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Chapter Text

Lord Anthony Bridgerton was glad the social season was finally over. After yet another failed engagement added to the Bridgerton family’s ever-growing collection—this time, courtesy of his brother Colin—Anthony was more than ready to retire to the country.

Francesca, bless her heart, had been the only one in the family to salvage the season from complete disaster by managing to get married in a thoroughly respectable, non-scandalous way. No special license needed, either. Unfortunately, Anthony couldn’t claim any credit for that.

If it had been up to him, he would’ve followed through with the Queen’s choice—Marquis Samadani. But in the end, Francesca had handled everything herself. And while John Stirling, Lord Kilmartin, was undeniably a good man, Anthony would never have imagined them as a likely match. One might have hoped he’d learned something from Daphne’s season and in some ways, he had. Just not enough, apparently.

Maybe he really was terrible at romance, both his own and everyone else’s.

But none of that mattered now. He was temporarily free from the pressures of society to find a wife, and worse, from his mother’s relentless insistence on finding love . Anthony was looking forward to a few blissfully peaceful months before it all began again.

They were at Aubrey Hall.
His respite.
His place of rest.
His—

“Anthony!” Violet exclaimed worriedly, as she barged into his study. “I haven’t seen Eloise since yesterday. Her bed hasn’t been slept on.”

Anthony dropped the newspaper onto his desk and buried his face in his hands. Life had a habit of throwing wrenches at him and somehow, it was always one of his siblings aiming straight for his head.

But he also knew his mother was inclined to expect the worst. And over the years, he’d learned that the worst possible scenario was not always the reality.

So he tried to calm her down.

Naturally, it only made her more agitated.

“Maybe she has gone to visit a friend?” He asked tentatively. 

“Visit a friend overnight? ” Violet repeated, letting out a dry laugh. “Really, Anthony?”

“Why not? Penelope often stayed in our home overnight,” he blurted, only realizing the mistake once it was far too late.

Violet sighed.

Anthony winced inwardly. He knew how much pain it still hurt her that Colin and Penelope had called off their engagement, Colin’s abrupt departure for the Continent, and the silence that followed.

“And Penelope,” Violet said quietly, “might be the only person Eloise would do that with. But she’s gone too.”

Anthony simply nodded. What he wanted to say was, And whose fault is that? —but he held his tongue. There was no sense in reopening old wounds. He was not a stranger to the pain and disappointment of a failed engagement, or the guilt that came with it. The night of the Featherington Ball he was left with a broken heart when Kate refused him for the second time. And though it was painful, it served him well. Perhaps it was the punishment he deserved for what he’d put Edwina through.

“Could she have gone to see Penelope, then?” he asked.

Violet sighed again, placing her hands on her hips. “It’s… not impossible. But why wouldn’t she tell us? How could she possibly think leaving like that was acceptable?”

“I don’t think she did think it was acceptable, Mother. Not if she slipped away without a word in the middle of the night.” Anthony shook his head, still half in disbelief that this was actually happening. “I’ll speak to the staff. See what they know.”

—

Moments later, Anthony summoned Humboldt and Mrs. Wilson to the front hall. He liked to think he had a good rapport with his staff, though even he had to admit that the way he’d been running the household these past few years left something to be desired. At least where his siblings were concerned.

His ledgers were impeccable. A few human errors here and there, perhaps, but nothing catastrophic.

Not like Daphne marrying in a scandal.
Not like him being left at the altar.
Not like Colin collecting broken engagements as if they were precious stones.
Not like Benedict abandoning art school.
Not like Eloise associating with rebels—and now, vanishing without a trace.

In his defense, only about half of those disasters were entirely his fault.

“Was I going to be informed at any point about my sister’s departure?” Anthony asked, cutting straight to the point.

Humboldt and Mrs. Wilson exchanged a glance—just a flicker of the eyes. The butler cleared his throat. “It was our understanding those were your orders, my lord.”

Anthony clenched his fists and planted them on his hips. “You thought I ordered my unmarried sister to leave in the middle of the night?”

They looked at each other again.

“It did rather sound like something you might do, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson offered diplomatically. “Particularly where Miss Eloise is concerned. You were very clear about keeping turmoils to a minimum during your stay in the country.”

Anthony blinked, shaking his head. She wasn’t exactly wrong.

“Well—yes, but… not on her own .”

Humboldt and Mrs. Wilson had learned, in their thirty-odd years serving the Bridgertons, that it was wiser to answer questions as asked rather than offer information freely. The latter had a tendency to spark more confusion than clarity.

Anthony sighed again, still standing stiffly with his hands on his hips. “Did she say anything about where she might’ve gone?”

“No, sir.”

“Well… I suppose she’s not completely on her own. She has her lady’s maid,” Anthony muttered, mostly to himself.

“Celia is on leave, my lord,” Mrs. Wilson said carefully. “She’s visiting her family in town.”

“Of course she is.” Anthony exhaled. “You’re dismissed.”

He turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time, heading straight for Eloise’s bedchambers in the hopes of finding a clue to her disappearance.

—

Anthony couldn’t remember the last time he’d stepped foot in Eloise’s bedchamber, if he ever had at all. That, at least, he considered a success. He prided himself on giving his siblings privacy, allowing them to pursue their own paths and interests. He’d always wanted them to have more freedom than he’d had.

