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Assistant: Title: A Mask Between Them
        Author: pussshhh pussshhh 
        Chapter: 1/1 
        Summary: It began at a masquerade—one night of surrender, one kiss that unraveled them both. Anthony never expected to fall for the woman behind the mask. Penelope never intended to be seen at all.But now the masks are off, the families are watching, and London is aflame with gossip.One thing is certain: Anthony Bridgerton has made his choice.And Penelope Featherington is done waiting to be chosen.
        Contents: Summary:
            
              It began at a masquerade—one night of surrender, one kiss that unraveled them both. Anthony never expected to fall for the woman behind the mask. Penelope never intended to be seen at all.But now the masks are off, the families are watching, and London is aflame with gossip.One thing is certain: Anthony Bridgerton has made his choice.And Penelope Featherington is done waiting to be chosen.
            
        

        
  Notes:





    
      So. I accidentally wrote a fic where Penelope Featherington takes off her mask and Anthony Bridgerton loses his entire mind.What starts as anonymous tension turns into “I know who you are” steam, a Bridgerton-level family meltdown, and the slow realization that feelings are happening and no one knows what to do about it. Except maybe take off more clothing.There is yearning. There is biting. There are inappropriate things said in drawing rooms. And yes, Colin is Very Confused™ throughout.Bless your hearts for clicking. Let’s make some scandal, shall we?—H.
    

    (See the end of the work for more notes.)



  





    
        
          
  Anthony's POV
 It was the kind of party Anthony Bridgerton had spent the last decade warning himself never to attend.The townhouse on Maddox Street was unmarked—no crest, no calling card, just the faint throb of music and the flickering silhouettes of masked guests passing behind gauzy curtained windows. The sort of place that existed only by rumor and vanished by morning. It smelled of crushed roses, clove smoke, and temptation.He shouldn’t have come. And yet, here he was, leaning against a carved bannister, glowering behind a sleek black half-mask, and already halfway through a brandy he hadn’t meant to finish.“This is mad,” he muttered.Beside him, Benedict tipped his own mask up long enough to offer a grin too smug for its own good. “No, brother. This is freedom. Just for one night. No titles. No duties. No mothers shoving daughters at you like prized cattle.”Anthony rolled his eyes. “I am marrying one of those daughters, remember?”Benedict shrugged. “You don’t even know which one yet.”“That’s the point,” Anthony snapped, far too sharply for a man sipping expensive liquor in a room full of bodies draped in silk and mystery. “The less I care, the easier it is.”It was the truth. And it made him sick.He hadn’t wanted to become his father—but in trying not to, he had become something far colder. A man who planned his marriage the way others arranged their estates: with brutal efficiency and no space for softness. He would pick a suitable bride, produce an heir, and never—never—fall in love. Because to love was to lose. To shatter. To be broken beyond repair.He could not survive it again.“Anthony,” Benedict said gently, “you’ve been walking around like a man with your own ghost chained to your leg. Just for tonight… let it go. Or at least pretend to.”He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.Instead, he downed the rest of his drink and turned his gaze to the room beyond.The salon was lit by low chandeliers and overfilled with laughter, masked faces, and half-heard poetry. Women reclined on velvet chaises like cats. Men whispered confessions behind fans. Some guests danced. Some didn’t bother. The only rule seemed to be: don’t be dull.Anthony had never felt duller.He recognized some of them even behind their disguises. The rake with the crooked tooth. The duchess with the powdered décolletage. That merchant’s wife who’d propositioned him at Lady Twistleton’s ball. The fact that they believed the masks granted them new identities was almost laughable.Almost.He moved through the crowd, nodding politely, accepting a refill from a passing tray, and wondering how quickly he could leave without Benedict throwing a tantrum.And then, he saw her.She was standing alone at the far end of the salon, half-veiled by a curtain and the angle of a nearby pillar, but illuminated enough that the sight of her stopped him cold.A woman. Voluptuous. Confident. Unbothered. Her gown was deep plum or perhaps black, it shimmered oddly in the candlelight, like a second skin. Cut low at the back, cinched just enough at the waist to make him feel strangely breathless.He should not have been looking. But there was something about the way she stood—spine straight, chin slightly lifted—that made it impossible not to.She didn’t preen or perform like the others. She wasn’t giggling into her hand or draping herself across anyone’s lap. She was simply there. Calm. Certain. Untouchable.Her mask covered most of her face, but he caught glimpses—full lips, the sharp curve of a cheekbone, the faintest trace of something familiar that he couldn’t quite place. Her hair was pinned with silver combs, dark and gleaming.She lifted her glass to her lips.And Anthony Bridgerton forgot how to breathe.He was supposed to marry a woman who was proper, polite, and perfectly forgettable. One who wouldn’t make his heart stutter or his hands ache. One who would never tempt him to stay longer than necessary.This woman? She was everything he’d sworn to avoid.And yet.And yet.Something about her called to him. Not just l@st—that, he could handle. This was different. More dangerous. She looked like she knew things. Like she’d seen straight through a dozen men just like him and would never waste her time on one again.Which only made him want to prove her wrong.She turned her head slightly then, as though sensing his attention, and Anthony’s heart kicked hard. Their eyes locked.For a moment, just one second of suspended breath and too-hot blood, neither of them looked away.And then she smiled.Not wide. Not coquettish. Just the faintest curl of her lips. A secret. A dare.He stepped forward, instinctively. She was already turning away.Not to leave, just to move deeper into the crowd. To vanish, like smoke.But now he was watching.Now, he was hunting.And he would find her.
