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Chapter Text

“Penelope, really,” Portia hissed, dragging the pins tighter on the lavendar silk. “Do you mean to go to Aubrey Hall in this?”

Penelope blinked down at her perfectly sensible high-necked gown. “I do.”

“You’re two and twenty, darling,” her mother snapped, straightening with a sound that was half-groan, half-wail. “Do you know what that makes you?”

“A Lady?”

“A spinster, Penelope!”

Portia snapped her fan open and gestured broadly toward the daybed, where an alarming collection of new gowns were laid out, in various shades of blues and pinks and greens.

“Now, listen to me. Eloise Bridgerton has invited you to Aubrey Hall for the summer. And you will not waste this opportunity on sighing in corners and scribbling in notebooks.”

“I haven’t done that since I was sixteen,” Penelope muttered.

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is this-” Portia grabbed a bodice so low it might be illegal, “-this is how one traps a man. You’ll wear this to supper. You’ll lean forward when you pour the wine. And you will not aim at Benedict Bridgerton again. He likes men. I won’t have your little heartbreak episodes ruining this holiday.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t aiming for Benedict. Or Anthony. That would be suicide.”

“Exactly! Which is why you’ll aim for Colin this time. Closest to your age. Easily flustered. You’ve always had a way with him.”

Penelope frowned. Not always. He was different around other women. But he’d been kind to her, friendly. Affectionate. Not in a sexual way.

Portia nagged again. “Don’t even think about messing this up. This is the only way undesirable women like you could entrap a husband.”

Penelope said nothing. But her silence was far from agreement.

She did not mean to catch the eyes of the eldest Bridgerton man though. The viscount himself. Edmund Bridgerton. 

Edmund Bridgerton was not a man easily surprised. But he did look twice-visibly-when Penelope Featherington walked in for supper in that pink gauzy thing.

He was at the hearth, pouring brandy, eyes still slightly shadowed from years of widowhood and wear, but his posture firm. Penelope didn’t curtsy. She just met his eyes and smiled.

He raised a brow. “Miss Featherington.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” she replied smoothly. “Your fire is very welcoming.”

“It’s only just been lit.” His gaze lowered to the swell of her large, barely covered breasts, beautifully presented, as if for his viewing pleasure. “But you seem quite warm already.”

“I am,” she said.

“You look lovely in this dress.” Edmund whispered, still gazing at her bosom.

“Oh, thank you”, Penelope said, a picture of innocence. “I suppose it's because my Mother insisted I try something more… ladylike.”

“Mothers do have a way of making everything better.” he said gazing at her lips now. “You should listen to your mother more often.

She liked it. The hungry attention in his eyes. She supposed he cut a very dashing figure despite his age. And he was a viscount. Maybe I could entrap him instead… will he be able to sire a child with me…

Stop, Penelope! She scolded herself. Focus on what is achievable. Here she was, failing year after year, to secure the attention of one of his sons, and now what? She hoped she somehow could target the father himself? 

She had tried last year. With Benedict. Anthony was much too intimidating for her. And much too rakish for her tastes. But Benedict had a kind smile. A softness to his eyes. And unlike Colin, who was out there on the continent living his life, Benedict was in England and unattached. So Penelope had tried to make him fall in love with her. But he just smiled at her sweetly and told her that he preferred men. And then left the room in haste.

Penelope sighed. Benedict was out of question. The viscount, and his heir were both unachievable targets. So she set her sights on Colin.

A few nights later, the storm at Aubrey Hall was relentless, battering against the windows of Bridgerton House like fists demanding entry. Rain streamed down the glass in wild rivulets, and thunder cracked so loud it rattled the panes.

Colin had been searching for a book. But the library was already occupied.

There, in the centre of the room, hunched beneath the faint glow of a wall sconce, was Penelope. Her shoulders trembled, her hair falling in curls around her face, soaked from what must have been a run through the rain.

He knew something was off with her. She had always been a very soft-spoken, quiet and sweet girl. Dressed as a girl, even if she had debuted as a lady a few seasons ago. But during this trip at Aubrey hall, she had transformed into something else. Colin was curious to know the reason behind this transformation.

But before he could call out to her, a voice sounded behind him. Quiet, steady. “Leave her to me.”

It was his father.

Colin hesitated, unsure, but obeyed. The door clicked shut.

Edmund stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his shadow stretching long across the Turkish rug. He did not speak until he was close enough to touch her.

“Penelope.”

She flinched, then turned to him with red-rimmed eyes, her cheeks glistening with tears. “I-I didn’t hear you.”

He knelt before her, his hand resting gently on her arm.

“You shouldn’t be alone in the dark like this.”

“I didn’t mean to. I just needed... to disappear, for a while.”

“And yet here you are, right in the centre of the room. Crying.” He studied her face. “What happened?”

She sniffled. She had spent a full week strutting around the house in gowns that had barely covered her chest, hoping that Colin would take notice and bed her, so that she could entrap him into marriage, but here she was, still a maiden. 

But as she saw Colin’s father approaching her, she thought in her mind. ‘This is a good chance.’

She had to show some vulnerability. She hesitated only for a second, then collapsed into him as soon as he stepped closer, chest heaving, voice cracking as she clung to his shoulders like a drowning girl to log. “I feel unlovable. I feel so... plain and foolish and invisible. Nobody would love me. No man would take me as a wife. No one desires me…” she hiccuped.

Edmund gathered her into his arms, his chin brushing the top of her damp hair. He was silent for a moment, letting her cry.

Then he asked gently, “Why would you ever think such a thing?”

Her voice was muffled against his coat. “Because the man I want never looks at me. Not really. Not the way I look at him.”

Something flickered behind Edmund’s eyes. His arms tightened around her just slightly. “Then you need to make him look. Make it impossible for him not to.”

She leaned back to look up at him. “How? How do I make a man pay attention?”

A wicked thought came in Edmund's mind. She was so warm, so soft. Already in his arms. He had buried his beloved wife ten years ago. And since then, apart from a few occasional visits to whorehouses, there had been no one. Could he dare to… could he get away?

His thumb brushed her cheek, slow and deliberate. “Come. I’ll show you.”

She blinked, confused. “Where?”

He stood, extending a hand. “My chambers. I will show you how to command a man’s attention.”

There was a long pause.

And then-she took his hand.

Edmund’s chambers were the largest in Aubrey hall. Filled with aged books. A fire glowed low in the fireplace, making it warm and cozy.

He turned to face her once the door closed behind them with a soft, definitive click.

“This isn’t a lesson to be taken lightly,” he said, voice low. “You’re asking me how to get a man. But there’s more to it than just getting his attention. It’s in how you hold yourself. How you look at him. How you breathe when he steps close. Do you understand?”

Penelope, blushed, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” He approached slowly, as if she might bolt. “Then show me. Pretend I’m him. The man you want.”

Her breath caught. She tried to lift her chin, to let her gaze wander down and then back up as she’d seen women do in the ballroom. It felt awkward. Girlish.

Edmund’s lips curved faintly. “Try again. Slower. Imagine you’re letting him see something only meant for him.”

She took a breath, let her shoulders drop, and this time she looked at him through lowered lashes. Slower. More certain.

He stepped closer.

“Better,” he murmured. “But don’t just look. Speak with your body.”

He lifted her hand and placed it against his chest, over his waistcoat. “Men notice everything when they want you. The way your fingers linger over their chest while dancing a waltz. The catch in your breath. Touch isn’t always about pressure. It’s about intention.” he said as he traced her collarbones with a featherlight touch of his fingers.

She let her hand slide up over his chest, fingers trembling slightly. Her eyes stayed on his.

“Like that?” she whispered.

“Yes.” His voice had gone rougher now. “Exactly like that.”

When his hands came to rest lightly on her hips, she didn’t flinch.

“May I?” he asked, in a husky voice as he ran his hands up and down her sides. There was heat beneath his touch now.

Penelope nodded.

He stepped behind her, guiding her gently to the foot of the bed. His fingers slid the ribbon from her hair, letting her curls fall loose. Then he leaned in, his lips near her ear.

“Confidence is as arousing as beauty, Penelope. And you are very beautiful. But you must let yourself believe it. Let me show you how a man reacts when you do.”

Her breath hitched as his hand slowly drew the edge of her sleeve down her arm. Not rushed. Not forceful. Just teaching. Just deliberate.

She turned to face him again, lips parted slightly.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” he said.

“Nervous,” she admitted. “But… excited. Curious.”

He smiled, then kissed her exposed shoulder. His hand rose to her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Good. Keep your eyes on me. Speak when you want to. Stop me if you need to.”

“I won’t,” she said quietly. “I want to learn.”

And then, he kissed her slowly, softly. One hand cupped the back of her neck; the other remained at her waist, anchoring her as he coaxed her mouth open, teaching her how to part her lips, how to move her tongue with his.

When they pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright.

“Again?” she asked, breathless.

He smiled. “As many times as you like.”

His fingers returned to her waist, brushing over the fabric of her damp dress with a feather-light touch. She stood motionless beneath his gaze, her breath catching as he reached for the buttons along the back of her bodice.

“Say stop if you want me to,” he murmured. “But this dress is damp and you need to warm up.”

“Of course,” Penelope whispered. “Also…I want to know what men like. What he might like.”

“And how can you know,” Edmund replied, his voice dark and amused, “unless you learn from a real man?”

Each button was undone with deliberate slowness, the fabric loosening with a faint rustle. He slipped the sleeves off her shoulders, guiding the dress down until it pooled at her feet. She stood in nothing but her chemise, thin and slightly transparent from the storm’s rain.

His gaze moved over her body, not leering, but assessing-appreciating.

“You have no idea what effect you could have on men, Penelope,” he said, almost to himself.

His fingers skimmed along the neckline of her shift, dipping lower. She gasped when his palm finally met her bare breast beneath the fabric-warm, firm, but gentle. He explored her shape slowly, as if memorising every curve.

“This,” he murmured, circling her nipple with his thumb, “drives men to distraction. A soft sound, a slight arch of your back, and they’re lost.”

Her body responded instinctively, chest rising to meet his touch, hips shifting just a little closer.

“Now you,” he said, taking her hand and guiding it to the front of his trousers. She stared at it, wide-eyed.

“You want to learn, right?” he asked, voice low. “Learn him? Then explore. Be curious.”

Her fingers moved tentatively over the fabric. She felt the hardness beneath. It startled her-solid, hot, so real.

Edmund undid the fastenings himself, freeing his length. It sprang forth, heavy and flushed, and she stared.

“Touch it,” he said. “Feel the weight. The heat. Wrap your hand around it, slowly stroke it.”

She obeyed. Her hand looked small around him. He grunted softly as she began stroking him slowly.

“Good girl,” he said. “That’s how you grab a man’s attention.”

He guided her to kneel before him, stroking her hair back with unexpected tenderness.

“Use your mouth,” he said. “Not just to please, but to command his surrender.”

She looked up at him once before leaning forward, lips parting, tentative and trembling. He groaned as he pushed his cock inside her sweet mouth.

“You need to relax. If you are tense, it's going to be difficult for both of us.”

His hand rested lightly on her head, as he petted her hair sweetly, “Yes... just like that.” he said when he felt her grow less stiff.

She grew bolder, swirling her tongue, suckling gently. Slowly, as she got a hang of it, he began thrusting himself rhythmically in her mouth, grabbing her hair for purchase. When he pulled back, it was with effort, voice rough.

“Enough. Come here.”

He drew her to her feet, lifted her easily, and carried her to the bed. Laid her down. Her chemise was soon peeled off.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, lying beside her, fingers trailing down her belly. “So warm.”

He spread her thighs, slid a finger through her wetness. She gasped, hips twitching.

“I’ll show you how a man takes what he desires from a woman.”

He leaned down, licked her wet, pink cunt slowly, savouring her. Her hands clutched the sheets. She moaned-sweet, raw, completely unguarded.

After a while, he finally entered her, it was slow. Deliberate. Her body stretched around him, trembling, and his groan was low and primal. He felt the resistance give away at the same time she hissed in slight discomfort and he knew he had deflowered Eloise’s little friend. 

Edmund smirked inwardly.

He set a pace meant to teach her. It was rhythmic, deep, angled to show her every nuance of pleasure. She clutched at him, eyes wide, lips parted in silent wonder.

“Watch me,” he said. “Watch what you do to me.”

She did. Her eyes locked with his.

But as her climax built, her eyes began rolling back in her head. Edmund’s rhythm faltered. He pulled out just before his own release, stroking himself to completion beside her, his seed spilling hot against her belly and chest.

He leaned over her, breath ragged, hand still cupping her cheek.

“You’re not unlovable, Penelope,” he whispered. “You’re devastatingly lovable. You will soon find out how lovable you are.”

Penelope scoffed inwardly. Then why hadn't he spilled inside her? God, this was her chance to trap a Bridgerton. He had been close.. So so close. But then … he had pulled out. 

And from whatever whispers she had heard, spilling inside only resulted in a baby. 

Penelope needed a bridgerton baby inside her. At any cost. And with that last thought in her mind she fell asleep in the arms of Edmund Bridgerton.

She exited Lord Edmund’s chambers in the wee hours of the morning. Throughout the night, the viscount had reached for her several times while she was asleep, waking her up with his fingers or tongue stuffed inside her cunt, or rubbing her clit to prime her for his cock. He taken his pleasures from her body thoroughly.

Her hair was still tousled. Lips slightly swollen. A faint, satisfied ache hummed between her thighs, as the phantom burn of the viscount's cock stretching her still lingered there.

She looked… flushed. Alive.

And she was humming, despite the viscount had never spilled inside her.

She didn’t even realise it at first, skipping down the stairs. The weight of what had happened-what she’d done with Eloise's father-hadn’t crushed her. It had lifted her.

Penelope Featherington felt… invincible.

She was still glowing with that secret when she turned a corner and nearly collided with someone.

“Penny?” came a familiar, amused voice.

Anthony Bridgerton.

He stood in riding boots and an open coat, curls damp from the morning ride, a crop tucked casually under one arm. He looked devilish in the way only rakes did when caught in the morning sun-dishevelled, cocky, golden.

His eyes raked over her in a single glance. She wasn’t dressed for breakfast. Her bodice was ever so slightly skewed. A faint red mark bloomed high on her neck.

And something in her eyes-something un-Penelope-like-made his brow rise.

“Well,” he drawled, lips twitching. “Up rather early, aren’t we?”

Penelope tilted her head, testing a smile. A new one. Slow, amused, just a little wicked.

“Could say the same for you.”

He grinned. “I’ve always liked the quiet before the household wakes.”

“I’ve come to like the quiet too,” she said, stepping past him so her shoulder brushed his chest-deliberately. She turned her head and caught his gaze over her shoulder. “It’s a good time to learn things. To practise.”

His brow lifted, sharply. “Practise?”

She turned fully to face him again, a new idea forming already. He would be next in line for viscountcy, right? What if I get him to spill inside me? Instead of marrying a viscount, I'd be marrying a future viscount.

Penelope smiled sweetly, then tilted her chin. “May I ask you something, Anthony?”

“You may,” he said, voice suddenly a bit lower.

“If a woman were… curious,” she said, slowly, deliberately, “and wanted to know how to best keep a man’s attention… would you be the sort of man who might assist?”

Anthony blinked. His gaze dipped once-to her mouth, then lower. The shift in her voice. Her posture. The knowledge in her eyes.

This was not the Penelope he was used to.

“Is that what you’re asking for?” he said, stepping a little closer. “My assistance?”

She pretended to think. “Let’s say… a lesson. A practical one. Since I imagine you’re quite experienced.”

He gave a short laugh. “More than quite.”

Her smile widened. “Then I’d be a fool not to learn from the best.”

Anthony studied her carefully now, the amusement fading into something sharper.

“Is this about my brother?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re not trying to make Colin jealous, are you?”

She laughed-a rich, warm sound that surprised even her. “I’ve stopped waiting for Colin to look at me like a man does. I’ve found other ways to pleasure myself.”

He raised a brow but said nothing about it.

“Well then,” he murmured, leaning forward just enough to brush his lips at her temple. “I suppose I’d be a selfish bastard if I said no, wouldn’t I?”

Her breath hitched.

Anthony smiled against her skin. “Come to the stables in twenty minutes. Side door. No one will ask questions.”

She nodded once, pulse fluttering like wings.

And then he was gone.

Penelope leaned against the wall, fingers at her mouth.

The stables were quieter than the rest of the estate-dark wood beams, the occasional rustle of straw, the heavy breath of horses shifting in their stalls. The scent of earth and sweat hung in the air, thick and masculine.

Penelope slipped in through the side door, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, scanning for Anthony.

He was already there, of course.

Leaning lazily against a stall door, sleeves rolled up, cravat loosened, his riding crop tapping slowly against his thigh. His gaze sharpened when he saw her. He didn’t smile this time.

“You came,” he said simply.

She drew the hood back. “I said I would.”

He approached, not with eagerness, but certainty. Like he already knew the answer to whatever question lingered in the air between them.

“Still curious?”

“Very.”

“Then let’s start with touch.”

He closed the space between them, but didn’t kiss her. Instead, he lifted her hand and placed it on his crotch. “You feel that?”

She hesitated, then rubbed her palm over the outline of his cock, up and down, slowly, then gainting confidence. He watched her every move, as his own eyes darkened dangerously.

“Slower,” he said. “A rake likes to be teased. Don’t give too much at once.”

She obeyed, dragging her fingertips up again, lingering at the edge of his open collar. She leaned forward, brushed her lips just beneath his jaw. Anthony stilled.

“You said I should practise confidence,” she murmured.

“I did,” he breathed. “You're learning.”

She moved to unfasten his waistcoat, letting it drop to the floor. Her fingers then slipped beneath his shirt, exploring bare skin-his shoulders, his lower back, the trail of hair that disappeared below his waistband.

And then, suddenly, he caught her wrists. “Now let me teach you.”

With a twist of his arms, he spun her gently and guided her backward until she bumped against a hay bale. He kissed her then-deep and hungry, mouth claiming hers with a sound that made her knees weaken.

“You’re so wet already,” he growled against her neck, hand slipping beneath her skirts. “You’ve been aching for this since the moment I saw you in that corridor.”

She whimpered, nodding.

“You want to know how to ride a man?” he said. “How to take what you want, look him in the eyes, and break him open with it?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He lifted her easily, laying her back atop the hay, skirts pushed high, her thighs spread around him.

“Then get on,” he said, loosening his breeches. His cock sprang free, thick and glistening. “take my cock inside you. Learn by doing.”

She moved over him, uncertain for only a moment, before lining herself up and lowering down, slow and gasping as he filled her. Inch by inch.

“Fuck,” Anthony groaned, head thrown back. “That’s it, sweet girl. Take your time. Feel every part of it.”

She rode him slowly at first-his hands gripping her hips, guiding her. Her hands on his chest, her head tipped back as pleasure bloomed inside her.

“Look at me,” he said. “Watch what you do to me.”

She did.

And what she saw there-pure male awe, lust, and a flicker of something almost reverent-set her on fire.

Her pace quickened.

Their bodies slapped together in a messy rhythm of heat and want and stolen power. She ground against him, and he groaned louder, nails digging into her thighs.

“That’s it,” he panted. “That’s how you ruin a man.”

But just as her climax peaked, Anthony’s grip shifted. He gritted out a curse, tightened his hold, and abruptly lifted her off his cock, pulling out with a groan so deep it shook his chest.

“Fuck-” he bit out, stroking himself quickly, harshly.

Penelope watched, dazed and still panting, as he came with a strangled gasp, his release spilling hot across her belly and the soft curve of her thigh.

For a moment, neither of them spoke-just the ragged sound of breathing and the soft creak of straw beneath them.

Then Anthony looked up at her with a crooked smile.

“You’re utterly wanton, Penelope,” he said, breathless. 

She smiled back, but it didn't reach her eyes. What was these Bridgerton men’s issue? Why wouldn't they spill inside her?

“You’ll think of me now,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to her lips. “Every time you mount a horse.”

She brushed off her disappointment at not being filled and laughed softly against his mouth. “You assume I’ll need a reminder.”

Anthony grinned, tucking himself back into his breeches and fastening his buttons. “You’re not the same Penelope who used to trip over her petticoats.”

She stood too, adjusting her bodice, smoothing her skirts. “No. I rather think I buried her in the hay just now.”

He caught her chin, tilted it. “Don’t let my father see that look in your eyes. You’ll ruin him.”

She offered no reply, only a slow smile and a look that said I already might have.

And with that, they parted ways-her boots soft against the earth, her lips still tingling. By the time she slipped back into the house through the garden door, the morning bustle had begun.

And no one suspected a thing.

The clock had long struck midnight when Penelope wandered the corridor near the East Wing that night. The house was quiet-too quiet for a house full of Bridgertons. She’d meant to go to bed. Truly. She’d even donned the illusion of modesty, a thin white dressing gown belted loosely over a far-too-sheer shift.

But the house itself tempted her.

And she wasn’t the only creature prowling the halls.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

The voice stopped her cold.

Edmund.

She turned slowly. He was there, leaning in the archway to his private study. Shirt half open, chest dusky with hair, a glass of something amber in his hand. He looked like he hadn't been to bed at all.

“I-” She cleared her throat. “I was just walking. Thinking.”

“Thinking,” he repeated, as if it amused him. “About which Bridgerton to trap next?”

Her mouth fell open.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I heard from Anthony what happened in the stables. You didn’t come here in that gown by accident. And your mother didn’t choose those dresses because she suddenly believes in your fashion sense.”

Penelope flushed scarlet. She didn’t move as he reached for her belt and tugged, untying the robe with maddening slowness.

“Though I admit,” he murmured, watching the silk fall, “she did well.”

The shift underneath left nothing to the imagination.

“Let me tell you something, Miss Featherington,” he said, voice dark as molasses. “Boys your age won’t know what to do with a woman like you. They’ll fumble and spill and apologise. I don’t apologise.”

Penelope’s breath hitched. Her nipples tightened visibly through the thin linen. He noticed, of course. Of course he did.

“Come with me,” he said, turning toward his bedchamber as he grabbed her hand and dragged her with him. “Let me teach you what your mother should’ve warned you about.”

The moment they were inside and the door shut behind them, Edmund turned on her with feral intent.

“You want Colin?” he growled. “Or Anthony? pWhat about Gregory? Would you like to fuck all the Bridgerton cocks you whore?"

Her mouth parted. Her thighs clenched. She had never been spoken to like that.

Edmund dragged her shift up, baring her legs. “I’m going to show you what it feels like to be ruined by a man you're trying to entrap.”

She gasped as he pushed her back onto the bed, spread her thighs with wicked fingers, and spat between them-wetting her folds before dragging his mouth down to lap it up.

“Already sweet,” he muttered. “You’ll be dripping in seconds.”

And she was.

He didn’t stop with his mouth. His fingers plunged deep, curling just right, teasing her with promise.

“You’re tight,” he praised, dragging a second finger in beside the first. “Your little cunny’s greedy. Good. You’ll need to stretch.”

“Stretch?” she gasped, already shaking.

“Oh, my darling,” he chuckled, “you think I’m the only man who’ll touch you tonight?”

Her eyes flew open.

“You want to trap a Bridgerton?” he asked, nipping at her hip. “Trap us all.”

 He licked back up her belly.

 “I’ll have you ready for my sons by the end of this week.”

Penelope couldn’t breathe properly, not with the way Edmund was looking at her.

He took off all her clothes, leaving her naked n flushed. Entirely. The shift had been ripped over her head and tossed aside. Her wrists were bound in velvet cuffs that were soft but firm, and tied to the wrought iron of Edmund’s bedstead. Her legs were spread, ankles caught in a pair of adjustable leather straps that kept her thighs wide open and trembling.

“I should be ashamed of myself,” Edmund said conversationally as he ran his large hand down her trembling inner thigh. “But I’m not. I’m proud of what I’m doing to you.”

Her head fell back on the pillows.

“I can’t-” she whispered.

“You will,” he said darkly.

Between her legs sat a carved, polished plug. Thick, obsidian black, not enormous-but wider than anything she'd ever imagined taking. Her slick was pooling between her thighs, and still he kept teasing, circling her stretched folds with his fingers, dipping inside her dripping sex while the plug kept her other hole snug and tight.

“You need to be trained, pet,” he murmured, biting her thigh. “Because if you’re going to beg for two Bridgertons at once, you’ll need to learn how to take them properly.”

“Two-” she whimpered.

“At once,” he finished.

He pushed the plug a little deeper with one strong thumb. She gasped as her body bucked against the restraints.

“Such a greedy little cunt,” Edmund groaned. “You’d let me fuck you right now, wouldn’t you? While the toy’s still inside you. While your arms are tied up and you’re whimpering like a cockdrunk girl already?”

“Yes-!” she sobbed, surprised by her own desperation.

He chuckled. “Filthy thing. And here I thought you wanted only Colin.”

Her blush deepened, but her hips didn’t stop moving.

“Oh, don’t worry. He’ll get his turn. But not until I’ve broken you in properly.”

He slipped two fingers inside her, curling slow and deep. Her body jerked-tight, wet, eager.

“And when you’re ready…” He pressed a filthy kiss to her slick heat, “…we’ll invite another man to watch you take me.”

He licked her until she cried out, shuddering under him, bucking into his mouth, the plug still nestled tight as her orgasm swept through her body like fire.

And still he didn’t untie her.

Instead, Edmund rose, opened a dark velvet case on the table nearby, and selected something thicker.

“Lesson two,” he said softly, “is about depth.”

She was already stuffed full, the plug still snug in her arse, her cunt flooded from the orgasm he'd dragged out of her moments earlier-but this toy was different. Longer. Thicker. Tapered like a cock and curved like it knew where her soul lived.

“You’ll feel fuller than you ever have,” Edmund whispered, brushing a sweat-dampened curl from her cheek. “You’ll come around this and cry.”

She did.

The moment the toy slipped deep enough to brush her sweet spot, she sobbed. Her whole body jolted. Her nipples hardened, pink and raw, and Edmund smiled like he’d just discovered heaven.

“That’s it,” he praised, thrusting the toy slowly. “You like it, don't you?”

Her moans were broken, guttural-almost animal.

“A good little slut, hidden under those awful dresses,” he murmured, watching her squirm under the rhythmic push of the toy. “Good things your mother sent you here with the purpose of getting fucked. I’ll fuck the manners out of you.”

He moved lower again. His tongue dragged over her clit, the toy never stopped, the plug firm behind. Her head tossed back violently.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

She came again, writhing like a girl possessed, screaming into the bedsheets as Edmund held her there-pinned, full, ruined.

And when she came down from it, sobbing from the overstimulation, he finally, finally pulled the toy free, slow and wet, her slick coating its length like honey.

He wiped it on her belly. Marking her.

And then-then he stood.

“Now,” he said, pulling his shirt back over his chest, voice casual as if they’d been playing cards, “you need to learn what it feels like to be watched.”

Her eyes snapped open.

“What-?”

He walked to the door, unlocked it, and opened it just a fraction.

Then his voice-low, commanding:

“Anthony. Come in. She’s ready.”

Anthony stepped inside the room like a child excited to her his turn with the most coveted toy.

“I want to feel her now,” Anthony said, voice low and steady as his hand ran down the curve of Penelope’s arse. His palm lingered, stroking the edge of her thigh, then slipping between to cup her slick heat. “She’s soaked.”

“She’s ready,” Edmund agreed, lounging back in the chair near the fire. “And she wants you.”

Penelope whimpered. She was bound still, legs spread, arse still filled with the warm pressure of the plug Edmund had inserted earlier. Her mouth was slick with spit and want, her entire body flushed and trembling with need. But it was her eyes that gave her away-eager, wide, burning with anticipation.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Penelope?” Anthony asked, teasing her opening with two thick fingers, slipping them in slow. “Is that what you want?”

She nodded, panting.

“Then you can earn it,” he said. “Suck my cock first.”

The growl in his voice wasn’t cruel-it was expectant. She had one chance to show him how well she could be used. And she would not waste it.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Please.”

Anthony climbed onto the bed beside her and guided her down gently, untying one arm just long enough to let her brace herself on her elbow before pushing his cock against her lips.

“Open.”

She obeyed instantly, mouth parting, tongue out. She looked obscene like this-spit-drenched, flushed, plug twitching inside her, and so willing.

Anthony moaned when he slid in. Her mouth was warm, wet, and far too eager to be anything close to innocent.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Suck me. Show me you know how to be used.”

Penelope whimpered as she took him deeper, lips sealed tightly, cheeks hollowing as she sucked him greedily. She licked up the underside, her nose brushing his groin as he guided her in a slow, steady rhythm.

Behind them, Edmund watched, stroking himself lazily, his eyes dark with heat.

“Tried to entrap us,” Edmund murmured. “Look at her now… our perfect little whore. Our sweet sweet girl…”

Penelope moaned around Anthony’s cock, the praise making her cunt clench and gush.

Anthony pulled back just slightly, panting as he looked down at her ruined mouth. “Fuck,” he muttered, brushing her wet lips with his thumb. “You’re so hungry for it.”

“I want you inside me,” she whispered. “Please, Anthony. I want to feel you fuck me. Fill me…”

Anthony looked over his shoulder.

Edmund gave the smallest nod. “Do it. Take her. But make it slow the first time. Let her feel every inch.”

Anthony’s eyes gleamed as he positioned himself behind her, cock slick from her mouth, ready to fill her.

Penelope whimpered into the pillow as she felt the blunt, thick head press against her soaked entrance.

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes-please.”

And when he pushed in-slow, deep, stretching her inch by filthy inch-she sobbed in sheer relief.

Soon he was deep inside her-his cock thick and relentless, grinding against her walls, stretching her in the most glorious, satisfying way. Her knees were spread wide over the bed as he rutted into her, wet sounds filling the room as his cock slid in and out of her dripping cunt.

“Good girl,” Anthony growled, gripping her hips. “You feel like fucking silk.”

She whimpered-her back arched, her breasts bouncing with each thrust of their hips.

But then-Edmund rose from his chair.

He approached slowly, his shirt discarded, cock already hard, thick, flushed dark at the tip. He climbed onto the bed, and told Anthony to adjust her position. Anthony slipped out of her briefly, told her to be on her hands and knees and thrusted inside her from behind. Edmund stepped in front of her.

"Open your mouth," he ordered.

Penelope didn't hesitate. Her lips parted, tongue darted out, eager.

“Oh, you are learning,” he murmured with a smile, sliding the blunt head of his cock into her mouth.

She moaned-full, finally, the way she'd wanted to be since she first crossed Aubrey Hall’s threshold.

Anthony beneath her. His father in her mouth.

Both men using her. Both of them watching her fall apart for them.

She sucked the Viscount eagerly, eyes wide and watering, spit running down her chin as she rocked on Anthony’s cock, bouncing steadily, cunt gripping him tight.

“Fuck, she’s squeezing me,” Anthony grunted, hands gripping her arse. “This little pussy doesn’t want to let go.”

Edmund chuckled, hand fisted in her hair as he gently rocked into her mouth. “That’s because she likes being fucked like this. Don’t you, sweetheart?”

Penelope moaned around him, her answer garbled and wet.

Spit and slick coated her thighs. The plug still sat snug in her arse, pressing just right, adding to the stretch, the fullness, the utter ruin she was falling into.

“You look so good like this,” Edmund rasped, eyes burning. “Tits bouncing. Mouth stuffed. Getting fucked like a good little cocksleeve.”

Anthony thrust up hard, hitting the sweet spot. Penelope screamed around Edmund’s cock-gagging as he thrust deeper.

She came-violently. Her whole body trembled, cunt fluttering wildly around Anthony’s cock. He grunted, holding her down, grinding into her as he chased his own release.

“Where do you want it?” he asked darkly.

Her eyes flicked up to Edmund.

He pulled out of her mouth with a filthy pop and said, “Come inside her. Fill her up. I want her dripping.”

Anthony didn’t hesitate.

With a shudder and a groan, he came deep-thick, hot, flooding her cunt, marking her from the inside.

Penelope collapsed forward, breathless, fucked out-but Edmund caught her.

“Not done,” he said, guiding her gently, firmly, “you’re going to thank me with your mouth.”

She nodded weakly-and crawled forward.

Her lips wrapped back around his cock, soft and worshipful now, sucking slow, needy, while Anthony’s come dripped from her freshly used cunt.

Edmund watched her like she was art.

“My sweet little whore,” he whispered. “We’re going to keep you. I'm going to marry you and we are going to use you forever, my future Viscountess.”

That became her normal night afterwards. Every night Anthony would escort her to the Viscount's chamber and they'd fuck her, use her till dawn, depositing loads of cum inside her, both of them. She was so used to being filled now that she ached for the rest of the day for nightfall.

Sometimes they'd just make love to her sweetly. Taking turns with her cunt, but other times, they would play with her. 

But her dozing off in the middle of it due to exhaustion was quite common too. Which is what happened tonight.

The first thing she felt when she stirred awake again, was stickiness.

The second-warmth.

Penelope blinked her swollen eyes open. The room was bathed in the gentle grey glow of pre-dawn light, soft over the muslin curtains. Her limbs ached-sweetly, like a girl who’d danced too hard all night. But her body told a different story.

Her nipples were sore. Her thighs tacky with dried spend. Her inner muscles fluttered from overuse. And her arse… still full. Still plugged.

A low, masculine murmur reached her ear.

“You’re awake.”

She turned her head-Edmund lay beside her, propped on one elbow, eyes dark and glittering with pleasure. He was still naked, and still so unfairly handsome. His hand slid to her hip and pulled her closer, pressing her into the heat of his chest.

Without a word, he kissed her.

It wasn’t polite. Or restrained. It was deep, consuming, tongue sweeping into her mouth like he owned it-and now, perhaps, he did.

She whimpered into the kiss, boneless and sore and still wanting.

He finally broke the kiss with a sigh. “You’re glorious like this,” he said softly. “Used. Dripping. Still twitching for more when I touch you.”

His fingers slid between her thighs, brushing the mess left behind. She gasped-overstimulated.

He chuckled. “We took you thoroughly, didn’t we?”

She nodded weakly. Her voice was a whisper. “I wanted it.”

“I know you did,” he murmured. “Which is why you’ll get it again.”

And with that Edmund rolled her on her back and mounted her. He began rocking into her slowly, and kissed her fiercely, devouring her lips, her tongue, her mouth. 

“By now, sweet little thing, it is most likely that you will not get your menses this month.” Edmund whispered in her ears, making her shiver in delight.

From across the room, Anthony stirred, sitting up slowly, still naked, cock half-hard again already. He stretched lazily, watching her with that same hungry amusement as his father fucked her. Anthony began stroking him as his eyes seemed to fixate on the way Edmund 's kept disappearing and reappearing to and from her cunt.

Edmund soon increased the pace, thrusting hard and fast, hitting that spot deep inside her that soon made her see the stars. As she screamed n panted while riding out her orgasm, Edmund came deep inside her, spurting his seed deep inside her womb. 

Afterwards, Edmund looked over his shoulder. “Help her dress.”

Anthony smirked. “So soon?”

“She needs rest,” Edmund said coolly, “If I keep her here I will just end up fucking her a few more times.”

Anthony rose and crossed the room in two strides, leaning down to press a kiss to Penelope’s bare shoulder. “Come on, darling. Let’s get your sweet arse back into that not so virginal nightgown.”

He helped her sit up-carefully. Her whole body throbbed.

He cleaned her with a warm cloth, murmuring praise the whole time.

“So obedient,” he said as he slid the plug free, drawing a weak moan from her throat. “You took us both. You’ll take more, won’t you?”

Penelope blushed. “Yes.”

Anthony grinned at Edmund.

By the time she was back in her shift, her hair hastily braided, Edmund stood by the hearth fully dressed, boots polished, and kissed her hard on the lips before stepping back.

“Anthony,” he said, “sneak her back. Through the servant's passage.”

Anthony offered his arm. “Come, sweetheart. Let's pretend you've been asleep in your own bed all night.”

Penelope turned back once before the door.

Edmund was watching her. His voice was quiet.

“Tonight,” he said, “you’ll come to me again. And this time-I'll bring someone new.”

Her cunt clenched in anticipation.

She nodded.

And then Anthony led her, barefoot and radiant, back into the shadowed corridors of Aubrey Hall.

Chapter Text

The next night, Edmund asked Penelope to come to his chamber after supper, when everyone went to bed and she was finally free from Eloise's clutches. 

She walked towards his chambers, a bit nervous, a lot more excited. She wondered what he meant by bringing someone else to bed with them. Someone else… so not Anthony. Was he going to bring Colin? Benedict had no inclination towards the fairer sex but surely, Colin would be into women, wouldn't he be? She wondered idly.

With great anticipation, she knocked on the Viscount's bedchamber. When he opened the door she gaped at him. He stood in his candlelit chamber, half-dressed, the planes of his broad, hairy chest on full display, while his trousers were slung low on his hips. Penelope gazed at his solid form through her thick lashes and bit her lower lip coyly. 

Edmund took in her appearance with barely concealed hunger. She stood in the flickering lamplight, bundled in a pale blue silk house robe, the fabric clinging to the curves he had been imagining for far too long. His gaze swept over her, lingering with possessive interest.

Without a word, he stepped closer, hooked a finger into the sash at her waist, and tugged. The robe fell open, then to the floor with a soft rustle, revealing the sheer emerald nightgown beneath. It shimmered against her skin, nearly translucent in places, ending just shy of her knees and clinging sweetly to her hips, her breasts teasingly visible beneath.

His voice was low and amused. “Is that something your mother got from the modiste, so that you could trap a Bridgerton?”

Penelope gave a helpless giggle, tilting her head coyly. “Probably.”

His smile widened, rich with approval and dark delight. He cupped her jaw and kissed her—hungry, commanding, his mouth claiming hers with ease. She melted into him, clutching at his shoulders as he guided her backwards, step by step, until the backs of her legs met the edge of the bed.

“Take a deep breath, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Tonight we try something new.”

Her pulse leapt at his tone. “What is it?”

“A lesson in surrender. I’m going to blindfold you,” he said, fingers already sliding over a length of silk ribbon. “You’ll find that taking away your sight only sharpens everything else. Touch. Taste. Sound. Every kiss, every stroke—it’ll all feel twice as good.”

Penelope let out a soft breath of anticipation. “Yes… please.”

He chuckled. “Good girl.”

She stood perfectly still as he slipped the silk over her eyes, tying it at the back of her head with a practiced tug. Darkness swelled behind her eyelids, but her skin was suddenly hyper-aware—of the soft give of the mattress behind her, the brush of his knuckles along her arm, the heat of his body circling around her like a wolf with its prey.

Then came his mouth.

A kiss at the corner of her lips. Another at the base of her throat. A teasing nip along her collarbone. Her fingers clenched at the sheets as his hands slipped over her sides, guiding her down to the bed.

She moaned softly, already aching, already begging in her head for more, as she threaded her fingers through his hair..

“Keep your hands where they are,” he instructed softly, the command edged with a dark promise. “You’re not to touch unless I tell you to.”

Penelope gave the faintest nod. “Yes, Edmund.”

That earned her a satisfied hum. He climbed onto the bed, shifting beside her, and placed a hand on her knee. His touch was feather-light, barely there, yet it made her gasp. He stroked up, inch by agonising inch, along her thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of her nightgown, pushing it higher, exposing her slowly.

His lips followed the path of his hand, placing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of her thigh, just shy of where she ached most. She trembled beneath him, gasping when he exhaled a hot breath against the damp heat between her legs—then moved away again, grinning to himself as she whimpered in protest.

“Oh, my darling,” he murmured against her skin, “you’re already shaking.”

“I can’t help it,” she whispered, lips parted. “You’re not even—”

“I’m not even trying yet.” He grazed her with his teeth. “But I will.”

He reached up to palm her breast through the thin fabric, his thumb circling her nipple slowly, deliberately, while his other hand slipped beneath her nightgown and down her belly. Penelope bucked into his touch, her hips searching, begging. But he was maddeningly patient.

When his fingers finally found her centre, slick and needy, he groaned softly. “Sweet girl. So wet for me already.”

She gave a helpless noise—part plea, part surrender. “Please, Edmund—”

He silenced her with a kiss, sliding two fingers into her and setting a slow, purposeful rhythm, curling just right, just enough to make her writhe. His mouth was everywhere—her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone—and his hand never stopped, coaxing her higher and higher until her body tensed beneath him, helpless and completely undone.

She came hard, gasping his name like a prayer, and Edmund didn’t let up. He stroked her through it, kissed her through it, watched her come down with a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“Good girl,” he whispered against her lips. “Are you ready for more?”

“Is there more…?”

Edmund chuckled. A warm hand brushed her hip. Then another settled on her thigh. She tensed for a moment, until familiar fingers ghosted down her spine—Edmund’s silent reassurance.

“She’s ready for me?” came a muffled voice—deep, smooth, and low.

“She is. She's begging for this,” Edmund replied, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear. “Aren’t you, darling?”

Penelope froze, lips parted in silent anticipation.

“Who is it?” she asked softly, uncertain.

Edmund didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed her neck and pressed her down onto the bed.

Whoever touched her next didn’t speak. But his grip was sure, his movements controlled. in a swift movement, he rucked up her nightgown and then his mouth found her cunt. Devouring her quite thoroughly.

Penelope trembled, moaning as her senses overloaded. Every lick, every suck, every breath was foreign and yet… intoxicating. Her body accepted the stranger as if it knew him. As if she had dreamt of this.

“Good girl,” Edmund murmured as he held her hands above her head. “So eager. So trusting.”

When she finally gasped out a name, Colin, a low chuckle followed.

“Yes, Pen. It's like you know my smell or something…” 

And then he pressed a lingering kiss to her lips.

Colin's kiss was surprisingly tender. Gentle. He tasted her like he already knew her, as if Edmund had whispered all her secrets into his waiting mouth. Penelope whimpered against the slow press of his lips, her fingers tangling in the sheets as he moved lower—down her throat, between her breasts, over her belly.

Edmund was behind her, steadying her, his hands stroking the curve of her waist with the kind of possessive care that made her melt.

“She’s breathtaking,” Colin murmured, his voice husky as his mouth reached the soft, tender nipple. She gasped. Her thighs trembled.

Edmund kissed the nape of her neck, whispering, “Would you like to feel us both, Penelope? At the same time?”

Her answer was breathless but firm. “Yes.”

They shifted around her with practiced grace. Edmund’s touch grounding her, Colin's presence coaxing her into something entirely new. She didn’t know how her body would manage it, only that she trusted Edmund to guide her through anything.

Edmund began playing with her butthole applying some oil on it and then inserting a finger in it, then another, stretching her in preparation of his cock. Meanwhile Colin was busy sucking, licking and marking her breasts, making her moan continuously. 

Edmund began fucking her arse with his fingers and Colin rubbed her clit with his thumb that was not busy cupping her breast. It proves to be too much stimulation as she came hard within minutes. 

“I think she's ready.” Colin said, quite eager to enter her tight cunt. Edmund smirked, “Patience son. The prize will be even sweeter if you wait for it.”

Edmund kissed her neck and whispered softly in her ears, “Are you ready, sweet girl?”

Penelope licked her lips nervously, “Yes.” She suppose this was the most ready she would be, given her nerves. 

The next moment, she felt a cock, Edmunds cock, presses against the entrance of her butthole. She gasped. “Relax.” Edmund said sweetly, “if you keep your body tight like that then its gonna hurt you.”

“Oh I'll make her relax for you,” said Colin, and began playing with her pleasure button, rubbing circles around it slowly. And it did help taking her mind away from the fact that she was about to get stretched in the arse. 

When Edmund felt her little body relax in his arms, he aligned himself with her butthole and pressed his tip, just a bit… she was a bit slick there now, stretched by his fingers massaging the oil and his spit, and he slipped inside her arse, bit by bit, all the while Penelope gasped and panted. 

When he was fully seated in her arse, Edmund’s lips brushed her ears, slow and lingering, as though coaxing her to trust him entirely. Colin's touch on her clit was careful, steady, coaxing. Which was making her relax.

“Tell me how you feel,” Edmund murmured.

Penelope’s breath caught. “I’m fine… truly.” A small smile curved her lips. Then she turned to Colin and said, “I can take more. Really.”

Colin's gaze softened. He kissed her mouth, deeper this time, tongue and teeth, before shifting closer, and spreading her legs further. When his cock brushed against her slit, she gasped—her fingers clutching at the sheets.

“How are you doing, Pen?” he asked gently.

She gave a shuddering laugh. “More than fine…I can take you Colin. Don't worry.”

Colin entered her with relative ease as her cunt was already slick with her own juices. But oh how glorious it felt!

“I feel so—full. So good.” For a moment, the room was still except for the sound of her breath and the steady heartbeat in her ears. 

Then Colin and Edmund shared a look—something wordless, knowing. Colin kissed her again, lingering, before their bodies began to move in perfect rhythm, each motion building upon the other, surrounding her in heat and devotion.

Still blindfolded, she let herself be carried by the sensation of them both, each touch, each breath, each kiss an unspoken vow. Each thrust calibrated, slow at first, then growing steadier, deeper, more deliberate. Penelope's body arched between them, strung tight and trembling, her moans caught between Colin's open mouth and the press of Edmund’s chest.

"Oh God, Pen," Colin murmured against her lips, his fingers teasing and tugging at her nipples. “Your cunt feels like heaven.”

Edmund chuckled low and deep behind her, his breath hot against the nape of her neck as he kissed a trail down her shoulder. “She’s so eager,” he said, voice velvet-rough. “So eager to please.”

Penelope whimpered, overwhelmed in the best way. Her hands clawed at Colin's thigh, Edmund's hand that was holding her waist, the pleasure blurring into something that teetered on the edge of madness. Each roll of Edmund's hips sent a shudder through her spine, and Colin watched her face with something like awe.

"You like being our good girl, don’t you?" Edmund whispered, one hand cupping her jaw as he guided her gaze to his. “Taking both of us Bridgerton men so well. Letting us use you so thoroughly…”

She couldn’t speak—only nod,  lips parted around helpless sounds.

He kisses her then, hard on her mouth.

“Would you pleasure Anthony later, sweet girl? Would you let him use your mouth to come? I told him to sit this one out as I didn't want to overwhelm you. But we don't want him to feel lonely tonight, right?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, I'd…” her breath hitched. Her climax hit like a flood. Her whole body seized in pleasure, a cry bursting from her throat as the world tipped sideways. Edmund held her tightly, murmuring praise into her hair. Colin never looked away, as if her release was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

After, they didn't let go. She lay there, wrecked and glowing, their hands tracing soft, languid paths across her body.

Colin's fingers traced her jaw, then the shell of her ears, before u doing her blindfold. He watched her blink, slowly and deliberately, before her sight got reaquinted with the light in the room. the weight of his gaze steady as she lay catching her breath.

“You’re radiant,” he murmured, voice low. “But I think we are not yet done with you.”

Her lashes fluttered as she looked up at him, breath still uneven. A flicker of a smile curved his mouth, affectionate, admiring, wicked.

“Would you,” he murmured, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, “suck my brother off now, Pen?”

She didn’t need to be asked again. Anthony was standing at the door, looking at her like he had never seen a beauty of her calibre. She smiled at him, cockdrunk, already shifting, as she crawled towards the edge of the bed and moved to her hands and knees and waited for him with an eager mouth. There was no shame in it, no hesitation. 

Anthony exhaled like a man undone and surged forward, closing the door firmly behind him. Behind her, Edmund murmured something approving, words she couldn’t fully hear, but encouraged her nonetheless.

“You’re extraordinary,” Anthony said, voice hoarse now. “Absolutely extraordinary.”

Penelope’s hands moved with confidence now, not the uncertain touch of a girl unsure of her place. She had learned under Edmund’s patient tutelage, under the quiet praise of the men he trusted that she was not just wanted, but adored for her skill, her attentiveness, her unashamed hunger.

Anthony groaned the moment her lips wrapped around him. His hands shot out to grab her hair, to hold, to anchor himself to the moment.

“God, you are good at that,” he said, breath catching. His tone was thick with disbelief, with pleasure. “Your mouth... Christ, Penelope.”

Behind her, she felt Edmund and Colin shift closer. A warm hand landed on her lower back, another pair sliding up her breasts to tease her nipples in slow appreciation. Edmund's voice was like honey and smoke.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So eager. So skilled. My clever girl. Looks like I taught you well.”

Penelope didn’t pause. If anything, his praise made her more focused, more eager to please. Anthony was trembling, chest rising and falling rapidly. The restraint in his muscles was visible.

“She likes the taste of power she wields over us,” Edmund said, with quiet pride, fingertips grazing her shoulder. “And she knows exactly how to use it.”