But perhaps that was the root of his shortcomings as well.
Because, when given that freedom, they so rarely seemed to know what to do with it.

He took a slow turn around the room, not entirely sure what he was looking for. Still, after his conversation with his mother, one suspicion had begun to take shape: Eloise had likely gone to Penelope. It made sense, he thought. Penelope was the only friend Eloise had ever stayed overnight with and since she typically spent part of the off-season with them at Aubrey Hall, it wasn’t far-fetched to think Eloise was already missing her.

Although their friendship had been strained for most of the season, they'd finally reconciled—just in time for the wedding that never happened.

Anthony moved to her writing desk, his eyes catching on a small stack of envelopes, loosely tied together with string.

All of them were from Penelope Featherington.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

And now, he knew exactly where to find her.

—

It was a bloody two-day carriage ride to the Cotswolds, a picturesque patch of hilly countryside nestled between Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire. When Penelope had left Mayfair around the same time Colin boarded yet another boat, Anthony had assumed she’d gone to stay with family. It struck him as strange that she would choose a place where she had no ties. Intriguing, to say the least.

Two days of solitary travel gave him far too much time to think, something he didn’t particularly enjoy. It was easier to stay occupied with work and the constant demands of family life. Now, alone in the carriage with nothing but cows rolling by the window, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself.

He considered reading, but the combination of bouncing roads and tiny letters gave him a headache.

He was getting old.
He didn’t want to think about that, either.

At one point, he began to question what he was doing in the first place—question his own decision-making, which, frankly, he also wasn’t particularly fond of.

If Eloise had gone to Penelope, then she was safe. In fact, the two of them together were probably safer than anywhere else. He could’ve simply sent a missive and waited for a reply.

But something told him he needed to see it for himself.
Still, he kept second-guessing even that instinct.

He wished he didn’t overthink everything.
He hadn’t always been like this.
But when one makes a mistake after another… Well, that’s what’s bound to happen.

Suddenly, the carriage came to a halt. Anthony looked out the window and saw a short stone wall with a small wooden gate at its center. Beyond the gate, a narrow path wound its way to a quaint cottage with a weathered stone exterior and a flower garden spilling across the front. The door stood not far from the street.

The footman opened the carriage door, and Anthony had one foot on the ground when he saw her.

Penelope.

She was kneeling in the flowerbed, wearing a simple day dress, her hair pulled into a loose side braid, a wrap tied around her head. Her lips were parted, breath heavy as she worked the soil with a hand shovel. When she leaned forward, Anthony’s gaze was involuntarily drawn to her décolletage, which shifted with the motion.

Involuntarily was a generous term. Forced was the word he chose to reassure himself. There was simply no other explanation for the way his eyes refused to look anywhere else.

He stood there, pathetically useless, watching her dig in the dirt, sweat trickling down the very curves he was being forced to admire.

Penelope lifted her head for the first time since he arrived as she wiped her forehead with her forearm, eyes closed, and let out a soft moan of exhaustion and satisfaction. When she finally opened her eyes and spotted him standing there, her expression froze.

“Anthony?”

Before he could say anything in return, he fumbled with his other leg and promptly fell out of the carriage.

Chapter Text

Penelope could hardly believe her eyes. One moment she was tending her garden as she did every morning, and the next a Bridgerton-marked carriage pulled up in front of her cottage—out of which stepped none other than Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

And then, rather unceremoniously, fell straight into the ground.

It had been months since they last saw one another. Shortly after Colin accused her of entrapping him and their engagement ended, Penelope was eager to vanish. She could not face him—or anyone, for that matter—and after what had happened between her and Colin during their betrothal she knew she could not return to the marriage mart with her head held high. Instead, she left some funds for her mother under the name of Aunt Petunia, and used another part to purchase a modest cottage in the countryside.

Anthony had sought her out before she departed, a weak but well-intentioned attempt to make amends for his brother’s failings. He had offered financial support to compensate for Colin not staying true to his commitment of marrying Penelope and staining her reputation once again. Penelope had refused his money, but agreed to let him assist in other ways.

Privately, Anthony would serve as facilitator to ensure everything looked proper in society’s eyes such as establishing an account where she could safely deposit her Lady Whistledown earnings. Publicly, it would appear as if the Bridgertons had provided her with a settlement to cover the damages of a broken engagement.

At the time, the Ton still believed Cressida Cowper to be Lady Whistledown, and Penelope chose to let that mask fall in its own time, continuing to publish anonymously in quiet retaliation to Cressida’s columns until the day she left.

In those final weeks, something like a friendship had taken shape between them. Perhaps not quite friendship—Penelope wasn’t sure she could call it that —but a mutual respect, even admiration. He had learned of her enterprise, she of his deft management of the family’s vast estates. Since then their correspondence had been limited, confined to business matters and the occasional polite inquiry after one another’s health. 

Which is why it struck her as so very odd to find Anthony Bridgerton standing in her garden.

Or, more accurately, splattered on the ground in front of her cottage.

She hurried to him, somehow reaching his side faster than the footman standing right beside him, who seemed far too stunned to move. Kneeling, Penelope grabbed Anthony’s shoulder and carefully rolled him onto his back.

His eyes fluttered as he let out a groan.

“Anthony,” she exclaimed, her hands going to his face, brushing his forehead in search of injury. “Can you hear me?”

