Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Miss Featherington?”

Penelope looked up from the steel tub her hands had been submerged in all afternoon. She had been sitting scrubbing linens against the washboard for hours, but the pile of dirty laundry did not seem to be getting much smaller.

She squinted at the shape of a man silhouetted against the bright June sun. Withdrawing her hands from the water, she wiped them on her apron and blinked against the blinding sunlight. Her fingers had pruned something awful from being in the water all day, and she winced, thinking of the stinking tallow she would have to rub on them later.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice wary. She did not like strange men coming around when Mr Varley, their hired farm hand, wasn’t in hollering distance. Penelope’s father had died two years ago, leaving Penelope, her two sisters, and her mother to fend for themselves.

“Yes, ma’am,” the man said, and stepped under the shade of the porch, where Penelope was sitting on a stool with her tub and her laundry. “Or no, I s’pose. Rather, I’m here to help you. Is your mother around?”

In the relative darkness of the porch, Penelope was able to get a proper look at the fellow, and her breath caught in her throat.

He was beautiful. Perhaps that was a funny word to use for a man, but handsome did not seem to cut it. Very tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his white cotton shirt nicely, the muscles taut beneath his suspenders. Eyes a darker blue than the prairie sky; framed by lovely long lashes; a soft, sensitive mouth pulled into a shy smile. Thick chestnut curls that he was smoothing down with one hand, his hat in the other. She gathered he must be about four or five years older than her nineteen.

Penelope swallowed and tried to gather her wits. “No need to talk to my mother. You can talk to me.” It was true; unless this man wanted to gossip or needed help designing a new dress, Portia wouldn’t be much help. Penelope dealt with all the important stuff, and had since her daddy died. “What do you mean to help me with?” she asked, eyeing him.

He blinked at her, and Penelope suddenly realised she recognised him.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Colin Bridgerton.”

He was the third son of the Bridgerton family, the ones who owned the big, fancy cow ranch up on the hill. They were, she supposed, technically neighbors, but Penelope did not see much of the rich, pretty Bridgertons. In fact, she did not see much of anyone. Penelope tried not to go into town if she could avoid it, and they rarely had social calls - Portia had alienated half the town with her attitude.

“I am,” he said, tipping his head, his mouth curling into a smile. Penelope nodded. Although she was still intimidated, her fears were somewhat abated. This was no ill-intended stranger coming to take advantage of a household of women. The Bridgerton sons had reputations for being fine, upstanding young gentlemen, and the daughters were thought to be proper ladies (Penelope and her two sisters had been thought as such too a long time ago, before their father brought them out West).

“And what’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Penelope,” she said.

He tilted his head, looking at her quizzically. “Now that’s a name you don’t hear every day.”

Penelope fiddled with her apron, her eyes downcast. “My mother’s English,” she explained. “She married my father back in London, and he brought her over before I was born. To make a life for them, I guess.” Until he died, of course.

“Pe-ne-lo-pe.” He sounded it out like he was tasting the word, rolling it over his tongue. “An awful lot of syllables. Got anything shorter I can call you by?” His eyes creased up nicely as they looked her over. “Though I can’t imagine anything shorter than you.”

She glared at him and tossed her long, thick braid over her shoulder. “It’s not for you to call me anything, Mr Bridgerton,” she told him. “Not until you tell me what you need from me.”

His eyebrows lifted up for a moment. “Nothing gets past you, huh?” he said. He gave her a smile, and Penelope thought it was the kind of smile that could make a girl fall in love - if she was so inclined.

“Very little,” she said, and mashed her lips together to stop herself from smiling back.

“Well, I heard in town that you were looking for some help digging a well. And I thought I might provide my services.”

Penelope stared at him. “Now why on God’s green earth would you want to do that?” she asked, more bluntly than was perhaps proper for a young lady. “We can’t pay you.” Their father had left them with almost nothing, save this land and the house they were standing on. It was a pretty nice house - better than some of the others in the area - but life was hard.

He shook his head and turned his hat over in his hands. “No, I didn’t expect you could. I hoped you might instead pay me in kind.”

Penelope’s cheeks flushed red and she looked down, her hands smoothing the faded yellow cotton of her day dress. She didn’t suppose he meant what it sounded like he meant, being a gentleman and all, but the idea of Colin Bridgerton taking that sort of payment from her made her cheeks hot.

He seemed to realise what it sounded like. “I mean to say - we’re neighbors, you see. I’ve got a plot of land of my own not too far from here, and any day now I’ll start building on it,” he said quickly. “I know plenty about building a house, but there’s plenty more I don’t know about making it a home. I need a woman’s touch.”

Penelope squinted at him. “Don’t you have sisters?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Those girls have had help all their lives. They don’t know a thing about hard work. I need the assistance of someone who knows how to darn socks and sew curtains, and… do laundry.” He eyed the tub between Penelope’s legs, nestled amongst her skirts, and then looked away, clearing his throat. “What do you say, Miss Penelope?”

Lord help her, she liked how he said her name.

But she hesitated. She wasn’t one for accepting help, certainly not from strange men on her porch, but she was tired of trudging every morning to the river to haul water, dragging her little barrow to heave back the filled jugs. It would only get harder come winter, the snow making the path almost impassable, near enough risking death every time she needed to get more water. A well would make Penelope’s life easier by tenfold.

She regarded the young man. He leaned against one of the wooden columns of the porch, his arms folded across his broad chest. She sighed and rubbed her sore hands against her apron. “Fine.”

“We got a deal?” he asked, and there was something all too charming about how his eyebrow quirked upwards, his eyes sparkling a little more brightly.

“Yes, Mr. Bridgerton, we have ourselves a deal.”

He grinned. “Please, call me Colin.” And then he stuck out his hand.

Penelope looked at it - tanned and large, nicely sinewy. A strong hand, rough with hard work but clean. She got to her feet, and suddenly she wished she wasn’t wearing her tired old yellow day dress.

She stretched out her own hand - fingers wrinkled, skin chapped - and he took it. His hand was big enough to engulf hers, and he covered it with his other, so her fingers were held safely in the warm cage of his. And she knew it wasn’t quite proper for her to be shaking hands with strange men, but she had found that all the rules of propriety she had learned as a girl back East didn’t matter much out here.

“A deal,” he said firmly.

She met his gaze - such a dark, deep blue as to make Penelope feel like she was drowning at sea - and nodded. He squeezed her hand, a pleased look on his face.

“Deal.”

The next morning, Penelope was interrupted from her chores by her sister Philippa’s yell.

“There’s a man in our backyard!” she exclaimed, her face pressed to the kitchen window. “And he’s digging!”

Penelope joined her sister at the window, and sure enough, there was Colin Bridgerton, bent over with a shovel in the backyard.

“Oh, for -” she muttered. She put down her washcloth and marched outside.

“Don’t you think it’s polite to make yourself known before you start digging up a person’s back yard?” Penelope called out as she approached him.

He didn’t even pause in his digging. His cream shirtsleeves were pushed up, showing strong forearms covered in dark hair. “Well, there’s a lot of work to be done here. I didn’t want to waste time.” Sweat sheened on his tanned brow - even this early, the June sun was hot (Penelope felt the strangest desire to mop up the sweat).

Penelope felt slightly dismayed. She supposed he was right, which was irritating. She supposed she wasn’t accustomed to people just getting on with things without her pushing and fighting and begging. It unnerved her. “Did you just start digging in any which place? Aren’t you supposed to use dowsing rods or what-not, find the best spot?”

“Dowsing rods are utter nonsense,” he said breathlessly, frowning. “You can tell if there’ll be water by how the plants grow. This is the best spot, no doubt about it.”

His certainty annoyed her a little, though she wasn’t sure why. She put her hands on her hips and looked at the piles of discarded earth.

“Well… do you need anything to eat or drink?” she asked, and it came out angrier than she meant it to. More savage.

He didn’t stop his work, but his mouth curved into a smile. “A bite to eat wouldn’t go amiss. I skipped breakfast to get an early start here.”

“You did?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her heart did a silly little flutter when he said that. “My brothers and sisters near died of shock. I don’t think they’ve ever seen me miss a meal before.”

“Just what time did you start this morning?”

“Sunrise, or near enough.”

“Sunrise?”

“Well, by midday it’ll be too hot to do much of anything. I reckoned I should make good use of the cooler mornings.”

Penelope’s chest felt tight and strange. It was all perfectly rational, she supposed, but a silly part of her felt almost… touched.

She bit her lip to stop the grin that threatened to spread over her face. “I’ll bring you something.”

Colin ducked his head in thanks, and once Penelope had turned her back to him, walking back over to the house, she let herself smile.

Colin Bridgerton came to work on the well every other day. He said he would have come every day, but he had his own house to build, he explained, and wanted to have that done before fall when the weather turned.

They settled into a routine. He would arrive early and get to work, pausing only when Penelope brought him some breakfast. When the sun grew too hot in the afternoon, he would lay down his shovel and finish for the day.

And he would always linger for a moment to talk to her before he left. Not about anything in particular - the weather, or the harvest, or some idle gossip from town. He only ever really spoke with Penelope, staying out of the way of her mother and sisters if he could help it - easily enough done, as they spent most of their hours laying about indoors, looking at fashion plates and complaining.

She liked talking with him. She looked forward to it all day long, and it soon became her favorite part of the day - except the early morning, when she would sometimes stand at her window in her nightgown and watch him work as the sun rose.

Sometimes they wouldn’t speak at all. Sometimes he would simply lean against the porch railings and watch her work. He spent an entire afternoon just watching her churn butter, until his gaze started to itch her skin and she asked him if he didn’t have some work to do on his own property. He had jumped halfway out of his boots, as though watching her twist the churner had put some sort of spell on him from which her words had awoken him.

But more often, they would talk. He would jabber on about the home he was building, asking questions about the Featherington House.

“A mighty fine house you’ve got here,” he commented towards the end of the second week of well digging. He ran his hand along the carved wooden bannister of the porch, his fingers caressing the curlicues. “You don’t often see houses so fancy this far West.”

Penelope sighed and paused in her corn shucking. She was perched on her stool on the front porch, which was where she liked to do her afternoon chores when possible. At this time of day, the sun would fall on the back of the house, so it was comparatively cooler. Plus, Colin would always pass by here on his way to saddle up and ride home, and it was part of the routine: Penelope would sit on the porch and do her work, while Colin stood with his hat in hand, talking to her. Sometimes he would even help her - like today, when he was sitting opposite on an upturned barrel, tearing ears of corn from their husks. She liked watching his strong hands, how his thumbs would dig into the crisp sharp green, ripping away the tough outer leaves and exposing the sweet yellow pearls inside. There was something almost hypnotic about watching him work. He seemed to take to everything so easily, too; he said he had never shucked corn before today and now here he was, working faster than even Penelope who had done this more times than she could count.

“The house is very pretty,” she agreed, voice flat. She grabbed another ear of corn, lifting it to her mouth to blow off a tiny money spider that was crawling over the outside.

“You don’t think it’s pretty?” he asked sharply.

“No, it’s a lovely house. My Momma designed it all herself, every last bit, and my daddy bankrupted himself trying to keep up with her standards,” she explained, and she could not keep the bitterness from her voice. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, except Colin Bridgerton was forever looking at her like he wanted to hear what she had to say. And the more he looked at her like that, the more she found the words spilling out of her before she could stop them. “She thought we could live the same out here as we did back East. The Featheringtons were the cream of the crop back in Boston, you know.”

Colin offered a smile, pretty pink lips curving upwards. “Oh, I’ve no doubt about it. You’ve got the best manners of anyone in this town.”

Penelope frowned at him. Sometimes it was hard to tell if Colin was poking fun at her or not - his blue eyes were always dancing. She didn’t respond, just picked up another piece of corn.

“Explains your accent, too. You talk so much prettier than the rest of us do around here,” he remarked. “So why’d y’all move out here?” he asked, adjusting his seat on the barrel.

Penelope shrugged. “Daddy thought he could make his fortune, but he picked a bad patch of land and we came out here long after any fortunes could be made.” She stared out across the front yard, a grimace on her face. “He never really had a head for these sorts of things. And it was hard for Momma, leaving the high life behind. She and my sisters act like we’re still in Boston with an army of servants at our disposal. I reckon because I was so young when we moved, I’ve been able to adapt to a new way of living, but they’re stuck in the past.”

Colin didn’t say anything, but she could feel his eyes on her face, watching carefully. She tried to think of the last time she spoke this much, and she could not. It was him - those watchful blue eyes on her, making her open up.

“This fancy house is all we have, but it’s falling apart and I never seem to have the time to get it fixed up.” She sighed, and rubbed her thumb over the bumpy rows of corn. “There’s always so much to do.”

“I can help.”

It seemed to fall out of his mouth immediately, without reservation.

Penelope stared at him, and he went on: “I mean, I’m plenty handy, and it’ll be good experience for me. There are things about this house I’d like to use in my own. It’ll be useful to learn how it all fits together.”

She knew what he was doing - trying to make it sound like she was doing him a favor. She should say no, but she didn’t know how to refuse him when he smiled at her like that. Plus, she really could use the help.

So; a new part of the routine. Every other day, after the sun grew too hot to keep digging, he would come inside and fix one broken-down corner of Featherington house.

After three weeks of digging, the well remained dry.

Penelope brought Colin his breakfast and sat on an upturned log beside the ever-growing hole. Colin sat on the ground next to her, covered head to toe in dirt.

“Don’t you think we oughta have hit water by now?” Penelope said, folding her arms across her chest and pouting a little as she watched him wolf down the cornbread she had brought him.

Colin narrowed his eyes at her, though she could see his lips twitching. He wiped some of the dirt from his face with the back of his hand, but the hand was dirty too and he just smeared it. “I think we’re close. The soil is getting wetter the deeper we go, and I can smell water.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “You can smell it, can you?”

His eyes flashed with amusement. “Yes, ma’am, I can.”

“Well, you ought to patent that nose of yours, Colin Bridgerton. You could make your fortune lending it out to poor settlers looking to find a water source.”

“And maybe you ought to patent that tongue of yours, Miss Penelope,” he retorted. “Sharp enough to cut stone, I’m sure of it.”

Penelope sucked her lower lip into her mouth to stop herself from smiling.

Colin had no such qualms and grinned widely. He held out his shovel to her. “You want to take a turn digging?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?”

Penelope regarded him from beneath her lashes. She wasn’t used to trusting anyone but herself, but as she watched Colin get back to his feet and disappear into the hole, giving her a salute before he climbed in, she realised something awfully funny: she did trust him.

“Miss Penelope?”

Colin’s voice floated up to the hayloft where Penelope was curled up with her paper, her ink-pot, and her father’s best dip pen. She had stolen it from his belongings when he died, and so far no-one had much noticed it was missing.

It had been months since Penelope had tried to write anything. With all her chores she hardly ever had a minute to herself to do it, but since Colin she found herself with a glut of minutes, a feast of them. She was drowning in minutes these days, so instead of sitting at the kitchen table, unpicking and re-darning a sock for the seventh time (just so she had something to do with her hands), she took herself into the barn, hitched up her skirts and climbed the ladder to the loft, armed with her ink and paper.

Writing was a slow process for Penelope. Slower still because paper was expensive and hard to come by, so she had to make sure every word was perfect before she wrote it down.

When she was a little girl in Boston (and paper had been abundant) she had written reams of stories, fantastical worlds of princesses and dragons, but here she found herself near enough frozen as she faced the blank sheet of paper. She felt her words ought to be important, somehow. Plus she was always certain that at any moment she could be discovered with her expensive paper and her stolen pen, that Mr Varley would appear with a question for her, that her sisters would need her urgently.

So all in all, writing was always slow for Penelope - and yet somehow today it was even slower. She was yet to put down a single darned word.

“Miss Penelope?” Colin called again. “You in here?”

She considered staying quiet, but he might have a question about the back door, the hinges of which he had spent all afternoon replacing, and she reckoned that (given how much he was helping her) it would be pretty childish of her to hide from him.

“Up here,” she said.

“In the loft?” She could hear the surprise in his voice.

She sighed. “Yes, sir.”

There were footsteps on the ladder, and then his handsome face popped up like a prairie dog from its den. He looked so startled to see her like this, his eyebrows knitting in comical confusion and his mouth dropping open, that Penelope had to stifle a giggle.

“You’re writing,” he announced from the ladder. She nodded. “What are you writing?”

Penelope held up the blank piece of paper. “Not a darned thing, apparently.”

Colin’s expression was unreadable, his blue eyes flickering between the pen and the ink and Penelope’s face and - oh - her skirts were still hitched up, her bare legs exposed up to the thigh. Quickly, she yanked down the blue floral cotton, her heart racing somewhat. Her white cotton blouse stuck to her like a second skin.

Colin looked at the bare wooden boards of the loft, and to Penelope’s eyes he seemed a little pink under his tan, but she put that down to the heat of the afternoon. It was particularly sweltering up here - heat rises, Penelope knew that. It was another reason she chose the loft to write in; it was so hot she knew no-one would come up here willingly.

“Sorry,” she said, tucking her skirts tight around her legs. “It’s awfully warm.”

“Well, no wonder you can’t write anything,” Colin said, and he tilted up his head, offering her an easy smile to diffuse the tension. He was good at that - trying to put her at ease when she got nervous. “It’s hot as sin up here. A person can’t think their best thoughts under these sorts of conditions.”

Hot as sin. Penelope felt her insides flutter a little. She wondered what kind of sins Colin Bridgerton dreamed of.

“It’s not the heat,” Penelope grumbled, trying to focus on anything other than sin. “It’s knowing any minute I might get interrupted. I can’t focus.” She dropped her father’s pen atop her paper a little harder than she meant to. A splotch of ink dripped out.

Colin looked at her for a moment, his hands gripping the bars of the ladder. Then his chin tilted upwards in determination. Penelope’s eyes lingered on his scar (garnered in a childhood accident with a horse, he had revealed to her) and she had the oddest urge to run her fingers over it.

“Well, I was just about to ride over to my property. I’m thinking you should come with me.”

Penelope stared at him. “I - I can’t leave,” she stuttered. “What if they need me? What if something happens?”

“I reckon those ladies’ll survive a couple of hours without you,” Colin said, and she could hear the suppressed disdain in his voice. She knew he didn’t think much of her mother and sisters, and she understood - she didn’t think much of them herself most days - but still, it made her stomach feel funny. They were her family - all she had. She didn’t want him to hate them, though she had no notion of why it was so important to her.

“Plus Varley will be around in case of any trouble. And,” he went on, his face softening, “I’ll stay late tomorrow and help you with any chores you might of missed this afternoon. Sound like a deal?”

Penelope bit her lip, considering. It was the darndest thing - Colin had a way of making his schemes sound so rational, so logical, that Penelope found herself agreeing before she knew what was what. His tongue was like silver, shining and pretty, and so far Penelope had been unable to refuse it.

He held out his hand, one corner of his mouth hitched upwards.

“Are you comin’ or not?”

She paused for another moment, her heart stuttering in her chest. And then she took Colin Bridgerton’s hand and let him help her down the ladder, her pen and ink-pot stuffed into her skirt pocket and her sheathes of paper clamped between her teeth.

“Can you ride?” he asked her, once they were back on solid earth and striding towards his horse, Queenie. She was a pretty enough creature, a lovely grey colour with a white face and a black mane, but Penelope was a little nervous around horses and Queenie was so big.

“Yes, sir,” Penelope said. “But not well.”

He grinned down at her, as though amused by her attempts to hide her nerves. “Well, it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump away.”

Colin dropped to one knee beside Queenie and grinned up at Penelope. He slapped his thigh. “Climb up, little lady. Your stepladder awaits you.”

Penelope rolled her eyes but took his hand and put one boot on his bent leg. “Not that little,” she insisted, and she wrapped her fingers in the reins to steady herself as she stood on him. For a moment she worried she might be too heavy, but he seemed unbothered.

“Whatever you say, darlin’,” he said, drily, and if Pen hadn’t at the moment been so focused on not losing her balance she might have had a snappy retort for him.

From her vantage point upon his knee, she was able to reach the stirrups and haul herself upon the saddle, her fingers gripping the reins. She knew that, as a lady, she was supposed to ride side-saddle, but she’d never gotten the hang of it and her skirts were full enough that she only had to hitch them up a little to position herself astride.

And then Colin was clambering up behind her and Penelope realised she had not thought this through, because he was settling on the saddle with his whole body near enough pressed into her. His thighs bracketed hers, his front flush with her back, and his groin was pushed right up against her rear. He felt hot and firm and large, and as he curled his arms around her to take the reins, his chin rested upon her head for a moment. She felt suddenly small and delicate, strangely safe in his arms.

Plus he smelled awfully good, better than he ought to after a day working in the heat.

They rode along without talking, until the hot sun pulsating down on the top of Penelope’s head reminded her that she had not brought her bonnet.

“Darn it,” she muttered to herself, and quickly began to untie her two long pigtails, so at least her hair would shade the back of her neck from the sun. She knew it wasn’t proper or fashionable to have her hair unbound during the day, but better that than burning red-raw. It was so hot that even her hair was warm to the touch.

“What’s the matter?” Colin asked. She felt his words rumble through his chest.

“I forgot my sun bonnet.” She grimaced. “Momma won’t be best pleased. She says I’m already freckled worse than any farmhand she ever saw.”

“Prettier than most farmhands I’ve met, though,” Colin said.

Penelope blushed. “Only most?” she retorted, and a bead of sweat rolled down her spine that had nothing to do with the fierce summer sun.

Colin chuckled, and Penelope found she liked the sound of it. She liked being able to make him laugh, though it was easy enough for her to do. “Even though I think freckles are fetching, I reckon I can’t bring you back to your Momma pinker than that spotted pig of yours.”

And he plonked his hat on Penelope’s head.

It was a little big, and slightly damp with his sweat, but the relief was immediate.

“Thank you,” she murmured, exhaling. She started to re-braid her hair, but Colin laid his hand on her arm.

“Leave it, won’t you?” he said, and his words were soft in her ear. “I like looking at the colors.”

So Penelope left it, her heart in her throat.

Penelope had never seen a prettier spot in her entire life.

Just a stone’s throw from the river, the air was cooler here, and Penelope could swear it smelled sweeter, too. There were even trees - a rare enough sight around these parts - and from here you could see the mountains on the horizon, sticking up like broken teeth in the mouth of the sky.

And the sky - was it bluer here? Was it bigger, somehow? Penelope felt like all the blueness could swallow her up and she’d be happy.

