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Penelope decided that she didn’t care for Prudence’s new husband.
Mr. Dankworth, or as he insisted—Harry, we are brother and sister now, after all—was a bit of a dandy.
Rather strange for the son of a country squire who made his fortune from breeding prized horses.
And, really, what sort of name was Dankworth anyway? Penelope thought with a snort.
“Miss Penelope, would you like some lemonade? You are looking rather peaked.”
Penelope frowned. No. She did not want lemonade. She wanted to go back up to bed, have the fire lit in her hearth and curl back up beneath the covers.
“No, thank you, Harry,” she gritted out. She should try to be polite. He was really rather kind, and it wasn’t his fault that her courses were finally returning rather violently. The only issue was she kept expecting the blood to come, but it hadn’t yet.
Penelope released a shuddering breath.
“Is something the matter, dear sister?” Albion asked. He was also a sweet man. How her horrible, conniving, vacant sisters managed to find such kind men while she was alone was beyond her knowledge.
Well, Penelope could be conniving when she had a mind to be, but that wasn’t the point right now.
“I am feeling unwell,” Penelope finally said. “I think I should lie down.”
“You have been hiding away in your room since we’ve come to the country,” her mother said. Portia looked at her sharply. “You cannot continue to sulk about your silly tiff with that Bridgerton girl.”
Penelope winced. She wasn’t sulking about her fight with Eloise. Penelope had genuinely felt unwell lately. She blamed it on the winter air draining her of all her energy. It made her feel stiff and listless.
And now there was this horrible pressure in her belly. Perhaps it was brought about by heartbreak. Her fight with Eloise and Colin’s cruel treatment of her. Perhaps her body had simply given up now.
“I’ve received a letter from Violet Bridgerton,” her mother continued. “She invited you to visit for Twelfth Night.”
Penelope shook her head. She was losing patience with her family. “I do not want to go.”
Even if she were on good terms with Eloise and Colin, the thought of the carriage drive in the winter in her current condition sounded dreadful. The ride from London to their estate was unbearable. It felt like every bump shot through her spine, and every time she made a noise her mother would sigh loudly and say Penelope was being dramatic.
So, Penelope learned to hide her illnesses from her mother. They seemed to be coming more and more frequently. Penelope feared that she might be turning into one of those frail women who swooned constantly and needed smelling salts to revive her.
It didn’t help that Albion had recently developed a taste for cheese and the stilton he favored was very pungent.
Penelope couldn’t get comfortable on the settee. She couldn’t focus on the book she was reading so she tossed it down and started to pace around the drawing room. The world outside was grey. Christmas would likely not be snowy this year, instead it would be wet and dreary.
Which was fine. It matched Penelope’s mood.
“She’s pacing again, Mama,” Philippa said.
Penelope bit her lip so she wouldn’t snap at her.
“Lud! Penelope, You’ve really filled out,” Prudence said. Harry frowned.
“Now, my love,” he began. “That isn’t very—”
“Look how tight her dress is!” Prudence exclaimed. Harry flushed deep red.
“Prudence!” Portia scolded. “This discussion is inappropriate.”
Penelope released a breath and rubbed a hand across her belly. It had grown a bit, but could anyone blame her for nursing a heartache with eclairs? Their country cook was truly the best.
“Perhaps a daily walk for her constitution?” Philippa suggested. “That will improve her health.”
“Only if the walk is straight off a cliff,” Penelope snapped. Albion and Harry blanched.
Penelope placed a hand to her back where the pain was sharp. She suddenly needed to be alone, away from her family. They were frustrating her to no end. She needed to be out of this dress. It was stifling and she was sweating even though it was the dead of winter.
She turned towards the drawing room entrance, no longer caring what her mother might say.
“I am going to lie—”
A sudden tightening seized her—it kept building and building and she didn’t know what was going to happen next. She clenched the back of a nearby chair and held on tightly. Her breathing came in short, cold bursts. Her eyes shut tight.
“Penelope?” Albion rushed to her side and took her other hand, helping her balance.
He really was a sweet man. Was this what it would have been like to have a brother? As a child, she always liked to pretend that Anthony or Benedict were her older brothers. But not Colin.
Especially not after—No.
She wasn’t going to think about that now.
For a few moments she could do nothing but breathe through the tightening in her belly until suddenly it passed.
Penelope sighed, her shoulders dropped. Her breathing finally returned to normal and she released the iron grip she held on Albion’s hand.