He squinted, wincing at her touch where the skin was tender. Forcing his eyes open, he found himself far too close to her neckline. So close he could trace with perfect clarity the path of the sweat he’d already noticed glistening on her skin.

Her voice reached him, sweeter than he remembered, but the words blurred together. He couldn’t form a reply. Not yet. Not when her curves hovered just above him, her scent wrapping around him—honeysuckle, if he had to guess, and freshly watered earth. Unexpectedly tantalizing. Sugary and raw, all at once.

“He’s not answering,” Penelope pleaded with the footman. “Please—help me get him inside.”

—

Anthony finally managed to pry his eyes open fully after what felt like hours—only to find the view hadn’t changed. Penelope’s curves were still perilously close. She was sitting on the armchair she’d dragged beside the settee where he lay when he felt the cool press of a rag against his forehead and groaned again.

“Anthony, can you hear me now?” Penelope, her voice soft.

“Yes, I… how long was I out?”

“Not long. Your footman and driver carried you in, and I went to the kitchen for a compress. I only just returned.”

“Thank you. I apologize for—”

“Showing up unannounced? Interrupting my gardening? Bleeding on my walkway?” Penelope cut in, her tone playfully light.

“Bleeding? Was it that bad?”

“No,” she said with a grin. “Just testing your faculties. What were you apologizing for again?”

“Uhm… all of the above. Except the bleeding, I suppose.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“Good, good. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Your legs, apparently. Though you are known for making quite the entrance.” Penelope quipped at his expense, though her eyes were warm.

Anthony chuckled, then immediately winced, pressing a hand to his side. “My head is fine, but I may have bruised a rib. I should take a look.”

Penelope blinked at him, momentarily at a loss. For one alarming second, she thought he meant to start stripping right there on her settee. She wasn’t entirely sure what to expect—he had just taken a rather impressive fall, after all. He seemed fine, but it still could have affected his mind.

The worst part was the traitorous voice in her head insisting it might not be the worst idea if he did. If he really was hurt, someone had to see to it. And she certainly wasn’t about to be the one writing to Violet to explain that her son had perished under her care, as accidental as it was. Or be the one breaking the news to Benedict that he was suddenly Viscount Bridgerton.

“You may settle in the guest bedchamber if you’re planning on… removing any articles of clothing,” Penelope said with a cough, clearing her throat. “And please do wash yourself before lying down. It’s not nearly the comfort you’re accustomed to, but the sheets are new.”

“The house is very lovely, Penelope,” Anthony said, though his gaze lingered on her far more than on the walls. “I’m pleased to see you are doing well.”

“And now that you’ve seen it, you’ll return home?” Penelope asked lightly, though the edge in her tone betrayed her unease.

She still could not fathom why Lord Anthony Bridgerton had appeared at her cottage at all. Though he had helped her at first, everything was in her name now. He had no claim upon her property. Least of all upon her.

Anthony frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t come here simply to admire my housekeeping,” she said, lifting her chin.

The look of bewilderment on his face made Penelope pause and wonder how many times could she excuse Anthony Bridgerton’s folly as the result of hitting his head before she had to admit it was simply his natural state. 

Anthony was intelligent—brilliant, even—when it came to business, politics, and even navigating the parts of society he had no patience for. But when it came to personal matters, he was nothing short of disastrous.

“I… I assumed you came to see how I fared,” she pressed.

“Ah, yes,” Anthony said at last, though the words tasted hollow. 

Guilt pricked at him—because, if he were honest, that had not been the reason he set out from Aubrey Hall. Somewhere along the road, he had even convinced himself there was no point in coming at all… until here he was.

And now that he had seen her—and felt her warm hand press against his forehead—Anthony cursed himself inwardly for not visiting sooner.

“I’ll warm some water for your pitcher,” Penelope said, rising. “That way you can settle in the room and check for any bruising.”

But Anthony’s hand closed gently around her wrist. “You don’t have anyone helping you?”

“Rae comes by around noon. She helps in the afternoons. She married the carpenter I hired when I moved here—he mended the old furniture, and the two of them bonded quickly over the renovations. Now they live in the village.”

“It can wait, then. I wouldn’t want to impose more than I already have.”

“You want… to wait until Rae is here to warm the water?”

“Yes?” His reply was hesitant, and somehow every word he offered Penelope felt like the wrong one.

“Don’t be silly, Anthony,” Penelope chuckled. “Unlike you, I know how to use a range.”

“That was—one time.” He smiled despite himself, remembering the night years ago when Penelope had caught him and Daphne in the kitchen, drinking cold milk straight from the jug.

“Oh, so now you know how to heat your milk?”

“No. But if you show me, I could… do it myself.”

“I would rather you rest. We don’t yet know the extent of your injuries,” Penelope said firmly, already moving toward the door. “I won’t be long.”

As she walked away, his position on the settee left him no choice but to watch the gentle sway of her hips. From this angle, each step looked less like walking and more like a dance—unconscious but maddeningly graceful.

For a fleeting moment, Anthony wondered if she did it deliberately. But he quickly shook the thought away. Why would she? Penelope seemed well settled here, grounded and content, far removed from any potential schemes to entice him.

He shouldn’t be looking at her that way. He certainly shouldn’t be imagining. It must be the result of his self-imposed restraint during the Season—too many months of celibacy, too much discipline fraying at the edges.

