Chapter Text
She spreads jam over her crumpet and bites into it. It tastes nice. But then, everything has tasted nice these last two days. His lips, however, might just be the sweetest thing of all. A small smile escapes her, unbidden, and she hears him pause mid-conversation. He’s watching her again; he always seems to be watching her. But she doesn’t mind. His gaze feels like a caress now, a gentle reminder of what it’s like to truly be touched by him.
She didn’t expect this. She didn’t plan for it. She doesn’t dare think about it too much.
Three nights. Three nights she’s spent with him, sneaking out of Eloise’s room after the servants do their rounds and sneaking back before the first light of dawn. Her skin still hums with the memory of his kisses.
Oh, how she loves those kisses.
The playful ones, stolen while he tickles her. The sloppy, open-mouthed ones when his hunger overtakes him, devouring her as though she’s the air he breathes. The passionate ones shared while he moves inside her, muffling her moans with his lips. The tender ones, when he looks into her eyes, his movements slow, deliberate, and reverent.
It’s magical what his kisses can do to her.
She laughs with him. She actually laughs. He teases her with his touches, with whispered words of longing and desire, and she smiles and laughs in ways she never thought she could again. It’s beyond comprehension that such things are even possible.
She dares a glance in his direction, and their eyes meet. His sharp inhale cuts through the din of conversation, and he stumbles over his words to John. John, blissfully unaware, continues speaking, but Violet catches Anthony’s reaction, her sharp gaze cutting to him before flicking to Penelope. Penelope quickly looks away, heat rising in her cheeks.
The household is alive with activity. Only four days until the ball, and preparations are in full swing. Flowers are being delivered, decorations are going up on the walls, and mountains of food are being prepared in the kitchens. It’s mayhem, the best kind of mayhem.
But then the servants bring the mail.
Penelope’s hand stills as a letter is placed before her. Her name is written in her husband’s neat, controlled handwriting. She stares at it, unwilling to open it, dread pooling in her stomach.
“Pen? What is it?” Eloise’s voice is soft, concerned. But Penelope cannot answer. She forces herself to break the seal, her hands trembling as she unfolds the paper. The letter isn’t long, just three sentences. Her throat tightens as she reads it, and without a word, she passes it to Eloise.
Eloise reads it and says in a brittle voice, “He’s coming back tomorrow.”
The conversation at the table stops. Francesca, beside her, squeezes Penelope’s hand. Anthony’s brows draw together, a shadow of anger in his expression. John, bless him, seems oblivious to the tension.
Violet extends her hand across the table, her fingers brushing against Penelope’s. Penelope takes it, clinging to the warmth and comfort it offers.
“Simon and Daphne will be here by evening,” Violet says gently. “We’ll talk to them. We’ll figure something out.”
Penelope knows she means to offer hope, but there is none to be had. He’s coming back.
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Eloise is furious. That vile excuse for a man is coming back. She saw it happen, the light disappearing from Penelope’s eyes at breakfast the moment she opened that accursed envelope.
Before that, Penelope had been... happy. Smiling into her food, stealing glances at Anthony, who looked more like a blushing schoolboy than the Viscount of the house every time their eyes met. It would have been hilarious watching them trip over their gazes if it weren’t for her mother’s subtle looks, full of unspoken questions. Violet had definitely noticed the not-so-subtle exchanges between the two, and even Francesca had clocked it, her amused smirk a dead giveaway.
But then the letter came, and no one was amused anymore.
She stands abruptly, fixing Anthony with a pointed glare as she announces, “Penelope and I will be taking advantage of the fine weather by reading under the old willow by the lake.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument, and her gaze lingers on her brother, daring him to misunderstand. Surely even Anthony can take a hint.
Eloise takes a small stack of books with her, more for appearances than any real intention to read. Penelope hasn’t picked up a book in months, not since that vile man laid his filthy, disgusting hands on her. It breaks Eloise’s heart to see it, to know how much her friend once loved to lose herself in stories, only to have that joy stolen from her.
“You think Anthony understood that I want him to meet us here?” Eloise asks, more to fill the silence than because she doubts her brother’s ability to grasp the obvious.
“I think everyone did, El,” Penelope says with a faint smirk, but the smile fades almost as soon as it appears.