He winced and cradled it in his other palm.
“Penelope,” her mother said plainly as she stood and walked closer to her. She looked at Penelope. Truly looked at her in a way that Penelope didn’t remember her mother ever looking at her before in her entire life.
“How long has this been going on?”
“It is my courses.”
Portia ignored her and placed a gloved hand to her forehead. Her eyes darted down to where Penelope clutched at her belly. Portia placed a hand low on Penelope’s stomach and pressed.
The muscle did not yield beneath her hand—it held, taut and unrelenting—and Penelope flinched as though the pressure only made it worse.
“You should have told me,” she said in a whisper, something wounded slipping into her voice.
Should have told her what? Penelope wondered while becoming agitated with her mother’s close proximity. She wanted to lie down. She wanted to be alone.
“This is not your courses, Penelope,” Portia said bluntly.
Dread began to fill Penelope. If it wasn’t her courses, then what was it? Was it something much worse? Was she dying?
“Should I fetch a doctor?” Albion helpfully asked.
“Maybe a vicar?” Harry added.
“A vicar?” Prudence blanched. “She’s not dying.” She paused. “Is she, Mama?”
Prudence stood and rushed to Penelope. She took her face in her hands and forced her to look at her, squeezing her cheeks in the process.
“I am newly married. You are not allowed to die. I refuse to start my marriage dressed in black.”
Her voice wavered despite the words she spoke. Penelope shook her off.
“Your sister is not dying,” Portia said, annoyed. Penelope had a brief moment of respite before her mother added “She is having a baby.”
“What?” all three sisters and both husbands shrieked.
Portia pinched her nose between her thumb and forefinger.
“Thank God I’ve dismissed all the servants except for Mrs. Varley.”
“You can’t afford to pay any of the servants except for Mrs. Varley,” Penelope muttered as she clutched her belly that was beginning to tighten again. She wasn’t considering what her mother had only just told her.
She couldn’t have a baby. There was no way she would have a baby and not be aware of it. She wasn’t even married!
Except she knew now because of Marina that marriage was not a requirement for having a baby. Marina said it was cake or love or some such nonsense, but Penelope wasn’t that vapid.
“But she is not married!” Philippa cried.
“Oh, I am very well aware of that,” Portia said before shouting “Mrs. Varley!”
The long-suffering Mrs. Varley came into the room with the look of a woman who was already annoyed with the task that hadn’t been asked of her yet.
Portia moved to her. “We need a midwife,” she said low, Varley’s eyes caught on Penelope. She noticed how she balanced on the chair. How she clenched her jaw tight. “A discreet one. Do you think there is anyone in the village…?”
Varley’s eyes widened. “The village midwife is the village gossip, miss. If this is something you’re wanting to remain a secret—”
“We can’t really keep it a secret if Penelope is having a baby,” Prudence said. “Are we to hide it in a drawer?”
“But how is she having a baby?” Philippa asked. “If she is not married?”
Prudence rolled her eyes. “Obviously, she was with a man, you dunderhead.”
Philippa gasped. Penelope did not look at her sisters. She was trying very hard to pretend she couldn’t hear them.
“Stop talking,” she said sharply to Philippa.
“I am only trying to—”
“Then try quieter.”
“Some scoundrel has taken advantage of our sister?” Albion said, shocked and outraged in the same manner a kitten is outraged. “We must call the man out.”
“Indeed,” Harry added, trying his best to look stern. “The Featherington ladies have been unprotected for far too long. We should make an example of this rake.”
Penelope didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. She still very desperately wanted to lie down. Or pace. She couldn’t decide. But she definitely wanted to be alone.
Portia groaned loudly. “My unmarried daughter is having a baby while my married daughters can’t even sort out the process to conceive a baby.” She rubbed a hand down her face. “Why has God decided that I must be the one to suffer so egregiously?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Varley deadpanned.
Portia squared her shoulders. “Fine. We shall do it on our own. I have given birth to three children. Girls, you will assist.”
Prudence and Philippa’s faces turned white.
“I have helped the farriers on my father’s farm when the mares whelped if you need any assistance,” Harry helpfully added. “There are times when the mares are unable to push out the foal and we have to use a pulley and chains to extract the foal.”
A beat of silence filled the room.
“Chains?” Philippa asked hesitantly.
“Mama?” Penelope cried as her breathing turned to panic.
“There will be no chains!” Portia declared. “Mr. Dankworth. Mr. Finch. You both wait here.”