At the same time, he could not recall another woman stirring this precise ache in him. Which meant either he was reaching his limit or it had everything to do with Penelope .

—

Penelope set a modest basin with a pitcher of steaming water on the washstand, alongside a neatly folded towel and a small dish of fragrant soap. She stepped around the room, making sure everything looked proper. She hadn’t had overnight visitors before, aside from Rae, and she certainly hadn’t expected Anthony. Perhaps, she had thought, Eloise might visit one day.

She wasn’t sure why she was fussing to make it nice for him. Probably just her innate sense of hospitality. That was all. Nothing to do with trying to impress him with her independence or her domestic skills.

After straightening the sheets for the third time, she returned to the sitting room.

“The guest chamber is ready for you,” she announced. “Do you need help getting up?”

Did Anthony really need help? Certainly not.
Did he accept it anyway? Yes.
Did he feel bad about it? Not in the slightest.

“Help would be greatly appreciated,” he groaned as he sat upright, a genuine groan that made her suppress a smile.

“Come, put your arm around my shoulders for balance,” she said, offering her support.

He did as she instructed, and an unexpected shiver ran down her spine at the weight of his arm around her. Oddly, it was comforting to have his body so near. He was almost as tall as Colin, but not so much that she quickly calculated—glancing up at him—that on her tiptoes, with just a stretch of her tongue, she could reach his neck, maybe even his jaw.

She shook her head and forced her gaze forward, willing the thoughts away. Damn Colin for showing her what pleasure could be, only to deprive her and leave her wondering if it could exist with any other man. Months had passed, yet her curiosity and desire had not diminished. It was as though Colin had unleashed something in her she had tried to learn to control. And now, for reasons she did not fully understand, it was creeping back simply from breathing the same air as Anthony.

And from the strength in his arms.

Anthony was not faring any better with his thoughts. Even with his hand hovering over her dress, he could feel the softness of her skin. He forced his gaze forward, battling the urge to slip the sleeve from her shoulder and steal a better view of what it concealed.

Feigning a weak leg to justify his need for support, he leaned a little more on her than necessary.

“I hope this is to your liking,” Penelope said lightly, stepping back. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know if we need to call for the village physician.”

Anthony let his gaze roam over the room. Modest, yes, but the bed frame was ornate, the bedspread appeared hand-knitted, and the air smelled fresh, fragrant with vases of flowers he recognized from the garden outside.

Then a sudden realization struck him.

“How many guest chambers do you have?”

Penelope blinked at him, confused. “One, of course. This isn’t Benedict’s kind of cottage,” she quipped, though irritation pricked at the back of her tone. “Is it… not to your liking?”

“No!” Anthony blurted, then winced at how abrupt it sounded. “I mean—yes. It’s perfect. Very… you.”

Her brow furrowed, still not certain what to make of that.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “What I meant was… where is Eloise staying, then?”

“Eloise?” Penelope repeated, shaking her head. “Eloise is not here.”

Chapter Text

Penelope was feeling far too many things at once. First and foremost, worry for Eloise. Anthony clearly believed she was here and she clearly was not, which sent Penelope’s mind spinning with all the alarming possibilities.

She also felt foolish. Foolish for thinking—even for a moment—that Anthony had traveled all this way for her. To check on her. Of course he hadn’t. Though she’d never expected it in the first place, the sting still settled in her chest.

Worse still, she was embarrassed and angry at herself for enjoying his company. She liked her new life, meeting new people, and making her own choices. And yet there was something grounding, something achingly safe about Anthony’s presence. 

She despised herself for craving it. She should know better now.

But she despised herself most of all for not sending him away outright. He looked so lost, standing there without a single word to offer after she told him Eloise wasn’t here.

“Anthony?” she asked softly, trying to draw him out of his silence. “Why would Eloise be here?”

He blinked and shook his head, still searching for words like a raccoon rummaging through garbage to find anything of substance. Finally, he managed: “She sent you letters.”

Penelope frowned. “Did you read our correspondence?”

“No. Of course not.” His jaw tightened. “I simply assumed if she left in the middle of the night without a word, it would be to visit you.”

“That makes no sense,” Penelope shot back. “Why wouldn’t she tell you if she were coming to me?”

Anthony took a deep breath, slightly annoyed with himself for not thinking of that. Penelope was right, Eloise had no reason to hide the fact she was visiting her friend. She might not have told Colin, but Violet would certainly have known. Now Penelope was watching him expectantly, waiting for an explanation he simply didn’t have.

So he did the only thing left to him.

Diversion.

Looking a little foolish was inevitable. However, he might still avoid looking like a complete fool.

Provided, of course, Penelope didn’t notice he was exaggerating his injury.

“I’m not feeling well,” he groaned, pressing a hand rather theatrically to his chest. “Perhaps I should in fact check for bruises.”

Penelope raised a brow at him. Curious, at the very least. But when thoughts of a distressed Violet and a distraught Benedict crossed her mind once more in case anything happened to Anthony, she felt sorry for them. So she decided not to question Anthony’s claims for now and instead simply offer the best support she could.

“Do you need help with anything or…” She stopped herself, suddenly aware of how that sounded.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “With my shirt?”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m joking,” he said smoothly—though in truth, he wasn’t. He would happily accept any help she offered. So he tried again, softer this time. “My arm hurts, but I can manage.”