Colin helped her off the horse and showed her the foundations he had already laid for the house, the apple tree saplings he had planted. He showed her the patch he had set aside for the vegetable garden, leading her around by the elbow with a sort of boyish excitement that made Penelope feel awfully fond of him - even though she could hardly hear what he was saying with the sudden longing that had swollen in her belly.

Once, Penelope had seen some boys from town with an inflated bison bladder, kicking it about like a ball. That’s what this yearning in her gut felt like, squeezing out space for all of her other organs.

She did not know what it was that she was yearning for precisely, and she reckoned it was better not to name it. But God help her, it hurt like hell.

Colin tugged her over to the big tree at the edge of the river. “I thought this would be the perfect spot for your writing,” he announced, his eyes bright and eager. “The grass is comfortable enough, but I can bring a little stool from home if you’d prefer.” He squinted up to where the sunlight dappled through green branches. “The tree will protect you from the sun, and there’s often a breeze this close to the river.”

Penelope blinked at him, the swelling in her belly threatening to burst. She swallowed, unable to speak for the fear she would start bawling.

“You can come here whenever you need a minute to yourself, Miss Penelope,” he said. “It ain’t but an hour’s walk, or you just come get me and I’ll bring you here on Queenie.”

“Colin, I can’t…” she whispered.

He just went to get the paper and pen and ink he had carefully put in his saddle bag before they set off earlier. “Sure you can.” He said it like it was nothing, the simplest thing in the world. He took his hat off her head and put it back on, smiling. She supposed she wouldn’t be needing it under the shade of the tree, but right away she missed the weight of it. “And anyhow, I could use the company while I work. It gets lonesome out here.”

She could not speak because she knew she would cry, so instead she plonked herself down under the tree and unscrewed the lid of her ink-pot, hoping that was answer enough for him.

It was. He grinned, then got to work.

A new part of their routine was born. Now the day went like this: he would arrive at sunrise and work on the well. When the sun grew too high, he would help Penelope with her chores and fix things up in the house.

And then every few days, he would bend down on one knee so she could climb atop Queenie and they would ride to his property so she could write while he worked on building the house.

Well - some days they would do that; writing and building. On others, neither of them would get much work done, if she was being honest. Colin would instead come sit with her by the river and they would spend hours talking, just as they did on her porch or in the vegetable garden or out in the fields. Sometimes she would show him how to weave the dried grass into pretty plaits, and on a particularly hot day they took off their boots and waded into the river, Colin’s pant legs rolled up and Penelope’s skirts bunched up in one hand, the other in Colin’s to steady her on the slippery rocks. She was sure she felt Colin’s eyes on her bare legs, but the water was too deliciously cool to care much.

They talked a lot about the house, his plans for it. And it was the strangest thing - he kept asking her opinion on every darned thing. From the curtains to the paint on the windows to the ideal size one might want a kitchen to be. It was odd because no-one asked Penelope’s opinion on much of anything - except things like whether the horses needed tending to, or whether Gus, the big spotted pig they had kept for three years now, ought to change to a new type of feed before winter came.

One day she asked him why he had so many questions for her, why he seemed to care so much about her thoughts, and he looked almost bashful, his hand cupping the back of his neck. It was hard to make Colin Bridgerton bashful.

“Well, Miss Penelope, one day I might have a wife in that house, and I want things to be just perfect for her when I do,” he said, blinking those lovely blue eyes at her. “A woman’s touch is just what’s needed, don’t you think?”

That had bothered Penelope more than it ought to have, and once or twice she considered giving him bad advice, just to spite whatever woman would take that land away from her (not to mention those lovely blue eyes), because, of course, there was no way Penelope would be allowed to sit and write there once Colin was properly married. All that endless open sky, those orange mountains, would belong to some other woman.

But not yet, she told herself, as Colin rode her home in time to cook dinner after an afternoon of laying in the tall grass with him, talking until the sun sent them to sleep. She had woken up with him snoring by her feet, his hand on her ankle, and she had been filled with that swollen, bursting yearning until he woke up and removed his fingers, blushing.

Not yet. Those mountains and the sky and the big tree by the river (and even Colin himself, though she hardly dared think it) might belong to her for a little while longer yet.

It turned out Colin’s nose was right in the end.

Penelope was tending to the vegetable garden when a yell went out across the yard. She dropped her hoe and went running, her heart in her throat.

“Colin!” she yelped, a million terrible scenarios cycling through her head as she approached the well hole. He might have fallen, or hit a pocket of toxic gas, or broken a bone, or -

“Miss Penelope!” a voice answered from deep inside the hole. “Come look!”

She stood at the edge and saw Colin Bridgerton’s dirt-streaked face grinning up at her.

He was standing ankle-deep in muddy water.

She felt like a flock of birds was taking flight in her chest. Penelope let out a scream of excitement, making Colin laugh, the sound blending with her shriek. Quickly, he grabbed the rope he had affixed to a rock and hauled himself out of the earth, still grinning from ear-to-ear.

Before she understood what was happening, Colin’s arms were wrapped around her and she was spinning, her feet off the ground - and perhaps she was a bird, perhaps she was actually taking flight after all, because she had never felt this light in her life. He spun her and spun her until they were both giddy and laughing, Penelope’s head fuzzy with the feeling of his arms around her, her chest pressed against his warmth.

He stopped and lowered her carefully to the ground, but he didn’t let her go. He simply eased her body against his, his arms holding her close, crushing belly and chest and thighs together in ways that made her skin feel like it was on fire. Penelope could not believe how good he smelled - blue as water and green as grass and brown like the cool, wet earth.

The laughter had died on his lips, but his eyes still danced as he gazed down at her. She supposed she ought to say something, ought to push him away or try to pierce all this thick, hushed air between them, the way it was throbbing like her heart and the spot between her thighs she sometimes touched late at night. She ought to do more than gaze up at him like a door-mouse hypnotised by the rattle-snake, her lips parted, her body leaning further into his as though there were new ways they could be closer still.

Colin reached up and brushed a curl out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. His fingers felt hot and rough against her skin, but the roughness felt good, somehow, as if she were being scoured by his touch and underneath her skin would be raw and new. Clean. She wanted more of it. “Penelope,” he murmured, and god help her, she would have done just about anything to hear him say her name like that again.

But he didn’t say her name again. Instead, his eyes left hers and his hands dropped away and he stepped back, the moment between them bursting like a balloon. He snatched up his hat from the upturned log he always left it on when he worked and dusted off some invisible dirt before awkwardly holding it in front of his body (Penelope had the thought that he was like a knight holding his shield), his eyes tight.

Shame flooded her. She tried desperately to pull herself together, wondering how the Penelope from ten minutes ago might act. The Penelope who didn’t know how good Colin Bridgerton smelled, how warm and firm his body was. The Penelope whose heart wasn’t about to beat right out of her chest all because Colin had said her damned name.

“I told you it was the right spot,” he said, with one of his wonky smiles that he always used to put her at ease.

She cleared her throat. Folded her arms across her chest. “So you did,” she said stiffly. “So what comes next? For the well, I mean?” she asked, trying to sound business-like in order to hide the way her whole body trembled with the yearning to lean against his chest once more.

Colin stared at her for a moment, as if she were speaking a foreign language. Then he seemed to pull himself together. “I’ll keep digging a little deeper,” he said, matching her tone. “Then I’ll have to tile the inside and lay stones about the top, build the winch. I’m afraid this is just the start.”

Penelope smoothed her hands over her skirts. “Well, I won’t keep you from your work,” she muttered, and hurried back to the house as quickly as she could without breaking into a run.

The house was no safer than the yard, for Penelope found her mother sitting at the kitchen table, a very particular look on her face. She had obviously witnessed what had just happened.

“Penelope,” her mother began, reproach and warning in her voice as she got to her feet.

“I know, Momma,” she said, and tried to slip past her mother, keen to avoid a lecture or a fight. Portia’s hand encircled her wrist.

“Mother,” Portia corrected, as she always did. She never did get used to the fact that she had three American daughters.

“Mother,” Penelope repeated in a small voice.

“I saw that,” Portia said, and Penelope’s hands immediately tightened into fists. “What you were doing out there with the Bridgerton boy.”

“It was -”

Portia’s fingers squeezed tight around her wrist, cutting her off. “For whatever reason, that boy has decided to help us. Please, be careful. We need him.”

Penelope tugged herself out of her mother’s grasp. “We do not need him, Mother.” It was just like Portia to reap the benefits of Penelope’s hard work for the past two years and still not believe in her ability to keep the family on its feet. “We’ve done alright ‘till now, haven’t we?”

She wasn’t really sure why she asked that - as if Portia would ever acknowledge all the hours of back-breaking labor Penelope put into keeping them alive.

Portia just gave Penelope a look. “Watch yourself with him. A boy like that has prospects. Don’t forget it.”

Something sick and bitter twisted in Penelope’s belly. “I won’t embarrass you, Mother. Don’t fret.” She wrenched her arm out of her mother’s grasp and fled.

She supposed what Portia had said - if not in so many words - was right. There was little chance that Colin had those sorts of intentions towards her. She knew there was no hope of him intending marriage, for what man would want the third plainest daughter of the Widow Featherington, nothing to her name but Old Gus, and a bum parcel of land where nothing much grew? And if he meant … the other thing - well, first off, she doubted a man so handsome as Colin Bridgerton would want anything like that from her, and second, that’s what the cat-house in town was for, wasn’t it? Why would he bother wasting all this energy on Penelope when women twice as pretty were available for a reasonable fee from Madame Delacroix?

In the end, she supposed he just got caught up in the moment, same as her. And as to why he was so nice to her - she reckoned she offered him some peace and quiet. He had told her he had seven siblings, each one more boisterous than the next, and it could be awfully loud for someone quiet as him. (Only he wasn’t that quiet with her, now she thought of it. She wondered sometimes how two people who saw each other so often could find so much new to talk about.)

As for her own behavior - well, Penelope reckoned she wasn’t much used to menfolk being so kind, so it was no surprise she got a little carried away. Of course, Mr Varley always had a smile for her, but he was paid to help her out. Mostly men treated her with distrust or disgust, and not one of them had ever gone out of their way to make her life easier, that was for sure. None of them had helped her with her chores just so he could linger to speak with her a moment longer. None of them seemed to make it his life’s purpose to make her smile.

None til Colin, anyhow.

But maybe Portia was right, because Colin did not come by the house the next day he was supposed to, nor the day after that, and Penelope found she was not alright, not at all.

All her chores seemed doubly hard without Colin’s hands and smile to lighten the load. Especially as it was time for hay-making, Penelope and Mr Varley spending hours in the hot sun laying the long grass out to dry. It was one of the most important chores of the season - the Featherington farm wasn’t good for growing much except long grass, and hay was one of their main sources of income.

But it was a nasty job: swatting away bugs, keeping an eye out for grass snakes, constant bending and lifting. Even with her special kid-skin gloves, her arms and hands got cut up and scratched all to hell, and she fell into bed every night exhausted and bad-tempered.

For five mornings she stood at her bedroom window and looked down into the yard as dawn broke. It used to be her favourite part of the day, a secret moment in the yellow sunrise when the world was still and quiet except for Colin and his shovel. It felt intimate, watching him as she dressed for the day, and she knew it was likely very wicked for her to watch a man without him knowing it, especially when she was in her underthings (sometimes even naked), but she supposed God might forgive her a sin such as this, for there was so very little that was beautiful in Penelope’s life. She supposed God might allow her this small gluttony, gorging herself on Colin’s beauty uninterrupted - his strong arms and broad back and powerful thighs. The focus on his face while he worked.

But for five days he did not return. Penelope supposed Portia must be right - she had embarrassed herself somehow, and embarrassed him, and now he would never come back. The seven inches of muddy water sat at the bottom of the well, mocking her, and many times she considered walking over to his property to find him, but that seemed too pathetic even for her.

On the fifth day, her mother informed her they were attending a dance held by the widow Danbury. She and her late husband had practically founded the town thirty years back, some of the first settlers in the area, and he’d made his fortune when he’d discovered gold in the river. It had long since been picked clean, but they made enough that Danbury still owned half the businesses in town. Penelope respected the woman’s business sense, but she did insist on these ridiculous semi-annual formal social events, and it wouldn’t do to insult her by not attending. Plus, she had been very charitable to the Featheringtons when Penelope’s father had died, sending them enough firewood and grain to see them through their first winter without him, before Penelope learned how to take care of them herself.

Before her daddy died, they used to travel by horse and trap, but now the four women walked the three miles into town in all their finery. Well; Portia, Prudence and Philippa wore fine clothes, anyhow - Penelope wore the only formal dress she owned, which had been handed down from her mother when she was seventeen. It showed more shoulder than was fashionable these days and the skirt was much more full than it ought to be, but Penelope could not see any sense in spending money on a new gown when this one - made in white cotton and decorated all over in sage green flowers - would do perfectly well. She had the top half of her hair tied back with a simple green ribbon. She knew she stuck out like a sore thumb with the neater silhouettes of her mother and sisters in jewel-coloured brocades, but she didn’t much mind - no-one would be looking at her anyway.

Penelope wondered what a sight they must look traipsing across fields and down dirt roads in all their finery, like seeing a peacock in the henhouse. The image pleased her so much that she was still smiling to herself as they entered the church hall Mrs Danbury made use of for her larger soirees.

Her smile disappeared the moment she entered the room and saw Colin Bridgerton looking right at her.

She had never seen him outside of work clothes. He wore a neat suit of dark brown, with a checked waistcoat underneath and a tie of blue silk knotted loosely around his throat. His curls were combed down and he had shaved, his face bare of its usual stubble. None of the men wore hats indoors, and it was slightly unnerving seeing him without it, as if he were missing one of his limbs or something - but at least she saw his boots peeking out from underneath his pants, which was oddly comforting.

He was standing with a lovely young woman in a dress of pale blue silk, honey-coloured hair, and skin like cream. She reminded Penelope of the princesses she used to write about as a girl. This must be one of Colin’s sisters - perhaps the eldest one.

Colin smiled and waved at Penelope when he saw her, as if nothing was amiss. She blushed and looked down, her heart hammering.

She felt Portia’s fingers sharp in her back. “Go and talk to him, Penelope,” she hissed in her ear. “See if you can convince him to come back to the farm. Grovel on your knees if you have to. Beg.”

Penelope’s face turned a darker red at the thought of being on her knees before Colin Bridgerton, but she knew her mother would not let up until she did her bidding, so she took a deep breath and went over to him.

“Miss Penelope!” Colin said warmly.

Penelope dipped into a curtsy, then realised it was the first time she had ever done so in front of Colin. She supposed he must think her very unladylike, but it was too late to do much about that, and for some reason it had never occurred to her to do it before now. Their friendship (was that what they had?) seemed not to have much to do with these sorts of fussy society rules. When she thought about Colin, she thought about the smell of the water in the earth and the feel of the butter churner in her hands and his fingers tearing apart ears of corn. She thought of Queenie’s saddle under her thighs, and the cool stones of the river beneath her feet, and all the blue in Colin’s eyes bleeding into the sky around them. It had nothing to do with curtsies or silk ties.

He looked a little startled at her formality, but swept into an elegant bow all the same.

“How are you?” he asked, but before she could answer, the young woman next to him interrupted.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Colin?”

Colin looked slightly put out, but he nodded stiffly. “Miss Penelope, this is Daphne - my sister.”

The woman - Daphne - curtsied low, and Penelope tried to copy her neatness but surely failed.

“You’re the Featherington girl, aren’t you?” Daphne said, her eyes travelling over Penelope eagerly. “Why, my brother has spoken of you so often I feel I already know you.”

Penelope’s cheeks started to redden, and she didn’t know what to say. The fact that Colin had spoken about her to his family made her feel hot and strange.

“Your dress is beautiful,” she managed to respond.

“Thank you,” Daphne said, with a lovely smile, her hand smoothing her silk skirts. “Though I’m afraid it is rather wasted on tonight’s company.” She pulled a face as she looked around the room.

Penelope’s gaze followed hers. Some of Mrs Danbury’s events had more exclusive invite lists, but she was a charitable woman and held these dances for everyone in the town, rich or poor. In all truth, this far West there wasn’t much of a high society anyway, and Penelope rather enjoyed that everyone had a rub along together every now and then.

“You are an awful snob, Daph,” Colin scolded, but his eyes were dancing.

Daphne looked vaguely embarrassed. “I know it, and I’m sorry, but marriage is serious business! If I’m to make the best match, I need to focus my prospects on a man of the same social class as me. I am sure there are plenty of perfectly fine fellows here, but I would prefer to live comfortably.”

“Don’t you know this is America? Class doesn’t matter here,” Colin retorted, one eyebrow cocked ironically.

Penelope scoffed at that, and hid her smile behind her hand. In her experience, class mattered even more out here in the wilderness, all the social problems back East amplified tenfold in their little town. Or maybe it was just her mother, who dug in her claws and clung to her social position even when the family hovered on the cliff-edge of destitution.

Daphne chose to ignore her brother, instead turning her attention to Penelope. “Colin tells me you’re from Boston. I bet you’re used to much fancier parties than this.”

Penelope shook her head. “I was just a girl when we moved, so I don’t remember any parties. You’d have to ask my Momma about those.”

“I bet I could find a very suitable husband in Boston,” Daphne said dreamily. She turned to Colin. “Do you think Anthony would ever take us East?”

“It’s a fair long way to go just to find a husband, Daph,” Colin said, smirking. “And I don’t reckon I’d much like the big cities. I don’t know how folk live there - there’s not enough sky for my liking.”

“They’ve got the same exact sky in Boston as they do here,” Daphne said. She made a show of rolling her eyes and elbowing her brother, but Penelope was nodding. She understood him exactly, thinking of the drowning, swallowing blue of the sky at his property. She wouldn’t want to give that up if she was him either.

“If you’re not going to talk any sense, I shall speak to Mrs. Danbury and see if she can’t introduce me to some people. There must be some eligible men here tonight. I think she mentioned her nephew was visiting.”

Colin grabbed his sister’s arm before she fluttered away. “Fine, but stay away from Mr Berbrooke and Mr Fife. They’re nothing but trouble.”

Daphne just waved him away and slipped out of his grasp. Colin sighed and watched her go, looking rather helpless.

Penelope felt strangely bereft watching the young woman leave; now she would have to talk to Colin alone.

“Is the rest of your family here?” Penelope asked in an attempt to make conversation.

Colin shook his head. “No. Only Daphne wanted to come tonight, and I was roped in to chaperone. If I’m being truthful, I hate these damned things.”

Penelope nodded. “Me too.”

Colin gave her another of his warm, sweet smiles, the ones that made her legs feel as wobbly as a newborn foal.

But then the smile slipped, and his lovely face crumpled. He took her hand in his, squeezing her fingers for a moment before dropping them. Her skin burned where he touched her.

“I’m sorry I ain’t been around the past few days,” he said, and he sounded it. “We’ve had some trouble with wolves up at the farm, and me and my brothers have been on shifts guarding the herd. I’ve barely had time to sleep.” He grimaced. “Have y’all been alright out there? I’ll admit, I’ve been worrying.”

Penelope blinked back inexplicable tears at the tender way he was looking at her, the softness of his voice. “We’ve been hay-making,” she said, and she couldn’t help the reproach in her voice, even though it wasn’t fair to be mad at him, was it? It was hardly his fault that she had come to rely on him so badly.

Colin winced. “Damn.” She had explained before how important hay-making was for their survival, so he knew what it meant. He rubbed the back of his neck, remorse on his face. “Have you made the bales yet?” he asked.

Penelope shook her head. “Tomorrow, or the next day.”

His chin lifted in determination. “I’ll be there. I promise.”

Penelope nodded as Colin brushed her bare arm with his fingertips, his touch sending little bolts of thunder and lightning across her skin, powerful as a prairie storm.

“We should talk of happier things,” Colin said, and turned so they were standing side by side. The dancing was about to begin, the fiddlers setting up at one end of the church hall. Penelope watched as people coupled up, trying to calm the way her heart still raced at his touch. Why did he make her feel like a school-girl, barely able to control her urges?

“Do you plan on marrying, Miss Penelope?”

The words shocked Penelope out of her stupor.

“What?” Penelope asked bluntly, staring at him stupidly as the fiddles started up and the room erupted in the loud noise of the organised chaos of a country dance.

Colin shifted closer to her and Penelope’s nose was invaded by the smell of him, all those delicious colors that made up his palette. He bent his head to her ear, close enough that she felt the roughness of his jacket against the bare back of her arm. She found she liked the roughness - and as with the calluses on his hands that had brushed her skin, she wanted more of it, longed to lean back into him.

“I ask because it’s a mite strange having three young ladies all unmarried in one family,” he said, speaking loudly above the sound of the fiddles and the whoops and cries of the dancers. “You think some fellow would've come by and snatched you up by now.”

Penelope turned to answer him, and for a moment their faces were startlingly close, his lips near enough that she would only have to move an inch or two if she wanted her mouth to brush his. She felt him exhale against her lips, tasting his breath, and then he turned his head so she could talk into his ear.

“A man offered for Philippa once,” she said, dourly. “Mr Finch. Momma said he wasn’t the right type of fellow and refused him.”

Colin shifted back and Penelope quickly turned her ear again so he could speak into it. His breath felt hot and sweet against her skin. “Mr Finch. Who runs the dairy? I thought he was doing well for himself.”

Penelope shrugged. “Momma didn’t like him. I still get blue sometimes thinking about all the cheese we could have had if she’d’ve said yes. Our cow never makes enough milk that we’ve got some left to spare for it.”

Colin straightened up and laughed, one hand pressed to his abdomen. Penelope wondered idly what his stomach felt like, if it was as hard and lean as the rest of him or if there was a little softness there. She reckoned she would like both just the same.

“I promise you, Miss Penelope,” Colin said through his laughter, “I’ll bring you some cheese next time I come around.”

Penelope knew she should refuse, but she had learned by now there was no use saying no to him. Instead, she let herself smile.

Next Colin asked: “And what about you? Don’t you want a husband?” The smile dropped from her lips.

“Well, I haven’t exactly had any offers of late,” Penelope said, her cheeks burning red with shame. It did not feel good to remind Colin of her universally acknowledged undesirability. She twisted her hands together nervously, picking at one of the scabs on her fingers as if the pain might distract her from these other bad feelings. “And - and I couldn’t leave my Momma and sisters. They wouldn’t survive a week without me.”

She did not want to look at his face, so she kept her eyes on the dancers, the way they were spinning and stomping in time to the music.

He didn’t say anything, just made a curious humming noise, and for a moment they were uncharacteristically silent - until Colin did what he always did and put Penelope at ease with a joke about the fiddler’s pants.