Penelope looked up at Anthony, her were eyes bright with tears as Anthony rutted into her mouth, her cheeks flushed with exertion and pleasure. the tip of his cock was now brushing the back of his throat, whenever he thrusted deeply inside her, then pulled back a little only to repeat the motion. Anthony met her gaze with awe in his eyes, as if he’d just stumbled upon something sacred.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered. “Please. Your mouth feels so good around my cock.”

And she didn’t. She swirled her tongue around him once, and he came instantly in her mouth, shooting spurts after spurts of his cum, and she obediently swallowed everything, desperately trying not to gag or let even a single drop spill. Afterwards, Anthony kissed her hard, tasting his own cum on her lips. 

“You are a perfection, Penny!” he said as they pulled apart for air.

Soon, Edmund told both his sons to fix their clothes and sent them away. And then there was only him and her.

The room was dim now, and Penelope lay limp and trembling on the rumpled sheets of the Viscount's bed, her skin damp with exertion, lips kiss-bitten, legs weak and unsteady from being used so thoroughly.

Edmund was already moving with gentle care. He took a warm cloth in his hand, and wiped the dried cum off her body, murmuring soft praise each time her body gave the tiniest twitch under his touch.

“You did beautifully,” he whispered, voice husky with pride. “You took everything, sweet girl. Never seen anyone so eager to please. So ready to be loved.”

Penelope made a small, content sound, her eyes fluttering shut. She barely registered when he scooped her into his arms, carrying her as if she weighed nothing. He brought her to the bathing chamber, where the copper tub had already been filled with steaming water, faintly scented with lavender.

He bathed her himself.

His hands were steady and sure, stroking over her limbs, her back, her neck—lifting each strand of her hair to wash and rinse it with care. It wasn’t hurried or lustful. It was worshipful.

When she was clean, he wrapped her in a soft towel and dried her tenderly. Then—despite her mumbled protests that she could walk—he carried her back to his bed.

The sheets had been changed. The room felt calm again. And when he laid her down, it wasn’t for more use—it was for more love.

He climbed in beside her, then over her, settling his body lightly along hers as he kissed her shoulder. Her collarbone. Her cheek. Her lips. Her fingertips.

“All mine now,” he whispered. “My perfect girl.”

Penelope’s throat tightened with emotion.

“You’ve learned so well,” he said, brushing a damp curl from her face. “You listen, you give, you shine. I’m proud of you.”

He kissed the hollow of her throat. “I’ll keep teaching you. You’ll belong to me... and all my sons. All the Bridgerton men will adore you.”

Penelope’s breath caught, not from fear—but anticipation.

He smiled down at her, soft and wicked all at once.

“We’ll take care of you. Fuck you. Share you. Spill inside you. Breed you. You want that, don’t you?”

She nodded, dazed and dreamy.

“Good girl.”

She nestled against his chest, legs tangled with his, her fingers drawing aimless patterns across his skin. The firelight cast a soft amber glow over the bed, and everything in the world seemed to have slowed—except her thoughts.

“Edmund,” she murmured, her voice low.

He tilted his head to look at her, brushing his fingers down the length of her arm.

“If I… if I become with child,” she said carefully, “will you marry me?”

His smile was instant. A soft, knowing thing.

“I am the lord of this house,” he said, cupping her jaw and kissing her forehead. “And you, sweet girl, will be the lady of it. That is not in question.”

She blinked up at him, caught between relief and confusion.

“But,” he continued, his tone thoughtful now, “I spoke with Anthony about his marriage.”

Her heart fluttered. “And?”

“He says he doesn’t want to marry,” Edmund said with a soft chuckle, “not now that we have you. He said—and I quote—‘What’s the point of a wife when we already have Penelope in our bed?’ I suppose my boy fell in love with you. As I did… we all did, actually.”

Penelope flushed, biting her lip.

Edmund's fingers trailed over her stomach. “Now, if I marry you, my love… any child you carry—mine or my son's—would not be the viscount. That title still belongs to Anthony.”

She stilled. “Thats alright.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “But if you were to marry *him*… then any child, even one sired by me, or Colin would be considered his legitimate heir. The next in line.”

He watched her closely, voice softening. “So, if we want to protect the legacy of our Bridgerton name… I believe you should marry Anthony.”

Her eyes searched his. “And you’d be all right with that?”

Edmund leaned in and kissed her gently, reverently.

“I would be honoured, Penelope. Because no matter whose ring you wear and whose name you bear… you’re mine now. Ours. Our wife. And you will be loved and cherished every day of your life.”

She swallowed hard, blinking against sudden tears.

“And whoever amongst us impregnates you, that child will be a Bridgerton,” he whispered near her ear, “And I will love it with everything I have. As I love you.”

She buried her face in his chest and nodded.

Life as a Bridgerton woman would be so interesting, she thought to herself, if her lover's, husbands, whatever they were to her now, loved her and cherished her so, everyday of her life.

Chapter Text

The next morning, when Anthony entered the Viscount's study, he saw his father sitting comfortably on his high backed chair, legs slightly parted, Penelope curled up in his lap, her hands draped around his neck. They were laughing over something he’d murmured in her ear in soft whispers, warm smiles, his hand trailing along her thigh over her day dress. She looked radiant, flushed and glowing from a night spent with him.

For a heartbeat, just one, he saw his father holding the girl he had fallen in love with. His father, laughing with her, caressing her body, kissing her sweet lips, wearing the scent of her on his skin. A flicker of jealousy twisted through him like a blade, hot and uninvited. She had never been someone he had fantasized about, considering her as the little friend of Eloise. 

But then, his father had taken her to his bed and made her a woman and that had bolstered her confidence to approach Anthony on her own. Anthony had been astonished to find out what a magnificent woman she had become when she came onto him in the stables, and that day had changed the way he saw Penelope. How sweet yet seductive she had been. How lovely, sensual—

“Anthony,” she said, turning her head towards him, bringing him back to the present.

Her voice had caught just slightly on his name. Just enough for him to hear it: the want. The welcome. The claim.

His jealousy crumbled.

She was his too. Equally. Willingly.

Penelope looked up at Edmund, silently asking. He nodded, brushing a kiss to her temple.

“Go, darling,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “Greet your future husband properly.”

Wait, future husband? Anthony wondered if he misheard his father.

But then those thoughts were temporarily pushed aside as she rose from Edmund’s lap, and walked toward Anthony barefoot and unhurried. Her robe slipped slightly at the shoulder, and he could see the fresh bloom of a love bite at her collarbone. His father's mark.

She reached him, smiling up through her lashes, and slowly wound her arms around his neck and asked, “Did you miss me, Anthony?” 

Then she kissed him, deeply, thoroughly, and possessively.

It was the kiss of someone who had chosen him, the touch of a woman who ached for him.

Anthony’s hands gripped her waist, pulling her closer, swallowing her sigh as his father watched silently behind them.

When they broke apart, Anthony rested his forehead against hers.

“I hope you wore him out,” he muttered against her lips.

She smiled. “You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

Anthony was still catching his breath when Edmund spoke from behind them in a smooth voice.

“You’ll call on Portia as soon as we return to London,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “To formally request Penelope’s hand in marriage.”

Anthony blinked. “I—what?”

Edmund arched an eyebrow, amused. “Present your suit like any proper suitor, eldest son of a viscount. I’ll write the necessary letters of intention.”

Anthony stared at him, dumbfounded. “I thought you wanted her as your wife.”

Edmund’s smirk deepened. “Oh, I do.”

A silence thickened between them. Penelope stood quiet, watching the exchange with parted lips, a touch of pink still clinging to her cheeks.

“She will be my wife,” Edmund went on, voice low and steady. “In all the ways that count. In my bed. In my arms. In my life.”

Anthony swallowed, a strange flutter of something wild and possessive rising in his chest.

“But—on paper,” Edmund continued, “she will be your wife. Mrs. Penelope Anthony Bridgerton. Even though in reality she will be a wife to all of us.”

Anthony looked at him as though he had gone mad. “But until recently-”

“Trust me, Anthony,” Edmund said mildly, “it’s a logical, practical solution.”

He rose, walking slowly around the desk, as if to impress the weight of his reasoning.

“Anthony, you’re my heir. No matter whom amongst us she beds, your children will carry the name, the title, the legacy. And she's too young to live out her life in a dowager house after my passing.”

Both Anthony and Penelope seemed like they were about to object, but the viscount held his hand, “That's the reality. No need to sugarcoat it. I want Penelope, there's no question about it. But I love her- so much that I have to think of her future after my passing too. If I marry her, and you'd not want to marry any other girl, leaving the Bridgerton house without a proper mistress of the household would be too sad. Benedict won't be producing any offsprings, I'm sure of that. If I were to marry Penelope officially, she'd be dowager Lady Bridgerton after my passing. And I leave the title exposed to complications. But if she marries you, she will still get to be my wife, yours, and Colin’s too. And when my time comes, I will rest in peace knowing that she will still have two husbands to love and cherish her.”

Anthony stared at him. His logic was sound, if a bit grim.

Edmund stopped directly in front of his son. “This way, we keep everything within the family. Honour intact. Name secured. Desire satisfied. And all the children borne by her are legitimate.”

Anthony’s jaw clenched. “So she’ll belong to both of you and me?”

Edmund’s gaze flicked briefly to Penelope, who stood watching them both with a quiet fire in her eyes.

“She’ll belong to all of us,” Edmund said softly. “Even Colin. But you’ll wear the ring. You’ll be her husband. And in time, perhaps even her children will call you father. But please step into this marriage knowing that she will not just be yours. If you have apprehensions about such marriage, I will ask Colin.”

Anthony looked at Penelope then. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away.

She simply stepped closer and took his hand.

“So, what do you think?”

He panicked. Just a few minutes ago, he believed she would be his father's wife and he'd get occasional turns with her. But now his father was asking him to marry her. She'd be his. Well, theirs too… but he could get a chance to parade her in front of the ton. Promenade with her, take her to the balls. Waltz with her. 

“I… uhh…I'm okay with that.”

Edmund watched them for a moment longer, the corner of his mouth curling in satisfaction.

"Now," he said lightly, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve, "I shall leave you both alone to celebrate the engagement.”

Anthony’s stomach fluttered at the word.

Penelope’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around his. She didn’t move away.

Edmund walked past them, pausing briefly beside Penelope. He brought his hand to cup her cheeks and kissed her lips sweetly, lingering just long enough to make Anthony’s blood stir with something close to jealousy. Or desire. Or both. Judging by his rock hard cock, it was the latter. 

“I trust you’ll make her feel cherished, son,” Edmund murmured, then winked at Penelope. “Not too cherished, mind you. Leave a bit of the cherishing for me and your brother, for tonight.”

And with that, he strolled out, closing the door behind him with a quiet, final click.

The silence that followed was full and electric.

Anthony turned to Penelope. Her cheeks were flushed, but her gaze was steady.

“Is this truly what you want?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “To be my wife, and…their lover?”

Penelope nodded slowly. “I want… what’s being offered by your father. All of it.”

His breath caught. “It’s a lot.”

“But what if I want it?,” she said, stepping closer.

Her hands found his chest, smoothing over the fabric of his waistcoat as if trying to memorise the shape of him. She rose on her toes and kissed him softly, then with more surety.

Anthony groaned low in his throat, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her flush against him. His mouth slanted over hers again, hungry now. Claiming. Testing the boundaries of what this arrangement truly meant.

When they broke apart, his lips were swollen and his pulse wild.

“You’ll be mine, if I marry you,” he said hoarsely.

Penelope smiled. “And still theirs, your father's and Colin's. I can't explain it to you. But the things I feel for them aren't fleeting, Anthony. They're deeper than any ocean. So if you want me to marry you, you have to promise me to not keep me away from your father or your brother.”

Anthony nodded, he understood that the way to this beautiful vixen's heart went through his father's and brothers' hearts too. She loved them, as she loved him and it would not do to force her to choose. 

After realising this, his jealousy temporarily subsided, and he kissed her again. This time it was slower, deeper, as if to reassure her. “Penelope, I promise not to let my jealousy cloud your relationship with my father or brother.”

“You don't have anything to be jealous of in the first place. I will be a good dutiful wife to you.” she said with a playful, seductive smile on her lips, “If you think I will let it affect our marriage, you can test me…”

Anthony lifted her off her feet without a word, his mouth finding her throat as she gasped and clung to him. He carried her to the settee by the fireplace and sat, dragging her into his lap, just as Edmund had held her only minutes ago.

But unlike his father, there was nothing gentle in Anthony’s grip. His fingers were ravenous, tugging her skirts up with feverish urgency.

“I’ve waited too long to have you like this,” he growled against her mouth, kissing her with sharp teeth and desperate want. “Every time I see you in this house... Roaming around with my sister, and I can't touch you for propriety’s sake...And then at night, I have to wait till my father's done…”

She ground herself against the hard line of him beneath her, moaning into his mouth. “Then take me, right here, right now. I’m all yours. Your fiancée. I bet you could also get away with kissing me in front of Eloise now.”

Her words did something to him. He tore her bodice down, baring her breasts, catching one in his mouth, biting on her soft pillowy flesh, while his hands yanked at her drawers until they were useless scraps of silk around her thighs.

“Say it again,” he muttered against her nipple, voice thick with lust.

“I’m all yours,” she gasped, head falling back.

Anthony pulled his cock free, thick and flushed and already weeping. He didn’t bother with finesse. He gripped her hips and dragged her down onto him, burying himself in one hard thrust that made her cry out.

“Fuck—you’re perfect,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut at the feel of her heat wrapped tight around him. “Already so wet for me. You were thinking of this, weren’t you? Even when you were in my father's lap.”

She whimpered, moving on him instinctively, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yes—yes, I was,” she moaned, each bounce of her hips making her thighs tremble. “I was thinking of your hands on my breasts when your father's cock was inside me.”

He fucked up into her, matching her pace, rough and possessive. His hands were everywhere—gripping her arse, holding her throat, squeezing her breasts. There was nothing gentlemanly left in him.

He was claiming her.

“Are you thinking of them now? Are you thinking of my father or my brother?” He asked as he rutted into her desperately.

“Yes. Yes.. oh god. I am thinking about your father's mouth on my cunt. I'm thinking of Colin's cock filling up my mouth. Does that arouse you?”

“Yes, oh god yes…Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Need to mark you, sweetheart. Need you dripping with me when my father takes you to bed tonight. Need to kiss that mouth thoroughly, bite those lips… before you suck my brother off with those kiss-swollen lips. I need my marks all over your sweet body, when you join my father or my brother later tonight.”

That made her walls flutter around him, and he knew she was close.

“Oh god—Anthony—don’t stop—”

He angled her back, giving himself more depth, more power with each thrust. The sound of her soaked cunt taking him echoed obscenely through the room. Their bodies slapped together, messy and loud and obscene.

“You’re going to be my wife,” he groaned, “Mine to fuck, mine to love—mine to breed if I wanted.” He murmured hoarsely against her skin, “And also my father's and my brother’s. And when it's time, yours will be the first cunt to take Gregory's cock too. You'd make him a man, won't you, darling?”

That thought undid her.

She broke apart with a cry, her orgasm rippling through her with shudder and sobs. Anthony cursed and gripped her hips tight, slamming up into her once, twice more.

Then he was spilling deep inside her with a rough, possessive grunt. Hot ropes of cum painted her walls, and he held her down on him, cock twitching as he emptied every drop into her.

Neither of them moved for a long while.

Then Anthony leaned up, mouth brushing her ear.

“You’ll taste like me when father kisses you tonight,” he whispered, voice wicked and dark. “And he’ll thank me for it.”

Penelope shivered violently in his arms.

She wasn’t just claimed.

She was marked by her fiance, and that aroused her even more.

Still joined, still trembling from the high he’d given her, Anthony pressed a lingering kiss to her damp skin, her throat, her collarbone, the flushed curve of her breast, before slowly lifting her off his softening cock with a hiss. His release dripped out of her, thick and warm, but he only smirked at the sight. But then he looked at her eyes, still dark with desire and he groaned, instantly getting half hard.

“Not nearly done, are you?” he said, voice low and hoarse with promise. “Come, I will take care of you properly, future wife.”

He stood, tucking himself back in with a faint lack of composure for once, and tugged her gently to her feet by both hands. She swayed, breathless and sore, but his grip was sure and sweet. He tried to fix her gown as best as he could. But then when he saw the rip in her bodice, and he sweared under his breath.

“God! Forgive me for my uncouth behaviour, Penelope.”

“You have nothing to apologise for, my love. I rather like your impatient rakish ways.” 

He chuckled, then wrapped his coat on her shoulders to hide the tear in her bodice. Then he sneaked her through the corridor, around corners she barely registered, until they reached the door of his chambers.

Anthony opened it with the ease of a man long in control of his domain and drew her in.

The bed was not as enormous as the Viscount's. But it was wide enough for all manner of sin, and made up with crisp sheets and heavy damask coverlets. She didn’t get the chance to admire it for long though.

He turned, pulled her back into his arms, and kissed her again. Slower this time. No longer wild and ravenous, but deep. Deep and deliberate. Full of want and adoration and something terrifyingly close to sweetness.

“This is where I will keep you most nights after our wedding,” he murmured against her lips. “Naked, soft, stretched around me and sighing my name.”

She whimpered, and he grinned.

“I like hearing you make that sound,” he whispered, and with a gentle push, guided her back onto the bed. She landed with a gasp, and he climbed over her with a hunger that had only grown stronger for being sated.

And so began their afternoon.

He stripped her slowly the second time, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. Her calves, her knees, the sensitive flesh of her thighs. When he found her centre, slick and messy with his earlier release, he licked her clean like it was nectar, groaning like a man starved.

She came undone on his tongue before she could even beg for it.

He didn’t stop.

He entered her again, with more tenderness this time. Each stroke deeper, unhurried, a rhythm meant to make her feel every inch of him. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, as he whispered filth and praise in equal measure.

“You take me so well. Look at how you hold me inside.”

“You were made for this, weren’t you? I swear, God made you just for us to love you.”

“Do you feel how deep I am, love? That’s where I’ll put it this time. Right there.”

He spilled inside her again, deeper, more intensely this time, gasping her name into her hair as she clenched around him, crying out softly.

And then, even after that, he didn’t let her go.

He pulled her onto his chest, stroked her hair as her breathing steadied, and then, when her fingers wandered and her mouth found his chest, he turned her over and entered her again, holding her down, her cheek pressed to the pillows, arse high, his hands holding her hips like precious things as he fucked her mercilessly for the third time.

By the time the sun dipped lower and the sky darkened outside, she had lost count of how many times he’d taken her, or how many times she’d begged for more.

But she knew one thing for certain.

She was now bound to Anthony Bridgerton in body, in pleasure, and very soon in name.

His wife, but not just his alone… and that fact gave a huge comfort to her love-starved soul.

Chapter Text

Later in the night, Penelope was curled up in the centre of her bed, knees drawn up beneath the thick counterpane, the small book resting open but largely unread in her lap.

She had bathed, thankfully, Anthony had insisted on joining her, his large hands soothing over her sore muscles as he had murmured about her being “properly ravished.” Even now, she still felt the stretch of his cock, phantom and hot, lingering between her thighs.

But it was not just Anthony she was thinking about.

She was on her second paragraph in the book when her mind wandered inevitably to Edmund. The first man to pull her into this strange, dizzying world of desire, pleasures and debauchery. His authority, his confidence, the way he could look at her for one heartbeat too long and make her feel owned entirely. He had told her, in no uncertain terms, that she was his in spirit, and she felt it in her bones that tended to melt at the first command he'd throw at her. He was her guide, her beacon of light in this delightful world of bodily pleasure.

Then Anthony…fiery, demanding, quick to jealousy yet quicker to passion. He was now officially her betrothed, but she knew their bond was not meant to exclude the others. It was part of what Edmund had orchestrated, part of the strange, intoxicating logic of their arrangement. And she had followed them both blindly into that arrangement.

And then there was Colin… She smiled faintly at his thoughts. The boyish charm, the warmth in his eyes when he kissed her, teased her. The awe on his face as he watched her come undone on his cock. Every single time. It was like he was surprised to see the desire for him in her eyes. And even more surprised to see her finding pleasure through him. He was not bothered the way Edmund and Anthony used to assert their ownership of her. He was simply happy to be with her. To bring pleasure to her. To be able to love her. She wondered if he ever got jealous of his father or brother the way Edmund and Anthony used to get territorial about her.

Well, she could test him, if he got jealous of his brother marrying her, he would surely display a tell, wouldn't he? The very thought made her lips curve wickedly.

She set the book aside, stretching languidly, the soreness in her body a constant reminder of Anthony's untameable desire for her.

A quiet knock at her door broke her reverie. It was late. She let herself imagine…was it Edmund, come to test her dedication to him again? Or Anthony, unwilling to let the afternoon’s indulgence end?

The thought sent a delicious shiver through her.

She rose, crossed the floor barefoot, and opened the door just enough to peer out.

And she smiled.

Because it was Colin.

He stood in the corridor, a plate in his hands piled with delicate éclairs and slices of lemon cake dusted with sugar. His grin was warm but cautious, his gaze flicking past her shoulder as though he half-expected to see someone else there, and when he confirmed she was alone, his smile had broadened.

“I noticed you weren’t at supper,” he said, voice pitched low, conspiratorial. “Figured you should eat something sweet… given how very busy you’ve been all afternoon.” The last words held a teasing lilt, but there was something beneath it.

Penelope’s cheeks warmed, though she managed a coy tilt of her head. “And what makes you think I’ve been busy?”

“Because you look like it.” He let his eyes roam over her—not lasciviously, but with open appreciation. “Flushed cheeks, that little gleam in your eyes… the sort of contentment only a good time brings.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a knowing little smile. “You were thinking about me all day then?”

Colin gave a shy, reluctant nod.

“Good, because I was literally thinking about you, too…” she confessed, her voice warm, threaded with something that made Colin's smile widen.

His brows lifted, intrigue lighting his eyes, as he pressed on. “Oh?” he said slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted up. “And… what exactly were you thinking about, Pen?”

She tilted her head, feigning innocence, but her face sported a big smile now. “I think you know.”

“I'd like to hear the details anyway.” Colin said teasingly.

She stepped back, gesturing for him to enter. “Come in, then. I don't share your voracious appetite for food. And I wouldn’t want these sweet treats to go to waste.”

He followed, closing the door softly behind him and Penelope found herself suddenly aware of how intimate it felt—Colin, here, alone with her. She had slept with three men now. Three men had bedded her. But never in her bed. It was always in their domain. Edmund and his ginormous bed in the master suite, Anthony and his own lavish bedchambers.

This felt different because this is where she had resided since girlhood whenever she was at Aubrey hall. This is where she and Eloise occasionally lounged talking about anything and everything under the sun, sharing giggles. And now, standing on the foot of the same bed where she had fantasized about Colin… this felt too intimate because Colin had been the first man to enter her bedchambers.

He set the plate on her night table and sat at the edge of her bed, leaning back on one hand. “How do you skip meals, I don't even want to know,” he said, but this time there was no teasing, only a gentleness that made her chest tighten. “But I felt like I needed to ensure you were well fed, especially…”

“Especially…?” Penelope prompted when he trailed off and didn't say anything for a long time.

“Nevermind.”

“No! You have to tell me now!” She protested.

“You were–forget it Pen. Please. Let it go…”

He was trying not to acknowledge that she had spent the afternoon with Anthony alone, wasn't he? Did he know that Anthony intended to make an official proposal once they were back in London?

Penelope gave him a long, searching look, then took one of the éclairs, biting into it slowly, and watched his eyes follow the motion with hunger. Not the open claim of Edmund, nor the intense possessiveness of Anthony. Colin’s gaze was something softer, almost boyish, but no less dangerous for it.

Longing. Yes, that was it in his eyes.

“Perhaps,” she said, licking a smudge of cream from her fingertip, “if not your thoughts, you might like to share an eclair with me.”

Colin’s brows rose slightly, his smile turning sweeter. “Oh, I think I’d like that very much.”

Penelope stepped forward, close enough that Colin had to tip his head back to look at her.

Without a word, she settled between his knees and eased herself onto his lap, the skirt of her nightdress spilling over his thighs. His hands came to her hips almost automatically, steadying her as she leaned in and kissed him, soft at first, then deeper, feeding him the sweetness she'd just tasted. He kissed her back hungrily, his hand sliding up her spine to pull her closer, as though there was no such thing as too close.

When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers, breathing a little faster. “God, I’ve missed you,” he admitted quietly, though his eyes were alight with mischief. “Far too much. I've been thinking about you all day.”

She held his face in her hands and kissed the tip of his nose.

“Do you love me, Colin?” She asked, even though the answer was plainly written on his face.

Colin's throat bobbed with barely suppressed emotions, “I think you know I do, Pen. And I think you also know just how much.”

Penelope's eyes prickled. She surged forward to kiss him again in order to not give into the urge to break into sobs at the sight of the devotion in his eyes.

When they parted for air, they stayed there, gazing in each other's eyes softly, before Colin cleared his throat and tucked her unbound hair behind her ears.

“Do you need my help in braiding your hair?” he asked suddenly, as he kept running his fingers through her soft tresses.

“I'm sorry, what? You want to help me in doing what?”

“Braid. Your. Hair. Honestly, Pen… You can trust me with the task. After my mother passed away, I've had practice in braiding my sister's hair.” Colin replied matter-of-factly, as if he wasn't aware how endearing the picture he was painting was, and how it was melting her insides.

She smiled even broadly and brushed her nose on his once. “Will you like it if I braid it?”

“It's not about my likes or dislikes, Pen. I know it's a ritual for you. You used to plait your hair yourself before bedtime when you were twelve,” he said, his voice almost teasing but threaded with fondness, “because no one else would bother. I used to watch you do it in your sitting room, from the drawing room windows at Bridgerton house.”

She blinked, startled. He watched her from the windows when she was twelve? “You watched me? And you remember that?”

“I remember everything about you,” he said simply. “The time you stayed up all night in the garden with that sickly kitten, cradling it in your lap as though you could keep it alive by sheer force of will. The way you told me those ridiculous adventure stories about a pirate queen with flaming hair—” he smiled, “and how you’d always give her a happy ending.”

She found herself laughing, real, deep laughter that warmed her all the way through. “I can’t believe you remember all that. I barely do.”

“You think I wouldn’t?” His voice softened. “Pen, you were never out of my sight.”
The laughter caught in her throat. She looked down, fiddling with the ribbon at her wrist. “It felt like I was. For so long.”

“Not to me,” he said, and there was something unshakable in his tone. “Even when the rest of the ton refused to see you, when they treated you like a mild inconvenience, I saw you. I saw the girl who could make me laugh harder than anyone else, who could out-think me in any conversation if she tried. The girl who never stopped caring, even when no one deserved it.”

Her chest tightened. “You make me sound… like someone worth noticing.”

His hand covered hers, warm and sure. “You’ve always been worth noticing. Worth knowing. Worth loving.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“I don't know what I did to deserve you. All three of you.”

“You don't have to do something to deserve love, Pen.”

“My mama would disagree. She was of the opinion that the only way I could ever get a husband was to entrap a gentleman into marriage. Because the marriage mart doesn't see the inner beauty you see, Colin. They want to see physical beauty. Everyone wants it.”

“And you think you aren't physically beautiful?”Colin looked at her incredulously, then sighed noisily, took her hand without asking and led her toward the tall mirror in the corner of the room, its gilt frame catching the flicker of candlelight.

“Stand here,” he said softly, placing her right in front of her own reflection. He moved in behind her, his height making his presence feel even more enveloping. “I want you to see what I see.”

Her fingers twitched at her sides, but she didn’t look away from the glass as his hands slid to the ties of her robe. With slow precision, he loosened them and let the fabric part, sliding off her shoulders until it pooled at her feet.

“You see this skin?” he murmured, brushing his lips across the curve of her shoulder, eyes meeting hers in the mirror. “Flawless.” He trailed his mouth down to the slope of her neck, his hands running along her arms.

His fingers found the hem of her shift, easing it upward, revealing inch after inch of her body until it joined the robe on the floor. “Your hips.” He said, grabbing them and pulling her flush to his front, “they drive me crazy when you walk, swaying them slightly.”

His hands slid further up, “Your waist,” he whispered, splaying his hand across it from behind, “fits perfectly in my hands.”

When his palms cupped her breasts, he didn’t rush. Testing their weight in his hands, he lifted them slightly, as if presenting them to her in the mirror. “And these,” he said with a faint, adoring smile, “are enough to make any man lose his mind.” He bent, kissing the upper swell of one, then the other, his tongue tracing over her skin while his eyes stayed locked with hers in the glass.

Her breath hitched, but he wasn’t done. He ran a hand slowly down her stomach, resting it just above the thatch of curls between her thighs. “Penelope Featherington… you are beautiful everywhere,” he told her firmly. “And you’re going to see it. Tonight.”

And with that his hand slid to her mound, cupping it, warming it with his heated touch, while one palm curved up to cradle the swell of her breast.

“Look,” he murmured against her ear, “look at the beauty I see when my Pen comes around my fingers.”

Her breath trembled as his fingers stroked her slit slowly, indulgently. In the mirror, she saw her own flushed face, the way her lips parted, the way his body fitted perfectly against hers from behind. She was already wet, so his fingers were already shining with her juices.

He slowly eased her lips apart and thrusted two fingers into her with unhurried strength, each movement making her sway against him, her form shifting in the reflection. His hold tightened to anchor her, keep her exactly where he wanted her. She grabbed his forearms to steady herself, lest she melted into a puddle on the floor by the heat of his gaze.

“Do you see, Pen?” His voice was low, the words a vibration in her bones. “Every time you think you’re anything less than perfect, remember this. How you look when I can’t stop touching you… when I can’t stop wanting you.”

Her gaze held in the glass now, no longer darting away. She could see the heat in her own eyes, the desire, the fierce devotion in his. His mouth pressed to the base of her neck as his hands lifted her higher against him, her spine arching, her body yielding to his rhythm. His fingers made wet squelching noises as he kept thrusting them in and out of her cunt. His other hand had found one nipple and was rolling, tugging and pinching it, making her moan like a wanton little thing she had turned into for him. His mouth was currently sucking on the pulse point on her neck, and she was sure he was going to leave a mark there.

Unable to restrain herself from wanting more, she suddenly turned to face him, her back to the mirror, and Colin simply looked at her for a long, slow moment, as though he were memorising every line of her face, every glint of firelight in her hair.

“Colin…” she breathed out, barely knowing how to put what she wanted in words.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost like a confession. His fingers came up to trace the curve of her cheek, down to the edge of her jaw. “You’ve always been beautiful to me, Pen. But tonight—” He broke off, his voice catching. “Tonight I think I might never let you go.”

Her breath shivered in her chest. “Then don’t.”

That was all the invitation he needed. His mouth was on hers, soft at first, coaxing her lips open with a tenderness that belied the tension in his frame. But the sweetness didn’t last. Need surged through him, and the kiss deepened until it was almost consuming, his hands framing her face as if to anchor her there, with him, forever.

She made a small, helpless sound, and his grip tightened. He backed her toward the bed, breaking the kiss only to mouth at her throat, to taste the rapid flutter of her pulse.

Her fingers worked impatiently at the buttons of his waistcoat, shoving the garment away from his shoulders. “Colin…” she breathed, the syllables drawn out, laden with want.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered against her skin, his lips brushing her collarbone.

“You,” she said without hesitation. “All of you. Now.”

That broke whatever restraint he’d been clinging to. He pulled her closer, his hands sliding down her sides, finding the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips. His touch was reverent and greedy all at once. He had turned into a man worshipping and claiming her in the same heartbeat.

He lowered her to the bed and followed her down, bracing himself on his strong arms above her. His mouth found hers again, but there was nothing gentle about it now. The way they kissed now, it was pure hunger.

Her hands roamed over him, mapping his chest hair, the muscles of his back, the familiar shape of him that somehow felt new under this intensity. She teased his nipples with featherlight touches, before pinching one of them, making him gasp, and then they both burst into a giggle.

“You’re making me even harder, Pen.” he said, biting his lips as he tried to contain his excitement by holding the base of his painfully hard, twitching, leaking cock.

“Then fill me up. Let me feel your hardness.” Penelope said, her eyes darkening instantly.

He parted her nether lips with his fingers and aligned himself near her opening. When he finally pressed his cock inside her, she canted her hips upwards, assisting him in the endeavour. He began moving inside her, slow and deliberate at first, then growing desperate and began thrusting harder, deeper. She arched up to meet him, their bodies finding a rhythm that made her gasp.

“Penelope,” he groaned, his voice roughened with feeling. “God, I love you.”

Her reply was a breathless moan, her nails digging into his shoulders as their pace grew. The tenderness was still there, in the way he kissed her between ragged breaths, in the way his thumb stroked her cheek, but it was wrapped in something primal now, something that made every movement sharper, every moan louder.

He began moving inside her with a desperate, driving need, his body pressing her deeper into the bed. She met him eagerly, canting her hips up to match his thrusts, the slick sound of their bodies joining filled the dimly lit room.

Colin was young, strong, and utterly intent on her pleasure. Unlike the other two, he seemed to have the stamina of someone who could go on and on until she was trembling, until she could barely remember her own name. Tonight, he intended to do exactly that.

His mouth left hers to travel down her throat, tasting the rapid pulse there before moving lower, closing over one breast. He licked and sucked, his teeth grazing lightly, making her cry out.

She shattered under him the first time with a cry, her back arching. He didn’t stop, only increased his pace.

“Aah… Colin, don't stop. Please don't stop.”

“I won't. I can't." he said as he swallowed her moans with his mouth, licking and sucking her lips. His free hand found the tender nub between her thighs, stroking and circling in perfect rhythm with the thrust of his hips.

The second orgasm came harder, sharper, his fingers working her even as his pace quickened. She was gasping, clutching at him as she shattered around his cock once again.

He still hadn't come. He was still inside her, painfully hard, when he told her to switch positions, to get on top of him and ride him. She obliged as he flipped their position, and sank only his cock that was glistening with her juices once again.

“God I love watching your tits bounce like this.” he said, before roughly grabbing and kneading one.

“God, squeeze them, pinch my nipples, Colin” she cried out, and Colin began kneading and tugging her nipples with both his hands as she desperately bounced on his cock. It coaxed the third orgasm from her, a trembling, broken thing that left her breathless and damp with sweat.

Only then did he let go of his own restraint, as he flipped her over once again, kissed her forehead, and then his thrusts started growing erratic, urgent. Finally what seemed like hours, he pressed his forehead to hers and groaned her name as his seed spilled deep inside her.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Listening to just the sound of their breathing, the pounding of their hearts. Then he kissed her, slow and lingering, as if sealing some vow neither of them had spoken aloud. Colin kissed her until she was breathless again, his hands roaming as though he couldn’t quite decide where he wanted to touch her most. Then he pulled back just enough to search her face.

“God, Pen, you feel… perfect.” he whispered, pulling her closer so his chest pressed against hers, trapping her breasts between them. “Was it good for you?”

She could only nod, the words caught in her throat, and he snuggled up even closer. His laugh was low, delighted. “You like this… I can tell. I can feel it.”

She thought he’d drift off, his arm snug around her waist, his breath warm against the curve of her shoulder—but after only a minute, she felt the slow, deliberate slide of his hand down her stomach.

“Colin…” she breathed, half protesting, half pleading.

He kissed the side of her neck lazily, almost teasing. “You asked me to love you again and again, remember?”

Her pulse skittered. “I didn’t think you could—”

“Oh, I could,” he interrupted, rolling her onto her back, “until you can’t even think my name without feeling it here.” His fingers pressed meaningfully over her slick heat, coaxing a shiver from her.

His eyes caught hers as he lowered his mouth between the valley of her breasts. “I want to taste you before I’m inside you again. I want you shaking before I even touch you with this…” he gave a wicked little roll of his hips against her thigh, making his semi hard cock rub on it, “so that when I do, you’ll cling to me like I’m the air you need for breathing.”

She shivered with the idea of his mouth on her cunt.

But then he withdrew his hand from her cunt and once again pulled her flush against his sturdy frame.

“But first…” His voice was low and still rough from their earlier passion. “I need to feed you that sugar and let you rest.” He nodded toward the small plate of pastries he’d spirited away.
She gave a lazy little smile, curling against him, but he shifted, propping himself on one elbow to break a piece of lemon cake and bring it to her lips.

“Bite,” he coaxed, the fondness in his eyes as tangible as the sweet scent of the pastry. She obeyed, the soft sponge melting on her tongue. He watched her chew, satisfaction flickering over his features as if seeing her eat was some small victory.

He followed with a glossy éclair, holding it steady until she’d finished. “And now,” he said, reaching for the glass of water beside the bed, “drink.”

Her brows lifted in faint amusement, but she took it, sipping under his watchful gaze.

“You are not in the Featherington house anymore,” he murmured, taking the glass from her once she’d drained it. “No need for any foolish diets. I won’t have you skipping meals.”
Before she could reply, his lips were brushing her forehead, then each eyelid in turn, before finding her mouth in a slow, lingering kiss that tasted faintly of sugar and devotion.

He drew her closer, tucking her head under his chin, his hand warm on her back.

“Colin?” she whispered after a quiet moment.

“Mhm?”

“I want you inside me… just like this.” Her hand slipped lower, bruising over his cock which twitched under her touch, already hardening.

His smile was soft and wicked all at once. “You want to fuck me again?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He shifted, letting her guide him inside her, and once they were joined again he held her there, close, one hand stroking her hair. “Then we’ll stay like this,” he murmured into her skin, “until you fall asleep in my arms. And when you are well rested, then I’ll fuck you.”

They lay tangled together in the low candlelight, her head resting against his damp chest, his body still deep within hers.

Colin’s fingers traced lazy circles over her hip. “You know,” he murmured, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it, “being with you like this… it makes me feel older. Not just older though… certain. Certain of you. Certain you’re mine.”

Her lips curved faintly. “I am yours, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He gave a quiet laugh but didn’t look at her right away. “I’ve been… obsessed with you since I was a boy,” he admitted. “Since before I even knew what this sort of wanting was. But I never thought I could ever court you. I was…ahem… I am titleless, purposeless. You were… you. And I was just me. I don't know if I would have dared to approach you like this. I thought I had no chance to be with you, until my father…” he trailed off.

What? He thought he had no chance? The golden Bridgerton boy? The object of her teenage fantasies? He thought he had no chance with her? That he was just him?

How could he have thought that he wasn't enough? She frowned.

She wanted to tell him that she would have accepted his suite in a blink of an eye. That he was all she had ever dreamed of. She wanted to comfort him that he was enough, just as he was.

But instead of all these comforting reassurances, the words slipped from her lips before she could think. “Your father has given me his blessing to marry Anthony.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.
“What?” Colin’s tone lost all its shyness, his head snapping toward her.

“Today,” she whispered, almost apologetic.

Colin’s jaw tightened. “But—why? Why him? Why doesn’t my father want to marry you himself?” His voice rose a fraction, a mix of incredulity and something more dangerous. “I thought—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I thought he meant to take you as his lawful wife.”

“Colin,” She touched his cheek, trying to soothe him. “He gave… a very compelling reasoning.”

Colin’s eyes darkened, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held her closer, his length still pulsing faintly inside her. “Because he’s an heir? Anthony gets the title, and you, because of logic and reasoning, because he's firstborn?” His lips brushed her temple, but his voice was fierce. “It should have been me, Pen. Marrying you… If not father—then me. Not …Anthony.”

“I don't understand… You would have been okay to fuck your stepmother, but not your sister-in-law? Is that what you're saying?”

Colin stayed silent, not meeting her eyes.

“Colin, look at me. Your father deflowered me, I am betrothed to your brother, and still you are currently balls deep inside me. You know what it means?”

Her words hung in the air, and he knew she hadn't meant to point it out in a sexual way but his body answered before his mind could. His cock was rapidly hardening, swelling inside her until she gasped.

“Colin…” she whispered, her nails curling into his skin.

“I’m so sorry!” He groaned, as if suddenly remembering where he was, and began to draw back from her warmth. But she caught his hips, refusing to let him go. With a sudden, fluid motion, she rolled them over, straddling him.

Her hair spilled around them like a curtain as she kissed him fiercely. “Don’t you dare stop,” she murmured against his mouth, before sinking down on him fully.

Her rhythm was urgent, almost wild—each movement a declaration, her body claiming him. “I made Anthony promise me,” she gasped, “that he would never keep me from you… or from Edmund… after the marriage. I will be your wife too, if not officially, then in spirit.”

Something in him snapped. In an instant, Colin reversed their positions, his weight pressing her into the mattress as he thrust deep, sharp, and entirely his. “He better not,” he growled against her throat, his voice rough with possession. “Because I’m not going to stop loving you.”

“Good,” she breathed, catching his face and dragging his mouth to hers in a hard, unyielding kiss.

Their pace built, each chasing the other higher, until they both broke…shuddering, clinging, their cries lost in each other’s mouths.

He began to ease out, but her hands gripped his hips tightly, holding him inside her. “Please,” she whispered, her voice almost shy now. “Sleep in my bed tonight. Don't leave me alone…”

Colin’s breath caught, his forehead pressing to hers. “You think I’m leaving you now?” he said, voice low and certain. “Not a chance, Pen.”

She smiled then, the kind that made his pulse stutter, and he kissed her slowly, tenderly, before settling them more comfortably under the covers. He stayed inside her as he gathered her close, his arm curved protectively around her waist, their legs tangled.

And as she drifted into sleep, Colin let himself press a quiet kiss into her hair, a silent promise that she would never feel lonely ever again.

Dawn light spilled softly through the curtains, bathing the room in pale light. Colin was awake before her, his body cocooned around hers, his cock still buried inside her, as if his body refused to relinquish her even in sleep.

Penelope’s breathing was slow, deep, her lashes fanned against her cheeks. She looked younger like this, untouched by the intensity of the night before. He traced a thumb over her shoulder, marvelling at the softness of her skin and she immediately snuggled closer, making him smile at the way her body instinctively moulded against him, even in dreams.

He’d been infatuated with her for years, though he hadn’t recognised it as such at first. She’d been the clever girl on the fringes, the one who had always met his teasing with quiet wit, the one who had never tried to impress him yet somehow always did. Over time, that fascination had sharpened, deepened, until he could no longer pretend it was anything less than love.

But love, he realised now, came with hunger. With need. And last night had carved something permanent into him. Something that would not tolerate being set aside.

If only he had realised it sooner. He remembered that night at the library, when he had found her hunched over. He’d been halfway across the room before he’d even decided to move, an ache pulling him toward her. He had wanted to kneel beside her, lift her chin, tell her she wasn’t alone.

But his father had reached her first. A quiet word. A subtle, unreadable look thrown Colin’s way. Leave us. And he had obeyed, thinking it a matter of propriety, of sparing a young lady’s dignity.

It was only later that he’d learned the truth—how Penelope had, in her own way, been trying to secure her place by marrying a Bridgerton. At the time, the news had been passed around with knowing smirks, as if it were some small scandal.

But lying here now, feeling the steady warmth of her body around him, Colin thought, If she had tried that with me… I’d have walked straight into her snare and never looked back.

When he had first learned that his father had bedded her—and then Anthony too—it had hit him like a fist to the gut. He’d told himself it didn’t matter, that she was free to choose her company… but somewhere in the back of his mind, a crueler whisper had crept in.

She’s only after powerful men. You’re just the youngest son, Colin. You’re not worthy.

It had burned, that thought. Left him restless and sour for days.

And then… his father had let him have her too.

He’d gone to her almost warily at first, half-expecting her to treat him as some afterthought. He even told his father to blindfold her. Let her assume it was Anthony. But the moment she’d taken him into her body, when her nails had clawed at his back, when she’d gasped his name like it was the only word she knew, something in him had split wide open.

She had recognised him, even blindfolded.

Watching her come undone around him wasn’t just pleasure. It was a revelation. It was the shattering of every foolish doubt he’d nursed.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t his father she was thinking of. It wasn’t Anthony.

It was him. Only him.

His father’s relationship with her… that was complicated. Colin could almost make peace with it, for it was plain that Penelope cared for Edmund, trusted him. There was no jealousy in that, only a grudging respect for the man who had been first to see her worth and protect it.

But Anthony marrying her? Anthony having the right to claim her publicly, to bind her name to his? Colin’s stomach twisted.

It wasn’t the marriage bed that rankled; he knew Anthony would share her. It was the title, the position, the permanence of it. Anthony would be her husband, and the world would think Colin was nothing more than her brother-in-law.

The thought scraped at him like grit in the skin.

Because Colin knew, knew in his bones, that the moments she gave him were just as real, just as deep, as anything she shared with the others. He’d seen it in her eyes, felt it in the way she clung to him. And yet, when the banns were read, she would belong to Anthony in the eyes of society.

It felt wrong.

It felt like letting someone else put their name on a love letter he’d written with his own hands.

No.

He bent to kiss her shoulder, breathing her in. Anthony might be her husband in name, but Colin was hers in truth. And he would not stand quietly while his brother took what should have been his.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he withdrew, settling back just to watch her a moment longer. He left her chambers before her maid came to rouse her.

Then he resolved it. Today, he would speak to his father. Not in petulance, but with certainty. Edmund needed to understand: Colin wasn’t merely playing at desire.

He loved her.

And he wasn’t going to give her up.

Later that morning, Colin walked up to his father's study and shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. “Father,” he began, pacing a few steps before stopping in front of Edmund’s desk. “Why Anthony? Why give him the right to marry her when you know I… he exhaled sharply, “...when you know I love her?”

Edmund leaned back in his chair, studying his son with patient eyes. “You think I don’t know? You think I haven’t seen the way you look at her, the way she glows when she’s with you?” He shook his head. “Colin, if it were only a matter of my own selfish heart, I’d have married her myself, and she’d have gladly accepted. But I have to think beyond that.”

Colin’s jaw tightened. “Beyond what?”

“My death,” Edmund said simply, the words carrying no fear, only certainty. “When that day comes, and it will come sooner for me than for any of you, a wife of mine becomes a dowager. She moves into the smaller house, reliant on the goodwill of the heir. I won’t set her up to live that life. She deserves more.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed, searching for fault. “So instead she marries Anthony, because he’s the heir?”

Edmund’s mouth curved into a knowing chuckle. “Yes. Because he’s the heir. Because as his wife, she remains the true Lady Bridgerton for as long as she lives. No risk of being shuffled to the side. And you,” He leaned forward, eyes warm with mischief. “you get to be the more fun part of her life. The lover who makes her laugh, who takes her on adventures, who keeps her heart young.”

Colin gave a sarcastic, wry smile, the heat in his chest didn’t fade. “So Anthony gets to dance with her in the balls, and I get the pleasure of visiting her chambers in the middle of the night like a thief?"

“No! Anthony gets the responsibility of upholding her honour, and you get the honour of holding the largest part of her heart,” Edmund said, reaching for his glass. “And she, my boy, gets the best of all three of us. That’s what matters.”

Colin’s shoulders eased a fraction, though his brow was still furrowed. Edmund noticed and set his glass down, his tone softening.

“Listen to me, Colin,” he said, the weight of fatherly certainty in his voice. “Her marriage to Anthony will not lessen what you are to her. Not now, not ever. You’ve carved out something in her heart that neither he nor I could ever replace. And I think our sweet girl knows that too. She loves you, Colin. I knew it the day she recognised you, even blindfolded."

Colin looked away for a moment, as if steadying himself. “It’s hard not to think it changes everything.”

Edmund rose from his chair and came around to stand beside him. “It changes nothing of what’s between you. We each have a role in her life. Anthony will give her the security of the name and station. I will give her the steadiness of a man who’s guided this family all his life. And you?” He smiled faintly. “you give her the thrill of youth, the tenderness of being seen as she is, not as the world expects her to be.”

Colin let out a slow breath. “You’re certain she knows that?”

“I am,” Edmund said without hesitation. “And more than that, she cherishes it. She will always come back to you, no matter the name she signs or the bed she sleeps in. That’s the truth of it.”

Something in Colin’s chest eased, but the hunger to keep her, to claim her in his own right, did not fade.

He wanted to hear it from Penelope’s mouth.

The next day, Colin sneaked her away when no one was looking. He had timed it perfectly, most of the household was occupied in the fields or visiting the parish in the village, the lane empty when he’d led Penelope by the hand, half-laughing, half-scolding her for hesitating.

“You’ll get us caught,” she whispered, though she let him tug her inside.

“And then they’ll have you married to me, instead of Anthony,” he murmured, grinning as he shut the heavy door of the barn behind them.