  Penelope's POV
 “This is an abominably reckless idea.”Genevieve Delacroix didn’t even blink. “Then it is exactly what you need, chérie.”Penelope eyed the silk-draped gown laid across the bed like it might bite her. Deep violet, with embroidered stars trailing along the hem and neckline. It shimmered as though it had its own secrets. It looked nothing like her.Genevieve, infuriatingly calm, twisted the lid off a small glass pot. “Sit,” she ordered, gesturing toward the vanity. “We need to do something about that hair.”Penelope’s hands flew to her head. “What’s wrong with my hair?”“Nothing,” Genevieve said lightly, already mixing the potion into a small bowl. “Unless you are hoping to walk into an anonymous masquerade wearing the most distinct shade in London. Every soul knows that red.”“Then maybe I shouldn’t go.”Genevieve raised one elegant brow, and Pen felt herself shrink under the weight of that look. “You’ve spent years hiding in corners,” the modiste said gently, “watching life happen to everyone else. For one night, Penelope, let the world look at you—and not know what they see.”Pen stared at her reflection.She saw the usual things. Freckles. Round cheeks. Too much everything. A girl made of soft silences and overlooked wit. But… under the flickering lamplight and Genevieve’s focused hands, she saw something else, too. A woman waiting for permission.“I’ll wash it out tomorrow?” she asked.“Of course.” Genevieve smiled. “But you may not want to.”The townhouse was alive with sound. Music, laughter, footsteps echoing down too-long halls. Penelope had never stepped into a world like this, one draped in secrets and soaked in pleasure.Her mask was black lace, tied behind her head with a ribbon. Her hair, now a deep glossy brown, tumbled around her shoulders in soft waves. Her gown clung in places her mother would weep over and flowed in others, cool silk whispering across her skin like water. She had never felt more exposed. Or more free.Genevieve had vanished the moment they entered, swept into a conversation with a sculptor who wore no shirt and too much cologne. Penelope lingered near a low alcove, pretending to study a surreal painting of a swan with a woman’s face.No one looked twice at her.It was liberating. And maddening.This was supposed to be freedom, wasn’t it? She had begged the gods for one night where no one knew her name, where she could speak without caution, where she didn’t have to be Penelope Featherington, cautionary tale. And here she was, anonymous, unremarkable.And still no one saw her.Until he did.Penelope felt it before she saw it—that strange sense of being watched, like a brush of heat across her spine.She turned her head slowly.And there he was.This man was tall, broad through the shoulders. Masked like all the others. Dark-haired and commanding, his stance taut like a violin string just before it snapped. He stood across the salon, half-sunk in shadow, but his attention was sharp—cutting through the din like a blade. And it was fixed on her.Penelope’s brows drew together slightly behind her mask.She didn’t recognize him. Not by voice, not by bearing. Which made him safe. Which made him dangerous.She lifted her glass to her lips, more out of reflex than desire. The champagne had long gone warm, but it gave her an excuse to turn her face, to breathe, to steel herself against the flicker of something she hadn’t felt in weeks: intrigue.Grief still clung to her like a second skin. Grief over Colin’s careless affections. Grief over Marina’s betrayal. Grief over how foolish she'd been, imagining kindness meant something more.No one had chosen her. Not truly. Not ever.But tonight, no one knew who she was. Not the girl with freckles and foolish hope. Not the family scandal waiting to happen.Just a woman in silk and shadows. Unnamed. Unwanted. Unbound.And he was still watching her.Her pulse kicked against her throat. Something reckless rose in her, unchecked.She let her lips curve. Just slightly. A smile not meant to be kind. A flicker. A question. A dare.And then she turned, disappearing into the folds of the crowd.Let him follow if he could keep up.
  Anthony's POV
 She vanished.Not in a flourish, not like those practiced women who wanted to be chased. No. She slipped away like smoke, like silk torn loose on the wind. One second she was there, that faint curl of a smile lifting her lips like a secret—and the next, gone.Anthony blinked, as if shaking himself free of a spell. But the moment didn’t fade. Her image lingered. That hourglass silhouette, the defiant tilt of her chin, the unbothered command of her body. That smile. God, that smile. Small, knowing, dangerous.He moved.He didn’t think, he followed.Through the sea of masks and perfume and heat. Through the rooms where laughter twisted with music and the edge of sin. He scanned the crowd, ignoring the women who touched his sleeve, the men who bowed their heads in recognition. He wasn’t looking for someone to flirt with or fight. He wasn’t even sure he was looking for something real.Just her.That woman in violet. That mystery cloaked in curves and candlelight.She wasn’t anyone he knew. He was certain of it now. He would remember a woman like that. Not just her body, though that memory was carved into him now, but the way she held herself. The quiet kind of power. The solitude. She didn’t come to be seen. She came to feel something. And perhaps that was why he couldn’t look away.Because wasn’t that what he wanted, too?Not another name on a guest list. Not another night blurred by brandy and bitterness. He wanted something sharp. Something vivid. Something real enough to wound.He turned a corner into a quieter hallway, the sounds of the salon muffled by velvet curtains and distance. His boots echoed on the marble tile. A woman laughed behind a closed door. A man moaned softly somewhere down the corridor.But he didn’t stop.And then—there.The back of her gown flashed at the top of the stairs, her figure half-lit by moonlight through the high windows. She moved slowly, deliberately. As though she knew he was coming.Anthony’s breath turned shallow.Was she leading him?God help him, he hoped so.He climbed the stairs after her, each step a drumbeat in his ears. At the top, the hall split in three directions. But she was just ahead, pausing near a door. She glanced back, just a flick of her head. Her mask glittered in the light.Still no words. Just that same unreadable expression.Then she slipped inside.The door didn’t close all the way.He hesitated.His hand curled into a fist at his side. He shouldn’t go in. He shouldn’t.But nothing in his life—not duty, not grief, not the sharp bite of self-preservation—had ever prepared him for the weight of wanting like this.He stepped forward.And the door closed behind him.
  Penelope’s POV
 The room was dim and quiet, as if holding its breath.Penelope stepped inside and let the door fall half-closed behind her. She didn’t turn around. Not yet.She could feel the weight of his presence like a hand against her back. Not touching, but there. Solid. Heavy. Deciding.Her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat.She hadn't meant for this to happen. She hadn’t come here looking for anything but air—space to think, to not think. But when she’d glanced over her shoulder and seen him watching her with such focused, searing attention…She’d wanted to see what would happen if she didn’t run. For once.The room smelled faintly of wood polish and something darker, tobacco and clove. There was a settee beneath the window, its velvet worn and warm in the moonlight. She moved to it slowly and sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap.It felt odd to sit like a lady in a room where no one expected her to be one.He lingered in the doorway for a breath longer, then stepped inside and shut it behind him with a click that made her skin prickle.Still, he didn’t speak.Neither did she.Let him be the first to shatter the silence.Let him reveal what he wanted.Eventually, he did.“You’re not like the others.”His voice was deeper up close, and smooth, but carried a rasp—like it had been worn down by things unsaid.Penelope tilted her head slightly. “You don’t know me.”“No,” he admitted. “I don’t. But I’ve never seen someone move through a room like she didn’t care if anyone looked. And still managed to make everyone look.”Penelope blinked.That wasn’t what she’d expected.“And I’ve never seen a man try so hard to act like he wasn’t searching for something,” she replied, quiet but steady.A beat passed.She felt his gaze sharpen, even through the mask.“Were you watching me?”“Were you following me?”That earned a sound from him—low, amused, slightly exasperated. “Touché.”He moved closer then. She could see the edge of his coat in the low light. Well tailored. Expensive. But rumpled in a way that suggested he hadn’t looked in a mirror before coming here. Or perhaps hadn’t cared to.He sat, but not beside her—angled, across from her, close enough to be intentional.“What’s your name?” he asked.Penelope smiled behind her mask. “That would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”He studied her.“You don’t sound like a stranger.”That rattled her more than she liked. She wet her lips, pulse quickening.“And you sound like a man who likes control.”He didn’t deny it. He didn’t have to.Instead, he leaned in ever so slightly. “Is that a problem?”Penelope held his gaze, the silence thick between them.Her breath came slower now, deliberate. She could feel the weight of the mask, the silk clinging to her skin, the thrum of power building in the space between them. She could walk away. She could set the rules.But tonight, she didn’t want to.“No,” she said at last, voice quieter, lower. “It’s exactly what I need.”The words hung in the air, ripe with promise.“I’m tired,” she whispered, “of making the choices. Of thinking. Of holding myself together.”His body tensed, the shift subtle but unmistakable.She let out a soft breath. “Tell me what to do.”They sat in silence again, this time weighted and intimate. The air stretched taut between them, full of things neither of them would dare say with the lights on. Her heart beat a little faster with every second.“Why did you come here?” he asked at last.She turned to the window, her voice barely above a whisper. “To feel something. Anything.”A long pause.Then: “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”She turned to him, finally, and found him closer than she expected. His mask obscured most of his face, but his mouth—God, his mouth—was right there. Full. Still. Waiting.She let herself breathe in the space between them.“If you kiss me,” she said carefully, “you won’t be able to take it back.”His gaze dropped to her lips.“I don’t want to.”And then he kissed her.It wasn’t gentle.It wasn’t polite.It was heat and hunger and the kind of recklessness that set her spine on fire.He kissed her like a man desperate to forget everything outside that room. And she kissed him back like a woman who had never been remembered.
