A Red, Red Rose

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/41493879.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Bridgerton (TV), Bridgerton Series - Julia Quinn
Relationship: Colin Bridgerton/Penelope Featherington
Character: Colin Bridgerton, Penelope Featherington, Benedict Bridgerton, Eloise
Bridgerton, Violet Bridgerton
Additional Tags: Modern Era, Regency, Crack Treated Seriously, Time Travel, Colin
Bridgerton Being an Idiot, Colin "My Wife" Bridgerton, Eloise Bridgerton
& Penelope Featherington Friendship, Eventual Smut
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2022-09-04 Updated: 2022-10-21 Chapters: 8/21 Words:
70587

A Red, Red Rose

by EvieBaby

Summary

2022 - Colin and Penelope share travel, drafts of their writing projects, a London flat, and a
bed. Their relationship is perfect, just the way it is. He thinks, anyway. So when Pen tells
him everything is about to change, his initial reaction…isn’t great.

1815 - Colin’s relationship with Penelope was perfectly fine. Until she overheard some
truly unkind words he uttered to some gentlemen in attendance at the Featherington Ball.
Now he fears he’s ruined the most important friendship he’s ever had.

Neither Colin is thrilled with his circumstance at the moment, but it’s about to get a lot
worse. Modern Colin is about to wake up in Regency Colin’s time and place, and vice
versa. Let’s see how how they do trying to clean up each other’s messes… Or will they
somehow manage to make everything worse?

Notes

So, this plot bunny came out of nowhere and bit me in the ass…. I was just rolling along on
a Bridgerton kick: watching and rewatching the show, reading the books, gorging Polin
fanfic. But I wasn’t planning on actually writing any, I swear! Then this little idea came to
me and I couldn’t help myself.

This story will pick up right after the events of season 2. I decided to go with the show
continuity for the Regency timeline, simply because it’s messier and will put Colin through
it more than the book continuity would. That said, I have read all the books and some easter
eggs and tidbits that I love from them will crop up just for fun. The 2022 timeline is my
own invention, but draws heavily on the show continuity for inspiration as well.

~*~

**Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the Bridgerton series depicted in this story
are the legal property of Julia Quinn, Avon Publications, and Netflix, and have been used
without permission. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made.
 Lost in your current
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

And if it was an open-shut case

I never would've known from that look on your face
Lost in your current like a priceless wine

The more that you say, the less I know

Wherever you stray, I follow
I'm begging for you to take my hand
Wreck my plans, that's my man

-Taylor Swift
“willow”

Aubrey Hall, Hertfordshire

12 June 2022

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon, approaching evening. The country air was clean and fragrant
with lilac and freshly trimmed grass. Down on the lake, past the Pall Mall field, a rowboat floated
aimlessly, bobbing with the weeping willow leaves and wispy seedlings on the water’s surface. In
that boat, Colin Bridgerton held Penelope Featherington in his arms.

He reclined on a padded seat at the bow. Pen was curled up against his chest, head tucked under
his chin. She had kicked her shoes off over an hour ago. They were down near the oars, which
were propped across the stern. Colin felt her toes graze his ankle as she spoke.

“…means the deadline has been pushed back to the end of next week. I appreciate it, of course, but
a little notice would have been nice. By the time I found out, I had already pulled that all-nighter.”

“Coworkers,” Colin murmured in a disparaging tone, fully supportive, though he had no personal
experience in any sort of workplace to draw upon.

“Thank you for that 2 a.m. coffee run, by the way,” she said. “You saved my life.”

One of his hands was threaded through her hair, stroking the nape of her neck. He was distracted,
and had been for some time now, by the press of her against him. That was normal. His girlfriend
had a body that commanded his constant attention, and in her presence, his blood had a low-hum
base-line of arousal. It wasn’t so much urgent as just…comforting. Regular. Predictable. He was
with lovely, lovely Pen, and she made his body feel aware and alive.

He was often just a suggestion or a coy smile away from an erection. When they were alone,
especially if she was touching him as she was now, it was less a pleasant, “Oh, she looks hot and
this feels nice,” and more an urgent bombardment of memories of how it felt to be inside her.

That was the direction his thoughts were headed now, and he suspected she may be receptive.
While she vented about work, she was tracing the outline of the logo on his tee with a single finger
in a way that seemed…playful.

Colin lifted his free hand to caress her jaw. He tilted her face up toward his.

Her breath caught and she stopped speaking as she took in his sly grin.

He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. With a happy sigh, she leaned into the kiss,
deepening it. Colin took that as encouragement, tightening his embrace. His hand dropped from her
chin to finger her curls, then traced the neckline of her blouse in an arc that dipped right down into
her ample cleavage.

“Colin,” Pen gasped as he palmed her breast over her clothing, “we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“We’re in a rowboat.”

He grinned wolfishly. “I know. Somewhere entirely new that we have yet to christen.”

Pen chuckled. “Of course. Except that we will definitely rock the boat until it flips over.”

“Maybe you will.”

“Colin!”

“What? Is it my fault that you squirm and scream and claw me to ribbons when you come?”

“Yes,” Penelope asserted defiantly. “That is entirely your fault.”

Colin kissed her pouty lips. “You’re right,” he conceded smugly. “Entirely my fault.” He nibbled
her jaw, then her neck.

“Besides,” she continued, voice faint and breathless while she clung to him, “I’m not the
problem.”

He hooked one hand under her knee and hoisted her into straddling his lap. Her skirt lifted and slid
up her thighs in the motion, leaving her knickers pressed against the zip of his jeans. Penelope
gasped. The boat swayed as he watched her take in the feel of his hard cock, now pressed right into
the heat of her. Her eyes fell closed and she bit her lip.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmured against her sweet-smelling skin. “I will be so, so careful. It will be
basically tantric.”

That startled a giggle out of her. “Like the last time we tried tantric sex? When you lost your head
completely by the end and took me so hard you broke the bed?”

At the memory, Colin laughed, too. The worst had been in the morning, when he had been obliged
to confess to the little Italian grandma who ran the Bed & Breakfast where they had been staying in
Naples. The poor woman had been distraught, until he had promised that he would buy her a new
bedframe.

With both hands, Colin caressed Penelope’s sides from her hips up to her ribcage, his thumbs
teasing the undersides of her breasts. “Let’s not go throwing stones, Pen. I’m not the only person
here who has destroyed a hotel bed.”

“It was a headboard,” she defended herself while arching into his touch, “not a whole bed. And
there was a spider in that bed.”

He snorted. “You know what else was in that bed? Me! I thought you were trying to kill me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Colin.”

“If your story were true, you should have been warning me. Instead, suddenly you’re screaming
and taking a swing at my head with a blow dryer.”

“I was rescuing you! That thing was huge.”

“So you say. I never saw it.” He trailed the backs of his knuckles over the generous swell of one of
her breasts, catching her nipple between two of them, pinching through her layers of clothing.
Penelope whimpered. “For all I know,” he said, voice grown ragged with lust, “you made it up,
and now you’re just biding your time until I let my guard down.” His hips gave a soft pulse
upward, into the lacy gusset of her knickers. “Assassin.” He said it like a term of endearment.

“Colin,” she sighed, and it was a greedy, hungry sound that was everything he loved to hear.

“Let me ravish you, Pen.” He trailed his lips down her throat. “Right here and right now. I’ll make
you feel so good. I won’t let you get wet, I promise.”

The two of them froze when what he said registered fully, and then they both broke into laughter.
Penelope leaned back, causing Colin’s face to fall fully into her breasts. His chuckle broke into a
groan as his cock strained in his jeans. He was so swept up he didn’t immediately realize she was
pulling away.

“Wait, where are you going?” He caught her arm.

“To get the oars,” she said primly, but her eyes were dancing with mischief. The low afternoon sun
lit her hair into a radiant copper halo. “Seeing as how you just promised me I won’t get wet, I think
we should just row to shore and be done with all of this.”

“You’re already wet,” he argued confidently.

“Really?” She raised a brow. “I don’t see how you could possibly know that, let alone prove it.”

It was a challenge—a dare. She was asking for his hand up her skirt.

With a noise that resembled a growl, Colin launched forward, tackling Penelope to the bottom
boards. It was a playful gesture, one she reacted to with a giggle, but the boat was truly taken off
guard. Water sloshed up the sides as it rocked hard. And then the couple heard two distinct slides
of wood against wood, each followed by a plop.

Colin and Penelope reeled. The oars had both slipped off the boat and into the water. Penelope
flew into a panic, scrambling out from under Colin and lunging to grab them. But he saw the way
the whole boat tilted under the momentum. Pen was really, actually going to flip the boat over if
she leaned that far out over the water. Instinctively, he reached forward, looped an arm around her
waist, and pulled her back against his chest where he sat. She cried out in protest, but he held her
securely, and she clutched him back when she felt the boat pitch and toss beneath them.

“Shit,” she gasped, her nails digging into his forearms.

They held their breath until they were absolutely certain the boat would not roll. By then, the oars
were most definitely out of reach.

Penelope moaned. “Damn.”

Colin laughed.

She glared over her shoulder at him. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh, come on. It’s a little funny.”

She tried not to, but in the end couldn’t stop herself from cracking and laughing along with him.
Colin reveled in the feel of her cradled against him where they sat, shaking and breathless with
mirth.

“So…I guess this means we are swimming to shore? Or maybe we could try using our hands as
paddles to move the stupid boat?” She huffed a little hopelessly, peering over the side.

Colin swept her hair off of her neck and pressed a kiss at her nape, right over the birthmark behind
her earlobe. It was one of his favorite places to kiss. “In a minute. I’m still trying to fuck you.”

She snickered. “So tempting. You promise I won’t get wet and it will only take a minute? How
could a girl resist?”

Colin pressed his erection into her bum and enjoyed the sound of her breath hitching in reaction.
He slipped one hand into the neckline of her blouse and traced the cup of her bra. “I’ll get you so
wet, Pen,” he whispered in her ear. “And we can take as long as you want. As long as it takes.
We’re stranded now. Who knows how long until we’re rescued?”

“Oy! Out there!” a voice behind them called from the shore. “You two all right?”
They both jumped. His hand lifted out of her blouse and she pulled away when they turned to see
Colin’s brother Benedict at the edge of the lake, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the
sun, and the other holding a sketch pad and charcoal kit under his arm.

“Don’t you knock?” Colin snapped peevishly.

“Benedict, thank God,” Penelope called with relief. “We’re adrift out here.”

“How did you manage that?”

Colin shrugged. “Pen chucked the oars out of the boat.”

With a glare, she smacked his chest, then turned back to his brother. “Can you help us?”

Benedict assessed the situation, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. Then a solution seemed to
present itself to him. “I think so.” He set his supplies for drawing securely atop a rock. “Just a
moment. I think there is a rope in the shed.”

And then he was off.

“I’m wounded,” Colin said. “Begging for rescue at the first opportunity, when all I did was offer
you amazing tantric sex.”

Pen was now seated facing him, after having escaped his arms in the confusion of Benedict’s
interruption. She smiled, and it took Colin a moment to register that it was slightly strained. There
was a bit of a tremble in the hand she extended to brace herself on the side of the boat.

“Pen, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. Just a little queasy. It came on so suddenly—maybe from the boat rocking?”

That theory wasn’t entirely lacking in precedence. Colin well knew that Penelope was prone to
horrible sea-sickness, having cared for her on more than one voyage. Even ferry rides sometimes
got to her in a way that made her lose her lunch. But usually a rowboat was no trouble at all.

“It’s already fading,” she added. “Sex with you sounds heavenly, Colin, as always. But I’m less
keen on whatever nonsense we were going to have to go through to get the boat ashore. I love this
skirt and would hate to see it ruined with lake water. I’d rather just accept your brother’s help.”

Colin nodded, still not entirely convinced that her nausea was as inconsequential as she insisted.
“Rowboat sex can be a new adventure for another day,” he reassured her winningly.

It was what they said when there was somewhere or something new they wanted to experience
together. Their current list of New Adventures for Another Day had things on it like a tour of
Medieval Germanic churches, learning to ride a camel, trying Vietnamese snake wine, Burning
Man, and now rowboat sex. It wasn’t the first time they had put bedroom activities on the list, but
such things usually didn’t linger for long before getting crossed off.

“If doing it out on the water is too much for your stomach, we’ll just run aground first.”

Penelope’s laugh was warm and affectionate. “It’s a date, Colin Bridgerton.”

“Right,” Benedict’s voice carried over the water to them. He was unfurling a length of stiff and
dusty rope. “This is all there was, but I think it may work. You’re not that far from the shore.” He
paused. “Do…do I just throw one of the ends out to you?”
Rather than answer verbally, Colin stood up in the boat with a wide stance to maximize his
balance, and spread his palms in catcher’s pose.

“Right then.” Benedict cleared his throat. He began swinging the end of the rope around to get
some momentum going before letting it loose in Colin’s general direction. Very general. The tip of
the rope landed with a splat on the surface of the lake far, far wide of the intended target.

“A little out of practice, are we?” Colin jibed.

Benedict made a face as he pulled the rope back to shore for a second try. “The first crêpe doesn’t
count.”

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Colin said innocently and he heard Pen snicker behind him.

Benedict tried again. And again, many times. At no point did the rope land anywhere near the
boat. Penelope was in a full fit of giggles now as Colin bickered with his brother. It was a comfort
because it meant that at least she wasn’t feeling so poorly her sense of humor was impacted.

“Go get Anthony. Or Eloise. Hell, get Greg. Anyone else!”

But Benedict was stubborn, insisting he could do it, so Colin started screaming for help.

“I can just leave you here and tell Mother you’ve drowned, you know,” Benedict threatened.

Fortunately, it seemed Colin’s yelling had drawn alternative rescuers. Eloise and Francesca were
coming down the grassy path over the hill at a jog. Francesca’s sundress whipped around her legs
as she ran gingerly in wedge sandals, but Eloise was in cutoffs and trainers and in no way
hampered. She reached the shore first, but Fran was the one who called out.

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Benedict dropped the rope out of frustration and gestured toward the boat. “Colin and Pen are
stuck out on the lake with no oars.”

Eloise’s eyes narrowed. “What happened to your oars?”

“I ate them,” Colin said. “El, can you toss me that rope?”

True to her perfect aim, Eloise hit her mark on the first try and Colin caught the frayed, wet end
easily.

Benedict swore and sat down on a rock near the shore. “Well, I’m not living this down anytime
soon.”

Colin ignored him and spoke to his sisters. “Right then, haul us in.”

Everything went smoothly until the bottom of the boat ran afoul of some underwater plant life and
refused to budge any further. By that point Colin was very much over their afternoon adventure.
His main priority was getting Pen out of this boat. They were only a couple of meters from the
shore and the water was thigh deep at most.

Impulsively, he made the decision to hop out of the boat and into the water with a graceless splash.
Just as he thought, the water only came up a few inches over his knees. He dropped the rope and
turned back to Penelope. “Fetch your shoes, Pen.”

She blinked, but did as he asked. When she straightened up, shoes in hand, he was holding out his
arms to her.

“You aren’t carrying me, Colin.”

She had that look, that shadow behind her eyes, that he recognized as Pen feeling self-conscious
about her weight. It was a relic of Penelope the girl, unsure and shy about how other people saw
her; Penelope the woman was made of more confident stuff, especially regarding her sex appeal.
He didn’t see that shadow often anymore, hardly ever in fact, but this only confirmed for him how
much she wasn’t feeling like herself at the moment.

“Sure I am,” he disagreed. “You like that skirt, remember?”

She worried her lower lip for a moment before acceding. Leaning forward, she circled her arms
around his neck, and he angled her out of the boat in a bridal lift, careful to keep the hem of her
skirt above the surface of the water. He waded cautiously toward the shore, avoiding any vines or
rocks that might catch his shoes or trip him.

“What about the boat?” Eloise taunted as she coiled the rope.

Colin shook his head. “I don’t give a damn. I set it free to roam these waters as a feral boat from
this day forward.”

Francesca was smiling as Colin reached dry land and delicately lowered Penelope’s bare feet to the
soft grass. “How gallant,” she said.

Benedict was giving him the slow clap.

Colin glared at his brother. “Why thank you, Fran. I am gallant.”

Eloise snorted derisively. “Humble, too.” She stepped forward to check on her friend. “Are you all
right, Pen? You look a little green.”

Colin’s eyes darted to Penelope’s face.

“I’ll be fine now that I’m back on dry land. You know me—I’ve never gotten my sea legs.” She
paused. “Though…I do think I should like to lie down. Just for a bit.”

Jaw tightening, Colin tamped down his growing concern. “Let’s get you up to the house.”

Penelope nodded gratefully.

Aubrey Hall, the ancestral home of the Bridgerton family, was a sprawling display of generational
wealth with guest rooms to spare. Yet, since she had come into their lives, Penelope had always
been given a place in the family wing on her visits. Over the past few years, since she and Colin
had begun dating, she had started sleeping in his room with him.

As swiftly as could be managed, Colin and Eloise got Penelope to that room and tucked her into
bed.

“I’m fine, really. You two are being ridiculous.”

The protest had no effect, of course.

“I’ll feel better now that I’m off the boat.”

“And what about this morning?” Eloise countered. “You skipped breakfast because you felt ill
then, as well.”

This was news to Colin. “You did?”

Penelope started to roll her eyes, but then her expression turned thoughtful. “The takeaway
leftovers I ate last night…. Maybe they were off.”

“I ate them, too, Pen,” Colin said. “I feel fine.”

Penelope’s lips twitched. “Yes, but your stomach is made of steel. You never get food poisoning.”

Eloise strode toward the door. “I’ll go see what drugs we have in the cupboard here.”

Colin nodded grimly and his hand extended to feel the skin of Penelope’s face and neck for a
fever. Her temperature was normal to the touch.

“I feel fine, Colin.” She caught his hand in hers and pressed a kiss into his palm. “Even if I am
coming down with something, I’m sure it’s nothing to worry over.”

“I’m just trying to determine whether I need to switch into doctor boyfriend mode.”

Penelope raised her brows and gave him a playful leer. “Oh, you can be doctor boyfriend any time
as far as I’m concerned.”

He leaned in to kiss her, but she placed a hand on his chest.

“You smell like the lake,” she admitted with a grimace. “And you’re about to get our bed wet.”

He looked down at the knee he had almost placed on the duvet to climb up beside her. They both
laughed.

“I’ll change.”

He dipped his head to press his lips against her brow, then found a pair of joggers to change into.
The jeans would be fine after a wash, but his shoes might be ruined. He was going to regret getting
them wet in the morning—they were the only pair he had brought with him. He placed them over
the radiator and hoped for the best.

Eloise returned with an over-the-counter antiemetic and Colin’s mother carrying a tea tray.

Violet Bridgerton bustled Colin out of her way, set the tea tray on his bedside table, and sat on the
side of his bed facing his girlfriend. She took Penelope’s temperature with a thermometer and
confirmed it to be in the normal range. Colin watched as Pen dutifully drank the medication Eloise
measured out.

“Here,” his mother said, “I brought you some chamomile tea to wash the taste of that down.”

Pen gave a tiny smile and took the offered teacup and saucer. “Thank you, Violet.”

She always became shy when Colin’s mother fussed over her, and he knew it was because she
hadn’t gotten much of anything like it from her own mother.

Violet considered the abnormally pale face of the girl before her and turned to her son. “I know
you two planned to drive back to London tomorrow, but perhaps you should stay a day or two
longer.”
It wasn’t the worst idea, but Penelope rejected it out of hand. “I’m expected in the office, and
Colin has a meeting with his publisher.”

Colin saw his mother’s lips purse with misgiving.

“You’ll see her at your party next weekend, Mother,” he said. “If she’s not feeling better by then,
we can kidnap her and drag her to hospital together. I’ll get the shoulders and you’ll get the feet. El
will drive.”

Violet cracked a smile even though Colin could tell she was trying not to. She placed a hand on
Pen’s forearm, “Speaking of my birthday, I found the loveliest purple lilies. I’ll have some
delivered to your flat. If you don’t mind terribly, I’d very much like it if you wore them in your
hair to the party.”

Penelope seemed startled. “Me?”

“All my daughters.”

Eloise groaned. “That means I’m going to have to wear my hair up.”

“Oh, but…but I’m not….” Penelope struggled to complete the sentence.

“Of course you are,” Violet brushed the protest aside. “You and Kate.”

Colin suppressed a curse and looked to the heavens. This again! All these passive-aggressive hints
about how he should stop dithering about and marry Penelope.

But his eye caught the expression on his girlfriend’s face, and he froze. She looked green again.

“Colin and I aren’t….”

“Yet,” Eloise cut her off. Then she fixed her brother with a glare. “He’ll get around to it.
Eventually.”

His impulse was to pull a face at his sister, but Penelope’s next words cut through to the heart of
him.

“El, please….” Her voice was small. Vulnerable. “You promised.”

Eloise’s face changed, presumably because she was now remembering whatever promise she had
made. “Sorry.” It was a standard Eloise apology—short and brusque, with remorse showing in her
darting eyes and awkward shoulders rather than her tone.

Colin shifted uncomfortably as something private passed in the looks shared by the three women
crowded on his bed.

“Well,” his mother said, rising to her feet. “I expect you’ll like a nap before supper. If you aren’t
feeling up to eating with the family when the time comes, I’ll send up a tray.”

Penelope forced a smile. “Thank you, Violet.”

She extended her hand toward El to motion her off the bed. “We’ll leave you to rest.”

Eloise grumbled, but left with her mother, and Violet closed the door on her way out.

In the silence that followed, Penelope sipped her tea and sighed.
Colin cast about for a moment, undecided, and finally went with what he wanted to say rather than
what he should say. “This promise El made…anything I should know about?”

Pen blinked at him and her teacup froze on its way back down to the saucer. “It’s nothing secret.
I’ve just asked your mother and sister to stop hounding you about marriage.”

“Wait. Really?”

She nodded. “It annoys you and it gives me anxiety, so I asked them to ease off.”

His brows drew together. “It makes you anxious? Why?”

Pausing, she stared for a moment at her tea. Then she straightened, set the cup and saucer aside on
the tray, and looked up at him. “You want the honest answer?”

Colin ignored the slight chill that hit his blood and said, “Of course.”

Nervously, she licked her lips and confessed, “Talk of commitment makes you skittish. I don’t
want them to push you too hard, or draw too much attention to how long we have been dating.”

“Three years,” he said. “It’s not like I don’t know. I was there.”

Her gaze dropped. “Maybe I just don’t want to jinx it. This is already your longest relationship.”

“Yours, too.”

“That’s different,” she said. “You know it is. You were my first…first everything. My only.”

His lips twisted sardonically. “So maybe one day you’ll get bored with me. Or curious about other
people.”

“Be serious, Colin.”

“What if I am being serious?” His chin raised in challenge. “You’re the only one who can worry
about our future? I don’t want you to feel trapped either.”

Her eyes widened. “I don’t feel trapped.”

“Well…good.” Colin rubbed his cheeks roughly. He felt antsy—his feet itched to move, and it
took him a moment to realize he had acted on the impulse and started pacing. The emotion in his
chest felt gigantic, heavy, but he didn’t know if it was anger or panic. “We’re young, Pen.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if marriage is for me.”

“I know.”

“I’m not ready.”

“I know.”

The softness in her voice jerked him out of his own head and into the present. He saw that she had
pulled her knees close, folded into herself, and he felt like a bastard.

“Fuck, Pen. I’m sorry.” He raked his fingers through his hair and went to her.
He climbed up on the bed beside her, propping his back against the headboard and pulling her
close. She was stiff for a fraction of a second, then melted and laid her head in his lap.

“I’m shit at this, aren’t I? This boyfriend stuff?”

“No,” she denied. “You’re wonderful.” Peeking up at him with a teasing smirk, she added, “Most
of the time.”

Then she yawned, wide and long.

Colin grinned. “I love you, Pen.”

“I know.” She reached out and laced her fingers with his. “I love you, too.”

“Outside of my family, you are the only person I have ever said that to.”

She gazed up at him, eyes tender. “Colin….”

With his free hand, he cradled her jaw, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “Get some rest, Pen.
I’ve got you.”

It took a few minutes for her to settle, but she did fall asleep. He held her on his lap until the pins
and needles started in his leg. At that point, he gently shifted them both so that he was lying down
and she was tucked into his side. Somewhere along the line, he fell asleep too.

They slept through supper, but his mother had set plenty of food aside for them. They shared a
quiet meal for two in the kitchen. Penelope ate like she had been starving for days, but she was in
high spirits, so afterward they went in search of his siblings.

The big family holiday in the country was winding down. Daphne, her husband Simon, and their
little one had already departed Aubrey Hall after breakfast that morning. Everyone else would be
dispersing over the coming few days, until the whole Bridgerton clan came back to do it again in
the winter.

Colin and Penelope found his brothers and sisters in the upstairs drawing room of the family wing.
Gregory had dozed off with his head under an open Physics textbook on a chaise lounge, though
God knew how that could be possible, given the racket.

Over at his easel, Benedict appeared to be monologuing with exaggerated gesticulations toward a
canvas in progress to Francesca, who was drinking wine straight from the bottle, but most of the
noise was coming from a lively card game at the far end of the room. Anthony and Hyacinth were
in some sort of dispute that apparently necessitated all of Hertfordshire hearing the details. It didn’t
help that the other two people at the table were Eloise and Kate—neither of whom was capable of
being in the presence of an argument without offering their opinion.

“Well,” Pen said lightly, “clearly your mother has retired for the evening.”

Colin grinned. He pulled Pen over with him to a table where a bottle of aged brandy sat open near a
selection of crystal snifters. Some had been used and others were yet untouched. He poured two
glasses, one for each of them, but when Pen lifted hers to drink, she recoiled suddenly.

“What is it?” he asked.

Holding the glass away from her, she shook her head. She drew in a long, slow breath, as if to
cleanse her airways, before answering. “Sorry. The smell just hit my stomach wrong.”
Frowning, Colin again felt her skin for signs of a fever.

“I’m fine,” she insisted automatically. “Let’s spend time with your siblings. It’s our last night
here.”

After a moment of consideration, Colin nodded. If it would make Penelope happy, they could
spend a few hours socializing. And if she wasn’t feeling better in the morning, he would insist she
call out sick to work and then drive her to a doctor himself.

Dropping a kiss at her temple, he took the snifter of brandy from her and walked it over to the card
table. He placed it in front of Anthony, more as a gesture of sympathy than solidarity. The whole
table had ganged up on him now, but in Colin’s experience, if all three Kate, Eloise, and Hyacinth
believed you to be in the wrong, you probably were.

The debate paused as the table greeted Colin and Penelope.

With an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, Colin asked, “Room for two more?”

“Oh, no,” Penelope said quickly. “Not me. I’ll just watch.”

Eloise rose, pushing her chair back, and placing her cards face down on the walnut table. “Here.
You can take my place, Col. Pen and I have some books we’ve been meaning to discuss all week.”

Before he could respond, she was already dragging Penelope off to a window seat.

So, with a shrug, Colin placed his own snifter of brandy down on the table and dropped into
Eloise’s vacated seat. When he picked up her cards and surveyed them, however, it became clear
why she was so eager to abandon the game.

“Can we redeal?”

“No!” three voices answered simultaneously.

Colin made a face. “El! These cards are fucking rubbish.”

“Your problem, not mine,” she called back.

“In that case,” Anthony said with an evil smile, “I will be raising my bet.”

Colin feigned betrayal. “I brought you liquor.”

Anthony lifted his glass, toasting his brother. “And I thank you.”

They both drank.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Hyacinth said authoritatively. “I’m going to win this one.”

But Colin didn’t think so. He saw a knowing glint in Kate’s eye that did not bode well for the rest
of them. Sure enough, when the moment of truth came….

“For the love of….” Anthony threw his cards down on the table with a groan.

“What? How?” Hyacinth whined.

Kate’s preening grin was radiant. “I believe this pot is mine.”

Colin saluted her and downed the remainder of his brandy.

Anthony got up to refill his own, but Colin declined a second glass. With Pen feeling the way she
was, he was taking care that he would be fit to drive in the morning. He caught eyes with her while
she and Eloise giggled in the window seat, and smiled. The look she sent back to him was warm
with all her love.

The game continued on for almost an hour, and in that time, Colin was able to redeem the pile of
chips in front of him somewhat, mostly at the expense of Hyacinth, who was now declaring him
her least favorite brother. Fran had gone to bed, rousing Greg and shooing him out of the drawing
room with her. Now Benedict had the bottle of wine. He hovered over the card game offering
unhelpful commentary.

At quarter past midnight, Hyacinth declared the table in need of refreshments, so she and Anthony
made the trek down to the kitchen to raid the cupboards. While they waited, Kate regaled Colin
and Benedict with a tale of a client she had refused to represent after she found out he had
kidnapped his sister’s dog to blackmail her for a larger share of their inheritance.

A hand touched his arm, and Colin felt Penelope lean over him. “El and I are going to pop over to
the village,” she said when he looked up at her.

“Really?” Kate glanced at the antique grandfather clock. “Is anything even open at this hour?”

Pen nodded. “There’s a twenty-four hour chemist. We checked.”

Colin’s stomach clenched. “You’re feeling worse?”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “We’re just going to grab a few things.”

He made to rise. “I’ll take you.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Eloise said.

Only one glass, but possibly a fair point.

“And your shoes are still soaking wet,” Penelope reminded him.

Definitely a fair point.

“All right,” he conceded. “But take your phone.”

She smiled indulgently. “Of course.”

Eloise was rooting through the pockets of the jacket Anthony had left hanging on his chair.

“What are you doing?” Benedict asked.

“I took the train out,” she said simply. “I don’t have my car with me.”

“You can take ours,” Colin said.

But Eloise shook her head. “I’m taking Anthony’s.”

Anthony’s car was an ostentatious, classic model Jaguar. Colin and Penelope’s little economy car
couldn’t compete.
“The breast pocket,” Kate offered helpfully.

Eloise grinned when her hand emerged from the jacket triumphant, keys found. “Thanks.”

“Of course.”

Slinging an arm around Penelope, Eloise said, “Let’s be off.”

Pen bent to kiss Colin. “We’ll be right back.”

On their way out of the drawing room, they slipped by Anthony and Hyacinth returning with their
haul.

“Where are they headed?” Hyacinth asked.

“Wait. Did El have my keys?” Anthony demanded.

Kate patted his arm. “They’re just going to the village and back.”

He swore and rushed back over to the doorway, bowl of crisps still in his grasp. “Not in my car. El!
You do not have my permission!”

“I can’t hear you!” she shouted back.

Anthony blustered.

“What now, brother?” Benedict asked with a drunken smirk. “Chase her down? Try to wrestle the
keys from her while she fights dirty?”

But the eldest Bridgerton grumbled and shook his head. “Not worth it.” He returned to his seat at
the table and lowered himself into it heavily.

“In that case,” Hyacinth piped up, “can I drive your car?”

The response around the table was a vehement chorus of noes.

“You don’t have your license yet, dearest,” Kate said reasonably.

“And won’t for two years,” Colin added.

“One year,” Hyacinth corrected.

“If at all.” Anthony was regarding his baby sister with imperious authority. “You have given me
every indication that you would be a veritable hellion behind the wheel.”

Hyacinth protested but, privately, Colin did not disagree.

“Eloise,” Anthony took a gulp of his brandy, “is a good driver.”

The table fell silent.

Anthony’s eyes widened when he realized what he had just said. “None of you are to tell her I said
any such thing.”

Benedict choked with laughter on a mouthful of wine and the look of Hyacinth’s face was
priceless. No one made any promises, but Colin thought it unlikely any of them would spill the
beans regardless; there was no living with Eloise as it was.
The card game started up again, but Colin’s heart was no longer in it. He placed his phone on the
table beside his empty brandy snifter so that he wouldn’t miss any notifications. It never vibrated.
He picked it up multiple times just to check. Twenty minutes became thirty became forty. Finally,
he sent Pen a text.

C: everything all right?

P: one sec

Then, five minutes later -

P: can you come?

P: i need you

Colin dropped his cards and stood. “I’m out. Love you all.”

“Who gets your chips?” Hyacinth asked.

Just to stir the pot, Colin said, “Kate.”

That earned him one triumphant cackle and a gaggle of boos and jeers. There would be no stopping
his sister-in-law now.

C: where?

P: our room

Colin’s strides lengthened now that he knew where he was headed.

As he approached his door, he saw it open. Eloise stepped out into the hall and pulled the door
closed behind her. It struck him hard—how subdued her movement and slumped her posture was.
She looked up at the sound of his socked feet against the carpet, and the expression on her face….
If Colin didn’t know better, he would say that she looked as though she had been punched.

When he reached her, he floundered for words. “El, what…?”

But she shook her head. Her arms raised up and he was shocked when she went on tiptoe and
enfolded him in her arms.

Panic rose inside of Colin.

“I love you,” she said. Her breath caught and staggered as she fought with whatever emotion was
throwing her. “I love you both.”

Eloise kissed his cheek, which was something he couldn’t remember her having done since they
were children. She pulled back and he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes, but she was doing
her best to blink them away.

“She’s in there,” Eloise reassured him. “Be…be careful with her tonight. I think she’s a little fragile
right now.”

Colin’s insides were roiling and kicking with pure dread as he reached for the door handle. He was
terrified for the woman he loved. What was happening?

Penelope was seated on the foot of his bed. She had changed into a pair of sleep shorts and an old
pullover of his that he had picked up on a trip to Canada years ago. Her hair was down, red ringlets
hanging in her face, and when she looked up at him, her face was wet with tears.

He was at her side in an instant. “Oh, Pen! Love, what’s wrong?”

She sank bonelessly into his embrace, burying her face in his neck. Her tears soaked into the collar
of his shirt as she hefted a soul-deep sigh.

She gathered herself enough to whisper. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just letting the emotions out. It’s
not as bad as it looks. I just…I wasn’t expecting….”

“What weren’t you expecting?” Colin asked, trying with all his might to keep his frantic fear out of
his voice, to be strong and steady for her.

A pause.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” She pulled away from him and rose to her feet. She wiped
her tears away with the cuff of the pullover. “When El and I went for medicine, she was wandering
around the shop, perusing the shelves and she saw…. Well, she got an idea, a hunch, and it turned
out to be right.” Holding out her hand to him, Penelope said, “Come with me.”

He sat nonplussed for a moment, but took her hand, and she led him toward his en suite bath.

“You know how I’ve been queasy on and off?”

“Yeah.”

She gestured to a row of white plastic kits balanced on the rim of the bathtub. “It’s morning
sickness.”

Colin felt like he had just taken a Pall Mall mallet to the gut. “W-what?”

“It’s morning sickness,” she repeated. “Although, for me it looks like that term isn’t going to be
literal. Which is annoying. I’m…I’m pregnant.”

After forty seconds of ringing silence, all he could manage was, “But you’re on birth control.”

“I am, but no method of contraception is foolproof.” She drew a shaky breath, looking exhausted.
“El and I got multiple tests, just to be sure. They all say the same thing.”

Colin scrubbed his palms against his face. Inside, his chest felt sluggish and numb. “Well…this…
this is fucking horrible.”

It wouldn’t be until several hours later, when he was tossing and turning alone in a cold bed
thinking back on this moment, that he would realize that Penelope had visibly flinched when he
said those words.

“Is it?”

“How can it not be?” he demanded. “We’re too young for this!”

Penelope didn’t respond right away. When she did finally speak, it was in her most reasonable
tone. “We’re in our twenties, Colin. That’s not so young. And our circumstances are far better than
most people our age.”

Colin blinked at her. She was so calm. Whatever she was thinking or feeling right now, he couldn’t
relate to it at all. “Why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided to keep it.”

“It’s yours, Colin.” With those simple words, the whole world shifted and lurched into focus. She
loved him, he reminded himself. She had for years and years, even back when she was just his little
sister’s best friend. She would never give up his baby.

Colin’s stomach dropped.

Penelope was studying him, assessing his moods as they passed over his face. She knew him very,
very well. He couldn’t hide anything from her. “You’re freaking out,” she surmised.

“Of course I am!” he snapped. “I’m not ready.”

Her spine straightened. “Neither am I, but it’s still happening. Pretending won’t make it go away.
We have to face this.”

“I don’t want it.”

This time he saw it right away—the hurt his words caused. “Yes,” she whispered, “I’m gathering
that.”

“I’m sorry. God, Pen, I’m so sorry,” he blurted. He raked his hands through his hair, noting
distantly that his fingers were trembling. Desperation exploded out of him like a torrent. “What do
you want from me? Damn it, Pen, what happened to not putting pressure on me?”

“You say that like you think I did this on purpose.”

“Did you?” It was a horrible, nasty thing to say. He regretted the words the moment they left his
mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

But Penelope had deflated. Her eyes grew distant and withdrawn. “Yes, you did.”

Colin opened his mouth to deny it, but no words were forthcoming. Because she was right. The air
hung heavy with the past. Old wounds had reopened. Resentments he had sworn to her he had let
go of were revealed—right there between them, alive and well.

Tell me you didn’t do this. Colin remembered demanding on that dock, two years ago.

Don’t look at me like that, Colin, Pen had begged, face tear-streaked. You don’t understand. It
wasn’t…it wasn’t like what you think.

You know what I think? I think you lie, Pen, Colin had accused. I think you scheme and gossip. I
think you are your mother’s daughter, and I think this mess has your fingerprints all over it.

Here, now, in his childhood bedroom, Penelope’s hand fluttered to her stomach, then dropped. She
wasn’t looking at him so much as through him. A wall had gone up inside her.

“I need to leave,” she announced.

If Colin thought he knew panic before, it was nothing compared to what hit him now. “What?
No.”
 “Yes,” she said firmly. “If I stay, we are both going to say things we ‘don’t mean’—things we
can’t unsay.”

He watched impotently as she retrieved her suitcase, already packed in anticipation for their
departure tomorrow, save a few toiletries which she gathered now.

“Pen…please.”

“Don’t ask me to stay, Colin. I won’t, and it will just hurt us both to make me say no.”

Colin shrank, so ashamed of himself that he felt sick with it. “Where…? It’s the middle of the
night. Do you need the car?” He groped for the keys on the bedside table, but the room wavered
and swam. Tears, he realized.

And then, Pen was beside him, placing her hand over his. She was crying, too. “No, Colin. No. I
don’t need the keys. I’m not going far. Just to the end of the hall. My old room. From before.”

Before us.

Colin sagged.

She rolled her suitcase to the door. “I’ll see you in the morning, Colin.”

“I love you.” The words came out frantic.

“I love you, too, Colin.”

And she left.

He did not know it was goodbye—that those words would be the last they spoke to one another.

Chapter End Notes

Next up, we will spend the night with Regency Colin as he attends the Featherington
Ball and says the stupidest thing ever, only to wake up in 2022. Hope to see you there!
 His youthful appetites
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,
And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimmed with every costly wine,
And all that mote to luxury invite,
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine,
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass earth's central line.

The sails were filled, and fair the light winds blew
As glad to waft him from his native home;
And fast the white rocks faded from his view,
And soon were lost in circumambient foam;
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam
Repented he, but in his bosom slept
The silent thought….

-Lord Byron
“Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”
Canto the First, verses 11-12

Featherington House
Mayfair, London
12 June 1815

Since entering society, Colin Bridgerton had danced with many a young lady out of obligation. In
fact, that was far more often the circumstance than actually wishing to dance with a girl.
Gentlemanly duty made the act familiar. And yet, he was certain obligation had never been so
strongly or aptly the word before now, as he led Cressida Cowper onto the dance floor at the
Featherington Ball.

Her gloved fingers felt strange in his grasp. In three seasons, he had never once danced with her.
His eye ever so briefly found Penelope Featherington’s face where she lingered at the fringes of the
room, and he was reminded why. Poor Pen…. The betrayal in her eyes cut him to the quick. He
averted his gaze.

Cressida had always been so cruel to Penelope. Maybe some didn’t see it, but Colin was fully
aware, and it made her repugnant to him. But tonight was about protecting Penelope—all of the
Featheringtons—and so, Colin grit his teeth and reminded himself that Pen’s wounds would be
short-lived.

Flirting came naturally to Colin; in the ballroom, it was both his armor and his weapon. “You do
realize you are dancing with a ruined Bridgerton, Miss Cowper?”

“I enjoy keeping people alert,” Cressida returned with a sickening simper.

Colin wasted no time in advancing toward his objective. “And I enjoy that beautiful necklace you
are wearing.” He leaned closer. “A gift from Lord Featherington?”

“Seventeen rubies, in fact,” she boasted.

He tried to school his expression, but was unable to completely disguise his contempt. Luckily,
Miss Cowper misconstrued the source of his feelings.

“Do you grow jealous, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Using his proximity and vantage to study the gold fastening, he said, “Mmm, dazzling.” His hand
slipped behind her neck and…. “Except the clasp is broken.”

“Is it?”

The heavy necklace slid loose from her neck and down her bodice, where Cressida halted its
progress by catching it in her hand.

“Might I mend it for you?” Colin offered politely, hoping he did not sound too eager. “The
Bridgerton valet has a way with jewelry.”

And Cressida, the foolish girl, gave him the necklace right then and there. Her vanity could think
of no other motive than a desire to court her.

He pivoted around her the moment the music ended, and walked to where Penelope stood at the
edge of things. He did not know if Cressida saw how he took Pen’s hand in his—in no way did he
try to hide it and he did not look back.

“Come with me,” he whispered.

A bright smile reclaimed Penelope’s features and he pulled her from the ballroom. She went with
him readily as he strode, the yellow tissue of her dress swishing as she kept pace with him.

He led her down the hall and to the drawing room, closing the doors behind them without a
thought. If he had thought, if he had been even a little less single-minded in his determination to
reveal her cousin’s scheme, the fact that he was alone with Penelope without a chaperone might
have given him pause.

She was certainly aware. “Colin,” she said, her voice a little breathless, “it could be thought
scandalous for the two of us—”

When he thought back on this moment later, he would register her words. He would wince. He
should have taken more care with her reputation. And then he would thank God she had walked
away untarnished in spite of his carelessness.