Portia turned back towards Penelope. The reality of the situation was settling on her and she was beginning to panic. What if she couldn’t deliver this baby? She didn’t even know the baby was in there until ten minutes ago. She couldn’t do this.
Her mother placed her hands on her shoulders, as if she could sense her spiral.
“Penelope Anne Featherington,” she said, getting her attention. “Women have been having babies long before you or I, and that’s not going to change today. You are having this baby and you are going to be fine.”
Her voice sounded firm, commanding and almost maternal.
“You’re handling this rather well,” Prudence said.
Portia sighed. “There will be plenty of time to shriek at your sister for her recklessness and impropriety after this baby is born. Now, help me get her to her room.”
Portia took command effortlessly. Prudence was placed on one side of Penelope and supported her weight as they walked to the stairs.
Penelope didn’t really think she needed it, she was able to walk just fine. But as she took several steps, that horrible tightening in her abdomen seized her again.
She froze and gripped Prudence’s hand tightly.
“Ow! Ow, Penelope! That hurts!” Prudence shouted. Penelope squeezed tighter.
“Quit dithering, Prudence,” their mother said. “Help bring Penelope upstairs.”
“She’s trying to break my hand!” Prudence whined.
“You will be fine,” their mother said.
It was difficult to get Penelope up the stairs. The cramps that seized her were coming quicker, but her mother said the baby was still a ways off.
Portia directed her sisters to help her out of her dress, into her nightgown and onto her bed.
Philippa wiped Penelope’s brow with a cool cloth while Prudence stood with her arms crossed.
Penelope had barely a moment to settle into the bed before the tightening began again.
“Oh no,” she seethed, doubling over. “Not again.”
“Breathe, Penelope,” Portia said.
“I am breathing!” Penelope snapped.
“Not like that.”
“How else is there to breathe? In. Out. Is there a secret third thing that no one has taught me?”
“Slowly!” her mother said loudly. “You’re meant to breathe slowly.
Prudence hovered uselessly at her side. “Should I hold her hand again?”
“No,” Penelope and Portia said at the same time.
Philippa lingered at the foot of the bed, staring with wide eyes. “Is it supposed to be like this?”
“Yes,” Portia said shortly. “Now stop gawking and bring more pillows.”
Philippa grabbed three at once and dropped them all on Penelope’s legs.
“Not on her—behind her!”
“I don’t know what that means!” Philippa cried.
Mrs. Varley stepped in at that moment and relieved Philippa of whatever it was she was doing. She placed the pillows behind Penelope with the efficiency of a woman who had been in the birthing room before and helped Penelope rest back against them.
She released a sigh as the tightening passed. Portia glanced at the clock on the mantel and exchanged a glance with Varley.
Penelope felt a tug on her hair and turned quickly to see Prudence working, concentration on her face.
“What are you doing?” Penelope asked.
“Braiding your hair,” Prudence said plainly. “I thought you might want it out of your face.”
Penelope sighed and gave what she hoped was a small smile, but really she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t be sure of what was going on anymore at all.
Portia sat in the chair at Penelope’s bedside and simply looked at her.
“We have a moment before your labor pains return,” she said plainly. “I’m going to ask you and I want you to be honest with me. Who?”
Penelope knew the question she was asking her. She looked away from Portia and ran a hand over her swollen belly. The belly she now knew carried a child, a child that would very soon be in this world.
What would happen if she told her? Would Portia chastise her? Would she even believe her?
“Penelope, please,” her mother said softly. “I just want—”
“Colin,” Penelope cut her off. There was no point in dragging this out any further. “It was Colin.”
Portia straightened in her chair. Opened her mouth. Closed it. She stood and began pacing through Penelope’s room.
“Of course,” she said. “Why didn’t I guess? Who else could it have possibly been?”
She turned away from Penelope and planted her hands on her hips.
“He’s constantly coming into this house like he belongs. He steals you away from the ball—in front of everyone, I might add. Takes you to a secluded room. Alone. That was enough to compromise you. I should have demanded a proposal then and there. But I was distracted by Jack. I had to deal with Jack first. Was it before or after our family ball?”
Portia turned and looked at Penelope, but Penelope couldn’t meet her mother’s gaze right then. She turned away. “It was…later that night.”
Her mother’s reaction was one she didn’t expect: Portia laughed. Almost hysterically. She laughed as if it were some hilarious joke.
