he whispered. “Of course it was you.”

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1814 - Lady Danbury’s Four Seasons Ball.

Penelope was by the refreshments table when she was found by Benedict and Eloise. The redhead looked up when she overheard Violet announcing that Anthony was looking for a wife, she turned her head to look at the man himself who was glancing around the room like he was about to become prey.

“Anthony has decided that he is going to marry but not for love but for duty. He is set on marrying whoever the Queen’s Diamond is going to be.” Benedict leaned down to explain when he saw her questioning look

“Oh. Well, that’s… Um, good for him.” Penelope replied, trying to mask the hurt that she felt. Benedict having known Penelope for years wasn’t stupid, he could tell that Penelope was hurt. He just hoped that his brother would pull his head out of his arse and see that what he was looking for was right in front of him.

“Excuse me, I have to go. I’m not feeling very well.” Penelope comments softly. She left before either of the Bridgerton siblings could stop her. “Our brother is an idiot.” Eloise huffs crossing her arms over her chest. “I couldn’t agree more, sister.” Benedict comments, handing her a glass of lemonade.

Penelope hadn’t planned on writing her next Whistledown column on Anthony but when Benedict revealed that Anthony had planned on taking a wife she was hurt. So she fled the ball early and wrote the column. She sent it off to the printers and it was everywhere by morning.

Dearest Gentle Reader

The topic of rakes has, of course, been previously discussed

in this column, and This Author has come to the conclusion

that there are rakes, and there are Rakes.

Anthony Bridgerton is a Rake.

A rake (lower-case) is youthful and immature. He flaunts

his exploits, behaves with utmost idiocy, and thinks himself

dangerous to women.

A Rake (upper-case)

knows

he is dangerous to women.

He doesn't flaunt his exploits because he doesn't need

to. He knows he will be whispered about by men and women

alike, and in fact, he'd rather they didn't whisper about him

at all. He knows who he is and what he has done; further

recountings are, to him, redundant.

He doesn't behave like an idiot for the simple reason that

he isn't an idiot (any moreso than must be expected among

all members of the male gender). He has little patience for

the foibles of society, and quite frankly, most of the time

This Author cannot say she blames him.

And if that doesn't describe Viscount Bridgerton—surely

this season's most eligible bachelor—to perfection, This

Author shall retire Her quill immediately. The only question

is: Will 1814 be the season he finally succumbs to the

exquisite bliss of matrimony?

This Author Thinks...

Not.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

She didn’t stop by the Bridgerton house to visit like she always does, she didn’t want to see Anthony. The entire family knew why she hadn’t come to visit and they all felt her missing presence.

“Good girl.” Violet whispered softly when she read her copy of Lady Whistledown.

“Did you see what Lady Whistledown wrote about Anthony? She didn’t hold anything back but it was also written in a way that didn’t make him sound like a complete tosser.” Eloise comments from her place next to Benedict.

“Honestly it was nicer than he deserved.” Benedict comments, he had suspected that Penelope was Lady Whistledown after the Berbrooke scandal but now that Anthony was the focus of the latest edition his suspicions were confirmed.

Anthony was alone in his study with his own copy of Lady Whistledown, he couldn’t understand why Penelope, his Wildflower, would write something like this about him.

The next time the family saw Penelope was at the horse races and Anthony had Edwina Sharma on his arm. Benedict and Eloise were standing away from their brother, mother and Edwina when they spotted their favorite redhead.

Penelope was standing by a tent when she caught sight of Anthony, her breath stopped in her lungs when she saw the woman on his arm. She fought back tears before quickly turning and walking away.

“Penelope! Wait!” Eloise called after the redhead rushing off to follow her. Violet and Anthony turned at the sound of Eloise calling out Penelope’s name and they saw the redhead walking away with her head down and her hand over her mouth.

“Oh dear.” Violet whispered softly before excusing herself and going off to look for Penelope.

Anthony was rooted to his spot as he watched Penelope fleeing and from the way her shoulders were shaking he knew she was crying. A throat clearing next to him caused him to turn his head to see his brother looking at him. Benedict shook his head in disappointment before turning to follow after his mother and sister.

Violet and Eloise found Penelope hiding under a shade tree with Lady Danbury. “Penelope, dear.” Violet whispered softly before moving to Penelope’s side.

“You would think that after all these years and the way he is with her that he would have asked her to court him and not the diamond.” Lady Danbury comments. Violet continued to comfort Penelope with motherly affection while swaying side to side.

“Clearly he must have hit his head.” Eloise replied with indignation, clearly upset on Penelope’s behalf.

“He is not as intelligent as I thought he was.” Lady Danbury comments, before leaving Penelope in the capable hands of Violet Bridgerton.

“Daphne is going to be furious when she finds out that Anthony broke her best friend’s heart.” Eloise whispers to Benedict low enough for only her brother to hear and he silently agrees.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814 - The Backyard.

The Bridgerton family had temporarily traded Mayfair for the peaceful green sprawl of Aubrey Hall, their country home nestled amongst hills and history. As always, Penelope Featherington was invited to join them. And, as usual, she hesitated—until she learned Daphne would be in attendance. That settled it.

The moment Penelope stepped down from the carriage, her feet barely touched the gravel before Daphne appeared at her side, radiant and smiling, reaching for her hand like they were schoolgirls again. Without a glance toward the gathering at the front steps, the two of them turned and headed toward the gardens.

Anthony watched them go. Watched Penelope go. Not a glance, not a nod. Just… silence. The same silence she’d gifted him for months now. And still, it twisted something in his chest. Something old, sharp, and wholly familiar.

“Don’t worry, brother,” Benedict said, clapping a hand to his back as he strolled past, cheerful as always. “I’m sure Penelope will speak to you again. Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Good luck.” He vanished into the house.

Both Lady Danbury and Violet gave Anthony identical looks—the kind of disappointed gaze only seasoned matriarchs can master—and swept inside with the rest of the party, leaving Anthony alone on the steps, his pride and regret standing at either side like guards.

The Garden

Daphne and Penelope walked arm in arm through the gardens, their footsteps slow and steady, like they had all the time in the world.

“I can’t believe my brother is such a daft, emotionally constipated oaf,” Daphne muttered, voice sharp with indignation. “Pen, you’ve always been there for him. You’ve seen him. Not as Viscount Bridgerton, or as the brooding eldest son, but as Anthony. The boy who cheated at tag and let you chase him through the rose bushes. The only one who can get away with thumping him and calling him out on his insufferable behavior.”

Penelope offered a soft, watery laugh. “It’s alright, Daph. Truly. I’ll be fine.” Her voice was gentle, but it carried the kind of ache that lingered. The kind Daphne recognized too well.

She didn’t argue. She just tightened her hold on Penelope’s arm and rested her head on her friend’s shoulder as they continued their quiet walk through the blooms.

Aubrey Hall – The Library, One Week Later

Anthony had tried. For days. Every time he approached her, someone—Daphne, Benedict, Eloise, even his own mother—would magically appear to whisk Penelope away with some oh-so-convenient excuse. He had started to suspect a coordinated effort. A conspiracy of siblings.

But now, finally, he’d caught her alone in the library. Or so he thought.

“Wildflower?” His voice was low, tentative. He took a cautious step toward her, hand outstretched. “Please… just talk to me. I miss you.”

Penelope flinched—visibly, painfully—at the sound of the nickname. As if he’d struck her instead of spoken.

The look on Anthony’s face crumpled. She didn’t say a word. She turned and ran.

What he didn’t know—what neither of them knew—was that Hyacinth Bridgerton, secret keeper and queen of hide-and-seek, was crouched behind the far bookshelf. She stayed frozen in place, wide-eyed, as the drama unfolded inches away from her hiding spot.

Daphne’s Room

Penelope burst into the room like a storm, eyes already brimming with tears. Daphne was on her feet in an instant, wrapping her arms around her.

“He… he called me Wildflower,” Penelope whispered, then sobbed, the word cracking open all the hurt she’d tried to bury for months.

Daphne held her tight, hand stroking her back in slow, calming circles. Simon, ever the quiet presence, stood by the window, completely out of his depth and desperately waiting for instructions.

“Simon,” Daphne said gently, “could you please tell Mama that Penelope and I won’t be coming down for dinner? And let her know we’d like to be left alone for the night.”

Simon nodded, his expression soft. As he passed them, he paused just long enough to squeeze Penelope’s arm—a silent offering of support—and then slipped out of the room.

The Dining Room

The dining room buzzed with quiet conversation. The Bridgertons, the Sharmas, Lady Danbury—an audience of elegant curiosity.

Simon entered and addressed Violet directly. “Your Grace, Daphne asked me to inform you that she and Penelope will not be joining dinner. They’ve requested privacy for the evening.”

His eyes flicked, just briefly, toward Anthony.

Violet sighed, setting down her wineglass. “Yes. I suspected as much.” She glanced at her youngest daughter. “Hyacinth was in the library. She witnessed what occurred.” Her gaze swung to Anthony, heavy with maternal disappointment. “I will send up a tray. And we will give them the space they’ve asked for.”

No one said a word. The room was thick with unspoken thoughts, sharp side-eyes, and the sound of Anthony’s pride cracking just a little more.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814 - The Final Blow.

Two months had passed, quiet and heavy, before Penelope’s time at Aubrey Hall came to its inevitable end. The summer sun filtered through the trees as the carriage waited at the front of the estate, wheels idle, the driver watching from his perch.

Penelope stood beside it, bidding farewell to those who had become her family in everything but name.

She smiled softly as she embraced Lady Danbury first—sharp as ever and full of warmth in her own way.

“I do hope you’ll keep writing those scathing observations, Miss Featherington,” Lady Danbury murmured with a wink. “Society is dreadfully boring without your wit behind the scenes.”

Penelope laughed gently. “Thank you, my lady. That means more than you know.”

The Sharmas were next—her first words to them since arriving. A quiet goodbye, but a kind one. Then came the Bridgertons. Each one.

Colin hugged her longer than necessary. Eloise blinked furiously and pulled her into an embrace that felt like it might last forever. Francesca pressed a kiss to her cheek. Gregory and Hyacinth flanked her with dramatic bows and promises to write. Even Simon, reserved and respectful, returned a brief but sincere hug.

Then Violet.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Violet whispered, voice tight with emotion as she enveloped Penelope once more. “Have a safe journey. You are always welcome in our home. Always.”

“I will, Miss Vi. And thank you… for everything,” Penelope replied, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I’ll see you all back in the ton soon.”

Daphne clutched her tightly. “I’ll write the second you leave. I swear it.”

Penelope smiled and held on. “You’d better.”

Then, finally, she turned. He was standing apart from the rest, hands clasped behind his back, gaze unreadable. Anthony Bridgerton.

Penelope’s heart was steady. Her voice was calm. Her expression unreadable, save for the faint, polite smile.

“Thank you for having me, Lord Bridgerton,” she said with perfect courtesy, dipping into a delicate curtsy as if she hadn’t once called him Anthony with laughter in her voice, as if she hadn’t once loved him with her whole soul.

The words hit him like cannon fire. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. She had never—not once—called him that.

He watched as Benedict stepped forward, offering his hand to help Penelope into the carriage. She took it with a grateful smile. He closed the door gently behind her and tapped the side twice. The carriage began to roll away.

Anthony stood rooted to the spot, watching her go until the dust swallowed the wheels.

“She called him Lord Bridgerton,” Gregory said softly, wide-eyed. “Penelope’s never called him that before.”

Daphne stood beside Simon, arms crossed. There would be no sympathy from her.

Colin, Eloise, and Francesca busied themselves with nothing in particular—adjusting gloves, straightening skirts, studying the clouds. Anything but looking at their brother.

Violet offered Anthony a small, bittersweet smile. But she didn’t move toward him. Didn’t try to soften the blow.

And then—

“You are,” Benedict declared, his voice light but laced with fury, “the world’s biggest idiot I have ever met.”

He offered his arm to Hyacinth, who took it with a dramatic sigh, but not before delivering a full-strength Bridgerton glare at her eldest brother. The kind that promised she was filing this moment away for future weaponry.

Anthony remained alone on the steps.

The title she gave him echoing louder than any goodbye.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814 - The Library.

Anthony fled the gravel driveway like a hunted man, heart thundering in his chest, the vision of Penelope’s heartbroken face seared behind his eyes. His boots thundered down the hallway until he reached the sanctuary he once loved most—the library.

He slammed the door shut behind him.

And then he screamed.

A raw, wordless cry that shattered the silence and left him gasping, like it could expel the pain from his ribs. He dropped to his knees as if the weight of it all had finally pulled him to the ground—and there he stayed, trembling, silent, breath catching on every broken sob.

An hour passed. Maybe two.

When he finally dragged himself to the plush leather sofa, something on the low table in front of him caught his eye.

A sliver of silk, pale gold, embroidered with her name.

Penelope.

And beneath it, stitched in wildflowers, were his initials. A.B.

The birthday gift he had given her when she turned nine. A silk bookmark she had cherished for over a decade.

He reached for it slowly, reverently, and clutched it in his hand like a relic. Something sacred. Something lost.

He didn’t know how long he sat like that, head bowed, fingers curled around the fabric. So when the door creaked open, he barely noticed.

A gentle voice pulled him back.

“How long have you known Penelope?”

Anthony looked up, startled. Edwina Sharma stood a few feet away, arms folded gently, her expression curious—but kind.

His throat felt like sandpaper. Still, he answered.

“It was 1797. We were at Hyde Park for a picnic. My brothers and I were off in the woods, likely trying to climb something we shouldn’t, while my mother was on a blanket with Eloise—just a year old at the time. Daphne was five, playing near a tree. She saw a little girl trip and fall and rushed over to help. Daphne, in all her infinite five-year-old wisdom, asked if she wanted to be friends.”

He smiled faintly, remembering.

“Penelope said yes. Daphne helped her up, and they came back hand in hand. Daphne introduced her to our mother and proudly declared, ‘This is Penelope. She’s mine now.’”

His voice cracked softly.

“My brothers and I introduced ourselves in the most ridiculous ways boys can manage. My father—he called her Wildflower upon meeting her. Said she was small and fierce and beautiful. I latched onto the nickname instantly. Wouldn’t let anyone else use it. Not even Daphne. Especially not Daphne.”

He exhaled, slow and aching.

“She lived just across the square. She was always around. We grew up together. I used to get into trouble just to make her chase me. When I was fifteen and she was eight, we were playing tag. I told her the willow tree was the safe zone. But when she got there, I tagged her anyway.”

His lips twitched faintly. “She growled at me and called me a cheater. I ran, laughing so hard I nearly tripped over myself. She chased me, still yelling, still laughing.”

He looked down at the bookmark again.

“When my father died… everything changed. But not with her. She never saw the title. Never the weight. Just me. And she—she’s the reason I grieved properly. Without Penelope, I never would’ve apologized to Simon. She gave me back my best friend.”

Edwina’s voice was gentle. “How long have you been in love with her?”

He looked at her helplessly. “I don’t know. I think I always was. I just… didn’t realize it. Not until she stopped speaking to me. That day she and Daphne skipped dinner—because of me.”

He swallowed.

“I tried to speak to her after. But every time I did, one of my siblings interrupted. One day I found her in the library. I thought she was alone. I called her Wildflower and reached out to touch her shoulder.”

He shut his eyes.

“She flinched.”

A pause. Silence gathered between them.

“I know it wasn’t the touch,” he whispered, voice barely audible. “It was the nickname. And it felt like being slapped. This morning, she said goodbye to everyone. She called me Lord Bridgerton. She’s never used my title. Not once. And in that moment, it felt like every breath left my body.”

His knuckles were white around the bookmark.

“I lost her. And it’s all my fault.”

Edwina stepped closer, her voice calm and clear.

“You haven’t lost her. Not yet. But you’ll have to show her. Show her she’s always been the one. That she’s the only person you’ve ever loved. And when you do… you spend the rest of your life proving it. Every day. No breaks. No pride. No distance. Just love.”

Anthony stared at her. “You’re not upset about this?”

She smiled softly. “No. I understand. I may not have love yet, but I recognize it when I see it. My sister does too. And she’s not angry, either. Though she did say—and I quote—‘he needs to pull his head out of his arse, grovel for Penelope’s forgiveness on his knees, and not get up until she offers it.’”

Anthony huffed out a hoarse, broken laugh.

“Tell your sister I plan to do exactly that.”

“I will.” She stepped toward the door. “We’re leaving for Lady Danbury’s within the hour. I just wanted to say goodbye—and to ask that you don’t break her heart again. Because if you do, Daphne will bury you. Probably with a shovel.”