But as the instant unfurled, he was blind to those improprieties. He had the proof needed to reveal
the snake living in his dear friend’s house, and that was his only object. “There are no gemstone
mines in Georgia,” he announced. “Your cousin, Lord Featherington, I’m sorry to be the one to tell
you this, Pen, but…well, I have looked into him. I believe he is nothing but a mere charlatan.”

Penelope looked up at him with acute confusion. “What? What are you saying?”

How to tell her that the man who held the future of her family’s estate and reputation in his hands
was a confidence man? That he had taken money from half the ton as investment in a fraudulent
scheme? Colin brandished Cressida’s rubies. “I am saying, if I am right, then this necklace—”
The latch on the door clicked loudly, and he looked up to see Lord and Lady Featherington enter
the room.

“Penelope? Mr. Bridgerton?” Colin was unsure whether the expression on the man’s face was
indignation or concern.

But Lady Featherington was all confusion. “What is the meaning of this?”

This was not the plan. He had meant to tell Pen and only Pen first, to confront Lord Featherington
later, but now the issue had been forced and Colin had a choice to make.

He assessed the altered circumstance and, with a glance down at the ruby necklace in his hand,
reacted impulsively. “The meaning is…” he placed the jewels down on the nearby tea table and
bashed them with the hilt of a cake knife. Much to his satisfaction, the red stones burst and
shattered, confirming all of his suspicions. “…That this necklace is a fraud, made of glass.” He
turned on Lord Featherington. “Just like you. How dare you take advantage of these poor ladies,
Featherington, without a father or a husband to protect them?”

He looked over at Penelope and his heart twisted. Her eyes were wide, and her lips parted in
shock.

Jaw hardening, Colin continued, “It is out of concern for their reputation alone that I will only
address this matter in private.” He advanced on the villain, glaring into his face. Featherington
squirmed. “But I expect you to return all the funds you have collected, and leave town at once.”

Threat and ultimatum issued, Colin stalked from the room.

He had never thought of himself as particularly excitable, but there had been something daring in
what he had just done that left a tremble in his limbs. Colin had never seized control of a situation
like that before, never stared down a man in challenge, or had cause to take a righteous stand.
Often, he still felt like a boy lost and lagging behind his brothers and peers, searching for his
purpose and himself. But just then, squaring off with a rogue like Jack Featherington, he had been
sure. Steady. His stomach had been taut, as though he were on some stage, taking part in a play and
everyone was looking at him. Yet, it had not seemed unnatural or artificial. Colin was himself as he
had always wished to be, the man he aspired to be. He felt…exhilarated.

Stopping before a footman holding a tray, Colin lifted a glass of prosecco and downed it all at
once.

“Colin.” Pen had followed after him.

He went to her. “Are you all right?”

Her breathing was shaky, but she answered, “I believe so.”

“Good,” Colin said. And then he smiled and took her hand. “Because we are dancing.”

He wanted to celebrate. He wanted to celebrate with her.

She followed his touch where he led. The strings of the quartet sang out, and the dance began.

“I had been practicing that speech in my mind for hours,” he confessed. “If your cousin does not
return the money and leave your family alone, I will have another thing to say to him.”

“You were astonishing, Colin.” Penelope gazed up at him and he could see plainly her gratitude
and her affection. “I cannot thank you enough for looking after us.”

Inside, he felt…warm. It seemed important that she should know the truth. Helping the
Featherington ladies was the morally correct and gentlemanly thing to do, but that wasn’t entirely
why he had done it. He had been thinking of Pen. Pen in particular. Pen only, if he were honest.

“I will always look after you, Penelope,” he promised.

Her smile was a delicate, lovely thing that lightened his step.

She had been his reliable port of call in this last horrid year. No matter how far over the horizon he
sailed for adventure, no matter how bogged down he became in his own mind, she was there as a
beacon, reminding him where home was. However lost he persisted to be in his heartbreak over
Marina, or morose he became over his future, she was kind. She was clever and witty. Even when
his own family thought him insufferable, she was patient and attentive. Which made her a saint,
really. He well knew that he had been blundering about like a black cloud for months. Penelope
was under no obligation to continue to be so good to him—yet she was, and he thought all the more
highly of her character and her heart because of it.

“You are special to me.”

Her breath caught. “As are you…to me.”

Penelope’s words made him smile, made him feel ten feet tall. Nothing quite compared to the way
she looked at him sometimes.

When the dance ended, Colin was still soaring.

He found another footman and another tray of prosecco, and that was where his mother ambushed
him.

“It’s lovely to see you smiling again, dearest,” she said, her eyes soft with emotion.

He swallowed his mouthful of sparkling wine. “It’s a good night.”

Only when her expression flashed with brief puzzlement did Colin realize what an odd thing that
was to say. Eloise was still in a limbo of possible ruination, and Anthony had thrown their entire
family’s future into uncertainty with his disastrous pursuit of the Sharma sisters. Their invitation to
the Featherington Ball was a boon, perhaps even an opportunity, but the future of the Bridgerton
clan was far from secure—something he had been all too acutely aware of only minutes ago.
Somehow he had been caught up in the moment, forgetting the precariousness in a flash of pure
exhilaration.

His mother seemed to intuit that, but she misidentified the cause. “I did not realize how close you
had grown with Miss Featherington. She looks lovely tonight, does she not?”

Colin nearly choked on his prosecco. “Your normally fastidious parson’s mousetrap is missing a
few pieces tonight, Mother. I always dance with Penelope Featherington. Nothing remarkable
there.”

“You do indeed. But this is the first I have seen you gazing at each other like lovers.” Violet said
shrewdly, “I should have kept a sharper eye in your direction. You will not be able to hide it from
me any longer.”

He stifled an ungentlemanly groan. “Penelope is a dear friend, Mother. Nothing more. Don’t go
getting any of your match-making ideas.”

To his dismay, she was undeterred. “Friendship makes the best of foundations for a love story.”

What a boggling thing to say, Colin thought. Love was built on passion. It hit a body with
whirlwind emotion and hot-blooded desire. Love was a thunderbolt. The whole history of poetry
attested to that. True, some matches may find themselves friends as well—Colin’s sister Daphne
and her husband Simon were a testament to that—but surely passion was requisite and friendship
was incidental.

Limited experience in the bedchamber notwithstanding, he was no green boy in this area. He had
been in love before, disaster that it was, and he remembered well how it had felt.

Colin recalled when first he saw Marina Thompson. The immediate and sublime feeling that
overtook him from all the way across a ballroom. One look and he had been lost.

He abandoned the remainder of his prosecco on a passing tray, his celebratory mood sapping from
him.

His engagement to Marina and subsequent broken heart had been nothing if not instructive. The
consequences of his impulsive foolishness were still-healing wounds, but that only proved that they
were real. Love was what he had felt for Marina; what he felt for Penelope…was something else.
Something true and warm, vital and curative, familiar and bolstering. Something he could hear and
feel across oceans. Nevertheless, something else. What he felt for Penelope bore no resemblance to
what he had felt for Marina.

Besides, if he were going to develop passion for Penelope, surely he would have by now. Right?
And didn’t Pen deserve a man who felt the burn of passion for her?

He felt moved to say as much. “Penelope is meant for more than a mere marriage of convenience.
She should settle for no less than a love match with a man who is properly besotted with her.”

Violet’s lips parted.

“I cannot give her that,” he continued. “So cease your scheming.”

“And what of your happiness, dearest?” she asked softly.

Colin disliked the somber turn the conversation had taken, and he had no intention of discussing
his love life with his mother of all people. “My lady is the sea. Have I not told you, Mother? I’ve
decided to put that first in mathematics from Oxford to good use and take up piracy.”

“Colin!” She nudged him with exasperation.

“What? It’s better than my plan to become an actor, is it not?”

She attempted to give him a stern look, but her twitching lips gave her away.

“So we are in agreement, then?” he said. “Excellent. I sail in the morning.”

“Colin, be serious for a moment—”

“I say,” he said loudly. “What is Anthony doing with Miss Sharma?”

It worked. Violet’s attention immediately swung to the dance floor, where his eldest brother was
leading Kate to the opening strings of the next song. Colin had mostly said it to distract his mother,
but it was still a good question. What was Anthony doing?

By all appearances, throwing decorum to the bloody wind. Who knew the old boy had it in him?

His mother gravitated to Lady Danbury’s side, who Colin noted with a jolt had been only a scant
few feet away this whole time. Both matrons opened their mouths as if to speak, but neither
managed even a single word. All their mutual meddling had come to naught, and they were
powerless to stop the disaster from unfolding in front of them. Instead they watched, struck still
and dumb.

Colin took that as his moment to slip away. At least his mother would have another child as the
target of her energies for a time.

Something about that conversation had been stifling, and Colin found he needed some air.

Mouth pressed in a grim line, Colin made his way toward the garden. The crowd was frozen in
place, craning their necks for a view of the dance floor, and thus not terribly accommodating to his
urgency. Still, no one stopped or noted him either, and he appreciated that. It wasn’t until he
stepped out into the fresh night air and was struck by the scent of honeysuckle and…cheroot
smoke, that anyone spoke to him.

“Judging from the desperation in your retreat, I’m guessing that round went to Mother?”

Colin turned his head. Benedict was lounging on a stone bench under an oak tree, half in shadow
and smoking.

“She scored a point or two on me, perhaps, but I hardly lost the round. I am the master of the parry
and the strategic retreat, as you well know.”

Benedict scoffed. There was something ill-tempered and sullen in the sound, in the way he held his
shoulders.

“Are you all right, brother?” Colin asked.

The older man puffed his cheroot and shook his head. “Nothing of consequence. Especially not
compared to your second headlong sprint toward the altar.”

Colin stiffened. “I’m not getting married.”

Benedict’s lips twisted with humor. “Really? You should tell your eyes. The way you were looking
at her, brother…. Calf-eyed and mooning—in public. Little wonder Mother pounced. There’s no
use playing coy—it will be the talk of the ton by morning.”

Considering Anthony was dancing with the sister of his former fiancée at this very moment, in
front of the Queen no less, Colin doubted that very much.

“I am not courting Penelope Featherington.”

Benedict chuckled, but then caught the seriousness in Colin’s expression. “Good God. You’re
not?”

“No,” Colin said tightly. “Of course not. She’s….” He started to say, “She’s like a sister to me,”
but the words stuck in his throat and would not come. They felt wrong. To say that would be a lie,
but he hadn’t realized it until just now. Penelope was most certainly not like a sister to him. But
then, what was she? He shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes. “She’s a friend.”
“A friend?” Benedict repeated incredulously.

“A dear one,” he insisted. “I will not hear her disparaged in any way.”

His brother touched his hand over his heart as a promise. “I would never.” Benedict stood and
crushed the butt of the cheroot into the ground with his boot. “Are you certain you’re not in love
with her?”

He looked concerned now and Colin bristled.

“Of course, I am certain. I know my own mind.”

Benedict nodded, but irritatingly did not appear entirely convinced. “Will I see you at White’s
later?”

Colin shook his head. “I will be spending the evening at Mondrich’s. I owe him a debt.”

His brother’s brow pulled with surprise, but he did not pry. “Perhaps I will join you. Later. I have
some business to attend to. Do you know where to find Anthony?”

Immediately, Colin’s spirits buoyed. “You saw my dance but you did not see his?”

“His dance? When?”

“Just now, before I entered the garden.”

“No, I was out here smoking, as you saw,” Benedict said. “Did he raise a scandal then?”

Colin grinned wickedly. “He danced with Miss Sharma.”

“Which?”

“Which do you think?”

Benedict barked a laugh. “Oh, that will leave a mess.”

“Shall we go and see the carnage?” Colin clapped him on the back.

The brothers turned toward the house just as people began filing out of the Featherington ballroom.
A quick interrogation of the other guests revealed that Lady Featherington had directed everyone
out onto the lawn for some sort of surprise. So, the Bridgerton brothers followed the path of the
crowd. Around the front of the Featherington home, they split off from each other. Benedict went
in search of Anthony, while Colin was ambushed by a group of young gentlemen he knew from
university. He had made arrangements with them already to go straight from the Featherington Ball
to Mondrich’s for drinking and cards.

“What of hazard?” Acklethorpe asked. “Does this establishment have dice games, Bridgerton?”

“Indeed it does.” Colin answered.

“You still owe me from our last game,” Fife reminded his frequent companion.

Acklethorpe frowned petulantly. “You know I’m good for it.”

The expression Fife made in response was impolite, but Colin did not disagree—they all well knew
that Acklethorpe very likely was not good for it.
“I only care about the quality of the brandy,” Hart said.

Lewes did not look up from the cheroot he was lighting. “Here, here!”

“Mondrich only serves the best,” Colin assured the gentlemen. “And he is, above all, an honorable
man.”

“Shall we go now, then?” Fife prompted.

“I believe Lady Featherington has a surprise for her guests,” Colin said. “I confess I am curious.”
Not only that, it would be unpardonably rude to leave before the host’s grand finale.

Lord Fife’s smile had a nasty tinge to it, and Colin was reminded why he didn’t normally keep
company with him. Tonight he was casting a wide net, stretching the definition of “friend” so as to
assemble adequate numbers for his peace offering to Mr. Mondrich.

“Of course,” Fife granted. “It wouldn’t do to offend your future mother-in-law.”

Colin stiffened. It was the kind of comment he would prefer to simply ignore, but the other
gentlemen tittered, and Whitfield chimed in a, “Shudder to think!”

“I’m not sure I take your meaning,” Colin said, choosing the strategy of feigning surprise, perhaps
even confusion if necessary. This rumor needed to be stopped here and now before it did damage.

“The chit you are all the time dancing with,” Acklethorpe elaborated bluntly. “The little plump one
who is always wearing yellow.”

The way he talked about Pen set Colin’s teeth on edge. A gentleman should never speak of a lady
thus. She has a name. “Penelope Featherington?” he reminded the man coldly.

Many of the men chuckled and nudged one another. Colin reminded himself that he needed these
jackals to round out his party for Mondrich’s, and bit his tongue.

Fife was the one who piped up with an infuriatingly insinuating voice. “The way you were dancing
with her looked rather interesting.”

Colin rolled eyes and gave a dismissive, “Ah.”

“You courting the girl, Bridgerton?” Lewes asked, eyes alight. Whether with amusement or the
thrill of gossip, Colin was unsure.

His heart was hammering. He was annoyed. And baffled. What was it others had seen tonight that
made them so confident something amorous was afoot? They all knew Colin always danced with
Penelope. It didn’t mean anything and no one had ever before presumed that it did. But tonight!
People were seeing fit to comment and conjecture about what was really going on, and to his face.
Family was one thing, though no less strange that they should misinterpret such an innocuous
moment. But these men? His relationship with Penelope was the business of none of them.

“Are you mad?” he scoffed, addressing the leader specifically. If Fife backed off, the others would
follow suit. So, Colin did his best to be convincing, to sound bored and blasé. “I would never
dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies, Fife.”

Fife’s expression was smug and knowing. He wasn’t even giving Colin the courtesy of eye contact,
but rather looking at something past him when he acquiesced. “Of course. My mistake,
Bridgerton.”
Colin’s jaw tightened, though he was saved from having to continue the topic of conversation by
four more men joining the group and loudly asking if it was time to go. Would there be whiskey?
What about whist?

As it transpired, the pack of young men disappeared during Lady Featherington’s fireworks
display, following Colin’s impatient lead. He found himself eager to have this business done and
get the gentlemen something other than gossip to occupy their time. The club was within walking
distance, so there was no need to summon carriages or hire hacks. As they traveled, the sky cracked
above them with bursts and flashes of light and bright color.

He entered the building ahead of the rest of the men, seizing a small private moment to apologize.
Mr. Mondrich was alone behind the bar, cleaning glasses in a room of empty tables.

“You were right about the new Lord Featherington,” he told the former pugilist turned club owner.
“I must apologize for how I acted the other day. It was what I needed to do in order to gain his
trust.”

Mr. Mondrich was humble, and he poured Colin a drink. “A win I do not relish.”

“No,” Colin grinned, reminded why he liked this man so well, “but perhaps you should pour
yourself something as well.”

Behind him, all the gentlemen he had gathered up from the Featherington Ball were filing in,
spirits high. It was more customers at once than Mondrich had had since opening his struggling
club, and the man’s eyes widened.

“I told them this place was run by an honorable man who serves a good drink. They demanded to
come.” Colin raised his glass in salute. “I am in your debt now, Mr. Mondrich. Thank you.”

Mondrich’s lip pulled up crookedly in a smile, and he nodded.

Colin, for his part, did his utmost to enjoy the evening and the gaming, to set the example of how
best to enjoy oneself in this establishment. The way to best accomplish that, he conjectured, was to
steer clear of Lord Fife and his set whenever possible.

For a while, that worked. Colin played a game of billiards with Archie Maitland and the Stirling
cousins. After the first hour, Benedict turned up. His black mood was still in evidence, but he
provided a social buffer nonetheless.

The men drank, they smoked, and they played game upon game. As the night progressed, some
cried off, and a group of four moved on to a brothel. Those that stayed behind fell deeper into their
cups. The laughter grew louder, more raucous.

And then Acklethorpe found a stack of back issues of Whistledown. He began by merely reading
some of her most cutting insults and clever turns of phrases for the pleasure of the group. But then,
the man’s alcohol-sodden brain detected a pattern.

“She writes about you a great deal, Bridgerton,” he observed.

“She does indeed,” Lewes drawled, well into his second bottle of brandy. “And it is always so
damnably complimentary. All the time blathering on about how charming and handsome Colin
Bridgerton is.”

Colin hadn’t noticed any such thing. But then, he didn’t often read the column anymore. Last year,
it had seemed like good fun. Until it wasn’t. Until that horrid woman wrote about his plan to elope
with Marina and disclosed the secret that the poor girl was carrying another man’s child to the
entire ton. His world fell apart and his heart was left broken. In front of everyone. It was all thanks
to the cruelty of the unscrupulous Lady Whistledown. She had made a plaything of his life, and just
days ago, she had done the same to his sister. She ruined lives to sell scandal sheets—mocked
people, aired their secrets, for money. Colin detested the woman, whoever she may be.

Fife laughed, the cad. “Perhaps the old biddy carries a tendre for you, Bridgerton.”

Colin tensed, revolted both by the idea and by Fife’s tone.

Acklethorpe laughed loudly. Too loudly. “Can you imagine? A shriveled old spinster, pining in the
corner for you?”

“Perhaps she could join with wallflower Featherington girl, and together they could form The
Society for the Appreciation of Mr. Colin Bridgerton,” Fife said nastily.

Acklethorpe and Lewes chorused with hearty laughs at that.

Colin didn’t realize that his grip on his cigar had gotten so tight, until it snapped. He felt a
steadying hand come down on his shoulder and realized Benedict was now at his side.

“Mind what you say of Miss Featherington,” Colin said icily. “Her reputation is without blemish,
and that is how it shall remain. You will spread no lies about her.”

Fife’s brows raised in a gesture of surprise that seemed genuine. “Where is the lie? The girl stares
up at you as though the sun rises and sets in your eyes.”

Colin’s stomach flipped.

“You don’t want her,” Fife continued, “and fair enough. Who would? But she was setting her
hopes on you, I’d bet my stable on it.”

Blood at a boil, Colin tried to lunge toward Fife, but Benedict held him back.

“Thankfully, that problem has been solved,” the haughty man said with twinkling eyes.

“What do you mean?” Colin demanded.

Fife waved his hand as he kicked back the rest of his brandy. “Tonight. When you declared that
you would never dream of courting her? She was nearby. She heard, and she took your words to
heart. Ran off with tears all down her face.”

“Oh, good,” Acklethorpe said with inattentive callousness. He was still perusing the old columns
spread out on the table in front of him. “Perhaps the silly girl will leave you alone now,
Bridgerton.”

Colin wanted to strangle Fife, to challenge him to a duel or beat his face into the wooden planks of
the floor. But he couldn’t get the image Fife had planted of a weeping Penelope out of his head,
fleeing from Colin like a wounded bird.

He felt numb. His limbs were heavy weights he could never hope to lift, and his torso was an
empty husk.

Benedict’s deep voice came softly to his ear. “Come away, brother. Killing Fife won’t solve this
mess.”
Colin allowed himself to be led. Benedict steered him through the maze of tables and toward the
door. His feet moved but the world seemed only to wobble and slip by. Colin snatched a mostly
full bottle of brandy off a try on his way out.

On the steps outside, the night air hit him with the full bite of an unseasonable chill.

“I’ll call for a carriage,” Benedict said, but Colin did not respond.

He sat on the steps and lifted the bottle to his lips. The brandy burned on the way down, but that
did not stop him. He took another mouthful, and another. Benedict watched but did not comment.
When Colin showed no signs of moving, he sat beside him.

The brothers sat in silence while the minutes passed and Colin drank the brandy. The whole bottle.

“Is it true? Do you think?”

“Is what true?” Benedict asked.

“Does Pen have feelings for me?”

His brother looked away. “I don’t know her as well as you do. I can only guess what is in her
heart.”

“But do you think? From your own…” Colin struggled for the word, his brain foggy, “your own
eyes.” “Eyes” wasn’t the word he had been looking for, but it would do.

Benedict sighed. “Yes, I think so.”

“And I hurt her?”

“If you said what Fife said you did? And she heard? Then probably yes.”

Colin’s head fell into his hands.

Benedict gave his back a strong, comforting pat. “Let’s get you home, brother.”

Colin did not resist being loaded up into a carriage. The swaying made the liquor in his stomach
churn.

“You’ll make it right,” Benedict said gently. “The girl is important to you, so you will find a
way.”

Yes, Colin would make it right. That sentiment lit a hazy fire inside him. “She’ll talk to me,” he
said. “She has to. I’ll go mad if she doesn’t.”

Benedict’s eyes widened slightly at his vehemence.

He tried to imagine a future without Penelope and he failed. What would his life even look like
without her? Without her there to steady him? Make him laugh?

And what of her? The idea that she was out there, hurting…. It was unbearable. Even if she did not
care for him the way that Benedict and Fife seemed to think, how could his words have not
wounded her feelings? He hadn’t considered how they might have sounded to an onlooker. He had
been thinking only of his own discomfort, of his desire for the rumor to go away. But…. She must
have felt so unwanted, so humiliated.
He owed his friend better.

The carriage stopped and Benedict helped Colin down to the cobbles. The world shifted and
rocked and it was a moment before Colin felt steady on his feet.

“Get in to bed.”

Colin peered up at his taller brother. “What about you?” It was what he meant to say, anyway. The
words came out slurred.

He smiled sadly. “I need to find distraction from my own disappointments. In to bed. I will see you
in the morning. Or the afternoon, more likely.”

Colin waved as the carriage pulled away. He should go inside, but instead he stood dumbly while
the sky began to drizzle. Across the square, right in the line of his eyes, stood the Featherington
house. It seemed, in that moment, like the only building in the world. The windows were all dark.

His feet were moving without thought, pulled by a drive that was so deep he had no notion what
fueled it. All he knew was—now. He needed to see Penelope now. He needed to tell her how sorry
he was, to make it right.

The damp cobbles scraped under his boots, echoing in the night. He considered the front door, but
paused before knocking, realizing that the butler was in bed and would never admit a young man at
this hour. No, Colin would need to get creative.

Stepping back, he rounded the house, slipping through a garden gate that had not been locked after
the ball. He eyed the high windows, trying to picture where he had seen Penelope waving
sometimes when they passed. The last one—at the back. That must be her window. Colin was
almost sure of it.

It called to him. She was so close.

He approached, trying not to trod on Lady Featherington’s petunias, but the ground was damp and
his balance unsteady, so not all were left unscathed. He had no ladder, nor any tools to aid his
climb, but he thought there might be places to grip between the stones. He was strong, after all. He
had climbed a rock face in Cyprus once. He could manage this.

To his frustration, his arms felt noodley and uncoordinated. They did not want to hold his weight.
But he was stubborn and he kept trying. Progress was slow, but his feet left the ground eventually.
Up, he concentrated. Up.

But it was not to be. His wet boot slipped, and without his left leg secured, he fell. His face
slammed into the rock, and then the ground into his backside. He swore, loudly, and then groaned
while clutching his face.

As he sat in the wet dirt, rain drizzling down his face, the pain and the cold water sobered Colin
enough for it to occur to him that perhaps he was drunk. Perhaps this was a bad idea that would
cause more problems than it would fix.

What would he even say to her if he managed to reach her window? If he could even wake her to
open it for him? What if he ruined her, or frightened her, or hurt her worse than he already had?

Colin gazed up at the pane of dark glass above him with a bleak longing in his heart.

Benedict was right. He should go home. He should sleep this off and come back tomorrow, call on
 her like a gentleman.

Gingerly, he climbed to his feet. When his hand came away from his face, there was a red glisten
of blood that caught the moonlight. Damn it all, he had scraped his face. And it hurt.

Ashamed and heavy with failure, Colin trudged back across the square to Bridgerton House.

No one stopped him as he made his way to his room. The looking glass above his basin showed a
long but shallow wound on his cheek. Gritting his teeth, he splashed his face with water, grimacing
from the sharp pain and the liquor making his head swim. He gave up, and, muddy boots and all,
he stumbled to his bed and collapsed.

The morning would be better, he told himself as sleep took him. In the morning, he would see
Penelope.

In the night, he rolled over and his arm found a warm body beside him. It was soft. It smelled
familiar and felt right in his arms, so he pulled her closer and slept on.

Chapter End Notes

As I am sure you noticed, some of the dialogue from this chapter was borrowed from
episode 8 of season 2 of the Netflix Bridgerton series. I want to make sure I give credit
to the show writers there. I expanded and built around what we were shown of Colin in
that episode, but those are obviously just my speculations and interpretations in service
of my own story.

Next chapter: Modern Colin wakes up in 1815 in a muddy, bloody bed.

 The warm pulses of the heart
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

THOU art no more my bosom's FRIEND;

Here must the sweet delusion end,
That charm'd my senses many a year,
Thro' smiling summers, winters drear.–
O, FRIENDSHIP! am I doom'd to find
Thou art a phantom of the mind?
A glitt'ring shade, an empty name,
An air-born vision's vap'rish flame?
And yet, the dear DECEIT so long
Has wak'd to joy my matin song,
Has bid my tears forget to flow,
Chas'd ev'ry pain, soothed ev'ry woe;
That TRUTH, unwelcome to my ear,
Swells the deep sigh, recalls the tear,
Gives to the sense the keenest smart,
Checks the warm pulses of the Heart,
Darkens my FATE and steals away
Each gleam of joy thro' life's sad day.

-Mary Darby Robinson

“Lines To Him Who Will Understand Them”

Bridgerton House
Mayfair, London
13 June 1815

The bed was lumpy. That was his first waking thought.

It didn’t immediately set off alarm bells—traveling anywhere and everywhere for most of the year
meant that he had slept in a lot of strange places and on a lot of strange beds, most of them less
luxurious than his own. He groaned at the crick in his neck, rolled onto his back and stretched. He
registered the dark all around him and that was when a sense of oddness began to scratch at the
back of his mind.

Colin remembered that he was home. This was his bed. One of them, anyway. He’d never noticed
it feeling particularly lumpy before. The lack of light was also wrong—when he planned to rise
early (like today, when he would be driving Pen into London in time for her shift at the office), he
always opened the curtains so that the sunrise would wake him. He hated alarms and only used
them as a backup. Sunlight alone pretty much always did the trick. So, why was it so dark? There
was no moonlight in the room, and he felt fully rested. Surely, the sun was up.

Which meant the curtains were closed.

Had Pen come back? Had she closed the curtains?

Reflexively, he reached for her side of the bed, feeling for her soft warmth. But no. The place
where she normally slept was empty and cool to the touch. His chest immediately felt heavy.
Of course she hadn’t come back. After what he said last night, he would be lucky to ever sleep
beside her again.

Colin was seized with the urge to get up, to go see her. Check that she was okay. He wondered
whether she would be ready to talk, or still need space? Would her nausea be worse this morning?
Would she need him to pop to the village Tesco for those special digestive biscuits she liked?

He sat up and swung his legs toward the edge of the bed, noting that he was not under any of the
blankets, and as he moved…. God, he felt stiff. Uncomfortable clothing was restricting his
movement and felt too tight against his skin—especially his throat. No, scratch that, the worst was
around his feet, particularly his toes. For fuck’s sake, was he wearing shoes?

When his feet touched the ground and he stood, he realized, no—boots. He was wearing boots that
fit snug on his calves and went all the way up to his knees. Somehow. He didn’t own anything like
that….

Damn. He felt awake and alert, well-rested and energetic. But was he wrong? Was he groggier than
he thought?

He needed light.

He went for the switch near the door and bellowed, cursing loudly, when his shins banged into a
wooden…something. He groped in the dark to regain his balance, fingers tracing the offending
piece of furniture. Who the hell had put a chair right there?

Shit, that hurt—it would leave bruises for sure. Grumbling, he felt along the wall for the switch.
Nothing. Just smooth plaster under his fingertips. What the…? His fingers encountered fabric—
drapes. On the wrong side of the room.

He felt his way forward to this window, gritting his teeth when his toe caught the blasted chair
again. While he fumbled in search of the break between the hefty drapes, peeks of light flashed in
his eyes. When he was finally able to push them wide open, he was blinded.

Grimacing, he held his eyes closed for a moment while his eyeballs shot through with discomfort,
but honestly, it was a relief. He just needed to get a lay of the land. Blinking while his eyes
adjusted, he did just that, and….

Goddamn it…. Had he fallen asleep in a bloody museum?

Most definitely he was not in his bedroom at Aubrey Hall. This room was decorated in blues and
browns, with elaborate moldings and paintings of ships on the walls. The furniture was all of solid,
dark wood and appeared to be handmade and stodgily traditional. The bedding and the upholstery
of the couch at the foot of the bed looked heavy in weave. The desk in the corner was piled with
maps and charts. A statue of an erotes with wings spread presided over the pots of ink, a pile of
quills, and folded papers. The fireplace mantle had a clock that proclaimed the time to be quarter
passed nine and displayed a collection of beach shells and shark teeth. It was the kind of room one
saw on a tour of an old castle, roped off to keep tourists from entering more than a step or two.

Colin’s clothing was just as antiquated. He blinked down at himself, then lunged to stand in front
of the mirror over a wash basin on a pedestal for a better look. Fucking hell—his was dressed like
Mr. Bloody Darcy. If Mr. Darcy got in a fistfight and then rolled around in mud. Blood had dripped
down onto his collar and cravat, where it dried. Though, there was no source that he could see. His
face was uninjured. Dried mud was smeared over his jacket, breeches, and boots. The ensemble
was fitted, cumbersome, and filthy. There was an odor wafting off of him faintly like…wet sheep.
The smell of wool clothing after being caught in the rain. Jesus, no wonder he was so
uncomfortable!

This was…. He was…baffled. Maybe his brothers…? But he couldn’t even finish the thought,
because all of this was just too absurd, too out of nowhere to connect to anything else. Even a
sibling prank. Colin was ninety-nine percent sure he had gone to bed last night sober, in his own
bed. And yet….

He heard voices behind him out the window, followed by approaching…horse hooves? He turned
and looked out. And cried out. Forget a museum—was this a film set?

Horses, carriages, cobbles, and manicured gardens under the bright morning sun. All the buildings
were Georgian-style in architecture and the clothing was immaculately fussy, as though all these
people had woken up today and decided to put on a production of Emma. It wasn’t just
immediately out his window, either. Craning his neck in both directions up and down the street
below, he saw the madness continued as far as his eyes could focus, without a film crew in sight.

A knock sounded on the door behind him, and Colin nearly jumped out of his skin.

He turned, but otherwise remained frozen.

“Brother?”

Thank God, Colin thought, trying to get a hold on his racing heart. Benedict.

He strode to the door and meant to pull it right open, but of course the latch was antiquated and
confusing, so it took him slightly longer than desired. Still, Colin was unprepared for the sight that
awaited him.

“Oh, buggering fuck!” he yelped.

Benedict flinched.

“You look like the Scarlet Pimpernel.” Colin gaped at his brother. He’d never seen so much
embroidery on a waistcoat in his life.

Unamused, Benedict leaned closer and hissed, “Lower your voice, Brother. You cannot continue
shouting curses. There are ladies on this floor.”

At his words, Colin realized some of his internal panic had translated to external swearing, but,
“Wait, what ladies?”

“Our sisters,” Benedict ground out.

There was an answering giggle that drew Colin’s eye. Behind Benedict and off to the right was
Hyacinth, and the sight of her changed everything.

It wasn’t the frilly white dress, or the curls and flowers in her hair—though, yes, all that was
alarmingly out of character for how his sister liked to dress. No, it was how little she was.
Younger. Somehow she had regressed in age several years and Colin suddenly couldn’t breathe. He
swayed on his feet and the fringes of his vision fuzzed with black.

Benedict sprang forward to steady him, then steered him back to the couch at the foot of the bed,
where Colin sat, head in his hands, catching his breath. He took a moment, turning everything over
in his head, trying to make sense of what was in front of him. But it was all whirling too much. The
confusion was too complete, too strong.

“Is he all right?” Hyacinth asked from the door.

Benedict was studying his brother, concern overtaking annoyance in his expression. “Leave us a
moment, please, Hyacinth. Close the door.”

The girl looked disappointed but moved to comply.

“No,” Colin said. “Wait a minute, Hy. You can stay.” He gave her an encouraging smile and tried
to make his next question sound natural, like he wasn’t completely freaking out. “How old are you
again?”

Hyacinth’s tone went from worried to mildly offended. “Thirteen years.”

Oof. Colin felt that in his gut—the way it dropped. But, yeah, bugger all—that seemed about right
from the look of her.

His eyes swung to Benedict. “And what year is this?”

Fully alarmed now, his brother answered, “1815.”

“Sure,” Colin shook his head, his throat feeling tight. “Sure. Shit.”

He whispered the curse, but both Benedict and Hyacinth heard it. Colin couldn’t seem to care,
though. This was ridiculous. Impossible. Absolutely fucking barmy. Was he dreaming? Was it
possible this was merely the freakiest and most vivid dream he’d ever had?

“Hit me,” he blurted, imploring his older brother.

Benedict blinked. “What?”

“Hit me. I need to know if I am dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming, just recovering from an excess of drink. That is all.”

He sounded confident, but Colin was confident, too. One small glass of brandy—that was all he’d
had. Colin knew he’d been completely sober by the time he went to bed.

“I’m not hungover. Please, just hit me so I know for sure.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No, I’ll not hit you.”

“It won’t hurt—I know how you punch. One little hit.”

“No. Stop being absur—Hyacinth!”

While the brothers had been arguing, she had taken it upon herself to sucker-punch her brother in
the nose. Colin’s head snapped back with a cry like a yip, and pain exploded across his face. He
reeled for a moment.

But he did not magically wake up.

Colin gave a chuckle of despair. “Jesus, Hyacinth. You punch like Daph.” The girl raised a brow at
him. “That’s a compliment,” he clarified, showing her the blood that had leaked from his nose onto
his fingers. “A high one.”

Her face broke out into a smug little grin.

“What’s this?” a familiar drawl came from the doorway.

Eloise was leaning against the frame. Colin couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen El in a dress.
Yet there she was, looking as silly as everyone else. If Hyacinth’s punch hadn’t settled it already,
that would have been confirmation all on its own that whatever was happening was really
happening. No prank in the world would get El into those clothes.

“Lying rough, brother?” she said with raised brows.

Colin was too overwhelmed to do anything other than shrug. His eyes found Benedict, who seemed
moved by whatever pathetic or lost expression Colin had on his face to take pity on him.

“All right,” he shooed their sisters, “out. He needs to get cleaned up.”

Hyacinth put up a feeble protest, which Benedict shut down, but Eloise merely rolled her eyes. She
wasn’t smiling or teasing even though Colin knew he looked foolish. There was a brittleness to
how she carried herself and she had the oddest cast to her eyes. It bothered him because it fired off
a flare of recognition inside him; El was strong and brusque and good at hiding when she wasn’t
okay, but since dating Penelope, Colin had gotten to the point where he could tell.

Before she departed, she told Colin, “Mother wishes to speak with you.”

Colin’s brow furrowed.

“I wouldn’t keep her waiting long,” she advised with a meaningful look.

This may be a strange time and a ludicrous place, but Colin still knew what that meant: he was in
trouble. Somehow.

For what? He had no idea.

He groaned.

“Eloise,” Benedict said as she made to close the door. She paused and he kept his voice low, but
Colin still heard him. “Will you summon Finch, please? And perhaps send up a bath?”

She nodded, surveying the room shrewdly. “I will inform Mrs. Haver of the soiled linen as well, so
that she may send a maid up to strip the bed.”

Benedict thanked her, and Colin tried to smile gratefully. When the door closed and they were
alone, Benedict turned his attention back to his brother with a tired sigh.

“Finch is going to weep when he sees you.”

“Who’s Finch,” Colin asked.

Benedict gave him a very odd look. “Our valet.” Dismay broke through and he burst out, “For
God’s sake, Colin—what happened after I left you last night?”

“What do you mean?”

His brother gestured dramatically, first to Colin, and then to the bed. Colin glanced behind him and
conceded that he had created quite a sight while sleeping. Mud had been ground into the fabric in
crusty globs and streaks, and an ugly amount of blood stained the pillow.

“I have no idea.”

Benedict scoffed.

“What do you remember?” Colin tried to ask the question casually, but it must not have worked
because Benedict glared.

“I remember you getting yourself soused over Penelope Featherington.”

Well, that tracked, Colin thought grimly. Then—wait, was Pen here? His heart gave a mighty
kick.

“And I dropped you right here at home. I told you to go straight in to bed. You were a little worse
for wear, but you weren’t bleeding and you hadn’t a speck of mud on you.”

Colin sat for a moment as questions hung in the air. Many questions and no answers.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “I don’t remember.”

Benedict threw his hands up in a gesture of defeat.

Colin approached the next question gingerly. “Penelope…is she here?”

His older brother groaned. “To my knowledge, no. She usually doesn’t turn up until the afternoon,
and not every day.”

With a swallow, Colin nodded.

“You’re not in any condition to see her at present regardless. Let’s make you presentable before
you go throwing yourself at her feet for forgiveness, shall we?”

Colin’s gaze shot to his brother’s face and his stomach clenched. Forgiveness? So, he had wronged
Penelope here as well? Bloody brilliant.

The image of Pen, his Pen, pulling her suitcase with her out the door and away from him, was
suddenly all his mind could hold. Her flat expression and slumped shoulders twisted up his
insides.

He was rubbing his hands against his face when there was a knock and an announcement that the
bath had arrived. A bevy of servants carried in a circular tub and proceeded to fill it with pot after
pot of heated water carried by hand. These poor bastards, was his first thought. But then, his spine
stiffened as the implications of what he was seeing worked into his consciousness. His eyes
scanned the room and yes, there it was on the floor beside the table with the basin: a chamber pot.
Oh, fuck me.

No indoor plumbing.

Perfect. Things just kept getting better and better.

Benedict stepped out, and Finch, it transpired, was a wiry young man with white-blonde hair and
freckles. He did seem to take whatever had happened to Colin’s clothes rather personally. Colin
waved him off, assuring the man he could bathe himself, so Finch took the soiled clothes and left,
promising to return in a few minutes with fresh ones.

Colin washed himself in unsettling silence and isolation. Every slosh of the water was deafening in
this strange room where his skin crawled with how wrong everything was. It didn’t take long to get
clean, because, as it turned out, he wasn’t all that dirty considering his clothes. There was no mud
anywhere on him, and no blood other than the mild bleed Hyacinth had caused at his own request.

The water was nice, though. A comforting cocoon of warmth where he ruminated on the
strangeness of all this. Seriously…what the hell? He wasn’t dreaming, he was pretty sure. Or in a
coma, or having a mental break—because there was no way this scenario came from his own
head. Never in a million years would his brain dump him here. Besides, everything was too…
tactile, too visceral. If this place wasn’t real, then his life before today wasn’t either—because they
were equally compelling to his senses.

Colin didn’t believe in magic. He had never been the superstitious or spiritual type, but hey, when
life gave you new empirical evidence, it might be time to reevaluate. Was this an alternate
timeline? A parallel universe?

Dear God, was he dead?

Colin swallowed heavily, feeling queasy, and gripped the rim of the tub. He fought his racing
heart. Panicking would probably only make things worse. At least, that’s what he tried to tell
himself.

He was resting his forehead against his hands, bent over the edge of the tub, when Finch returned.
Colin hardened his will to put one foot in front of the other, figuratively speaking, and made
himself get up. He might have felt weird about being naked in front of a complete stranger, but
fuck it, that was the least of his worries at the moment.

“Hey, Finch?”

The man paused, as though unsure what to make of Colin’s doubtlessly odd demeanor. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m feeling a little off today. So if I ask weird questions or do strange things, just roll with me.”

Finch’s brows pulled briefly in confusion, but he was trying his utmost to remain professional.
“Roll, sir?”

Colin grinned, realizing how jarring the way he spoke must be. This poor bloke—he would try to
go easy on him. Lord knows, whatever Finch had signed up for, it wasn’t having a boss go into a
meltdown in front of him. “Be patient with me,” Colin clarified. “I’ll try my best not to be a pain.”

“Yes, sir,” was all he said, but he did in fact, roll.

He dressed and shaved Colin, tsking over his sideburns being too short, but did not inquire how
they had gotten that way. It probably would have been deemed improper for a servant to ask under
any circumstance, but Colin was just grateful because he didn’t have to come up with some
elaborate barbershop-related lie. Finch also styled his hair, provided guidance on cleaning his teeth,
then gave him privacy to use the chamber pot. God, this was awful.

The lack of indoor plumbing alone was enough to think this place was probably literal Hell. And
Colin didn’t know what was worse: the uncomfortable boots pinching his toes or the cravat that
had his throat in a stranglehold. Well, it wasn’t tight, per se. It was just there. Against his skin, all
the way up to his chin. Colin didn’t even like turtlenecks.
“Is the cravat necessary? I mean—is it required?”

“Yes,” Finch said, without a shred of sympathy or humor.

Well, there was no ambiguity in that answer. Colin did his damnedest not to make a face.

Finch stepped back and surveyed his handiwork, looking far too serious for such a young man.

“Am I fit to face my mother?” Colin asked.

