Chapter 5: The Initiation
The click of the carriage door latch was the loudest sound Eloise had ever heard. It sealed them in: the four of them, the scent of brandy and sex, and the crushing weight of her decision. The world outside—the rules, the expectations, the silent, judgmental walls of Mayfair—faded to a dull hum beyond the glass.
For a long moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Eloise stood just inside, her back pressed against the door, as if she might still flee. The air was thick, humid with spent passion and unspoken questions. She felt their eyes on her—Anthony’s assessing gaze, Colin’s curious smirk, Penelope’s wide, knowing look.
Anthony broke the silence. He didn’t move from his lean against the opposite seat. “Well,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the confined space. “You’re in.”
“I haven’t decided anything,” Eloise snapped, but the protest sounded thin, even to her. Her heart was a frantic bird against her ribs.
Colin chuckled, reaching for the decanter. He poured a fresh measure into a glass and held it out to her. “Your hands are shaking. This will help.”
She wanted to refuse. To prove she wasn’t part of this. But her fingers were trembling. She took the glass, her knuckles white around the cut crystal, and drank. The brandy burned a path of false courage down her throat.
Penelope had straightened her chemise, but her hair was still a coppery cascade down her back. She watched Eloise with an expression that wasn’t pity, nor triumph. It was something closer to recognition. “It’s loud in your head right now, isn’t it?” she said softly.
Eloise nodded, once. The moral outrage was a screamed lecture in her mind. The aching heat between her legs was a constant, throbbing counterpoint.
Anthony pushed off from the seat. He approached her slowly, a predator giving prey time to bolt. She didn’t move. He stopped a breath away, the heat of his body palpable. He smelled of sandalwood and sweat and something else, something darkly male.
“You watched,” he said, not unkindly. “You saw the truth of it. There’s no unseeing that.”
“I saw my brothers—” she began, her voice cracking.
“You saw pleasure,” Colin corrected from behind Anthony. He was leaning back, supremely at ease, as if philosophical debates in the aftermath of orgasm were commonplace. “Complex, maybe. Messy, absolutely. But pleasure nonetheless. No one was hurt. No one was used.” He glanced at Penelope. “Were you?”
Penelope’s lips curved. “I felt rather the opposite of used.”
The simplicity of the statement disarmed Eloise. She looked at Penelope—really looked. She saw no shame, no cowering. She saw a woman who, for perhaps the first time Eloise had known her, seemed entirely present in her own skin. It was infuriating. And mesmerizing.
Anthony reached out. He didn’t grab her. He simply offered his hand, palm up, an echo of his earlier invitation. “You want to understand. Not with your mind,” he said, tapping his temple with his free hand. “With this.” His hand hovered, implying the rest of her. “Stop thinking, Eloise. Just feel.”
The screaming in her head dimmed to a whisper. The throbbing in her body amplified. She looked at his hand, at the strong, capable fingers. She thought of the way those same fingers had tangled with Colin’s over Penelope’s skin. A shiver, one she could not control, ran through her.
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, she placed her glass on a small side table. Then, she placed her cold, trembling hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, warm and sure. He didn’t pull her toward him. He turned, leading her gently to the center of the carriage, toward Penelope.
Penelope sat on the velvet bench, watching their approach. Her earlier nervousness was gone, replaced by a quiet authority. Anthony guided Eloise to stand before her.
“Kneel,” he said softly, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.
A fresh bolt of outrage shot through Eloise. “I am not going to—”
“Eloise,” Penelope interrupted, her voice calm. “It’s not about submission. It’s about perspective.” She patted the space on the floor between her knees. “Come see what I see.”
Colin shifted, moving to sit beside Penelope on the bench. He smiled at his sister, a real, encouraging smile that reached his eyes. “Trust her. For once in your life, stop analyzing and just… follow.”
The conflict was a physical pain. But Anthony’s hand was steady on her shoulder, and Penelope’s gaze was an anchor. The curiosity, the terrible, hungry need to know, won. Eloise sank to her knees on the luxurious carpet of the carriage floor. The world shrunk. She was looking up at Penelope from a new angle. Penelope’s face was softer from here, her expression gentle.
