Chapter 1: The Library at Dawn
The velvet of the settee arm bit into Penelope's palms as she gripped it, her knuckles white against the worn fabric. She could feel every thread beneath her fingers, every creak of the antique wood frame as Colin pressed against her from behind, his breath hot and ragged against the nape of her neck.
She had imagined this so many times. The reality was nothing like the fantasy.
In her dreams, he was gentle.Reverent. He would whisper her name like a prayer and stroke her hair as he slid inside her, his eyes locked on hers, filled with that warmth she had worshiped from across ballrooms and dinner tables for over a decade.
In reality, he had her bent over like a common whore, her skirts hiked around her waist, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises. The sound of his breathing was wet and desperate, and when he pushed into her, there was no poetry in it—just the raw, slick heat of two bodies colliding after years of pretending.
"Oh, fuck," he groaned, his voice strained, and she felt the word vibrate through his chest where it pressed against her spine.
Penelope squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel every inch of him, the way he filled her completely, stretching her in a way that made her gasp and grip the settee harder. He wasn't gentle. He was slow—deliberately, agonizingly slow—but there was a violence in the restraint, a trembling tension in every muscle of his body as he pulled back and pushed in again, hitting that spot deep inside her that made her see stars.
"Colin," she breathed, and it came out broken, like she was already falling apart.
"I know," he muttered, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. "I know, Pen.I know."
He didn't stop. He fucking couldn't stop, and neither could she. Her body was betraying her, arching back into him, clenching around him with every slow, deliberate stroke. The sound of their bodies meeting was obscene in the quiet of the library—wet and rhythmic, punctuated by her sharp inhales and his guttural curses.
But then something shifted.
His hand slid from her hip to her stomach, flat and possessive, pulling her back against him as he thrust deeper. His other hand came up to cup her breast through the bodice of her gown, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it until she whimpered. And his mouth—God, his mouth—pressed a kiss to the curve of her shoulder, soft and trembling, like he was trying to say something he didn't have the words for.
"Penelope," he whispered, and the way he said her name—not Pen, not a nickname, but her full name, like she was something sacred—broke something inside her.
She started to cry.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. Just a single sob that escaped her throat before she could swallow it, her shoulders shaking as she bit down on her lip to stop the rest. But he felt it. Of course he felt it. His hand on her stomach stilled, and then he was pulling out of her, the absence of him sudden and cold, and she almost screamed from the loss.
"No—" she started, but he was already turning her around, his hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at him.
His hazel eyes were wild in the dim light, his chest heaving, his lips parted and wet. He looked at her like she had just handed him a blade and asked him to cut out her heart.
"Look at me," he said, his voice cracking. "Penelope, look at me."
She couldn't. Her eyes were swollen, her mascara ruined, her whole face a blotchy testament to a decade of unrequited love. She tried to turn away, but his grip on her jaw was firm, insistent, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked down her cheeks.
"This isn't just fucking," he said, and the words came out raw, like they had been ripped from his throat. "This isn't—I'm not—" He stopped, his jaw clenching, and she watched him struggle to find the words. "This is everything, Pen.Everything."
She slapped him.
The sound cracked through the library like a gunshot, sharp and final. His head snapped to the side, and she felt the sting in her palm, the shock reverberating up her arm. He didn't move. He just stood there, his face turned away, a red mark blooming on his cheek.
"Don't you dare," she hissed, her voice breaking on every syllable. "Don't you dare pretend this is something it's not. You don't get to do that, Colin. Not after four years. Not after everything."
He turned back to her slowly, and the look in his eyes made her breath catch. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even hurt. It was something raw and naked and terrifying, like he had just peeled open his own chest and offered her his beating heart.
"I've been in love with you for four years," he said.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and impossible. Penelope blinked at him, her mind refusing to process what he had just said. She shook her head, a broken laugh escaping her lips.
"No, you haven't."I have."
"You've been traveling, Colin. You've been flirting with every debutante in London. You've been—"
"I've been running," he interrupted, his voice rising. "I've been running from the fact that I'm in love with my best friend, and I'm too much of a coward to do anything about it."
She stared at him. Her heart was hammering so hard she could hear it in her ears, feel it in her throat. Her body was still trembling from what they had done, still aching from the feel of him inside her, and now he was standing here, red-faced and desperate, telling her that she hadn't been alone in her misery all these years.
"That's not fair," she whispered. "That's not fair, Colin."
"I know." He stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. She could feel him, still hard, still ready, pressed against her belly. "I know it's not fair. I know I don't deserve you. I know I've been a fucking idiot for four years, pretending I didn't feel this, pretending you were just a friend, when every time I saw you laugh, every time I saw you smile, I wanted to—" He stopped, his voice breaking again. "I wanted to kiss you until you couldn't breathe."
She slapped him again.
This time, he didn't flinch. He just took it, his eyes never leaving hers, his hands still firm on her waist. She was crying openly now, ugly sobs that she couldn't control, and she hated herself for it.She hated him. She hated the way he was looking at her, like she was the only woman in the world, like he had never wanted anyone else.
"You're a liar," she said, her voice shaking. "You're a liar, and I've loved you since I was fifteen, and I hate you for making me feel this way."His breath caught. His hands tightened on her waist, and for a moment, he just stared at her, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Then he let out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest.
"Fifteen," he repeated, his voice muffled in her hair. "Fifteen, Pen. And I was too blind to see it."
"You were engaged to my cousin," she said, her voice muffled against his shirt. "You proposed to Marina while I was standing right there."I know." He pulled back, his hands cupping her face again, forcing her to look at him. "I know, and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry, Pen. I was an idiot. I was scared. I didn't think I deserved you, so I settled for someone who didn't make me feel like I was constantly falling."
"That's a terrible reason to propose to someone."
"I know." He laughed, but it was bitter, self-deprecating. "I know. I'm a disaster. I'm a walking, talking disaster, and I've spent the last four years trying to outrun the fact that I'm in love with you."
She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do. She was standing in the Bridgerton library, her skirts bunched around her waist, her body still humming from the feel of him inside her, and he was telling her that he loved her. That he had always loved her.
It felt like a dream. It felt like a cruel, elaborate joke.
"If you're lying to me—" she started, but he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was desperate and hungry, his tongue sliding against hers, his hands tangling in her hair, pulling her closer like he was trying to crawl inside her skin. She moaned into his mouth, her fingers clutching at his waistcoat, and when he pulled back, they were both breathless.
"I'm not lying," he said, his forehead pressed against hers. "I've never been more honest about anything in my life. I love you, Penelope Featherington. I love your laugh. I love your brain. I love the way you roll your eyes when I say something stupid. I love the way you blush when I compliment you. I love everything about you, and I'm done pretending I don't."
She was crying again. She couldn't help it. They were streaming down her face, and she couldn't even be embarrassed about it, because he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
"I don't know what to do with this," she admitted, her voice small. "I don't know how to be the girl you want."
"You don't have to be anyone but yourself," he said, and his voice was so fucking tender it made her chest ache. "I've wanted you for four years, Pen. Exactly as you are."
He kissed her again, softer this time, and she melted into him. Her hands slid up his chest, around his neck, pulling him closer, and when he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the settee, she let him.
He laid her down on the velvet, the fabric cool against her heated skin, and climbed over her, his body a warm, solid weight. He looked down at her, his hazel eyes dark with want, his hair falling across his forehead, and she reached up to brush it away.
"I love you," she said, and the words felt like freedom.
He smiled—that same, devastating smile she had been in love with for eleven years—and leaned down to kiss her again.
"Show me," she whispered against his lips. "Show me how much you love me."
And he did.