Regency Bridgerton AU Plot Bunny for Adoption.
Title: The Wallflower and The Wicked
Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington.
Note: Penelope was born in 1786 and taken in by Lady Danbury in 1796.
Note Two: This is for an EXPLICIT plot bunny that will have explicit sexual content. It will also have explicit language and this plot is for 18+.
Danbury Manor, 1796 - The Drawing Room
Lady Agatha Danbury sat poised in her elegant drawing room, the delicate china cup balanced carefully in her hand as she leafed through the worn pages of a well-loved book. The afternoon sun filtered softly through tall windows, casting gentle shadows across the ornate rugs and polished furniture. A quiet moment of peace—until the steady knock at the door broke the silence.
One of her footmen, Evan, stepped inside with his usual respectful bow.
“My lady, Miss Penelope Featherington has arrived. She wishes to see you,” he announced, voice low but clear.
Agatha’s brow lifted slightly, curiosity knitting across her face. Penelope? Alone? Without a letter? The child’s sudden appearance was unusual enough to prick her careful instincts. Setting her teacup down with measured calm, she rose with the grace of a queen surveying her court.
“Show her in, Evan,” she commanded softly, her voice laced with a hint of concern.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and there stood Penelope Featherington—ten years old, flushed with tears and breathless from running. Her small frame trembled as she took hesitant steps into the room, clutching her small hands tightly to her chest.
“Aunt Aggie,” she blurted out, her voice cracking with the weight of unshed tears.
In an instant, Lady Danbury was across the room, arms unfolding to enfold the trembling child. Her voice dropped to a gentle murmur, rich with warmth and strength.
“What has happened, my sweet little cub? Tell me everything.”
Penelope’s sobs wavered as she poured out her heart.
“Mama and Papa have taken Prudence and Philipa to Paris for the summer… and left me with that cruel governess. She—she tore my A Midsummer Night’s Dream to pieces and threw them in the fire. And I’m not allowed to eat without her permission. When I do, it’s only soup and water, like I’m some stray.”
Lady Danbury’s eyes darkened with quiet fury. The injustice was a knife to her soul, but her voice remained calm, almost regal in its conviction.
“Well, that simply will not do. No child under my watch will suffer such cruelty. You will come to live with me, Penelope. Not just for the summer, but for as long as you need.”
Penelope blinked, surprise and relief mingling in her wide eyes. “You mean… I could stay here? With you? Really?”
“Of course, darling. You are my goddaughter. You belong here now.” Lady Danbury smiled softly, brushing a stray curl from Penelope’s face. “I will see to it personally that you want for nothing.”
A fragile smile broke across Penelope’s lips as she wrapped her arms tightly around her godmother’s waist.
“Thank you, Aunt Aggie. Thank you…”
Behind the scenes, Lady Danbury wasted no time. She summoned her footmen and maids, their orders sharp and clear: collect Penelope’s belongings from Featherington House, and send word to Queen Charlotte herself that Penelope Featherington is now under the care—and protection—of Danbury Manor.
Danbury Manor, 1802 - The Drawing Room
The late spring sun spilled into the drawing room, bathing the space in golden light that danced across the polished wood floor and glinted off the delicate porcelain knick-knacks Lady Danbury had collected from every corner of the Empire. Seated upon the rose-colored settee, her legs curled beneath her, was sixteen-year-old Penelope Featherington—no longer the tearful, frightened girl who had once sought refuge in this very room, but a young woman in bloom. Her coppery curls were pulled back with blue ribbons, and her pale green muslin gown was ever-so-slightly rumpled from lounging, but she hardly noticed.
She was far too engrossed in the book resting in her lap: Love in Excess by Eliza Haywood, a scandalous novel she’d “accidentally” stumbled upon in Lady Danbury’s private collection—one she had, in fact, been strongly encouraged to read.
Her eyes widened as she turned the page, cheeks coloring at the words dancing across it.
“…his lips, trembling with desire, sought hers in a kiss that was not chaste, nor brotherly…”
Penelope gasped softly, fingers tightening on the book, heart racing for reasons she was only just beginning to understand.
“That is most certainly not the type of book a young lady of sixteen should be reading.”
The voice was smooth, amused, and far too close.
Penelope squeaked, clutching the book to her chest as she spun around. “Simon!”
Behind her, Simon Basset—now eighteen, taller than ever, and insufferably smug—leaned lazily against the back of the settee, his brows arched in mock scandal as he peered at the title over her shoulder.
“You great oafish brute!” she huffed, brandishing the book like a weapon. “What are you doing, sneaking around like some ghoul in the night? Spying on me while I read, no less!”
“I wasn’t spying,” Simon said, lips twitching. “I simply walked in and noticed you were reading with such rapture—your cheeks flushed, your lips parted like a damsel in one of those horrid melodramas—and naturally, I had to investigate the source of your literary ecstasy.”
Penelope narrowed her eyes and gave him a solid whack on the arm with the spine of the book.
“Ow,” he said mildly, rubbing the spot. “Violence doesn’t suit you, sister.”
“You are not my brother,” she snapped, though without real heat. “You are an interloper with a knack for showing up precisely when you’re least wanted.”
Simon grinned. “That’s what all little sisters say.”
“I am not your little sister,” she muttered again, but the fight had already left her. She dropped the book into her lap and crossed her arms. “And for your information, Aunt Aggie is well aware of the book. She gave it to me.”
Simon blinked, then let out a bark of laughter. “Of course she did. That woman is a menace to polite society.”
“She says a young lady should be well informed of the material act between a man and a woman before she’s flung into a marriage with some man who might not care if she’s educated or terrified.” Penelope’s tone was prim, though her ears were pink. “She said ignorance is not a virtue, especially when it comes to something so… vital.”
Simon raised his hands in mock surrender, straightening with a smirk. “My apologies for interrupting your scholarly pursuits. Please, do continue reading your scandalous tale of passion and peril. Don’t let the presence of your infinitely more interesting, far more experienced elder brother disturb you.”
He executed an over-the-top bow, one hand pressed to his chest like a court jester, then turned and strolled out of the room with that maddening, self-satisfied chuckle that Penelope had come to associate with every minor irritation in her life.
“Infinitely irritating, you mean,” she muttered as she watched him go.
Then, with a dramatic sigh, she flipped the book open once more.
“…his hands traced the soft curve of her neck…”
She paused, biting her lip.
“Well,” she whispered to herself, “it is rather educational.”
Danbury Manor, 1805 - The Drawing Room
The evening light was fading into a soft twilight as the Bridgerton family gathered at Danbury Manor for dinner. The manor, with its grand tapestries and flickering candlelight, felt alive with the low hum of polite conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
Tonight, for once, Simon was conspicuously absent—no mischievous older brother antics to distract Penelope as she sat quietly on the edge of a velvet settee, her gaze flickering toward the cluster of Bridgertons gathered near Lady Danbury.
