Work Text:
En Garde.
She'd seen him of course, when he'd arrived back, looking like a dashing pirate in his musty brown coat, hair all windswept wild and shockingly, without his customary cravat. Despite her determination to move on from Col - Mr Bridgerton, her eyes had drank him up greedily, the sight of him quenching a thirst she hadn't wanted to acknowledge, and she'd be a bald faced liar if she hadn't squinted, moving the curtain aside infinitesimally, to try and discern if that was indeed hairs peeking out at the top of the open chest of his midnight blue shirt, watching his throat and Adam's Apple hungrily as it moved so seductively, while he laughed and greeted his family with such joy.
She nearly had a heart attack when he’d looked over to her window, almost like he felt her gaze like a presence. She'd stepped back immediately, so as to not be seen, the hammering in her chest, knowing he had probably noticed the curtain twitch as she had let go. She needed to stand firm now, not allow herself be so easily swayed. Mr Bridgerton could not, and should not, have any claim to her heart anymore.
As she walked out of the room she studiously ignored the escritoire with the bundle of letters hidden in the bottom that she had kept, but not read. Focussing instead on the forest green satin gown, in the dressing area. Time to get ready for the first ball of the season.
**************************************************
Prêts.
She'd seen them arrive of course. When Bridgertons enter a room, it was almost like players on a stage, the space around them cleared a little, so everyone focused on them as the main attraction. When they descended en masse, it was quite the spectacle.
All of them, elegant, poised, and pretty. Even the men, though Anthony Bridgerton would glare if anyone ever dared to refer to him as such. Benedict in his usual effervescent charm would likely just roguishly wink.
As a former insider of the clan, she knew beyond the smoke and mirrors, Lady Violet would likely have been chiding one of them for some behaviour or another just before entering, Eloise would be itching and sweaty and desperate to be anywhere but there, the whole ride over in the carriage.
Now looking in from the outside, she couldn't tell anymore, the armour was complete and everyone played their role to perfection.
Colin had slipped back seamlessly into his role as the dashing, flirty third brother, hair now restored to its perfect coiff, waistcoat and cravat in place, ready to woo all the ladies as he escorted them to the floor for a quadrille or country reel. Effervescent, flighty, false.
Displacement.
Penelope turned around immediately when she felt his gaze land on hers, moving to the furthest reaches of the floor as quickly as possible to avoid any chance of contact, or worse a dance.
She'd spotted Prudence and Harry in the corner by the refreshment table talking to the Finches and an unfamiliar male, the first time she'd ever be happy to embrace the family fold, she moved quickly toward them as if Colin, no, Mr Bridgerton were snapping at her heels.
Introductions were made, a gentleman by the name of Montague Fitzgibbon, a former school chum of Harry's from Eton. Penelope squared her shoulders, intent in securing a dance, confident that her new wardrobe would go a ways towards improving her chances at finding a husband, or at least a man who might come calling the following morning.
Plaque.
However it seems even old news travels fast, Fitzgibbon appraising her, particularly her chest as she fluttered her fan becomingly, feeling foolish but determined to secure at least one dance to prove her new direction had a chance of success, only for him to look somewhat panicked, and then avoiding her gaze, made poor excuses in haste before he departed.
‘I told you Penelope! This new wardrobe will never work, men enjoy the company of women in happy colours like yellow and orange. That's why Phillipa and Prudence are now married. You've already struggled when you had the advantage of my assistance. I'll never understand what nonsense has gotten in your head to insist on that dark green and those other dreary shades you picked out at the modiste!’ Portia looked at her with a familiar expression of exasperation on her face.
Pen sighed and was about to answer back when she heard him. She was cornered.
Allez.
‘Lady Featherington, Mr and Mrs Finch, how lovely to see you again. I hear felicitations are in order, Mr Dankworth, Mrs Dankworth, may your marriage be fruitful. P-Miss Featherington, how lovely to see you. I was hoping to escort you to the floor for a dance?’
Penelope flushed, very much cornered as she turned to acknowledge him reluctantly.
Colin bowed, ever the gentleman and shook hands with Albius and Harry who looked awestruck to receive the attentions of a Bridgerton. His eyes remained firmly affixed to hers.
Penelope opened her mouth, about to come up with an excuse about needing to go to the retiring room, when Portia spoke up, vexed.