  Anthony’s POV
 
  Tell me what to do.
The words struck him like a thunderclap.For a moment, Anthony didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. The air between them had already been humming with something electric—curiosity, tension, attraction—but now it was different. Now it was charged. Lit from within. Her voice hadn’t trembled. Her offer wasn’t timid. It was quiet, yes, but sure—deliberate. A woman giving her power freely, not because she had none, but because she wanted him to take it.And it undid something in him.He stared at her, at the elegant column of her throat, the way the candlelight licked across her collarbone, the rise and fall of her chest beneath silk that clung to every line of her. His blood surged low and hot, the kind of heat that didn’t burn fast and bright but slow and all-consuming, building with every breath.He stood.She didn’t flinch. Didn’t retreat.He reached out and brushed his fingers down the side of her jaw, trailing down the curve of her neck, stopping just above the swell of her breast. Not a grope. Not a tease. Just a silent claim.“Say it again,” he murmured.Her lips parted, breath catching. “Tell me what to do.”He exhaled harshly. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”Her gaze didn’t waver. “Yes, I do.”He could have devoured her right then and there, but he didn’t. He stepped in slowly, deliberately, placing himself between her knees as she sat on the settee, her back still tall, proud—mask in place, but eyes open.“I don’t want obedience,” he said softly. “I want surrender. There’s a difference.”Her breath shuddered. “Then take it.”He bent and kissed her.Not like before. Not a man seeking comfort or curiosity. This was a claim. His mouth caught hers with a hungry purpose, his hands cradling her face like she was something precious and breakable, but he didn’t treat her like glass. He kissed her deep, hard, until she gasped against him, until her hands fisted in his coat and her thighs pressed around his hips.He groaned into her mouth.“Hands behind your back,” he said, low and firm.She obeyed without hesitation.He smiled against her lips, almost feral. “Good girl.”Her breath hitched, and he felt it—that—the raw, startled thrill that shot through her. He swallowed the sound she made as he kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding over hers with slow precision, claiming every inch of her mouth.His hands roamed now, down her sides, gripping her waist and pulling her forward until her body was flush against his, her knees spread around his hips, that dress riding scandalously high on her thighs. She gasped again as he ground against her—not teasing, but showing her exactly how hard he was, how wrecked he already felt just from kissing her.“You want to be ruined?” he whispered against her throat, voice ragged. “I’ll ruin you so thoroughly you won’t remember how to be anything but mine.”She made a sound—half moan, half whimper—and he nearly lost the last thread of control he had.But he didn’t. Not yet.He kissed down her neck, slow and reverent, his tongue flicking over her pulse, his teeth grazing sensitive skin. His hands moved to her bodice, palming her br@@sts over the silk, thumbs brushing over nipples already stiff from the friction.She arched into him. “Please.”He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.“You don’t beg,” he said. “Not unless you want to. I’ll take what you offer. Nothing more.”She nodded quickly. “I want to.”He let out a low growl of satisfaction and slid his hands beneath the fabric, cupping her bare br@@sts, thumbs circling. She was so soft. So warm. So willing.He kissed her again, rougher now, biting gently at her lower lip, grinding his hips between her legs until she was panting. His hands slipped down—over her waist, her thighs—gripping the back of her knees and pulling her closer to the edge of the settee.“Keep your hands behind you,” he ordered. “Do not move them.”“Yes,” she breathed.His fingers bunched her skirts and slowly drew them up, revealing skin inch by inch. Her stockings were silk, held up by garters, and the sight of them very nearly undid him.“You’re killing me,” he muttered, mouth trailing over her thigh. “You don’t even know it.”“Yes, I do,” she whispered, breathless and shaking. “That’s the point.”He laughed—low, dark, reverent.And then he kissed up her inner thigh.She trembled under his hands.It was the smallest thing—a shiver, a gasp, the way her thighs parted without being asked. But to Anthony, it was everything. A sign of trust. A gift.He knelt.Not in ceremony. Not in submission.But in utter, consuming devotion.He slid his hands beneath her thighs and dragged her closer to the edge of the settee, the silk of her stockings sliding against his palms. Her legs opened wider, and she made a noise—small, startled, achingly vulnerable—as the cool air kissed her newly bared skin.“Keep them open,” he said, voice rough.She obeyed.He pulled her skirts higher, revealing more of her—until she was completely exposed to him. No underthings. No hesitation.He let out a curse under his breath. “F@ck.”She was glistening for him already, swollen and flushed and so ready—her breath ragged, chest rising and falling in rapid bursts as she watched him from behind her mask. Her hands still behind her back, as he’d commanded.“Look at you,” he whispered, almost in awe. “You’re beautiful like this. Perfect.”She squirmed slightly. He gripped her hips to still her.“None of that,” he murmured. “You asked me to tell you what to do. And I’m telling you—stay still. Let me taste you.”Her breath caught. She nodded once, too stunned to speak.And then he lowered his mouth to her.The first stroke of his tongue was slow, reverent, from bottom to top, savoring her, learning her. She gasped. Her hips twitched. He held her tighter and licked her again, deeper now, groaning into her heat as he felt her thighs tighten around him.She was divine. Warm, slick, and endlessly responsive.“Keep your hands behind you,” he growled into her. “Let me take care of you.”She whimpered, hips trembling beneath his grip. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, just—don’t be so careful.”The words burst out, breathy and desperate, but full of that signature frustration he’d heard before, a tone that had haunted ballrooms and drawing rooms and quiet moments between dances.And it shattered him.Anthony froze.Everything in his body went still—his mouth, his hands, his lungs.Because he knew that voice.That exasperated, utterly specific complaint. That cadence. The way she flattened the vowels. He’d heard it more times than he could count, usually while she chided Colin for being an idiot or scolded him—him—for being too arrogant or too dismissive.Don’t be so careful. It wasn’t just a plea. It was Penelope Featherington’s signature.He lifted his head slowly, blood pounding in his ears. His hands were still on her hips, and she was panting, eyes glazed, the mask slightly crooked on her flushed face. Her curls—darker tonight, unfamiliar—clung to her cheek. But up close, under candlelight, even shadow couldn’t lie.Her mouth.Her freckles.Her.“Penelope,” he whispered. Not a question. A revelation.Her breath hitched. Her lips parted. Her body went rigid beneath him.She knew. He knew.And suddenly the entire world narrowed to this impossible, intimate truth:It was her.The woman he had just fallen to his knees for.The woman he’d wanted without knowing for years.Penelope. Bl@@dy. Featherington.