Anthony’s hand remained on her shoulder. Colin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He was close enough that Eloise could feel the heat radiating from him.
“Now,” Colin whispered, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial register. It wasn’t wicked. It was intimate. “You saw me with her. You saw Anthony. You thought it was about taking.” He nodded toward Penelope. “Look at her. Really look. Is she diminished? Or is she… more?”
Eloise looked. Penelope’s skin glowed. Her eyes were bright, her lips slightly swollen. She looked vibrant, alive, powerful in a way Eloise had never associated with such acts.
“Touch her,” Anthony murmured, his thumb moving in a small circle on her shoulder. “A hand on her knee. See if she flinches.”
Hesitantly, Eloise lifted her hand. She placed her fingertips on Penelope’s bare knee, just above where her stocking ended. The skin was warm, surprisingly soft. Penelope didn’t flinch. She let out a small, soft sigh and covered Eloise’s hand with her own, pressing it more firmly against her skin.
The contact sent a jolt through Eloise. It was electric.
“She likes your touch,” Colin observed quietly. “See?”
“Now,” Anthony said, his voice a low thread of command beside her ear. “Kiss her.”
Eloise’s head snapped up. “What?”
“You watched me do it,” Anthony said. “You watched Colin. You were curious. Be curious now. Kiss her. Not for me. Not for him. For you. To know what it feels like.”
Penelope didn’t speak. She simply waited, her hand still over Eloise’s. Her expression was open, offering.
Eloise’s mind raced, then went blissfully, terrifyingly blank. The voices of society, of propriety, were drowned out by the pounding of her own blood. She leaned forward, her movement awkward, unpracticed. She closed her eyes at the last second, her lips brushing against Penelope’s.
It was nothing like she’d imagined. It wasn’t the dry, polite peck of a greeting. It was soft. Warm. Penelope’s lips moved gently against hers, tentative at first, then with more assurance. The taste was faintly of brandy, and of something uniquely Penelope. It was shockingly pleasant. A bloom of warmth spread from her mouth through her entire body, loosening the knots of tension in her stomach.
She pulled back, stunned, her eyes flying open.
Penelope was smiling. A real, true smile that lit her whole face. “Hello,” she whispered.
Colin laughed softly, a sound of pure delight. “See? Not so dreadful, is it?”
Anthony’s hand squeezed her shoulder. “Good,” he said, simple and final.
Eloise looked from Penelope’s smiling face to Colin’s grinning one, then up at Anthony’s satisfied, watchful expression. The moral outrage had not vanished, but it had been compartmentalized, shoved into a drawer for later examination. What filled the space it left was a vast, roaring curiosity and a deep, thrilling sense of transgression. She had crossed a line. The world on this side was softer, warmer, and vibrantly alive.
She was still kneeling. She was still a Bridgerton. But nothing was the same.
Penelope’s fingers laced with hers. “It’s just another secret, Eloise,” she said softly, as if reading her thoughts. “The best kind. One you choose to keep.”
Outside, the carriage rolled on through the London night, a gilded bubble of hidden truth. Inside, Eloise Bridgerton, her mind quieter than it had ever been, leaned forward and kissed Penelope Featherington again. This time, she did not close her eyes.
This time, she did not close her eyes. She saw the faint dusting of freckles across Penelope’s nose, the deep blue of her irises, the slight flutter of her lashes. The kiss was softer now, exploratory. Eloise felt the startling silk of Penelope’s lips, the warm huff of her breath. It was a quiet discovery, achingly slow.
Then Anthony’s hand, still on her shoulder, tightened.
His grip was not painful, but it was absolute. It stilled her. He pulled her back just an inch, breaking the kiss. Penelope’s eyes shifted to him, a question in them.
“Good,” Anthony said again, but his tone had changed. It was lower, focused. The word was no longer praise. It was a period. The end of her tentative exploration and the beginning of his direction.
He turned Eloise by her shoulder, forcing her to kneel facing him instead of Penelope. The plush carpet was rough against her knees through her gown. He loomed above her, a study in controlled intensity. The gaslight from the passing streetlamps carved sharp planes across his face.