Philippa stood terrified in the corner. Penelope and Prudence exchanged a worried glance.
“You’ve broken her,” Prudence muttered.
She laughed so long that she had to pause to take a deep breath and continue. The only person in the room not affected by Portia’s hysterics was Varley, who stood nonplussed with her arms crossed.
Penelope didn’t have any time to further consider as the tightening pain returned. She gripped the sheets and squeezed her eyes tight. It was getting worse. Harder. Sharper.
“Well,” she heard her mother say over the haze of her pain. “There is simply no time to waste then.”
She stepped outside of the room, her shoes clicking down the hall until they could no longer be heard.
The wave passed and Penelope lay back against the pillows once again, sweat dripping from her forehead.
“I’ll go get you something to eat, Miss Penelope,” Varley said. “We can’t have you losing your strength.”
Penelope couldn’t imagine eating at a time like this.
“Surely I can simply eat afterwards?”
Varley gave her a sympathetic look. “This may take some time, miss. We could be here awhile.”
Penelope’s mouth dropped. How long was she expected to endure this torment? How had her mother done this three times? How had Violet Bridgerton done this eight times?
Varley left and Penelope sat in silence with her sisters for a few minutes. It was blissful. Truly, the best time she had spent with them in weeks. Until another horrid wave came over her. She held her belly.
Philippa began to wring her hands. “Is this normal?”
“How the hell would I know?” Penelope snapped. Cursing felt good. She wondered what other curse words she knew. Maybe that would make her feel better. She remembered her father mumbling fuck when he stumbled home drunk one night. She would save that one for later. “Since I’ve very clearly never done this before.”
“No need to be rude,” Prudence said, mildly offended. “We are only trying to help.”
“You are failing.”
Portia came back into the room. “Mr. Dankworth and Mr. Finch have gone to find Colin Bridgerton.”
“What?” the three sisters shouted.
“Mama,” Penelope bit out. “You cannot!”
He did not want her. Not truly. She knew it before she allowed his liberties and she was foolish anyway.
Portia leveled a stare on Penelope that said she was not one to be trifled with.
“He compromised you and did not marry you, but he does not get to bring a child into this world and not provide them protection. I will not allow it, and I know Violet Bridgerton and she will not allow it either.”
Penelope deflated, knowing that she had clearly lost this battle. She didn’t have the strength to fight it any further.
“Do not worry,” Portia assured her. “I have instructed them to show the height of discretion. They are only to speak to Colin. If he is at Aubrey Hall, they will be there in a matter of hours.”
“What if he is not?” Penelope asked. “What if he has already resumed his travels?”
“In Violet’s letter inviting you to Twelfth Night she said that all her children would be present for the Yule holidays. Therefore, he must be there.”
Penelope sighed and closed her eyes. She didn’t have the wherewithal to even consider what Colin thought of her after their time apart. Or what he would think of her once he realized what was happening.
Colin Bridgerton was miserable.
It was December, his brother was happily married, and Hyacinth had put mistletoe everywhere. One could not walk into a room without seeing Anthony and his new wife with their lips locked.
He was happy for his brother. He truly was. But seeing their marital bliss only served to remind him of what his own foolishness had cost him.
I wouldn’t dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies.
It was strange how that statement both ruined and improved his night. He had drunk far too much. He had been trying too hard to fit in with people he didn’t even like.
He hadn’t meant it in the way it sounded. It was just—she was his friend—wasn’t she? She had simply always been there and he couldn’t imagine life without her.
He hadn’t realized she was right behind him until one of the other men cut his eyes towards her, and Colin turned just in time to see her running away. He had left the group of men he was with quickly. He never even knew if they realized he was gone. He had followed Penelope through the gardens of her mother’s party, through her home and into her room.
He wondered briefly how no one noticed him chasing her, but later when he thought about it, he realized she had always been invisible to everyone else.
He didn’t have a plan for what he would do once he arrived. He only knew that he had to fix this. Her room looked like it had been torn completely apart, and he was certain she had been robbed, the floorboards had even been pried up.
But Penelope had only laughed, sarcastically and loudly. She said that Eloise had discovered her secret and hated her and since he already thought so lowly of her what difference would her secret make?
She’d told him that she was Lady Whistledown, and Colin didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the sudden knowledge that he didn’t know his friend as well as he thought that made the room start spinning.