  Penlope's POV
 He stilled.His mouth, his hands—everything that had been devouring her with such focused, reverent hunger—just stopped. The absence was jarring, like a candle snuffed mid-flame. Her breath caught in her throat, her body still trembling from the edge he’d brought her to. Her heart thundered, nerves stretched taut.And then he said it.“Penelope.”Not a question.A truth.Her name, spoken like a vow, low and rough and unguarded—and familiar.And that was the moment the bottom dropped out of her world.She froze.Not out of fear. Not entirely.Because even before the word fully registered, the voice had already begun to unravel her. That timbre—how had she not recognized it? She’d known it since girlhood, catalogued every shade of it: exasperation, charm, authority, tenderness (though rarely directed at her). She knew how it curved around a joke and sharpened during arguments. She’d written paragraphs about it in journals she'd burned.And now—now she knew how it sounded when he was wrecked. When he was kneeling between her thighs, breath hot, voice hoarse, saying her name like a prayer he didn’t know he needed answered.Anthony.The name echoed through her like a bell tolling in thick fog.And suddenly—horribly, clearly—she knew.Not because he said it like a curse. Not because he’d recoiled. But because of how it felt. How the syllables landed in the dark, heavy with recognition.And because she knew that voice.Anthony Bridgerton.The Viscount. Colin’s older brother. The gruff, condescending man who tossed careless remarks like crumbs. The one who teased and towered and spoke like he was forever preparing to command a battlefield. The one she had never thought of as hers—not in dreams, not even in fantasies.Not like Colin.Colin had been the center of her universe, until recently. Until he'd looked through her, chosen someone else, made it painfully clear that her love had been a quiet delusion spun of smiles and nothing more. She had shattered herself quietly, in private. And then rebuilt.Anthony? He was never her soft place to fall. He was sharp edges and shadowed stares.But now—now he was kneeling between her legs, holding her like something sacred, and saying her name like it meant something.She froze.Not from fear. From impact. From the sheer, jarring wrongness of it. The shock.Because she hadn’t chosen him.She hadn’t even considered him.And yet, he hadn't moved.He hadn’t let go.He was staring up at her like she wasn’t the wrong choice. Like she wasn’t a mistake.The air between them throbbed, hot and uncertain. He didn’t rise. She didn’t close her legs. Neither of them reached for the past.And slowly, deliberately, they both made a choice that had nothing to do with history or names or families or anything that would matter come morning.She kept her legs open.He leaned in again.And Penelope—fresh from heartbreak, free from illusions—tipped her head back and let him devour her.
  Anthony's POV
 
  Penelope.
He hadn’t expected that name to taste like this, heat and silk and something wickedly forbidden.But now that he knew… now that he saw her clearly, everything inside him coiled tighter. Not with shame. Not with restraint. But with a hunger so sharp it bordered on reverence.Penelope Featherington.The woman he’d barely noticed, save for the way she hovered quietly behind his sister or flushed when Colin entered the room. The woman who had been dismissed by everyone—including, if he was being honest, himself.And yet this was who he had wanted with such blinding force? This was who had broken his composure with a single look and made him fall to his knees?
  Yes.
Because this woman beneath him wasn’t anyone’s shadow. She was fire contained in soft curves, with a will hidden beneath years of forced silence. She had given him control, yes, but she had done it on her terms. She had chosen him. Not blindly. Not naively.And now he would undo her, fully.“I want you to fall apart for me,” he whispered against her thigh. “And I want you to remember exactly who did it.”She made a sound—half sob, half moan—and he returned his mouth to her, devouring her in slow, purposeful strokes, every movement calculated, commanding. His hands held her thighs open, firm and possessive, keeping her where he needed her, where she had asked to be.He worked her with his tongue until she trembled, until her hips lifted and her breath shattered into a thousand pleading fragments. And still he didn’t stop. He wanted her wild. Ruined. His.When she finally came, she gasped like she’d been drowning—arching, shaking, biting her own hand to stifle the sound.He kissed her through it. Owned it.And only when her body collapsed back into the cushions, limp and flushed, did he rise.Her mask was askew now, barely hanging on. His own felt like a barrier, an unnecessary veil between truth and something more dangerous.He reached up and pulled his mask off first.She looked up at him, dazed, mouth still parted, eyes wide behind hers.He didn’t ask. He didn’t speak.He reached for the ribbon at the back of her head, and she stilled, but didn’t stop him.He untied the knot slowly, deliberately, and slipped the mask from her face.Penelope Featherington stared up at him, barefaced, hair tousled, cheeks flushed with pleasure and shock and something rawer. There was no pretending now. No hiding.And he’d never seen anything more beautiful.“I want you,” he said simply. “As you are. Right now.”She blinked once. Then nodded.That was all the permission he needed.He claimed her with his mouth, then his hands, hauling her up against his chest, kissing her hard—his tongue pushing deep, his grip possessive. He unfastened her bodice with deft fingers, baring her inch by inch. She was soft, warm, responsive to every command, her hands still trembling from her release.He laid her back on the cushions, braced over her, his hips between her thighs, and looked down at her like she was his to keep.“I’m going to have you now,” he said, voice rough. “All of you.”And when he finally entered her, it was with a groan torn from the bottom of his chest—slow, deep, claiming every inch, and she arched into him with a gasp like she couldn’t believe it either.She clung to him. He drove into her—measured, deliberate, in full control. Her name spilled from his lips in broken syllables, again and again. Penelope. Penelope. Penelope.And when they both came undone, wrapped around each other in something far too consuming to be just physical, it was not a fall.It was a surrender.She was still in his arms.Her breath was warm against his throat, her fingers tracing idle shapes along his shoulder. The fire between them had not entirely cooled—his skin still tingled with the ghost of her touch, and hers still bore the flush of pleasure. But something had shifted.They were no longer just two strangers in a dark room. He had said her name. He had looked into her eyes and known her.And she had let him.He couldn’t stop looking at her—this woman he’d overlooked for years, now entirely remade in his vision, unmasked, bare, and somehow more powerful than anyone he’d ever touched.“Penelope,” he said again, softer now. Less stunned. More intentional.Her fingers stilled. “You’re not going to pretend this didn’t happen, are you?”“No,” he said, without hesitation. “Not even if I wanted to.”She looked up at him, something wary and fragile in her gaze. “Then what are we going to do?”He opened his mouth to answer—but a knock shattered the stillness.
