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spaceorphan18 · 15 days

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The Contessa (Polin Fic)

Rating: E for very explicitness

Summary: Colin returns home one evening to find Penelope reading his journal. She has some inquires about some undocumented time, and he tells the story of the infamous Contessa...

Notes: I've had this idea forever and just needed to get it out of my system. It's one part slice of domestic life, one part porn without plot, all of it full of love and emotions because how can you not with these two? There's a little pregnancy talk as it takes place in the months between the Butterfly ball and the epilogue.

For anyone wanting to read on Ao3 Here is the Link.

Thanks for reading!!

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The Contessa

It’s evening when Colin arrives back at the house. He shuffles through the door, flushed a little from the warm, late summer air, a little from the half bottle of brandy he and Benedict had finished off not an hour earlier. It is still somewhat a foreign sensation -- leaving the family he had spent a happy afternoon with and the house he had grown up in to return to a place where the halls he now walks feels new and unfamiliar. But it’s not a bad sensation. In fact, he relishes the fact that he now has a place of his own. A home. A home for his own family.

He grins, and it’s not just the alcohol that makes him a little dizzy.

“Pen!” He calls out. They spend a considerable amount of their time together but on days they’re apart, he’ll usually find her at the desk in the study. Curiously, she’s not there. “Penelope?”

“She’s retired for the evening, sir.” Penelope’s hand maid, Rae, passes him in the hallway. She points back to the bedroom.

Colin furrows his brow. His wife has been fatigued more often than not as of late, and it has had him concerned. “Is she well? Perhaps I should have stayed…”

Rae holds one hand up, and shakes her head with a smile. “She is fine, sir,” she assures him. “And doing well for one in her condition. Besides, her mother was with her most of the day. Nothing to worry about. She only wanted the comfort of her bed for reading.”

“Thank you, Rae,” he says, giving a nod to dismiss her.

He isn’t entirely comforted. Lady Featherington has been a source of contention recently; wanting to be at Penelope’s side more often than not. Never in her life, Penelope has complained to him, has her mother shown her so much attention. Perhaps it has to do with Prudence and Phillipa giving birth to two, sweet little girls that now Lady Featherington’s sights are set on her third daughter to produce the heir she so desperately desires. And it would give Colin a slight sense of satisfaction if he and Penelope were the ones to bring that heir into being. But Penelope’s comfort has always come first, and Lady Featherington’s unusual form of mothering is often too much. He can only hope that she hasn’t pushed Penelope past exasperation.

Colin is indignant as he enters their bedroom. He doesn’t care that it’s evening, or that it might be seen as improper, he’ll head straight to the Featherington estate to give his mother-in-law a piece of his mind if he finds she’s been the source of his wife’s discomfort. His emotions are easily bubbling to the surface but the minute he catches his wife’s reflection in the mirror, they shift from discontent and worry to… something else.

He pauses, watching Penelope in the mirror. After a day of being apart, his chest tightens at the sight of her. She’s sitting, soundly, on her side of the bed, legs curled under her as she reads. She is already in her pale, pink nightgown; her red curls down and resting gently against her bosom. Her skin glows softly in the candlelight. He has wondered that maybe after months of marriage if the deep desire he felt upon looking at her would eventually diminish or change but it has not and instead he has accepted that it will always be a part of him, always simmering in the back of his mind, waiting for an appropriate time to be unleashed.

Penelope is too engrossed in her reading to look up. He notes that it’s his journal that she’s reading so intently, a thought that brings a smirk to his lips, and he can’t help but wonder what part of his journeys has her so captivated. She scratches a note in the margin, then continues reading, the feather of the quill lightly dancing teasingly against her lips. He watches, mesmerized.

“I can feel you staring at me,” she says, suddenly. She doesn’t look up from her reading, taking the moment to jot down another note, but a smile climbs on her lips.

Colin crosses the room, over to her side, bending down to give her a kiss on top of her head. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing to stare at one’s wife. Especially, when that wife is as beautiful as you.”

He goes to move away, but she pulls him back, looking up at him with that same mix of wonder and slight disbelief she gets whenever he compliments her. “You are really too much sometimes,” she says, tugging him down for a quick kiss. “I am ghastly. Bloated with child. Sweaty, swollen, and uncomfortable…”

Concern crosses his face. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I think that you have done enough,” she says. It’s a gentle tease. Despite any worries he has, she seems in good spirits, tenderly cupping his face as she draws him in for another, quick kiss. “Mmmm, you’ve spent a considerable amount of time with Benedict tonight.”