The valet considered, and then nodded.

“Good man.” Colin clapped him on the back.

Finch looked startled at the familiarity.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you?”

“I believe she is in the breakfast room, sir.”

Of course. That made sense.

At the mention of food, Colin’s stomach made an eager gurgle. He suddenly realized he was
unbelievably hungry, ravenous even. That drive put a purpose in his step when he exited the room,
and it wasn’t until he was half way down the hall that he realized he had no idea where he was
going.

Well, this would be embarrassing. He’d have to wander around for a bit until he found another
person and asked them for directions. Which wouldn’t raise suspicions or cause alarm at all.
Goddamn it….

He sighed and started walking again, peering through open doors and around corners for signs of
life. But, as Colin did so, a tickle of recognition hit him. Is this Granny Alex’s house? Even though
he had never seen these furnishings before and the place still looked like a museum, his feet
seemed to know the layout. Bridgerton House, in Mayfair. Technically, Anthony had inherited it
several years ago, but Colin still thought of the house as his grandmother’s, smelling of lavender
and Earl Grey tea. If he was correct, there would be stairs heading down around this corner, here—

And so there was.

Thank God—he wouldn’t have to ask for directions after all. Maybe he should have been unsettled
to find himself in a familiar place, one that brought to mind safety and childhood memories, but
honestly, he would take what he could get right now.

The breakfast room was on the north side, at the end of the hall, with large windows that filled the
space with light. The walls were a sunny yellow with a painted mural of white lilies and bluebirds
above the sideboard. Seated at the long hardwood table, Colin found Benedict, Gregory, and his
mother. Greg was younger than he should be, like Hyacinth, and chattering to Benedict about some
novel he was reading, but Violet sat silent at the head of the table. The plate in front of her was
empty. She was waiting for him.

“Mother,” Colin managed. “You wished to see me?”

She looked tired to his eyes, though wearing a purple dress that suited her coloring well. Her hair
was up and she wore less makeup and more jewelry than he had ever known her to favor.
Violet indicated the sideboard. “Dish up. We will talk while you eat,” she spoke quietly but her
voice carried, words clear and unmistakable.

No “dearest”? That did not bode well. Colin almost always got a “dearest”—even when he was in
trouble. But at least he would be able to fill his empty stomach. Some people couldn’t eat when
they were stressed, or unhappy, or had woken up in an alternate reality out of nowhere. But Colin
Bridgerton acknowledged that he was made of different stuff. The world could be on fire and he
would still have his appetite.

He dished up two heaping plates at the sideboard, moaning with satisfaction at the selection.
However many deficiencies this Austenland Purgatory may have, the breakfast menu wasn’t one
of them.

Carrying his food to the table, he selected the seat off to his mother’s side. There was no use trying
to avoid her.

She did not speak. Instead, she lifted a printed sheet of paper that had been resting on the table and
passed it to him.

“Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers, 13 June 1815” the publication proclaimed itself.

When he looked at her with questioning eyes, Violet nodded, lifting her teacup to her lips. “Read
it.”

So, Colin read as he ate. It was a gossip column, from what he could tell. This issue was recounting
the events of the previous evening, which was helpful given how little Colin knew of his supposed
life in this place. The writer was witty and engaging, and the paragraphs unfolded themselves in a
way he found both tidy and natural. Once or twice he found himself anticipating how the sentence
would end or how the quip would come together. He wasn’t sure why. The writer wasn’t using
clichés or hacky constructions. She seemed skilled, actually. There was just something in the
rhythm of her words his brain found…pleasing.

It amused him that most of the column seemed dedicated to Anthony and Kate. The two of them
had apparently caused quite the scandal last night, at a ball of all places. The Featherington Ball.
Colin’s eyes hitched on the word Featherington, and he found them slipping back up the
paragraphs seeking it a few times, lingering on its syllables with longing.

God, the ache to see Pen was a torture, an agony. Afternoon, Benedict had said? That felt days
away rather than hours. Perhaps he should just seek out El, demand to know where Pen lived, and
go to her?

Violet cleared her throat. From her glare, he would guess she could tell he had stopped reading.

“Sorry,” he said, and began again.

There was a bit about a Duchess’s dog getting loose to wreak havoc in Lady Featherington’s
garden, a paragraph about Lord Fife and a young lady he was courting disappearing from the
ballroom at the same time and then reappearing moments after one another. Sir Richard Ackerly
had lost a hefty sum at cards, and…. And then Colin was reading his own name.

“Finally, Mr. Colin Bridgerton was seen giving his particular attentions to not one, but two young
ladies. The first: Cressida Cowper. The second: Penelope Featherington. Intriguing, given that the
two are well known to regard one another with disdain!

“Mr. Bridgerton asked Miss Cowper to dance, something This Author notes he has heretofore
never done, and proceeded to flirt with the girl rather loudly. Keen-eyed observers saw that she
placed a many-stoned ruby necklace in his care. A gift, perhaps? Shocking, if true! Especially as
the bauble was a gift from Jack Featherington, or so the young lady has told any ears that will
listen. Yet, possibly a more mundane explanation exists? Lady Rutledge was said to have
overheard an exclamation regarding a broken clasp. A noteworthy turn about the dance floor all on
its own, but then, only minutes later, Mr. Bridgerton led Miss Featherington to dance. Hardly a
remarkable event under the usual circumstances—Colin Bridgerton always dances with Penelope
Featherington when the two are in attendance at the same ball (often at prompting of his mother,
This Author notes). But this evening, he created quite a stir with the way he looked at the poor girl.
For some observers, there seemed to be something more sincere, even enthusiastic, in his
performance of his duty. It led wagging tongues to speculate whether a courtship was imminent.

“But rest assured, marriage-minded mamas of the ton, Colin Bridgerton has not settled on a wife
just yet. From his own mouth, while awaiting the fireworks display in the square, he was heard to
loudly declare to a crowd of bachelors that he is not courting Penelope Featherington. He dubbed
the notion a mad one, impossible even in the wildest of fantasies, and the proclamation was heard
not only by the gentlemen, but the lady in question herself. The unfortunate girl was seen to take
his words as quite the blow, but really, she can’t have been so foolish as to be surprised?

“If Miss Featherington were to somehow manage to drag a Bridgerton brother to the altar, it would
surely mean the end of the world as we know it, and This Author, who freely admits she would not
know heads from tails in such a world, would be forced to resign her post on the spot.”

Egg fell from Colin’s fork to the tablecloth. Then the fork itself dropped while he read on. When
he finished, he sat dazed and slack with shock. His heartbeat was loud in his ears. So loud he
almost did not hear his mother speak.

“Is this account accurate?”

He blinked. He didn’t know if his mother’s voice had ever carried such an edge.

Colin floundered to answer. He wanted to declare that he had never and would never do something
so horrible as what this scandal sheet was describing. And to Pen of all people…his Pen.

But the truth was, he didn’t know. He had no way of knowing. His eyes darted in panic, across the
table to where his brothers sat watching him. Words failed him, but somehow Benedict knew what
he was asking. Reluctantly, he nodded.

Colin turned back to his mother, feeling ill. “I think so,” he croaked.

A muscle worked in her jaw. “Leave us,” she said to his brothers, and Colin heard them scramble
to obey. One of them even closed the door on the way out, but Colin did not turn to see which.

Violet set her teacup in its saucer. Her eyes surveyed his face, his expression, then looked away.
She stood and walked to the window. “You disappoint me, Colin,” she said softly.

If Colin had thought perhaps that he’d grown numb to the punches this morning had been throwing
his way, he was wrong. His mother’s words hit him hard.

“I’d rather hoped I raised a young man who would think better of speaking of any young lady in
such a manner, let alone someone so vulnerable to the cruelties of our society and so personally
dear to our family as Penelope,” she continued, speaking to the window. “You are popular, Colin.
Well liked by all—you always have been. The other gentlemen look to you as a leader, and you
have made a laughingstock of a young lady they had already seen fit to spurn and look down upon.
You have given them permission by your example to mock her.”

Colin tried to swallow, but couldn’t.

Turning so that she faced him, the rays of sunlight gave her the look of an avenging angel. “Last
night, when we spoke and you said that Penelope was your truest friend, that she deserved nothing
less than a love match with a man thoroughly besotted with her—did you mean any of it?”

He did not remember this conversation, because he hadn’t been there. This other Colin, the daft
one whose place he had taken, was an inscrutable jackass. Colin couldn’t vouch for him—who
knew what the wanker did and did not mean? But he knew his own heart, how he felt, how this
story in the scandal sheet had made him feel. So, he didn’t speak for the other Colin; he spoke only
for himself.

“She’s everything to me.”

Those words, or maybe the conviction behind them, seemed to draw Violet aback. “Last night, you
insisted to me that you did not love her.”

“I don’t know why I said that,” he spoke the truth as far as he knew it. “I don’t know why I said
anything that came out of my mouth last night. But I do love her. She’s the best thing in my life
and I’m a lost idiot without her.”

His mother’s mouth opened. Then closed. “Well,” she said finally, “you have quite a lot to make
right, do you not?”

Colin rubbed his face as the truth of her words and the scope of his task dawned on him. “Yeah…I
do.”

She heaved a heavy, shaky breath. “Then I will leave you to it, dearest.” She sounded relieved.

At least he got a “dearest.” That counted for something. He tried to smile at her as she left him, but
feared his lips merely wobbled.

In the quiet room, Colin finished his breakfast while he turned the morning over in his head. He
reread the column twice and reevaluated his opinion—he didn’t like this Lady Whistledown at all.
She could go to the devil and stay there for all the nasty things she had written about Pen. The rest
of the column was biting and superior, but those paragraphs were particularly mean. Almost as
though she was enjoying kicking Pen while she was down.

This was a mess.

And he didn’t understand. Why was he here rather than home with his Pen? How had this
happened?

Colin didn’t live next to a mad scientist or an old woman people said was a witch. He hadn’t
fucked around with any Cairn stones or pissed off any gods, at least, to the best of his knowledge.
He was a curious bloke, but he’d never learned much about quantum mechanics. He had no idea
where to even begin grounding what was happening with any kind of rational explanation.

And he had no real-life examples to cleave to and learn from. He only knew stories: films, books,
television shows where some fuck-up gets taught a lesson. It was always a fuck-up. Someone who
didn’t properly appreciate what they had, or was actively hurting the people around them. Then,
something like this would happen—a time loop, an alternate reality, or a body swap, and the sad
sod would get their comeuppance. They always had a lesson to learn or something to fix, and after
that…they could go home.

Well, Colin certainly met the criteria. There was no ambiguity about what his cock-up might be.
He had hurt Pen, let her down. Her face when she had told him about the baby, it haunted him. She
had trusted him to be her partner and he had left her dangling while he let his own fears send him
into an emotional tailspin. He’d broken something precious between them, and if he needed any
confirmation he was on the right track, the damned Whistledown column was right there.

Before him was another Pen, wounded by another Colin. The rhyme between the two situations
was too convenient to be a coincidence. It underlined his own failures.

So, maybe this was the wrong he was meant to make right? He’d eat this plate of humble pie, earn
this Pen’s forgiveness. And when he’d done so, he could go home to his Pen. And his baby.

It was a nice idea. A comforting story. Did he believe it? Not really. In Colin’s experience, the
universe had never seemed all that tidy or purposeful. Life didn’t work the way films or books did.

Still, it was his best guess, and when it came to his next course of action, could he do anything
different? Somewhere in this awful place was a Penelope Featherington who was hurting. He
wouldn’t be able to rest until that was no longer the case. Whether it helped him get home or not,
there was nothing else he cared to be doing with his time.

Mind made up, Colin finished his tea (not a drop of coffee in the house, the maid had informed
him, which was just brilliant. That would be a fun withdrawal headache later) and went in search of
Benedict. He found his brother in a little-used drawing room near the study, with an easel set up in
the location to best capture the light. The subject appeared to be a vase of irises.

“I need you,” Colin announced as he shut the door behind him.

His elder brother didn’t look up right away, fully engrossed in his task. “I’m working.”

“I know, and you only have a few hours of proper light.”

Benedict looked at him in surprise.

Colin shrugged. “I listen when you talk.” He raked his fingers through his hair, probably, he
realized, ruining all of Finch’s hard work. “I wouldn't ask, but I think you may be the only one who
can help me.”

For a moment, Benedict just stared, studying him. Setting down his palette, he said, “All right. Tell
me.”

“I love Pen,” he blurted, jumping right in. “And I hurt her. I need to fix this. Not just earn her
forgiveness, but make this mess right. I need to correct what I have done in the wider view of
society.”

Eyes flaring wide at Colin’s admission, Benedict said, “I see.”

“But I can’t do it alone, because I have no idea what I am doing.”

“If you love the girl, tell her. Marry her.” Benedict lifted and dropped his shoulders as though it
were that simple. “She’s calf-eyed over you enough to forgive you and the rest of society will take
the hint.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t belong here.”

Benedict’s brows knit.

“I’m not the Colin that belongs here. I’m a Colin. I’m just not this Colin.”

“You’re not?” His brother sounded less than convinced.

“No. I’m from somewhere else.”

“Where, pray tell?”

“The future, maybe? An alternate timeline? I’m not sure. All I know is that when I went to sleep
last night, the year was 2022. I had coffee, and comfortable clothes, and indoor plumbing, and
Penelope. It was great—perfect actually. You better believe I will never be taking any of that for
granted ever again. But now I am here, and I don’t know what I am doing.”

Benedict folded his arms, unimpressed. “Brother?”

“Yes?”

“I was with you last night. I saw how much you drank.”

“You don’t believe me.” Colin wasn’t surprised. In fact, he had actually been expecting this. He
didn’t blame Benedict at all—this whole ordeal was bonkers. It would probably take several
conversations and lots of convincing before Benedict came around. “But do you believe that, if I
were to go over and try to talk to Penelope on my own right now, I would make an ass of myself?”

Benedict’s mouth crooked into a half-smile. “Yes, that I believe.”

Colin nodded. “That’s why I need you to guide me. I need to go over there—right now. But I need
you to walk me through the etiquette, all the rules.”

“You want me to give you a lesson?” he asked incredulously.

“No, I want you to come with me.”

Benedict hesitated.

“Please.”

With a long-suffering groan, he agreed. “Very well. I will escort you this afternoon.”

“Now.”

“Now?”

Couldn’t Benedict see how Colin was practically vibrating out of his own skin?

“Fine.” The elder Bridgerton tossed the paintbrush tucked behind his ear over his shoulder and
onto the table in defeat. “I’ll take you.”

Colin’s shoulders sagged with relief, though they grew tense again while he waited for his brother
to make himself presentable for a social call. And though he thought himself fully dressed and
ready, even Colin had to put on gloves and a hat. Layers upon layers—this stupid clothing.

“How far away is she?” Colin asked as they stepped out the door.

With an expression of thin patience, Benedict pointed to a large house directly across the square.

Colin’s pulse leapt. So close. She'd been this close the entire time.

“Colin!” Benedict called, scrambling to follow. “Do not run. It isn’t gentlemanly. You’re making a
scene!”

And Benedict hated exercise. He didn’t say it, but it was there, in the subtext and in his panting
when the brothers reached the foot of the steps to Featherington House.

“Sorry,” Colin said, with a pat on the shoulder, but he knew he didn’t look sorry. He mounted the
steps and took the knocker in hand. Two knocks was reasonable, right?

He let Benedict talk to the butler.

“Miss Penelope stepped out for a morning call, but we expect her home at any moment,” the man
announced as he led the brothers into the drawing room. Then the butler surprised Colin by
speaking to him directly, “I shall have Mrs. Varley bring a tray of your favorites, sir.”

“Er, thank you.”

The man bowed and left.

Colin took stock of the room and felt a grin growing on his face. Apparently, Portia
Featherington’s decorating style transcended space and time. That vase for example—someone
could have dropped it in Colin’s lap with no context or explanation and he still would have known
Pen’s mother had picked it out.

He wandered around the room, studying paintings and poking knickknacks. His boots felt a crunch
underfoot near a tea table, so he stepped back and went around giving a wide berth.

“Sit down,” Benedict hissed. “You’re being rude.”

“Have you seen this?” Colin tilted his head toward a painting near a set of shelves. It was a family
portrait, several years out of date. Pen looked to be fourteen, maybe fifteen?

“The brushwork is sloppy,” Benedict said critically, having reluctantly joined his brother. “The
composition is unimaginative.” Leaning closer for a better look, he added, “But it’s a good
likeness.”

“She’s adorable, isn’t she?” Colin said.

Benedict rolled his eyes and stepped away with a grumble.

“What?”

Spreading his palms, his older brother kept his voice low. “Last night you couldn’t say enough
about how you weren’t in love with Penelope Featherington. You swore she was just a friend and
you knew your own mind. Today you’re soppy over her, insisting that you do love her. Who can
keep up?”

“Last night I was the other Colin, and no offense—I know he’s your brother—but, fuck him.”
Benedict gaped in astonishment.

Footsteps were approaching, and Colin’s muscles tensed with anticipation. But it was only Portia.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted with a smile too wide to be sincere. “What a lovely surprise. Not one, but
two Misters Bridgerton. To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“A social call,” Benedict explained politely. “We are here to call on Miss Penelope.”

“Penelope? Of course,” Portia said, but it was obvious that she did not believe him.

“Lady Featherington—” If Colin’s voice sounded like a question it was only because he wasn’t one
hundred percent sure that was the correct way to address her—it wasn’t “Mrs.” right? Definitely, it
wasn’t “Portia.” When no one corrected him, he continued. “I think there may be some glass on the
floor. Over there.”

When he gestured, she froze. She blanched. Her eyes darted back and forth between Colin and his
brother. “H-how good of you to remind me of our private agreement,” she choked with evident
shock. “I assure you, Lord Featherington is not at home. He has departed, Mr. Bridgerton. Isn’t that
wonderful? I am forever grateful to you, of course. How good of you to check in on us, just to
make sure…Mr. Bridgerton.” She spoke haltingly and broke off just as awkwardly.

That response, quite frankly, dumbfounded Colin. Wide-eyed, he looked to Benedict, but his
brother seemed just as confused.

“Please forgive me, gentlemen,” she said. “I am feeling a little faint. Penelope will join you shortly,
I am sure.”

They accepted the lady’s excuse with grace, but after she exited Benedict demanded with a slight
air of horror, “Good God, Colin. What is there between you and Penelope’s mother? Are you
threatening her?”

Colin recoiled, feeling gobsmacked. “Christ. No—nothing. I hope.” The other Colin was terrible,
but he couldn’t be that terrible.

…Right?

No matter how Portia schemed, and she was always scheming, Colin chose to ignore it. Selective
blindness. Engaging with her mother’s drama always upset Pen, so they chose the strategy of
avoidance. But maybe the other Colin had gotten himself tangled up somehow? Amateur.

But then he was pulled from his thoughts, because the front door opened. His ears perked up like a
golden retriever, and yes: It was her. Her voice, washing over him in a way that melted the insides
of his chest.

“How do I look?” Colin asked Benedict in a flurry. “Do I look all right?”

“You look a mess and you know it. Your cravat is half undone.”

Colin glanced down. “Oh, good,” he muttered blankly. “Do I bow when she comes in?”

“No! For the love of God, do not bow.” Benedict was looking at his brother as if he’d grown an
extra head.

“Do I kiss her hand?”

 “No—you are old acquaintances and this is not a ball, Colin. You simply greet her.”

Colin nodded, only half listening. He was becoming concerned because he could hear that her
voice was growing further away.

He strode to the door and leaned out. She wasn’t at the door, but when he looked the other
direction he saw her. She was ascending the staircase, conversing with a servant. Her gorgeous hair
was piled high on her head with pins that had little daisies on them. Her dress was a muslin of
bright yellow, with bursts of unnecessary lace and ruffles. Her creamy skin looked flushed—from
the cold, perhaps? She was beautiful. She was perfect. Even in the stupid dress, she was perfect.

“Pen!” he called out to her.

She stiffened, halting her steps. Her head turned and when her eyes found his, they widened with
shock.

“Ah yes, Miss Penelope,” the servant beside her said, “after you speak with your mother, Mr.
Bridgerton is awaiting you in the drawing room.”

Penelope’s stare was intense. It pinned him to the spot, and he swallowed. It was good that he
couldn’t move, because if he could, he would have bounded up the stairs and pulled her into his
arms. He knew he missed her; he knew that he hadn’t been able to think of anything but her all
day; he knew that the only purpose he could imagine for himself was to come here and throw
himself on her mercy…but he hadn’t known it would feel like this to see her again. His knees
wobbled as he threatened to crumple to the floor.

But then she blinked, and she looked away.

“Varley, you may inform Mr. Bridgerton that I am not at home.”

The woman’s mouth opened, but no sound came out, presumably because it was such a brazen lie.

“From this moment,” Penelope continued, “I am no longer at home for Mr. Bridgerton. Ever. He is
to be turned away at the door.” Colin saw her eyes flicker to something behind him he assumed to
be Benedict. “I am not at home for any Bridgerton.”

“Pen—”

Penelope’s gaze snapped back to him coldly. “We are no longer friends, Mr. Bridgerton.”

With those words, she gutted him and left him for dead.

Chapter End Notes

I love the title of the opening poem. The shade! Saying loud and for all to hear: “He
knows who he is, and he knows what he did!” Go off, Mary.

Eagle-eyed readers may recognize the final paragraph of the the Lady Whistledown
article quoted as being lifted directly from An Offer From a Gentleman by Julia
Quinn, following Colin’s declaration that he will not marry Penelope in that book. I
borrowed it for my purposes.
Next: Regency Colin wakes up in 2022
 But I'm out of time
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Say I love you, girl, but I'm out of time

Say I'm there for you, but I'm out of time (no)
Say that I'll care for you, but I'm out of time (hey)
Said, I'm too late to make you mine, out of time (ah)

Ooh-ooh-ooh, singing (out of time)

Said, I had you to myself, but I'm (out of time)
Say that I'll care for you, but I'm out of time
But I'm too late to make you mine, out of time (uh)
Out of time, out of time

-The Weeknd
“Out of Time”

Aubrey Hall, Hertfordshire

13 June 2022

Waking happened slowly, by degrees, and, as awareness increased, it was pain that speeded the
process. Throbbing discomfort in his head overcame sleep, and Colin faced the morning under
duress.

When his lids peeked open, sunlight from the windows sent tendrils of sharp torment from his eyes
deep into his skull and he winced. He cursed himself for leaving the bloody curtains open and
rolled to burrow his face into the pillow. Colin had only the smallest amount of time for the
thought that said pillow felt…odd, before jolting upward with a hiss and grimace. Damn, his face
hurt!

Colin’s eyes had been shocked fully open now and he groaned. Lifting his hand to gingerly explore
his throbbing cheek, he grew very still as he noted the details of the room around him. They were
wholly unfamiliar. Plain white walls covered with strange…impossible art—it looked like mere
paper, and depicted people in bizarre, indecent clothing, especially the women, with their faces as
clear and real as though he were viewing them through a window. The furniture was of unfamiliar
style. The shelves across from him were piled with books, but their spines looked wrong—smooth,
shiny, with big bold lettering and bright colors. There were scattered items about the room he did
not recognize at all, nor did he have the words to describe them, especially not after a night of
heavy drinking while his head pulsated with pain.

He reeled backward, feet flailing under the blankets until his back pressed against the headboard.
His errant arm knocked…er, something off the table beside him to the blue rug below. He was at a
loss to describe the object. As he looked down, he realized that the garments he wore were just as
peculiar as anything else in this room. The question of Where the devil am I? was just formulating
in his head, when the bed shifted and he heard a sleepy, feminine moan beside him.

He was not alone.

There was a vibrant tumble of red curls on the pillow beside where he had slept. From his angle, he
could see the delicate curve of the outer shell of an ear, the soft skin of a pale cheek. Good God,
there was a woman in this bed with him.

Colin’s brain scrambled as he tried to find the memories, to piece together his night. He had been
foxed, that was certain, but had he been so intoxicated as to wind up in the bed of a strange woman
without remembering? He did not think so. He was, compared to his brothers and companions at
university, quite particular about his female company. He wasn’t the sort to wander drunk into an
establishment of ill repute, seduce hapless barmaids, or even to take a mistress. He took some
ribbing for it from other gentlemen, but that didn’t change his appetites. All that was to say that
waking beside an unknown woman was far from a common occurrence for him; on the contrary, it
was downright unprecedented.

Even as his confusion increased, his eyes lingered on the hair of his companion. It caught the
morning light so prettily, and he was certain it would be luxuriant and soft to the touch. How
enticing, he thought, and said thought unsettled him.

He was God knew where. Had he set sail? Was he in some strange new land? He did not remember
having planned any new voyages—not yet, at any rate. He would embark on another eventually, of
course, but he had promised his mother at least a year in England. And if he had gone, why did he
not remember? Why was he certain that he had climbed into his own bed at Bridgerton House in
Mayfair last night?

Pretty hair of a mysterious companion did not signify. It was not a helpful thought to have, and he
needed to focus on where he was and how he had gotten there.

Though, he allowed, in that respect, perhaps the woman may be of assistance. Under the
circumstances, would it be rude to wake her?

As he contemplated the question, his eyes lingered on the form of her, snug under a pile of
blankets. There was something…. The lovely hair perhaps? An inexplicable thought had just
passed through his mind that the color, the curl of it was familiar, when the woman stretched. She
rolled toward him and, with a sigh, peeked up at him through sleepy auburn lashes.

Penelope. He was in bed with Penelope Featherington.

“Morning,” she mumbled.

Colin leapt from the bed as if burned, his body crashing into and then clinging to the wall. “Pen!”

She startled, jerking into a half-upright position. Her eyes blinked rapidly to dispel drowsiness.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

For the barest moment, her face showed confusion. But then, she stilled. Her gaze cast downward,
and Colin saw hurt. “Sorry. It’s…it’s hard to sleep without you. I guess I should have asked. You
were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I just…last night, you wanted me to stay, so I didn’t
think you’d mind if I came back.”

None of that made sense, nor cast any new light on his circumstance.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Colin, what happened to your face?”

His hand raised as a reflex to the source of the soreness. Of course! He had attempted to climb….
Had he made it up the face of the building after all? He hadn’t thought so. There was a distinct
memory of falling, of scraping his cheek against the stone, and then giving up to go home to sleep
off his liquor.

But if he had somehow made his way into Penelope’s window, into her bed (oh, God forbid—what
a villain that would make him!)…then he was the intruder. Colin once more surveyed the room.
He had been in the Featherington home many a time before, but never Penelope’s bedroom. This
bizarre place did not look as though it belonged in that house, but perhaps it did?

“Where are we?” he asked. “Is this your bedroom?”

Penelope’s brow furrowed. “No. It’s yours. We’re at Aubrey Hall, remember?”

Colin’s heartbeat stuttered. Panic inside him was mounting—this was not Aubrey Hall. That he
knew.

“No,” was all he could manage.

She sat up fully and rubbed her eyes. “We came out to spend a short holiday with your family, and
we are driving back to London today.”

Colin stood still, unable to move. His thoughts flailed, desperate for purchase, for any small detail
that made sense, but there was nothing to grasp onto. Everything was wrong and foreign. None of
his memories or experiences matched up with this place. None of them led to this morning. Only
Penelope was recognizable, and even she was…off.

He watched as she sighed and swept the blankets off her person. He stifled a yelp at the reveal of
her bare legs and averted his eyes, not sure where to look.

Penelope walked to him. “Colin?” Before he could respond, she continued, “Love? Look at me.”

His gaze snapped to hers at once. Had she called him love?

Abruptly, his mind dusted off a memory of last night—of Fife and Benedict and their certainty that
Pen carried a torch for him. Colin’s stomach dropped with a sick, guilty feeling.

Her countenance wore agitation and concern. Leaning forward, her hand extended toward his sore
cheek. But then, abruptly, she seemed to catch an unpleasant odor and recoiled. Her bodily frame
wracked with an indelicate little gag.

Covering her mouth, she spoke through her fingers. “Well, that answers so many questions. Jesus,
Colin. How much did you drink?”

That…was a fair question, he had to admit. One he was also asking himself.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Penelope seemed to lose whatever battle she was fighting with
her constitution, and she fled from him, across the carpet and through a door on the far side of the
bed. Colin hesitated, but then he heard her retching and knew that she was expelling the contents of
her stomach. His own turned at the sound, but chivalry and the disquieting truth that she was the
only person in this impossible place with him at the moment, meant that he had no choice but to
follow after her.

Peering through the doorway, Colin saw that Penelope was crouched on the floor over a large
porcelain basin filled with water. He did not allow himself to think; he simply acted. He knelt
beside her and lifted her unbound hair away from her face. Thankfully, the unpleasantness was
over quickly.
Penelope moaned and it sounded more like frustration than pain. One of her hands was grasping
behind her, feeling for the hanging cloth just a short distance out of her reach. It looked to be a
towel of some kind. He pulled it free of the hook and placed it in her hand. She thanked him and
wiped her mouth.

“Are you all right?” he asked, because there was nothing else he could think to say.

She nodded. “It’s just worse on an empty stomach. Somehow. This stupid baby’s going to turn me
inside out. Damn, that hurt.”

Colin might have spared a moment to marvel over the fact that this was the second time Penelope
had cursed in as many minutes—something he had never before heard her do even once. But it was
difficult to devote his attention to anything other than the word “baby.”

“Baby,” he repeated dully.

She turned her intense eyes on him. “Do…do you not remember? Last night? I told you I was
pregnant and, well, we fought.”

“Fought?”

“Maybe argued is a better word.” Her lips twisted into a tiny, sardonic smile. “I know you’re not
ready to be a father, Colin. I wouldn’t exactly say that I am ready for this either. We can take a few
days before we talk about it again. I think both of us need a little time. Obviously, we’ll wait to tell
your family.” She looked so sad. “Whatever that ends up meaning. El knows, of course, but she
won’t say anything.”

By the time Penelope finished speaking, Colin was numb. “You are with child?” he clarified. “My
child?”

She laughed humorlessly. Wiping her lips one more time with the towel, she lowered a lid over the
basin and rose to her feet. “You picked a hell of night to get blackout drunk, Colin.” She dropped
the towel in a wicker basket and pulled a chain that hung from the ceiling.

Colin startled back when the basin made a noise, deep and gurgling. He had the strangest certainty
that the water was draining out of the bowl. He had read about flush toilets before, of course, but
had never encountered one. Yet another bit of fantasticality, of esoteric weirdness, in this morning
that left him feeling out of place, adrift and lost.

“Well,” Penelope said with a smile that looked forced, if not completely false, “now both of us are
in dire need of a toothbrush.”

She left him sitting on the tile floor, and he heard her in the bedroom, rifling through some of the
mysterious belongings. A moment later, she reappeared with a white object clutched in her hand.
She disassembled part of it, revealing a small bristle brush on one end, and then she produced a
second identical device from a mirror-side cabinet and held it out to him.

Reluctantly, Colin stood. True, nothing here made sense, but Penelope was kind and his mouth did
taste strongly of stale spirits. He decided to trust in her for this, perhaps for everything, until the
world made sense again. He had no idea where he was or what any of these alien objects were, but
Pen—this Pen, the one of this inexplicable place—she seemed confident in both.

She dabbed a globule of white substance from a tube on her bristles, then his, and placed the brush
in her mouth. She pressed down on a red circle at the base of the device with her thumb, and the
brush began to vibrate and hum. He blinked and stared for a moment, but then mimicked her.
It was an off-putting sensation, but the purpose seemed logical. He could see how an oscillating
bristle brush could scrub teeth clean, and the sticky substance Penelope had provided tasted like
mint. He could already feel his mouth becoming less putrid.

He watched her movements as she guided the brush around her mouth, ensuring no tooth was
neglected, and he did the same. She was watching him with a shrewd expression, likely because
she could tell he was merely following her lead, but she said nothing. When she was done, she
rinsed her brush and her mouth with water that miraculously came straight from the tap of a second
smaller basin that sat on a pedestal at waist height. He did the same, wondering idly if the tub
behind them also had such taps.

“Colin…?”

Her voice went up at the end, hanging with a question, but whatever it may be, she did not
articulate it.

She sighed. “Your face looks awful. Let’s take care of it before your mother sees.”

According to the mirror, his face was in a sorry state indeed. No wonder it had been so tender to
the touch. His right cheek was swollen purple and green. A long, bloody scrape from jaw to
cheekbone had scabbed during the night. It was not a deep wound, but looked inflamed.

The cabinet beside the mirror produced other items, none of which were recognizable to him.
When Penelope directed him to sit on the closed toilet, he did so.

She wet a cloth and he winced as she cleaned his wound, even though her touch was
extraordinarily gentle. She began with water, then announced that she was using one of the cabinet
items to “disinfect” the wound. Whatever it was stung like the devil.

While she worked, he watched her.

His interior numbness was slowly receding. He had been so overwhelmed by inundation from
every one of his senses with upsetting and unfamiliar stimuli that the only response could be to
withdraw into himself. But now, as his eyes rested on Penelope and only on her, he found a kind of
steadiness. Whatever was alien or wrong here, it was quantifiable when only she was under
consideration.

She was different. Even more so now that he allowed himself to study the details of her at leisure.
It wasn’t merely her odd clothing (what little there was of it). The woman before him also had
lacquer of some kind coloring her finger and toenails a stormy shade of blue. Her hair was the
wrong length, he was almost certain. It was difficult to tell, having never seen it bed-tousled down
her back like this, but it seemed shorter to him.

She had freckles, quite a few of them in fact. They dotted her cheeks and nose, her neck and knees
and the backs of her hands. Even her lips. The Penelope of his memory had some, if such things in
his mind could be trusted, but not many. Ladies wore bonnets and shawls to avoid freckling and
were scolded by their mamas if any sprouted.

That thought brought to his mind the image of Penelope’s legs in the sun, exposed. How
scandalous. How titillating. Yet the evidence was right there in the spray of faint little brown dots
decorating the skin from the tops of her feet all the way up to the hem of the, frankly outrageous,
garment she was wearing. It looked a bit like men’s smalls, only shorter and embroidered with
daisies. So short, at first he had thought she was wearing nothing at all under the hideous tunic
made of bulky fabric. That article of clothing was so large, it could only be deemed ill-fitting—a
sharp contrast with the naked, smooth skin below. Which was another oddity: he could see no hair
on her legs. Not a one. And most shocking of all, Penelope had what he recognized to be a tattoo.

He made every effort not to stare, but found it an irresistible temptation. He had never before seen a
tattoo on feminine skin and the design graced her thigh of all places. Pink roses. On her shapely
inner thigh. The artwork was beautifully rendered, delicate and lifelike. As though, if one were to
touch, he would feel the softness of the petals against his fingertips.

Not that Colin would touch. Nor was he imagining touching.

His jaw tightened as he averted his eyes and strove to calm his heating blood. He was…stirring.
Now was not the time nor the place, and Penelope Featherington was not the girl.

Except, perhaps she was. This Penelope, the one whose compassionate ministrations were currently
tending to his face, said that she was carrying his child.

He didn’t know if he believed that, but he did know that he didn’t not believe it. How could he
discount any possibility at this moment?

And she…. He was unprepared for it, and God help him, but her appeal was shockingly potent—
whether because it was unexpected, or the immodesty of her dress, or something in the intimacy
with which she tended to him, he could not say. Her hands moved on his skin as though she
touched him every day. He had woken beside her in a bed, and she had spoken matter-of-factly of
carrying his child. Such familiarity was so far beyond the bounds of anything he had experienced
with a woman previous, was it any wonder that carnal suggestions were planting themselves in the
darkest corners of his heart?

“Stop pulling away,” she scolded. “I know it hurts, but I’m almost done. There’s dirt in this
somehow. I even found a pebble. What did you do?”

He felt his face color. “I…I tried to climb a wall. Out of doors.”

She blinked. “That’s so dangerous. Why? Why would you do that?”

Somehow, the truth tumbled from his lips. “Well, I was too intoxicated for rational thought, but I
was trying to get to you. Your bedroom window.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Oh, Colin,” she said with a laugh. “Do you have any idea how much I
hate how difficult it is to stay angry with you?”

Then, she leaned toward him and he was too caught off guard to react. Cradling his face, she
pressed her soft lips first to his brow, next to the bridge of his nose, and then to his lips. It was
brief, carrying an air of both the everyday commonplace and grand love. It was a kiss of longtime
lovers, of husband and wife. And it shot through him like lightning.

His throat made a noise, one it had never made before—embarrassing and eager. He squirmed with
shame and his arms moved to shield his lap from her view.

“Colin,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I need you to lift your head so I can
finish patching you up. I know you’re hard. I saw your bulge growing while you were staring at my
legs.”

His eyes widened as he fixated on the lines between the tiles on the floor.

With an impatient puff of air, Penelope lifted his chin absently.

She was occupied removing some kind of bandage from a wrapping of waxy-looking paper. His
scrape was large enough that she used two of them. They clung to his skin tightly and the sensation
was unpleasant.

“Look at you,” she said, “holding back instead of pawing at my clothes. Who would believe it?”

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and bit, softly, then released. As gestures went, it was
nervous rather than knowing—perhaps even worried. She wasn’t trying to seduce him, but the
sight of her lip, wet and pink and tempting, wasn’t helping him regain his equilibrium.

“Is it because of last night?”

No, it wasn’t, and he had no notion of how to begin explaining that to her.

But his silence was taken as confirmation.

She nodded and something weighty came over her. “I feel the same. I want you, too. I wish we
could just go in there, tear each other’s clothes off, and fall into bed. Like we did yesterday
morning. But it doesn’t feel right, does it? Not after….”

She trailed off, her eyes mournful. The anguish in them was so acute, he wanted nothing more than
to relieve her suffering. What…what had he done? Had he hurt her?

Penelope shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, then turned to tidy the mess of supplies used to
clean and bandage his face.

“Pen?” He spoke softly, but she heard him. When her gaze met his, he asked, “What happened last
night?”

She paused and swallowed. “You really don’t remember?”

He shook his head.

“I…my stomach had been weak all day. For a few days, actually, but it was getting harder and
harder to ignore. Yesterday, it was bad enough that you and Eloise noticed and we thought maybe I
was getting sick. A cold or flu or something. But when El and I went to the chemist for medicine,
she had an epiphany that it might be morning sickness. I told her that you and I use contraception
every time, but she pointed out there’s always that slim chance, you know? Well, we bought some
pregnancy tests. You were playing cards and I pulled you away from that after I saw that the tests
were positive.” She took a deep breath. “You…were upset. You said we weren’t ready to be
parents and you didn’t want the baby.”

A chill snaked through Colin’s torso. He couldn’t fathom saying such things, but the expression on
Penelope’s face was so vulnerable, so sincere.

“And then you insinuated that I had done it on purpose.”

“Done what?”

“Gotten pregnant. Sabotaged my birth control, or just stopped taking it, or something. I don’t
know. It was a half-baked accusation. I don’t think you really thought it through or meant it, and
you tried to take it back right away.” Her hands trembled and she tucked them close, hugging
herself. “I knew I was too hurt and emotionally stirred up to continue the conversation, so I left. I
went to my old guest room.” Her eyes seemed impossibly large to him. “But sleeping alone is hard
for me now. It didn’t use to be, obviously. I mean, I’ve slept alone for most of my life, but after the
last three years…sharing a bed, with you…. It’s bad enough when we’re apart for a night or two
because of our schedules, but a fight?” She shrugged apologetically. “I tossed and turned for a few
hours before I gave up and came back here. You were already asleep.”

Some of the words and idioms she used in her recounting were not familiar but he understood
enough through context. The salient points were quite clear.

Three years. Penelope believed that they had shared a bed, a life, been married, for three years.
And Colin remembered none of it.

Every second of this morning raised more questions than it answered. Every second took him
further away from what he knew to be true, what he remembered to have been his lived experience.
It was terrifying. What was this place? Why, how was he here? Was it a punishment? He had never
given much thought to God’s wrath, but is that what this was?

He was silent for a time—he didn’t know how long. When he finally opened his mouth, it was to
speak the truth. What he knew of it, anyway. He wasn’t sure why, except that he could not
continue on with these lies of omission. He needed to tell someone. And Pen was the one there—
she was always the one there. She was the dear friend who steadied his ship in the tempest, the one
who would never forsake him. He knew he could tell her anything, no matter how inane…or
insane.

He only hoped that his words would not further her pain.

“I do not remember any of that.” He reached out his hand and took one of hers. “Pen, do you know
what I remember of last night?”

She waited for him to speak.

“A ball. Your mother threw a grand ball and invited the whole of the ton. I was eager to attend
because I had discovered Jack Featherington to be a charlatan who was selling a false dream of
gem mines in Georgia to gullible friends. The mines held no such riches, and I believed the
evidence could be obtained. All I had to do was dance with Cressida Cowper,” there Penelope’s
face flashed with revulsion, “and steal the necklace of fake rubies your cousin had given her.”

“Colin, this sounds like a wild dream.”

“I obtained the necklace, and the jewels were made of glass, just as I suspected. I revealed your
cousin as the villain he is to you and your mother.”

“Yes, well, Jack is a compulsive scam artist. You know that better than anyone.” Penelope looked
thoughtful.

“We danced, you and I. In celebration. Then my mother hounded me about marrying you, Benedict
teased me about courting you, and I…. Some of the men of the ton asked me if I was indeed
courting you, and I told them I wasn’t, that I would never dream of it. I discovered later that you
heard me and were hurt. That made me feel terrible. I got drunk and went to see you. I tried to
climb your house,” he indicated his face. “But I fell, and then I went home and got in my own
bed.”

Eyes far off, Penelope grinned ruefully. “It sounds like your subconscious is really working
through some stuff.”

His mouth opened, then closed. He was genuinely confused. “I do not understand.”
“I just mean, you had a hell of a dream processing that fight we had: your guilt over not wanting to
commit to me and the baby, your complicated feelings about me and my family. Our sordid,
scandalous history and dirty dealings. The ways in which my mother has and has not rubbed off on
me…and just, generally, fucked me up with the way she…,” Penelope sighed tiredly,
“everything.”