The moment they were alone, his hands were in her hair, cupping her face as if to convince himself she was real. His lips brushed her forehead, her cheeks, her jawline, every kiss a silent litany: mine, mine, mine. She felt it in the tremor of his fingers, in the way he seemed unable to stop touching her.

“Colin…” she breathed, her own hands fisting in his shirt.

He looked at her then, really looked, as though the barn and the world beyond it no longer existed. “I needed to see you,” he said quietly. “To make sure you weren’t just… a dream I’d had in some fever. I needed to be sure you were here. That you were still mine. Even though you want to marry Anthony now.”

Her throat tightened. She had kept it in for so long, swallowing her yearning for him year after year, telling herself she could live with only scraps of his attention. But now, standing in the hay-filled dimness with his breath warm on her skin, she couldn’t pretend anymore.

“I love you,” she blurted, and his eyes widened just slightly, like a man who had been waiting a lifetime to hear those words. “I have for years. Before I ever knew what it meant. Before I could name it. I yearned for you, Colin Bridgerton, in ways I couldn’t explain. I still do.” She swallowed. “And yes… I love your father too. He was the first man to see me as a woman. And I love Anthony. In my own wicked, tangled way. But none of that will ever change what I feel for you. And the same goes the other way around too. Do you think I would have objected to your touch if I had married your father? Do you think I would be able to resist sharing a bed with them if we do get caught today and I get married to you instead of Anthony? I belong to all of you, Colin. And that doesn't mean my love for you will fade after marrying your brother.”

He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh but too raw to be anything but relief. “Say it again. Say you love me.”

She did, in a giddy, silly way, she kept repeating it. The way she always wanted to say it out loud when she was sixteen, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, Colin Bridgerton, I love you…”

His mouth was on hers before the words had even faded, a kiss that tasted like sunlight and hay and years of unspoken hunger. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her flush against him, as though proximity alone could prove her promise.

“I don’t care how wicked you are with them,” he murmured into her hair. “I don't care whether I get to call our children ‘ours’. You’re mine. If only in secret. And I’ll keep you safe and happy, Pen. Always. That’s my only purpose now.”

The world outside the barn was moving on without them. Inside, they held each other like they had just rewritten the laws of their universe.

He caged her in, palms braced on either side of her head, his chest rising and falling sharply. “Say it again,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that made her shiver.

Her lips parted, trembling. “I’ve loved you, Colin Bridgerton. Always. You’re the first man I fell in love with. And I will always love you.”

The restraint in his shoulders snapped. His mouth crashed onto hers, hungry, devouring, like a man who’d been starving and suddenly found his feast. She clutched at the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space, no air. Only him.

“Dont forget your first love when you get married, little lady.” He said as they came up for air.

“How can I forget you,” she whispered against his lips, even as she pulled him down for more. “I won't ever forget you…” Her voice caught when his hand slid over her hip, fingers curling to grip her through her skirts. “…you’re in my bones.”

He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers, one hand fisting in her hair to tilt her head back, the other skimming up her thigh beneath her petticoats. The barn felt suddenly too small, the air too hot.

“Pen…”

“I meant it,” she whispered, breath hitching when he laid her down. “I’ve… wanted you for so long. Even when I was filled with them, your father, your brother, it never dulled. Until you came into the picture. You’ve always been…” Her voice broke on the thought. “You’ve always been mine.”

His eyes darkened, the blue turning fierce. “Then say it again. So I can believe it when I’m inside you.”

“I love you,” she said, trembling with the sudden, unbearable desire. “I love you, Colin Bridgerton.”

He growled softly, and the sound went straight through her. “God, you’re going to regret telling me that in a barn in the middle of the day.”

Her breath turned to a gasp as he pushed her skirts up over her hips, baring her legs to the warm air and his rough palms. He didn’t give her a chance to catch up, dragging her drawers down her thighs and tossing them aside before unfastening his trousers. She saw the thick, weeping length of his cock, flushed purple and ready, and her core clenched in response.

“You’ve been yearning for me for years, you say,” he murmured, pressing the head of his cock against her slick entrance. “Let me show you how much I yearn for you.”

“Yes,” she admitted, voice breaking on the word. “Yes—please—”

He pushed into her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her cry out. The hay pricked her back, the scent of dust and sunlight filling her lungs, but all she could really feel was Colin’s hardness stretching her, filling her, making her forget the world outside these four walls.

“You think they’ll take it easy on you tonight?” he asked, voice low and taunting as he set a deep, grinding rhythm. “Father, Anthony, me, ravishing you properly, filling you in every possible way until you can’t even speak… would you like that, Pen?”

Her nails dug into his shoulders. “You’re wicked.”

“I’m honest,” he said roughly, bending to kiss her hard enough to steal her breath. His hips snapped forward, the sound of his body meeting hers echoing in the quiet barn. “This is our last night in Aubrey hall. Tomorrow , we are set to return to London. Do you think we’d let this last night go to waste, darling?”

“No..” Penelope whispered breathlessly.

“No. We will take our turns with you, kissing you, loving you, filling you with our spend. And later, when you’re in Anthony’s arms, or my father’s bed, you’ll remember I had you first today. That you told me you loved me with hay in your hair.”

The thought made her walls clench around him, gripping his cock like a vice, her body chasing the edge. “Colin—oh—”

“That’s it,” he coaxed, thrusts turning sharp. “Come for me here, love. Then I’ll take you home to them. We’ll all fuck you together. All at once.”

The thought alone made her shatter. Her cry spilled into his mouth, her climax breaking over her in hot, shuddering waves. He followed a heartbeat later, burying himself deep inside her and shooting ropes after ropes of cum inside her womb with a groan that felt like surrender and triumph all at once.

Her knees were still trembling by the time they stumbled out of the barn. The smell of hay clung to her hair, her dress was askew, and the ache between her thighs throbbed with every step. Colin’s hand stayed low on her back, steadying her as though she were fragile, even though the gleam in his eyes was anything but gentle.

“Think you can walk, sweetheart?” His voice was low, curling around her like smoke. “Or do I need to carry you? Could make quite the entrance at home.”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, tugging her bodice higher. Her pulse jumped when he caught her wrist and gave it the faintest squeeze.

“Oh, I dare,” he murmured, leaning so close she felt his breath against her ear. “You should’ve seen yourself, sprawled out on that hay… hair wild, skirt bunched up, begging me to…”

“Colin!”

He only grinned, wolfish. “Mmm. That’s what you said then, too. Only it was louder.”

Heat shot straight through her, wicked and unwanted. “You are not telling anyone.”

He tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “No? I think they’d like to know how their sweet wife spent the afternoon with her favorite husband.” He dropped his voice further, each word deliberate. “How she came so hard on my cock she nearly bit her own lip to draw blood.”

She bit down on a sound that was half protest, half needy whimper. She could feel his spend slide down her thigh, making a sticky mess under her skirt. It was filthy. It was so very delightful.

Colin chuckled darkly. “Maybe I’ll save the details for later. Tell them when we’re alone, the four of us. Then watch them decide how best to deal with such a wanton little thing.” His thumb brushed her hip through the fabric of her skirt. “Three husbands. Three sets of hands. Mouths. Cocks. Ravishing you until you can’t remember your name, only ours.”

Her steps faltered.

He caught her easily, his palm splayed possessively at the base of her spine. “Oh, you like that thought,” he said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable. “I can feel it.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Good,” Colin murmured, almost to himself. “Because when we get home, we’re going to make sure you never forget how it feels to be ours, dear wife.”

Wife... that word made her heart flutter. Penelope was looking forward to her last night in Aubrey hall eagerly, now.

Chapter Text

The carriages were on their way to London, everyone bracing themselves for the long journey back from the country.

Benedict rode in the first carriage, along with the mischief maker Hyacinth, and the barely out of teens Gregory, who was happy to finish his Eton years and excited to step into Oxford.

Penelope rode ahead in the second carriage, seated opposite Eloise and Francesca, her gloved hands folded in her lap as she tried to focus on their chatter. Every now and then, she risked a glance out of the window. She knew her men rode behind her in the third carriage. She could almost feel their eyes on her, as if the distance of a few yards and the heavy wood panelling of the carriage couldn’t blunt the pull between them.

In the carriage behind, Edmund lounged against the deep blue seats, one long leg stretched out. Anthony sat opposite him, arms folded, jaw tight in thought, but his gaze was not on the passing scenery, it was on the roof, as he was lost in his own thoughts. Colin, who was sitting besides Anthony, was looking out the window with a dreamy sort of smile on his face. All their thoughts revolved around their redheaded lover.

“I suppose…” Edmund broke the quiet first, his voice rough enough to scrape. “We should start preparing for the wedding, now that we’ll be back in London. Considering our intimate… activities, there’s a fat chance of Penelope already carrying a Bridgerton child in her womb."

Colin shifted in his seat, his mouth curving in a slow, involuntary smile.“If she is, that would be the most wondrous news. And I can’t wait to see her grow round with our child.” His voice dropped into something softer, almost reverent. “She’ll be beautiful.”

Anthony’s eyes darkened, a flicker of emotion passing through the usually contained steel of his expression.. “It will suit her. She’ll be radiant. And then we’ll make sure more little Bridgertons crawl out of her womb every year.”

A beat of silence followed, heavy with unspoken memories of their last night with their soon-to-be wife. The sway of the carriage seemed to echo the rhythm of her body, the warmth of her skin pressed to theirs.

“Nothing quite like seeing your wife with your child,” Edmund said warmly, a note of nostalgia in his voice as he thought back to the times he had experienced the delight eight times with his late wife Violet. “It changes you. Makes you greedier for her, if anything.”

The three men chuckled, trading half-teasing, half-proud remarks about the pleasures of marriage and the thought of swelling bellies and nursery plans.

In her carriage, Penelope kept her gaze firmly on the passing scenery. Somewhere behind her, she imagined Colin sprawled in his seat, that languid posture disguising the restless energy she always felt in him. Anthony, upright and composed, but with that dangerous smirk that made her toes curl. Edmund, watching with that steady, unreadable gaze, the weight of his presence like a firm hand on her back.

She swallowed, fingers tightening around her gloves. They were talking about her…she knew they were, though she couldn’t hear a word. She could feel it in the prickle along her nape, the quickened beat of her heart. They were talking about her. About the way she had been wrapped around them earlier, how flushed and undone she must have looked writhing under their naked bodies.

The thought made her shift in her seat, knees pressing together. She tried to school her mind towards neutral ground, trying to focus on anything but the heat blooming low in her belly, but each jolt of the carriage seemed to echo the rhythm of a memory. Anthony’s fingers. Colin’s tongue. Edmund’s cock pressing deeper into her core.

They would arrive in London soon. She tried to focus on that, but her mind betrayed her, supplying images of the three of them stepping out into the rain, their eyes fixed on her as though she were theirs to take apart again the moment they had her alone behind closed doors.

The carriages were halfway across the country, and the conversation was lulled between her and the Bridgerton sisters, almost lulling Penelope into a false sense of calm, when Franscesca broached the subject of marriage and suitors. Eloise, who was leaning against the window, looking out at the scenery, suddenly sat up rattling on about the horrors of unsolicited matchmaking, while Francesca… quiet and shy Franny, tilted her head thoughtfully and looked at Penelope with a sly look.

"Well," Francesca said, eyes flicking to Eloise with mischief, "I think the real question is What is Pen's thought about hers?"

Penelope froze. "Mine?"

"Your suitors," Franny clarified, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Oh. I… don’t…I don't have any" Penelope’s voice trailed off, her fingers twisting in her lap. She could feel heat creeping up her neck. The air in the carriage suddenly seemed far too warm.

“Dont lie to me,” Francesca said, in that infuriatingly calm tone she used when she was about to drop a bombshell. "I know already. About your suitor."

Penelope’s pulse spiked. God, does she know? Did Francesca somehow—no—surely she couldn’t—about her entanglement with Edmund, Anthony, and Colin?

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "You… you do?"

Francesca leaned forward, her blue eyes catching the lamplight. "It’s Anthony, isn’t it? I heard Father telling him to retrieve a ring for you from the family heirlooms."

Eloise whipped around. "What?"

"I heard it with my own ears," Francesca said, leaning forward. Her eyes glimmered with excitement. "What? Isn't that true, Pen?"

Penelope tried to sidestep their questions, but both sisters closed in, their curiosity relentless.

Finally, with a sigh, she gave in. “Yes. Anthony… has expressed an interest in courting me.”

Eloise frowned, brows knitting. “That’s… odd. I mean, of all my idiot brothers…” She tilted her head, thinking aloud. “If I had to guess, I would’ve said Colin.”

Penelope’s lips pressed together. She didn’t answer, but the colour in her cheeks gave her away. Eloise’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Are you going to accept his suit, Pen?”

“Yes,” Penelope said quietly.

“But why?” Eloise’s tone softened. “You’re a romantic—you should wait to fall in love.”

Penelope felt the words slip out before she could properly rein them back. “Maybe… I’m a little in love with him,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the steady patter of rain against the window.

Eloise’s head snapped around so fast her bonnet ribbon brushed Penelope’s cheek. “A little?” she repeated, as though Penelope had just admitted to owning a pet tiger. “You don’t just dabble in being in love, Pen. That’s like saying you’re a little on fire.”

Penelope’s lips twitched despite herself. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, it is exactly like that,” Eloise pressed, leaning in until Penelope could see the faint arch of her friend’s eyebrow. “You have been acting strange. Smiling giddily. The last time I saw that look on someone’s face was when Hyacinth found out about puddings served before supper at some ridiculous ball.”

Penelope let out a strangled laugh, clutching her reticule tighter. “That’s hardly the same.”

“It’s exactly the same. Except instead of sweet puddings, it’s Anthony. Stern, sour-faced Anthony!” Eloise’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion, her tone part teasing, part interrogator. “Does Colin know?”

Penelope’s breath caught. “Why would Colin—”

“Because you two are practically orbiting around each other,” Eloise interrupted. “He pretends he knows everything about you. Boasts about it, actually. Unless, of course, this is the one thing you’re keeping from him. Which, if so, makes it even more suspicious.”

Penelope looked away, the countryside beyond the rain-speckled glass blurring into soft green and grey. “I haven’t… told him. I’m not even sure I’ve told myself.”

“That,” Eloise said with a slow, knowing smile, “is the most suspicious thing you’ve said all day.” She sat back, crossing her arms with theatrical finality. “Well. I shall say nothing. For now. But if you start sighing at the mention of Anthony’s name, I will have to intervene.”

Penelope shook her head, half flustered, half amused, but her heart was beating far too fast for her to pretend Eloise’s words about Colin’s closeness to her hadn't landed somewhere deep. God! How were they going to make it work between the four of them?

Soon they were entering the bounds of London, familiar streets spilling into view. Their carriage turned a corner, and through the glass Penelope could see the soft golden glow of lamps lining Grosvenor Square. Her conversation with Eloise still hummed in her mind, the squint of suspicion that hadn’t quite faded from Eloise’s eyes.

And beneath it all, that smug little thought she kept locked away. If only she knew… not just Anthony. Not just Colin. But her father too. Edmund Bridgerton had been inside her. He had spilled inside her. Possibly got her with a child. The forbidden confession warmed her cheeks, and she bit down on a smile before Eloise could catch it.

The carriage slowed to a halt before the Featherington house. She gathered her skirts and stepped down with practiced grace, the winter air biting at her cheeks. The other carriages were stopped at the Bridgerton house. Across the street, three tall figures stood beside the Bridgerton carriage. The viscount and his sons. Anthony and Colin.

All ostensibly waiting for the rest of the party to join them, but their eyes…

All three pairs were fixed on her.

Anthony’s gaze was steady, unreadable to anyone but her. Colin’s was softer, warm in a way that stoked a fire in her belly. But Edmund's? His were filled with a possessive glint, as though he was committing her to memory.

She didn’t need to look back twice to know they were all watching her cross the short stretch to her door, heads turning ever so slightly to follow her.

For a fleeting second, Penelope allowed herself the luxury of being the centre of their longing. Three men standing in the London night, their breath visible in the chill, watching her vanish into the house.

The door closed behind her with a quiet click.

The next morning, London had barely roused from its slumber when the first knock sounded at the Featherington door.

As soon as the calling hours began, the footman admitted not one but three Bridgertons into the parlour. Viscount Edmund Bridgerton, Anthony, and Colin. The sight alone was enough to make Portia Featherington’s eyes gleam with triumph.

She swept into the morning room where Penelope lingered and, under the pretence of smoothing her daughter’s sleeve, whispered in her ear. “Good job, my girl. I always said you had the wit to ensnare a Bridgerton.”

Penelope, cheeks warming, murmured a quiet protest, but Portia was already shepherding her into the parlour.

Portia had expected Colin to surge forward and present his suit, but to her astonishment, and then giddy delight, it was Anthony who rose, not Colin, and stepped forward with courtly grace. “Miss Featherington,” he said, bowing over Penelope’s hand, “I have come to speak with you, if I may, on a matter most urgent.”

Portia’s fan snapped open with barely contained excitement. Anthony Bridgerton. The heir! Oh, how the ladies will seethe.

Edmund’s voice, smooth as ever, cut through her silent crowing. “Perhaps, Lady Featherington, you might allow the young couple to take some air in your garden. A promenade, so that they might speak privately.”

Portia’s brows drew together. “Unchaperoned?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Edmund replied with a faint smile. “Colin will attend them.”

If Portia thought the arrangement peculiar, she swallowed it. A future viscountess must be courted in style, after all. She swept out, leaving the trio to their arrangement, dismissing them outside with a flick of her hand.

Once Penelope and Anthony had gone with Colin trailing behind, Edmund turned back to Portia, the weight of his authority settling over the room.

“Lady Featherington,” he began, his tone perfectly polite, “My son wants to marry your daughter. Anthony is my heir and is an accomplished gentleman. I believe you will not object to this wedding”

Portia nodded enthusiastically, “Ofcourse, I have no objections to this union.”

“Good.” Edmund nodded briskly. “We should discuss the particulars, then. I am not interested in dowry and such things. But I do believe a special licence will be necessary.”

Portia’s fan stilled. “A special licence?”

Edmund’s smile deepened, faintly knowing. “I am sure you understand… in the interest of propriety, when certain liberties may already have been taken.”

Inwardly, Portia all but purred. Just as I planned. Outwardly, she gave a loud gasp. 

“Lord Bridgerton? Do you mean to say…?” 

“Lady Featherington, I believe you understand how tricky things can become when desire is at play, don't you?” Edmund said conspirationally, pinning Portia with a sharp gaze. He knew she wasn't shocked at all. After all in her mind, this was going just as she had planned.

She gave a demure nod. “Naturally, my lord. It would be best to hasten matters for the sake of the family’s good name.”

As the details unfurled, dates, settlements, arrangements and all, Edmund’s eyes glinted with a smugness that matched Portia’s own. Only, she did not yet suspect that whatever plan she thought she had orchestrated had, in truth, dovetailed neatly into his.

Edmund smirked, letting her believe she’d won. The victory was indeed Penelope’s.

Outside in the featherington garden, the three lovers giggled softly as they walked towards the more secluded part of the estate, filled with lush foliage. Portia had believed Colin’s presence was merely to chaperone her daughter on a perfectly respectable stroll with her betrothed.

If only she knew.

The moment they were out of earshot, Colin’s hand brushed Penelope’s, curling firmly around it before she could draw breath. Anthony, on her other side, leaned in under the guise of pointing out a flowerbed, his fingers just grazing her waist.

“Miss Featherington,” Colin murmured low enough that only she could hear, “Yesterday, I didn’t get to say goodnight properly.”

She barely managed a reply before his lips were on hers, warm, insistent, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her free hand found Anthony’s coat sleeve, and he took it as his cue, his mouth finding the curve of her neck.

She gasped, and they switched, Anthony claiming her lips now, deeper, more demanding, while Colin’s lips brushed her throat, then the swell of her breasts that were spilling out of her day dress, his teeth grazing lightly. Her knees weakened beneath the dual onslaught, the two of them moving in practiced unison, each knowing exactly when to trade places so she was never without the heat of one mouth on hers and the other tracing fire along her skin as they dragged her behind the thick bushes.

Colin’s fingers found the laces of her corset, tugging them loose until the cool air kissed her flushed chest. His mouth followed, warm and hungry against her breast, mouthing her nipples, switching between them. She bit her lip to smother a gasp.

Behind her, Anthony’s large hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer and grinding his arousal on her thigh. With a deftness that made her knees tremble, he gathered her skirts, baring her thighs to the warm summer air. His hand slid between her legs, parting her neither lips with his fingers, stroking until she clutched at Colin’s shoulders for balance.

Her breath came faster. Colin’s tongue teased her peak even as Anthony’s rhythm below grew bolder, deeper. Anthony’s lips found her mouth in a kiss that stole what little breath she had left, while Colin’s mouth descended lower, nipping at the underside of her breasts.

A twig snapped somewhere nearby. Both men froze. Colin’s mouth left her breast with a wet sound, his fingers tugging her bodice closed just enough that a wayward footman would see nothing. Anthony’s hand didn’t leave her, but his motions softened, becoming idle strokes against her folds. They waited, holding her close, the air between them thick with her quickened breath.

When the footsteps faded, and they rained blissfully undiscovered, Colin resumed first, sliding his hand inside her bodice again to cup her bare breast, thumb circling the tender peak. Anthony pressed in her cunt deeper this time, drawing a breathy moan she had to muffle against Colin’s shoulder. They were both maddeningly controlled, playing her body like a fiddle, keeping her wound tight but never letting her tip over.

And they were going to have to walk back into her house looking perfectly composed. That thought, mixed with the slow torture of their touch, made her pulse race harder. She wanted to beg, but knew that if she did, they’d only draw it out longer.

Her muffled gasps mixed with the soft rustle of leaves, the quiet plopping sound of kisses and licks against her trembling flesh. This exquisite torment felt endless until at last they let her fall over the ledge. She came hard, her arousal drenching Anthony’s fingers. He didn’t stop. He kept fingering her through her tremors, and Colin lingered too, tasting her lips, kissing her, sucking them, as if he meant to drink every drop of her surrender behind the thick bushes.

Soon afterwards, they righted her clothes as best as they could and escorted her back to her house. 

Within three days, it was done. Edmund and Portia moved with startling efficiency, smoothing every wrinkle in the arrangements as though the match had been planned for months rather than mere days. The Featherington house became a bustle of dressmakers, milliners, and fluttering servants, while Bridgerton House hummed with a quieter, more purposeful energy, papers signed, invitations dispatched, a special licence secured.

Anthony and Penelope stood together at the altar in the soft morning light, and said their vows. Colin watched from just behind his brother, the smile on his face betraying nothing of the deeper, more complicated truth they all shared. Edmund watched from the pews as Penelope glanced at him briefly, and gave her a reassuring nod.

By afternoon, Penelope was a married woman. She was Anthony’s wife in the eyes of the ton, the church, and the law. But beneath the polished surface, she had gained three husbands.

The rest of the festivities passed in a blur for Penelope as she eagerly awaited her wedding night. Soon she was seated across Anthony in a carriage that would carry them away from the church, away from the applause and confetti of the crowd, towards the townhouse in Bloomsbury that was to mark the beginning of their married life. 

Inside the carriage, Anthony’s gloved hand rested over hers, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist in small, deliberate motions. 

“Are you nervous?”

“Only a little.” She whispered. 

Anthony smiled softly at her, “Come here.” He tugged her close to his body until she was practically in his lap. Then he started kissing her mouth softly, melting all her anxiety and leaving it at her feet in a puddle. 

Penelope knew what awaited in Bloomsbury, behind the tall windows and discreet curtains of their new townhouse. Colin and Edmund would be already waiting for their new bride. Waiting for her as her husbands in secret. 

Anthony caught her gaze, and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. The kind of smile that promised their marriage would be anything but ordinary.

The house was silent when they stepped inside, their footsteps muffled by thick rugs and the faint scent of polished wood and rosewater lingering in the air. No footsteps hurried to greet them, no murmurs from the servants’ quarters. only the stillness of a space deliberately prepared.

Penelope glanced at Anthony, brows lifting in question. “Where is the staff?” He smirked, the kind of smirk that made her knees soften.

“Everything is set up, darling,” he said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “For at least a week. The staff’s been dismissed for the rest of our honeymoon. They’ll keep to the kitchen and draw baths when we call for them. But the upper wings?” His eyes glinted. “Completely inaccessible to anyone but us.”

Her teeth caught on her lower lip. Heat curled low in her belly, her pulse drumming in her ears. Anthony’s hand at the small of her back guided her up the staircase, each step steeping her deeper in anticipation.

When he pushed open the bedroom door, the sight that met her made her breath catch. A vast bed dominated the centre of the room, draped in soft linen and illuminated by the warm flicker of the fire. To the left, near the hearth, a settee was occupied by Edmund and Colin who lounged there, whisky glasses in hand, their cravats loosened, waistcoats already undone.

Colin’s gaze swept over her with lazy intent; Edmund’s was sharper, assessing. Both men looked perfectly at ease, as though they’d been waiting all their lives for her to walk through that door.

Behind her, she heard the click of the lock, then the quiet rasp of fabric as Anthony shrugged off his coat. The sound alone made her core clench.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer and hugged her from behind.

“Welcome to married life, dear wife,” he murmured against her neck, pressing a lingering kiss into her skin.

Colin rose from his seat and crossed the room in a few purposeful strides. He caught her face between his hands, kissing her until the world tilted beneath her feet. When he drew back, he didn’t let her go, guiding her instead toward the settee where his father lounged, legs spread in a quiet display of possession.

The moment she was within reach, Edmund’s strong hands caught her waist and pulled her down into his lap. His mouth claimed hers without hesitation, tasting her until her breath came quick.

“How are you feeling, sweet girl?” he asked softly, his thumb stroking the curve of her hip.

“Fine,” she replied, voice barely above a whisper.

His gaze sharpened. “Have you received your menses yet?”

She shook her head.

A slow, satisfied look passed between all three men.

Edmund drew her into another deep, unhurried kiss, his fingers curling into her hair. When he finally broke away, his voice was low, deliberate.

“Then, my love… shall we begin the bedding ceremony?”

Penelope trembled with giddy anticipation.

Anthony’s fingers made patient work of the buttons at her back, as if each undone button was another beat in some private countdown.

Colin moved behind Edmund’s shoulder, his gaze fixed on her like a man committing every detail to memory, the way her blush rose, the way her breath shortened with each small shift of fabric.

Edmund’s palm curved against her thigh, firm through the layers of her skirts. “Still fine, sweet girl?” he murmured, his voice deep, almost lazy, as though they had all the night in the world.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Anthony eased the bodice from her shoulders, his knuckles grazing bare skin. “She’s trembling,” he noted, not with concern but quiet satisfaction.

Colin took a step closer, the faint scent of whiskey and sandalwood surrounding her. “That’s anticipation,” he said, his voice a shade lower.

Edmund smiled against her temple. “Then we shan’t keep her waiting much longer.”

Anthony guided her to her feet and, with a glance at the other two men, slowly drew her toward the great bed. The mattress looked vast enough to swallow them all whole. Colin circled to the other side, fingertips brushing the carved post as he watched her from across the expanse.

“Stand here,” Anthony told her gently, placing her in the warm light spilling from the fireplace. He stepped back, his eyes raking over her now that her gown hung loose. Colin and Edmund remained a pace behind him, their presence closing her in like a heated circle.

No one moved for a breath or two. They simply looked, letting her feel the weight of their attention.

Then Edmund said, with the faintest smile, “Do you want your husbands to disrobe you and make love to you, Mrs Bridgerton?”

Her answer was a blush and a nod.

Anthony worked the last of the gown from her shoulders, the silk sliding down her body and pooled at her feet. He was methodical as he unlaced her corset, each tug loosening the firm embrace until her breath came easier and her breasts rose fuller beneath the thin linen of her shift.

“Beautiful,” he murmured as the final ties came free. “Such a perfect little bride,” he murmured, peeling away her corset. “Ours now. Every part of you.” he whispered, then lifted the hem of her shift. The garment whispered upward, baring inch after inch until he drew it over her head and let it fall to the floor. She was left in nothing but her stockings, heat curling in her belly at the way all three men looked at her now.

Colin stepped forward, his gaze turned wicked. He knelt at the foot of the bed, caught the lace at the top of her stocking between his teeth, and slowly dragged it down the length of her leg. The rasp of fabric against her skin made her toes curl. He repeated the same teasing ritual on the other leg, eyes locked on hers as though daring her to look away.

“Can’t wait to taste you,” he growled, kissing a slow, deliberate path up her calf, her thigh… until his lips brushed her bare core. She gasped as his tongue parted her folds.

Anthony’s mouth claimed one of her breasts, then the other, his tongue circling lazily over her nipples. She arched into the sensation, torn between the heat at her chest and the molten pull between her thighs.

Standing only a step away was Edmund, his gaze unwavering on her. There was something commanding yet affectionate in his expression, as if he were letting them worship her first before taking what he wanted. She couldn’t look away.

Edmund’s voice was low, steady when he spoke next. “Anthony, get her on all fours. I want those tits in your mouth.”

Anthony obeyed immediately, guiding her firmly until she was on all fours in the centre of the bed. Her hair fell around her face in loose waves, her breathing uneven. 

Anthony shifted beneath her, lying on his back so that her chest hovered over his mouth. He latched onto one breast greedily, suckling hard enough to make her gasp, his hands cupping and kneading the other.

Behind her, Colin settled between her parted knees. His hands spread over her hips, thumbs stroking in slow circles as his mouth dipped to her sex. His tongue moved in long, deliberate strokes, savouring every taste and every sound she made. “You taste even better than honey, my love.” he murmured in delight.

She lifted her head and found Edmund directly in front of her. He had undone the buttons of his trousers, his arousal thick and heavy in his hand. His fist stroked himself lazily. “Look at me, sweetheart.” Her gaze locked on his as he brushed his cock against her lips. “Take me inside your sweet mouth. Show me how much you want to please me.”

She opened for him, taking him into her mouth, her moan vibrating along his length.

His breath hitched, and his hand tightened in her hair. “God… warm and tight. You’re a dream, sweetheart.”

Behind her, Colin began sucking her clit, and Anthony’s mouth was relentless on her breasts, sucking, licking and biting her nipples. The sensations closed in from every direction. Edmund’s thick cock and the scent of his arousal filling her nostrils, Anthony’s hunger beneath her, Colin’s lips at her core… it stimulated her so much that her first release crashed over her in waves, her body shuddering. The three of them let her ride it out, hands steadying her, mouths and fingers easing her through every last tremor. Her breath was ragged, her knees trembling, but Edmund’s hand was already curling in her hair again, coaxing her forward, until his cock that had slipped out of her mouth was once again brushing her mouth.

“Open for me,” he ordered, thumb brushing her bottom lip. She obeyed instantly, and he slid deeper into her mouth, holding her there while his cock throbbed hot against her tongue. He groaned as she swallowed more, the thick length pressing to the back of her throat. His hips began to move, slow at first, then roughly, the desperation in each thrust making her moan around him.

The sound vibrated through him, and it sent another rush of heat to her core. She was wet, soaking, and Colin was there to taste it, his mouth latching greedily between her thighs. “She’s dripping so much… greedy little thing.” He lapped at her like a man starved, tongue pushing deep, catching every drop.

Above her, Anthony had her breasts trapped in his hands, his teeth marking her, biting until her nipples were flushed red and swollen. “You’re going to take us all, Pen. Every inch.” he said hoarsely, between his nips and bites. Each sharp sting drew a gasp, her hips jerking involuntarily. 

Colin’s mouth left her centre, but only to move somewhere else. His hands parting her cheeks, his breath warm against her most private place. She felt the first hot sweep of his tongue over her tight rim, making her whole body jolt. The slow, wet circles softened her, and soon his spit glistened over her hole.

A finger pressed into her anus slowly, as if he was testing her, and then another joined it, stretching her gently as he stroked and twisted inside. She whimpered around Edmund, her knees threatening to give, the pressure building everywhere at once.

Anthony's hand slid down her stomach, fingers dipping between her folds, stroking in slow, deliberate circles that made her lose her rhythm on Edmund’s cock for a moment.

Colin’s fingers stopped playing with her puckered hole, and before her whimpered protests grew louder, he replaced them by the thick press of his cock. The stretch had her crying out.

“God, you feel incredible,” Colin gritted. “So tight back here… squeezing the life out of me.” 

Anthony met Colin’s eyes, shifting forward and then his cock was pressing at the entrance of her cunt. “You can take more, can't you, wife?”

His thick length pushed deep into her slick cunt, Colin’s cock was already stretching her arse until she felt utterly filled, every nerve ending lit.

“Good girl,” Edmund grits out from in front of her, his hand grabbing her hair to hold her in place. “Taking us all so well. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Every thrust, every shift made her feel stretched to the limits, pleasure pulsing from all three holes until she was dizzy, lost in it, unable to tell where one sensation ended and another began.

Anthony’s hands locked on her hips. “Look at her, Father. Taking two cocks at once and still sucking you like a good little wife.” His thrusts quickened, a little sharper now, making her moan around Edmund’s length.

The rhythm built gradually, each of them finding the same relentless pace until it felt as if her body was being moved, used, and worshipped all at once. Edmund’s hand cupped her jaw, his grip unyielding as he forced her gaze upward, his eyes catching the firelight. 

Anthony groaned low in his throat, feeling her flutter around him. The sensation made his voice rough. “Already squeezing my cock? We’ve barely started. You love being full of us, don’t you?”

Colin’s hips slammed forward, a sharp, wet sound filling the air. “She’s dripping, Anthony. She likes being used by her husbands.”

Her next cry was muffled around Edmund, because the second orgasm broke over her without warning, a shudder ripping through her spine, her knees threatening to give as her body convulsed.

Edmund’s laugh was low, dark. “That’s two. We’re not stopping yet.”

Anthony’s tone was all gravel and hunger. “Not until she’s dripping with all of us.”

Colin’s pace grew rougher, his thrusts harder, each one making her gasp against Edmund. Every shift of their bodies made her feel more stretched, more helpless, more lost in the sheer weight of them.

 “Filthy little wife,” Anthony rasped. “I’m going to fuck my seed so deep into you you’ll still be leaking tomorrow.” 

Edmund’s voice was ragged. “You might already be with child, Penelope. And just you wait until you enter your fourth month of pregnancy. You’ll be begging for one of us… or all of us. And we will give you everything you desire, my darling.”

She moaned around his cock, wetter than ever.

“Yes,” Colin snarled, “we’ll keep you filled. Your womb with a child, and your holes with our cum. You’ll take us constantly, won’t you?”

Anthony’s teeth grazed her nipple, sending sparks through her. “Say it, dear wife,” he demanded, stroking her clit as she moaned incoherently. “Won't you?”

She bobbed her head once, as if to say yes.

Colin pressed even deeper in her arse, his voice rough. “We’ll fuck you until you can’t think. Until you forget where you end and we begin.”

Edmund’s breathing quickened. His fingers tangled more tightly in her hair, until her nose was brushing against his balls. “Don’t you dare look away while you swallow me. Swallow every drop, sweet girl. All of it.” His voice was a command, the kind that left no room for hesitation. She obeyed, her eyes watered, her throat worked harder, tongue flicking to catch the last trace of his salty seed as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked and swallowed.

Edmund held her face to his cock as he spurted his cum down her throat, making her swallow every drop. A trickle escaped the corner of her mouth, A streak of his release escaped the corner of her lips. Anthony, watching from below, moaned at the sight. 

“Fuck… look at you. So filthy. So perfect.” He thrusted up hard, burying himself to the hilt. “I’m going to fill you so deep you’ll still feel my seed trickle out of you tomorrow.” His release flooded her cunt, her tight walls fluttering and milking him, and he groaned, “That’s it… take it all, sweetheart.”

Colin leaned over her back, his chest pressing to her spine, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. “Say it, Pen.” he whispered, his voice a command wrapped in smoke. “Tell us who you belong to.”

“Yours,” she whimpered, her voice breaking.

His response was a sharp hiss through his teeth. “Such a sweet little cock-drunk wife.” With a guttural sound, he came hard inside her, then pulled out halfway through to paint her skin in hot, messy streaks. His fingers spread it over her back, down the curve of her spine, across the soft swell of her arse. “Marked by us. Covered in our cum. You’ll smell like us for days.”

They kept holding her between them as if she were made of glass, though every stroke of their hands still carried that quiet, claiming weight. Anthony was the first to move, lifting her gently from the tangle of damp sheets and carrying her to the bathing chamber. Colin followed close behind, his palm spanning the small of her back, thumb stroking idle circles over her heated skin. Edmund trailed them, already checking the temperature of the water. 

Anthony lowered her into the warmth of the bath tub, and she let out a small, broken sound of relief. He knelt beside the tub, cupping water over her shoulders, letting it run down her breasts and thighs. “Easy now, love,” he murmured, voice like velvet over gravel. “We’ve got you.”

Colin took a cloth and worked it over her legs, between them in slow, unhurried passes. His touch lingered where she was sore, massaging gently until her muscles loosened. “Look at you,” he whispered, eyes drinking her in. “Our perfect wife. Every inch of yours is ours.”

Edmund crouched behind her, gathering her wet hair and combing his fingers through it, pressing kisses to the nape of her neck. “You’ll feel it for days,” he murmured, the heat in his tone impossible to miss. “Every time you move, you’ll remember what we’ve done to you. What we’ve given you.”

Her eyes fluttered shut as the viscount kissed the shell of her ear. Anthony kissed her temple, his voice low, almost a growl. “We’ll keep you like this. Sated, filled, marked. Your womb full, your body spoiled, your heart never doubting who you belong to.”

Colin’s thumb traced her sides. “And you’ll never have to ask, Pen. We’ll give you everything before you even know you want it.”

Edmund’s hand trailed down until it came to rest over her soft belly, caressing it gently. “And the child you might already be carrying,” he said softly, a dangerous promise in his voice. “It will be loved dearly… by all of us.“

Warm water rippled over her skin, steam curling in the air, carrying the scent of lavender and something faintly spicy from the soap. She sighed in bliss, surrounded by the three of them, every inch of her touched and cared for. 

When the water cooled, they lifted her out together, Anthony wrapping her in a thick, soft towel. 

Colin retrieved a small porcelain jar from the dressing table, filled with a thick, lavender-scented salve. The two of them worked it into her skin at once, their touch was so constant that she felt enveloped in their warmth.

When they were done, Colin bent and swept her up into his arms without a word, carrying her to the bed as if she weighed nothing. She noted idly that the bedsheets had been changed. 

Edmund. She thought. He hadn’t just changed the bedsheets but was also fully dressed now.

Colin laid her in the centre of the mattress, and Edmund climbed into the bed beside her, settling close enough to press his lips to her hairline before leaning in to capture her mouth in a lingering kiss.

“My dear,” he murmured against her lips, “I’ll have to return to the Bridgerton house tonight. To keep up appearances.”

Her mouth turned down in a soft pout. “You will not spend the night?”

He smiled, brushing a stray lock from her face, and kissed her again slowly. “No, I’m afraid I have to go. But Anthony and Colin will be here for you. And I will return tomorrow. I don't think I can stay away for long.”

She nodded, still holding his gaze, her disappointment eased by the tenderness in his tone. “Goodnight, then,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, my darling.” He kissed her once more, slow and deep, before climbing from the bed and slipping from the room.

Anthony and Colin moved in as soon as the door shut, one on either side, sliding beneath the covers and gathering her between them. Anthony’s arm looped protectively over her waist, Colin’s hand resting warm and steady at her thigh. They pulled the sheets up over the three of them, cocooning her in heat and safety.

And there, with the steady sound of their breathing bracketing her on both sides, she drifted into a deep, contented sleep.

Chapter Text

Penelope woke up to the delicious sensation of warm lips tugging at her nipple, the wet flick of a tongue coaxing it into a tight, aching peak. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming, but then she blinked into the darkness and saw Colin’s eyes glinting in the moonlight.

Anthony had rolled away in his sleep, breathing softly. Colin, however, was wide awake. His hand cupped her breast, thumb circling lazily while his mouth suckled and teased, coaxing her into silent shivers.

Then he pulled her closer, the head of his cock nudging against her slit. A slow, deep push and he was inside her, stretching her until her breath hitched. His lips ghosted over her breast, her collarbone, to the hollow of her throat as he kissed her in a way that felt far too sweet for something so filthy.

She clung to him, barely able to breathe, until the need spilled out in a whisper against his ear. “Let me ride you.”

His grin was quick and wicked. He rolled onto his back, guiding her astride him. She sank down onto his length, both of them stifling moans with bitten lips and muffled giggles. Her hips rolled slow and deep, the sheets tangling around their legs, each movement deliberate so as not to wake Anthony.

Just then, Anthony shifted in his sleep. A small, unconscious sound rumbled in his throat. Colin’s hands gripped her hips tighter, holding her still, both of them frozen, hearts pounding.

They waited. Anthony turned onto his other side with a sigh, settling again.

Colin looked up at her, eyes alight with mischief, and pulled her attention back on him in one smooth, greedy thrust. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, her hands pressed to his chest to steady herself as she resumed that slow, torturous rhythm. 

Colin’s hands gripped her hips tighter, guiding her, the occasional tremor of pleasure running through him making her clench around him in answer. She had just leaned down to kiss him, swallowing his soft groan, when a shift in the bed made her freeze.

Anthony was awake.

His eyes were open, glinting in the dim light, fixed on the sight of her bouncing on Colin’s cock. He didn’t speak. Didn’t tell them to stop. He simply watched, his gaze heavy and unreadable, one hand sliding beneath the sheets to stroke himself slowly, silently.

Her cheeks burned under the weight of his stare, but the heat between her legs only deepened. Colin caught the look in her eyes, then followed her gaze, his rhythm faltering for the briefest moment after realising his brother was awake, before it returned with a sharper snap of his hips, as if spurred on by the fact they were being watched. Colin’s teeth grazed her shoulder as he spilled inside her, his hands holding her down on him until the last shudder passed.

Before she could even catch her breath, Anthony was rolling her off Colin and onto her back.

“Mine now,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and want. He slid into her in one smooth stroke, stealing the air from her lungs. Colin, still panting beside them, propped himself on an elbow to watch as Anthony took her harder, faster, his hand pressed to her lower belly to feel himself inside her.

The rhythm built, relentless and feral, Anthony thrusting harder, faster, losing himself in the heat of her. She gasped and arched, every nerve alight as his cock slammed into her again and again.

Finally, with a growl that rattled through the room, Anthony spilled inside her, his release hot and pulsing. She trembled around him, utterly full, her own shudders mixing with the sound of his climax. He stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, as if unwilling to let her go. Then he eased out carefully, his hand stroking her thigh in slow reassurance.

She lay limp between them, skin damp and flushed, her breathing uneven.

Colin reached for her first, drawing her gently against his chest, pressing a lingering kiss to her hairline. Anthony shifted up the bed, grabbing the blanket from the foot and pulling it over them.

“Come here, sweetheart,” Anthony murmured, his voice softer now. He curled in behind her, his arm settling protectively over her waist. Colin still had her face tucked under his chin, one hand stroking down her spine in lazy sweeps.

The heat of their bodies surrounded her, cocooning her. She could feel Anthony’s slow, steady breaths at the back of her neck and the soft thud of Colin’s heart beneath her cheek. “Sleep now, darling,” Anthony murmured. Colin pressed a kiss to her temple. She closed her eyes, sighing, the scent and warmth of all three surrounding her. Safe. Loved. Wanted. Possessed in the best way possible.

For the next few days, the house in Bloomsbury became their playground. Anthony and Colin each took turns claiming her, making it a game, seeing who could draw more moans, more shudders, more obscene noises from her mouth. Their competitiveness was playful and possessive, each thrust, each kiss, each one whispering a taunt as a challenge to the other brother, and a promise to her of endless pleasure.

Penelope gasped and laughed and moaned under their ministrations, riding one, kneeling for the other to take his cock in her mouth, letting herself be utterly spoiled and wrung out. Colin’s hands and mouth would draw fresh cries from her before Anthony would push her to new heights by fucking her arse, and then she’d cling to Colin again, desperate, trembling, begging for him to fill up her cunt, and then ask Anthony to hold her to sleep.

By the fourth sunrise, her body was soaked and sore, her hips bruised from too many nights and too many mornings of relentless attention. She leaned against the headboard, breathless and flushed, and finally pleaded, “Please… I need rest. I can’t… not again.”

Anthony smirked, sliding off her, while Colin eased back from her breasts with a mock pout. “Rest, then,” Anthony murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. Colin joined in, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “You should have told us to go easy earlier, Pen.”

They dressed her in a soft, white house robe. Colin settled beside her on the settee near the fire, pulling her into his lap. Anthony leaned in from the other side, one hand tracing lazy circles along her hip. The firelight danced across their faces, illuminating the quiet intimacy after days of feral passion.

A crystal of wine passed between them, and she held the goblet with one hand while Colin’s fingers intertwined with hers. Anthony rested his head in her lap, murmuring a low, possessive, “Our wife…” She laughed softly, brushing a kiss against Colin’s cheek, then Anthony’s temple, feeling the heat of both against her skin.

It was good. But it could have been excellent if he was here. Edmund. She thought glumly.

Penelope had grown slightly restless by now. Four days of endless passion with Anthony and Colin had left her pleasantly exhausted, but she couldn’t shake the faint pang of disappointment that Edmund hadn’t returned to their marital bed since the wedding night. She asked Anthony once, nonchalantly, between languid kisses, and he only shrugged.

“He’s out on Viscount duties,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “He’ll return when he’s ready.”

She had tried to dismiss it, throwing herself into the playful competitiveness between Colin and Anthony, but a small part of her couldn’t stop thinking about Edmund. His steadiness, his quiet possessiveness, the way he always had seemed to see her as a woman, not a child, not a girl.

Then, on the fifth day, as sunlight streamed into the Bloomsbury house and the scent of fresh coffee and wood smoke filled the morning, a shadow fell across the doorway durig breakfast time.

Edmund stood there, tall, composed, but with a gleam in his eye that immediately sent heat rushing to her cheeks. His coat was slightly rumpled from travel, sleeves rolled up, and he carried a small bundle of papers under one arm. But none of that mattered to her.

“Sweet girl,” he said softly, his gaze taking her in from head to toe, lingering with the quiet authority and care that always made her heart race. “I trust I’ve not kept you waiting too long?”

Penelope’s lips curved into a mischievous smile, the tiniest flush on her cheeks. “Four days, my lord. That’s four days too long and four nights without your touch.”

He chuckled, a low, possessive sound that made her stomach flutter. “Then I shall make it up to you,” he promised, stepping fully into the room, closing the door behind him, and letting the heat of his presence fill the Bloomsbury house.

Colin and Anthony exchanged a glance, recognizing the quiet fire in their wife’s eyes as she turned to their father. 

Edmund didn’t bother with greeting them. The moment he stepped into the drawing room, his eyes locked on Penelope, and that was all the warning she got before he swept her into his arms.

“I need some alone time with my wife,” he told Anthony and Colin over his shoulder, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Do not disturb us.”

Penelope giggled as he strode down the hall with long, purposeful steps. Her laughter only deepened when he kicked the master suite door shut behind them, the solid thud echoing in the quiet room.

He set her on the bed with a little toss, the mattress dipping under her weight, and began stripping with the kind of urgency that made her pulse quicken. “Undress for me,” he ordered, voice low and rough.

She obeyed, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her anticipation. He stood there watching, eyes dark and unblinking, until she had stripped completely bare before him.

“Spread your legs, little wife,” he murmured, stroking himself slowly. “Touch yourself. Let me see you.”

Her breath caught, but she did as told, her fingertips circling her wet slit, her gaze never leaving his. He divested himself off his trousers and took himself in his hands, stroking himself lazily as he watched her stuff herself with her little fingers. It wasn't enough for her, he could sense. Not when her eyes were locked onto his rapidly thickening, lengthening cock.

And then he was on her, covering her mouth with a desperate kiss, his weight pressing her down. Without warning, he sank into her in one long, hard thrust, forcing a sharp cry from her lips that he swallowed greedily with his lips.

His hands gripped her hips as if anchoring her in place, his movements hard, relentless, and achingly possessive. She clung to him, nails raking down his back, pulling him closer, deeper, until there was no space left between them.

They moved together with feverish urgency, not just satisfying desire but making up for every moment they’d been apart. Every thrust, every kiss said what neither bothered to put into words, how much they’d missed each other, how much they needed this.

When her release came, it was sharp and shuddering, leaving her breathless in his arms. He held her, pressing soft kisses on her face as waves of pleasure washed over her. 