They spent all evening like that, talking into each other’s ears, and Penelope felt they were excellent partners, falling into a dance just the same as the couples jigging to the fiddles, each learning precisely when to turn their face so the other could speak into their ear. The night passed with only a couple of aching moments when they ended up face to face, breath mingling, the yearning in Penelope’s belly so fierce she thought it might swallow her whole, but otherwise they were quite in rhythm.

She felt the gazes of envious young ladies in the hall, as Colin did not so much as move from her side except to get them both a glass of punch once or twice (nasty stuff, but it made Penelope’s cheeks grow warm and a silly smile spread across her face). She knew he was quite the eligible bachelor, and Daphne was not the only young woman on the hunt for a husband. She supposed they must all be very confused as to what Colin Bridgerton was doing hanging around with the plain Featherington girl in her ten-year’s-past-fashionable dress. Penelope could sympathise - she had no real idea herself.

“Will you dance with me, Miss Penelope?”

“Pardon?” she asked, sure she had not heard him properly.

Colin had turned to face her, his lips twitching in that way they would when he was trying not to laugh at her. But there was never any cruelty in the laughter - more an indulgent, affectionate amusement that made her feel like kindling and a box of matches.

“I asked if you wanted to dance with me, Miss Penelope.” His gaze was steady, and he held out his hand. “Though maybe you didn’t hear me from all the way down there,” he added, eyes twinkling.

Penelope was too bamboozled by the question to huff about his teasing.

She swallowed, and she was glad of the noise around them because she was fairly sure he would have heard it otherwise. For a moment she regarded his hands - the calluses and the lines and the skin a tanned brown. Hands that had wrapped around her waist and touched her ankle and dug a whole well for her.

She supposed she could refuse him - it would be safer not to have her heart spun around the dancefloor by this fine, sweet man - but her daddy always told her that when God spoke to you, you ought to listen, and though Penelope was mostly too busy to think about God much, she supposed it wasn’t bad advice on the whole.

When she took his hand, his entire face lit up with pleasure. And then, in front of their whole town, Colin Bridgerton led her to the dancefloor as the fiddlers set up for the next jig.

He bowed; she curtsied; the music started up.

It was a boisterous, quick-paced song, and Penelope was familiar with the steps even though she had not danced them for years. Perhaps she might have preferred something slower, some soft tune where she could have clung to him, pressed her body to his, breathed in his scent but, in the end, this was much more fun.

The dance was vigorous - they twirled and clapped and spun around, skipping amongst the other partners and spinning until their hands joined once more. And even when Penelope was being whisked around by other men, as the dance required, she did not stop smiling and her eyes did not leave Colin.

Penelope Featherington had not expected life to offer her up such moments as this.

Soon after their dance ended, so did the party. Colin looked appalled when Penelope said they would be walking back across the fields in the dark, and said that if Penelope and Daphne were happy to wait a bit, he would take Portia, Prudence and Philippa back to the farm and then come back and collect them (the trap only took three people at a time).

Penelope tried to refuse, but Daphne insisted loudly that it was the only proper plan, at which point Portia caught wind and effusively accepted the offer. Penelope’s mother gave Colin one of her sycophantic society smiles, the kind she used when she wanted something from somebody, and Colin’s eye twitched but he managed a polite smile in return. It made Penelope’s heart clench - he was trying with her family, even though he didn’t like them much.

While they waited, Daphne gushed about Mrs Danbury’s nephew Simon, with whom she had shared three dances, and the gushing did not stop until after Colin returned with the trap and they were back at Featherington farm.

“Goodnight, Miss Penelope,” Colin said, once Penelope was out of the trap.

“Just Penelope,” she said before she could stop herself, and even in the darkness she could see Colin smile.

“Well, then - goodnight, Penelope.”

Penelope bid them both good evening and walked into her home with her heart still dancing the three-step jig, a stupid smile painting her face.

It stopped dead when she found her mother waiting in the hallway for her, already in her nightgown, a candle in hand.

“You scared me half to death, Mother,” Penelope whispered, a hand pressed to her chest.

Portia’s face flickered in the candle-light. “I was making sure the Bridgerton boy dropped you home safely. I was… worried.”

Penelope stared at her mother, and tried to remember if her mother had ever admitted to being worried about her before.

“Colin is a gentleman,” Penelope said, flushing. “And his sister was with us. I was in no danger.”

Portia gave Penelope a look that made her feel hot and ashamed.

“Just… be careful.”

“It was you who told me to ask him back here,” Penelope said, unable to hold her tongue. “If you think he’s such a scoundrel then oughtn’t we tell him not to return?”

Portia’s lips pursed. “We need a man about, Penelope.” She reached over, and brushed a curl off Penelope’s face. It took every bit of Penelope’s willpower not to swat her away. “Just don’t let that boy turn your head.” She sighed. “I know you’re a sensible girl at heart. I’m only asking you to be… realistic.”

Then Penelope watched her mother walk off, leaving her standing alone in the dark hallway, her hands curled into tight fists.

She woke at dawn and stood by her window in her chemise and bloomers and corset, hair spilling free down her back. Her legs still ached from the dancing and her cheeks from the smiling.

Colin Bridgerton was in her backyard with his shovel. Penelope watched him climb down into the well, and for a moment she wished desperately that he would glance up and see her.

He never did, but that little disappointment was tempered somewhat by the pleasure of his return and the beautiful, creamy-soft cow’s cheese she found sitting under a muslin cloth on her kitchen table.

They spent the morning baling the hay. It was a tiresome, time-consuming job, but between Penelope, Varley, and Colin they made quick work of it. They managed to have most of it done by noon, when Colin had to head back to Bridgerton farm.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay to move it to the barn,” Colin said as he mounted Queenie. Penelope stood by the horse’s reins, looking up at him. “You sure you two’ll manage?”

Penelope nodded. He looked all too handsome perched upon Queenie’s back, lit up by the sun.

“We’ll finish up the baling, but we can wait to move it to the barn til tomorrow.”

Colin frowned. “You sure? Air feels wet today.”

Penelope squinted up at the perfect blue sky. “It’s August. I’ve never known it to rain in August, not in the twelve years we’ve been here.” Rain would mean disaster for the hay.

Colin shrugged. “You’re probably right.” He leaned down and patted Penelope’s cheek with his hand - her stomach swooped at the feel of his warm fingers against her skin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

She could only blink up at him, her lips parted in surprise. She watched him ride away across the horizon until he was only a black dot against the blue, her heart pounding in her throat.

After she and Varley finished the baling, Penelope returned to the kitchen and got an idea in her head. She could still feel his fingers on her cheek, still see his smile in her head as he spun her around the church hall, and she decided she ought to make him a pie to say thank you for all he had done.

There was one jar of last year’s berry jam sitting in the store. It would be time to forage and make more soon anyway, so she reckoned they could spare it. She tucked it under her arm with the tin of flour and the butter dish and got to work.

The pie came out nicer than she expected, and once it had cooled, she wrapped it up tight in cloth and string and marched out of the house before anyone could ask her where she was going. Before she could lose her nerve, too.

The Bridgerton house wasn’t far, only a few miles, but still Penelope was glad of her bonnet in the fierce sun. She did not miss much about Boston, but she did miss its coolness. The sun here was inescapable, blinding, so hot that at times Penelope felt like it was seeping into her skin and skull and melting her brain.

“Hello there, little lady!” a voice cried out when Penelope began the incline up the long dirt road towards the big house on the hill she knew belonged to the Bridgertons.

She turned and saw three men on horses approaching. It was so bright, the sun behind them, that for a moment all she could see were their rough shapes, but she blinked as they drew near and they became clearer.

It was Colin, of course, and the other two must be his elder brothers, Anthony and Ben. And by God, they were handsome, though the other two lacked Colin’s beauty and she was not so sure about the mustache worn by the eldest.

They surrounded her, rather intimidating from their horseback vantage point. She suddenly felt very shy and small as she gazed up at them, their horses snorting and stamping at the dirt. To calm herself and do something with her hands, she stroked Queenie’s nose.

“To what do we owe the pleasure, Miss Penelope?” Colin asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise. She noticed he was back to using Miss - but she supposed it was only proper, in front of his brothers and all. Still, it felt a little itchy.

“I - I made a pie,” she said, and suddenly the whole endeavour felt very stupid. “To thank you for bringing us all home after the dance.” And for the cheese, and the well, and everything else, more than she even had words for - and certainly more than some measly pie could make up for. She had the sudden urge to throw the pie into the dirt so these three handsome, self-possessed men would not have to see how pathetic it was, how insignificant in the face of all Colin had done for her.

“Ain’t you a sweetheart,” said one of the brothers - Ben, she supposed - with a charming smile. “What’s inside?”

“A mix of things,” Penelope said, shifting on the balls of her feet. “I made it with my wild berry jam.”

Ben’s eyes creased up. “Sounds mighty tasty.”

“I believe she said the pie was for me, Ben,” Colin retorted, only a little sulkily. “I don’t remember you driving the trap back and forth in the dark all night.”

“Stop quarrelling,” Anthony said. “Let’s get this young lady and her pie out of the sun, shall we?”

Colin nodded. “I’ll ride her up to the house and join you back out with the herd after.”

Anthony nodded back, frowning. “Don’t linger. We got a lot of work to do.”

Colin dismounted, dropping to one knee as he always did when Penelope wanted to ride Queenie. She felt the eyes of his brothers watching her as she tried to mount the horse, though it was mighty hard balancing the pie at the same time. Eventually, she made it up and Colin swung himself up behind her. He was warm, as always, and smelled pleasingly of sweat and horse. Odd how such a smell could be pleasing, she thought, but on Colin she relished it.

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Featherington,” Anthony said, tipping his cap.

“Finally,” Ben added, with a cheeky smile. “Though I see now why Colin would want to keep a pretty thing like you all to himself.”

Penelope could practically feel Colin blush behind her, his body heating against hers.

“Hush, Ben. Mind your manners,” Anthony scolded, and the two of them rode off.

“Sorry about that,” Colin muttered as he urged Queenie up the hill.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Penelope said. “If I had to apologise everytime my family said something idiotic then Lord knows I would never say anything but sorry.” Colin chuckled.

Bridgerton house was simple but fine, and very, very large - three whole stories, though Penelope supposed they needed all the room they could get with so many of them. The wood of the outside was painted a pretty pale blue, and though it was hardly as fancy as the Featherington house, Penelope preferred it.

Colin’s late father had been the son of one of the first settlers in the town, a man who wisely used the money from the gold that was panned from the river to invest in beef. Now they had a flourishing cattle ranch, the largest for miles, and were probably only second in wealth to Mrs Danbury.

The house was just as lovely on the inside - fashionable but tasteful, expensive yet nothing too showy. Penelope’s mouth went dry as Colin led her into the drawing room, mentally calculating the cost of everything she saw, from the curtains to the china vase on the mantel to the brocade on the settees (she knew how much they would fetch because she had had to sell similar items after her father died, to pay off his debtors).

Settees upon which were currently sitting some of the loveliest young ladies - and one young fellow - that Penelope had ever seen.

“Penelope!” That was Daphne, who favored Penelope with a smile. “What a lovely surprise!”

“Is this Miss Featherington? The one we’ve heard so much about?”

That came from the beautiful older woman with eyes almost as blue as Colin’s. This must be his mother - Violet, Penelope remembered.

Penelope managed a curtsy and Violet gave a warm smile.

“Miss Penelope brought me a pie,” Colin announced, and he looked as pleased as a child showing his mother a new toy. “I’ve got to head back out to the herd for an hour or two - Ma, will you take care of Miss Penelope in the meantime?”

Violet’s eyes sparkled, creasing up at the edges. Penelope felt immediately warm to this woman and her kind smiles, so like Colin’s. “It would be my pleasure.”

Colin then introduced Penelope to the rest of his siblings. There was Francesca: a quiet little thing studying sheet music in the corner; Eloise: Penelope’s age, her blue eyes sharp and her tongue sharper; and Hyacinth and Gregory: the two youngest, both of them rather mischievous-looking.

Once the introductions were made, Colin announced, rather smugly: “Miss Penelope is a writer.”

Penelope stared at him. She had no idea what had possessed him to say such a thing - he knew she kept her writing private.

Eloise’s face lit up, and she knelt up on the couch she was sitting on, leaning her elbows on the back so she could face Penelope properly. “Well, as it happens, I love to read,” she said, her eyes flashing. “What are you writing?”

“A - a novel. A romance, really.” She felt Colin’s eyes on her - she had never revealed that to him before.

“You must let me read it when you are done,” Eloise insisted, grabbing Penelope’s wrist and squeezing. “I bet it’s marvellous.” She grinned. “A woman writer! How exciting.”

“Have you ever thought Miss Penelope might not want to share her writing with a strange girl she just met?” Colin asked, cocking an eyebrow at Eloise.

Eloise stuck out her tongue at him. “Well, Penelope wouldn’t be a stranger if you’d brought her around sooner, now would she?”

“I'm afraid I don’t have as much time as I’d like for visiting with folk,” Penelope admitted, ducking her head.

“Miss Penelope has a whole farm to run, Eloise,” Colin said, and the sun might have gone to Penelope’s head because she was sure she heard something like pride in his voice. “She hasn’t got time to sit around all day and listen to you prattle.”

Eloise tossed her head. “There’s always time for prattle,” she said definitively, and Penelope could not help the little laugh that escaped her.

Colin turned to his mother, putting on his hat. “Ma, will you please make sure these animals behave themselves while I’m gone?”

“I can make no such promises,” Violet said mildly, and she turned her cheek up for Colin to peck. “I’ve been trying for years with almost no success.”

He turned to Penelope. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t believe a darned thing this rabble says about me.” He offered her a wonky smile. “It’s libel, every word of it.”

Penelope sucked in her cheeks in an attempt to hide her smile, but it slipped out of her control and she grinned at him. Colin got a smug look on his face when he saw it, then left the house whistling.

Once Colin was gone, Eloise made Penelope sit down beside her. The subject of conversation soon turned to him, which Penelope supposed was only natural - Colin was really the only thing poor, plain Penelope Featherington had in common with this beautiful, fancy family.

“Has Colin shown you his house, Penelope?” Daphne asked her, eyes wide.

Penelope nodded. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a house just yet. More of a frame of a house. The bones. But yes, I’ve seen it.”

“Well, that makes you the only person other than Colin himself and God Almighty who has,” Daphne huffed. “He won’t let us anywhere near the damn place.”

“You know he wants to do this on his own, Daph,” Francesca said softly. “Without all of us interfering.”

“When my husband passed, God rest him, he left spots of land for all the children,” Violet explained. “In case they ever wanted to start families, build homes of their own. So far Colin’s the only one who’s taken his up. But he always was rather… independent-minded,” Violet added, with a fond smile.

“Ain’t it just because of Marina?” Hyacinth piped up. “Didn’t he get the idea after her?”

“Hyacinth Bridgerton, how many times have I told you not to say ain’t?” Violet scolded, and Hyacinth bit her lip, looking not at all sorry. “You spend too much time with your big brothers.”

“And her big brothers spend too much time with cowpokes,” Daphne added, pulling on one of Hyacinth’s ringlets. The little girl grinned and batted her sister’s hand away.

“Who’s Marina?” Penelope asked, quietly.

Violet and Daphne exchanged glances, but before either of them could speak, Hyacinth said: “She was a girl Colin almost married.”

“Hyacinth.” Daphne said sharply, looking appalled.

The girl’s eyes went wide. “Penelope’s his friend, ain’t she? Why shouldn’t she know?”

“If you don’t start behaving yourself, young lady, you’re going to your room,” Violet warned. Gregory snickered and Hyacinth shoved him.

With a sigh, Violet turned to Penelope, looking uncomfortable. “Marina was a young girl from town that Colin met a while back. Her family kicked her out of their home, and Colin offered to marry her, to take her in. He’s a good boy like that, always trying to do the right thing.”

Penelope nodded. That did sound like Colin.

“Being a good boy bit him in the rear though, didn’t it?” Eloise said darkly, folding her arms across her chest.

Violet sighed at her daughter’s bluntness and rubbed her forehead. “It turned out that her father kicked her out because she was… in the family way,” she said delicately. “There was no question of the child being Colin’s, of course - the daddy was a man from the next town over. They’re married now, so I suppose that’s something of a happy ending.”

“Not for Colin,” Fran said quietly.

Violet frowned. “Not for Colin, no.”

“He’s better off without her,” Eloise said bluntly. Then she threw aside the embroidery she was working on with a groan of frustration. “Can’t we talk of anything else other than building houses and getting married? We have a female writer in our company and you’re talking to her about babies. Frankly, if I were Penelope, I’d feel insulted.”

Eloise then turned to Penelope and began to grill her about what she was writing and her favorite books. Penelope tried to answer the questions as best as she could, but her mind was turning over and over what Violet had just told her about this Marina girl. It was no wonder why Colin had not told her, she supposed. He must have been humiliated - but wasn’t it just like him to try to save a girl in need? Wasn’t that just what he had done with Penelope, in fact?

She was stuck with this unnerving thought in her head until Colin reappeared, dirty and sweaty, stripping off worn leather gloves as he entered the room.

“You stink of horse,” Eloise told him, wrinkling up her nose.

“At least I don’t look like one, dearest sister of mine,” Colin shot back.

Eloise stuck out her tongue, earning a slap on the arm from Daphne.

Colin turned his attention to Penelope. “Have they been treating you alright?” he asked, warily.

“We’ve been very well-behaved!” Hyacinth insisted. She had moved to sit by Penelope’s side, and was braiding Penelope’s hair whilst Eloise had been speaking to her about Don Quixote, which she had apparently just finished reading.

“I doubt that very much,” Colin said, but his eyes crinkled up. “Now unhand my friend, Hy. I got to take her home.”

Hyacinth sighed and dropped Penelope’s hair. Penelope got to her feet, smoothing her skirts, and went to stand by Colin’s side, trying to ignore the way her heart raced when he called her his friend.

“I’ll ride you home, but I thought maybe you would like to see some more of the ranch before you go?” he suggested. “It’s awfully pretty around these parts. I think you’d like it.”

Penelope looked up at him with eyes shining. “I would like that very much,” she murmured, excitement fluttering in her chest.

“Is that proper, Ma?” Daphne asked, biting her lip and looking at Violet. “Letting them ride off alone together?”

Colin glared at his sister, then shifted from foot to foot, his hands resting on his belt. He looked a touch uncomfortable. “Me and Miss Penelope have been alone together plenty. Ain’t nothing untoward happened yet,” he said stiffly.

Penelope felt vaguely that she would like God to strike her down where she stood, her cheeks a fiery red.

Violet’s eyes flickered between the two of them. She set down her embroidery firmly.

“Now, Colin Bridgerton, I know I raised you a gentleman,” Violet said, and her voice was stern, laced with maternal threat. “Promise me this young lady shall come to no harm whilst in your care.”

“I promise, Ma,” he said, sounding for all the world like a scolded boy. His cheeks were even flushed slightly pink, as pretty a color as Penelope had ever seen. She would like to own a dress in that very color, she thought idly. “She’s safe with me. But, you should know, Miss Penelope can take care of herself.”

Violet gave Penelope a smile so warm she could not help but smile back. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Now, you’ll have to sit up behind me today,” Colin told her once they were outside the house, as he adjusted Queenie’s saddle. “It’s a mite hilly and I’ll need to ride fast to get you home before dinner, so it’s easier if I’m up front and you hold on to me.”

Penelope nodded, and when she was atop the horse, she wriggled herself back so Colin could sit in front. They were very close, the heat of him warm between her legs, his back broad and lithe.

“Put your arms around my waist and hold on tight,” he told her, and he sounded jovial but Penelope could hear something tight in his voice. “It’s a little bumpy and I don’t want you tumbling off. I made my Ma a promise.”

“Yes, sir,” Penelope said automatically, her heart in her throat, and wrapped her arms around him.

She had not touched him like this since they hit water. She could not help how her body leaned into his, her hands brushing over the cotton of his shirt, her breasts pressing against his back. There was that smell again - horse and sweat and something grassy, sweet. She wanted to press her nose into his shirt and breathe deeply, but she knew that would be a mite strange, so she contented herself with little shallow breaths.

Penelope had not known this land could be so beautiful. Colin rode them fast and hard across the ranch, Queenie’s hooves racing through the green-yellow grass. It was hillier here than down by the Featherington farm, and Colin took them up high, higher even than the Bridgerton House.

Once they reached the top, they paused, all three of them breathless - man, woman and horse. Penelope could feel the sweat on Queenie’s flanks and soaking Colin’s shirt, and as they breathed hard, it almost felt as though they were one being, their lungs expanding and hearts beating in sync.

“This is our land,” Colin breathed. Wind whipped hot and loud this high up, but the words seemed to reverberate through Penelope’s body as if she had said them herself.

She looked out across the vista. Everything looked so big - the sky and the earth and the herd of cattle rumbling across the fields. The cows looked like ants from this distance, but still the sound of their hooves rolled up the hill like thunder.

“You see my brothers?” Colin asked softly. “You know, if you squint I think you can see Anthony’s mustache from here.”

Penelope could not laugh (even though it was rather a funny joke) because she felt like her heart was fit to swell and burst right out of her ribcage, and that if she opened her mouth she was liable to scream or cry or sing.

Because from up here, the sky looked as blue as Colin’s eyes, as his mother’s eyes, and Penelope had never loved this land before, but with her arms wrapped around Colin Bridgerton, for the first time she did.

This place was hostile - too cold in winter, summer hot enough to boil you alive in your skin. The people here could be cruel, and the soil temperamental, and if you weren’t smart enough it could chew you up and spit out your bones, leave them for the buzzards to pick clean.

This land was inhospitable - but so was she, wasn’t she? And still things grew here, even when they had no right to. Flowers poking up through the cracks in the prairie. Colin’s apple saplings, fighting to grow into adulthood. The long, dry grass on the Featherington farm, soon to be turned into money-making hay.

And wasn’t it the same for her? The barren soil of her wasn’t meant for life or color. There wasn’t meant to be anything growing there, and she wasn’t meant to have a heart that thundered like the hooves of cattle across the Bridgerton ranch. She wasn’t meant to know about this many shades of blue.

But here was Colin. Tending, watering, shaping the soil with his lovely rough hands. She could feel the little green shoots inside of her, pushing their way through the crusted earth.

She laid her face against the damp cotton of Colin’s shirt, feeling his muscles move under her cheek.

Penelope had never much thought about religion, and stopped going to church altogether after her daddy died, but as they crossed the green plains, she sent up a prayer to God (or whoever else might be listening).