‘Oh do go on Penelope, it's your only opportunity this evening, please make sure you smile at all the gentleman, though I doubt that will secure you another dance.’
She felt trapped and annoyed. If she refused she created a scene. If she said yes, she'd likely boil over with anger at having to pretend a courtesy for a little over a minute or two. Faking a faint would also lead to attention from the drama and possibly more unkind rumours that she was trying to entice Colin, she'd heard snippets of conversation fueled by the likes of Cressida Cowper at Gunthers Ice's suggesting Penelope would do anything short of being run over by a horse in her sad attempts at trying to attract Colin.
Dance it was then. At least it was a Scotch Reel, which would make it nearly impossible to speak with the partner changes.
Fleche.
They took to the floor, Pen barely acknowledging his pathetic attempts at conversation, making sure to limit her eye contact as much as possible while answering monosyllabically. While passing in and out between movements.
She remembered a time when she lamented him asking her to dance the reel because she knew it would limit their interaction. Every touch electric and invigorating. Now it was a boon, swapping partners a joy, despite knowing the men in question had no interest in her company. The song thankfully, blessedly now at an end.
Neuvieme.
She curtseyed as quickly as possible and made for the retiring room even as he suggested a refreshment, and ashamedly she hid in there for half an hour till she heard Eloise approaching with Cressida Cowper of all people to powder their noses and rouge their lips.
Cressida murmuring something along the lines of ‘...sow's ear, into a silk purse..’ as she passed the far side of the room eyes downturned with no attempt at polite acknowledgement. Her mind reeling at the thought that her former friend would now consort with her biggest enemy and tormentor. Undoubtedly Cressida had been referring to her. This evening couldn't have been any less successful if she tried. She needed to escape.
Mal Parry.
As she walked under the sconces along the path to find a dark bench in the garden to hide on till it was time to leave in the hack, misfortune struck again. Colin, under the arched colonnade up ahead, having just finished smoking a Cheroot with Benedict, approached. An unspoken conversation between the two having the elder brother bowing and departing indoors quickly leaving them alone.
Press.
‘I'd better head inside my mam-ma will be looking for me.’ She turned to leave.
Lunge.
‘Penelope please stay a moment, I've been trying to catch you and speak properly all evening.’
She froze, despite wanting to flee. Her heart and her mind left her body at war with itself. Her limbs stilled, but the bloody thundering through her veins almost a deafening sound with its furious thrumming.
She schooled her expression, determined not to let him see beyond her aloof facade. Surely his ingrained manners would have to kick in and he would leave her when it was clear she wanted him far away from anywhere she was.
Escape. It was practically his speciality.
Prises De Fer.
‘Pen you look good, that dress in that colour is a welcome change.’
His warm eyes twinkled with an easy intimacy bordering on flirtatious admiration. How he was addressing her, broke her will almost immediately. Making her want to lash out.
She noted his eyes almost imperceptibly paused as it reached the almost scandalous cut of her decolletage, before continuing to take all of her in.
How dare he.
For him to think he could turn her up sweet, with some spanish coin! She wasn't a simple minded chit. She would not be that gullible again, not after his promises last season to ‘take care of her, that she was special to him’, only to turn around mere moments later, having a cat-lap with those rakes he called friends in her own garden, destroying her so completely.
She scoffed at him, curling her lip in disdain.
He still didn't understand, insisting.
‘I'm quite serious, the colour rather suits you’. Conceit, assuming her scoffing related to her disbelief at her appearance.
She would best leave now less she threw him a belter.
Indirect.
‘Good night Mr Bridgerton'.
Her tone brooked no argument. She did not want to talk to him. Yet he continued.
Second Intention .
‘Do you not need a chaperone?’ His tone and expression all concern.
Barely holding it together she responded,
‘Spinsters do not need chaperones.’
Interception.
Then the nerve of him, like he hadn't been the one to firmly set her on that shelf.
‘You are not a spinster.’ All smiles, complimentary, full jest.
Enough.
Riposte.
‘I am in my third year on the marriage mart, with no prospects to show for it, what would you call that?’
She spat the statement out, like a gauntlet being thrown down in the dirt. First Blood.
His expression drained of humour, finally sensing what she'd been clearly saying with her every action all evening.
‘Is there something wrong , Pen, between us I mean?
