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Chapter Text

"Consider the household of the Baron Featherington. Three misses foisted upon the marriage market like sorrowful sows by their tasteless, tactless mama. Far better odds might exist in the household of [the] widowed Viscountess Bridgerton. A shockingly prolific family noted for its bounty of perfectly handsome sons and perfectly beautiful daughters. How very perfect indeed."

— Lady Whistledown, Society Papers, 1813.

The subject of his father was never an easy one to broach—not by anyone, not even himself or Colin. It wasn’t that the Bridgertons ignored their loss; it was more that the memory of Edmund Bridgerton lingered as a bittersweet ache, one that was easier to tuck away than to confront directly. So when Benedict, in his casual manner, brought the topic into conversation as Penelope and Kate discussed their fathers, it took everyone by surprise—including Benedict himself.

Anthony, as expected, had removed himself from the conversation entirely, under the guise of practicality, striding purposefully toward the shooting master to inspect the rifles. Benedict recognized it for what it was: a retreat. Their eldest brother had always been uneasy when it came to discussions of their father. Edmund’s absence had carved a hole in Anthony’s life that no amount of responsibility or success could fill. Vulnerability was not a currency Anthony dealt with ease, even after his demeanor had softened after marrying Kate.

Colin, by contrast, wore his emotions openly, as he always did. Benedict caught the flicker of sadness in his expression, the way his gaze softened, and his shoulders tensed at the mention of their father. It was a fleeting moment, but Benedict knew his brother well enough to recognize the weight of the memories Colin carried. He had been so young at the time it had happened—too young to retain more than fragmented recollections of their father, yet just old enough to feel the ache of his absence.

Benedict often thought about how different Colin’s formative years had been from his own. While Anthony had left for Oxford, and Benedict had gone off to Eton and later Cambridge, Colin had been left at home. He’d had no father figure during those pivotal adolescent years, no older brothers to guide him, save for Anthony’s occasional lectures during holidays. Instead, Colin had been raised largely in the company of their mother and sisters, with Gregory still too young to offer much in the way of companionship.

Perhaps that was why Colin’s respect for women ran so deep and felt so instinctive. The lessons typically bestowed by fathers—those that extolled roughness, strength, and the suppression of emotion as a virtue—had instead been replaced by the gentle wisdom, unbreakable strength and unwavering compassion of Violet Bridgerton, Daphne’s sharp wit, Eloise’s relentless curiosity, and even Penelope’s precocious determination. Women had shaped Colin’s world far more than men during those years, and it had instilled in him a genuine admiration for their intellect and resilience.

Benedict’s gaze lingered on Colin for a moment longer, his thoughts turning inward. The absence of Edmund had shaped them all, but in Colin, it had carved something unique—a deep sensitivity, a respect for others, and a need for connection that stood in stark contrast to the stoicism Anthony had adopted or the irreverence Benedict himself so often displayed. It was a testament to the man Colin had become despite the hardships of their shared past, and Benedict couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for his younger brother.

Benedict’s own thoughts drifted to his father. The memories of their time together were a patchwork of lessons, laughter, and quiet moments of understanding. But as he glanced at his siblings, something else struck him, something he hadn’t fully realized until now.

Anthony. Daphne. Colin. Francesca.

They were all married now, and every one of them had chosen a spouse whose father was also gone.

The thought hit Benedict like a subtle but undeniable revelation. Was it a coincidence? Benedict doubted it. The Bridgertons had all grown up under the looming absence of their father, their lives irrevocably shaped by that loss. Perhaps, in some unspoken way, they had sought out partners who understood that void, who carried similar scars. The realization left Benedict both awed and saddened. It was a sobering realization, one that made him reflect not only on his siblings but on himself as well. Would he, too, seek someone who understood that void, who could comprehend the space left behind by Edmund Bridgerton’s passing?

Shaking his head to dispel the heaviness threatening to settle upon him, Benedict added with a mischievous glint, “And Gregory, of course, was instructed by Anthony.” His gaze shifted toward his eldest brother in an attempt to elicit a reaction and draw him back into the conversation. Yet, true to form, Anthony remained resolutely indifferent, his expression unyielding and his attention seemingly fixed elsewhere. “Though, given Gregory’s rather spectacular lack of talent when it comes to shooting, perhaps we ought not to lay the blame entirely at our dear Viscount’s feet. It seems a matter of natural aptitude—or, in this case, a distinct lack thereof.”

A chorus of laughter erupted, and Benedict felt an immediate lightness return to the group as though the gloom that had threatened to linger was now thoroughly dispelled. It was , he mused, undoubtedly the right course of action . As anticipated, Gregory, ever eager to defend his honor, had puffed up like a bird in a mating ritual, loudly proclaiming that his performance this round was far from a disaster. 

The banter escalated as Colin returned from a brief conversation with Simon, both rejoining the group with ease. Colin couldn’t resist making a cheerful quip about divine intervention, having redistributed Gregory’s talent to Eloise. 

Penelope, ever loyal and composed, was quick to interject, her sharp wit slicing through Colin’s jest as effortlessly as a blade through silk. Benedict regarded her with quiet admiration; her innate elegance was rivaled only by the precision with which she championed Eloise. That she dared to suggest the Bridgerton brothers might learn from their sister was, in his mind, an utterly preposterous notion. Much as he loved his sister, her uncanny skill with a rifle was unnerving, and he found himself wishing to steer the conversation far from a subject that made him so thoroughly uneasy.

Simon eventually shifted the conversation to his own experiences with arms. It was not the first time Benedict had heard Simon speak of his upbringing, so his words did not shock him. Simon suggested applying his own method of learning to Gregory, a proposal that was promptly met with Colin’s exaggerated grumbles about its inefficacy.

As the laughter and the banter died down again, Benedict could feel the threat of a quieter mood creeping back over the group. Kate, who had been observing with a thoughtful expression, broke the silence. “Fathers,” she said softly, her voice carrying an unexpected weight. “They shape us, whether they’re present or absent, whether they mean to or not.”

The air grew heavier once more, and Benedict’s gaze flickered to Anthony, who started to walk back to the group, but at the end had turned back towards the targets, his focus deliberate, his shoulders stiff with tension. Colin, by contrast, had drawn Penelope closer, his arm resting protectively around her waist. Benedict noticed the way Penelope looked at her husband—a gaze filled with such adoration it was almost reverent. And Colin, ever the besotted fool, beamed back at her as if she had just declared him the king of England.

The scene brought a small smile to Benedict’s lips, and he leaned slightly toward Colin, lowering his voice. “I think we need to lighten the mood, or Anthony might combust. This was meant to be a joyful competition, not a wake.”

Colin nodded, his expression sobering slightly before he moved his head toward Penelope, who was now glancing up at him with a teasing smile. “Leave it to you, brother, to see doom where there’s just a bit of reminiscing.”

Benedict rolled his eyes but decided not to argue. “Well, didn't you declare yourself the golden boy today? ‘No one beats Colin Bridgerton, ’ wasn’t it?" he quipped, his tone light and teasing. "Go on, then. Make the Viscount smile."

Colin shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet—a gesture Benedict could only describe as distinctly “Colinesque”—before turning back to the group with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Hyacinth,” he called out, “do remind Gregory that it’s unkind to keep embarrassing himself in front of company, even if the company is family.”

Hyacinth perked up from her seat, her grin devilish. “Oh, I’ve told him plenty, but he insists on proving me right.”

Gregory groaned dramatically, and the gathering erupted into laughter once more, the tension finally lifting. Benedict leaned back on one of the pillars, watching his family and their loved ones with quiet satisfaction. 

