Regency Era Penthony Plot Bunny for Adoption.
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington
Vibe: Found family, secret strength, grumpy/sunshine, slow-burn yearning.
Note: Penelope is taken in by Simon Bassett, Duke of Hastings. He also gifted Penelope a new cane that he had commissioned for her once he took her in and threw out her worn out and used cane.
Penelope’s Cane: Made from dark ebony wood with silver vines and bejewels with sapphire, amethyst and emerald flowers and the handle is a solid obsidian wolf head.
———————————————————————
Newly fourteen and finally freed from the suffocating shadows of her former life, Penelope Featherington stepped into a world that felt startlingly kind. The Duke of Hastings—Simon Bassett, though Penelope had christened him “Grumpet” with unwavering affection—had taken her in like a wayward kitten and given her something she’d never had before: safety.
And choices.
Her old cane—splintered, chipped, and a shameful relic of her past—was the first thing he’d tossed. “This,” he’d said, holding it between two fingers like it might stain him, “is not worthy of you.”
Its replacement, however, was nothing short of breathtaking. The ebony wood was smooth as velvet and gleamed with dark elegance, coiled in silver vines that cradled tiny jeweled flowers—sapphires, amethysts, and emeralds that shimmered like morning dew. At the top perched an obsidian wolf’s head, carved with an expression of regal defiance. Penelope’s fingers curled around it now with quiet pride as she made her way across the drawing room, her limp steady but no longer a source of shame.
Tap. Step. Tap. Step.
“Grumpet!” she called, her voice bubbling with mischief, “I just received a letter from Eloise! She’s invited me for tea and dinner with her family. May I go, pretty please?”
Simon appeared in the doorway like a shadow solidifying into man. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. The patented Duke Glower in place. And yet… a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
“Must you keep calling me that?” he asked with theatrical exasperation. “It’s an insult, you know.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she shot back, her cane tapping twice in amused punctuation. “You act like you hate it, but if you truly did, I’d be eating soap for a week and writing lines by candlelight.”
Simon narrowed his eyes but didn’t deny it. “You’re becoming entirely too clever.”
“I’m growing into my environment,” she replied sweetly, stepping forward to give her cane a dramatic flourish. “So, may I go? I’ll be careful, I promise. Cane at all times. Wolfy and I are quite the fearsome duo.”
“Wolfy?” he repeated in deadpan horror.
She grinned. “Don’t pretend you’re not charmed.”
“I’m pretending very convincingly.”
Penelope tilted her head. “Is that a yes?”
He sighed—deep, long-suffering, and just a little fond. “Yes. But you’re not to stay past dinner. And if anything happens—”
“I know. Scream, stab, run, and then scream some more.” She beamed. “Thank you, Grumpet.”
He grumbled something about “incorrigible girls,” but she caught the brief crinkle at the corners of his eyes before he turned away.
Bridgerton House
The carriage ride from the Hastings estate on the outskirts of London was swift, the interior warm with soft velvet cushions and the gentle sway of travel. When Penelope stepped down, her cane clicked confidently against the cobblestone.
Before the footman could announce her, the door to the drawing room burst open.
“Pen! You made it!” Eloise nearly bowled her over with a hug. “How was the trip? Better yet, how is it living with the Duke? It hasn’t been the same since you moved—our street feels positively dull without you skulking about.”
Penelope laughed, leaning into the embrace. “I can finally breathe, El. No more walking on eggshells. No more hiding bruises under sleeves.” Her voice lowered, but her eyes sparkled. “Simon threw out my old cane and had this one made for me. It’s the first thing I’ve ever owned that was made just for me. Not handed down. Not pitied. Chosen.”
She lifted it gently, letting the light catch the gemstones like stars.
Eloise’s breath caught, and she looped her arm through Penelope’s—the one not holding the cane. “It’s beautiful. And utterly you. Come on, Mama’s been counting down the minutes till your arrival.”
As they walked, Eloise leaned closer. “Honestly, I think Anthony has a soft spot for you. Though if asked, he denies it so vehemently I’m beginning to think he really does.”
Penelope blinked. “Anthony? A soft spot for me?”
Eloise grinned wickedly. “Oh yes. The brooding viscount, commander of Parliament and all things grumpy, turns into a mildly frantic, overgrown guard dog the moment you limp into a room.”
Penelope’s laugh was soft and touched with disbelief. “He’s just… protective. He sees someone injured and can’t help himself. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Eloise rolled her eyes. “You say that now, but he practically snarled at Lord Eversham last month when he dared to say ‘crippled’ in reference to you. Mama had to intervene before Anthony challenged the man to pistols at dawn.”
Penelope paused, lips parting in surprise. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do. And don’t go falling for him too quickly, Pen. He’s a Bridgerton—we’re incorrigible.”
“I think I already have,” she whispered.
They reached the drawing room just as the chatter inside lulled.
“Penelope!” Violet Bridgerton rose with a radiant smile, arms open.
One by one, the family welcomed her, warm and genuine—Colin with a joke, Benedict with a twinkle in his eye, Daphne with a kiss to the cheek.
Anthony stood back slightly, eyes unreadable. But his gaze dropped briefly to her cane, lingered, and then flicked up to her face.
“You look well,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Stronger.”
“I am,” Penelope replied, meeting his gaze. “Stronger than I was.”
He nodded, his jaw working like he wanted to say more but couldn’t quite find the words.
For now, that was enough.
The Bridgerton dinner had been loud, lovely chaos—the kind that wrapped around Penelope like a soft shawl. She had smiled so much her cheeks ached. The fire crackled, conversation flowed, and not once had she felt like an outsider looking in. No one stared at her limp. No one pitied the cane.
Anthony had been quieter than usual, which for him was still notably talkative. He’d asked after her fencing—“Does the Duke have you training with rapiers now?”—and only flushed slightly when she teased, “Would you like to spar sometime, my lord?”
But now, the night had grown deep and velvet-dark, and the carriage stood waiting at the base of the steps. Eloise had hugged her thrice, Violet had tucked a packet of lemon biscuits into her reticule “for the journey,” and the rest of the family had bid their farewells.
Only Anthony lingered.
He offered his arm, voice low. “May I walk you to the carriage?”
Penelope’s heart thudded stupidly. “Of course.”
The front steps gleamed in the moonlight, the polished stones cool underfoot. Her cane tapped softly beside his boots as they descended. For a moment, there was only the night air between them—crisp and laced with early spring blossoms.