“If he scowls any harder, I fear his face might just freeze that way,” Penelope murmured to herself, a soft smile tugging at her lips.
A gentle chuckle from her right made her glance sideways, and there stood Benedict Bridgerton, a rakish grin playing about his mouth and an easy charm in his eyes. “Anthony’s been scowling like that since he was twenty. I doubt he’ll ever stop. I’m Benedict,” he said with a slight bow.
“Penelope. Penelope Featherington,” she replied softly, a quiet confidence in her voice as she returned his gesture with a polite curtsy.
“Don’t worry about Anthony,” Benedict said with a shrug. “He’s not all that bad… just has his moments.”
Penelope hummed thoughtfully, her attention drifting back to Anthony, who remained statuesque across the room, his jaw tight and eyes sharp.
Then Lady Danbury’s eyes flicked toward her, a sly smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Penelope, come over here for a moment,” she called.
Both Lady Bridgerton and Anthony looked up at the mention of her name, curiosity flickering in their eyes.
With a playful roll of her eyes, Penelope turned to Benedict with an exaggerated curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me, Benedict, I am being summoned by Aunt Aggie. It’s been a pleasure meeting you and sharing in your brother’s torment.”
Benedict chuckled warmly, bowing his head as she gracefully rose and crossed the room.
“You summoned me, Aunt Aggie,” Penelope said cheekily, tilting her head.
Lady Danbury’s gaze sharpened, her tone low and teasing. “That cheeky tone might work on your brother, but it won’t work on me, cub.”
Penelope met her aunt’s gaze with an innocent smile, then slowly turned her eyes toward Anthony Bridgerton, who was watching with a tilted head and faint, unreadable expression.
“Penelope, I would like you to meet a dear friend of mine,” Lady Danbury began, gesturing with elegance. “This is Lady Violet Bridgerton, and this is her eldest son, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton.”
“Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope said, curtsying with soft grace. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Hello, dear. The pleasure is mine,” Violet replied warmly, a gentle smile crinkling her eyes.
“My Lord,” Penelope said, turning her attention to Anthony with a demure curtsy, though she never once broke eye contact.
“Miss Featherington,” Anthony answered with a bow, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
Penelope’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk as she appraised him with mock innocence. “Hmm… you’re prettier up close.”
Lady Danbury let out a sharp cackle, and Lady Bridgerton hastily covered her mouth to suppress a smile.
“She called Anthony ‘pretty,’” piped a nine-year-old Eloise from across the room, giggling. Daphne, thirteen, stifled her laughter behind a gloved hand, and seventeen-year-old Colin laughed so hard he was practically gasping for air.
Anthony’s jaw twitched involuntarily as he glanced at his siblings, then back at the smirking Penelope.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” Penelope said with faux politeness, eyes sparkling with mischief. “But if you’ll excuse me, I promised the younger children a story.”
With a soft smile to Lady Bridgerton, Penelope dropped an affectionate kiss on Lady Danbury’s cheek, then shot Anthony one last slow, deliberate look before turning away.
Benedict, grinning from ear to ear, was quick to follow her, already claiming her as his new favorite person.
St. James Palace, 1807 - The Debut.
The grand marble foyer of St. James Palace was a flurry of silk, satin, and fluttering fans. Debutantes milled about like nervous swans, clinging to their mamas, adjusting feathers, bodices, and gloves, while their anxious whispers filled the high-vaulted space like the buzzing of bees before a storm.
Penelope Featherington, however, stood still and serene, her arm linked through Lady Danbury’s. She was a vision in white and gold—though she would have rather been anything else.
“Why white, Aunt Aggie?” she muttered under her breath, eyes scanning the sea of pale gowns with faint horror. “I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and looked like a ginger ghost.”
Lady Danbury snorted, giving her arm a firm pat. “You’re hardly the first to think that. But it’s not like Her Majesty gave you a choice, cub. White and gold it is. Has been for generations. And don’t fret—you only have to wear it for a few more hours. Then you can burn the bloody thing if it pleases you.”
Penelope let out a long-suffering sigh but didn’t complain further. Her name hadn’t been called yet, but the tension in the room was sharpening like a blade.
An hour passed before the gilded doors opened again and a footman, expression bored and voice sharp, called out:
“Miss Penelope Featherington, ward of Lady Agatha Danbury.”
As Penelope stepped forward, the chatter in the room dipped to a hush. But it wasn’t reverent silence—it was the kind sharpened with cruelty, the kind that crawled beneath the skin. She could hear them—whispers like poisoned honey.
“She ought to be grateful anyone looked twice—”
Penelope kept her chin lifted, back straight, eyes hard despite the bloom of heat in her cheeks. If she let them see her falter, they’d pounce. So she wore her scowl like armor, soft but lethal, and let it steady her.
But not everyone was cruel.
Off to the right stood the Bridgertons. Violet offered her a warm, encouraging smile, eyes shining with genuine kindness. Benedict, bless him, pulled a ridiculous face—cheeks puffed out and eyes crossed—making her stifle a laugh. Colin threw her a quick thumbs-up like he was cheering at a country fair.
And then… her eyes found him.
Their gazes locked like magnets. It had been happening more and more lately—across crowded rooms, in fleeting moments. There was something in his eyes. Something unreadable, unread, and unrelenting. Penelope tilted her head ever so slightly and smirked, then let one slow, deliberate wink flutter his way as she passed by where he stood.
Anthony didn’t flinch. But his eyes followed her like a storm cloud.
Penelope stepped forward to face Queen Charlotte. The monarch was dressed as regally as ever—an elaborate tower of feathers upon her head, jewels glittering like stars. Penelope dropped into a graceful curtsy, holding it with practiced poise.
Queen Charlotte, never one to offer unwarranted kindness, gave her a subtle, approving smile. Just enough to be seen. Just enough to make the whispers feel small.
When Penelope exited the presentation chamber, Lady Danbury was waiting, a rare softness in her eyes.
“There now,” she murmured. “The hard part is done. And you never have to wear that ghostly frock again, cub.”
Penelope let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank God.”
The ballroom opened not long after, and society spilled into it with all the grace and greed of peacocks in full plume. Lady Danbury wandered off to exchange biting barbs with Queen Charlotte, leaving Penelope momentarily adrift.
“Penelope Featherington,” came a familiar voice, smooth with amusement. “You look absolutely miserable.”
She turned to find Benedict Bridgerton at her side, holding out a glass of champagne like a peace offering. She took it with grateful fingers.
“That’s because I am miserable,” she replied dryly. “This dress is awful, I’m being judged by everyone with a nose, and my shoes pinch. But thank you for this.” She raised the glass and took a sip.
“I saw the look,” Benedict said, grinning. “That wink. A masterstroke.”
Penelope blinked innocently. “What wink?”
“Oh, don’t play coy now,” he said, laughing. “Anthony nearly choked on his own pride.”
“Well, he makes it so easy to tease him,” she said sweetly, swirling the champagne in her glass.