Benedict saw as Anthony approached the group, a piece of paper in hand and a determined look on his face. The lighter mood they had worked so hard to restore seemed to hold steady, though Benedict could see the faintest tension in Anthony’s shoulders. His eldest brother stopped just short of the group, waiting for the last chuckles to fade before clearing his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Anthony began, his voice resonating—a tone Benedict had grown entirely accustomed to hearing whenever their eldest brother assumed his natural position at the center of attention in any gathering. “The final round of our competition is about to commence, and I thought it fitting to provide an update on the current standings.”

With deliberate slowness, Anthony unfolded the paper in his hand, savoring the anticipation. Benedict smirked, his arms crossed. “Is this truly necessary, brother? I think we were all present and have a reasonable grasp of how the competition has unfolded. Or is this just a thinly veiled excuse to boast about your own score?”

Anthony scowled at him, waving a dismissive hand. “Shush, Benedict. This is important. Everyone must understand what is at stake here.”

Penelope, ever curious, blinked excitedly and asked, “And what exactly is that? Do we win anything if we come out victorious?”

“Yes!” Anthony and Kate answered in unison, though with entirely different levels of enthusiasm.

Colin, adjusting his waistcoat with exaggerated care, interjected, “The honor, Pen, of crowning yourself victor over all others, that is quite the privilege.” His tone was so earnest and devoted that Benedict had to suppress a groan. Penelope, however, raised her eyebrows and offered a tight, exaggerated smile as if to say, Nothing then?

Anthony cleared his throat loudly, reclaiming the floor with a self-satisfied air that suggested he had just been declared prince of a vast and prosperous realm. “As I was saying,” he announced, scanning the paper with a flourish, “the current standings place Simon and myself tied for first, each with 28 points.”

Simon raised an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across his face as he turned to Anthony. “Tied, are we? I suppose this final round shall determine whether the title of marksman stays in this household or travels to mine. I cannot wait to tell Daphne after I beat you.”

Anthony narrowed his eyes, a hint of amusement creeping into his otherwise serious expression. “We shall see, Hastings. We shall see.”

“And second place?” Kate interjected with a raised brow, clearly eager to see if she was the person in that place.

Anthony gave a begrudging nod in her direction. “Second place is also a tie: Kate and Colin, each with 26 points.”

Benedict watched as Kate and Colin exchanged a glance, the unspoken challenge evident in their expressions. A competitive gleam sparked in their eyes, and he couldn’t help but smirk. This should be entertaining.

Anthony, clearly unimpressed by the interruption, continued reading with his usual air of authority. “Third place belongs to Penelope with 17 points.”

Penelope’s cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink as the group broke into polite applause. “It’s hardly a great score,” she said, though the pride in her voice betrayed her modest words.

“Don’t be so humble, Pen,” Colin chimed in, his tone warm and teasing. He gave her a quick wink. “You’ve bested Benedict, Hyacinth, and Gregory. That’s certainly worth celebrating.”

Benedict straightened, feigning indignation. “I’ll have you know, I’m sitting comfortably in fourth place.”

Anthony’s lips twitched, though he kept his tone dry as he addressed his younger brother. “Indeed, Benedict, fourth place with 13 points. You are, however, a disgrace to the Bridgerton name, I should say. A full-grown man, outshot by a woman who has confessed to having only practiced a handful of times. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Benedict shrugged with an exaggerated air of nonchalance. “Penelope did a marvelous job, and I am nothing if not a gracious loser.”

“Graciousness is one word for it,” Colin added with a sly grin. “I can think of a few others.”

Penelope let out a soft, melodic chuckle, her amusement lighting up her features. “Let’s not be too hard on Benedict,” she said, her tone warm and teasing. “After all, he’s managed to outshoot Gregory, hasn’t he?”

Anthony raised the paper again, his sharp gaze flicking over the names. “Barely,” he muttered with a hint of dry amusement.

At the remark, Gregory’s head snapped toward Penelope, his expression a mixture of mock betrayal and indignation. “Not you as well, Penelope!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in dramatic despair. “I thought you were on my side.”

Caught in the moment, Benedict noted how Penelope bit her lip, her cheeks dimpling as she suppressed a laugh. She mouthed a silent “sorry” to Gregory though her eyes sparkled with unrepentant mirth.

Hyacinth, who had been sitting nearby, perked up. “And me, Anthony? Where do I stand?”

Anthony’s eyes flicked back to the paper. “Fifth place, with nine points.”

Hyacinth grinned, unbothered by her rank. “That is three more than last time! AND… At least I’m not last,” she quipped, earning a chuckle from the group.

“And that distinction,” Anthony finished, his tone dry, “belongs to Gregory, with five points.”

Gregory groaned dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “I demand a recount. I was sure I had at least ten points by my count.”

“You should demand we never play this again,” Benedict shot back.

“Or perhaps Anthony should demand a reimbursement from your math tutor,” Hyacinth interjected, stretching her neck and offering a saccharine smile. “Clearly, you’ve no idea how to count.”

The excitement in the air was palpable, the earlier solemnity replaced by a lively energy that Benedict found infectious. He watched as Anthony folded the paper and addressed the group again. “The final round begins now. Prepare yourselves.”

As the group began to disperse to ready themselves, Benedict caught Colin’s eye. A slight nod passed between them—a wordless acknowledgment that the lighter tone had returned, and for that, Benedict was grateful. The earlier conversation about fathers had lingered heavily in his mind, and he suspected it had weighed on the others as well. Now, however, the laughter and teasing seemed to have dispelled the tension like a fresh breeze clearing a stormy sky.

Benedict moved toward the shooting table, his gaze flicking briefly to Gregory, who was muttering something under his breath while Hyacinth offered him unsolicited advice on his stance. Nearby, Penelope adjusted a ribbon on her coat, her delicate fingers deftly working at the fabric. Her expression was an enchanting mix of concentration and quiet amusement as Colin leaned in, his voice low as he murmured something only for her ears. His hands moved to assist her, re-tieing the ribbon with ease. Benedict couldn’t suppress a grin at the sight; for all of Colin’s bravado about winning, it was clear that his wife's happiness and well-being were more important than any victory.

Anthony, meanwhile, had resumed his role as the efficient host, barking instructions to the footmen and ensuring everything was in perfect order. His brows were furrowed in concentration, but there was an unmistakable glint of competitive anticipation in his eyes. Benedict had seen that look countless times—Anthony had no intention of losing, not even to Simon, whose skill was undeniable.

As Benedict picked up a pistol and tested its weight, he allowed himself a moment to take in the scene. With a wry smile, he turned his attention back to the task at hand. The final round awaited, and if nothing else, he was determined not to let Gregory or Hyacinth outscore him. At this rate, he may even be able to snatch third place from Penelope.

The tension in the air was nearly suffocating as the final round began. Benedict noticed it wasn’t just Anthony who was taking this round with a soldier’s resolve—no one had voiced their determination outright, but their focus and precision betrayed them. The usually jovial banter had been replaced with a charged silence, broken only by the sharp crack of gunfire.

Simon went first, as composed as ever. He moved with the grace of a man born to win, raising his pistol with fluid confidence. The shot rang out, and everyone leaned forward as the target was brought back. Almost dead center. Benedict caught the sharp exhale from Hyacinth, her muttered “Of course,” betraying more admiration than exasperation. He noted, with no small amount of amusement, how Anthony’s eyes narrowed at her. Hyacinth, ever unruffled, responded with a radiant smile, the very picture of innocence—though Benedict knew better than to be fooled by his youngest sister’s guileless facade.

Then, it was Penelope’s turn. She hesitated at the chalk line, adjusting her grip on the pistol more times than necessary. Benedict noticed how Colin’s gaze softened, the usual teasing glint replaced by something tender and encouraging. “You’ve got this, Pen,” Colin murmured quietly, but Penelope’s nerves had clearly taken hold. Her shot went high, missing the target entirely. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she stepped back, though she quickly masked her disappointment with a small, tight-lipped smile.