Please, she prayed, her arms tightening around his waist, please let me keep him.

That night was muggy and hot, and Penelope hardly slept a wink, the pressure making her head throb.

It was not just the heat. It was the memory of Colin’s warm back against her cheek, and his smell, and the feel of his belt buckle under her fingers. Her skin burned all over, and she tried touching herself between her thighs but she could get no relief, the memory of Colin buzzing through her brain louder than a kicked hornet nest.

All too soon, the grey dawn light eased its way through her window, and she dragged herself out of bed.

She tucked her chemise into her bloomers as she watched him walk across the yard with his barrow of slate tiles for the inside of the well (Colin had scavenged them from the roof of the barn - they had been purely decorative and he and Penelope had decided they could be put to better use in the well).

She stood at the window for a moment and just let herself watch him.

For several minutes, she barely moved, drinking him in as he worked - but then, he froze.

Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, but it took a moment for Penelope to make sense of what she was seeing. The yard turned dark, like it was sunset instead of sunrise, and then the dry earth started to freckle, little spots blooming all over. The spots started to swell and grow and join up, and a loud rumble of thunder rolled across the yard.

Rain.

And at the precise moment she realised this, Colin turned and looked up at her window, panic on his face.

Which meant that he knew very well which window was hers. Which meant he knew she would be there, watching him. Which meant he might have known she was watching him all this time, all these mornings when she had gazed upon him, unclothed, her eyes drinking in his beauty greedily, and he had let her.

But Penelope hardly had time to think on this, because she knew why Colin looked so panicked. The hay.

If the bales got wet, they would turn to rot and Penelope and her family would be ruined. They would not survive the winter without the income from the hay.

Colin dropped the barrow and ran in the direction of the back field where the hay bales were stacked, his long legs eating up the earth.

Penelope yanked on her boots - there was no time to get dressed - and followed him, her heart racing and a sick dread in her throat as she tripped down the stairs, almost falling in her rush to get outside.

Colin was already heaving bales into the barn when Penelope got to the field, his shirt soaked through by the drenching rain, the white cotton sticking to his body. They did not speak - what was there to say? They both knew how important this was, how much danger was afoot, and, anyway, they would hardly have been heard over the deafening thunder.

Penelope joined him, but she was too weak to lift the bales on her own so she was forced to drag them across the field. The rain was cool against her hot skin, soaking her just as it had Colin, but she did not care. All she could think of was the task at hand, putting one foot in front of the other, heaving one bale at a time so she did not let the dread in her throat and belly strike her down entirely.

Colin was stronger and faster than her, heaving two bales for every one Penelope managed. It was back-breaking work, and without her kid-skin gloves Penelope’s hands and arms stung with scratches from the sharp straw. At a certain point, she was not sure what was rain and what was sweat soaking her, the cotton of her chemise and bloomers clinging uncomfortably to her skin as the heavens dumped bucket after bucket down upon the Featherington farm.

She was not sure how long they worked for. It felt like hours, the dread stretching out the time in her mind, but if she was being rational she knew it wasn’t more than one hour. Eventually, they had all the bales stuffed inside the barn, the doors closed to prevent the rain blowing in. The air smelled like sweet wet grass.

Colin walked around the bales, inspecting the damage, tearing open the ones that were the worst soaked to stop them rotting from the inside out. Penelope could only stand and watch in dismay, dripping wet, tears rolling silently down her face.

More than half of the bales were wet through.

“Penelope?”

She blinked at him, her vision blurring with tears. “We’re ruined, Colin. And it’s all my fault.”

Colin’s face crumpled in sympathy, genuine pain writ across his features, and he crossed the distance between them, taking both of her hands in his. “You ain’t ruined, and it ain’t your fault,” he said fiercely, his eyes on hers. “When the sun comes out again tomorrow, we’ll lay them out and they’ll be dry again in no time.”

“What if it doesn’t come out? If this storm lasts more than two days the bales’ll spoil,” she said, the dread choking her. “We won’t survive the winter without the hay money, and I don’t know what’ll happen -” The tears cut her off, panicked sobs shivering through her. She didn’t remember the last time she let herself cry, but now the tears were coming she could not stop them.

“Hush, hush,” Colin said. His hand touched her cheek, pushing her wet curls away from her forehead and dipping his face closer to hers. “Whatever happens, we’ll find a way to sort it.”

We.

Penelope looked up at him, eyes wide. He said we, and the dread started to morph, bending like a river around a rock.

She watched breathlessly as Colin turned over her palms in his hand, surveying the damage wrought by the bales. She was rather badly cut up - these were not the hands of a lady, she supposed. A lady’s hands were supposed to be soft and unmarred, but hers had not been that way in years. Callused and dry and almost as rough as Colin’s.

Thumbs smoothed over her scratches, touch light as a feather. Slowly, he brought her hands upwards and gently, reverently, started to lay kisses against her cuts, as soft as a pilgrim touching the feet of their saint. Penelope barely dared breathe as she watched him, his full lips pouting into a kiss, his stubble scratching pleasantly against her skin.

When he let go of her fingers, Penelope realised they had shifted closer to each other, their hips almost matching. The air felt wet and thick, no sound but their heavy breaths and the rain on the roof of the barn, steady as a drum. She could feel the heat of him, could almost hear his heart beating, her eyes stuck on his face.

“Penelope,” he whispered, and it came out in an achy moan.

Colin’s head was tilted down and Penelope followed his gaze to her chemise. Drenched fabric, turned sheer from the rain, clung obscenely to her breasts, heaving with every desperate breath. Her nipples were hard, the dark pink of them visible through the cotton, and Colin’s eyes ate them up, hungry and helpless. His hands were gripped to fists at his sides as though he were fighting every instinct that told him to touch her.

Penelope did not want him to fight. She was sure she had never wanted anything more than for Colin to touch her.

“Please,” she murmured.

That seemed to break his will. His hands flew to her face, gripping her cheeks tightly, his eyes as stormy as the weather outside as he let out a deep exhale. A pause - a breath that brushed her skin - and then his mouth found hers, and Penelope was lost.

Such a kiss was not meant for Penelope. A kiss so sweet, so tender, that Colin’s hands on her face felt like the only thing keeping her upright. He kissed her like a settler choosing their parcel of land - exploring, testing, first soft then hard, his top lip slotting between hers, her lower lip sucked into his mouth, teeth grazing. It set sweetness blazing through her bones to taste the rain on his lips, his thumbs brushing gently over her cheeks as he kissed her.

Not in all her prayers had she imagined such a kiss. She moaned a little - she did not mean to, but he seemed to like it, his tongue darting out to trace the seam of her lips as though he meant to taste the sound of it. She let out a gasp at the heady rush that shot through her, and then his tongue was in her mouth, pressing against hers like he wanted to lick her up.

Her body felt like the thunderstorm, pleasure rumbling and rolling through her as he tilted her head backwards, one hand sliding to her neck. His fingers cupped her throat loosely, thumb soothing over her pulse-point whilst he kissed her and, though he was gentle, there was something possessive about his touch, as if her body and her skin and the blood in her veins already belonged to him.

His hand smoothed over her collarbone, trembling fingers pushing the wet strap of her chemise off her shoulder as he deepened the kiss. Penelope found the bravery to hold his waist, her fingers clinging to his soaked shirt.

She felt like treacle. Everything was sweet and dark and melting, heavy on her tongue as his mouth left hers and began to travel over her cheek, her jaw. When he reached the soft, tender skin behind her ear, he paused, his tongue darting out to suck her flesh. It felt good. She shivered in his arms, gripping his waist tighter so she might pull him closer, might feel more of him against her.

Murmuring something against her skin that she could not hear, his mouth moved lower. Her chin, her neck. Her bare shoulder, nipping at the wet, freckled skin. Under his mouth, she bloomed, the green shoots of her soil sprouting thick and verdant. She imagined flowers blossoming on her flesh at each point he kissed her. She wanted more of his lips and his tongue and his hands, wanted a full garden to flower upon her.

With his mouth buried against her neck, his hands found her hips and he started to walk her backwards. She felt as boneless as water, totally pliant, letting him lead her and trusting his hands to keep her upright. Her rear hit the prickle of one of the bales, and with a grunt Colin lifted her, perching her atop the hay. His hands moved up her torso, over the rolls at her waist, settling under her breasts and spreading wide over her skin. His large, firm fingers on her felt like the only things holding her together, as though, if he moved them, her insides might come spilling out.

He pulled his face away from her throat to press a little kiss to her lips, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve spent so long trying not to touch you, Penelope,” he rasped, the catch in his voice dripping through her, hot and sweet. “Lord forgive me, but I can’t do it no more.”

She must be very wicked, because kissing was one thing but she knew he meant more than kissing. She knew there was more after the kissing, had heard farmhands and cowpokes talking when they thought there was no lady about, knew about how the bull and the heifer joined in the field. She supposed that was what he meant when he said he wanted to touch her, that he wanted to plough her furrow and take her like the stallion did the mare. She was wicked indeed, because the thought of beautiful, kind Colin Bridgerton wanting something so rough and raw with her made her belly swoop and flip, her heart race, and her head grow fuzzy.

She wanted it, wanted every drop of what he wanted to give her, wanted to drown herself in all his blue.

“Please keep touching me,” she whispered into his mouth.

So he did.

He was trembling worse than her as his hands moved upwards, his long fingers spread over her breasts - though they were still not large enough to fully cover them. He moaned a little as he squeezed her flesh, as though the feel of them full and heavy in his palms, nipples poking out hard, was overwhelming. Lowering his head, he laid kisses over the damp skin, traversing across soaked cotton. Penelope only gripped his shirt and shivered, his lips tracing pleasure across her skin.

Shaking fingers unbuttoned her chemise. He peeled away the fabric like the husk from the corn, pushing it down so her breasts were bare to him. For a breath, he paused to take her in, eyes black with need, and Penelope’s knuckles turned white as they tangled into his shirt. She needed desperately for him to say something, or touch her - anything. Her damp breasts quivered with each sharp little breath she inhaled.

It was as if he could hear her thoughts, because he bent his head and licked a long trail over her breast - wet and hot - before his mouth latched to her nipple. Her head tipped back with a gasp as he began to suckle like a babe.

Penelope had sometimes touched her breasts a little when she played with the spot between her legs, but it had never felt like this: an aching pleasure, almost painful in its intensity. She felt unbearably sensitive under his tongue, his fingers toying with the other nipple, and she was not sure if it was because her courses were due or if it was just Colin’s touch, but each flick of his tongue, each tweak of his fingers, sent twists of pleasure through her. She could only cling to him and let him taste and pluck, switching between her breasts with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

Then his teeth found her, grazing her swollen nipple. Pain and pleasure shot through her.

She hissed, her fingers scrabbling against his wet shirt. “My courses are coming,” she murmured. “I’m tender.”

He nodded, his hands cupping her, thumbs sweeping circles over her nipples. She squirmed under his touch. He made a tutting sound, not dissimilar to when he was calling his horse to him. “Poor darlin’,” he crooned. “I’ll be careful with you.” He pecked soft kisses against her pink, spit-wet peaks.

She felt stricken by the sight of him sucking her flesh. The contrast of his dark, tanned hands against her lily-white breasts made her feel strange, almost ashamed, because that soft white skin was a reminder of the lady she used to be. Once, her skin had been head-to-toe white as snow, but now she was freckled and rough. Ruined. For a moment, she longed deeply for that sweet, untouched young girl, wished that it was her Colin was kissing. The girl who did not know about hunger and terror and the ache of a hard day’s labor; the girl who knew nothing of grief.

Only, Colin did not seem to care that she was not that girl any longer, did he? He kissed her just as sweetly on her sun-spotted face and her scratched-up hands as he did the satin skin of her breasts. Colin had never even known that girl, and still he wanted Penelope just the same.

Her hands drifted to his belt, fiddling with the leather. It made him groan against her breast, and then he covered her little hand with his, guiding it lower, lower -

Oh.

He pressed her fingers against the large, hard something in his pants. She supposed that was his cock (as she had heard it called), and she noticed that his breath got quicker as she cupped it through the rough, homespun linen of his pants. Instinctively, she began to rub him there, her fingers exploring his shape and firmness through the fabric.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he muttered as she stroked her palm up and down. It swelled and twitched beneath her fingers, and he exhaled slowly, shakily. “Just like that.”

More treacle, turned thicker and sweeter by his hands tugging her chemise out of her bloomers, pulling at the cotton ties at her waist. His hands, usually so competent and precise, fumbled wildly, as though he could not quite decide what he needed to do first to free her from her clothes, his desire too great.

Eventually, he managed to untie her. She removed her hand from his bulge so she could lift her rear off the hay bale. Colin stripped her wet bloomers down, tugging them off over her boots and tossing them aside. She wondered what a sight she made, sitting on the bale with her breasts bared in her thigh-length chemise and worn-out leather boots.

He kissed her, open-mouthed and sloppy, and the fire he was stoking in her must have made her bold, because she began to kiss him back. She moved her tongue like he did, and she knew it was messy and clumsy but she hardly cared because it made Colin moan and shake, his fingers sliding under her chemise to touch the soft skin of her thighs.

“Hungry, ain’t you?” he breathed into her mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him between her parted thighs. It was strange how his body fit so perfectly to hers, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, like a nut and a bolt. His teeth nipped at her lower lip as his fingers slowly moved higher up her legs, exploring her plump flesh. His touch made her shiver too much to respond to him - she just spread her thighs wider, beckoning him to continue.

And then his fingers found her wet slit and Penelope’s needful whimper matched Colin’s desperate groan.

“You’re wetter than the rain clouds, Penelope,” he rasped as his thick fingers rubbed artlessly over her melting core, as if he wanted nothing more than the pleasure of getting to touch her here. She liked the roughness of his hands, how they grazed and stroked and explored while he panted into her mouth. “Lord, your cunt feels good. I ain’t ever felt anything like it.”

For a moment, there was no sound except the slick spit of Colin’s fingers on her as he played with her wetness, running his fingers back and forth like he wanted to touch every part of her at once. He explored her folds, rubbing two thick fingers up her slit, dipping into her aching hole before circling around it. It was both wondrous and maddening, leaving her balancing on the edge of pleasure, exquisite torture.

And she was not sure he even knew he was doing it. His eyes were closed as he played with her like a cat with a mouse, his pretty mouth dropped open as though he were totally lost in the pleasure of how her cunt felt (that was what he had called it - cunt - the word thrilled her). As though he were half-way gone just from the feel of her dripping hot against his fingers.

Penelope threaded her fingers into the hair curling at the back of his neck, holding on tight as she tried to buck her hips up, get his touch where she needed it. “Colin,” she whined, and his eyes fluttered open, the dark blue of them swallowed almost entirely up by black.

“Show me, darlin’,” he murmured. “Show me how you like it.”

Penelope supposed she should be ashamed that she was all but admitting how she liked to touch herself, but she needed him too badly to care. Anyhow, she reckoned that any thoughts of propriety were long gone now he knew how her nipples tasted.

She hitched up her chemise and bared herself to him, her fingers slipping to cover his. He looked almost drunk as he stared at her cunt, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as she moved his fingers to the sweet spot at the apex of her slit. Together, they started to rub those slow firm circles she liked, her cheeks flushing red as the pleasure focused, intensified.

“You touch yourself a lot, I’d wager, hungry girl like you,” he said, his voice dark and sweet. His words made her whimper, the pleasure rising and her skin burning. “You know, I thought about you in your room, watching me work and playing with this sweet little cunt. You ever touch yourself while you watch me?”

Shame and pleasure and desire rolled through her, as thick and heavy as the clouds above them. In her dreams, she never imagined Colin would speak to her like this - possessive and dirty, words growled against her skin. “At night,” she gasped, increasing the speed of the circles. “I think of you in my bed at night.”

A grunt dropped from his lips, brimming with need; she craned her neck up to kiss it from his mouth. Tongues dancing, she removed her hand from his, trusting him to keep up with the same circular motion - had she not trusted him with so much else and more? He had not let her down yet, and he did not in this either.

She clung to his neck with one arm, the other hand plucking at her nipple desperately in an attempt to recreate how his fingers had made her feel earlier.

Colin saw what she was doing and knocked her hand away so that he might once again capture her nipple in his mouth. Breath puffed out of his nose, hot against her breast as he mouthed at her, suckling and batting her nipple with his tongue. She felt pleasure pulse and coil, crackling like lightning over her skin.

“That feel good, darlin’?” he asked, voice muffled by her flesh. “You just tell me when you’re close.”

She mewled into his hair as her release approached, her mouth full of his scent. “Colin, I - God - ”

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Give it to me.”

Her toes curled up in her boots and she gripped his hair and her face screwed up as pleasure wracked through her hard. She melted and clung to him and sobbed with the force of it.

All the while Colin held her, kept his fingers moving until there was no more pleasure to be had. He pulled away from her breast with a wet popping noise, his lips swollen and pink from the suckling. She watched, entranced, tears still streaming down her face as he withdrew his fingers from her and sucked them slowly into his mouth, cleaning them one by one. His face contorted as though her cunt was the sweetest treat he had ever tasted, his dark eyes near enough rolling back in his head, lashes fluttering.

He fixed his eyes on hers and Penelope felt in that moment she would do anything to have Colin Bridgerton look at her like that for the rest of her life.

He stroked her cheek tenderly. “You think you can do that again?” he asked.

Penelope blinked at him, feeling so drunk on pleasure that she would have agreed to anything. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes danced, his cheeks sucking in to hide his smile. “That’s a blessing, because I ain’t done with you yet.” He tweaked her nose and she bit her lip, hiding her grin.

Then he dropped to his knees so he was face-to-face with her messy, quivering cunt. He pressed his lips to the soft skin of her inner thigh and a shiver ran through Penelope’s body. She tried to think of the last time anyone had touched her so gently and she could not remember it - the realisation made her throat feel swollen.

Colin pulled her out of these melancholy thoughts as he looked up at her, and the sight of him kneeling between her thighs was almost too much to bear.

“How many times have you brought yourself off before?” he asked, wearing an expression of genuine curiosity. “One after the other, I mean?”

“Four,” she whispered. “The night after we hit water.”

Colin groaned and pressed his forehead against her thigh. She felt his sigh huff against her wet folds. “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

She was about to retort that it was a bit rich for him to say that to her, but before her mouth could form the words his tongue was buried inside of her drooling slit.

She gasped, her hands winding into his hair as though she might anchor herself against the shock of this new feeling. His tongue licked in broad strokes, careful not to touch her still-swollen little pearl but seemingly content just to taste her, to lick up the mess he had made of her.

When she heard the farmhands talk about rutting, she never heard them speak of anything like this.

Moans vibrated against her tender flesh as he lapped at her, each swipe of his tongue bringing forth more wetness. Her whole body felt like rainfall - skin wet from the storm, tears still sparkling upon her cheeks, her cunt dripping into his mouth.

Lightly, experimentally, he brushed that sweet spot with his tongue, and Penelope’s hips jerked mindlessly, her fingers tightening in his hair. He hummed and slowly, almost lazily, started to lick her there, over and over.

Her hole fluttered and clenched. It happened sometimes when she was alone, and she would stuff a finger or two inside of herself, but they were rather small, and it never did much to ease the ache. But now here was Colin Bridgerton, and she had touched what he had in his pants, and she felt a kind of perfect clarity, bright as the prairie sun. She wanted - needed - him inside her, needed him to take her like the stallion took the mare and the farmhands took their whores. Her body was made for this - to join with his, to be taken and bred, to be a home for him. She wanted to give every inch of herself over to Colin Bridgerton.

Gently she tugged his hair to pull his face away from her centre. He blinked up at her, pretty mouth glistening with her slick, eyes hazy and cunt-drunk.

“I want…” She swallowed, all of her breeding and childhood etiquette lessons screaming at her not to say the next words. “I want you… inside.”

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep, shaking breath. “Are you sure?” he whispered once he had opened them again. She could not read the expression on his face.

The words hung heavy in the air. She supposed he was giving her a chance to back down, to stop this before they went further. She supposed another man would not have thought twice, would have taken her there and then - but this was Colin Bridgerton, so of course he asked her if she was sure. Sure that she wanted to do something that couldn’t ever be taken back. Sure that she wanted to give herself to him even though she could not have him. Sure that she wanted to do this even though he would find some other woman to marry one day.

Was she sure?

She knew it was foolish and dangerous, that very soon her heart would break over this. She knew that, when it was over, Penelope would be left alone again, her little hands struggling to hold everything together. It would end, as all things did, and it would hurt.

But Penelope was no stranger to pain. She would take it, and more, if it meant she got to have this. Have him. Even just once, an hour in the hay barn in storm-soaked underclothes, her hair dripping wet down her back, her boots still on.

“Yes,” she nodded, and before she could see his face, she slid down from her seat and turned, bending over the hay bale, shimmying up her chemise so her backside was presented to him (she knew little enough about rutting, but she knew this is how the animals on the farm did it, and it could not be that much different for menfolk, could it?).

She could not see him, so she focused on the sounds. For a moment, there was nothing but the roar of thunder, but then she heard the snap of Colin’s suspenders, the pop of his pant buttons. Then came the sound of Colin spitting in his palm, which made her feel rough and ragged and desperate, and she bit back a whine. And then a new sound - skin on skin, wet and slick - and she supposed he must be tugging on his cock, perhaps stroking it like he had stroked her cunt. That idea made her knees tremble, and it only got worse when he pressed his face against her hole and inhaled like it was his last breath.

She cried out then, his tongue pushing in and out of her as he touched himself, his other hand stroking the expansive flesh of her backside, fingers digging into her.

Penelope whined when the tongue disappeared, but she heard him get to his feet, and then something else was pressed against her. Something big and blunt and hot. Her belly felt like molasses, her cunt weeping needily as he rubbed himself over her. One hand soothed her lower back, stroking sweet, gentle patterns over her burning skin as the other worked the tip of his cock into her hole.

“I’m told it’ll hurt a little this first time,” Colin said, and his voice was as wrecked as her cunt, melting and fluttering around his cock; as wrecked as Penelope’s heart.

She could not speak, her fingers gripping the hay bale in the face of the pressing, invading stretch. She felt torn between wanting to jerk away from the feeling and wanting to thrust her hips back and sheath him all at once. Instead, she forced herself to stay still. To trust him once again.

“Tell me if it’s - it’s too much,” he gritted out, as he pushed in another inch.

She shook her head vehemently, tears stinging her eyes. The hay bale prickled her bare breasts, and somehow this pulled her attention from the pain between her legs. “I can take it,” she insisted.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured, and his hips thrust forward.