  Rap-rap-rap.
“Anthony?” Benedict’s voice, far too casual. “If you’re in there, you’ve missed half the fun. I was going to introduce you to a woman who paints with her feet. Yes, really.”Anthony tensed. “Bl@@dy hell,” he muttered under his breath, untangling from Penelope’s limbs with reluctant hands.She reached instinctively for her mask, sitting up, pulling her bodice back into place with swift, practiced fingers. He cupped her cheek once, gently—wait for me—and then rose.“Just a minute!” he called toward the door, trying to sound less breathless than he was.Outside, Benedict chuckled. “You’re not alone, are you? Don’t worry, I’ve brought wine.”“Go away,” Anthony barked, moving toward the door and cracking it open just enough to block his brother’s view. “I swear on everything holy, if you so much as breathe in this direction again tonight—”“Oh-ho,” Benedict grinned, eyes dancing behind his mask. “Now I am intrigued.”Anthony glared. “Leave.”“I’m going. Don’t forget to hydrate.”Anthony slammed the door.When he turned back, his heart already pounding in relief, the words were on his tongue:
  I’m sorry for that. Where were we?
But the settee was empty.The gown. The curls. The warmth. All gone.He blinked, startled, stepping forward like she might be hiding just out of sight. Then he saw it—an open door tucked behind the curtain, opposite the one he’d come through. A second exit. A servant’s path, perhaps. Quiet. Hidden.She had slipped away while he was gone for less than a minute.He crossed the room quickly, looking out into the dark corridor beyond, but it was empty. No footsteps. No trailing scent of perfume. No sign.She was gone.Vanished like smoke once more.He stood in the doorway, hands at his sides, pulse loud in his ears.This time, she hadn’t run out of fear.She had made a choice.And he wasn’t sure if it devastated him more or made him burn with the need to find her again.He hadn’t slept.Not a second.He’d closed his eyes, but it did no good—her scent clung to his skin, her voice echoed in his ears, and his body still thrummed with the ghost of her. Penelope. He said her name aloud at some godforsaken hour of the morning just to feel it again.He had touched her. Tasted her. Been inside her. And it hadn’t been just carnal, it had been something else. Something that curled around the edges of his chest and squeezed every time he let himself remember how she looked at him before she slipped away.And she had slipped away. Vanished like smoke through that second door.He didn’t know why. Not yet.But he knew one thing: she hadn’t done it out of shame.Penelope Featherington had chosen him. She had let him take control, touch her where no one else ever had. And she had come undone beneath him, not with uncertainty—but with trust.And now she was gone.Which meant he had no choice but to go and get her back.Not just her body, he had already had that.He wanted her entirely.He wanted her laughter and sharpness and quiet strength. He wanted her mind, her smile, the curve of her wit. He wanted to walk into a ballroom with her hand in his, not caring what anyone thought, because he knew what was real.And more than that, he wanted her to know he was serious.She had given herself to him fully.Which meant she had truly, finally given up on Colin.The thought made his stomach twist, not from guilt, but from clarity. He had always known Penelope had harbored affections for his brother. They all had. But she hadn’t spoken his name once last night. Not even in the quiet moments. Not in her gasps. Not in the pause between climax and breath.She hadn’t looked like a woman trying to replace someone.She had looked like a woman choosing for the first time.And now, it was his turn.The family was gathered in the breakfast room—less a table, more a battleground of toast, jam, and morning voices.Anthony strode in like a man possessed.“I’m marrying Penelope Featherington.”Silence fell.Benedict choked on his tea.Violet blinked. Twice. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”Colin dropped his fork with a clatter. “You’re joking.”Eloise muttered, “Dear God,” under her breath, and Hyacinth’s eyes lit up like someone had just declared a holiday.Anthony crossed his arms. “You heard me. I’m calling on her this morning. Officially.”Gregory grinned. “Does this mean we get to have Pen for breakfast every day?”“Not every day,” Hyacinth corrected. “But she is the only adult who actually enjoys our riddles.”“Children,” Violet warned automatically, though her eyes were still fixed on Anthony.Benedict leaned forward slowly, squinting at his brother. “Wait. Wait. Was that who you were with last night?”Anthony didn’t flinch. “Yes.”Benedict sat back with a low whistle. “Well. That explains the silk in your hair.”Violet gave him a sharp look. “Anthony, this is highly irregular. Penelope has always been more closely associated with Colin, and—”“She’s not a bauble to be passed between us,” Anthony snapped. “And she’s not a girl anymore. She made her own decision.”Colin stood, face flushed. “So that’s it, then? You wake up after a party and decide to claim someone I—”“You what, Colin?” Anthony cut in, eyes sharp. “You want her now? After years of not seeing her? After letting someone like Marina use you while Penelope was standing right there?”Colin’s mouth worked uselessly for a moment. “That’s not what I meant.”“Good. Because it’s not your decision. She’s not your placeholder.”Eloise stood too now, arms crossed. “And you think you’re better? She’s my best friend. If you hurt her—”“I won’t,” Anthony said, quiet and firm. “I already have, just by not seeing her sooner. But I’m going to make that right.”Francesca, who had been watching silently, tilted her head. “Well,” she said after a pause. “That explains why you look like you haven’t blinked since dawn.”Anthony turned to her. “You’re not surprised?”“I’m surprised,” she said. “But I’m not blind. Penelope’s never been what anyone expected. And maybe that’s exactly what you need.”He breathed out slowly, then looked back to the room.“I don’t care how it looks. Or how it began. I know what I want now. And I’m not going to waste time pretending otherwise.”No one spoke.So he left.
  Penelope's POV
 She hadn’t slept.Not truly.She’d lain in bed, cocooned in silence while her body hummed with memory. The world outside the curtains had begun to stir long before her thoughts quieted. Her skin still felt warm, too warm, like it remembered him even when she tried not to.
  Anthony Bridgerton.