“You’ve changed,” Anthony said suddenly, glancing sidelong at her. “Not just the cane—though it is… quite fearsome.”
She grinned. “Is that fear I hear in your voice, my lord?”
“Healthy respect,” he countered. “And the mild terror that you’ll one day beat me in a duel and refuse to let me live it down.”
“I would absolutely refuse to let you live it down,” she said primly, before her tone softened. “But thank you. It’s the first thing that feels like mine.”
They reached the carriage, and he turned to face her fully, the lamps casting gold light over his features. He looked unsure—Anthony Bridgerton, the man who could floor Parliament with a glare, suddenly shy.
“I… I’m glad you came,” he said at last. “The house feels warmer when you’re in it.”
Penelope blinked. “That’s… kind of you to say.”
“I’m not always kind,” he admitted, looking down at his gloves. “But I mean it. You’ve always belonged here. Even before I noticed.”
Penelope opened her mouth to reply, but her heart had lodged somewhere inconveniently high in her throat.
Anthony cleared his throat. “Right. Yes. Late. Carriage.” He stepped forward and offered his hand as she prepared to climb in. His grip was firm and steady, calloused but warm.
Just before she stepped up, he murmured, “Tell the Duke I said thank you. For the cane.”
She tilted her head. “Why?”
He held her gaze. “Because it reminds you what you are.”
“And what’s that?” she asked, barely a whisper.
“A warrior,” he said simply.
Penelope’s breath caught.
She didn’t say anything else—couldn’t, really. Just smiled, then slipped into the carriage like a girl who had been given a secret.
As the door shut behind her and the wheels began to turn, she peeked through the curtain just in time to see Anthony still standing there.
Watching. Waiting.
Soft.
—-
Hastings House, 1815
While the world was still sleeping, Simon Bassett, Duke of Hastings, sealed the envelope with wax and pressed his signet ring into the crimson pool. Inside it lay his final words, his Last Will and Testament—every estate, asset, and legacy signed away, not to a blood relative, nor to his new fiancée, but to a girl with a limp and lion’s heart.
To Penelope Featherington, the fierce little wolf he had taken in at the age of fourteen.
She had stumbled into his life like a secret waiting to be kept. Broken in body, but not in spirit. Small and clever and so easy to love in the way only a brother could. Simon had not meant to become her family—but somehow, she had become his.
He tucked the envelope into the back drawer of his desk and stood. The fire in the hearth burned low. A clock ticked in the silence, each chime echoing like a drumbeat to his departure.
Without a sound, he climbed the stairs to her room. The house slept. The whole world seemed to hold its breath.
Penelope’s door creaked faintly as he opened it, and there she was—curled up on her side beneath a sea of soft green blankets, hair a tumble of bronze curls across her pillow. Her cane, carved dark and gleaming with silver vines, stood hooked on her nightstand, never far from reach. She slept so peacefully, unaware that Simon was preparing to risk everything.
He stepped closer. Sank to his knees at her bedside. For a long moment, he simply looked at her, committing her to memory—not the wounded child he first met, but the woman she was becoming. Strong. Brilliant. Dangerous with a blade and with her wit.
A curl had fallen across her cheek. He reached out, brushing it back gently, reverently.
“I may not have said it,” he whispered, voice barely audible above her breath, “but I love you, little wolf. You are the best little sister a man could have.”
His throat tightened.
“If I don’t make it back before you wake… I’m sorry, Penny. Just know that I love you. And I’m watching over you.”
He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her temple—soft, like a blessing—and lingered there for one heartbeat more.
Then he rose, silent as moonlight, and slipped from her room.
Downstairs, his horse was already saddled. The sky was still painted with dawn’s first strokes—mist curling over the fields like smoke from a ghost’s pipe. He mounted up and turned toward the dueling ground.
He was riding out to face Anthony Bridgerton, who had challenged him in a storm of fury and wounded pride. All because Anthony had walked in on Simon and Daphne kissing in the library of Lady Danbury’s estate. Not realizing—refusing to believe—that the kiss had come after Simon had proposed, and Daphne had said yes.
Honor demanded pistols. Pride demanded blood.
Simon only prayed it wouldn’t be his.
—
The Clearing at Dawn
The mist clung to the earth like breath held too long, curling around the ancient trees that circled the secluded glade. It was quiet—eerily so. No birdsong. No wind. Only the dull thud of hooves and the creak of leather and saddle as three figures rode into the clearing.
Anthony Bridgerton dismounted first, his jaw set and his shoulders tight with rage and something rawer—fear, perhaps. Benedict followed silently, casting a nervous glance between the two men who were about to try and kill each other in the name of honor and family.
Simon dismounted last, slow and deliberate, as if savoring each moment before what might be his final act.
The dueling pistols gleamed in the pale light. Benedict moved stiffly, as second, preparing the weapons with a sick feeling in his gut.
Simon stood with the stillness of a man who had already made peace with death.
Anthony was pacing, his hands clenched.
“You kissed my sister,” Anthony growled, low and dangerous.
“After I proposed,” Simon snapped, for what felt like the hundredth time. “You found us after we agreed to marry.”
“That was not what it looked like—”
“Because you weren’t listening. You didn’t want to hear it. You were too blinded by your own temper to stop and ask her.”
Benedict winced. The tension crackled, sharp as gunpowder.
Simon turned away, exhaling slowly, jaw clenched.
“If it’s a duel you still want,” he said, voice cold and even, “let’s end this.”
They took their places.
“Ten paces. Turn. Fire,” Benedict said, but he sounded hollow—like a man watching two friends prepare for mutual destruction.
They stepped apart. Counted.
One. Two. Three. Four…
A voice tore through the mist.
“STOP THIS NONSENSE RIGHT NOW, YOU BLOODY IDIOTS!”
All three froze, blinking into the fog just as Daphne Bridgerton burst into the clearing like a cannonball in silk.
Her skirts were muddy, hair escaping its pins, and her expression could curdle milk.
“Put those pistols down this instant or I swear I will knock both your heads together like coconuts!”
Simon slowly lowered his pistol.
Anthony did not.
Daphne stomped forward, eyes aflame.
“What in heaven’s name were you thinking? A duel? A DUEL? Over a kiss that came after we were already engaged? What would Mother say? What would Penelope say?”
That last name made Anthony flinch like he’d been struck.
Daphne whirled on him.