A little pain, enough to make her inhale in a sharp hiss, but it was worth it to feel him seated fully inside of her. His pelvis sat flush against her rear, the hair on his groin brushing rough against tender skin, his pants scratchy against the backs of her thighs. She liked the roughness, liked the calluses of his fingers as they swept soothingly over the soft skin of her behind.

“You’re a good girl, Penelope,” he breathed, and she heard something in his voice; something trembling and brimming, a bucketful of water about to spill.

She nodded, trying to adjust to the pain and the stretch. It was fading already, and really, it hurt no worse than when she had cut herself with the peeling knife (she still had the scar on her thumb).

And then his hands stopped their roaming, settled on her hips, and dug in. With a gasp, he dragged his thick cock out of her and thrust back inside, hard enough to push the air from her lungs. Her hands scrabbled at the hay, clutching handfuls as he found a slow, steady rhythm.

“You feel… so good, darlin’,” he breathed, as his hips snapped forward. The slap of his skin against hers; the way he rutted so hard she felt her backside ripple from the impact; his soft grunts as he plunged himself deep - treacle and molasses, thunder and rain. Dark and sweet and wet and a little frightening.

And then his body was plastered against her, his hard, lean front pressed up close to her soft back. “Look at me,” he murmured against her ear, and she did her best to turn her face towards him so that he might press hungry kisses to her cheek, her temple, the corner of her mouth.

“You’re a beauty,” he moaned, and he used the same sort of voice he used with Queenie. It set Penelope alight - because she was his to tame and use just the same, wasn’t she?

He rolled his hips so his cock thrust in further. She gasped at the new sensation, his length hitting a spot so deep it made shivers of pleasure run over her skin, like lightning chased across the plains. “Prettiest girl I ever saw. Knew it from the minute I laid eyes on you.” He choked out the words in between kisses, as if he could not decide if he preferred to kiss her or praise her and settled for both at the same time. She waited for him to go on, tell her exactly what he knew, but instead he crawled his hand underneath their entwined bodies and Penelope stopped thinking.

Colin petted the soft curls there for a moment, before his fingers began to rub slow circles between her legs, over the spot that would lead to her release. All the while his hips rutted into her, slow and steady, and the motions made her cunt clench and grip him tighter.

He felt massive like this, his body curled around hers like a carapace, every inch of her skin covered in him, surrounded. Though he was the one inside her, she felt she was being swallowed by him, as though Colin wanted to slit open his own skin and draw her inside. She had never felt so protected, so safe, even as his big cock split her in half and his hand on her cunt unravelled her.

“Will you give me another?” he murmured into her ear, his free hand pushing her wet curls away from her face, his other increasing the pressure against her soaked, spasming cunt. “One more. I know you can.”

“Yes, sir,” she panted, and she felt his chuckle huff across her cheek.

“Good girl,” he said, voice full of affection, and the words made the pleasure spiral faster, draw nearer. He did not speed up or change a thing, just kept his slow, steady pace, letting her release build without hurry. The sensation was delicious, like sinking into the sun-warmed river on his land, her fingers and toes tingling as she let it wash over her bit by bit.

She keened as she peaked, and Colin’s mouth found hers, sucking the cry off her tongue as he tupped her through it. “Perfect,” he whispered as she trembled and moaned, pleasure rolling through her limbs.

He reared up and his fingers bit deep into her hips. He began to thrust wildly, grunting as his cock plunged in and out of her like a man possessed. Penelope could only cling to the hay and let him wreck her, let him chase out his own pleasure inside of her. Somehow she liked him using her little body like this, liked how his hands held her like she belonged to him, liked that the feel of her cunt could make sweet, mannered Colin Bridgerton lose his mind.

It did not take long for him to find his release. His hips started to stutter, losing rhythm in his desperate need, and then he wrenched himself out of her. A sob escaped her lips at the loss of him, her core pulsating around empty air, but she felt something hot and wet land against her backside as Colin let out a deep, guttural groan. She supposed it was his seed, and for a moment she felt disappointed - she wanted to feel it inside of her - but she knew that was how babies were made and it was probably for the best.

He bent over her, breathing hard, and pressed a gentle kiss against her spine. She tried to straighten up, but a broad hand landed flat against the small of her back.

“Keep still,” he said softly.

Something soft brushed her sensitive cunt - his kerchief, she supposed - and she yelped.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he said. “Only we made a mess of you. I need to clean you up.”

She nodded, and tried not to move as he mopped up her wetness, before running the cloth over her backside where he had spilled upon her.

“Can I move now?” she asked, and he chuckled.

“I reckon so.”

She straightened and turned, and found Colin barely a few inches away, as though he could not bear even a moment of distance. It rather stole her breath to find him so close, gazing down at her with the softest eyes she ever saw. He tucked a wet curl behind her ear and ran the back of his knuckles over her cheek, his touch as soft as his gaze.

“We best get you dressed and back in the house before your Momma wakes up,” he said, his mouth curling into a smile.

Penelope nodded, hardly able to speak. Her chest felt like it had been cracked clean open, as though the pleasure he had brought her to had split her at the seams, like her daddy’s battered old riding jacket she wore in winter, the one that had been mended so many times it was hardly fit for purpose. That was Penelope, wasn’t it? Threadbare and patched up. Hardly fit for purpose. Not worth much to anyone except herself - and, it seemed, from the way he was looking at her, Colin Bridgerton.

“You - you should head home,” she said, her voice trembling. “There isn’t much you can do here while it’s storming.”

He frowned, but then he nodded. “Anyone ever told you you’re a mite too sensible, Penelope Featherington?”

She could not help the smile, even though her chest was split open and she wanted to cry. That was Colin all over - making her laugh the moment before the tears fell. “Never, actually.”

He patted her cheek. “Well, you are.” He sighed. “But I suppose you’re right.”

“Always am.”

He laughed properly, and then laid a soft kiss against her lips - almost chaste after how he had just touched her, and yet it made her feel like the sun sparkling on the river.

He helped her dress, chuckling when she grimaced at the feel of her wet bloomers sticking to her legs.

He kissed her once more, and then she stood in the shelter of the barn door and watched him ride off through the warm thick rain, and tried to ignore the feeling that he was taking her heart away with him.

“Is the Bridgerton boy not here today?” Portia asked over breakfast.

Penelope kept her gaze on her porridge. “He was here first thing, but I told him to go home when the rain started.” She prayed desperately her mother did not notice how her cheeks pinked, but she could feel the sharpness of Portia’s eyes.

“Pity,” Prudence said, with a salacious grin. “I do enjoy looking at him.”

“Prudence!” Portia scolded.

Prudence rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Mother.”

Penelope could not bear hearing her family talk about him like that. She had barely slept, and her cunt still ached, and she wanted very badly to cry.

She did not know what was wrong with her. She never cried before Colin, and now here she was, fighting tears every other damned day.

Because it had all felt so right in the barn. Natural and good, what her body was made for. But now her limbs throbbed with leftover pain, and sitting in the breakfast room, she had this terrible feeling that she had done something wrong. Not just wrong, but sinful, dirty. Something she ought to be ashamed of, and the ache in her body was reminding her of how bad she had been.

Worst of all was the awful, gutting feeling that she would never see Colin Bridgerton again, that he had taken what he needed from her and ridden off and that would be that. He had snatched up her heart, never to return.

She spent the day in a foul mood. She decided the rain would be the perfect excuse to finish off her mending, but she could hardly focus, her eyes checking the rain anxiously. If it did not stop soon, the hay would be ruined, but she found her eyes searching the road Colin usually came down just as desperately.

She supposed it was just that her courses were coming, but she found her sisters’ idle chatter got on her nerves too, and she had to bite her tongue more than once to stop herself from snapping at them.

It was still raining when she went to bed that night.

She woke up late with the sun in her eyes. When she stripped her sheets back, she found blood on the cotton - her courses had started in the night, but she hardly cared, stumbling to her window to press her face to the glass.

The sun blinded her for a moment, but when the dancing blotches cleared from her vision, there was still no sign of Colin in the yard.

Penelope stepped back from the window, fighting the sinking feeling in her belly. Instead, she focused on what she had to do: strip the bed. Clean herself up. Get dressed. Eat something. Check on the bales.

She pulled on her boots and headed to the barn, the tight, sad feeling still in her chest, but before she could open the door she felt a hand on her wrist and she was being spun around, coming face-to-face with Colin Bridgerton.

He came back.

She felt like a stick of lit dynamite as she looked up at him, haloed by the morning sun.

“Sleep in late today?” he asked her softly, his eyes dancing.

Before she could answer, Colin pushed her against the door of the barn, hard enough that she gasped, but he laid his palm flat against the wooden slats behind her hair so she would not bash her head. His other hand found her chin, tilting her face up to his. She opened her mouth to speak - though she had no idea what she meant to say, because Colin kissed the words out of her head and off her lips. Kissed the breath right out of her lungs, in fact. Kissed her so well, she could only hold onto his suspenders and try not to fall over.

All her bad feelings and worries melted away under his tongue, and she felt flowers blossoming once more.

He pulled away and his kiss-pink lips were smiling wickedly. “I missed you something awful,” he said softly, his words hot and aching.

“You did?” Penelope asked, because it was about all she could make her tongue do after Colin had sucked on it so well.

“I did,” he said, and dropped his lips to her ear. “Do you want to feel how much I missed you?”

She could only squeak and let him guide her hand to the hard bulge in his pants. He pressed her fingers firmly against his warmth, and she felt his gaze on her, watching her expression intently.

She gulped. “Colin, we can’t… Not here. Someone could walk by,” she managed to say.

“I know it,” he said, and there was something smug on his face. “I just thought you should know what you do to me, is all.”

He brushed his lips over her cheek and then pulled away from her, releasing her hand before stepping back.

“We got too much work to do for this fooling around, so you better stop distracting me,” he warned her, his mock serious expression turning to a grin when Penelope pulled an outraged face. “Come help me with the rest of the hay, greedy girl.”

Penelope took a deep, steadying breath, her cheeks still stinging a little from the rough scratch of his stubble, and followed Colin inside the barn.

“You know, Penelope, I ain’t ever felt anything as good as what we did yesterday,” Colin said, as they both selected bales. He said it conversationally, as if he were remarking on the weather.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls after you’re done with them.”

“No, ma’am. I never did that before,” he said, breathless from the exertion of hauling a bale onto his shoulder.

Penelope blinked at him. “Never?” She tried to keep up with him as she dragged the bale out of the barn and over the field. “But… you’re a man. What’s stopping you?”

He shrugged. “Never felt right, I suppose. There ain’t many girls like you at Madame Delacroix’s.”

Penelope shook her head. He really was not like any other man she had met.

“Girls like me come ten a dollar. I’m not that special, Colin,” she told him with a little snort. “And if I were a man, I’d be in the cat-house every night,” she added solemnly. She was only half joking - now that she had got a taste of what sex could be like, she was not sure why folks were not doing it constantly.

He dropped his bale and came close, towering above her. “Oh, and you think you could find a whore that’d make you feel as good as I did?” he asked, his eyes flashing, a dark look on his face. “Make you squeal and beg like you did yesterday?”

Penelope felt her heartbeat between her thighs at the possessive look in his eyes. He almost looked… jealous. “Well, yes,” she replied, her mouth dry. “Isn’t that what they’re paid for?”

Colin huffed out a laugh and shook his head, the darkness fading from his eyes. He picked up the bale, heaving it onto his shoulder. “Well, I guess it’s lucky for me you were born a woman, then.”

“I suppose it is,” she said, her lips pouting to hide her smile.

They did a few more trips, chattering their usual nonsense, before Colin stopped her.

“Don’t you have other chores to be getting on with? It’s harvest soon - I’m sure you got a lot to do.”

Penelope bit her lip, wavering. “I was planning on foraging for berries today,” she admitted. Her wild berry jam was another source of income come winter - she sold it to the neighbors, plus a few jars to the general store. “But I don’t want to leave you.”

She had not meant to say that part.

Colin’s eyes turned a soft, gentle blue. “I’ll be here when you get back, darlin’. I promise you that. And I’ll work quicker without a pretty face around to distract me, anyhow.” Penelope gave him a grateful look, dropping her bale.

Colin picked it up. “If you want, you can take Queenie. You’ll go farther and be able to carry more.” Penelope was considering the wisdom of this suggestion when Colin said: “But you should bring one of your sisters. It’s better that there’s two of you, in case there’s trouble.”

“My sisters?” Penelope pulled a face. “They won’t help.”

Colin shrugged. “No harm in asking.” His expression turned stern. “You ain’t taking Queenie if you’re on your own, so it’s up to you, I guess.”

Penelope dithered. She did not want to go through the ordeal of asking her sisters for anything - she had given up on that years ago - but having Queenie with her meant she could ride out farther to forage and bring more back with her, and the thought of the extra income made her palms itch with excitement.

She found Philippa lying on her bed. She peered at Penelope over the top of her book.

“Yes?” Philippa asked, her eyes wide.

Penelope took a deep breath, her hands on her hips. “Do you want to come foraging with me? I’m taking Colin’s horse and I need help.” The words came out in a rush.

She was braced for the inevitable rejection and almost fainted when Philippa put her book down and said: “Alright.”

“Oh.” Penelope blinked rapidly. “Well. Alright. Meet me in the yard in ten minutes. And you’ll need some proper shoes,” she added, looking at her sister’s velvet slippers.

Philippa nodded, and Penelope hurried off to gather together some baskets and her knife.

It was the darndest thing. Foraging with Philippa was almost…pleasant.

Her chatter was near enough constant. Penelope wondered if Philippa had always been so talkative, and she realised she could not remember the last time they had been alone together.

Though she was chatty, she was also eager to help, and only complained a little of her discomfort with the heat and the horse. All in all, Penelope found it was rather nice to have some company.

They found chokecherries and mulberries and raspberries and Philippa even stumbled upon a tiny patch of wild strawberries. The fruits were tiny, barely worth the effort, but she was so excited Penelope helped her pick them anyway.

They found an apple tree that had fruited early, and Penelope nearly got as excited as Philippa did with her strawberries. The apples would be no good for the jam, but there were lots of other things she could do with them. She got Philippa to help her climb up, her fear of heights overtaken by her greediness, and she shook the branches into her sister’s waiting basket.

Their baskets heaved with sweet treasures, and they loaded up Queenie to return home. On their journey, Philippa spotted a bush of huckleberries. They decided they had just enough room for them and time for one more stop.

“Do you think you’ll marry Colin Bridgerton?” Philippa said suddenly, her head buried in the huckleberry bush to pluck a particularly juicy-looking fruit.

Penelope stopped dead in her tracks. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?” she asked, her face burning red.

Philippa crawled out of the bush and dropped her prize in Penelope’s outstretched basket.

“You don’t see the way he looks at you? Me and Pru reckon he’s taken a fancy. I’d wager he’ll propose any day now.”

“He isn’t going to propose,” Penelope replied, her voice hard.

Philippa looked confused. “Why not? He’s very fine to look at, and his family is rich, and he’s awfully helpful. You could do a lot worse.”

Penelope shook her head and blindly grabbed at a berry. “That’s exactly why he won’t propose. A man like him’ll take a proper young lady for his wife.” She should have hidden the bitterness from her voice, but she could not.

“You’re a proper young lady.”

“No, I’m not.” She savagely tore a huckleberry free from its branch, and it burst over her fingers. She sucked them into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing at the sour sweetness. “And I can’t marry anyhow.”

Philippa’s brow creased in confusion. “Why not?”

“Who would take care of the farm, Philippa?” Penelope said sharply, a little meaner than she ought to be.

Philippa’s face fell, dismayed. “Oh. I see. I suppose you’re right.”

Penelope immediately felt guilty at the upset expression Philippa was wearing, and when they started on the next huckleberry bush, she tried to change the subject.

“Do you ever think about Mr. Finch?”

Philippa shrugged, and twisted a berry off its stem. “Sometimes.” She smiled. “He would have been a good husband.”

There was a touch of sadness in her tone that twinged Penelope’s heart.

“You don’t always have to listen to Momma, you know,” Penelope said, stopping her work to reach out and grab her sister’s arm. “If you want to marry him, you still can.”

Philippa tilted her head to one side, and gave another little shrug. “Oh, he probably won’t have me now.” She paused and gave Penelope another smile. “Mostly I think about the cheese we could have had,” she said, with a sigh of longing.

Penelope huffed out a laugh. “Me too.”

Penelope started her jam the next day. She had to do it in batches because she did not have a pot large enough for all the berries they had foraged. She ended up leaving some out to dry in the sun, but the rest she washed and prepared, measuring out the sugar and dumping it all into her largest pan.

She was at a crucial juncture in her first batch when Prudence stamped into the kitchen.

“Penelope, we’re out of milk,” Prudence moaned.

Penelope sighed. If she left the berries now, they wouldn’t set properly and all the work she had done would be wasted.

“Don’t you know how to get the milk just as well as she does?”

Penelope stared at Colin, standing in the doorframe with his arms folded and a frown on his face. She had not heard him come in. Prudence looked just about as shocked as Penelope felt, her mouth open as she stared at him.

“It’s no bother,” Penelope muttered, even though of course it was - it was a huge bother, but Penelope was used to her sisters and their bothering. She had learned long ago it was less bother just to give into their demands than to push back.

“Can’t you see she’s busy?” Colin went on, his voice tinged with puzzlement. “Why can’t you get it yourself?”

“Prudence has never milked the cow,” Penelope explained.

“Never?” He sounded shocked. Prudence, uncharacteristically surprised into speechlessness, shook her head. “Well, that won’t do.” Then he grabbed Prudence by the wrist and marched her out of the kitchen.

Penelope could only stare at the empty doorway, until the jam started to hiss and spit and she hurriedly turned back to her pot.

They were gone for a long time. Penelope anxiously stirred the sweet red mess of the berries.

Eventually they returned, Prudence holding the milk pail, her face flushed red and her hair frizzing out of its coiffure. She plonked the bucket onto the table, victorious. “I did it!” she announced.

“Yes, you did,” Colin said mildly, an amused look on his face.

Penelope gave him a questioning look over her jam, but he just shrugged and showed Prudence how to strain the milk.

Colin’s house was coming along well - it even had walls - but there was still plenty to do.

Which was why Penelope was a mite confused when Colin plopped down beneath her tree that afternoon, instead of getting to work. He tugged her down with him, settling her so her back was against his front, and they sat like that whilst Penelope wrote, the blazing sun filtering through the green leaves.

“You told my sister you were writing a romance,” Colin stated, once they had been sat like that for an hour or so.

Penelope nodded. She wiped her brow with the back of her hand - the day was fiercely hot. It was hotter pressed together like this, but she would not have moved for all the world. His body fit around hers so perfectly, and she felt soothed by the rhythm of his heart. “Yup.”

“You get inspiration from anything in particular?” he asked, a teasing tone in his voice.

Sweat dripped down Penelope’s forehead. “Nothing in particular, no,” she responded, and tried to keep her voice light. It was a lie, of course; the male character she was writing was practically Colin’s twin.

“Whatever you say, darlin’,” he replied smugly, and Penelope fought the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

After a while, Colin made them both get up to stretch, knowing well that Penelope often spent hours bent over her paper in an awkward position, so absorbed that she hardly felt it until later. She was bothered by the interruption but sighed and got to her feet.

As she raised her hands above her head and shook out her ankles, she realised Colin was looking at her.

“Can you swim?” he asked, scrunching up his nose at her.

She gave him a dark look. “Not well.”

“Well, it’s only shallow,” he said. “I promise I won’t let you drown.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “I don’t much fancy sitting around in wet clothes all day.”

He shook his head, his eyes dancing. “We ain’t swimming in our clothes, Penelope.”

Her eyes widened. “You mean to swim naked? What if someone sees us?”

He rolled his eyes and hooked his thumbs under his suspenders, yanking them down. “Ain’t nobody around for miles. It’s why I chose this parcel of land: privacy.” He tugged his shirt out of his pants, stripping it over his head.

Penelope watched him undress for a moment, her eyes drinking in the broad, shining gold of his bare chest, all the lovely dark hair, the strength of his shoulders. She blushed and looked away when he started unbuttoning his pants, and instead started to untuck her blouse and pull off her skirt.

She managed to get down to her corset, chemise and bloomers before she looked at him again. He stood bare before her, and she wondered how one man could contain such beauty: his powerful thighs and neat waist and (she blushed harder) the heavy swing of his cock. He fit in perfectly with the landscape, like he belonged to the rugged, gorgeous land, like he was Adam in the Garden of Eden.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled at her corset strings and kicked off her bloomers. Finally she peeled her chemise over her head and they stood before each other in the soft hush of the splashing river, fully naked for the first time.

Neither of them spoke. His eyes roved over her hungrily, greedily - her breasts and belly and hips and thighs - as though he wished to gorge himself upon the sight of her. She watched his throat ripple as he swallowed, eyes blinking rapidly, and she felt a little shy. She had never been naked in front of a man before.

Then his lips curled into a grin, and he walked to the river’s edge.

For a moment, Penelope was too entranced by his pert little rear to notice much else, but then he let out a sharp hiss as he stepped into the water. “Lord, it’s cold,” he called out, and his hands flew to his crotch, cupping his cock and balls protectively, as though he might shield them from the chill.

The sight was so ridiculous - Colin holding himself whilst he picked his way carefully over the wet rocks, his face contorted against the cold water - that Penelope started giggling and could not stop.

With the water up to his knees, Colin turned to look at her. “Something funny?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Penelope was laughing too hard to speak, her hands holding her waist.

Colin’s eyes narrowed, and the next thing she knew he was splashing towards her, a devious look on his face. Before she could make a move, his arms were around her waist and he heaved her, squealing, over his shoulder.

“Put me down, scoundrel!” she yelled, but Colin ignored her, wading out to the middle of the river and dunking her right in.

She gasped as she hit the cold water, spluttering and splashing while Colin laughed. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, crushing her breasts against his chest whilst her feet found purchase on the smooth stones of the river bed.

She caught her breath and tried to glare at him, but it was hard to stay mad when he looked at her like that, burning and needy, when the flow of the river made the way their bodies were pressed together feel so… interesting. She wrapped her thighs around his waist beneath the water, clinging to his neck, and they floated like that for a while, their arms and legs entwined and their eyes locked on each other. Sunlight filtered over their skin like molten gold, the river flowing cool and clean around them.

They did not speak - they did not have to. Penelope did not know what there was to say - other than this, the idea that has been growing green in her chest for months now: Penelope was in love with Colin Bridgerton.