Kate was next, and if she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Yet her precision was hindered by her patience—or lack thereof, as Anthony told her to hurry up not once, not twice, but three times. “As much as I adore you, we’ve not the entire day, darling,” Anthony said, his tone tinged with exasperation. Kate, unfazed by his impatience, leveled him with a pointed look before taking her shot. The crack of the rifle echoed as her bullet struck the closest ring to the bullseye. She stepped back with an air of triumph, dusting her hands as though the task had been too easy. “I daresay,” she muttered, her voice just loud enough to carry, “one might find less oppressive oversight in prison than in this competition.”

Hyacinth and Gregory followed, and Benedict felt a pang of amusement at their quiet rivalry. Hyacinth’s shot landed on the outermost ring, a marked improvement from her earlier efforts, though her triumphant smile suggested she thought it was as good as gold. Gregory, determined not to be outdone, managed to land his shot close to the same ring, prompting Hyacinth to declare smugly, “At least I was closer to the bullseye.”

And then came Colin, oh his sweet chump of a brother, Colin. Benedict had to admit that his younger brother moved with an enviable confidence, the kind of assuredness that came from both practice and natural talent. Colin’s shot was nearly perfect, hitting just to the side of Simon’s. As he turned back to the group, his grin was so self-satisfied, so utterly smug, that Benedict half-expected Anthony to lunge at him. The eldest Bridgerton’s jaw tightened visibly, and Benedict hid a chuckle behind a cough.

When Benedict’s turn arrived, he stepped to the chalk line with far less pomp than his brothers. His shot was mediocre at best, landing outside the closest ring but just above Hyacinth’s effort. It wasn’t his best performance, but at least it was respectable enough not to embarrass himself entirely. He stepped back, catching Colin’s mockingly sympathetic look and shooting him a pointed glare in return.

Finally, Anthony stepped forward, his commanding presence drawing the collective attention of the group. The placement of several competitors hinged on this single shot, and Benedict couldn’t help but note the weight of the moment pressing visibly upon his elder brother. Anthony’s movements were deliberate, each one precise and measured, exuding all the quiet confidence of someone entirely certain of his skill—and eager to prove it.

With a practiced ease, he adjusted his grip, his stance a perfect display of poise and control. For a moment, he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as though drawing strength from the air itself. When his eyes snapped open, they burned with sharp focus. “Pull!” he called, his voice slicing through the tense quiet.

The crack of the gunshot shattered the stillness, louder and sharper than any before it. The silence that followed felt almost suffocating, each person frozen in place, their gazes locked on the footman approaching Anthony’s target.

A hushed murmur rippled through the group as the footman paused, hesitating for a moment before lifting the target for inspection. The tension grew unbearable, and just as he turned to face them—expression unreadable—the sound of a sharp intake of breath broke the quiet.

• · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The seconds stretched unendurably as the group waited for the footman to bring back the final target. Penelope could feel her pulse quicken, her gaze darting between Anthony and Colin. Anthony stood poised, his expression one of composed anticipation, though she suspected the rigidity in his shoulders betrayed his nerves. Colin, by contrast, wore an easy grin that bordered on smugness. Penelope couldn’t decide whether to swat him for his confidence or cheer him on. Probably both.

When the target was finally revealed, the collective exhale from the group was almost audible. Anthony’s shot was undeniably impressive—closer to the center than most—but not enough to surpass Simon or Colin. Relief and a smattering of laughter rippled through the gathering, breaking the tense silence. Penelope watched Colin’s grin widen into full-blown mischief.

“I believe,” Colin said, his voice carrying with theatrical aplomb, “that I’ve beaten Anthony. Better luck next time, brother.”

Penelope bit back a laugh though her amusement danced in her eyes. She couldn’t help but marvel at her husband’s audacity. She guessed that, in Colin’s mind, Simon’s victory was incidental; the real competition had always been between him and Anthony. Whether it stemmed from yesterday’s argument or simply the natural dynamic of brothers forever trying to outdo one another, she wasn’t sure. Either way, she resolved to dig a little deeper into the matter with Colin later when they were alone.

Anthony turned slowly, his gaze narrowing on Colin like a hawk eyeing its prey. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he responded, his voice low and deliberate. “That’s one interpretation.”

From the sidelines, Benedict let out a bark of laughter. “Well,” he said, his tone far too cheerful, “I don't think there is room for another interpretation, Anthony. His shot was closer than yours.”

Kate, ever the mediator, stepped forward with a calming hand on Anthony’s arm. “You did very well, darling,” she said, her voice sweet but with a glimmer of teasing. “Better luck next time.”

Anthony muttered something under his breath that Penelope was certain would have made Violet raise her brows scandalized, though she wisely chose not to inquire further. Instead, Simon’s voice cut through the residual tension with a playful lilt.

“And no one is going to acknowledge that I bested all the Bridgertons? What am I, chopped liver?” he asked, his tone brimming with mirth.

Penelope let out a soft laugh, and the others—save for Anthony—joined in with cheers and light-hearted congratulations.

“Well done, Simon,” Kate said, clapping her hands together, though her grin suggested she wasn’t entirely pleased to have been outdone herself.

“Exceptional work, Hastings,” Benedict added with a mocking bow. “Do try not to let it go to your head.”

Colin, ever the charmer, gave Simon a good-natured pat on the back. “You’ve certainly given us a story to remember. Though, don’t expect us to go easy on you next time.”

Simon grinned, clearly enjoying the praise. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the group’s chatter ebbed, the shooting master approached Anthony with a slip of paper, cutting through the noise. Anthony’s expression was unreadable as he scanned the scores, his brows furrowing before lifting in something that Penelope could catalog as… triumph?

Clearing his throat, he called for attention, drawing everyone’s gaze. “The final standings are as follows,” he began, pausing to savor the moment. “Simon, 38 points. Kate, 31. Colin, 33.” He glanced at Colin with a pointed smirk before delivering the coup de grâce. “And myself… 34.”

The group went silent for a heartbeat, the weight of the announcement sinking in. Then, Anthony’s grin broke through like sunlight through clouds—a rare, victorious smile that practically radiated satisfaction. He turned to Colin, his voice filled with the kind of smugness only a triumphant older brother could muster.

“Better luck next time, little brother.”

Penelope, sensing Colin’s immediate reaction, placed a gentle hand on his arm, her touch warm and grounding. “You did wonderfully,” she said, her voice soft and earnest. “Securing third place is no small feat, my love. Particularly amidst such an illustriously skilled gathering of marksmen.”

Colin gave her a small, lopsided smile, but there was no hiding the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, feigning nonchalance. “You’re right, of course,” he said lightly. “And after all, this was just a game between family. It has no real stakes. ”

Though his tone carried his usual charm, Penelope noticed the slight tension in his posture and the shadow in his demeanor. His playful nature seemed subdued, and she felt a pang of empathy.  Colin’s rivalry with Anthony was not malicious between either side but was nevertheless steeped in significance. Penelope understood well how much it meant to him to best his elder brother, for in Colin’s eyes, victory held a particular sweetness when achieved against Anthony. Yet, even a narrow loss carried its sting, a fact she could sense weighed heavily on him.

“For what it’s worth,” she murmured, “you’re the true winner in my eyes.”

Her words earned her a genuine smile, one that chased away the doubt in his expression. “You do know how to soothe a man’s wounded pride,” he replied, his tone warm with gratitude. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he added, “And I suppose, with you cheering for me, I’ve already won.”