“I promise,” he said, voice steadier now. “Thank you, Edwina.”

She curtsied gently. “You’re welcome.”

And then she was gone.

Anthony sat there alone, fingers resting on silk and wildflowers, heart still bruised—but no longer hopeless.

———————————————————————

Aubrey Hall, 1814 - The Drawing Room.

Anthony entered the drawing room long after dinner had ended. Only his mother and Daphne remained, seated by the hearth with embroidery and quiet conversation. Both women looked up as he walked in. They didn’t speak, but the twin arches of their brows spoke volumes—Well?

He stood there, stiff and worn down, hands twitching at his sides. Then, in a voice hoarse with rawness, he said, “I’m an idiot. I imagine you both already know that.”

Neither of them disagreed.

“But I’m going to say this anyway,” he continued, stepping further into the room. “I’m in love with Penelope. I think I always have been—since she was five and stomped through our garden with Daph, wearing a daisy chain like a crown and declaring war on bees. I just didn’t realize it. Not fully. Not until I nearly lost her.”

He swallowed, trying to steady his voice.

“I plan to grovel. Beg her for forgiveness. On my knees, if that’s what it takes—and I don’t give a damn who sees. I want to ask her to marry me, but I don’t even know where to begin apologizing. I don’t know if she’s ready. Or if… she still feels the same.”

He looked at them then—truly looked—vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

Violet’s expression softened, eyes glassy with quiet pride. “I’m proud of you, dearest. You finally see what’s been in front of you all along.”

Daphne didn’t smile. She rose slowly, arms folding across her chest. “You haven’t lost her,” she said, voice firm. “She still loves you. She only called you ‘Lord Bridgerton’ because she was trying not to fall apart. She was in my room every night, trying to stay brave, pretending she wasn’t shattered. But I swear to you, Anthony—if you ever hurt her again, I will bury you under the willow tree.”

Anthony blinked. “The one in the back garden?”

“The very same,” Daphne replied. “The one where Penelope called you a cheater when she was eight because you tagged her in the ‘safe zone.’”

He smiled despite himself, heart aching. “I remember. She growled at me.”

“You deserved it.”

“I did.”

A pause stretched between them.

“I promise you, Daphne,” Anthony said, placing a hand over his heart. “I will never hurt her again.”

Daphne studied him, eyes narrowed as if trying to determine the depth of his sincerity. Then she gave a single, decisive nod.

Only then did he dare to breathe again.

———————————————————————

Danbury Manor, 1815 -The Opening Ball.

Lady Danbury’s grand ballroom shimmered beneath the glow of countless chandeliers, every inch filled with satin, silk, and the hum of soft conversation. Guests twirled across the polished floor in elegant waltzes, laughter curling through the air like perfume. Some gathered near the refreshment tables, others still filed through the gilded doors, arriving in a flurry of fans and excited whispers.

Penelope stood in a quiet corner, half-shielded by a marble column, flanked protectively by Daphne and Simon. The pair hadn’t left her side since they arrived, their presence a warm anchor in the storm of social chaos.

Across the ballroom, Anthony lingered near the shadows, out of sight but never out of focus. His gaze hadn’t strayed from Penelope for a second. He drank her in like a man starved—how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way her gloved fingers toyed nervously with the trim of her gown. He remained still, his posture stiff with nerves, but his eyes were anything but unreadable.

Suddenly, the music ceased. A hush rippled through the crowd as every head turned toward the small raised dais near the orchestra.

There stood Queen Charlotte in regal splendor, flanked by her beaming nephew, Prince Friedrich, and the radiant Sharma family.

“It is with great pleasure,” the Queen announced, her voice rich and commanding, “that I share with you the engagement of my nephew, Prince Friedrich of Prussia, to Miss Edwina Sharma.”

A wave of applause surged through the room as glasses were lifted in toast. The prince kissed Edwina’s hand, and the orchestra swelled triumphantly.

Penelope blinked, stunned. Her head snapped toward Daphne in confusion. “What? But… she and Anthony—?”

Daphne leaned in, voice barely a whisper beneath the music. “Edwina realized he was an idiot. She ended the courtship the day you left Aubrey Hall.”

Penelope’s gasp was soft, but it shook through her like a tremor. Her eyes—wide, hopeful, terrified—searched the room. And when they found him, time stilled.

Anthony.

He wasn’t looking at the Queen. He wasn’t clapping. He wasn’t even blinking.

He was looking at her.

And Penelope forgot how to breathe.

Because his eyes—dear God, his eyes—were speaking in a language she’d only ever dreamed of. Raw. Tender. Reverent.

He looked at her like she was his entire world. Like she was the sun and he hadn’t seen daylight in months. There was love there—yes, so much love—but there was also longing, aching regret, and a silent, desperate plea for forgiveness.

Her hand curled instinctively at her chest, fingertips brushing the necklace she wore, the one with the small golden pendant shaped like a wildflower.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - The Drawing Room.

Penelope hadn’t stayed long after the Queen’s announcement. She’d hugged Daphne, promised to see her the next day, and slipped away from the ball without so much as glancing in Anthony’s direction.

He’d chased after her the moment he realized she was gone — but by the time he made it outside, her carriage was already halfway down the drive. He knew he couldn’t catch it. He simply stood there in the night air, watching her disappear.

She hadn’t returned to Bridgerton House since before Aubrey Hall. So when she stepped into the drawing room the next day with a soft smile and a quiet, “Hello,” the entire family took notice.

“Penelope!” Hyacinth squealed, leaping from her seat and flinging her arms around her.

“I missed you too, Hy,” Penelope said, voice warm as she hugged the girl tightly.

She made her way around the room, offering smiles and hugs like spring returning after a long winter. When she finally settled beside Daphne on the settee, Anthony walked in.

His eyes swept the room before locking on her. She didn’t meet his gaze—just tightened her hold on Daphne’s hand.

“What a lovely day,” Violet announced gently, rising from her chair with the serene command of a general. “Let’s all take tea in the garden, shall we?”

No one argued. In a flurry of shawls and cushions, the Bridgertons migrated outdoors. Gregory and Hyacinth immediately took to the lawn, shrieking in delight as they chased each other. The older members of the family settled around a wrought iron table beneath the sun.

Penelope and Daphne whispered to each other, heads close, eyes occasionally flicking to where Anthony sat, silent and withdrawn, staring down at his hands.

When Penelope excused herself and drifted into the garden, Anthony stood almost instantly.

“Good luck,” Benedict murmured as he passed.

He found her under the willow tree.

The same willow tree where, as children, she’d once called him a cheater during a game of tag. She stood with her back to him, but he knew she was aware of his presence.

“It’s funny,” Penelope said quietly, her voice floating to him like a breeze. “You can know someone your whole life and not know them at all. I thought I knew you. I guess I was wrong.”

“But you do know me, Penelope,” Anthony said, stepping closer. “I’m the same man I’ve always been—just… one who took far too long to realize what was right in front of him.”

She didn’t turn around. “You’re an idiot. And you’ve been insufferable for months. Why did you follow me, Lord Bridgerton?”

The title cut like a blade. He flinched.

“Please don’t call me that,” he whispered. “Penelope, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I hurt you—and that’s the last thing I ever wanted. Please… look at me.”

At the patio table, the family was watching—silent, breathless. And when Anthony dropped to his knees, there was a collective gasp.

“He’s actually on his knees,” Daphne whispered in awe.

“He’s learned,” Violet murmured, reaching for her daughter’s hand. “He won’t risk losing her again.”

Penelope turned. Her breath caught at the sight of him — not proud, not angry, just bare — love in his eyes, sorrow in his posture, hope in the tremble of his voice.

“I love you, Penelope,” Anthony began softly. “You’ve always been the one at my side, through every storm. The only one bold enough to shout at me, to laugh while threatening my life. The only one brave enough to hit me with a book when I’m being impossible—and I let you.”

A small, wet laugh escaped her lips.

“I laugh because I know if I hadn’t done something utterly idiotic, you’d hardly spare me a glance with Daphne in the room. I love you. I’ve always loved you. And I will spend the rest of my life proving it—if you’ll let me.”

He opened his palm.

Nestled there was a delicate silk bookmark — faded now, soft from years of handling. Her ninth birthday gift. Tied to it with a velvet ribbon was a betrothal ring — the very one Edmund Bridgerton had once given to Violet.

“You are ridiculous,” Penelope choked, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Utterly ridiculous.”

Before he could respond, she dropped to her knees before him and cupped his face in her hands.

Then she kissed him.

Softly. Fiercely. With all the love she hadn’t dared speak aloud.

Anthony melted into her, the kiss a vow of its own. When they finally pulled apart, breathless and teary-eyed, the air erupted in cheers.

Colin and Benedict whooped and clapped obnoxiously. Hyacinth shrieked in delight. Daphne wiped her eyes, beaming through her tears.

And Violet Bridgerton—matriarch, matchmaker, mother—smiled quietly to herself, heart full.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - The Wedding.

Anthony stood alone in his room, slowly tying his cravat with deliberate fingers. Today, he was to marry Penelope—his Wildflower. A day he had once feared would never come, a dream he’d nearly let slip through his fingers.

A soft knock echoed at the door. It opened gently, revealing Violet Bridgerton with misty eyes. She had just come from Daphne’s room, where Penelope was being prepared for the ceremony.

“Are you nervous?” Violet asked, stepping in and smoothing down his cravat with practiced hands.

“I should be,” Anthony replied quietly, “but I’m not. I’m marrying Penelope. How could I be anything but… thrilled?”

A soft smile curved Violet’s lips, though her eyes shimmered. “Your father predicted this, you know.”

Anthony blinked, looking down at her. “He did?”

Violet adjusted the front of his waistcoat as she nodded. “It was that summer afternoon in the garden—you were fifteen, she was eight. You let her chase you across the lawn, all shrieks and laughter. She was threatening to throw a pebble at you and you were laughing like she was the funniest creature alive. Your father turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘He’s going to marry that girl one day. Mark my words, love.’ I laughed and called him ridiculous.”

Anthony’s throat tightened.

“He’d be so proud to see you now,” Violet added softly, her hand smoothing over his chest. “Marrying your Wildflower.”

He couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat, but he pulled her into a tight hug and kissed the top of her head.

Moments later, Violet slipped out to take her seat in the garden—beneath the same willow tree where this love story had first begun.

The guests were gathered, soft music dancing on the breeze. Anthony stood beneath the willow, Benedict at his side as his best man. Though he’d felt calm moments ago, anticipation had begun to gnaw at his composure—he was fidgeting with his coat, heart pounding like a war drum.

One by one, his sisters walked the aisle, all radiant in lavender. Each offered him a smile or a wink. When Daphne reached him, she leaned in and whispered, “You’re lucky you came to your senses. She looks breathtaking. I’m entrusting my best friend to you, Anthony. Don’t give me reason to regret it.”

“I promise, Daph,” he murmured back, giving her hand a squeeze.

And then—

Penelope.

She stood at the far end of the aisle, bathed in soft afternoon light. A vision in lavender silk and delicate white lace, she looked like something out of a dream. Her hair was gathered with soft curls falling down her back, her cheeks flushed, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Anthony forgot to breathe.

Benedict silently held out a white handkerchief over his shoulder. It took Anthony a moment to realize why—he was crying.

From her seat, Violet pressed a hand to her heart. “You were right, love,” she whispered into the breeze. “Our son is marrying his Wildflower.”

As Penelope reached him, she placed her small hand in his, her smile trembling with emotion. She passed her bouquet to Daphne without looking away from him, and together they stepped to the altar.

They said their vows with eyes locked, hands clutched tight, as if the world might vanish if they let go. The words of the officiant faded into background hum—what mattered most was each other.

When they were finally declared husband and wife, Anthony cupped her face like she was spun from glass, and kissed her. Gently. Reverently. The kiss was softer than their first, but just as slow, just as full of all the words they’d never needed to say aloud.

[legacydowney94]

Modern Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note:

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2014 - The Family Wing.

Since becoming friends with Eloise Bridgerton at the tender age of six, Penelope Featherington had spent more nights at the Bridgerton home than she could count. Slumber parties, movie nights, marathon storytelling sessions with flashlights under covers—it was their sacred ritual. And without fail, she was always given the same guest room. Nestled between Eloise’s light blue room and Hyacinth’s aggressively bright pink one, it sat across the hall from Benedict’s dark midnight blue door. She used to pretend she was just another Bridgerton, floating in that hallway of color-coded chaos.

She never really believed it could be true.

But today—today was different.

It was her tenth birthday. Not that her actual family had remembered. No cake. No presents. Not even a “Happy Birthday.” The silence at home had been louder than ever. So she’d found herself once again at Bridgerton House, trying not to look too sad when Eloise dragged her upstairs, chattering about how Gregory had spilled glitter glue in the downstairs bathroom and how Hyacinth was lobbying to rename the cat “Queen Sparklewhiskers.”

But instead of the usual detour into Eloise’s room, they stopped in the hallway—right in front of what had always been the guest room.

Only… it wasn’t just the guest room anymore.

Penelope blinked. The door, once plain wood, had been painted a soft, rich lavender. Her name—Penelope—was written in flowing script across the center in pearlescent white paint, outlined in delicate swirls of gold.

She just stared.

“What…” Her voice caught in her throat.

Eloise bounced excitedly beside her, barely containing herself. “Surprise! Surprise surprise surprise! Okay, I’ve been dying to tell you for days but Mum swore me to secrecy and I nearly exploded from it!”

Penelope opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She turned slowly, her wide eyes darting to the rest of the Bridgerton siblings who had gathered in the hallway like it was the premiere of a new Marvel movie. Even Anthony had put his phone down and was watching her with a strange softness in his usually sarcastic expression.

Violet stepped forward, her voice gentle and warm. “Penelope, dear… you’ve been part of this family ever since Eloise marched through the door dragging you behind her, insisting we all meet her new best friend.”

Everyone chuckled quietly—Eloise grinned proudly like she was being knighted.

Violet continued. “And when you started staying over regularly at eight years old, we realized you weren’t just a guest anymore. So… we began planning. A little bit here, a little bit there. Eloise picked the color for your door. She said it’s your favorite, and I believe her.”

“It is,” Penelope whispered, eyes shimmering.

Violet smiled. “Benedict painted it.”

Benedict—who had been casually leaning against the wall with his arms crossed—gave her a small smile, his cheeks dusted slightly pink. “And the inside too. There’s a tree. You’ll see.”

“We wanted you to have a space that was yours,” Violet finished. “Not borrowed. Not temporary. Yours.”

Penelope’s feet moved before she even realized. She pushed open the lavender door, and the soft scent of lavender and vanilla hit her nose. The room was glowing—fairy lights lined the edges of the ceiling, twinkling like stars. A queen-sized bed with a plush purple comforter sat beneath a painted willow tree that seemed to sway in the soft lighting. Wildflowers bloomed along the baseboards, hand-painted in soft, dreamy strokes. A black sheer canopy draped over a giant bean bag chair in the corner, practically begging for reading marathons. Across from the bed, a flat-screen TV hung on the wall, with a shelf below it lined with classic books and Eloise-approved DVDs.

Her name was stitched into a pillow on the bed.

A gasp left her lips, and she covered her mouth with both hands.

“This… this is mine?” she said, voice trembling.

“Every bit of it,” Benedict said softly from the doorway.

“It’s all yours, Nelly,” Eloise added, practically vibrating. “You have a room in our house. A real one. Not just ‘the guest room’ with the weird flower painting that Mum hates but pretends to like.”

“Eloise,” Violet gently scolded, though she was smiling.

Penelope turned slowly in the center of the room, soaking it in like sunlight after a storm. Her fingers brushed the wall, traced the painted petals, clutched the soft hem of the comforter. And then she spoke—barely above a whisper.

“Thank you. This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

The words cracked at the edges like fragile porcelain. And still, she managed not to cry.

Until Eloise barreled into her for a hug.

“That’s what best friends are for, dummy,” she mumbled into Penelope’s shoulder.

And then Violet joined, arms wrapping around both girls with the kind of care that made Penelope’s heart ache and heal all at once. It wasn’t just a hug. It was home.

Behind them, Benedict looked away like he didn’t want anyone to see the sudden emotion on his face. His fingers tapped a quiet rhythm against the wall beside him.

“You’ll have to let me know if the flowers need touch-ups,” he said, his voice casual but warm. “I’ll come by with more paint. Or I could add stars. You like stars?”

Penelope nodded slowly, eyes wide.

“Stars would be nice,” she whispered.

“Stars it is,” Benedict said, his smile gentle.