Benedict leaned in slightly, his voice low. “We have an audience.”
She tilted her head and peeked around him subtly—sure enough, Anthony stood not ten feet away, stiff as a statue, his gaze fixed and unreadable, lips pressed into a hard line. He wasn’t pretending not to look. He was just… looking. Watching.
Penelope sipped her champagne and smiled. “Do you think he’ll finally snap if I tell him how devilishly handsome he looks this evening?”
Benedict groaned. “You’re a wicked little minx, Penelope. When he does snap, I beg you—do it in private. I don’t want to witness that explosion. Or be caught in the blast radius.”
Penelope giggled, eyes still on Anthony. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”
Anthony still hadn’t moved. Not an inch. But she could see the tic in his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides.
She lifted her glass to him in a silent, mocking toast.
Danbury Manor, 1813 - The Ballroom
Six years of silks, dances, champagne, and polite society pretending she didn’t exist.
Penelope Featherington had not had one suitor call upon her since her debut at twenty-one.
And honestly? That was fine.
Because for six years, she had been far too preoccupied with a far more entertaining pursuit: slowly, artfully unraveling Viscount Anthony Bridgerton with every smile, every wink, every accidental brush of her fingertips.
And if the viscount had ever once told her to stop—well, maybe she would have.
And so the game continued.
Now twenty-seven, Penelope stood poised in the grand foyer of Danbury Manor, her arm linked with Lady Danbury’s as they greeted guests arriving for the ball. Lady Danbury offered them a stiff, knowing smile, while Penelope received no more than polite nods—or worse, studied avoidance. She could’ve been a particularly well-carved statue for all the notice they gave her.
Not that it bothered her anymore.
“Some people,” Lady Danbury said dryly, hands resting atop her cane, “just don’t have good taste. Or eyes. Or brains.”
Penelope’s lips quirked. “I accepted my fate the day I debuted. If they wish to treat me like part of the wallpaper, then I shall be the most captivating wallpaper they’ve ever ignored.”
The last to arrive—fashionably late as always—was the Bridgerton family. Violet swept forward first, elegant as always, and pulled Penelope into a warm embrace.
“My dear, you look radiant.”
“Thank you, Lady Bridgerton,” Penelope replied with a smile.
Colin followed, winking mischievously before earning a light smack on the arm. Daphne received a kiss on the cheek, and Benedict bowed dramatically enough to make Penelope laugh.
“Welcome, Lord Bridgerton,” Penelope said, voice dripping like warm honey. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, her smile slow and sinful. “And may I be so bold as to say that you are looking positively sinful tonight?”
Violet and Lady Danbury had just swept into the ballroom, leaving Penelope and Anthony deliciously alone in the entrance hall.
Daphne giggled behind her fan and followed after them. Colin coughed violently, clearly masking a laugh, while Benedict simply smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Anthony inhaled slowly, as though summoning the strength of ten armies. “Miss Featherington. You look lovely,” he replied stiffly, through what appeared to be gritted teeth.
Her smile curved into something wicked.
“I do wish you’d call me Penelope, my lord,” she murmured, stepping closer. Far too close. So close that with every breath, her breasts lightly brushed the fabric of his waistcoat. “Or you can call me anything you’d like, truly. I’m not one to object.”
Anthony’s nostrils flared. His gaze flicked—traitorously—down her neckline and then snapped back up. But not quickly enough.
“My lord,” she said sweetly, tilting her head, “your cravat is crooked. Here, allow me.”
Before he could protest, Penelope reached up, fingers delicately adjusting the snowy white linen. The tips of her breasts pressed softly into his chest with each small movement, and Anthony Bridgerton stood like a statue carved of fury and want.
From behind him, Colin murmured to Benedict, “I think he’s actually going to explode.”
Benedict pressed his lips together, fighting off a laugh. “He’s trying so hard not to combust. It’s admirable. And doomed.”
“There we go,” Penelope said, brushing the newly straightened cravat with a final pat before her hands slid—far too slowly—down his shoulders and chest. She looked up at him with a demure smile that did nothing to hide the heat in her eyes.
“You’re perfect again,” she whispered, like she was bestowing a blessing.
Anthony didn’t move. His jaw ticked. His hands were fists at his sides.
She stepped even closer for one last, wicked stroke of her game. Turning as if to walk away, she allowed her body to graze his, silk brushing against wool, her lips just barely brushing the side of his jaw as she whispered, “Do try to behave yourself, my lord.”
Then, with a devil-may-care smile, she turned to Benedict.
“Oh, Benedict, do come with me—I have something terribly important to tell you.”
Benedict, ever the devoted co-conspirator, extended his arm with a theatrical flourish. She slid hers through it, radiant with the satisfaction of a woman who had just set a bear trap and left it wide open.
Anthony didn’t breathe until they were halfway across the foyer.
Colin, now laughing fully, received a withering glare from his eldest brother. Anthony stormed into the ballroom with the wrath of a man who didn’t know whether to throttle someone—or kiss her senseless.
—————————————————————————
Meanwhile, in a quiet corner near the punch bowl…
“You’re actually going to kill him,” Benedict said with a grin, sipping from his champagne flute.
“Don’t be absurd,” Penelope replied, swirling her glass idly. “I don’t want him dead. I want him devastated. Flustered. Desperate.”
Benedict gave her a long look. “You want him in love with you, Pen.”
Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes softened—just for a moment. “Well. If he’s going to ignore me, he can at least do it while burning. That’s only fair.”
And across the ballroom, Anthony Bridgerton watched her like a man shackled to a desire he could no longer contain.
Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The East Wing
Penelope Featherington had never felt more at ease than she did in the east wing of Aubrey Hall.
Violet’s invitation for her to stay the month had been presented with warmth and sincerity, and Penelope had graciously accepted—though she suspected Lady Bridgerton had a deeper purpose for the offer. Whether matchmaking or mischief, she wasn’t sure.
The room she’d been given was quiet, tucked away from the chaos of Gregory and Hyacinth’s enthusiastic daily adventures. Officially, it was chosen for her peace of mind.
Benedict had suggested it specifically because it gave Penelope an entire wing to herself—and because he knew precisely how close it was to the one hallway Anthony used when retreating to the library after dinner.
The possibilities were endless.
Benedict had just rounded the corner from the library when he spotted his eldest brother headed toward the stairs.
“Ah, Anthony! Perfect timing.” Benedict clapped a hand onto his brother’s shoulder, all cheerful ease and hidden intent. “Could you be a dear and fetch Penelope for dinner? Mother’s summoned me for something.”
Anthony narrowed his eyes at his brother’s overly innocent tone.
But Benedict was already disappearing down the corridor, calling over his shoulder, “So kind of you! Ta!”
Anthony exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before turning toward the east wing.
It was fine. It was fine. He would knock. She would answer. Fully dressed. He would relay the message. She would come down. Perfectly fine.