As the competition wound down, the group began to disperse, their chatter and good-natured ribbing still echoing across the field. Benedict had sidled up to Colin, no doubt prepared to engage in some lighthearted chatter about the younger Bridgertons. She sincerely doubted their conversation would revolve around Anthony's triumph over Colin. Meanwhile, she allowed herself to linger behind, the morning's exertions weighing heavily upon her. A nap , she thought wistfully, would not go amiss at this moment . Her arms and shoulders throbbed from the unaccustomed heft of the gun, her muscles protesting every movement with a dull ache that seemed to spread with each step. She had only taken five shots, but it felt as though she had fired five hundred.

Penelope stifled a groan, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face as she turned her gaze toward the imposing silhouette of Aubrey Hall. “I am utterly exhausted. I believe I shall return to the house,” she murmured, the confession spoken more to herself than to anyone in particular, although she knew Colin would probably be following her.

Kate’s sharp eyes darted toward her, and Penelope immediately felt a flicker of unease. The Viscountess had a way of observing people as though she were piecing together a puzzle, and the look she gave Penelope now was no exception. She offered a faint smile, uncertain as to why Kate was regarding her in that particular way. Truth be told, Penelope felt a flicker of wariness rise within her, unsure of what words might follow from the Viscountess’s lips.

“Penelope, Daphne, and  I have been wondering for a while now, are—” Kate began, but her question was interrupted by Benedict, who swooped in with an exaggerated flourish, cutting across their conversation with a grin.

“My dear sister,” Benedict declared, extending his arm dramatically, “allow me the great honor of escorting you back to the house. It is the least I can do after you have so thoroughly outshot me.”

Penelope blinked at him, momentarily taken aback by his gallantry, but before she could respond, Colin stepped forward, his expression one of mock outrage.

“No one but me shall escort my wife,” Colin declared firmly, placing deliberate emphasis on the final word, as if to remind the world yet again that Penelope had married him. It was a sentiment he relished proclaiming daily, and while everyone knew it well enough, the repeated gesture never failed to fill Penelope with a warm amusement that bordered on fond exasperation.

Positioning himself squarely between Benedict and Penelope, Colin cast his elder brother a pointed look. “I would suggest, Benedict, that you seek your own bride. And if such an endeavor feels too daunting at the moment, perhaps Hyacinth might suffice as a companion. She is, after all, a rather spirited and delightful conversationalist on a walk.”

Benedict raised a brow, his grin widening. “Always monopolizing, aren’t you, Colin? Really, it’s becoming a bit of a habit.” Without waiting for a response, he passed with Colin with an artful movement, took Penelope’s arm, and began striding purposefully toward the house, leaving Colin sputtering behind them.

“Benedict! I am serious!” Colin called after him, his tone half-annoyed, half-amused. “Bring her back, you caitiff!”

But Benedict only glanced over his shoulder, a mischievous glint in his eye. “You’ll catch up eventually, little brother. Assuming Kate wouldn’t mind distracting you first.”

And distract him she did. Kate had stepped closer to Colin, effectively halting his pursuit as she engaged him in conversation. Whatever she said was enough to hold his attention, though Penelope couldn’t hear the words from where she walked with Benedict. She glanced back, catching sight of Colin’s grumbling expression, and a small, sympathetic smile tugged at her lips. She understood his discontent all too well. Colin felt an undeniable pull to be near her—a longing born not only from what he called the wasted years, the time they could have been together but were only friends, but also the brief but painful period of discord after their marriage. She felt it, too, though hers was a pull she had always known. Being close to him, seeing him, hearing him—it brought her a sense of safety and love she had never quite experienced before.

With a soft sigh, she turned her attention back to Benedict, who had already secured her hand neatly under his elbow, ready to lead her forward.

“You enjoy causing trouble, don’t you?” Penelope teased Benedict as they walked towards the house.

“Only when it’s worth the effort,” Benedict replied, his tone breezy. “And riling Colin is always worth the effort. Besides,” he added, glancing at her with a twinkle in his eye, “you deserve a bit of a break from his constant hovering. Admit it—you’re relieved to be in my company for a change.”

Penelope laughed again, shaking her head. “You Bridgerton brothers are impossible. I enjoy your company, Benedict, but I prefer my husband’s.”

Benedict smiled, his teasing tone softening. “And you, dear Penelope, are a saint for tolerating us.”

Penelope’s gaze drifted across the field, her eyes lingering on the flurry of activity as the servants worked tirelessly to dismantle the setup from the shooting competition. The vibrant energy of the day was now being replaced with quiet industry, the staff methodically clearing away targets, tables, and firearms. She felt a pang of guilt at the disparity between their lives and those of the people making their leisure possible.

“We are remarkably fortunate,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “To live in such a position where we can indulge in grand displays for what is essentially a game. We don’t even need to lift a finger—just request and it’s all done for us.”

Benedict, walking beside her with a casual gait, glanced over and nodded. “I’ve often thought the same. The working class—the maids, footmen, farmers, builders, the scholars—they hold the world together. Their labor provides not only food, shelter and commodities but advancements in science and art. It’s a marvel, really.” He paused, his tone softening. “It’s one of the reasons I urged Anthony to buy that house in Bloomsbury a long time ago.”

Penelope tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her expression. “Bloomsbury?”

He smiled faintly, his gaze shifting to the horizon. “Yes. I thought having a residence in a neighborhood surrounded by people like doctors, lawyers, and accountants would bring a certain grounding to whomever lived there. At the time, I believed it would be me.” Seeing Penelope’s concerned expression, he offered a reassuring smile and added, “You need not trouble yourself over my accommodations. I have recently convinced Anthony to gift me the most charming little cottage nestled in the countryside of Wiltshire, which I now call my own.” He shrugged with a touch of self-deprecation. “And I’m glad it’s you and Colin. Two working writers—a pair who fit Bloomsbury better than I ever would.”

Penelope smiled knowingly. “So you know about his book? I am glad he told you. We’re actually very close to closing the deal with a publishing house.”

Benedict’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I’ve known for a while. He told me long before you were married.”

Penelope stopped mid-step, turning to him with surprise. “He did?”

“He did. He sounded quite proud of himself at the time.” Benedict smirked. 

Her features softened, her gaze shifting ahead toward the lush green pastures. “Well, I am very proud of him,” she said, her voice warm with sincerity. “And not just because he’s my husband. His writing is genuinely good. I hope you’re all proud of him, too.”

Benedict chuckled, nodding his head several times. “If Lady Whistledown herself appreciates Colin’s writing, I daresay it must be excellent. Though I’m beginning to think I’ll have to blackmail him into telling everybody else.”

She shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “There’s no need for blackmail, Benedict. A simple, ‘I would advise you to share your work with the family’ would suffice. Colin is a smart and understanding person. I think he would appreciate your insights.”

“Ah, but where’s the fun in that?” Benedict teased, his grin widening.

Penelope laughed softly, her shoulders relaxing as she walked alongside him. 

As they continued their stroll, Benedict glanced sideways at Penelope, his lips curling into a sly grin. “By the way,” he began, his voice full of mock disapproval, “are you and your beloved husband planning to coordinate your attire every day? Do not think I failed to notice the matching cravat and dress for the second day in a row. I am an artist, Penelope—I notice colors. Although, truth be told, with you two, even a blind man could spot these blatant displays of affection. Quite disgusting, really.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “I will be sure to remember this conversation, Benedict, when you find your own wife and become disgusting yourself.”

He let out a bark of laughter, clearly enjoying the banter. “A frightening thought, indeed,” he replied, feigning a shudder. “And you were just speaking about the misuse of blackmail. You are quite a Bridgerton, let me tell you.”