Eloise moves behind her, fingers gently threading through Penelope’s red curls. “It’s going to be alright, Pen,” she says softly, knowing the words are empty but feeling compelled to say them anyway. She picks a daisy from the grass and weaves it into her friend’s hair, though she’s never been particularly skilled at such things. Penelope used to braid Hyacinth’s and Francesca’s hair all the time; perhaps this small gesture might bring her some comfort.
“It can’t be alright, El.” Penelope sighs, her voice heavy with resignation. “He’s coming back tomorrow. I’ll be moved to the visitor’s wing, and by tomorrow night…” Her words trail off, their meaning painfully clear. Eloise’s heart clenches. She wishes, more than anything, that she could do something, anything, to change this.
“Is there anything I can do?” Eloise asks quietly.
“You’ve already done so much, Eloise. And I’m so grateful.” Penelope smiles faintly. “These last few days have been so… normal. You made that happen.”
“Me?” Eloise asks slyly, raising an eyebrow. “And not my brother?”
Penelope’s cheeks flush, and Eloise can’t help but laugh.
“I’m just teasing you. But really, I’m glad he’s helping you,” Eloise adds, her voice softening.
“He has been very kind,” Penelope admits, her blush deepening.
At that moment, Eloise notices Anthony striding across the field toward them, his long legs quickly closing the distance. She sighs dramatically. “Ah, the man of the hour,” she quips, earning herself a sharp look from him as he approaches.
Anthony lowers himself onto the blanket beside them, his eyes immediately finding the daisies in Penelope’s hair.
“There’s no need for your humour, Eloise,” he says dryly.
“I beg to differ. There is always a need for good humour,” she retorts with a grin. “And mine is supreme.” But her tone shifts as she continues, “However, that’s not the reason I asked you to come here.”
Anthony, oblivious to her words, is too busy watching Penelope. His gaze is so intense that Eloise feels the urge to roll her eyes. Penelope, meanwhile, is blushing furiously, her own eyes darting anywhere but in his direction. They’re like children, Eloise thinks with exasperation, children with no sense of discretion.
She finally huffs in frustration. “We’re alone out here. Just hold her so we can talk normally!”
Penelope gasps, her face a mixture of shock and embarrassment. “Eloise!”
Eloise waves her off impatiently. “I’ve been sending you to his room for three nights now. There’s no one here. We needn’t pretend.”
She watches as Anthony and Penelope exchange a series of silent, loaded glances. It’s so painfully obvious what they’re both thinking that it makes Eloise feel vaguely ill.
“Disgusting,” she mutters under her breath, but there’s a flicker of fondness as Penelope finally leans into Anthony’s arms. He buries his face in her hair, holding her close, and Eloise almost finds the sight sweet.
Almost.
“But while we’re on that particular topic, you two will have to be less obvious,” Eloise points out, her tone brisk. Anthony actually looks offended by the suggestion, puffing up like an indignant rooster.
“Mother has noticed. Francesca too,” she interrupts before he can launch into a tirade. Her words seem to deflate him. “John didn’t, but then he only has eyes for Francesca, so that’s a blessing.”
She pauses, a rare fondness creeping into her voice. “I like John, truth be told. He seems a kind man, intent on making Francesca happy.” But her focus quickly sharpens again. “Seriously, though, do you want to explain The Plan to Mother?”
Anthony groans, rolling his eyes. “Of course not.”
“And if you two don’t stop making calf’s eyes at each other every time you’re in the same room, Greer will notice in no time,” she warns, her tone biting.
Anthony’s cheeks darken, and he looks genuinely embarrassed. Eloise smirks. Oh, how she wishes Benedict were here; it would be far too much fun to mock Anthony together. But alas, the blasted sod is off refining his art. Useless idiot.
“You really think Violet noticed?” Penelope asks, her voice barely above a whisper, strained with worry.
“A blind man would have noticed,” Eloise says, exasperated. “She’s been giving me those pointed eyebrow raises of hers, both last night at dinner and again this morning. You really need to stop.”
The two of them look thoroughly chastised now, squirming uncomfortably. But Eloise has no time for their delicate feelings. That cursed bastard Greer is coming back, and they need a plan now.
“Obviously, when Greer returns, I won’t be able to send her into your room anymore,” Eloise continues, her voice resolute. Her sharp gaze flicks between Anthony and Penelope, daring either of them to object. They need a plan, and Eloise is determined to see it through.