Edmund was still hard, still buried deep inside her and still was far from his own release when he pulled back just enough to look at her flushed face, her lips parted and damp from panting. His cock twitched, heavy and aching, and he gave a low groan that made her shiver.

“On your stomach, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with need. “Bum in the air for me.”

The command sent a shiver down her spine. She rolled over obediently, the movement slow and languid from the haze of pleasure already coursing through her. Her hair tumbled across the pillow, her back arching instinctively when he guided her hips up, leaving her bum high in the air for him. 

Edmund knelt behind her, large hands gripping her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as though to anchor himself. “God, look at you,” he breathed. “Still dripping for me… I’ve thought of this every bloody night I was gone.”

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze for just a moment before he guided himself back into her. The first thrust was deep, deliberate—one long, steady push until he was buried to the hilt. She gasped, fingers clutching the sheets.

“Feel that?” His voice was almost a growl. “Look how much I missed you… how much I needed you.”

His pace was desperate, every thrust a sharp reminder of how badly he’d missed her, hips snapping forward with enough force to rock her forward. “Look at you,” he growled, his breath hot against her ear as he bent over her back, pressing her down into the mattress. “Four days without you and I thought I’d lose my mind.”

“Edmund…” she gasped, the bed creaking beneath them.

“Needed you,” he went on, his voice breaking on the words. “Needed to feel you wrapped around me… needed to hear those little sounds you make when you’re about to fall apart.”

Penelope’s filthy sounds filled the room now—broken moans, ragged breaths, Edmund’s name falling from her lips like a prayer. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust with eager need.

“I missed you too,” she whispered hoarsely, the words catching on a gasp. “So much…”

Her body shuddered, pleasure coiling tight in her belly until it burst. She came hard, crying out into the pillow, her nails raking down the muscled length of his forearms.

Edmund groaned low, gripping her tighter as he rode her through it, as though determined to wring every last wave of release from her. He stayed buried inside her for a long moment, their bodies pressed so close she could feel every beat of his heart. His breath was warm against her ear, his hands still gripping her hips as though he was reluctant to let her go. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he eased himself from her, his cock sliding free with a lingering heat.

He turned her gently so she was facing him, and before she could speak, his mouth claimed hers in a kiss, his tongue sweeping into every corner of her mouth as if he was reacquainting himself with a territory he owned.

“Did you miss me?” he murmured against her lips.

“Yes,” she breathed.

“Did you have fun with them?”

Her lashes lowered, her cheeks warming. “Yes…” she admitted softly, a little shy.

“It’s okay,” he said, brushing a knuckle along her jaw. “You should have fun with them too. No need to look guilty.”

That coaxed a full, unguarded smile from her, and he kissed her again, slow and lingering, his thumb stroking her cheek.

“Today, though…” his voice dropped low, possessive, “I want you just for myself.”

Before she could reply, he caught her hand and guided it to his cock. It was already stiffening in her palm, slick from her own juices.

“Again?” she asked, brows arching in disbelief.

He smiled in an unapologetic, wicked way. “I have so much pent-up energy to spend.”

She gave him a wary little smile in return, and he chuckled, realising what she was thinking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he soothed, his voice husky. “I won’t tire you by using your cunt… not until we give it a bit of respite.”

His lips wandered down the slope of her throat, pausing to taste her skin. Then lower still, until he was at her breasts, the tip of his tongue circling each nipple in turn. His large hands came up to cup them, squeezing them together firmly.

His hands tightened on her breasts, pushing them closer together until they were squeezed together.

“God, your tits…” His voice was low, wrecked. “So soft, so warm… look at them, sweetheart. They are perfect round globes made to wrap around my cock.”

And then he pressed his cock between them, his entire length drenched in her pussy juice gliding against her cleavage. He began to thrust, slow at first, watching her reaction, the head of his shaft appearing and disappearing between the soft mounds as he fucked her tits, each movement sending a shiver through her body. Each thrust dragged the thick length through her cleavage, the swollen head brushing her collarbone before sliding down again, leaving slick heat in its wake.

“Fuck! Feel that? How full they are? They’re gripping me so well… better than I remembered.” His breathing grew ragged, the desperate rhythm making the tip of him bump her chin with every upward push.

She gave a breathless little laugh, cheeks flushed at his unrelenting hunger.

“Your beautiful tits are so perfect I could come just from looking at them.” His words tumbled out between groans, each one thick with need. “I want to paint them white, mark them with my cum so you know they belong to me.”

Another thrust, harder, and the head of his cock bumped her chin again. This time, she tilted her head slightly, eyes locked on his, and let her tongue dart out to catch the bead of precum clinging to him.

He made a strangled sound, something between a growl and a moan, his hips stuttering before he pushed up again, forcing her tongue to meet him.

“Fuck, yes… taste me, sweetheart. You look so fucking good with my cock on your lips.”

On the next thrust, she leaned in just a little more, letting her tongue sweep a longer, bolder lick up the underside of his shaft, tasting the salt of him all the way to the tip.

He froze for a heartbeat, a low curse ripping from his chest. Then his hands abandoned her breasts entirely, cupping her face in a rough, hungry grip.

“Open,” he growled.

She obeyed without hesitation, lips parting just in time for him to slide deep into her mouth. The first push was almost cautious before the second came harder, his hips snapping forward until the head of his cock hit the back of her throat.

“Fuck… yes,” he groaned, thumbs stroking over her flushed cheeks as if he couldn’t decide between gentleness and greed. “I’ve missed this mouth… missed how tight and hot you feel around me.”

He started to mouthfuck her properly then, short, needy thrusts that grew deeper, faster, his fingers digging into her hair as he pulled her forward to meet each one. Her lips stretched around him, as she slobbered over his cock, her eyes watering but still locked on his. Spit ran from the corners of her lips, dripping down her chin in warm, messy trails.

Every time he bottomed out, he gave a broken sound, as if he was just as close to falling apart as she was.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice rough with need. “Taking me so fucking well… God, I’ve missed fucking this mouth.”

He drove into her without abandon, the pace brutal now, his cock sliding in and out of her slick, swollen lips, hitting the back of her throat over and over until she made little choking sounds that only spurred him on. Her hands clutched at his thighs, nails biting into hard muscle, holding herself steady as he used her.

Her eyes were glassy, breath coming in ragged pulls between thrusts, every exhale hot around him. He was losing it, she could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered, in the way his voice caught when he swore her name.

And then he slammed deep one last time, holding her there, groaning loudly as he spilled down her throat, his hips jerking with aftershocks.

When he finally let her go, she collapsed forward, gasping for air, spit and heat still clinging to her skin. He looked down at her like she was the most sinful, beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Fuck, why am I getting harder just by seeing you covered in my cum?” He groaned as he felt himself harden once again.

Before she could fully catch her breath, he was already hauling her up, hands gripping under her arms, dragging her into his lap like she weighed nothing. Her knees landed on either side of him, chest still heaving, lips swollen and wet.

“Not done,” he growled, voice a low, feral warning against her ear. “I can't let you rest yet, sweetheart… I’m going to fuck every breath out of you.”

He shifted her forward, guiding her hips until his cock, now grown thick and hard, slid against her slick heat once again. The stretch made her whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. Her cunt was now on fire. Without giving her a moment to adjust, he pushed in, bottoming out in one harsh thrust that made her cry out.

His mouth found her throat, biting just enough to make her shiver as he started pounding deep, punishing strokes that had her rocking against him in desperate, helpless rhythm. Every time he pulled back, he slammed forward again, chasing that feeling like a man starved.

Her tits bounced with each thrust, brushing his chest. He caught one in his hand, squeezing hard, thumb dragging across her nipple until she gasped. “God, these… perfect round melons,” he muttered, bending to suck the peak into his mouth while he drove into her harder, faster.

She couldn’t form words anymore, just broken moans and shaky breaths as he fucked her like he’d been waiting years to have her this way.

“Mine, these are mine…” he snarled, slamming her down on him again, the word more like a brand than a claim. “You are all mine, you wanton woman.”

“your’s . I'm your wanton little wife.” she breathed out. Her legs were trembling so badly she could barely keep herself upright, but he wasn’t slowing down. Every thrust felt deeper, more desperate, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of not being inside her. 

“Right there,” he groaned against her neck, holding her so close it was like he was trying to fuse them together. “Take it all, sweetheart. Every last bit.”

He buried himself deep and stayed there, grinding up into her with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made her whole body shudder. She felt his cock pulse and twitch inside her, his release hitting hard, his low groan vibrating against her throat.

Her own orgasm crashed over her almost in the same heartbeat, her nails dragging down his back as she collapsed against him. Neither of them moved. They couldn’t, every muscle felt boneless, their breathing ragged, bodies locked together as if letting go would be unbearable.

He adjusted just enough to pull her tighter against his chest, still buried deep inside her, his cock softening slowly but refusing to slip free. “Sleep,” he murmured against her hair, the word slurred with exhaustion but laced with something almost tender.

She hummed faintly in reply, too spent to speak, pressing her face into the warm curve of his neck. His arms tightened once more, a protective cage around her, and within moments, their breaths evened out into the same rhythm as they fell into a deep slumber.

Anthony had thought he’d grown used to the sounds by now. Muffled gasps through half-closed doors, the rhythmic creak of bedsprings. But their father and Penelope had been at it since morning, and it was well past midnight now. Even from across the hall, he could hear her soft cries, followed by the viscount’s low, hungry groan.

Colin sat in the armchair opposite, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his knee.

“He’s making up for four bloody days,” Colin muttered, but there was a sharp edge to his voice. “She’ll be sore for a week if he doesn’t ease up.”

Anthony’s expression was equally grim, though he tried to temper it. “He won’t hurt her. Not deliberately. He loves her.”

Colin’s gaze flicked to the door again when another broken whimper carried out into the hall. His hands clenched into fists.

“I know he loves her,” Colin said slowly, “but I still hate that I’m not in there.”

Anthony gave him a pointed look. “We both.”

The unspoken truth hung between them: neither of them begrudged Edmund the right to her, but they were both aching with the knowledge that she was being wrung out by him alone tonight. Their cocks were hardened since morning, and those noises didn't help either.

A soft thud came from the room, followed by Edmund’s deep voice. Words they couldn’t quite make out, but the tone was unmistakably adoring, possessive. Penelope answered in a breathless giggle, and both brothers stiffened.

“She likes it.” Anthony muttered.

Colin exhaled sharply. “Four days or not… tomorrow, she’s ours.”

Anthony’s jaw flexed. “Agreed.”

And for the first time that day, the two of them were utterly in accord. Edmund could have her tonight, but they would not be standing aside for long.

The next morning, Edmund looked smug as he strolled into the sitting room with that freshly fed, well-satisfied look, hair still damp from a bath, shirt open at the collar. Penelope was nowhere to be seen, tucked back in bed, no doubt, too worn out to join them breakfast.

Anthony didn’t waste time. “We need to talk.”

Edmund arched a brow, easing into a chair. “About what?”

“About the fact that she’s not a rag doll you can keep fucking for twenty-four hours straight,” Anthony said flatly.

Colin’s tone was cooler, but no less sharp. “Four days away doesn’t mean you get to monopolise her for the next four. She’s ours as well.”

Edmund frowned, “But… you literally had her for four days?”

“But we had to share her.” Anthony sulked, “While you claimed her all for yourself.”

Edmund leaned back, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “So this is about… jealousy.”

“This is about balance,” Anthony corrected, his voice tight. “If we’re all going to be with her, we can’t keep tripping over each other or leaving her too exhausted to enjoy it.”

Colin added, “We need a schedule. Days, or nights, or… however we work it. But we work it.”

For a moment, Edmund’s gaze flicked between them — weighing whether to fight. But then he shrugged. “Fine. I’ll admit, I might’ve been… a little greedy.”

Anthony snorted. “A little?”

Edmund smirked. “Alright, very. But I agree. We take turns. That way she gets the best of all of us. without ending up too sore to walk.”

Colin’s lips twitched in a reluctant smile. “Good. Then we start tonight.”

Edmund rose, brushing past them toward the door. “You’re on the clock, sons. I’ll have her back on say… day after tomorrow?”

Colin muttered under his breath, “Not if I keep her tied to my bed for longer.”

Fifteen days of their honeymoon period had slipped by within a blink. Edmund came and went from the house, summoned by his viscount duties, keeping up the façade of a dutiful father visiting his son’s house, and watching over his daughter-in-law’s safety, to the outside world. Anthony and Colin, meanwhile, were a constant presence around Penelope engulfing her in desire and affection over and over again.

The house had begun to feel like her own little kingdom. She hardly needed to speak for her wishes to be met. Anthony always anticipated, Colin always indulged, and Edmund always returned to fulfil all her wishes. It was a rhythm she had grown accustomed to.

But now the rhythm was breaking.

A carriage had been ordered. A guest list had been checked twice. There were people to see, appearances to keep. A ball at the Bridgerton house. To honour her wedding to Anthony.

At first, Penelope was merely restless, her mind fluttering from one imagined disaster to the next. Would her gown be flattering enough, would the ton notice anything about her relationship with Edmund and Colin, would they suspect? By noon her thoughts had spiralled so tightly she felt a dull churn in her stomach.

By the time Colin found her in her chamber, she was no longer just anxious. She was pale and pressed to the side of her bed, a glass of untouched water on the table.

“Pen?” His voice was low, but the crease between his brows deepened when she looked up at him.

“I was sick earlier,” she admitted, her tone torn between embarrassment and irritation at herself. “Not just in my head. My body’s decided to join in.”

Within moments Anthony was there too, followed shortly after by Edmund, the three of them crowding her room like the world outside no longer existed.

The irony wasn’t lost on her: she’d been dreading the exposure of stepping beyond their walls… and now, she wasn't allowed to leave her bed.

Colin sat beside her, one warm hand pressed against her back, rubbing slow circles while Anthony murmured something about sending their regrets to the hosts through letters. Edmund, ever the pragmatist, called for the physician without waiting for her protest.

The physician, Dr. Dorset’s visit was brief, discreet, and in the end… utterly life-altering.

“The reason for your indisposition, Mrs. Bridgerton,” the physician said with a faint smile, “is that you are with child.”

Penelope’s breath caught. She stared at the man, Colin who was standing at the foot of the bed went utterly still, and Anthony’s jaw slackened and his grip on her hand tightened. Edmund was the first to speak, his voice a mix of astonishment and something warmer, deeper.

“With child,” he repeated, as though tasting the phrase. “How wonderful!”

Colin’s smile widened. Anthony’s protective gaze was already sweeping over her as though the very air might bruise her. Edmund nodded, his usual reserve softening into a private smile meant only for her.

Any thought of making an appearance that evening dissolved like mist in sunlight. The outside world could wait. The ton could wait.

That night, Penelope had expected…well, some sort of grand celebration of their desire for her. The familiar weight of their attentions, the greedy, almost unrelenting way they claimed her.

Instead, she found herself… cocooned with warmth.

Anthony refused to let her rise from the bed without his arm there to steady her, even when she only wanted to cross the room. Colin hovered like a shadow, fetching her shawl, pouring her water before she even thought to ask. Edmund stayed close but curiously restrained, his usual bold hands now occupied with petting her hair and tucking blankets around her rather than tugging them away.

They looked at her as though she were precious and dangerously fragile.

At one point she gave a small, teasing smile and murmured, “You’re all behaving as though I might shatter.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed. “You are carrying our child, Pen. I’d rather risk overprotectiveness than a single moment’s danger.”

Colin nodded, brushing a curl from her face. “If you so much as think you want something, tea, a cushion, even the moon, we’ll get it for you.”

Edmund only said, in that low, decisive tone, “We’ll have time for everything else after the child is born. For now, you rest.”

Chapter Text

The changes in Penelope’s body were impossible to ignore. Her belly had begun to swell with the visible curve of new life, her breasts heavier and rounder, her skin warmer, more radiant. To her, it felt like her body was no longer entirely her own, shifting daily in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

To her husbands, the effect was… complicated.

Anthony, ever the steady one in public and the most openly protective in private, would linger with his hand at the small of her back, almost subconsciously rubbing soothing circles. The sight of her changing body stirred something primal in him. It was pride, protectiveness, and a fierce desire that he tamped down in favour of caution. He’d catch himself looking at her in the evenings, when her hair was loose and she was barefoot in the sitting room, thinking she’d never looked more beautiful… yet resisting the urge to touch her in the ways he once did.

Colin, who had always been the most tactile, struggled the most with restraint. Her softer curves, the fullness of her breasts straining against her gowns, and the way she flushed easily under his gaze all called to him. He’d kiss her lingeringly, his hands sliding over her hips, her breasts but stop himself before it deepened into more. He didn’t want her to think his desire was selfish or careless. But some nights, when she was asleep, he would lie awake beside her, hard and aching, feeling that same helpless hunger from their earliest days together.

Edmund approached it differently. He seemed almost reverent of her body now. Sometimes kneeling beside her chair to press his cheek against the gentle swell of her stomach, murmuring something only she could hear. He’d touch her in small, unhurried ways…stroking her hair, massaging her feet, holding her in silence. But though his desire hadn’t faded, it had transformed into something deeper, almost awed.

And Penelope could feel it all, their restraint, their watchfulness, the way they saw her now as something precious, almost untouchable. She loved them for it… but it also left her aching. Because despite the changes in her body, she still burned for them.

She endured a month of it.

A month of being swaddled, coddled, tucked and fussed over as though she were some porcelain doll on a high shelf. 

It suited her, in the beginning. Their constant fussing, the way they hovered when she was nauseous and tired and forever drowsy. She let them indulge her, let them smooth her hair back from her damp forehead, bring her little trays of food, tuck her into bed with murmured reassurances. But those first sharp weeks of sickness passed, four, perhaps five, and slowly the symptoms began to ease.

And that was when a new realisation took root. They weren’t as amorous anymore. Not like in those feverish days just after the wedding, when every touch seemed to burn, when they could hardly leave one another alone.

The thought hurt more than she wanted to admit. At first, it stung with insecurities she hadn’t dared give voice to. Now that her body was changing, growing thicker, softer, rounder with the weeks, did they recoil from it? Did they no longer want her in the same way?Anthony was arranging a tray of fruit beside her as Colin adjusted her pillows, while Edmund hovered at the foot of the bed looking like he might lift her bodily if she dared move without permission.

But then she would catch the way their eyes lingered on her. The way their gazes darkened, almost hungry, as though they might tear the fabric from her body and bury themselves in her warmth. Desire was there. She could feel it. And still… they did nothing. None of them touched her the way she ached to be touched.

So one morning, the patience, the quiet waiting melted away and she snapped.

“Enough,” she said, sharply.

Three pairs of eyes turned to her.

“I am pregnant, not dying,” she continued, sitting up straighter. “And if I have to endure another day of you three fluttering about me like nursemaids instead of touching me like you used to, I shall lose my mind.”

Anthony frowned, as though the words didn’t compute. “Pen, we don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me? I know.” Her voice softened for a moment, then firmed again. “But you’re hurting me now. Not here…” She pressed a palm to her belly. “but here.” Her hand moved to her heart, “And here…” it slid down between her legs, deliberate, and all three men went still.

Colin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You want us to tup you?”

“No, Colin.” she snapped. “I want you to fuck me. Properly. Hard. Like before.” She leaned back on her elbows, gaze challenging. “Or are the three of you too frightened?”

Something shifted in the air. Then the hovering was gone, three pairs of eyes locked on her with such heat that she felt her skin prickle.

Colin moved first. The scrape of his belt coming loose was the only warning she got before he stepped in close, one hand gripping her hip while the other shoved her skirt up to her waist. The rush of cool air against her bare thighs made her shiver, but then he was tugging her drawers down and his cock was breeching her, thick, hot, sliding between her folds until he was balls-deep inside her. 

The sound she made was half-gasp, half-growl. “That’s it,” she murmured, pressing back into him. “That’s like a good husband.” 

Behind her, Anthony and Edmund had already freed themselves, cocks heavy and flushed in their fists. She turned her head to watch them stroke themselves slowly, their eyes fixed on the way Colin’s cock drove into hers over and over again. The sight alone made her wetter.

She looked back over her shoulder at Colin. “Darling, can you please switch the position,” she requested, voice husky. “I want to be on my hands and knees for my Lord.”

Colin pulled out with a groan, his hands lingering on her hips. Then they watched her in awe as she sank down to the carpeted floor, palms flat, arching her back. “Now, Colin! " She ordered, and felt him line up again from behind, and this time the thrust was harder, deeper, making her moan into the space between her arms.

She crooked her fingers, beckoning. “Come here, my lord” she beaconed to Edmund first.

He stepped forward, kneeling in front of her, his cock brushing her lips before she opened her mouth to take him in. She sucked greedily, swirling her tongue, hollowing her cheeks until he groaned. Saliva slicked her chin, dripped down her throat, but she didn’t stop until she wanted to taste the next one.

She let Edmund slip free with a wet pop and reached for Anthony’s, her lips parting to take him. He tasted different, saltier, muskier than his father, and she hummed around him, eyes fluttering shut as Colin’s thrusts from behind grew faster.

The room was filled with the obscene sound of skin on skin, her muffled moans, the men’s ragged breaths. She was anything but fragile, and she wanted them to know it, feel it, how much she desired them all, until none of them doubted her again.

Colin’s groan ripped through the air as he slammed deep, hips locking against her. She felt the hot rush inside her and shuddered, fingers digging into the carpet for balance. Her thighs trembled, but she was far from done. When he withdrew, she licked her lips and looked over her shoulder with a lazy, sinful smile. “Thank you, husband.” 

“Anthony,” she said, voice honeyed and commanding, “come here, now. Fill me up as the viscount plays with my breasts.”

Edmund knew exactly what she meant. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he took her breasts in his hands, squeezing them together to make a tight channel to fuck into. His cock slid into the soft, welcoming valley, the head brushing her throat with each thrust upward.

She leaned forward slightly, licking the tip whenever he pushed high enough. Each time her tongue flicked across that sensitive skin, his breath hitched, his rhythm faltered. She chuckled against him, loving the way she could undo the great viscount so easily.

Behind her, Anthony had taken Colin’s previous place, his grip bruising her hips as he entered her in one hard, deliberate thrust. She gasped around Edmund’s tip, the vibration making him groan low in his chest. Anthony didn’t give her a second to recover though. His pace was relentless, deep enough to make her moan with each plunge.

Her mouth was busy kissing Edmund’s leaking crown and her cunt was busy fluttering and clenching around Anthony's cock. Edmund muttered her name like a prayer, eyes half-lidded, while Anthony growled behind her, pulling her back onto him harder and harder.

Colin, still recovering, leaned in to hold her bouncing breasts, whispering filth into her ear about how beautiful she looked like this.

Edmund’s movements became erratic, the slick of his own precum making every thrust glide faster between her breasts. She moaned, feeling Anthony’s rhythm grow jagged too, both men teetering on the edge.

When Edmund finally spilled, it was hot and messy, streaking her collarbone and neck, and she licked what she could reach before laughing softly, breathless but triumphant. Anthony came inside her cunt moments later, filling her once again, and making a mess between her thighs as his cum mixed with Colin's, trickled down on her thighs.

“Still think I’m fragile?” she murmured, looking between the three of them with a wicked glint in her eyes. 

No, no… they didn't think of her as fragile anymore.

By her fourth month, Penelope’s gowns had been altered twice, each new seam allowance accommodating the growing curve of her belly. She no longer slipped unnoticed through Mayfair’s drawing rooms, eyes followed her wherever she went, some curious, some calculating, others softened by the sight of a young Bridgerton lady with new life blooming in her belly.

In public, she was always on Anthony’s arm. His hand, gloved and firm, rested over hers with the quiet possessiveness of a man who would fight the world to keep his wife safe. In those moments, his smile was charming enough for the ton, but his gaze scanned the crowd with a soldier’s vigilance.

Edmund and Colin lingered close by, never so near as to draw whispers, yet always within reach. A casual conversation with a friend might be interrupted by Colin’s subtle repositioning, placing himself between her and a careless footman carrying a tray of champagne flutes. Edmund, ever watchful, seemed to sense when she’d been standing too long, steering her toward a chair with the easy grace of a concerned father-in-law… or so the ton thought.

Her days filled with more than the ton’s endless events. Eloise drew her into brisk walks in the Bridgerton gardens, Francesca and Hyacinth taught her new card games, and Benedict’s absurd sketches often left her laughing until she had to clutch her belly. 

Even Gregory, to her surprise, was protective in his own bumbling way, offering to fetch her tea or carry parcels she could still lift perfectly well herself. There was a carefulness to his movements now, a hesitation that hadn’t been there before, as if he were trying not to startle her. Yet sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she caught him staring at her body in a different way, his gaze lingering too long on her breasts, her arse, or her hips. It was subtle, almost apologetic, but unmistakable, and it made her pulse quicken in a way she hadn’t expected.

Behind closed doors, things had shifted. The heated urgency of their honeymoon had cooled into something gentler, more careful. Nights were no less intimate, but now it was in the way they each took turns keeping her warm, their hands resting over the swell beneath her nightdress as if to reassure themselves she and the child were truly there. Kisses lingered, touches slowed. Desire was there, but burning like a candle, not roaring like fire.

Some nights, she would wake up to find Anthony asleep at her back, his arm wrapped around her protectively, while Colin dozed in a chair by the hearth, a blanket slipping from his shoulders. Other nights, Edmund would be at her side, murmuring quiet stories to her bump until she drifted back to sleep, his palm moving in slow circles over her belly.

It was not the wild passion of before, but it was something deeper. A steady, unyielding devotion that made her feel safe in a way no ring or marriage contract ever could.

Penelope felt her libido skyrocket during her fifth month, a heat that made her skin tingle and her thoughts scatter. Unfortunately, this was the very week where all three of her men were away from her.

Colin was absent, having gone to Scotland to visit his old friend from Eton, Michael Sterling, to pay his condolences over the death of Michael’s cousin, John. Michael was an earl now, though there was no delight in that title after his cousin's death, and Colin had gone to gather the pieces of his friend’s broken heart. Anthony was away in Aubrey Hall, attending to the farm workers’ strike, and Edmund was tied up with duties in Parliament. She had temporarily shifted to Bridgerton house, her body restless, every movement setting her pulse racing.

Distracted, she fumbled on the stairs, the hem of her gown catching beneath her foot. She stumbled, heart leaping, and began to fall. Suddenly, Gregory appeared at just the right moment, catching her in his steady arms.

“Oh! Penelope, are you all right?” he asked, his voice a mixture of concern and something else she couldn’t quite place.

She nodded, cheeks flushing, aware of the way he had gathered her in his arms, the press of his young, hard, undeniably masculine body so close. Gregory’s arms remained wrapped firmly around her, steadying her, and she found herself gripping his forearms as she straightened. Her fingers traced the taut muscles beneath his sleeves, noting how much he had grown. He had become taller, broader, sturdier. His jaw, once soft, now held a defined strength, lending him a surprising air of maturity.

Her gaze caught his for just a moment, and she noticed that his eyes were drawn to her lowered neckline. Her pulse quickened as she saw him look down her cleavage and dart his tongue nervously, betraying a mixture of curiosity and something far more primal.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned, though there was an edge of something unspoken in the way he looked at her.

She nodded, taking a steadying breath, though the flush in her cheeks refused to fade. Her pulse still raced from the stumble, from the lingering heat of his arms around her. “Yes… but you should accompany me to my chambers. What if I stumble again?”

He stepped closer, guiding her gently with firm hands at her elbows. She felt the strength in his arms, the solid warmth radiating from his body as he matched his pace to hers. Every careful movement made her acutely aware of how close they were, the heat of his chest brushing against her back, the faint scent of him lingering in her senses.

Though she tried to focus on walking steadily, her body betrayed her. Every brush of his hands at her elbows, every subtle shift of his weight close behind her, sent shivers straight to her core. Her fingers itched to linger on the taut muscles of his forearms, and the warmth radiating from his chest pressed through the thin layers of her daydress, making her core ache with a delicious, frustrating heat.

Her mind was alight with want. The broadness of his shoulders, the firm line of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed subtly as he steadied her… each detail drove a pulse of need deeper into her body. She clenched involuntarily around herself, heart beating rapidly, mouth dry, as if her body had warned with her mind. Her breath came faster, shallow and uneven, as heat pooled low and insistent. She dared not look at him too long, yet she longed to see the effect she had on him, the way his gaze might darken with something unspoken, and the knowledge made her ache in a way she couldn’t hide.

Anthony’s old chamber, where Penelope was currently residing at Bridgerton house, still smelled faintly of him but now it smelled like Penelope too. Gregory walked Penelope inside the room and guided her towards the bed until she was reclined on the headboard, her ankles crossed beneath the sheet, her hands resting over the gentle swell of her belly. Gentle, but far from small now.

Gregory lingered, shifting awkwardly, as if unsure whether he was allowed to stay or go. His eyes kept darting towards her bosom before guiltily snapping back to her face.

“You keep looking at me oddly,” she said with a knowing smile.

He flushed, mumbling something about making sure she was comfortable.

“You’ve never touched a pregnant woman’s belly, have you?” she teased, letting her voice drop. 

He swallowed. “No… I mean—of course not.”

She grabbed his hand, and guided it with a deliberate slowness to her belly. “Here. Feel.”

The babe kicked, strong enough for them both to feel it. His eyes widened in shock and delight. “It’s…moving!” he giggled.

“Yes,” she said softly, almost conspiratorially. “Would you like to see it?”

He nodded before his thoughts caught up with him.

Her gown shifted upward, inch by inch, until it bunched just below her ribs. The pale skin of her belly curved outward, taut with life, displayed to his gaze proudly, the sheet still covering her lower extremities. He stared, enraptured, as another movement shivered beneath his palm. He could see ripples across her belly. They both laughed quietly at the strangeness and wonder of it.

But his gaze lingered too long, slipping higher, then lower… until he noted that the sheet that was covering her legs had slipped lower, much much lower. Gregory’s eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected, couldn’t have expected, to see her like this. The sheet had slipped, revealing her most intimate parts, and for a moment he was frozen, heart hammering, caught between awe and guilt.

Her soft mound, her swollen nether lips, were laid bare before him, and he knew he should look away. He should. Yet he couldn’t. The heat rising in his chest, the almost feral tug of curiosity and desire, rooted him to the spot. He was ashamed of how much he wanted to look, of how completely captivated he was by the sight of her pussy lips. How much he wanted to touch them, feel them, part them and inspect the wonders that resided inside. The wonders of a woman's body…

Every instinct screamed that this was wrong, that he should avert his gaze, yet he lingered, drinking in the forbidden image, his pulse racing and his mind tangled with guilt and longing. For all the propriety he had ever clung to, in this moment, it slipped away.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she adjusted herself, making a show of pulling the fabric of her gown back over her lap, pretending the exposure had been nothing but an accident.

He jerked his gaze away, mumbling, “I should…let you rest.”

And then he was gone, his footsteps a little too quick in the corridor.

Penelope lay back against the pillows, one hand absently stroking her belly, another slowly creeping under her skirt to stroke her clit. She thought of Anthony’s casual comment months ago, about Gregory one day losing his innocence to her. She thought of Edmund's words, about her being trapped by all the Bridgerton men. All. The. Bridgerton. Men!!

The idea no longer felt entirely theoretical.

Perhaps it was time to speak with her husbands.

Chapter Text

Anthony returned from Aubrey Hall just as the lamps were being lit, tired from the long day’s business. The moment he stepped into the Bridgerton house, however, his expression softened. His gaze fell upon his wife. Penelope sat in the parlour, her belly round beneath the soft folds of her gown, her hand resting protectively over the child within.

He crossed the room in a few swift strides, unable to resist her. His hand cupped her cheek, and before she could rise to greet him, he bent to kiss her, slow at first, then with the hunger that had haunted him through his journey. She laughed breathlessly against his lips, one hand sliding up to hold him close. They kept kissing like that for a long time, not knowing that they had an audience.

From the chair partially hidden behind a pillar, Gregory watched them, caught between curiosity and desire. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, as though torn between leaving and staring.

Penelope felt his gaze on her after a while and, while she continued kissing Anthony again and again, she tilted her head just enough to meet Gregory’s eyes. There was a playful glimmer in her eyes, a spark of teasing that was borderline seductive. Her lips curved slightly against Anthony’s and she arched a brow as if daring Gregory to keep watching.

Gregory’s breath hitched as he got caught. His cheeks flushed, his eyes darting down and then back again, shy yet transfixed. He could not quite summon the will to look or walk away or declare his presence.

A knock at the door and the maid’s quiet announcement broke the spell. Supper was ready. Anthony, oblivious to Gregory's presence, nodded, kept Penelope's hand in his as they followed into the dining room, leaving Gregory who was hidden in the shadows of the pillar, to adjust himself, and gather his composure before joining them.

At supper, Anthony's hand occasionally kept wandering over Penelope’s thigh, back, shoulders, and belly as he served her or poured her water or simply doted on her.

Penelope's eyes wandered, every so often Anthony did that though. To the youngest Bridgerton man seated a little way down. Gregory did his best to keep up with the banter of his siblings, but each time she glanced towards him, she found he was looking at him. And each time she gave him a look that was unashamed, playful, as if she held some delicious secret between her lips.

Her gaze lingered just long enough to unsettle him. She’d lower her lashes, sip her water, then turn back to Anthony as if nothing had happened. But the spark returned again, minutes later, and Gregory felt his stomach twist with an odd, guilty thrill.

He shifted on his chair, tried focusing on Benedict’s quips or Eloise’s grumblings about her unsuitable suitors, but it was impossible not to feel Penelope's attention like a soft touch. Even when she was laughing with Anthony, her fingers brushing his arm, Gregory knew the very next glance might be meant for him. And it was…again and again.

Penelope, serene and glowing, chewed her food demurely, smiled at Anthony, and spoke when spoken to. But each time her eyes found Gregory’s, they teased, just a little too long. Not brazen, not scandalous, but enough to make his face burn as though he’d been caught at something wicked.

By the time dessert was cleared away, Gregory could hardly sit still. He fumbled with his spoon, grateful when conversation turned toward plans for the morrow. One by one, the family excused themselves, drifting upstairs or into studies.

At last, only Anthony, Penelope, and Gregory remained. Anthony rose, offered his arm to his wife, and pressed a kiss to her temple. Penelope rose slowly, resting her hand in Anthony’s, but not before casting one final glance across the table. Her eyes met Gregory’s.

“Have a restful night, Gregory.” she said. A tiny smile tugged at her lips, teasing, before she turned with her husband and allowed him to lead her upstairs.

Gregory sat frozen, the echo of that look burning in him as the room emptied and the night closed in around him.

Gregory rapidly made his way towards his chambers and shut the door behind him with more force than intended, leaning back against the wood as if to hold something at bay. His chest rose and fell quickly, his breath uneven. He had managed to get through supper without embarrassing himself, without staring too long, without letting the bulge in his pants show, but the memory burned behind his eyes all the same.

Penelope.

Her gaze arresting his, unashamed in its intensity. The curve of her arse, her plump, juicy lips when she smiled at something Anthony said. The soft swell of her breasts, the way her gown pulled just a little too tight over her belly, reminding him she carried his brother’s child, and still she looked at him like that.

And worse…what he had seen before. Her parted thighs, the sheet fallen, her mound bared. The slick pink of her lips, swollen, glistening in the dim light. He had never seen a woman’s sex before, not outside of crude drawings or whispered jokes in Oxford halls. And now he couldn’t unsee it.

With a low, strangled sound, he dropped onto the bed. His trousers felt unbearably tight, his cock straining against the fabric, aching with every throb of memory. He fumbled with the buttons, shame burning his cheeks even as his body betrayed him.

His hand wrapped around himself, and he groaned into the darkness. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, but his mind conjured her anyway, Penelope lying there on a bed, her legs spread and waiting to recieve his manhood between them, her eyes daring him to fuck her cunt.

He pumped himself faster, hips jerking helplessly, biting his lip to smother the sounds. Guilt tangled with pleasure, heat with shame, until it all blurred together in a desperate rush. The image of her nether lips, flushed and glistening, filled his mind as he spilled over his fist with a broken gasp.

For a long while he just lay there, chest heaving, arm falling limply to his side. The shame would come crashing in by morning, he knew it, but for now he floated in the thick haze of release, the forbidden image of his brothers wife Penelope still glowing hot and sharp behind his eyelids.

Meanwhile in Anthony's old bedchamber, Anthony fucked his pregnant wife relentlessly, his cock moving deep inside her with a steady, possessive rhythm. Her body arched into him as she breathed, letting the warmth of his presence and the strength of his thrusts wash over her.

“Anthony…” she whispered between moans, her voice husky. “Something happened today. Greg… he…he touched my belly. Felt the baby move.”

Anthony’s hips stuttered mid-thrust, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Did he now?” he murmured, the tip of his cock brushing against her cervix in a way that made her gasp.

Penelope’s lips curved mischievously. “Yes. I pulled up my skirt and covered my legs with a sheet, before letting his feel my bare belly. But then… I might have… subtly… let the sheets slip a bit. Just enough for him to see my cunny…” 

“Oh you naughty little minx!” Anthony’s eyes darkened with desire, and he leaned close to whisper in her ear, “Go on, show him your breasts too. Let us see just how much time he'd take to break after watching those magnificent globes.”

Her pulse quickened at the thought, her nipples already brushing against the cool silk of the sheets. She arched into him, teasing, pressing herself against his chest as he continued to pound her, each thrust harder, deeper.

Anthony grinned, utterly lost in the sensation, the sight of her flushed face and mischievous eyes only driving him further. “My lovely little wife,” he rasped, catching her chin between his fingers to tilt her lips to his. “Always so wicked… always knowing exactly what you do to me… to all of us.”

Penelope moaned into his mouth, her body quivering with the mix of his relentless thrusts and the thrill of knowing Gregory had glimpsed a piece of her that only the three of them had ever truly claimed.

They moved together in perfect, heated rhythm, Anthony’s control and strength keeping her pinned while her teasing words and subtle provocations stoked the fire between them, making the night burn hotter than either could resist.

The next day, Anthony was about to go on yet another errand to smooth things over in one of his father's estates. He lingered on the front steps, his hand warm at the small of her back, reluctant to let her go just yet. The carriage waited, horses pawing at the cobbles, but he bent close to press one last kiss to her lips.

His mouth brushed her ear as he whispered, voice low enough for only her, “So, about Greg… will you be trying to entrap him in our marriage, sweet wife?”

Penelope giggled, her lashes lowering as she leaned into his chest. “Depends. Do you want me to?”

Anthony drew back just far enough to see her face, his dark eyes gleaming with something between mischief and hunger. “I should say no,” he murmured, thumb stroking her cheek. “I should tell you not to tease him, not to tempt him. He is about to go back to studies. To oxford. But God help me, Penelope… every time you play at it, every time I picture you letting him see your sweet pregnant body…” He broke off, shaking his head with a half-laugh, as though frustrated with his own honesty.

Her smile softened. “Then perhaps I ought to be very careful,” she teased, though her tone carried the sweetness of reassurance.

Anthony leaned in again, his lips brushing hers in a brief, hungry kiss. “Be careful,” he said, “but not too careful. Afterall, I cannot send my brother into the wide, wild world without wetting his wick.” Then, with a final squeeze of her hand, he turned to descend the steps, leaving her flushed and smiling in the morning sun as his carriage rattled away.

With Anthony gone to Kent, the house seemed quieter. Penelope found herself in Gregory’s company more often, for he seemed determined to be of service. He appeared in doorways when she rose, carried trays she scarcely needed carried, and lingered at her side on staircases as though her steps were perilous.

The first time, she allowed him to take her hand as she descended the stairs. “Only precaution,” he said, voice unusually solemn. She smiled at his earnestness and did not withdraw, letting his palm linger around hers until they reached the last step.

By the third or fourth day, he had made a habit of hovering close, anticipating her needs before she could voice them. When her ankles swelled from the heat of the afternoon, he insisted she sit in the drawing room. “Let me help,” he said, and she indulged him, lifting her skirts enough to bare her feet. His hands were warm and eager as they kneaded her arches, and though she sighed at the relief, she did not stop him when his touch crept higher along her ankle.

“My calf too,” she murmured, as though it were only natural. She hitched the hem of her gown further, to her knees now, exposing pale skin he had never been granted to see. Gregory’s breath caught, though his fingers obeyed, stroking firmly along her calf muscle, up and down in long, trembling sweeps.

Sometimes she complained of her heavy breasts, cupping them with a soft groan of discomfort. “You’ve no idea how trying it is,” she said, glancing at him from beneath her lashes, aware of how his gaze darted, hungry and helpless, to the swell beneath her bodice. “Anthony says they’ve grown so much already.” She pressed her palms against them, the fabric of her gown tightening with the gesture, her tone as casual as if she were remarking on the weather.

One day she decided to push farther than before.

She shifted to accommodate the weight in her middle. “Do you know what I was thinking about?”

Greg shook his head, wary.

“How, only a few days ago, you felt the baby kick.” Her smile deepened. “You were so fascinated. And you were gentle, which I liked.”

He gave a small, awkward laugh. “It was… different. I’ve never felt that before.”

“Different,” she repeated. “That’s a kind word for it.” She leaned back a little, letting her breasts strain against the thin fabric of her gown. “You know, my body has changed in other ways too. Not just here.” Her hand skimmed over her belly before rising to cup the underside of one breast. “As I mentioned before, these are so much heavier, so much fuller.”

Greg swallowed. His eyes flicked up to hers, then away almost immediately.

“You’re looking away,” she teased. “That’s not very polite after I’ve gone to the trouble of telling you about my heavy chest.”

“I don’t think I should gaze upon—”

“Oh, but you should,” she interrupted softly. “You’ve already felt the life inside me. It’s only fair you see the other changes. You are family, Greg.” She shifted forward, leaning so her bosom came into his line of sight whether he wanted it or not. “Would you like to see them?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “…Yes.”

Penelope’s lips curled into a knowing smile. She drew the neckline of her gown down just enough to reveal the upper swell, pale and taut, the faintest flush tinting her skin. “Bigger than you imagined?” she murmured.

Gregory nodded mutely, breath coming uneven, chest rising and falling as though he’d run a mile.

“Wait until you see them properly,” Penelope murmured, her tone almost casual, as if she were showing off a piece of embroidery rather than herself. Her fingers slipped behind her to unhook her gown, and with deliberate grace she tugged the bodice lower. The fabric slid down her shoulders until her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, her nipples already tightened to dusky peaks.

Gregory’s breath caught. His whole body went rigid, as if the very sight rooted him in place.

“You may touch, if you wish,” she said, her voice low. “Just as you did with my belly. But slowly. Carefully.”

Greg swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as his gaze stayed glued to her chest. His voice was barely above a whisper.

"…Yes."

Penelope tilted her head, a slow smile tugging at her lips. "Come on, do it properly. Come closer."

He shifted forward hesitantly, his knees brushing the edge of the bed. She took his hand and guided it to cup one heavy breast, her skin warm and soft beneath his trembling fingers. His palm moulded against her, and she felt how tentative his touch was—how different from the confident hands of her husbands.

"See how full they are now?" she murmured, pressing his hand more firmly against her. "Your brother said they’d get even bigger before the baby comes."

Greg’s breath quickened. He stroked her slowly, almost reverently, his thumb brushing over the taut peak. She let out a soft sigh, arching just slightly into his touch, and his eyes widened at the sound.

When she glanced down, the outline of his arousal strained plainly against his trousers. She hummed, almost teasing. "You’d been imagining this for a while, hadn’t you?"

He didn’t answer, but the faint flush creeping up his neck told her enough.

"My breasts… you think of them?" she whispered, her voice warm and coaxing.

Greg’s fingers twitched, and he started to pull back. "I shouldn’t…"

But Penelope caught his wrists, holding his hands firmly against her curves. "Please, Greg… this feels so nice. Keep massaging them—for your dear sister-in-law… can’t you?"

A low groan rumbled from him, the last of his resistance faltering. His hands grew bolder, kneading her full breasts, thumbs brushing over her taut peaks in slow, deliberate circles. The weight of them filled his palms, the warmth seeping into him as he massaged, squeezed, and cupped with growing hunger—until she gasped.

"Oh my…" Her eyes widened in startled delight. "It’s the first time…"

Greg froze for only a heartbeat before realising what she meant. Thin, warm rivulets of milk were trickling from her nipple, pearly drops catching the light. His breath hitched, and something darker flared in his gaze. Without thought, he leaned forward, lips brushing her skin, and darted his tongue out to taste her. The sweet, unfamiliar flavour hit his senses, and his groan deepened as he lapped at her, greedier this time.

Greg’s hands tightened on her, pulling her closer as his mouth closed fully over her nipple. The sudden, wet heat of his tongue and lips made Penelope gasp, her fingers instinctively threading into his hair.

He suckled hard, drawing the milk into his mouth, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak between deep pulls. The sound of him drinking in soft, hungry swallows filled the air, mingling with her shaky breaths.

"Greg…" she murmured, not sure if it was meant to be a warning or an encouragement. But he only groaned in response, the vibration sending a shiver through her. His free hand cupped and kneaded her other breast, his thumb teasing the nipple until it too began to leak, and then he shifted, his mouth moving eagerly to taste from the other side.

Penelope felt herself melting under his attention, her bodice hanging loose around her waist as he devoured her with a desperate reverence, each pull and suck making her thighs press together beneath her skirts.

"Don’t stop," she breathed, her voice low, trembling, and far too honest.

He didn't stop. He couldn't stop. The taste of her milk, the softness of her fleshy breasts, he silky smooth skin, it was all driving him to the edge of an unknown feeling tightening in his balls. He had jerked himself off many times before this. But the pressure building in his groin at that moment was unparalleled. He began sucking her breast ardently, alternating between the two, grazing, biting the nipple and then again pulling it inside his mouth to suckle.

“Ouch!” She gasped as he bit her nipple yet again, nudging him back.

Greg lingered for a moment, his lips still parted and glistening, his breath warm against the curve of her breast. Reluctantly, he eased back when she pushed him, his gaze flicking down to where faint marks bloomed over her skin.

"You’re leaving marks all over," she said softly, her tone laced with mischief.

He groaned, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes darting away. "Oh—sorry. I shouldn’t… I didn’t mean to go this far."

Penelope only smiled at him, warm and untroubled. "No need to feel guilty. I asked you to."

His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t reply, his hands now awkwardly hanging at his sides. She couldn’t help but notice the straining outline in his trousers, though she did not draw attention to that. Not yet. He was inexperienced, impulsive and prone to guilt. She knew he'd retreat if she had reached for his cock now. He would likely have tumbled into a spiral of shame.

No, she thought, if Greg was to be brought properly into their games, it would have to be done slowly. For now, she let him retreat with his dignity intact, her own body still tingling from his eager mouth.

That evening, Edmund returned home at last, and Penelope could not disguise the way her whole countenance lit when he stepped into the drawing room. Yet in front of the others she maintained her composure, greeting him warmly, but no warmer than a dutiful daughter in law ought. He, too, wore the mask of respectability though his gaze, steady and dark, often flickered toward her.

Gregory lingered close to Penelope, ever helpful. He guided her to her chair with careful hands, poured her a lemonade before his own, and fetched her a cushion without her asking. Edmund noted it all, his eyes narrowing, though a faint smile ghosted his lips. The boy thought himself subtle, yet the little acts of devotion were plain to see.

Later, in the privacy of his bedchamber, Edmund sprawled against the headboard, head tilted back as Penelope worked her mouth down his cock, cheeks hollowing as she sucked him with aching devotion. His hand rested at her crown, urging her deeper, and a low growl rumbled from his throat.

“Tell me, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice rough with both pleasure and curiosity. “Has Gregory enjoyed the wonders of this mouth of yours?”

Penelope paused, letting his slick length slip free with a wet pop. She looked up at him with wide, unrepentant eyes. “No,” she said simply. Then, wickedly: “But I’m tempted to. Just because you all keep disappearing on me.”

Edmund’s jaw clenched at her boldness, but his cock twitched with delight at her tease. She licked her lips slowly, savouring his taste, before confessing, “I’m only teasing him for now. Watching him squirm. I want to see what he’ll do.”

Edmund smiled, a wolfish glint in his expression. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing her flushed cheek before he thrust back into her mouth, making her gag prettily around him. “Maybe,” he rasped, “you should test him. Brush that soft hand of yours against his cock as though by accident. See if he spills in his trousers at the sight of this lush body. Then you’ll know how weak he truly is.”