And in that moment, with a lavender door behind her and love wrapped around her like a blanket, Penelope Featherington felt—for the first time in her life—like she truly belonged.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2020

The house was uncharacteristically quiet. Violet was in the kitchen humming a soft tune as she kneaded dough for scones, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon curling warmly through the air. Benedict was upstairs sketching something chaotic and probably half-finished. Anthony was lurking near the foyer, pretending he wasn’t checking the stock market every five minutes. Somewhere, Colin was raiding the fridge. Eloise was flopped on the family room couch watching a documentary she was only half-invested in. Peace, in a house of eight children, was a rare and sacred thing.

And then it shattered.

The sound of a car pulling into the drive was followed by a sharp slam of a door, the kind that meant something had happened. A beat later, the front door burst open—and a streak of red hair flew past the family room so fast it blurred.

“Pen? Hey, wait! What’s wrong? Pen!” Eloise called after her best friend, instantly on her feet and chasing.

Penelope didn’t answer. The only sound she made was the broken, ragged sob caught in her throat as she sprinted up the stairs.

Eloise found her moments later, collapsed on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up and arms shaking as she cried.

“Pen, what happened?” Eloise asked softly, dropping to the floor beside her.

Penelope couldn’t look at her. Her words came out between sobs, shaky and gasped out like each sentence cost her something.

“I—I went to the bank. I was going to deposit some money… add to what my father left me for university. But when I gave them my account number, they said—” She choked. “They said the account was closed. That there’s nothing left.”

Eloise’s breath caught. “What?”

“My mother… Portia…” The name came out bitter. “She stole it. All of it. Every penny my father left for me. I don’t know what she did with it. But now it’s gone, and I—” She broke off, curling tighter into herself. “I can’t go to university. I can’t leave her.”

The heartbreak in her voice shattered something in Eloise.

“Oh, Pen…” she whispered, gently helping her onto the bed.

She pulled a blanket over her and curled up behind her, wrapping her arms around her best friend without a second thought. No more words. Just comfort. Just being there.

Penelope cried until her breaths turned to hiccups, until her hands stopped shaking, until sleep finally pulled her under. Eloise brushed a curl back from her forehead and quietly slipped from the room.

She stormed down the stairs like she was preparing for battle.

“Mum?” Eloise called, entering the kitchen.

“Yes, dear?” Violet said, turning from her mixing bowl, hands dusted in flour.

“Penelope’s upstairs. She cried herself to sleep.”

Violet’s brow furrowed in concern. “Is she alright?”

“Physically? Yes. Emotionally?” Eloise’s voice shook with rage. “Mum, Portia cleaned out Penelope’s bank account. The one her father left her. For university. It’s gone.”

Violet went still. Her hands clenched in the dough like it was Portia Featherington’s throat.

“That horrible woman,” she spat. “I knew she was vile, but this…”

Eloise’s eyes burned. “We can’t let her go back there, Mum.”

“She won’t,” Violet said firmly. “We’ll cover her tuition. I’ll speak with her—after she’s rested. I’ll speak with your brother, too.”

“I’m going to check on Pen. Should I bring her tea? Snacks? Biscuits?”

“Yes, darling. That’s a good idea. Her favorites are in the blue tin.”

Eloise didn’t need to be told twice. She snatched up the tin like she was holding sacred treasure and darted upstairs.

Violet dusted her hands clean and found Anthony standing at the foyer window, arms crossed.

“Penelope’s car is outside,” he said quietly. “Did you know she was here?”

“Yes. Eloise told me,” Violet replied. “Penelope’s mother emptied her university fund. She came here in tears and… she cried herself to sleep.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. The protective big brother energy radiating off him was enough to knock out a grown man.

“She’s not going back there,” he said, voice gravel and steel. “I’ll pay for her tuition myself.”

“I was just about to ask you,” Violet said with a soft smile. “You beat me to it.”

“She’s family, Mum. Just as much as Daphne or Eloise or Francesca. I’ll talk to Benedict—we’re going to get her things.”

At that moment, Eloise barreled down the stairs with military precision.

“I’m coming with you!” she announced. “I know what’s hers and what has meaning. Also, I know you don’t want to dig through her underwear drawer.”

Anthony visibly blanched. “Jesus, Eloise!”

Eloise grinned with zero remorse. “I’m right, though.”

Anthony grumbled and grabbed his keys. “Benedict! Get down here! We’ve got a mission.”

Benedict emerged from the stairs with his usual chaos-energy calm. “What kind of mission? Is it legal?”

“Mostly,” Eloise replied cheerfully, already sliding into the backseat of the family SUV.

Anthony took the driver’s seat. Benedict slid into the front.

“We’re going to the Featherington house,” Anthony said grimly. “Portia stole Penelope’s university fund. It’s gone.”

Benedict’s brows shot up. “Wait—what?! That’s criminal.”

“It should be,” Eloise growled. “So now Penelope is living with us. And we’re going to get her things.”

“And the plan is…?”

“Operation: No Mercy,” Eloise declared. “We’re going in Mission Impossible style. We will show no fear. We will be chaotic. And we will be menaces.”

Anthony smirked, eyes sharp as he pulled onto the road. “We don’t start fights.”

“We do, however,” Benedict added, cracking his knuckles, “finish them.”

“And we never leave family behind,” Eloise finished, voice steel.

They didn’t need to say more.

The Bridgerton Rescue Squad was on the move.

———————————————————————

Featherington House, 2020

Operation: No Mercy was officially in motion.

Anthony pulled the SUV up to the curb outside the bright yellow house with the precision of a man parking at a crime scene. He threw it into park with a bit too much force.

“Alright,” Eloise said, cracking her knuckles as she unbuckled her seatbelt. “We’re in. We get the essentials, the sentimental stuff, and everything else she’d miss. We’re not here to play nice.”

“Understood,” Benedict nodded. “You’re the brains. Anthony’s the brawn. I’ll be the charming distraction if necessary.”

“I am the brawn,” Anthony muttered as he stalked toward the front door.

“Try not to punch anyone unless I say ‘pineapple,’” Eloise added, jogging after him. “That’s the code word for ‘go feral.’”

Anthony didn’t reply. His jaw was clenched, every inch of him radiating older brother protectiveness. He rang the doorbell once. Twice. Then pounded with his fist for good measure.

Eventually, the door creaked open to reveal Portia Featherington in a silk robe and full makeup, her expression immediately souring at the sight of them.

“Oh. It’s you people,” she sneered. “Come to return my daughter, have you?”

“No,” Anthony said coldly. “We’ve come to collect her belongings.”

“She won’t be needing much,” Portia sniffed. “She’s made it quite clear she’d rather play house with your lot than live under my roof with rules.”

Anthony stepped forward, looming. “The only rule she broke was trusting you. You stole from her.”

Portia scoffed, but her eyes flickered with a sliver of unease. “That money was under my name. I was her guardian. It was mine to manage.”

“You emptied her university fund. That money was left to her by her father—not by you. She cried herself to sleep in our house tonight because of you.”

Portia’s mask cracked for a second. Just a second. “It was never going to be enough for real university anyway. Better to use it on something useful—”

“You mean your wardrobe and your facelift?” Eloise snapped, slipping past her into the house like a storm in a hoodie. “We’re taking her things. Don’t get in the way.”

“You can’t just barge in here like this!”

“We absolutely can,” Benedict said politely, stepping inside with all the grace of a man who knows the law is technically not on their side—but doesn’t care. “You might want to go finish your wine in the other room.”

Portia bristled. “I will not be spoken to like—”

Anthony cut her off. “If you say another word, I will involve lawyers. Or worse, Mum.”

Portia actually flinched at the mention of Violet Bridgerton.

“I give you twenty minutes,” she hissed, slamming the door behind them.

“Great,” Eloise muttered. “Set your timers, boys. Grab the good stuff.”

Penelope’s Bedroom

The moment they opened her door, the mood shifted.

The room was a time capsule of a girl who’d tried so hard to carve out a space of her own. There were fading fairy lights tacked to the wall, a bookshelf filled with well-loved paperbacks, an old laptop covered in stickers, and a corkboard covered in photos—most of them taken at the Bridgerton house.

Eloise exhaled, heart pinching. “We’re taking it all.”

Benedict gently lifted the framed photo of Penelope and Eloise at her fifteenth birthday—matching tiaras, frosting on their noses, laughing like fools. He quietly tucked it into a box marked “Essentials.”

Anthony, surprisingly gentle now, opened her closet and started folding sweaters. “Let’s be careful with her things. She’s already lost enough.”

“On it,” Eloise replied, pulling open the drawers and sorting everything she knew Penelope treasured. “We take everything with emotional value. All of it. Even the cringey poems.”

Benedict, reading from a notebook: “‘His eyes are storms / His voice is fire / And yet he offers only silence.’ Wow. Dramatic. Very Pen.”

“That’s probably about you,” Eloise said without missing a beat.

Benedict choked. “Don’t flatter me.”

Anthony smirked but said nothing. His silence spoke volumes.

They worked fast. Clothes. Books. Sketchpads. Trinkets. Benedict carefully removed the fairy lights while Eloise rescued every paperback and stuffed animal. Anthony made sure the bags were organized—like the control freak he was.

As they loaded the last box into the car, Anthony paused in the hallway outside Penelope’s room. He looked back at the empty space—the hollow quiet of a childhood bedroom that would never feel like home again.

“She’s not coming back here,” he said quietly. “Not ever.”

“Damn right she’s not,” Eloise replied. “We’ll build her a better one.”

“She already has it,” Benedict added. “She just needed help getting there.”

They drove home with the trunk full of her life, and hearts full of purpose.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2024 - Benedict’s Room.

It was just before midnight, and Penelope couldn’t sleep—again. The quiet of the house pressed in, restless and too still. She tossed her blanket aside with a sigh and slid out of bed. She was wearing one of Benedict’s old shirts—the navy one with the tiny paint stain near the hem that she’d “accidentally” taken when she was seventeen and never quite managed to return—and a pair of yoga shorts.

Careful not to wake anyone else, she tiptoed across the hall and knocked gently on his door. She waited a beat, then cracked it open and slipped inside.

Benedict was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the bed in a tangle of sheets, bare-chested in a pair of basketball shorts. His curls were tousled, face half-buried in a pillow, breathing slow and deep.

Penelope padded to his bedside and crouched down, brushing her fingers against the tip of his nose.

“Benedict,” she whispered.

Nothing.

She poked him again, this time a little firmer. “Benedict, wake up.”

His nose scrunched, eyes fluttering open like the light was too much. “Nel?” His voice was a soft rasp. “You alright?”

She nodded. “I’m fine. I just… can’t sleep. Can I—” she hesitated, “Can I sleep with you?”

He didn’t answer, just wordlessly lifted the edge of the blanket in invitation. Penelope didn’t wait. She slipped into bed beside him and curled into his warmth like it was the most natural thing in the world.

They lay there in comfortable silence. His breathing evened out again, and she thought maybe he’d fallen back asleep—until her heart started doing that loud, anxious thump-thump thing it did whenever her feelings got too big to carry alone.

She reached out and gently touched his cheek, just with her fingertips.

“I’m in love with you, Benedict Bridgerton,” she whispered into the dark.

There was a pause. And then—

“I’m in love with you too, Penelope Featherington.”

Her breath hitched. She turned her head to see him smiling, soft and sleepy and real.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said, her cheeks warming.

“I almost was.” He shifted closer, his arm sliding around her waist, anchoring her to him. “Until you said the one thing I’ve been dreaming about telling you since you were eighteen.”

Penelope blinked up at him. “You’ve been dreaming of telling me you love me… for that long?”

“I have,” he said simply, like it was obvious. Like it was written in the stars or the brushstrokes of one of his paintings.

A shy, delighted grin bloomed on her lips.

“Let’s talk more in the morning,” he murmured. “Right now, I just want to fall asleep with you in my arms.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, the curve of his hand a perfect fit along her spine.

Wrapped in Benedict’s warmth and words, Penelope finally fell asleep—with a heart that felt fuller than it ever had before.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2024 - The Next Morning.

Morning light spilled softly through Benedict’s curtains, golden and warm as a promise. Penelope stirred with a quiet breath, blinking slowly as the edges of her dreams faded into the gentle hush of waking. She found herself lying on her side, face-to-face with Benedict, who was still asleep—mostly. He’d rolled back onto his stomach in the night, but his face had tilted toward her, his curls a delightful mess, and his arm was curled possessively around her waist like even sleep couldn’t bear to let her go.

“You’re staring,” Benedict murmured, voice all gravel and velvet, a slow, sleepy smile tugging at his lips without ever reaching full consciousness.

“I’m simply making sure this isn’t a dream,” Penelope whispered back, her voice featherlight, her cheeks already warming with a blush the color of sunrise.

“It’s not a dream, Nel,” he said, finally cracking open one eye. “You’re really here. And I really did tell you I’m in love with you.”

Her smile bloomed, soft and bright, as she leaned in. He didn’t wait—he met her halfway with a kiss that was gentle, unhurried, the kind of kiss made of soft sheets and morning breath and everything that mattered.

“Eloise is going to scream when she finds out,” Penelope murmured against his lips. “She’s been shipping us since I was sixteen and moved in.”

Benedict chuckled, voice low and warm. “She’s not the only one. Anthony’s been barging into my room every morning since you turned eighteen just to see if I’d finally told you.”

Penelope laughed, burying her face briefly in the pillow before looking up at him again, only for—

Click.

The bedroom door creaked open.

And there stood Anthony Bridgerton, arms crossed, brows raised, radiating Maximum Big Brother Energy.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled with a smug smirk. “Is this what I think it is?”

Benedict gave a lazy, unapologetic grin and glanced at Penelope like she hung the stars. “It is.”

Anthony’s smirk deepened into something a little too proud. “It’s about time.”

“Don’t say anything,” Penelope said quickly, propping herself up on one elbow and giving him a look. “We’ll tell the family when we come down for breakfast.”

Anthony held up his hands in mock surrender, then theatrically zipped his lips and mimed throwing away the key.

Penelope snorted, laughter bubbling up despite herself, as Anthony backed silently out of the room and pulled the door closed with the air of a man very satisfied with himself.

Benedict groaned, rolling over to bury his face in her neck. “He’s never going to let us live this down, is he?”

“Nope,” Penelope said with a giggle, fingers sliding gently through his curls. “But that’s okay.”

Because for the first time in forever, everything felt exactly right.

——————————————————————-

Bridgerton House, 2024 - Breakfast.

It had been about twenty minutes since Anthony’s Very Smug Exit™ from Benedict’s room, and Benedict and Penelope had finally dragged themselves out of bed. Benedict tugged on a shirt while Penelope tiptoed across the hall to her room, swapping her yoga shorts for pajama pants and scrubbing at her sleep-rumpled curls. They met again in the hallway—eyes still sleepy, cheeks still flushed, smiles still soft.

Benedict held out his hand.

Penelope slipped hers into his like it was second nature.

They walked down the stairs hand-in-hand, whispering and giggling in that we’re-soft-launching-our-relationship kind of way that always precedes Bridgerton Breakfast Chaos™.

The dining room was already bustling. There were clinks of cutlery, bursts of chatter, and the occasional bickering between Gregory and Hyacinth over who got the last croissant. Violet was sipping her tea with the patience of a saint. Anthony was, somehow, managing to look both smug and innocent.

Eloise looked up first when they entered. She blinked once, twice—and her eyes zeroed in on their clasped hands. Then she looked at Benedict. Then Penelope. Then back to the hands.

She raised an eyebrow. A silent question.

Penelope smiled—small and warm and certain—and gave one little nod.

“AH! OH MY GOD! FINALLY!” Eloise screeched, nearly knocking her tea over as she leapt out of her chair.

Colin choked on a grape.

Francesca looked up calmly and said, “Called it.”

Gregory stared, open-mouthed. “Wait. Wait. What? Are you guys—?”

“Together,” Benedict said smoothly, tugging Penelope closer with an easy smile. “As of about… eight hours ago?”

“Technically I confessed first,” Penelope said, lifting her chin proudly.

“Only because I was pretending to be asleep.”

“I knew you were awake!”

“You poked me in the nose—”

“You were being dramatic—”

“Oh my god,” Daphne cut in, setting her fork down. “Are you two seriously about to start bickering like an old married couple before I’ve finished my toast?”

“I think it’s sweet,” Violet said fondly, already reaching for the teapot. “Although I must admit, I feel as though I should be planning another wedding.”

“I will literally sob,” Eloise announced, dropping back into her seat with dramatic flair. “Real tears. Penelope, we need to talk later. I have so many feelings.”

“You always have so many feelings,” Hyacinth muttered around a mouthful of muffin.