“We’re all going to be returning to London after the ball anyway,” Anthony says, his tone suggesting he believes that solves the matter.
“How long before we know…” Eloise begins, then hesitates before rephrasing, “How long before we know if you’re with child or not? When are your courses due?”
Penelope’s face floods with colour, her eyes widening in obvious mortification. “In about ten days,” she whispers, her voice so faint Eloise has to lean in to catch it.
Eloise resists the urge to slap some sense into her. Why am I the only one unbothered by societal norms here? She’s just trying to see this through to the end they all want, so why do they insist on being mortified by every practical question?
“Well,” Eloise declares matter-of-factly, “Tonight will have to be another attempt. Because it’s the last opportunity for that here, I’m afraid.”
Predictably, Anthony coughs into his hand, his face a study in utter disbelief. “Do not look at me like that,” Eloise warns, narrowing her eyes.
“This is just so… inappropriate,” Anthony mutters, shifting uncomfortably.
“I thought we agreed we passed that,” she shoots back.
“You’re still my sister,” he grumbles, looking anywhere but at her.
“And all this is very educational. Just think of it as investing in my education,” she retorts, crossing her arms.
Anthony scoffs, rolling his eyes.
“Well, we’ll have to arrange something,” Eloise says, her tone brisk and efficient. “For when we’re back in London.”
She notices that Penelope has grown unusually quiet, her knees drawn to her chest. Her small, hunched figure tugs at Eloise’s heart.
“What is it, Pen?” she asks, her tone softening.
“I hate that I’m putting you into danger,” Penelope whispers, her voice trembling.
Eloise’s resolve hardens at the words. She places a reassuring hand on Penelope’s arm, her eyes fierce. “You’re not putting us into danger, Penelope. He is. And we’ll do whatever it takes to protect you. That’s all there is to it.”
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He is genuinely happy to see his sister and his best friend. Truly, he is. Daphne looks radiant, little August perched on her hip, and Simon is all smiles. It’s a sight to behold, a perfect little family, the kind of happiness that makes his heart glad.
And yet he still feels unease. Violet had cornered him earlier, demanding to know what was going on, why he and Penelope had been acting like two lovestruck fools. And, of course, she wasn’t wrong. He had been... mesmerized. Enchanted? Brought to his knees by a woman he once regarded with no more thought than the furniture in his drawing room. It's ridiculous. He is ridiculous.
He doesn’t know how it happened, or even when it happened. Somewhere between their encounter in the library four nights ago and now, he’s completely lost his senses. Enough that Eloise, of all people, had scolded him. Eloise, who seemed to make a sport out of pushing every nerve he had, had stared him down and demanded restraint.
It was laughable, really. Restraint?
How could he restrain himself when every look Penelope cast his way had him undone? When he couldn’t stop himself from seeking her out in every room, brushing close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, inhaling the faint trace of lavender that seemed to cling to her. He was hopeless.
And last night? Last night had been the end of him.
He’d been desperate, full of longing that bordered on madness, unable to contain the rush of desire clawing its way out of him. The moment she stepped into his room, he’d pulled her into his arms, his lips crashing against hers with an urgency that felt like drowning. He didn’t even let her finish crossing the threshold before he was dragging her to the bed, his hands fumbling, his need overwhelming. He’d been so impatient, he hadn’t even bothered to undress her properly before sinking into her.
It was ungentlemanly. Selfish. He hoped she forgave him, hoped he’d made up for it afterward, taking his time to worship her with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He wanted her to know she deserved tenderness, that her pleasure was something he craved more than his own.
She had been so beautiful, falling apart under his touch. The little gasps, the soft moans, he could have listened to her all night. Her skin flushed, her eyes dark and endless, swallowing him whole as he moved within her. He’d been utterly undone.
It was wrong. All of it. And he knew it.
He couldn’t afford to feel this way, couldn’t allow himself to lose control like this. It wasn’t just dangerous; it was selfish. He knew her well enough now to understand that her feelings toward him were complicated, born of desperation, necessity, not desire. And yet, he wanted her with a fierceness that felt like fire in his veins.
He hadn’t touched a drop of liquor these past few nights, afraid she’d smell it on him, that it would taint their time together. But now, standing in the drawing room, watching Daphne and Simon approach, he desperately needed a drink. Because if Eloise noticed, and Violet noticed, and Francesca noticed, it would take Simon all of ten seconds to figure it out.