It’s the alcohol on his breath. No denying that. “He’s a nuisance, really. Insisting that we celebrate Gregory going off to Eaton with cards and a drink.” He moves away, sliding into the chair near the bed and begins unlacing his boots.

“So he coerced you into it?” Penelope asks, her eyes bright with humor.

“Of course,” he jokes. He’s only half in jest about Benedict. Lately, his usually free spirited, energetic older brother has become listless. Colin is glad, at least, that Anthony is away in India, handing over the household duties, giving Benedict something to do. Otherwise, he worries Benedict would attempt to find his purpose at the bottom of every bottle. He tells Penelope as much, but leaves out the part that before them, before her , he had felt the same way.

“I’m sure Benedict will find his own happiness,” Penelope says, as if she can read his thoughts. “But what of the rest of your family? Is your mother well? How is Eloise? I feel terrible that we haven’t seen each other much in the past few weeks. I do miss her.”

“Mother is good,” he replies. He takes off his jacket, hanging it on the stand next to the dresser. “Hyacinth sends her regards. Eloise is… as Eloise always is. She talked my ear off about some book that she said I must tell you about. Some horrific novel about a scientist who creates the perfect man only for it to be a disaster. She called it a literary masterpiece, and claims that you must pick it up when you have the chance.”

“That sounds thrilling,” Penelope says, delighted. “Will you be able to pick me up a copy? Reading might be the only thing I can do soon, and one can never have too many books.”

“If it is your wish,” Colin replies. “It does sound like an absurd tale. But that might be the way Eloise described it. She’s always had a flair for the dramatic in her commentary.”

“And that is why we adore her,” Penelope says. “I think I’ll try to have tea with her at Bridgerton House. The fresh air would be nice and I would very much like to get out of this house.”

“But your condition…”

“Is fine,” she lets out a laugh. “I am not bedridden yet. There is plenty I can do…”

Her eyes remain fixed on him as he undresses. He enjoys the way her gaze lingers as he casts off his layers, preening a bit as he unbuttons his shirt and discards it onto the chair. Her eyes are wicked with want, and after a four day disruption due to her not feeling well, maybe they could return to their usual nighttime routine.

Pen licks her lips as he approaches the bed, but continues with their conversation. “It’ll have to be Thursday,” she says. “Friday, my mother wants all of us girls and their husbands for a dinner.”

His trousers remain on (for now) and he comes to the bed, flopping down on his back to stare at the ceiling, letting out a protesting groan as he does so. “Are you sure we need to be there?”

“You won’t be forced into conversation with my sisters,” Penelope says, reassuringly. “You can spend time with Mr. Dankworth and Mr. Finch in the drawing room as you always do. I promise to keep my mother busy so to keep the two of you apart.”

He grumbles, turning on his side. In truth, Albion and Harry have grown on him some. They’re two of the biggest dolts he’s ever known, but they’re kind and amusing and seem to have embraced him as their leader in the secret club reserved for men who adore the Featherington sisters. It’s charming, really. And while he much prefers his own brothers, he’s well aware he could do much worse when it comes to brother-in-laws.

“So, you mother…” he broaches the subject carefully. Penelope’s relationship with her mother is fragile but mending, and he treads carefully. “Was she too much for you today?”

“She’s too much any day,” Penelope says, though her demeanor remains light. “She just wants what’s best for me. She did try to force me some horrid, green drink that’s supposed to manifest a boy instead of a girl. I really doubt it, but even Varley was swearing by it.”

“I dare say,” Colin says, “as much as I would revel in you having the heir to the Featherington estate, I would be pleased in having a girl, because it would annoy her so.”

“Colin!” Penelope says, chiding him playfully.

“Well, it would.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Let’s move on from my mother. You’re right, I have had too much of her today. Besides, there’s something else I wish to discuss with you.” She looks down to his journal, nervously playing with the pages.

His curiosity is piqued, and he scoots closer, trying to see the page she’s on. He can’t quite tell what passage she had been reading, and only sees a few words marked on the page here and there. “What is it?”