She whispered the name into the pillow once, alone, to test the way it sounded in her mouth. The syllables pulsed with heat. It shouldn’t feel like this. Not after what she’d done. Not after who she had done it with.He wasn’t a man she had fantasized about. Not like Colin, whose smile had once unraveled her. Not like the boys in her silly stories, whose pages she’d filled with impossible, unattainable things. Anthony had never been one of those dreams.And yet—She could still feel his breath between her legs.His hands on her hips.His voice in her ear, saying her name like it meant something.That was the worst of it.Not the act itself—but the weight of it.It hadn’t been meaningless.It had been everything.And she didn’t know what to do with that.She sat at the breakfast table in the yellow drawing room, back straight, eyes on her tea, pretending that the world had not shifted sideways under her feet.“Penelope, do eat something,” her mother said, for once not screeching. “You’re pale as milk this morning.”“Just tired, Mama,” she replied, lifting the toast to her lips and putting it down again untouched.“Perhaps the Season’s already wearing on you,” Prudence said with a smirk. “Or perhaps you stayed out later than we thought?”Penelope didn’t rise to the bait. She simply sipped her tea and smiled.Inside, her heart wouldn’t stop knocking against her ribs.She hadn’t expected him to know who she was. Not when she left. Not when she’d fled through that second door and walked all the way home with shaking legs and lips still swollen from his kiss.She had left before anything could be spoken. That was the point. That was the safety. No names. No regrets.Only—Her name had been spoken.And he had said it like he meant it.Stop it, she told herself. It’s done. He won’t come.Anthony Bridgerton did not chase women like her. He was a viscount. She was a Featherington. This was a story that would live in her skin, not in the world.She had made peace with that. Almost.And then came the knock.Three sharp raps at the door.Portia stood. “Prudence, answer that, would you? I don’t want to be seen in my morning turban.”“I answered the last one.”“Then we wait,” Portia huffed, already moving to peek through the sitting room curtains.And then she shrieked.“Anthony Bridgerton is on the stoop!”Penelope’s teacup hit the saucer with a clatter.Everything inside her stilled.She stared at the door like it might vanish.“What on earth is he doing here?” Portia demanded, smoothing her gown, flustered beyond belief. “Is he looking for Colin? Or—oh heavens, did something happen? Did we offend Violet somehow?”“Maybe he’s here for Eloise?” Philippa offered unhelpfully.“No,” Penelope said, standing slowly. “No… he’s not.”She could feel it. Every inch of her body tensed like a string pulled tight.Moments later, the butler returned, far too dignified for the chaos behind him.“Lord Bridgerton is here to call upon Miss Featherington,” he announced, gaze politely averted.There was a beat of stunned silence.“Which one?” Portia asked, laughing a little too hard.But the butler didn’t flinch. He turned to Penelope directly.“Miss Penelope.”The room exploded.Portia gasped so loudly it echoed. Prudence made a sound like a dying cat. Philippa knocked over the butter dish. Even the footman at the back coughed.Penelope just stood there, her hands clenched in her skirts.“He’s here,” she whispered.“He’s here for you?” Prudence hissed.Marina barreled into the room then, half-dressed. “What is going on? I heard shouting—”“He’s calling on Penelope!” Portia cried. “Why didn’t you tell us you were courting Anthony Bridgerton?!”Penelope couldn’t breathe.Because she hadn’t told them, because it wasn’t courting. It wasn’t anything. It was a night. A mistake.A choice.But now he was here.And he was making it something else.She could feel every heartbeat like a blow against her ribs.It wasn’t possible.Anthony Bridgerton—the Viscount, the golden son, the man women plotted to trap with silk gloves and fragile smiles—was standing in her doorway. Not as an accidental guest. Not as a mistaken caller.For her.“Miss Penelope Featherington,” the butler had said. Clear. Certain.And still, Penelope couldn’t make her limbs move.The entire room had erupted into noise, but she heard none of it. Her mother’s shrill commentary, Prudence’s mocking disbelief, Marina’s stunned silence—they blurred into a high, distant ringing in her ears.She only came back to herself when Portia grabbed her arm.“Well? Are you going to make him wait like a fool? Go.”Penelope stumbled forward more than walked.The drawing room had never felt farther away.She tried to smooth her skirts, fix her hair—God, had she even looked in a mirror this morning?—but it didn’t matter. He had already seen her. In every way a man could see a woman.And still he’d come.The door opened.Anthony Bridgerton stood in the center of their parlor like he belonged there. His coat was dark, tailored to his form like a second skin, his hair neatly combed but slightly wind-ruffled. His eyes found her the moment she entered—and stayed there. Focused. Steady.He didn’t look ashamed.He looked like a man who knew what he wanted.And somehow, that made it harder to breathe.Penelope came to a halt several paces inside the room, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. “My lord,” she managed, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.He bowed his head slightly. “Miss Featherington.”Portia bustled in behind her, dragging a barely-dressed Prudence and a flustered Marina with her like parade floats. “Lord Bridgerton, what an unexpected pleasure! What a thrill to have you in our home. Might I ask—well, you’ve shocked us all, I daresay!”Anthony didn’t flinch. He turned toward her mother with crisp politeness. “Lady Featherington, forgive me for not giving you notice, but I felt it was better to act with clarity than delay.”“Delay?” Portia blinked rapidly. “Delay… what, exactly?”He turned back to Penelope.The room dropped away.“I have come to call on your daughter, Miss Penelope, with the intention of courting her properly,” he said. His voice was low, firm, but not performative. Not for show. “If she will have me.”Portia squeaked. Prudence gasped. Marina made a sound like she’d swallowed her own tongue.Penelope’s legs nearly gave out beneath her.This wasn’t happening.This couldn’t be happening.He was… serious. There was no smirk. No teasing lilt to his voice. His gaze remained locked on hers—not cruel, not even heated. Just true.Intentional.“I realize the nature of our acquaintance may raise eyebrows,” he continued, “but I would not be here if I didn’t mean to see it through to the end. I seek not a passing connection, but a marriage.”“Marriage?” Marina whispered, wide-eyed.Penelope could barely move her lips. “Why?”It was all she could manage. One broken word.Anthony took a step toward her. “Because I know what I want now. And I’m not in the habit of pretending I don’t.”She shook her head once, almost helplessly. “But… I’m not—this isn’t what I thought—”“You didn’t expect me to come,” he said gently. “You ran before we could speak. So now, I’m speaking.”She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.Because in her deepest imaginings—back when her heart still ached for Colin, when her body had never known anything but longing, she had never once imagined a man standing in her parlor like this. Let alone this man. Saying those words.“I will wait for your answer,” he said. “As long as you need. But I won’t pretend I didn’t mean every word of what I did last night. I won’t let you pretend either.”Then he bowed.Formally. Beautifully.And left her standing in the wreckage of everything she had once thought she wanted.