And then the questions would start.
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Penelope is quiet and withdrawn during dinner, moving food around her plate more than eating. She keeps her eyes fixed downward.
Eloise, on the other hand, is loud and animated, drawing all attention to herself. Whether she’s doing it intentionally to distract from Penelope’s quietness or just being her usual self, Anthony can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. Her rowdiness grates on his nerves.
He does his best to keep his eyes off Penelope. Somewhat a losing battle with himself. Every time he catches a glimpse of her, it pulls at him. He forces himself to focus on the conversation, to respond when necessary, but it’s a struggle not to stare.
Violet seems pleased with the lively conversation and having her children around her. Only occasionally giving Anthony a sharp glance.
After dinner, Simon and he retreat into the study. Simon pours them both a generous serving of brandy, the rich amber liquid swirling in their glasses. But Anthony hesitates. He doesn’t want to drink tonight. He doesn’t want to reek of alcohol when she comes to his room.
It will be their last night together. The very thought fills him with dread. The knowledge that after tonight, she’ll return to Greer is unbearable.
“You're practicing abstinence? Truly?” Simon jokes, raising an eyebrow when Anthony declines the drink.
"I don't have the stomach for it tonight," Anthony replies, his voice tight.
Simon is studying him intently. "So, what is going on?"
Anthony hesitates, unsure how to answer, unsure where to even begin.
"Last time I saw you, you were deep in your cups, mourning the loss of one Kate Sharma," Simon continues, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. "And now I find you abstaining from drink and throwing lingering glances at a woman who happens to be an old family friend. A married woman, no less. Married to an absolutely despicable but also dangerous man, with whom you’ve decided to enter into business and have been chumming up for weeks, if my contacts at White's are to be believed."
Anthony exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You do seem to be well-informed,” he says dryly.
Simon's smirk fades into a more serious expression. “So, I’ll repeat myself: What is going on?”
Anthony doesn’t answer immediately.
“How much did Daphne tell you?” he asks finally, deflecting a little. “I know Mother wrote to her about Penelope.”
“She told me you’re all trying to find a way for her to escape her marriage. I just wasn’t aware it was because you were bedding her.”
“That’s not what’s going on,” Anthony snaps, though his voice lacks conviction.
Simon’s sharp eyes narrow. “So you haven’t been bedding her?”
Anthony freezes, the denial catching in his throat. The second of hesitation is all Simon needs.
“You are,” Simon says, his tone more observation than accusation. “You are.”
Anthony nods slightly, unable to meet Simon’s gaze. “I am.”
Simon lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “So let me get this straight. You’re trying to find a way for her to leave her ridiculously influential and powerful husband, knowing full well the scandal it would cause. And once that happens, this man, who has enough clout to ruin you both, will undoubtedly retaliate. You’re risking everything, your reputation, your family’s reputation, for what?”
“It’s not like that,” Anthony insists, his voice rising. “That man is a beast. He’s abusing her, Simon. Beating her. He’s a vile monster. If she doesn’t give him a child soon, he’ll kill her.”
Simon leans back in his chair, his expression heavy. “You’re serious.”
“I am,” Anthony replies, his jaw tightening. “We have a plan.”
Simon studies him carefully, his brow furrowing. “We as in you and Penelope?”
“And Eloise,” Anthony adds, his tone clipped.
Simon raises an eyebrow. “I admit, I’m scared to ask.”
“Eloise and Pen think that if she’s with child, Greer will stop the abuse. It’ll buy her time.”
Simon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I would guess Greer had the same plan by taking a young wife. So what makes your plan different from his?”
“Penelope and Eloise are sure he can’t produce a child.”
Simon freezes, his face twisting in disbelief. “So, you’ve been… breeding her?!” His voice rises, incredulous, his expression a picture of horror.
“Have you completely lost your senses, Bridgerton? Or is your baser instinct ruling your mind?”
Anthony’s annoyance flares instantly. “Watch your mouth, Simon. I’ll hit you for talking like that.”
“You’re trying to get her with child?” Simon presses.
“Yes,” Anthony replies, his tone firm.
Simon leans forward, his gaze sharp and unrelenting. “And what happens when you do?”
Anthony hesitates, his jaw tightening. “I don’t understand.”
“What happens to that child? Your child. In that man’s household?”