He knocked once, firm and professional.
“Come in,” came the lilting, honeyed reply.
Anthony stepped inside—and immediately wished he hadn’t.
A soft rustle of fabric. A gasp—his own, barely muffled.
Penelope stood in the middle of the room, backlit by the fading golden sun, clad only in a corset, stockings, and confidence. She had clearly just stepped out from behind the privacy screen, the laces of her dinner gown loose and trailing behind her like a silk promise.
She glanced over her shoulder, and when her eyes landed on him, she smiled—slow and knowing.
“Lord Bridgerton,” she greeted, like a cat acknowledging her favorite mouse. “How can I be of service to you?”
He swallowed hard. “Benedict asked me to inform you that… dinner is ready.”
Her eyes danced with delight. “How thoughtful.” She turned fully to face him, lifting her arms to slide them into her gown with a grace that should’ve been illegal. “Would you mind terribly lacing me up? I simply can’t manage on my own.”
Anthony stood frozen for a beat too long. His body wanted. His mind screamed for restraint.
And then—God help him—he stepped forward.
“I… suppose I can assist.”
She turned around with a soft hum, presenting her back and holding her red hair up with one hand, exposing the delicate nape of her neck. He started threading the laces, his knuckles brushing against bare skin that burned hotter than fire. With every soft tug, her body shifted under his hands, pressing back just enough to unnerve him.
Her sigh—a soft, satisfied sound—nearly undid him.
His fingers fumbled slightly. She didn’t correct him. She arched.
He tied the final knot and stepped back.
But she turned before he could flee, the gown hugging her curves like it had been painted on. She stepped into his space, hands pressed gently to his chest, gaze locked onto his with a boldness that made his knees weaken.
“Thank you for the help,” she whispered. Then, with the softest of touches, she leaned up and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
She pulled away slowly, letting her fingers trail down his chest as she turned. “Best not let dinner grow cold,” she said over her shoulder, leaving him standing there—struck dumb, unkissed, and wholly undone.
—————————————————————————
Aubrey Hall — The Dining Room
By the time Anthony entered the dining room, his composure was shot to hell.
Penelope was already seated—in his chair, no less—smiling sweetly between Benedict and his own empty place. She turned her head as he approached and gave him a soft, innocent smile that nearly drove him straight back up the stairs.
She was whispering conspiratorially to Benedict, eyes sparkling, fingers lightly tapping the rim of her glass.
“You minx,” Benedict hissed under his breath. “You actually kissed him!”
Penelope’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Only the corner. I left the rest for later.”
Benedict choked on his wine.
“I am so proud of you,” he whispered dramatically. “My little agent of chaos.”
Penelope chuckled softly and turned her head to glance at Anthony—who had just sat down stiffly beside her. Their eyes met.
Instead, she held his gaze, tilted her head ever so slightly, and winked.
Anthony Bridgerton was not a man easily undone.
But Penelope Featherington was not a woman easily resisted.
Explicit Sexual Content Starts Now.
Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The East Wing
Penelope’s Room - Midnight
The scent of lavender clung to the air, thick and heady, curling through the shadows of the dimly lit room. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting golden light over the bed linens and polished wood floors.
Penelope stood barefoot on the plush rug, towel in hand as she slowly dried her legs. Her bath had been indulgently hot, the kind of warmth that lulled her muscles into loose contentment and turned her thoughts—dangerously, deliciously—toward him.
She had just reached for the silk robe hanging by the door when a knock echoed sharply through the room.
Startled, she slipped the robe over her shoulders, the damp heat of her skin steaming slightly beneath the soft fabric. She tied the sash with a casual tug, still glistening from the bath.
“Come in,” she called, voice light and unbothered, as though she weren’t half-dressed and dripping candlelight.
The door opened—slowly. Just enough for him to slip inside.
He shut the door behind him with deliberate care, but when his eyes rose to find her—standing still near the firelight, her hair loose and curling at the ends, her robe clinging in all the right places—his breath left him in a quiet, strangled gasp.
“Lord Bridgerton?” she asked innocently, but her lips curved like sin itself. “What a surprise.”
He said nothing at first. He simply looked at her—devoured her—his gaze tracking the rivulets of bathwater that glided down her throat, over the dip of her collarbone, and disappeared into the parted edges of her robe.
Her name on his lips would’ve sounded like a prayer, if not for the rasp of sheer need behind it.
“Anthony,” she corrected softly, stepping forward with calm boldness. “Did you need something?”
His jaw clenched. “Why do you torment me?”
She tilted her head, eyes bright with mischief and something softer. “Do you not like it? Should I stop?”
He reached out—slowly—and wrapped his hand around her wrist. His thumb brushed the pulse fluttering beneath her skin.
“You’ve been tormenting me since the day Lady Danbury introduced us,” he said, voice low and edged with reverence. “Since 1805, I’ve been helpless to it. You look at me like you know exactly what I’m thinking, and then you touch me in ways no gentleman should allow. You smile, and I forget every rule I’ve ever obeyed.”
She moved in closer, until the only space between them was breath.
“What are you going to do about it?” she whispered, eyes locked to his, issuing a challenge and an invitation.
His fingers slid from her wrist to the sash of her robe.
Slowly—so slowly—he tugged it loose.
The silk parted, gliding off her shoulders like liquid moonlight and puddling silently at her feet.
She stood before him bare, every inch of her glowing in the firelight—soft, warm, and utterly his undoing.
A growl caught in his throat.
His mouth claimed hers with a passion barely leashed, hands gripping her waist as if he feared she might vanish. The kiss was rough with desire and tender with longing, and when he broke away, it was only to drag his lips down the delicate line of her throat, across her breastbone, and lower still.
He sank to his knees before her, reverent and ravenous.
He kissed the inside of her thighs, slow and deliberate, until she trembled and leaned back against the door for support. One of her legs lifted—guided by his hands—to rest on his shoulder.
Then his tongue met her, and she cried out softly, fingers tangling in his curls, grounding herself in the storm of sensation.
“Anthony,” she moaned, her hips rolling against his mouth.
The sound of his name on her lips shattered the last of his restraint.
He groaned against her, devouring her, his fingers sliding between her folds to press into her—first one, then another, moving with precision and growing intensity. Her walls fluttered around him, her breath catching, body trembling as the peak loomed.
She shattered like glass in his hands.
Her release tore through her with a choked cry, and he held her steady, fingers still curling gently inside her until the tremors faded. When he finally pulled away, he looked up at her from his knees with dark, heavy eyes—and licked his fingers clean.
Penelope’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She was still recovering, boneless against the door, when he surged to his feet and kissed her again—kissed her like he meant to make her feel it for days.
She tasted herself on his tongue, and she moaned into his mouth.
When she yanked his shirt off his back and let it fall without care, he made quick work of the rest. His breeches joined the mess of garments on the floor, and then he was lifting her—scooping her into his arms as though she weighed nothing.