His thoughts tripped and skid over her shocking words, complete with a shocking expletive. He
was tempted to ask her to elaborate, but instinctively shied from the question. The answers sounded
like they might be both overwhelming and unwelcome, and he needed this moment to become
more coherent, not less.

“I do not think it was a dream.” Colin braced himself. “It is not only last night I do not recall. I do
not remember anything before that either, not in this house, nor with you. I do not remember our
courtship or our marriage.”

Penelope flinched. “Our what?”

“I remember you,” he said quickly. “An iteration of you, at least. A sweet and clever Penelope,
who is my dearest and most loyal friend. But friends is all we are. There has never been romance or
intimacy between us.”

A coolness came over her. She extricated her hand from his and stepped back. “Don’t, Colin.
You’re not funny.”

“This room—I have never seen it before. I have never used a flush toilet, nor indoor taps.” He was
desperate to tell her, to somehow make her understand. “This!” He snatched up the device he had
just used to clean his teeth. “I have never used its like. I cannot even identify this material. The one
I have is made of calf bone and boar’s hair. It does not vibrate, and bicarbonate of soda does not
taste nearly so pleasant as whatever minty concoction that was.”

Shaking her head, she turned and began to walk away.

Frantic, he followed after her, snatching up foreign object after foreign object in the bedroom. “I do
not know what this is. Or this. This—what could its purpose possibly be?”

“Colin, stop!” she said. “This is cruel!”

But then she froze. And so did he. Something in what she said seemed to be the cause for her, but
for Colin it was that he was finally standing close enough to a window to have a clear view
between the curtains. He could see the rolling stretch of lawn, the ancient cobbles, the treeline and
the lake. It was the same view, the same angle of the grounds he was used to from his room at
Aubrey Hall.

His knees weakened and he sagged against the windowsill, dropping the strange devices he had
been brandishing to the rug. He turned, sinking to the floor and sat, stunned.

Penelope approached him, cautiously. “Love? Are you all right?” Her voice had the tenor one
might take while addressing a spooked horse.

She knelt before him, her hand caressing his uninjured cheek, and he looked at her.

“We are at Aubrey Hall,” he said.

“Yes.”
His eyes traced the boundaries of the room with new understanding. He could see how it was one
he knew, how the bones of it were the same. The door, for example, and the fireplace mantle. If
one were to scrape off the wallpaper of his childhood, remove the decorative molding, then paint
the room white and hang strange art, these walls could be the same. The dimensions of the space
were smaller because, at some point, the private washroom had been added, taking up what had
formerly been floorspace for his collection of maps.

“It is recognizable in the broad sense—the grounds, this room,” Colin whispered. “But the details
are all strange, all wrong. Like you.”

Penelope blanched. Against his face, her hand began to quaver. “Colin, how far did you fall? How
hard did you hit your head?”

It took him a moment to register what she had asked him, and a few seconds longer to deduce why
she might be asking. His eyes widened. “I’m uncertain.”

Her countenance took on a determined, pragmatic cast. “Lean forward.”

He did as she asked.

“I am going to check your scalp for wounds, all right?”

Colin nodded.

Her gentle touch slid into his hair. Progress was slow and methodical. The gravity of the situation
was evident in her manner, but he was again struck by the intimacy of the moment. No woman
apart from his mother had ever stroked his hair before. It was a most pleasing sensation and made
him feel…loved. He found himself leaning toward the comfort of her.

Resolutely, he kept his eyes from her skin. Even though there was so much of it—freckled and soft
and inviting. Losing himself in it, in her, and forgetting all his overwhelming fears and questions
sounded more appealing than it ought.

What would it be like to kiss her? Really kiss her?

“Nothing,” she announced. “No bumps and no gashes that I can find.” She appraised the wound on
his cheek with new eyes, but ultimately was unconvinced it could have caused brain trauma, and
she voiced her conclusion. “I’m not a doctor, though. We should take you to one.”

Perhaps, but the thought filled him with dread.

“I am not saying any of this in jest,” Colin said, feeling the need to reassure her. “Or constructing
cruel falsehoods to cause you distress.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. You do like a good prank, but you’re never mean. You’d never hurt
me. Not like that.”

“I simply….” Colin faltered. “I do not know where I am or what has happened to me. I am
confused and….”

“Frightened,” Penelope supplied the word. “It’s etched all over your face.”

Colin looked away.

“It’s all right.” She enfolded him in her arms and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I am here,
with you, and I will not leave you or allow anything bad to happen to you. I promise.”

Colin would have expected to feel like a child—being held by her in such a way while she said
those words. But he didn’t. He felt more like himself than he had since waking. More, he felt
reassured in her. However different she looked, however shockingly appealing he found her body
to be in this circumstance, and however baffling the words that came out of her mouth, Penelope
was herself. In madness or in hell—whatever this place may be—she was still his Pen.

Such a realization was remarkably stabilizing. Suddenly, the ground beneath him felt truly solid.
Suddenly, he could breathe again.

His arms encircled her, cradled her to him.

“My dearest Pen,” he murmured into her hair.

Her embrace tightened.

Out in the hall, there was a bang. Then a shout.

“Damn it, Hy! Give it back!” It sounded like Gregory.

Hyacinth’s voice was distinct, but her reply was too distant to be intelligible.

Colin tensed. His family. They were really here.

Penelope sighed. “We should get dressed.”

She relinquished her hold on him and rose to her feet. Padding over to some ugly black boxes on
wheels, she opened them by pulling on a little tab of metal. There was a high-pitched sound, and
then the lids lifted. Inside seemed to be an assortment of clothing.

Glancing over her shoulder at him, she inquired, “Shall I choose something for you? Or would you
like to pick?”

Inching forward, he got a clearer view of the contents. “You choose.”

Nodding, she turned back and made selections. One of the items she set out looked to be knitted
and wool. He ran a hand over the dusky green yarn.

“It’s raining,” Penelope said simply. She lifted the stack of garments and placed them in his arms.

Colin gazed down at them and balked. To the best of his memory, he had a valet who helped him
dress usually, though he certainly knew how to dress himself. Yet nothing Penelope had chosen for
him was familiar.

“I…I do not know how….”

She grew even paler, somehow. “Really?”

Colin’s neck felt hot.

“That’s fine,” she reassured automatically, but he could see that she was becoming more concerned
by the moment. “Here,” she took the clothes back and placed them on the bed.

“First,” she gestured to the ugly but soft trousers he was wearing, “take those off.”
She mimed pushing them down, and when he did so he discovered the waistband to be capable of
stretching easily. Under, he found he was wearing something very much like the smalls he was
used to, but of thin, pliable material.

“Those, too,” she indicated his undergarments.

His face fully colored, and Penelope’s kind eyes averted, turning her body to give him privacy. He
felt foolish, worrying over modesty in front of his wife—but he did not remember their previous
intimacies. To him, this was the first time he would be undressing before Penelope’s eyes. He was
grateful she was so understanding.

“Here.”

Without looking, she passed him a fresh replacement of smalls. He pulled them on quickly, and
when he looked up she was offering another garment. This one appeared to be trousers of a heavy
blue fabric. Perhaps some variety of cotton? Pulling them on seemed straightforward enough, but
—

“How might one fasten these?”

She pivoted and, with only the barest of glances downward to orient her hand, took hold of a little
brass tab and pulled upward. It knit rows of metal teeth together and the result was surprisingly
sturdy. He threaded the button at the top.

Next, she helped him lift the strange shirt he was wearing up over his head and off. He was struck
by the color. Black.

“Am I in mourning?” he asked suddenly, alarm flushing through him.

She blinked. “No.”

The replacement shirt was white, and it was the only garment left in her pile, aside from the green
wool. “Just this? No waistcoat or cravat?”

Penelope was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Colin, what year do you think it
is?”

He tensed, concerned anew. “1815.”

She tried to hide her reaction but failed. Her eyes flared wide for the briefest moment, and the
worried lines around her lips etched deeper. She nodded and attempted to take his response in
stride.

“Is that incorrect?”

Her smile was sardonic, but not unkind. “Just a little.” Her hand reached up and stroked the side of
his neck. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort this together.”

Colin was studying her closely now. Inside, much of his turmoil had calmed, or at least become
less frantic. Consequently, he could focus more of his attention on her. Her expressions, her
reactions. What he saw chastened him.

She was putting on a brave face, but underneath she was quite strained.

He tried to grin, for her. “Is that reassurance for me, or you?”
Always the good sport, she laughed. “Both,” she admitted.

Placing both of her hands on his chest, she leaned into him, cheek against his shirt.

“You still have my heart, Colin Bridgerton,” she said. “You’ve had it from the first moment we
met. Nothing will change that.”

His pulse leapt at her words, then sped. Her tone was of a well-worn topic between intimates, not
of confession—as though she thought such assurance would soothe his worries. But for Colin…this
was confirmation of a new idea, one that had only occurred to him as a possibility last night, and it
was big. Disruptive to his entire understanding of his world.

Penelope was saying she loved him and had always done. For her, this was no marriage of
convenience.

Colin swallowed. His heart was racing and she must be feeling it against the skin of her face.

“I’m still your immovable rock, your faithful.” Her lungs filled with a ragged little breath that
veered toward a sob. “You may need to give me a little grace here, too, though. I told the man I
love that I was pregnant with his baby, and he found that idea so upsetting, he may have had a
psychotic break. I’m trying my best not to take that personally—but, you know.”

It was a feeble attempt at a joke, and he was too disoriented to give her a pity laugh. “A what
break?”

She did her best to explain what she meant, but many of the words were opaque to him. He got the
gist, though. A break with reality—delusions, confused thoughts, strange speech. In other words: a
kind of madness, just as he had begun to fear.

She pulled back, and Colin could see tears in her eyes. They did not fall, but it seemed to be only
through sheer will on her part. He wished he had a handkerchief to offer her.

“You sound familiar with this condition,” he observed.

She froze. “You know that I am.” But then she studied him and came to a different conclusion. “Or
maybe you don’t.” She wiped her eyes even though they were mostly dry. “It doesn’t matter.”
After a deep breath, she leaned toward the bed and lifted the woolen tunic. “Here, put this on.”

“Over the shirt?”

“Yes.”

He had to admit, this clothing was much easier to don than what he was used to, and involved far
fewer layers.

Walking around him, she reached for the second box of clothing and began rooting through it. At
first, she lifted what appeared to be a blue dress along with some finely woven hosiery with
embroidered details. But then a change came over her, and she stuffed them back inside. “Fuck it.”

Colin flinched. It was very strange to hear a woman use that word, especially Penelope, but it was
the second time she had uttered it, and she had been cursing all morning. He supposed provisions
should certainly be made for the day one’s husband goes mad, even for a gently bred lady.

She made new garment selections and also grabbed up a small bag. “I’ll be right back,” she assured
him, before ducking into the washroom.
While she dressed, Colin waited, sat on the bed and contemplated his circumstance.

It was not 1815. Penelope hadn’t said what year it actually was, but her reaction had been
unequivocal on that point. If Colin was missing a few years, that would explain quite a lot. Or, at
least, his marriage to Penelope and the changes to Aubrey Hall and fashion, perhaps. Though, he
allowed, the changes in question were quite drastic. No upheaval on this scale had heretofore
happened in his lifetime, but the material evidence was right here before him. He could see it,
touch it, hear it, smell it. Still unexplained was why the injury he incurred matched the one from
the last night he remembered (or thought he remembered), but that was a small thing, and Colin
was skeptical of his memory at the moment.

Normally, he would be inclined to weigh his own memory over that of another person, but this was
a special case. None of his memories explained where he was and what was going on. None of
them accounted for the undeniable reality around him. But Penelope’s did.

His wife, Penelope….

It was strange. At that horrid ball he remembered to have attended last night, he had felt so
defensive over the idea of taking Pen as his wife. He’d gone so far as to declare the notion absurd,
telling himself that he and his friend each deserved a love match. The idea of marrying her had felt
to him like settling, like giving up on the notion of love and the possibility of a romance. It would
be a match between two devoted friends, to be sure, but at the end of the day, under all the
trappings, a mere marriage of convenience. He’d imagined marriage to Penelope to be passionless
and predictable.

Yet, here he was faced with the reality, and it was neither. He had scoffed at friendship as a
foundation for love, yet the notion in action was staggering. On this, the most distressing and
confusing day of his life, his friendship with Penelope was the only thing holding the pieces of him
together. The only thing that made him believe things would be made right. He was disoriented,
scraped up and bruised, fairly certain he was going mad—and Pen’s steady loyalty, her gentle
touch and patient understanding, well…. She made him feel safe.

He was so glad, so thankful, to have woken beside Penelope today.

Even as he counted himself lucky, however, there was an uncomfortable ugliness he was beginning
to suspect lurked beneath the surface of his marriage. Penelope loved him—that much had been
made inescapably obvious. For her, this was a love match. But for him? Had he…not been
appreciating her adoration properly? Had there been inequity of feeling between them? She said he
had not wanted their child, that they had still been trying to prevent pregnancy three years into their
marriage, and that he had accused her of all manner of deception in an outburst of temper—did that
mean he was an indifferent husband? Or worse, a cold one?

A knock at the door broke into his stormy thoughts.

He sat paralyzed with indecision until he heard his mother’s voice. “Colin? Penelope?” The words
were followed by a second knock.

Colin strode to the door, almost eager to see her face. He struggled a moment with the handle, as it
was new to him, but discovered quickly that rotating the knob freed the door to swing toward him.

His interactions with Penelope this morning had taught him to expect difference, but he was glad
his mother was distracted and not looking his way when first he saw her. It gave him time to gape,
to absorb the shock. She was wearing trousers, lavender ones with a bow at the waist, and a white
shirt bedecked with ruffles. Her hair was cut short, chin length and curled, and her face had painted
details. His gentlemanly manners were all that forestalled an exclamation.

She was preoccupied with the clasp of a bracelet, and he managed to school his expression before
she glanced his way.

“I’m just stopping by to check on Penel—” Violet Bridgerton gasped and the bracelet slipped to the
carpet. “Colin, darling, what happened?”

Her touch found his cheek and it was the most familiar thing he had felt all morning.

“I fell.”

She examined the wound at the boundaries of the the sticky bandages with a frown. “Did you
disinfect it? I don’t like that tinge of red at the edges.”

Recognizing the word from earlier, he said, “Penelope did.”

“Good.” His mother leaned toward him.

He lowered his cheek automatically for the kiss. It was a salve, not just to the scrape but to all his
wounds, seen and unseen. He was struck powerfully how, though her perfume was different, she
somehow smelled the same.

“How is Penelope feeling? Better or worse today?” Violet asked.

Briefly, his thoughts scrambled. But then he recalled how Pen had said her nausea was pronounced
enough yesterday to have drawn attention, and how she had requested they wait to tell his family
about the baby. “Better, she says.”

Violet nodded but did not seem convinced.

When she bent for her jewelry, his sense of chivalry reared. “Allow me, Mother.”

As Colin retrieved the bracelet, he heard a door open and close. He meant only to glance up, but
found himself staring.

His brother Gregory had grown tall and lanky. If there had been any doubts lingering that Colin
was missing a few years of time, they were laid definitively to rest.

Violet fixed him with her incisive glare. “Did I hear you fighting with your sister?”

Gregory made a noise of exasperation. “She came into my room last night and took my charger.
My phone’s dead.”

As if preternaturally aware that this conversation was taking place without her, Hyacinth appeared,
giving Colin a second jolt. Gregory looked as though he could be entering university any day now,
and if Hyacinth hadn’t yet been presented at court for her first season, she soon would be.

“His stupid dog is the reason I don’t have a charger. He can share.”

“Stealing isn’t sharing,” Gregory retorted.

Pushing his discomfort aside and keeping his expression as impassive as he could manage, he took
note of the type of clasp mechanism on the diamond bracelet and gestured for his mother’s wrist.

Violet lifted her arm toward Colin. “Thank you, dearest,” she said warmly. And in a tone that came
near to scolding, she addressed the other two children in the hall, “Gregory, share with your sister.
She’s right that Fabian is the reason she currently does not have a charger of her own. Until it can
be replaced, let her use yours. But Hyacinth, you shouldn’t enter a person’s bedroom without
permission, and courtesy dictates that you ask before borrowing. Your brother needs his phone,
too.”

Colin’s youngest siblings accepted this decree—albeit with a little grumbling and sniping, but there
were no serious objections. The two of them ambled off down the hall with the topic shifting from
“phones” and “chargers” (whatever those may be), to breakfast.

Colin’s stomach gave a hopeful rumble at the word.

Violet leaned toward him and muttered conspiratorially, “It’s too early for this.”

He grinned.

“Speaking of breakfast,” she said, “you must be absolutely starving.” Ah, his mother knew him
well. “There’s plenty downstairs, and I would feel better if you and Penelope got a good meal in
before your drive—especially if she is still insisting on going into the office.”

He wasn’t quite able to follow the particulars of that last sentence, but he was in complete
agreement that a hearty breakfast was in order. “Are you certain there’s enough for me?”

She considered. “Perhaps not.” But her smile said she was teasing, and she patted his arm
affectionately before departing.

Colin looked longingly toward the stairs that led down toward the food, but he knew he must wait
for Penelope, so he stepped back into his bedroom and pulled the door closed.

Seeing Hyacinth and Gregory years older than his memory taught him to expect should have been
further disorienting, perhaps. But it wasn’t. The explanation that he was missing several years from
his memory was upsetting, certainly, but it was still an explanation. It lined up all his experiences
since waking into congruous, legible rows. Whatever was happening remained terrifying, but the
world around him was gaining a kind of coherency that empowered him to evaluate and move
forward.

When the door to the washroom opened, he felt buoyed enough to smile—until the sight of
Penelope knocked the breath from him.

Her clothing was similar to his in that she was wearing blue trousers of that thick cotton weave, but
the way the fabric clung to and draped from her shapely backside and legs was indecent. She also
wore a knitted tunic, but hers was a pink that made her skin glow, tucked artfully into the
waistband of her trousers, and the weave was open enough that he could see the lace of her
chemise. The collar was so wide, it hung off one shoulder. Some of her hair had been pulled back
and pinned above her left ear, but most tumbled free in pretty ringlets. There was heavy khol
around her eyes, and more, her lashes had been darkened and her lips painted. Most unexpectedly,
she was wearing large green-rimmed eyeglasses.

She looked…alien. Shocking, and exotic, and lovely all at once.

Colin knew Penelope was beautiful—but had she always been this beautiful? Her clothing and face
paint now was every bit as awkward to his eyes as anything her mother had ever forced her to
wear. More so, even. Yet, her appeal was undeniable, shouting loud and clear over the volume of
her strange dress. How had he missed what a striking woman Pen had been growing into? He must
have been blind or asleep.

“Pen…y-you look…. What are you wearing?”

“I know. But I’m not going into the office today. I’m the surprise kind of pregnant, my boyfriend’s
completely snapped, and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m officially done. I have nothing
left to give and it’s only 7:30. I’ll call out after breakfast, but I don’t want your family worrying
about me. If anyone asks, Agatha’s office policy on jeans has changed.”

She waited for his affirmation, so he nodded even though he understood little of what she had just
said.

“We should finish packing,” she said, more to herself than to him.

Then she began flitting around the room gathering bits and bobs to shove into the two black boxes
on wheels. Up close, Colin thought they resembled traveling trunks in function, merely made of
strange material. He did what he could to help her.

It seemed bizarre, even far-fetched, that the world could have changed so much in so little time.

“Pen?”

She looked up.

“How many years has it been?”

“What?”

“How old am I?”

Her brows drew together. “You’re twenty-five.”

“So the year is 1818?”

She shook her head. Voice gentle, she said, “No, love. It’s 2022.”

Just like that, all the equilibrium he thought he had gained in the past half hour was yanked out
from under him. “But…I was born in 1793.”

Penelope’s grip on a bottle of perfume tightened. “You were born in 1997.”

The room swayed.

“I need to sit down,” Colin announced.

Pen dropped the bottle on the bed and rushed to his side. She led him to a desk chair.

The air around him felt tight and rang loudly in his ears. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled,
clutching her hands. “When I retired last night to bed, I swear that it was 1815. I was two and
twenty.” He tried to blink away the black spots in his vision. “I don’t know how this happened.”

“Twenty-two?” Penelope was studying the uninjured side of his face charily, particularly around
the eye. Then she shook her head. “No,” she muttered. “No.” But she did not sound confident. The
steadying breath she inhaled was shaky. “Colin…this is scary. We should—should we tell your
mother?”
That snapped him to attention. “No! Please, let us wait. I do not wish to distress her unduly. We
should wait until we know more. What you said before—a doctor. I should see a doctor.”

The color in her cheeks and the welling in her eyes showed her torment, but once more, Penelope
fought the tears back and won. “I’ll do some research. We’ll find a neurology expert.”

He nodded. What else could he do?

“So, it is the year 2022 and I am five and twenty?” he said dully.

Penelope tried to smile.

He added three years to her remembered age as well. “And you are two and twenty?”

“Yes.”

“When did we marry?”

She pulled away from him. “We should go down to breakfast before you pass out from hunger.”

He did not disagree, but was uncomfortable with how blatantly she avoided that question. He did
not press, partly because her behavior made him fearful of the answer, and partly because she had
reached limits of her own. In her own words, she had nothing left to give, so he would try his
utmost not to ask anything of her.

Penelope brought him his shoes, and he put them on while requesting as little guidance as he could
manage. They were warm to the touch from sitting on a heating device called a radiator, but they
were also slightly damp inside.

“Sorry,” she said, grimacing on his behalf. “You got them wet in the lake yesterday rescuing me
from a stranded rowboat. They are the only shoes you brought. Your others are all back in London,
but we should be there soon. Just an hour or two.”

Colin voiced none of his new crop of questions, merely reassured her that the wet shoes did not
bother him. Even though they were miserably unpleasant, in all truth.

He used the washroom for the first time. Thankful for Penelope’s brief and unprompted
explanation of how to use the flush toilet, he managed the task without incident. She was insistent
that he wash his hands afterward with soap in the sink, so he did that as well.

Room tidied and all their things packed, Penelope donned her own shoes and brought him the
rectangular object he had knocked to the floor right after waking. She called it his phone and
instructed him to place it in the pocket of his trousers.

Wheels on trunks, it transpired, was a genius idea and Colin appreciated how simple it proved to
bring their belongings with them when they vacated his room. He insisted on carrying both trunks
down the stairs and that earned him a grateful smile from Penelope.

He ate two heaping plates of food and four pastries. Penelope implored that he drink coffee. He
had never enjoyed the beverage, but her eyes were so large when she handed him the cup.

“You’ll get a headache if you don’t. Trust me—I made it the way you like it,” she pleaded.

So he took a sip, and marvel upon marvels, he did like it.

They had the breakfast room mostly to themselves, as Gregory and Hyacinth had been finishing up
when they arrived. Colin’s mother stopped by specifically to fuss over Penelope, and they learned
from her that Eloise, Benedict, and Francesca were still abed.

Anthony and Kate, by contrast, had departed around sunrise. Colin deduced they were married,
which was very near the only unsurprising revelation of the morning.

Violet shot him an alarmed look when he asked after Daphne, and Penelope gently reminded him
that his sister and Simon had left Aubrey Hall yesterday. He tried to laugh it off, but feared his
mother knew him too well. He could also see that Violet had noted, much as he did, that Penelope
was pushing more food around her plate than she was eating. He had no doubt that the atmosphere
between them was unsettled and strained compared to the usual, and his mother was eyeing both of
them with concern by the time they finished their meal.

Penelope prepared more coffee for their journey in cylindrical metal flasks, muttering under her
breath to him that if he didn’t want his, she would take it, but, “Please carry it with you like you’d
sooner part with your own arm, or your family will ask questions.”

Baffled, Colin complied, though he had already decided that he quite liked the coffee Pen made
and would happily drink more.

She froze mid-sip from her own flask. “Wait, is coffee bad when you’re pregnant?” she whispered.
“I think I heard that somewhere.”

Colin did not know. He’d never had occasion to wonder.

Pen groaned. “Great. One more thing to research.”

They bid his family farewell, those that were awake anyway, and Penelope led him outside through
the rain to a large metal machine. It was painted a burgundy red, with glass windows on the doors
and chairs inside. She called it a “car.”

“It’s like a carriage,” she explained as she helped him secure the trunks in a rear compartment, “but
it moves by mechanical engine rather than, you know, being pulled by poor horses.” She reached
into her pocket and produced a ring of keys.

He was fascinated, but she looked tired, so he kept quiet as he followed her example opening the
door and seating himself beside her. They strapped themselves down with belts (for safety, she
said), and Penelope inserted a key into a panel of switches and dials. The car awoke like rolling
thunder or a growling animal.

Colin had read about giant machines that could do the work of twenty people, how they had swept
through towns throughout England, especially in the north, where they were the target of Luddites
and radicals. But he had never seen these contraptions. Some travelers Colin knew made a
deliberate trip to tour these factories as curiosities. The concept had not appealed to him. The
exotic and the marvelous existed out there—across the ocean, in distant lands—not here at home.
His wanderlust had always pulled him toward the ancient and antique, never the future.

…Perhaps fate had a mocking sense of humor?

Apparently, now there were machines that could take the place of horses. The idea fascinated,
maybe even excited, him. He was impatiently curious to observe how this would work.

Still, one glance at Pen and he strove to keep all that he was feeling—the dismay, the terror, the
hope, and the inquisitiveness—under wraps and out of her way. He could see in the tightness
around her mouth, the tremble in her fingers, and the periodic mistiness in her eyes, that she was
fragile. She was doing all she could to be strong for him, but by her own admission she had
reached a threshold. Her composure was frayed and barely holding together.

So, he sat patiently as she wiped the rain off of her eyeglasses and withdrew a polished black
rectangle, like the one in his pocket called a phone, and manipulated it with her hands. It lit up
from within like magic, but he said nothing. Nothing at all, even though his heart nearly stopped.

Penelope tapped the smooth surface with her thumb many times, the patterns and light shifting and
changing as she did so, before placing the phone against her ear. She began speaking, but not to
him. She wasn’t even looking his way—instead fiddling with dials in front of them. The car engine
rumbled in response and began blowing warm air into the compartment. That was nothing, though,
to when he heard a voice answer back. Pen was talking into the rectangle, and somehow that
allowed her to converse with a person not present.

Not just any person. Colin would recognize Lady Danbury’s sharp tones anywhere. His whole
body clenched and he felt the instinctive urge to shrink down in his seat to hide, even though the
terrifying dowager was nowhere to be seen.

“Yes, a stomach virus, Agatha. Fever, vomiting, my muscles ache—it’s awful. I would feel so
guilty if I gave it to anyone else, especially with all the big deadlines we have coming up.”

With everything else his brain had to contend with at the moment, it took Colin some seconds to
catch up. She’s lying, he realized with some disquiet. Penelope was lying to Lady Danbury—
thoroughly and well, he might add. The cadence, the tone, the subtle manipulation in how she
phrased her fiction.

Colin had never seen Penelope lie before. He had not suspected she would be so skilled.

More startling, he was deducing that Lady Danbury was Pen’s employer?

When at last she said her farewell and set the phone aside, Colin confirmed, “She can no longer
hear us?”

“No, she can’t hear us. I ended the call.”

“Am I to understand that you hold a position with Lady Danbury? For wages?”

“Agatha,” Penelope corrected. “And yes, she owns the publication.”

“Why?”

“Because she offered me a job.”

She was manipulating levers and the wheel in front of her, glancing in the mirrors hanging all
around. The car began to roll backward and Colin’s insides jumped even though he was ready for
it. His hands flung out to brace himself.

“No,” he said, struggling to find his footing in this conversation. “I meant to inquire, why must you
work for wages?”

Her expression turned sour. “Because we can’t all be trust fund brats, Bridgerton. Some of us had
fathers who gambled away every last farthing of the family fortune before going and getting
themselves murdered in a brothel. And mothers who took a fucked up situation and made it worse.
I have less than zero money, Colin. I have debt. A lot of it. And thank you—this is exactly the
topic I wanted to revisit this morning. Throw it on the pile with everything else.”
“But…my money is your money.”

The car abruptly stopped and the whole metal frame rocked.

Spine stiffening, her eyes flashed. “No. Your money is yours. Period. We are absolutely not having
this old row again today.”

“But as my wife—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Colin! We are not married!”

Those words were a devil’s punch to the gut.

“We…we’re not?”

“No.”

Colin’s heartbeat was so loud it hurt. “But we share….”

“A bed? A flat? A car? A life? Yeah, we do.” Penelope drew a deep breath and her grip on the
car’s wheel tightened. She looked as though she were attempting to steady herself on the deck of a
roiling ship. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, gentler. “It’s 2022, Colin. Remember?
Marriage is no longer a prerequisite for any of that.”

Colin felt sick and hot and aghast. Penelope, the dearest and sweetest girl in the world had been
vulnerable. Penniless, without prospects or protection, and he had taken advantage—of both her
dire circumstances and her feelings for him. He had exploited her desperation for his own
depraved pleasures. Suddenly, his misgivings about her pregnancy made more sense, as did her
reluctance to tell his family. The only questions that remained were how his mother could stand the
sight of him, let alone allow him his old room in her house, and why Eloise hadn’t shot him dead?
He was a blackguard and a scoundrel without a shred of honor to claim.

“I made you my mistress,” he blurted, horrified.

Penelope’s eyes widened. Then she looked away, silent and still…before collapsing forward onto
the wheel, face in her arms.

He reached toward her by reflex, but then, uncertain whether his touch would be welcome,
withdrew his hand and dropped it.

Her shoulders wracked and shook, and the pained noise that wrung from her throat—it was….

“Pen?” he ventured. “Are you weeping or laughing?”

Her head lifted and he saw the khol around her eyes looked slightly wet and smudged. “Honestly?
I’m not sure,” she said, and there was bleak humor in her voice. She wiped her eyes delicately with
her fingers, using the mirror between them as her guide.

Once again, Colin was uncomfortably aware that he had no handkerchief to offer her. That had to
be an oversight of some kind in this twenty-first century dress. He could only watch as she
smoothed away the evidence of her anguish.

“I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “You’re fine, Colin.”

But he did not allow her to brush aside his brutishness. “No, I have behaved abominably. You
asked me for grace, and I have not given it. I have continued to upset and strain you, because I
cannot seem to cease with my questions. For that, you have my sincere regret.”

For the first time since they had climbed into the car, Penelope truly regarded him. Her eyes
softened. She extended her hand toward him, palm up. He took it in his and she laced their fingers.

“God you’re sweet, Colin. Even with this terrifying thing happening to you, you can’t help but be
considerate and kind. You are so good to me.” She lifted their clasped hands and kissed his wrist.
“Ask as many questions as you need to, love. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you couldn’t.”

Colin didn’t know what to say—a pattern of this morning. And that was strange. He always knew
what to say: the right quip to make someone smile, lighten a heavy mood. But perhaps, right now,
he didn’t want to lighten the mood.

“Colin, what’s this?”

Penelope was tracing a scar at the base of his thumb. She lifted their entwined hands closer to her
face.

“Fishing expedition gone awry.” He attempted a grin. “I was seven years of age? Maybe eight?”
He shrugged. “Anthony left the fishhooks unattended.”

Pen was frowning.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s just…I’m sure I’ve never seen it before. But I must have, right?”

She looked up at him, searching for answers or an explanation, but he had none to give. Inside,
they were both stretched taut, overwrought, and that was allowing their thoughts to turn wild and
paranoid.

Penelope rubbed her forehead with her free hand and refocused on the task of getting them to
London. She grasped the wheel and the car began to move once more. But she did not let go of
him. Between them, their hands remained tightly clasped.

The pace and power of the car was dizzying. It glided over the wet paved roads with an ease that
seemed dangerous. Yet, Pen operated the machine with confidence. Whatever stress she was
experiencing this morning, driving this car was not contributing to it. Her calm served to ease his
mind, even as scenery swept passed them at an alarming rate.

More than once this morning, reference had been made to London being less than a day’s journey
from Aubrey Hall. That was utter nonsense. However, it had been of a lower priority than other,
more pressing nonsense, and so he had not challenged the claim. Now, in this car that was moving
faster than any bird could fly, Colin could imagine how one might reach London on such an
expedited schedule. An hour, her phone announced in an unrecognizable voice. An hour. (Provided
they take a small detour to avoid some traffic.) It boggled the mind.

He said nothing. The speed was making his full stomach drop and clench with every turn of the
winding road. Pen was silent as well, all attention directed toward her task and he had no wish to
distract her. They were making their way through a misty country road, with farms on one side and
trees on the other, when a hideous noise rent the air.

Colin jumped, already so on edge that he cried out. In the flailing, his hand ripped free from
Penelope’s. The car jerked and swerved ever so slightly, and that added to his alarm.

“Jesus, Colin!” Pen gasped. “It’s just your phone.”

Yes, he realized, the wailing noise’s origin was his very own pocket. Heart racing, he fumbled
frantically to pull the smooth rectangle from his trousers. It was lit from within, the way Pen’s had
been only a few minutes ago.

“What does it want?” he asked in a panic.

“It’s John,” she said, nodding toward the picture made of light and the name emblazoned below.

By God, she was right. John Stirling, the Earl of Kilmartin. Why the devil would he be trying to
talk to Colin at this hour? Though, Colin supposed, he should just count himself lucky that it
wasn’t Lady Danbury.

“You have a meeting with him today.” Penelope answered his unasked question. “About your
book. He’s your publisher.” She was slowing the car and pulling as far to the side of the road as
she was able, beside a wooden fence and a field of milling sheep. “Answer it.”

Nonplussed, Colin lifted the phone to his ear in a copy of what she had done. “Er, yes?
Greetings?”

But the noise did not cease. He looked to Penelope for guidance, and didn’t know whether to feel
offended or relieved that she seemed to be resisting the urge to laugh. The noise ceased, though—
Colin appreciated that. A tiny missive informed Colin of a “Missed call from John Stirling.”

The car was halted but still awake, and Pen lifted a hand from the wheel and reached for his that
held the phone. “Here,” she said, guiding his fingers, “like this.”

But whatever Penelope was expecting would happen did not. She guided his thumb over the face
of the phone, but it did not respond. It fell dark and became inert. First, she seemed puzzled. Then
frustrated. She took the phone in her own hands and it awoke for her. She made it dark again and
tried once more with his fingers. Nothing.

“Gah, this bloody brick,” she grumbled.

“What?”

“Your phone. It’s unlocking with my thumbprint, but not yours. How annoying—”

Pen broke off abruptly. She looked up at him, eyes tracing the lines of his face with alarming
intensity. Her eyes grew wide and fearful. She began to tremble and her breathing became fast and
uneven. And then she retched.

Her hands fumbled frantically with the lever to open the door and she threw off the safety harness
crossing her chest, falling to her knees in the mud and grass beside the car. There, she began to
vomit in the rain.

Colin scrambled to get to her side, out his door and around the car, where he crouched and held
her, stroking her hair while she lost her breakfast. She leaned into him, but pulled away when the
ordeal ended.

Her eyes were flat. “You are Colin.”

 “Yes,” he said, even though he was unsure whether she had been asking a question.

“Colin Bridgerton.”

“Yes.”

“But you are not my Colin.”

He blinked. “I do not….”

“You are not the Colin who baked me a Secret Garden themed birthday cake when I turned 12, or
was the Trinculo to my Stephano in a 2015 Bridgerton summer holiday production of The Tempest.
You aren’t the Colin who drunk-texted me at three in the morning about how much prettier
Marseilles would be if I was there. The Colin who kissed me at midnight on my nineteenth
birthday. The father of my baby.” Her hand touched her round stomach. “None of that was you,
was it? You’re a different Colin.”

His pulse thrummed at a frantic pace. Eyes wide, Colin entreated, “Can that be possible?”

Penelope gave a defeated shrug. “It doesn’t matter if it’s possible—it’s happening. At least, it
seems that way.”

Colin sank back onto his haunches, then to the wet grass, stunned.

“You are not my Colin,” she repeated.

“Perhaps…perhaps I am not.”

Her fingers tightened against her belly. “I’m alone,” she whispered.

And then, a dam inside her broke. Utterly. Whatever strength she had been clinging to melted
away, and she dissolved into sobs that wracked her whole body.

Chapter End Notes

God, poor Pen…. I knew when I outlined this fic that this chapter was going to be
rough for them. He’s so lost and scared. But I didn’t realize just how bad it was going
to be for her until I was in the thick of it. I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter—so far,
it’s my favorite.

A note on character ages: I wanted the modern versions of my Colin and Pen to be
slightly older, for reasons that will become evident as the story unfolds. In the books,
there is a 5-year gap between Colin and Pen, but not only did that get a little unwieldy
for my story, it would also make the age gap between Modern Colin and Regency Pen
downright creepy (8-9 years). The show is a little more ambiguous than the books on
this question, but they did seem to collapse the age gap between Daphne and Eloise a
bit, which in turn shortens the gap between Colin and Pen. I decided to make the gap 3
years instead of 5 for my story because I was already using the show continuity
anyway and this was my best guess. So, for my story - Modern Colin is 25 and
Modern Pen is 22; Regency Colin is 22 and Regency Pen is 19.

Next chapter: Modern Colin finds all of Regency Pen’s letters, gets confronted by
Eloise, and attends his first ball.
 His frequent absence, and his late returning
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

But sometimes tenderness return'd; his dame

So long belov'd, so mild, so free from blame,
How should he tell her, he had learn'd to cavil
At happiness itself, and longed to travel?
His heart still smote him, so much wrong to do her,
He knew not how to break the matter to her.
But love, tho' blind himself, makes some discerning;
His frequent absence, and his late returning….

-Charlotte Smith
“Beachy Head”
verse 56

Bridgerton House
Mayfair, London
13 June 1815

“What are you doing in Anthony’s study?” came a stage-whisper from the doorway.

Colin looked backward, over his shoulder, as he banged his way through the liquor cabinet under
the window. Gregory stood, poised—half in, half out of the room. He was jarringly small to
Colin’s eyes, in an awkward stage before a big growth spurt. Hyacinth still had several inches on
him. He wore a starched white shirt, shiny blue waistcoat, and a haircut that looked as though their
mother had chosen it. Poor sod.

“Stealing booze,” Colin answered.

Greg’s eyebrows went up.

“I know it’s only half-ten in the morning, but today is shit, all right?” He grumbled at the selection.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where Anthony is hiding the cognac, would you?”

“There isn’t any.”

“There isn’t?” Cognac was Anthony’s favorite, and he always had an expensive bottle stashed
somewhere that no one else was allowed to touch.

Naturally, pretty much every Bridgerton sibling had, at one time or another, touched.

“No one drinks cognac. It’s unpatriotic.”

It took a moment for those words to register, and they threw Colin off. “What? Why?”

Greg was looking at his older brother oddly. “The war.”

A beat, then it hit him. Oh, right. He nodded. “Napoleon.”

What a dark time for lovers of fancy French liquor like his brother. Anthony must be really
suffering under this embargo…or, Colin realized as he opened the bottom drawer of the desk and
caught sight of a squat bottle tucked at the back, smuggling his favorite regardless.

Colin reached in and lifted the bottle by its neck. “Would you look at that?” He placed the cognac
on the desk.

Gregory’s mouth fell open.

“Relax,” Colin said, selecting a clean glass off of a silver tray beside an assortment of less
expensive brandy. “Anthony’s not going to get in trouble. He’s a viscount.”

Placing a finger over his lips with a meaningful look toward his younger brother, Colin slipped
from the room with the bottle and the glass tucked under arm. He slunk his way up the stairs,
hoping rather than actively trying to avoid other people. He didn’t want to run into anyone, but he
was too despondent, too…without hope, to put much effort into it. His feet dragged and his body
felt heavy. His eyes slid over his surroundings without really seeing, and inside his chest he felt
inert, or at least numb.

He shambled into the room where he had woken up this morning and nudged the door shut with his
boot. Then he just stood, staring blankly at the open curtains and the dust particles floating in the
air.

He didn’t belong here. These people knew him, but not really. And he knew them, but not really.
They had no shared experiences, no history. It was the first time Colin had ever been surrounded
by his family, and yet felt alone.

Colin tended to be easy-going and extroverted. Brooding did not come naturally or easily for him.
Even when things were bad, he almost always had a foundational optimism that they would work
out. But today was different—today was, just, more. He’d never experienced something so
disruptive to his understanding of the world and his place in it. He was in this strange place that
should feel fake, artificial or constructed. It should feel like he was a character in a film. But it
didn’t. His senses screamed that it was real, it was happening.

He didn’t want it to be. He wanted all this to be a dream, or a drug trip, an appointment with Total
Recall or a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past. But no. He was actually here, and for the first
time in his life he felt truly…stuck. And he wanted…well, he wanted Pen.

Right now, in this moment, he was desperate enough trade anything (his money, his limbs, his
fucking soul) for five minutes—five minutes with her arms around him, his arms around her, her
weight in his lap. Five minutes of her voice. Her steady eyes. Pen was better than he was in a crisis.
When things got bad, she became pragmatic. She’d roll up her sleeves and do whatever needed to
be done. But even if she was just as lost as he, even if she hated him and refused his touch, Colin
would still take the five minutes.

But he didn’t have Penelope. He didn’t have his Penelope because, as far as he could tell, he had
fucked up so badly the universe itself had intervened to remove him from her life. And he didn’t
have this Penelope because the Other Colin was a useless wanker, running around and telling
absolutely fucking everyone that he didn’t love her or want her. Colin didn’t see how that could be
anything other than a state of denial or an outright lie. He couldn’t imagine any iteration of himself,
in any reality, who wouldn’t love and need Pen.

And what of her? Had she woken to find him gone? He hoped not. He hoped to God that she
hadn’t gone through that. Would she think he had left her?
Colin staggered. He had to pause a moment and lean into the door to keep his balance. Suddenly,
his throat ached and his eyes burned.

Would she find his bed empty? Call out the police and search the countryside with his family,
never to find him? His poor family, his poor Pen, would they search and wonder and wait and
eventually believe him dead?

The thought made him feel sick.

…Or….

If this place, the place where Colin was now, was real…if the people in it were real…then the
Other Colin was real, too. And he was gone. Was he somewhere completely different and
unknown? Or was it possible they had switched? Had he woken in Colin’s bed this morning? Was
the Other Colin with his Pen?