  Anthony’s POV
 The walk across the street was not long.But with every step away from the Featherington house, Anthony felt the pressure building—not doubt, not regret. Just inevitability. He had done it. Said it. Made his suit known. There was no undoing it now.And he didn’t want to.He wanted her.Not just in dark rooms or behind closed doors, but in the morning light. In every d@mn ballroom and drawing room in Mayfair. He wanted Penelope Featherington beside him, because she wasn’t a fantasy, she was real. A woman with fire in her belly, ink on her fingers, and a mind that had shaken his own out of slumber.So when he entered Bridgerton House and was immediately met with the sound of raised voices, he wasn’t surprised.He just hoped he’d make it out of the next five minutes without strangling his brother.“You did WHAT?” Colin’s voice was thunderous, echoing off the walls.Anthony stepped into the main hall and barely had time to remove his gloves before Colin came storming down the stairs, red-faced, fists clenched.“You went to call on Penelope?” Colin spat. “In public? To propose a courtship? Are you out of your bl@@dy mind?”“She’s not yours,” Anthony said evenly.“She’s not YOURS either!”“Not yet,” he returned, voice sharp. “But that’s the intention.”Colin’s expression twisted. “Is this some twisted game to get back at me? To humiliate me for being taken in by Marina? What, are you trying to prove something? Sleep with the girl I ignored and parade her around like a trophy?”Anthony’s blood snapped to a boil.He stepped forward, voice cold steel. “Watch your mouth.”“She’s been in love with me for years, Anthony!” Colin shouted. “She wrote me letters, she blushed when I so much as looked at her! And you know that. You’ve always known that.”“I also know she’s not in love with you anymore,” Anthony said, louder now, jaw clenched. “So if it wounds your pride that a woman you never looked twice at finally looked elsewhere, that’s your d@mn problem, not mine.”“Elsewhere?” Colin scoffed. “You’re not elsewhere. You’re my brother.”“Then maybe you should’ve treated her like she mattered before now!”“Enough!” Violet’s voice rang out as she stepped between them, her hands raised. Her face was pale, mouth tight. “Both of you, stop this before someone says something they can’t take back.”“It’s a bit late for that,” Benedict muttered from the corner, his arms folded. “There’s already a shattered ego on the floor.”“I don’t understand any of this,” Violet said, her voice shaking slightly. “Penelope has always been so dear to us, but—Anthony, you’ve never shown the slightest interest in her before. And Colin…” Her gaze faltered. “You’re acting like a man who lost something he never even knew he wanted.”Colin turned on her. “Mother—”“No,” she said firmly. “You’re angry, yes. But your brother did not wrong you by choosing a woman you never claimed.”“She was mine—”“She was herself,” Anthony snapped. “And she gave herself to me, Colin. Freely. Knowing who I was. Knowing who you were.”Colin flinched.Anthony didn’t stop.“You don’t get to be wounded now. You had years to see her. Years to say something. And instead, you flirted with every other girl in the room and expected Penelope to sit quietly and wait for crumbs. But she’s done waiting. And I—” he stepped forward, voice low and final, “—am not you.”The silence was deafening.Even Eloise, perched on the stairwell with narrowed eyes and clenched arms, didn’t speak.And then—“Anthony?”Everyone turned.She was in the doorway.Penelope.Hair still windblown from her hasty walk, cheeks flushed with uncertainty, hands twisting in her skirts. She looked like she'd been on the verge of turning back and had come anyway.His chest tightened.“Pen,” he said, softer than he meant to.She looked between them all—Colin’s furious posture, Violet’s torn expression, Benedict’s raised brows—and finally settled her gaze on him.“I… I came to speak with you,” she said, voice quiet. “I wasn’t expecting… all this.”Anthony stepped forward, ignoring the stares, the tension.He reached for her hand.And when she didn’t pull away, when she let him take it, he turned to his family, gaze sweeping across them.“This isn’t a scandal. This isn’t a joke. This is real. I’ve made my choice. And now I’m asking her to make hers.”Penelope looked at him, lips parted, stunned.And in that moment—he didn’t care about his brother’s rage, his mother’s doubts, or society’s whispers.He only cared about the woman standing in his house, holding his hand like she still wasn’t sure if this was a dream.She let him lead her.That alone felt like a victory.Without another word, Anthony brushed past his family, still stunned into silence, and guided Penelope gently down the hall, past the front stairs and through a narrow corridor that opened into his study. He’d barely stepped inside before closing the door behind them.Silence settled like dust.Only now did he let go of her hand.She stood in the center of the room, turning slowly to face him, her fingers trembling where they rested against her skirts. Her gaze moved across the walls, the fireplace, the well-worn armchair—his world. And then it landed on him.He didn’t speak right away.Neither did she.The air between them pulsed with the weight of all the things they hadn’t said—everything that last night was, and everything today had forced into the light.Finally, she broke the silence.“I didn’t think you’d come.”He swallowed. “I know.”“You weren’t supposed to know it was me,” she said, voice quieter. “It wasn’t supposed to… matter.”“It mattered the second you walked away.” His voice was rough now. Honest. “And it mattered long before that. I just didn’t see it until you made me.”Penelope looked down at her hands. “You saw me when I was someone else.”“I saw you without the noise,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I see you less now. It means I finally see all of you.”She looked up, eyes searching his face.“You didn’t want a love match,” she said. “You said it yourself. Everyone knows it. You’re not looking for passion—you’re looking for… order.”He stepped closer, slow but sure. “That was before I knew what passion actually looked like.”Penelope laughed, just once, breathless and disbelieving. “So I’m your scandal now?”“You’re not a scandal,” he said. “You’re a storm. And I would rather drown in you than spend another year dry and half-alive.”She faltered.He moved closer again.“I know this doesn’t make sense to anyone else. Not my mother. Not Colin. Maybe not even you.”“It doesn’t,” she whispered.“But you’re the only thing I’ve been sure of in years.”Penelope’s throat bobbed with the effort to swallow. Her eyes shimmered. “What if this is a mistake?”“It’s already not,” he said. “Because last night didn’t feel like one. And today? Watching you walk into that room… holding your hand in front of my family? That felt like certainty.”“You don’t love me.”It wasn’t an accusation. Just a statement.Anthony nodded. “Not yet.”That surprised her.He stepped close enough to touch her now, to feel her breath, to see the tiny, invisible tremors in her fingers.“But I want to,” he said, low. “I want to fall in love with the woman who tore down every wall I’ve built and never once asked for permission.”She blinked. Her lips parted.And then she said, barely audible, “You already are.”That did it.He reached for her, cupping her face in his hands like he was afraid she might disappear again. “Tell me this is real,” he whispered. “Tell me I’m not the only one who hasn’t slept. Who can still taste you. Who hasn’t stopped thinking about what it felt like when you said ‘tell me what to do.’”Her breath caught.“I didn’t say it because I was weak,” she said. “I said it because for the first time in my life, I wanted to give something to someone who saw me.”“I do now,” he said.And then—finally—he kissed her.No masks. No silk. No shadows.Just Anthony and Penelope.And for the first time in either of their lives, the truth didn’t feel like a burden.It felt like a beginning.
