Chapter Text
Penelope Featherington was not made for ballrooms. That was her secret truth. Not for the crush of silk and cologne, or the unbearable heat of expectation pressing down on her like corset stays laced too tightly. No she would much rather be at home with her books.
Still, she stood quietly near the refreshment table, clutching a glass of lemonade that had long since gone warm. This was only her second ball ever—first with the Queen in attendance—and her shoes already pinched. Her mother had threatened to faint if Penelope didn’t “smile wider” by the supper set.
She smiled. Wider. And considered shattering her glass just for a bit of chaos.
From across the room, Anthony Bridgerton was watching her.
“She’s unaccompanied,” murmured Violet, not looking at him but sipping her champagne with purpose.
Anthony didn’t look away from Penelope. “She seems fine.”
“She’s not, and you know it,” Violet said. “Take her for a dance.”
He blinked. “Mother, it’s Miss Featherington.”
“And you’ve known her since she was in pinafores, yes. Which means you’re less likely to bungle it than some fool who wants her for her dowry. Go.”
And because no one denied Violet Bridgerton when she said “go” in that tone, Anthony did.
Penelope looked up just as he approached. Her eyes widened, her spine straightened, and for a moment, he saw the familiar flinch—the expectation of mockery or, worse, pity. She braced.
“Miss Featherington,” he said, bowing slightly. “Would you do me the honor of this dance?”
She blinked. “Me?”
“Well, I’ve already danced with my sisters, and you’re far less likely to step on my toes than Benedict.”
Her brow arched, a glimmer of something mischievous flashing behind her eyes. “Are you asking me out of pity, my lord?”
He leaned in just a little. “I am asking because I could use a moment away from Lady Audley and her endless talk of ducks.”
Penelope laughed. Not an insipid debutante giggle or a grating demure trill—a real laugh. The kind that rang down corridors and spilled out of drawing rooms when Eloise said something scandalous or Colin retold a story poorly.
Anthony had heard that laugh before. But never for him.
He held out his hand, and she took it.
⸻
They danced a waltz.
He didn’t look at anyone else. And more curious still—she didn’t either. Her cheeks were flushed, her smile lopsided, and when he teased her about the expression on Cressida Cowper’s face (“Was that horror or indigestion?”), she nearly tripped from laughing.
“I think,” Penelope said breathlessly, “you may be the worst Viscount in all of England.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I’m taking it anyway.”
When the music ended, he escorted her toward the edge of the room, aware of how many eyes followed them. He did not care. His hand hovered too long at her back, and she didn’t pull away.
And then—
“Miss Featherington,” came a new voice. A stranger, tall and thin and too polished. “Might I introduce myself? Lord Wexley of Manchester.”
Anthony did not release her arm.
Penelope turned to the man and smiled. “Of course, my lord. This is Lord Bridgerton. A… friend.”
Something…snapped.
“Now, darling,” Anthony said, with a smile so sharp it could cut glass, “I am more than that. I thought we agreed I’m your intended.”
The ballroom froze.
Lady Danbury let out a delighted cackle that could’ve shattered crystal. His mother nearly dropped her fan.
Penelope’s eyes went wide. Her lips parted. Then—
Crunch.
She stomped on his foot. Hard.
“I will murder you,” she hissed.
“That’s no way to treat your fiancé.” Anthony noted with not a small bit of delight that the potential suitor had fled. Good.
“You are not my fiancé.”
The Queen—Queen Charlotte herself—perked up like a fox in a henhouse. “Oh, I like her,” she murmured. Then stated clearly, “Bridgerton, don’t let her get away.”
The siblings converged.
“Ten pounds says she agrees by Michaelmas,” Benedict whispered, passing money to Eloise.
“Two weeks,” Daphne said confidently. “She’ll forgive him in two weeks. He’s very good at groveling.”
“Three days,” murmured Violet with a proud sigh.
Colin just rubbed his forehead. “Oh no. He’s gone completely mad.”
Meanwhile, Penelope had turned on her heel and was storming away.
And Anthony—damn his bruised foot—was chasing her, dodging dancers and gowns and scandalized gasps.
“Penelope! Pen, wait—”
“Call me darling again and I will set you on fire.”
“Darling—I mean—Miss Featherington—I mean—I like you, all right?!”
She stopped.
Turned.
He skidded to a halt.
“You… like me?”
“I heard you laugh,” he said, breathless. “And I wanted to hear it again. Only for me. And when that idiot came over, and you called me a friend—”
“Because you are.”
“I want to be more.”
She blinked at him.
Then she stomped on his other foot.
“Next time,” she said sweetly, “ask me first.”
And she walked away.
Behind them, Lady Danbury raised her glass. “Two weeks is generous. I give it until Thursday.”