Penelope and Benedict slid into their seats—still hand-in-hand, still smiling like sleep-drunk lovebirds—and as the family began firing questions, teasing them, cheering, and arguing over who knew first, one thing was clear:

This was just the beginning of something good.

[legacydowney94]

Regency Era Penthony Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.

Vibe:

Note: Penelope does not have feelings for Colin beyond friendship. She has feelings for Colin’s older brother, Anthony.

———————————————————————

The Woods, 1823

The forest was thick with mist, the trees standing like ancient sentinels beneath the silvery light of the moon. Twigs snapped in the distance, and the acrid scent of gunpowder still hung in the air. Behind the moss-covered remains of a crumbling stone wall, Anthony Bridgerton crouched down on his knees, his breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts. Blood soaked the front of his coat, but it wasn’t his. Not yet.

Penelope.

His wife was lying in his arms, her breathing shallow, her skin growing paler by the second. Her gown, once a warm buttercup yellow, was stained crimson near her heart where the bullet had struck. His trembling hand pressed against the wound, as if pressure alone could hold her soul inside her body.

Their three-year-old daughter, Aurora, clung to his side with a death grip, her curls tangled, her little face streaked with tears and soot.

“No, no, no—stay with me, love,” Anthony murmured frantically, voice cracking as he adjusted his grip. “You’re going to be alright. We’ll get you help, I swear it. Just stay awake. Please.”

“You have to take Aurora and run, Anthony,” Penelope rasped, coughing violently as blood bubbled at the corner of her lips. Her voice was weak but urgent, as if she were fighting the pull of death with every syllable. “You have to get her somewhere safe… where she will grow up surrounded by love and safety.”

His head shook violently. “No. No, Penelope—love, you can’t leave me. We need you. Aurora needs you. Please?” His voice broke, trembling like a violin string stretched too tight. “Please don’t make me do this alone.”

Tears slipped from Penelope’s eyes, mingling with the sweat on her brow. “I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to leave our baby. But I have no choice. I—I can feel myself slipping.” Her fingers gripped his weakly, then moved to brush Aurora’s hair back from her face. “Please, Anthony… take her somewhere safe. Somewhere the supernatural live in peace with humans… somewhere they’re not hunted.”

Anthony blinked through tears, nodding even as his heart shattered. “I will. I promise. I’ll get her there. I’ll keep her safe.” His voice was hoarse, but steady now—because he had to be. For her. For their daughter.

With shaking hands, Penelope reached for the locket around her neck. It was old, the metal dulled with age and magic, passed down through generations on her mother’s side. Her fingers fumbled as she unclasped it, and Anthony caught it before it hit the forest floor.

“This…” she whispered, barely audible, “this locket… it will take you to an alternate universe. One where humans and supernatural beings live together. No war. No fear. Just peace.” Her eyes fluttered closed, then opened again, barely. “It’s the last one of its kind. My great-grandmother—she was a Seer, a witch who could see beyond the veil of reality. She said it would be needed someday. I—I prayed it wouldn’t be.”

Anthony stared at the locket glowing faintly in his palm. “I won’t let it go for anything, love,” he promised fiercely, curling his fingers around it. “You have my word.”

“I love you both… more than anything,” Penelope whispered, her lips trembling. She pressed a final kiss to Aurora’s forehead, tears slipping into her daughter’s curls. “Be brave, my darling girl.”

Anthony leaned down and pressed his forehead to hers. “We love you too, Pen,” he whispered, memorizing her face, her voice, her warmth.

Penelope exhaled shakily and placed Aurora in his arms with trembling hands. The look in her eyes said it all.

Go.

So he did.

With a last, desperate look at the woman who was his heart, Anthony stumbled to his feet, clutching his daughter to his chest. He ran.

The forest blurred around him as he tore through the underbrush, branches whipping against his skin. Gunfire echoed behind him—closer now. Shouts rang out. Hunters.

Then—

A fiery pain exploded in his stomach, and he staggered forward with a guttural cry. He knew. He knew what it meant. But he kept going.

“I promised her,” he hissed through gritted teeth, voice wild and desperate. “I promised her I’d keep Aurora safe.”

Tears streamed down his face as he clutched the locket tighter in one hand and his daughter in the other. She was whimpering now, her small hands grasping at his collar, her little voice calling, “Papa? Papa, don’t fall…”

“Please,” Anthony whispered to no one and everyone. “Please—someone—anyone. I’m begging you. Help me get my daughter to safety.”

The locket pulsed in his palm. Then the world began to shift.

A rippling sensation, like the air itself was turning inside out, enveloped him. The forest twisted and folded, the pain in his body dulled to a distant echo—

And then everything went black.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - Violet Bridgerton’s Private Sitting Room.

The clock on the mantle had just struck midnight, the soft chime echoing faintly in the quiet room. A single candle flickered atop a lace-covered table where Violet Bridgerton sat, thumbing through a worn book of poetry. The hush of the household at rest always soothed her nerves, a rare moment of calm she relished.

Until a sudden shimmer bloomed in the center of the room.

The light was brilliant—otherworldly—like a star collapsing inward, then exploding in silence. Violet shielded her eyes with her arm, heart pounding in her chest. The candle guttered wildly in its holder.

When the light faded, it left behind something far more unbelievable.

A man knelt on the floor, slumped and shaking, a small child curled against his chest. The little girl was trembling, her tiny face wet with tears, one fist tangled in the man’s bloodied cravat. The man let out a soft, broken whimper. Then he spoke, and Violet’s breath caught in her throat.

“Please… help.”

The voice. It was Anthony’s voice—but deeper, wearier, as though time itself had pressed down upon it.

Violet stood slowly, her hands trembling as she stepped forward. Her eyes narrowed on the man’s face, and the gasp escaped her before she could suppress it.

“Anthony?” she whispered in confusion.

The man’s eyes—so heartbreakingly familiar—lifted to hers. At her voice, something in his posture eased. Not the tension in his arms, which still protectively cradled the child, but something deeper. Trust. Recognition. Relief.

“Mother,” he breathed, voice cracking, “please…”

Violet dropped to her knees without hesitation, heedless of her skirts pooling on the floor. She reached out and gently brushed the damp hair from his face. His skin was warm, fevered. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and a spreading crimson stain blooming across his waistcoat.

“What happened? What can I do?” she asked, her voice trembling with urgency.

“You are my mother—but you’re not my mother,” he whispered. “I’m not from this world. I come from an alternate universe… one where supernatural creatures are hunted, driven into hiding. My wife and I—we were attacked by hunters. She was shot as we fled.”

Violet’s lips parted in shock. “Dear God…”

“She gave me this locket,” he continued, holding up the glowing charm with shaking fingers. “Said it would bring us to safety. Made me promise to run. To get our daughter out. I did what she asked. But I was shot too. I prayed—begged—for anyone who would listen. Then… there was a rippling sensation, like the world folded in on itself. And the next thing I knew…”

He looked around, then back at her with eyes that shimmered with pain and something else—hope.

“I was here.”

Violet reached out and gently cupped his cheek. “Who is your wife?” she asked quietly, although a suspicion had already begun to form in her heart.

“Penelope,” he replied, his voice softening as he said her name. “We fell in love in 1818 through letters. In 1819, we began our courtship. We were married by year’s end. And in 1820…” He looked down at the child in his arms, who was now watching Violet with wide, watery eyes. “Aurora was born.”

“Penelope… Featherington?” Violet asked, her voice faltering.

Anthony gave a small, pained laugh. “The one and only. She’s the love of my life.”

The way he said it—quiet but fierce, wounded but proud—made Violet’s heart twist. She saw in his expression the same love she’d once seen in Edmund’s eyes when he looked at her. A love that defied time, war, even death.

Violet smiled through her tears. “I always knew Penelope would be part of this family. Somehow.”

Anthony returned her smile, barely. “She was… extraordinary. Strong, brilliant, stubborn as anything.” His eyes closed for a brief second. “She saved us both.”

Violet gently brushed a hand over Aurora’s curls, her heart aching. “How can I help you, dearest?”

“I won’t last the night,” Anthony said simply. “But Aurora—she’s unharmed. She’s strong, like her mother.” He looked into Violet’s eyes, begging now. “You must find the Penelope of this world. Bring her here. I promised my wife I would get Aurora to safety… and who better to raise her than the woman who is, in every way that matters, her mother?”

Violet’s hand flew to her heart, already making a silent vow. “I’ll see it done. I promise you, I will protect her as if she were my own granddaughter. And I will bring Penelope here.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Anthony whispered, tears streaking down his face. “Thank you…”

He sagged forward, one hand still clutching the locket, the other wrapped tightly around his child.

Violet gathered both father and daughter into her arms, holding them close, steadying them as the past, the present, and something entirely new began to unravel and reshape around them.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - Still Violet’s Private Sitting Room.

After settling little Aurora on her bed, the child finally drifting into a fitful sleep, Violet stood watch for a moment longer. Her heart ached with the weight of all she’d learned—another world, another son, a war she could scarcely imagine.

Silently, she slipped from the room, her slippered feet making no sound on the wooden floors. She descended into the quiet of the servant’s quarters and knocked gently on Humboldt’s door.

The old butler answered immediately, as though he’d sensed her coming.

“Humboldt,” she whispered, “I need you to come with me to my sitting room. Afterward, I need you to sneak out of the house and across to the Featheringtons’. Wake Penelope. Bring her back here—straight to me. Don’t stop. Don’t let anyone else see you. Just tell her… it’s urgent.”

Humboldt nodded solemnly. “Right away, ma’am.”

They climbed the stairs together, and once inside the sitting room, Violet gestured toward the man lying still on the floor.

“I need you to lift him—gently. He’s been shot,” she said softly.

With surprising grace, Humboldt gathered the wounded man—this older Anthony—and laid him carefully on the settee. The weight of him seemed heavier than flesh and bone, burdened by grief and pain Violet could scarcely fathom.

Humboldt bowed and exited, already moving like a shadow to carry out her instructions.

Violet returned to Anthony’s side, dipping a cloth in warm water to gently wipe the blood and sweat from his face. His breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of his chest barely perceptible.

“Mother?” he rasped.

“I’m here, dearest,” Violet whispered, taking his hand.

He hummed softly, eyes fluttering closed again in comfort.

“What happened in your world?” she asked gently. “How did they know?”

Anthony swallowed, his voice raw. “We were at Aubrey Hall… preparing for the rest of the family to arrive. Colin and Gregory were joking around and transformed—wolves. One of the hunters was nearby. He saw.”

He paused, wincing. “Benedict was at his cottage… he’d planned to travel to Aubrey Hall with the others. When he arrived and saw what was happening, it was already too late. The hunters were there. They killed everyone.”

Violet covered her mouth in horror.

“Benedict escaped… came to warn us. But the hunters followed. He stayed behind as a distraction, told me to run—to get Penelope and Aurora to safety. I begged him to come, but he refused. Said we didn’t have time.” Anthony’s eyes welled again. “I took them through the underground tunnel. But there were hunters in the clearing. That’s where… she was shot.”

Tears slipped silently down Violet’s cheeks as she held his hand. The grief of a thousand lives clung to him, and yet he had carried his child across worlds.

She squeezed his hand gently. “Rest now. She’s safe. You’ve brought her to where she will be loved.”

Fifteen minutes later, the door creaked open.

Penelope Featherington entered, her robe belted over her nightdress, her copper curls loose and falling down her back. Her green eyes were still heavy with sleep, but alert with concern.

“You sent for me, Lady Bridgerton?” she asked quietly.

Violet stood and crossed the room, taking her hand with a softness that belied the storm that had passed through here mere moments ago.

“I sent for you because… he asked me to,” Violet murmured, leading her toward the settee.

Penelope’s breath caught when her eyes fell on the man lying there.

“Great-grandmother Rose coming to me in dreams makes much more sense now,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Anthony?”

“Penelope?” came the reply, soft and cracked with pain. But the love in his voice was unmistakable.

She dropped to her knees beside him and took his hand in both of hers. His fingers, though weak, curled around hers instinctively.

“I don’t have much time,” he murmured. “I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything,” she whispered, brushing the sweat-damp hair from his brow.

“My Penelope and I… we have a daughter. Her name is Aurora. She’s three. She’s sleeping in Violet’s bed. I need you to care for her. Love her. Let her grow up without fear. Let her know beauty and peace.”

Penelope’s eyes filled with tears. “I promise, Anthony. She’ll know nothing but love and laughter. I swear it.”

Anthony gave the faintest nod. “You must also tell… the version of me that lives in this world. He deserves to know. Be gentle with him.”

“I will,” Violet said quietly, standing behind Penelope now, a steady presence.

“Thank you,” he whispered, the words barely audible. “I love you, Mama. Penelope… my brightest light in the darkness…”

He turned his head, meeting Penelope’s gaze one final time. His hand reached up, trembling, and cupped her cheek.

“Kiss Aurora for me. Tell her… her papa loves her. Always.”

“I will,” Penelope whispered, her tears falling freely now.

He smiled—a small, peaceful smile—and then his hand slipped from her cheek. His eyes closed. His chest stilled.

And the room fell quiet.

Penelope bowed her head over his hand, lips pressed to his knuckles, her heart already entwining itself around the name Aurora.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - Just After One.

The room was hushed, the only sounds the gentle sniffles of Violet and Penelope as they sat in the quiet aftermath of loss. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows on the floor, as grief lingered like a second skin.

Then came a soft shuffle from the doorway connecting to Violet’s bedroom. Both women stilled, their breath catching.

“Mama?” came a tiny voice, small and drowsy.

Penelope was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room with urgency and tenderness. At the doorway stood a little girl in a nightdress, eyes bleary with sleep and cheeks flushed with the warmth of bed.

Violet, ever graceful, moved quickly but gently, taking up a nearby white sheet and draping it over Anthony’s still form on the settee—shielding the child from a sight no one so young should carry.

Penelope knelt before the girl and opened her arms.

Aurora didn’t hesitate. She ran into them and clung to her, burying her face in Penelope’s hair with a soft whimper.

Penelope rose with the child in her arms, holding her close, one hand gently rubbing her back. Violet stepped to her side, resting a hand on Aurora’s back and then brushing her fingers along Penelope’s cheek. Their eyes met, and no words were needed. A silent vow passed between them.

We will protect her. Love her. Raise her.

“I will go wake Anthony,” Violet whispered. “He needs to know. Right away.”

Penelope nodded. Aurora stirred but didn’t raise her head.

Violet offered her a soft smile before slipping silently from the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Moments Later – Upstairs Hallway

The corridor was quiet at this late hour. Violet moved with practiced grace, her slippered steps silent against the floor. She reached the room at the end of the hall and knocked—twice. Just enough.

A groggy voice grumbled behind the door. A curse, the creak of floorboards, and then the door opened to reveal Anthony Bridgerton, hair tousled, expression half-formed in confusion.

His scowl faded the moment he saw her tear-streaked face.

“Mother? Is everything all right?” he asked, instantly alert.

“I need you to come with me, dearest,” Violet said gently, her voice low and urgent. “It’s important. And it must not be delayed.”

Anthony stared at her, concern etched in every line of his face. He gave a small nod, grabbed his robe, and followed without another word.

Violet’s Sitting Room

Anthony’s confusion deepened as they returned to the room he had left just hours ago. At first glance, it was unchanged—until he saw the sheet draped over the settee. And then Penelope.

She was seated on the chaise in the far corner, her face pale, eyes red-rimmed. In her arms, curled into her chest, was a small child with auburn hair and delicate features.

The child lifted her head slightly—red curls, his nose, his mouth.

Anthony’s heart stopped.

“Penny… love?” His voice was barely a whisper. “What’s going on? Who is that?”

Penelope looked up at him, her arms tightening slightly around the girl.

“This is Aurora,” she said, voice quiet and full of emotion. “Our daughter.”

Anthony blinked.

And then, as if the floor had vanished beneath him, he dropped to his knees in front of them. His eyes flicked between the child, Penelope, Violet, and finally to the covered figure on the settee.

Realization bloomed like a storm inside him—impossible and undeniable.

“She’s ours?” he whispered, voice breaking.

“Yes,” Penelope murmured, one hand reaching out to him. “Not from this world… but she’s yours. And mine. She’s ours, Anthony.”

He reached out slowly, as if afraid she might disappear, and gently touched Aurora’s little foot where it peeked from beneath the blanket.

Aurora stirred and looked up, her sleepy eyes meeting his. “Papa?” she asked uncertainly.

Anthony’s breath caught. His throat tightened with emotion.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he choked out. “I’m here.”

Penelope wrapped her arms around both of them. Violet stood quietly by the door, watching her son cradle a child he hadn’t known he needed until this moment.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - Early Morning.