His heart clenched in panic. No—no! That would be horrible. The Other Colin was a bully. He had
rejected and humiliated his own Penelope in public. Would he be cruel to her? Or cold? Would he
reject her or make her feel unwanted? Would he take his shock and stress and fear out on her?

Pen had just found out she was pregnant. She would be feeling fragile this morning after the fight
they’d had. She needed a Colin who would bring her breakfast in bed and beg for her forgiveness.
A Colin who would assure her that whatever she chose regarding the pregnancy, he was choosing
her. A Colin who would drive her into London (so that she didn’t have to do any of that city
driving that she hated). A Colin who would make her tea, rub her feet, and kiss her belly when she
got home from work tonight.

Nothing about the life Colin had stepped into today led him to believe the Other Colin was capable
of any of that. Colin had no faith in the idiot who had left this mess behind him. He would ruin
everything, and worse, he would hurt her.

And Colin was trapped with no path back to her to stop him.

The weight of that realization was crushing. His heart was pounding.

Or, wait. No—was that the door?

“…will break this door down if I have to. I swear it!”

It was as though the volume all around him suddenly turned up. He had been so lost in his own
head that he hadn’t noticed his sister banging on the door behind him.

Colin jolted upright and pivoted, turning to pull the door open. He had to shift the bottle into his
left hand to undo the latch. The door swung toward him revealing a ruddy-cheeked, flashing-eyed
Eloise on the other side.

“El, I’m not really fit for human interaction at the moment.”

She ignored him. “You called on the Featheringtons?”

With a sigh, Colin set the cognac and glass down on a nearby shelf. “Yeah.”

“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you do so?”

Colin couldn’t decide if she looked angry or panicked. “I went to see Penelope.” Or tried to,
anyway.

Her lips parted, but her expression was less of shock than fears confirmed. “No…. Why?”

With a throbbing head and a hollow heart, Colin groped into the pocket on the inside of his
waistcoat. He withdrew the Lady Whistledown column and unfolded it for his sister.

She shrank from the proffered paper like she didn’t want to touch it. “Today’s? I already read it.”

“Then you saw what it said about Pen and me?”

Eloise didn’t answer. She just stood, ramrod straight, with hard eyes, and Colin knew that she had.

“It’s true.”

It happened all in a burst. Colin heard a snarl, and then the Lady Whistledown column was ripped
from his fingers and thrown in his face. “How could you!” she shrilled, a fury bent on vengeance in
a demure dress of powder blue.

How could he? Colin had no idea—the Other Colin was a stranger with unfathomable motives, a
rock for a brain, and a shriveled little peanut for a heart. But there was something…cathartic about
having Eloise scream at him. Back in his real life, Eloise had asked him to treat her friend with
care, and he had fallen far short of that promise. He deserved this.

“I know.”

“You know?” she sneered. “What do you know? That you have used a young lady carelessly?
Made a sport of her reputation?”

“Yes. I called on her to apologize.”

Eloise scoffed. “Doubtless, she told you to go to the devil.”

Colin gave a feeble shrug.

“Do not expect your puppyish charm to mend this for you!”

“I don’t,” he said. “I know damn well that I had no right to ask for her forgiveness, but I had to
try.”

“Why?” She seemed genuinely baffled. “Because you feel guilty and worry others may see you as a
villain?”

He shook his head, figuring he may as well tell her. He’d already told his mother and Benedict, so
word was bound to get around the house, and El of all people should hear it from him. “Because I
love her.”

El’s face snapped backward and he heard her choke on a gasp.

“I’m in love with Penelope,” he reiterated. “She has my entire heart.” His shoulders pulsed upward
pathetically. “So, I have to try.”

She blinked at him, wide-eyed and pale. He supposed this was a true shock for her, that the Other
Colin had never given her cause to suspect anything remotely like this. It was a stark contrast to
what he had gotten from his mother and Benedict earlier today, both of whom gave him the
impression they had detected feelings on his part that he had in turn denied.
It was also a far cry from how this conversation had gone with the other Eloise, who had simply
turned to him while they were playing Super Smash Bros against each other in the waiting room
outside Benedict’s studio and said, “Pen says she finally took the plunge last night and had sex for
the first time.”

Colin had almost dropped his controller.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

He managed an, “Erm…yeah.”

“Finally!” she’d grumbled, then turned a steely eye on him and added, “Don’t fuck this up.”

And that was the end of it. But this Eloise looked like she might need a moment to absorb this new
information.

“No,” she breathed. “No, Colin, you can’t.”

“I can,” he contradicted gently. “I do.”

She shook her head, something frantic taking hold in her eyes. “No, you can’t love her, Colin. You
can’t trust her.”

That stopped him.

“She’s a liar! A snake, Colin. She cannot be trusted.”

Oh. Well, this had taken a sudden turn.

Her voice had risen, and Colin was worried she might draw a crowd of siblings, so he reached out
and pulled her into the room by her folded arms. She glared, but allowed it.

After the door clicked shut, he motioned for her to continue.

But she didn’t. A switch inside her flipped. She seemed overwhelmed and…alarmingly vulnerable.
The position of her arms changed, and the result left her looking less like she was crossing them
and more like she was hugging herself.

The display fully activated his big-brotherly concern—it took a lot for El to end up this wounded.
He remembered what he had seen earlier, how his intuition had been pricked that she was
struggling today. “What happened?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out and she shook her head. He noted with alarm that she
was trembling.

Cursing, he pulled her into a hug.

She went stiffly, arms still tucked close against her body. “I do not wish to be held,” she snapped.
But she leaned into him, and her head dropped to his shoulder before he could release her. Colin
almost smiled at the contradiction, but then she began to cry.

“Ah, El,” he said softly, patting her back.

“She’s a liar,” Eloise whimpered between sobs.

“Penelope?”
His sister gave a jerky nod.

Stillness came over Colin as the weight of…everything returned.

“Yeah,” he said with a tired sigh. “I know.”

Eloise stiffened. She choked back her tears and pushed away from him with such force that he had
to take a step back or risk losing his balance. “You know?” she demanded, nose pink and face
streaked with wet trails. “What do you know?”

He considered how best to answer that question. “I—”

He broke off briefly when Eloise reached out and ripped the handkerchief from the pocket on the
front of his waistcoat. The glower she gave him suggested he should have offered it to her
proactively, and she was probably right.

Clearing his throat and raking his fingers through his hair, he tried again. “About this particular
situation? I don’t know anything. I don’t think, anyway. But I do know Pen.”

Eloise looked up at him sharply as she sniffled impatiently and wiped her cheeks. There was a
wariness there.

But he nodded with conviction. “I do. I know that she keeps secrets. Pretty much compulsively. It’s
an old habit, one she’s had since early childhood. It comes from a fear that the love of people
around her is conditional, and if they were to find out what she’s hiding, they wouldn’t care about
her anymore.”

El’s expression became startled.

Colin walked to the bottle of cognac, waiting on the shelf, and removed the stopper. “It’s because,
in her family, that’s more or less true. Her mother mostly. It’s not like what we had growing up.
Approval and affection are given arbitrarily and rescinded at the slightest provocation or
disappointment in that house. The love she gets from you and me doesn’t work that way, but she
can’t shut the fear off.” He poured a generous finger of brandy into the glass and turned back to
Eloise. He held it out to her.

She hesitated. “What is that?”

“It’s not a dreaded hug, and it’s better than a handkerchief.”

Her brows furrowed, confused. “Beg your pardon?”

“It’s brandy. Anthony’s secret special favorite.”

She eyed the glass with new interest.

Colin gave her the best winning smile he could manage with the way he was feeling inside.
“You’ll like it, and it will make you feel better.”

Extending the hand not currently clutching his wadded handkerchief, El accepted his gift. She gave
it a sniff, made a face, but drank it anyway—fearless thing that she was. She didn’t like the first
swallow, he could tell, but she was stubborn and took a second. Then a third. “It grows on a
palate,” she announced, considering the contents of the glass with curiosity. “Does it not?”

“It does,” Colin agreed. He carried the bottle with him and let loose a heaving sigh as he lowered
himself to sit on the raised hearth of the fireplace. There, he began again. “I know that when Pen is
backed into a corner, her inclination is to scheme and try to handle it herself instead of asking for
help, the way she learned from watching her mother.”

Eloise stilled. Then she lowered the glass from her lips.

He took a swig directly from the bottle. “I know that she can get herself into tangles with her
secrets and her schemes, to the point where she feels trapped by them, and when it gets to that
point, she acts impulsively and defensively. And yes, I know that she lies. Mostly out of what she
sees as self-preservation.”

“How do you know all this?” Eloise demanded.

Colin spread his palms and took another drink. “I told you. I love her.”

His sister sat beside him on the hearth. “You know that she is a liar, and yet you love her still?”

He nodded, relishing the satisfying burn the liquor left in his throat. “Yes.”

“It does not trouble you that she is untrustworthy?”

Ah, now that was a different question, wasn’t it?

A few years ago, when Colin had found out all of Penelope’s worst and darkest secrets, all in one
go…. Well, he couldn’t say that it hadn’t permanently altered the way he saw her. He would rather
know than not, rather know Penelope fully than have her hide pieces of herself and pieces of her
past from him. But discovering everything she had done? To Marina? To El? Well, he had a much
clearer idea of what Penelope was capable of when she found herself in a situation she thought was
desperate.

But by the time he had stumbled upon all this, they were already together. He already loved her
and could not imagine his life without her. So, he had decided to stay, to forgive her, and he
thought he had. Yet sometimes, when things got tense between them, or something felt off about
one of her stories, a poisonous little voice would whisper in the back of Colin’s head…Is she
keeping secrets again? Pen keeps secrets. Is she lying? Pen lies.

He wasn’t proud of the voice, but he didn’t know how to make it go away for good. Was it a time
thing, and eventually it would fade and disappear? Or was it something he needed to work on?
Honesty and openness had never been hard for him, so maybe it was just that he didn’t understand.
He got it intellectually—when she explained, it made sense. But maybe he didn’t get it on a gut
level? Maybe he didn’t relate? The voice didn’t make its ugly self heard often, but it had last night,
when she’d told him about the baby. He hated that he had listened to it, even for a moment.

Penelope had been in therapy for a few years now, trying to unpack her childhood and all the
unhealthy coping strategies she had developed to survive it, and she had committed to always be
open in her communication with him. Colin could see her efforts, how much trust she put in him
every time she told him the truth about something she wasn’t proud of. She was trying. She was
trying and she loved him, and those two things were all he could ask for at the end of the day.

Did Colin love Penelope? Fully. Unreservedly—with everything he was and everything he hoped
to be. Did he trust her? Well…yeah. Maybe. Mostly.

“It troubles me,” he admitted softly. “But her lies come from fear, not malice. She’s a good
person.”
“Lud,” El said with disgust, “you do love her.”

A surprised laugh broke from Colin’s throat. “I do. She loves me too, you know?”

He may have just gotten here, and his initial interaction with the Pen of this timeline may not have
been promising, yet it never occurred to him that anything else could be true. Just as he could not
imagine a version of himself that did not love Pen, the idea of a Pen who did not love him seemed
equally impossible.

“I do not know,” Eloise said primly.

“And she loves you.”

A stillness came over his sister. She was staring at the floor, but really at nothing. “No,” she said,
her back straightening. “She does not. I believed that she did, but I was mistaken.”

Colin treaded lightly. “From the pieces I have gathered, I’m guessing the two of you are having a
rough patch?”

Eloise set the empty glass down on the stone hearth between them. “It is more than that. What she
has done is so vile, I will never speak with her again.”

“This was last night?”

With a shake of the head, Eloise clarified. “No. This was a morally bankrupt scheme of many,
many months. Dozens of conversations that were nothing but lies. Last night is merely when I
discovered her deception.”

“And this deception impacted you?”

“It targeted me.”

He nodded with a sigh.

Internally, Colin examined the abstract painting this El’s words and actions had created today. It
was helpful in understanding the timeline in which he found himself. But it was also eerily and
dishearteningly familiar. What she described was a situation remarkably like the one he had
previously had to contend with in his real life: Pen had started down a risky path out of
desperation, gotten herself in a bad spot, and El had suffered the consequences. Colin still
remembered that strange summer, when Eloise had declared that she and Penelope were no longer
friends but refused to divulge why. A year later, the bond was tentatively mended. A year after
that, Colin had made Pen his girlfriend. It was only after the dust had settled and he was head over
heels, that Colin had discovered the burned-out ruins of the whole mess. The details here were
almost certainly different, but the overall shape appeared to be the same. Unfortunately.

He studied the profile of his sister, hating that she was hurting. Tipping the bottle, he refilled her
glass.

“I suppose you are going to demand I tell you all,” Eloise said.

Nudging the glass toward her, he asked, “Do you wish to tell me?”

She opened her mouth, already half-through her reflexive “no” before she stopped herself. She
considered seriously, and then arrived again, this time with conviction, at, “No.”
Colin’s mouth crooked into a half-smile. “Then, I won’t ask.”

El made a face, eyeing him skeptically, but he merely waggled his brows roguishly, as if to say,
“aren’t I an unpredictable scamp?” and took a drink from the bottle. She was probably right to find
it suspicious that he wasn’t going to press for details. Under normal circumstances, he absolutely
would. But she did not know he was playing with a full bank of answers in his back pocket.

“But you are going to say that I should forgive her?” she said in a clipped voice, cradling the glass
of amber liquid in her hands.

“No,” he said quickly. “I can’t tell you that. And I wouldn’t.”

Because you didn’t. You let me come to it on my own, and that was the right call.

There was an uncanny, comforting symmetry to this moment. It brought a kind of calm to the
existential angst he had been fighting since waking. Peace almost. This moment with El? It felt
real, even though he had technically only met this iteration of her today.

Colin was not inclined toward brooding or moping, and the hopelessness he had been feeling—the
fear, the disorientation, the pessimism? They had made him feel not like himself even more than
the stupid clothes had. But here, this moment, he found sure footing. Perhaps it was simply that he
had turned away from the naval-gazing and catastrophizing to focus on someone else in pain,
someone he loved. He always felt better when he did that. And, in this specific case, he could
repay a kindness Eloise had once given him.

A few years ago, in another timeline and another life, she had sat with him, just like this. She had
offered what she knew, but mostly she had listened. When he asked why she had chosen to forgive
Penelope, she had shaken her head. “That’s private.”

“Should I?”

“Give yourself time, Colin. For fuck’s sake—you just found out. Sit with it all a spell before you go
making decisions.”

She had been right. He’d needed to work through it on his own, and he had needed time.

Colin didn’t know for certain what choice this Eloise would ultimately make, but he did know that
today his sister had showed up at his door angry and wishing to protect Pen from Colin, even as
she wanted to protect him from her. There were a fair amount of mixed-up feelings in her at the
moment. Big emotions, especially confusing ones, made El prickly. She didn’t like feeling like she
didn’t know her own mind. He knew better than to prod her.

He watched her sip, wince at the burn, and lower the glass into her lap. After a prolonged moment
of silence, she gave an annoyed huff, and burst out, “I cannot believe you are not badgering me for
details!”

Colin laughed.

That made her eyes narrow further. “There is nothing amusing—”

She continued, but Colin’s ears caught the sound of someone calling his name down the hall.
Benedict.

“In here!”
“Colin!”

“In here!” he shouted louder.

Thoroughly distracted from her earlier point, Eloise’s brows furrowed. “He sounds positively
irate.”

Colin shrugged. “Well, I gave him the slip after we got back from the Featherington’s. Mother
wished to speak with him. He told me to wait. I did not.” The door shook from a banging fist.
“Christ above,” Colin muttered. “It’s open!” he yelled.

With a rattle of the latch, the door swung inward and Benedict entered. When his eyes found Colin,
his initial expression was relief, but then he took in the scene.

“Eloise…?” Benedict’s eyes dropped to the glass in her hand. “What…is that brandy?”

Colin gestured for his older brother to keep his voice down. “Close the door,” he whispered
loudly.

Benedict was bemused, but he complied. Rubbing his face and looking thoroughly stressed, he
said, “We are giving our sister spirits now?”

Eloise snorted and leaned toward Colin, muttering, “He says as though we do not smoke together
in the garden regularly.”

Colin raised a taunting eyebrow at his brother and fought a grin.

The bluster went out of Benedict. “Very well. Yes, I am hypocrisy itself.”

El lifted the glass and offered it to him. “It’s lovely, really.”

“It’s Anthony’s super-secret unpatriotic cognac,” Colin corrected. “You’d better believe it’s
good.”

Benedict took the proffered glass with apparent curiosity. Sniffing the bouquet, he made an
expression of approval before tasting. “Oh, that is quite nice.”

“Feel better?” Colin asked. “Or are you still frustrated with me?”

His eyes darting to Eloise, Benedict chose his words carefully. “I am less frustrated
than…concerned.”

Colin wrinkled his nose at his brother’s tone and lifted the bottle to his lips.

“Concerned?” Eloise repeated.

“He thinks I’ve gone mad,” Colin explained.

Making a face, Benedict snatched the bottle from Colin’s hand and topped off the amount in the
glass. “Well, what am I to think? You’ve spent the morning crashing about, looking a mess, and
raving to everyone how much you love Penelope Featherington. You dragged me over there, well
before the proper hour for a social call—”

Colin cut in, “I didn’t know that! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did! You made it known you would go regardless, so I accompanied you to mitigate the
damage.”

Wincing, Colin confided to his sister, “Damage was not mitigated.”

“He made a spectacle of himself,” Benedict corroborated. “Penelope had the both of us escorted
from the premises with strict instructions that we never again be readmitted.”

El’s eyebrows shot up. “Truly? You are in jest.”

“No,” Colin said darkly, taking the bottle back from his brother and getting in a few swallows.

“He is spouting some blather about being from the future—”

“The year 2022,” Colin put in.

“—and keeps saying that this is not his ‘reality.’” Benedict took a massive gulp of the cognac.

Eloise eyed Colin with alarm; he shrugged.

“I do not know if it is madness,” Benedict confided to his sister, “but it is definitely more than the
massive quantity of drink I watched him consume last night.” He brought the glass to his lips and
emptied it. “I can only think, is it possibly the tea?”

Colin wondered for a moment whether he had heard his brother correctly. He was starting to feel
buzzed, so….

But then, Eloise whispered, “Ah, the tea.”

Somehow she managed to say those words like they made sense, rather than the pure absurdity
they seemed to Colin.

His face must have expressed some of what he was thinking, because Benedict elaborated with an
air of impatience. “When last you returned from your travels? The special tea that caused you to
contemplate a blade of grass for hours?”

“Oh,” Colin said with dawning understanding. “Drugs?”

“Tea,” Benedict corrected, dragging the word out. “The tea you gave me at Aubrey Hall only
weeks ago.”

“That had you smearing paint on a canvas to express ‘the way colors smell’ until four in the
morning,” El put in dryly.

“Yes,” Benedict conceded irritably, then turned the full force of his gaze on his brother. “Where is
the pouch, Colin? How much did you take?”

“I have drugs?” Recreational drugs? Here? In this BBC period drama? Well…bloody hell, that
sounded brilliant. Especially today of all days. “Where?”

Benedict’s arms flailed in frustration. “That’s what we’re asking you!”

“I’m from the future, remember?” he said, rising to his feet. It was probably too sudden a
movement for the amount of cognac he had consumed, because he swayed on his feet for a brief
second. “I don’t know where anything is. Let’s look.”

His brother groaned, and El looked like she didn’t know whether to laugh or express concern, but
they both joined the search.

“Help me with this desk?” Colin asked Benedict. “El, will you take that trunk?”

While his brother went through the drawers, Colin rifled through the mess on top. Maps, calling
cards, random bills and receipts—no rhyme, reason, or system in sight. He grumbled.

“What was that?” Benedict asked.

Colin rubbed his forehead. “Nothing. I just forgot what a disaster I am without Pen organizing
everything.” He picked up a thin journal and thumbed through the pages briefly. “Oh hey, I keep
travelogues here, too.”

His brother cleared his throat and Colin was brought back to the task at hand.

“It’s a pouch, you said?”

“Yes,” Benedict confirmed. “Leather.”

“I’m not seeing it.”

“Nor am I.” He shut the drawers.

Eloise’s voice came from behind. “C-Colin?”

Her brothers turned immediately. She sounded shaken.

She was kneeling in the direct light from the window, beside the open trunk. There were papers in
her hands, in her lap, spilling out of a stack tied with yellow ribbon.

“What is it?” Colin asked.

She was looking at him as though she did not know him. “Letters. From Penelope.” Her tone
turned from shock to accusation. “Dozens of them.”

There was an incongruity between how his siblings were looking at him and the way he felt at this
discovery. Honestly, he would have found their absence far more concerning than their presence.
At Eloise’s announcement, all he felt was vindication: as he suspected, the Other Colin loved
Penelope, whether he realized it yet or not, and she loved him in return. He didn’t know what the
letters said, but he didn’t need to know. There was a fat stack of them, and the muppet had saved
them all, kept them safe in a trunk, wrapped in lace and silk ribbon. No other papers in this room
had been handled with care, or remotely organized—just Pen’s letters.

He felt excitement. He wanted to read them, not only to glean insight into his relationship with
Penelope in this timeline, but for her words, her thoughts. To feel some semblance of closeness to
her.

But Benedict and Eloise were gazing at him like they had just found a dead body.

So, he sought clarification. “Is that bad?”

“Not if you are marrying the girl,” Benedict said harshly. “But as you’re not courting her, and have
announced to the entire ton that you are not….” He shook his head, exhaled, and began to pace.

Colin knelt and lifted the stack. Despite the tense air in the room, his fingers tingled with
anticipation. “Letters are that scandalous?”
Benedict glared.

“I know you don’t believe me yet, but explain this to me like I’m not from here. Please. I need to
make sure I understand the stakes.”

He grit his teeth and shook his head, but did as Colin asked. “You are an unmarried gentleman. She
is an unmarried lady. One or two letters might not go amiss, largely because she is a family friend.
But…good Lord, Colin.”

Eloise spoke quietly. “I knew that you exchanged letters, but I never thought…. If each of these
corresponds with a letter from you, that is more than you sent to any of us while you were
traveling.” She fingered the corners of folded paper. “If she were your sister, this might have been
permissible. Is that what you thought, Colin? Were you writing to her as a sister?”

Once again, he felt at a loss trying to discern and explain the Other Colin’s feelings and motives. “I
do not know what I thought.”

Eyes on the scattered letters in her lap, she nodded. Colin noted that her hands were shaking. “If a
man sent me this many letters, a man who was not my brother, I would suspect a courtship was
forthcoming, or perhaps even already taking place.”

The picture was becoming clearer. Purposely or through sheer carelessness, the Other Colin had
led Pen on. And then publicly rejected her.

“If ever these were to be discovered by the wrong people,” Benedict said, “she would likely be
ruined.”

This was the last straw. Colin was furious that his counterpart was not here in front of him.
Dueling was a thing in this era, right?

Abruptly, Eloise dropped the letters she was clutching. Then she frantically swept the others off
the skirts of her dress. “I-I don’t know her at all. I never knew her.”

“El—” Colin tried gently.

“No,” she said. “She kept so much from me. She kept everything from me.”

With a sigh, he gathered up the letters she discarded and added them to the main stack in his hands.
Gazing down at the admittedly impressive collection, Colin’s chest felt hollow again, because he
had just realized what he needed to do.

He’d thought that the point of all this must be that there was a lesson he was supposed to learn,
something he was supposed to put right. And he had assumed that “putting things right” entailed
earning Penelope’s forgiveness, getting the girl and all that. But this was too far. The emotional
damage too real. The more he learned about what the Other Colin had done to Penelope, the more
he came to realize that forgiveness was not something he could ask for. Even if this Penelope
loved the Other Colin, the wounds he had inflicted were cosmically large.

What Colin needed to do was right the Other Colin’s wrongs, and that had nothing to do with
getting the girl. Doing right by Penelope meant repairing the damage he had done to her reputation,
making reparations to her for the flagrant abuse of her feelings, and, most importantly, expecting
nothing in return.

“Colin?” Benedict sounded hesitant, uneasy. “Are you all right?”

He stood, grip on the letters tightening. “I’m fine.”

“You look—”

But Benedict was prevented from saying just how Colin looked when the bedroom door opened
swiftly and without warning. The three siblings jumped and wheeled to face the open doorway.
There Anthony stood, imperious, with a black scowl.

Colin was seized with a sudden urge to laugh, taking in the sight of his dignified eldest brother in
those silly clothes.

“So,” he said in a clipped tone, “you three together. I might have guessed. Did you think I would
not discover your thievery?”

Colin’s eyes found El’s, and whether in spite of the gaping wounds they were both nursing today,
or because of them, a tickle of camaraderie seized the brother and sister—and suddenly he couldn’t
look at her without laughing. They both spluttered and rocked with the effort of keeping the giggles
in.

Anthony was not amused. He rolled his eyes and held out his hand, gesturing toward the fireplace
mantle, where the bottle of cognac currently perched.

Benedict reaffixed the stopper and walked the bottle to the door, fighting and losing his own battle
with a grin. Anthony snatched the cognac from him, sent each of them a glower, and shut the door.

When he was gone, they each stopped holding in their laughter.

It felt good, Colin thought. For a moment.

He was the first to stop and, in many ways, he felt emptier inside than before. It was a release
valve on his emotions, and now that the pent-up tension was gone, there was just resolve.

He tucked the letters closer. Even if he had to let go of Pen, he wouldn’t let go of these. As of now,
officially, they were all he had of her.

“For one wild moment, I thought he was here for the mallet,” Eloise was saying to Benedict
breathlessly, holding her sides. “But, naturally, it was the brandy.”

“The mallet?”

She nodded. “The Mallet of Death. He smuggled it out of the set from Aubrey Hall—not sure why,
though I would wager it has to do with keeping it for himself. I saw where he hid it, and took it
once he left. Stashed it in a new hiding space where he would never think to look.”

Benedict’s laughter redoubled.

There was a perfunctory knock at the door, and it opened again. They all froze, stiffened and tried
to stuff their giggles back in, thinking Anthony may have returned.

But, this time it was their mother. She seemed startled to see the three of them rather than just
Colin, and in their current state. Her gaze swept the room and surveyed each of her children twice
before she said, “I do not wish to know. I am merely reminding you, children, that we are to attend
the Winestead Ball tonight.”

Eloise groaned, all trace of good humor swept from her face.
Colin was in agreement there. A ball sounded like the definition of torture.

Violet looked pointedly at him. “The Featheringtons will be in attendance.”

His stomach drooped. Well, he had no choice then. If Pen was going to be there, so was he.

Though, after his mother closed the door, it occurred to him that this might be throwing himself
into the deep end. “I don’t know if I can do a big fancy ball.”

“It’s not a big fancy ball,” Eloise countered with gruff disgust. “It is a small intimate ball, which is
worse. Everyone in attendance is expected to dance and engage in conversation.”

Yes, that did sound worse.

“The Season is winding down,” she continued. “The Featherington Ball last night was the last large
event. All that remains are the small straggling gatherings before everyone flees the heat of the
city for a summer in the countryside.”

“Why are you explaining all this to him?” Benedict grumbled. “Do not humor him.”

“You have been humoring him.” Eloise gestured to Colin, and he rather thought she was indicating
his loose cravat and untidy hair as part of the point she was making. “Because he clearly does not
know. Of course he is not from the future, but nor is he himself.”

“I can’t dance,” Colin announced.

Benedict looked very, very tired. “Yes, you can.”

“Aren’t these particular dances? With set choreography?”

“Yes,” El said. “They’re positively horrid.”

“I would have no idea where to begin,” Colin said. “And we don’t have time for you to teach me.”

“I am not teaching you,” she said flatly.

Benedict grimaced. “You do not wish to learn from her. Just ask Gregory’s toes.”

Eloise swatted Benedict’s arm.

“How do I get out of dancing?”

“You don’t,” Benedict said with a sigh. “We all have to.”

Eloise nodded in commiserate agreement. “Mother will accept no less an excuse than an injured
foot.”

Colin considered that. Fuck it—why not? With a nod of determination, he said, “El, fetch the
Mallet of Death.”

Benedict’s eyes widened. “You cannot be serious?”

“I don’t have much of a choice here,” Colin griped, lowering himself into the desk chair. “It’s
either this or not attend the ball at all. And that’s not an option.”

It took El a moment to recover herself, but then she was off, scrambling out the door and down the
hall to God-knew-whatever hidey-hole in the house.

Colin spoke to his brother in low tones. “I’m going to need you to hit my foot hard enough to give
me a real limp, but not so hard that you actually break something. The last thing I need on my little
time-travel adventure is to see a doctor. The idiot would probably bleed me instead of setting the
bone, for all my luck.”

“I am not striking your foot with a pall mall mallet.”

“I need you to—I don’t think I could do it to myself.”

Benedict’s shoulders squared defiantly. “Pretend. There is no call to actually harm yourself.”

“We both know Mother would scent that scheme a mile away. She will check.”

They were still arguing when Eloise returned, so, with a heavy sigh, Colin turned to his sister. “El,
I need you to do it.”

She blinked at him owlishly.

He extended his left leg to help her line up her shot. “But don’t break bones.”

Hands in his hair, Benedict paced the room. “This is madness.”

“Colin,” she said faintly, “I do not believe I can….”

With a growl, Colin raked his fingers through his hair roughly. “El, please! I need help.” And then
words he didn’t know he was holding in were pouring out of his mouth. “I hurt Pen—I hurt her
badly. I didn’t put her first when I should have. I was selfish and I took, took, took. I need to do
whatever I can make this right.”

She was still hesitating, so he waved a red flag in her face.

“Look at this stack of letters.” He brandished them, still clutched tightly in his hands. “I took
advantage. I took advantage of her feelings for me, let her take this enormous risk with no intention
of courting her.”

Her eyes flashed.

“Doesn’t that make you angry? It should!” His jaw set. “Well, I’m giving you permission to take a
swing at me. You’ll be helping her, and giving me some well-earned comeuppance.”

She struck like a cobra, which was probably for the best. For all his taunting and posturing, Colin
probably would have flinched and moved his foot out of the way by reflex. But he didn’t have
time. The Mallet of Death was a blur and then the top of his foot exploded with pain.

Colin cried out, swore louder and with more vulgarity than anything he had uttered that morning.
Eloise was stunned and even Benedict looked pale.

“D-did I…?” Eloise stammered in panic.

“You did perfect,” Colin reassured her through watering eyes. But after she left, he muttered to
Benedict, “Next time I ask you to hit me, I’m going to need you to bloody well do it. Because our
sisters are going to kill me.”

He tested out his foot, assessing the injury. It…probably wasn’t broken. Maybe. Or, maybe that
was wishful thinking. He definitely couldn’t put his weight on it.

It was a close thing, who was more horrified by the sight of his foot: Finch or his mother.

For his part, Finch was daunted by the monumental task of making Colin presentable to polite
company. Though his nose had not bled since right after Hyacinth’s initial punch and it certainly
wasn’t broken, it was bruised and had swelled with a faint cast of purple. The foot was so bad,
Finch could barely get Colin’s boot off, and then there was no hope of getting another on. The
valet had resorted to wrapping the thing in bandages. In the mirror, Colin noted he looked like if
someone had pushed Mr. Darcy down a flight of stairs.

“Perhaps you should stay home, dearest,” Violet had said gently, once she recovered from her
shock that the injury was real.

“No!” Colin said immediately. “Give me a cane. I’ll be fine.”

She hesitated, misgiving in the lines of her face.

“Mother, she’ll be there. I need to be, too.”

Violet relented.

It all came to much ado about bloody nothing, though. As Eloise had said, it was a smallish
gathering—forty people, tops. Their hostess, Lady Winestead presumably, had decorated the place
with flower garlands that hung so low in places that they brushed the heads of the taller guests. It
seemed like a fire hazard to Colin with all these candles around, but what did he know?

From the moment he hobbled into the ballroom, his eyes sought and found Penelope. Her dress
was yellow again. Colin wondered whether this Pen hated wearing yellow the way his did? He
didn’t mind so much—he’d take her in anything, especially tonight of all nights. He stared. Maybe
it was rude, but he didn’t care.

“This way.” His mother herded him to an arrangement of chairs in the corner, most of which were
occupied by elderly people. Lovely.

And…bugger all—was that Agatha Danbury his mother was seating him beside?

Benedict muttered guidance for the correct greeting in his ear as discreetly as could be managed,
and Colin muddled his way through.

“That is quite the bandage, my boy.” She eyed his bum foot shrewdly. “How came you by it?”

“Stairs,” blurted Colin, without thought.

Unfortunately, Benedict said, “Thrown from a horse,” at the same time.

Clearing his throat, he glared at his brother and stammered, “Thrown from a horse and then fell
down some stairs. Both.”

Neither Agatha nor Colin’s mother were remotely convinced. Christ, he was a bad liar.

So, he changed the subject. “They have food at these things, right?”

He had meant to get a lay of the land, start repairing the damage to Pen’s reputation. Maybe even
talk to her if she would allow it. But the other guests (almost none of whom he recognized)
swarmed him, bombarding him with questions about his foot. It was the last thing he wished to
discuss, but he couldn’t seem to deflect the questions as fast as they came.

Interactions were confusing—everyone seemed to know him, but he didn’t know them and
couldn’t ask their names without making the social interaction somehow worse.

Penelope kept to herself. She didn’t dance, and hardly anyone talked to her. She hovered near the
edges of the ballroom, and Colin’s eyes tracked her. More than once, he caught her sneaking a
glance his way, even sweeping his face and foot with what looked to him like concern. So, she was
not entirely indifferent to him at least.

Once or twice, he had tried to get to his feet, take a mosey around the edges of the dance floor, but
his foot hurt too much. El had gotten him good. He should have known better than to ask her.

There was no food, not really. Just these tiny hors d'oeuvres of egg and salmon with flower petals
on top, and Benedict had prevented Colin from taking more than two. He went through three
glasses of ratafia, though, and that dulled his throbbing pain somewhat.

The worst of it all were the two old women gossiping behind him. They seemed to think they were
whispering, but they most certainly were not. He would guess that hearing was going for one, or
perhaps, both of them.

“…young gentleman there, in front of us….”

“…jilted the poor girl. Look at her, poor thing. Always sallow and awkward.”

“He didn’t jilt her. According to Whistledown, he merely clarified his intentions. The girl built her
hopes on sand.”

“A shame, you know. But there’s always a few! Girls with no suitors from the moment they
launch, to the day they retire on the shelf. I spotted her right away. Never had any hope, the poor
thing. Look at her.”

Colin’s jaw clenched tighter with every word. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Benedict was
wincing as well. Behind his brother, two young bachelors were also listening to the conversation,
snickering behind their hands. To his left, Agatha sat, stony, with an expression as unamused as
Colin’s.

She raised a brow at him, seemingly challenging him to take some kind of action. He took the bait.

He extended his hand toward her cane, “May I, my lady?”

With some hesitation, she passed it to him and he thanked her.

Colin braced himself, a cane in each hand, and vaulted up onto the seat of the stuffed chair where
he had just been sitting, landing one-legged. Wobbling for balance, he rose to his full height and
batted a dangling strand of geraniums out of his eyes. There was a strangled shriek from across the
room and, honestly, Colin couldn’t say if it was the hostess or his mother. Gasps spread throughout
the crowd as heads turned and craned.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Colin said loudly enough to gain the attention of the three people who
were not already looking at him. The music stopped playing and not even the servants moved.

“You all seem to be misinformed,” he announced. This gossip required a rewrite. “Lady
Whistledown has given you a false picture of the events of last night, so allow me to enlighten you.
It is true that I am not courting Miss Penelope Featherington,” he tipped the canes in Pen’s
 direction, “but only because she has judged me unsuitable. I fell short of her standards, not she of
mine. She has the cleverest mind I have ever met, the sweetest laugh, and the most loyal heart. She
outshines every other young lady of my acquaintance, and my heart is hers.”

Pen’s eyes widened with every word he spoke. The sight hurt too much and he looked away.

“I am the fool of this piece.” He shot a glare at the old women behind him, and then the snickering
young men. “I am the bad man who did not take my jilting with grace. I am beneath her, and I will
hear nothing implying otherwise from any of you,” he finished with finality, daring any of the
stunned faces in the crowd to challenge him.

“Benedict,” Colin mumbled out of the corner of his mouth, “I need help down.”

And then, he was leaving.

Chapter End Notes

I borrowed Romancing Mr. Bridgerton Colin’s tendency to announce how wonderful

Pen is to whole rooms of people. Hope y’all don’t mind

Benedict demanding, “How much did you take?” after the tea he mixed for himself in
S2E3 is a little rich, but cut him some slack. He is having an epically stressful day.

Next: Regency Colin arrives in 2022 London, where he’s introduced to the flat he
shares with Penelope.
 I hate it when you give me half
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

I went out with this boy once, yeah?

And I met all his family
Went to some, like, family barbecue
And in the end: “Oh no, you’re not my girl
You know, we’re just, we’re just like hangin' out, aren't we?”

Oh, my love It’s been a long, long road to get here

But you never said what you wanna do (no)
Oh, my love It’s been a long road
But you never, never said if you’re letting me go for sure
If you won’t let me go, then you gotta try, hold me close

I could be with anyone

I’m fussy like a pussy cat
You’rе the only one I want
Give lovin’, then you take it back
All the kisses, all the fun
I hate it when you give me half
Never give me half

-FKA twigs
“oh my love”

Colin and Pen’s Flat

Southwark, London
13 June 2022

A strange giddiness quivered in Colin’s stomach as he climbed the concrete steps behind Pen, a
wheeled-trunk in each hand. His head kept craning to look behind and all around.

London was…London was proof that Colin was two-hundred years out of time. The city had
sprawled since 1815, swallowing up miles of countryside, villages, and hamlets into itself. It was
both dirtier than the London he had left and cleaner…somehow. The buildings were giant and
alien. Some glinted and shone in the sun and some were painted bright colors. The streets were
paved, not cobbled, painted with guidelines and littered with steel signs and colored lights. People
were everywhere—people from everywhere were everywhere. And machines of all kinds were
everywhere, without a single horse in sight. It was overwhelming.

At least, it should have been. But Colin felt a surprising amount of exhilaration. That
adventuresome spirit, the one that inspired him to pick up and leave his home for lands across the
sea, was rearing in his breast. It was…thrilling to see the city he knew best of all others this new
way. The fear and dread and confusion would return—he knew they would, but it was impossible
not to submit to the awe of what he was seeing, just for a moment.

The bottoms of his feet itched to walk the streets around him, up and down—to see it all. Even the
fact that there was a drizzling rain did not lessen his curiosity.
But he was also fully cognizant of the woman beside him and the way her hand shook as she tried
to fit a key into a door lock.

Penelope had been very quiet since climbing back into the car and resuming their journey. She had
cried silently for the first five minutes or so, then turned on some bizarre music that emitted
through tiny black grates in the car. Colin didn’t like the music, but it seemed to help Penelope, so
he couldn’t begrudge its existence.

He had been unsure of what to do. She had refused his hand when climbing back to her feet on the
side of the road, and she did not speak to him after declaring him not her Colin. But thirty minutes
into their resumed journey, she had extended her hand to him. He took it.

The simple touch refurbished his equilibrium. It was a kind gesture. One of solidarity. Whatever
was happening, and regardless of whether or not he was her Colin, she was not going to abandon
him. Come what may in this cursed turn of events, they had each other.

They continued on, driving like that until the car reached the edges of the city. There, Colin felt her
fingers tense, but was uncertain why. He opened his mouth to ask, but could see she was a world
away, and so thought better of it.

Meanwhile, Colin found himself swept up by the wonder of the new, the impossible. A giant city
filled with sights even his wildest and most inventive dreams could never hope to conjure. He’d
found himself leaning forward, toward the rain-streaked glass, bending this way and that to catch
an unobstructed view at this spectacle or that one.

He had caught Pen watching him with a tiny, thoughtful smile on her face.

Despite her earlier reassurance to ask whatever questions that came to him, he kept his silence. He
could not help but be mindful of her emotional distress. Besides, that reassurance had been for her
Colin—not him.

Even now, as she unlocked the door to their supposed home, he kept his questions and
observations to himself.

Surveying the outside of their home, it struck him as small—closer to bachelor’s lodgings than the
residence of newly weds. Though, he supposed, that followed from what he had learned. The
edifice was brick, the door was blue, and the garden was neglected.

And it was south of the river. South. Colin could scarcely believe it.

The door swung open and he followed Pen through it. He had only just pushed the door closed
behind him when he heard the keys jingle again. Penelope was opening a door to the right now. In
front of them was a narrow hall that had another door to the left, and stairs leading upward.

She caught his confusion this time. “The building is divided into four—two upstairs and two down
here. This one is our flat.”

Colin blinked, baffled. Was she saying they only occupied one fourth of this building? He had
gathered that Her Colin had not been properly providing for her, but this was absurd.

He entered behind her, carrying their trunks into an odd little room that seemed to be trying to
serve many purposes at once. Immediately, she bent to remove her shoes and indicated that he
should as well. He was all too eager to rid himself of the damp hell that had encased his feet for
the past few hours, and placed his shoes neatly beside hers on the rack near the door.
Pen dropped her keys onto a little table beside a stuffed chair and drew in what appeared to be a
fortifying breath. “Colin?”

“Yes?”

“I will give you the tour—I promise. But I have mud and vomit on my jeans. May I excuse myself
to get cleaned up first? Will you be all right waiting alone while I do that?”

“Of course,” he said politely.

She nodded. Without making eye-contact, she lifted the trunk that was hers and slipped down a
hall and through a door he could only see at an angle.

Colin tried sitting to wait patiently, but found he could not. He was too curious. Instead he rose and
explored the strange little room. It looked to be a drawing room, study, and library all at once.
Chairs and a couch were arranged around a short table ideal for serving tea and biscuits. There
were three floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled to overflowing, and still another shelf piled with books
over a desk. The desk was crowded with devices he did not recognize, tiny squares of brightly-
colored paper with notations on them, and some neat stacks of paper.