They walked on in comfortable silence for a moment before Penelope nodded absentmindedly, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Tell me, Benedict,” she began, her tone casual but laced with curiosity, “why didn’t you even try to take the competition more seriously? For all the antagonism you direct at Colin, one would think you’d seize the opportunity to best him.”

Benedict chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

Penelope arched a brow, her tone tinged with playful reproach. “Subtlety has never been your strongest suit, I must say. I cannot speak for the others, but I was quite certain you were woolgathering during most of the shots. It happens to be one of my talents, after all, noticing such things.”

He glanced at her, clearly amused. “A formidable talent, sister. But you’re right—I didn’t try. If I had, I might have stolen fifth place from you.”

Penelope gave Benedict a mock glare, her free hand pressed theatrically to her chest as though she were clutching her spot on the winners' list for dear life. Benedict paused, catching her expression with a wry smile before waving a hand dismissively as he began to speak.

“I don’t really care for these silly competitions,” he said, his tone light but pointed. “Especially not when Anthony gets this excited about them. Everyone else—Hyacinth and Gregory included—takes them far too seriously. I’d rather play the fool and enjoy myself. That is one of my talents, after all. Just as you’ve put yours on display today, I’ve put mine.”

Penelope couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her, the sound soft and genuine. “I’m not entirely sure if being so honest about that is a good thing or a bad thing, but at least you’re sincere. I suppose that counts for something. Though,” she added with a teasing gesture, “I do think Colin would have relished the opportunity to boast if he’d beaten you fair and square.”

Benedict’s smirk widened, a glint of mischief lighting his eyes. “Oh, he’ll find something to boast about regardless. It’s practically his natural state. Did you see that ridiculous display between him and Anthony earlier? Peacocks show their feathers less often than those two.”

Penelope bit her lip, trying to stifle her laughter, but her eyes danced with amusement. “The funniest part,” Benedict continued, leaning slightly closer as if sharing a secret, “is that neither of them actually won. And yet, there they were, throwing jabs at each other as if the world depended on it.”

Shaking her head, Penelope sighed. “It’s not my place to say, but even I can see that this wasn’t really about the shooting competition.”

“No,” Benedict agreed, his tone tinged with resignation. “Sadly, it wasn’t. But in this particular matter, I’m afraid there’s little any of us can do. Both of them are far too stubborn to see they’re simply two sides of the same coin.”

Penelope’s brow furrowing slightly in thought. “It’s a pity,” she said softly. “They’d both be so much happier if they could just admit that to each other.”

Benedict’s expression softened as he glanced at her. “Perhaps. But Bridgerton pride runs deep. Deep enough to keep them circling each other for years, like cats around cream.”

Penelope laughed lightly at the image, but the undercurrent of tension lingered between them. The truth of Benedict’s words wasn’t lost on her, and as they resumed their leisurely walk back toward the house, she found herself wishing for a day when Colin and Anthony could set aside their differences—or perhaps their similarities—and simply find peace.

As they reached the steps that led from the garden to the house, Benedict slowed his pace and gestured for Penelope to follow him slightly away from the main pathway. She noticed in his expression that the playful ease of their earlier conversation had shifted into something more deliberate. Penelope tilted her head, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

“Penelope,” Benedict began detaching himself from her and facing her, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “I must confess, I had an ulterior motive for escorting you back to the house alone.”

She blinked at him, her brows furrowing slightly. “Oh? Should I be concerned?”

He offered her a small, self-deprecating smile. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I wanted to speak to you about what you brought forward yesterday when I found both of you in the garden. I wanted to discuss… Paul.”

The name hung between them, an unfamiliar weight that made Penelope hesitate. She hadn’t expected Benedict to broach this subject so directly or so soon, and it left her momentarily at a loss.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much,” she admitted cautiously, clasping her hands before her. “I only know there was something—between you and him—but the details elude me, and I assure you, I have no desire to know more.”

Benedict nodded, his expression unreadable, though his shoulders seemed to relax slightly at her words. “Then why mention him at all? When you brought it up the other day, it caught me off guard.”

Penelope sighed softly, her gaze dropping to the hem of her dress as she gathered her thoughts. “It was never my intention to hold it over your head, Benedict. I merely wanted you to know that I support you, regardless of whatever this… situation may entail. And I promise, on my honor, I have never breathed a word to another soul.”

Benedict studied her, his sharp eyes assessing, but there was no hint of accusation in his tone when he said, “Not even to Colin?”

“Not even to Colin,” she repeated firmly, lifting her chin. “And if there’s ever a whisper in the ton, I will crush it before it takes root.”

A flicker of gratitude passed over his face, but he wasn’t done. “You said something else in the carriage—that Lady Tilly Arnold spoke to you. What did she say, exactly?”

Penelope sighed, her shoulders stiffening as she prepared to share the story. “Lady Arnold approached me shortly after the Butterfly Ball,” she began, her voice steady but tinged with a hint of unease. “She was one of the first people eager to ingratiate herself with me. She sent letters requesting an audience, but at the time, Colin and I had decided not to take any callers. We agreed it would be best to focus on... reconnecting with each other.”

Her cheeks flushed lightly at the admission, and she avoided Benedict’s gaze, though she was relieved to see his expression remained politely neutral, his curiosity tempered by decorum. “I thought of responding to her once we rejoined society a few weeks later,” Penelope continued, “but it truly just slipped my mind. Then, one afternoon, I was leaving Geneviève’s shop, and she approached me directly.”

She paused, her eyes flicking to Benedict to gauge his reaction. His face, however, remained impassive, though she noticed the slight tightening of his jaw. She pressed on. “She told me she wanted my help—to push herself into your life. She claimed to have feelings for you.”

At this, Benedict’s lips pressed into a thin line, his composure cracking ever so slightly. His silence urged her to continue.

“I didn’t know what to say,” Penelope admitted, her tone turning slightly defensive. “She ambushed me, Benedict. I wasn’t sure if you were aware of her interest or if you reciprocated.”

Benedict finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “I was aware,” he said, his gaze steady. “I made it clear to her that I was not interested.”

Penelope nodded, her hands fidgeting with the folds of her dress. “I wasn’t sure. She seemed... determined, and I didn’t want to assume anything. But I told her I wouldn’t meddle, that it wasn’t my place. I thought that would end the matter.”

Benedict adjusted his coat while studying her. “Did it?”

“For the most part,” Penelope replied with a hint of amusement. “Though I did suggest she approach you directly, not me. Her response, however, was that I was both Lady Whistledown and your sister, and she believed my influence to be far greater. I tried to explain that she was mistaken—I certainly do not possess the power to sway people into doing my bidding. By the way she spoke, one might think she imagined I’d bewitched Colin or something equally absurd.”

“And Paul?” Benedict prompted gently.

“That came later,” Penelope said, her voice dropping as she recounted the moment. “Lady Arnold asked me outright if the reason I was refusing to help was because Paul was in your life. I was confused, and she must have noticed because she quickly changed the subject, begging me not to mention it to anyone and without providing many details. However, her tone and her intentions gave me all the information I needed to put the pieces together. I am afraid it was not a hard task to do.”

Benedict nodded slowly, a faint shadow crossing his face. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, his voice sincere. “For not prying. For keeping this to yourself. I appreciate it more than I can say.”

Penelope reached out and lightly touched his arm, her expression soft. “You’re family, Benedict. That’s all that matters to me. Besides, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to keep a secret for the sake of family. Truly, it’s no trouble at all.”

For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, the weight of the conversation settling between them like a fragile truce. Then, with a faint smile, Benedict extended his arm once more. “I know you didn’t ask, and it’s likely better not to tell you too much. But let me assure you, there is nothing between anyone and me. I am nothing but a sad, lonely bachelor with no intention of marrying, no matter how much Mother or our sisters push the matter.”

