Chapter Text
Colin took the stairs to the drawing room two at a time. So great was his hurry to see his family that he had not even taken the time to remove his overcoat. The journey from Greece had been long, and he was all too ready for the comforts of home.
There, framed in the doorway, was Penelope. She sat with Eloise, and when she saw him, a brilliant smile spread across her face. Standing, she moved toward him, managing a few steps before Eloise threw her arms around him. His mother and Benedict embraced him in turn, and when he stepped back from Benedict, he turned, quite naturally, toward Penelope.
She had always been lovely, with brilliant red hair and clear blue eyes, but he had never before considered how soft and pink her lips looked, nor how full her bosom; he could not ignore her breasts now, however, highlighted as they were by her pink jacket.
Her arms twitched up as if to hug him, and he could not help himself. He swept her into his arms, and buried his face in her hair. Her scent was light and pleasant, a hint of roses and vanilla. Nuzzling his nose against her, he let himself relax into her embrace. Her arms had come up around his waist, and she was soft and full and warm, and he pulled her a bit more tightly against him.
When he released her and stepped back, his family was staring at them.
Penelope, he noted, had a dazed look upon her face, and she opened and closed her mouth as though she did not know what to say.
"Colin!" his mother hissed.
He could not imagine why, when he had been away for months, his mother should scold him, but the look on her face was quite fierce.
"Colin," she said, a bit louder. "I will thank you not to behave inappropriately with Penelope."
Colin, who had never in his life behaved inappropriately with Penelope, stared at her.
"We will speak about this later," she said in an undertone.
All conversation was halted then, for Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth rushed in, having been summoned from the school room. At the same time, Anthony strode through the doors. He was back, it seemed, from a morning of courting; apparently, his attempts had not been nearly as successful as he had hoped. He clapped Colin on the shoulder and announced that they would all be attending the races together. He did not include Penelope in that number, Colin noticed, and it irked him, although he was not able to pinpoint exactly why.
Penelope made her way out, escorted by Eloise, and the rest of the family dispersed, off to ready themselves for the races.
Colin had only just shut the door to his bedchamber; he had not even had a chance to shrug out of his coat when there was a knock at the door.
He called for the person to enter, and his mother swept into the room.
"I would like to speak to you," she said, "about Penelope."
Colin, who always liked to speak about Penelope, gestured for her to continue.
"You were quite forward with her this afternoon, dearest."
"I was simply greeting an old friend," he replied, but even he could hear the lack of confidence in his voice. He did not need to share with his mother how soft and curvy Penelope had felt in his arms. He had barely touched any part of her at all and yet he—
No. No, he must not think that way. He was a gentleman, and Penelope a gently-bred young lady, and she surely deserved the utmost respect from him, no matter how full her breasts, no matter how certain he was that her bottom was just as lush and full as the rest of her.
And when had he started pondering the feel of Penelope's bottom? This was exactly what he was trying to avoid, for Penelope was his friend and he owed it her to behave properly.
Just when he thought that he had tamped down his previous line of thinking, an image floated into his mind— one of Penelope looking up at him through her lashes, biting her lip.
He could not think about such a thing with his mother in his bedchamber, so he hurried her out of the room, promises to mind propriety dripping from his lips. The moment the door shut behind her, he dropped to the bed, reaching down to palm himself through his trousers.
***
There was such an ache between Penelope's thighs, and it had not abated in the near half an hour since she had left Bridgerton House. She had tried clenching her legs together, had tried taking deep, calming breaths, and nothing had worked. She supposed that her next recourse must be massaging the area, as one does to an aching muscle.
She could not risk the possibility that someone might enter whilst she attempted to relieve the discomfort; so, against her mama's mandate, she crossed to the door and turned the key in the lock. Then, settling back into her chair, she pulled up her skirts and spread her legs.
The first touch of her hand to the aching area left her gasping in surprise. It had produced such a pleasant, unexpected sensation that she had drawn her hand away in shock. When she did, she found that her fingers were glistening with a slick wetness, which must have come from between her legs.
She reached down again.
This time, the pleasure was not a surprise. She trailed her fingers over her sex, the featherlight touch heightening the ache in a delicious way.
Penelope had touched herself between the legs before, of course, as a part of her toilette. Never before, however, had she touched herself in the manner she now was. Her initial light touches had given way to a gentle rubbing, over her lips and, occasionally, brushing up against a little nub which sent shocks of pleasure through her when touched. She returned to it frequently, but she could not stop herself from exploring the rest of her sex; she dipped her fingers inside herself, and they came away nearly dripping.
The ache, she realized, had begun when Colin had hugged her; thinking of him now only heightened the sensations of pleasure. She pictured herself, his arms around her, his face buried in her hair. It was as though she was being marched towards a precipice— she did not know what lay below, but an invisible force compelled her to continue.
The sensation grew and grew as she imagined Colin kissing her, imagined that he was the one touching her between her legs, and finally she plunged from the cliff.
Her sex pulsed as a heavenly sensation spread through the whole of her body; her fingers moved furiously on the little nub, and she gasped and cried out Colin’s name.
When she finally came back to herself, she found that she was sitting, splay-legged, with one leg thrown over the arm of the chair, and her hand still moving idly between her legs. She was not seeking the tightening sensation and burst of before; rather, she was basking in the gentle, pleasant relaxation that had come after the storm of feeling.
At last, she could justify no longer her current recumbent state.
Standing, she adjusted her skirts and crossed the room to the ewer and basin. There, she washed her hands and examined herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed, as though she had engaged in some form of physical exertion, and she had a silly little smile on her face. It was a smile she had seen in the mirror before, after every ball at which she and Colin danced.
She might have reflected upon it longer, but a knock on the door told her that she must ready herself for the races.