  Penelope's POV
 His mouth was on hers again.But it was different this time.No darkness. No masks. No thunderous music or velvet walls to cloak what they were doing. Just a man—barefaced, unflinching—pressing his lips to hers like he meant it. Like he saw her, and still wanted more.Penelope sank into the kiss before she could talk herself out of it.His hands were warm on her cheeks, anchoring her, steadying the wild rush inside her chest. She had kissed him before—been devoured by him, undone and remade in his hands—but this… this was the kiss she hadn’t dared imagine.This was Anthony Bridgerton kissing her in daylight. In his house. After saying her name in front of everyone like it was a banner he meant to fly.And for one suspended breath, she let go.Let go of the fear. The confusion. The cracked echoes of Colin’s voice. The sting of years spent invisible.She let it fall away.Because when Anthony kissed her now, she felt chosen.Not pitied. Not claimed out of guilt or vengeance. Wanted.He drew back slightly, breathing ragged, and her fingers curled around his wrists like she didn’t want to let him go.“You’ve ruined me,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers.“You started it,” she whispered back, lips trembling with the ghost of a smile.And then the door burst open.“Are you bl@@dy joking?!”Colin’s voice cracked through the moment like thunder, followed by the unmistakable chaos of the entire Bridgerton family flooding the threshold behind him.Violet gasped. “Oh for heaven’s sake—Anthony!”Hyacinth let out a dramatic, delighted “Ooooooh.”Gregory laughed and said, “I owe Benedict five quid.”Penelope froze.Anthony didn’t move.Colin was already marching forward, face flushed with indignation, his hands clenching at his sides. “You’re kissing her now? What, are you going to bed her on the d@mn writing desk next?”“Colin—” Violet began.“No! I’m sorry, but no. This is madness. You don’t want her, Anthony. You’re just making a statement, and Pen deserves better than being anyone’s lesson or rebellion.”“Colin,” Penelope said.He ignored her. “You’re chasing her because you can’t have what you actually want. That’s what this is. You’re desperate for a distraction, and she—she’s just…”“Say it,” Anthony said, teeth clenched.“She’s convenient!”The silence that followed cracked something inside her.Penelope stared at Colin.She remembered writing him letters. Hundreds. Laughing at his jokes even when they weren’t funny. Watching him fall for other women with the kind of affection that felt like bleeding. And still hoping he’d look at her one day and see someone worth choosing.But this was the day.And he hadn’t chosen her.He never would.And thank God for that.Because someone else had.Penelope stepped forward, her voice clear, steady. “You don’t get to be angry.”Colin blinked. “Pen—”“No,” she said, louder now. “You don’t get to be shocked. Or offended. Or jealous. You never wanted me, Colin. Not when it mattered. Not when it would have meant something. And I’ve made peace with that. But what I won’t let you do is shame me for choosing someone who does want me.”He went still.Anthony stood silent beside her, letting her speak. Letting her fight for herself.“You had years,” she continued. “Years to say something. But you didn’t. You saw me as a friend. A shadow. A child. Anthony sees a woman.”She turned to Violet next, who looked torn between astonishment and grief.“I love your family,” Penelope said softly. “I always have. And I never thought I’d be standing here like this, not really. But I won’t apologize for what’s happened. Or who I am now. I’m not asking for permission.”She took Anthony’s hand.“I’m just telling you.”The room fell silent.Colin’s mouth opened, then shut again.Violet brought a hand to her heart.Benedict muttered, “Well. That settles that.”And Anthony—Anthony turned to her with something like awe in his eyes.“Penelope,” he said, voice low, “I believe I’ve just fallen in love with you.”Her chest rose, breath catching.And then she smiled. Just a little. Just enough.“Good. You’ll need the head start.”Epilogue - Penelope’s POV It still surprised her, sometimes.Not the name—Lady Bridgerton rolled off the tongues of servants and shopkeepers now, embroidered on letters, tucked into invitations, spoken in reverent surprise by young ladies who used to look through her like fog—but the way it felt.It wasn’t heavy, like she thought it might be.It was warm.Like something she had grown into.The rain fell gently that morning, pattering against the tall windows of Bridgerton House like a memory knocking at the glass. Penelope stood by the hearth in Anthony’s study—their study now, technically—watching the gray light spill across the desk she still hadn’t quite dared touch.She wore one of his shirts, oversized and wrinkled from where he’d tugged it off the night before and dropped it on the edge of the bed. Her hair was half-pinned, forgotten in the lazy tumble of their morning. Tea curled steam in her hand. And the pages of the book she wasn’t reading fluttered softly in the breeze from the window.Married life, it turned out, didn’t feel like a cage.It felt like freedom.And she’d never expected that—not when she was fourteen and in love with a boy who would never see her. Not when she was twenty and watching her friends pair off like storybook endings written without her. And certainly not the night she had walked into that masked party, not knowing that Anthony Bridgerton, of all people, would become the man who changed the shape of her world.Sometimes she looked at him and still couldn’t quite reconcile it.He loved her.Not quietly. Not in half-hidden glances or polite declarations over teacups. He loved her like a storm—loud, unrepentant, and unmovable. The same man who once swore off love now kissed her every morning like he needed the confirmation she hadn’t disappeared in the night. He made space for her words, her thoughts, her ink-stained fingers. He argued with her, adored her, worshipped her like he had never learned how to love quietly, and didn’t see the point in trying.And she had never been more seen.She had not written a single issue of Lady Whistledown since the wedding.She wasn’t hiding, exactly—just... resting.Because for the first time in her life, she had nothing to prove.No one to chase. No story to spin into power.Power was already hers.She heard the door creak open behind her and smiled before she even turned.“I thought you were working,” she said, not looking up from the rain.“I was,” Anthony replied, his voice still honeyed from sleep. “Then I remembered you weren’t in the room, and suddenly I wasn’t interested in work anymore.”She turned then, just as he crossed the rug and slid his arms around her waist.Anthony Bridgerton, her husband.Her scandal. Her savior. Her ruin.Still devastatingly handsome even when he hadn’t shaved.“You’ve got ink on your thumb,” he murmured into her neck, kissing the spot just below her ear.“And you’ve got a council meeting in twenty minutes,” she murmured back, though her hand had already curled around his forearm.He hummed. “Cancel it.”“You can’t cancel Parliament, Anthony.”“Of course I can. I outrank Parliament.”She laughed, soft and full, resting her head against his chest. “You’re insufferable.”“You married me.”“I did,” she said, and let the words bloom through her like a slow, steady heat. “I really did.”There were days she still didn’t quite believe it.Days when her reflection caught her off guard, when she caught sight of her wedding ring and had to pause, to remember—he chose me.He could have had anyone. He’d tried, once. But in the end, he had returned to her—not because she’d waited, not because she’d pleaded or begged or twisted herself into something smaller to fit beside him—but because she had stopped waiting, stood up, and walked away.And he’d followed.That, more than anything, had rewritten the story she’d spent her whole life narrating from the sidelines.“Anthony,” she said softly, after a long pause. “Are you happy?”He drew back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. His thumb brushed her cheek. “No,” he said.She blinked, startled.“I’m delirious,” he added with a crooked grin. “Utterly undone. Can’t think straight. And I’m fairly certain I love you more today than I did yesterday, which I didn’t think was possible.”She swatted his chest. “You’re a menace.”“I’m your menace,” he said, bending to kiss her.The tea cooled in her hand. The rain kept falling.And Penelope Bridgerton stood wrapped in love she had never imagined would be hers, wearing her husband’s shirt and the name he had given her, finally no longer trying to be the kind of woman anyone else needed her to be.Because she had written a thousand stories.And now—finally—she was living her favorite one. The End.'
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