He carried her to the bed.
Laid her out like an offering.
Positioned himself between her thighs as if it were where he was born to be.
With one hand, he stroked himself slowly, watching the way she looked up at him—flushed, radiant, and waiting.
He ran the head of his cock through her folds, savoring the slick heat of her arousal. And then he paused—eyes meeting hers in wordless question.
Penelope didn’t answer with words.
She wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him in.
He groaned as her tight heat engulfed him, and he buried his face in her neck as he stilled, breath ragged.
She gasped, body adjusting, but she didn’t flinch. Her arms wrapped around him, her lips pressing against the edge of his jaw.
“Anthony… please,” she breathed.
Slow, gentle thrusts at first—learning the rhythm of her, the pace that made her moan. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, whispered her name like a man who had waited too long to say it this way.
“You feel… so good,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with awe.
She rolled her hips, and his cock slid deeper, hitting the spot that made her cry out, nails digging into his back.
“Oh—don’t stop,” she begged.
The dam broke, and he moved harder, deeper—matched to her rhythm, driven by her pleasure. She clung to him like she never wanted to let go.
Their moans, gasps, and whispered names filled the room like a symphony built on hunger and trust.
And when she shattered again beneath him, calling out his name like a vow, he followed—spilling inside her with a low, broken groan, lost in the feel of her, the scent of her, the sheer rightness of her.
———————————————————————Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The East Wing
The golden fingers of morning crept slowly over the bed linens, warming the space where passion had been feverishly sown. A fire still glowed dim in the hearth, as if reluctant to die out entirely, and the world outside remained quiet—caught in that breathless stillness before daybreak.
They had made love again—slow and unhurried the second time, as though the very act were a form of worship. Then they’d fallen asleep, limbs entwined, tangled in each other like ivy, like fate, like something that had always meant to be.
He groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering open to find himself still wrapped in the warmth of her. Penelope lay against him, soft and perfect, her bare skin pressed to his, her leg curled possessively over his hip. His cock was already hard—aching and nestled perfectly between the folds of her body, damp and ready from the night’s indulgences.
A slow, shallow roll of his hips, a push forward, and he slipped inside her with sinful ease.
She moaned softly in her sleep before her eyes fluttered open, heavy with pleasure.
“You,” she murmured, voice husky with sleep, “are insatiable.”
He laughed, breathless and already unraveling at the edges. “And gloriously ruined by you. Body, mind, heart, soul—I’m yours, Penelope. Utterly. Irrevocably.”
The words spilled from him like a vow, like truth. His movements grew deeper, more intentional, as he shifted to hover above her once more.
She arched up to meet him, her breasts brushing against his chest, and her lips parted in a moan that curled in the air like smoke.
“Yes… yes… yes. You are mine,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion and lust alike.
“Say it,” he gasped against her throat, his pace quickening. “Say you’re mine. I need to hear you say it.”
Her hands clutched at his shoulders. “I’m yours, Anthony,” she cried. “All yours.”
His thrusts grew harder, more urgent—his body answering hers in a rhythm as old as the stars. He kissed her like a man desperate to remember every inch of her, worshipped her with every roll of his hips, whispered praises against her skin like prayers:
Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.
Penelope’s cries built steadily as he struck that devastating spot inside her again and again, and her fingers raked down his back, claiming him in red crescents.
“Anthony!” she sobbed as her orgasm crashed through her.
He followed with a broken, guttural groan as her body clutched around him, pulling him deeper into the spiral. His hips stuttered, then pressed flush against her as he pulsed inside her, filling her completely.
He collapsed against her, still inside, their bodies slick with sweat and trembling from the force of it all. He buried his face against her neck and simply breathed.
Minutes passed—or maybe only seconds—before he stirred again.
“I should go,” he murmured, still breathless, dragging his fingers gently down her arm. “Before someone realizes I didn’t sleep in my own bed. I’m rather attached to my head.”
Penelope smiled, lazy and deliciously satisfied. “Then we’ll need a good alibi. Meet me in the stables after lunch,” she said, her voice laced with mischief and promise. “We can go for a ride.”
He blinked. Then laughed—a low, rakish sound that made her toes curl.
“I like the way your mind works, Miss Featherington.”
She arched a brow. “I am a genius, or so I’ve been told.”
Anthony kissed her one last time—deep and possessive—before slipping from the warmth of the bed. She watched him dress with open admiration, her chin resting against the pillow, eyes heavy-lidded and utterly shameless.
He winked at her before quietly slipping out of her room, the door shutting with a soft click.
Penelope lay back against the sheets with a dreamy sigh.
She was thoroughly, gloriously ruined—and for once, she didn’t mind one bit.
———————————————————————Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The Garden
The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and the garden of Aubrey Hall was in full summer bloom—roses spilling their scent into the air, bees humming like nature’s gossiping aunts. Violet Bridgerton, ever the orchestrator of domestic harmony, had declared it far too beautiful a day to waste indoors. Thus, a charming luncheon had been arranged beneath the shade of the old sycamores, with a long linen-draped table adorned with crystal jugs of lemonade and delicate sandwiches stacked like miniature architecture.
Penelope Featherington sat nestled between Benedict and Anthony, as had become custom over the years. A habit born of comfort, familiarity—and perhaps, lately, a certain undercurrent of wicked amusement.
The seating arrangement had once been innocuous. Now it simmered with secrets.
Penelope, for her part, looked every inch the innocent guest—her curls kissed by sunlight, cheeks flushed from a morning well spent, and lips slightly parted in the kind of smile that could either be pure mischief or post-coital satisfaction.
Benedict, seated to her right and as perceptive as ever, narrowed his eyes.
Something had shifted. He could feel it in the air, taste it in the sudden tension that clung to the garden like honeysuckle. Penelope was glowing, and Anthony—stoic, controlled, prone to clenching his jaw until it cracked Anthony—was lounging beside her with a rare, distracted softness about his expression. As though he’d finally stopped denying himself something vital.
Benedict didn’t need confirmation. But then again, he got it anyway.
Penelope caught his eye. Her smile curled. She offered him a slow, smug nod—the kind that screamed victory and sin in equal measure. Benedict raised his brow, then looked away with a knowing smirk, shaking his head.
“I do not want to know,” he muttered under his breath.
At that moment, Violet looked up from her salad, beaming as if the entire garden were hers to bless.
“Penelope, dearest,” she said sweetly, “you look lovely this afternoon. Positively glowing. Did you sleep well last night?”
Anthony, mid-sip of lemonade, sputtered—nearly choked.
Penelope didn’t miss a beat. She tilted her head and offered Violet the picture of angelic sincerity. “Thank you, Violet. I struggled to fall asleep, so I asked one of the maids to draw me a warm bath. It was blissfully soothing. Truly helped me relax… afterward, I slept so well I was reluctant to leave my bed.”
Anthony’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to her, wide and wild for half a second. She didn’t look at him—didn’t need to. Her tone said everything.