There was a bay window facing the street with white lace curtains and a cushioned seat with
drawers beneath. Colin noted the pillows and a wrap of soft-feeling wool on the seat, the stack of
books on the sill, and guessed that this was a nest for reading. When he leaned over it to peer out
the window, he caught the faintest whiff of the perfume Pen had been wearing since dressing this
morning. This place was hers—he was certain of it.

What drew his attention most around the room were the little portraits scattered everywhere, on the
walls, desk, and even free corners of the shelves. They were those clear, perfect recreations of life
he had seen in the room at Aubrey Hall, as though copied miraculously from what one sees in the
mirror. Each was of Penelope and Her Colin, and almost all depicted surroundings that were not
England. In one, Penelope’s arms were around Colin’s neck while a winter landscape of tall pines
and vast mountain peaks stretched behind them. Another showed them wearing very little clothing
on a sandy beach with green water. There was one where an orange beetle perched in Penelope’s
hand while they stood in front of a towering, mythically large red-barked tree. There was one with
a city of bright colored lights behind them, twisted into shapes and spelling out words he couldn’t
read.

He walked from shelf to shelf, frame to frame. Buildings and geological wonders beyond his
dreams stood just behind them, in this portrait or that one. He recognized little of what he saw,
until…there they were, Penelope and Her Colin, standing before the Church of St. Lazarus in
Larnaca.

Cyprus. This Colin had taken Penelope with him to Cyprus. This Colin had taken Pen with him
everywhere. For these portraits had been captured from life—he intuitively understood that they
must be.

Studying each, Colin felt his chest twist. A strange kind of longing seized him, a sense of loss. He
had thought he understood, if not the particulars of the relationship this Penelope had with Her
Colin, at least the general shape of it. He had pitied her and hated himself. But these portraits told a
story he did not know. What he saw in these captured moments seemed both authentic and idyllic,
somehow. He did not understand it, but he was gaining a greater sense of what this Penelope had
lost.

Uncomfortable, Colin wandered around a corner and into a space he would never have expected to
find right off a drawing room. His familiarity with such rooms was limited, and there were a great
many foreign devices, but he was almost certain this was a kitchen. The floor was a checkered
pattern of white and black. The faces of the cupboards and drawers were white. The work surface
had been made to look like some kind of stone, but in reality was of a material he did not
recognize.

He heard a padding of footsteps behind him and turned to see Penelope approach.

His heart leapt and then hammered. She was wearing some kind of opaque, footless hosiery that
hugged every line of her legs and bottom tightly, and a thick oversized tunic like the one she had
slept in. Her vibrant hair was wet and falling over her shoulders as she squeezed handfuls of it with
a towel.

She looked up at him, face clean and skin glowing, and said with a small smile, “I see you found
the kitchen.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Your favorite room.” She slipped by him and walked in her bare feet across the room to a rack of
bottles.

He was stirring again. It was shocking how unbelievably tempting her body was. He tried to tell
himself it was the clothing—that any woman wearing what she was would provoke the same
response. But then she bent to reach into a drawer, tunic lifting up over the shapely curve of her
backside, and Colin knew that was a lie. It was Pen’s body in particular in these bloody clothes
doing this to him.

He smothered a groan and tried to disguise the evidence of his response under the hem of the green
knit he wore.

Whilst she twisted a long metal screw into the bottle’s cork, despite himself, Colin’s eyes could
only linger on the arch of her neck and her creamy skin. He was possessed of an urge to kiss each
and every one of those freckles.

So deep was he in his haze of heated thoughts that when Penelope took a drink from the bottle,
only to freeze mid-swallow and lunge for the sink, he jumped. At first, he thought she was again
tossing up her accounts, but when he rushed to her side, it became evident she was merely, well,
spitting.

She pulled a lever and water flowed from the curved spout. She leaned into the flow, took a
mouthful, swished it, and then spit again. Shutting the water off, she wiped her mouth with the
towel she had brought with her from her bath.

Colin studied her and eyed the bottle of…wine (merlot, the label said), with alarm. “Is
everything…are you all right?”

Penelope nodded and gave a bitter little laugh. “Perfect—if I could just remember that I’m
pregnant.”

He quashed his questions out of what was becoming habit, but Penelope must have seen his
confusion.

“I’m not usually one for day-drinking, but when I walked in here, all I could think was, ‘Well,
today’s a special kind of shit, isn’t it? I’m going to open a bottle of wine.’ But I’m pregnant.” Her
shoulders lifted and dropped. “It’s bad for the baby.”
“Oh.”

She sagged. “I am hungry, though.”

His immediate thought at her announcement was to ask the servants to make them something, his
own stomach giving a sympathetic rumble even though breakfast was only a few hours ago. Of
course Pen was hungry—she had barely touched her food. But he hadn’t seen any servants since
entering the home and Penelope had not introduced him to the staff, so he inquired after them, only
to have Penelope snort with laughter.

“Sorry!” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh at you, Colin. But that’s hilarious.”

“Why is my question so absurd?” Even as he asked, he felt a sliver of dread that he knew.

“We do not have servants, Colin.”

That was an answer that spawned a million questions, but somehow the only one that left his lips
was, “How then do you prepare food?”

Her grin started bright, then dimmed. “I don’t,” she admitted. “I’m rubbish in the kitchen—mostly.
I can bake a few things. You do all the cooking.”

“I do?” Colin’s stomach sank as he realized. He does.

“You cook, I clean,” she confirmed. “But I suppose that division of labor needs to be revised in
light of our current circumstances.”

No servants, thus they had to perform all domestic labor themselves? How…horrid.

She misread the cause of the expression on his face. “Relax, Colin. There’s a Pret around the
corner, a Moroccan place across the street, and I have delivery apps on my phone. We won’t
starve.”

He tried to smile, but never made it past a grimace.

Her grin turned crooked. “It’s not so bad. Or, well, it is. But I want something sweet and
comforting right now. Would you like to help me make shortbread?”

Colin doubted very much that he would enjoy making biscuits, but he was willing to perform
whatever task she requested of him.

“My recipe isn’t fancy, but shortbread is one of the few things I can make. It always turns out.”

He nodded. “However you have need of me.”

She smiled.

Penelope “preheated the oven,” which entailed pressing some buttons, and she instructed him to
retrieve a device from one of the cupboards. She attached this machine to the wall via a long
corded rope that dangled from the side of it. They gathered ingredients from two pantries—one dry
and room-temperature where they found flour, sugar, and salt, and the other somehow cooled from
within. That was where they found the butter.

“What comes first?” Colin asked.

“First, we wash our hands.”

“Oh,” he said, startled.

“Wash your hands every time you are about to touch food, and after every visit to the toilet,” she
said with a surprising amount of conviction. “After interacting with public doors and such, too. It
will help keep you from becoming ill and passing sickness to others. I worry about your two-
hundred-year-old immune system in the modern world.”

She sounded so certain, he did not doubt her. It seemed possible—even inevitable—that such
science would advance in two centuries.

Side by side, they washed up in the sink.

“Like this,” she corrected him gently, and he watched the way her hands rubbed together, lathering
the soap, working attentively between her fingers and all around.

After their hands were cleaned to Penelope’s satisfaction, she produced a scale and bowl, and asked
him to fill the bowl with flour until the little black number on the scale reached 400g.

“Four hundred?” That seemed high to him.

“We’re making a double batch,” she said. “It’s a double batch kind of day.”

He was not about to argue with a process that would result in twice as many biscuits.

She prepared the butter, which seemed to entail putting it in an electric, metal box with a light
inside for short spurts of time.

“I need to soften it, and I’m too impatient to wait.” Her voice sounded surprisingly sheepish. “After
you have the flour, add a further two hundred grams of sugar and six grams of salt.”

Colin did as she asked, and then all the ingredients went into the machine Penelope had attached to
the wall. She warned him that the motor would be loud before she switched it on, but he found
himself fascinated rather than alarmed, leaning over the machine to watch the ingredients swirl and
churn.

“Would you like to try?” she asked.

He was unsure whether he nodded or not, but she seemed to understand his rapture, and guided his
hand to the switch at the base of the device. “Here,” she said. “Pulse it, like this. We’ll keep going
until we see a texture like sand.”

His grin widened in childlike delight as the mixture transformed. He beamed down at her and saw
that she was watching him with tender eyes.

“What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. You’re just you, apparently—no matter what time you come from.”
Breaking eye-contact, she changed the subject, “We’re about ready. We should prepare our baking
sheet.”

Preparing the baking sheet meant smearing butter over it, which was unexpectedly satisfying.
Colin’s fingers brushed Pen’s once or twice as they worked and he hoped he was not visibly
blushing.

When the butter was distributed to her satisfaction, Penelope poured their sandy mixture onto the
sheet. She showed him by example how to spread the dough evenly, packed all the way to the
corners. She demonstrated how to poke holes with the tines of a fork in neat rows, and then she
placed the sheet in the hot oven.

They washed their hands again, and she made him tea from a bag with an “electric tea kettle.” It
tasted…different, but he did not complain.

He was taken aback when Penelope switched on a light inside the oven and sank with her mug of
tea to sit on the checkered floor.

“I like watching to see when they are done instead of setting a timer,” she said. “Join me.”

Far be it from him to decline such an invitation.

He peered into the oven, through the glass window, fascinated by the changes already evident in
the biscuit dough they had made together.

Penelope drew his attention back to her with a soft request. “Tell me about yourself, Colin of
1815.”

“What do you wish to know?”

She shrugged, head resting against the cupboard door behind her. “Paint me a picture of your life.
The important things.”

So he did, walking her through the broad strokes of his time on Earth thus far.

“Interesting,” she said.

“How so?”

“It’s all the same. Same parents, same siblings. Same childhood home. Eton, Oxford, dreams of a
life of travel. My Colin’s father died when he was nine, too.”

“Truly?”

“Anaphylaxis from a bee sting, just like yours.”

“Ana…?”

“An extreme allergic response. Bee sting allergies run in your family. All of you have the potential
to develop the same kind of response your father had, should you be stung repeatedly, but you and
Fran are the most susceptible.”

“We are?” Colin demanded in alarm.

Penelope nodded, then broke out in a wry smile. “Well, Anthony is convinced he is, too. Even
though the doctors keep telling him he’s fine. But you and Francesca are advised to carry a shot of
epinephrine with you at all times, just in case. I have one in my purse.”

Colin sat stunned for a moment.

Her gaze dropped and he watched as her fingers fiddled with the string of her teabag. “You said
before, back at Aubrey Hall, that you know another me? That you have a Penelope Featherington
in your life?”
His pulse quickened. “Yes.”

“Your Penelope. Tell me about her.”

His emotions gnarled and squirmed inside him. Thinking of his Penelope made him feel guilty and
confused. And homesick.

…His Penelope. The epithet unsettled him.

“What would you like to know?”

“Start at the beginning. Tell me how you met.” She brought her cup to her lips and sipped.

“We met because she and Eloise are great friends.”

A stillness came over Penelope as she studied him. It may have been his imagination, but he
thought some of her good humor may have faded. “You do not remember the day you met?”

Colin thought back, searched his memories. “No, I do not believe I do. It seems as though she was
always there, even though I’m certain that is not factually true. She was not in our lives when I was
a child, but one day she was, and thereafter she was always near. I do not remember the exact day
—I doubt very much the circumstances were momentous.”

Pen’s lips pressed together and he had the oddest intuition that his words had been hurtful, though
she gave little outward sign. “I don’t know your Penelope personally, but I feel extraordinarily
confident in guessing that she remembers the moment you met precisely, with vivid detail.”

“You believe so?”

“If she’s me, she does.” There was sadness in her voice. “I have been hopelessly in love with you
since the day we met, and in all the intervening years, my affections never so much as wobbled.”
She looked up from her tea mug at him. “Would you like to hear the story?”

Colin’s heart was in a full panic, banging in his chest. He couldn’t speak, so he could only nod.

“I was thirteen—a round little freckled thing with ginger hair and a wardrobe of hideous clothes
chosen by my mother. Boys were mean. It didn’t know much at that age, but I knew from ample
experience that boys were mean; in general, but especially to me.” She swallowed. “My new friend
Eloise invited me to join her family on a Brighton holiday. I was nervous to begin with, but when I
saw her brothers, I became terrified. I didn’t speak to any of you other than perhaps a squeak or
two. I don’t know how it happened, but I tripped going down some wooden steps along the dock. I
fell into your back and knocked your face into your ice cream cone. It smeared all over your nose
and cheeks, and the cone shattered. I was so frightened that you were going to shout at me, or even
just glare. But you didn’t. You laughed, and said, ‘Well, that wasn’t very well done of me, was it? I
lost the treat and didn’t even catch the falling maiden. Are you all right?’ And then you offered me
your hand and lifted me back up to my feet.”

Penelope chewed her lip for a moment before continuing. “You splashed your face clean in a water
fountain and took me with you back to the ice cream stall. You bought yourself a new ice cream,
but also one for me. You noticed I was squinting against the sun and gave me your sunglasses for
the day.” She met his eyes. “You were kind and funny. You made me feel safe and comfortable.
And so, I loved you. From that day forward, it was only you. No other man could touch you. And
it wasn’t just that day being particular or extraordinary. Every day we met after that, you were the
same. I would have fallen for you any day—any day we met.” She finished her tea and set the mug
aside. “There is no doubt in my mind that your Penelope has a story just like mine, and she
remembers each and every detail.”

If Colin’s heart had been beating at a gallop when she began, now he felt as though it had stopped.

“I think our biscuits are done,” Penelope announced.

He sat, unmoving, while she rose, donned a protective mitt over her hand and pulled the sheet from
the oven. She pressed some buttons on the oven and the light inside went dark. Casting about in
indecision for a moment, she seemed to settle on dropping a towel to the floor between them and
placing the sheet of biscuits on it. He supposed this was to protect the floor from the heat. From a
drawer, she pulled a knife and two forks, one of which she passed to him.

“We should let these firm up and cool,” she said, but then grinned. “But I think we both know that
actually, we are going to eat the whole batch right now.”

He thought, as he began, that his smile would be forced, but the genuineness and ease with which it
came surprised him.

She used the knife to cut the sheet of shortbread into rectangles. The forks were still necessary,
because both the shortbread and the metal baking sheet were too hot to touch. The bites of biscuit
crumbled and melted deliciously in his mouth. He moaned, and she laughed, eyes dancing.

“Feel better?” she asked.

He paused.

“I often make you my shortbread when you’ve had a lousy day,” she said with a shy smile.
“You’ve always told me that mine are your favorite of all the biscuits you’ve ever had.” She
thought for a moment. “I don’t know if that’s completely true, but I don’t care. If it’s a lie or an
exaggeration, it’s a nice one, and the way your eyes light up when I bring them to you is always
sincere.”

Her gaze was far off. He could feel her missing him—Her Colin. Her heartbreak was thick in the
air, palpable. Suffocating.

Colin felt somewhat adrift at the realization. Her love was so real, so evident and obvious. Yet, all
he had been taught about how a lady should be courted and cared for said that she had every
reason to despise him. He had broken her virtue, led her into ruin. Moved her into this cramped
living space where he impregnated and refused to marry her.

But then he thought of the many little portraits in the drawing room, the look in Her Colin’s eyes as
he gazed at her—the unmistakable adoration.

What was he not understanding?

“Penelope?”

She blinked her eyes and returned to the present moment. “Yes?”

“May I ask…may I ask how you and your Colin came to your current arrangement?”

“Sure,” she said with a rueful smile. “Though, I suspect you’ll find it scandalous—just as a
warning.”

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “I already do, if that helps.”

Pen chuckled. “Oh, I know.” She sighed. “God, where to begin?” Chewing her lip, she thought for
a moment. “We started as friends, of course. You said you and your Pen are close friends?”

He nodded.

“It was like what you have with 1815 me, I suspect. You were gallivanting all over the world
having adventures, writing me daily as you went. I was lovesick and pining the whole time, and
paranoid that you could tell. I did everything I could to keep it from you, because I didn’t want to
make you uncomfortable with my feelings. I didn’t want you to think I was biding my time or that I
was expecting anything of you. I even tried to find someone else to fall for. It was no use. Still, I
tried. But things began to change when I was seventeen? Eighteen? Somewhere in there. I started to
notice the way your eyes would linger on me. The first time I noticed, your eyes kept dropping to
my mouth while we talked, and I thought I must have something in my teeth. I even excused
myself to go check in a mirror. But the day I caught you staring at my breasts, it shocked me out of
any of the innocent excuses I had been making. I wasn’t sure what to do about it. Honestly, I was
shocked—because all signs said you were lusting after me. Me!”

She shook her head, smiling wryly. “Don’t look at me that way. I know I am some people’s type—
but I’m also aware that I’m not everyone’s type, and I had no reason before that to suspect that I
might be your type. All the women I had ever seen you flirt with or pursue up till that point looked
nothing like me. But there you were—fucking me with your eyes every time we saw each other. I
waffled about what I would do if ever you decided to try and get me into bed. On the one hand, I
was sure I’d wind up with a broken heart. On the other, I thought it might be worth it, getting to
have you as mine even for a little while. I was too shy to do anything at first—and very
inexperienced. I was insecure about that, because I had gotten it into my head that you were
worldly and had slept with dozens of partners. I had a nightmare once that we finally had sex and
you were disappointed because I was so bad at it. I know now it was a silly fear, but it felt dead
serious at the time.”

Penelope rose up onto her knees. “Do you want more tea?”

Throat tight, Colin shook his head. He did not know what make of her frankness in discussing such
matters. Her use of coarse and anatomical language. He found it a novel mixture of off-putting and
titillating that confused his emotional and physical response.

“Well, I’m going to make some for myself. I’ll boil enough water for two, in case you change your
mind.”

He watched her as she filled the kettle. The way she moved and held herself was both graceful and
confident. Worldly—that was the word she’d thought described Her Colin. But it occurred to him
now that it described her. This Pen was experienced.

Colin had not spent much time in the company of women who knew more of such matters than he
did. They existed, of course. His knowledge was hardly impressive in the grand scheme. But Colin
had not seen the appeal of sophisticated widows or jaded Madames. The idea of a sexually
knowledgeable Pen was…. Well, he didn’t know what it was, except that it made his stomach sick
and his manhood erect at the same time.

“We were in this ridiculous holding pattern,” she said as she poured the boiling water into her cup.
“Mutually pining and lusting for one another, but both of us too scared to actually do anything
about it. But then, something seemed to give on your end. You were drunk in Marseilles, and it
was the middle of the night. You started blowing up my phone with message after message about
how you wished I was there, and when you finally signed off…you said ‘love you.’ You’d never
said that before, but I still didn’t want to get my hopes up. You were drunk—and maybe you only
meant it as a friend? But then you came home for my birthday party. I was turning nineteen. You
found me on the balcony, and we talked for hours after everyone went home. At midnight, you
said, ‘Happy Birthday, Pen’…and you kissed me. When you invited me home with you, I said yes,
and when you led me to your bedroom, I went.”

She sat down, cradling her fresh cup of tea in her hands. Colin could only speculate at the
expression on his face, but whatever it was made Penelope wrinkle her nose and sigh.

“I know,” she said. “I’m easy. For you, at least. Very easy. You didn’t have to declare any feelings
or offer any promises. I was happy to take whatever you were offering—even if you were only
offering one night.”

He blanched. “Please allay my fears and say I was gentleman enough to be offering more than
that.”

Pen laughed. “Clearly,” she said, gesturing to the modest abode around her. “Though, you did
panic the next day, and everything almost went off the rails.”

“In what way?”

She tried to suppress a grin. “Fair warning—here is where I scandalize you.”

“Here?” he choked incredulously, wondering how her tale could get any worse.

“I don’t suppose you have friends with benefits arrangements in your day, do you?”

At his ignorance, she explained, and as she did, he felt the last blood drain from his face. Her Colin
was a blackguard—the blackest of villains. He had finagled her into an arrangement of no
commitment, no protection, no romance—just her body in his bed to satisfy his lusts.

His characterization seemed to amuse Penelope. “Oh, Colin—you’re sweet. I’m not going to take
the time and effort to try to defend the concept of friends with benefits, because in this case it
doesn’t matter. But for the record—it’s fine. As in, morally. It’s fine. But it’s not what we were
actually doing. You were panicked that you were pushing me into a relationship too quickly,
because apparently I had hidden my feelings from you so well, you thought I didn’t have any for
you besides friendship. And I had set my expectations so low, that when you said sex was enough
for you, I schooled myself to take you at your word and respect your boundaries. I didn’t know
then how important love is to you when it comes to sex—that the fact you even desired me so
much to begin with was a clear demonstration of your romantic interest.” She shrugged. “We were
stupid.”

Colin’s pulse skipped at her characterization of his appetites. He…what? Was that true?

“We were in love,” she said simply. “However we described our relationship to each other and to
others, we behaved as though we were in love. And from there it was just a slippery slope to
admitting it. You were doing everything you could to try to woo me into falling in love with you,
demonstrating at every opportunity what an excellent romantic partner you would make. It was
unfair, overkill and, for the record, it wreaked absolute havoc on poor nineteen-year-old Pen. I tried
so hard to give you your space and freedom, but you didn’t want either. And I just…couldn’t resist
you.”

For a moment, they sat in silence.

Colin still did not understand. “Yet, he has not offered for you? You remain unmarried.”
It was a long moment before Penelope offered a response. “I have a theory about you.”

“Regarding me?”

“For you, when it comes to commitment, I think the action is easier and the words are harder.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you signed a ten-year lease agreement with me on this flat.”

“I did?” Colin was horrified. “This disgrace?”

Penelope looked genuinely offended. “I love this flat. It’s adorable—it has a bay window, a
bedroom fireplace, and pre-war features.”

He apologized because his ingrained manners made it a reflex, but he could not prevent himself
from amending, “It simply seems…small.”

“It is,” she granted. “Just now, I don’t have the inclination to explain the shit-pot shambles that is
housing in London at the moment, so just trust me—this flat is a prime living situation, especially
for a young couple.”

Colin remained skeptical, but did not further contradict her.

“You bought a car with me. I’m the beneficiary on your life insurance policy. You turn down any
professional opportunities or assignments that take you away from me for long periods or won’t
allow for me to come along with you. You casually talk about the two of us growing old together
like it’s a foregone conclusion.” She raised her brows at him while she took a sip of her tea. “You
already treat me as your wife, basically, even though you haven’t asked. Just like when we first
started seeing each other and you treated me as your girlfriend before you were ready for that
word.”

With misgiving, Colin had to disagree with her, with her theory. At least, as it pertained to him and
the ways in which he and his counterpart may or may not be similar. Because Colin had the
misfortune of knowing full well how far he was from reluctant when it came to marriage. “That has
not been my experience. With myself. I have, in the past, been all too willing to….”

He broke off. The subject was too painful, and remembering the details made him feel too foolish.

“What? Propose marriage?”

Colin froze, whether because of her words or her knowing tone, he was uncertain. He looked up to
see Pen studying him shrewdly.

Finally, she sighed. “Interesting.”

“What is interesting?”

“I wasn’t going to say her name if you weren’t. I half hoped when you didn’t that you and my
Colin differed there.” With a slightly sour expression, she set her tea aside. “Yes, you asked
Marina Thompson to marry you, here in this timeline. And it didn’t go well. You got hurt—badly.
And humiliated. You picked up some trust issues that I didn’t help with. If I had to guess, I would
say that’s the root of your main commitment issues. That your trust issues gave you commitment
issues.”
Pen stood and dusted herself off. Then, she reached down for his hand.

“Are we done with tea and shortbread, then?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’d rather do dishes than talk about Marina and judging from the look on your face,
I’d guess you feel the same.”

Colin had never washed a dish in his life, but it was surprisingly painless with Pen to share the
work and guide him.

Afterward, she gave him the “tour” of the tiny flat she insisted she loved. The hall leading off the
drawing room had three doors. One leading to a washroom with tub, sink, and toilet; one leading to
a small room currently full of storage; and, at the end of the hall, one bedroom.

Oh God, he realized—one bed. He and Penelope looked at each other, wide-eyed as though
grappling with the same thought.

“I shall sleep on the couch in the drawing room,” he announced unprompted.

Penelope made a face. “Are you sure? You’ve fallen asleep on it before and it hurts your back.”

Inwardly, he cringed, dreading that outcome, but he stood firm. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to, you know,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about us having sex. You’re
not my Colin.”

Those words knocked the wind from him, same as a punch to the gut would. It wasn’t so much that
he had been specifically hoping for anything different. It was that she had stated plainly what had
been the implied undertone of every interaction they’d had since her realization by the side of the
road. She was still kind, she was still warm, but she was also at a distance. There was a marked
difference between how she had treated him at Aubrey Hall and now. She hadn’t kissed him, her
touches had been far less and far less intimate, and…it was as though she had closed up on the
inside.

“I am certain,” he said.

They returned to the drawing room, and there they took care of the business of his phone not
accepting his thumbprint. Penelope was able to redress that and gain him access. Then she walked
him through the steps of how to contact John Stirling and plead family emergency.

“Use my pregnancy,” she said.

He paused. “Are you certain?”

“Sure—it’s at least partly true. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not so sure my Colin would have
kept the appointment after what we found out last night anyway.”

They spent what remained of the afternoon with Penelope teaching Colin many of the things his
phone could do. She taught him how to make and receive calls, how to read and reply to text
messages, and check his notifications.

“There are a great many from someone named Instagram.”

Pen sighed, suddenly looking tired. “Those are for work. Your work. Let’s not worry about them
for now.”
“All right,” he said slowly.

“I’m hungry—are you?” When he nodded, she stood up and said, “Let’s have dinner.”

He had expected her to use one of the options she had mentioned earlier. Instead, she went to the
cold pantry and opened the drawer at the bottom. Peeking over her shoulder, he saw stacks of clear
containers in rows with labels attached. She selected two whose label’s identified them as “Pot
Roast - 2 June” and placed them, lids removed, in the electric metal box with the light inside.

“What are those meals? Are they frozen?”

“Yes,” she said. “It helps them keep.”

“Oh.”

“That’s my stash of work lunches. I just grab one in the morning and bring it with me to the
office.”

“Convenient,” he said, impressed. “Where do they come from?”

She looked away. “You make them for me.”

“I do?”

Pen nodded, eyes on the rotating dishes in the box. “Every weekend.”

When the box stopped humming and the light went dark, Pen retrieved the dishes and brought
them to the little round table near the window. Colin could see that the food was now steaming as
though hot. As they ate, Colin marveled. He could not recall ever having eaten something so
delicious.

“I made this?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t know!” She hadn’t quite snapped at him, but it was close, and Colin withdrew with an
apology.

She rubbed her face. “No Colin, I’m the one who should be sorry. Today is hard, but I shouldn’t be
taking it out on you.”

“Pen—”

“Would you like to see some of your travel pictures?” she redirected brightly.

Colin went along with it because he did not wish to upset her further and partly because he did
want to see them. She showed him the “albums” on his phone where pictures were stored and
explained that many of them had been taken with his phone.

“Here,” she said, guiding his hands, “like this.”

He could see a perfect reproduction of the room in front of him through the phone.

“Point it at me. The phone has an easier time focusing on people than just about anything else.”
 He did. Suddenly, his hands felt tingly and his heart gave a thudding beat. She looked lovely,
framed this way. He pressed the button as she directed, the phone blinked, and there was a moment
of Penelope frozen and immortalized forever. He regarded it with fascination.

It was such a giddy feeling in his chest, that even after Penelope had gone to bed early pleading
headache, and he had continued to scroll through album after album of pictures, Colin was
unsurprised to find just how many pictures of Penelope there were on his phone. It was apparent
that ‘photographing’ (as she had called the technology) Penelope was a particular preoccupation of
Her Colin.

Their adventures together were many, and the documentation overwhelming. It was all right here,
fitting in his hand, but it felt like the weight of the world. He was not Her Colin. Well and truly he
wasn’t.

“Colin?”

He looked up, and her eyes shot through to his heart. They were desperate. Pleading. “I-I…I know
that you would prefer to sleep separately. But I can’t fall asleep. Would you maybe be willing to
come lie beside me. Just until I drift off?”

There was no world in which he would have been capable of telling her no. So, he followed her
into the bedroom, climbed under the covers beside her, and in the dark, he listened powerlessly as
she cried herself to sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Sorry this one is dropping a little later than usual. One of my cats got into some onions
unexpectedly. He’s going to be all right, but today was spent mostly at the emergency
vet rather than going as planned. My apologies!

I hope you liked Regency Colin and Modern Pen’s kitchen floor bonding.

Next: Modern Colin launches a sustained campaign of pitching woo the likes of which
we now have on good authority “wreaks havoc” on nineteen-year-old Pens
 Thoughts like these are idle things
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

If I had but two little wings

And were a little feathery bird,
To you I’d fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I’m always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one’s own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

“Something Childish, But Very Natural”

Bridgerton House
Mayfair, London
14 June 1815

Colin barely slept.

The reasons why were probably legion: His foot hurt. He had a caffeine headache that would
probably get worse before it got better. The bed was lumpy and the pillows smelled unfamiliar.
Regency bedclothes were weird and a little itchy. The London outside his window was unnervingly
silent and eerily still. He had no podcasts to wind-down to, and not having his phone felt more like
a limb was missing than a mere possession. But despite the many contributing factors, only one felt
true. Only one crossed his mind every time he tossed, every time he turned.

Pen. God, he missed Pen.

More than that, he was worried for her.

Mostly he worried over his Pen, the one he had left behind, but after a full day in 1815, he was
officially having kittens over the Penelope here, too. Christ.

This place was horrible. As far as he could tell, “society” ignored her other than to occasionally say
dismissive or rude things. Her family situation looked at a glance to be the same or at least similar
to the one his Pen had endured, except this version of her was still stuck at home. It seemed like
she’d only had two friends, Eloise and himself, and she had lost them both in one night. She must
be so heartbroken, so lonely. Colin’s protective instincts kicked and squirmed impotently at the
thought. He hated the idea of Penelope alone in the world. He couldn’t do much about the rift with
Eloise, but as for the one with him…well, he could try. He had to.

He drifted in and out, uncertain whether or not he ever really fell asleep, and finally gave up
between four and five in the morning when the sky began to lighten. He attempted to use the tinder
box on his bedside table to light a candle, but gave up after a few tries, convinced that if he
continued, he would probably burn the house down.
Instead he went to the window and opened the curtains as wide as possible. He dragged a chair
over and settled to watch the sunrise, feet propped up on the sill and Penelope’s letters in his lap.
When there was light enough to read, he opened the one on top.

If they had been arranged in any particular order, that had been disrupted when Eloise found them,
so Colin didn’t know where in the timeline of friendship or correspondence this letter fell, but it
was dated 10 March 1814:

My Dear Friend Colin,

He was unreasonably disappointed that the handwriting was different. But of course it was. The
way people were taught to write had changed a lot in the last two hundred years, even at the posh
schools where he and Pen had been sent. But maybe there was something familiar, in the tilt of the
a or the flourish of the f? Regardless, the words were hers. He could hear her voice as he read
them.

The beaches you describe sound like something out of Gulliver’s Travels or The Adventures of
Esplandián. It seems fitting to me that the supposed birthplace of Aphrodite would be otherworldly
in its beauty. I am trying to envision it just as you described, with the water green and so clear one
can see through to the ocean floor. The way you said the sunset lights the tops of the waves on fire.
The sketch you sent me of the rocks and their arrangement in the water aids in the endeavor. It is
so vivid an impression that I can almost imagine myself to be there beside you.

You say the sea is warm there, like bathwater—does that mean you have ventured from the shore to
swim and bathe? I cannot fathom a beach where the water is not cold.

The weather here continues dreary. We have not seen the sun for a full week and fires have had to
be lit every day. Mama has left me to my own devices. Most of her energies seem to be devoted
toward Phillipa and her thwarted courtship. She frets that the suitor may lose interest and pursue
another young lady, but there is nothing to be done. We are in mourning—the engagement cannot
move forward.

The house is such a strange place without Papa. I cannot explain it, for he was often absent, and
when he was at home, he said little. It is nonsense of course, but all the rooms feel empty and quiet
now even though, in truth, there is no difference. I feel silly to be affected so. I was hardly Papa’s
favorite, but he always asked me what I was reading over breakfast, and he often had a smile for
me. It is foolish to feel lonely with my mother and sisters under the same roof, but there are days
now when no one speaks to me. We are all missing Papa, I suppose.

Eloise and I have obtained a copy of that book you said we should not read—The Libertine. We are
reading it in turns. I am currently in volume two, while Eloise is in volume three. I agree it is quite
scandalous, and a little ridiculous, though not quite so shocking as the previous novel by Rosa
Matilda we found—the one you warned us of with the heroine who commits all the murders and
stuffs her dead husband the trunk. And it is certainly nothing so horrid as The Monk. I know that
you disapprove of ladies reading such books, but you cannot stop us if you are all the way in
Cyprus!

Eloise says that she believes you give us the names of books we should not read as a kind of subtle
recommendation, that you are secretly encouraging our corruption by pointing us toward novels
not deemed suitable for ladies. I do not know if that is true, and please do not tell me if it is. I enjoy
the ambiguity. If it is not true, I smile at the thought of defying you. If it is, I smile at the thought of
you as an ally in my education in the aspects of the world our society tries to keep hidden from me.

Regardless, naturally, we keep the books hidden from our mothers. It would be devastating if this
novel were to be confiscated before I learned whether or not Gabrielle succeeds in foiling the plot
to murder Angelo! I know that it is a cautionary tale, warning of the evils of seducers, but I cannot
help feeling a trifle envious. Gabrielle dresses in breeches and pretends to be a boy, like some
modern Shakespearean heroine, and gallivants off to Venice to find the man who left her with
child, getting into sword fights, playing games of chess with spies, and uncovering poisoning
plots.

Eloise laments that Gabrielle will die. She assures me that it has not happened yet and she is not
revealing something she has read that I have not. Merely, she says, heroines like Gabrielle always
die in these books as punishment for their flouting of morality. I fear she is right. My life must be
very dull indeed for such an adventure to exert a pull on my heart.

You said one day you will go to Venice. Please, if you do, send me pages and pages of description.
I wish to know all!

Colin paused, heart drooping. Penelope loved to travel, almost as much as he did. Taking her with
him, even from time to time before they became romantically involved, had felt like the most
natural thing in the world. They always had fun, and Colin loved watching her face light up in new
places.

This Colin, for very obvious reasons, could not bring Penelope along with him. It made him sad.
How very trapped she must feel, like a bird in a cage, only able to experience the world beyond
London and upperclass English society in books. Penelope was Penelope and she would read
regardless, but to have that be her only outlet? It was unjust.

In the dawn light, he made his way through the stack of letters reading each slowly, savoring every
word. Some he read twice. Most of the conversation revolved around his travel or her reading, but
there was also a fair bit about his family and hers. In one letter, she shared a funny story about a
goose stealing a bracelet right off of Prudence’s wrist, resulting in all four of the Featherington
women chasing the animal in circles around a pond.

By the end, my slippers were ruined and my sides hurt from laughing. At least I did not fall in the
mud as Phillipa did. Mama finally caught the animal and wrenched the pearls from its mouth. She
shouted in its face as though it were a highwayman who could comprehend her words and be
chastised for its misdeeds. I do not know why she was so determined. They are not real pearls—
only paste. In confidence, all of our jewelry is.

Money troubles. There were hints, here and there. Colin was no expert on what was normal in this
era for a Baron’s family, but he would wager that, behind closed doors, the Featherington coffers
were as empty as those in his own time.

At present, I am sharing a ladies maid with my sisters.

I am weary—no, fatigued—of potatoes.

I have never been a dab hand with a needle, but after three attempts, I finally managed to repair
the tear.

Without a ladies maid, temporarily Mama says, my sisters and I are styling each other’s hair.
Phillipa always pulls mine too tight, but Prudence cannot plait, so I am doomed no matter which
straw I draw. I have taken to quietly redoing mine myself afterward. No one has noticed.

In order to get a sense of timeline, Colin arranged the letters on his bed by date as he finished
them. He regretted not having his responses to fill in the gaps, but nothing could be done about that
at present. The stacks told a logical story: correspondence beginning with a polite and proper level
of formality, only to gradually slip into something else entirely. Arranging them in order, it was
quite striking how the lengths got longer and longer, how the dates got closer and closer together.
The topics became more personal and intimate. There was nothing that struck Colin as outright
improper, or even as flirting really. But by the end, there was definitely a “tell me every detail of
your day because it’s all inexplicably fascinating” couple-in-love energy to the proceedings.

He hoped his letters told the same story. He was fully aware how, in his own timeline, Penelope
had pined for him from the beginning, while he had taken his time finding his way to her. But after
six years, he got there. While he knew that the Other Colin had not been courting Penelope, and
had even loudly announced that he had no intention to, he still hoped that the same journey had
been underway and that the only snag was the Other Colin’s slowness on the uptake. He hoped to
God that the Other Colin had been in the middle of falling in love. He couldn’t fathom anything
else, but still there was a whisper of fear that the Pen who had written these letters was waiting in
vain.

She deserved better.

The moment Colin heard stirring in the house, he carefully refolded each and every letter,
preserving their order, and bundled them back in the lace and ribbon. After tucking them securely
in the trunk, he requested Finch help him dress for the day and asked the upstairs maid if there was
any place back issues of Lady Whistledown and other newspapers were stored. Colin was irritated
but not surprised to learn that his mother didn’t keep anything beyond a week or two. Still, he
requested whatever there was be brought to him at the breakfast table.

The bruise on his foot was still swollen, but Colin could walk with a limp and with the cane was
fairly mobile.

He ate three plates of food over the subsequent two hours as he read through everything that was
available. He made small talk with his family as each of them drifted in to eat their own breakfast.
Anthony was earliest, of course.

“The kippers are good this morning,” Colin said.

Anthony looked pleased, and put two on his plate. “What’s this I hear about you requesting the
staff purchase coffee? Another of your new predilections picked up on your travels?”

Colin paused. He’d asked whether coffee was available, not that coffee be purchased. But
ultimately he thought that, to Anthony, that was a distinction without a difference. Besides, his
head was throbbing. Tea wasn’t cutting it. “Sure.”

Anthony nodded. “I will give the kitchen staff my approval.”

Pressing his lips into a line, Colin fought the grin that threatened to spring up at how comically
micro-managing his older brother could be. Did the poor cook have to get an itemized shopping
list approved every week?

Colin went back to his reading before suddenly jolting with an idea. “Hey, I have money, right?”
he asked.

Anthony froze and Colin could swear his whole body clenched. “Yes. Why? Another investing
scheme?”

Intriguing. Was the Other Colin getting into some kind of speculation? Only…eh, no, Colin didn’t
care. “Not the way you mean. No monetary return on investment—just the righting of the
universe.”

The eldest Bridgerton sat stony, sharp eyes narrowed on his brother.

“I need some funds to blow on Penelope Featherington.”

Anthony rolled his eyes.

“Hey! This is important. What if you made a mess and broke Kate’s heart? Wouldn’t that be worth
whatever it cost to win her back?”

His brother scowled. “That is different. Miss Sharma is to be my wife.”

“And you love her.”

Anthony’s scowl deepened.

“I love Penelope.”

There, Colin had shocked him. Word of Colin’s loud declarations must not have reached him just
yet.

“I’m madly in love with Penelope. I hurt her, publicly, and I need to make it up to her.”

Anthony pushed his plate away in disgust and rubbed his face with his hands. “You are telling me
you have plans to marry? Again?” He shook his head. “This is rash behavior.”

Colin stiffened, his heart giving a nasty little skip that somehow stung. Partly, this was because he
was pretty sure Anthony was referring to Marina. He didn’t know why he was sure—Anthony
hadn’t said it, and no one had so much as whispered her name since he had landed in 1815. Still…
he knew in his gut. And that thought made him feel slightly queasy—the thought that the Other
Colin had also wandered into the cesspool of heartache, disappointment, and betrayal that had been
his engagement to Marina Thompson. Just…fuck.

But it was also partly because he was drawn up short by the snarl of that issue with regard to Pen.
Did he want to marry Penelope?

He wasn’t sure how, but that question, which only a few days ago had felt so crushingly large, now
felt utterly insignificant. When Colin had felt spooked by the weight of promising “till death do us
part,” he hadn’t known that being apart from his Penelope forever was even an option on the table.
Being ripped from her side, from the very reality in which she existed, was all the perspective he
could ever need. Marry her? Sure. Yes. Please. Anything. Anything to get back to her and secure
his place beside her for the rest of his existence. Yes—unconditionally yes.

And yet…he couldn’t. Not here. Not this Pen. Because Colin could not give up hope that
eventually he would get back to 2022 and his own Penelope—that slim hope was all he was
holding onto to keep himself sane. And if he did get to go back home, that would likely mean that
the Other Colin would, too. If—no, when that happened, he needed to know that he had not forced
the Other Colin into a marriage he did not consent to. That would be morally reprehensible, and
beyond cruel to the Penelope stuck here with a husband who didn’t choose her himself.

“No,” Colin whispered.

“What?”
“No,” he said louder, but his voice cracked and his chest felt heavy. “Marriage is unlikely, because
the circumstances….”

Anthony’s brows knit with sudden alarm.

Colin tried again. “The obstacles are insurmountable. But it is important to me that she knows she
is loved. That she knows I love her. It’s all that matters, actually.”

His brother studied him, a kind of resignation settling in his features. “You’ll need a sizable sum.
Jewels do not come cheap.”

Colin blinked. Jewels? The idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Would Penelope like jewelry? He
thought of her letter where she had mentioned that everything she owned was fake. It was possible,
but honestly, Colin’s gifts to her had always been more modest—though numerous. “Penelope likes
baked treats, flowers, and books.”

As he said the words aloud, they felt like a plan. It was probably best to start with what he knew
and work from there. If it came to jewels, then so be it.

Anthony’s brow cleared immediately. “Ah, that’s simple then. You had me worried. Charge
whatever you require to the Bridgerton house account.”

A half hour after Anthony left, his mother came through, chiding him through her breakfast for
making a scene and standing atop a chair last night. Colin defused her dismay and redirected the
conversation to the play she was seeing later that night. After she departed, Gregory was next, and
his chattering pulled Colin repeatedly from his reading materials. He didn’t completely mind; there
wasn’t much left to read.