“Oh.” She batted her lashes. “Then perhaps it would be easier to cut it open.”

Penelope cleared her throat and looked away, missing the way Anthony’s lashes fluttered in return. His grin widened and he wondered if she knew what that suggestion did to him.

“That’s a marvelous idea.”

“Are you sure? That’s a fine shirt,” she countered.

Since moving to the country and living on her own income, Penelope had become acutely aware of how costly everyday comforts could be. Soap, firewood, tea, and sugar—staples of her household growing up—were luxuries for many. She was very familiar with the price of ink and paper from her Whistledown days, but candles still baffled her: lighting a house was an expense. So much that she’d quickly swapped beeswax for cheaper tallow despite the terrible smell and smoke.

So she wouldn’t waste good linen unless someone’s life depended on it. Still, Anthony did need his injury checked.

Anthony, however, seemed far too amused by her prudence. “I assure you, I can afford another shirt.”

Penelope inwardly laughed at herself for a momentary thought that he might wrestle with the same practical worries she did. Then she straightened. “Very well. I’ll fetch my sewing shears.”

She swept from the room, leaving Anthony alone with his ridiculous, dangerous thoughts.

—

Williams and Hobbs sat at the kitchen table, trading quiet remarks about the journey and their shared confusion over what exactly they were doing here. Williams had been Anthony’s valet and footman for nearly a decade, and half the things he’d witnessed in that time he wished he hadn’t. 

Still, Lord Bridgerton was a good master—often exasperating, but always entertaining. Hobbs, a Bridgerton coachman for twice as long, was not exclusive to Anthony but had driven him on enough journeys to have seen plenty of novelty. 

This, however, was a first.

When Penelope walked in the kitchen, both men immediately stood and bowed. She waved them down at once.

“Please, no need for formalities here. Your wig is worth more than the dress I’m wearing.”

That earned a chuckle from both, and they sat again.

“How is Lord Bridgerton faring?” Williams asked. “Does he require our assistance?”

Penelope hesitated. She knew that the most proper answer would have been yes—after all, Anthony’s valet should be the one to help him with something as personal as removing his shirt. But Anthony hadn’t requested Williams, and it wasn’t Penelope’s place to give such an order. 

“Better,” she answered simply, smiling as she crossed to her tools and retrieved the shears.

Both men widened their eyes when she held them up.

“I… I’m working on a sewing project,” she said with a cough. “While he rests. But I’ll ask if he needs you.”

Williams and Hobbs exchanged a glance, then nodded without comment.

Penelope returned to the guest chamber to find Anthony seated on the bench at the foot of the bed, staring at the floor as though his thoughts were leagues away.

“Anthony,” she said softly, offering him the shears. “Your valet wanted to know if—”

“Williams,” Anthony interrupted, dragging himself back to the present. “Right, he is here. And Hobbs, too.”

“They are,” she confirmed, when he didn’t go on. “Shall I call Williams to—”

“No.” His reply was swift, almost too firm. “No, what I mean is… that it was a long journey. Send them away, please.”

Penelope frowned slightly, puzzled. But secretly a little amused by his sudden display of authority.

“Not permanently,” Anthony amended quickly. “Just… for food. And rest.” He reached into his pocket and pressed a small pouch into her hand. “Here. Give them coin.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. She hated even more that it stirred something in her.

“As you wish, my lord.” She replied, deliberately teasing, hoping the words might rattle him as much as he rattled her.

And they did. 

Anthony was staggered. Deeply shaken that five simple words spoken from her pouty lips had so much effect on him.

Penelope turned away to do as he instructed, leaving Anthony alone once more to question everything he was doing.

—

When she returned to see how Anthony was doing, she nearly gasped in horror. He was holding the shears like a weapon, fumbling clumsily until they almost slipped from his grasp. If he wasn’t injured already, he certainly would be soon.

“Why are these so heavy and large?” he muttered in frustration. “A knife would be easier.”

“You are not using a knife,” she scolded, stepping closer. “And you shouldn’t be moving at all if you don’t want to worsen your pain.”

Pain. 

Anthony had nearly forgotten about that part of his ruse. He winced dramatically, groaned for good measure, and nearly dropped the dangerously sharp shears in the process.

“Here, let me.” Penelope reached for them, her fingers brushing his as she took them from his hand. The bare touch sent a thrill through her, and when she looked up, she realized just how close she stood. His breath was warm against her forehead, too near to ignore.

“I can’t ask…” The words tumbled from his lips, unfinished.

“And you’re not,” she answered softly. “But I need to see you—”

Penelope caught herself, heat rushing to her cheeks. “For bruises.”

Does she? Anthony wondered. I think she does. He swallowed and gave the smallest smile of surrender.

Penelope slipped the blades to the hem of his shirt and began to cut. The intimacy of the moment struck him harder than expected, as every single interaction with Penelope had since he arrived that morning, and he shivered instinctively.

“Do not make sudden moves,” she laughed and complained at the same time. “I could stab you!”

He chuckled but forced himself still. “I ought to be fearing for my life, but somehow I find that I'm not.”

“Then trust me enough,” she murmured as she guided the shears upward, “to let me see to you properly.”

She surprised herself with the sly confidence in her tone, both in taunting him and in cutting through fine linen as though it were nothing. The sound of fabric tearing filled the silence, the air between them thickening until, with one final snip, his shirt fell open.