Benedict, now trying desperately not to laugh into his wineglass, looked like a man witnessing divine comedy.
“How wonderful,” Violet cooed. “A warm bath is a gift from the heavens, I always say. And what do you plan to do after lunch, my dear?”
Penelope reached casually for her glass, her other hand sliding stealthily beneath the table to rest on Anthony’s thigh with the grace of a woman fully aware of her power.
Anthony sat bolt upright.
“I thought I might visit the stables,” Penelope replied sweetly, tracing a slow circle with her thumb just above his knee. “Borrow a horse. The weather’s too fine to ignore. A peaceful ride will do wonders for my thoughts. Sometimes a little solitude is just what a woman needs.”
Anthony was no longer breathing. His hand found hers under the table and gripped it tight.
“That sounds lovely,” Violet said, entirely oblivious to the erotic warfare unfolding beneath her linen and silver. “You’ll have a wonderful time, dear.”
“I certainly plan to,” Penelope replied, her voice like honey laced with sin.
Benedict leaned toward her, voice low and amused.
“You wicked little minx,” he murmured. “You’re not going for a ride alone, are you?”
Penelope didn’t answer. She merely sipped her lemonade with exaggerated innocence, the corners of her mouth twitching with delight.
Anthony, meanwhile, sat stiffly beside her, eyes fixed on his plate, completely wrecked, and already counting the minutes until the stables.
———————————————————————Aubrey Hall, 1813 - The Stables
Penelope stood poised within the soft shadow of the stables, the scent of hay and horses hanging thick in the summer air. A stable hand guided a gentle mare toward her, already saddled and ready. With practiced ease, she thanked the boy and allowed him to help her mount. Her movements were graceful, deliberate—an echo of the slow-burning anticipation curling in her belly.
With a tap of her heel, the mare began a gentle trot.
She kept her expression serene as she rode past the garden where the Bridgertons still lingered over their midday repast. But as her gaze locked with Benedict’s, her composure cracked just enough to reveal a wicked smile. His returning smirk was a clear acknowledgement.
He knew. Of course he did.
—————————————————————————
Anthony was waiting just beyond the curve of the wooded trail, his stallion grazing lazily nearby as he leaned back in the saddle with an ease he rarely permitted himself. But when he saw her, his posture straightened, sharp with desire.
Penelope steered her mare toward him. The moment she was within reach, he leaned forward and gently took hold of her reins, drawing her close. She was smiling before their lips met, her heart already fluttering like a wild thing.
When he pulled away, the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable.
“About ten minutes beyond that ridge,” he murmured, “there’s a small lake. Quiet, untouched. Benedict and I used to escape there as boys… but now I have far more tempting reasons to visit.”
Penelope arched a brow. “Lead the way, my lord.”
His groan was half amusement, half arousal. “Minx.”
—————————————————————————
The trees parted to reveal a hidden Eden—clear waters sparkling in the golden light, a gentle riverbed winding through a bank of wildflowers. It was secluded, secret. Perfect.
Anthony dismounted swiftly, tying his stallion to a low branch before striding to Penelope’s side. He reached up, strong hands encircling her waist as she slipped from the saddle, her body brushing down the length of his own in a touch that was far too fleeting.
She didn’t linger. Instead, she stepped forward, taking in the scene, her back turned to him—her bare shoulders illuminated like sunlit silk.
But Anthony had no patience left for scenery.
He was behind her in a heartbeat, his lips grazing her shoulder, then the delicate curve of her neck. One of her hands reached back, tangling in the hair at the base of his skull. The other slipped boldly between them, pressing against the hardness beneath his breeches.
He growled, low and dangerous, and his fingers were already at her laces—undressing her with reverence and haste. Fabric slid to the grass like petals, baring her skin to the breeze and to him.
“You wicked creature,” he rasped. “Were you like this all through breakfast? And luncheon? Nothing beneath that gown?”
She glanced over her shoulder, unabashed. “I told you I wanted another ride before the day ended.”
Without warning, she walked into the water, sinking slowly until it reached her waist, the sun catching in the droplets that clung to her skin like diamonds.
Anthony stared, stricken by the vision of her—then began undressing as if the very fabric offended him. When he waded in to meet her, she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him down into a searing kiss.
One hand found her center and slid between her folds, his fingers parting her with practiced ease. He slipped two inside, curling just right, his thumb tracing slow, sensual circles over her clit.
She moaned his name against his throat.
It didn’t take long. She came with a shudder, her body clenching around his fingers, her breath caught between gasp and cry.
And he could wait no longer.
He sheathed himself inside her in one slow, aching thrust, groaning as her heat enveloped him. They moved in the water—slowly, sweetly—each motion a promise.
But then he began walking toward the bank, never letting her go.
He lowered her gently onto the riverbed, the mossy ground soft beneath them. Still inside her, he lay back, hands splayed across her hips, eyes locked to hers with quiet reverence.
She moved above him with aching grace, her hips rolling in lazy, deliberate circles. Her clit slid against his stomach, drawing gasps from her throat as she chased her pleasure. Her breasts pressed to his chest, her lips brushing his cheek, his jaw, his mouth.
He reached for the back of her neck and drew her down into a kiss that was more claim than caress. Dirty and raw, teeth grazing, tongues tangling.
She began to lose rhythm—every thrust bringing her closer, her body coiled tighter and tighter.
“I love you,” Anthony gasped suddenly, forehead pressed to hers, his voice rough with vulnerability. “I love you, Penelope.”
She shattered above him, her body wracked with release, her scream echoing through the trees. His own climax followed instantly, buried deep inside her, every pulse of his cock echoing with the force of it.
She collapsed atop him, breathless, boneless, the aftershocks making her tremble against his skin.
He held her tight, one hand stroking her back, the other twined in her hair.
Silence settled between them, heavy with meaning.
Then softly, timidly, she spoke. “Did you mean it? When you said you love me?”
He turned his head to kiss her temple. “I did not know what it was I felt for so long. But now… now I know. I love you, Penelope Featherington. With everything I am.”
She smiled, soft and radiant. Lifting her head, she looked into his eyes—those stormy, tortured eyes that now held nothing but awe.
“I love you too, Anthony Bridgerton,” she whispered, then bent to kiss him.
It was slow. Tender. A seal of something far more eternal than a tryst at a hidden lake.
———————————————————————Bridgerton House, 1813 - Daphne and Simon’s Wedding Breakfast
Though their time at Aubrey Hall had come to its bittersweet end, the flames between Penelope and Anthony refused to dim. In fact, they burned ever brighter—hot, secret, and dangerously irresistible.
They stole away when they could. Whispered kisses in shadowed corridors, urgent touches behind closed doors, and nights that left them breathless and aching for more. Only Benedict knew—and, being the loyal friend and chaos gremlin he was, he said nothing. Just smirked knowingly whenever the pair returned with flushed cheeks and rumpled clothing.