“Yes, her. What would she think, Anthony? That you were willing to kill the only man she has ever trusted like a brother? That you might’ve left her with nothing but grief and guilt? Do you know what Simon did before he left? He made a will. He left everything to Penelope. That’s how much he loves her. That is the man you were about to shoot.”
Anthony’s mouth opened. Then closed. He looked down at the pistol in his hand, then back at Simon. Something in him cracked—visible, audible, like thunder breaking overhead.
“I didn’t know,” he said hoarsely. “I thought—”
“Exactly,” Daphne snapped. “You thought, and you acted. Without listening. Without asking. Just like you always do.”
There was silence then. Thick and unforgiving.
Anthony slowly dropped the pistol to the grass.
Simon said nothing, only watching Anthony with that quiet, simmering disappointment that could shame even a Bridgerton.
Benedict cleared his throat awkwardly.
“Well… I suppose that concludes the duel?”
Daphne rolled her eyes heavenward and turned to Simon, smoothing her skirts as she took his hand and dragged him away.
“You. Are not allowed to die before our wedding. And certainly not because my brother is a galloping moron.”
Simon managed a tired smile.
“Understood.”
Behind them, Anthony stood still in the mist, staring at the place where Simon had stood, where his pistol lay in the grass, and where the name Penelope had shattered him more effectively than any bullet could.
Anthony remained alone after they left, the mist curling around his boots like ghosts of his own regrets. The pistol lay forgotten in the grass. His thoughts, however, stayed fixed on a name Daphne had spoken with such force it felt like a blade: Penelope.
He’d nearly robbed her of the man who had raised her, loved her, protected her.
And for what? Pride? A misunderstanding?
The weight of it settled on his chest like stone.
That morning changed him—though he wouldn’t understand the full extent of it until later. Until he saw her again, truly saw her, and realized how far she had come… and how far behind he had fallen.
—-
The Queen’s Ballroom, 1816
Under Simon’s care, Penelope had flourished like a rose in a hothouse. She stood straighter now—not just from fencing posture, but pride. Her wit had become rapier-sharp, and her tongue nearly as fast as her blade. By twenty, she was a woman transformed: elegant, composed, and quietly formidable. Raised by a duke, trained by a lady, and adored—openly, stubbornly—by Queen Charlotte herself.
The ballroom glittered with candlelight, crystal, and the suffocating pressure of expectation. Debutantes swept in, one after another, wilting under the Queen’s scrutinizing stare. Until—
“Miss Penelope Featherington, ward of His Grace, Simon Bassett, the Duke of Hastings,” the footman called.
A murmur stirred through the room like a breeze before a storm.
Penelope appeared, poised and radiant, on the arm of Simon. Her gown was emerald silk, trimmed in silver, the color chosen not because it was fashionable, but because it was her. Her hair was adorned with delicate silver vines—no feathers, no frills. Her cane gleamed darkly at her side, wolf’s head glinting like it too was ready to bare its teeth.
Queen Charlotte, who had looked near to dozing, sat forward with sudden interest. Her lips curved into a smile that could have outshone the chandeliers. She looked for all the world like a proud aunt awaiting a particularly cherished niece.
Gasps rippled through the ton like falling dominoes.
“She looks beautiful,” Colin whispered, awed.
“Penelope has always been beautiful,” Anthony said softly, the words pulled from some quiet corner of his soul, as if he hadn’t meant to speak them aloud at all.
Violet Bridgerton, standing beside her eldest son, heard him. She turned slowly, eyes widening just a fraction. But she said nothing. Not yet. Her gaze followed Anthony’s as he watched Penelope cross the room—not with pity or obligation, but something gentler. Warmer.
Reverence.
She had seen that look before. Long ago, in her late husband’s eyes.
Violet’s lips twitched upward.
“Well,” she murmured to herself, more pleased than surprised, “It’s about time.”
—
Bridgerton House, 1816
It’s been a month since Penelope’s debut and two months since Simon and Daphne were married. The two were off on their honeymoon at the moment so Penelope spent most of her time with Eloise at her home with her family.
It was one such day that Penelope was visiting and she was out in the fencing ring with Benedict having a playful little match. While the rest of the family was inside in the drawing room having tea.
“I haven’t been this nervous since Anthony challenged Simon to a duel last year.” Benedict huffed slightly out of breath.
Penelope’s foil lowered slowly, her amber eyes narrowing with glacial precision.
“A duel,” she said, voice soft, dangerous.
Benedict, suddenly realizing the magnitude of what he’d just let slip, gave an awkward laugh and scratched the back of his neck. “I thought you knew…?”
Penelope said nothing. She turned, calm as a hunting cat, and began walking—no, stalking—toward the house, her cane tapping a sharp rhythm against the stone pathway.
Benedict trailed after her. “Pen, I—listen, it wasn’t a real duel. I mean, it almost was, but then Daphne showed up and called everyone idiots, and—”
Penelope raised a single hand, silencing him. “Not another word, Benedict. Unless it’s to tell me where Anthony is.”
Benedict paled. “The drawing room. But—Penelope—just… maybe wait until tomorrow?”
Her only reply was the creak of the drawing room door swinging open.
Inside, the Bridgerton family looked up mid-sip and mid-chatter, suddenly aware of a storm rolling into the room wrapped in an emerald-green pelisse.
Anthony stood near the fireplace, holding a teacup with the kind of poise only sheer Bridgerton stubbornness could maintain.
“Lord Bridgerton,” Penelope said sweetly.
Anthony turned. “Penelope. I didn’t know you’d finished fencing—”
Thunk.
Her cane hit the rug with a little too much force to be polite.
“Did you or did you not challenge Simon Bassett to a duel?”
The cup in his hand wobbled slightly. “That was over a year ago—”
“Did you.” Her tone dropped. “Or did you not.”
Anthony sighed and set his cup down, knowing he’d just been caught in his own battlefield, and his opponent was very well-armed.
“I did,” he said, standing straighter. “But it was a misunderstanding. Simon never intended—”
“In the name of honor?” she cut in, voice rising. “In the name of Daphne’s honor, you nearly shot your best friend? The man who raised me? Who would have left me alone in this world?”
The room had gone still.
Violet gasped. Colin froze. Eloise mouthed, Oh no.
Anthony stepped forward, expression softening. “Penelope, I didn’t think—I didn’t know what they were—”
“You didn’t ask.” Her eyes glittered, unshed fury swimming in gold. “You just acted. You acted like you always do—without thinking.”
He looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough.”
Penelope took a deep breath, walked straight up to him—and then with cool, imperious grace, pointed her cane directly at his chest.