She loved the way his eyes danced when he looked at her. She loved his hands shucking corn and wrapped in Queenie’s reins and stroking her face. She loved how he took care of her without ever babying her; let her make her own decisions and did what he could to help her along.

And she loved this place - this place where he belonged, and which belonged to him in return.

She had not let herself think it, because she knew how much more painful it would be when it was all taken from her. But bobbing in the river with his hands splayed across her back, her thighs hitched to his hips, the feelings rose to the surface, floating like the leaves that fell from the tree onto the water, swimming along too quickly for her to catch them.

He carried her out of the river like that, her legs around his waist; took her to the soft green grass beneath that very same tree. He laid her out on the warm earth and kissed her slow and breathless, his wet body moulding to hers. She kept her legs wrapped around his waist, and against her belly she could feel him hard and weighty, throbbing and leaking for her. She met him kiss for kiss, and soon they both became too needy to wait a moment more. He sheathed himself inside of her slick cunt all at once.

He tupped her slow and deep and open under the blue prairie sky, their bodies tangled, buck-naked in the long grass. Hitching one leg up, he pressed her plush thighs apart so she could take him deeper.

She liked it like this, liked to look into his eyes as he trembled and moaned and sweat beaded his brow. She liked how his forehead scrunched up and his mouth dropped open, liked hearing the desperate praise that fell from his lips. She craned her neck to watch him enter her, watched how her body took in every inch of him, and she liked that, too.

One day soon, all of this would belong to some other woman. The river and the house and the tree. Colin. His laughter and his hands and his dancing eyes.

Somehow, the thought only made Penelope more determined, more desperate, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts, her fingers scrabbling at his chest and shoulders for more, deeper, harder. She wanted him to break her open, to spill her out upon this land so she would never have to leave it. She wanted to dissolve into the earth, melt into the river and live here forever.

“Touch yourself,” he panted. He dropped to his elbows over her, his tongue licking into her mouth. She reckoned he was asking her to do it because he was too overwhelmed trying not to release inside of her, and she nodded, sticking her hand between their sticky wet bodies and rubbing her cunt.

Pleasure wracked through her rough and fast, tearing from her body all at once. She cried out as loud as she could, wanting the mountains and the sky and the river to hear how she loved him. She could not say it aloud, but she could do this - moan for him, cry for him, whimper his name as she came undone.

He pulled his cock out of her and she felt something gush from her cunt, a sweet, shivery rainfall. That felt right too, somehow: her body baptising this earth, watering the roots of her tree. Now the grass that grew here would have a bit of Penelope in it.

He was on his knees over her, rutting into his hand, his cheeks a hazy red. She watched in fascination as his hips stuttered, his mouth dropping open in a whine, and something hot and white and pearly spilled from the tip of his cock, landing in warm ropes over her stomach. His seed, she supposed.

He cleaned her up with his shirt, then propped himself against the tree, her head on his lap and his fingers combing through her damp curls.

“Before you, I ain’t never seen another person with hair this colour,” he mused. “It’s what I noticed about you first.”

Penelope looked up at him, her eyes tracing over the sharp line of his jaw. It looked even more handsome than usual from her current position resting upon his strong thighs. She reached up and traced the scar on his chin, just because she wanted to. Just because she could.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, I used to see you in town every now and then,” he said, and he sounded almost bashful. She saw the skin of his chest and neck blush pink. “You were hard to miss - a tiny little thing with hair like fire. Loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on.”

Penelope sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to keep from grinning like a fool. “Colin Bridgerton, did you offer to dig me a well just so you could come speak to the pretty girl with the red hair you took a fancy to?” she teased, knowing how ridiculous such an idea was.

But his blush deepened to a cherry pink, deeper than Penelope’s wild berry jam, and she saw his jaw flicker and pulse.

Her heart jumped to her throat. “Colin?” she squeaked.

“I - It wasn’t the only reason,” he said. He kept his chin tilted up so he would not have to look at her. Her eyes found his scar. “I really did need help with the house. Talking to a pretty girl just sweetened the deal, I guess.”

Penelope swallowed. “Oh,” was all she could manage, her heart beating hard.

She loved him and, when he said things like that, she could almost imagine he loved her too.

But if he loved her, why did he not tell her? Why did he not ask her to marry him? Was it that she was not worthy of his love, just a rough farm girl, the third prettiest Featherington? Or was it that he knew she would not leave her family, so there was no point asking? She supposed it was unfair for her to want him to ask her something she could only refuse, but she longed for it pathetically, helplessly, uselessly.

“Talking of the house - did I tell you? I had the idea of painting the shutters blue,” Colin said blithely, smiling in that way he had when he could see her getting melancholy and wanted to distract her.

But it only made it worse. Because here he was, talking about the shutters on the house Penelope would never live in, the house he was building for another woman.

“I don’t want to talk about shutters right now,” she snapped.

She realised right away she had been too harsh. Colin blinked at her in surprise, and she waited for him to snap back at her, but he only nodded and kept playing with her hair.

There was an awkward silence - one of their first, Penelope reckoned.

But then Colin’s fingers wrapped in her hair, tilted her head back slightly so she was looking up at him.

His eyes danced. “Four times, you said?”

Penelope frowned at him. She suspected he was still trying to distract her from her sour mood. “What on God’s green earth are you talking about?”

Colin’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You said the most you’d ever come apart was four times in a row.” His eyes searched her face.

“Yes,” she said warily, looking up at him.

And suddenly she was on her back, her knees pressed to her chest and Colin Bridgerton lapping at her swollen, sensitive cunt, his eyes still dancing up at her over the swell of her soft belly.

He licked her and fingered her until she wept from the pleasure. His cock grew hard again and he tupped her once more - from behind, on her knees with her hands clawing into the trunk of the tree, gripping the roots as he thrust into her over and over whilst she sobbed and shivered and cried out his name.

They beat her record by two.

A new routine.

Penelope woke every morning in the dark, dressing quickly and quietly. She raced to the front porch and listened out for Queenie’s hooves in the warm grey light.

They would not always tup - sometimes they would just sit on the porch, his arms around her, his nose buried in her hair, or Colin would haul her up behind him atop Queenie and they would ride aimlessly across the yellow August grass, watching the sun rise orange and pink over the mountains.

But mostly they would tup. In the hayloft, her skirts pushed up and her legs spread for him; in the back field, grass prickling her skin, far enough away that they could not be seen from the house. Once she even snuck him inside before anyone woke, let him take her quick and hard on her bed, their hands pressed over each other’s mouths to stifle their moans.

Once the sun rose, they would spend the morning doing their chores - Colin working on the well, Penelope preparing for the harvest. They would usually ride over to his property in the afternoon, where there would be more kissing and touching, naked in the long grass. Once Colin had built his bed, Penelope took him in there too, and there was something savagely satisfying about taking him in the bed he would share with his nameless, faceless future wife. Penelope would always know it was hers first. Just like Colin. She hoped that thought might be enough to sustain her once all of this was over.

After the sex, Colin would work on the house. He had grown quite determined of late, working quickly, as though he was in some great rush to finish it. Penelope would lend what help she could provide, but she felt like a sulky child, dragging her feet and rolling her eyes when he asked for help. She had this idea that finishing the house would mean the end of all this - she knew Colin was looking to find a wife and settle, and once the house was built, there would be nothing stopping him.

She fixated upon his future, obsessed over it with a kind of fervour that she simply could not muster for her own.

That was, of course, until Colin asked her.

“What do you want, darlin’?”

Penelope twisted in the big tin tub that Colin had installed at the side of his house, water lapping against her skin and splashing over the sides as she did so. It was just river water in here with them, but Colin had placed the tub in a spot that got sun all day long, so by the time they had crawled into it after tupping in the dirt for hours, it felt pleasantly warm upon her skin. Colin had even thought as far ahead as to bring soap (lilac-scented, pilfered from his home), which he had spent a long time rubbing over Penelope’s every curve. If Penelope closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was having a hot bath like she used to as a girl back in Boston.

It was made all the better by Colin’s large body laid out behind her, his arms cradling her as they soaked.

“What on earth do you mean?” she asked him, twisting awkwardly.

“I mean, what do you want from this life of yours, Penelope Featherington?” he asked, his mouth curving into a smile. He tweaked her nose and she squeezed her lips together to stop from giggling. She turned back around and leaned against his chest, looking up at the massive blue sky that seemed to cradle her just as Colin did.

“I want to survive the winter,” she said, without much consideration. It was all she ever wanted, all she thought about all day long. Surviving.

Colin clicked his teeth, the noise he made sometimes to call Queenie to him. “That ain’t… that ain’t exactly what I meant. What if you didn’t have to worry about just surviving? What would you want then?”

Penelope frowned. She had never really considered this before, and it seemed foolish to think about things that never could be.

“Come on, darlin’,” Colin murmured against the top of her head, his hand splaying across her belly. Penelope liked the contrast of his tanned hand against her soft white skin. “Indulge me, won’t you?”

Penelope sighed. “I want… a home of my own,” she said slowly. “Nothing fancy, just somewhere neat and sturdy that belongs to me. I want a garden where things grow, and a root cellar that’s always full.” Now she had started, the words kept coming out of her. “I want to work hard, but not so hard that I don’t have time for fun, and for my writing. And I want babies.”

She did not mean to say that last part, but her tongue was unruly.

Colin’s arms tightened around her, and she felt something swell and harden against her buttocks. Oh. “Turn over,” he said. His voice was choked, hungry.

Penelope obeyed, because she always did, awkwardly manoeuvring her limbs until her front was pressed against his, and she hardly had a moment to get comfortable before he had one arm around her waist and the other snaked between them. There was something dark and needy in his eyes, almost desperate, and she was not sure what had caused it but she was more than happy to let him work the tip of his cock into her with his hand before wrapping both of his arms around her waist and thrusting into her.

She put her arms around his neck, holding on tight as his hips bucked up mindlessly, working himself deeper into her tight cunt with each thrust. His hands slid to her rear, fingers digging into her soft flesh as if he meant to claim her. “You’re - such - a good - girl,” he grunted between each desperate thrust.

“What do you want?” she asked, though she shouldn’t, though she knew the answer would hurt (because unless the answer was Penelope, every word that came next would sting).

“House,” Colin groaned, too far gone for much more than words huffed out between thrusts. “Wife. Gonna - make - her life - so sweet.” The words were panted wetly into Penelope’s ear, his hands spreading wide over her behind as he slid her up and down his cock. “Take - care - of - her.”

And Lord knew it hurt, it did, but the fantasy was intoxicating, too. As his cock pushed into her, water splashing over the edge of the tub, she let herself imagine it was her, that she was that sweet little wife Colin Bridgerton wanted to take care of.

“More,” she gasped. “Tell me more.”

Colin’s thrusts slowed and his hands curled into her damp hair, tugging her face back so she would look at him. There was a question in his eyes, something trembling.

“You want more, darlin’?”

“Please. Tell me about her.”

Penelope was sick, perverted - she must be, mustn’t she, to want to hear about another woman like this?

“She’ll have pretty eyes,” he murmured, and he resumed his tupping but this time it was slower. More aching. “She’ll have all the pretty dresses she wants, but she’ll look best in my hat and nothing else.”

Penelope’s eyes squeezed shut as she imagined it, a dark kind of pleasure swirling through her at his words.

“She’ll know how to please me, of course, but I’ll want to please her the most. She’ll never go hungry and we’ll build a life here, just the two of us.”

“Yes,” she gasped, as the image flowered in her head. It felt so real - she could feel the silk of the dresses against her skin, could taste the sweet food on her tongue, imagined all the ways they would learn to please each other. It hurt something awful, but it was delicious too, sickeningly sweet. As a child back in Boston, one Christmastime she had snuck into a tin of Christmas candy and gorged herself sick, and this was how she felt now, belly aching with a sugary kind of pain.

So Penelope could only cling to him, bewildered and needy and nauseous as Colin tupped pleasure into her, water splashing out the tub in waves, the hot prairie sun warm upon her back.

The well was almost finished. Colin had tiled the inside and set stones around the outside in a little circular wall to stop animals crawling in. Every day, when Penelope saw the progress he was making, she felt a little more sick. She fantasised about sneaking into the yard at night and pulling apart Colin’s hard work - because she had this idea, like with the house: once the well was done, Colin would leave her.

But she did not have much time to dwell on these thoughts, as September was creeping in and it was almost time for the harvest.

“Do you hire in help for the harvest?” Colin asked, sitting at the kitchen table and eating the lunch Penelope had made him.

Penelope grimaced and put her hands on her hips. “No. Me and Varley do it. Takes a week or so, but I never saw much use in spending money we don’t have when we can very well do it ourselves.”

Colin stared at her, looking vaguely appalled. “Just the two of you?” She nodded, and he took a deep breath, his brow knitting together.

“What?” she asked, his expression making her feel self-conscious.

He shrugged, and she watched his hand flex on his spoon, gripping it tight. “I just… I hate thinking about how hard it’s been for you. Even with a small crop like you got here, it ain’t hardly a job for a girl on her own.”

Penelope folded her arms across her chest. “And Varley,” she reminded him. “We managed alright.”

“When’s the harvest?” he asked.

“Next week.”

Colin nodded and ate his food, a thoughtful expression on his face. Once he was done eating, he got to his feet and laid a quick kiss on Penelope’s head. She was about to follow him out the kitchen to ride over to his property, but he laid a hand against her belly, stopping her.

“You can’t come over for a few days,” he said. Penelope blinked at him in confusion, and he sighed. “I have work to do, and if you’re there I’ll only get distracted and end up tupping you instead of working.” His hand moved back and forth over her stomach, his touch soothing even as she felt hurt. She knew it was silly, but the hours she spent at his house were the best part of every day, and they were already running low. “Don’t make that face, darlin’,” he said, and Penelope realised she was pouting. “You know I can’t keep my hands off you, and neither of us’ll get anything done.”

Before Penelope could answer, she realised Portia was standing in the doorway and Colin hastily removed his hand from her body. His face flushing red, he tipped his hat to Portia and quickly left.

Portia did not say anything, but her eyes following Penelope were louder than any words, judgement and disappointment rolling off her. Penelope couldn’t stand it, and she quickly escaped under the pretence of checking on the laundry drying on the line, her heart in her throat and a sinking feeling in her chest.

In fact she barely saw Colin for the next week. He would work on the well first thing in the morning and then head off right away, sometimes barely stopping to steal a kiss. The sinking feeling in Penelope’s chest only worsened until the sixth day of this, when she awoke and Colin was not in the back yard. She got that certainty again, like she had the first time they had lain together in the barn, that Colin had taken her heart and left and he would not return.

“Penelope!”

That was Prudence. Penelope finished dressing, yanked on her boots and hurried to the front porch. She found Prudence and Philippa standing there, staring in shock.

Anthony, Ben and Colin Bridgerton stood in their front yard on horseback. Queenie was roped to a cart, which was filled with green plants, each one spotted with ruby-bright strawberries - but Penelope could hardly see the fruit, as her attention was rather more taken up by the spotted pig sitting amongst them.

“Good morning, little lady,” Colin said brightly. Anthony and Ben touched their hats in greeting, both of them hiding smiles at the Featherington sisters’ shocked expressions.

Colin dismounted. “I told my brothers about your predicament with the harvest and they offered to come help.”

“Seems senseless, spending a week on a job that could only take a day with a few extra hands,” Anthony said.

“And how could we say no to three lovely ladies in distress?” Ben added, throwing a charming smile at Penelope’s sisters. Philippa and Prudence only looked as baffled as Penelope felt.

She looked at the three brothers, her still-sleepy brain attempting to process what she was seeing. “You’re - you’re helping with the harvest?” she asked, and when Colin nodded, she shook her head. “No - no - it’s far too much. I can’t let you do that.”

Colin frowned. “Why, of course you can.”

“We’re already here now,” Anthony pointed out, smoothing his mustache. “And it won’t take but a day between the three of us.”

“Why do you have a pig?” Philippa blurted out. Penelope had been wondering the same thing herself.

“And the strawberries?”

Penelope turned - Portia was standing in the doorway, her expression unreadable. The three men bowed their heads in greeting, but her mother looked unmoved by their nice manners.

“They’re gifts,” Colin explained.

He walked around to the cart and petted the snuffling animal.

“A wife for Old Gus.” He gave Penelope a smile, scratching the sow’s ears. “She’s still of breeding age, so with any luck you’ll have some piglets soon.”

Penelope stared at him, speechless. Piglets? They could sell those in town for a fair few dollars, enough that they might be able to live comfortably this winter.

Colin looked at her with an amused expression, as though he could see her doing the sums in her head.

“Thank you,” Penelope managed to muster. Her voice was cracked and hushed. She swallowed in an attempt to control how desperately she wanted to cry.

Not since she was a girl had someone looked after her this way. Sweet, relieved happiness filtered through her like sunshine.

“The piglets and the strawberries should fetch you a pretty penny for winter,” he said, and he caught Penelope’s eye when he said that - pretty penny - which made her blush. She tried to keep her expression neutral but it was nearly impossible, her reason overwhelmed by feelings.

“Colin…” she said, but she had no words - none that could be spoken in front of his brothers and her mother, anyway. How could she tell him how much this meant to her? How he had taken the weight of the world from her shoulders and promised to bear it for her? How he had made her feel safe for the first time in years?

“I fear the old girl mighta ate a few of the strawberries on our journey over, but there’s still plenty,” Colin said, leaning into the cart to pull out the plants. “Philippa, Prudence - would you mind awfully helping put these in the garden?”

Penelope’s sisters blinked at him for a moment, and then, to Penelope’s surprise, they both stepped forward and took the armfuls of greenery from Colin. She did not know why she was surprised - Colin could charm just about anyone, and she had already seen how her sisters responded to his wiles. Probably the same way Penelope herself did, if she was honest.

As the girls walked off, balancing strawberries, Colin turned to Portia.

“They’re an English variety, Mrs Featherington,” Colin said, with a warm smile that Penelope knew cost him rather a lot. “Thought I’d give you a taste of home.”

Portia’s eyes narrowed, and without a word she went back inside.

There was an awkward silence at this obvious rudeness. Colin frowned, whilst Ben and Anthony exchanged troubled glances.

“Well, we best get started. No use standing around in this sun for nothing,” Anthony announced eventually, and led his brothers - and the cart- away from the front of the house.

Penelope followed her mother inside, her heart pounding. She found Portia in the kitchen.

“Momma, you’re being rude,” she said, her temper flaring. “Don’t you know how generous they’re being? You should be thanking Colin.”

Portia’s eyes flashed. “Thanking him for what? For ruining my daughter? A bribe in exchange for your virtue?”

Penelope felt sick to her stomach, the kitchen tilting away from her. All of her anger dissipated into cold dread. She squeezed her hands into fists, the fingernails digging into her palm.

Portia’s face lit up in grim victory at Penelope’s expression. “Yes, Penelope, I know. You think a mother does not know what’s going on under her own roof?”

Penelope still could not speak. She knew she should push back, tell her mother it was not her business, but shame coursed through her.

Because Penelope had been raised to be a lady, despite this land attempting to beat it out of her. What she had done with Colin defied all of that.

Portia put a hand to her temple and took a deep breath.

“I know we have long since passed the time when you would listen to me, but -”

“I listen to you, Mother,” Penelope insisted weakly.

But Portia gave her a look, and Penelope realised she was right. If she was honest, she had stopped listening to Portia after Penelope’s father died and Portia did nothing, tried to pretend as if nothing was amiss even when they almost starved to death that first winter, and Penelope had been forced to shoulder the burden of keeping them alive. If she was really honest, Penelope might admit that, until recently, she hardly thought about her mother and sisters at all beyond the facts of ensuring their survival. It was odd, really, because their survival was the focal point of Penelope’s every action, every crop harvested and every dollar earned.

“Let us not pretend, my girl,” Portia said, and there was something in her mother’s face she had not seen there before. “You may ignore me and do what you like but I am still your mother and I must say it anyway. That sort of boy does not marry a girl with nothing to her name. Trust me; men use pretty words and gifts when they want something, but you would be amazed how quickly it can all turn to ash. I do not want you to get hurt.”

Penelope’s fingers twisted together. “He’s not like that, Mother.”

Portia let out a dry laugh. “They are all like that. What if there’s a baby, Penelope? Did you think of that?”

Penelope felt as if she had been slapped. Of course she had thought about it. They never spoke about it, but Colin always made sure to spill his seed outside of her.

“There’s not going to be a baby.” Her cheeks burned, her eyes on the floor.

“Accidents happen. How do you think I ended up marrying your father? He promised me the world, and look where I ended up! Here, in this God forsaken place with a daughter whoring herself out to the neighbor boy!”

Black, sick anger rolled through Penelope. “Colin is not Daddy.”

The words whipped out of her, and Penelope wished she could take them back right away.

Portia flinched. Then she let out a big breath and sat down at the kitchen table.

Neither of them spoke for a moment.

“I know you hate me, and perhaps you should,” Portia said, weary and raw. “I have not protected you as I ought to. I have let you shoulder too much of the burden, and perhaps it has made you feel like a grown woman before your time. But you are a child, and you know nothing of men, not really.” Her eyes found Penelope’s. “He will not marry a girl like you, Penelope. You have ruined yourself, and what for? A new well? Some strawberries and a pig? Was it really worth it?”

Penelope felt vomit in her throat. Her mother made it sound so transactional, and the shame made her head fuzzy, things starting to blur.

She gripped the table edge and tried to breathe through her nose.

“I - I have to get back to the harvest,” she mumbled. She could not be in this room with her mother for a moment longer.

“Penelope -” Portia said.

But Penelope had already fled.

All the happiness and relief Penelope felt only a few moments ago had become distant, like the sun disappearing over the horizon. Penelope could only watch it disappear, let the darkness flood her.

She had been kidding herself, hadn’t she?

She focused on putting one foot in front of another as she walked across the backyard to the field. Anthony and Ben were scything the wheat with Mr Varley, but Colin was kneeling in the little patch of tobacco they grew, picking the broad green leaves.

Looking at his gorgeous head bent over his work, Penelope’s heart pinched sharply, a stabbing pain that almost took her breath.

Her feet drew her to Colin’s side. She bent down, then grabbed a handful of the tobacco leaf.

“Momma knows,” she whispered.

Colin stiffened beside her. He reached out very quickly to squeeze her arm, and she tried not to flinch. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I don’t reckon she had anything too kind to say about it.”

Penelope felt dry as prairie grass, as though if he touched her again she would turn to dust and blow away. “No.”

He made a sympathetic crooning noise. “We’ll talk about this later, once there ain’t all these people around. We’ll straighten it out, I promise. I’ll fix this.”