On this particular morning, the whole of the Bridgerton family—and half of London—had gathered at Bridgerton House to celebrate the wedding of Daphne and Simon. The wedding breakfast was in full swing: laughter bubbling over champagne glasses, music playing in the background, and the scent of roses mingling with the scent of scandal waiting to happen.
Daphne stood radiant beside her mother and Lady Danbury, deep in some discussion about Parisian lace and florals for her new home. Meanwhile, Penelope lingered near the fireplace with Simon, who looked far more relaxed than usual—likely because he was no longer the Duke everyone was speculating about, but rather the Duke everyone was watching.
“You’d best treat her well, brother,” Penelope said sweetly—but there was steel behind the smile. “Because if you do not, it won’t be Daphne’s actual brothers you need fear. I will challenge you to a duel, and I won’t miss.”
Simon’s brow lifted, amused but not dismissive. “Your warning is well-heard, sister. I am no fool. I’ve seen how fiercely you love, and how sharp your claws become when someone threatens those you care for.”
Penelope gave him a side-eye worthy of her honorary title as Lady Danbury’s heir. Then, satisfied, she gave a regal nod. “Good. Now go. Dance with your wife or she’ll have me to scold next.”
Simon chuckled, bowed gallantly, and headed toward Daphne—leaving Penelope to scan the crowd. Her breath hitched when she saw Anthony standing across the room, watching her like he hadn’t just had her in his arms the night before.
He tilted his head ever so slightly—an invitation.
She smirked, the corner of her mouth curling with mischief. Then he disappeared through a side door.
Penelope waited a beat—just enough to seem innocent—before slipping away from the crowd. She moved silently through the halls, her slippers soundless against the rug-lined floor, until she saw him.
He was waiting at the end of the corridor, half-hidden in the shadows, eyes hungry.
The moment she reached him, Anthony caught her hand and pulled her along at a brisk pace. They reached his study, and as soon as the door closed behind them, she was pressed against the wall, his mouth already on her throat.
“I need you now,” he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. “Please, my darling girl…”
Her only answer was to hike up the skirt of her gown. He groaned as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist. With one hand, he freed himself from his breeches, and in one fluid motion, he was inside her—deep, hot, home.
Penelope gasped, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. “You feel so good,” he groaned, lips trailing along her collarbone. “I could live between your thighs for the rest of my life.”
“You need to be quick,” she breathed, “or we will be caught.”
That only spurred him on.
His hips snapped forward, fast and desperate, his mouth silencing her moans with a searing kiss. Her back arched, the heat building fast, faster, until she was clutching at him, nearly falling apart.
Anthony’s hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit and flicking in rhythm with each thrust. The tension coiled tighter and tighter—
She cried out into his mouth as her climax hit, and he followed immediately after, spilling into her with a groan that rumbled against her chest.
They trembled together, his forehead pressed to hers as he struggled to stay upright.
When he finally slipped out of her, she was still panting softly against the wall.
He adjusted his breeches, then helped smooth her skirts with trembling hands. His mouth found hers again, slow and lazy this time—less hunger, more reverence.
“I love you,” Anthony whispered, brushing his nose against hers.
“I love you too… my lord,” she teased, eyes sparkling.
He growled playfully against her lips, which only made her giggle as she fixed her hair.
She nipped at his bottom lip before stepping back. “You know I only call you that to torment you.”
“I know,” he said with a sigh, “and I love you all the more for it.”
Then, as quickly and quietly as she had come, she slipped out of the study unnoticed.
Anthony remained for a moment, staring at the closed door with a dazed smile.
“One day,” he whispered to the empty room, “I’ll make you my wife, and we’ll never have to part again. My wicked little minx.”
—————————————————————————
When he returned to the drawing room, the world had not ended. The music still played. The champagne still flowed. The Ton still gossiped.
But his eyes found Penelope instantly.
She was standing with Benedict, who was clearly whispering something wicked in her ear. She rolled her eyes—but when she looked at Anthony, she smiled. Soft, secret, and just for him.
Benedict caught his brother’s eye and smirked, raising his glass in silent, smug congratulations.
Anthony simply smiled back. For once, he felt no need to posture. He already had what he wanted most.
———————————————————————Bridgerton House, 1814 - Penelope’s Room
The eve of Violet Bridgerton’s Midsummer Night’s Ball
The whole of the ton was abuzz with anticipation.
Violet Bridgerton, doyenne of the season and hostess extraordinaire, had announced a ball unlike any other: an enchanted evening under the stars, steeped in silvers, purples, and blues, with masks veiling secrets and moonlight unveiling hearts. The whispers called it “The Midsummer Masquerade,” and society was already gasping over who would wear what and with whom they might waltz beneath the chandeliers.
But high above the gossiping world, tucked within the stillness of Bridgerton House, another kind of magic stirred.
Penelope Featherington lay in her bed, the fire in the hearth long since dimmed to embers, the night humming softly beyond her window. She wore only a gauzy nightdress, the fabric light as air, her body warmed by the hush of summer.
The door creaked open—just a breath, just a moment—and then she felt him.
He slipped into her bed as if he belonged there—and in truth, he did. He had made a habit of slipping into her life, her heart, her very soul, and never once had she wanted to turn him away.
Strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her close until her back was cradled to his chest.
“I have something I wish to ask you,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of her head. “Before my mother’s ball.”
“Mmm. Ask away,” she replied, her voice thick with sleep, but tinged with affection. She snuggled in closer, one hand resting over his where it lay across her stomach.
He was quiet for a moment—so quiet that her heart began to pick up speed.
Then, softly, “Marry me?”
Penelope froze, and then slowly turned in his arms until she was facing him.
“I want to walk into that ballroom knowing you’re mine—not just in secret, not just in stolen moments. Mine in name. In future. In everything.” He lifted his hand, and in it was a ring—his mother’s ring, delicate and radiant, glinting in the moonlight. “Will you be my wife?”
Her breath caught, tears pricking at her eyes as she looked from the ring to his hopeful, boyishly nervous face.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” she whispered, a smile curling her lips. “Who else would I tease for the rest of my life, if not you?”
He let out a breathless laugh, so full of joy it nearly undid her. With trembling fingers, he slid the ring onto her finger, and then he was kissing her—soft, slow, full of everything he could not say in words.
She guided him down between her legs, her nightdress riding up easily over her thighs. He wasted no time, shoving his breeches off and tossing them carelessly to the floor.
Then, with reverence, he sank inside her—slowly, inch by delicious inch. Her legs wrapped around his waist as he began to move, their bodies aligning like constellations drawn together by fate.
Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. He stroked into her with unhurried purpose, like he had all the time in the world—and he intended to spend it all on her.
“What color will your gown be?” he whispered, never breaking rhythm. “I want to match with you.”
“A midnight blue gown,” she breathed. “Silver stitching like stars. A silver mask.”