Penelope moaned around him, the vibration making Edmund’s breath hitch. He held her there, deep, savouring the thought of his youngest son undone and his sweet girl the one orchestrating his seduction.

A couple of days later, Penelope moved slowly down the staircase, her hand gliding over the polished banister. She felt Gregory hovering close, just as he always did these days, ready to steady her if her steps faltered, eager to prove his usefulness. She let her lips curve in a faint smile.

Halfway down, she paused, tilted her head as though dizzy, and shifted her weight with just enough drama.

“Oh—!” she gasped softly, swaying.

At once, Gregory’s arm shot out, catching her by the waist. His other hand instinctively pressed against her side, drawing her closer to him to steady her. In the scramble, her palm slipped, landing lower than it should have, squarely across the swell in his trousers.

For the briefest of moments, she froze, fingers splayed over the hard outline beneath the fabric. Gregory made a strangled sound in his throat, colour flooding his face.

Penelope drew in a soft, breathless laugh, as though embarrassed by her clumsiness. “Oh dear… I’m so sorry, Gregory. How awkward of me.” Her eyes flicked up to his, deliberately wide and innocent, though the faintest glimmer of amusement played there.

He shifted quickly, as if the very touch burned, but not before she felt him twitch beneath her hand. His jaw tightened. He managed to murmur, “It—it’s quite alright. You should be careful on the stairs.”

“I know,” she said sweetly, letting him guide her safely to the floor below. She pulled her hand back with exaggerated delicacy, as though she’d touched something terribly improper by mistake. “I shall try to be more steady next time.”

Gregory gave a stiff nod, but Penelope noticed how his hand lingered at her waist a fraction longer than necessary… and how desperately he avoided meeting her gaze.

Gregory all but fled the parlour, muttering some excuse about needing fresh air. Penelope watched his retreat with a sly little smirk tugging her lips. Oh, she knew exactly what he would do to that bulge in his trousers and now she’d felt the size of it for herself, she could conjure up the images too. She pictured him, flushed and frantic, locked in his chamber with memories of her breasts burning in his mind while he took himself in hand. The thought made a wicked thrill course through her.

Later that day, the house lay in a hushed lull before supper. Penelope slipped into Edmund’s study, only to be caught up in his arms almost at once. They couldn’t resist these stolen hours, not when desire ran like fire between them. Now she was stretched across his desk, skirts rucked indecently high, papers crumpling beneath her as Edmund thrusted in slow, deep strokes into her body.

Her back arched, fingers gripping at his shirt as she breathed out a gasp, “I touched him, Edmund… by accident of course.” A sly smile curved her mouth. “He went scarlet, and then ran from the room. I imagine he’ll not recover for some time.”

Edmund groaned low, dipping his head to kiss along her throat while he drove deeper, unhurried but relentless. “You wicked little thing,” he murmured against her skin. “Tempting him so.”

She laughed softly, breathless as his hips rocked into hers. “I could feel how hard he was… it made me wonder if he pictured me after.”

Edmund drew back just enough to look at her, eyes dark with both lust and amusement. “He will picture you, sweet girl. Likely already has.” His hand slid down her thigh, gripping it tight to pull her open wider for him. “But you must put the poor boy out of his misery soon, or he’ll never concentrate on Oxford. You’ll have him pining for you before he’s even begun his studies.”

Penelope’s smirk softened into a hungry sigh as his thrusts deepened. “Perhaps that is what I want,” she whispered, arching beneath him, utterly wicked in her delight. “But I'm having too much fun teasing him.”

Edmund’s thrusts slowed to a deliberate grind, his lips brushing her ear as he murmured, “Imagine it, sweet girl. You on your knees, lips wrapped around him, my son undone because of you.” His teeth grazed her neck, his breath hot and rough. “Would you enjoy that? Having him squirm while you swallow him down?”

Penelope shivered, nails dragging down his back as a soft moan escaped her. The image he painted bloomed wickedly in her mind. Gregory’s wide, shy eyes darkening with helpless need, his hands fisting at his sides as she took him deeper, showing him what pleasure it could be.

Her smile curved slow, dangerous. “Perhaps I will,” she purred, her tone equal parts tease and promise. “But only when he’s desperate enough to beg for it.”

Edmund chuckled low in his chest, thrusting harder now, claiming her with each deep roll of his hips. “Cruel little temptress,” he groaned, gripping her thigh tighter, spreading her wider as he drove into her. “No wonder he can’t look away. You’ll ruin him before Oxford ever has the chance.”

Her laugh was breathless, broken by a gasp as he hit deep inside her. “Good,” she whispered, utterly unrepentant. “I want him ruined for anyone else.”

Next day, when Gregory steadied her, as he guided Penelope into her chambers, careful as always with her pregnancy, he told her to rest, hovering awkwardly by the bedpost, as though unsure if he ought to stay.

Penelope lowered herself onto the edge of the bed, watching him linger. Her smile was soft, but her eyes gleamed with something sharper. “Why don’t you stay a while, Greg? Keep me company.”

His throat bobbed, but he agreed quickly, hoping to get a chance to suck on her teats once again. “If you wish… shall I massage your feet, perhaps? Anthony says it will relieve—”

She cut him off with a silken hum. “What if, today, I relieved you?”

Gregory froze. “Me?” His voice cracked embarrassingly, heat rushing to his face.

“Mm.” Penelope shifted gracefully, sliding to the very edge of the mattress before lowering herself to the carpet. When her knees pressed into the rug, his breath hitched. “You’ve been so kind. So attentive. Surely you deserve some… gratitude.”

His hands twitched uselessly at his sides. “Penelope—” His brother’s wife. His brother’s pregnant wife. Was she about to…? The thought stabbed through him, yet it was drowned by the sight of her fingers playing at the fastening of his trousers.

“You shouldn’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I shouldn’t. It’s— it feels like betraying Anthony.”

Her gaze lifted, steady and unashamed, burning into him. “You’re not betraying him,” she murmured, voice like a caress. “I’m offering this. I want this. And no one who's not concerned ever needs to know.”

Gregory swallowed hard, shame and desire warring inside him. His body betrayed him first, straining against the fabric she toyed with. He tried to step back, but her hand caught his wrist, gentle but insistent.

“Let me, Greg,” she urged, eyes dark and coaxing. “Don’t deny what you feel. Don’t deny me.”

He shuddered, guilt dissolving under the sheer weight of his arousal. His fingers, trembling, finally tugged at the fastening, his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts as his trousers slipped down just enough. His length sprang free, flushed and hard, and he made a strangled sound at the sheer indecency of it.

Penelope’s lips curved, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Oh, Gregory,” she breathed, unashamed as her gaze lingered. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

He nearly doubled over at the heat of her words. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.”

But she already was, her hand lifting with maddening slowness. Her fingertips grazed the base of him first, a feather-light touch that sent his hips jerking. A gasp tore out of him, sharp and helpless.

“Sensitive,” she teased, her tone a low purr. Her hand closed around him then, deliberately firm, stroking once, up and down, with languid precision.

Gregory bit down on a groan, his knuckles white as he clutched at the bedpost. “Pen—please…” He didn’t even know what he was begging for—release, mercy, more?

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Please what, love?” Another slow stroke, tighter this time. Her thumb brushed the head, smearing his leaking arousal across smooth skin.

His breath broke into ragged gasps, every muscle taut. “You’ll make me spill…”

“That’s the point though,” she whispered, her smile as sinful as the glide of her hand along his cock. “Spilling feels good when done in a proper way.”

Gregory thought he might burst just from her hand and words, but then Penelope leaned forward, her lips parting, tongue flicking across the swollen head of his cock.

His knees buckled. A groan ripped from him, low and broken. “God—Penelope…”

She only smiled against him before wrapping her lips around the tip, teasing, pulling back, then plunging down with sudden, greedy hunger. The wet heat of her mouth engulfed him whole, and his eyes rolled back, a strangled cry escaping as his hips jerked without his permission.

His hand slammed against the bedpost, clutching it so hard his knuckles whitened, the wood groaning under his grip. He was shaking, every nerve alight, desperate and undone.

And then, she pulled off, slick lips glistening, his cock twitching in the open air. He nearly wept at the loss.

“Don’t hold onto that,” she whispered, glancing up through her lashes, her voice a velvet command. “Hold onto me.”

His breath stuttered. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” She guided his trembling hand, curling his fingers into her hair. “I’ll like it. Pull me closer. Show me how much you want it.”

Gregory’s chest heaved as he gave in, sliding his hand deeper into her hair, feeling the soft strands wrap around his fingers. And when she opened her mouth and swallowed him again, all the way down, he cried out her name like a prayer, hips bucking helplessly into the heat of her throat.

Her lips slid down his length again, slower this time, her tongue pressed firm against the underside as she drew him deep, only to release with a soft *pop*. His cock twitched against her cheek when she licked a slow circle around the head, catching the bead of slick that gathered there.

Gregory’s breath came ragged, every gasp louder than he intended. He bit down on his knuckle to muffle the sound, but the moment her hand pushed his arm away, he knew she wouldn’t let him hide.

“Don’t smother it,” Penelope murmured, stroking him once, twice, with the perfect squeeze of her hand. “I want to hear you.”

Then she took him back into her mouth, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked greedily, her head bobbing with deliberate rhythm. He couldn’t stop watching—the sight of his cock disappearing between her lips, the heat of her tongue curling around him, the obscene sounds filling the chamber.

Every time she reached the base, his body jerked, a broken moan spilling from him. His fingers tangled tighter in her hair, tugging instinctively, needing her closer. She hummed in approval, the vibration rushing straight through him, making his thighs tremble.

“Penelope—please,” he gasped, hips rolling upward without thought, chasing the slick warmth of her throat. She slowed, almost cruelly, pulling back until just the swollen head was trapped between her lips, sucking it with delicate insistence.

Gregory’s eyes were squeezed shut as he whimpered. He didn’t even recognise the sound as his own. She drew him in again, faster now, building the pace with a wicked rhythm—her hand twisting at the base while her mouth worked the rest, never relenting, never giving him quite enough to tip over.

His body jolted every time her tongue flicked across the head, every time her lips sealed tight and sucked as if she meant to drink the very life out of him. She had him trembling, sweating, his fingers fisted so hard in her hair it almost hurt.

“Please…” he rasped, his voice hoarse and ragged. She only hummed and pulled back, her hand gliding along his spit-slick cock in a slow, tormenting stroke.

Gregory’s head dropped forward, his eyes finding hers. She looked up at him through her lashes, mouth wet and swollen, her expression shamelessly knowing. That was it—the undoing of him.

“No more teasing,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “I can’t—Pen, I can’t take it. Please, just… just suck me dry.”

The desperation in his plea was raw, unguarded, a confession torn from his chest. His hips bucked helplessly, chasing her mouth, needing her.

Penelope’s lips curved into the faintest smile before she leaned in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against his leaking tip. Then she swallowed him down hard, burying him deep in her throat without pause, her throat muscles working around him.

Gregory’s entire body seized, a guttural cry tearing free as his head fell back. His hands clutched her hair, guiding her rhythm without even realising, his hips thrusting up in broken, desperate jerks. She met every motion with greedy, wet slurps, as though she truly meant to drain him, to milk him of every drop he could give her.

“God—yes, yes,” he gasped, voice splintering into whimpers as he felt the pressure coil too tight, his whole world narrowing to the heat of her mouth and the sinful rhythm she kept. His thighs shook, his grip in her hair turned frantic.

Penelope set the pace mercilessly, her mouth moving fast and wet, her throat relaxing to take him deeper each time. The suction, the obscene glide of her lips, the way her tongue pressed flat beneath his length—Gregory had never imagined pleasure like this.

His chest heaved, sweat sliding down his temple, and his legs trembled so badly he thought they might give way if he weren’t gripping the bedpost for dear life.

“God, Pen—” he choked out, voice strangled. “I’m… I’m going to—”

She answered with a hungry moan around his cock, the vibration shaking through him and tearing what little control he had left. His hands tangled in her hair, guiding her down with desperate, jerking thrusts as his release built to breaking point.

Then it hit him—hot, violent, unstoppable.

Gregory cried out as his release surged through him, spilling hard and fast into her greedy mouth. She swallowed without hesitation, sucking him tighter, coaxing out every pulse, every spurt until he was utterly wrung dry.

His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and still she kept milking him, her lips sealed around the head, her throat working as though she couldn’t get enough.

When she finally let him go with a wet pop, his cock twitched against her lips, still sensitive, still dripping. She licked him once—slow, obscene—before sitting back on her heels, her eyes glittering with satisfaction.

Gregory collapsed against the bedpost, panting, his whole body shaking. He knew he should feel guilty, ashamed even, but all he could manage was another broken groan of pleasure, because his mind still reeled with the memory of her mouth swallowing him whole.

Her lips were still glistening with his cum when she whispered up to him, soft and coaxing, “You taste so good, Greg… my sweet boy.”

The words hit him like a bucket of cold water. His chest seized. Cumming in his brother’s wife? What had he done?

He staggered back, pulling his hands free of her hair as though it had burned him. “No—no, I… I shouldn’t have—” His voice cracked, frantic. He fumbled at his trousers, trying to fasten them with shaking fingers, heart hammering as shame surged in place of desire.

Penelope tilted her head, almost amused, but not unkind. She reached out as if to steady him, her fingers brushing the back of his calf. “Shhh. There’s no need to run. It's just us here.”

But her gentle words only made his gut twist harder. He stumbled a step away, unable to meet her eyes. “You’re—Anthony’s—” The words knotted in his throat. His brother’s name felt like a curse on his tongue.

He couldn’t stay. Not with her kneeling there like a whore, lips red and swollen, eyes glowing with a satisfaction that should never have been directed towards him.

“Gregory.” Her voice was soft, urging. “Don’t look so stricken. I wanted it.”

But the reassurance only deepened the guilt clawing through him. He muttered something incoherent, clutched at the doorframe for balance, and all but fled the chamber, his heart heavy with the weight of blasphemy he committed.

Behind him, Penelope rose slowly from her knees, a faint smile curling at her lips despite his panic. She exhaled slowly, knowing that he’d be back for more. 

She sank on the bed smirking slightly. She could almost hear the ragged sound of his breathing, the way his groans and moans had vibrated around the room.

A small smile played on her lips—not of triumph, but of knowing. He would be thinking about this now, his thoughts consumed with her. And when the right moment came, he would learn there had been no need for shame at all. She would personally show him that.

But the thought did little to ease the insistent throb between her thighs. She was slick and aching, the heat of arousal pooling low and heavy, every shift of her hips a reminder of just how empty she still was.

Fortunately, she did not have to endure it for long. The next morning, Colin came back from his visit to his friend in Kilmartin. The memory of his touch—his weight, his rhythm, the way he filled her until there was no space left to think—flickered through her mind, and her pulse quickened.

By the time the sun dipped low, she was already anticipating the moment she could take Colin to bed, eager to be filled by her favourite husband.

Colin slipped into her chambers under the hush of moonlight, the soft creak of the door barely breaking the silence. She was already waiting—eyes dark with longing, nightgown loose around her shoulders, the heat of her anticipation practically pulling him in.

He crossed the room in two strides, his hands finding her waist, his mouth claiming hers in a searing kiss that stole her breath. She melted into him, but before she could sink fully into the embrace, he turned her and pressed her forward over the edge of the bed.

Her hands braced on the coverlet, her back arched, and the thin fabric of her gown did little to hide the curves he adored. Colin’s palms slid up her arms, gripping her wrists and drawing them back, pinning her upright while her torso bent at the waist.

“Take whatever I'm about to give you, darling… like the good wife you are,” he murmured, his voice rough with hunger, and then he pushed the gown up over her hips. She gasped as his cock, already hard and hot, slid between her slick folds. With one steady thrust, he buried himself inside her from behind, the angle deep and devastating.

Her fingers twitched in his grasp, but his hold only tightened, anchoring her against him. He moved with fierce, unrelenting strokes, each one driving her forward a fraction before his body dragged her back onto him. Her moans grew louder, breathless, echoing in the dim chamber.

Colin bent over her, his mouth finding the sensitive spot just below her ear, teeth grazing skin as his hips pounded into her. “You feel like you were yearning to get filled like this, Pen,” he growled, every word punctuated by the sharp slap of skin against skin.

She tried to answer, but the rhythm stole her words, leaving only soft cries and broken murmurs. He kept her there, bent and bound by his grip, taking her as though he’d been starving for her all his life—and in truth, perhaps he had.

Her knees trembled with each deep, relentless stroke, the tension coiling tight in her belly. Colin’s grip on her wrists was firm but reverent, holding her steady as he drove into her with a hungry rhythm that left her gasping.

“Colin—” she choked out, her voice high and shaking.

“I know, love,” he rasped against her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “You’re close. Let me feel you come around me.”

The words lit something feral in her. Every thrust seemed to hit the perfect spot, the slick heat between them growing wetter with each deep push. Her body clenched involuntarily, gripping him tighter, making him groan low in his chest.

He adjusted his stance just slightly, angling himself so his cock filled her deeper, harder. The change was her undoing. With a strangled cry, she shattered, her cunt pulsing around him in quick, needy spasms. He didn’t slow—he couldn’t—riding out her orgasm with powerful thrusts that drew the last quivers from her body.

“Good girl,” he panted, his own control fraying. Her release had him teetering on the edge, her heat and wetness dragging him under. His hips snapped forward a few more times before he buried himself to the hilt, groaning her name as he spilled into her, pulse after pulse, until he was spent.

For a moment, neither of them moved. He kept her close, still sheathed inside her, their breaths ragged and mingling. Finally, he eased his grip on her wrists and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing soft, lingering kisses along her shoulder.

“My beautiful wanton wife,” he murmured against her skin, the words tender but edged with a quiet possessiveness.

Once he had gotten the desperate need for her out of the way and their initial frenzy ebbed, they melted into softer kisses, the kind that made time slow. Colin peeled Penelope's dress from her shoulders, she unbuttoned his shirt, both of them murmuring how much they had missed each other.

He sat on the edge of the bed, tugging her into his lap. She climbed onto his lap, grinding her hips, rubbing herself on his erection while his lips found hers again. His mouth trailed down her throat, grazing over her pulse before wandering to her breasts.

He paused, fingers brushing over faint bruises. “Pen?” His voice was low but sharp. “What is this?”

She smiled, lazy and wicked. “Your brother’s doing.”

Colin stilled, his eyes narrowing. “Anthony’s back already?”

“No,” she said, deliberately teasing. “Greg did this.”

He swore under his breath. His cock twitched hard against her core. “Did you seduce my baby brother, dear wife?”

“Maybe,” she hummed, a sinful little sound.

“God…” His grip on her hips tightened. “Take me inside again.”

She slid down, swallowing him whole. He groaned, his head tipping back, while she bounced in a slow, rolling rhythm.

“So,” he said, his voice tightening, “Greg… what exactly did he do?”

She grinned and told him, almost sweetly. “He couldn’t seem to stop… sucking my tits, licked me, played with them until I had to push him away.. and then yesterday...” she trailed off.

“...yesterday, what?” Colin growled impatiently.

“I took him in my mouth.”

Colin groaned, thrusting up into her, his hands gripping her waist. “Did you plan on letting him into your cunt, Penelope?”

“I was waiting for my husbands’ guidance,” she said breathlessly, rocking harder. “All three of you. Also he might have run away after I swallowed his seed as he was overcome with guilt.”

Colin’s grin turned sharp, his eyes dark. “Anthony wouldn’t have minded. My father wouldn't either. I certainly don't mind. And now…” He gave her a bruising thrust. “you need to make the poor boy a man, lest he fall into a deep pit of remorse.”

She giggled, moaning as he drove deeper. “Maybe…”

Colin’s fingers dug into her hips as he thrust up into her, his voice low and rasping against her ear.

“Do you want to take his virginity, Pen? Hm? My baby brother?”

She moaned, the words making her clench around him. “Yes… yes…”

“Do you want to take him as your husband too?” His tone dripped with filthy amusement.

“If that's what he wants, why not,” she panted. “I tend to get lonely in the absence of all three of you.”

Colin chuckled darkly and bit her shoulder. “What a greedy little cumslut you are.” His pace grew harder, almost punishing. 

She whimpered, her nails digging into his thighs. “Mhm…”

“You did have father's and Anthony’s permission while seducing him, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

His thrusts deepened, his voice turning almost feral. “Then it settles the matter. We will give Greg a nice parting gift before he goes off to Oxford.”

Colin’s cock rammed into her again, hips slamming, hands gripping her waist, holding her in place. He nipped at her neck, whispering into her ear. “Imagine him, Pen… all worked up for you… and you, my greedy little wife, taking him just like you want.”

She shivered, arching against him, moaning his name. “I… I want… him… but only if you all say I can…”

“I’ve said it, haven’t I?” he growled, ramming into her harder. “You have my blessing, my body, my permission—and my claim. Now, show me, Penelope. Show me what you’ll give him.”

Her hands fisted in his shoulders as she gyrated down on him, her lips parted, breath hot. Colin’s teeth grazed her earlobe, eyes dark with lust. “That’s it… take him, think of him… feel me inside you while you do.”

Her moans grew louder, mingled with gasps as her body trembled. “I… I… Colin…”

“Yes, my wife, yes…” His voice was harsh, relentless. He drove into her with abandon, letting her ride him, thrusting faster and harder, guiding her movements. “Let’s give him a memory he won’t forget, Pen… let him use your sweet pregnant cunt. Let him fill you with his seed. Let yours be the first cunt that takes him inside.”

She cried out, a shuddering, breathless release rolling through her, every nerve alight, trembling around him. Colin groaned low, spilling inside her with a feral, possessive fervor, holding her close as they both rode out the orgasm.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her, chest heaving, lips brushing hers softly. “My sweet wife… always needy,” he whispered, kissing her hair, her cheek, her jaw. She clung to him, spent, flushed, and utterly happy. 

She had the consent of all her husbands. It was time, she felt. To make the youngest Bridgerton boy into a man..

Chapter Text

Gregory had never known guilt could feel so much like hunger. Each time he replayed that moment, her mouth on his manhood, his lips suckling at her breasts…heat would flare so fierce he almost couldn’t breathe. He despised himself for it, despised the flush of lust that overtook him when he thought of his brother’s wife, and yet… he couldn’t stop.

Now, when the house was quiet and no one was looking, he found himself edging closer to her, brushing fingers along the curve of her arse, the line of her waist. Once, in the library, his knuckles ghosted against the swell of her breasts as he handed her a book. She hadn’t flinched. She’d only looked at him with those knowing eyes, lips curved faintly, as though she could see right through him.

That smirk undid him more than anything.

When they were alone, his touches grew bolder, his palm resting at her hip, his thumb stroking over her knuckles longer than necessary. Once, seated beside her on the settee, his hand lingered on her knee, sliding just an inch higher on her thigh before he snatched it back, pulse hammering. He lived for those moments and loathed himself after, the shame gnawing at him.

Yet she encouraged him. The way she leaned in, whispering some small jest so close he could feel her breath against his ear. The way her bodice would slip just so, and she made no move to adjust it when his gaze fell helplessly to her breasts. The way she looked at him in half amusement, half challenge, until his trousers felt unbearably tight.

At night, his thoughts betrayed him. He imagined her hand closing firmly around his hard length, her lips parting, her mouth taking him in until he was spilling helplessly down her throat. He imagined burying his face between her breasts, suckling until she gasped his name, until he tasted her sweet milk.

The guilt pressed heavy, but the desire… the desire was heavier still.

So he touched her, openly now, whenever chance allowed. But the line between just touches and taking his pleasure from her was razor-thin, and though his body ached to cross the final line, hesitation still anchored him. For now, he hovered in that dangerous middle ground…half-boy, half-man, wholly consumed by lust for the one woman he knew he should not crave.

Penelope was brushing her hair before bed, her movements lazy, though her thoughts circled endlessly back to Gregory’s heated stares and restless touches. Colin, sprawled across the bed behind her, watched with a wry half–smile.

“What are you thinking about, love?”

“Gregory.” Penelope answered, almost absentmindedly.

“Ah… so my baby brother has consumed your mind now? Am I not handsome enough to capture your attention now?” Colin teased her, sporting a mock pout on his face.

“It's not that, and you know it, Colin! It's just… just that…he grows more obvious by the day,” she murmured, setting the brush aside. “The way he looks at me, the way his hands linger… But still he’s restraining himself. Always pulling back at the last moment. Do you suppose it’s guilt?”

Colin hummed thoughtfully. “Likely. Guilt, yes…and shame. He thinks himself base for wanting you. After all, he believes you only as his sister–in–law. The one woman he ought not crave.”

Penelope turned, sliding onto the bed beside him. “Then what are we to do? Let him spiral until he drives himself half–mad? That seems cruel. We have to ease his guilt. What we have isn't shameful. It's delicious. And satisfying. And he needs to experience it if he wishes to…without feeling any shame.”

Colin caught her hand, brought her knuckles to his lips. His eyes gleamed, calculating, as though an idea had begun to root itself deep in his mind. “Ease his guilt, you say?” His thumb traced along her wrist. “Perhaps we show him. Show him that intimacy with you is… permitted for him. That it would not be a sin but an indulgence.”

Her breath caught, intrigue sparking in her chest. “Show him… how?”

Colin leaned closer, his voice dropping. “What if he sees me do it with you? He believes I am, just like him, your brother–in–law. If he witnesses my hands, my lips, my cock pleasuring you and you welcoming it, if he sees with his own eyes that it is fine with you, then perhaps it will unshackle him. Perhaps then, his guilt will ease, replaced by courage to actually do something about what he is feeling.”

Penelope’s lips curved into a smile slow and dangerous. “You’d let him watch us?”

“Not merely let,” Colin corrected softly, his gaze burning. “I would stage it. Place him where he cannot look away. Let him see you open your legs for me, pliant beneath me, until the only thought in his head is how badly he wants to take my place.”

Penelope’s heart thrummed, heat racing through her veins at the sheer audacity of it. She bit her lip, shivering at the thought of Gregory’s wide, hungry eyes watching her and Colin entwined.

“Yes,” she whispered, leaning in, sealing her agreement with a kiss that was more promise than act. “Yes, that’s the perfect plan, Colin.”

Gregory hadn’t meant to end up in the library. He had been pacing the corridors restlessly, that same gnawing ache inside him refusing to fade. Every time Penelope smiled, every brush of her skirts when she passed too close, his body betrayed him. Guilt sat like a stone in his chest. He told himself it was wrong, that she was his brother’s wife, that she was family now. And yet, desire burned on, unstoppable.

It was the faintest sound that lured him. A breathless moan, soft, feminine, almost smothered. His steps slowed, curiosity pulling him towards the heavy oak door. The library? At this hour? He hesitated only a moment before pressing it open a sliver.

What he saw rooted him to the spot.

By the firelight, Penelope was sprawled against a high–backed chair, skirts hitched indecently high. Her head was thrown back, lips parted, eyes fluttering shut as she gasped. And between her legs—on his knees—was a man, fully clothed, face buried beneath her skirts. The sound of wet, deliberate lapping carried faintly to Gregory’s ears, and his gut twisted.

His pulse thundered. He ought to leave. He must leave. But his legs betrayed him, locked to the floor.

Anthony, his mind supplied at once. Of course. Who else? The master of the house, her husband. That explained the brazen display, the risk of being caught—they were emboldened by rightful claim. It was natural, it was proper. And yet… and yet…

Greg’s fingers curled into fists at his sides as he drank in the sight, shame prickling hot against the back of his neck. Anthony devouring his wife like that, her whimpering under his tongue…it was indecent, scandalous, private and yet…utterly enthralling.

Then the man shifted, lifting his head just slightly, just enough for the firelight to catch his face.

Gregory’s stomach dropped.

Not Anthony.

Colin.

For a moment his world tilted. The room seemed to spin, his ears rang. Colin’s mouth glistened, his jaw slick with Penelope’s arousal, his expression wild and hungry. Penelope’s hand tangled in Colin’s hair, urging him closer, pleading for more.

Greg’s breath hitched, harsh and audible in the silence. He clapped a hand to his mouth, terror flooding him—had they heard? Would they know he was watching?

But neither stirred. They were lost in each other, heedless, greedy.

And Gregory, frozen in the shadows, felt guilt and horror twist tight with something far more dangerous: a flare of arousal so fierce he could hardly breathe.

His first instinct was denial. It couldn’t be Colin. His upright brother, who had not a single rakish bone in his body, had never taken a mistress of was involved in any widow or soprano or attended any kind of bohaime parties (unlike Anthony and Benedict). That Colin was now devouring his own brother's wife! Colin, who never had expressed any interest in courting a young lady of the ton, he was now transformed, unrecognisable with his hunger bare for Penelope.

Greg’s throat tightened. He should be repulsed, horrified, furious even. Penelope—married to Anthony, wasn't just seducing him, but had already established physical relations with Colin. But the longer he stared, the more his own feelings tangled with something darker, heavier.

Colin’s shoulders flexed as he pressed his head deeper between Penelope’s thighs, greedy for her, his hands bracing her hips wide open. And Penelope…her moans, soft and breathless, made Greg’s skin prickle with heat. She looked undone, radiant, loved.

A pang hit him sharp in the gut. That could be me. The thought was treacherous, unbidden, but it would not leave.

He imagined himself kneeling there instead of Colin, sliding his own head under Penelope's skirts, tasting her sweetness on his tongue. He wanted to feel the weight of her hand gripping his hair, guiding him, trusting him. His cock throbbed at the picture, shame doing nothing to cool it.

Colin’s mouth moved lower, deeper, and Penelope cried out, a sound so raw it nearly unhinged him. Greg bit down on his knuckles to stifle his own groan. He wanted…he wanted to join them. To push Colin aside, to drop to his knees before her, to take her hand and wrap it around his aching cock. He longed to have her lips swallow his cock, to feel those breasts against his mouth, as he sucked at them, rivulets of milk flowing down his throat.

The thought alone nearly undid him.

Perhaps Colin, with his hungry eyes and slick mouth, might let him join. Might even invite him.

The idea rooted itself in Greg’s mind, heady and terrible.

He pressed himself harder into the shadows, chest heaving, eyes locked on them. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t stop his body’s relentless betrayal. His breath came ragged as he fisted his cock, pressed tight into the shadowed shelves. He had lost himself completely, eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting into his lip to muffle his sounds, hips jerking helplessly into his own hand. The scent of lust and the echo of Penelope’s cries wrapped around him until he couldn’t tell where fantasy ended and reality began.

Then came the tap on the shoulder.

He startled, eyes snapping open. Colin stood there. Smirking.

Greg froze, shame scorching him from the inside out, his hand still gripping his length like a boy caught with stolen sweets.

His chest hollowed out in dread. He had been so careful, so silent…or so he thought. But Colin’s eyes, glinting in the half-light, told him otherwise. He had known all along.

Greg’s stomach lurched. He dared a quick glance past Colin, desperate, but Penelope was gone. Relief crashed into him…relief, and another kind of disappointment so sharp it cut.

Colin leaned close enough that Greg could smell Penelope on him, taste her still on the air. He lifted a finger to his lips. Quiet.

Greg swallowed hard, his heart pounding so loudly it was a miracle it hadn’t echoed through the room.

Colin jerked his chin, beckoning. His smirk lingered, not cruel, but edged with a kind of wicked amusement that made Greg’s knees weaken. He wanted to sink into the floor, vanish entirely—but some deeper part of him, raw and wanting, obeyed.

His cock still hung heavy in his trousers, damp with his own arousal, and he scrambled to shove himself away, to cover the evidence of his betrayal. But Colin’s gaze dipped deliberately to his hands, his bulge, and Greg thought he caught the faintest flicker of approval.

The shame roared back hotter than ever. And yet, legs unsteady, he followed.

“Where are we going?”

“To the only person who would make your wildest fantasies come true.”

Greg’s chest tightened as he followed Colin into Penelope’s chambers. The flickering lamplight softened her silhouette, but now her dress was gone and a flimsy nightdress clung to her curves. It was midnight blue, translucent in places where the fabric stretched too fine, and reached upto her knees. She wore nothing underneath and Gregory could make out the shape of every dip, every curve of her body even in the dim candle light. 

His throat went dry.

She sat on the edge of her bed, legs slightly parted, one bare ankle swaying as if she were the one waiting nervously instead of him. When her eyes found his, a smirk tugged her lips.

Greg glanced sideways at Colin, searching for some kind of anchor, some sign this was a jest. But his brother only leaned in, his voice low, teasing:

“So, little brother. Tonight, all those thoughts you have tried so hard to hide for a long time… they don’t have to stay in your head.”

Greg’s stomach dropped, heat rising fast. He stammered, “I—I shouldn’t…” but his eyes betrayed him, sliding back to Penelope, to the way the lamp-glow kissed the swell of her breasts beneath the gauzy fabric.

Penelope crooked her finger. “Come closer, Gregory,” she murmured, tone rich, indulgent. “I don’t bite… unless you want me to.”

Colin’s hand clapped gently on his shoulder. “Go on,” he coaxed, his voice strangely kind, even reassuring. “She wants you to.” and then Colin looked at her and said, “Enjoy my darling, I will be around.”

His legs moved before his mind agreed. Every step toward her bed felt like trespass, but a clicking sound notified him that Colin had maybe locked the door to keep him from fleeing. So now there was no option with him than to trespass into his brother Anthony's territory. To be honest, the more he looked at his sister-in-law’s supple, pregnant body, the less he minded the trespassing.

Greg’s breath shuddered out of him. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. Standing before her now, close enough to smell the faint trace of lavender on her skin, he felt his resolve crumbling fully. Penelope tipped her head, eyes glittering, and slowly reached for his hand.

Greg let her take it, trembling.

“Come here, Greg,” she said gently, patting the space beside her.

He sat gingerly beside her. His eyes darted between her lips and her lap.

“Are you nervous?” she asked softly.

He nodded, cheeks burning. “I’ve never— I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“You won’t,” she soothed. She turned his chin with her fingertips until he was looking at her. “You only need to follow my lead.”

Her hands slid down his arms, finding his trembling fingers. “Touch me, Greg,” she whispered. “Here. It’s all right.” She guided his hand to her waist, then higher to the swell of her breast. His palm hesitated before moulding to her shape, and the soft sound she gave in response nearly undid him.

He gasped. “Did I— did I do it right?”

She smiled against his mouth. “You’re perfect. Just… don’t be afraid. Now, kiss me on the lips”

Gregory swallowed hard, then leaned in. His first kiss was tentative, almost chaste. A brush of lips, a tremble of breath. She let him lead for a moment, cupping his face so he’d feel steady. When he pulled back, uncertain, she whispered, “That was sweet. But I need a bit more than that. Like this,” and kissed him again, slow and sure, coaxing his mouth open until he responded with something deeper, something bolder.

“You’re doing beautifully,” she murmured against his lips, encouraging his confidence.

When he kissed her again, bolder this time, she guided his hands to her breasts beneath the thin fabric. “Touch me here. Yes… like that.” He obeyed, fingers trembling as he traced the curves. 

Greg parted his lips slightly, the kiss growing warmer, his hand sliding to her neck. Penelope sighed into him and tilted her head, opening herself further. The shy boy of a moment ago was gone, replaced by a young man emboldened by her response.

Their mouths moved together in a heated rhythm now, lips slanting, breaths mingling. Greg pressed closer, his fingers tangling into the fall of her hair. Penelope welcomed it, pulling him tighter, answering his hunger with her own.

Her hand slipped over his, gently squeezing, encouraging him to be firmer. “Don’t be afraid of me, Greg. A woman wants to be touched.”

She pushed him a little, just to take off her gown, leaving herself completely bare to his hungry gaze. His face flushed, but he leaned down when she tugged lightly at his hair, guiding him to take her breast into his mouth. He latched on, suckling tentatively as she gasped, fingers curling in his hair. “Good boy… you feel how my body responds to you?” she praised, making him groan with pride. “Go on, darling,” she murmured, smoothing a hand over his hair. “They’re for you.”

He looked up at her with that boyish smile that tugged at her heart. Then, with a shaky breath, he bent forward once again. His mouth brushed across the soft swell first, gently, like he was testing the warmth of her skin. The feather-light kiss made her shiver.

“That’s it… you’re doing beautifully.”

Encouraged, Gregory flicked his tongue over the hardening tip, and Penelope gasped. Pleasure darted straight through her, hot and unexpected. She arched her back, pushing herself into his mouth, and he groaned at the sound she made.

“You like that?” he asked, voice thick.

“I love it,” she confessed, her voice breathy. “Take me deeper… suck harder, sweetheart.”

Greg obeyed, lips sealing tightly around her nipple as he drew her into the heat of his mouth. His eagerness was intoxicating. She guided his hand to her other breast, showing him how to cup the weight of her full breasts, how to thumb the peaked bud.

“Oh, oh my…,” she moaned, her hips shifting restlessly beneath him.

Gregory suckled harder, tongue circling clumsily yet insistently, and then—Penelope stiffened with a cry. Warm beads of milk trickled down into his mouth.

He startled, pulling back slightly at her groan. “Penelope, are you in pain?”

She flushed, biting her lip. “No, darling. It's a nice kind of pain. Pleasurable. Keep drinking from my teats.”

Gregory’s eyes darkened with wonder. Slowly, he lowered his head again. He latched onto her teat with more purpose this time, and when he drew again, the sweet liquid filled his mouth. He groaned low in his throat, sucking greedily, drinking from her like it was the most natural thing in the world. Last time he had done this, it was in a daze, almost like if he was under hypnosis. But this time, he had her naked, in his arms, and he was doing it with the express intent of pleasuring her. That knowledge made his balls tighten.

The sight of him nursing from her, his throat working as he swallowed, made Penelope’s entire body tighten with arousal. She clutched at his hair, her breaths coming in sharp bursts.

“Oh God, Gregory—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Her nipple throbbed against his tongue, each deep pull sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight down to her womb. The wickedness, the raw intimacy of giving herself to him this way, undid her utterly. Not even her husband's had tasted her this way yet. Gregory was the first one to have tasted her milk. It felt illicit and made her stomach tighten with pleasure.

Gregory moaned into her breast, drunk on the taste of her, and suckled harder. His free hand kneaded her other breast clumsily, desperate to give her as much pleasure as he could. She guided his thumb over her nipple, and he obeyed instantly, pressing and rolling it as he nursed at the other.

“Good boy,” she gasped, her thighs parting helplessly. “You’re making me—ah—Gregory, I’m going to—”

The orgasm struck hard and fast. Her body arched up, a sharp cry spilling from her lips as she clung to his head. She came undone entirely from his mouth at her breast, her cunt clenching, her thighs trembling. Waves of ecstasy pulsed through her until she sagged back into the mattress, gasping for air.

Gregory pulled back only when she loosened her hold, his lips glistening, his chin damp. He looked utterly dazed. “Penelope? Did I—did I hurt you?”

She smiled through her panting, cupping his cheek. “No, darling boy. You made me come. Just by sucking my teats.”

His eyes widened, awe flooding his face. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”

Penelope let out a soft laugh, still breathless. “Most men don’t know how. But you…” Her voice turned tender. “You have such a gift for it, darling.”

Gregory bent his head again as though he couldn’t resist, kissing her breast reverently before latching once more, eager, almost possessive. Penelope whimpered as fresh ripples of pleasure shot through her, oversensitive yet craving more.

“Greedy boy,” she teased softly, fingers curling in his hair. “You like drinking from me?”

He groaned against her flesh, nodding, his suckling intensifying as if to answer with his body instead of words.

Her heart squeezed at the sight. He was nineteen, hungry, unpractised…and yet in this moment, he was completely hers. Hers to command, use, pleasure… whatever she wanted to do to him. She could, couldn't she?

The thought alone made her moan loudly.

His eyes were wide, fixed on her face as if he could not believe he was the one making her moan like that.

She touched him in return then, stroking him over the bulge of his trousers, until his head tipped back in a desperate groan. He almost lost himself too soon, almost spilled inside his pants. But she soothed him, laughing softly against his throat. “Not yet. Patience. First we get rid of your entirely pompous clothings.”

And with that, she began undressing him hurriedly. He assisted her with enthusiasm, the idea of feeling her silky smooth skin against his own increasing his excitement tenfolds.

When at last he was bare as the day he was born, she drew him over her, guiding him between her thighs, he froze once more. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” she whispered, brushing her lips to his ear. “I want this. I want you.”

Step by step she showed him how to enter, how to move, how to trust the rhythm of their bodies together. His first thrusts were careful, unsure, but soon his restraint cracked beneath the rising tide of her encouragement.

“Look at me,” she told him, holding his gaze as pleasure took him. She held his gaze as she drew his cock in, the calm of her eyes steadying his nerves. “Breathe with me,” she murmured. “Nice and slow.”

He did. Their breaths found the same rhythm, and with that small miracle the rest began to make sense. She guided his hips with her palms, pulling his buttocks towards her, the lightest pressure, showing him the shape of a movement rather than forcing it. He followed, careful at first, testing.

“That’s it,” she whispered, the words a warm thread at his ear. “Do not rush. You should be feeling me, my cunt, how it tightens around your cock.”

His shoulders loosened. A hitch of breath. He tried again, a little deeper, and she cupped the back of his neck, thumb stroking his jaw. “Good. Look at me.”

He looked, and something inside him settled. The uncertainty transformed into focus. He found the angle that drew a soft gasp from her throat and did it again, more certain now. She rewarded him with a breathless laugh, the kind that says yes, just there.

“Do you hear my moans, my gasps?” she asked softly. “Listen to my reactions. Let it guide you.”

“I hear you,” he said, voice rough with awe.

She rolled her hips in answer, meeting him. Their bodies began to converse in small adjustments, a thrust here, a lift there, the kind of wordless language that only exists skin to skin. When he grew too eager, she smoothed a hand down his spine and kissed his cheek. “Easy, greedy boy. Savour it.”

He obeyed, and the change was immediate. Each stroke unhurried, deliberate, as if he was tracing a line he meant to memorise. Her hands roamed his shoulders, his back, the hard planes of his chest, rediscovering him with every pass. She rolled his nipples between her thumb and forefinger and he shivered beneath the her touch, then found himself answering in kind, his mouth learning the path along her jaw, the hollow beneath her ear, the places that made her sigh.

“Perfect,” she breathed. “You’re good at this.”

“I want to,” he confessed, a little dazed. “I want to make you feel good. I want to know everything that makes you feel like this.”

She smiled up at him, radiant. “Then ask. My body will answer.”

He tested the truth of it, altering the depth, the tempo, watching the way her lashes fluttered, listening for the catch in her breath that meant more. She gave him those sounds freely, a ribbon of praise that wound through his concentration until it burst into pride. The careful boyish restraint began to crack; strength replaced it, tempered by the gentleness she had coaxed from him.

“More,” she said, voice rough velvet. “You can take more from me. Go faster now, harder…”

He did, pressing closer, letting the rhythm thicken. The room narrowed to heat and heartbeat and the snap of hips. She arched to meet him, fingers threading into his hair to keep him right there, eyes bright and glassy with pleasure. He kissed her, clumsy for a heartbeat, then hungry, grateful, fierce.

“Don’t chase it,” she warned sweetly when he began to hurry. “Let it come to you. Just keep up what you are doing.”

He slowed again, and began kissing her neck, while she reached between her legs and played with her nub. After a minute or two, she took his hand and taught him how to play with it, pinching, pulling and rubbing it in circular motions. It was like stepping into warm water. The pleasure rose around them of its own accord, inevitable, tidal, as her cunt began to flutter and throb, making his cock tingle and throb in turn. 

He began thrusting inside her earnestly now, having found a cadence he could live in, hips moving with a wild energy that made her cling to him. Her leg curled around his waist and the angle changed, a shock of bliss tearing a rough sound from his chest. She smiled against his mouth, triumphant and tender. “There. Keep doing that.”

He kept it. The world dissolved into that one sure motion of gliding into her fluttering, pulling out till just the tip was in, and then gliding in right back. She murmured his name, over and over, little prayers of praise that made him feel older, steadier, entirely hers. When she orgasmed around him, it was with a gasp that clutched at his heart. He felt the tremor run through her and held on, eyes never leaving her face, as if the sight alone might remake him.

“That’s my clever boy,” she whispered, wrecked and glowing. “Stay with me.”

He stayed. The urgency returned, cleaner now, gathered into purpose. Each stroke was a vow he did not yet have words for. He braced his forehead to hers, breath mingling, and let the rhythm take him, not frantic, not thoughtless, but sure. When he finally spilled inside her, it was with a grateful sound that she swallowed in a kiss, her hands soothing him even as he shook with it.

After, he hovered, uncertain again, as if he was going into a guilt spiral once again. She tugged him down, palm warm over his racing heart. “You did beautifully, Gregory.” she said, voice low and pleased. “You listened. You learned me. That’s all I ever needed from you my darling. Was it good for you?”

He nodded shyly. “Was I good to you?”

“Oh, darling. You were exquisite.”

He laughed, breathless and boyish and unbearably sweet. “Teach me again,” he said. “Teach me everything about your body, Penelope.”

Her smile turned slow and wicked. “Oh, I intend to. But first stay right here in my arms, and feel how good you’ve made me.”

He did, sinking into her embrace, the rhythm of their lovemaking still echoing in his bones, certain at last that he had found it, and that it would always be there when he returned to her.

Her arms wound tightly around his back, holding him close as though she could fuse their bodies into one. His cock was still buried deep inside her, pulsing with every shiver that rippled through him. He was panting against her neck, rubbing the swell of her belly lovingly, feeling the babe inside her, half-dazed from the intensity of it all, when she caught his lips again.

At first her kiss was soft, tender, but soon it turned hungry. She sucked at his bottom lip, tugging gently until he moaned into her mouth. Her teeth grazed him, sharp enough to make him gasp, and she soothed the sting with another heated kiss.

Greg clung tighter, as though her mouth had bewitched him. Every bite, every slow drag of her lips set his blood alight. His hips twitched unconsciously, pressing him deeper, and she rewarded him with a low, throaty hum that vibrated against his lips.

Again and again she kissed him, fierce, insistent, unrelenting, leaving him breathless, dazed, and desperate for more. It wasn’t just his first time experiencing intimacy; it was his first surrender to her, and she was guiding him through it, making sure he would keep coming for more.

She cradled him in her arms, legs locked around his hips to hold him inside her. 

“Don’t pull away,” she whispered against his mouth, rocking her hips the faintest bit, enough to make him groan from the oversensitivity. “Stay with me. Feel me.”

Gregory shuddered, forehead pressed to hers. “It’s… too much. Should we—”

“Yes, we can and we should,” she cut in softly, kissing him again, her tongue coaxing his until he answered helplessly. “Your cock feels so perfect inside me. Don’t you dare waste it. Fill me. Just keep filling me. ”

She shifted beneath him, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that dragged him deeper into her soaked heat. He gasped, clutching her shoulders, torn between retreating from the unbearable sensation and sinking fully into it. She nipped his lip sharply, drawing another groan from him.

“Bite me back,” she urged, offering him her mouth, her neck, her skin. “Take what you want. I’ll show you how good it feels to keep going.”

He obeyed in ragged fragments, teeth catching her lower lip, then trailing down her throat as her hips guided his into motion again. Slowly at first, tentative thrusts that made her sigh with approval, but she wouldn’t let him escape the rhythm. Each time he faltered she pressed her heels into his back, pulling him deeper, murmuring praise and filth into his ear.

“That’s it… oh, you feel so thick still… don’t stop, love… keep filling me… your cock is mine tonight.”

Her words sent fire racing through him, his cock twitching inside her as though ready to answer her command. He started moving with her, hesitant groans turning to guttural growls as his body betrayed its hunger for hers.

She kissed him again—slow, wet, biting at his swollen lips—while rocking in time with him, her body coaxing his arousal back to life. The oversensitivity gave way to another swell of pleasure, hotter and sharper, and soon he was thrusting with desperate force.

Penelope clung to him, biting at his jaw, moaning into his mouth, whispering filth between kisses. “Yes, Greg—harder. Show me what you learned. Give me everything. I want you to come inside me again.”

Her tightness, her relentless encouragement, the way she writhed beneath him—it broke the last of his restraint. He buried himself deep, driving hard into her as though to brand himself on her body, until his moans turned into a hoarse cry and he spilled into her once more.

She kissed him through it, swallowing his sounds, milking him with her body until she felt him soften. Even then she held him close, still rocking, whispering against his lips: “That’s it, darling… again and again, I’ll take all you have.”

He nibbled at her neck softly, his lashes fluttering shut after a few minutes. Penelope stroked his hair, whispering promises only he would ever hear.

And when sleep finally claimed him, tangled in her sheets and scent, Penelope lay awake a little longer, a secret smile curving her lips. This had only been the beginning.