She nodded, but she hardly heard him.

Because for once in Penelope’s nineteen years on earth, she was starting to believe her mother might be right.

They did not have time to talk that day - there was too much work to be done. The Bridgerton boys stayed til the sun began to set, and when they left nearly the entire harvest was taken care of - wheat bundled in the barn, tobacco drying, corn piled up, ready to be shucked and milled. What was left, Penelope and Varley could manage on their own the next day. Penelope stared at the bounty in her barn and it felt like a miracle, and for a single moment she did not have space to feel scared or worried or doubtful. She just felt grateful. For the first time in three years, she didn’t feel afraid of the winter. She almost felt… hopeful.

And that scared her. Badly.

She could not sleep that night, her body twitching anxiously. Her mind fixated upon the harvest - had she locked the barn? Packed away the wheat so critters could not get in and chew it to oblivion like they had that first harvest?

Eventually she could bear it no longer; she pulled her daddy’s old jacket over her nightgown and stole across the midnight yard to the barn, candle in hand. As the flickering candlelight spilled over the bounty, she felt in that moment the weight of all Colin Bridgerton had given her. It stacked up in her heart, each bale of wheat and ear of corn adding to the weight in her chest, crushing her.

The light flickered and shook as she checked the hay and the wheat, her fingers trembling as she looked them over again and again. She knew it was a waste of time - Colin and his brothers had done a very fine job of it - but she could not stop herself. She needed to be busy - needed anything to distract from the hope and fear that wrestled in an endless battle in her chest.

After checking near enough ten times, she could not justify another look and instead focused her nervous attention on the small pile of corn. She upturned an old milk bucket and sat down heavily, her shaking fingers ripping at the husks.

She thought of the game her sisters used to play when they were younger, picking petals off of daisies one by one, chanting he loves me, he loves me not on each plucked petal to determine the ardour of their imaginary suitors. With each husk torn violently from its ear, Penelope began to mutter the words to herself, each husk like the petals of a flower. Every shelled ear of corn dropped to the earth like punctuation in her tangled, wild thoughts.

He had built her a well, and he had helped with the harvest, and he had bought her a pig. And he had given her hope.

He loves me.

But hope was not familiar to Penelope, and she knew it was dangerous. Colin had given her far too much already, so much so that she had come to rely on him in ways she had never relied on anyone before. And she knew Portia was right. One day he would marry someone else, and Penelope would go back to being alone, and she knew it would hurt much worse having had him and lost him.

And if Portia was right, and Penelope was wrong; if she had misunderstood this whole thing, and all along she was just swapping her body for chores - then Penelope could not afford to rely on him as she longed to.

He loves me not.

He said he would fix it, and Penelope did not know what he meant, but she longed to let him fix it like he had fixed so much already.

He loves me.

But she knew she could not let him. He had already given Penelope far, far too much.

She would not be like that other girl - Marina - and let Colin sacrifice his life for hers.

The harvest was over, and the well was almost finished. Soon this would all be done, as Penelope knew it would be from the moment it began. She had been kidding herself, hadn’t she? She had let it go on too long, waiting for him to finally love her.

But that was childish, and Penelope had not been a child in a long time. She would not wait around for Colin Bridgerton to leave her, nor would she allow him to drown in his sense of duty. He was the river and she the dry, barren land of her farm. If she let him, he would water her and water her until there was nothing left, until he was drained dry.

The last ear of corn fell from her fingers.

He loves me not.

She waited on the porch for him that morning. He did not say anything, and she was glad of it. She felt frozen hard as the ground in winter. She just climbed up behind him on Queenie and held on tight for one last time.

Penelope felt like she was in a dream as they arrived at his house. A bad dream - a nightmare.

Because the house was finished, and it was perfect, and she knew it would never, ever be hers.

Almost finished, anyway - the shutters still weren’t painted.

All the same, it was the prettiest house Penelope had ever seen. Two stories, painted white with a little wrap-around porch. When he took her inside to show her every bit of furniture he had built by hand, showed her the curtains she had helped him sew, it started to feel like one of those dreams Penelope sometimes had where she was dying. One of those ones where she was stabbed or her limbs cut off and she woke up with fading phantom pain, so vivid that for a split second she was sure it was real.

She followed him around like a ghost, feeling as if her body was not hers.

Her hands made fists. One by one, she pushed her fingernails deep into her palm just to make sure she was not dreaming, to focus her mind on what she must do next.

Except then they were in the kitchen, and Penelope was touching the table Colin carved with one hand and digging her nails into her palm with the other, and when she turned around she found Colin on one knee, his hat in his hand. His eyes shined as he looked up at her.

Phantom pain, like a lost limb or a bullet to the gut. She placed her hands over her belly to check that she was not actually bleeding, but they came away dry.

“Get up. What are you doing?” she asked, her voice panicky.

“I’m fixing it, Penelope. I told you I would. We’ll get married, and your Momma won’t be able to say another word.”

He looked so pleased with himself. Almost boyishly so. Dread dripped through her, thick as tar; she tried to swallow it down, but it choked her.

“Colin…” The words dripped black as the tar in her chest. “I can’t let you… I can’t marry you.”

It felt so wrong saying those words. They tasted like a lie on her tongue, bitter poison. She almost felt as if she were floating above her body, looking down at herself, utterly aghast.

Only a few days ago, she had still been praying for him to ask her. But not like this. Not out of obligation, or to prove her mother wrong, or out of some misguided notion that he was saving her virtue. Not when he did not love her.

“What do you mean? Of course you can.” His brow scrunched up but he was still smiling, as though the bullet had hit him but he had not yet felt the pain of it.

Penelope looked around at the kitchen. It was so perfect, so clean and white and pretty. And here was Penelope, with freckled skin and dirty boots, with tar dripping through her, black as an oil slick. Colin’s lovely, strong hands had crafted every inch of this place, moulded it specially for the girl he would fall in love with one day. She longed to be that girl - the girl with soft hands and delicate skin, the type of girl that Colin could love - with an ache so bad she felt it in her bones, her teeth.

But he did not love her, so she could not let him give this house to her, not when he had already given her so much. There was already too much debt, the ledger so long it would take her a lifetime to repay it.

“I can’t,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about my Momma, or my - my virtue.” Her tongue tripped over the word, her cheeks flaming. “It’s not your responsibility.”

His head tilted to the side, his smile gone. Slowly, he got to his feet. “Yes, it is. I want to do the right thing. I want to take care of you, Penelope.” (Not love. He still did not say love).

She wanted it badly, to let him take care of it all, take care of her. Wanted him to fix her up like he had her house - the broken hinges of the root cellar and the creaky floorboard and the banister half-rotted away.

But too much of her was broken - the house could never really be put right, could it? He could patch some of it up, but the damage would always be there. It would still be the house where her daddy died, where her Momma and sisters lived - where they would always live, and where she would always have to take care of them. She thought of his home, with his kind mother and charming brothers, the sisters who made him laugh. How could she ask him to leave all that for a girl he did not love?

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she said. Her hands gripped into fists, and the words came out tight. Bitter. “You can’t… save me. I promise, you don’t want to.”

His blue eyes clouded. She saw it then, just a flash. Hesitation. Doubt. It stung, but it was a little victory, too. Perhaps he was beginning to see.

“I ain’t trying to,” he said, but his voice wavered.

Penelope shook her head. She did not want to hurt him, but she knew he would thank her for it when he had a pretty, perfect wife in this house, a good woman from a nice family. A woman worth saving.

“Yes, you are,” she said. The tar in her throat was so thick it almost strangled her. She had to force the words from her lips, each one sticking to her teeth. “Your momma told me about that other girl. The one you were supposed to marry.” She watched Colin flinch, and for a single moment he wasn’t the handsome rugged man she knew but a little boy, hurt and afraid. That almost broke her, made her drop to her knees and promise to marry him, anything to stop him hurting. But she took a deep breath and went on, because she had no other choice, not really. “I know you like to be the hero, ride in and save everyone, but you’ve done enough for me already.”

His eyes shivered silver, tears on his lashes (she had never seen him cry before), and his lips trembled just a little.

“Penelope…”

It almost sounded like a plea - as if he were begging her to stop.

But she could not (she was broken and cruel and he could not marry her).

“You don’t want me,” she said harshly. The words sawed back and forth like a knife against rope. “You just want somewhere warm and wet to stick that cock of yours. Maybe if you’d had more experience with women, whored around like other men, you wouldn’t think you needed to marry the first poor little farm girl who opened her legs for you.”

And with that, the knife severed the rope. She watched his face crumple - tears and anger and hurt contorting his features. The tar rose up like bile in her throat, gagging her; she choked it down.

He had given her so much, and she had finally given him one thing in return: he was cut free. Free of obligation. Free of her.

Perhaps now, finally, her debt was repaid.

“Why are you doing this?” he whispered as she turned to leave.

Because I love you.

“It was always going to end, Colin,” she said softly.

Before he could say anything else, she left him standing in his perfect kitchen with his hands balled into fists, tears rolling down his face. She put on her bonnet and started to walk back to the farm, sparing one last look to the tree and the river, for she might never see them again.

The next morning, Penelope woke to find Colin in the yard once again, and for a moment her traitorous heart leapt in joy. Here he was, working on the well, his eyes squinting against the early morning sun.

But then it all caught up with her and, as she watched him, she felt like she was drowning. Her brain and her heart and her body were in chaos, lungs burning, spluttering and choking and desperate for air as she tried to process what she was seeing.

Her heart always did seem to lag behind her brain.

The well. The God-damned well.

She watched him fit the cover he had made - wooden slats nailed together, carefully cut to fit the hole, attached by hinges to the stones. She watched him hammer in the final nail, and then she watched him put all of his tools in his barrow - his shovel and hammer and saw - and stride out of the yard. He did not look up at her window, and he did not look back.

Colin would not leave a job unfinished, would not fail to deliver on a promise. The well was finished, and Penelope knew what it meant in Colin’s eyes: so were they.

The rope was cut. The well was done. It was the end.

Penelope was drowning and she could not see the surface.

She got back into bed, and she did not get up again for three days.

For two and a half years, Penelope had not missed a single day of work. Even when she had her courses so bad she almost fainted, or when she was sick, or after her father died. Every morning, she woke with the sun and did her chores.

She stayed in bed for three days. Sometimes she slept; sometimes she did not. Sometimes she cried, but not as much as she had expected she might.

For almost three years, Penelope had fought tooth and nail for every day; for every meal; for every breath. She had begged and screamed and clawed into the earth until her bare hands were bloody so that she and her family might continue to survive on this hostile land. She had watered and plowed and harvested; mended and fixed and made do; slaughtered chickens and raked shit and walked through the freezing snow for a drop of fresh water.

And now all of it was gone. She felt empty, like the corn husks Colin had torn open. All her yellow parts had been ripped from her and now she was this. She was just nothing.

She was vaguely aware of her sisters and mother coming in and out of her bedroom. They shook her and Prudence yelled something, but then they left again, and for a while there was peace.

She did not know how long she spent unbothered - it felt like moments later that her sisters pushed back into her room again, but it must have been more than that - the light in her room had changed. It was brighter, somehow.

“Penelope, you’ve got to get up.”

Penelope blinked at her sisters, currently standing at the end of her bed. Philippa held a bowl in her hands - she sat on Penelope’s bed and shoved it into her lap.

Oatmeal. Sweetened with milk and red blobs of the wild berry jam. Penelope turned the spoon over in mild astonishment. Had her sisters made this?

“You have to eat, at least,” Philippa told her. “Are you sick or something? Momma says you aren’t - she said it was something to do with that Bridgerton fellow.”

Even though she was little more than a husk, the sound of his name still hurt.

“Mother also said you were allowed two days to wallow and we’ve given you three,” Prudence said, sitting down heavily. “It’s time to get up.”

Penelope’s tongue felt as if it was buried miles deep. “I don’t want to,” she muttered, and mindlessly brought a spoon of porridge to her lips. It was surprisingly good. She blinked at Philippa. “You made this?”

Philippa got a pleased look on her face. “I did,” she said, with a proud sort of smile on her face. “Turns out I’m not half bad at cooking.”

Penelope considered this for a moment, turning the spoon over in her bowl and taking another bite.

“Did he hurt you?” Prudence asked, her narrowed eyes focussed intently on Penelope’s face. “Colin, I mean.”

Had he hurt her? Well, she was hurting, but it wasn’t his fault, not really. Penelope had managed it all on her own, torn her own heart out and ripped it to shreds in front of them both.

“No.” She blinked at her sisters, feeling like she could barely see them. “No. He asked me to marry him.” She was not sure, precisely, why she was telling them, but her mouth formed the words before she could help it. She supposed there was no point in keeping it a secret now - she had no dignity left to preserve.

“And you said no?” Prudence and Philippa exchanged glances.

Philippa was the one to speak next, as forthright as ever. “Didn’t he bed you, though?”

Penelope felt her cheeks turn pink. She looked at the blobs of red jam swirled into her porridge. “Y-yes. But that isn’t enough reason to marry a person.”

“What was it like?” Philippa said, her eyes wide with curiosity. “The bedding, I mean?”

Prudence elbowed her. “Pip.”

Philippa rubbed her arm where Prudence’s elbow had connected. “Well, Mother won’t tell us about it,” she said sulkily. “And I want to know.”

Penelope’s face reddened further. “It was…nice. Strange but… nice.” She gripped her spoon a little more tightly and tried not to cry as she said: “He took very good care of me.”

“Then why won’t you marry him?” Philippa asked.

“I can’t.” She felt something wet leak down her face - tears. “I can’t leave you alone here. Who would manage the farm? How would you get through winter without me?”

“We’ve managed pretty well the past few days, haven’t we?” Philippa piped up, looking eager. “We fed the animals, and I watered the vegetable garden. Prudence did the washing and Momma is in town talking to a man about the price of wheat so we can sell it.”

Penelope stared at her sister, open-mouthed. Philippa smiled, pleased with herself.

Penelope swallowed, trying to get her head around this new information. “Managing a few days on your own isn’t the same as surviving.”

“Well, we’re learning, anyhow,” Prudence said, frowning. She looked down at the bedcovers, laying her hand over Penelope’s ankle. “I’m sorry we didn’t start sooner, though.” Her words were clipped, stiff, as though they felt wrong coming from her lips.

“You are?” Penelope blurted out.

Prudence frowned. “Of course. We’re not monsters.”

“But - but why did it take you so long?” Penelope gasped, and the words slipped from her tongue before she could catch them. “You - you’re my big sisters. You’re supposed to look after me, not the other way around. I - I needed you.” She dropped her spoon into the bowl with a clatter, feeling nauseous.

Prudence’s face turned angry, defensive, her arms folded across her chest, and she looked as if she were about to retort - but then her shoulders slumped. “I - I don’t know. I’m sorry, Penelope. I suppose I followed Mother’s lead when I shouldn’t have. It’s so much easier just to go along with her.” Her sister rubbed her eyes. “I’m not good at standing up to her like you are.”

Philippa nodded, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, too. You just took charge after Daddy died, and you’re so good at looking after us. I never really thought much about how hard it was for you.”

Penelope did not know what to say to that. It was too big for her exhausted, drained body to deal with. Wasn’t it so like Philippa to cut to the pith of things like this, with her big eyes and guilelessness? To say the very thing Penelope had longed to hear for years as if it was nothing, all whilst perched on the end of Penelope’s bed, absently sucking a little blob of jam off her hand.

Penelope’s throat felt swollen and painful. More tears dropped down her face into her oatmeal. She took another mouthful of porridge and imagined she could taste the salt of them.

“We - we can’t make up for the past two years all at once,” Prudence said. “But at the very least, we can get out of your way and let you marry that man. Don’t use us as an excuse, anyhow.”

“And isn’t his house just down the road?” Philippa added. “You could live there with him and still help us with the farm, couldn’t you?”

“It’s not just that,” Penelope said, wet and quiet. She did not want to say the next part, but she ought to get used to it. It was true, after all. “Momma told me boys like him don’t marry girls like me.” She hated how pathetic she sounded.

Prudence and Philippa looked at each other, and then at Penelope. “And when have you ever listened to Momma before?” Prudence asked, one eyebrow cocked.

Penelope supposed that was a fair point.

“He doesn’t love me.”

She had never said the words out loud before. They sounded utterly pathetic. Measly, really. She felt like the child her mother had called her, pining after love she would never receive.

Philippa blinked at her, confusion on her face. “Well, that doesn’t sound right to me. Why did he do all those chores and such if he didn’t love you?”

“Because he’s a good man,” Penelope said, and she almost started crying again. She swallowed down the tears, her hands clenching into fists on top of the bedcovers.

Prudence pulled a face. “There isn’t a man alive who’s that good.”

Penelope blinked at her sisters. Everything felt too sore and full and aching, and she was so tired. Her exhausted brain could hardly process what was happening.

She felt like she was in a dream - could they really be talking sense?

Suddenly she wondered if she had done her sisters a disservice, and herself, too, these past years. It was true they had not helped her when she needed them to, and she might never forgive them for it, but she had not once asked for help either, had she? She had shut them out the first moment they failed her, the pain of their rejection making her lock up tight, and she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she had been a little hasty.

Maybe some people deserved second chances.

And if that was true for Philippa and Prudence, could that not be true for Penelope, too?

She took a deep, shaky breath, and another bite of food. The jam exploded sour-sweet upon her tongue, and she allowed herself the painful, impossible luxury of imagining that her sisters were correct. That Colin loved her. That, even if he had never said it aloud, his actions towards her were meant to show it to be true.

Could Colin Bridgerton love her?

“I said some things I probably shouldn’t have. I don’t know if he’ll see me,” she admitted, once she had swallowed. “Even if he might love me, I’m fair sure I’ve ruined it anyway.”

To her great surprise, Prudence reached over and squeezed Penelope’s foot under the blanket, sympathy on her face. Penelope rubbed the heels of her hands against her cheeks, pushing away the tears.

“You should make him your pie!” Philippa said, her face lighting up. “With your berry jam. He won’t say no to you then - I don’t imagine there’s a man on God’s green earth who wouldn’t want a wife that could bake a pie like that.”

“Worth a shot, I suppose,” Prudence shrugged.

Penelope stared at them both, and almost let out a hysterical laugh at how ridiculous this suggestion was. But then she paused, and figured since they had both lost their minds, she might as well let hers go too.

She had already given Colin Bridgerton her heart, and her dignity, and every other shred of herself. She might as well give him a pie, too.

After all, what did she have left to lose?

So she nodded, took a deep breath, and uttered words to her sisters that she had not said in years, words that felt unfamiliar upon her tongue:

“Will you help me?”

Three hours later, when Penelope entered the Bridgerton drawing room - clutching her pie and red in the face from walking up the hill to the house - nine pairs of eyes looked at her. Every single Bridgerton was sitting there and every single one of them was staring at her.

They were dressed unusually finely, even the eldest boys, and Penelope realised it was a Sunday. Her family had not attended church since her father died, but she supposed the Bridgertons had just returned from service.

No one spoke for a moment, and the air felt unbearably awkward. She reckoned they all knew that Penelope had rejected Colin’s proposal. She felt sick.

Eventually, Anthony slapped his thighs and stood briskly. “Miss Featherington,” he said, “to what do we owe the pleasure?” One hand smoothed at his whiskers.

This seemed to startle Violet out of her stupor. “My dear, come in. Won’t you sit down?” The woman was warm and polite, but her eyes kept flickering to her third son.

Colin was staring at Penelope with his fists balled up on his knees. He looked awfully tired, dark circles under his eyes that had not been there four days ago. His mouth was set into a hard line, his brow creased into a frown.

Penelope shook her head at Violet. This had been a terrible idea. “No, thank you, Mrs Bridgerton,” she muttered. Her fingers gripped the pie dish. “I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t have come. Forgive me for disturbing you on a Sunday.” Her words sounded oddly formal to her own ears.

“Penelope.”

His voice cut through her like a scythe through wheat. She wondered if her knees might buckle just from the sound of it.

“You came all this way.” His words were stiff, clipped. “You might as well say what you mean to say.”

Penelope blinked at him, her mouth dry. She looked around at the rest of the Bridgertons. “You want me to say it in front of everyone?” she said, more bluntly than she meant to.

Colin’s eyes were as steely as she had ever seen them, more grey than blue. He tilted his chin upwards, his jaw fluttering. He did not respond, but there was a challenge on his face.

So - he meant to punish her, she supposed. Make her humiliate herself in front of his whole family. The sick feeling intensified, but she took a deep breath. If it was what he needed, then she would do it.

“Now, brother, that ain’t hardly gentlemanly,” Anthony said, his tone scolding, his hands upon his belt. “You take Miss Featherington to the study and let her say her piece.”

Penelope could have kissed him, whiskers and all.

Colin’s eyes narrowed at his brother, but he got to his feet. “Follow me,” he said darkly, and stormed out of the room. Penelope did as he said, unable to look any of his family in the eyes as she hurried after him.

The study was lovely - oak panelled and lined with books. It smelled like paper and tobacco. Under usual circumstances, Penelope might have luxuriated in being in such a lovely room, but right now all she could manage was trying not to shake too hard.

Colin closed the door behind them and stood in front of Penelope. His eyes were on the floor, and he was silent.

For a moment, she felt utterly lost. She should not have come. It was a mistake.

But Colin’s fingers tapped against his thigh, and it occurred to her that he might be just as nervous as she was. Somehow, that calmed her a little.

“I made you a pie,” she blurted out.

She could see his jaw pulsating with clenched teeth. He looked at her as if she had lost her mind, which she supposed was fair.

“I can see that.”

“My sister said there wasn’t a man alive who could say no to a pie like this one.” She had no clue why she said that, only her tongue did not seem to belong to her.

His body was half turned away from her. “What do you want to say, Penelope?” he said stiffly.

“You look very fine dressed like that,” she said, and then cursed her foolish tongue.

“That’s why you came all the way over here? To tell me I look fine and give me a pie?” he asked harshly.

“No, I suppose not. It’s just… it’s hard to find the words.”

“Ain’t you a writer?” His voice was bitter.

She shrugged, chewing her cheek. “Not much of one, I guess.”

A sharp huff of air came out of him; he put his hands on his hips. “I wouldn’t know. You never showed me a word of what you wrote.” His voice was sharp, reproachful.

“Well, it isn’t done yet,” she said hotly, feeling warmth rise in her cheeks.

“Don’t mean I didn’t want to read it!” he shot back, his words tempered with frustration.