“On your knees.”
Anthony blinked. “What?”
“You were willing to duel over honor? Then kneel, Lord Bridgerton. Show me mine.”
Anthony hesitated—then, to the absolute horror and delight of every Bridgerton in the room—he slowly, reluctantly, knelt.
“Now,” she said, voice crisp, “you may apologize properly.”
“I am sorry, Penelope. Truly. I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to Simon. Or to you. I didn’t realize how much either of you meant to me until I nearly lost you both.”
Penelope considered this, eyes narrowing as she studied him.
Then she extended a hand. “Get up. Before your siblings start sketching portraits.”
Behind them, Eloise had in fact found a piece of charcoal.
He rose, looking… humbled. Human. Hilariously disheveled.
“I forgive you,” she said at last. “But you owe me cake.”
Anthony blinked. “What?”
“You heard me,” she said, sweeping out of the room with the grace of a queen. “And not from the kitchens. From Gunter’s.”
Violet let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Well,” she said faintly. “That was rather magnificent.”
“I think I’m in love,” Anthony muttered.
“Oh, we know,” came four voices at once.
—-
Later that afternoon…
Anthony had survived a duel with Simon Basset, years of Parliament, countless balls, and the utter chaos that was his younger siblings—but nothing had prepared him for Penelope Featherington in a snit.
Or worse: Penelope Featherington in total control.
She had spent the rest of the afternoon surrounded. Eloise had attached herself to Penelope’s elbow like a barnacle with strong opinions, insisting they visit the library to critique Lord Byron’s more scandalous verses. Colin joined in not long after, asking for Penelope’s opinion on a poem of his own, which, unfortunately, involved a metaphor about fruit that made her snort out loud.
Anthony tried to speak with her—once, twice, thrice.
Each time, she breezed past him with a smile as sharp as a rapier and as polite as a pistol.
“Miss Featherington, may I have a word—?”
“Oh, forgive me, Lord Bridgerton, but I promised your mother I’d help her arrange the new tea service!”
“Penelope, if I could just—”
“Oh, look, Francesca’s asking for a waltz lesson! You wouldn’t want to disappoint your sister, would you?”
The final straw came when he cornered her in the hallway just outside the drawing room, where she was quietly adjusting her glove. He placed a hand gently against the wall beside her shoulder, blocking her escape like some absurdly rakish novel hero. His voice dropped low.
“Penelope.”
She looked up at him, unimpressed. “Anthony.”
“We need to talk.”
“About the duel?”
“About… everything.”
For one heartbeat, her gaze softened. Then—
“Perhaps tomorrow.” She sidestepped him as smoothly as if she’d danced it before. “You’ve only just begun groveling, my lord. I recommend pacing yourself.”
And with a swish of her skirts and a very deliberate tap of her cane against the floor, she was gone.
Anthony remained in the hallway, jaw clenched, pride in tatters.
Behind him, Benedict emerged from the sitting room with a steaming cup of tea.
“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Benedict asked.
Anthony gave him a weary glare.
“The good news,” Benedict continued cheerfully, “is that you’re not dead. The bad news is you might be by the end of the season.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
Benedict sipped his tea. “Not in that cravat, you haven’t.”
—-
The Drawing Room, Bridgerton House – Later That Evening
The family had dispersed. The younger siblings had scattered upstairs, Eloise trailing Penelope with questions about Byron and swords and the inherent feminism of revenge. Benedict and Colin were off arguing about who made the better villain in Penelope’s life: Anthony or that unfortunate Viscount who’d tried to compare her to a “fine horse.”
Anthony, brooding in his favorite armchair, barely noticed Violet enter the drawing room until the distinct clink of a teacup landing on the table beside him broke his thoughts.
She didn’t speak at first.
She simply sat in the chair across from him, poured a cup, added exactly one sugar cube (for him, always for him), and held it out with both hands. A peace offering and a warning all in one.
Anthony took the cup, cautious.
“I take it you’ve had a long day,” she said mildly.
Anthony gave a humorless huff. “You could say that.”
Violet sipped her tea with the serenity of a woman who’d raised eight children and survived. “You should consider yourself fortunate, you know.”
“I feel positively blessed,” he said dryly.
She smiled. “Not because you’re suffering, darling. Because she’s not the type to stay angry forever. Penelope has too much heart for that.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean for her to find out like this.”
“No. But you did mean to keep it from her,” Violet said softly, setting down her cup. “And for a woman like Penelope—who’s been denied honesty and trust her entire life—secrets feel a lot like betrayal.”
Anthony stared into his tea. “I never wanted her to think I didn’t trust her.”
Violet tilted her head. “Then why haven’t you told her how you feel?”
Silence.
He couldn’t meet his mother’s eyes.
“Because if she doesn’t feel the same,” he muttered, “I couldn’t bear it.”
Violet’s gaze was kind. Too kind.
“Oh, my dear boy,” she said gently, “I think the real question is… what will happen if she does?”
A Letter from Simon Bassett, Duke of Hastings
Somewhere quite sunny, far from familial duels and London gossip
My Fierce Little Wolf,
Daphne sends her love, as do I—but I must admit, I am writing you entirely for my own enjoyment. Word has reached me that you have utterly devastated Anthony in a way even a bullet could not. I have rarely been prouder.
Benedict’s letter was particularly colorful. Apparently, you’ve turned my best friend into a man who stumbles into furniture, forgets his own name, and mutters “Penelope” like a prayer or a curse depending on the hour. I trust you’ll continue this campaign until he’s properly broken.
In all seriousness, Penny—your strength astounds me. You stood in a house full of Bridgertons, a lion’s den if ever there was one, and made a Viscount grovel. That is, as you once told me after besting me at fencing, absolutely wicked.
You are the finest sister I could have asked for. And if Anthony has a brain in that thick head of his, he’ll realize you’re also the finest woman he could ever hope to love.
I’ll return soon. Do not duel anyone important without me.
With all my love,Simon
——
Bridgerton Garden Party, 1816
An Evening of Moonlight, Music, and Emotional Mayhem
The Bridgerton gardens had been transformed into something out of a fairytale.
Paper lanterns hung from trees like stars that had come down to earth. Soft waltz music drifted from the string quartet nestled under a silk-draped pavilion. Laughter, champagne, and the hum of conversation filled the night air. But Penelope stood still, apart from it all, tucked in the shadow of a rose arbor, her cane resting lightly at her side like a sword at ease.