And there he was. Bare, chiseled. Right before her.

Penelope’s eyes landed squarely on his chest—her height left her no alternative—and if she meant to inspect him for bruises, she had no choice but to look and to touch. Her fingertips pressed gently along his ribs, searching for soreness and any reaction from him.

Anthony was, indeed, reacting—though none of it had to do with injuries. He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep composure, until the light graze of her nails drew an embarrassing sound from his throat he would have given anything to suppress.

She froze, hands still resting on him. “Did that hurt?”

Anthony swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at the woman whose touch burned against his skin. If he didn’t, he might do something truly reckless—like lift the shears and return the favor, slicing through her bodice to reveal her to him. A shameless thought, yes, but no less honest than the one that had sent him tumbling to the ground in the first place. Why he was suddenly consumed with such visions mattered far less than the humiliating truth: how had he gone so long without noticing her at all?

“Yes,” he finally replied, wincing unconvincingly. “A little.”

Penelope glanced up just in time to catch him cracking one eye open, checking whether she still believed his act. Her lips parted, scandalized. “You cad! There is nothing wrong with you, is there? Physically, at least. I cannot say the same for your head.” 

She gave him a playful shove, but he caught her wrist gently, keeping her hand pressed to his chest.

“Cad?” he repeated with a low chuckle. “I much preferred when you called me… what was it again? A Capital-R Rake?”

Penelope froze, then let out a disbelieving scoff.  “How long have you been waiting to bring that up?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Since the moment I learned you were Lady Whistledown.”

She blinked. “That was months ago. You chose now—alone in my house, half-dressed—to raise the subject?”

“And with your hand on my chest,” he added smoothly. “A very crucial detail.”

Her mouth parted, but no words came. Did he truly dare employ his rakish charms upon her? She looked down at her hand, suddenly aware of the warmth seeping through her palm, yet unable to pull it away. When her eyes lifted back to his, she found his gaze waiting for hers.

“Perhaps,” she said faintly, gathering what little composure she could, “we should call for a physician. I fear you truly may have a concussion.”

"Or perhaps," he began, his eyes warm like honey, causing color to spread on Penelope's cheeks. "I am finally thinking clearly for the first time in a long while."

Penelope drew in a sharp breath. He was using his rakish charms on her of all people. The reason was unknown to her. When Anthony’s hand wrapped over hers, pressing it firmer against his chest as he stepped closer, a helpless sound escaped her lips—a tiny, humiliating whimper. She must have been the one to hit her head, surely she was imagining the look in his eyes, the way his heart thundered, and the unmistakable lean of a man about to kiss her.

The rhythm of his heartbeat was nearly as loud as—

The banging on the front door.

Both of them startled.

“That’s Rae,” Penelope whispered, more to herself than to him.

“Miss Penelope?” Rae called out, words rising and falling like a playful tune, completely unaware of the spell she had just shattered down the hall at the guest chambers.

Penelope shook her head, willing her thoughts back into order. “Eloise,” she blurted. “You were looking for Eloise. You need to find her.”

“Right. Eloise.”

“Yes. Your sister.”

“My sister.”

“Eloise.”

“That’s the one missing, yes.”

Before Penelope could answer, Rae’s footsteps carried her closer as she spoke.

“You will not believe who I just saw. Hobbs and bloody Williams in the village tav—oh.”

Chapter Text

Rae enjoyed the countryside more than she cared to admit. Born and raised on the outskirts of London, all she had ever known were cobbled streets, crowded rooftops, and the veil of smoke that never seemed to lift. She began working for the Featheringtons as a maid when she was young, and when Penelope debuted, Rae was appalled that her family hadn’t assigned her an exclusive lady’s maid. Lady Featherington had always treated Penelope as an afterthought. In her first year out in society, Penelope shared a maid with her sisters and it was likely how she managed to sneak out so often and begin her work as Lady Whistledown.

By Penelope’s second season, Rae was certain she’d finally have a maid of her own, but with Lord Featherington’s debts pressing down, the family wasn’t in a position to spare the expense. Rae felt bad for the young mistress, stuck under her mother’s taste in gowns and hair. It wasn’t until both Prudence and Phillipa had married off that Penelope was at last given a lady’s maid. Rae volunteered, and no one objected—there weren’t many left in the household by then.

She was glad to be closer to Penelope and help her feel like herself. Naturally, she had her suspicions about Colin Bridgerton and the attachment between them. She looked the other way more often than she should have, coin passing into her palm as she did so. Still, she knew how deeply Penelope cared for him, and part of her believed her mistress deserved the chance to feel it all. She had hoped for it to be love, and it was, which made the heartbreak that followed soon after inevitable. When Colin discovered the truth about Lady Whistledown the aftermath was brutal and Rae could never quite shake the guilt she felt from time to time, considering she had helped arrange those secret meetings, slipping her mistress out at all hours, even one bold afternoon. Yet, Rae was certain of one thing: had it not happened then, Penelope might still be hopelessly hung up on the charming tall neighbor boy with the remarkable shade of blue eyes.

When Penelope chose to leave London for the country, Rae didn’t hesitate to follow. Away from the weight of society, perhaps they could finally be proper friends. It wasn’t long until Rae met her husband and moved to her very own cottage in the village. Still, she couldn’t help but feel protective of Penelope—even more so where any Bridgerton was concerned.