Chapter Text

The room was hushed save for the faint rustle of sheets and a low hum of words. Gregory blinked awake, heart thudding in confusion. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim lamplight, he realised the sounds of soft moans, softer whispers was real.

His gaze landed on the pair beside him. Penelope lay half-turned, her hair spilling loose over the pillows, And curled close to her, one hand spread protectively over the gentle swell of her belly, the other stroking up and down her body in idle, tender motions, was none other than his own father.

Gregory froze, his breath caught.

“Strong one, aren’t you?” Edmund murmured, voice low and honey-warm, as if speaking to someone very small and very precious. His palm moved in slow circles over her stomach. “You’ll keep her safe, won’t you? You’ll take care of your mama.”

Penelope gave a faint, sleepy sound, a half-moan, half-sigh and shifted under his touch, her lips curving into a drowsy smile. 

Edmund kissed her shoulder before lowering his mouth closer to her belly, whispering again: “You’re loved already, little one. More than you’ll ever know.”

Gregory’s chest tightened. He wondered what his father was doing here, in the middle of the night, stroking his daughter-in-law’s naked body with such tender care, talking to her belly bump, like an expecting father. And why hadn't he thrown a fit at finding him laying with Penelope, naked. He stared at his father, in wonder, and confusion… or both, watching his hands roam her body with care and devotion.

Penelope stirred awake, her eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet Edmund's. She held his gaze, gave him the faintest reassuring smile, then let her eyes close again as Edmund began circling his thumb around her nipple.

Gregory kept still, every muscle taut, watching Edmund’s other hand slide from Penelope’s stomach to her hip, then lower still, his touch feather-light yet purposeful. The sweet talking to the belly never ceased, murmurs threaded with devotion, but his fingers were unmistakably caressing her in ways Gregory knew wasn't normal for a father-in-law to touch his son's young wife.

Penelope, to his horror, arched faintly under his touch instead of shying away from it, a soft breath escaping her. It wasn’t just drowsiness, it was desire. Gregory’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Surely not.

But Edmund’s mouth pressed kisses along her shoulder, then trailed down the slope of her breasts. His palm splayed low over her belly, fingers edging inward, and Penelope’s moan was quiet but certain. She tilted her hips to him.

Gregory’s throat went dry.

He thought he should move, speak, do something—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He lay frozen, heart pounding, as truth dawned with a force that left him winded: Edmund wasn’t only tender with her because of the baby. He was tender with her because he too, was in some sort of physical relationship with her.

The whispers blurred, more breath than words now. Edmund’s hand roamed, coaxing another sound from her lips, low and needy. She turned into his touch, her fingers curling around his wrist, holding him there.

Gregory’s gut twisted…part jealousy, part awe, part shame at how his body stirred even as his mind reeled. He had thought Penelope belonged only to Anthony, and maybe sought Colin (and now, him, too) out when Anthony wasn't around. He had never allowed himself to imagine his father taking up the role of her lover. But here, in the dim light, with Edmund’s hands on her and her sighs answering him, the picture was undeniable.

And perhaps the strangest thing of all was how little it broke him, and how much it actually excited him.

Gregory lay there trembling, staring, as Edmund kissed her deeply, slowly, while his hand worked lower still. He forced his eyes to stay half-lidded, his breathing slow, though every nerve in his body was taut with awareness. He shouldn’t be seeing this. He should roll over, make a noise, anything. But he couldn’t.

Edmund was moving against Penelope now, his body pressing flush to hers, his hips fitting between her thighs. His voice was low and steady, still murmuring about the baby, about how beautiful she was carrying it, until his words slipped into groans that curled around her name.

Penelope’s arms rose to loop around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Her moans were soft but steady, lips parting against his, her body arching into every slow thrust of Edmund’s hips.

Gregory’s pulse thundered. He knew those sounds, knew that shiver in her breath. He had coaxed them from her himself. But hearing them now, given freely to his father was like watching the world tilt sideways.

And still he couldn’t look away.

Penelope gasped, head turning just so, her eyes slitting open. For the briefest moment Gregory thought she was staring at him. His chest seized. But her lashes lowered again, her sighs melting into Edmund’s mouth.

They didn’t know. They couldn’t know.

Gregory held his breath as long as he could, waiting for the moment when guilt would win out and force him to turn away. But then Edmund’s rhythm changed. Slower, deeper, almost theatrical in its unhurried intensity. He shifted, angling Penelope’s body so her breasts were arched proudly, her moans spilling in a steady cadence. It was too perfect. Too precise.

And then it happened.

Edmund’s eyes lifted. Clear, unwavering, piercing straight into Gregory’s.

Gregory froze, the bottom of his stomach dropping. He couldn’t even pretend to be asleep anymore. The weight of that gaze pinned him in place, made his pretense laughable.

A slow smile curved Edmund’s mouth. He pressed his lips to Penelope’s throat, making her whimper, but his eyes never left Gregory’s.

Penelope stirred as though sensing it. She turned her face, her flushed cheek pressed against Edmund’s shoulder, and then her eyes flicked open too. Her gaze sought Gregory’s in the dimness, holding it without shame. A little smile played over her lips, soft and knowing, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along.

Gregory’s breath hitched.

Edmund murmured something against her ear, words too low for Gregory to catch, and Penelope let out a throaty laugh. Then, without breaking Gregory’s gaze, she lifted her hand and trailed her fingers slowly down Edmund’s back, urging him deeper.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Edmund’s voice carried this time, pitched deliberately low and rich, meant to reach Gregory. His hips pressed into Penelope with a groan that shook the words apart. “Look at her, Greg. Look at how she opens her legs for me.”

Penelope’s eyes fluttered closed at his thrust, her lips parting in a soft cry, and Gregory could do nothing but watch. Heat pulsed low in his belly, tangled with disbelief, arousal, and something darker…an intoxicating knowledge that they wanted him to see, that they had staged this for *him*.

The truth settled over him like a shiver: he wasn’t intruding on their secret. He was part of it.

Gregory shifted on the edge of the bed, his brow furrowing as Edmund’s words sank in.

“Watch,” Edmund murmured, never slowing his thrusts into Penelope. “Watch how one is supposed to fuck his wife.”

Greg’s frown deepened. *Wife?* The word sat oddly, burning in his ears. Anthony’s wife…his sister-in-law. His father's daughter-in-law. That was who lay writhing beneath his father right now.

Edmund caught the flicker of confusion and chuckled, dark and smooth. He dipped his head to nip Penelope’s throat, then looked back at Gregory. “Yes. She’s my wife. Even though Anthony married her… she was mine first. I made her a woman. I taught her how to please a man.”

Penelope gasped at the words, her nails digging into Edmund’s back, her body clenching around him in fierce response.

Edmund’s smile widened. “Then came Anthony. And Colin. And now you.” He drove into her hard enough to make her cry out, his voice almost a growl as he finished, “She’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she? Loving all her husbands. Such a beautiful, loving wife of ours.”

Greg’s throat went dry. He should have protested, should have pushed back, but the words, the sight, the sound of Penelope’s shameless cries, melted every objection, along with the fact that he himself had been buried inside her not too long ago.

“Do you want to be her husband too, Greg?” Edmund asked, his tone coaxing, dangerous, almost kind. “Do you want her to be your wife?”

Greg’s eyes locked on Penelope, her flushed face tilted toward him, her mouth open and needy as she rocked beneath Edmund’s pounding thrusts. Mesmerised, he gave the smallest nod.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Penelope shivered at his answer, her cry breaking into a loud, unrestrained *yes*. She turned her head toward him, desperation lacing her voice. “Come here, Greg. Please. Let me taste your cum. Let me be your wife too.”

Edmund groaned in triumph as he slammed into her harder, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.

“Fuck her mouth, Greg,” he ordered, his voice hot and commanding. “While I fuck her cunt. Give her what she wants.”

Edmund shifted her body so she straddled his lap, her back pressed to his chest. Gregory moved towards them as if in trance, every nerve alight with disbelief and hunger as he crawled toward Penelope.

She looked at Greg, beckoning him closer with a trembling hand. Edmund’s voice follows, dark and velvety: “Come. She wants your mouth, son. Show her how hungry you are for her.”

Greg froze for just a second, his breath caught in his chest, but when Penelope’s hand curled at his waist and tugged him forward, instinct won. He pushed his cock into her mouth, and her lips sealed tight around him with a desperate little whimper. Heat and wetness engulfed him, so sudden and fierce it nearly made his knees buckle.

Behind her, Edmund’s hands gripped her waist and hauled her down onto his cock, forcing her to take every inch in one single thrust. She cried out around Greg’s length, the sound muffled and wet, and Edmund growled in satisfaction, rutting up into her with precision. Each upward slam shoved her deeper onto Greg’s cock, making her throat ripple around him, and Greg groaned helplessly, fingers digging into her fiery hair.

She was split in two, every thrust tearing another gasp from her, every movement an offering of her body to them both. Her tits bounced wildly, her body quivering, but still she urged them on with soft, muffled moans and the way she sucked Greg harder whenever Edmund drove deeper.

“See, son,” Edmund rasped, sweat dripping down his temple as he fucked up into her, “this is how she needs it. Stuffed full, taken apart, never left wanting.”

Greg could barely breathe, his hips jerking forward in ragged thrusts as her tongue fluttered along the underside of his cock. She made eager little noises, as though his helpless bucking pleased her, as though she needed him to lose himself just as much as his father did.

Penelope pulled back just enough to pant around Greg’s length, spit shining her lips, before gasping, “Yes… both of you… fuck me, my loves. Harder. Deeper…”

That plea undid the last thread of restraint. Edmund snarled and drove into her with feral thrusts, pounding her so hard the bed creaked beneath them. Greg bucked against her mouth, pushing himself between her lips again and again, until she gagged around him with a shudder that only seemed to thrill her further.

Pinned between them, Penelope gave herself over, a trembling vessel for their hunger. She adored it…every desperate thrust, every desperate groan. She was the centre of it all, their wife, their whore, their love, and she gloried in it as they used her body with wild devotion.

Greg’s hips jerked forward, his cock sliding deeper into Penelope’s throat as she moaned around him, the vibration making him groan. Her body was a frenzy of motion, riding Edmund’s thick cock with abandon, every thrust forcing her to cry out only to be muffled by Greg’s length filling her mouth.

Edmund’s hands gripped her hips hard, guiding her down, fucking up into her with steady, powerful strokes that made her shudder violently. “That’s it, darling,” Edmund groaned into her ear, his voice rich and commanding. “Take us both—show him how sweet a wife you can be.”

Penelope clawed at Greg’s thighs, urging him deeper, her muffled whimpers egging him on. Her cunt squeezed around Edmund so tight that he hissed, his jaw clenched. “Christ, look how she’s squeezing me, son…like she wants to milk me dry,” Edmund growled, snapping his hips upward until her body jolted.

Greg, dizzy with lust, watched her tear-streaked face, her eyes rolling back in bliss as she took him down her throat. The sight, the sounds, her broken moans, his father's filthy praise unravelled him.

And then Edmund’s voice came low, almost a growl, right over Penelope’s shoulder. “Listen, Gregory. This is your duty now too. If you want to make her your wife, do you understand?”

Greg whimpered, his hips stuttering against her lips, but he nodded helplessly, overwhelmed by pleasure.

“She needs to be filled,” Edmund continued, his tone dark and possessive yet tender, all at once. “Every day. Kept full of our seed until her body remembers who she belongs to. It will be your responsibility, Gregory. You will have to spill inside her, fill her up with your child, like we have done. Make her cum around you. Again and again, until she cries your name.”

Penelope moaned around Greg’s cock, shivering violently at Edmund’s words, her nails dragging down his thighs in frantic encouragement.

Greg cried out, thrusting harder into her mouth, every sound she made urging him on. He barely lasted, his vision blurring as he emptied down her throat with a broken groan.

She swallowed greedily, her body still bouncing on Edmund’s cock, crying out between gulps as Edmund fucked her harder, filling her just as he promised.

And through her gasps, her voice broke free, hoarse but radiant: “Yes—yes—I’m yours… all of yours…fill me…make me cum till I lose count…”

Edmund’s climax tore through him with a guttural growl, his cock pulsing deep inside Penelope’s fluttering cunt. He held her flush against his chest as he spilled into her, forcing her down on him until every drop of seed was locked inside. Penelope trembled, still moaning weakly around Greg’s softening cock, swallowing him down to the last pulse.

Greg collapsed back on his elbows, utterly undone, watching in dazed awe as Edmund cradled her through the aftershocks. The sight of her body twitching around Edmund’s thick length, her lips still streaked with his release, branded itself into Greg’s mind.

Edmund lifted his gaze, his expression firm but proud as he locked eyes with Greg. He stroked Penelope’s hair, soothing her, before speaking in that deep commanding tone.

“You see her, Gregory? This is devotion. This is how a wife is meant to be cherished, fucked, filled, and adored until she knows she is never without us.” He tilted Penelope’s chin so her dazed eyes met Greg’s. “She is yours now too. Your duty is to pleasure her, to keep her full every single day. Do you understand?”

Greg nodded breathlessly, his chest heaving. “Y-yes… I understand.”

Penelope’s soft, wrecked moan answered for him, her hand reaching out blindly to curl around Greg’s wrist.

Edmund pressed a kiss to her temple, then leaned closer to Greg, his words dropping to a growl. “And next time… it will not be just the three of us. Anthony and Colin would join us, too. All four of us pleasing our wife, filling her, until she knows there is no part of her left untouched. She will carry us all inside her.”

Penelope shuddered violently at the promise, her cry breaking free as her body clenched hard around Edmund, milking the last of his seed. Edmund smirked, his voice rough with satisfaction.

“You like that, my love? Even the thought of your four husbands taking you together makes you cum.”

Greg watched, utterly transfixed, the weight of Edmund’s words burning into his soul. His cock gave a weak, eager twitch at the thought of all four of them filling Penelope sending heat flooding back into his exhausted body. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on her blissed-out form draped against Edmund’s chest, her skin glowing, her lips still parted as she struggled for breath.

Edmund chuckled darkly, sensing Greg’s excitement. “Good. Hold onto that hunger, Gregory. You’ll need it.” Then his tone shifted, low and steady, the command of a man used to being obeyed. “But first, you will learn another part of being her husband. The part that matters just as much as fucking her full of your seed. Caring for her afterwards.”

He eased Penelope back against the pillows, pressing tender kisses down her flushed face before lowering to her rounded belly. His lips lingered there, slow and deliberate, as though sealing his seed into her womb with devotion. “Our wife,” he murmured against her skin, “and our children. Always cherished.”

Penelope let out a dreamy hum at the touch, her hand threading through his hair.

Edmund sat back and looked at Greg, his blue eyes firm. “Fetch a wash cloth. Now.”

Greg scrambled to obey, heart pounding as he dipped the cloth in the basin. When he returned, Edmund guided him with a steady hand.

“Here,” he said, placing his palm over Greg’s. “Wipe her thighs first. Always softly, never rushed. She’s tender now, her body used and open. Treat her as though she’s made of glass.”

Greg’s hands shook as he touched her, dragging the cloth carefully over her swollen folds slick with Edmund’s seed. Penelope whimpered faintly at the sensation, and Edmund stroked her hair soothingly.

“Shh, my love. Gregory will be gentle to you. He must learn how to soothe you, how to make you feel safe after we’ve taken you apart.”

Greg bit his lip, overwhelmed at the trust placed in him. Edmund’s voice was firm but approving.

“Good. Now dab, don’t scrub. Always keep her safe. She is the centre of our household, and it is our duty to worship her. Before, during, and after.”

Penelope’s lashes fluttered, and she gave Greg the faintest, weary smile. “Sweet Gregory… you’re doing so well, darling.”

Greg felt the praise burn through him like fire. He cleaned her carefully under Edmund’s watchful gaze, every stroke a lesson not just in care, but in devotion. And when he finally laid the cloth aside, Edmund bent once more to Penelope’s belly, kissing it tenderly, while Greg sat beside her with pounding heart, desperate for the day when he too would be worthy of filling her womb with his child.

Chapter Text

The rhythm of the household shifted when Edmund left again for Parliament. With him gone, and Anthony in Kent, it was Colin and Gregory left to circle Penelope like moths to her light.

Greg threw himself into the role Edmund had pressed into his hands, husband, caretaker, lover. The timidity that once made him falter at the thought of touching her was gone; now his hands found her swollen feet without hesitation, his thumbs kneading until her sighs melted into soft moans of relief. He rubbed her aching back, smoothed the tension from her shoulders, and kissed her fingertips when she praised him. Each act carried not only devotion but a growing claim, as though the more he tended to her, the more she became his.

Colin, of course, did not surrender her easily. He prowled around her with the same fierce protectiveness he always had, often sweeping her into his arms the moment Greg left her side. More than once Greg had to grit his teeth and fight him, sometimes with sharp words, sometimes with a stubborn grip on her wrist, just to keep Penelope's attention.

Penelope only laughed at their squabbles. She would tilt her head back, eyes gleaming with that secretive delight of hers, and stroke a hand down Greg’s cheek while her other hand held Colin’s. Then, one day, she smirked and delivered her verdict in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Afternoons are yours, Gregory. Nights belong to Colin.”

“Why nights belong to him? Nights are longer than afternoons.” Greg said, pouting adorably. 

Colin smirked, “Sure, but nights are for her to rest, sleep. And she sleeps better in my arms.”

“Colin!” Penelope chastised him lightly, “Greg, surely, would you not prefer afternoons when I'm wide awake and we can enjoy each other's company fully?

The words settled into Greg’s bones like a brand. Yes, he'd like that very much!

The first afternoon that was theirs alone felt like stolen treasure.

The house was hushed in Edmund’s absence, Colin was off on errands that gave Gregory the peace of mind that he wouldn't be interrupted and had Penelope all to himself. She was half-lounging on the settee when he approached, her belly rounded beneath her gown, her lips curved in a knowing smile as if she had already decided how the hours would unfold.

Greg sat beside her, at first shyly, though his chest thudded with the memory of Edmund’s command and Penelope’s decree…afternoons belonged to him. When she leaned toward him, her breath brushing his cheek, his hesitation vanished.

Their lips met. Soft at first, lingering, almost tentative. But when she cupped his jaw and tilted his head just so, something broke free inside him. He kissed her again, deeper this time, tasting her sigh, his hand finding her waist.

The hours melted away in a haze of mouths pressed together. They kissed until their lips tingled and their chests ached for breath. They kissed between murmured words, breaking apart only to smile at each other before closing the distance again. She guided him, teasing him into boldness, teaching him how to nip at her bottom lip until she gasped, how to suck gently until she melted against him.

At one point, she pulled him down so he lay half across her, her fingers threading through his hair as he kissed her slow and reverent, then faster, hungrier. Her giggle bubbled up when he followed her every move like an eager pupil, desperate to please. He caught the sound with his lips, swallowing it greedily, and she rewarded him with a long, languid kiss that had him groaning into her mouth.

Greg could not stop kissing her. Every time she tried to draw back, to take a breath, he caught her mouth again, lips hot and swollen, tasting of need. Hours seemed to stretch into nothing as they lay tangled on the bed, he loosened her gown at the neckline and kissed her bosom, his shirt was discarded soon as she tasted his nipples. His hands roamed, not with the old awkwardness but with a new claim, sliding over the swell of her breasts, her hips, the curve of her belly.

She tugged at his hair, deepening the kiss until he groaned, rutting helplessly against her thigh wildly. “You can use my cunt to stuff your hardness, you know.” she murmured between kisses, voice raw and throaty. “I’d prefer it much more than you humping on me uselessly.”

The words undid him. He kissed her harder, rougher. 

“Let me pleasure you first.” he whispered against her lips, then started roaming her hands around her body as his mouth kissed her neck. But she wasn’t satisfied with a peck on the neck. With a wicked smirk, she broke the kiss and guided him lower, her fingers curling in his hair, pressing his face down the length of her body.

“Between my legs,” she whispered, spreading her thighs slowly, teasingly. “Kiss me there. Taste me.”

Greg obeyed eagerly. His mouth found her heat, and the first brush of his tongue against her folds made her gasp aloud, hips jerking. He moaned at the taste of her, wet and intoxicating, and then he was lost. He licked and kissed, messy and eager, dragging his tongue through every part of her until she writhed.

“Yes… good boy,” she panted, grinding against his mouth. “That’s it. Don’t stop…don’t you dare stop.”

Her encouragement spurred him on, his hands locking around her thighs to keep her open for him as he feasted. Each cry she gave him only made him wilder, more desperate, as if he wanted to drown in her. She arched up, clutching at the sheets, until her whole body shuddered and broke apart on his tongue.

Greg didn’t stop even then. He kept kissing, tasting, worshipping the place she had told him to, murmuring incoherent sounds of devotion against her slick skin. 

Greg was still trembling when she pulled him up to kiss her, his mouth smeared with her taste. Penelope didn’t let him shy away. She kissed him deeply, licked her own pleasure from his lips, and moaned when his hips ground helplessly against hers.

“You’ve done well,” she whispered, her voice honey-thick and commanding. “And now you get your reward. You’re hard and aching, aren’t you? Use my cunt, Greg. Stuff me with your cock…”

“Yes pen… I'm going to stuff you with my cock… fuck my seed into you. Penelope, I love you. Let me spill inside you. Warm my cock afterwards. Please.. please, dear wife.”

Her hand slid down between them, wrapping around his length. He jolted at her touch, groaning, the sound feral and raw. She stroked him slowly, deliberately, until he was shuddering above her. Then, with a sly smile, she guided him lower, parting her thighs wide.

“Take me, Greg. I want you to fill me. Spill your hot seed deep into me.”

The words nearly undid him. He pushed forward, burying himself in her in one long, desperate thrust. Penelope arched, gasping at the stretch, at the sheer hunger in him. He froze, trembling, buried to the hilt, eyes glazed with the effort of holding back.

“Move,” she demanded, tightening her legs around his hips. “Don’t be gentle. Take what you’ve been begging for all afternoon.”

That snapped the last of his restraint. Greg drove into her with abandon, thrust after thrust, his mouth finding hers between ragged groans. He was clumsy at first, but the sheer ferocity of his need carried him. She clung to him, nails raking his back, urging him faster, harder, until the room echoed with the lewd noises of slap of skin and the broken moans tumbling from both their lips.

“God, Pen… you're so exquisite, I don't… I don't think I will last—”

“You will,” she hissed, biting his shoulder, claiming him. “You’ll give me everything. Spill it all inside me. Mark me as yours.”

Her words dragged a guttural cry from his chest. His thrusts grew frantic, almost savage, until he spilled with a shout, pulsing deep within her. He collapsed over her, shaking, still buried inside, still trying to kiss her even as his body gave out.

She held him, stroking his hair, a dark satisfaction curling through her. “That’s it. You’re so deep inside me, Gregory. Tell me, darling, will you always love me so?”

He whispered hoarsely against her skin, “Always.” And even as he softened within her, he shifted as if to start again, unable to stop wanting her.

Afternoons with her became his sanctuary. Stretched-out hours where he could kiss her slowly, learn the ways her body trembled when he touched her, practise the lessons his father had drilled into him, pleasure her, worship her, fill her. And when Colin came prowling at night, he had to watch her go willingly into his brother's arms, her sighs filling the darkened house while Greg lay awake, burning with hunger and possessive pride alike.

It was a strange heaven, and a strange torment, but Penelope’s smirk, her satisfied glow, made every struggle worth it.

And yet, as the days of his departure to Oxford neared, Gregory found himself restless with yearning. Desire still burned in him. The way her breasts filled his mouth, the way she cried out with his father's cock inside her, or Colin’s possessive hands marking her skin, all of it lived inside his memory like a brand. But what tugged at him most was the thought that he would soon be far away, and she would remain here, surrounded by their family.

They would still have her. Anthony in his role as husband, Colin in his secret claim on her heart and soul, even his father’s shadow lingering in her affections. But him? He would be the one left behind, the one waking in a cold bed in Oxford with no Penelope curled soft and warm against him.

So in those final days, Greg wanted more. Not simply to fuck her, though he could never get enough of her body… but to love her in gentler ways. To hold her close, nose buried in her hair, and keep her pressed to his chest as if memorising the shape of her for the lonely months ahead.

He doted on her shamelessly. He would bring her grapes and slices of soft cheese on a plate, feeding her one by one as she laughed at his insistence, ignoring Eloise and Hyacinth's clueless teasing about him holding a torch for his sister-in-law. They believed it to be a harmless infatuation. Why wouldn't they? They didn't know he had the privilege of watching Penelope shatter around his cock on a regular basis now. 

He brushed the crumbs from her lips with his thumb, kissed her sticky fingers after she licked at the sweetness of figs, although only in private, not in front of his sisters. He tucked her under his arm when she grew drowsy, stroking her hair and whispering how much he would miss her.

After lunch, when she lay exhausted for a quick cat nap, Greg slipped into bed beside her, content simply to curl around her and stroke her back. Sometimes, she woke from her nap to find him tracing idle patterns over her belly, or pressing soft kisses along her shoulder.  

“Greg,” she whispered once, turning in his arms. “You’ll come home to me, won’t you?”

“Always,” he promised, voice thick. “I’ll write, and I’ll count the days until I can hold you again. But let me take care of you now, so I’ll have something to keep me warm when I’m gone.”

And so he kept showering her with gentle touches, stolen kisses, little offerings of food and devotion. 

And then, beneath all his tenderness, there was a different kind of hunger stirring in Gregory’s heart and groins. It gnawed at him in the quiet hours when Penelope was asleep in his arms, and it rose up hot and insistent whenever he caught the memory of her flushed face, her body trembling, the sounds that tore from her throat.

He kept remembering that night. The night he had claimed her alongside his father.

Gregory hadn’t expected the sight to sear itself so deeply into his bones. The way her back had arched, her cries echoing in the room, her body overwhelmed by so much pleasure she could scarcely contain it. She was always generous with her responses; he’d felt her shatter under him before, seen her flush and gasp and whimper in bliss around his father's, Anthony and Colin's hands, mouth and cock. But nothing compared to that moment when she had surrendered to them both at once, her orgasm ripping through her with a force that left her sobbing into Edmund’s arms.

Gregory had watched her face as she came, watched the beauty of her surrender, and knew then it was etched into him forever.

Even now, the image haunted him. The sight of her, the sound of her, the way her body had tightened and convulsed around them. He wanted it again. Needed it again. Not just the intimacy of being inside her, he longed for that particular intensity, the unrestrained, almost feral way she had given herself when two men had claimed her at once.

It was a primal craving. He wanted to coax her to that edge again, to feel her body break apart under the weight of such overwhelming pleasure. To see her writhe between him and another, to hear her scream with delight until she was utterly undone.

Gregory’s mouth went dry just imagining it. The hunger coiled inside him, battling with his softer desire to hold her close before Oxford. He wanted to dote on her, yes… but he also wanted to fuck her senseless, to make her sob out his name, to taste again that heady, unforgettable sweetness of her surrender when she was filled by more than one man.

It left him restless, pacing, torn between the tender lover he wanted to be and the greedy, hungry man who longed to share in that overwhelming claiming once more. But he did not know how to broach the subject. Could he be uncouth enough to directly suggest it? Or would it make him seem needy?

He did not have to broach the subject at all, as the perfect opportunity to experience Penelope's undoing presented itself soon.

It was a rainy Wednesday evening when Greg stumbled upon Colin and Penelope fucking like wild rabbits in his father's study when Edmund was out doing his viscount duties.

Penelope’s bare back was pressed against the dark oak panelling of the study wall, her dress bunched at her waist, legs wrapped tight around Colin’s hips. Each thrust of his cock drove a gasp from her lips, her nails raking over his shoulders as she clung to him, wanton and unrestrained. The dim lamplight caught the sheen of sweat on their bodies, the air thick with the sounds of skin meeting skin and Penelope’s desperate little cries.

The door creaked.

Gregory froze in the doorway, eyes wide as he caught the sight of them. Colin taking Penelope hard against the wall, her flushed face turned over his shoulder. Penelope’s gaze snapped to him, pupils blown wide,and her lips curled into a sly, breathless smile.

“Stay,” she whispered, voice husky from being fucked so hard. Her fingers reached out over Colin’s shoulder, beckoning. “Don’t leave, Gregory. Come here.”

Colin stilled inside her, chest heaving, and turned his head just enough to catch the youngest Bridgerton’s dazed expression. A slow grin spread over his face.

“Don’t just stand there, Greg. She told you to come closer, so why not join us?”

Gregory blinked, throat bobbing as he swallowed, the undeniable arousal straining against his trousers.

“Are…Are you sure…”

Penelope moaned, deliberately rolling her hips on Colin’s cock to make him groan. Her voice was wickedly coaxing as she murmured, “so sure, Greg! I want you too. I want to feel you. Colin will show you what to do.”

“Oh wouldn't you want me to show him?” Colin chuckled darkly against her neck, his hand sliding possessively over her belly as if displaying her to Gregory. “She’s hungry for it, brother. And I think you’re hungry for her too. Come closer. Watch how she opens for me… then you’ll learn how to give her what she craves.”

Gregory stepped inside drawn as though by a magnet. Penelope’s gaze never left his, heavy with lust.

Colin shifted, holding Penelope firmly against the wall, then he shifted her as Gregory stepped closer and pressed her back onto his youger sibling’s chest. He tilted his head toward Gregory.

“First, brace her body in your firm hold. Then, you’re going to help me prepare her to take you in. This isn’t a quick fuck, Greg. This is about learning how to take care of her needs properly …especially here…” His free hand slid down, between Penelope’s thighs, brushing the rim of her other, untouched hole. Penelope gasped at the contact, her eyes fluttering shut before she looked back at Gregory and nodded eagerly.

“Oh Colin…” she moaned softly. “You, wicked, wicked man.” Colin kissed her half-open eyelids, before pressing a gentle kiss on her temple.

Gregory held her close now, his pupils dilated as he watched Colin stroke between Penelope’s thighs. She shivered against his body, lips parted in a moan, and reached out her hand towards his hand.

“Touch me, Greg.” she whispered, her voice thick with need. “I want to feel both of you inside me.”

Gregory rushed to rub her puckered hole at once, but Colin caught his wrist before he could touch her, his voice taking a steady and commanding tone. “Not so fast. You don’t just rush a woman. Especially not here.” His fingers circled the puckered rim, slicking it with her wetness he’d already gathered from between her folds. “This part needs care. Patience. You don’t shove your cock in unprepared unless you want to hurt her. And I don’t allow anyone to hurt my Pen.”

Gregory nodded quickly, biting his lip. “Yes… I understand.”

“Good lad.” Colin guided Gregory’s hand downward, until his fingers brushed against Penelope’s slick, dripping cunt. Her body jolted at the touch, a gasp tearing from her throat. Colin pressed Gregory’s hand more firmly. “Feel that? She’s wet enough to drown you. That’s what you use to prepare her.”

Penelope bucked against both of them, her voice fevered. “Please, Gregory… don’t be shy. Colin’s right, I need you to work slowly… but I still need you.”

Gregory exhaled shakily and, under Colin’s guiding hand, slid two fingers through her wetness, gathering it until they glistened. Colin growled low, approving. “Now… here. Coat her with it.” He nudged Gregory’s hand lower, until his fingers circled that tighter, untried ring of muscle.

Penelope cried out, pressing her head back against the wood as Gregory’s slick fingers brushed her there. “Yes… oh God, yes. Do it again.”

Gregory’s jaw clenched, his hand trembling slightly as he obeyed, rubbing careful circles. Colin rocked his hips, once again pressing his hardness in her cunt, making her moan even louder. “See how she opens when she’s begging? That’s your invitation, Greg. Push one finger in. Slowly.”

Gregory hesitated, looking at Penelope. Her eyes locked on his, molten and insistent. “I want it, love. Give it to me.”

Encouraged, he pressed in. Penelope’s body clenched, a sharp gasp leaving her, but her nails dug into Colin’s shoulders, urging them both on. Colin groaned against her throat, his tone half-growl, half-praise.

“That’s it. Feel how tight she is? You’ll never forget that. Go deeper. She can take it.”

Gregory sank his finger in her knuckle deep, and Penelope whimpered, writhing between them. Colin kissed her temple, then looked back at Gregory with a feral glint. “Now… add another. Stretch her nicely. She deserves to be filled properly.”

Penelope turned her face to Gregory, her lips parted, breath ragged. “You’re doing so well, love. Both of you. Don’t stop now.”

Gregory’s knuckles trembled where they pressed against Penelope's arsecheeks, one finger buried, her body clenching around him in molten heat. Colin rocked inside her cunt in shallow, taunting strokes, grinding her into the wall. His voice rumbled low against her ear.

“She’s gripping you like a fist, isn’t she? That’s her body learning you. She needs more, though. Give her two.”

Gregory’s eyes flicked up to Penelope's face, uncertain. “Won’t it hurt you?”

Penelope’s laugh came broken and breathless. “God, no. I need it. Please, Gregory…do what Colin says. He knows me better than myself.”

Her hand left Colin’s shoulder, trailing down until her fingers closed around Gregory’s wrist, guiding him herself. She pressed, urging him to add another finger. Gregory swallowed hard and eased a second finger against that tight ring, pushing past the resistance.

Her gasp echoed sharp in the study, thighs trembling, head tipping back. Colin caught her moan with his mouth, swallowing the sound hungrily. He broke the kiss to snarl at Gregory, “Don’t stop now. Push through. She can take every inch.”

Gregory obeyed, sliding both fingers deep. The stretch made Penelope keen, her hips jerking forward between their bodies. “Yes—fuck, yes—” she cried, biting at Colin’s jaw. Her eyes fluttered open, landing on Gregory. “Deeper. Make me feel it.”

Gregory did as told, curling his fingers inside her. The way her body jolted, how her walls fluttered around Colin’s cock at the same time, had Gregory groaning aloud. “God, she’s… she’s so tight here.”

Colin’s smirk was feral, possessive. “Tight, you say? Wait until you’re buried in her arse and she’s clenching around your cock. Nothing compares. Keep stretching her…work her open, brother.”

Penelope writhed, grinding back on Gregory’s fingers while Colin thrust harder, deliberately syncing the rhythm to keep her caught between them. Her nails raked Colin’s shoulders, then dragged down to clutch Gregory’s forearm, nails biting in.

“More,” she begged, voice breaking. “Colin—tell him. I want it. I want him ready for me.”

Colin kissed her throat savagely before giving the order, his tone sharp. “Add a third. Slow, Greg. She’ll scream for you if you do it right.”

Gregory hesitated only a breath before pushing a third finger against her stretched rim. Penelope cried out, her body arching off the wall, caught between pleasure and burning stretch. But her words spilled desperate and greedy: “Yes—oh God, more, Gregory, don’t stop—”

Colin’s grin darkened, his hips grinding deep. “See? That’s her begging for you. Stretch her properly, and then you’ll be rewarded nicely.”

Gregory’s breath hitched, his own hardness straining. He worked his fingers carefully, opening her inch by inch, until she writhed helplessly between them, slick and trembling.

Her body was quivering against the wall, Colin spearing her from the front in relentless thrusts while Gregory’s fingers kept stretching her open. Penelope’s breath came ragged, her breasts crushed against Colin’s chest, but her eyes were locked on Gregory now — hungry, commanding.

“Enough,” she gasped, writhing on his hand. “Gregory… take your fingers out. I need you inside me.”

Gregory’s throat bobbed as he withdrew his slick fingers, his cock straining in his trousers. He hesitated only until Colin’s hand shot out, gripping his jaw.

“Don’t freeze now,” Colin growled, his eyes a storm. “Undo your trousers. She’s ready for you. She wants it, and you’re going to give it to her.”

Gregory fumbled at his buttons, his breath shuddering, cock springing free when he finally shoved his trousers low. Precum slicked his tip, the sight of Penelope trembling open for him undoing him completely.

Colin kept thrusting into her cunt, sharp, deliberate, each one making her body jolt against the wall. He bent, teeth scraping her ear. “Guide him, Pen. Show him how much you want his cock.”

Her eyes darkened with that greedy spark Colin adored. She reached back blindly, fingers curling around Gregory’s length, smearing him wet with her slick from his hand. He groaned at her touch, hips twitching forward, and she lined him up against her stretched rim.

“Here,” she whispered, voice low and commanding, “feel how ready I am for you.”

Gregory’s tip pressed against her, the resistance making him groan in disbelief. “God… You're so tight. I—”

“Push,” Colin snarled, his rhythm deepening as he fucked into her front channel. “Don’t you dare pull back. She’s begging for it. Let her take you in.”

Gregory obeyed, pressing forward. The tight ring yielded slowly, inch by inch, and Penelope cried out in a half sob, half moan, her nails raking down Colin’s back as her body was stretched to the limit.

“Yes!” she gasped, head thrown back against the wall. “God, yes, move now… don’t stop.”

Gregory groaned as the head of his cock slipped past the resistance, sinking into impossible heat. Her body clamped around him like a vice, dragging him in. He stilled, gasping. “Pen…are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you—”

She twisted her head, eyes blazing. “Then fuck me properly.”

Colin’s laugh was low, dangerous, approving. He caught Gregory’s hip, dragging him deeper even as he drove himself hard into her from the front. “You heard her. If you retreat now, it will hurt her feelings. Bury yourself inside her, Greg. Fill her while I do.”

Gregory groaned and thrust forward, sinking deeper into her arse as Colin slammed home into her cunt. Penelope was pinned between them, her body stretched impossibly full, her moans echoing in the study.

Her voice cracked, bliss-drenched, but urgent. “Both of you…don’t stop. Fill me. Now.”

Gregory’s body trembled as he bottomed out inside her, his chest heaving against her back. Colin didn’t give him a moment’s grace. With one savage thrust forward, he forced Penelope to cry out, the movement making Gregory’s cock shift deeper inside her arse at the same time.

She screamed his name, nails clawing into Colin’s shoulders. “Yes—God, don’t stop!”

Colin’s jaw was clenched, sweat running down his temple, but his voice was iron. “Now you feel it, Gregory? This is what it means to take her properly. You don’t just stand there, purposeless. You move with me.”

His hand wrapped around Gregory’s hip, guiding him. Colin pulled back, his cock dragging from her drenched heat, and shoved in again just as he yanked Gregory forward, forcing them both into her in perfect, devastating tandem.

Penelope’s body convulsed, head slamming back against the wall, hair tumbling wild around her flushed face. “Oh—oh God—you’re splitting me open—”

“That’s the point,” Colin rasped against her mouth, swallowing her cry in a bruising kiss. “You wanted this. Both of us. Now take it, my love.”

Gregory groaned, hips jerking forward as the rhythm caught. Each time Colin pulled back, he was pressed deeper. Each time Colin slammed forward, Penelope was filled to the brim, every nerve in her body strung tight.

Her cries became high, frantic, almost incoherent, one hand clutching at Colin’s neck, the other reaching back to grip Gregory’s arm like she might break from the intensity if she wasn’t anchored.

Colin’s voice cut through the raw sounds of skin on skin. “That’s it. Good. Keep your pace with mine, lad. Don’t you dare come until she does.”

Gregory gasped, sweat beading at his brow. “She’s—Christ, she’s so tight—I can barely—”

“You’ll last,” Colin snarled, his thrusts pounding into Penelope, the force rocking the shelves around them. “Because she’s not done yet. Look at her, brother. Look at how greedy she is for us both.”

Penelope was beyond words, her body shuddering as she clenched around them, her sobs of pleasure muffled against Colin’s neck. “More—harder—please—don’t stop, I’m—”

Both men drove into her at once, their rhythm fierce and unrelenting, every thrust making her cry louder, more desperate, until her whole body quaked on the edge of release.

Colin caught her chin, forcing her eyes open, his voice low, commanding, yet tender. “Look at me, Pen. You’re going to come with both of us inside you. Right now.”

Penelope’s body was strung tight as a bow, every nerve firing at once. Each brutal stroke drove her higher — Colin’s cock spearing into her dripping heat, Gregory’s filling her tight rear channel. They moved as one now, their rhythm merciless, perfectly matched, leaving her no breath, no reprieve.

“Colin—Colin, I can’t—I want to cum now… please” she gasped, half sobbing.

“Of course, you can cum, love,” he growled, his lips crashing against hers in a searing kiss. His hips slammed forward, and he pressed Gregory tighter into her back, forcing him to match the punishing pace. “You’ll come for me, sweetheart. Right now. You’ll come with both of us inside you.”

Gregory groaned against her ear, his breath ragged. “She’s—God, she’s clenching so hard—I can’t hold it—”

Colin’s hand shot out, gripping the back of Gregory’s neck, commanding, controlling. “Not yet. She comes first.” His thrusts grew sharper, deeper, his words hot and fierce against Penelope’s ear. “You hear me, Pen? Let go. Let us feel you fall apart around our cocks.”

Her body obeyed before her mind caught up. A scream tore from her throat, muffled against Colin’s mouth as she shattered, her body convulsing violently around both cocks. Her muscles spasmed, clenching Gregory so tightly he nearly cried out in pain, milking Colin in frantic pulses.

Colin hissed through his teeth, holding himself back with sheer force of will, even as Penelope shook in his arms. “Good girl. My lovely, beautiful siren. You take us both so perfectly.”

Gregory was whimpering now, sweat dripping down his face, his hips jerking wildly as he fought to hold on. “Fuck, I can’t—I won't be able to hold—”

Colin’s eyes burned into his, authority absolute. “Now. Give it to her. Fill her. She’s ready for you.”

Gregory’s groan was guttural, torn from deep in his chest as his body gave in. His thrusts turned erratic, hips slamming against her arse as he spilled into her with a helpless cry. Penelope moaned at the heat of it, the sensation dragging her into another trembling aftershock.

Only then did Colin let himself go, pounding into her once more before burying himself to the hilt. His release tore through him, raw and overwhelming, his growl vibrating against her throat as he emptied himself deep inside her.

They clung together, trembling, the study thick with the scent of sex, the sound of three ragged breaths filling the silence. Penelope sagged against their bodies, utterly spent, both men holding her up, their cocks still inside her, unwilling to let go just yet.

Colin pressed a kiss to Penelope's temple, his voice hoarse but firm. “That’s how you do it, Gregory. You learn to control yourself before you bring her to the brink of ecstasy. Remember that.”

For a long moment, none of them moved. The room was thick with heat, with sweat, with the sharp tang of release. Penelope sagged boneless between them, her face pressed into Colin’s chest, her lashes wet and cheeks flushed.

Colin eased himself out of her slowly, careful not to make her flinch. Gregory followed a moment later, both men holding her steady as her legs trembled beneath her.

“Easy, love,” Colin murmured against her hair, sliding an arm beneath her knees and lifting her effortlessly into his arms. He carried her to the worn leather chair by the fireplace, lowering her into it with gentle care, as if she were something precious.

Gregory hovered uncertainly, his chest rising and falling in quick jerks. “She—she looks spent… Did we hurt her?”

Colin shot him a look, not unkind, but firm. “Not hurt. Overwhelmed. There’s a difference. And this,” he said as he knelt by Penelope, brushing damp hair from her face, “this is where you learn the most important lesson.”

Penelope gave a small, dreamy hum when his fingers traced her jaw. Colin pressed a tender kiss to her lips, feather-light, worlds away from the bruising ones earlier.

“Caring for her after ravishing her,” Colin continued, his voice softer now, guiding Gregory as if it were a lecture. “You don’t leave her raw and shaking. You stay. You soothe. You remind her she’s safe, adored. Loved.”

He reached for the decanter on the side table, pouring a glass of water. He pressed it into Gregory’s hand. His look seemed to say, “Go on. Offer it to her.”

Gregory dropped to one knee beside them, still catching his breath, but he held the glass with both hands, bringing it to Penelope’s lips. “Here, my dear. Sip slowly.”

Her lips curved faintly as she accepted it, eyes fluttering half-open to meet his. “Thank you, Gregory.”

He flushed, ducking his head, clearly undone by even that small gratitude.

Colin’s gaze softened, watching them. Then he reached for a throw draped across the chair and wrapped it around Penelope’s shoulders. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, settling beside her. His hand rested gently over her stomach, grounding her. “You took us both so well. I’m proud of you.”

Gregory looked on, torn between awe and hunger for the same confidence Colin carried.

Colin finally looked at him again, his tone instructional yet warm. “You see now? The fucking is easy. Any man can rut into her. But the care afterwards… that’s what makes you worthy of her trust. Remember that.”

Penelope, drifting on the edge of sleep, leaned into Colin’s side, murmuring, “My Colin always knows the best…”

Colin’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, one hand stroking her hair as though she were the most precious thing in the world. He glanced back at Gregory, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Today’s lesson is complete, brother. Now I’m going to take her to my bed and let her rest. You’ll learn more later, if she wants you to.”

Gregory swallowed, heat rising in his throat. He nodded mutely, watching as Colin lifted Penelope with such unthinking ease, cradling her against his chest as though she weighed nothing at all. She curled instinctively into him, trusting, safe.

Greg remained where he was, silent, his chest tight as Colin carried her away to her bed for the night.

Alone, the silence pressed in. He sat back and let his mind race, replaying every shift of the evening, every look, every sound. And most of all, the way Colin was with her.

It was different with Colin—utterly different. His father's passion had been fierce, commanding, a storm that swept her up until she drowned in it. She had responded to it, gloriously so, shattering apart in ways that had left Gregory reeling just to witness it. But Colin’s touch was another thing entirely. He didn’t just take her—he knew her. He watched, he listened, he gave her exactly what she needed before she even asked. It wasn’t only possession. It was love, threaded through every kiss, every touch, every word.

Gregory realised with a pang that this was what he wanted to be. Not just a man who knew the mechanics of pleasure, but a husband who could read her heart as well as her body. Someone she could lean into, someone who knew when she needed softness and when she needed to be undone.

Colin seemed to always know. And Penelope seemed to trust him without hesitation.

Greg exhaled slowly, determination threading through his thoughts. Oxford loomed ahead, the ache of leaving her already beginning to gnaw at him. But he promised himself, right there, that he would learn. That he would watch, and listen, and love her the way Colin did—with that quiet certainty, that blend of tenderness and hunger that made her shine all the brighter.

He wanted to be the kind of husband Penelope deserved.

And as sleep finally tugged at his limbs, one truth rang steady in his mind: he had time to learn, and he would use every moment of it.

Chapter Text

The morning room was unusually lively. Anthony had returned from Kent the evening before, and the air still carried the aftertaste of celebratory cheer. Penelope sat beside him, glowing with her pregnancy hormones, while he leaned in and brushed a quick kiss to her lips before reaching for his tea. A simple, casual thing, but in Gregory’s eyes it burned like a brand.

Anthony was the only one who could do that, openly, without raising a single brow. Edmund, Colin and he had to hide their affections, had to tuck them away in glances and touches no one else would notice. But Anthony? He was free to press his lips to hers whenever he liked, and the smug bastard knew it.

Gregory stabbed his toast a little harder than necessary.

Across the table, Francesca tilted her head, studying him with an arched brow. “What is that sour expression for, Greg? You look as though your tea has curdled.”

Greg cleared his throat, schooled his face, and reached for his cup. “Umm… nothing. Truly. It’s only—I’m off to Oxford in a week, and Anthony hasn’t taken me to a single tavern. Not one!” He pitched his voice with mock-offence, hoping to steer her curiosity elsewhere.

Anthony, midway through buttering a roll, shot him a dry look. “Oxford will have taverns aplenty. You’ll survive.”

Eloise, of course, seized her chance. “Oh, I can just picture it. Our Gregory staggering out of some smoky inn with a tavern wench on each arm like a seasoned rake. What a scholarly impression you’ll make!”

Greg choked on his tea. “Eloise—!”

Before he could sputter a proper defence, Edmund cut in sharply, his tone carrying the weight of eldest authority. “Eloise.” Just her name, nothing more. But it was a chastisement that silenced her immediately. She shrugged, unrepentant, and bit into her bread with a smirk.

Greg slumped back in his chair, cheeks hot, wishing the table would stop feeling like a stage. Colin, of course, chuckled softly under his breath, far too amused for Greg’s liking. Penelope only hid a smile behind her teacup, eyes bright with some secret amusement.

And Gregory, still simmering, forced himself to laugh along, even as the knot of jealousy twisted in his gut.

Gregory cornered his father and Colin in the study, the words tumbling out before he lost his nerve.

“Why is it Anthony alone who may claim her openly? Why not us as well? Why do we have to pretend—hide—when she belongs to us too?”

Edmund put aside the letter he had been scanning, eyes lifting with steady calm. Colin stiffened but said nothing, watching Gregory instead.