Penelope smiled softly. “Still, just like the subject of your painting, I believe that if you were ever to confide in your brother, he would understand.”

Benedict moved his head to the side, his expression unreadable for a moment, before replying with a tone of finality, “Right. I do know that.”

He gave his arm a small shake, encouraging her to take it. “Shall we? I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time—and no doubt Colin is pacing somewhere, grumbling about being left behind.”

Penelope chuckled, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm. “Indeed, he might be. But I’m very glad we had the chance to clear the air.”

They restarted walking, and Penelope could feel Benedict’s gaze lingering on her as they moved through the house. His expression was a mix of concern and curiosity, much like Kate’s earlier look in the gardens. It made her uneasy, though she tried to brush it off.

“Are you quite alright, Penelope?” Benedict asked gently, his voice low but insistent. “You look a bit pale, and I daresay not your usual lively self.”

She offered him a small, reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m fine, truly. Perhaps a touch of fatigue. The competition may have been a little more strenuous than I anticipated.”

Benedict studied her for a moment longer before nodding. “Then allow me to escort you to the drawing room. A bit of rest will do you good.”

Penelope nodded, grateful for his steadiness, and secured her arm once again while they began to go up the stairs. To be truthful to herself, the entire walk back to the house felt longer than it should have, her steps heavier with each passing moment. By the time they reached the drawing room, she was faintly aware of the warmth creeping into her cheeks and some mild discomfort on her stomach. She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself, but the dull ache in her temples refused to fade.

When they stepped into the room, the sudden shift in temperature made her shiver, and Violet’s warm greeting only vaguely registered in her ears. Before Penelope could return the pleasantries, Violet’s expression shifted abruptly.

“Penelope, dearest,” Violet’s voice was laced with concern as her gaze fixed on her face. “Your nose—it’s bleeding.”

Penelope blinked, momentarily confused. She felt the faint warmth beneath her nose, looked down, and a drop of two had already landed on her coat. When her fingers brushed against the skin above her lip, they came away stained crimson. Her heart skipped, and a faint wave of nausea threatened to unbalance her.

“Oh,” she murmured softly, her voice barely audible.

Benedict released her and bent toward her, producing a handkerchief from his pocket. “Penelope, put pressure on it,” he instructed, his voice steady yet tinged with concern.

“Stay here,” Violet commanded, her tone resolute and her composure unwavering. “I shall fetch some vinegar.” Without another word, she departed with determined purpose, leaving Penelope momentarily rooted to the spot, her hands trembling as she held the handkerchief in place.

The moment of stillness was shattered by the entrance of the rest of the group. Colin’s familiar voice rose above the hum of conversation, his usual playful tone loudly playing with their siblings. Penelope noticed the second his eyes zeroed in on her and at the sight he crossed the threshold in quick strides, and his expression transformed with startling speed—from lighthearted to stricken.

“What happened?” Colin’s voice cut through the room, sharp and edged with panic. His gaze darted to Benedict, his tone accusatory. “What did you do to her?”

Benedict, unruffled by his brother’s outburst, ignored the question entirely. Colin, however, reached Penelope’s side in a heartbeat, his urgency palpable. Practically shoving Benedict aside, he placed his hands on her arms, his touch both gentle and firm as his eyes searched her face with a frantic intensity.

“Pen,” he murmured, his voice softening though his worry remained clear. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Penelope said quickly, her voice betraying her weariness more than she intended. “It’s just a little nosebleed. Likely the dust from the gunpowder.”

But Colin was already guiding her toward the nearest settee, his touch tender but insistent. “You’re not fine,” he said firmly, his voice low but urgent. “Sit down.”

Penelope obeyed, more out of a desire to ease his concern than from her own sense of urgency. He knelt before her, his hands braced on the sides of the settee as though to steady her. His eyes scanned her face with an intensity that made her chest tighten.

“This isn’t nothing,” he murmured, his voice quieter now but no less insistent. “You’ve been overexerting yourself all morning, and now this. Someone fetch the physician.”

“I don’t need a physician,” Penelope protested, though her tone was gentle. “It’s just a nosebleed, Colin. Truly, there’s no need to make a fuss.”

“A fuss?” Colin repeated, his brow furrowing deeply. “Penelope, your nose is bleeding, you’re pale, and you’re clearly exhausted. If this isn’t cause for concern, I don’t know what is.”

Kate stepped in then, her hand resting lightly on Colin’s shoulder. “Colin, she’s right. Nosebleeds aren’t uncommon, and it’s likely nothing serious. Let her rest for a moment and see how she feels.”

Colin glanced up at Kate, his eyes narrowing briefly before he gave her a terse nod, though his focus quickly returned to Penelope. Penelope couldn’t help but feel a flicker of irritation. Why was he listening so intently to Kate and not her—the one actually enduring the nosebleed? A suspicion crept into her mind. Had something transpired between Colin and Kate while she had gone ahead with Benedict? She wasn’t sure, but she was certain she would get to the bottom of it.

Colin’s attention, however, was fully fixed on her now. He took the vinegar-soaked handkerchief from Violet, who had returned with purposeful haste, and offered it to Penelope, his movements deliberate and careful, as if she were something precious. Taking the stained handkerchief from her, he passed it off to a nearby footman, his gaze never straying far from her face, his every action tinged with quiet reverence.

“Here,” he said softly, his fingers brushing hers as she took it. “Hold this to your nose. And don’t argue with me—just let me take care of you.”

Penelope’s heart ached at the worry etched into his features. “I’m fine, Colin,” she said, her voice softer now, touched by his concern. “You don’t need to worry so much.”

His lips quirked into a faint, wry smile. “And yet, here I am,” he replied, his tone a mix of exasperation and affection. “It is my duty as your husband to worry over you. Now, make yourself comfortable, lie back, and allow me to tend to you while you rest and apply this.”

Penelope complied, settling onto the settee as Colin sat beside her, gently guiding her head into his lap. His fingers wove through her hair, the soothing motion a balm against her frazzled nerves. His touch was tender, his hand occasionally brushing the side of her face or her forehead while she held the handkerchief against her nose. Colin’s focus was unyielding, his free hand resting on the arm of the settee, poised as if ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

“I’m not letting you move until you feel better,” Colin said, his voice brooking no argument. “And if you try to protest, I’ll summon the physician.”

A soft chuckle escaped Penelope’s lips despite herself, and she leaned into his touch. “You Bridgertons certainly know your way around blackmail,” she murmured.

Colin scrunched his nose, a playful frown crossing his features. “What do you mean?” he asked, pressing a kiss to her temple.

But before she could reply, Violet returned, a maid trailing behind her carrying a tray of tea and an assortment of small sandwiches. Violet’s expression was still one of maternal concern as she took the chair beside them. “When your bleeding has stopped, dearest, you should drink this,” she said, gesturing to the steaming teapot. “A bit of tea does wonders in cases like this.”

Penelope sat up, her movements deliberate as if to reassure everyone—and perhaps herself—that she was indeed steady. Colin eyed her nervously, his brow furrowing as his hand hovered at her side, ready to steady her if needed.

“I am fine, see? It stopped,” she said gently, holding up the now-unstained handkerchief as proof. Her tone was light, but her gaze softened when she saw the lingering concern in his eyes.

Colin nodded, though the tension in his posture betrayed his unease. He continued to watch her intently as she accepted the teacup Violet offered. As the warmth of the tea spread through her hands and seeped into her chest, she felt a sense of calm washing over her. The earlier strain began to ebb away, replaced by the comforting rhythm of the room’s quiet chatter.

• · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

If Colin were entirely honest with himself, he had lost his composure the moment he entered the room and saw Penelope with blood on her face and hands. His first instinct, one he was ashamed to admit, had been to cast blame—either at Benedict for some imagined folly or at his brother’s supposed negligence. Yet now, with the storm of his initial panic abating, he could see plainly that neither was at fault.

No, the reality of the situation lay elsewhere. Kate’s earlier comment had unsettled him far more than he cared to acknowledge. Her pointed observation had struck a chord, and his inability to provide her with a definitive answer gnawed at him. Worse still, he had asked her not to breathe a word of their conversation to anyone—not even Daphne, who, while well-meaning, was a notorious busybody incapable of discretion. For now, they had resolved to simply observe and wait. If the situation required it, Penelope would be told.

But Kate had not relented easily. “She ought to know, Colin. This concerns her even more than it concerns you,” she had murmured, her tone sharp yet measured, like a schoolmistress correcting an errant pupil. And though Colin had agreed in principle, he had pleaded for her restraint. There was no sense in alarming Penelope unnecessarily if this proved to be nothing more than conjecture. With an air of reluctance, Kate had finally acquiesced—but not without a parting glance that conveyed both her frustration and her doubts about his judgment.

Now, as he observed Penelope seated on the settee, her face pale yet composed, guilt twisted in his chest. She had been through so much already. The very notion of burdening her further with uncertain possibilities felt unconscionable. Yet Kate’s words echoed in his mind: She ought to know.

Colin ran a hand through his hair, the weight of it all pressing heavily upon him. He loathed the secrets that hovered like specters between them, but he clung to the hope that this might all come to nothing. Until then, he would shoulder the burden, shielding Penelope as best he could—though a small voice whispered that his intentions, however noble, might not absolve him if the truth came to light. For now, he could only pray that he was making the right choice.

A couple of hours passed, the light chatter among the Bridgertons ebbed and flowed, but Colin’s focus rarely strayed from Penelope. Her posture was prim, her hands folded in her lap, but he knew her well enough to see the slight tension in her shoulders. She was putting on a brave face, masking her weariness for the benefit of the family, but he wasn’t fooled. She had engaged in conversation sparingly, her words polite but devoid of her usual spark. The rest of the family began making motions to retire, murmuring about changing for dinner. That is when Colin saw his opportunity.

“I think it’s best if Penelope and I take dinner in our bedchamber this evening,” he announced casually, though his tone left no room for argument. Colin could guess his mother seeing the determination in his face, agreed with him with a nod.

However, his wife had other plans. Penelope turned to him, her brows drawing together in mild irritation. “There’s no need for that, Colin. I’m perfectly capable of joining the family at dinner. There is hardly any exertion on sitting down and cutting my meat. ”

“You’re capable of a great many things, my darling,” Colin replied, his voice light, “but tonight, I think it best you rest. I insist.”

Her lips parted, ready to argue—he recognized that spark in her eyes, and if he were honest with himself, seeing it brought him a measure of relief. If Penelope was prepared to defy him, it could only mean she was not feeling as unwell as before. But before she could utter a word, the low snickers from Anthony and Benedict reached her ears, and she promptly shut her mouth, though her expression conveyed her annoyance. Colin shot his brothers a sharp glance, his frustration palpable, though it did little to stifle their amusement.

“She’s right, you know,” Benedict chimed in, his grin wicked. “You do hover, brother. It’s quite unbecoming.”

Anthony, swirling his whisky savoring both victory and entertainment, added with a smirk, “The better question would be, when is he not hovering over her?”

Penelope seized the moment, her lips twitching with amusement. “It is a rare occasion indeed, but your brothers are correct, Colin,” she said

But Colin was undeterred. “If you won’t listen to reason,” he said, leaning down just enough to whisper in her ear, “I’ll carry you upstairs myself.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she shot him a glare that might have withered a lesser man. “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.

“Wouldn’t I?” he countered, his tone full of challenge.

Colin noticed how her eyes darted to Anthony and Benedict, whose faces were alight with suppressed laughter. And he saw she understood quickly, no help would come from them. With a resigned huff, Penelope stood, smoothing her skirts with deliberate movements. “Fine. But only because I refuse to be manhandled in front of your family.”

“Wise choice,” Colin quipped, offering his arm with a smug grin.

She accepted it reluctantly, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse. Colin’s grin widened, amused by the notion that some of his habits might be rubbing off on her, though he feigned ignorance. With a nod of farewell to the gathered family members, the pair turned and ascended the stairs, her hand lightly resting on his arm as they made their way toward their chambers.

By the time they reached their room, Penelope’s patience had worn thin, he could tell from the way she was stomping through the corridor and all the way into the bedchamber. She stormed inside ahead of him, her skirts swishing with each determined step, and threw herself onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh. “Satisfied?” she asked, her tone sharp as she stared up at the ceiling.

Colin closed the door softly behind him, the quiet click of the latch echoing in the stillness of the room. He saw how her fiery curls were spilling across the pillow in disarray, her expression caught between weariness and frustration. He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer and lowering himself beside her. The bed dipped under his weight.

“Not quite,” he murmured, his tone gentle. “I’ll be satisfied when I know you’re taking care of yourself.”

Penelope shifted, propping herself up on her elbows with a sharpness that belied her earlier fatigue. Her narrowed eyes met his, brimming with irritation. “I had a bleeding nose, Colin,” she retorted, her voice edged with exasperation. “I’m not on my deathbed. We’ve discussed this before—you hover too much. I am not fragile, nor do I need you to carry me up the stairs. If I were in need of help, I would ask for it.”

“Would you?”

“Yes,” she added firmly, as if reaffirming her independence, “I would ask.”

“I doubt that,” Colin replied with a hint of humor, though it was poorly timed.

Her sigh was loud, bordering on theatrical, and she pushed herself upright fully with a sharp “Ugh!” of frustration. Reaching for the book on her nightstand, she grabbed it with more force than necessary, flipping it open as though it were a shield between them. “Fine,” she declared, her tone brisk. “I’ll remain here as you wish, but only if you go to dinner. Perhaps some peace and quiet will do us both good.”

Colin crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

Her jaw tightened, her fingers clenching the edges of the book. “Then good night, Colin,” she said, her voice clipped as she buried herself in the pages.

He watched her intently, his eyes scanning the set of her shoulders, the way she resolutely avoided his gaze. He was certain she wasn’t reading a word. The page hadn’t turned for far too long, and her grip on the book seemed more about holding him at bay than indulging in its contents.

With a resigned sigh, Colin stood and crossed the room. He moved toward the desk tucked into the corner. Opening a drawer, he pulled out the stack of letters Penelope had written to him during his first tour abroad. The familiar sight of the folded papers, worn from his handling, brought a pang of bittersweet nostalgia. He thumbed through them briefly before turning back.

As he moved, he caught the flicker of her gaze darting toward him, only for her to quickly avert her eyes. He said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them. But instead of returning to the bed immediately, he stood there for a moment, the letters in hand, his presence undeniable.

When he did approach, Penelope straightened slightly, her attention shifting fully to him. Her book lay forgotten in her lap. Her expression softened as her eyes fell on the stack of letters.

Colin lowered himself beside her once more and set the letters between them. “You wrote these when I was far from home,” he said quietly, his voice laced with emotion. “Every one of them kept me tethered when I felt adrift.”

Her brow furrowed, a mix of curiosity and guilt crossing her face. “Colin, why did you bring them from home?”

He shook his head. “Because they remind me of who we are, Pen. Of what you’ve always meant to me, long before we were husband and wife.”

Her fingers brushed over the edge of the letters, hesitating as her eyes searched his. For once, she seemed at a loss for words, and Colin took the moment to draw closer.

“I’m not hovering because I doubt your strength,” he continued softly. “I’m hovering because I cannot bear the thought of not doing everything in my power to protect you.”