“You’ve had your taste,” he stated, his voice filling the space. “Now you learn the shape of the meal.”
Colin let out a soft whistle from the bench, shifting his position. He was watching Anthony with sharp appreciation. “Here we go.”
“Quiet,” Anthony said, without even glancing at his brother. His gaze was locked on Eloise. “You watched. You judged. You called it wrong.” He leaned down, his hands coming to rest on his own knees, bringing his face level with hers. “Your error was in thinking it was chaos. It is not. There is an order. My order.”
Eloise’s breath hitched. The command in his voice should have sparked rebellion. It only coiled the tension in her belly tighter.
“Penelope,” Anthony said, his eyes never leaving Eloise’s. “Stand up.”
Penelope rose smoothly from the bench. She stood beside Anthony, a portrait of composed readiness. She looked down at Eloise, her expression not unkind, but resolved. She was part of this structure.
“You wanted to understand what you saw,” Anthony continued. His voice was hypnotic in its calm certainty. “So you will replicate it. Under my instruction.”
He reached out and took one of Eloise’s hands. He placed it on the firm muscle of his own thigh, high up near his hip. The superfine wool of his trousers was warm. “Here. You will keep it there.”
Eloise’s fingers tensed, then relaxed against the solidity beneath the fabric.
Then he guided her other hand, reaching past her to take Penelope’s wrist. He placed Eloise’s free hand on Penelope’s knee, mirroring the first touch from moments before, but higher, on the soft skin of her inner thigh. Penelope’s skin was incredibly warm. Eloise could feel the faint, rapid pulse beneath her fingertips.
“Both hands,” Anthony instructed, settling back to observe. “You are the connection. The bridge. Colin.”
“Present,” Colin said, his voice bright with amusement.
“Kiss her,” Anthony commanded, nodding toward Penelope. “Let my sister feel how it works. Let her feel the transfer.”
Colin didn’t hesitate. He leaned across the small space and caught Penelope’s mouth with his own. It was a deep, familiar kiss. Penelope sighed into it, her body swaying slightly. Eloise felt the minute tremor that ran through Penelope’s thigh under her palm. She felt the answering shift in the muscle of Anthony’s leg under her other hand. A circuit, live and humming.
Anthony watched, his eyes dark. “Do you feel it?” he asked Eloise, his voice barely above a murmur. “The energy? It’s not taken. It’s shared. Circulated. You are part of the circuit now.”
Eloise did feel it. A strange, vibrating current seemed to travel from Colin, through Penelope, into her own hand, up her arm, and across her body through her other hand connected to Anthony. It was a physical truth, undeniable.
Colin broke the kiss, breathing harder. Penelope’s eyes were hazy.
“Now me,” Anthony said, his gaze piercing Eloise. “Watch.”
He stood abruptly. He framed Penelope’s face with his hands and kissed her with a profound, consuming focus. It was different from Colin’s kiss—slower, more deliberate, utterly possessive. Penelope’s hands came up to clutch his forearms. A soft sound escaped her.
Under Eloise’s hand, Anthony’s thigh muscle went rock-hard. The tremor was stronger this time, a shockwave. The current that shot through Eloise was hotter, sharper. She gasped.
Anthony pulled back. He looked down at Eloise, his chest rising and falling. “That,” he said, his voice rough, “is the order. The current flows where I direct it. Through her. Through you. Through him.” He glanced at Colin. “It requires trust. It requires surrender to the design.”
He crouched before her again, his face dangerously close. “Your outrage was a denial of the design. Your curiosity was a request to see it. Your kneeling is your acceptance of it. Do you accept the design, Eloise?”
She was adrift in sensation, anchored only by the two points of contact—the fierce solidity of Anthony, the yielding warmth of Penelope. The world outside the carriage had ceased to exist. There was only this charged, silent space and his question.
She nodded, a tiny, desperate motion.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. It wasn't gentle. It was triumphant.
“Then you understand your role,” he said. He placed his own large hand over hers where it rested on Penelope’s thigh. His skin was scorching. “You are not a spectator. You are a conduit. You will feel everything.”
He turned his head towards Colin. “Again.”