But when Benedict wandered in, Colin had just received today’s newspaper from the butler,
Wickham. No Lady Whistledown today. Colin was disappointed—he would have liked to have
known how his stunt from the night before was being received.

“How sober are you today?” Benedict asked wryly as he piled his plate with eggs.

“Me?” Greg chirped hopefully.

“No,” Benedict said at the same time Colin responded, “Dead.”

“What?”

“Dead sober,” Colin repeated. “I was yesterday, too.”

“Uh-huh,” Benedict grumbled skeptically into his teacup.

Colin was too preoccupied to defend himself. There was something distracting about the date at
the top of his newspaper, but he couldn’t for the life of him put his finger on it. His eyes scanned
the items on the page while Gregory regaled Benedict with the same story about a spider on his
window that he had just told Colin fifteen minutes ago.

As he was reaching the climax, a harrowing bit where the spider had gotten down between
Gregory’s bed and the wall, and Benedict’s upper lip was pulling back in a grimace, Hyacinth
came bursting into the room with her voice at full volume.

“Lord Featherington is gone!”

The three brothers jumped.

“What?” Colin asked.

Hyacinth half ran to the table, eyes wide and animated. “They are saying Jack Featherington is
gone. Fled!” she gasped for breath dramatically. “The maids heard it down at the market. He is
gone to the Americas and he absconded with a great deal of money. People are saying he stole it.”

“From whom?” Gregory asked, agog.

Hyacinth’s arms flung wide. “From everyone. Everyone who invested in his mines.”

Colin met eyes with Benedict. “Blast it all—Jack Featherington is in town?” he growled.

“Apparently not,” Benedict said dryly.

Fled with a pile of stolen money. Well…that checked out. Pen’s cousin Jack was a piece of work.
Wait—Colin thought back to yesterday, when Portia had stammered at him awkwardly in the
drawing room.

“I assure you, Lord Featherington is not at home. He has departed, Mr. Bridgerton. Isn’t that
wonderful? I am forever grateful to you, of course. How good of you to check in on us, just to make
sure…Mr. Bridgerton.”

Oh, for the love of…. What was Portia up to now? What had the Other Colin gotten himself into?

Colin rubbed his face. It’s fine, he told himself stubbornly, feeling exhausted. Don’t engage. It’s
Portia and it’s Jack. They’re just doing what they do. Don’t engage. It’s not worth it, and Pen
might get hurt.

Wait….

He turned back to Benedict. “Penelope…? What does this mean for her?”

Benedict shook his head. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to.

Colin swore and chucked his newspaper aside. He stalked from the table, cane swinging, and
strode up the stairs to the family wing, ignoring the pain in his foot.

“El!” he banged on a door at the end of the hall. “El get up!”

He continued to knock and shout until the door across the hall opened behind him. There stood
Eloise, dressed but still with some of the sleep in her eyes and her hair only partway done.

It had been many years since they had all stayed at Granny Alex’s house, and there was no real
reason to expect their rooms would all be in the same configuration in this timeline other than that
his own room had been in the same spot. Still, Colin had been reasonably sure he’d had the room
right. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought this one was yours.”

“It was,” she said tiredly. “Daphne gave me her room when she married, remember?”

“Ah,” he said. “Listen, I need your help.”

She yawned. “With what?”

He gave her a brief explanation of what he had heard of Jack Featherington, omitting his half-
baked suspicions that the Other Colin had gotten himself entangled in some way. As he explained,
El’s eyes cleared of their sleepiness and grew wide.

She was silent for a moment after he finished speaking. “What do you expect of me? There is
nothing I can do to help and nothing I would wish to do.”

“I just need you to take me shopping. I’ve never done it before and I need a guide. Specifically, I
need a guide who knows Pen. Her life is about to take a very hard turn. All I want is to do
something kind for her today, and I can’t do that without your help.”

Her shoulders stubbornly remained stiff.

“I’m not asking you to do it for her. I’m asking for me.”

Eloise sagged in defeat. “Fine. I’ll be down after my maid finishes my hair, and I need to eat.”

“Of course.” Colin would never expect someone to forgo a meal.

They set off on foot a half hour later. Bond Street was only the shortest of walks away, and Colin
didn’t mind in the least, even with his injured foot. Walking was his favorite way to navigate a city.
No other mode of travel gave you a proper feel of a place. But there was such a strange, uncanny
kind of vertigo in walking streets of a city he had kept as his primary residence most of his life,
streets that still existed in his day…but that looked like…. God, he couldn’t shake the feeling that
he was walking through a film set. It was all he could do not to start humming the Masterpiece
Theater theme of his youth. “Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight we present to you a BBC production
of Vanity Fair.”

“What sort of shops do you need?” Eloise asked, squinting against the sun.

Colin thought she probably would have been expected to wear a bonnet on a walk like this. But he
wasn’t about to say anything, to El or to his mother. His sister’s clothing was none of his business,
and as far as he was concerned, knowing how Eloise preferred to dress when given full reign and
unlimited options, this version of her was suffering enough.

“I need a bakery, a book shop, and flowers,” he rattled off.

El nodded. “Easily done.”

She proved invaluable in locating the shops and guiding him through the etiquette of purchasing,
but she wasn’t much help in making selections.

“Does she like anything in particular from here?” Colin asked, surveying the baked goods.

His sister shrugged.

So he fell back on his own knowledge. “Fruit tarts. Not the raspberry—she doesn’t like those.
Plumb and blackcurrant. Maybe a pear or two. Deliver a selection every morning for the next week
to this address.” He thought of the letter where she mentioned the potatoes. “A few loaves of
bread, too. Fresh.”

He gave the vendor some of his calling cards to include with the deliveries, so that the
Featheringtons would know who they were from.

At the book shop, he started to become impatient with his sister’s lack of helpfulness. “I’m at sea
here, El. I can’t just go off of what my Pen from the future likes, because pretty much all of her
favorite books haven’t even been written yet, and I don’t recognize any of these titles.”

Eloise glowered at him. “Colin, I told you. She is dead to me—I despise her.”

He made a face while scanning a range of long-winded titles, picking two that seemed interesting
at random. “I get that and I respect it. But which of these would she be interested in?”

She tried to remain aloof, but when her eye caught the covers of the volumes he was holding, she
couldn’t restrain herself. “Ugh—no! Nothing by Hannah More. Pen loathes her. I loathe her. Do
not give that woman your money.” She ripped the book from his hand and tossed it back on the
shelf.

“See,” Colin said with a chuckle. “This is why I need you.”

El sighed. “Very well. I believe they have a Maria Edgeworth novel Pen wanted.”

Colin followed after her as she began piling books in his arms.

She eyed one by Mrs. Burney dolefully as she put it on the stack. “I wanted to read that one, too.
Normally, we would share, but….”

“So, get a copy for yourself,” Colin said.

“I haven’t any pin money at the moment.”

“That’s not what I meant. Anthony gave me leave to charge all of this to the Bridgerton house
account. How’s he to know if a book or two went to you instead of Pen?”

“Truly?” El’s eyes lit up.

Colin shrugged. “Go on. Besides, I should thank you for coming out and helping me with this
against your will.” He grinned and she cracked a smile in spite of herself.

When they paid for their purchases, Eloise’s personal stack was nearly as tall as Penelope’s, but
Colin said nothing.

They made an unscheduled stop at a shop selling stationary and writing implements. “If I know my
Pen, she writes as much as she reads,” he said, purchasing a bundle of loose foolscap, bound
notebooks, ink and quills to be delivered today.

El snorted derisively.

Colin raised both brows. “Something to share with the class, sister?”

“No,” she sniffed, not making eye contact.

The final errand was flowers. He leaned toward El as they approached the stand, “So, crocuses,
hydrangeas, calla lilies, peonies, or roses. Pink, purple, indigo, or violet are preferred. White is
fine, red is acceptable, but never yellow or orange, right?”

Eloise looked bemused, like he was speaking utter nonsense.

“That’s what my Pen likes. I’m just checking whether your Pen likes the same flowers.”

His sister shrugged, but this time he was pretty sure it was because she didn’t have any idea, not
because she was annoyed.
In the end, he went with roses. He couldn’t help himself. One glance at the clusters of pink petals
and he was homesick. Homesick for her.

Unfortunately, there weren’t enough of the pink for his dramatic gesture, so he supplemented with
red and finally some pink and red peonies.

Eloise watched him make the arrangements with a wry expression on her face. “When Anthony
gave you the carte blanche to use the Bridgerton house account, I do not think he considered that
you intended to fill Penelope’s entire bedroom with roses.”

Colin spread his palms. “Anthony’s lack of imagination is his own problem.”

She raised a brow.

“Look, Penelope is having what will probably end up being the worst week of her life, if this
scandal has the repercussions I think it will. And it was already terrible because of everything that
happened at the Featherington Ball. I don’t want her to feel alone. I don’t want her to think no one
cares.”

Eloise closed her eyes. She drew in a heavy breath, held it, then exhaled. When her eyes opened,
she had visibly softened. With a single nod, she looped her arm with her brother’s and the two of
them walked home.

Colin watched from his window as his deliveries arrived at the Featherington House. He decided to
take it as a good sign that everything went in, and nothing was immediately ejected back out. Not
even the, yes, admittedly excessive amount of flowers.

Late that night, when he couldn’t sleep, he tried piling some pillows beside him, arranged like the
shape of a person. He felt pathetic, and it didn’t work.

The next day, he continued his research. Benedict informed him that a gentleman’s club run by a
friend called Mondrich had stacks of back issues of Lady Whistledown. It transpired that there
were other newspapers there as well. Mondrich set him up with a table and stacks of back issues.
Colin stayed and read until well into the evening, stepping out briefly for food twice, but then
returning. Benedict came looking for him when the street lamps were starting to be lit.

“Look at this,” Colin said, dropping the day’s newest issue of Whistledown in front of his older
brother.

The woman had detailed the scandal of Jack Featherington and his fraudulent gem mines with
relish, taking what seemed to Colin a perverse amount of enjoyment kicking the Featheringtons
while they were down. And of his chair declaration at the Winestead party, she wrote very little.
Only:

“Mr. Colin Bridgerton challenged the accuracy of This Author’s recording of events. A bold move,
if I do say so. I will grant that whatever may or may not live in Mr. Bridgerton’s heart is a
complete mystery to all but himself, but his words I remember well. What use is This Author if her
information cannot be trusted? No, no, Gentle Readers—I report the facts and happenings to you
faithfully, as always. Yet, he climbed atop a chair with a lame foot, brandished Lady Danbury’s
cane, and declared himself beneath an exalted Penelope Featherington. If that hits the ear as
absurd, one might note that Mr. Bridgerton helped himself to three glasses of ratafia immediately
prior to this announcement. And all this was, alas, before the recent deeds of Lord Featherington
were uncovered. The poor man is undoubtedly regretting his words now.”
“She’s horrible,” Colin said with venom built up from an entire day of staring at printed pages
when Benedict had finished reading.

“She is,” his brother agreed.

Colin took the article in his hands and stared at it, feeling despondent. If his purpose here was to
help restore the reputation Penelope had lost due to his words, his task had gone from merely an
uphill battle to Herculean labor. That was more Jack Featherington’s fault than Lady
Whistledown’s, but damn it, the woman was not helping.

It was hard not to look at this scandal sheet and feel as though he had been beaten. If he couldn’t
win Penelope’s forgiveness and he could not repair her reputation, what was he even doing here?

With a defeated sigh, Colin dropped the page and rubbed his eyes.

“When was the last time you took a break, brother?”

Colin shrugged. He had no idea.

“Let us leave this place. Come along.” Benedict tried to help lift him and Colin burst out with a
laugh.

“I know you won’t believe me, but I’m sober. Just tired and discouraged.”

Benedict eyed him skeptically, but released him.

Standing on his own, Colin pulled on the jacket he had tossed over the chair beside him. “Foot’s
not too bad today, actually.” He waggled his cane. “I might be able to forgo this tomorrow
entirely.”

As he pushed back from the table his eye caught the date of a newspaper on a chair beside him, and
this time his eye also caught the name Wellington. He felt a sudden burst of epiphany, followed by
a release of tension.

“Waterloo!”

“What?” Benedict asked, startled.

“The Battle of Waterloo—it’s this week. The eighteenth,” he said. “Yesterday and today, I kept
looking at the dates and there was something niggling at me. I’m not much of a history student,
definitely not a great memorizer of dates. But this is a big one, and I had a teacher who was
obsessed! The final definitive defeat of Napoleon, at least thirty thousand dead, the Duke of
Wellington is a national hero, and so on, and so on.” Colin gestured his hand toward nebulous
details he did not remember. Again, he wasn’t much of a history student. But it felt good to have at
least figured out why the dates at the tops of all these newspapers had been jumping out at him. It
was a small thing, but he’d take it.

His brother was looking at him with wide, alarmed eyes.

“What?” Colin asked. “I told you I’m from the future.”

Benedict said nothing. The two of them rode home in the carriage, and exhaustion started to creep
over Colin.

At home, Anthony was talking of a night out and finding amusement. Benedict thought it might be
much needed, but Colin begged off. His lack of sleep was catching up with him.

He stopped by his mother’s favorite sitting room at her request and answered her inquires into his
wellbeing as best he could. On his way out, he saw his mother’s copy of the Whistledown column
draped over a chair. His jaw clenched.

“May I take this, mother?”

She was surprised, but answered, “Of course, dearest.”

In his room, he found a quill and inkwell. He had never used either before and figured (it turned out
rightly) that there would be a bit of a learning curve. He made a mess of his hands, his desk, and
his shirt. Finch would not be pleased.

Once he felt he had practiced enough on other random papers littering his desk, he pulled the
Whistledown column to him and underlined the words, “The poor man is undoubtedly regretting
his words now.” In the margins immediately adjacent, he wrote, “No. Not at all. I stand by every
word,” and folded the column.

If he were more used to this time and place, it might have occurred to him to summon a footman,
but he walked across the square to Featherington House without a second thought.

“I know she won’t see me. I know she said not to admit me, and I’m not asking that,” he said to the
butler. “But will you give her this? Miss Penelope—tell her it is from me.”

Colin trudged home after the butler accepted the note and sleep finally caught up with him. He
slept until nearly noon the next day and woke with a second wind of determination in his belly.
Jack Featherington did not deserve the privilege of ruining Penelope’s life. And hang this horrid
Whistledown woman. Colin would find a way. He would figure a strategy to ensure Pen could live
a life that was happy and safe.

His new determination only stretched so far, however, and ten hours later, he was sapped.

The day had started with an announcement that there was another party tonight. Eloise whispered
something about the Featherington’s having been invited before this scandal broke, and how it
might be the last invitation they ever received. It all depended on the gall of Portia Featherington.

Colin had learned long ago never to underestimate Portia’s gall, particularly her willingness to turn
up where she was unwelcome. He thought the likelihood of Featherington attendance high, so he
had enlisted his siblings to teach him to dance. That resulted in a chaotic afternoon of Eloise
trodding on both his poor healing foot and his heretofore uninjured one. Hyacinth stepped in after
the first hour, and she was much more help, though Colin would never admit to that out loud.

He entered the occasion with the cane only as a prop in case he needed it. Furious whispers
informed him that the Featheringtons were indeed in attendance.

The party began with a proper dinner—as it should. He was not seated at Penelope’s table, but his
eyes found her instantly. She looked miserable, trussed up in an uncomfortable-looking dress with
gold butterflies in her hair. No one spoke to her throughout the meal, and she barely ate. She
glanced his way once or twice in a manner that was meant to appear casual and incidental, he
would wager, but the affect was revealed every time she startled at meeting his eyes, already on
her. She blushed and looked away.

In low tones around him, the conversation recursed around to the Featherington scandal and little
else. Colin refused to participate and gave anyone who tried to engage him on the topic a disdainful
glare.

There was dancing afterward, just as he had been warned. He waited until one of the two dances he
had learned was set to begin before approaching the lonely corner where the Featherington women
were shunned. He saw Penelope’s body freeze in panic, like a frightened rabbit, ready to dart. Her
eyes dropped, refusing to look at him. She did not want to dance with him, Colin admitted to
himself under a crushing weight of disappointment. And he found he had no appetite to force her
by way of social obligation by asking her.

Feeling heavy, that sickly defeat in his stomach, Colin forced the best smile he was capable of
under the circumstances to his face and greeted the ladies.

“Miss Featherington,” he said, turning to Penelope’s sister Prudence. “Would you do me the honor
of the next dance?”

The girl’s eyes lit up with a kind of giddy excitement, and Colin had to suppress a rising urge to
groan. Instead, he smiled politely and led Prudence to the dance floor.

This was going to be a mess, he thought when the music started and he was already making
missteps. Oh well, looking like a jackass out here with Prudence was the least of his worries.
Besides, people would probably attribute his lack of grace to his recent injury.

“Prudence,” he leaned toward her conspiratorially, “might I beg your help?”

“In what, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“You’re in that house. Is Penelope receiving my gifts? Is she keeping them or refusing them?”

Prudence blinked and then looked somewhat disappointed at the turn the conversation had taken.
She can’t have been surprised, can she? Not after the roses at the very least.

“Oh she’s keeping them. She tries to pretend she doesn’t want to and is only accepting them at
Mama’s insistence, but she’s not fooling anyone. Everyone knows she’s been mooning over you
for years—up in her room all day and night writing you letters.”

Some of the tightness in Colin’s chest eased. “So you believe she’s still receptive to me?”

With a nasty laugh and a roll of her eyes, Prudence said, “Oh, with the slightest breeze, she’ll fall
at your feet.”

When the dance was over, Colin returned her to her mother’s side, alarmed to discover Penelope
was no longer there. In fact, he was relatively certain after searching the place for the next fifteen
minutes, Penelope wasn’t anywhere. She wasn’t in the ballroom or the garden. His mother assured
him that she was not in the ladies retiring room or the privy. She wasn’t anywhere.

A black mood encroached around Colin and he…well, he gave up. At least for tonight. Fuck this
place. Fuck all of it.

He took a mostly full tray of éclairs off the refreshment table and a newly opened bottle of wine off
a servant’s cart, and left the ballroom. Seeking quiet and solitude, not caring if he was rude, Colin
reentered the empty dining room. The dishes had been cleared, but the room had not yet been
cleaned and still smelled vaguely of beef roast and asparagus.

Taking a long swig from his pilfered bottle of wine, Colin dropped the tray of éclairs onto the
nearest table. His ears perked up when there was an answering rustle of fabric.
“Anyone there?” he asked the dim room, looking around, only to be met with silence.

In the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of yellow silk, peeking out from under a white linen
tablecloth. The toe of a slipper.

Colin’s heart leaped, and then sped.

“Pen?”

Throat tight and hands trembling, Colin walked to that section of the table and crouched down.
Slowly, he lifted the cloth and peered under the table.

There she was—Penelope, at long last. Here, in front of him, within arm’s reach. She was curled in
on herself, knees pulled close. Her wide, vulnerable eyes were wet and her face was streaked with
tears. His earlier comparison to the frightened rabbit still seemed to apply. The sight made his
chest ache.

“Hey love,” he whispered.

She blinked, and then began to wipe her tears with her hand. It reminded him of Eloise, and how he
had failed to offer his handkerchief.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, trying to muster some dignity, but when she saw him holding the
handkerchief out to her, her eyes found his again and something inside of her melted. Gave in.

“I know,” he said gently as she accepted the square of fabric. “You’re strong—the strongest person
I know. But it’s all horrible right now. You keep getting hurt and knocked down. It’s all right to
cry.”

She looked like she might start again, but instead she just murmured, “Thank you.”

“Would you like an éclair?”

Her auburn brows went up.

“I stole a tray of them,” he said, then leaned over, reaching toward the tray atop the table and
reeling it in with the tips of his fingers. He placed the silver tray on the floor beside the skirts of
her dress, a few of the neat stacks of pastry tumbling out of formation.

“For me?” she asked.

“For me,” he corrected with a grin. “I was going to eat them all myself.” A pause. “But I’ll share
them with you. Even if you want me to leave. I know I’m not your favorite person at the moment,
and you have been clear about not wanting me around. I won’t force my company on you—I
thought this room was empty. Say the word and I will leave you and the éclairs in peace. I’ll just
take a handful and duck out of here. I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”

“No,” she said softly. “Stay.”

God, that had to be the most beautiful word in the English language. He was so relieved, so
grateful, for a moment his eyes stung. He was going to get to be with her, in her presence. It was all
he had wanted, all he had been able to dream about since waking in this hellish place. Finally.

Finally.

“Colin?” she said. “Are you well?”

Shaking his head and struggling to swallow the lump in his throat, Colin confessed, “No. No, I’ve
had a hard week, too.”

She studied him for a moment. “Join me.”

The invitation surprised him, and not just because it was a turnabout for her. He was new here but,
“Isn’t that risky? For your reputation?”

She shrugged. “Can it get any worse?”

Colin hated the bleak resignation in her voice.

“Yeah, I’ll join you. One sec.” He dropped the table cloth and rose to retrieve the bottle of wine.
For good measure, he also grabbed a low-burning candle, before joining her under the table.

With the tablecloth hanging all around them, the candlelight gave their nest a warm glow. It was
their own private little world.

“This way we can see to eat,” he explained.

She eyed the white linen dubiously, “We are certain to be casting a shadow.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “If anyone comes in, we’ll just pretend to be ducks.” He bent his fingers into
the shape to create the animal in silhouette, opening and closing the mouth.

A startled laugh bubbled out of Penelope.

The sound was a salve that soaked into him, healing wounds he hadn’t even known were bleeding.
Colin loved making people laugh in general. He loved making Penelope laugh in specific. And, in
the hyper-specific, there was nothing quite like making sad Penelope laugh.

“Shush,” he said. “Everyone will know you are not a duck.” He lifted an éclair, overflowing with
filling, and passed it to her.

She took it with a tiny smile, her fingers brushing against his. Electricity sparked through him.

The moment of arousal was pleasant and comforting. It was nice just to feel it again.

“Wine and éclairs by candlelight?” he said to her in a confiding tone. “I may have outdone myself
this time.”

She laughed again, but her eyes were thoughtful. “I don’t know if it’s anything so grand as
returning home to find one’s bedroom swimming in roses.”

He grinned, taking a bite of his own éclair.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, a vulnerable edge creeping into her voice.

“The roses?”

“Yes.”

Colin considered his words before answering. “I hoped it would make you feel special. It was a big
gesture, yes, but I thought I might have to shout—figuratively speaking—to get you to hear me. So
many things were falling apart in your life, and I just wanted you to know that someone could see
you. Someone cared that you were hurting.”
Her lips parted, and a moment later a tear slid down from one eye.

Without thinking, Colin reached out and brushed it away with his thumb. He stayed for a moment
to caress the side of her face before he remembered himself and withdrew.

It was difficult, in this moment, to remember that she was not his Penelope. Even with the formal
way she spoke and these silly clothes that felt like costumes, everything inside him clamored and
shouted with full conviction that she was Penelope. The way she moved, the way she smelled. …
The way she looked at him.

“You’re so lovely,” he blurted.

She blinked and pulled back. “Don’t tease me, Colin.”

“I’m not teasing,” he said seriously.

Her brow furrowed and she…she looked so hurt, so confused. “What is wrong with you?” she
burst out. “Colin, you are not yourself.”

Colin’s lips twisted with a sardonic humor. She could have no idea how literally correct she was.

He considered his options for a moment, then spoke. “Pen? I’m going to tell you the truth—all of
it. Because I can’t see any way forward without you knowing. If I lie or keep secrets from you, I
just can’t see how anything could end well.”

Her eyes widened and she looked a little fearful, but she nodded.

“I want to say that I am sorry, to start,” he said with a swallow. “Because I think what I have to say
will hurt you. I don’t want to add to everything you are going through, but I think perhaps I have
to.”

When the silence stretched between them, she said, “Go on.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled. “A few days ago, the morning after your mother’s ball, I woke up
in 1815. I’m not from here. I am from another time and another place. In some ways completely
different and in others, very similar. The year where I am from is 2022. I am still Colin Bridgerton,
and my family is the same as the one I have here. I also have a Penelope Featherington in my life.
We are in love—we built a life together. We share a home, I take her with me when I travel. We
cook together, we write together. She’s having my baby. And then, for no reason I can definitively
pinpoint or understand, I woke up here, where everything is wrong and broken. Not only do we not
have a life together, I found out my counterpart rejected you. In public. You’re stuck at home with
your mother and sister, and I know how unhappy and trapped that makes you feel. Eloise says
she’ll have nothing to do with you. And all I can see, all I can think about, is you. Alone and
hurting. I want to help—I want to make it better, but I can’t.”

He opened his eyes and peeked at her expression. It was remarkably inscrutable.

“You are saying you are a different Colin? From a different place?” she clarified, speaking slowly.
“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered honestly. “I don’t understand it. I know there are scientific theories
about multiverses and such, the idea that there are an infinite number of Colins on an infinite
number of planes of existence, but it’s not something I ever studied or took seriously. I don’t know
how we switched or why.”
“Switched?”

“I think so,” he said, speaking his darkest fear. “I think I am here and your Colin is there. With my
pregnant Pen. The thought makes me feel sick.” The lump in his throat was back as he confessed to
her, “I can’t stop thinking about how he hurt you. How he took you for granted. I hope he is being
kind to her. I hope he’s a better man than I think he is.”

Her expression looked troubled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know that was a hell of a thing to just drop on you. Maybe I was wrong, but
I thought it would be kinder to tell you the truth from the beginning. Besides, I don’t think I know
how to pretend—I’ve told Benedict, Eloise, Hyacinth…. I probably shouldn’t be telling so many
people, but no one believes me anyway. They all just think I’m having a mental breakdown or
something.”

“I believe you,” she said softly.

He looked at her. “You do?”

“You are you, but you’re also so different. Different in ways that do not make sense. The way you
move—your posture and gestures. You keep shifting around in your clothes as though you are not
used to them. The way you speak is bizarre. You can’t dance. Your haircut is all wrong. You
addressed Mrs. Masen as Lady Masen. You just swore in front of me. The scar on your hand is
missing, I have never seen your handwriting before, and when you look at me….” She shook her
head and averted her eyes. “Perhaps others are not as aware of you as I am. But to me, there was
something strange almost immediately.”

“It was never my intention to confuse or upset you.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “In light of your confession, your behavior has been remarkably consistent.
If jarring.”

A rueful smile cracked on his face. “It was jarring for you wasn’t it? To go from a Colin who was
unsure of his feelings to one who is in love with you overnight?”

Penelope looked startled. “You love me?”

“Yes, of course,” he said easily. “You are Pen. My heart would know you anywhere, in any form.
Don’t you feel it, too? Different as I am?”

She blinked several times, clearly unsettled.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I am not saying that with any expectations or demands. I’m not
asking anything of you. I’m simply here if you need me. Whatever you need to get through….” He
trailed off and waved his hand. “Jesus, to get through all of this.” He sighed. “It’s bad, isn’t it? Jack
made a hell of a mess, didn’t he?”

Wide-eyed, she admitted, “Yes.”

Colin nodded. “Well, whatever you need. I am in your corner.”

“You don’t know why you switched? Or how?” Penelope redirected the conversation backward
suddenly.

“No,” he said. “I have no idea. Well, nothing concrete anyway.”

“So you could switch back at any moment?”

God, if only. “I suppose,” he said noncommittally, not daring to speak aloud how dear a hope that
was.

She nodded. “Then….” She paused, a nervous tremble in her windpipe. “Then there is something I
would ask of you.”

“Name it.” Her evident anxiousness was making him worry.

“Would you…would you kiss me?”

It was the last thing Colin had been expecting. “Kiss you?”

The plea in her eyes made his stomach flip. “You could switch back at any time. You could switch
back tonight. This may be my only chance!”

“Your only chance?”

“To be kissed by a Colin who loves me.”

He wasn’t sure if it was her words or her eyes that broke his heart, but either way he couldn’t tell
her no. Whatever reservations he had went right from his mind and out the window as she gazed up
at him hopefully.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes,” he clarified.

“Yes,” she sighed.

The temperature in his blood spiked at the sound. He tried to ignore that distracting fact.

Colin pushed the tray of éclairs out of the way and leaned over her, his hand reaching up to cup her
cheek, tilt her head. His lips hovered over hers and he noted how shallow and erratic her breathing
was.

“Pen,” he whispered, their lips millimeters apart, “breathe.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “I’ve got
you.”

Tenderly, he closed the gap, brushing his lips against hers.

She whimpered and leaned in, seeking more. He gave her what she wanted and deepened the kiss.
He savored the familiar softness, the taste of her. It reminded him of home. Not 2022, or his
London flat, or anything so literal as any of that. A more elemental notion of home—a notion
where home was Pen. Just Pen, wherever he might find her.

Colin’s other hand rose to cradle the other side of her face as she squirmed closer. Her hands found
his chest and snaked up to grasp the lapels of his jacket. The kiss broke briefly and she took a
breath. He could not resist trailing his tongue over her upper lip.

Penelope gasped. Then mimicked him.

At the first touch of her tongue on his lips, he was hard. Ludicrously hard. It was like he was
 starved for her. The way she was clutching at him was messing with his head.

It was only a matter of time until their tongues touched. He groaned, and the noise she made was
sharp and hungry. He had to pull away. He had to—or he was going to end up doing something
stupid.

He parted the kiss, turning his head. Their bodies were not so easily separated; her grip on his
jacket was absolute for the moment. So, Colin held her in the candlelight, in their private little
pocket of heaven, as they panted and their hearts raced in tandem.

Oh, God. He was in trouble.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter is a big one, in terms of length and in terms of everything that happens, so
I spent a little extra time tweaking it.

Fun fact: all the books I had Penelope reference in her letter to Colin are real, as are
the writers Eloise mentioned in the book shop.

Next: Regency Colin and Modern Pen go to the doctor

 Tell me where to put my love
Chapter Notes

Another long one this time, my lovelies

See the end of the chapter for more notes

I was always able to write my way out

Song always made sense to me
Now I find that when I look down
Every page is empty

There is nothing to describe

Except the moon still bright against the worrying sky
I pray the trees will get their leaves soon

So tell me where to put my love

Do I wait for time to do what it does?
I don't know where to put my love

-Florence + the Machine

“My Love”

Colin and Pen’s Flat

Southwark, London
14 June 2022

Colin awoke to the feeling of a face sweetly nuzzled into the nape of his neck and a soft arm
around his middle. It was a sublimely pleasant sensation that became alarming as the sleep fog
began to clear from his brain, and then made his heart speed when he remembered that he was out
of his own time. With Penelope. It was she who was holding him.

She was still and her breathing was even, so he knew that she was asleep.

Colin had not intended to spend the night beside her. He had meant to leave after she drifted off,
but somehow he hadn’t. It wasn’t even as though he could avail himself of the excuse that sleep
had taken him swiftly or crept upon him stealthily. No, he had lain awake for hours in this strange
room and this strange bed, listening to the strange sounds of the city. Air had rattled faintly through
the fireplace, soft footsteps had plodded across the floor above, water had moved through pipes in
the walls, and the scattered machines emitted a low hum of energy. Outside the window, the lights
on the street were never snuffed out, and people continued to go about their business even until the
smallest hours of the morning. The noises were all distracting and frequent enough to have kept
him awake for a long time. Still, he hadn’t found the will to leave the bed.

After all, Penelope had insisted that she did not mind, perhaps that she even desired him there. And
there could be no harm. To the outside world, the damage had been done; everyone already knew
they shared a residence and a bed. And between the two of them, there was an understanding—he
was not Her Colin, and there sat the boundary. Up until the moment sleep had finally taken him,
she was all the way on the other side of the bed, right near the edge, trussed up in blankets and
facing away from him. He was still fully dressed, having not thought of bedclothes until after
Penelope was asleep when he had not wished to disturb her. So, there was no harm.

No harm.

Colin swallowed as his blood warmed. He could feel the press of her soft curves into him—the tips
of her supple breasts against his back, her tempting thighs curled behind his. Her hand rested on his
abdomen. He was hard—he had, in fact, woken with a cock-stand. Whether that was due to the
normal course of things (he often was erect in the morning, and knew the same to be true for many
men), or whether this particular arousal owed its inspiration to waking in the arms of a beautiful
woman, Colin was uncertain.

He…he needed to get out of this bed. If she were to wake and see his depravity….

A flush of shame heated his neck and face. Carefully, he lifted her arm off of him and extricated
himself from her embrace, rising from the bed. He peeked behind him, holding his breath to see
whether the disturbance would wake her. But she slept on. Shafts of morning light illuminated her
face—the lashes resting on her cheeks…her soft, parted lips. Her vibrant hair tumbled and tangled
about her face. His chest tightened at the sight of her in such an intimate context, such a vulnerable
state. And, to his disgust, his erection stiffened further.

But, did he actually wish to…? To…with her? With his friend Penelope? Colin had learned some
time ago that his body responding to a woman was not the same as actually wishing to act out those
desires with her. Since waking beside her yesterday, Penelope had been jolting his body with
currents of hunger, inspiring the most carnal of thoughts. But was the desire for action there as
well? Was he just seeing her in a different light (and, to identify the blame more pointedly,
different clothes)? Or did he actually want to act out his thoughts and satisfy his lusts with her?

He took the answering throb in his stiff arousal as a bad sign.

Swallowing a groan, Colin silently slipped from the room. He did not release the breath that he was
holding until he had securely latched the washroom closed behind him. He slumped against the
door and waited for his heartrate to calm.

And there a dilemma presented itself. He needed to empty his bladder, but found he could not. He
was too hard. That was rare; usually his morning erections faded on their own fairly quickly, and
he simply went about his day. But this one was stubborn. Insistent. He waited for several minutes,
but it did not flag or flounder.

His thoughts were unhelpful. They kept recursing back to the bed, to Penelope’s soft, rounded body
pressed against him. Her breath on his neck.

There was nothing for it. He would need to take himself in hand.

Considering the practicalities, he found himself thankful for the flush toilet. It would make
disposal of the evidence a simple and straightforward matter. Pen would never know—thank God.

He tried, he really did, to bring himself to completion by thinking of the stimulation and friction
only. The lovely, sexually experienced, exotically and scandalously dressed Penelope of the future
had inflamed his body, but he did not have her leave to think of her thus. He was not Her Colin. So,
he felt guilty when he could not keep her from his thoughts as he stroked himself.

He thought of her bottom in the tight hose she had worn yesterday after her bath. Her exposed
shoulders in the pink knit. Her graceful neck. Her eyes when she looked up at him with tenderness
and love at Aubrey Hall. Her voice when she said that, for him, she was easy. Her pretty mouth as
she ate the shortbread with relish. He thought of her bare legs, her thighs. God, her thighs. Freckles
and roses on the milky skin of her thighs….

Colin choked on a groan as he spent himself, his body wracking with release.

Afterward, he tried not to dwell on it. He relieved himself, washed his hands, and went to the
drawing room to wait for Pen wake.

His first thought was his phone and all the pictures he had yet to view, but he had forgotten the
device in the bedroom and did not want to risk going back and accidentally waking her. So, he tried
sitting and waiting patiently. That lasted only a few minutes before he gave up and walked to the
bookshelves. He began by perusing the titles in search of something interesting, but was spoiled for
choice and found himself overwhelmed by the options.

At the shelf nearest the desk, his eyes fell on the neat stack of papers. They were printed with
typeface, but were loose and unbound from each other. Handwritten notes had been squeezed into
the margins. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but there was something in it, maybe the a’s and the
way they slanted, that made him think it was Penelope’s. The notes were edits, and the printed text
was a story. He began reading it idly, but found himself settling into the desk chair and turning
page after page.

It seemed to be a magical tale, about a young woman named Harriet who was learning the ways of
the Druids from her grandfather. She was memorizing the old oral traditions and communing with
the earth. But the earth was sick, the water polluted, the plants and animals dying, and it was
making her sick, too. An old friend called Max was coming to help her, but she felt conflicted
about it. She knew she needed the aid, but she wasn’t certain whether she wanted to see him again.

If she wasn’t careful Max would wheedle his way back into her life with no effort at all. Worse, she
feared he knew it. Harriet expended so much energy trying to hide just how deeply she had fallen,
to take every disappointment in casual stride, but she knew her acting wasn’t that good.

It wasn’t fair that she should love him so much, that she should be so aware of his every breath,
movement, and word. Max cared for her, she knew that he did, but it wasn’t like how she felt for
him. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was just a hopeless situation. After all, loving Max was a
habit she’d formed early on, and long-standing bad habits were the hardest to break.

Of course, it would be stretching the truth to say it was love from the start—but it had been
something from the start, before she even found out they were to be trained together as Druids.
From the day he came up the road toward the McAllister home, a starved and scrawny boy of
eleven, he had been the object of her attention. His dark hair was so tangled, his eyes so green, and
he so small. When he had spoken to her mum, he’d been respectful, shy.

Harriet had been only ten at the time, but she had considered herself to be an authority on boys—
she lived with six of them after all. Though the personalities and quirks of her brothers varied
spectacularly, there were a great many things that none of them were, and shy was one of those.
Respectful? Only when they wanted something. And boys were big. In her childhood her brothers
had seemed, by degrees, giants. Even James had been several inches taller than she at the time.
Boys picked you up so that you could reach the top shelf, boys held toys just out of your reach until
you yelled to mum, boys twirled you until you got dizzy. Max challenged all of those notions by
simply being her size and looking as unlike her brothers as possible.

As Harriet grew, she realized how silly her first impression of the boy on the road had been.
Perhaps if she had been allowed to attend primary school like her eldest brothers had done before
they caused too much trouble, she might have been less impressed by such inconsequential things
as dark hair and a soft-spoken manner. She might have known that boys come in all types, not just
McAllister. But as it had been, Max had seemed entirely fascinating and wonderfully alien to her
ten-year-old self.

And then they began to commune with the earth, the water…together. And he had saved her life,
that day in the bog.

The hopeless tangle of the whole business was that the physical symptoms of girlish fancies, hero-
worship, and honest-to-goodness love were far too similar: sweaty palms, a racing pulse, an
awareness radiating beneath her skin at his very presence. Harriet knew that the girlish fancy had
begun that day on the road, that the hero-worship had been particularly bad following her near-
drowning in the bog, that the resonances of both had reverberated through her adolescence, and
she knew that, for better or worse, she loved Max now. But it was a messy task to try to determine
where one phase ended and the next began. Feelings, it seemed, were too organic to begin and end
in properly understandable stages. There was a time that her love for Max had been a silly thing
based in infatuation and romantic fantasy; now it was deadly serious, painful, and oh-so-
exhausting. Where had the tipping point been? For the life of her, she could not say.

“Hey,” Pen’s soft voice broke the silence, startling Colin out of his engrossment.

She stood in the doorway to the hall, sleep in her eyes. She brushed tangles of hair back from her
face, most of her hand swallowed up by the cuff of her tunic. His heartbeat stuttered.

“Good morning.”

As she noted the papers in his hands, she froze. “You’re reading my manuscript?”

“I was,” he said. “My apologies if that was unwelcome. If you do not wish—”

But she was already shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. The other you has read it dozens of times. I
just wasn’t expecting you would is all.” She sighed tiredly and leaned against the door frame. “We
should wash up and get dressed. It’s Tuesday, and I should go in to work.”

His response caught in his throat. When she said “we”…did she mean together?

“Why don’t you take the shower first,” she said, answering his unasked question. “I’ll make the
coffee.” She paused. “You’ve never used a shower before, have you?”

Colin shook his head. He did not even know what she was talking about.

Penelope led him back to the washroom. He felt a little odd being in there with her given what he
had done that morning, but he tried his utmost to keep his expression neutral. She explained to him
how to use a feature of the tub that dropped warm water from above like a heavy rain. Colin was
fascinated. She also gave him a brief explanation of the use of the assorted soaps and hygiene
products.

“Towels are here,” she said, pointing to a shelf. Chewing her lip, she studied him. “Do you have
any questions? Do you think you’ll be all right?”

Colin nodded thoughtfully. “I do not usually bathe myself.”

He did not consider how those words might be taken until he realized Penelope’s eyes were
widening.
“I am not requesting your assistance,” he clarified quickly. “Merely noting that this will be a new
adventure.”

She swallowed. “Let me fetch you some fresh clothes.” And then she hurried from the room.

A minute or so later, she returned with a stack of neatly folded clothing and closed the door to give
him some privacy. Following Pen’s demonstration, washing himself was a simple and
straightforward task. He marveled over the technology and convenience of the “shower” and found
the sensation of hot rain over his body to be shockingly pleasant.

After drying himself, he placed the towel on a hook and his soiled clothes in the laundry bag as
Pen had instructed. The fresh clothing included similar trousers to those he had worn yesterday, but
also a tunic like those Pen had been wearing. It even appeared to be the same size and shape.

He found her in the kitchen, placing a plate on the small, circular dining table.

“I think I burnt the eggs,” she announced sheepishly. “Sorry, they’ve never been my strong suit and
it’s been so long since I—”

“The food looks delicious,” Colin said politely.

Her face colored and she passed him a mug of coffee. “I ate already.” She paused. “I’ll just take my
turn with the shower then,” she muttered and slipped from the room.

Colin did not think he was imagining things to say that she seemed skittish this morning.

Coffee in hand, he took a seat at the table and surveyed the plate she had assembled. Pen had
prepared beans, toast, and eggs. The eggs were burnt in places and overdone everywhere else, but
Colin ate them regardless, not wishing for Penelope to feel bad.

She was in the washroom far longer than he had been, but he tried to wait patiently. To fill the
time, and out of a desire to contribute, Colin applied the lesson he had learned last night with
Penelope and gathered the dishes for washing.

Pen wandered in when he was nearly done, rinsing the last utensils and placing them on the drying
rack.

Again, she struck him, made his heart speed. Today she had done something with her hair to
straighten the curls into gentle waves that shined. No eyeglasses this morning, but moderate face
paint and darkened eyelashes. She wore sheer stockings with a pattern of hearts in the weave, a
fitted tweed skirt that was belted at the waist and ended just above her knee, and a silky white shirt.
The top three buttons were undone and a stiff burgundy silk cravat was knotted loosely around the
collar.

“Oh,” she said faintly, clearly surprised. “Thank you, Colin.”