If she weren't so frustrated at his blind stupidity she may have been moved by the plaintive tone and his concerned expression. For such a smart fellow , he could be quite simple at times.
Then quite self-centeredly, he pushed ahead, blowing the last vestige of good will she had within her towards him.
‘I wrote to you this Summer, as I always do, and you did not respond,’ The nerve she thought as he continued blathering on.
‘Admittedly very few did, but if you are going to make me say it out loud, I miss you .’
Red Card.
His smile and admission which he thought was a delivered gift, sat there like an answering slap to the face. I miss you. The cheek of him!
Time for some home truths Mr Bridgerton.
Froissement.
‘You miss me? You miss me, but you would never court me, is that correct?’
Her delivery was quite a matter of fact, just words, but the blood drained from his face like she had wounded him physically.
‘Pen, I..’
She stopped him before he could make excuses, nothing he could say would make up for it.
‘I overheard you.’
Hit.
‘At my mam-ma's ball last season,telling everyone how you would never, ever court Penelope Featherington.’
She managed to gain control of her inflection despite wavering a moment in her delivery. Best to be surgical in her precision. His expression was priceless. Caught out, for once, not the perfect prince of charm he was deemed to be. Just another rake. A ne'er do well.
As a couple of his peers walked past, curious, and greeted him, his expression grew uneasy.
‘Perhaps, we should go somewhere a bit more private-’
She raised her brows, skewering him again.
‘Because I embarrass you?’
Parry.
His expression solidified, dismayed. There was no way out of this politely he realised.
‘Of course you would never court me, I'm the laughingstock of the Ton, even when I change my entire wardrobe.’
Thrust.
She realised with her latest hit she was taking damage to her own person equally. As long as he felt it, she was okay with that. Mutually assured destruction.
Now the killing blow. As he shook his head dazed.
‘It just never occurred to me that you of all people could be so cruel’.
Her icy satisfaction at seeing him ‘ever the gentleman', brought down, filled her steps with a righteous sort of anger as she stalked off, uncaring of his gaze, how it looked, who saw. She was sick of hiding in the shadows, it was time she let her true feelings be understood.
She didn't even bother looking back.
Flunge. Detachment.
**************************************************
When she arrived home after delivering her latest scathing issue, her anger had not abated. She took the steps, two at a time, despite her slippers sliding on the tread of the Kashmir silk runner as if she were a man, 6 foot tall, till reaching her room, she slammed the door.
‘I missed you, say it out loud, is there something wrong Pen?’
His voice ricocheted in her mind, taunting her, keeping her anger from smouldering out.
Say it out loud…..
Had he ever said it, in implication? or perhaps in writing?
She thought of the letters in the drawer, the temptation strong now to rip through them and see what he may have inscribed.
That part of her that would always be 16 and perennially head over heels in love with that shining prince of a man,who lay in a mud puddle, laughing as he handed over her bonnet, taking her heart in exchange.
No.
Too much had happened since then and she was no longer that innocent and sweet. She knew the way this world worked, her place in it, that would never really change . She refused to let Mr Bridgerton play her the fool anymore.
Those words were like wind. Insubstantial and transient. She needed something, someone solid, she could escape to, and continue her work unimpeded.
She grabbed the spill next to her bedside candle and began to bank her hearth, determined to burn the letters.
Watching the flames grow, she felt calm. As she reached for the first in the pile she admired his penmanship, hastily written in his familiar flair, large looping letters flourishing at the P and F in her name. The letters bleeding together like he rushed to address it to make the daily post.
She felt the grooves in the wax of his personal seal, becoming malleable from her scratching at it, maybe her body heat, maybe because she'd been sitting there for 10 minutes now by the fire, still having not thrown any of them in. She would do it. She had to. This needed to end.
Volt.
She hastily tossed the first one, before she completely lost her nerve, her heart lurching as the flames began to lick at the edges. Tears began to stream down her face and then she tried to salvage the rest of the letter but it was too late. She watched it crumble into ash.
Feeling regret in her heart so immediately that she would never read those words, despite her certainty that it was the right thing to do.
Yielding Parry.
She would still burn them, she decided. However she would read them first, all remaining 9 of them, in case there was something of import she needed to know, however she would banish their contents from her thoughts, any false charm or affection that would have her heart woven more firmly around his finger.
New Year, new Penelope.
Touché.
She sat there at the hearth and opened the next one.
Touché.