“I have been reading all evening,” she says. He takes a beat of pride in how fondly she speaks of it. “Your words are beautiful. The way you talk about the moonlight shimmering on the Mediterranean sea; the bustle of Paris and Madrid and Rome; the shady, mysteriousness of the forests of Eastern Europe… It’s like I’m really there. I can feel it. Only, I’ve never even stepped foot outside of London.”

He takes her hand, laces it with his own. “I promise I will take you, someday. I’ll take you to see the world. Wherever you want to go.” He kisses the top of her hand, as if to seal his promise.

“I would love that,” she says. She smiles but looks down at the journal. There’s more she’s not saying. “There’s something else that I noticed, though. There are some dates that don’t quite add up.”

“Oh?”

She narrows her eyes, as if she’s hesitant about asking. “Here you write about Rome, but then here,” she flips a few pages forward. “You are in Milan over a week later. And yet you don’t speak at all of the journey. Clearly it didn’t take a full week, did it? What happened in that time that you do not wish to speak about?”

He takes the journal, scanning it, wanting to refresh his memory, but there had been so much that had happened in such a short time, he could scarcely remember every detail.

“Is that when you met her ?” Penelope asks. He gives her an odd look, unsure as to who she is talking about. “The Contessa. I have read all of your journals now. Twice. And I haven’t read about her at all.”

Oh . He bites his lip to refrain from laughing. Oh, his dear Penelope. “How do you even know about her?”

“Lady Whistledown hears everything eventually,” Penelope explains, she tickles his nose with the end of her quill. “I have heard stories…”

“Lady Whistledown…” he lets out an exasperated sigh as he takes the quill from her, and places it in the journal. He snaps it shut. “There’s not really anything to tell.”

“You write extensively about your exploits in Paris, in Berlin, in… every city. And you never mention her.” She looks at him, unsure. “Is the reason you don’t write of her… was she your first?”

“No,” he says easily, reaching over her to place the journal on the nightstand. “That experience was bought and paid for. I have told you about that already - Rosalita...” He shudders to think of his first bumbling time. Awkward and inexperienced and very short. But at least she had been kind.

Penelope’s eyes go wide with amusement. “The Spanish woman! The one you said had the delectable bosom.”

He grins, admiring her ability to recall such details, then leans in, giving her a soft kiss on the corner of her mouth, while he brings his hand up to cup her breast. “Mmm, you know I can’t resist a delectable bosom.”

“I will not be distracted so easily,” she says, it’s a playful warning. “But how is it that you can boast about this Contessa to the entire male population of the ton and, yet, not tell me a single word about her?”

He grins as he considers. There is a reason he’s never shared this with her… And despite whatever she may have heard as Lady Whistledown, no one knows the actual story. “Okay…”

“Okay?” she stares at him, wonderingly. There’s something special about the way she looks at him, so eager to hear any of his stories abroad, becoming especially attentive the more intimate in nature they are. He once thought he’d never share such private thoughts with anyone, but she makes him want to open up, to share everything. He could never really withhold anything from her. Not even if he tried.

He takes a moment to trace her forehead, her cheek, her chin, wanting to feel close to her. He combs his fingers through her hair as he begins. “She had red hair…”

“Red hair?” she tilts her head in disbelief.

“Orange-ish, really,” he says, with a small laugh, curling the end of her hair around his finger. “Wild and fiery. She was one of our hosts on the long trip from Rome to Milan, which did take nearly a week, now that you’ve got me thinking about it. One of our horses had trouble and she kindly took us in. It was a rainy night, but at least not a chilling one, and her cook made us the best stew I’ve ever had. That evening, we stayed up to talk. She was an impressive conversationalist.”

“Oh, was she?”

“She was,” he continues. “She was a widow. A young one. But she knew things. Had seen a bit of the world herself. And I found her captivating.” He cups her chin and uses his thumb to trace along her bottom lip. He wants to kiss her. Wants to scoop her up and make up for all the days they’ve missed. The desire he’s kept carefully at bay is coming front and center again, but he refrains.

“So you talked?”

“We did - late into the night. The others, they one-by-one went to bed, but the two of us. She said we had a connection and so I stayed. And talked.”

“Just talked?” It sounds like disappointment.

He comes in close, cupping the back of her head carefully, as he whispers into her ear. “There are plenty of things two people can talk about.”

“Tell me.”

He begins to give her feather-light kisses. “The weather.” He kisses against her cheek with a grin. “Embroidery.” Another kiss against her jaw. “The likelihood of winning at a game of cards.” He travels down to her neck, but keeps his touch light.