Pleased at her gratitude, he grinned. “You look lovely.”

She glanced down at her ensemble, cheeks going pink, before smiling.

He had some questions. “What is this called?” He fingered the heather-colored tunic he wore.

“A pullover,” she said. “Or jumper.”

“And this garment?” He touched his trousers.

“Jeans.”

“And they are worn by both men and women?”

“Yes, though the tailoring on them is often different. I think clothing is less gendered now than it
was in your time, and becoming less and less so as time goes on.” She paused and seemed to be
debating whether or not to add something. “The pullovers you have seen me wearing aren’t mine.
They’re yours.”

“Mine?”

She gave a somewhat stiff shrug. “I often wear your clothes. You have never minded. I think you
like it, actually.” She fingered the burgundy cravat. “This necktie is yours, too.”

Colin thought about that. It never would have occurred to him—the idea of a woman wearing his
clothes. No wonder those pullover tunics had been so shapeless on Penelope’s body, the swell of
her breasts obscured and the sleeves hanging over the tips of her fingers. Now that he knew where
she had gotten them, their giganticness on her petite frame seemed endearing. He could see how
Her Colin might enjoy her borrowing his garments.

Penelope broke the awkward silence with a contrite, “I’m sorry, Colin. I know that you just washed
the dishes…but I need to make some more toast.”

“Oh,” he said, a little thrown.

“I lost my breakfast,” she admitted.

A tide of protectiveness rose in him. “Oh. Allow me,” he said, wishing to care for her. “Please, you
sit, and tell me what to do. I will prepare it for you.”

She hesitated, but acceded. She sat at the table and guided him to a loaf of sliced bread and through
the use of a device called a toaster. “Thank you,” she said as he poured her a fresh cup of coffee
and added the cream and sugar in the amount she specified.

“Is that how you prepare mine?” he asked.

She smiled into the mug as she sipped. “No. You take far more sugar in yours than I do.”

That revelation did not surprise him.

“I made appointments for us while you were in the shower,” Pen said between bites of toast.

“Appointments?”

“With a doctor, on Thursday. I need to see one to make sure my pregnancy is proceeding as normal
and the baby is healthy. For you…well, I worry. The world has changed a lot in two hundred years
regarding what makes people sick. I want to make sure you didn’t inadvertently bring something
with you from the past, and get you treatment if you did.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

“You are always meticulous about getting your shots before you go somewhere new, but I used the
fact that you travel so much as an excuse to order a range of tests. The whole battery, in fact.” She
gave an apologetic smile. “I may have hinted that you recently exposed yourself to an unexpectedly
hazardous environment. I’m going to have them check you for parasites, tuberculosis, typhus…
STIs….”

“STIs?”

Penelope cleared her throat and did not look up from her toast. “Sexually transmitted infections.”

His face colored when he realized what she meant. “Ah. Well, that…that might not be strictly
necessary. I have not….” He trailed off, the admission dying in his throat.

She looked at him, startled. A soft, “Oh,” escaped her lips before she gathered herself. “Well, it’s
still probably best to test for everything. Just to be safe.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Once we
know where you stand, we can look at protecting you from the most common diseases of this
time.”

After a moment, he said, “You have been thinking a lot about this.”

“Yes, I have,” she said. “I think we should be practical. Instead of trying to predict what will or will
not happen in the future regarding your travel through time, I think it best to deal with the present
as it is. You are here now, and we should act on that in good faith. Just to be safe.”

Just to be safe. She had said that phrase twice. How pragmatic and protective his sweet Pen was
turning out to be.

He looked up to see her staring at him. The expression in her eyes seemed…conflicted. “We should
shave you,” she muttered.

Colin’s hand reflexively raised to touch the stubble on his jaw.

She checked the clock on her phone. “We have time.”

He followed her into the washroom once more, and she indicated that he should seat himself atop a
stool with a series of three steps. She must have seen the question somewhere in his countenance.

“We have it in here so that I can get to that shelf.” She pointed, and Colin could see at once how
hopelessly out of reach it was to her. “This won’t take long,” she said, gathering supplies.

Penelope pulled a lever to stopper the sink drain, then filled the basin with water. The razor was
oddly shaped and the cream came from a metal canister. He tried not to shiver from the intimacy of
the moment, from her touch, when her hand spread the cream over his stubble. The room felt hot,
and he could not lie to himself that it was the remnants of steam from their showers.

Then she shocked him with a question of the deepest impropriety.

“So, you are a virgin?” Her voice was gentle and free of judgment.

Colin froze, unsure how to respond.

Her gaze took in his discomfort. “We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to. I was
simply curious after what you said, but you don’t owe me the details of your sexlife.”

“No, do not worry over upsetting me. You did not,” he said, feeling the foam shift against skin as
he spoke. “I suppose I do not mind. I was merely taken aback. Gentlemen do not typically discuss
such things with ladies.”

A corner of her lips lifted as she placed the razor against his skin and pulled. “Really? They should
—at least, they should with their romantic partners. Bedroom experience, preferences,
boundaries…those should all be regular topics of conversation to make sure everyone is on the
same page and stay that way.”

Colin was unable to fully parse everything she had just said because his mind had snagged on the
implicit extrapolation that, by her own description, this was a conversation for “romantic
partners.”

He swallowed as the razor moved over the skin along his jaw. She rinsed it in the water and
brought it back to his face in a soothing rhythm. Her touch guided his chin this way and that,
upward for access to his neck, and he allowed himself to be led.

“I suppose,” he murmured.

“You suppose what?”

“I suppose I am a virgin,” he clarified. “It depends on how one might define the word.”

She considered that. “How do you define the word?”

Colin gave a startled laugh. “I’m not sure. I have done some things with some women. I was
curious and my body seemed interested at the time, but I never followed the impulse to the ultimate
conclusion.”

“Penetration, you mean?” Pen asked, her voice staggeringly casual. “Coitus?”

Colin swallowed. “At university, my friends would often patronize an establishment….” He

floundered.

Pen smiled kindly at his awkwardness. “I’m following you,” she reassured him. “Continue.”

Clearing his throat, he said, “I would go with them sometimes. I admit to being interested in
women’s bodies. I learned how to bring a woman pleasure with my fingers, where they like to be
touched and kissed. But none of the women struck my fancy and…for some reason, that mattered
to me. I do not know why. It did not matter to my friends. They did not need to feel for a woman to
go upstairs with her. There was one woman there. She was clever and interesting. I liked talking to
her. I thought maybe it would be enough.” He shrugged. “It wasn’t. I went up with her one night
and everything proceeded as normal until I….” He paused, the awkwardness of the conversation
oppressive to him. But Penelope was patient. Her eyes were understanding, and she did not prod or
push. He found he was able to begin again. “I did penetrate her. But the moment I did, I realized I
could not continue. It felt nice, pleasurable, but it was not right. Not in the sense that I felt guilty, or
as though I was committing some sin. In the sense that I did not wish to proceed. So I stopped. I
paid her the full amount and did what I could to reassure her she had done nothing wrong. And I
left.” He snuck a glance at Penelope’s face for her reaction, but he didn’t glean much. “I never
went back.”

Penelope moved from the left side of his face to the right. Her focus on her task. “So, you have
done vaginal fingering. Has anyone besides you ever stroked your penis to climax?”

She was so calm, so matter-of-fact. She said the words like they were nothing at all. “Yes,” he
admitted.

“What about oral? Have you performed cunnilingus?”

Colin’s mouth went dry. “Once.”

“Has anyone performed fellatio on you?”

He fought the urge to squirm, to cover his lap, fearing that it would only draw attention. “No.”

There she looked at him. The eye contact was electric—it made his skin hum. Something lurked in
her gaze and heated his blood. Interest? God help him, was it interest?

She broke away and began shaving him again. “Marina?” she asked quietly.

He inhaled sharply. “No, nothing with her.”

“But you were engaged?”

“Precisely. She was to be my wife. I would never dishonor my betrothed by cheapening her virtue
before the wedding night.”

For the first time, Pen’s neutrality slipped and she made a face of disapproval. “Let’s not talk about
women and their virtue like that, please.”

Colin’s insides winced at her displeasure, though he was uncertain what he had said that was so
objectionable.

She sighed. “I can see what you mean, Colin. Whether the word virgin applies is a bit of an open
question. Manual stimulation to climax, oral sex—that definitely qualifies as the deed itself for
many people. And then you dipped your wick in, only to pull it right back out without finishing.”
She shook her head and tutted, but with a smile so that he could see she was teasing him. “It’s as
though you wanted to make this as ambiguous as possible. Your virginity is in limbo, Colin
Bridgerton.”

He fought a shiver as the cool steel glided against his skin. “What do you think? What am I by
your definition?”

Penelope considered. “I think that if you regard yourself as a virgin, that’s good enough for me.”
She made gentle, short strokes with the razor over his upper lip. “In the spirit of reciprocity, I will
tell you that I am most certainly not a virgin, but I was when you and I got together. I had kissed
two—no, three—people. None of the kisses were remarkable. One bloke tried to finger me.”

Those last words rocked Colin. “What?”

“I don’t mean he tried to force me. I consented. I mean he was really bad at it. He tried—well-
intentioned and all that. But he bungled it, bless him.” She grimaced and he felt sick on her behalf.
“It hurt actually. Badly enough that I was nervous to try it again. But you took such good care of
me.” She finished the tricky contours of his chin. “Since we’ve gotten together, we’ve done….”
Her face broke into a smile that grew radiant, a look of far-off bliss in her eyes. “Well, we’ve done
pretty much everything we can think of.”

Colin was fighting the urge to squirm again. “What of your Colin? Was he a virgin?”

“No. He wasn’t anywhere near as experienced as I thought he was, but he did a little more
experimenting than you did before he came to the same conclusion.” Penelope set aside the razor.
“All done.”

Grateful for his pullover obscuring his lap, he leaned down and rinsed his face with water from the
sink basin. She held a towel out to him when he was done.
“Colin?”

“Yes?” he asked, blotting his face dry.

“Did you spend all of last night in our bed?”

His eyes swung to her. Emotions scrambled as he tried to decode the expression on her face. Was
she displeased? Had she not wanted him there after all? “I did,” he confessed.

“I thought maybe you did.” She looked nervous. Unsettled. “I had a dream about you.”

“About your Colin?”

Pen shook her head. “About you.”

Oh God. He would have asked what kind of dream, except that he knew. He could see it in her
face, and he could feel it in the tension in the air. Oh, dear God.

“I’ll sleep on the couch.” He blurted the offer.

This time, she agreed. “I think that would be best. For now.”

For a few suspended seconds, he couldn’t breathe. For now?

She checked the time on her phone again. “I should get a move on.” She reached out and tapped
the lever to release water in the sink.

Resolutely, he ignored his body and avoided her eye-contact.

Colin still could not believe that she had to work for wages. Every sensibility inside of him
revolted at the thought. And now that she was enceinte? “Must you? Surely a lady in your delicate
condition—”

Penelope laughed. “I’m fine, Colin. A little queasy in the stomach, but that’s normal, especially for
the first trimester. Women work through pregnancies. They do it now, and they have done it since
the dawn of time.”

He was not convinced, but she shut down further protests.

“We are seeing the doctor on Thursday, aren’t we? I promise that I will follow whatever medical
advice is given to me.”

Ultimately, he had to agree. He had no authority over her.

“What shall I do today?” he asked as she gathered what she required for the day in a large leather
bag.

Penelope sighed. “I have thought of that, and I don’t think there are many options at the moment.
Once you become better acclimated to 2022, there will be more. But for now, I think it best if you
stay home, in the flat. I will have food delivered to you for lunch. Stay out of the kitchen for now.
We have a lot of appliances in there that are perfectly safe if used correctly, but can be quite
dangerous if you don’t know what you are doing. I don’t want you to electrocute yourself to death
or accidentally burn the house down.”

He blinked. “Oh.”
“You can read any of these books, and here—let me show you how to work the television.”

The television…was a marvel. Moving pictures where people reported the news and actors put on
plays, singular performances that could be viewed an infinite number of times. That was startling
enough. But then she gave him a hurried explanation of something called the internet and how to
access it on his phone.

“Be specific and circumspect in what you are searching for, or you’ll just get porn. At least half the
internet is porn.”

Colin was alarmed. He did not want pornography and he was honestly still quite confused about
what the internet was for and how to use it. But Penelope was now in a rush and he decided it was
not the time.

“If you have any questions, or if you need to know how to operate anything in the flat, send me
texts and pictures. You remember how to do that, right?”

He nodded.

“I will be home by six,” she said, sliding her feet into a pair of high-heeled shoes. And then she
leaned toward him and kissed his cheek before either of them thought better of it. She froze, as
though startled by her own actions, but then she slipped out the door without saying a word.

And she was gone. He was alone in the flat and left to his own devices.

He was curious about the television, leery of the internet, and invested in Penelope’s manuscript.
But he was also tired. He hadn’t slept well or long, so he found himself wandering back down the
hall to the bed. Penelope had made it up, neat and tidy, so he made the decision to lie atop the
covers rather than make a mess of her efforts. Besides, the temperature inside the flat was
remarkably pleasant and consistent; he was not in the least bit chilled.

For several minutes, he tried to nap, but try as he might, he did not doze. It could have been
because the noises that had seemed so foreign and disruptive the night before were still present.
(Colin was rather beginning to suspect that, due to the technology, the future was always noisy.)
But really, most of the blame could be rested upon his own mind, which could not stop turning
over his conversation with Penelope.

He did a little more experimenting than you did before he came to the same conclusion. And what
conclusion was that, precisely? Penelope hadn’t said.

Although, yesterday, she had mentioned something about his sexual interest being an indication of
his romantic interest. Was that correct? Did that follow from his own life experiences? Perhaps. It
was beginning to seem possible at the very least. Though the implications of that theory for the
response he was currently having to Penelope were…unsettling.

It would mean—well, it would mean that he was developing tender feelings for her. Beyond
friendship. To some extent, it felt silly to be surprised by that; everything in this flat, in this time
and place, took the idea that Colin was in love with Penelope as a forgone conclusion. Every
picture in the drawing room was documentation of it. As were the frozen meals in the cold pantry,
and those notes in the margins of her manuscript that were of a different handwriting than hers,
effusing over how talented she was. The Penelope of 2022 loved Colin, and she, in turn, was loved
by him.

Yet, in the same breath, Colin had to admit that he still felt unsteadied by the notion. Or, at the very
least, taken by surprise. Before slipping through time, had he ever seriously considered Pen as a
possibility? His reflex was to say that, no, he had not. He remembered clearly his denials to his
mother and brother his last night in 1815. But now he was beginning to doubt himself; both Violet
and Benedict had been so certain they were seeing something more in Colin’s eyes, in his actions.

Friendship makes the best of foundations for a love story, his mother had said. He had scoffed, but
had she understood something he did not? About love? About himself?

Colin stared at the ceiling above the bed without really seeing it. Such a strange way of thinking of
love, of marriage. It struck him as the wrong way around. But just out of curiosity, he followed the
thread where it led. If his body sought love and companionship as paramount rather than simple
beauty or pleasure, if those were what sparked his passion: Did this explain why his body was
suddenly surging with carnal hunger for Penelope? He had assumed, taken for granted even, that
his lust had been sparked by her clothing—strange enough that he could not help seeing her in a
new light, and revealing enough to tempt a Saint. But what if it was something else? What if it was
the intimacy and the domesticity of their interactions? The way she shaved him, tended to wounds
on his face, baked biscuits with him…. What if the source of his body’s new and enthusiastic
interest was…well, was that here, in this life away from home, she felt like his wife?

He rubbed his face and groaned.

Even if it all turned out to be true, her clothes were still killing him. Her décolletage this morning?
The devil take him—he had already been losing his head over her thighs and bottom, and now he
had to contend with her breasts as well? Those pullovers had been doing him a kindness by
obscuring their lush charms.

He wallowed in these thoughts until a buzzing on the table beside the bed drew his notice. It was
his phone receiving a message or notification. Irritatingly, it had done so all night as well, but he
had not dared reach for it lest he accidentally wake Penelope. He reached for it now.

Attached to the little icon that indicated text messages, according to Penelope’s instruction, he had
fifty-three unread messages. That seemed to him an exhausting number. When he opened the
application, he saw that one, the newest of them, was from Penelope. The other fifty-two belonged
to a conversation labeled “Family.”

Curiosity piqued, he tapped his finger to open the conversation and read. It seemed Daphne had
started a fervor.

D: Did any of you leave a basket of eggs on my front stoop?

E: …what?

D: There are 2 dozen eggs in a basket on my front stoop. No note.

G: lol who leaves eggs??

E: mum, probably

H: no, I was with her all day

F: Are they farm eggs or eggs from a shop?

D: I don’t know. How can you tell?

G: are they poison eggs

E: there’s no such thing as poison eggs, but I wouldn’t eat them, Daph. not if you don’t know
where they came from

F: Don’t waste food!

G: yeah, just feed a few to simon first and see if he dies. if not, you’re in the clear

F: No note? Anonymous gift?

D: Simon asked round the neighbors. No one is taking credit.

A: Doesn’t Will Mondrich keep chickens? They are probably from him.

D: Oh! Anthony, I think you may be right.

A: I always am.

H:

B: omg eggs sound fucking amaaaazinggg rn

H: if they had a wanking emoji, I’d be using it right about now

A: No you wouldn’t. Not if you want those driving lessons.

E: ignore Ben, everyone. he’s drunk. I just put him to bed

E: there you go, Hy

A: El!

H: thx

It continued on like that through a few more plot turns.

F: I thought Will and Alice were on holiday in Madrid…?

E: wait—yes, they are! abort, Daph ​♀️ those are still mystery eggs!

And then,

D: They’re gone!

D: The eggs. I left them out there, just as a precaution, and now they have disappeared!

E: wtf?

G: your garden is haunted

F: …I find it very suspicious that we’ve heard not a peep from Colin…

H: yes—exactly!

A: Agreed. This is exactly the kind of faffery he enjoys.

E: come clean, Col. did you drive all the way out to clyvedon in the middle of the night to fuck
with Daphne?
And the final message, from Mother.

V: You little hooligans! I come to my phone at 7:30am to see FIFTY-ONE messages in the family
thread. I thought someone had died! Eggs…honestly!

Colin felt a warmth spread through him as he read. A grin split his face. It was comforting to an
extent that could not be put to words—as alien as this world may be, his family was still his family.
Reading the messages from the night before made him feel connected to them, surrounded by
them. Yet, there was also a barrier. He longed to participate, to jump in. His honor had been
impugned, after all! But the etiquette and rhythm of this style of conversation eluded him. Did he
dare?

Would they immediately recognize him as an impostor?

His smile faded.

He left the conversation and went to read Penelope’s latest message.

P: all right so far?

Was she worried over him? Fussing? It had only been an hour. Or…was she missing him?

Colin carefully typed a response, then pressed the Send button.

C: Yes, I am well. Thank you for inquiring.

After a moment, she sent him a heart. His thumb traced the image.

Above the exchange, he saw the practice messages they had sent back and forth when she was
teaching him. Above that, was this -

C: everything all right?

P: one sec

P: can you come?

P: i need you

C: where?

P: our room

Colin’s heart pounded. It was an exchange between Pen and Her Colin. The other one. Above that,
he found an invitation for Penelope to go out with him on a rowboat.

Colin scrolled up, and up. He must be a glutton for punishment because the twinges of pain got
sharper as he went, yet he continued. He was jealous of himself. Whether because the other him
had the Penelope who had captured his fancy, or perhaps something less base (jealousy of the life
he had, the way he seemed to know himself and have it all settled?), Colin did not know. But, God
was he jealous.

And then, Colin jerked up into a sitting position—eyes wide, heart pounding.

P: [a picture of the valley between Pen’s legs with only the smallest, triangular scrap of silk
covering her womanly center; her fingers were reaching down, underneath…touching….]
P: thinking of you

C: fuuuck, Pen

C: i’m trying to get to you

C: 20 mins away, i promise

P: hurry—i *need* you

P: [a picture from the same angle, but now the piece of silk had been pushed out of the way,
crookedly down her thighs; two of her fingers had been inserted deep into her exposed slit]

So pink. So slick, she glistened. Colin did not know how long he stared at Pen’s loveliness, but he
couldn’t tear his eyes away. He could barely breathe.

At some point, he became aware of the other Colin’s response.

C: shit…Pen, that one is going in the album

The album? As in, an album of pictures on this phone?

Fingers trembling, Colin opened the application that stored the pictures. He scrolled through the
albums listed. Most were named after places, a few after people. And then there was one called
“Pen_encrypted.” It had a little picture of a padlock on it, and it was the only album that did. When
he tapped his finger to open it, the phone turned into a mirror to capture “facial recognition” before
granting him access.

There were three albums inside: Boudoir, Nudes, and Hardcore

Colin did not pause; he did not think. For if he did, he knew he would remember himself. A
gentleman would not look.

He could not bring himself to be a gentleman at the moment.

The Boudoir album opened with a red-lipped Pen wearing a white triangle of lace over her
womanhood, piled strings of pearls that covered her nipples, and nothing else. She was posed on a
couch—different iterations of Pen on her knees with her hands in her hair; then some of her
reclining with her arm flung over her head; finally, a close view of her face, eyes closed in bliss and
a strand of pearls caught between her teeth.

A new series began: she wore a transparent negligee in front of a window. Details were obscured
because she was in silhouette, lit from behind by rays of divine sunlight, but every line of her body
was sharp in focus—the pouting tips of her breasts, the arc of her bottom, the V between her legs.
The swells and curves of her were temptation itself as she posed in picture after picture like a
goddess in a work of art.

Then she was on a bed, the cream of her skin in full color, her hair mussed and bed-tousled. A
white sheet had been pulled up between her legs as she knelt, shielding her womanhood but leaving
her thighs and the sides of her torso bare. White linen reached up high enough to cover her nipples
as her hands cupped her breasts, but no higher. She was nude—covered by the sheet, but nude.

Colin dropped the phone, then swatted it aside.

He could go no further. What he had seen already was too much, too far. He would never be able
to get those images of Pen out of his head.

He did not finish looking at the photographs in the Boudoir album; he did not open the Nudes or
Hardcore albums at all. Instead, he abandoned the phone in the bedroom and went to pace the
drawing room. Once his heartrate calmed, he realized he could not abandon the device altogether,
much as he should like to. He needed it nearby in case Pen contacted him. So, he brought it into
the drawing room and set it on a table near a lamp, where he could hear it should it vibrate, and
went back to reading Penelope’s manuscript.

Around noon, food arrived by delivery and Pen texted him instructions on how to buzz the driver
in. He ate, he read Pen’s book through to chapter twelve, and he did his best not to think about how
he’d broken down and taken himself in hand again. Twice. Thinking of Pen’s fingers inside herself,
of the boudoir pictures that were seared into his brain.

Penelope arrived home just before six in the evening, just as she said. She had bags of food in hand
from the Moroccan restaurant across the street. Colin tried to behave normally, to just enjoy the
new experience of delicious food and to speak politely to Pen about their day apart. But he found
he could not manage such a feat. He struggled to make eye-contact and was horribly aware of how
warm his neck and cheeks felt. His fingers fumbled and dropped the pepper mill twice in an effort
to pass it to her. Finally, she demanded to know what was wrong. Guiltily, he confessed his
discovery of the pictures.

He had expected her ire, but she laughed.

“You are not angered?”

“No,” she shook her head, still chuckling. “It was probably inevitable given that you have been
exploring the phone. Perhaps I should have warned you that not all the pictures you have taken of
me were clothed.”

Colin’s pulse stuttered. “I took those pictures?”

“Of course. You don’t think I would allow just anyone to photograph me like that, do you?” she
asked, eyes dancing.

He cleared his throat and looked away. “I offer my apologies for looking. It was not gentlemanly.”

“No, it probably wasn’t. But I don’t mind—if I did, I would have changed the permissions on the
folder before I gave you access to the phone.”

Colin’s eyes snapped back to her, startled.

“I’m not ashamed of any of the pictures,” she said with surprising conviction. “They are special to
me, actually. I love them.”

“You do?”

Penelope’s face had a serious, pensive cast to it now. “Most of my life, I have felt undesirable and
plain. Did you know that?”

Colin swallowed, chest feeling tight.

“It was…hard for me to believe you when you would wax on about my body and the way you saw
it. I didn’t understand,” she explained. “When we began traveling together and you wanted to take
pictures with me at the sights, or in museums, I balked. I’ve never liked having my picture taken.
But you always knew exactly how to frame me. You always captured something I couldn’t see for
myself. When you take pictures of me, I see me as you see me. And I feel beautiful.”

She reached for his phone and, with a touch, woke the light inside it. “Look at this,” she indicated
the picture that hung fixed behind his selection of applications. It was a picture of Penelope in a
purple knit top and flowery skirt, kneeling in the grass of a field, feeding a lamb milk from a bottle.
The sun lit her face and her cheeks glowed, her smile glowed. She was the platonic ideal of a
pastoral maiden. “This is how you see me. I never would have seen it for myself without your
pictures.” She gave a tiny, somewhat shy smile. “That goes double for the pictures you’ve taken in
the bedroom.”

Colin’s mouth was dry again. “So…it does not trouble you that I looked?”

“No,” she said, rising and carrying her empty plate to the sink. “Go ahead.”

“Even…even if viewing those pictures incited…?” He could not finish.

Penelope stopped, turning to face him. She suddenly looked troubled. “Colin, I’m sorry.”

Those were not the words he expected.

She returned to the table and sat again beside him. “I am sending you some mixed signals, aren’t
I?” her hand reached toward his, then jerked and pulled back. She winced. “I don’t mean to,” she
said earnestly. She looked so pained. “I’m mixed up. I’m a mess, and I’m allowing that to bleed
over to you. Are you my Colin? Are you not? I don’t know. Nature, nurture—is there a core inside
you where Colin Bridgerton is Colin Bridgerton, no matter where he comes from? Or are you a
different person entirely? Back and forth. My head is doing its best to keep you separate…from
him. But my body can’t seem to tell the difference at all, and my heart is all over the place,
moment to moment. I’m confusing myself, and I’m confusing you as well in the process.”

Slowly, Colin gathered the courage to ask the question that had been haunting him all day. “This
morning…when you said that we should sleep separately for now?”

Penelope moaned and her head dropped into her hands. “I know—that was so bad of me.”

“What did you mean by that?”

“I meant that I want you, but we shouldn’t.”

Those words shot him through with crackling intensity.

“Not until we know what is going on,” she continued, “and definitely not before a doctor looks at
you.” Her voice was muffled as she spoke through her hands. “Are you here temporarily? For
good? Will you switch back? We don’t know.”

Colin’s heartbeat got louder. “Switch?”

She peeked up at him. “It makes sense, right? If you’re here—he’s probably there. In your time.”
Rubbing her face, she said. “At least, that’s what I have to believe. I can’t handle the idea that he
might be gone, that he doesn’t exist anywhere. I need to believe he still does. So, I have been
entertaining myself by imagining what he might get up to in 1815.” She shrugged apologetically,
eyes so sad. “I miss him. It’s all that’s keeping me sane.”

Colin thought about her words well into the night, turning the possibility over in his head as he lay
on the uncomfortable couch. Switched, he and the other Colin? It did seem possible, even
probable.

…Her Colin, the man who haunted this flat, whose fingerprints lingered everywhere, on every
surface, taking up residence in his life…. Living with his family, going to parties in his stead. It
made him feel ill.

Mostly, he thought of his Penelope, the one he had left behind. He had been trying not to think of
her, because he was mixed up over his feelings and thoughts for another Penelope. The
implications were terrifying. Had she been there—right there in front of him his whole life—the
woman who could make him feel like this? Had he cheated himself out of happiness out of sheer
stubborn blindness? Taken her for granted?

He thought of how he had so confidently dismissed the idea of a life with her the last night he saw
her. He thought of how his rejection had hurt her.

Coming here, glimpsing this life and this Penelope, it was his comeuppance for being such a fool.
This was the life he could have had, if only he had been less of a fool.

It had all been taken from him, perhaps justly. The other Colin, a known and confirmed seducer of
Penelopes had been dumped back in his place. Imagining what that man might get up to filled him
with horror, with outrage. Would he seduce Colin’s sweet, innocent Pen? Ruin and refuse to marry
her, too?

Unbidden, a little voice whispered at the back of his mind Penelope’s words about how the other
Colin had made her feel beautiful. Desired. Loved.

Colin’s chest ached, crushing guilt and regret pressing in on him from all sides. His Pen, the sweet
little wallflower in the fussy hideous dresses—she deserved to feel that way. But he had not done
his duty. So the task had been taken out of his hands and given to another. He had no one to blame
but himself.

He did not deserve either Penelope, he realized. He had nothing to offer them. Nothing worthy of
them, at any rate.

He did not sleep. He lay awake with a knot in his stomach until dawn arose.

Penelope woke when it was time for her to dress for work. She was more sedate than he had seen
her. Preparing breakfast was particularly trying for her. She lost the contents of her stomach in the
sink, and then dissolved into tears when she burnt the eggs again.

“I’m sorry,” she wailed into his shirt as he held her. “I’m sorry.”

After she left the flat, he collapsed from exhaustion, sleeping on the bed until noon when his phone
buzzed with a message saying that food was on the way. As he ate, an idea came to him, one that
gave him a sense of determination and purpose: Preparing food was the other Colin’s allotment of
domestic labor; being responsible for meals was stressful and distressing for Pen. Ergo, he should
learn.

As Penelope had said—he was here now. He should act on that in good faith rather than fret about
what would happen in the future. He should contribute.

A new sense of purpose driving him, Colin inquired over text messaging further guidance on how
to utilize the internet. He began by watching “videos” that demonstrated the safe use of the
appliances in the kitchen. He found a notebook in the desk and took notes with a strange pencil as
he researched.
Pen was quiet when she arrived home. He tried to engage her in conversation, but with limited
success. She was in her own head. He insisted on taking care of the dishes and tidying up the
kitchen himself. She gave him a half-hearted smile that tugged at his heart, and went to bed early.

In the morning, they dressed for their appointments with the doctor. He was surprised to learn that
they would be going to the doctor’s offices rather than he coming to their home, but he did not
question it. Penelope announced that they would be taking the “tube” and assembled the
documentation they would need to show at the hospital.

The fresh air as they walked was such a welcome change that Colin felt a boost in his mood for the
first time in more than a day. He gawked with interest at the city around him, arm and arm with
Penelope as she led him to a station. She demonstrated how to use a blue badge called an “oyster
card” to gain access to a station. He tried to restrain himself, but when they reached the platform,
questions came pouring out of him. To his relief, Penelope smiled and did not seem to mind
answering them. She explained the trains and how they operated while they rode at breathtaking
speeds along tracks.

The building they entered was gigantic. The lights inside were cold and bright, and the air smelled
of a chemistry laboratory. People in plain garb, some wearing masks or gloves, bustled about.
Everyone was in a hurry, and voices spoke from the ceiling, calling for this doctor or that one.
There was a startling number of women amongst the staff. Colin held onto Penelope’s hand as she
led him where they needed to go.

“They are going to need to take a fair amount of blood to run these tests,” she warned gently as she
filled out the forms they had been given.

“Oh,” Colin said, stomach flipping. He had always hated being bled. He tried to talk the doctor out
of it whenever he could.

“I’ll be with you,” she said softly. “I won’t leave you alone in there—I promise.”

He wished that he had known what that really meant for her. She turned away when they had him
strip down and don a paper gown, but stayed by his side. Her presence was all well and good when
she helped answer the questions the doctor had in the cold, sterile room with nightmarish
machines. Or when the doctor used strange devices as part of the examination. But when the nurse
came in to actually draw the blood, Penelope swayed on her feet and became faint.

Colin caught her against him where he sat, his eyes leaving the arm with the needle in it without a
thought.

“What’s wrong? Are you well?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled into his collar. “The sight of blood makes me dizzy.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said as he held her. “I have you.”

She sagged into him, and his chest felt light.

They took more blood than he expected, but none was wasted. It all went into glass phials, where it
was labeled and sent away.

“My turn,” she said with a shaky smile afterward. “You’ll wait out here.”

“I will?” he said, alarmed.

“Yes, that would be best.” She chewed her lip. “You’re sweet, Colin. I know you mean well and
just want to take care of me. But I really can’t handle you being in the room while I’m getting a
pap smear.”

He didn’t know what a pap smear was, but her wishes had been made clear, so he did not object.
She went into the room while he waited on a chair in the hall. The hospital staff rushed back and
forth as time moved slowly. Two women in the simple, shapeless garb of the staff went into the
room where Penelope was. At first he thought it must be in his head, a distortion of his perception,
that her appointment was going much longer than his, but a glance at his phone confirmed it.

The longer he waited, the more concerned he became that something may be wrong. He was so
wrapped up in his feelings of panic and concern, that he did not notice right away when the door
opened and a middle-aged woman with frizzy dark hair said his name. He supposed it was a good
sign that she was smiling.

“You’re Colin?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

“She’s asking for you.”

He was on his feet at once, striding into the room.

Penelope was reclined on an examination table in a paper gown. Her legs were up in metal stirrups
and a sheet had been placed over her lap for extra privacy. A cord dangled down from between her
legs. The sight drew him up short.

“Colin?”

She was reaching out to him, and he could do nothing but answer the call, taking her hand in his.
The woman beside Penelope in front of a large machine was speaking, pointing to details on a
screen, but Colin couldn’t take his eyes off of Pen’s face. She was trembling and the lines on her
forehead told him how overwhelmed she was.

“See, right here,” the woman was saying as she traced a small, fuzzy black and white shape.
“There’s your little one.”

Colin followed Penelope’s eyeline and froze at the image on the screen.

“Just a little bean for now. But it will get bigger.”

“That’s our baby?” Colin whispered.

Penelope’s hand tightened around his.

The woman smiled. “That’s your baby.” She adjusted something on the machine, “And here.” A
swift, pulsing noise filled the room. “There’s the heartbeat.”

Colin couldn’t breathe as he listened; one look at Pen, and he guessed she couldn’t either.

“Everything is proceeding as normal, Miss Featherington. All signs point to a healthy pregnancy so
far, but we will contact you when we get the labs back.”

The train ride back home was quiet. She looked so fragile to him. If he took her in his arms, would
she push him away? He decided to try, only wishing to offer her what strength and comfort he
could. She did not push him away. Quite the opposite—she clung to him.

As the train rocked, he began to feel sluggish. His lids drooped.

“It’s all the blood they took,” Penelope said on the short walk back to their flat. “You’ll be
knackered for the rest of the day.” She patted his arm. “Why don’t you take a nap when we get
home?”

He found he was too tired to argue. He made for the couch, but she steered him to the bedroom,
where he collapsed and slept for hours.

When he woke, it was dark outside, but still bustling. A glance at his phone said it wasn’t quite 9
p.m. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and stumbled to the washroom to make use of the flush
toilet.

Afterward, he was awake enough to notice that the lights at the other end of the flat were all on.
There were voices. He made his way toward them, and when recognition hit, his heart gave a
happy leap—his sisters.

“Well, I for one am not in the least surprised.” It was Eloise’s voice, just around the corner. “No
contraception in the world could withstand the amount of fucking the two of you do.”

“El!” Penelope gasped.

“Don’t clutch your pearls at me just because Fran’s here.”

There was a snort.

“Do you want to hear the most horrible thing in the world?” El asked.

“No,” Francesca said.

Eloise continued anyway. “One night, Pen got so drunk, she told me that Colin’s appetite for sex is
comparable to his appetite for food.”

Fran inhaled sharply. “Oh, you poor thing!”

Penelope sputtered with giggles.

“Don’t give her your pity,” Eloise said forcefully. “She’s twisted and she likes it. I’m the one who
was scarred. Now I have spread the horror. You’re welcome, Fran.”

“How far along are you?” Francesca asked.

“Seven weeks, maybe eight?” Pen sighed. “That’s just a guess based on the exam. I don’t
menstruate because of my birth control, and…well, as El hinted—I had many opportunities to
conceive. So, we just have a best guess.”

Eloise grumbled. “I still don’t get why I couldn’t come with you today.”

“Colin went with me.”

She scoffed.

“How’s he taking all of this?” Fran asked.

“How’s he taking care of you?” Eloise reframed pointedly.

“He’s…he’s been lovely.” A pause. “El….”

“No, I saw that face. I heard that hesitation. Where is he? I’ll kill him for you.”

“Oh, El no.” Initially, he thought the words were spoken in his defense, but then Penelope
continued. “Please don’t light that in here. You have no idea how sensitive I am to smells right
now.”

El sighed. “Fair enough. And I may not know shit about babies, but even I know it’s bad to smoke
around them. I’ll step outside.”

Colin did not react swiftly enough to avoid detection. Eloise rounded the corner and caught sight of
him immediately.

“Ah, check out the eavesdropper,” she said with a high arched brow.

Colin was momentarily gobsmacked by her appearance. She wore a knit cap, black boots that laced
up, trousers with holes in them, and black shirt that had the words “Fuck the Patriarchy”
emblazoned across her chest. The septum of her nose was pierced and a hand-rolled cheroot
dangled between her lips.

Francesca and Penelope peeked around the corner at him. Fran had her hair up in a messy chignon,
and she was wearing a lacy white camisole with a long floral skirt. Pen was dressed in the same
clothes she had worn to her doctor visit.

“Hi Colin,” Fran said brightly, stepping forward and enfolding him in a hug. “Congratulations.”

Eloise rolled her eyes. “Uh-huh.” She nudged him, “Come along, wanker. Let’s have a smoke.”

Colin’s gaze darted to Pen. Her eyes were wide, but she was powerless to stop her friend as Eloise
dragged Colin from the flat.

Out on the stoop, under the light of street lamps in the chilly night air, Colin stood beside his sister
in his socked feet as she used a device to light her cheroot. He waited with dread as she breathed
deep, the cinders glowing. What would be worse? El shouting his ears off for not doing right by her
dearest friend? Or this strange El detecting immediately that he was an impostor?

“Here,” she said, passing the cheroot to him.

He took it. He smoked recreationally from time to time, but this cheroot had him choking and
coughing on the first puff.

Face pulling into an expression of bafflement, Eloise gave him a slap or two on the back. “Don’t
die on me.”

“That,” he gasped, “is not tobacco.”

Eloise gave a full-throated laugh. “No shit.” She took another drag. “Here,” she said, motioning
that they should be seated on the concrete steps.

Colin caught his breath and took his next puff with greater curiosity and care.

“You holding up?” Eloise asked.

He looked at her. Something loosened and became tender inside him. His sister was worried about
him.

“I…am trying.”

She nodded. “Yeah. This is big, isn’t it?”

He puffed one more time and then passed the cheroot back to his sister. “Yes. I want very much to
be what she needs.” He swallowed.

“You gonna marry her?”

Colin blinked.

“Don’t give me that daft puppy look,” she said with an eye roll. “It doesn’t work on me—I’m not
Mum.”

Hesitantly, Colin’s lips formed words he had not meant to speak. Words that gave shape to his
newest and most secret desire. “I wish to. I wish to marry her, to give the child my name and
protection. I want her to be my wife.”

“Good,” Eloise said, completely unaware of the weight of the confession. “Fucking finally.”

“I…I do not know that it is what she wants.”

El scoffed. “Oh, she wants. Trust me—it’s all she wants.”

His pulse raced even though he knew that his sister did not, could not, know that. Penelope may
have felt that way about Her Colin. But he was not Her Colin.

Would he be consolation prize enough to tempt her? If she wanted to be Colin Bridgerton’s wife
badly enough, would she settle for him?

Colin felt floaty on his way back into the flat. Time and sequence became muddled and soupy.
Penelope and his sisters selected a short play to watch on the television, and every moment of it
made him laugh so hard his sides hurt.

“Bastard’s gone lightweight on me,” Eloise said with a shake of her head. “Fucking disgraceful.”

By the time his sisters announced they would be leaving, he was sprawled out in a padded chair
with a bag of something called “crisps” in his lap. They were the best food he had ever tasted. He
tried to stand when the ladies did, as a gentleman would, but he lost his balance and sank back into
the soft cloud of the chair.

Fran kissed his cheek, El patted his shoulder, and Colin shouted that he loved them as they walked
out the door.

He looked up and Pen was peering down at him with concern. “She got you good didn’t she?”

“Hmm?”

“El, when she took you out to smoke.”

“It was not tobacco,” he announced authoritatively.

Penelope sighed. “Yeah, if El rolled it…God knows what was in there.” She shook her head. “Let’s
 get you to bed.”

“I don’t want to sleep on the couch,” he said with sudden conviction.

“No?” She looked startled.

“I want to sleep with you. I want to hold you. I want to make love with you.”

Penelope’s eyes widened, and she inhaled a sharp little “oh” of air.

He stood on unsteady legs, crisps bag crumpling in his grip. “I want to restore the honor he took
from you. I want to marry you and be your husband.”

Her surprise became alarm. Perhaps even fear. “No,” she breathed. Then louder, “No, Colin.”

Staggered, he repeated feebly. “I want to marry you.”

There was steel in her voice when she said firmly, “I will not marry you.”

And then she fled, back to the bedroom where the door slammed behind her. A moment later, there
was a click of the lock.

Colin sank back down into the chair. His insides felt like they were hemorrhaging. The bag of
crisps slipped from his grasp and tumbled to the carpet, spilling the contents everywhere. But he
didn’t care. He couldn’t move. He was heartbroken.

Chapter End Notes

First, the eagle-eyed among you may have noticed the estimated number of chapters
for this fic went up by 2. I reevaluated some of the plot beats we have coming and I
realized that I did not have the space I needed/wanted, so I am adding one chapter to
each of the timelines. I hope y’all don’t mind

Second, a dear friend of mine made a banner for me for this fic and I went ahead and
added it to chapter 1, if any of you are interested in checking it out.

And really, I just want to thank all of you who are reading and commenting. The
support and enthusiasm I have received for this project so far has blown me away. I
had no idea so many of you were going to be as invested in this silly little premise as I
am. Writing this story has been so fun and a big part of that has been engaging with
you all, so thank you

Next: Modern Colin starts to get curious about the identity of Lady Whistledown …
and the aftermath of that kiss….

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!