They had argued. He had asked how she could betray Eloise, how she could betray him? Her reasons were sound but it had done little to dull the pain. That bloody Whistledown article still made men look at him as if he were a fool to this day.
He’d asked how she could put herself at risk for this? Did she not care for her own safety?
She had shouted that he was not her father, brother, or husband, and he had no say in any decision she made.
Something about the way Penelope had said that he wasn’t her husband caused his brain to malfunction slightly, and then he suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about it.
His mind had fixated on the fact that he wasn’t her husband, but one day someone likely would be her husband and Colin had realized that he already didn’t like this man, whoever he may be.
Somehow, this had escalated into him kissing her. Then she’d kissed him back.
Before Colin realized what was happening, they had frantically shed their clothes and were lying on her bed while fireworks lit up the night just outside her window.
Colin would never forget Penelope’s face as she’d looked up at him, her red hair fanned out over the pillow as the blue and pink lights exploded and reflected on her skin.
It was perfect. Everything was perfect until suddenly it wasn’t.
He wanted to marry her, but she had refused him. It crushed him. She had said if he hadn’t wanted to court her, then he surely didn’t want to marry her. He had tried to explain that it was different now. Couldn’t she see that everything had changed?
He realized how much he wanted and needed her, but she closed her heart off to him. In the days to come she refused to hear him out, and her family left town early to avoid the scandal of Jack Featherington.
Colin had tried writing her letters, but there had been no replies. There was no one he could talk to about it. If he were to try to talk to Benedict, he would go to Anthony. They would get angry at him and tell Lady Featherington and force Penelope’s hand. He couldn’t do that to her.
Eloise stomped around the house and firmly refused to speak of Penelope, even now. Colin had not told her that he knew of Lady Whistledown.
Colin now sat in the drawing room with his family. The fire was roaring, the day was cold but not snowing. It was a wet winter so far. Grey and dreary.
Like his mood.
His mother sat upon the settee speaking to Francesca about her upcoming debut. Gregory and Hyacinth were bickering over something. Benedict was God knows where doing God knows what. Eloise sat in the corner, also brooding.
Anthony and Kate were probably off—
Best not to finish that thought, Colin decided.
Colin dragged a hand across his face. He could still see Penelope in his mind. The way she looked at him, hurt and angry. If only he had more time. If only he could have said the right things.
Perhaps he should simply ride to the Featherington country seat. Penelope would likely toss him out but—
Voices rang through the halls suddenly. Loud voices. None of his family seemed to have noticed them yet. Colin stood and stepped closer to the door and he could just make out their words.
“…must see him—at once—”
“…urgent matter—”
It was likely someone for the viscount, but Colin stepped out of the drawing room and made his way down to the foyer. He would help the footman manage these men. But he paused when he reached them. One of them Colin recognized vaguely—the husband of one of Penelope’s sisters.
“Mr. Finch?” he asked, testing the name because he wasn’t sure if it were Finch or Robin or Warbler.
Finch’s shoulders relaxed. The two men looked equally out of place, flushed from the cold, hair disheveled, coats still dusted with the remnants of the road.
The other Colin did not recognize.
“Mr. Bridgerton!” Mr. Finch said with determination.
“Yes?”
They both began speaking over one another quickly
“You must come with us.”
“At once.”
“There is no time to waste, you see—”
“It is our sister.”
“Well, not really our sister. Our wives’ sister.”
Colin’s stomach dropped.
“Penelope?” he cut in sharply. “What has happened? Is she unwell?”
They stopped.
Exchanged a look.
Then, with the solemnity of men about to deliver grave news, one of them—the one who was not Finch—said:
“We cannot say.”
Colin stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“We have been sworn to secrecy.”
“By whom?” Colin asked incredulously.
“Lady Featherington,” Not-Finch said. “She frightens me a bit.”
Colin shrugged. He couldn’t fault the man for that.
“We merely need your presence. Please, come with us.”
“Is Penelope ill? Please, you must tell me. I cannot be expected to go into this blind if–if—”
Colin could not finish the sentence. He did not want to think about a world without Penelope. Even a world where she wouldn’t speak to him was better than one without her.
“Colin?” a voice behind him on the stairs called. He turned to see Anthony and Kate coming down with worried expressions. “What is going on?”
Anthony was probably the last Bridgerton he wanted to see in this moment, but he motioned to the men in front of him.
“These are Penelope’s brothers-in-law. There is something wrong but they will not speak plainly to me.”
“Do you need our mother? Or Eloise?” Anthony asked.