The sky outside was tinged with the soft lavender of dawn when Anthony led Penelope into his room, cradling their sleeping daughter in his arms. Gently, he laid Aurora down on his bed, arranging the covers around her with the same care he would give to a fragile treasure.

He turned to Penelope and held out his hand, palm up, quiet and steady.

Without hesitation, she placed her smaller hand in his, fingers fitting into his like they’d been shaped to belong there. He led her over to the chaise in the corner of his room and sat, guiding her down beside him.

“She’s so small,” Anthony murmured, his eyes fixed on the little redheaded girl curled on his bed, her chest rising and falling with sleep. “Did he tell you anything else about her?”

“He did,” Penelope whispered, her voice brushing the air like a secret. “She loves to paint. Benedict is her favorite uncle—which I can absolutely believe. She loves the stars. Her favorite thing to do is horseback riding with her papa. Her favorite color is blue. And she adores salted caramel tarts—they’re her absolute favorite.”

Anthony took it all in, word by word, committing each detail to memory like they were verses of a sacred text. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze from Aurora.

“We’re going to have to figure out how to tell the rest of the family,” he murmured, dragging a hand through his hair.

“We will,” Penelope replied, her tone gentle but firm. “We’ll tell them the truth. They deserve to know where she came from, and why she’s here now. What her parents endured to get her here safely.”

There was silence for a few heartbeats, soft and golden.

“I was going to ask you this question today regardless,” Anthony said, suddenly standing and turning toward the bedside table. “But now… now feels like the right time.”

Penelope blinked, puzzled. “What question?”

Anthony turned back, a small velvet box in his hand. His expression was soft and nervous and full of something ancient and reverent.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” he said as he sank to one knee in front of her. “Pages of it. But none of it felt right. None of it felt like us.”

Penelope gasped, a hand flying to her mouth as her eyes welled with fresh tears. Her heart fluttered so hard it felt like it might lift her into the air.

Anthony opened the box to reveal a ring—Violet’s betrothal ring, delicately set and shining with quiet meaning.

“Penelope Featherington,” he said, voice steady but thick with emotion, “will you marry me?”

Tears spilled over as she laughed—a laugh made of disbelief and joy and finally.

“Yes,” she breathed, radiant. “Yes, I will marry you, Anthony.”

His smile could’ve lit the room. Carefully, reverently, he slid the ring onto her left hand, where it shimmered like it had always belonged there.

Penelope looked down at their daughter, then at the man kneeling before her, and she whispered, “We’re a family now.”

Anthony leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her knuckles, and murmured, “Forever.”

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - Breakfast.

The morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting golden threads across the bed where Aurora lay nestled between Penelope and Anthony. The child stirred, blinking awake, but didn’t move from her warm spot between them. Penelope gently brushed a curl from her daughter’s forehead, and Anthony pressed a quiet kiss to her temple.

A knock sounded before the bedroom door creaked open.

Violet Bridgerton stepped inside, carrying a tray. “I thought you might prefer breakfast in your room this morning,” she said kindly. “I’ll prepare your siblings for the news about Aurora.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Anthony said warmly. Then he shared a look with Penelope, a smile passed between them like a secret blooming. “Before you go… we have something else to share with you.”

“Oh?” Violet asked, arching a brow with soft curiosity.

Penelope sat up a little straighter, her voice warm with joy. “Anthony and I are getting married.”

Violet pressed a hand to her chest, her expression glowing with delight. “Oh, that’s marvelous news, dearest,” she beamed, eyes misty as she looked between her son and the woman he loved. “Truly, I could not be happier.”

Anthony and Penelope exchanged another quiet, radiant smile. Violet, ever the graceful matriarch, excused herself with a soft nod and a final, knowing glance toward the little girl now dozing again in their arms.

Downstairs, in the family dining room, the remaining Bridgerton siblings were seated around the long table, breakfast underway and curiosity piqued.

“Mama,” Hyacinth piped up, “where’s Anthony? He’s usually first to breakfast—he beats even Colin.”

Violet calmly took her seat. “Your brother is taking breakfast in his room this morning. He’ll be down afterward. We have something very important to discuss with all of you.”

“What is it, Mother?” Benedict asked, concern etched in his features.

“Why don’t you go up to Anthony’s room, Benedict?” Violet said gently. “He’ll explain.”

Benedict blinked, puzzled, but didn’t argue. He rose and made his way upstairs, the sounds of breakfast fading behind him.

He knocked once at his brother’s door.

“Come in,” came Anthony’s voice from within.

Benedict opened the door—and froze.

There, in the corner of the room, Anthony was seated on the chaise with Penelope beside him. Nestled between them was a small girl with red curls and eyes far too knowing for her age.

“Brother?” Benedict said cautiously, his gaze flicking between them all.

Anthony rose slightly, careful not to disturb Aurora.

“This is Aurora,” he said gently. “She’s… from another universe. In that world, Penelope and I were married.”

Benedict blinked slowly.

Anthony continued. “But that world wasn’t as kind to supernatural creatures and humans as ours. There were hunters—brutal, relentless. They slaughtered our family. You… you were the one who warned us they were coming. You’d barely escaped with your life. I tried to get you to come with us, but you told me to go. Said Penelope and Aurora needed me, and if I delayed, they’d be in more danger.”

Penelope looked down, her hand curled around Aurora’s.

“We escaped through the tunnels beneath Aubrey Hall, but we were ambushed in the clearing. Penelope… she was shot.” Anthony’s voice trembled, eyes glassy. “Before she died, she gave me a locket. Said it would get Aurora somewhere safe. I ran. I was shot, too, but I kept running. I begged—he begged—for help. For Aurora. The locket brought them here, to this world. They landed in Mother’s sitting room. She sent for Penelope. After he died, she came to wake me.”

Benedict was quiet, stunned, eyes flickering to the sleeping girl once more. She shifted slightly, curling further into Penelope.

“She loves to paint,” Penelope said softly, eyes shining as she looked at Benedict. “And you’re her favorite uncle.”

Benedict let out a breathy laugh, eyes brimming with sudden, unexpected tears. “Of course I am.”

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 1815 - The Drawing Room.

Aurora stirred awake just as Anthony and Penelope began explaining everything to Benedict in hushed voices near the fireplace. Her sleepy eyes fluttered open, and the moment they landed on the man standing across the room, her entire face lit up like the sunrise.

“Uncle Bee!” she squealed with unfiltered joy.

Benedict gasped like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs. He dropped to his knees instinctively just in time to catch her as she clambered down from the chaise and launched herself into his arms.

He held her tight, like he’d known her all his life and had been waiting to meet her without even realizing it.

Penelope stood, her eyes soft with emotion, and stepped beside Anthony. He wrapped an arm around her waist without a word, holding her close as they watched the little girl cling to the uncle she’d never met in this universe—but loved all the same.

Eventually, the group made their way downstairs, Aurora still nestled firmly in Benedict’s arms, her cheek against his shoulder. She refused to let go, fingers curled into his cravat like it was the most important thing in the world.

The rest of the Bridgerton family was already gathered in the drawing room, their voices quiet with anticipation. Violet sat in her embroidery chair, her tea cooling in her hand, eyes calm but alert.

As they entered, heads turned.

“Pen?” Eloise blinked in surprise. “When did you get here? Wait—did Anthony finally propose?” Her grin was practically feral.

Penelope gave a soft laugh, tension crackling just beneath the sound. “That’s… part of what we need to tell you all.”

Eloise raised a single eyebrow and leaned back into her seat, arms folded, fully expecting chaos.

Anthony turned to his mother. “Mother, would you like to begin?”

Violet inclined her head, then set her cup down with precision. “Last night, while I was sitting in my private parlour, the room was suddenly filled with a shimmering, golden light. When it faded, there was a man standing in its place—his clothes torn, covered in blood and ash, and holding a small child.”

She paused, her gaze steady on her children. “That man… was Anthony. But not our Anthony. He came from a different universe. One where supernatural beings are hunted.”

Murmurs rippled through the room, stunned silence layered with disbelief.

“In that world,” Violet continued softly, “Anthony and Penelope were married. They had a daughter, Aurora. One day, Colin and Gregory were spotted by hunters while in wolf form. By the time Benedict reached Bridgerton House to warn the others, it was already too late. He escaped, made it to Aubrey Hall, and helped Anthony flee with Penelope and their daughter.”

She lifted the locket gently in her hand, the chain glinting in the light. “This locket was given to Anthony by Penelope just before she died. It brought him and Aurora here—to us.”

The room fell utterly silent. Not even a breath.

Anthony stepped forward and placed a hand on the door. “You can come in now, Benedict.”

The door swung open wider, and in stepped Benedict Bridgerton, cravat slightly rumpled, face flushed with awe and emotion. In his arms was a tiny redheaded girl, one hand curled tightly into the fabric at his throat.

Collective breath left the room again.

“Just a fair warning,” Benedict said with a puffed chest and an exaggerated wink, “I’m her favorite uncle.”

Aurora giggled, clearly delighted, and tucked herself more securely into his arms.

“She’s so tiny,” Daphne whispered. “How old is she?”

“She’s three,” Anthony said gently, his eyes flicking between his siblings. “Her name is Aurora. She’s a hybrid—half wolf, half witch. The wolf is from me. The magic… is from Penelope.”

Penelope smiled, tears glimmering in her eyes. “She’s the best of both of us.”

Hyacinth crept forward from her spot on the rug, eyes wide with wonder. “Can she do spells?”

Aurora peeked out from Benedict’s shoulder, then held up a small hand, fingers spread wide. A little puff of pink sparkles flared between her fingers and vanished.

Hyacinth gasped. “She’s better than Gregory already.”

“Oi!” came Gregory’s indignant reply from the sofa.

The room finally filled with laughter—shaky, unsure, but real. The kind that comes after heartbreak. The kind that says: we’re still here.

And just like that, the Bridgerton family—who had never once met this child before—began to fall utterly, irrevocably in love with her.

[legacydowney94]

Modern Penthony Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington

Vibe:

Note: Penelope Featherington has been Daphne and Eloise Bridgerton since they were children in primary school even though Daphne is three years older than them.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2021 - The Backyard Midnight.

The house was silent, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only settled once the chaos of the Bridgerton household had gone to sleep. All except twenty-year-old Daphne and seventeen-year-olds Eloise and Penelope, who had snuck out of Penelope’s bedroom where they’d been huddled under throw blankets, working their way through a pile of junk food and watching horror movies that left them shrieking and clinging to each other like toddlers.

“Did you remember to bring the sunglasses, El?” Penelope whispered, trying not to laugh as she helped Daphne wrestle a fitted sheet over her head. It kept slipping off, giving Daphne a haunted mushroom cap vibe more than ghost, but she was committed to the bit.

“I got them right here,” Eloise whispered back proudly, whipping out three pairs of oversized sunglasses from the kangaroo pouch of her hoodie like she was unveiling rare jewels. She stumbled slightly over a half-buried garden gnome as she joined her older sister and best friend, nearly taking out a lawn chair in the process. “I also brought the emergency Fruit Roll-Ups. You know, for morale.”

Penelope gasped, dramatically clasping her hands to her chest. “You’re a hero. The ghost community shall sing songs of your bravery.”

Once all three of them were adorned in sunglasses and bedsheets, looking like members of a very confused supernatural jazz trio, they took off running. The backyard became their playground—the kind of place that turned twenty-year-olds back into giddy, shrieking children. Daphne chased them in circles, trying to tag them while adjusting her slippery sheet. Eloise dramatically flopped into the grass any time someone tagged her, moaning, “I have perished,” like a Victorian widow.

Penelope’s laughter rang out, light and breathless, as she ducked behind the hydrangea bushes, dragging Eloise down beside her. “Shh! Daphne’s close. She’s hunting.”

“Is it too late to unionize and overthrow her as ghost queen?” Eloise whispered.

Penelope snorted. “I think the sunglasses made her drunk with power.”

They were both trying to stifle their giggles when Daphne tumbled in after them, tripping over her sheet and faceplanting into the bush with a muffled, “Ow!”

All three collapsed into silent hysterics, faces buried in their knees, shoulders shaking as they tried not to laugh too loudly.

Then—click.

A warm, yellow light spilled across the backyard, stretching over the grass like a warning spotlight in an old prison escape movie.

“Oh no,” Eloise whispered, her voice barely audible. “We woke Anthony.”

Penelope let out a soft gasp, covering her mouth. But instead of panicking, she just leaned into Daphne, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Footsteps crunched along the grass, deliberate and slow, the kind that said, I know you’re out here and I’m going to find you.

“Hide me!” Daphne hissed, trying to sink lower into the bushes, but her sheet caught on a branch and tugged half-off, leaving her looking like a half-molted ghost chicken.

Penelope peeked over the hydrangea hedge just in time to see Anthony Bridgerton, in pajama pants, a hoodie, and a pair of very unimpressed eyebrows, coming into view. He had a mug in one hand—probably tea—and the aura of a man who was not expecting to find the Ghosts of Midnight Dumbassery past, present, and future in his backyard.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, blinking like he was hoping this was a weird caffeine-induced hallucination.

All three girls froze in place like guilty cats caught on a countertop.

Anthony stopped walking and stared.

Three figures, draped in bedsheets and sunglasses, crouched suspiciously in the garden bush like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Penelope, still wearing her shades slightly askew, raised a hand solemnly. “We’re… um… conducting a séance. For the ghost of your social life.”

Daphne choked on her laughter. Eloise was actively vibrating with glee.

Anthony blinked. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly,” Eloise chimed in. “Witching hour. Prime ghost real estate.”

“You’re in my garden.”

“Correction,” Penelope added quickly, “we’re haunting your garden.”

Anthony stared for a long beat, then sighed the sigh of a man who knew better than to ask follow-up questions when Eloise was involved.

“I swear to God, if you dig up Mum’s petunias again—”

“That was one time,” Daphne protested from under her mangled sheet. “And we were eleven!”

Anthony shook his head slowly. “Just… keep it down. And stay out of the rose beds.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Penelope said sweetly, adjusting her sunglasses with exaggerated elegance. “We ghosts shall remember your mercy.”

He stared at her for a second longer than he meant to, taking in the way the porch light caught the streaks of red in her hair, the crinkle of her eyes behind the sunglasses, the way she smiled like mischief incarnate.

He blinked, shook himself out of it.

“Go to bed before the neighbors start thinking we’ve got cult activity going on.”

And with that, he turned and walked back toward the house.

The girls waited until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then they exploded into laughter, falling into each other like dominos.

“Oh my God,” Penelope wheezed. “We just got caught ghost-LARPing by your brother.”

“I am never letting this go,” Eloise giggled. “We’re legends now.”

“Ghost girl summer,” Daphne said, throwing her hands in the air.

And with the sheets slipping off their heads, sunglasses tilted, and a fresh wave of laughter bursting from their chests, the three of them collapsed into the grass beneath the stars—just girls in the moonlight, still young, still free, still together.

And somewhere in the house, a certain older brother stood by the window, sipping his tea and shaking his head.

But a small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2021 - Breakfast The Next Morning.

The sun had risen far too cheerfully for three girls who had passed out in the grass wearing bedsheets.

They’d ended up falling asleep in a tangle of limbs beneath the hydrangeas, their makeshift ghost costumes still clinging to them like confused togas. Now, half-awake and hilariously disheveled, the trio blinked blearily into the morning light, their hair sticking out in every direction, peppered with leaves, twigs, and the faint scent of dew and Fruit Roll-Ups.

Penelope groaned softly, rubbing at her eyes. “I think a bug used me as a mattress.”

“I smell bacon,” Eloise mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep, one eye cracked open like a suspicious cat. “Unless I’m dead. Then that’s very rude of the afterlife.”

Daphne stretched with a whimper, one arm slung lazily around Penelope’s shoulders. “C’mon, Penny,” she said gently, helping her to her feet. “We’ll shower after breakfast. Maybe. If we survive.”

Penelope staggered upright with a yawn, half leaning on Daphne like they were the last survivors of a very soft war. Eloise draped her sheet dramatically over her shoulder like a royal cape. “I’m going in,” she declared. “If I don’t make it… avenge me.”

The three of them stumbled into the kitchen like zombies who had just graduated from some sort of enchanted forest sleepover. The warm smell of bacon, coffee, and toast greeted them like a heavenly choir. Around the table, the rest of the Bridgerton family was already halfway through breakfast, with Simon perched next to Daphne’s usual seat and Violet reading the paper like she hadn’t heard the girls cackling in the backyard at midnight.

