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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+.

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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.

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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.

#ao3 fanfic #benelope #benedict bridgerton/penelope featherington

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