“No,” Finch said. “We just need Mr. Colin Bridgerton.”
Anthony was quiet for a moment. He looked between the two men and Colin.
“That is a rather…odd request.”
He looked at Colin for a long moment.
“In what regard?” he asked the men. Colin wasn’t sure if it were his role as viscount or elder brother speaking.
The two men hesitated.
Colin felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“Is she—” he stopped, swallowing. “Is she hurt?”
“No!” Finch said quickly. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?” Colin demanded.
Another look passed between them.
Not Finch cleared his throat. “She is… in some distress.”
“That tells us nothing,” Anthony said, voice hardening.
“It is not our place to say,” Finch added, clearly struggling. “We were given very specific instructions.”
Colin stepped forward. “And I am asking you to disregard them.”
Colin paused, then spoke in a lower voice.
“She asked for me?” Colin pressed.
“No,” Not-Finch said.
That landed harder than anything else.
Colin went still. “Then why?”
Finch looked at him steadily then. “This concerns you. Directly.”
Not Finch bit his lip. “Perhaps we should tell them, Albion?”
“And who are you?” Anthony asked brusquely.
The man smiled affably. “Oh. Silly me. Harry Dankworth. It is a pleasure.”
He reached out and shook Anthony’s hand, and then Colin’s. Colin was still in a daze wondering what was wrong with Penelope and why these men were here.
“Dankworth?” Anthony queried. “You’re Richard Dankworth’s son? The horse breeder in Kent?”
Dankworth preened a bit. “The very same.”
“I bought a stallion from him a few years ago and he is—”
“Can we please stop talking about bloody horses?” Colin shouted. He felt like he was losing his mind. Something was wrong with Penelope, but no one would tell him what.
When these men arrived on his doorstep he half expected them to call him out, but they seemed too incompetent to even do that.
A warm hand settled on his shoulder. He released a breath and turned towards Kate who offered him a sympathetic smile. She turned towards Finch and Dankworth.
“Gentlemen, you cannot expect Colin to comply with such an unusual request without more information. Please—tell us why you are here.”
Finch opened his mouth. “Miss Penelope is…”
“She is having a baby,” Dankworth said finally before looking at Colin. “Yours.”
Colin wasn’t quite sure how he was still standing because it felt as if the world below him had disappeared entirely. He was aware of his breath coming quicker, of Anthony and Kate speaking about how these men must surely be mistaken but he couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the fact that Penelope was having his baby.
“—so you see we require your presence—”
“What?” Colin said, shaking off the haze around his head.
Finch sighed.
“The baby is coming now.”
“No,” Anthony said, becoming angry. “That is impossible. There is no way Colin would do something so foolish and reckless.”
“She didn’t tell me,” Colin said quietly. He counted back months in his head and it fit. But why would she have ignored his letters?
Anthony’s glare turned murderous. He stepped towards Colin, but Kate held him back, whispering words in his ear.
“She didn’t know,” Finch said. “Not until this morning. We were all taken by surprise.”
Penelope was currently having a baby. His baby. A few hours’ ride. They had already ridden to fetch him. He might already be too late.
“I have to go,” he said, striding to the front door.
“Colin Bridgerton!” Anthony shouted, following him. “Are you telling me it’s true? You compromised Penelope Featherington, didn’t marry her, and left her alone for nine months?”
“I’m going to her.”
“Without shoes? Without a coat?” His brother called.
Colin paused and realized that he was about to step out into the wet December day without boots or a coat.
He turned. Anthony no longer wore the angry expression he had a few minutes ago. He gave Colin a half smile.
“Get dressed. I’ll have the groom ready my stallion. He’s the fastest we have.”
Colin pulled him into a brief embrace—something he had not done in years.
“Thank you,” he said as he rushed up the stairs.
“And I’ll petition the archbishop for yet another special license,” Anthony called up after him.
By the time Colin rode up to the Featherington estate, the dark glow of evening was casting shadows over the land. Anthony’s stallion was as fast as he said. He had outpaced Finch and Dankworth hours before.
The house seemed quiet from the outside and Colin feared the worst. The hours’ ride had given him time to do nothing but think and spiral deeper and deeper into every possible way this could end badly.
He was pleased to see the housekeeper open the door with a relieved sigh. “Thank goodness,” she said. “We were not certain you would arrive in time.”
“Penelope—” Colin managed to get out. “Is she…?”