She’d been avoiding him all night. Not hiding, precisely. Just… not seeking.
Until now.
She sensed him before she saw him. Anthony moved like a storm trying to be a gentleman—quiet-footed but carrying thunder.
“Penelope,” he said, not a question. A hope.
She turned, her expression carefully schooled. “Lord Bridgerton.”
A faint wince. “Don’t do that. Please.”
“I believe that’s your title, is it not?”
Anthony exhaled, hands flexing at his sides. “I deserve that.”
“Oh, you deserve quite a bit more than that,” she said lightly, but there was a flash of hurt in her eyes that made his heart lurch.
“Then let me explain,” he said softly. “Please. One waltz. That’s all I ask.”
Penelope hesitated.
Then—“One.”
He offered his hand like a knight offering surrender. She took it like a queen deciding whether to spare him.
The music swelled, and they stepped onto the edge of the dance floor. The other couples blurred into background—just candlelight, strings, and the rustle of silk. Anthony’s hand settled at her waist, her cane passed off to Eloise without a word. For a moment, it was just the two of them, moving in time.
“I never meant for you to find out like that,” Anthony began.
“No?” Penelope said, eyes fixed just over his shoulder. “Then when? After the wedding? Never at all?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
She laughed—quiet, sharp. “You challenged the man who raised me to a duel, Anthony. I believe we passed ‘upset’ and galloped straight into ‘betrayal’ some time ago.”
He stopped moving. They stood still in the middle of the floor, music swirling around them.
“I was scared,” he said. The words dropped like stones. “Scared of losing my sister. Scared Simon wasn’t who he claimed to be. And lately—God help me—I’m scared of you.”
That caught her. Her brows drew together. “Me?”
Anthony leaned closer, voice rough with truth. “Because I don’t know what to do with what I feel for you. Because you look at me like I’m a better man than I am, and I want to be that man, but I don’t know how.”
Silence stretched. The music slowed, shifting into a new, softer waltz. Penelope was quiet.
Then, almost inaudibly: “You made Simon write a will.”
Anthony’s chest tightened. “I know. And I will never forgive myself for that. But he forgave me. And I would grovel for the rest of my life if it meant you would too.”
She looked up at him then, really looked. The fury had cooled, leaving something sharper behind. Something more dangerous.
Hope.
“I don’t want your groveling, Anthony,” she said, stepping closer. Her voice was barely a breath. “I want your truth.”
His hand found hers again, tighter this time.
“Then dance with me, and I’ll give you all of it.”
—-
Anthony didn’t get to speak his next word.
Because that’s when Lord Augustus Harrow—recently returned from the continent, son of a marquess, and tragically unaware of the very fragile moment he was interrupting—strolled into view like he owned the moonlight.
“There you are, Miss Featherington!” Harrow’s voice rang out far too cheerily. “I’ve been hunting you down all evening. May I have this next dance?”
Anthony’s jaw locked so tightly Penelope could practically hear his teeth grinding like millstones.
Penelope turned, composed but cool. “Lord Harrow, good evening.”
Harrow offered his hand, oblivious to the emotional hurricane brewing two feet away. “You look radiant tonight. Green and silver suit you, like a blade in bloom.”
Anthony made a noise that could only be described as growling-adjacent.
“She’s already dancing,” he said flatly.
“Ah, but the song’s nearly over,” Harrow replied with a grin. “Surely one more wouldn’t hurt?”
“She is dancing with me,” Anthony said, more forcefully now, taking a protective step forward. “And she’s not a prize to be passed around the ballroom like a tray of sugared oranges.”
Penelope raised an eyebrow at that. “Well, thank you, Lord Bridgerton, for making me sound positively delicious.”
“That’s not—you know what I meant.”
Lord Harrow, still smirking and clearly enjoying the sparks, glanced between them. “Oh, I see. Is this… a delicate situation?”
Anthony’s nostrils flared. “It’s about to become less delicate.”
Penelope exhaled, long and slow. Then, with practiced grace, she stepped between them, placing a gentle hand on Anthony’s chest.
“Gentlemen,” she said, voice like velvet laced with steel, “let us not turn a waltz into a battlefield.”
Harrow bowed slightly. “Of course. But if you change your mind, Miss Featherington… I’ll be waiting.”
He turned and retreated, all charm and cluelessness.
Anthony was still fuming, eyes fixed on the man’s back like he could burn holes through his cravat.
“He’s harmless,” Penelope said softly, still close enough that Anthony could feel the warmth of her breath.
“Harmless,” he muttered. “He called you a blade in bloom.”
Penelope tilted her head. “You don’t think that’s accurate?”
“I think if he calls you that again, I’ll show him what it means.”
And there it was—unspoken, thrumming between them like the string of a bow pulled taut.
Possession.
Longing.
Fear.
Love, unshaped and still a little wild.
Penelope smiled slowly, eyes gleaming in the lanternlight. “Careful, my lord. You’re starting to sound like a man in love.”
Anthony swallowed. “That’s because I am.”
And this time, no one interrupted them.
—-
The words hung there between them, fragile as glass and just as dangerous.
That’s because I am.
Anthony hadn’t meant to say it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But now it was out, and it was real, and it was burning in his throat like brandy.
Penelope’s breath caught, eyes wide—but not in shock. No, she looked… amused. Almost smug.
“Penelope…” he said, low and rough, taking one step closer. One hand lifted instinctively, as if drawn to her like the moon tugging at the tide. His fingertips brushed her cheek, feather-light, reverent.
Her lashes fluttered. Her lips parted. The air between them shimmered with possibility.
So close.
So damn close.
He leaned in—just a breath more, just an inch, just enough to finally—
But she turned her head.
Not sharply. Not cruelly. Just enough that his kiss met the soft curve of her cheek instead of her mouth.
She looked up at him then, coy and composed. “Not tonight, Lord Bridgerton.”
The title hit him like a slap. Formal. Distant. A reminder.
He blinked. “But—”
Her smile was slow and positively wicked.
“You’ll have to try harder than that.”
And then—the audacity—she turned on her heel and walked away, her cane tapping gently against the flagstones, hips swaying with every measured step like she’d just won a duel. Because, well… she had.
Anthony stood there, lips still tingling from the almost-kiss, watching her disappear into the moonlit throng of garden guests with a look of absolute devastation.
Benedict strolled up behind him moments later, holding a glass of champagne.
“Ah. So she didn’t kiss you, then.”