“Well, I’m sorry, alright!” It burst out of her angrily. His eyebrows shot up, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Penelope swallowed, tried to catch her breath, and tried again - softer, this time. “I’m sorry. For - for everything. For what I said to you. It wasn’t true and I didn’t mean it.”

His head was turned slightly away from her, chin tilted proudly, and he regarded her warily from the corner of his eye. “Then why did you say it?”

Penelope squeezed her eyes shut. “I don’t know. It sounds foolish to say it out loud.” He did not respond to that. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t want you to marry me out of duty, Colin. I - I wanted you to marry me for love.” She could not look at him, her eyes fixed on the fancy rug beneath her boots. The words sounded so pathetic in her own ears. She took another steadying breath, and continued. “You deserve to marry someone you love, Colin. You’ve already done so much for me, I couldn’t let you give that up, too. I said all those things so you could - so you could be free of me, I guess.”

There was a long silence during which she could not bring herself to look at him.

“Put down the pie, Penelope.”

His words were firm. Penelope finally looked up, only to find his expression unreadable, his arms crossed sternly over his chest. Trembling, she placed the pie dish on the fine oak desk.

The moment she did, she was in Colin’s arms, one hand cupping the back of her neck whilst the other found her waist. Her breath hitched in her throat as he craned his neck towards her, and her mouth dropped open instinctively, her chin tilting towards him.

At first he merely pressed his lips to hers, and Penelope felt the exhale of his sigh against her. It was almost relieved, like he was letting out a breath he had been holding for days. They stood that way for a moment, joined by their lips, before Colin groaned and his mouth began to move.

The kiss turned hungry - she could almost feel his anger vibrating from his body to hers. He dragged her closer to him, his other hand tilting her head back so that her face was tipped up. His tongue pressed against her lips, roughly demanding entry, and she parted them, a little whine escaping her when he pushed his tongue inside. She bent back like a bow, pressing her hips against him. And even though she could feel his frustration, it still felt sweet, her heart and blood racing and rushing, her body bursting into green, growing life. Lord knew how much she had missed his touch.

Fingers bit into the cotton waist of her skirts, his large hands holding her like she belonged to him. By God, she hoped she still did.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard, Colin’s lovely mouth swollen from the kisses. Penelope’s face burned pleasantly from the rough scratch of his stubble - she pressed her hands to her cheeks and blinked up at him.

He took a deep breath and a step back. She almost whined again when his hands let go of her, but she knew he needed a moment of space.

Colin ran his hands through his hair. His face was still hard, full of things Penelope could not name.

“I’m still mad at you,” he said, his brow furrowed. “But -” and his face softened a touch, “I think I messed things up just as bad.”

He sighed, his hands on his belt. “You make me crazy, Penelope,” he told her.

She bit her lip, eyes wide. “I swear, I’m not doing it on purpose.”

He managed a laugh, though it was a little harsh. “I know, darlin’.” She trembled a little to hear him call her that - she had feared she would never hear it again. He let out a slow breath. “I just - I swear I thought you knew already.”

“Knew what?” she croaked.

His face grew somber. He put a hand on the back of his neck. “That I love you. That I’ve been fixing to marry you since the day we hit water. That the shutters still ain’t painted on your house because I’ve been waiting for you to pick the goddamn color.” The words brimmed with feeling - aching and longing. They seemed to reach Penelope like stones dropped into a well - it took a long time for them to reach her but they sank deep, sending ripples across the surface.

“Oh.”

He loved her.

Her mind stuttered over the idea, hearing the words but not quite understanding them. It was like when her governess had tried to teach her French back in Boston as a child - she understood the letters on the page but not how they strung together.

He loved her.

“That all you have to say for yourself? Oh?” he asked. There was a hard edge to his voice, but his eyes were dancing. He stepped a little closer to her.

A slow warmth came over Penelope, like the sun rising over the prairie. Her voice was hushed, quiet. “You built the house for me?”

“Now she’s getting it,” he said, raising a brow.

She frowned at him, indignant. Though the warm sunrise inside of her prevented any real anger, she felt annoyed at his tone, as though his love for her was so obvious, as though she was blind to have missed it. “You could of said something.”

“I thought I did!” he exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up higher. “Damn it, girl, I built you a well and I done near enough all your chores for you, didn’t I? I even asked you, in the barn, I asked you if you were sure you wanted to be my girl, and you looked at me, just like you are now, and you said yes.”

Penelope tossed her head, folding her arms across her chest at this obvious madness. “You asked me no such thing!”

“I did too!” he cried out, threading his fingers through his hair in exasperation. “And I asked you at Danbury’s dance. I asked what your thoughts were on marrying me, and you told me you wouldn’t marry until your family could stand on their own two feet.” Penelope recalled that conversation, but she was certain he never mentioned marrying him. “That’s why I bought the pig and the strawberries and why I spent an hour showing Philippa how to pluck a chicken last week. You asked me to set things right with them, so I did. All of it was for you, darlin’. Don’t you see?” His words turned soft at the end, aching.

Tears blurred her vision. She wished she still had the pie to cling on to. Instead, she gripped her own fingers.

“It hurts me that you thought I’d touch you like that without intending to marry you.” His pain was evident even in the quiet of his words. “Do you really think so little of me?”

She looked up at him. Her heart ached awfully at the sight of his handsome, perfect face in such clear distress. “I don’t know. I guess I couldn’t imagine a boy like you wanting to marry a girl like me.” She tried to swallow some of her tears. “Can you forgive me?” she asked, her voice breaking.

“The pie helps a mite.”

“Quit foolin’,” Penelope scolded through her tears.

“Of course I forgive you,” he said, his eyes creasing into one of the nicest smiles in his armory of very nice smiles. He stepped a little closer, and his hands found their place on her hips. “And though I’m still a little mad, I believe it is not uncommon for husbands and wives to fight, from time to time.” Carefully, he brushed a stray curl from her face.

She barely dared say it. “Husbands and wives?” she echoed in a hushed whisper.

Colin’s expression was unbearably soft, his eyes sparkling that deep blue. Bluer than the sky, she thought, just as she had when she first saw them. “Yes, darlin’. Husband and wife.”

“I love you,” she blurted out, because she had not said it yet in so many words. Colin’s lips twitched for a moment, fighting obvious euphoria, but then he gave it up altogether and a huge grin broke out across his face. “But if we are to marry, you know I can’t leave my family. Even if we live at your house -”

“Your house,” he corrected, eyes dancing.

“We’ll have to manage the farm still. My sisters are learning, but they can’t do it alone.” She gave him a look. “You’d have to see my mother every day.”

“Penelope, I’d let Old Gus sleep in the bed with us if it meant I got to be your husband.”

She laughed at that, rubbing her tears away with the heels of her hand. Then she laid them against his chest. “I mean it - I love you, Colin Bridgerton.”

He smiled, slow and sweet, and covered her hands with his. “I love you too, Penelope Featherington. Now, do you have any more foolishness for me or are you ready to quit being so stubborn and be my wife?” He wore his most teasing expression, and Penelope slapped his chest lightly.

“Colin -” she said hotly, but he grabbed her hand and drew it to his lips, kissing her palm before she could scold him further.

Then he straightened up, expression serious for the first time since she had said she loved him, though his eyes still sparkled with joy. “Will you marry me?”

He barely got the words out before Penelope replied.

“Yes.”

The wedding took place in the same church hall Penelope and Colin had danced in that summer.

The weather was a lot colder this time, grey clouds hanging heavy and threatening rain - it was October, after all.

Despite Penelope’s protests, Colin insisted on buying her a new dress for the wedding - white silk and taffeta, the skirt dotted all over with silk bows. It was utterly impractical and desperately beautiful, and despite Penelope’s grumbling about the unnecessary expense, she loved it dearly (in the coming months, she would sometimes put it on and wear it around the house to do her chores, just for the pleasure of the silk on her skin).

It was a small wedding, attended by just their families and a few of the Bridgertons’ friends from town - including Mr Finch, who Penelope was pleased to see spent most of the day by Philippa’s side. Portia looked a little put out by that, but she did not say anything - in fact, she was on excellent behavior all day.

After the church, they went back to Bridgerton house for food and music and dancing. Penelope had taught Philippa how to make the wild berry pie, and they had that instead of a wedding cake. It was delicious, though Colin insisted in a whisper that it was not quite as good as Penelope’s.

Colin’s hand barely left hers all day, and Penelope was not sure she stopped smiling for a single minute - even in the church, when tears had poured down her face from happiness.

“Colin?” Penelope said, after they had danced and eaten their fill and the sun was starting to hang heavy in the sky. Colin, who had been amusedly watching Anthony spin Hyacinth around, bent his face to Penelope’s so he might hear her better.

“Yes, darlin’?”

She allowed herself a moment to drink him in - the smell of him, the warmth of his face near hers. The rumble of his voice. And then she said: “Take me home.”

Home. The house Colin had built for her, the shutters of which were now painted the precise blue of Colin’s eyes. The home where they would live out their days.

She heard Colin’s breathing hitch, and he squeezed her fingers. “Yes, darlin’.”

They slipped away without anyone seeing them. Colin helped Penelope ruck up all her fancy, delicate skirts so she could mount Queenie, then pulled himself up behind her in his wedding suit, no doubt rumpling it just as badly as her dress. Before they set off, he put his hat atop Penelope’s head and kissed her once behind the ear. “Looks better on you,” he murmured, and then they began to ride.

Colin carried her across the threshold over his shoulder, Penelope laughing and squealing, and he did not put her down again until they were in their bedroom, into which Mr Varley and Colin had spent the previous day moving Penelope’s meager belongings.

He took his time undressing her, laughing as he fumbled with her layers, dropping to his knees so he could wrangle with the buttons at her waist. Eventually he got impatient and crawled under her skirts, his fingers yanking at the ties of her bloomers.

She giggled at his fooling, but the laughter died the minute he made her step out of her bloomers, her cunt bare beneath her skirts. Her senses felt heightened by not being able to see what he was doing - she could only see the shape of his head moving under her wedding dress, his boots sticking out from underneath the layers of taffeta. His hands curled around the backs of her thighs, stroking the soft, dimpled skin before he dragged them apart.

“Hold on to the dressing table, darlin’,” he said, the words muffled by thick layers of silk. She nodded, too turned about by the feeling of his hot breath against her cunt to remember that he could not see her. She leaned back, resting her backside against the edge of the table and opening her legs wider for him.

His tongue touched her slit and her fingers curled into the wooden edge of the vanity (the vanity Colin had made, painstakingly, just for her). Her thumbs slid back and forth over the smooth wood as Colin licked her, his tongue dragging long, hot stripes over her plump lips.

“All day I’ve been thinking about getting to lick my wife’s sweet cunt,” Colin murmured into her skin, his nose rubbing back and forth over her curls as he inhaled deeply. His hands slid around to the front of her thighs, thumbs stroking along the creases where her pelvis met her leg. “Thinking how much sweeter you’ll taste now you’re mine.”

“Even in the church?” she asked, gasping as he pressed a little kiss to her mound.

His thumbs moved to her outer lips, sliding across tender flesh and pulling it back so her wet, pink insides were exposed to him. Penelope gasped, her hips shifting towards him in need. She felt like all the blood in her body was suddenly pooled between her legs, throbbing hot and desperate for him.

“Especially in the church,” he said, a smile in his voice, his words running hot over her skin.

“Then stop talking and taste me, husband,” she breathed. Her fingernails dug into the wood, and she hoped she would not leave marks in all his fine craftsmanship, but she was too desperate to care. “Please.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her cunt, and then she felt his tongue trace light, teasing licks over her exposed folds, gentle brushes that made her shiver but would not make her come apart as she needed.

She lowed, achy and desperate. He was toying with her. Their wedding night and he was toying with her.

It felt good - very good, in fact, her cunt clenching and squeezing around nothing as he held her spread and ready - but she needed him to devour her. She wanted him to eat her alive, to suck her little pearl into his mouth until she sobbed and writhed. She wanted it hard and fast and he was toying with her.

He said something, but he was too muffled by her dress and cunt for her to hear him. She scrabbled at her skirts in frustration, bunching them up and pinning them beneath her hands on the table so she could watch Colin’s face buried between her thighs.

And God, what a sight - her gorgeous husband on his knees, curls mussed and eyes hazy as he slowly lapped at her. His light strokes were increasingly replaced by broad swipes of his tongue, pressing over her folds and into her wet hole. It was always like this when he licked her - he’d start off focused, but he would soon become lost in the taste of her, his eyes practically rolling back in his head as he sucked up as much of her dripping slick as he could. As though he hardly even thought of her pleasure, only interested in drinking her down, tasting every drop.

He started to suck at her folds, his tongue swiping over them and his teeth grazing a little. The torture became too much, her fingers cramping from how she gripped the table’s edge. “Colin, please,” she whined.

Colin looked up, his expression slightly guilty. He looked so beautiful like this, his lips wet with her, his eyes unfocused as she peered down at him over her heaving belly.

“Impatient, ain’t you?” he said with a devilish grin, and she groaned, her hips bucking towards him.

He laughed a little, a huff through his nose, and then he laid a kiss against her pearl. She moaned in relief as he began to suck and kiss it, using his tongue like he did when he kissed her mouth.

Her breathing grew heavy and she could not help how her hips rolled into him, pushing herself against his tongue. He slid one finger to her slit as he suckled, and slowly he began to push it in and out of her. It did not fill her as well as his cock, but it still felt mighty good, and Penelope felt her release start to coil and tighten between her thighs.

She let go of the vanity edge with one hand so she could tangle it into his hair. He moaned when she pulled a little, so she kept doing it, her fingers winding into his curls and moving his face where she needed him. And she was a lucky woman indeed, because her husband was more than willing to let her use his face to find her pleasure, his tongue still licking eagerly as she rubbed herself against him.

She came apart with a low whine, her fingers sharply tugging his curls. The sweet pleasure was still trickling through her when Colin got to his feet and turned her to face the dresser, his broad hand on her lower back bending her over the wooden surface.

Penelope came face to face with her reflection in the glass, her mind still fuzzy from the release. Her breath was stolen by the sight of herself - cheeks flushed under her freckles, breasts spilling out of her bodice, hair tumbling wild over her shoulders (though the white ribbon she had tied into it this morning was still in place). In the glass, she watched as Colin scrabbled at her skirts, his face desperate with need.

Then his cock pressed against her hole and he pushed himself inside with an animal grunt, his hand wrapped around the base of his member as he fed it to her. Her head dropped down and she gasped with the feel of it - months of loving him and she still wasn’t used to the size - but his other hand slapped her rear lightly. It was the same way he sometimes smacked Queenie to make her run faster, and for some reason that made Penelope’s insides turn molten, bubbling and spitting like her jam when it scalded.

“Look at me, darlin’,” he ordered, his voice husky. “You look at your husband when he’s inside of you. Let me see that pretty face.”

His words made her mewl but she did as she was told, her eyes watching how his face contorted, brow creased and mouth open, licking his lips with the effort of entering her. It made her skin thrum, body melting like a puddle around him.

“That’s it,” he breathed as he seated himself fully, then slowly began to thrust. “You see how much I need you? How much I love you?”

Her hands stretched out, bracing against the mirror as his fingers found her hips. He pulled her onto his cock at the same time as he thrust forward, taking her so deep she could hardly breathe, could practically taste him in her mouth.

“I love you,” she gasped, sucking the words into her mouth with every desperate inhale.

He let out a groan, and she was certain she felt him swell inside of her, somehow growing harder.

“More,” she demanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, and with his cock still inside her, he lifted her right leg, bending it at the knee and propping it up on the dresser so she was stretched and split for him.

When he started to move his hips again, he was so deep she swore she saw stars. She choked out his name, garbled and desperate, and he groaned to hear it.

“Yes, darlin’. Take it, take it,” he gasped. “God damn, Penelope, you feel so good. I’m gonna breed you, darlin’ - Lord - like a stallion breeds a mare, fill you up every day ‘til you’re good and round with my child - I’m gonna - I’m close -” He choked off, his thrusts deep and frenzied.

Between his wild words and the brutal pleasure he hammered into her, she was coming apart at the seams, her mind floating away as she held onto the vanity for dear life.

“I’m gonna spill inside you, darlin’,” he groaned. “Let me, darlin’, please, please,” he begged, sounding about as deranged as she felt.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Please.”

His hips stuttered and stilled and he let out a low, guttural moan - her favorite of his moans, the one she usually relished the most, except right at that moment she was rather too focused on the strange, delicious sensation of his seed spurting inside of her to pay too much attention to it.

For a moment, neither of them moved, both of them panting heavily. Penelope’s cunt throbbed with need, both close to her release and miles away from it.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he breathed as he pulled his cock out of her with a wet, sucking noise. She whined, barely able to form words. “You felt too good and I couldn’t help it.” He bent a little, and she felt two of his fingers slide into her sticky, seed-filled hole.

“Let your husband take care of you,” he murmured as he began to thrust his fingers inside of her. They weren’t quite as thick as his cock, but he used his other hand to play with her pearl at the same time. The sound of his fingers moving in and out of her - wet, squelching, slick with his seed - was lewd. So much so that she squeezed her eyes shut, as if that somehow might block it out - though she did not want to, not really. She liked the ragged desperation in her chest, liked how filthy it made her feel.

His fingers curled inside her, reaching a spot that made her start to feel shivery and full, and coupled with his other hand circling her, she felt her pleasure spiralling. When her release hit, Penelope felt as if her body was a rain-cloud bursting, wetness splashing down her thighs. She heard it patter onto the wooden floor like the storm on the barn roof and she let out a long, lowing cry.

“That’s it, good girl,” he said, in that special voice he reserved for Penelope and the animals he took care of. She whimpered and pushed her hips back to take his fingers deeper as she rode out the last shudders of her release.

Colin removed his hand and turned her around. He gripped her tight around the waist, propping her body against his, and he held his fingers up between them, the ones that had been inside her. They glistened with his seed and her wetness, little white beads rolling down his fingers. “You want to taste it, darlin’?” he said roughly, and Penelope did not think, just opened her mouth automatically.

The taste was strange - salt and bright and a little bitter - and she liked it just fine, but only half as much as how pleased Colin looked to see her suck his fingers clean.

“I want this damn dress off,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her cheek and nuzzling against her soft skin. “I want you buck naked, and I want to watch you ride my cock.”

His voice was hesitant, a bit shy. Penelope pulled away a little to look at him.

“Ride?”’she asked. She had no idea what he could mean.

His cheeks were flushed pink, his pretty eyes blinking down at her. “Mm-hm. My brothers told me about it. I’ll show you just what to do, don’t you worry.”

He took her hand in his and slid it down his front, pressing it to his hardening cock.

“Already, Colin?” Penelope gasped, shivering at the heat of his words.

“Darlin’, do you know how much I want you?” he asked, as his hands slid to the back of her dress, unbuttoning. “How long I’ve been wanting you? There’s hardly time enough in this life for me to take you in all the ways I’ve been imagining, Penelope Bridgerton.”

Penelope Bridgerton. A sigh escaped her lips.

She trembled and let Colin undress her, peeling off layer after layer of silk. There wasn’t much sound except for the stiff rustle of the fabric and Colin’s heavy breathing. His lips found each patch of her skin as he exposed it, until she was naked and quivering, wearing nothing but his kisses and the ribbon in her hair.

“You’re beautiful, ain’t you?” he said, his fingers tilting her head up for a kiss.

Once he was undressed too, he lay out on the bed and showed Penelope how to clamber on top of him, her thighs spread over his hips, his cock resting upon the curls on her mound.

“Rise up for me, darlin’,” he said, his hands on her buttocks, lifting her. “Now take me in hand - yes, just like that. Put me inside and seat yourself - oh, Penelope -”

And as she sat down fully on his hard cock, his head rose off the bed for a moment, the air coming out of his lungs in a low exhale. Both of them paused, the feeling rather overwhelming, and then Colin’s hands found her hips.

“Now, you move your hips back and forth,” he told her, his voice rather raw. “Grind down on me, whatever feels right, darlin’. You just take your time. I ain’t going nowhere.”

Penelope nodded and started to roll her body, moving back and forth and in circles until she found a motion that stole her breath. She planted her hands on Colin’s midsection and started to grind, humping her hips so her pearl rubbed against Colin’s hard body.

Colin just held her flanks and watched her, his eyes hazy and wide as she found her pleasure. She got the feeling that this movement probably wasn’t doing much for him, but he seemed totally enraptured watching her buck against him and toss her head, sweet moans dropping from her lips.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he breathed, and his hands moved slowly up her body - cupping her belly, squeezing her waist - until they found her breasts, hanging heavy and full on her chest. He began to squeeze and grope, tanned fingers digging into pale flesh, his thumbs on her nipples sending sparks of pleasure through her.

“I’m close,” she gasped, increasing the pace of her grinding.

“You’re a good girl, Penelope,” Colin growled, as her cunt clamped down on him, her release starting to spiral through her. “I feel your cunt milking my cock.”

Penelope let out a low moan, her fingernails digging into his abdomen as she came apart, her skin sheening with sweat at the exertion.

“Keep squeezing me,” Colin ordered, his face and chest flushed a pretty pink. “You’re going to make me spill, darlin’.”

Penelope did not have much control over it, her cunt spasming as pleasure shot through her. It seemed to be enough, though, as moments later Colin followed her, once again releasing deep inside of her with a low grunt. “Take your husband’s seed, wife. Let me breed you,” he choked out, his fingers digging hard into her breasts as he unravelled. Penelope could barely keep upright;the minute he finished, she flopped onto his chest, feeling utterly boneless.

Colin’s arms wrapped around her immediately, holding her as her body trembled with aftershocks. His fingers ran up and down her spine, hands splaying out over her back possessively.

“Now you ain’t been truthful with me, darlin’,” Colin said as his fingers dug into her backside.

She lifted her head and frowned at him, too exhausted for words.

“You told me once you were no good at riding.” His mouth split into a wicked smile, his eyes dancing with amusement. “But I think you did a fine job. And I rather liked being your horse.”

Penelope groaned and dropped her forehead to his chest. His arm tightened around her waist and she could feel him chuckle beneath her.

“You’re a damn fool, Colin Bridgerton.”

“I know it, Penelope Bridgerton. Ain’t that why you love me, though?”

She rubbed her nose against his chest hair and lightly sunk her teeth into his skin. He hissed at the sensation, then started laughing properly, his body shaking underneath hers. After a moment, she joined in. They lay like that, entwined and laughing, until the feeling of Penelope’s soft body atop his evidently became too much for Colin to bear, and he rolled them over, sliding himself back inside of Penelope’s well-used cunt.

And as he took her, it began to rain.