“For the sake of propriety, son,” Edmund said at last. His tone was mild, but it had that edge of finality Gregory hated.

Greg shook his head. “That is not answer enough. Not when my chest burns every time I see him touch her so openly and I cannot.”

Edmund’s gaze lingered on him a long while, then he exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. “Very well. You deserve the truth.”

Gregory blinked, startled as his father’s voice dropped into the quiet rhythm of confession.

“When I first took Penelope’s virtue, I was not kind. I thought her a schemer—a girl intent on ensnaring a Bridgerton, and it mattered little which one. My belief was only confirmed when I discovered she had lain with Anthony, in a stable of all places.” He glanced at Colin, who tensed but did not deny it. “And so I sought to ruin her further, drawing Colin into the affair. At the time, I told myself it was retribution.”

Colin’s jaw tightened. “Father—”

Edmund raised a hand. “Let me finish.”

His voice softened now, less stern, more contemplative. “It was only after those first reckless nights that I realised the truth. Penelope did not crave a title. Nor was she simply led by her body. What she wanted—what she had been starved of—was love. To be cherished. To be honoured. She had been overlooked by her family, dismissed by society. And when she saw the desire in our eyes, when she felt wanted, she melted. She blossomed. That sweetness… that hunger to be loved… I could not turn away from it. None of us could.”

Colin’s eyes softened at that, and Gregory, despite his confusion, felt something twist painfully in his chest.

“She always had a tender spot for Colin,” Edmund continued, his hand resting on his youngest son’s shoulder, “and Colin has loved her in silence for years. But I, and Anthony, fell to the same madness. And so we have learned this: our jealousy cannot rule us. Not if we mean to keep her safe and joyful. Our duty is not only as lovers but as guardians of her happiness.”

Greg’s protest faltered on his lips.

“And as for claiming her under this roof,” Edmund added, his tone sharpening again, “there is timing to consider. I have daughters to marry, alliances to secure. Daphne is well matched with Hastings, but Eloise, Francesca, Hyacinth—they must be settled before whispers of scandal touch our house. Once that is done, once the girls are gone and the household is quieter, then—” he met Gregory’s gaze steadily “—then Penelope may be ours, fully, without fear.”

Greg swallowed hard, caught between resentment and a dawning, grudging understanding.

Colin finally spoke, voice low but firm. “So we wait. For her sake. Not for ours.”

Edmund nodded once. “Exactly. For her sake, always.”

 Colin leaned forward, gaze steady on him. “You’re young yet, Greg,” he said quietly. “What you feel—your jealousy, your longing—it’s real, I don’t deny it. But it isn’t enough.”

Greg’s head snapped up. “Not enough?”

“Not for her,” Colin replied. His tone was firm but not unkind. “Pen deserves men who are not only wild with wanting her but capable of protecting her. Of standing beside her with pride. You’ve a clever mind, but you waste it on sulks and tavern talk. Go to Oxford. Go with an open mind. Sharpen that brain of yours, fill it with something more than pining, and when you return—” Colin’s mouth curved into the faintest smile “—come back as someone worthy of Pen.”

Greg’s cheeks flushed crimson, and for a moment he looked as though he might lash out. But the fight left him almost as quickly as it came, replaced by something rawer—longing, pride, determination, all tangled together. He gave a jerky nod.

“I will,” he muttered, the words half vow, half promise.

Edmund’s lips curved in quiet approval, while Colin leaned back, satisfied he had struck the right chord.

That night Edmund, Anthony and Colin gathered in the viscount's study, with their wife, to discuss the fate of the unmarried Bridgerton sisters. Penelope was settled comfortably on Edmund’s lap on the settee, his hand idly rubbing soft circles over her belly. Her eyes fluttered half-closed, the gentle rhythm lulling her, though the faint ache in her legs betrayed her weariness.

Colin sat close beside them, Penelope’s slippered feet propped in his lap. His large palms glided over her calves and ankles in long, soothing strokes, working away the stiffness. Every so often, his thumbs pressed just a little firmer, coaxing a sigh of relief from her.

Anthony, sprawled in the armchair opposite, observed the domisticity with a mixture of fondness and faint impatience. “Are we here to discuss family business,” he drawled, “or to watch you two play nurse to my wife?”

“Our wife.” Colin’s lips curved faintly but he didn’t pause in his ministrations. “Both can be done at once,” he said smoothly. “Speaking of family business, I’ve been giving some thought to our sisters’ prospects.”

Anthony’s brows rose. “Have you, now? Do tell.”

Colin’s gaze flicked briefly down to Penelope before returning to his brothers. “Lord Michael Sterling. The new Earl of Kilmartin. He would make a fine match for Eloise.”

Anthony barked a laugh. “Sterling? He’s a rake. Half the clubs in London tell tales of him. And Eloise… would she even want to meet such a man?”

Colin’s hand slowed over Penelope’s leg, his thumb tracing absent circles at her ankle. “We won’t state it outright. There’s no need. Invite him here, see how he and Eloise cross paths under our roof. If nothing comes of it, no harm done. But if there’s a spark…” He shrugged. “Then we’ve not stood in the way of it.”

Edmund’s hand stilled at Penelope’s belly, his thoughtful gaze flicking between his sons. “A sound suggestion,” he said finally. “We needn’t force Eloise into anything, but a quiet opportunity may do her good. Sterling’s reputation aside, he has a clever mind and the means to provide for her. And I daresay Eloise might relish taming a rake.”

Penelope stirred then, her voice low but clear. “If anyone is equal to the task of taming a rake, it is Eloise. She’d likely have him quoting Wollstonecraft by the end of the week.”

Anthony snorted, despite himself. “That is precisely what I fear.”

Penelope tilted her head back against Edmund’s chest, a small smile curling her lips. “You needn’t fear it, Anthony. Eloise would never let herself be outwitted. If she finds Lord Sterling tolerable, it will be because she’s already beaten him at his own game.”

Colin’s mouth curved as he looked down at her, pride sparking in his eyes. Edmund chuckled, tightening his arm around her waist. Even Anthony, with a shake of his head, allowed the subject to rest there—for now.

Penelope stifled a yawn, her lips parting in the softest, most unguarded way. She tried to cover it with her hand, but not quickly enough—Colin caught it, his smile deepening as his fingers smoothed once more over her calf.

Anthony leaned forward in his chair, amusement crinkling his eyes. “Alright,” he declared, rising with mock solemnity, “I think it’s time I take our wife to bed for the night.”

Penelope’s cheeks warmed as she gave a small laugh. “I am hardly falling asleep mid-conversation.”

“You’re halfway there,” Edmund rumbled against her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple. His hand slid protectively over her middle again. “Go on, sweet girl. Rest.”

Anthony moved to her side and offered his hand. She blinked up at him, a touch dazed but still smiling, before letting him pull her gently to her feet. Colin’s touch lingered at her ankle a moment longer, reluctant to let go, before he finally released her with a low murmur.

“Sleep well, Pen. We’ll handle Eloise and the rake tomorrow.”

She pulled him for a quick kiss on the lips. “Try not to plot my sister-in-law’s life away without my counsel,” she teased, before letting Anthony guide her from the study.

Anthony closed the door to their chamber with his usual quiet decisiveness, the faint click shutting out his brothers and the world beyond. He guided Penelope towards the bed, helping her ease down onto the soft mattress. She stretched out with a sigh, her body pliant, hair tumbling loose over the pillows.

He bent to unlace her slippers and set them aside, his large, capable hands moving with tender precision. 

“Are you going to ravish me tonight?” Penelope asked drowsily.

“You’re utterly spent,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I am,” she admitted, eyes half-closed as she watched him, “but…” Her fingers brushed his wrist, hesitant and wanting at once. “I still want you. I’ve no energy to do much of anything, Anthony… but I’d like you to take me anyway. To prepare me as you always do and then—” she bit her lip, cheeks flushing, “—just bury yourself inside me and use me. I want that. I want you.”

For a moment he only looked at her, something fierce and unguarded flashing in his dark eyes. Then he leaned over her, brushing her hair back from her face, his voice low, reverent. “You’ll have me, sweetheart. Exactly as you want.”

He took his time—sliding his hands over her body, warming her skin, kissing the tender places until her sighs grew softer, lazier. His fingers worked her open with exquisite patience, coaxing her to readiness even though she barely stirred beneath him, her body limp with trust. When he finally pressed into her, slow and steady, her lashes fluttered and a breathy sound escaped her lips—relief, surrender, pleasure all at once.

Anthony’s control snapped the moment he felt her body yield so easily around him. The desparate sounds she made undid him. His thrusts deepened, sharper, more demanding, as though he couldn’t bear the distance between them, not even a breath of it.

Penelope clung to him instinctively, fingers curling into his shoulders though her limbs were heavy with exhaustion. She let him take what he needed, her gasps spilling into his mouth as he kissed her hungrily.

“God, Penelope,” he rasped against her lips, his voice ragged, “you feel so good around my cock.”

Her answering whimper only spurred him on. He gripped her thighs, pressing her deeper into the mattress, the slick heat of her surrounding him so completely that his vision blurred. His pace grew relentless, raw desire fuelling him as he rutted into her.

The sharp cry she gave when orgasm finally overtook her was muffled in his shoulder. Her body seized around him, pulsing tight, drawing him deeper still as her orgasm ripped through her in trembling waves. Anthony held her through it, murmuring praise, kissing the crown of her head, her temple, her cheeks damp with tears of release.

When she finally sagged, utterly spent, he stayed inside her, keeping her cradled in his arms as though she were the most precious thing in the world.

“Sleep now, my love,” he whispered, brushing her hair back tenderly. “I’ve got you.”

And with his seed still warm inside her, she drifted into sleep.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, pale and golden, catching the copper strands in Penelope’s loose hair where it spilled across the pillow. Anthony lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, simply watching her breathe. She stirred at the weight of his gaze, lids fluttering open to meet his fond, wicked smile.

“What?” she murmured, voice still husky with sleep.

Anthony traced a lazy finger along the slope of her shoulder. “What’s with Gregory and those possessive glares he keeps aiming my way? Almost as though I’m trespassing.”

Her lips curved in a secretive little smile, her cheeks warming. “Well… while you were gone, I may have… made him a man.”

Anthony’s brow arched, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Really, now?”

“Yes.” Her blush deepened, but there was no hesitation.

“Tell me, then,” Anthony coaxed, leaning closer, his mouth finding her breast, teasing her nipple with a flick of his tongue before drawing it into his mouth. His teeth grazed her softly. “Did you start with this?” he murmured against her skin.

Her gasp turned into a sigh. “Yes… just like that. I showed him my breasts. Told him to suck them. And he did… oh, he did it so nicely, that milk came out of my breast.”

Anthony suckled harder, groaning low in his throat, his cock hardening against her hip, when indeed, he too was blessed with her milk. “Like this?”

She tangled her fingers in his hair. “Yes. Just like that.”

He pulled back, eyes dark, lust burning. “And then?”

“Then next time we were together, I touched him. Sucked him. Let him fuck my mouth.” Her hand slid down, finding Anthony, stroking him in lazy, deliberate pulls. Her voice dropped to a whisper, sultry and confessional. “He has a beautiful cock.”

Anthony’s head tipped back with a groan, his breath shuddering. “Better than mine?” he demanded, his lips pouting like a boy’s even as his hips rocked into her fist.

“Not better,” she answered carefully, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Just different. I enjoyed making him squirm. Making him lose control. Watching him spill because of me.”

Her strokes quickened, and Anthony clutched her wrist, breathless with lust. “And then?”

“I let him inside me. He was desperate—aching—he needed me so much.” Her voice faltered as she felt Anthony push her thighs apart, guiding himself to her entrance. She gasped as he slid into her, hot and hard, filling her all over again.

“Just like I am,” he groaned, thrusting deep, “just like we are.”

“Yes,” she whispered, clutching him close, nails digging into his back.

His lips captured hers, hungry and rough, his thrusts punctuating every ragged word. “Does he know, Pen? About us—all of us?”

“Yes,” she gasped, her body arching against him.

“Yes,” she gasped, her body arching against him. “And he wants to be part of it.”

Anthony kissed her hard, possessive, sealing her confession with his body. “I love you, sweet wife,” he rasped against her lips, moving inside her with raw, urgent need.

“I love you,” she breathed, her moans swallowed by his mouth as he claimed her anew. With a growl, he buried his face in her neck and drove into her, as though to stake his claim deeper than words ever could, and spilled inside her at the same time her release crashed through her body.

Anthony lay on his back, still catching his breath, his chest slick with sweat. Penelope rested half on him, her cheek pressed to the strong rise and fall of his chest. His arm was heavy about her, protective, claiming, grounding.

He was silent a long while, fingers idly playing with strands of her hair. Then, his voice low and rough:

“Say it again.”

She tipped her head to look at him. “Say what?”

“That you love me. I want to hear it, Pen.”

She smiled faintly, soft and sleepy but luminous in the dim light. “Do you truly want to know, or do you want to be reassured?”

“Both,” he admitted, unabashed. “Always both.”

She shifted so she could see him properly, her hand resting against his chest. “Then listen, husband.”

He nodded once, gaze steady, though his hand tightened possessively on her hip.

“You,” she began slowly, carefully, “You are the one I lean on when I am tired. The one I trust when I falter. You are the one who steadies me.”

Anthony exhaled hard, a sound that was half relief, half hunger, and pressed his lips to her temple.

“And Colin?” he prompted, almost begrudgingly.

She laughed softly. “Colin is my joy. My mischief. With him, I remember how to laugh at myself, how to feel young and foolish again. He teases, he flirts, he sparks something light-hearted that you, with your sense of duty, sometimes forget to give. He is my soulmate. My first love.”

Anthony made a low noise in his throat — not anger, but reluctant agreement. She kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Edmund,” she continued, “he is my gentleness. He looks at me as if I am fragile — though I am not — but it soothes me all the same. He cherishes me. With him, I feel… treasured. He makes me feel like a flower he cannot bear to see bruised.”

Anthony’s thumb stroked the line of her spine, his silence heavy but attentive.

“He is also the first one who made me feel like a woman.”

Anthony’s jaw flexed. “He should never have had you first,” he muttered, possessive, but not cruel.

“He might have been the first one to fuck me, but you were the one I first went after, remember?” She cupped his cheek, rubbing her thumb over his jaw. She kissed his stern mouth, easing him. “You were the person I wanted to fuck, even after having your father's cock inside me hours prior.”

That broke him a little. He caught her mouth with his, kissing her slow, reverent, desperate.

“And where does Gregory fit in all this?”

“Gregory,” she murmured, her cheeks heating though she did not look away, “Gregory is eager. He is still becoming who he is meant to be. He looks at me as if I hold all the answers, and there is something heady in that. To guide him. To teach him. Shape him.”

He pulled her close until she was curled into his side, his arm heavy around her waist, anchoring her to him as though the world might dare take her away, one of his hands caressing her swollen belly lovingly. He knew that in all likelihood the babe inside her could be his biological brother or nephew. But it didn't matter. If she was their woman, then the child borne by her would be their son. All of theirs. 

And yet, Anthony smiled to himself, taking minuscule pleasure in the fact that he had the privilege to claim both her and her child as his in front of the ton. 

“You are quiet,” she murmured against his chest.

“I am thinking,” he answered, his voice low, reverent. “Of how lucky I am. Of how easily I could have been denied this.”

Her fingers traced idle circles over his skin. “You sound like a man who doubts his worth.”

He gave a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Perhaps I do. You speak of loving each of us differently. I know it to be true, I see it in your eyes… but still, I needed to hear it. To know where I stand.”

She lifted herself just enough to meet his gaze, her expression tender. “Anthony. You stand at the centre of me. I may hold affection in many shades, but you..” she pressed her hand over his heart, steady and sure, “you are the constant. My vow. My promise.”

His throat worked, too thick with feeling for words. He gathered her close, pressing his lips to her hair, then her brow, then finally her mouth in a kiss so soft it felt almost like prayer.

“You have given me peace,” he whispered, when he pulled back. “I did not think I would ever know it. I had duty as a heir, yes. Family, yes. But not peace. Not until you.”

Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. “And you have given me safety. A home, not just in these walls, but here.” She pressed her palm more firmly to his chest, feeling the strong beat beneath her hand. “That is what you are to me, Anthony. Not just husband, not just lover, but home.”

Anthony finally exhaled, pulling her more firmly into his embrace. “Sleep, my love. I will keep watch.”

Penelope smiled against him, her body melting into his warmth. “And I,” she murmured drowsily, “will dream of you and me in the stables.”

He chuckled, then pressed one last kiss to her hair. “Then we are both blessed.”

Together, they drifted into slumber, wrapped not only in each other’s arms but in the certainty of a love that was unshakable, enduring, and wholly theirs.

Chapter Text

Gregory was restless a day prior to his departure. He was about to leave his darling Penelope, the only woman he had made love to, the woman of his dreams, behind. And he didn't know how he'd survive the long lonely nights in Oxford. Finally, that night, after much deliberation, his feet turned towards her bedchamber. Once inside he closed the chamber door firmly, leaning against it as though to keep the world at bay. She was sprawled on the bed dressed in a thin white shift and nothing else, and Gregory thought she had never looked more beautiful, round, glowing with her pregnancy hormones. He closed the distance between them in three long strides as she sat up. His lips sought hers at once, hungry, restless. “Darling, it is my last night with you. At dawn I ride for Oxford. I cannot bear to waste a moment.”

Penelope’s smile curved against his mouth, soft and knowing. “Then we shall not waste it.”

She sank slowly to her knees and rubbed his clothed erection. Gregory’s heart thundered as he watched her fingers move to the fastenings of his breeches. Hesitation flickered through him but when she looked up, steady and sure, he melted. He tangled his fingers into her hair, helpless.

She freed his length, and he gasped, the sound echoed loudly in the quiet chamber. Her lips brushed the tip first, just a fleeting kiss, feather-light. Then she lingered, circling with her tongue, teasing until his hips shifted restlessly. Only when he groaned her name did she take him in, just the head at first, suckling gently, as if savouring him.

Gregory’s knees nearly buckled. His grip tightened in her hair, yet she only hummed softly, the vibration making his breath stutter. She set a languid rhythm, sliding down by degrees, drawing him deeper with every slow, deliberate stroke of her mouth. Each retreat was unhurried, each return a little bolder, until she swallowed more of him, coaxing his pleasure higher with steady patience.

He clung to the bedpost, torn between begging her to quicken and praying she would never stop.

Her mouth worked him with a rhythm that grew steadily more insistent into long, greedy pulls followed by quick teasing swirls of her tongue at the head, as though she knew exactly how to unravel him. Gregory’s gasps broke into ragged moans, his body bowing forward helplessly.

“Pen—ah, God—please… don’t tease, I cannot…” His voice was hoarse, pleading. “Just… just take it. Suck me dry.”

Her eyes gleamed up at him, wicked and sweet at once, before she hollowed her cheeks and obeyed. The wet, eager sound of her sucking filled the chamber, drowning out his faltering prayers. When the pressure finally broke, Gregory cried out sharply, spilling deep into her mouth. He clutched her hair with both hands to hold her in place.

She swallowed every drop, and when she pulled back she licked her lips deliberately, whispering, “Good god, Greg. You taste so good. Come here, take your pleasures from my pregnant body.”

She leaned back on her heels and began peeling her shift from her body with measured calm. The fabric slipped from her shoulders, baring her breasts, soft and full, her nipples tight with the chill of the air, and with anticipation.

Her voice was hushed, coaxing. “Take me however you want, before you go. Come to me. Take your pleasure between these soft mounds you love so dearly.” She cupped her breasts together, offering them up, her eyes fixed on him with a mix of daring and tenderness.

Gregory stared at her, dazed, his cock about to erupt at the sight of her kneeling so brazenly, offering herself. His throat worked as he swallowed, his hands trembling as he reached for her.

“Pen…” he rasped, but the word dissolved when she squeezed her breasts together, creating a soft, warm cleft and glanced up at him with quiet insistence.

“Come, darling,” she urged, voice low and coaxing. “Put yourself here. Let me feel you.”

Almost in a trance, he guided himself into that perfect valley. The sensation was nearly overwhelming, the velvet press of her skin, the squeeze of her arms pressing tighter to surround him. He groaned low in his chest, thrusting tentatively at first, as though afraid he might break her, until she tilted her chin up and whispered, “Harder. Do not hold back from me.”

That broke him. His hips began to snap forward with needy rhythm, his cock sliding slickly between the swell of her breasts, the tip brushing her collarbone and chin with each stroke. Penelope looked up at him with parted lips, her tongue darting out now and again to tease the head when it reached her mouth.

Gregory’s breath shuddered. He clutched her hair, his head thrown back, undone by the sight of her offering herself so wholly.

“Penelope… I cannot—God, I cannot last—”

“Then don’t,” she interrupted softly, tightening her grip to press her breasts closer around him. “Give it to me. Mark me before you go.”

Her words shattered what little restraint he had left. With a strangled cry, Gregory thrust hard one last time and spilled, hot and thick, across her throat, her breasts, even her lips where she caught the final pulse of him with her tongue.

She looked up at him, glistening, utterly unashamed, and smiled faintly. “There now. Isn’t that better?”

Gregory stood there trembling, chest heaving as he watched the mess he had left on her. It streaked across her breasts, her throat, even down the soft curve of her belly where it had dripped. For a heartbeat he could only stare, overwhelmed by the sight of her glistening with his cum.

Then, with a groan, he dropped to his knees before her. His hands came up, unsteady at first, then bolder, and he began to spread it over her skin. He smeared the pearly spill across the swell of her breasts, rubbing it into her soft flesh, his thumbs circling over her taut nipples until she gasped. He stroked lower, tracing it into her belly, almost worshipful in his touch, as though he could brand her with himself and keep her marked even after he left for Oxford.

Penelope shivered at the sensation, watching his head bowed over her body. “Darling…” she whispered, breathless, “you are coating me in yourself.”

“I must,” Gregory muttered hoarsely, voice breaking. “If I leave you tomorrow, I need you to remember me, my smell on your skin, in your body…everywhere.”

He rubbed more firmly now, massaging it into her curves with trembling hands, eyes shining with something close to desperation. The intimacy of the act stole her breath more than his release itself.

Penelope pulled him into a fierce, almost bruising kiss, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she would tether him to her. Her voice was husky when she broke for breath. “Greg… fill my cunt this time. Coat my insides. I want all of you.”

Her words nearly undid him, but he forced himself to savour her. He bent his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her throat, nipping at the tender hollow until she whimpered. His hands roamed over her, greedy and reverent all at once, palming her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, then sliding lower to squeeze the soft swell of her bum, caressing her sides stroking her swollen belly gently, memorising the feel of every inch.

For long, heady minutes, he kissed her as though he could devour her, each nip and suck drawing out her gasps and delighted little squirming movements beneath him. His cock, already straining again, twitched with every sound she made.

By the time he positioned himself, she was more than ready, slick and hot around him the instant he pressed forward. He sank in smoothly, groaning at the sheer, wet tightness that clutched him. Penelope arched into him with a moan, nails scoring his back.

Gregory forced himself to move slowly, long, deliberate strokes, each thrust a deep claim. He wanted to drag it out, to make her feel how badly he wanted this, how he would remember every second. Her body quivered beneath him, her cries growing sweeter with every unhurried roll of his hips.

Every slow push and pull left her writhing, her thighs trembling against his hips. He was deliberate, maddeningly so, stretching her, filling her, but never giving her the rush of friction she craved. Penelope clung to him, her nails digging crescents into his shoulders, her head tossing on the pillow.

“Greg…” her voice was ragged, almost pleading, “please—don’t… don’t tease me. Harder. I need you to move harder.”

Her desperate tone nearly shattered his control. He drew back to look at her flushed face, the way her eyes glistened with frustration and need, her lips swollen from his kisses. The sight undid him.

A groan tore from his chest as he gripped her hips firmly. “You want it harder, my love?” His voice was dark, rough.

“Yes,” she gasped, arching up into him, “give it to me—don’t hold back.”

That was all it took. With a growl, Gregory drove into her, deep and sharp, the slow rhythm abandoned. Each thrust jolted her body upward, and she cried out in sheer relief, clinging to him as he gave her what she begged for. His restraint dissolved into raw hunger, the slap of skin on skin filling the chamber, mingled with her moans and his groans. 

Penelope’s back arched off the bed, her breasts pressing into his chest as her body sang with every deep stroke.

Her pleas turned to broken whimpers, his name spilling from her lips again and again. He angled his hips just right, and the pressure built unbearably fast inside her. She clutched at him desperately, her nails scoring his back.

“Greg—oh, God—yes—there, don’t stop—” Her voice pitched high, raw with need.

He buried his face against her neck, driving into her harder still, her slick walls clutching at him greedily. The coil inside her snapped, and she shattered around him with a cry, her body trembling violently in his arms.

Her release rippled through her, clutching at him so tightly he groaned in response, nearly undone himself. He held her through it, still pounding into her, forcing her to ride every wave of pleasure until she was left quivering, boneless beneath him.

Her walls still fluttered around him, hot and wet, milking every inch of him as though her body were determined not to let him go. Gregory gritted his teeth, his thrusts growing uneven, rougher as her climax pulled him mercilessly toward his own.

Penelope, still trembling, locked her legs around his hips and pulled him deeper. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered against his mouth, her voice husky, spent yet desperate. “Fill me, Greg. I want it—every drop inside me.”

That broke the last of his restraint. He groaned, low and guttural, slamming into her with a frenzy that rattled the bedframe. His hands dug into her hips, dragging her onto him, chasing the heat coiling tight in his belly.

Then it hit—his body seized, thrusts stuttering as he spilled deep inside her. Hot, thick pulses of his release flooded her, coating her walls as he groaned her name into her neck.

Penelope moaned softly, arching into him, delighting in the way he twitched and shuddered with each spurt, his seed spilling exactly where she craved it. She held him tight, murmuring praise against his damp skin, “That’s it… yes… give it to me.”

Gregory collapsed against her, still pulsing within her warmth, his breath ragged and heavy, his body unwilling to part from hers even as the aftershocks wracked them both.

Gregory sagged against her, their chests pressed flush, his damp forehead resting in the hollow of her neck. His breath came in sharp bursts, but he didn’t withdraw, not yet. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the molten warmth of her body, not when she still clenched faintly around him, keeping him inside as though she too refused to let go.

Penelope’s fingers threaded through his hair, smoothing the damp curls back from his temple. “You were wonderful,” she whispered, pressing soft kisses across his cheek, then to his lips. There was no urgency now—only the sweet aftertaste of their lovemaking.

He kissed her back languidly, lips tender, as though rediscovering her mouth after the storm they’d unleashed. Each kiss was slower, deeper, filled with sweetness. His thumb traced circles over her breast, feeling her nipple pebble again beneath the lightest caress, his other hand rubbing slow, soothing strokes along her thigh.

She sighed contentedly, arching into his touch. “Stay inside me a little longer,” she murmured, almost shy.

Gregory’s heart thudded. He shifted just enough to look at her properly, his eyes glassy with spent desire but softened with something deeper. “I wasn’t planning to leave,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Not until I have to.”

She smiled faintly, then pulled him into another long kiss, their tongues brushing lazily, their bodies still joined, basking in the warmth of closeness as the minutes slipped by unnoticed.

Gregory’s breathing eased as he held her, his lips brushing at her temple. He didn’t move, didn’t even try to pull back, only let himself sink into the feel of her warmth still holding him inside.

“Pen,” he whispered, his voice rough with exhaustion and something heavier. He lifted his head enough to meet her eyes. “I love you. More than I can say.”

Her lips parted, surprise and a rush of emotion flickering across her face, but he pressed on before she could answer.

“I know I leave in the morning. I know nothing is certain.” He cupped her cheek, stroking her skin with aching gentleness. “But I swear to you, there is nothing I’d want more than to come back to you one day—not as a foolish boy, but as an accomplished man, worthy of you.”

Her eyes glistened, her fingers trembling slightly where they rested over his heart. She drew him into a slow, desperate kiss, sealing his vow against her lips.

Her kiss lingered on his lips, trembling with all she couldn’t yet say. When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against his, her breath warm and unsteady.

“Oh, Gregory…” she whispered, her hand still splayed over his chest, feeling the frantic beat beneath. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me. You already are—everything.”

Her voice caught, and she let out a shaky laugh, half-sobbing, half-smiling. She pressed another kiss to his mouth, slower this time, reverent. “I love you too. With all I am. And I will wait… for as long as it takes.”

Her arms tightened around his neck as though she could anchor him there, keep him from slipping away into the morning.

“I will miss you,” he murmured, his voice breaking on the words. Then, softer still, as though confessing something secret and shameful, “I will miss this—you, the way you let me feed from you… the way you make me feel as though I could never go hungry again.”

Penelope’s heart fluttered at the raw honesty in his tone. She cupped his face, guiding his gaze to hers, and smiled with knowing warmth. “Then have your fill tonight, my love,” she whispered, directing his face to her bare bosom. “Enough to keep you until you return.”

His breath shuddered, eyes dark with reverence, his hands trembling as he cradled her breasts, and nuzzled his face between the valley. He latched greedily, his lips warm and insistent, drawing deep pulls of her milk as though he could store it inside himself for the long months apart. She stroked his hair, encouraging him, her voice a soothing murmur: “Suck on it, suck harder. Drink my milk until you've drained my breast. I will still be yours when you come back. My body, my heart, will still want you. And perhaps, when you return an accomplished man, I shall let you breed me with your baby.”

He groaned softly at that, the words igniting something fierce and tender all at once. “I love you, Penelope,” he whispered against her skin. “More than I can bear.”

Penelope stroked his hair, her fingers tender in the dark, her body soft beneath his weight. “Take as much as you need, love,” she whispered, tilting her breast further into his mouth. He groaned low in his throat, suckling harder, his hand slipping over her waist, her hip, her thigh, unable to stop touching her.

All the while, her cunt wrapped around him, keeping his cock warm and hard. He rocked inside her, lazy thrusts, more about closeness than completion. Their bodies moved unhurriedly, stroking and caressing, trading warmth with every pass of skin on skin.

When he released her breast, panting, a bead of milk glistened on her nipple. He bent to lick it away, then kissed her chest reverently, almost desperately. “I’ll miss this,” he murmured against her skin. “I’ll miss your sweet taste. I’ll miss you so much it hurts to think about it.”

Her heart clenched, and she guided his mouth back, cradling his head. “Then drink all you want tonight, my darling boy. Let me fill you before you go.”

He suckled again, slower this time, but deeper.

Hours slipped by in that tender rhythm: his mouth at her chest, her hand stroking him languidly, their legs entwined beneath the sheets. Neither sought release in haste. Instead, they lingered in the sweetness of the act, as if memorising one another’s bodies for the long separation to come.

At some point he slid lower, kissing her stomach, then returned to her other breast, greedy once more, needing to taste her everywhere. She arched into him, sighing, combing her fingers through his hair. It was unhurried, indulgent, filled with both desire and sorrow.

They stayed like that until the windows turned pale with dawn. Exhausted, dazed, and yet unwilling to part, Gregory’s head lay heavy against her chest, lips still resting at her nipple as though he’d never release her. She held him until the household stirred and duty called them both to rise.

They dressed in silence, stealing lingering touches, every button fastened and ribbon tied feeling like the end of something sacred.

In the hall, the family gathered for his departure. Penelope stood by, her face schooled into composure for his sisters’ sake, though her eyes brimmed with tears. Only Edmund, Anthony, and Colin caught the truth, each giving Gregory a quiet, knowing look.

When the carriage was ready, Penelope could no longer hold back. She rushed forward, clasping Gregory’s hand one last time before Anthony gently pulled her into his arms, steadying her as the tears finally fell.

Gregory’s gaze lingered on her until the carriage pulled away, his lips still tingling with the memory of her, her scent, her warmth—everything he was leaving behind.

Gregory’s departure to Oxford left a quiet ache in the household that Penelope couldn’t quite conceal. She had grown so used to his boisterous presence, the way he teased her, the way he made her laugh even when she was heavy with weariness, his sensual massages, him suckling at her breasts…she missed all of it so much that the sudden absence left her subdued.

Edmund was the first to see it. He caught the way her smiles didn’t reach her eyes, how she lingered in Gregory’s empty chair at supper, how she fell silent when the others filled the room with their chatter. One evening, when the study was dim with firelight, he set his glass down and said gently, “She misses him more than she admits. Don’t mistake her quiet for contentment.”

Anthony frowned, thoughtful. Colin’s expression grew pained, guilt flickering across his features as if he should have noticed sooner. From that night on, they made it their quiet mission to bring her back to herself.

Colin coaxed her into walks in the garden, telling her stories in that animated way that always made her laugh in spite of herself. Anthony teased her over breakfast until she rolled her eyes, though her lips betrayed a smile. Edmund simply held her longer, steady and wordless, his thumb brushing circles against her palm when the melancholy threatened to return.

They took turns massaging her aching feet and belly with oil. Colin absolutely loved suckling her teats, so did Anthony, claiming it was the sweetest thing they had ever had. Edmund, who knew that the milk was soon exclusively belong to their offspring didn't want to get addicted and refrained from drinking it. But he did drink from her other hole. Her cunt. He made her cum so much and so frequently just from his tongue alone.

Day by day, with the warmth of their love, the edges of her sadness softened. Her laughter returned, her wit sharpened again, her eyes lit as they once had. She was herself…wholly, vibrantly Penelope, but with a new depth of tenderness that came from being so completely seen and cared for.

And her three husbands, though relieved, were quietly proud. They knew then that whatever storms might come, between the four of them they would always be enough.

Chapter Text

The house was quieter than usual that morning. Penelope, in her seventh month now, moved more slowly, but she refused to let her husbands fuss over her too much. She was curled up on the drawing-room chaise when Colin came in, eyes alight with anticipation.

“Darling,” he said, crouching down beside her, “an old friend of mine from Eton arrives today. Michael Sterling, the new Earl of Kilmartin. He’s in London for the Season. I believe I had mentioned him earlier?”

“You did!” Penelope smiled indulgently. “And you’ve invited him here.” She arched a brow. “You are scheming, Colin Bridgerton.”

He only grinned wider, utterly unrepentant. “Michael is good-hearted, loyal. He needs a wife, and I thought… Who better than Eloise? She’d never tolerate a dullard, and Michael is anything but.”

“He is also rake, if I'm to believe society gossip.”

“Surely, Eloise would enjoy a challenge to tame a man…”

Anthony, overhearing as he came in from the corridor, gave a short laugh. “Matchmaking again? I suppose you’ve decided you know our sister’s mind better than she does.”

“She will thank me later,” Colin countered, with that easy confidence that usually meant trouble.

Edmund, ever the observer, settled near Penelope and rested a steady hand on her shoulder. “And if she doesn’t?” he asked mildly.

Colin waved the concern away. “At least she will have choices. Michael wants to find someone with a brain. Eloise will intrigue him.”

Penelope’s smile softened as she laid her hand over her round belly. “I can already picture it. Eloise will glare at him, test him with sharp questions, but if he can survive that… well, perhaps you are not entirely wrong, my love.” She shook her head but she was smiling. “You meddle too much.”

Colin pressed a kiss to Penelope’s temple, his tone deliberately wicked. “And yet, I meddle so very well.”

Three days later, the butler’s announcement rang through the Bridgerton Mayfair townhouse.

“Lord Kilmartin.”

Colin was up in an instant, his face breaking into an irrepressible grin as he strode forward. “Michael!” His arms clasped his old friend in a hearty embrace.

“Colin, you devil,” Michael laughed, clapping him on the back. “It feels like an age since your last visit. Still smiling smugly as ever.”

“I prefer the adjective ‘content’ to describe my smile.” Colin replied with a wink, steering him further into the room.

Michael’s gaze, curious and sharp, shifted to the lady reclining on a chaise. Penelope Bridgerton—radiant in her seventh month of pregnancy—looked up with a warm smile, her cheeks faintly flushed as she set aside the embroidery hoop in her lap. But what struck him wasn’t her delicate beauty alone; it was the way Anthony was stuck to her side, his hand sliding instinctively to hers, thumb brushing her knuckles as though it was second nature.

And yet, he wasn't the only one concerned about her wellbeing. Colin was quick to adjust a cushion behind her back, his touch protective and unthinking, while Edmund Bridgerton, the viscount, and her father-in-law, seated nearby with a volume half-forgotten in his hand, observed her with the steady devotion of a man who claimed her joy as his own. The scene was intimate, familial, and quietly overwhelming.

Michael cleared his throat. “Mrs. Bridgerton. A pleasure.” He bowed with courtly grace, though his eyes lingered with an unspoken awareness that this was no ordinary household.

Penelope’s smile deepened, serene and sure of her place. “Welcome, my lord. Colin has spoken often of you.”

Michael inclined his head. “Then I must hope he spoke kindly.”

“Not just kindly,” Colin teased, settling opposite Penelope, “honestly.”

The easy laughter broke the formality, though Michael’s mind ticked on. His old friend was deeply, hopelessly in love with a lady who was supposed to be his brother's wife, and what’s more, she was surrounded by men who seemed equally bound to her happiness. Strange, yet oddly moving.

As he let himself be led further into the drawing room, Michael’s gaze flickered towards the open doorway. A young woman passed by, a cascade of dark brown hair, chin tipped high, eyes shining brown, alight with wit. Her face was exquisite. His chest tightened unexpectedly. Eloise , he thought. So that is the sister Colin boasts of endlessly.

But a moment later, Colin called out with brotherly fondness: “Francesca, don’t slip past us without saying hello.”

Michael froze— Francesca ? Not Eloise, then. He schooled his surprised expression quickly, offering a polite bow as the younger Bridgerton sister smiled politely in return.

“Hello.” She said sweetly to him, then turned to Colin and stage whispered,”May I slip past now that I'm done with the obligatory greetings?” 

Colin sighed exasperated and shooed her away, and she all but ran upstairs. Still, the impression remained: if that was the *other* sister, what sort of force of nature would Eloise herself prove to be?

Michael let out a breath and turned back to Colin, half-amused, half-dreading. “I see I shall need my wits about me in this household.”

Colin smirked knowingly. “Oh, you’ve no idea.”

The Bridgerton dining room was warm with chatter, the kind of familial noise that seemed to Michael both enviable and overwhelming. Looking at the Bridgerton sibling's bond, he was reminded of his dearest cousin John who had left the world rather too soon. 

He’d been seated midway down the long table, beside Eloise, opposite Francesca.

It was a cruel bit of fate. He wanted to Engage in conversation with Eloise, but every time Francesca lifted her glass, every tilt of her chin when she smiled faintly at something Benedict muttered beside her, Michael’s eyes followed her of their own accord. Francesca was no diamond in the London sense, she lacked the dazzling brightness of Daphne or the sharp wit of Eloise, but there was something quieter about her, something restrained yet luminous. A steadiness that tugged at him before he had even realised.

To his horror, he caught himself studying the curve of her delicate neck as she reached for the salt. He tore his gaze away, focusing instead on his plate. *Fool. Absolute fool. That is your friend’s sister. You are here to find a wide. Not a distraction.*

Colin, oblivious, was cutting his roast while making some nonsense joke about university pranks. His easy smile only made Michael feel more unsettled. He couldn't lust after his friend's sister, not before her debut, atleast. Not even after! He chastised himself.

Across from him, Eloise stabbed at her potatoes with clear irritation. “Marriage, marriage, marriage. That is all anyone in Mayfair seems to speak of. As if women are born solely for it. Honestly, why should I care whether some half-witted peer likes the way I pour tea?”

Anthony arched a brow. “Because, Eloise, society will expect—”

“Society can go hang,” she shot back, glaring at him. ”I do not wish to have a suitor at all. He will secretly long to have a broodmare. We are all chattels to them, aren't we? Better become a spinster and live my life in a spinster house.”

Michael nearly choked on his wine. * This is the one I was supposed to notice? * Colin had spoken of Eloise as clever, outspoken, independent. And she was all those things—indeed, she wielded her words like weapons at the table—but instead of stirring admiration, it filled him with something closer to alarm.

It was Francesca who diffused the tension, her voice low but calm. “Eloise, not everyone wishes to entrap you in a parlour with a teacup. Some of them ought to have a heart that will dazzle you one day.” Her eyes lifted briefly to Michael’s, almost by accident, before she returned to her plate. That single glance was enough to set his heart racing in a way he could not rationalise. Could his heart dazzle Francesca, one day?

Eloise scoffed at her younger sisters words, then turned to him, “What do you think of all the debutantes, Lord Killmartin? I hear you were a bit of a rake, yourself? My brother Anthony was one. Now my good friend Penelope has managed to tame him and transform him into a house cat.” Everybody laughed at that, “But that is indeed a rare occurrence. Do you think you'd be able to find a wife who'd match your expectations?”

“I do not know my future on marriage mart.” Michael forced himself to respond politely. “But I should think any gentleman who values conversation would find himself… rather outmatched at your side, Miss Bridgerton.”

“Good,” Eloise snapped, though her lips twitched as if she almost appreciated the defiance.

The table laughed, tension easing, but Michael barely heard it. He could feel Francesca’s presence across the table like a quiet flame, steady and distracting.

He lifted his wine again, hiding his expression. *Lord help me. How did I end up wanting the wrong sister?*

Francesca Bridgerton was no one’s echo. She was quiet, yes, but possessed of a subtle, steady grace that made Michael’s gaze linger far longer than it ought.

Next afternoon, seeking fresh air, he stepped onto the balcony only to find her already there. She turned sharply at his entrance, pale blue day dress catching the sunlight, a startled flush colouring her cheeks.

“My lord,” she said softly, inclining her head, though her hand gripped the railing as though she might prefer to fly off into the gardens below.

Michael bowed, suddenly far more aware of himself than usual. “Forgive me, Miss Francesca—I hadn’t realised the balcony was already occupied.”

Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. “It often is, when one wishes to escape the noise.”

He chuckled, though his pulse had picked up in an uncharacteristic way. “Then I shall tread carefully. I’ve no wish to drive you back inside.”

Her eyes lifted to his then, steady, appraising, and Michael felt as though the ground had tilted beneath him. This was not what he had come for. He had thought to humour Colin, to meet Eloise, to see if the match could suit. Yet standing in the sunlight, Francesca’s gaze fixed upon him, he could only think—

*God help me, I am already in love.*

The hush of the balcony wrapped around them, the chatter of the drawing room dimmed to a dull hum beyond the glass doors. Michael leaned lightly against the balustrade, studying the pale stone of the garden below, though in truth he was acutely aware of Francesca’s nearness.

“It is a fine house,” he offered, voice low. “But I imagine it must be… stifling at times.”

She exhaled, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “You cannot know how right you are. I love my family dearly, but they are… *loud*.” Her eyes glinted with wry amusement, then sobered. “It is difficult, when the world sees only Bridgerton and expects nothing but perfection in return. Just like my sister Daphne.”

Michael’s head tilted. “And what do *you* wish the world would see?”

Her gaze dropped to the gardens. “Not what, but who. A woman who might be more than her surname, perhaps. Who might not be defined only by the match she makes. In fact, I'd be very glad if they just ignore me and pass right by.”

The honesty of it startled him. He found himself saying, “And the match—do you dread it so?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “Not dread, exactly. Only…” She bit her lip, thoughtful. “I would rather not be bound to a man who sees me as duty first, person second. If I marry, I hope it is someone who sees me as *Francesca*. Not as Miss Francesca Bridgerton. Not as a name on a marriage contract.”

Her words struck a chord deep in his chest. “You wish for love, then.”

She smiled faintly, almost wistfully. “Do not we all?”

For a long moment, silence fell. Michael could not tear his eyes from her. She was not flamboyant, nor did she command the room like her siblings. But she spoke with a quiet, startling honesty that stripped the varnish from his own heart.

“What about you, Lord Sterling?” she asked, tilting her head, a curious light in her eyes. “What do you expect from marriage?”

He nearly laughed, though the sound caught in his throat. “Until today, I would have said very little. Companionship, perhaps. Tolerable company.” His mouth quirked as though mocking himself. “I never thought to seek more.”

“And now?” she pressed softly.

He met her gaze then, and felt the question pierce him far deeper than it should. “Now… I’ve begun to think I have been asking for far too little.”

Her lips parted, as though to speak, but the drawing-room doors creaked and voices carried out, breaking the moment. Francesca stepped back swiftly, schooling her features into polite composure. Michael inclined his head, masking the tumult in his chest.

As they re-entered the room, he wondered, with a clarity that shook him—

*Could I dare present my suit to Francesca Bridgerton?*

Michael tossed in his bed that night, the fire at the grate long since burned low. He had closed his eyes with every intention of sleep, yet Francesca’s face hovered behind his lids as though she had imprinted herself upon his very thoughts.

Her smile, soft and unguarded on the balcony, replayed in his mind. The way her eyes shone when she spoke of wanting to be seen for *herself*—not her name, not her family. He thought of the gentle curve of her smile, the sincerity in her voice, and the quiet strength that underpinned her words.

*You wish for love, then.*

His own reply had been too revealing, he feared. And yet… it had also been true. More true than he’d admitted to himself before that night. He had never yearned for anything grand in marriage. Until Francesca had spoken, until she had looked at him with those clear, earnest brown eyes.

Sleep finally claimed him, but it was no rest. In his dreams, he was once again on that balcony. Francesca stood beside him, moonlight threading silver through her dark hair, her fingers brushing the balustrade. Only in his dreams, she turned to him, close, impossibly close, and whispered, “See me.”

He reached for her, breath catching as though to kiss her—

And woke with a start, heart pounding, the sheet tangled about his legs.

For a long while he lay in the darkness, every sense alive with the memory of her. The rational part of him warned of impropriety, of scandal, of Edmund Bridgerton’s protective glare. But another voice—louder, insistent—asked why he should deny it.

He had dreamed of Francesca Bridgerton, and in the deep hours of the night, he could not help but wonder if he might be falling in love with her.

But then Michael’s dreams were no longer innocent. In fact, night after night they became more scandalous.

The first night he had seen her at the piano, her fingers dancing lightly over the keys, he dreamed of her playing not in a drawing room full of genteel listeners but alone for him, her eyes fixed on his while music spilled like silk through the air, as he kissed her neck.

By the third night, the dream had changed. Francesca was still at the pianoforte, but when she finished, she rose, crossed the room, settled herself onto his lap, and kissed his lips with such natural ease that he woke flushed and shamed at the memory of how vividly he had felt the weight of her in his arms.

It was madness, sheer madness.

And yet the visions continued. In sleep she came to him with her hair tumbling loose, whispering his name as though it belonged only to her. His hands traced the curve of her waist, his lips traced her collarbone, her clavicle, the slope of her shoulders, while her lips pressed hot against his Adams apple. In those ungoverned hours, Michael knew precisely how she would taste, how she would sigh, how easily she would fit against him.

When he woke, the ache in his body was as real as the shame in his chest.

For he knew Francesca had not yet even been presented to society. A girl barely out of the schoolroom… How would the Bridgerton men respond if he, Michael Stirling, former rake,  newly the Earl of Kilmartin, declared himself so soon? Edmund, vigilant and unyielding, would bar the way at once. Anthony, all calm authority, would find a thousand reasons to delay him. Even Colin, his dearest friend, with his quick wit and easy charm, would stand before his sister like a wall of steel.

Michael pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the visions away.

But desire did not bend to will. Each night, Francesca visited him still, not the girl the world saw but the woman his dreams conjured, warm, laughing, fearless, and utterly his.

And every morning, he became more certain of two things: that he could not stop wanting her… and that it might already be far too late to keep his heart from falling.

A week of this torment later, Michael decided he had to talk it out with Colin. Both the friends strolled side by side in the Bridgerton garden after a hearty breakfast, and Michael was mulling over how best to broach the subject when Colin broke the silence.

“Tell me, Michael,” he said, narrowing his eyes just a fraction, “have you chosen a wife yet? Society is beginning to wonder when the Earl of Kilmartin will put aside his… pursuits. Did you have a chance to get to know Eloise?”

Michael gave a short laugh. “I’ve tried, you know.”

Colin leaned close with anticipation. “ And?”

“And nothing.” Michael smirked, though the humour was self-mocking. “We are as mismatched as oil and water. She despises the notion of marriage altogether, and I’d sooner not be cursed to spend a lifetime debating philosophy at breakfast.”

Colin’s lips twitched, “I gathered as much.”

Michael stopped walking. He could feel it pressing at him, the truth he’d carried for weeks now, the name that burned against his tongue.

“There is someone, though,” he said quietly. “Someone who has captured my mind in a way no one else ever has.”

Colin raised a brow. “And who is this paragon of virtue?”