Anthony said nothing, still stunned.
“Did she smile and saunter off like a smug little goddess?”
“…Yes.”
Benedict sipped his drink. “Terrifying, isn’t she?”
Anthony dragged a hand down his face. “I am so in love with her, it’s becoming a medical condition.”
Benedict clapped a sympathetic hand to his shoulder. “Well, you’re in luck. She’s got just the cure. It’s called suffering.”
—-
Bridgerton House, The Next Morning
The Drawing Room – A Battlefield of Teacups and Smirks
Sunlight spilled through the tall windows, gilding the room in soft gold. A gentle breeze played with the curtains, and the scent of lemon biscuits drifted lazily through the air. It was a perfect morning—unless you were Anthony Bridgerton, brooding somewhere upstairs with the look of a man who’d both proposed and been denied in the same breath.
Penelope, however, was the picture of serenity. Draped elegantly on the settee, she sipped her tea with a wickedly pleased little smile. Across from her, Eloise squinted at her with all the suspicion of a woman who knew mischief had been afoot and was determined to pry it out.
“You’re far too smug for someone who spent the night waltzing with my brother,” Eloise said, narrowing her eyes. “What exactly happened in that rose garden?”
Penelope gave an innocent blink. “We talked.”
“You always talk. Did you fence? Did you duel with metaphors? Did he propose with a haiku?”
“Eloise.” Penelope leaned forward, voice low and full of drama. “He almost kissed me.”
Eloise choked on her tea. “Almost?”
Penelope nodded, that smile growing like a fox in the henhouse. “It was terribly romantic. Tension, moonlight, a few heartfelt declarations. He was very sincere.”
“Then why—”
“Because,” Penelope interrupted sweetly, “letting him kiss me would’ve been easy. And Anthony Bridgerton does not get ‘easy.’ He gets effort. He gets devotion. He gets the woman who made him kneel in his own drawing room and grovel.”
Eloise looked utterly delighted. “You wicked, brilliant creature.”
Penelope sipped her tea. “I know.”
Outside, the morning went on peacefully. Inside, Anthony Bridgerton was pacing like a man preparing to storm the gates of Troy with nothing but feelings and regret.
—-
Bridgerton House, 1816
The Study – Scene of Strategy, Desperation, and Utter Ruin
Anthony was mid-rant—something about honor and horsemanship and metaphorical battlefields—when the door to the study opened with the softest creak.
He didn’t notice.
Colin did.
Benedict arched an eyebrow, already suspicious.
“But how,” Anthony was saying, hands gesturing wildly like a general before a losing war, “how does one properly express undying affection without sounding like a complete idiot?”
Colin, ever helpful: “You don’t. You absolutely do sound like an idiot. That’s part of the charm.”
Benedict nodded sagely. “It’s tradition. Like white gloves or embarrassing family dances.”
Anthony opened his mouth to snap something biting in response—only to freeze when he heard the unmistakable sound of her footsteps. Soft. Certain. And laced with mischief.
Penelope Featherington, in a seafoam day dress and a look that could melt steel, walked straight into the room like she owned it—and let’s be honest, at this point, she did.
“Gentlemen,” she greeted, voice lilting, eyes locked on her quarry.
Colin and Benedict blinked. “Pen—”
She raised a hand. “Shhh. I’m not here for you.”
Anthony turned toward her slowly, jaw tight, heart pounding, expression somewhere between awe and devastation.
“I was just—thinking,” he started, because of course he was.
“Oh, darling,” Penelope said sweetly, stepping closer, “you really think too much.”
And before he could so much as fumble a protest, she reached up, grabbed his cravat with elegant precision, and yanked him down into a kiss.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was not a chaste kiss. It was not even, by any measure, a sensible kiss.
It was the kind of kiss that rearranged lives.
Anthony’s world tilted. His breath stuttered. His hands, previously filled with strategy and frustration, now clutched at her waist like she was the only thing tethering him to the planet.
Colin dropped his biscuit.
Benedict actually choked on his brandy.
When Penelope finally pulled back—leisurely, like she had all the time in the world—Anthony looked ruined. Hair mussed. Mouth parted. Eyes glassy. Pride? Shattered. Composure? Burned alive.
Penelope smiled. Slowly. Wickedly. “That’s for making me wait,” she whispered. Then she turned on her heel and left the room, cane tapping cheerfully behind her like punctuation.
Silence.
Then—
“Did she just—?” Colin said, voice an octave higher than usual.
“She did,” Benedict confirmed, stunned.
“She kissed him in his own study,” Colin added.
“And stole his soul while she was at it,” Benedict muttered, wide-eyed.
Anthony stood perfectly still.
“Anthony?”
“Are you breathing?”
“…Do you need a fainting couch?”
Anthony, finally blinking back to life, reached blindly for the desk to steady himself.
“I am going to marry that woman,” he said dazedly.
Colin snorted. “You’ll be lucky if she lets you.”
—-
Bridgerton House, Later That Afternoon
Where Mothers Know All and Sons are a Mess
Violet Bridgerton had raised eight children. She had navigated broken teacups, heartbreaks, actual duels, and more than one surprise elopement. She knew the look of a man recently and thoroughly kissed—and her eldest son was currently wearing it like a second cravat.
She didn’t even need to ask. She merely sipped her tea and waited until he passed by her settee in the hallway, still stunned, hair windswept, and muttering something about emerald silk and ruined reputations.
“A word, dear?” Violet said sweetly.
Anthony froze, pivoted slowly, and offered the look of a man who’d rather face a firing squad.
“Yes, Mother?”
She gestured to the chair opposite her with a soft smile and lethal precision. “Sit.”
He obeyed.
Violet folded her hands, studying him over the rim of her cup. “Is there something you’d like to share with me? Something involving a certain young lady and a rather public display of affection in the study? Which your brothers have recounted in great detail, I might add.”
Anthony groaned. “They were watching?”
“Oh, they were spectating, darling. One might say they were your romantic audience.” She gave him a look. “Which is rather ironic, considering how ferociously you’ve guarded that young woman’s reputation for years.”
“I wasn’t expecting her to—” Anthony gestured helplessly at the air. “She just—grabbed me.”
Violet actually laughed. “Oh, my dear boy. And now?”
“I’m going to marry her,” he said without hesitation.
“Of course you are,” Violet replied, not the least bit surprised. “But if you think for one moment that you’ll be courting her like a common rake finally cornered, you are sorely mistaken.”
Anthony blinked. “What?”