“She’s in her room with Lady Featherington and Mrs. Finch and Mrs. Dankworth.”
Colin cringed as he followed the housekeeper inside. He knew that Penelope didn’t get on well with her mother or sisters.
“You can wait here in the drawing room,” she said.
Colin paused. “What?”
She motioned to the room to his right. “We will inform you once the babe is born.”
Colin shook his head. He didn’t ride at breakneck speed across the country to sit and wait for his child to be born. He needed to be there with Penelope. Now. Before it was too late.
It was at that moment that he heard a strained, hoarse cry ring out through the house, unmistakably hers. It went straight through him. He had to get to her. Immediately.
Colin took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the scandalized calls of the housekeeper. He passed by Prudence and Philippa on the stairwell. Philippa held a handkerchief to her eyes while Prudence wrapped an arm around her.
“Thank God you’re here,” Prudence muttered when she saw him.
“Be careful,” Philippa warned. “She’s being very mean.”
“Where?” Colin asked breathlessly. Prudence pointed towards the door at the end of the hall and Colin ran towards it. He could hear Penelope’s cries and Portia’s deep droning voice.
He pushed open the door, and for the first time in months, he saw her.
Colin’s first thought was incredulity at how no one around her had noticed she was pregnant. It was clearly obvious by the sight of her protruding belly.
His second thought was that she looked beautiful. She was exhausted, sweating, red faced, glaring at him. Her hair was a mess, she wore a nightgown that clung to her body and she was a goddess.
His third thought was how the hell had no one noticed?
Had she truly been so overlooked in her own home? Colin vowed that she would never feel that way again. He would make sure of it.
Colin thought that when Penelope saw him she might be relieved to see him; instead her eyes narrowed and she clenched her jaw and said, “You!”
“Me?” Colin echoed. Even though it was quite obvious to whom she was referring.
“This is all your fault!” she said. She was standing at the end of her bed. Her hands were gripping the bedpost as she leaned against it. “You and your—your member!”
Colin felt his face heat up. He did not argue her point.
“Penelope!” Portia scolded. “Mr. Bridgerton, you should not be here. Penelope—lie down.”
“I do not wish to lie down!” Penelope shouted. “I have been lying down for hours and no baby has come of it. It makes more sense to stand, does it not? That way the baby might be aided by gravity.”
“Penelope, that is ridiculous—” Portia began but Penelope cut her off.
“That is how Nana did it,” Penelope said, her voice slipping. “Drop the baby in the potato field and be on with it.”
Penelope then turned to Colin. “My Nana was Irish, Colin. She was my Mother’s mother. But we don’t talk about it.”
“Your grandmother was known to exaggerate, Penelope. But fine. Stand if you wish. Mr. Bridgerton—”
“I am staying with Penelope,” Colin said firmly before she could ask him to leave again. “She will not be alone.”
Portia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Fine. I do not care what anyone does. I am taking a reprieve from this room. Call for me if you see a head.”
Portia stormed out of the room, the door closing heavily behind her. For a moment there was only silence. The sounds of Penelope heavily breathing as she clenched the bedpost. Colin realized that it was the first time they had been alone since that night.
Colin shed his coat quickly, tossing it on a chair and rushing to her side. He cautiously placed a hand on her back and counted it as a small victory when she did not pull away from him.
Instead, she released a breath and leaned against his chest. Colin blinked back tears as he pressed a kiss into her hair.
“You stayed,” she said softly.
“Of course I did.”
“I was going mad here with the rest of them.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Oh, Colin, I didn't know what was happening. I thought I was dying.”
“You’re not dying. I’m here. All will be well.”
Penelope grew quieter. Her eyes closed tight and she clenched the bed post tightly.
She inhaled sharply. “I think—I think—” her eyes opened wide. Frantic. Fearful. Colin understood immediately.
“Lady Featherington!”
Portia rushed in.
“I think it’s time,” Colin said.
“Help me lie her down,” Portia said.
Penelope shook her head frantically, but didn’t speak.
“She wants to stand,” Colin said. “Can we make it work?”
“Then hold her up, I’ll take the babe when it comes out.”
Penelope didn’t seem aware of anything going on around her. Colin tried to tug her to him, to support her weight. Penelope clung tightly to him, clutching his shoulders with a force that bordered on painful.
“Don’t go,” she rasped. Her voice was small and strained. “Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. Portia called for Prudence to bring a blanket.