Rae stopped short in the doorway, eyes widening as she took in the scene, her mind already stacking up a dozen snarky remarks about what she had just walked in on.

“Good day, Miss Rae. Lord Bridgerton was just—” Penelope began, far too quickly.

“Holding your hand against his bare chest?” Rae cut in smoothly.

Penelope flushed crimson. “I was checking for bruises. He fell from his carriage…”

“And he was holding your hand while you checked?” Rae drawled. “Assisting you, was he? Beg pardon, Lord Bridgerton.”

Anthony straightened and cleared his throat. “I came to ask for Miss Penelope’s help in finding my sister, Eloise. She has gone missing from Aubrey Hall.”

Rae arched a brow. “Well, Miss Penelope won’t find your sister in your bare chest. That much I can tell you for free.”

Anthony blinked at her, caught off guard, while Penelope quickly stepped away.

“Rae is right, of course. You should get dressed—in a shirt that is not, you know, cut. And then we’ll talk about Eloise.”

Anthony gave a small nod, and Penelope turned toward the door. But before stepping out, she glanced back at him nervously. “When you take off your shirt… if you don’t mind, I’d like to, um—use it. Not wear it, I mean. The fabric is good, and I don’t want to waste it. I could make handkerchiefs. Or doilies. Just—I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Anthony’s smile curved slowly, far too entertained by her flustered rambling. And though he couldn’t explain why, he suddenly had no desire to resist the urge to make her blush further.

“It’s yours,” he said lightly, reaching to peel the shirt from his shoulders.

Penelope’s eyes widened in horror, but Rae rolled hers. “Just leave it over the chair, my lord.”

Anthony chuckled softly, Penelope gave him a disbelieving smile, and Rae wasted no time steering her mistress-turned-friend out of the room with a firm hand on her shoulder, shutting the door firmly behind them. They moved into the kitchen, their usual routine—except nothing about this day had been usual.

Penelope busied herself in silence, moving about as though Rae hadn’t just caught her in a deeply compromising moment with Anthony Bridgerton. She knew a reckoning was coming, so she hummed aimlessly, hoping to delay it. Rae, unusually quiet, was clearly gathering her arsenal.

At last Rae folded her arms and leaned against the table. “Would you care to indulge me, and explain what I just witnessed?”

“You heard him,” Penelope replied, fussing with a tray of perfectly arranged drying herbs and flowers. “Eloise is gone. Disappeared in the middle of the night. And Anthony’s looking for her.”

“Looking for her shirtless. In your home. Did you know he was coming?”

“No! He just appeared. I was in the front garden when I saw the carriage.”

“And did he really fall from this carriage?”

“He did! You can ask Williams and Hobbs.”

“I’d prefer not to,” Rae muttered. She cleared her throat. “So… now what?”

Penelope stilled. “I’m worried about her. Eloise is my friend. We had our differences, yes, but when everything went wrong with Colin, she was the one who stood by me. I need to know she’s well.”

“And I want that too,” Rae said, softening slightly. “But she’s not here, and you can’t possibly be thinking of going with him. Are you?”

“I don’t—” Penelope faltered. “I don’t think so. But I can help him work out where she went. Then he can go find her.”

“Good.” Rae gave her a pointed look. “Because I didn’t think I’d have to remind you what happened the last time you were alone in a carriage with a Bridgerton.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. That was one reminder she certainly didn’t need. Still, the comment sparked a dangerous thought—did every carriage ride alone with a Bridgerton had the same… outcome? Heartbreak aside, she missed those outcomes terribly. It had been far too long since her and Colin’s afternoon rendezvous and last time together. She longed for that dizzying thrill again.

She only hoped it wasn’t a talent exclusive to Colin. Then again, as the eldest Bridgerton, perhaps Anthony was a role model to his brothers in more ways than one. She hadn’t yet been bold enough to experiment with someone else, but her body's reaction to Anthony's closeness was quite indicative of the fact that she was still a woman with needs. She was getting rather decent at managing things on her own. The trouble was, every time, Colin slipped back into her thoughts and she didn’t want him there. Perhaps now, after seeing Anthony’s bare chest, she could imagine him instead.

“I do hope it happens again,” Penelope muttered under her breath.

Rae folded her arms and leveled her with a glare.

“Not with Anthony specifically—just… generally speaking. In life,” Penelope amended quickly.

“What about me?” Anthony’s voice came from the doorway.

Penelope spun around, startled. “You’re here already and—oh, you’ve got a shirt now.”

“No cuts or holes in this one,” he said with a light smile.

“As shirts are meant to be. Covering everything,” Penelope replied with a click of her tongue. The words sounded idiotic even to her ears, especially with her mind still wandering to what lay beneath the shirt and to certain carriage-ride possibilities.

“True. It’s a good one,” Anthony admitted, a little shy despite himself. He wasn’t sure why until Rae’s dry tone reminded him.

“I think we’ve already established that,” Rae said flatly.

Anthony cleared his throat and tried again, directing his words toward Penelope. “I must say, I enjoyed the soap. I don’t usually remark on soaps but—”

“I assume you don’t usually bathe in houses that aren’t your own?” Rae cut in smoothly, still unimpressed by his casual familiarity.