“She deserves formality, Anthony. Flowers. Letters. A proper proposal. Respect.”
“She kissed me first!”
“And now you’ll kiss her feet if she asks,” Violet said firmly. “Go write a speech. Or poetry. Or something that proves to her—and to me—that you are worthy of Penelope Featherington.”
Anthony looked faintly betrayed. “You like her more than me, don’t you?”
“Oh, certainly,” Violet said brightly. “Now go. Before I summon her myself and tell her to take her pick between you and Benedict, who at least writes poetry.”
—
The Bridgerton Study, Chaos Hour
Where Men Attempt Proposals and Words are Useless
“Flowers,” Anthony muttered. “I need flowers. But not roses. That’s too obvious.”
“She likes violets,” Colin offered.
“She also is Violet’s favorite,” Benedict said. “Coincidence? I think not.”
“Do I propose first or do I court her first?” Anthony asked, pulling at his cravat like it had personally betrayed him. “I mean, we kissed. But then she left. She knew what she was doing. That smile—that smile—”
“Have you considered… asking her?” Colin offered.
Anthony glared at him. “You’re both useless.”
“I can write her a sonnet on your behalf,” Benedict offered. “Something like, ‘Oh fairest wolf, with cane so bold—’”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Colin, reclining on the desk like a lounging cat, added, “You could also try not panicking every time she walks into the room.”
“I am not panicking.”
“Your left eye is twitching.”
Anthony turned toward the door. “I’m going to propose. Formally. Properly. Like a gentleman. With words and… meaning.”
Benedict stood. “Do we follow?”
Colin shrugged. “Do we bring wine?”
—
Bridgerton House, The Study (Again), That Evening
Where Grand Romantic Declarations Die Glorious, Fiery Deaths
Anthony stood before the mirror above the fireplace, the very picture of a man on the brink. His waistcoat was buttoned to precision. His cravat, freshly retied no fewer than seven times. In his hand? A folded piece of cream stationery. Covered, front and back, in what might be called a proposal—or, if one were less generous, a Shakespearean tragedy in list format.
He cleared his throat, practicing for the dozenth time.
“Penelope Featherington, I have long admired you—no. Admired is weak. I have long… long been bewitched by your—God, no. Bewitched? Am I eighty?”
From the corner, Benedict was sprawled on the chaise with a sketchpad and smug grin. “I still vote for ‘Oh fairest wolf.’ It scans well.”
“I will throw you out of this house,” Anthony muttered.
Colin piped up from the window seat, mouth full of biscuits. “Don’t mind me. Just here for the fireworks.”
Anthony squared his shoulders and tried again.
“Penelope. My dearest—nope. Nope. Too soon.” He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have written sixteen drafts and burned twelve. I’ve practiced in the mirror, to the dog, to Mother’s orchids. If I do not propose tonight, I may simply wither into a husk of pining nobility.”
And then—
A knock.
Three seconds later, the door opened without waiting for permission.
Penelope Featherington stood there. Emerald green again. Hair loose in a way that was absolutely criminal. And that damned knowing smile.
“Are you quite done panicking in here?” she asked mildly.
Anthony froze. Benedict choked on his tea. Colin whispered, “Oh, this is going to be so good.”
“I—I wasn’t panicking,” Anthony said, hiding the crumpled speech behind his back like a schoolboy caught passing notes. “I was… preparing.”
“For what? A duel? Another one?” Penelope arched a brow and stepped into the room. “Or were you rehearsing how to beg properly this time?”
Benedict snorted. “She’s got you there.”
“Out,” Anthony barked at his brothers without taking his eyes off her. “Both of you.”
“No,” Colin said brightly. “This is romantic.”
But Penelope waved a hand. “Let them stay. I like witnesses.”
She walked right up to Anthony, stopping close enough that he could smell the faint scent of tea and ink and something sharp and floral. His undoing. Again.
“I take it,” she said, tipping her chin up, “that you’ve come to a conclusion about how you feel?”
“I have,” he said, voice low, raspy. “But I was trying to—trying—to say it properly. Like a gentleman. Like—”
And just like before, she reached out, grabbed his cravat, and yanked.
The kiss was not gentle. It was not polite. It was not even appropriate, given the fact that two Bridgerton brothers were currently watching with the expressions of men who’d seen the divine and didn’t know whether to applaud or run screaming.
When she finally pulled back, Anthony was wrecked. Speechless. Breathless. Utterly destroyed.
She smiled. Wicked. Victorious. Glorious.
“I believe,” Penelope said sweetly, “that makes twice now.”
And then she turned and swept from the room, leaving the door open behind her and Anthony frozen mid-heartbeat.
Benedict stood up, still wide-eyed. “Did… did she just propose to you by dominance?”
Colin stared. “I think we just got proposed to a little bit, too.”
Anthony, dazed and grinning like a lunatic, finally muttered, “I’m going to marry that woman.”
“You’d better,” said a new voice from the hall.
It was Violet.
Holding a teacup.
Smiling like the devil in pearls.
—-
Bridgerton Gardens, Late Night
The moon hung like a silver promise, soft light draping the garden in a hush of magic and secrets. Anthony and Penelope slipped away from the raucous laughter and chatter of the house, footsteps muffled by the thick grass and scent of blooming jasmine.
They found themselves near the old stone fountain, where the water murmured gently, a quiet soundtrack for the storm of feelings that neither dared speak aloud until now.
Anthony’s hand found hers, fingers curling around hers like a lifeline. His voice was low, raw with the kind of vulnerability he never showed in daylight.
“I thought… I thought if I said it properly, if I did it right, maybe you’d see me not as a reckless fool, but as someone worthy of you.”
Penelope’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Anthony, I don’t need speeches or grand gestures. I need honesty. I need you.”
He swallowed hard, the weight of years of misunderstanding and silence pressing down. “I was afraid. Afraid that if I said the truth, it would scare you away.”
“And what truth is that?” she whispered, leaning closer, breath mingling.
“That… I’ve been jealous from the moment you walked into that ballroom. Not just of your suitors, but of the idea that you could ever want anyone else besides me.”
Her fingers tightened on his. “I was scared too. Scared that my past—my limp, my secrets—would make you see me as less.”
Anthony shook his head, eyes fierce with tenderness. “You are not less. You are everything. And I—God help me—I want you, all of you, forever.”
For a long moment, the night held its breath around them. Then Penelope stepped closer, her voice a soft surrender.
“Then don’t be afraid anymore. Because I want you too.”