Another wave hit her and she made a sound that wasn’t language anymore.
The room narrowed. Everything did.
“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Penelope babbled, tears streaming down her face.
“Yes, you can,” Colin said, tightening his hold on her.
She clutched at him hard and then there was nothing but her breath and the pressure of her hands on his shoulders and movement that did not belong to any of them. Portia barked instructions at Prudence.
And then—
A cry.
Colin could not move. He could not seem to breathe. Penelope’s eyes opened, searching his.
“A boy!” Portia laughed. “Oh, he’s beautiful!”
She smiled. Colin wasn’t sure he had ever seen a real smile from Portia Featherington. She placed the babe in the arms of Prudence, who had the blanket waiting to swaddle the babe.
“A boy? Is he well?” Penelope asked frantically as she tried to turn in Colin’s arms. He steadied her, keeping her from turning too quickly.
“Hold still, Penelope,” Portia said. “There is still the afterbirth.”
“The what? I want to see my baby.”
“If you had been lying down, this would be simpler. But no—you insisted on standing.”
Prudence stepped closer. “Here,” she said, lifting the baby carefully toward her. Penelope’s eyes immediately softened.
“Oh,” she said, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Colin. Look at him.”
“I see him, Pen,” Colin whispered, his voice unsteady. The baby—his son—was perfect. Eyes shaped like his own, a nose that was clearly Bridgerton, red hair like his mother with a perfect little scowl to match.
Colin’s heart swelled with love for this baby and this woman in his arms.
“My baby,” she whispered, like she was testing the words.
“We’re finished here,” Portia said. She tossed bloody sheets and towels into a basket and handed them off to the housekeeper.
Portia wanted Colin to step out so they could put Penelope in a clean nightgown but he refused to be separated from her after her ordeal. She merely sighed and handed him the baby and told him to face the wall. Colin happily complied and focused his gaze on the infant in his arms.
It was strange how he could love someone so completely so quickly. After a few moments, the babe began to shuffle around, upset. Colin turned to see Penelope tucked into the bed, fresh nightgown and blanket tucked against her.
She smiled softly, but Colin could see the exhaustion at the edges of her eyes.
“May I hold him?”
“Of course, Penelope,” Colin said crossing the room. “He is our baby.”
He placed the baby gently in her arms.
“My son,” she cooed as she ran a finger along his cheek. “You have been very mischievous hiding from your mama.”
Colin’s breath stilled as he watched them together. The two people he loved more than anything else in this world were snuggled up together on this bed.
The baby began to cry and Portia explained to Penelope how to feed him. He ate greedily. Penelope joked that he had his father’s appetite.
The room that had been so chaotic before had now settled into something calm and warm.
Portia surveyed the room and clasped her hands together.
“Alright, that is enough excitement for one day. Prudence, Philippa. It is time to give your sister some rest.”
Her eyes flicked to Colin. “Mr. Bridgerton. You may remain.”
Colin did not question his good fortune.
They were alone. The room grew quiet as the baby settled in her arms. Colin sat beside her, close but careful.
“Penelope…” he began before hesitating.
“You said you would never court me,” Penelope said. “And yet I am holding your child.”
She gave him a small smile out of the side of her mouth.
Colin huffed a laugh. “I suppose I wanted to skip a few steps.”
“Only a few?”
Colin smiled before growing serious again. “I should have come sooner.”
“We didn’t know there was a baby until this morning.”
“I should not have waited,” Colin said. “Not for this. I should have come once I understood what you are to me.”
She looked down at the baby, her thumb brushing softly over his cheek.
“What am I to you, Colin?” she asked softly.
“Everything,” Colin said without hesitation. “My light. My home. My reason for waking. I have been miserable without you. I love you, Penelope.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide and searching. “Are you sure?”
“I am. Forgive me for being foolish. For skipping steps. But our son is truly perfect, so I can’t ask forgiveness for that.”
Penelope giggled. Colin had missed that sound. Colin wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to him. Their baby in between them.
“I love you, Colin,” she said so softly that he almost didn’t hear her. Colin released a breath and pressed a kiss on her brow.
“Marry me.”
“Yes,” Penelope said leaning back against Colin’s shoulder. Her eyes drifted closed.
“You should sleep,” Colin said softly.
Penelope hummed, likely already halfway asleep.
Penelope slept. The baby nestled against her and Colin watched them both with quiet awe. Colin simply sat beside them. Content to simply be where he finally belonged.