“Did you three really sleep outside all night?” Anthony asked, raising an eyebrow over his coffee mug, his tone hovering between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

Eloise didn’t answer. She just plopped into the seat beside Colin with the dramatic flair of someone returning from war. He blinked at her, wordlessly handed her a mug of coffee, and resumed buttering his toast like this was Tuesday behavior. She took it like a lifeline and whispered, “You’re my favorite brother right now.”

“Good,” Colin replied dryly. “I live for your affection, Eloise.”

Daphne shuffled over to her usual spot beside their mother, who gave her a once-over and said mildly, “Darling, you have a leaf in your eyebrow.”

“I’m saving it for later,” Daphne deadpanned, swiping it off and dropping it onto her napkin like it had personally betrayed her.

Penelope, still in her rumpled hoodie and a sheet tied around her waist like a Greco-Roman disaster, slid into the open seat between Benedict and Anthony. Her hair was tangled, cheeks still pink with sleep, and her eyes barely open—but she looked utterly content. Benedict smirked at her appearance but said nothing, just raised his eyebrows like, Rough night, ghost?

“It was totally worth it,” Penelope murmured dreamily, reaching out for the stack of pancakes.

Her fingers brushed against Anthony’s as he passed her the plate. It was just a moment—barely a touch—but it sent a tiny spark through her, straight to the tips of her ears. She blushed instantly, jerking her hand back a second too late to be casual, like the pancakes had suddenly grown teeth.

Anthony didn’t move. He looked at her for a moment, a slow, unreadable expression flickering in his eyes—amusement, maybe, or curiosity, or something quieter and warmer. But then Benedict made a low humming sound like a lovesick violin and wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.

Anthony elbowed him.

Penelope pretended to be very focused on buttering her pancake, cheeks flaming as she muttered, “Could someone pass the syrup before I dissolve into the table?”

“Only if you promise not to haunt the kitchen again tonight,” Anthony said, tone dry but playful.

“No promises,” Penelope shot back without looking up.

“Then I’m locking the patio door.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Daphne gasped.

“Oh, I would,” Anthony replied, sipping his coffee. “Next time one of you screams at 1 a.m. because a moth touched your face—”

“It was huge,” Eloise cut in defensively, her head still resting on the table like a gremlin emerging from hibernation. “And it had eyes.”

“Everything has eyes, Eloise,” Colin muttered.

“Not pancakes,” Penelope said, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“…Why would you say that?” Benedict asked, looking genuinely distressed.

The table dissolved into laughter, the usual morning cacophony blooming like sun through fog. Violet watched them all with a fond smile, her gaze lingering for a moment on Penelope—then flicking subtly to Anthony, who was now watching Penelope laugh at one of Daphne’s jokes with that quiet little smile he thought no one noticed.

Violet noticed.

But she simply turned the page of the paper and sipped her tea.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2022 - Family Movie Night.

The family room was a warm, sprawling chaos of blankets, snack bowls, and squabbling siblings. Violet Bridgerton sat with a practiced sort of serenity in her favorite armchair tucked in the corner of the room, a glass of red wine in hand, her expression one of peaceful detachment—as if she were watching an opera and not her children descending into cinematic anarchy.

“I vote we watch Finding Nemo first!” Hyacinth declared, standing atop a bean bag like a gremlin queen at eleven years old, wild-eyed and full of dictatorial confidence.

“Not Finding Nemo again,” Gregory groaned from where he was flopped across the rug, arms splayed like a man betrayed by life. “You chose that last time. I can’t listen to ‘just keep swimming’ one more time. I’ll lose what’s left of my mind.”

“I hope you do,” Hyacinth snapped, lobbing a pillow with shocking aim and nailing him in the face. Gregory shrieked like a banshee.

Daphne sighed from the other end of the couch. “Can we please not re-enact Lord of the Flies every time we do this?”

Colin, balancing a precarious tower of popcorn bowls, grinned. “You say that like it isn’t the highlight of the night.”

In the midst of the chaos, Penelope sat quietly, curled into the corner of the large L-shaped couch. She didn’t say much, didn’t vote, didn’t try to referee. She just slowly, stealthily reached for the remote someone had left unattended on the coffee table.

With practiced ease, she turned the volume down, switched inputs, and navigated to exactly what she wanted—1996’s classic disaster film Twister. It began to play with a low, rumbling soundtrack as the opening credits rolled across the screen.

One by one, voices faded. Arguments fizzled. Pillows were dropped. Bodies sank into seats and beanbags and shoulders.

Hyacinth was the first to fold, immediately captivated by the wind and lightning. “Okay… wait. I like this.”

Gregory squinted. “Is this the cow movie?”

“Yes,” Colin and Daphne said in unison.

Satisfied, Penelope leaned back, trying to suppress her smug little grin. That was the thing about the Bridgertons—chaos ruled until something good cut through it, and she knew just the movie to do it.

Next to her, Anthony shifted slightly. His arm, already thrown casually over the back of the couch, dipped just a little—fingers brushing the ends of her hair, but not moving away. He was stretched out, legs long and relaxed, ankles crossed, his body warm beside hers in the dim light of the TV screen.

He dipped his head slightly, voice low and lazy as he leaned in just enough that only she could hear.

“I saw that,” he murmured near her ear, a ghost of amusement in his voice. “Nice movie choice, by the way.”

Penelope froze for a fraction of a second before blinking up at him, heat rushing into her cheeks. “You saw nothing,” she whispered back, pretending to focus on the screen.

“I see everything,” he teased, voice velvety with that maddening confidence that made her want to toss popcorn at his head and also melt into the cushions beside him.

Penelope didn’t respond, but she smiled, biting her lip to keep it from growing too wide.

Anthony looked ahead again, but the edges of his mouth curled as he stared at the screen—like he’d just discovered something new and very, very intriguing.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2023 - The Backyard.

The evening air was cool and tinged with smoke and sweetness, the stars peeking through a dark velvet sky. A crackling fire glowed at the center of the Bridgerton backyard, casting flickers of amber light across the circle of familiar faces gathered around it. The scent of toasted marshmallows danced with the laughter in the air.

Violet was nestled in her favorite armchair inside the family room, legs elegantly crossed, a glass of wine in hand and a thick novel resting in her lap. Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth were tucked away in their rooms—Francesca with her music, Gregory gaming, and Hyacinth probably scheming something chaotic and adorable. Colin was off on a date with a girl he’d met at a bar—his latest whirlwind romance.

But out in the backyard, things were crackling with more than just firewood.

Anthony, Benedict, Daphne, Simon, Eloise, and Penelope sat in a loose circle of chairs and blankets, huddled close to the fire with mugs of hot chocolate, the occasional spark rising like fireflies. Penelope was curled up in her usual hoodie, a plaid blanket around her legs, sitting between Eloise and Anthony—close enough that their arms brushed every time she shifted.

“We should play truth or dare!” Eloise announced suddenly, eyes gleaming with mischief as she leaned toward the fire, face lit up by the flames like a plotting goblin.

Penelope gave her best friend a narrowed look, playful but warning. “Eloise…”

Eloise simply winked and blew her a kiss, utterly unrepentant.

“I’m in,” Benedict chimed, pulling a perfectly golden marshmallow from his skewer and popping it into his mouth. “Let’s stir the pot.”

“I vote chaos,” Daphne added, already scrolling for music on her phone.

Simon raised a brow and took a slow sip of his cider. “Nothing good ever starts with Eloise saying ‘we should.’”

Anthony grunted in agreement but didn’t object—he rarely did where his siblings were involved.

“Alright!” Eloise grinned like a wolf in eyeliner. “Benedict. Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he said immediately, like the showman he was.

Eloise lit up. “I dare you to give Penelope a dramatic lap dance.”

Penelope almost choked on her marshmallow. “Eloise!”

But it was already happening. Daphne shrieked with glee and hit play on her phone, the opening beats of a dramatic pop ballad blasting from the speaker. Simon groaned and shook his head, a bemused smile tugging at his lips.

Benedict offered Penelope a tragic, apologetic look and bowed deeply like a martyr walking to his fate. “Forgive me.”

Then he launched into the most ridiculous, exaggerated dance imaginable—floppy limbs, over-the-top expressions, twirls, and all. He spun around like he was auditioning for Bridgerton: The Musical and dropped to his knees before her dramatically, making everyone laugh so hard Daphne almost spilled her drink.

Even Penelope was doubled over, hiding her face behind her hands. “This is the worst day of my life,” she laughed.

“You’re welcome,” Benedict said, striking a final pose that ended with his head in her lap.

The game continued in bursts of laughter and shouted dares, the firelight painting everyone in gold and shadow.

Eventually, it was Daphne’s turn.

She turned to Anthony, eyes twinkling with far too much glee. “Anthony. Truth or dare?”

There was a beat of silence. Anthony glanced around the circle, then took a calm sip of hot chocolate, unbothered.

“Dare,” he said simply.

Eloise sucked in a dramatic gasp. Daphne leaned in, practically glowing.

“I dare you to kiss Penelope,” Daphne said with exaggerated innocence. “And not just any kiss, either. A kiss that will leave her breathless.”

Penelope went still.

The night cracked with sudden quiet. The fire popped. Someone’s mug hit a stone with a soft clink.

Penelope stared at Daphne, then Eloise, betrayal and panic mingling in her wide eyes. “You two are the worst,” she whispered.

But Anthony wasn’t looking at Daphne or Eloise. He was already watching Penelope, a soft intensity in his eyes that made her forget how to breathe.

He stood slowly, setting his mug down on a flat rock near his chair, and walked the few steps to where she sat, frozen and blinking up at him.

“May I?” he asked quietly, offering her his hand.

Penelope swallowed hard and nodded, slipping her fingers into his.

He helped her to her feet. Her heart pounded so loudly it was a miracle the others couldn’t hear it. The fire crackled beside them, the world fading at the edges.

Anthony’s hands moved gently—one sliding to her waist, the other curling into her hair. He leaned in slowly, their noses brushing, eyes locked, breathing shared.

He paused, waiting.

Penelope gave the tiniest smile—shy, unsure, but certain enough.

And that was all he needed.

He closed the space between them.

The kiss was slow, deep, tender. It unraveled something inside her. Her fingers clutched his sleeves, her knees threatening to give out. It felt like the world stilled around them, like gravity had shifted slightly just to tilt her into him.

When they finally pulled apart, the fire seemed to crackle louder, like it had been holding its breath too.

Penelope blinked up at him, pink-cheeked and glowing, lips parted, thoroughly, undeniably breathless.

Someone whistled.

“Damn,” Benedict muttered. “Now that’s a dare.”

Penelope buried her face in Anthony’s chest, and he just held her there, his chin resting lightly atop her head, his smile soft and private.

And somewhere across the fire, Daphne and Eloise high-fived silently.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2023 - The Kitchen.

The house had gone still, blanketed in the hush that only comes when a large family finally winds down. The embers in the fire pit outside had long since cooled, and only the occasional creak of the old floorboards or distant hum of the refrigerator broke the silence.

Daphne and Simon had called it a night just after midnight, retiring to Daphne’s childhood bedroom with the quiet comfort of longtime lovers. Eloise had fallen asleep curled up in an armchair in the family room, face streaked with marshmallow residue, legs hanging off the side like a gangly, exhausted cat. Benedict had wandered off somewhere—maybe the music room, maybe the kitchen, maybe through a closet door into another dimension. It was impossible to tell with Benedict.

In the kitchen, the lights were low, just the dim glow of the stovetop bulb spilling gold across the counter. Penelope stood at the sink, barefoot and sleepy, filling a glass of water. Her hoodie hung off one shoulder, and Anthony’s old flannel pajama pants sat low on her hips, worn and soft with time. They were technically hers now—claimed by cozy theft and silent permission.

She took a sip, the glass cool against her fingers.

Then the air shifted.

She didn’t hear him come in, but she felt it—like the way the air changes before a summer storm. Her spine tingled and her breath caught as she slowly turned.

“Penelope,” came Anthony’s voice, low and warm and unsteady.

He stood in the doorway, shadows falling soft across his face, his hair slightly tousled from running his hands through it. His eyes found hers like they always did—like they needed to.

Penelope’s breath hitched as her gaze met his. The look in his eyes was raw, reverent—like he was about to step off a cliff.

“I have something I need to confess to you,” he said softly, stepping toward her.

Her fingers curled slightly around the glass. “What do you have to confess, Anthony?” she asked, her voice a breathy whisper.

He raised a hand—so gently, so reverently—and ran his fingers along her cheek. The touch was featherlight, like he was afraid she might vanish if he pressed too hard.

“You have ruined me,” he whispered, and her heart nearly stopped. “Completely and utterly and irrevocably. You’ve undone me, Penelope.”

Her eyes welled. His voice trembled just enough to undo her.

“My heart belongs to you. It always has. And I am hopelessly, helplessly in love with you. I would be the luckiest man alive if you would agree to be my girlfriend.”

She blinked fast, the words sinking in, wrapping around her ribcage and squeezing gently.

“I love you too,” she whispered, smiling through the shimmer in her eyes. “I have for years. And I would be happy to be your girlfriend.”

Anthony exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime. And then came that smile—the one that made her legs feel like jelly, the one he rarely let anyone see. His entire face lit up with it.

He stepped closer, cupping her cheek again, and leaned in.

The first brush of his lips against hers was barely a kiss—more like a promise. It was soft, tender, unhurried. She melted into it, smiling against his mouth.

When he pulled back, barely an inch away, he murmured against her lips, “Spend the night with me?”

She blinked at him, wide-eyed.

“No funny business,” he added quickly, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her cheek. “Just sleep. And cuddling. And maybe some kisses, if you’re open to those.”

Penelope giggled, cheeks pink. “Alright,” she whispered. “You’re lucky I’m already in my pajamas.”

He laughed softly—low and warm and happy—and laced their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on, Featherington,” he said, giving her hand a gentle tug. “Let’s go home.”

And just like that, they walked hand in hand out of the kitchen, through the quiet hallways of the Bridgerton house, and up the stairs into something entirely new.

————————————���——————————

Upstairs, Anthony’s Room

Anthony opened the door quietly, the soft creak familiar and comforting. His room was warm, dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. The bed was already turned down, the covers slightly rumpled from earlier when he’d thrown himself onto it in frustration after the kiss by the fire.

Now, that frustration had been replaced with something entirely different—something tender and quiet and filled with awe.

Penelope stepped inside, barefoot and sleepy, fingers still loosely twined with his. She looked around the room like she was seeing it for the first time, even though she’d been in here before, always with the others, always in daylight. This—this moment was different.

“You sure about this?” he asked softly, searching her face, even as he closed the door behind them.

She nodded with a sleepy smile, eyes half-lidded. “I meant it,” she murmured. “No funny business, but… definitely cuddles. And kisses.”

He chuckled, the sound like velvet. “Deal.”

Penelope crawled onto the bed first, tucking herself under the covers with an exaggerated yawn. Anthony followed, slipping beneath the blanket and immediately reaching for her. She came willingly, settling into his arms like she belonged there—which, she was quickly realizing, she did.

He lay on his back, and she curled into his side, head on his chest, one leg tossed carelessly over his. His arms wrapped around her protectively, one hand gently stroking her hair, the other tracing circles along the small of her back.

They lay there for a moment, just breathing. Her fingers played with the buttons on his sleep shirt. His heartbeat was steady beneath her cheek, grounding and familiar.

“You smell like marshmallows,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

“You smell like firewood and strawberries,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “It’s dangerously cute.”

Penelope giggled, then tilted her head back to look up at him. “Can I kiss you again?”

He didn’t answer with words—just leaned down, brushing his lips over hers in a kiss that was soft and slow and ridiculously romantic. It deepened only slightly, just enough to make her sigh contentedly against his mouth.

“You’re a really good kisser,” she murmured when they finally broke apart.

“I’m inspired,” he whispered with a grin, nuzzling her nose with his.

They kissed again—gentle, sleepy, lazy kisses. The kind you give when the world is quiet and nothing else matters except the warmth in your arms. He kissed her temple, her cheek, the tip of her nose. She peppered his jawline with light, lingering kisses until he chuckled and rolled slightly so he could wrap both arms around her more snugly.

Eventually, they settled fully under the covers, wrapped up in each other like a pair of sleepy otters. His hand found hers beneath the blanket, their fingers tangling naturally.

“Can I keep you forever?” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion and emotion.

Penelope’s smile was soft and sleepy and full of love. “You already have me, Anthony Bridgerton.”

He pressed one last kiss to her forehead and rested his cheek against her hair.

Minutes later, they were both fast asleep, tangled up in the kind of peace neither of them had ever quite known until now.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2024 - The Morning After Penelope’s Birthday.