He groaned softly, pushing deeper, one hand reaching to lift her thigh higher. The shift in angle made her gasp, the sweet ache blooming as he hit that perfect spot again and again.
“Then my mask will be silver,” he promised. “And my waistcoat, midnight blue. We’ll be a matching pair. Even behind masks, I will always find you.”
Her fingers tangled in his hair as she arched into him, her body singing with every slow, reverent thrust. He worshipped her—not just with his body, but with his eyes, his hands, the quiet awe in his breath as he looked at her like she was the moon itself.
The world outside could wait. For now, they had each other, wrapped in love, moonlight, and quiet promises.
Bridgerton House, 1814 - Anthony’s Room
The warm scent of shaving soap and lemon balm lingered in the air as two Bridgerton brothers sat side-by-side in identical chairs, white towels wrapped snugly around their freshly shaven faces. A valet had just retreated with a respectful bow, leaving the quiet hum of preparation hanging between them.
Anthony leaned back, legs crossed, gazing into the crackling fire.
“I asked Penelope to marry me last night,” he said evenly, as though he were commenting on the weather.
Benedict didn’t even blink. “I knew you’d combust eventually. The pressure’s been building for years. Frankly, I’m shocked your skull didn’t crack open the day she called you ‘prettier up close’ at Lady Danbury’s dinner party.”
Anthony arched an eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “She was nineteen.”
“And absolutely savage. Wrecked you beyond repair, I dare say.” Benedict grinned wickedly. “I watched your jaw tighten like a vice. Poor, poor Anthony. Felled by a woman barely out of the schoolroom and armed with nothing but freckles and flirtation.”
Anthony huffed. “You’re not… upset, then? That we were intimate before an official engagement?”
Benedict gave him a look. That look. The one that screamed really, brother?
“Penelope’s been devouring erotic novels since she was sixteen,” he said. “She’s the sort of woman who knows exactly what she wants—and makes sure to get it. You’ve just been too thick to notice that she’s wanted you since you were twenty and insufferable.”
Anthony didn’t argue. Instead, he quietly absorbed the words as Benedict leaned back smugly.
“And as her best friend, I’ve been privy to every single scheme she’s ever concocted to torment you. I assure you, your ruination was very much planned.” A pause. “If you thought I’d be scandalized, you’re not nearly as clever as Mother claims you are.”
Anthony chuckled, a soft sound. He didn’t deny it. Not anymore.
—————————————————————————
Bridgerton House – The Midsummer Night’s Ball
Anthony had not seen Penelope all day—and it was beginning to drive him mad. He had played dutiful host, greeting guests with charm and poise, but his eyes had constantly searched the crowd, his mind fixed on only one thing.
A spark of deep red hair, glowing like firelight under a silver mask. Midnight blue silk poured over her curves like water, embroidered with tiny silver stars that seemed to shimmer with every step.
Their eyes locked across the room. She smiled—soft, secretive, meant only for him.
And around them, the whispers began.
“Have we met her before?”
“I’m going to ask her to dance.”
Not bloody likely, Anthony thought darkly as he cut across the ballroom without hesitation.
“You look sinfully wicked, my little minx,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Only for you, my lord,” she whispered back, that playful lilt in her voice lighting him up from within.
He bowed, offered his arm, and she placed her hand in his with a grace that belied the smirk she wore.
Together, they stepped into the center of the floor as the music began. Eyes followed them. Tongues wagged. But neither of them noticed—there was only each other.
From the edge of the ballroom, Violet Bridgerton leaned toward her second son.
“Benedict… who is your brother dancing with?”
“I would tell you, Mother,” he said with a sly smile, “but Anthony insisted he get to reveal it himself. After the ball.”
Violet raised a brow but said nothing. Her eyes, however, watched her eldest son closely—and she saw it in an instant. The tenderness in his smile, the way his gaze never strayed. He was in love.
Elsewhere, Lady Danbury watched with a quiet hum of satisfaction. She recognized that silver mask—she helped choose it, after all.
“That boy never stood a chance,” she muttered to herself, sipping her punch. “Not from the moment she called him pretty at nineteen.”
—————————————————————————
Midnight – Anthony’s Study
The ball was in full swing when Anthony and Penelope slipped away, masks still in place, hearts pounding with shared mischief.
In his study, behind the closed door and flickering candlelight, they removed their masks.
“You truly do look stunning, Penelope,” he whispered, pulling her to him.
“And you, devilishly handsome,” she replied with a smirk.
“Minx,” he growled fondly.
With nimble fingers, she began to unsnap his trousers, guiding him back toward the settee like a woman on a mission. He didn’t resist. Couldn’t, even if he wanted to.
She climbed atop him, skirts bunched around her waist. He filled her in one long, slow thrust that stole her breath and made his hands tremble against her hips.
“You fill me so well, my lord,” she murmured, biting gently at his ear.
His groan was guttural. “That’s because you were made for me. Mine, Penelope. Just as I am yours.”
She rode him slow and sweet, her hips rolling as she leaned in to kiss his throat, his jaw, his lips.
“Anthony, please,” she breathed.
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
Still buried inside her, he stood, her legs clinging to his waist, and laid her across the polished wood of his desk. He drove into her with quick, deep thrusts, each one dragging a moan from her throat. Her face buried in his neck, her cry muffled by his cravat as she shattered around him, her body trembling.
He followed with a harsh groan, spilling into her with a growl of her name.
“You,” he panted, still inside her, “are going to be the death of me.”
Penelope grinned wickedly. “What a glorious way to go, my lord.”
—————————————————————————
They returned separately, masks in place, dignity intact—mostly.
Violet, Lady Danbury, and the Bridgertons were gathered in a cozy little corner when Penelope approached from one side and Anthony from the other.
“Penelope, you look lovely,” Violet gushed. “Doesn’t she, Anthony?”
“She certainly does, Mother,” he said, eyes locked on her like she was the sun itself.
Penelope inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord. May I be so bold as to say… you look devilishly handsome this evening?”
Benedict choked on a laugh.
Eloise squinted. “Did I miss something?”
“Yes,” Colin said dryly. “Since when does he not scowl and clench his jaw when she teases him?”
“Since last summer,” Anthony said. “When Penelope stayed at Aubrey Hall and ruined me completely.”
Penelope beamed, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.
Eloise’s eyes widened. “Is that a ring?”
Colin choked on his champagne. Daphne let out a delighted gasp.
Anthony nodded. “I asked her last night. She said yes.”
Squeals. Cheers. Violet and Lady Danbury swooped in, declaring themselves wedding generals.
“Congratulations,” Colin said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Simon raised his glass. “You do realize she’s going to torment you for the rest of your days?”
Anthony smiled. “I look forward to it.”
Benedict smirked. “You were doomed from the start. I’m just relieved you finally pulled that stick out of your arse and admitted it.”
Anthony scowled—but then turned to Penelope, who was watching him with all the warmth of a thousand Midsummer nights.
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