Chapter Text
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The air in Florence was thick with late-summer heat, heavy enough to cling to his skin even as night fell over the city. From the open shutters came the faint sound of a lute, the laughter of men who had been drinking since noon, and the ever-present scent of roasted chestnuts from the vendor at the corner. Colin lay back on the tangled sheets, his body still warm from the woman beside him, and felt the familiar question stir: Is this all?
She was pretty enough, clever enough, and she had kissed him with a kind of boldness he found flattering, but already he felt the moment dissolving. He watched her turn in her sleep, hair spilling over her shoulder, and thought only of how quickly the intimacy would vanish once he rose to dress. It always did. He supposed it was meant to feel like conquest, to leave him satisfied and smug as his brothers no doubt felt after similar pursuits, but for him it was simply… pleasant. Enjoyable in the way a fine supper was enjoyable — fleeting, gone as soon as the appetite was sated.
So he went out again the next day, and the day after, filling his hours with markets and taverns, with churches that smelled of incense and wine that was sweeter than anything London could offer. He laughed too loudly at other men’s jokes, ate too much, drank too much, and still, when night came, a hollowness echoed in him.
It was only in rare, quiet moments that he felt something stir that was not restlessness. Once, in the marketplace, a vendor pressed a slice of tomato and oil into his hand, and he ate it standing there among the noise and bustle, the juice running down his fingers. The taste was sharp, alive. He found himself wanting to capture it in words — to describe how sunlight seemed to lodge itself in the flesh of the fruit, how it carried the life of the soil in a way no English garden could. He nearly pulled out his notebook then and there, eager to pin the moment down before it slipped away.
Another time, on the steps of Santa Croce, he wrote for nearly an hour — not about travel in the grand sense, not about cities or history, but about the small things he had seen that day: the color of laundry strung between windows, the sound of water slapping against stone, the old woman scolding pigeons away from her basket of figs. He lost himself in it, and when at last he set his pen down, he felt oddly lighter, as though the restlessness had stilled for a little while.
The rest of the time, he played the part expected of him. The worldly Bridgerton, restless and charming, sowing his oats on foreign soil. People seemed to expect it of him, so he delivered. He could not say why it left him feeling more like an actor than himself.
And then, late in the afternoon when the sun slanted low across the tiled rooftops, a packet of letters arrived from England.
The innkeeper brought them up in a bundle, tied with twine and smudged with dust from the road. Colin set them aside at first, letting them rest on the desk while he lingered over a late meal of bread and cheese, pretending he wasn’t impatient to open them.
What he was waiting for was not bread, nor cheese, nor even the familiar hand of his mother. He wanted her letters — neat, careful, unfailingly precise. Penelope’s script had always been the one he looked for first, even if he told himself otherwise. In every town, every stop, he felt the same faint leap of hope: perhaps today.
He untied the packet at last. His mother’s neat script. Anthony’s deliberate, heavy strokes. Hyacinth’s dramatic flourishes that always smudged before the ink dried. He shuffled through them quickly, too quickly, looking for her hand.
It was not there.
A hollow weight settled in his chest, one he tried to laugh off. She was busy, no doubt. London was a whirl of engagements, teas, obligations. He told himself not to mind, that it was nothing. And yet he lingered over the stack again, searching as if the missing letter might reveal itself the second time through. It did not.
And then — Eloise.
Her hand was as hurried and unruly as the girl herself, the letters tilting wildly across the page. He felt his mouth twitch into a smile despite himself. For all her complaining, Eloise never failed to write, and he never failed to save her letters for last.
He held the envelope a moment longer, thumb tracing the jagged edge where the seal had been pressed. The room outside his shutters buzzed with life — laughter, bells tolling in the distance, the rumble of wheels over stone — yet as he broke the seal and unfolded the paper, the city seemed to fall away.
My dear Colin,
I do hope your adventures in Italy continue to be as enlightening as you insist. I picture you now — glass of wine in one hand, plate of olives in the other, looking very pleased with yourself while pretending to be “inspired” by marble statues of men with very little clothing. Do not deny it; you have always preferred to admire things that stand still while you talk over them.
London is much as you left it: Anthony is tiresome in his new role as husband (apparently matrimony makes one an expert on every subject under the sun), Benedict is either painting or sulking, I cannot tell which, and Gregory continues his campaign to be the loudest creature in the kingdom. Hyacinth, however, has declared war upon the local magpie. (Do not ask. It involves a missing ribbon, two teacups, and my mother insisting that feathers are not a suitable addition to a bonnet. Really, the things that occupy her mind.)
But all of this pales beside the true scandal: Penelope Featherington.