The dining room was buzzing with soft conversation and clinking silverware, the scent of buttery toast, coffee, and something vaguely cinnamon wafting through the air. Everyone was in various stages of breakfast and recovery. Except Anthony Bridgerton, who was slouched in his chair like a tragic Victorian poet nursing a broken heart—and a hangover.

His elbows were on the table, fingers pressed to his temples, and his coffee remained tragically untouched beside his plate.

Colin leaned back in his chair, practically beaming. “You were super drunk last night, Anthony. It was hilarious.”

Anthony groaned without lifting his head. “I wasn’t that drunk.”

“Oh no?” Eloise perked up, eyes dancing with mischief as she poked at her scrambled eggs. “You flirted with Penelope.”

Anthony cracked one eye open. “She’s my girlfriend, Eloise. I’m allowed to flirt with her.”

Simon, sitting beside Daphne, sipped his tea and casually dropped the verbal bomb like a seasoned sniper. “You pouted until Benedict and Colin carried you up to your room because Penelope said she was in a relationship when you asked if she was single.”

A beat of silence followed.

Anthony tilted his head back dramatically, eyes closed like he was trying to astral project into the void. He turned slowly to look at Penelope, who was seated beside him, calmly sipping her tea like nothing was amiss. Her hair was half-up in a lazy ponytail, and her cheeks still had that soft post-birthday glow.

She caught his gaze and offered a knowing smile, her eyes full of affection and the barest trace of amusement. “You were adorable, love,” she said sweetly, leaning in to gently fluff his hair, which was still slightly disheveled from sleep.

Then, with no hesitation and all the grace in the world, she kissed his cheek.

Anthony melted just a little. His shoulders relaxed, and a tiny, sheepish smile curved his lips.

“I’m never drinking again,” he muttered into his coffee cup, finally taking a sip.

“Liar,” Daphne said without even looking up from her toast.

“You said the same thing after Francesca’s graduation party,” Benedict chimed in.

“And after Colin’s birthday,” Gregory added helpfully from the end of the table, munching on bacon.

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” Anthony grumbled, but there was no real venom in his voice.

“You’re surrounded by people who love you,” Penelope said quietly, her hand brushing against his beneath the table. He turned his palm up to link their fingers.

He didn’t say anything—just kissed the back of her hand and sighed, leaning into her touch.

“Well, now that our leading man is officially vertical,” Eloise said cheerfully, “can we talk about how Anthony also told the bartender Penelope had eyes like an Irish forest and a laugh that made him feel like he was home?”

Anthony groaned again, pressing his forehead to the table as the rest of the family dissolved into laughter.

“Honestly?” Penelope whispered beside him, voice low and warm. “That was my favorite part.”

He peeked up at her through his lashes. “Even the part where I tried to sing a love song and forgot the lyrics halfway through?”

She giggled. “Especially that part.”

And despite the hangover, the teasing, and the embarrassment, Anthony couldn’t help the small, crooked smile that bloomed across his face—because Penelope was beside him, and she was still choosing him, even after that performance.

That alone made the headache worth it.

[legacydowney94]

Modern Benelope Plot Bunny for Adoption.

Eventual Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington

Vibe:

Note: In 2019 Penelope Featherington confesses to having a crush on her best friend, Eloise Bridgerton’s older brother Benedict. Eloise is supportive and secretly ships her brother and Penelope as a couple.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2019 - Penelope’s Room.

The room had been dubbed Penelope’s Room ever since she was eight years old and wore her hair in pigtails. Now, she and Eloise were sixteen, and pigtails had long since been traded for messy buns and eyeliner experiments gone wrong.

They were lying on the floor, surrounded by open bags of crisps, half-empty bottles of nail polish, and the warm haze of midnight giggles.

“What’s a secret you’ve never told me, but really want to?” Eloise asked, chin in her hand, eyes glittering with mischief.

Penelope sat up straighter, clutching a throw pillow to her chest. “Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh. Or be mad.”

Eloise gasped dramatically and drew an invisible X over her chest. “I solemnly swear on my future Nobel Prize for Bratty Genius that I won’t laugh. Unless it’s something ridiculous—like if you were the one who ate the last biscuit and blamed Colin. In that case, I will laugh. And then I’ll build you a shrine.”

Penelope’s cheeks flamed. “I have a crush on Benedict. Your brother.”

Eloise blinked once.

Then twice.

Then she let out a squeal so high-pitched it could’ve summoned the neighbor’s dog. She launched herself across the room and tackled Penelope in a giggle-filled hug.

“Oh my GOD, this is amazing! You’re officially my OTP! I ship you so hard. So hard. This is the best secret you’ve ever told me.”

Penelope laughed, her face as red as her favorite nail polish. “You’re not… weirded out?”

“Weirded out? Pen, I’ve already planned your wedding in my head. Wait until I teach you how to flirt using feminist manifestos and chaotic energy.”

Just then, the bedroom door creaked open. Anthony stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like every older brother who’d ever been woken up past midnight.

“It is 12:30 in the morning,” he said in his most tired dad voice. “If you don’t want Colin stomping in here and whining about how his ‘beauty sleep’ was ruined—which, let’s be honest, is pointless because the boy wakes up looking like a sleep-deprived goblin—please keep it down.”

Eloise gave him a playful salute. “You got it, Lord Broodington.”

Penelope smiled sweetly. “Sorry, Anthony. We’ll keep it down. Promise. We’re just gonna pick a movie and chill.”

He gave her a mock glare, the corner of his mouth twitching into a fond smile. “Fine. But if I hear shrieking again, I’m confiscating all your snacks.”

He closed the door behind him, leaving the girls to dissolve into another fit of giggles.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2020 - The Family Room.

The family room was its usual brand of chaos: a wild blend of laughter, shuffling feet, and the faint aroma of popcorn lingering in the air like a delicious fog. Siblings jockeyed for prime real estate in the annual Bridgerton movie marathon, the stakes higher than a reality show elimination.

Anthony had already declared himself the undisputed champion of comfort, triumphantly sinking into the well-worn recliner by the window. Hyacinth, the tiny whirlwind of energy, had somehow managed to curl up in the tiny gap between his arm and the chair, her face barely visible beneath a mountain of blankets.

Colin claimed his throne on the loveseat beside Gregory, who was busy scrolling through his phone but still keenly aware of the family banter swirling around him. Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca flopped onto the couch like a trio of queens dividing their territory, leaving the patch of floor strewn with blankets and pillows for Benedict and Penelope.

Penelope shot Eloise a look that screamed betrayal, her lips pursed as if Eloise had personally orchestrated this floor-only punishment. Eloise just grinned back, flashing a wicked wink that said “serves you right, Pen”.

Penelope sighed dramatically and settled onto the floor with a fluffy purple blanket wrapped snugly around her legs and a fortress of pillows behind her back. She didn’t bother looking at Benedict, who was sprawled beside her with the relaxed air of someone who’d just woken up from a nap rather than a nap-and-then-a-movie-marathon.

He was dressed for ultimate chill mode: basketball shorts, a loose tank top that showed off his toned arms, and hair so messily perfect it looked like a deliberate “just rolled out of bed” statement. Benedict caught Penelope’s glance — or was it a glare? — and smirked.

“You really gonna sit there giving me the silent treatment all night?” he teased, nudging her foot gently.

Penelope rolled her eyes but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Maybe. You did steal the comfiest spots. I’m not sure if this is punishment or justice.”

Eloise’s laughter bubbled from the couch. “Honestly, Pen, you’ve got to learn to be more assertive. Next year, call dibs before everyone else.”

“Or bribe Colin with cookies,” Francesca added, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Penelope threw a pillow at Francesca, who dodged with dramatic flair. “One day I’m going to claim that recliner, mark my words.”

Anthony’s voice called out from his throne, “Good luck with that, Peaches. You’d have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

Penelope shook her head, laughing softly as the warm chaos of family filled the room. Maybe the floor wasn’t so bad — not when you were surrounded by this much love, noise, and a little bit of good-natured sibling teasing.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2021 - The Backyard.

The backyard was alive with twinkling fairy lights strung between trees, casting a soft glow over a patchwork of colorful picnic blankets scattered like treasure islands across the grass. Gregory darted across the yard, giggling breathlessly as Hyacinth chased him with a bright blue water gun, her laughter ringing like bells. “Gotcha!” she called out, spraying a quick burst. Gregory squealed and dodged, water splashing against his shirt.

Nearby, Francesca was helping Violet carry out platters piled with food — finger sandwiches, fresh fruit, and bowls of salad — arranging everything with careful hands on the long wooden table. Daphne and Eloise were crouched beside the fire pit, poking at kindling and debating how many marshmallows were “too many” for perfect s’mores.

Meanwhile, Colin prowled stealthily near the dessert table, eyes flicking left and right as he slyly slipped a biscuit into his mouth, then a cupcake, always careful to keep out of sight. “If anyone asks, I’m innocent,” he whispered to himself, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Penelope sat curled on a soft blanket beneath the sweeping willow tree, a book open in her lap but her eyes wandering to Benedict, who stood on the patio deep in conversation with Anthony. The golden light caught his hair, making it glow like a halo, and her heart did a little somersault when he glanced her way and gave her a small, easy smile.

Her face heated, and just then Eloise plopped down beside her with a grin. “Pen, you know you’ve got some drool right there,” she teased, poking gently at Penelope’s cheek.

Penelope blinked, mortified, then shot her best friend a glare sharp enough to cut glass—but it was all playful. “Shut up, Eloise. It’s called ‘expressive reading,’ thank you very much.”

Eloise laughed. “Expressive or not, you’re gonna leave a puddle if you’re not careful. Also, how do you always look so cute when you’re caught off guard? I swear, it’s unfair.”

Penelope rolled her eyes but smiled, feeling the warmth of friendship like the soft summer breeze.

“Hey, you gonna stare at Benedict all night or help me set up for s’mores?” Eloise nudged her, already standing.

Penelope closed her book with a sigh, standing up. “Alright, alright. But only if you promise not to snitch when I sneak an extra marshmallow.”

“Deal,” Eloise said, winking. “Just don’t get caught by Anthony. He’s basically a s’mores security guard.”

From the patio, Anthony called out, “Keep it down, you two! I don’t want the neighbors thinking we’re hosting a circus!”

“Your circus, your rules!” Penelope called back with a grin, her voice light and teasing as she walked backwards toward the fire pit.

Anthony froze, slowly turned to stare at her with narrowed eyes, and raised one imperious brow like a drama teacher who’d just heard a student improvise Shakespeare with fart jokes.

Benedict chuckled beside him. “She’s got you there, brother.”

Anthony crossed his arms, shaking his head like a man betrayed by his own kingdom. “This circus is getting awfully bold lately. Next thing I know, the clowns will unionize.”

“I already did!” Hyacinth yelled from across the yard, spraying Gregory again. “And our demands are ice cream and bedtime negotiations!”

“Ice cream and chaos,” Anthony muttered. “Why do I even try?”

“Because you love us,” Penelope called sweetly, all dimples and sunshine.

Anthony grumbled something unintelligible but there was the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as he turned back toward the drinks table, shaking his head like a man who knows full well he’s lost control but wouldn’t change it for the world.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2022 - Penelope’s Room.

Penelope’s room hadn’t changed much over the years, but the atmosphere had. Once a sanctuary for sleepovers and whispered secrets, it now buzzed with the energy of young women preparing for a night out. Clothes were scattered across the bed, hair tools were plugged in and dangerously close to starting a fire, and the scent of Penelope’s vanilla body spray floated through the air.

Eloise was currently half-dancing, half-wrestling with her eyeliner, standing in front of the vanity mirror while Penelope adjusted her combat boots. Daphne, perched on the bed with the confidence of a woman who had mastered the art of getting ready early and judging everyone else for not doing the same, narrowed her eyes at the chaos.

“Eloise,” she said slowly, like she was speaking to a wild animal, “when we get to the pub, don’t be a menace and frighten Simon. Pen, you have to promise that you’ll keep her under control.”

Penelope snorted, buckling the second boot. “I’ll try my best, Daph. But let’s be honest here—you’re asking me to contain a tornado with a hair clip.”

Eloise flipped around dramatically. “Exactly! I am chaos, and if Simon wants to date my older sister, he’s going to have to get used to the full Eloise Experience™. No filter. No apologies.”

Daphne groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Why is my love life your personal sandbox?”

“Because it’s hilarious,” Eloise said, throwing on a denim jacket with studs along the shoulders. “And also… he’s hot. You’re hot. I ship it. Go team.”

“I’d rather not traumatize the poor man,” Daphne mumbled as she stood and smoothed her black mini dress.

“You have my word I’ll try to keep the chaos to a minimum,” Penelope offered, hands raised in surrender. “But I make no promises. She bites.”

The three of them burst into laughter.

“Daphne! Eloise! Penelope! Let’s go!” Colin’s voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs, full of theatrical agony.

Penelope raised an eyebrow at the ceiling. “D’you think he’s actually pacing?”

“Like a dad late for his tee time,” Eloise quipped.

Downstairs, Anthony leaned against the front doorframe, arms crossed like the father figure he always pretended not to be. Benedict stood beside him, smirking as Colin made a dramatic gesture with his hands. Simon, cool and composed in a button-up and dark jeans, stood behind them with the amused patience of a man who had already survived a Bridgerton sibling stampede or two.

As the girls finally made their way down, the sound of laughter grew louder, and the click of boots on hardwood echoed.

“Colin, you’re acting like a middle-aged man worried about missing his reservation at a buffet,” Penelope teased, trailing behind Daphne and Eloise as they descended the stairs.

“I thought we were friends, Pen,” Colin replied, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “That really hurt.”

“That’s what you get for rushing us,” Eloise said without missing a beat. “Beauty takes time, brother. Not that you’d understand. You always look like a sleep-deprived goblin.”

Anthony snorted. “He really does. Especially before coffee.”

Colin shot his older brothers a glare. “You’re all awful.”

Benedict chuckled, but his eyes were on Penelope. She looked… breathtaking. Her black ripped high-waisted jeans hugged her hips perfectly, and the green tank top made her hair look like fire under the hallway lights. The black leather jacket and combat boots? A look. A whole novel.

His mouth curved into a smile he couldn’t quite stop, and before he could talk himself out of it, he took a step forward. “Well, come on then,” he said casually, though his pulse had picked up. “The night won’t wait for itself and the drinks are calling my name.”

And then—because it was Benedict and he was all impulse and charm—he ducked, scooped Penelope up, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Benedict!” she squealed, laughing as her hair flopped over her face. “Put me down!”

“Can’t hear you, Penny!” he called over his shoulder, already halfway to the car, grinning like a kid who’d just stolen candy and gotten away with it.

“Benedict Bridgerton, I swear to—” Penelope shrieked between giggles, kicking her legs.

The rest of the siblings erupted into laughter. Daphne rolled her eyes, but smiled. Eloise clapped like she was watching a season finale. Anthony simply shook his head. “God help us all.”

Colin, deadpan, followed them out. “If they start flirting in front of me, I’m jumping out of the moving car.”

Simon, watching the display unfold with growing amusement, muttered, “I think I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“You have no idea,” Anthony said, clapping him on the back.

And just like that, the chaos poured into the car and out into the night—flushed cheeks, nervous butterflies, and one slow-burning spark between a boy with paint on his hands and a girl with a secret that wasn’t quite so secret anymore.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2023 - Halloween.

The Bridgerton estate had been completely transformed into a haunted wonderland. Black, orange, and deep violet streamers were twisted across banisters like mischievous cobwebs, while clusters of themed balloons bobbed at every doorway. Fake spider webs glistened under soft golden lights, and carved pumpkins lined the walk to the backyard—each one seemingly more ridiculous or terrifying than the last. One even had a tiny monocle and mustache. Colin’s work, no doubt.

Inside, the bass of Halloween hits thumped faintly through the walls, laughter echoing from the main floor. But upstairs, in Penelope’s bedroom—her home-away-from-home ever since she was eight—a far more sacred ritual was unfolding.

Daphne, Eloise, and Francesca were sprawled across the bed and beanbags, all in full costume and buzzing with anticipation.

“She’s been in there for ages,” Daphne muttered, adjusting her golden Cleopatra headpiece. “Should we start charging rent?”

“She’s probably having an identity crisis,” Eloise said dramatically, gesturing with her medieval knight sword. “Which is fair, honestly. That outfit could give anyone an existential spiral.”

“She’s probably trying not to pass out from how tight that dress is,” Francesca added with a teasing smirk, popping another candy corn into her mouth.

And then—click.

The bathroom door creaked open.

The air stilled.