Anthony conceded with a rueful nod. “I do not.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Penelope said quietly, attempting to restore a measure of propriety to their exchange. But when she used his title, she noticed the subtle twitch of his eyes, the way he bit his lip as though suppressing some response. “It’s a combination of marigold, chamomile, and rosemary. I thought it might help with… the bruises you don’t have and the pain you’re not feeling.”

“I’ve never heard of that before. Not in a soap, at least,” Anthony replied. “Considering how… frugal you seem with everything else, I’m surprised you spend so much on special blends.”

Rae snickered, covering her laugh with a hand.

Penelope chuckled. “Soaps are expensive, indeed. But it’s one thing I was able to learn how to make myself using herbs and flowers from the garden.”

“That is… impressive.”

“It’s necessity,” she corrected gently. “What I truly wish I could grow is cane sugar. Too bad it’s impossible. Though even if I could, I’d have no idea how to turn it into crystals.”

Anthony smiled at the absurdity of the notion, yet he remained impressed. She knew agriculture, how to stretch her herbs beyond fragrance or beauty, how to turn scraps into something useful. He had never met a woman like her. 

This couldn’t be good.

“If you ever discover how,” he said lightly, “I want to be the first to know—and invest.”

She giggled, and Rae’s brow furrowed.

“Until then,” Penelope countered, tilting her head as she invited him into the kitchen, “would you consider investing in the soaps?” She led him toward the large wooden table where bundles of dried herbs and flowers hung from the beams. “Rae’s husband built this table for me, as well as the molds and stirring sticks. His mother used to make them and that’s how I learned. In the clay pots is lye water, made from oak ash. The iron pot on the hearth stores the fat, which I mix with the lye.”

“Once you achieve the mixture, you use the molds to set it and let it dry,” Anthony noted.

“Precisely.”

“And what would the investment be for?”

“More materials, so I could make enough to sell. Perhaps for finer oils too, instead of using leftover grease.”

“I think the bar is already excellent, no need to change the recipe. More funds to you too if you save on ingredients.”

“Or to keep the price low, so more people can afford it,” she countered.

“Soap for everyone?” He raised his brows, curiously.

Penelope nodded with bright enthusiasm, only for Rae to cut in.

“Yes, soap and dignity for everyone. A radical idea, is it not?” she exhaled, giving them both a look. “Now, can we please return to the matter at hand. How are you planning to find Miss Eloise?”

Eloise. 

He still needed to find Eloise.

“Of course.” Anthony cleared his throat. “Where should we begin?”

“Well, considering she left without a trace, perhaps she feared you wouldn’t approve,” Penelope suggested.

Anthony paled. “Goodness. You don’t suppose she’s run off with the rebels?”

Penelope’s stomach tightened at the thought. Her mind went back to her second season, when she had warned Eloise to stay far from Theo Sharpe, the boy from the print shop. Partly to protect her Whistledown secret, partly because she knew disaster would follow if Eloise were ever caught with him. Eloise had assured her, eventually, that she no longer trusted him and therefore they didn’t have any more interactions. Since then, Penelope had heard nothing of movements or causes.

“I do not believe so,” she said at last. 

Penelope noticed Anthony’s expression shift, the gravity of the situation settling heavy on his shoulders. She felt an instinctive urge to offer comfort. The more she reflected on the care she now gave to herself and her modest home, the more she recognized the demands placed on Anthony—responsible for not just himself and the Bridgerton estate, but for every one of his siblings.

“It’s Eloise, Anthony,” she said softly, her voice steady yet warm. “Wherever she is, she is safe. Your staff is loyal, and she is clever. You need not fear for her.”

Anthony simply nodded. “Perhaps something in your correspondence could offer a clue.”

Penelope retraced their letters in her mind and took a seat at the table, Anthony settling across from her. “Eloise hasn’t mentioned anyone or any place in particular,” she said.

“Has she been writing to anyone else?” Anthony asked, his tone careful, seeking information without pressing too hard.

She had to think for a moment. Truthfully, Eloise wasn’t much of a writer; she could read all day and all night, but putting pen to paper was rare. Penelope could only think of one person other than herself that Eloise wrote a letter to in the last few months.

“Well… she did ask me for Sir Phillip Crane’s address to send her condolences,” Penelope admitted quietly.

Anthony’s hand found hers, a silent gesture of support. “That is… very thoughtful of her.”

“It was,” Penelope murmured.

“Perhaps she was being extraordinarily kind,” Rae offered, folding her arms with a knowing smile.

Anthony looked at Rae confused, but Penelope understood the hint right away. Now that she thought about it, whenever she mentioned her garden in the letters, Eloise would suddenly supply an abundance of suggestions—far too specific to have come from idle reading. Penelope couldn’t remember her friend ever showing an interest in the topic; Violet had tried often enough to engage her with Aubrey Hall’s orangery, only to be met with indifference. 

No, this knowledge had come from somewhere else. Someone else.

She furrowed her brow, lips parting as the threads began to connect in her mind. Anthony, watching her, was struck by how arresting she looked in thought. 

He wanted to get inside her head. 

And—he admitted silently—other parts of her as well.

Rae observed them both with disbelief and weary amusement. Anthony still had his hand over Penelope’s, and now he looked as if he might leap across the table at any moment.

These two were hopeless.

Penelope looked up, certainty sharpening her expression. “I believe Eloise is at Romney Hall.”