Yes, you read that correctly. Our Penelope. She has apparently decided that the Season to come will not be wasted in corners or behind teacups. She actually wears gowns that suit her now — I have to pause and say she looks rather good— and worse, she listens when men speak to her and does not immediately wither into the wallpaper. I’ve even seen her smile at one or two of them as if she were considering them seriously. Marriage, Colin. She is contemplating marriage.
I cannot forgive it. We had an agreement, she and I, though unspoken — that we should stand together against such nonsense. I relied upon her to share my disdain, to sneer with me at matchmaking mothers and the ridiculous performance of the ballroom. And now she dares to laugh when I accuse her of betrayal. Laugh! As though she finds it amusing that I am left to my solitary rebellion while she entertains the prospect of becoming Mrs. Someone-or-other.
I tell you plainly, I do not recognize her. She does not fidget with her sleeves. She does not avoid eyes. She walks into rooms and people notice her — and worse, she does not appear to mind it. If this continues, she will leave me behind entirely. And you too, though you are far away and perhaps deserve it for abandoning us in such a dull Season.
So, while you busy yourself with statues and new dishes, know this: Penelope Featherington is in danger of being lost to matrimony. And I am left without my one true ally. You ought to be more alarmed than I am, though I cannot imagine you will be. You never see what is in front of you until it has gone.
Your ever-annoyed sister,
Eloise
Colin sat still for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the last line of the letter. Penelope, considering marriage? The words felt impossible to grasp. His stomach turned. Was this why she hadn’t answered his letters? Had she already found someone? Someone who forbade her from writing to him?
The thought rattled him. No. She wouldn’t. He cursed Eloise under his breath for providing so little real information. She spoke of gowns, of suitors, of Penelope’s newfound attention, but not who these men were, or what she truly wanted.
Colin's mind swirled, images of Penelope—soft-spoken, sharp-witted Penelope—dancing through his thoughts. What kind of men were her suitors? Men who could see beyond her family’s financial mess? Men who were worthy of her? The thought made his chest tighten with frustration. He could hardly fathom anyone who would deserve her.
Penelope had no male relatives to guide her choices, no one to ensure the suitors were suitable. She was out there, exposed to the whims of any man who might fancy her — and that thought struck him harder than he expected. The idea of her marrying anyone, of any man taking her away... it felt wrong. Why? What business was it of his? Surely there was no reason he should care whether she married, but… the thought wouldn’t leave him. It twisted his stomach, making him feel all sorts of things he couldn’t quite explain.
His thoughts tumbled over themselves in confusion. Maybe she was just looking for protection, safety. Yes, safety! Maybe a wealthy man could give her that. He cursed again, this time at himself. What on earth am I thinking?
The whole thing was absurd. Penelope marrying someone else. Penelope, of all people. He couldn’t fathom it. It was the most outrageous thing he’d ever heard... and yet... the idea refused to leave his mind.
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It had been a few weeks since Colin had last received that letter from Eloise, and he found himself drifting between cities, the pleasure of new experiences fading as quickly as they arrived. In one city, he’d enjoyed a perfect dish of seafood risotto, in another, a delicate pastry he could still taste on his tongue. Each meal had been a brief escape, but just as soon as he had swallowed, his thoughts returned to the same place.
The silence was unsettling.
He had written to Penelope—of course, he had—but her reply had not come. His last letter to her had been just as casual as the previous ones, yet this time he found himself hoping for a response more than ever.
“I trust this letter finds you well, though I must admit that I find myself rather unsettled. The silence has grown longer than I anticipated, and while I can only assume that your time is filled with more important matters, I cannot help but wonder what it is that has kept you from writing.”
But no reply. Nothing.
Then there was the letter from Eloise. His sister had always been dramatic, but it was clear that Eloise was concerned—and Colin could feel it.
“I must say, your dramatics never fail to amuse, Eloise. As for Penelope, I’m hardly sure why her marriage prospects should cause such an uproar. She’s always been capable of deciding for herself, after all. Though, I must admit, I hadn’t thought her future would be the subject of so much attention. I assume you’ve been keeping a closer watch on her than I have—what exactly has made you so concerned? I imagine you must know more than I do.”
He had read those lines over and over, frustration building. It was all too little, too vague, and yet it unsettled him further.
Across the table, a woman spoke to him—he hardly registered her words. She was lovely enough, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. She leaned in a little too close, her laughter light and airy, but all Colin could think of was Penelope. What she’s laughing about now? he wondered. Is she enjoying a moment like this with someone else?
His mind wandered again, this time landing on the idea of Penelope’s suitors. What kind of men were they? Did they truly understand her? Was she being seen for who she really was—or was she simply another woman to be admired just for her appearance and her accomplishments?
She deserves better, he thought. The thought startled him. No, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have a say in who she chooses. She’ll choose who she pleases, and that’s the end of it. But it wasn’t the end of it. Not yet.