He brushed a stray curl from her face, heart thrumming louder than the fountain’s song.
“Together, then. Whatever comes.”
She smiled, fierce and free, and in that whispered promise beneath the stars, everything changed.
—-
Bridgerton House – The Morning After
Somewhere between dreams and dawn, the world softened…
Anthony woke slowly, the golden light of morning filtering through the drapes and spilling like honey across the bed. For a breathless moment, he didn’t move—didn’t dare. Penelope was nestled against his chest, her arm draped across him, curls tumbling wild and beautiful against his shoulder.
She sighed in her sleep, nose scrunching slightly as if disagreeing with the sun, and his heart promptly did something humiliating and poetic like stutter or somersault.
He reached out and gently brushed a curl from her cheek, fingers reverent. “You,” he whispered, “are going to ruin me. Gloriously.”
Penelope blinked awake slowly, blinking up at him like the moment was a dream too sweet to be real. Then, with a sly, sleepy smile, she murmured, “Good. That was the plan.”
Anthony laughed, low and warm. “Wicked little thing.”
She stretched languidly, the sheet slipping scandalously down one shoulder. “You’re the one who said forever. I’m just holding you to it.”
He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder, then her jaw, then her lips—soft and slow and full of all the quiet things he’d never been good at saying. She melted into it, content and radiant, until—
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The door to the room burst open.
“I knew it!” Eloise cried triumphantly, standing in the doorway with Colin and Benedict peering over her shoulders like nosy, chaotic gremlins. “Pay up, Colin!”
“I said they’d crack by the garden party,” Benedict argued, squinting. “This was after. I’m still right.”
Anthony groaned and pulled the sheets higher over Penelope with the air of a man begging God for a meteor strike.
“Out. Now.”
“Do you really want to challenge the woman who made you grovel in your own drawing room?” Penelope said sweetly, arching a brow. “Because I will win again.”
Eloise grinned. “We’ve taught her well.”
“GET OUT!” Anthony bellowed, and the trio scattered, laughter echoing down the hallway.
Penelope turned back to him, utterly unruffled, and smirked. “So… breakfast?”
Anthony flopped back into the pillows, dragging her with him.
“Only if it involves feeding me kisses first.”
—-
Bridgerton House – Later That Morning
“There are consequences for passion, my dear boy—especially under my roof.”
Anthony sat at the head of the dining table like a condemned man, hair rumpled, cravat askew, and the faintest smudge of lipstick still ghosting his jaw. Across from him, Violet Bridgerton was stirring her tea with all the serenity of a lioness lounging beside the bones of her latest kill.
“You know,” she began mildly, not looking up, “when I wished for you to find love, I had hoped for something a bit more… dignified. Perhaps involving flowers. Courting. A ring before bed.”
Benedict choked on his toast. Colin let out a low whistle. Eloise looked delighted.
Anthony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mother—”
“No, no, no. Do not ‘Mother’ me. Do not look at me like a misbehaving schoolboy, because misbehaving schoolboys don’t sneak the Diamond of the Season into their bedroom overnight under the noses of their entire family and then sleep in.”
Penelope, seated beside Violet with not a hair out of place and tea in hand like the very picture of propriety, blinked innocently. “I was simply up early.”
“Doing what?” Colin asked, brows wagging. “Your fiancé?”
Anthony turned scarlet. “I swear to God—”
“Oh, we’re at God now, are we?” Violet interjected, sipping her tea. “Shall I summon the archbishop, then? Perhaps we can make this proper before lunch.”
“I was going to propose—” Anthony tried, but Penelope, with impeccable timing and a glint in her eye, cut in with a languid sip of her tea.
“He was halfway through a sonnet when I got bored and kissed him.”
“A sonnet?” Benedict wheezed. “You absolute sap!”
“Out,” Anthony snapped, pointing to both his brothers. “Out, out, out.”
But Violet didn’t move. She simply stood, walked around the table, and kissed her son’s cheek. “I’m proud of you,” she murmured. “And now that it’s been so publicly confirmed, I expect the wedding to be soon. This season, in fact.”
Anthony groaned. “That’s hardly fair.”
Violet’s smile was terrifying. “Darling, you brought a wolf into this family. You should have expected her to hunt.”
As she left the room, Penelope turned to him, smug as sin. “So. About that ring…”
“Are you ever going to let me finish a proposal?” he grumbled.
“Unlikely.” She leaned in. “But I’ll let you keep trying.”
—-
The Bridgerton Estate – That Evening
Take two. Or possibly five. Anthony had lost count.
The garden was bathed in moonlight, the roses in bloom, the breeze carrying the scent of summer jasmine. It was perfect. Or, rather, it would have been perfect, if his hands weren’t clammy and his tongue didn’t feel like it was tied in twenty knots.
Penelope stood beneath the arbor, her cane resting gently beside her. She wore a soft blue gown that made her look like something out of a dream—and somehow also like she could run a fencing foil through anyone who dared ruin her peace.
Anthony, attempting dignity, knelt before her on one knee.
“Don’t you dare pass out,” she whispered, a wicked smile tugging at her lips.
“I won’t. Probably.”
She bit back a laugh, but her eyes shimmered.
“Penelope Featherington,” he began, carefully ignoring the fact that his voice cracked like a lovesick adolescent. “From the moment you marched into my life—well, hobbled, really, but quite determined—I have been in awe of you.”
Her smile softened.
“You are… dazzling. Terrifying. Stubborn. Brilliant. And I love you in ways I am woefully ill-equipped to describe, but I promise to spend the rest of my life trying. You’ve ruined me, utterly, and I cannot imagine a single day without you.”
She stared at him, absolutely unreadable. The silence stretched.
Then—
“You may continue.”
He blinked. “What?”
“You stopped talking. I was waiting for more.”
Anthony gaped, floundering for a second, and then grinned. “You—wicked woman—marry me, damn it. Before I combust.”
“Oh, well, when you put it so romantically…” she teased, then gently leaned down and cupped his cheek.
“Yes,” she murmured, voice thick with feeling. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Anthony Bridgerton.”
He surged to his feet and kissed her, arms wrapping around her with a sort of reverence. It wasn’t wild or hurried like before—it was soft and sure and filled with the kind of promise that didn’t need words.
From somewhere behind the hedges, there was a muffled, “Finally!” followed by a smack and a hissed, “Shut up, Colin!”
Anthony ignored them. For once in his life, the only thing that mattered was her.