“Did you kiss her?” She asks.

He pauses, breathing against her skin. “I did.”

“Show me.”

He kisses her lips. It’s gentle and tender and as easy as every fleeting kiss they’ve given each other over the past few months. It’s not enough and he knows it.

“Show me,” she says again, a harder demand.

He kisses her harder this time, firm and strong and lingering. It’s connecting and the heat of his desire begins to grow. But it’s still not enough.

“You’re holding back,” she challenges.

“I am not,” he grins.

“Don’t tease me,” she says, it’s almost a plea.

“I assure you, I am not…”

“Kiss me like you kissed her.”

“I--”

He can’t. As much as this had been almost a game between them, he realizes he can’t follow through with that request. Because kissing her is unlike kissing anyone else. The gentlest brush of skin against skin lights his body aflame in the way that passionate kisses with anyone else does not.

He pulls back to look at her -- really look at her. The remarkable thing that he’s discovered since they’ve been married is that there are two of her. Not her and Lady Whistledown, those are one and the same. But there is the Penelope whom he fell in love with. The one he’s always been in love with on some level. The one who makes him laugh, who grounds him, who always has his best interests at heart. His dearest friend.

And then there is the other Penelope. The woman who looks at him with those darkened eyes; whose lust for him is beyond anything he’s experienced with another partner. She makes him feel raw and exposed and wanted in the most intimate of ways, even without the shedding of all their clothes. And he wonders if he’s ever able to fully satisfy her hunger.

“I cannot kiss you like her,” he says finally. She looks at him confused. “Because kissing you is an experience unlike any other. Nothing feels as good as kissing you.”

She gives him a proud look as she lunges at him, kissing him fervently. And this… this is a kiss. The world melts away, and there’s nothing but her, and her lips against his, her tongue sliding against his own, her arms wrapping around him, pulling him closer. He deepens the kiss, feeling her everywhere.

His own desire is becoming achingly apparent and if he had wanted to, he could end it all in a matter of moments, but he stops himself. And pulls away, giving them a moment to both catch their breath.

“This had to have happened after Spain,” she says, breathing heavily, still able to follow the narrative he had been laying down. “And after France, as you visited Italy after both of them. You’ve gained some experience by then, so I assume you did not stop with just a kiss. Tell me, did she have a delectable bosom as well?” It’s her turn to tease, but she does so with the most sultry look upon her face.

He admires her cleverness. “Of course,” he gives, and tugs down on her nightgown, exposing her breast. “As if I would settle for a woman with anything less.”

He wastes no time latching onto her nipple. She rakes a hand through his hair, encouraging him to kiss and suck and lick. He reaches into her nightgown, to grasp at her other breast, squeezing it, causing her to moan and shiver under his touch.

“I need more,” she manages to cry.

He keeps his mouth firmly on her, sucking hard, as his hand travels underneath her nightgown. Her legs fall apart, and he finds her wet and ready for him. He’s soft at first, teasing where she would like him to be most, then pushes in with two fingers, while his thumb circles her most sensitive of spots. She lets out a guttural groan that completely undoes him. He never thought he’d be able to deliver such pleasure to someone else, but she closes her eyes and bucks her hips and lets him take control.

He begins to kiss up her body as he works her, loving the fact that she has become so familiar to him that he knows exactly the right place to touch, the right pace to move, the right crook of a finger to push her over into release. She is close, so close and all she needs is a little extra push. “Let go, Pen,” he whispers into her ear. “Let go, for me.”

She screams his name as her release rips through her. He kisses her through it, wanting to feel her everywhere.

He then pulls away, giving her a minute to come down, and he takes a moment to drink her beauty in. Her hair is dark red across the white pillow, her breasts out and pink and raw where he’s kissed them. Her nightgown is a knotted mess that he’ll have to untangle her from. She has never looked more desirable.

It doesn’t take long for her to sit up, intense and determined. She pushes him back, giving herself a moment to free herself from her nightgown.

“Did she touch you like you touched her?” she asks.

He scoots back against the headboard, allowing her to undo his trousers. “...Yes.” He lifts up, allowing her to pull them down and with a few kicks, he manages to cast them off.

“Like this?” She wastes no time grabbing him. It’s rough and the angle is awkward but he needs her touch.

“Yes…” he gasps.

“What about this?”