Penelope stepped out, and it was as if the temperature in the room dropped and spiked at once.

She was dressed in a deep red, floor-length gown—curve-hugging and glittering slightly with every breath she took. A thigh-high slit teased with every step, and her strawberry blonde curls had been styled into glamorous old-Hollywood waves. Her lips matched the dress, bold and crimson, and she blinked at them nervously through thick lashes.

The room collectively forgot how to function.

Francesca let out a low whistle.

Daphne flopped dramatically onto her back, fanning herself with her hand. “Well. There go my standards. Straight through the roof.”

Eloise’s jaw actually dropped. “Damn, Pen. Benedict is going to either have his brain short-circuit or he’s going to have a full-on heart attack because he forgot how to breathe. Possibly both. You might want to prep a defibrillator just in case.”

Penelope blushed so furiously it rivaled the color of her dress. She turned toward the mirror, tugging nervously at the slit. “You really don’t think it’s too much? I mean—it’s a lot of leg, and I can’t actually breathe if I sit down in this.”

“It’s not too much,” Daphne assured, standing to adjust a curl that had slipped behind Penelope’s shoulder. “You look hot.”

“Correction,” Francesca said, standing to join her. “You look better than Jessica Rabbit herself. I mean, she walked so you could absolutely strut. Embrace your hotness, Pen. Now walk into that party like it owes you money.”

Penelope giggled, cheeks still pink, but her smile was soft. She turned to face them fully, a twinkle of courage sparking in her eyes. “Okay. Okay, I can do this.”

Eloise bounded up and threw an arm around her shoulders. “That’s the spirit! Our very own red-headed knockout. Now let’s go. There’s a dance floor to dominate, and a certain artsy Bridgerton boy to emotionally obliterate with your smokin’ hotness.”

They all laughed, the energy shifting from nerves to excitement, and with a final check in the mirror, Penelope nodded.

The four girls swept out of the room like a beautifully chaotic girl gang—satin, sequins, and confidence trailing in their wake. As they descended the staircase, the music grew louder, the lights warmer. From the backyard, voices, music, and the sweet scent of autumn mingled in the air.

Penelope’s heels clicked softly on the wood floor as they crossed through the kitchen, and as they stepped onto the back patio, a few heads turned—some with curiosity, others with awe.

But it was Benedict—half-distracted by Colin’s attempt to bob for apples while dressed as a Regency pirate—who looked up mid-laugh… and just stopped.

His beer paused halfway to his lips. His expression froze in something between disbelief and reverence, like he was watching a star fall from the sky and had no idea what to do about it.

Penelope’s breath hitched.

Eloise leaned in from the side and whispered, “Target acquired. May the slow burn commence.”

Benedict’s gaze locked onto Penelope like she was the last slice of pizza at a party—priceless and utterly irresistible. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. Instead, he just stared, eyes wide enough to swim in.

Colin, still mid-bob for apples, looked over and gave Benedict a thumbs-up, completely oblivious to the epic slow-burn scene unfolding behind him.

Penelope felt her cheeks flame hotter than the jack-o’-lanterns flickering around the yard. She tried to pretend it was just the autumn chill, but no. This was him—Benedict Bridgerton—actually looking at her like she was the only person in the universe who mattered tonight.

Eloise gave Penelope a sly nudge and mouthed, Go on, shoot your shot.

Heart hammering, Penelope took a breath as if she was about to dive into the deep end of a cold pool. “Hey, Benedict,” she said, voice a little higher than usual but steady.

Benedict blinked, caught off guard, but grinned like he’d just won a lifetime supply of chocolate. “Hey, Pen. You look… wow. Like, seriously, wow.”

Penelope smiled, gathering her courage. “Thanks. I was hoping you’d think so.”

“Well,” Benedict said, stepping a bit closer, the pirate-apple-bobbing chaos behind him suddenly irrelevant, “I’m officially impressed. But also, a little intimidated.”

“Intimidated?” Penelope teased, lifting a brow. “By Jessica Rabbit?”

“More like… by how you’re making it impossible for me to concentrate,” he admitted, voice lowering to a near whisper.

Eloise snorted softly nearby, “Yep, slow burn? Full flame now.”

Daphne and Francesca exchanged looks, both grinning as the night sky stretched out above them like the perfect cover for this awkward, magical moment.

Benedict held out his hand, half-challenging, half-asking. “Dance with me?”

Penelope hesitated a heartbeat—then slid her hand into his, warm and sure. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Benedict’s fingers curled around hers, warm and gentle, like holding onto something rare—something that might slip away if he didn’t treat it with care. He led her toward the twinkling string lights draped over the patio, where a slow, sultry cover of Wicked Game began to drift through the autumn air. The song, with its haunting pull and electric ache, felt a little too on the nose for Penelope’s racing heart.

He rested one hand lightly on her waist, the other still holding hers, and for a moment they just stood there—swaying slightly, eyes locked, both of them pretending they weren’t hyper-aware of every single place their bodies were touching.

Penelope, struggling to keep her internal scream from turning into an actual sound, broke the silence with a nervous smile. “So… you’re a starving artist and a decent dancer? Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I can’t, for the life of me,” Benedict said, voice low and teasing, “figure out how no one’s snatched you up already.”

Penelope’s breath caught. The world tilted for a second.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “I was just waiting for someone who noticed.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her like she’d flipped some switch inside him he hadn’t realized was even there.

“Pen,” he said, voice serious now, “I notice everything when it comes to you.”

Somewhere in the distance, Colin fell face-first into the apple bucket and emerged spluttering, breaking the tension like a record scratch. Eloise howled with laughter, and Gregory screamed something about “apple water being cursed.” Francesca muttered, “Every year,” with the resignation of a woman who had accepted her fate in a sitcom family.

Penelope couldn’t help it—she laughed, one hand flying to her mouth. Benedict grinned, the spell not quite broken, just… momentarily paused.

“That’s the thing about this family,” he said, leaning closer, lips just a breath from her ear, “you never get a quiet moment when you need one. But somehow, right now? Even with all this chaos…” His gaze flicked back to hers. “You make it feel quiet.”

Her smile faltered, just a little, from nerves and hope and the wild thought that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t just a moment. It was the start of something.

And she was ready.

———————————————————————

Bridgerton House, 2023 - Benedict’s Bedroom.

It was well past midnight, and the Halloween party had finally sputtered to an end like the last flicker of a jack-o’-lantern’s candle. The house was unusually quiet—blanketed in that soft hush that only came when siblings and friends had finally surrendered to sleep or disappeared into their rooms to binge scary movies with bowls of leftover candy.

Penelope Featherington had made it as far as her own room, thank you very much. She’d ditched the sultry red satin of her Jessica Rabbit costume in favor of yoga shorts and a soft, worn-in tank top. Her makeup had been wiped away, revealing the natural flush of her cheeks, and her coppery hair was twisted into a chaotic, slightly lopsided bun on the top of her head.

She was pacing now, barefoot on the carpet, chewing her thumbnail like it had personally wronged her.

“Come on, Pen, you can do this,” she whispered, pointing sternly at her reflection in the mirror. “Francesca said you looked like a walking fantasy, so act like it. Embrace your hotness.”

A pause.

“…Or at least stop hiding from it.”

One deep, soul-steadying breath later, she nodded once like a knight about to charge into battle, tiptoed to her door, and slipped quietly across the hallway. Her heart was pounding in her chest so loudly she was sure it would wake up Violet. Or Eloise. Or all of West London.

She hesitated just a moment outside his door.

Then—fingers trembling just slightly—she pushed it open and stepped inside, just as silently, closing it again behind her with a soft click.

Benedict was lounging on his bed, one knee propped up, sketchbook balanced in his lap. He looked up at the sound, and Penelope froze. His curls were damp from a post-party shower, still a little messy, and he wore nothing but a pair of grey basketball shorts slung low on his hips.

Shirtless. Absolutely, sinfully shirtless.

The lines of his chest and shoulders were bathed in the soft glow of his bedside lamp. Shadows clung to the muscles of his abdomen like even the darkness wanted a piece of him.

“Pen?” Benedict blinked. His voice was soft, a little raspy from laughing and talking all night. “Am I dreaming… or are you actually in my room?”

She swallowed hard. “No, you’re not dreaming. I’m… actually here.” Her voice was quiet, steady despite the internal screaming. “I wanted to tell you something. I had a whole speech planned out, I swear. But then you being shirtless totally derailed my brain, so now I’m just gonna… show you instead.”

He blinked again. His sketchbook hit the nightstand with a soft thud. “Show me what?” he asked, voice low and rough, threaded with curiosity and something much deeper.

She climbed onto the bed without breaking eye contact, moving with uncharacteristic confidence that surprised even her. The mattress dipped beneath her knees as she crawled toward him, heart hammering like it might break through her ribs.

Penelope straddled his waist, legs folded comfortably around him. Her hands found his chest, warm and solid beneath her fingers, and then slid up—slowly, reverently—over his shoulders, into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

Benedict made a strangled, breathless sound the second her fingers threaded through his hair. His hands gripped her thighs instinctively, grounding himself.

“Jesus, Penelope…” he whispered.

And then she leaned in and kissed him.

Not shy. Not hesitant.

Her lips pressed against his like she’d been dreaming about this for years—and she had. It was soft at first, all breath and sweetness, like she was learning the shape of him. But when his hands slid to her hips and he melted into the kiss with a quiet sigh, her confidence bloomed like a struck match.

His lips curved into a soft smile against hers.

“Good god,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed, his forehead resting against hers for a moment of stillness before he kissed her again. This time it was deeper—slower, hungrier. A kiss full of longing and heat and a thousand unspoken things that had lived between them far too long.

He tasted like cinnamon and wine and something uniquely him, and she lost herself in it, in him.

Outside the window, the October wind rustled through the trees.

Inside, the rest of the world faded away.

———————————————————————

Benedict’s POV

Benedict had never really liked the quiet after a party.

It always felt too still, too hollow—like the echo of laughter clung to the air, missing its people. He’d retreated to his room after making sure Francesca hadn’t fallen asleep in the wine cellar again and Colin hadn’t started a TikTok dance battle with Eloise (spoiler: he had, and lost). Now, hours later, the house had settled. Lights were off. Footsteps had ceased. Even the ghosts of Halloween past were giving it a rest.

He sat in bed, half-heartedly sketching in the margins of his book. His charcoal smudged along the edges of his thumb, and his curls—still damp from a quick rinse—curled rebelliously around his forehead. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt. He rarely did when he was drawing alone. The fabric always felt like it got in the way. The blanket pooled at his waist, and he exhaled, dropping the pencil.

He was thinking of her, of course.

Penelope Featherington. In that dress. In his house. With her doe eyes and red lips and the kind of presence that haunted a man hours after she’d gone.

He was in trouble. He knew it. Had been for a while.

So when the door creaked open, he looked up, expecting Eloise or maybe even Colin sneaking in for some post-party debriefing.

What he saw instead?

Penelope. Barefoot, barefaced, and very much not in that dress anymore.

His heart did something ridiculous in his chest—skipped, skidded, possibly exploded? Hard to say.

“Pen?” His voice came out low and scratchy, like he’d swallowed the air wrong. “Am I dreaming… or are you actually in my room?”

She looked real. Realer than she’d ever been. The overhead light was off, so she stood there in the soft glow of his lamp—wearing little yoga shorts and a tank top that made his brain stutter. Her hair was in a messy bun, loose strands curling around her cheeks, and something in his chest clenched.

She was ethereal like this. Untouched and soft and strong.

“No, you’re not dreaming,” she said quietly. “I’m… actually here. I wanted to tell you something. I had a whole speech planned out, I swear. But then you being shirtless totally derailed my brain, so now I’m just gonna… show you instead.”

He blinked. “Show me what?”

His voice was huskier than he intended. Rough, curious. She moved like she’d made her decision and there was no going back—not unless he asked her to.

He didn’t. God, he wouldn’t.

He watched, riveted, as she crawled onto his bed—his actual bed—and settled herself on top of him like it was natural. Like she belonged there.

Penelope. On him.

His hands, completely of their own accord, found her thighs. Warm. Smooth. Real. Her hands were on his chest—tentative at first, then confident—dragging up over his shoulders and into his hair.

The second her fingers slid into his curls, he was a goner.

He made a low, strangled noise that he didn’t even try to mask. If she wanted to melt his brain with a single touch, she’d succeeded.

“Jesus, Penelope…” he murmured.

And then she kissed him.

He melted. Absolutely unraveled. Every stupid, artistic, hopelessly-in-love part of him just sighed and surrendered. Her lips were soft, but insistent. She kissed like she’d thought about it. Like she knew exactly what it would do to him.

He smiled against her mouth. Couldn’t help it. It was her. It was her.

“Good god,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers, catching his breath—but only barely.

And then he kissed her again.

Slower this time. Deeper.

A kiss that said, You don’t have to say anything at all. I already know. I feel it too.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that—just tangled up in the quiet and each other—but for once, the stillness wasn’t lonely.

It was perfect.

———————————————————————

Benedict’s POV

Her breath was warm against his lips, and the soft press of her body over his—bare knees tucked on either side of his hips, hands still tangled in his hair—was slowly unraveling him, thread by golden thread.

And still, she kissed him. Like she was anchoring herself to him. Like maybe he was anchoring her too.

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

She blinked down at him, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and a wild, hopeful sort of storm in her eyes. She was waiting. Watching. Bracing herself.

And Benedict—still half-speechless, fully besotted—just whispered, “Penelope… have you any idea what you’ve just done to me?”

She laughed nervously, the sound barely a breath. “If I had a pound for every time I doubted whether I should come in here tonight…”

“Then you’d be rich enough to buy me a ring and beat me to it,” he teased gently, brushing a curl from her cheek, “which would be deeply embarrassing for my ego, so thank god you didn’t wait.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the mention of a ring, but he saw it—the flicker of something warm behind the shock. And that’s when he knew.

She felt it too.

“I came here to tell you something,” she murmured, her voice small but sure. “I mean, I panicked and decided to kiss you instead, but I really did have a whole thing planned.”

His hands moved to her waist, holding her gently, reverently. “Tell me now.”

She nodded, taking a breath. “I love you, Benedict. I have for… years. I just didn’t think I’d ever be brave enough to do anything about it. But tonight, I looked in the mirror and thought, ‘You’re never going to feel ready. You just have to jump.’ So… I jumped. And now I’m sitting on top of you. And it’s honestly going way better than I expected.”

Benedict stared up at her, stunned—but only because she’d said it first.

Because the words were already sitting on the tip of his tongue like they’d been waiting for months. Years. Forever.

“You love me,” he repeated, a little dazed. His smile was pure sunshine. “Penelope Featherington loves me.”

She nodded again, more shyly this time, already pulling back as if bracing herself for heartbreak. But he tightened his grip on her waist.

“No. No running. Stay right there.”

She froze.

He sat up slowly, hands sliding to her back, chest pressed to hers. Their faces were so close, noses brushing.

“I love you too,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation. “I think I started the moment you stole my hoodie and then told everyone it was yours. Or maybe it was when you helped Hyacinth build that blanket fort and slept inside it for two nights just to make sure she felt safe. Or maybe it was always. I don’t know. I just know that I love you. And I’m not going to stop.”

She made a small, incredulous sound—half-laugh, half-sob—and curled her arms around his neck.

“You mean it?”

“Darling,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to her temple, “you’re literally sitting on my heart right now. Of course I mean it.”

She laughed again, softer now. Relieved.

“Does this mean we’re… together now?” she asked.

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Well, we’ve made out, confessed our undying affection, and you’re in my bed wearing dangerously tiny shorts. I’d say we’re pretty official.”

Penelope grinned, cheeks glowing, and leaned in to press one more kiss to his lips—this one slower, sweeter. A promise wrapped in honey.

Eventually, they shifted—Penelope sliding down to rest beside him, her head on his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around her like he was afraid she’d vanish.

They lay there in the soft quiet of 2 a.m., the Halloween decorations glowing faintly in the hallway, the party long faded.

“I don’t want to move,” she mumbled sleepily, fingers tracing lazy shapes against his bare chest.

“Then don’t,” he whispered, his voice rumbling beneath her ear. “Stay. Sleep here. Stay tomorrow. Stay always.”

She smiled into his skin. “You always talk like a romantic poet.”

“That’s because I am,” he said with a yawn, already half-asleep. “I just never had a muse until you.”

Penelope lifted her head for one last look, studying his soft expression, his sleepy grin, the curve of his mouth that still held a kiss for her.

She laid her head back down.

And in the hush of early morning, tangled in sheets and soft confessions, they drifted into sleep—hearts full, limbs warm, finally, finally home.