Penelope sighed, her frustration ebbing slightly as she looked at him, truly looked at him. “And I cannot bear the thought of you thinking I need protection when I am perfectly fine.”

“Perhaps,” Colin said with a small, rueful smile. “But humor me, just this once.”

Colin watched as Penelope delicately plucked one letter from the pile. It was old but well-preserved, the ink faintly faded, and he immediately recognized it. It was the very first letter she had written to him after he’d initiated their correspondence that summer long ago. She unfolded it carefully, her lips pressing together as her eyes scanned the words she had penned all those years ago.

Her silence filled the room, but he didn’t rush her. He simply observed, leaning slightly toward her, waiting for her reaction. Finally, she chuckled softly, breaking the quiet.

“This is terrible,” she said, shaking her head, though there was humor in her tone. “I wrote about how dull my summer was, how nothing of interest was happening, and how we hadn’t even left London. Nonsense, really.”

Colin smiled at her self-deprecation. “It wasn’t terrible,” he replied earnestly. “I remember thinking it was a relief to know you were doing better after…” His expression softened, and he exhaled slowly, as if releasing something he’d held for a long time. “After your father passed,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I wrote to you, of course, because I wanted to hear from you. But I also wrote because I felt guilty.”

“Why would you have felt guilt?” she asked, her brows knitting together.

Colin nodded, his gaze dropping momentarily to the letters before meeting her eyes again. “I wasn’t there for you when it happened, Pen. When your father died, I was… away. Distracted by my own life, my own foolishness. I wrote to you because I wanted to be there for you in some way, even if only through words.”

Penelope’s expression softened, but she remained quiet, allowing him to continue.

“At first,” he went on, “I thought I was writing to distract you. To help you feel less alone. I told myself it was the least I could do. But the truth is… those letters became a way for me to feel close to you, even when I couldn’t be there in person.” He paused, his voice lowering further. “When my father died, I found myself doing the same thing with my siblings. I distracted Eloise by reading with her, took Fran on walks through the woods and helped Daphne with her blasted pianoforte exercises.”

Penelope smiled faintly, her fingers brushing the edge of the letter. “And your mother?” she asked softly.

He shook his head, his smile faltering. “No. Nothing worked with her. She carried her grief differently—so much deeper, so much quieter. I suppose, in some ways, I envied her strength.”

She dismissed his confession with a wave of her hand, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of his sentiment. “You started your first letter by offering condolences for my father’s passing,” she said with eyes that betrayed her gratitude. “You were always a loyal friend.”

Colin focused on something else, he had no need of bringing the conversation to him, he wanted to know about her. “Pen…  are you alright?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

She narrowed her eyes at him, suspicion flickering across her face. “If this is about my health again, Colin, I swear to the Heavens…”

He shook his head gently. “Not your physical health,” he clarified, his voice low and careful. “I mean… regarding your father. With all the talk today, all the memories stirred by our chatter of fathers—are you quite alright? Even then, you spoke little beyond the inconvenience of mourning. You never truly shared with me how you felt.”

Penelope froze, her hand stilling against the fabric of the bedding. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. Then, finally, she spoke, her voice quieter than before. “I… I don’t know.”

He waited, sensing she had more to say.

Penelope sighed, the weight of her thoughts evident in her tone. “It’s no secret he never truly bonded with any of us.” She caught Colin’s look, one that urged her to be honest, and she amended softly, “He never truly bonded with me. But you’re right—today has been taxing, stirring sentiments I don’t usually spend much time dwelling on. I’ve been thinking about the small moments, the fleeting instances I shared with him. The last time I saw him…” She paused, her gaze distant as if reliving the memory. “It was an afternoon, and he was reading the paper. My mother was rushing us to prepare for Daphne’s ball. As I left the room, I said nothing. I regret that. I could have said goodbye, asked him why he wasn’t attending, or simply told him I loved him. But I didn’t. I barely even noticed he was there.”

She drew a steadying breath, the silence between them growing heavy before she continued, her voice quieter now. “So many times, I didn’t notice my father. I hope he knew… how much I loved him. Even if he didn’t love me back.”

Colin stepped closer, his expression tender, his presence grounding her. “Pen,” he murmured, his voice filled with conviction, “I’m certain he did. Some people… some fathers, find it hard to show love. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

She shook her head, her tone resolute yet laced with a tinge of sadness. “I’ve come to terms with it, Colin. There’s no need to sugarcoat the truth. He was a man who didn’t care for his family—not in sentiment, and not even with coin. I don’t have to tell you that; you’ve seen the ledgers yourself. He was disappointed, not just in his life but in us, his family. He never said it outright, but we all knew. Prudence, Philippa, my mother, even Varley—none of us were blind to it.”

She paused for a moment, her fingers playing with her hair. “He’s the reason my mother was so adamant against me marrying for love. And after all that has been said and done, I understand. I understand why she pushed for a practical match. If her own ‘practical’ match had been a disaster, what hope would I have had if I married for love? Perhaps she feared it would be something worse. But I’d like to think,” Penelope added softly, “that with all the chaos, she eventually came to understand. To understand me, to understand us. Perhaps something clicked in her mind.”

A wry chuckle escaped her lips as she glanced at Colin. “The funniest part, though, is that while she gave me endless lectures about the dangers of marrying for love, she never even noticed that the other two matches she facilitated were also for love. In the end, all three of her daughters married for love.” Her smile softened

“A very commendable pursuit, if you ask me,” Colin remarked, his voice steady yet warm. “My mother is proud of her, now that things between them have improved. But going back to your father—”

“Colin,” Penelope interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. “There is nothing else to tell. I grieved his loss, and yes, I feel sadness from time to time when I think of him. But—and forgive me for my bluntness—if I were speaking to anyone but you, I might not say this: the family is better in his absence. Of course, removing the complications of not having a male heir would make things simpler, but even with those challenges, my mother seems happier and the three of us thrived after his passing.”

She paused, her honesty unwavering. “So, to answer the question you asked at the start of this conversation—yes, I am alright.”

Penelope offered a small smile, but it failed to reach her eyes. Colin took both of her hands in his own. “I wish I had been here when it happened,” he murmured. “Or that I had stayed longer—to be with you, to help you through it. I should not have been so preoccupied with trivial matters, with my own head in the clouds.”

“You have been wearisome since we arrived at Aubrey Hall,” Penelope replied firmly, scowling in a gesture he considered as tender, even when it wasn’t her intent. “So let me say this once more: the past is the past, Colin. We cannot change it, and regret what we did or didn’t do is a fool’s errand. All we can do is look to the present and the future and ensure we do not repeat the same mistakes.”

Her gaze was determined. “But I will say this: the letters you sent throughout the off-season while you were away on your first tour—they were a lifeline. A happy memory at a time when I needed one most. They didn’t erase the pain of losing a father, but they gave me hope for the future.”

Colin’s expression softened further, his thumbs brushing lightly over her hands. “Yours were the same for me,” he confessed. “A lifeline. That’s why I’ve kept them—they are my greatest treasure.”

He tried to draw her closer, but Penelope placed a hand on his chest, halting him. “I am still angry at you for your over exaggeration of my health,” she said, her tone teasing but with an edge of truth.

“Are you?” Colin quirked a brow, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I think, Mrs. Bridgerton, you should view this as your husband not suggesting you to dine with the family, but rather as him seizing any excuse to spend some well-deserved alone time with his wife, newly married wife.”

She arched a brow, her lips twitching. “That is a rather convenient point of view.”

“It certainly is,” he replied with a grin, pulling her closer once more. This time, she allowed it, and as his lips descended upon hers, the weight of the conversation melted away, leaving only the comfort of  her lips upon his.