“Penelope, you don’t have to…oh…”

Her mouth is over him, sucking him down with a sense of determination he’s never seen from her before. It’s almost too much.

“Pen…” he says, almost losing himself over to the pleasure of it all. “Pen, I need you to stop if…”

She pulls off, then straddles his lap. “Did you lie with her like this?”

“You really are still comparing any experience with…”

“Did you lie with her like this?” she repeats.

“No, but to be fair, we are sitting, not lying down.” It gets her to crack a smile. “Are you sure you want to continue? Your condition...” he rubs a hand over her stomach. “I don’t want you to push yourself more than you need to.”

“Please do not speak to me as the mother of your child,” she says, staring at him deeply. “Talk to me as your wife. Your wife who needs you.”

He nods. “Okay…”

They reposition some so he’s sitting on his legs. She still straddles his lap, reaches between them to grab him, then lowers herself on him inch by delicious inch. It is ecstasy feeling her around him, warm and tight. She begins to roll her hips, torturously slow. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her as close as possible, wanting to feel connected in every sense of the word. She brings her arms around his neck, drawing in for a deep kiss as they rock together.

They pull apart, and he watches her, lets her lose herself in her own pleasure, lets her use his body for her own needs. His body aches for its own release, but there’s something beautiful, something satisfying about watching her come undone over him.

He senses when she begins to tire, when her legs begin to give out and lifts her up to lie her down on the bed.

“Are you still okay?” he checks in.

She nods. “Don’t hold back. I want to feel it. I want to feel you .”

He doesn’t.

He begins to piston his hips, pushing into her frantically. She moans into his mouth as they kiss and touch and get lost in each other. There’s nothing in this world that feels as good as her, as feeling deep in her, as if she’s fully encapsulated him and they are one and the same. There is nothing outside this room, this moment. Nothing but her. His thrusts speed up, become more erratic, and it’s not long before he’s pushed over the edge, spilling deeply inside of her.

“Colin!” she screams. His name on her lips, needy and desperate makes him dizzy and he crashes their lips together for another long kiss.

Coming down, he pumps his hips shallowly a few more times before pulling out. He reaches between them to feel her, to touch her, to let her have her second release that evening. Her body spasms around his hand, wildly and unyielding. She calls out his name again, as she clings to him, letting wave after wave of pleasure wash over her.

He remains over her as they both settle, catching their breath. She reaches up, cups his face, runs her hands over his arms, his chest, his back. Neither quite ready to be done. He kisses her forehead, her nose, her lips, sweet and gentle, just wanting one more taste before he rolls to his side, collapsing beside her.

“Your time with the Contessa,” she says, “was like that?” She giggles as she says it.

“Penelope…” he laughs, taking her hand, lacing their fingers together. He doesn’t have to say it. She knows.

She shifts, curling up into his arms, cuddling against his chest.

“Thank you,” she says. Her voice is soft and sweet and the first Pen has taken over again. “I needed that.”

“I could tell,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He remains quiet for a moment, holding her tight, enjoying the press of her body into his, the sweet smell of her scent she has after they’ve been intimate, the feeling of deep emotional connection that remains even after the physical connection has ended.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” she says, a bit unexpectedly. She looks up at him, her eyes bright and engaging.

“Figured what out, love?”

“The Contessa,” she gives him a grin. “I know your secret.”

“Oh?”

“She does not exist,” she says plainly. “You’ve made her up.”

He gives her a smirk. “Have I?”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Penelope says, as if it’s the most obvious answer. “There’s no real woman with fiery red hair who happens to be a great conversationalist and has a delectable bosom and can satisfy you so thoroughly. Not one in Italy, anyway.”

He chuckles into her hair. “Oh, I assure you, she is very real.”

“Real in your imagination.”

“Real in my bed.” He leans down to kiss her.

“What did happen in that missing week then?” she asks.

“I did tell you,” he says, with a grin. “We had to get a new horse. And then stayed for days in the most boring lodge waiting for a storm to pass. There was nothing to do but stare at the wall…”

“And create a fake Contessa?” she teases.

They share a laugh together.

“Oh, how I love you, Pen.”

“And I love you .”

After all of his travels, after all the adventures, he’s glad he’s there now with Penelope; his love, his best friend, his home. He snuggles her close as his eyes flutter shut, and lets sleep take over.

#bridgerton #polin #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington #penelope bridgerton #colin x penelope #polination #s.o. writes things

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