“Francesca,” Michael said, voice rawer than he intended. “Your other sister.”

Colin’s sharp intake of breath was almost a gasp. “Francesca?” He stared, astonished. “Michael, she is set to make her debut this year. She has barely seen a Season, let alone the world. How can you even–”

Michael’s jaw tightened. “I don’t mean to trifle with her, Colin. I don’t want to ruin her. I want to marry her. Soon. I would keep her so very happy, I swear it to you. She deserves nothing less.”

Colin watched his friend’s earnest expression. “Do you—can you—wait until she has had her chance in the London social season?”

Michael clicked his tongue, “No. I don’t want to wait. I think… I think l love her, Colin. And it is because of that I know I will make her happier than she was in the Bridgerton house.”

Colin pressed his lips together, studying his friend as though weighing every syllable. At last he said, “This is not a decision I can make alone. You know my father, you know Anthony. They will have to be consulted.”

“I expected as much,” Michael replied. “But I had to speak to you first. You’re her favorite brother, and my friend.”

For a moment, they stood amidst the roses, the weight of unspoken things between them. Then Colin sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“You’ve thrown the lot of us into chaos, Michael Stirling,” he muttered. “God help us all if you’re serious.”

“I have never been more serious,” Michael said.

The study was quiet, save for the soft hiss of the fire. Colin had just finished recounting his walk with Michael, and three sets of eyes fixed on him—his father’s steady, Anthony’s sharp, Penelope’s unreadable.

Edmund leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled. “Michael is a good match,” he said at last, his tone thoughtful. “I will not deny it. But Francesca is yet to debut. If he can keep himself in check until next month when she is to be presented before the queen, then offers his suit to her properly, I will not object.”

Anthony gave a curt nod. “Agreed. Stirling has his faults, but he’s honourable where it matters. He’ll do right by her.”

Colin exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. Penelope had said nothing, her gaze lowered to her folded hands. The pause stretched long enough that all three Bridgerton men turned to her, silently demanding her verdict.

At last she lifted her eyes, wide and troubled. “With Francesca gone… it will only be Eloise and Hyacinth left at home. Both far too clever for their own good. They will be… nosy. And if they find out about us—” She broke off, unable to say more.

Edmund’s voice was low, resigned. “Much as I despise admitting it, to avoid that situation, the only solution will be for you to shift back to the Bloomsbury house. We will take turns visiting you there.”

Penelope’s face fell, her lips trembling as she whispered, “I don’t want that. I want to be with all of you, in close proximity. Not apart, not waiting in some other house like a secret.”

Anthony leaned forward, gentler than usual. “We know, Pen. But what my father suggests is the most prudent course. It is a matter of protecting you, and us.”

Colin reached for her hand, squeezing it with quiet conviction. “We’ll find a way, Pen. Even if it means distance for a little while. You are ours. Nothing changes that.”

Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she nodded, though the weight of the decision sat heavy on her heart.

Later that night, Penelope lay curled in Colin’s bed, her cheek resting against his chest. The council of men had dispersed hours ago, yet the weight of Edmund’s suggestion pressed like a stone in her heart.

“I hate it,” she whispered, fingers tracing idle circles against his skin. “I don’t want to leave this house. I don’t want to be sent away to Bloomsbury as if what we share is something shameful. I need you, Colin. I need all of you close.”

His lips found the curve of her neck, pressing kisses that soothed and promised. “No one is sending you away yet,” he murmured. “And if it ever comes to that, I’ll come to you every night. You’ll never feel alone, I swear it.”

Her protest melted into a sigh as his hand slipped between her thighs, stroking her tenderly. She answered by wrapping her fingers around the thickening length of him, pumping slowly until he groaned against her throat.

“Colin…” she breathed, shifting atop him. He was hard and ready when she sank down, taking him deep inside her. The stretch stole her breath, grounding her, reminding her she was his and he hers.

He cupped her breasts, kneading them until a hot gush of milk spurted across his hand. His eyes darkened with reverence and hunger both, and he leaned forward to lap at her breast, tongue circling her nipple as he drank her sweetness. He kept doing it for several minutes when Penelope moaned, fisting his hair, tugging his milk-slicked mouth up to hers for a desperate, greedy kiss. The taste of herself on his tongue only made her hips roll harder, chasing the building ache until their bodies were crashing together in rhythm.

Their moans tangled in the air, lips locked as pleasure rose sharp and unrelenting. She clenched around him, gasping into his mouth as her climax tore through her. He shuddered beneath her, spilling into her with a groan that vibrated against her lips.

When the frenzy ebbed, Colin wrapped his arms tight around her, holding her close as if she might vanish. His chest heaved with spent breaths, his lips pressed against her hair.

“You’re not losing me, Pen,” he whispered, voice rough with conviction. “Not ever.”

Something in her melted and burned all at once. Instead of easing into sleep, she lifted her head and began tracing her hands over him with purpose. Across his chest first, fingers playing idly with the coarse hair before she teased at his nipples, pinching one until he hissed and then leaning down to lave it with her tongue.

He groaned low in his throat as she worked her way down, her mouth worshipping him, tasting him. Her fingers spread across his taut abdomen, sliding lower before retreating to squeeze his arse, nails raking across the muscle as if testing his restraint.

“Pen…” he whispered, both plea and warning, though his eyes glittered with amusement as he watched her exploration.

“Shhh,” she breathed against his skin, her voice a sultry hush. “Let me love you tonight.”

She punctuated the words by biting his nipple hard enough to make him jolt, then soothed it with a kiss before trailing lower. She kissed his belly, her lips grazing the line of muscle until she reached his hips. Turning him slightly, she nipped at the firm curve of his arse, making him laugh raggedly.

Then, with deliberate slowness, she slid back between his thighs, her hand curling around his stiffening cock. She looked up once, catching his gaze, then lowered her head. Her lips parted, tongue flicking the head before she drew him into the heat of her mouth.

Colin’s breath hitched the moment she wrapped her lips around him, hot and wet and unbearably tight. He buried one hand in her hair, not to guide but to anchor himself as she worked him with maddening care.

She moved unhurriedly at first, sucking only the head while her tongue teased the sensitive ridge, her hand stroking the length she couldn’t yet take into her mouth. He groaned, hips twitching, but she pressed her palm firmly to his stomach to keep him pinned flat to the bed.

“Stay still,” she murmured, pulling back just enough for her breath to ghost over the slick tip. “This is mine tonight.”

Her eyes gleamed with mischief as she sank lower, cheeks hollowing, swallowing more of him until he hit the back of her throat. Colin’s fingers clenched in her hair, his chest heaving. He muttered her name like a prayer, half strangled, half desperate.

Penelope eased off him with a wet, obscene pop, saliva trailing down her chin. She licked him slowly, base to tip, deliberately messy, coating him before sliding her mouth over him again. Her free hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, then squeezed with enough pressure to make his hips buck.

“Fuck, Pen…” he groaned, his voice thick with strain, knuckles white where he fisted the sheets.

She moaned around him, the vibration making his entire body shudder. Her tongue lapped at the underside, then circled the head as though she could taste every drop of him before he even spilled.

Colin lifted his head, watching, the sight nearly undoing him — her lips stretched around him, her hair tumbling over her flushed cheeks, the greedy, wet sounds filling the quiet room.

She looked up deliberately, meeting his eyes while his cock filled her mouth. He swore and almost came right then, but she pulled off again with another slick sound, smirking as she stroked him slowly with her spit-slick hand. She began alternating between deep, wet suction and torturously slow licks, taking her time until Colin’s body was taut as a bowstring, his thighs quivering with the effort not to thrust into her mouth.

“You want to fuck my mouth, don’t you?” she taunted softly, stroking him with slow, deliberate twists of her hand. “You want to rut into me? Use me until you’ve given me every drop? Tell me, sweetheart.” She leaned forward and licked him in one long sweep, her tongue curling around the swollen head. “Tell me how badly you want to fuck my mouth.”

Colin groaned, his head falling back against the pillows. His control, always tenuous when it came to her, snapped. He gripped her hair, tugging gently, forcing her eyes back up to his. “I want it so fucking much, Pen. I want to fuck you, not just your mouth, until you forget the world outside these walls exists. My Pen, my love—I want to make you come so hard you’ll be shaking from it for hours.”

Her lips curved around him as she took him deep, and when she pulled back, her voice was a husky plea. “Then do it. Fuck me. Rut into me. Make me forget everything but you.”

With a strangled curse, Colin’s hips surged. He pushed into her mouth, slow at first, watching for her response. She moaned around him, the sound vibrating through his length, and dug her nails into his thighs as though urging him to go harder.

That was all the permission he needed. His rhythm built, raw and desperate, his cock sliding deep into her throat as she let him, welcomed him. He pulled back to watch her lips stretched wide around him, saliva slicking her chin, then drove in again with a guttural growl.

“God, Pen—look at you,” he rasped, his voice breaking. “So perfect, letting me fuck you like this.”

Her hands clutched his hips, steadying him, urging him on. Each thrust was deeper, wetter, filthier, until he was lost in the heat of her mouth, rutting into it like he’d promised, every nerve strung tight and ready to snap.

Colin’s rhythm grew rougher, but Penelope only leaned in, eyes locked on his, letting him see every ounce of her submission and her hunger. Drool slipped down her chin as she took him again and again, the sloppy sounds filling the room.

“Christ—Pen,” he groaned, his voice shaking. “You’re driving me mad.” He tried to slow, but she wouldn’t let him, her nails raking over his hips, her muffled moans vibrating around him.

When he dragged out of her mouth with a wet pop, strands of spit stretched between her lips and his cock, glistening. She groaned in protest, chest heaving. “Don’t you dare stop, Col. I want it raw. I want it filthy. I want you rutting into me until my throat’s sore and you’re shaking above me.”

He growled at that, fisting her hair tighter, and thrust back into her mouth without abandon. Her head rocked with the force of it, her throat taking him deeper than before. She gagged softly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, but she never looked away, never broke her grip on his thighs.

“Fuck—Pen—” His body trembled, sweat beading on his chest. He could barely breathe, caught between the sight of her mouth stretched around him and the obscene sounds echoing in the room. She pulled back just long enough to lick him from base to tip, tongue swirling over the head, then took him back in, deeper, greedier, until her nose brushed his pelvis.

He lost all sense. His hips snapped, his cock gliding slick and messy in her mouth as saliva and precome smeared her chin and throat. She whimpered around him, as though his rawness only stoked her desire, her hand slipping between her thighs to touch herself while she let him use her.

“God, I can’t—” His voice cracked, ragged with need. “I can’t hold back, Pen—fuck—I’m going to—”

She moaned hard around him, nails digging into his arse, urging him deeper, urging him to break. That was it—the sight, the sound, the feel of her surrender. With a strangled shout, Colin’s release tore through him. He held her head still and spilled into her throat, pulse after pulse of hot, thick come, her swallowing every drop as though starved for it.

And still she sucked, greedy, dragging the climax out until he was shaking violently, gasping her name over and over, his cock twitching against her tongue.

When at last he collapsed back against the pillows, spent and wrecked, she licked him clean, lips swollen and wet, before crawling up to kiss him, her mouth tasting of him. 

Colin eased her up against his chest, brushing damp strands of hair from her flushed face, his thumb stroking tenderly along her cheekbone. His voice was husky, spent, but full of quiet conviction.

“This is how I’ll love you for the rest of our lives, Pen,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple. “However you need me—rough, tender, greedy, gentle—whatever you want, I’ll do my damndest to give it. If you want me to hold you sweetly, I will. If you want me to fuck you like an animal, I will. If you want space to grow, I’ll guard it for you. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, my Pen. Not distance, not a mere change of houses—nothing will ever keep me from you.”

Her throat worked around a sob, tears blurring her vision as she cupped his jaw. “I love you, Colin,” she whispered, her voice cracking with all the weight of it.

His answering smile was boyish and dazzling, softening the raw edges of their passion. “I love you too, Mrs Bridgerton.” He kissed her nose, then her lips, lingering. Pulling back only a fraction, he whispered with mock solemnity, “Now, wife… would you like some midnight snacks before round two?”

She let out a wet laugh, brushing her thumb over his dimple. “Is it round two or three?”

Colin pretended to consider, brow furrowed in mock thought. “Honestly… I’ve lost count.”

They both giggled then, laughter dissolving into another long, sweet kiss, their bodies pressed close, hearts still racing but completely at ease in each other’s arms.

Colin slipped away only long enough to raid the kitchens, returning triumphantly with a tray piled high—fresh fruits, buttery biscuits, and a few cream-filled eclairs. He set it down with a grin, his hair still damp with sweat, his shirt tugged on in haste.

“You’ve stolen every drop of my strength, Mrs Bridgerton,” he teased, sliding back onto the bed beside her. “But I come armed with offerings.”

Penelope, flushed and radiant against the rumpled sheets, gave a breathless laugh as he held a strawberry to her lips. She bit down, juice spilling over her mouth, and Colin groaned as he licked the trail from her chin to her lower lip, kissing her slow and deep before plucking another berry.

Soon it turned wicked. He broke an eclair in half and squeezed deliberately, letting cream ooze down into the soft valley of her breasts. Pen gasped, half shocked, half thrilled, as Colin bent low, tongue hot and thorough as he licked every trace away. His hands pressed her breasts together, greedily sucking at the sugared skin, until she was writhing beneath him with laughter and need tangled together.

“Colin!” she gasped, trying to shove him off even as her fingers clutched at his hair.

“Don’t scold me, Pen,” he said with mock innocence, lifting his head only to drag a wicked lick along her nipple. “I’d hate to waste perfectly good cream.”

“Oh…Colin…” she half-laughed, half-moaned as he licked it away with an obscene groan, his stubble rasping lightly against her skin.

“You taste better than any pastry, Pen,” he murmured, and then, grinning, dragged the next streak lower—over the swell of her round belly, circling her belly button until she was writhing beneath him. He sucked until she arched, moaning, the stickiness of cream and his hot mouth leaving her shivering.

He lifted his head only to pop a cherry into her lips, following with a kiss so deep she squealed when the pit dropped from her mouth to the sheets. “Wasteful wife,” he teased, tickling her armpits until she nearly kicked the tray over.

They ended in a tangle of limbs and laughter, cream smudged on her thighs, honey on his chin, biscuit crumbs in her hair. He pressed her down into the mattress, his cock nudging between her slick folds, and she gasped when he slid inside with one easy thrust.

“God, yes,” she moaned, the sweet stickiness clinging to her body making every movement slicker, dirtier.

He fucked her slowly at first, indulgent, almost lazy, kissing her sticky mouth, licking the traces of sugar from her lips. But then her nails raked down his back, her laughter giving way to breathless moans, and Colin’s hips snapped harder, driving her into the mattress until she could do nothing but cling to him, thighs trembling.

“Round two?” he panted against her neck.

“Three,” she corrected, giggling even as she cried out when he thrust deep, filling her completely.

“Then we’ll call the next one four,” he grinned, rolling his hips with a wicked snap that sent her eyes fluttering shut. “And I’ll keep count for the rest of the night.”

She was laughing and moaning all at once, sticky, spoiled, utterly loved—while Colin devoured her like the sweetest feast he’d ever had.

By the time Colin collapsed beside her after the fourth round, Penelope was already half-asleep, her body boneless and limp with pleasure. He smiled at the sight of her—hair mussed, skin flushed, lips parted in soft breaths. Carefully, he slipped away, fetching a warm, damp cloth. He wiped her down gently, brushing away the stickiness of cream and sweat. She stirred only faintly, murmuring, “Love you, Colin… so much.”

He chuckled low in his throat, kissed her tenderly on the lips, and whispered, “I know, darling.” She was already gone to dreams when he lay down beside her, drawing her against his chest.

Chapter Text

The morning light was warm when she blinked awake. A weight beside her shifted, and she turned to find Edmund lounging at her side, watching her with fond amusement.

Her first words were soft, puzzled. “Where’s Colin?”

Edmund brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “He promised Michael he’d go hunting today. Left at dawn. But,” his mouth quirked, “he told me to see you had a nice warm bath when you woke. Said you’d had… rather a lot of eclairs.”

That earned a helpless giggle from Penelope, who hid her face in the pillow for a moment. “Yes,” she admitted breathlessly, “we did.”

Edmund’s answer was a kiss, first to her lips, then trailing lower until his mouth lingered over her belly. He tasted faint traces of sugar there and hummed with approval. “God, you weren’t lying,” he said with a wicked smirk.

Her laughter bubbled up again, the sound mixing with the heat that sparked low in her cunt.

“We need to do this again,” Edmund murmured against her skin, his hand splaying warmly over her stomach. “When we’re all together.”

Her eyes softened, lips curving in a slow, sleepy smile. “Definitely.”

She pulled him up for another kiss, their mouths meeting tenderly this time, her heart still full from the night before, and fuller still at the thought of all three of them tasting her body together again.

Despite her murmured protest that she could walk perfectly well, Edmund swept her easily into his arms. “Nonsense,” he said, lips brushing her temple. “Colin asked me to take care of you, and I intend to do it properly.”

The bathtub was already filled with steaming water, fragrant with oils. He set her gently inside, then stripped and stepped in after her, settling behind so she could lean against his chest. Warmth wrapped them both, but so did the quiet intimacy.

He reached for a sponge, running it slowly down her arms, across her shoulders, along her thighs. Every touch was unhurried, reverent, though his kisses kept breaking in—at her neck, her ear, the curve of her cheek. When he slid his fingers into her hair and worked the lather gently across her scalp, she closed her eyes and sighed, boneless against him.

But Edmund’s patience frayed the longer he touched her. His hand drifted lower, slipping between her thighs with a low, hungry sound. “Let me,” he whispered, rubbing her until her hips rocked helplessly against his palm. She clutched at him, gasping, as he coaxed her steadily upward and over the edge, until she came with a sharp cry, water sloshing messily around them.

He only grinned, pressing kisses to her temple while she tried to catch her breath. “Beautiful,” he murmured, though he glanced down at the cloudy water with mock solemnity. “We’ve made a bit of a mess again.”

Penelope’s giggle was helpless. “This is the most inefficient bath I’ve ever had.”

Edmund smirked, taking up the sponge again as if he had all the time in the world. “Then let me wipe you clean, darling,” he said, his voice wicked. “And afterwards, we’ll discuss how to make it properly… efficient.”

Inevitably, one kiss led to another, and it turned into a playful second round of bath in the water, more splashing, more laughter muffled against his mouth, until both were thoroughly cleaned.

At last, Edmund lifted her from the bath and patted her dry with meticulous care, his expression softened by a private tenderness. He chose a pale blue gown from her wardrobe and helped her into it, fastening the tiny buttons with steady fingers. When she was ready, he pressed one final kiss to her hand and left her to compose herself, as though nothing had transpired at all.

By the time Penelope descended to the breakfast room, the household had gathered. Edmund was seated at the head of the table. Anthony, Colin, and Michael had returned from their morning ride, boots dusted, hair tousled by the wind. Hyacinth was already at the table, chattering about some scheme of hers.

Michael looked as though he had ridden into battle and returned victorious, like a knight flushed with triumph after a tourney. Penelope’s lips twitched. Surely it had something to do with Francesca.

She glanced towards Colin. He caught her look, gave the smallest nod, a flicker of a smile in his eyes. Across the table, Anthony smirked and gave a conspiratorial blink, as though to say yes, you’ve guessed it.

Penelope’s smile spread, her chest warming with the shared secret.

They waited. Eloise arrived first, dropping into her chair with all the grace of a cat who owned the place. Moments later Francesca entered. Conversation faltered, all eyes lifting to her.

She paused in the doorway, brows knitting. “What?”

Anthony cleared his throat with studied innocence. “Nothing at all.”

Colour rose in Francesca’s cheeks as she slid into her seat, muttering about unwanted attention under her breath. The meal resumed, plates filled, the chatter circling back to horses and weather. Yet the undercurrent of anticipation thrummed beneath it all.

It was not until most of them were sipping their tea at the end of the meal that Anthony laid down his cup with a deliberate clink. He cleared his throat again, but this time his tone was grave.

“Family, I have something to announce.” He turned to Edmund, “Father, if I have your permission…” Edmund grunted his approval, and Anthony continued, “Michael has expressed an interest in courting Francesca,” he announced. “He would like your permission to do so, Father.”

The clatter of cutlery echoed like a bell. Francesca’s fork had slipped from her hand, striking the porcelain plate with a sharp ring. Every head turned towards her.

Colin, seated nearest, leaned closer, voice gentle. “Franny, are you well?”

Her eyes darted, wide as a startled doe’s. “Yes.”

“Are you opposed to the match?” Colin asked quietly. “Because if you are, this stops here.”

“No. NOOO.” She almost shouted, then swallowed, cheeks flaming. Then, composing herself, she spoke calmly once again. “I mean—no, I am not opposed. It only took me by surprise, is all.”

Michael, who had held himself rigid, let out a breath that seemed to release the entire room. His voice, when it came, was steady, if a little rough. “Miss Francesca, I would wait as long as necessary. An age, if need be. You are worth the patience.”

Her lips parted in astonishment. At last, her gaze lifted to his, a flicker of wonder softening her features. She blushed, ducked her head, and busied herself with her teacup to hide the sweet smile that had graced her lips.

Edmund cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair with the weight of responsibility. “Well, Lord Sterling, propriety dictates that Francesca must first debut in society. If you wish to court her, and if she wishes to be courted by you, you must wait until then. Are you willing?”

Michael’s reply was immediate. “Yes, sir. Gladly.”

A ripple of quiet murmur ran round the table. Francesca’s blush deepened, though the corners of her mouth curved helplessly upward.

Eloise exhaled noisily, slumping back in her chair. “Well, thank heavens it’s Franny who shall be sacrificed this year. So long as a Bridgerton is wed annually, perhaps I may escape the marriage mart altogether.”

Her mutter into her teacup broke the tension, drawing chuckles from Michael. Then Anthony, Colin, and even Edmund joined him. Yet beneath their amusement, Penelope caught the look they all shared with her. Anthony’s smirk dimming into something more sober, Colin’s brow furrowing slightly. She met Edmund’s gaze across the table. He wasn't pleased at the prospect of a spinster Eloise hovering over them all, passing judgements loudly.  

A worried silence hummed between them all.

Michael Sterling’s declaration had been only the first ripple. Soon after, he removed himself to the Kilmartin house in London, determined to make his honorable intentions known in action as well as words. Anthony, too, departed with Penelope to their marital house in Bloomsbury.

The rhythm of their lives shifted. Anthony shuffled his attention between overseeing renovations for the nursery and maintaining appearances around London society events. Edmund and Colin remained in the Bridgerton house, managing affairs and making preparations for Francesca’s debut. But they never failed to visit their wife in Bloomsbury on a daily basis. Sometimes together, sometimes taking turns if one of them were duty bound elsewhere.

As Penelope’s eighth month approached, the once glowing anticipation of pregnancy was overlaid with fatigue. Her movements grew slow, cumbersome. Her joints ached, her back protested, her ankles swelled. She found herself irritable, her temper shortening to a hair’s breadth, snapping at the smallest thing.

Anthony and Colin, so bold and assertive in other spheres, grew cautious around her. They tread softly, watching her moods as one might watch the clouds before a summer storm, unsure whether lightning or laughter might follow.

Edmund, however, seemed impervious. With eight children of his own and a wife he had adored through every trial, he knew the landscape of late pregnancy as intimately as his own estate. He soothed Penelope with gentle wit, pressed her feet when they swelled, coaxed her into resting when she would have pushed herself too far. When her irritability boiled over, he listened without judgement, his calm unshaken. When she was sore, he fetched warm compresses and wrapped her in the strength of his arms. He seemed to know instinctively when to comfort, when to distract, when to tease her into laughter.

“Patience,” he told Anthony one evening, when his son wondered how he could handle their otherwise lovely wife so well during one of her stormy moods. Penelope had snapped at the younger man for hovering too near the writing desk prior that evening. “Patience, and a foot rub. Never underestimate the power of a well-executed massage.” Edmund advised him.

Anthony looked dubious. “You make it sound as though the secret to domestic harmony lies in one’s hands and a massage oil.”

“In more ways than one,” Edmund replied, the corners of his mouth twitching with a private amusement. “Learn it now, and you’ll thank me later. A wife, heavy with child, needs to feel cherished, not managed. Do not flinch at her moods, weather them. Hold fast, and she’ll find her calm again.”

Anthony muttered that it was easier said than done. But he decided to try it anyway.

He soon got a chance to try his father’s advice on a weary evening. Penelope had spent most of the afternoon shuffling about the house with her belly heavy and her temper short, and by the time supper was cleared, she had collapsed against the pillows with a low groan.

Edmund found Anthony hovering at the doorway of their chamber, clearly torn between approaching and fleeing.

“Go on,” Edmund said, amused. “Don’t look so terrified. A sore wife is not a beast, she only needs tending.”

Anthony muttered something about sore wives feeling like beasts when provoked, but Edmund ignored him and carried on.

“Your mother,” he said smoothly, “used to ache most in her lower back around this stage. If I wanted to keep my skin intact, I learned the best thing to do was knead her there. Deep pressure, no dithering. Do it properly, and she’ll be purring instead of snapping.”

Anthony swallowed, squared his shoulders, and nodded at his father.

“Are you leaving soon?” Anthony asked him. Edmund nodded, I need to meet Lord Weatherby in Whites tonight about the parliament bill. I shall be going to Bridgerton house after that. Take care of her, son. Be patient.”  Anthony nodded solemnly and watched his father walk away. He squared his shoulders after that and entered the room like a man marching to war.

Penelope cracked one eye open. “If you’ve come to tell me to ‘rest more,’ Anthony Bridgerton, I shall throw a candlestick at your head.”

He startled, then quickly came to her side, bending over to press a kiss to her brow. “I’ve come to do no such thing, wife. Roll onto your side. Now.”

She arched her brow. “Commanding.”

“No, not commanding… caring,” he corrected gently, helping her shift onto her left side, propping pillows beneath her belly for support. Then he straddled her thighs and set his hands to her lower back.

The first press of his palms made her gasp. “Ohhh.”

Anthony’s jaw set with determination. He worked slowly at first, fingers digging into the tight muscles, then rolling his thumbs in steady circles exactly where she needed it most. Penelope all but melted into the mattress.

“Oh God, yes—there,” she whimpered, clutching the sheets. “Anthony, don’t stop—don’t you dare stop.”

His lips curved in smug satisfaction. “I am glad you like what I'm doing to you.”

As he worked the tension from her back, her sharp edges softened. She murmured little praises in between sighs, each one sending a flicker of pride through him. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “You’ve carried our child with such strength, Pen. Let me carry this much for you.”

Her throat tightened. For all his gruffness, Anthony’s words always landed with weight. “You’re good at this,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“I’ve had the best teacher,” he admitted. “Apparently, Father knows what he’s talking about.”

Penelope laughed breathlessly, but her amusement turned quickly to need. The pressure of his hands, the heat of his body over hers—it stirred something deeper. She shifted against him, a sly wiggle of her hips. “You’ll have to finish what you started, dear husband.”

Anthony stilled, then growled low in his throat. “Careful, Pen. You know I never half-finish anything.”

What began as a practical massage soon devolved into Anthony kneading her backside with both hands, kissing a trail along her spine, until she was panting with desire. He began running her slit in slow, gentle strokes, petting her sex lazily, all the while kissing her lips sweetly and when her breath grew heavy, he began pumping his thick fingers inside her. Soon, he brought her off with his hand, murmuring filthy encouragement into her ear as she trembled against him with her release.

Afterwards, he cleaned her gently, tucked the blankets around her, and lay with one arm heavy around her waist. She was already drifting when he whispered, “I’ll never let you carry anything alone. Not while I’m breathing. Please, remember that.”

Penelope was already fast asleep by then. 

The Bloomsbury house became a stage of small rituals. Edmund liked to say a heavily pregnant wife was not unlike a queen. She had to be attended with reverence, patience, and the occasional coaxing hand. Penelope, who was not above sharp retorts when she was sore and swollen, found herself charmed by the way he framed it.

One afternoon, when it was just the three of them, himself, Colin, and Penelope in the house, her ankles were puffed and she had been grumbling about the indignity of not fitting into her favourite slippers, Edmund signalled for Colin.

“Your turn to learn, son,” Edmund said, gesturing toward Penelope where she reclined on the chaise. “Feet first. Swelling can be managed if you know what you’re about.”

Colin settled himself at the edge of the chaise, Edmund’s calm voice guided him. “Massage her feet. Gentle pressure, not tickling. And elevate them, always. Up on a pillow, or better—” his eyes twinkled “—if you want her grateful, up on your shoulders. Gravity will do half the work.”

Penelope let out an indignant laugh. “On his shoulders, Edmund?”

“Yes, Darling.” the elder Bridgerton replied smoothly. “Best position for relief.”

Colin, never one to waste a chance to make her laugh, grinned boyishly and lifted her legs higher, settling her soft calves across his broad shoulders. The picture of propriety went out the window instantly. Penelope was giggling, her hands covering her mouth as Colin stroked carefully from ankle to arch, kneading the soreness from her swollen feet.

“Oh…” she sighed after a few minutes, shoulders loosening as the pressure eased. “That… does feel better.”

Colin looked pleased with himself, and Penelope’s eyes softened as she studied his earnest concentration. “You’re a quick learner,” she murmured.

Behind them, Edmund had long since excused himself with a knowing smirk. His lesson, clearly, had been going on well.

Her fingers played with the fabric of her gown for a moment, and then, as if seized by mischief, she rucked it up slowly, baring her thighs and then higher still until the swell of her belly and the heat between her legs were revealed.

Colin’s breath caught. His eyes shot up to hers.

“Would you like a taste, Col?” she asked softly, her voice a low invitation.

“Yes,” he groaned without hesitation. “God, yes.”

He buried his face between her thighs, hands steadying her as his mouth found her, tongue flicking and then pressing, coaxing her body into response despite her weariness. She gasped, arching slightly against the rise of her belly, one hand tangled in his curls, the other pressed to her lips to stifle the moans spilling out.

Penelope came undone with little tremors, and when Colin finally raised his head, his mouth glistened with her taste. She cupped his face with tender fingers. “You always make me forget my aches.”

He pressed a reverent kiss to her hand. “And I always will.”

Later, when she was dozing peacefully, ankles no longer throbbing, Edmund passed Colin in the hall and clapped him on the shoulder. “See? Shoulders are good for more than carrying burdens. Remember that.”

Colin flushed but grinned, understanding now exactly what his father had meant.

It was one of those evenings when Penelope could scarcely move without huffing. Her ankles were swollen, her back sore, and the child within her seemed determined to box her ribs from the inside. She was cranky, short-tempered, and absolutely done.

Edmund, of course, only smiled when he found her glowering in her chair by the fire.

“Come here,” he said warmly, holding out his hand.

“I can’t move, if you haven't noticed yet, I shall inform you that I am a heavily pregnant woman in her eighth month of pregnancy,” she muttered, shifting irritably.

“Then I shall come to you.” And he did, sweeping her easily into his arms as though she weighed no more than a girl again. Penelope gave a squeak of protest, but it faded quickly into a soft sigh as he settled with her on the sofa, her body curled in his lap.

“You know, I’ve done this before,” he murmured against her temple. “Eight times, in fact. And your sharp tongue does not frighten me half as much as you think.”

She gave a reluctant laugh. “Eight times, Edmund Bridgerton. But this one’s my first and you still haven't carried a single child in your womb, so you still have no right to make me feel like a silly chit.”

He chuckled, rubbing one broad hand over her belly, steady and soothing. “That’s not what I'm trying to do, my sweet girl. Now—what aches worst tonight?”

“My feet,” she admitted, almost shyly.

“Mm. Thought as much.” He slid her skirts up carefully and lifted her ankles, setting them across his thighs. His thumbs pressed firmly into the swollen arches, slow and deliberate, until she moaned low in her throat.

“There now. Don’t you hold back those sounds. They’re for me.”

She hid her face against his shoulder, flustered. “Edmund!”

“Yes, yes, I know, it's a sound of relief, not pleasure. But it pleases me to hear it nonetheless. You give so much to all of us, Penelope. Let me give back.”

His touch was unhurried, endlessly patient. He massaged until the tension melted from her, then pressed a kiss to each toe as if she were something sacred. Penelope blinked back sudden tears.

“Edmund,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He looked at her then, eyes full of warmth. “You needn’t speak of it. I know you love me.” He kissed her softly, reverently, as his hands continued to soothe.

She came undone slowly, not in a rush of passion but in the quiet intimacy of being cherished so thoroughly. And when he eventually carried her to bed, washed her face, and tucked her under the blankets, she clung to his hand like a child.

“Don’t go tonight, please,” she murmured, already half-asleep.

“Then I shall stay…” he promised, pressing her fingers to his lips, then shedding his waistcoat and jacket and slipping under the covers beside her.

By the time Penelope entered her ninth month, the very idea of dressing for society was laughable. Her ankles were swollen, her back ached perpetually, and the babe seemed to press upon every rib at once. She could barely manage the stairs without a husband on either side, and gowns that had once been cleverly altered now strained across her belly.

So she remained at Bridgerton house on the day Francesca made her presentation. She had watched Anthony pace the morning room, Edmund write letters with measured calm, and Colin fuss over the flowers in the hallway, each of them channelling nerves into some occupation. Penelope had smiled at them indulgently, propped upon her chaise with a cushion tucked at her spine, longing to be part of the moment but too encumbered to join.

News came to her in pieces. Eloise, flushed with excitement and disdain in equal measure, gave a dramatic retelling of Francesca’s first ball. “She looked divine, of course. And Michael Sterling? Well, he all but tripped over himself to get to her. I should think it’s humiliating, the way men gape when a girl has a pretty face.”

Anthony only rolled his eyes, too pleased to chide. Colin leaned against the mantel, his expression half-amused, half-secretive. Edmund smiled, calm and approving. And Penelope, listening, felt warmth spread through her tired body.

She could picture it so clearly: Francesca radiant in her evening wear, Michael Sterling’s gaze caught and bound, the whole room watching them as though the match had already been made.

“She’s fallen for him,” Anthony said later that night, his voice softer as he undressed for bed. He pressed a kiss to Penelope’s temple, settling carefully beside her swollen form. “And he for her. He looks at her as though she is the only woman in London.”

Penelope’s lips curved, her heart softening at the image. “Good,” she murmured, stroking the swell of her belly. “She deserves it. If she is even half as happy with Michael as I am with all of you… then she will be blessed indeed.”

Anthony, reached out and took her hand, squeezing gently. “She will be, my dear. And she’ll have your example before her. That, I think, is worth more than all the dowries and diamonds in the world.”

Penelope smiled, tears pricking her eyes, though she quickly blinked them away. Francesca was falling in love, Michael Sterling was proving himself constant, and even if she could not walk the gilded halls of the ton in her present state, she could rejoice in the happiness of her family.

Two weeks later, the household was rattled by a scandal that did not reach Penelope in the form of gossip, but in the stormy tread of her husbands. Anthony’s jaw was clenched, Edmund’s brows dark with disapproval, and Colin muttered under his breath as though each word were a curse.

Penelope, propped against her mountain of cushions, raised a brow as they filed into her sitting room like three men condemned. “Well? What tragedy has befallen London now?”

“Michael Sterling,” Anthony growled, “was found—was caught —in the Cowpar conservatory with Francesca.”

Colin, pacing, added, “And not merely conversing. Not whispering. Kissing. Passionately.”

“By Araminta Cowpar, of all people,” Edmund said grimly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It will be everywhere by morning.”

Penelope blinked. “Ah. So Francesca is kissed by the man who has been courting her for weeks, who has already expressed his wish to marry her and the three of you act as if Trafalgar were lost.”

Anthony’s nostrils flared. “His hand was under her skirt! It is indecorous. It is reckless. It is—”

“—entirely natural,” Penelope interrupted, her tone sharp enough to still all three. She sighed, shifting carefully as the babe pressed against her ribs. “Passion has a way of spilling over, particularly when feelings are tangled up. Or have you forgotten how this marriage, this babe in my womb came to be?”

Anthony and Colin exchanged a glance. Edmund flushed, opening his mouth to protest, but she lifted a hand. “Enough. You cannot condemn Francesca for doing what all of us have done. If Michael has already declared his intentions, then what harm? Let them marry on a special licence and be done with it.”

Colin frowned, though his eyes softened at her logic. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Penelope said firmly. “Francesca is in love. Michael is in love. Why force them to endure weeks of gossip and disapproval when the solution is at hand? Do not punish them for being young and eager.”

There was a pause. Anthony exhaled heavily, as though surrendering a battle. Edmund’s expression softened, some hidden amusement tugging at his mouth. “Young and eager, huh?”

Colin sat beside her on the chaise, his hand finding hers, the tension ebbing. 

Penelope patted his fingers, a small smile curving her lips. “Besides,” she murmured, “a kiss in a conservatory is hardly the worst thing that can happen to a debutante.”

“Agreed.” Colin chuckled, "At least they were not in a barn, with haysticks all around.”

At that, even Edmund chuckled.

The wedding of Francesca Bridgerton and Michael Stirling was everything Penelope might have wished for her sister-in-law. The house at Grosvenor Square glittered with garlands of roses and lilies, silk ribbons curling from banisters and spilling down over the polished marble stair and penelope wondered what kind of magic the housekeeper possessed to transform the house so completely in just three days. Laughter seemed to seep into the very walls, music drifting from the hired quartet as if even the instruments had been brushed with happiness.

Penelope, though burdened with her ninth month, had insisted on attending. No amount of coaxing from her husbands could keep her away from watching Francesca step into matrimony. She would not miss her sister-in-law’s joy, not when she had watched the girl wait so long for this moment, to belong somewhere, to belong to someone.

Anthony and Colin flanked her like twin sentries, one offering his steady arm, the other darting about to fetch her lemonade, her fan, her chair. Edmund, distracted as ever by the wrangling of siblings and guests, still managed to keep one sharp eye fixed upon her, as if the sheer force of his vigilance might prevent any untimely excitement.

Penelope smiled through the ceremony, blinked away tears when Francesca said her vows, and gripped Anthony’s hand with such ferocity that he leaned close and whispered against her ear, “Careful, love. You’ll break my fingers before the babe even arrives.”

She only laughed softly, her head tipping to rest against his shoulder as Francesca and Michael kissed to thunderous applause. Around them, the Bridgertons roared their approval, Colin whistling loudly enough to make Eloise snort with laughter.

Benedict himself arrived late from his country estate–'My cottage', smelling faintly of whisky, turpentine and the countryside, his artist’s grin wide as he offered a florid toast to the couple. His waistcoat bore a smudge of paint, though no one seemed to mind—least of all Francesca, who threw her arms around him with unreserved delight. Penelope noticed, however, the glances he shared with Edmund across the ballroom: little sparks of paternal disapproval quickly damped down, disagreements postponed for another day. The family might bicker and quarrel endlessly, but never on such an occasion. No one dared mar Francesca’s day.

The wedding breakfast was a lively affair. Michael stood, gallant and charming, speaking so eloquently of his bride that even Edmund dabbed his eyes. Francesca, glowing with joy, replied with a quip that made the room laugh and Michael kissed her hand reverently. Then the dancing began, and though Penelope declined every invitation to the floor, she sat contentedly upon her chair, hands folded protectively over her belly, watching her family whirl and spin in a blur of silk and laughter.

When at last the carriage was brought round, Francesca and Michael departed for their London house, where they would honeymoon before returning to Killmartin castle in Scotland.  Penelope waved them off, tears shining in her eyes, joy and wistfulness tangled together. She thought of Francesca, embarking upon her own new life, and of herself, waiting for the life she carried within her to make its entrance.

The carriage rolled away to cheers and shouts, until at last only drifting petals remained in the air. One by one, the guests departed, the music grew quiet, and Grosvenor Square fell back into a hush.

Anthony pressed a kiss to Penelope’s temple and murmured, “We’ve seen one happy beginning today. Soon enough, love, it will be another happy occasion.”

She smiled at him, weary but glowing, her hand tightening over his. Around them, guests bustled, voices raised, servants clearing away the remains of the feast. The night was drawing down, and with it, the promise of yet another chapter in her own story, one that would begin not with vows or rings, but with the first wail of the child stirring restlessly in her womb.

And as later that night Penelope allowed her husband to guide her towards the bedchambers, she thought, with no small thrill of anticipation, that the next celebration might well be theirs, them celebrating their first child’s arrival.

Chapter Text

The days that followed after Franny’s wedding passed in quiet anticipation. Penelope grew heavier and slower, her steps measured, her temper hot and it was decided that she once again needed to reside in Bridgerton house so her health could be monitored by anyone and everyone who was around. Everyone hovered over her, concerned. Yet in the settled air of the house, with Hyacinth flitting in and out, and Colin, Edmund, and Anthony fussing over her in turns, she felt content. A week, perhaps less, and she would hold her child.

And then…

It was near midnight when Hyacinth burst into the sitting room, a candle trembling in her hand and a letter clutched in the other. Penelope startled from her doze on the chaise, while the three men, Edmund, Anthony and Colin looked up from their card game.

Hyacinth’s eyes were wide. “It’s Eloise,” she gasped. “She’s gone. She’s…she’s eloped.”

Penelope sat upright, heart hammering. “Eloped? With whom?”

Hyacinth thrust the letter at Edmund. He tore it open, eyes scanning swiftly. His jaw locked, colour rising in his face. “She’s gone to the house of—” He broke off, swallowing. “Of our cousin’s widower– Sir Phillipe Crane. A man she has never properly met. Only corresponded with through letters, she says. A bachelor now, yes, but—” He looked thunderous. “Utterly inappropriate.”

Colin snatched the letter next, reading with growing alarm. “She’s mad. What could she possibly be thinking, running to him?”

Anthony's face was grim. “That doesn’t matter. She cannot stay there. Not overnight. Not in the same house, alone. Her reputation—” He stood at once, decisive. “We leave at once.”

Penelope pushed herself upright, panic and disbelief wrestling in her chest. “But where will you go? What if they're eloping to Gretna Green—”

“We will go to Crane's estate first. Romney hall. That's our destination.” Edmund was already moving, issuing orders. “Colin, fetch the carriage. Anthony, send a groom to saddle horses. Hyacinth, stay with Penelope—”

“No,” Anthony interrupted, turning sharply. “Not Hyacinth. She’s a child. If Penelope goes into labour…We cannot leave her and the babe with only Hyacinth.”

They all paused, the weight of it settling.

Colin exhaled. “Benedict, then. We’ll send for Benedict.”

“Yes,” Anthony agreed at once. “A message to his club or whatever den of paint and scandal he’s in tonight. He’ll come back, and he’ll stay here until we return.”

Edmund, still fuming, slammed the letter on the table. “Very well. We ride at once. Eloise is not spending one more hour under that man’s roof.”

Hyacinth bit her lip, looking from her brothers to Penelope. “I’ll sit with her until Benedict comes.”

Anthony strode over to Penelope, crouched so his eyes met hers. His expression softened, even as urgency burned around him. “We’ll bring her back, safe and sound. Don’t fret, sweetheart. You just stay here and take care of yourself. Try not to worry yourself.”

Penelope swallowed hard, nodding. She sensed the other two of her husbands wanted to reassure her too, but held back on Hyacinth's account. But as she watched the three men stride out into the night, boots thudding, coats thrown over shoulders, she couldn’t shake the twist of fear curling beneath her ribs. Eloise had always been reckless, yes. But this—this was something else entirely.

The Bridgerton house was hushed after the men had thundered away into the night. Hyacinth had fluttered around anxiously, then fallen asleep on a sofa, candle guttering beside her. Penelope sat in the drawing room, one hand on her swollen belly, trying to steady her breathing.

And then the pain struck. Sharp, sudden, low in her back and wrapping round her belly like a tightening band. She gasped, clutching the arm of the chair.

False labour, she told herself. False labour. But when the next wave came half an hour later, she cried out despite herself.

Hyacinth startled awake. “Pen! What is it?”

Penelope could barely form words. “Where’s Benedict?.”

“Not yet back it seems. I will rouse Mrs. Wilson.” Hyacinth, pale, mumbled. 

Just then, Benedict came striding in, coat half-unbuttoned, hair still wild from the party he’d been dragged from. But when his eyes landed on Penelope, all traces of carefree artist were gone. Concern sharpened him.

“What’s happened?” he asked, kneeling at once before her. “Are you not well?”

“I think—oh God—I thought it was labour,” Penelope managed, sweat beading on her brow. “But… it’s early. And the pains, they are irregular.”

Benedict’s face was set, serious in a way she had rarely seen. “All right. Let’s not panic. Did you inform the midwife?”

“She might not come till morning,” she whispered, voice trembling with weariness. “It might pass. But… I don’t know.”

He studied her for a moment, jaw tight, then gave a firm nod. “Then maybe we wait. Can you get up? Walk up to your room?”

She tried to shift, then shook her head, breath catching. “No… not right now.”

Without another word, he bent and gathered her into his arms. She gave a soft gasp, startled by the ease with which he lifted her, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all. He carried her up the staircase with slow, steady strides.

“What’s wrong with Penny?” Hyacinth asked, voice small with concern.

“Nothing you need to worry about, I'm here now, aren't I?” Benedict soothed, keeping his tone even. “Go back to sleep, poppet. I’ll watch over her.”

The girl hesitated, then nodded, trusting him, and padded to her room.

In Penelope’s chamber, he laid her gently upon the bed, arranging pillows at her back. His hand lingered a moment at her shoulder, steadying her, as if reluctant to step away. 

“Thank you” Penelope murmured tiredly.

“Rest now,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

Benedict had drawn a chair close to the bed, but he hadn’t sat down properly. He hovered instead, one hand resting on the carved wood, the other occasionally smoothing the blanket over her lap as though fussing with small tasks might keep him calm.

Penelope shifted against the pillows, trying to breathe through another ripple of discomfort. It passed quickly, not yet the sharp intensity she dreaded, but enough to leave her restless.

“You don’t have to sit there like a sentinel,” she murmured, attempting a smile. “You’ll wear a groove in the floor if you keep pacing.”

He glanced at her, lips twitching, then finally sank into the chair. “I’m not pacing. I’m… keeping alert.”

“Same thing,” she teased softly. Then, after a pause, her voice gentled. “You must miss Paul. You could have been enjoying your parties with him but here you are, stuck with a heavily pregnant woman.”

The name of his lover seemed to strike him like a dart. He stilled, shoulders taut, and for a long moment he said nothing. And then he deflected, “Heavily pregnant Penny, I care about you a great deal to think of this situation as getting stuck with you.”

Penelope grinned, but then she clutched the sheet, teeth digging into her lower lip as another contraction tore through her. Her belly tightened, the ache low and relentless, and she stifled a groan.

“Penny,” Benedict murmured, crouching beside her, his hand firm on her shoulder. His face, usually so light with laughter, was taut with worry. “How long has it been like this?”

“An hour,” she whispered, sweat already dampening her brow. “They come… too far apart.”

He pressed his lips together, glancing at the darkened window. The midwife would not arrive until dawn, perhaps later. For now, she had only him.

Minutes later, when another contraction seized her, she bent forward with a soft cry. Benedict shifted quickly, bracing her, his palm spreading against her lower back to ease her through it. But he saw the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, the way her nails bit into the upholstery. It tore at him.

Finally, when the wave eased, he swallowed hard. “Penelope… should I—should I check how far you are?”

“Check how?” Penelope scrunched her nose in confusion.

He looked torn for a heartbeat, then decisiveness took over. “I’ve attended enough of my siblings’ births to know the signs. Forgive me, Penny, but I need to get my hand under your skirt.”

Her eyes widened. But looking at his confidence on the matter she could only nod. He pressed her back gently into the cushions, lifted her skirts with a kind of gentleness, and after a steadying breath, checked her. His hands were careful, his eyes averted, his jaw tight with restraint.

Finally he pulled back. “You’re not dilated. Not yet. It might be false labour. Or the very start, and it could stall.” He wiped his brow, clearly rattled, having touched her quim, but trying not to show it.

“It could go on for hours. Maybe for an entire day and night too. You should go and get some sleep.” Penelope said. Then she shut her eyes, hand curling over her belly. 

Benedict could see how much pain she was in. He felt frustrated at himself that he wasn't able to do anything to soothe her, or at this point just hasten her labour so she wouldn't have to suffer hours of agony. “Isn't there anything that could help get you there faster?” 

“The midwife told me… to help things along, I could…” She trailed off, cheeks flushing even through her exhaustion. “…be amorous. With my husband. She said it could… quicken the labour.”

Benedict froze, his throat suddenly dry. “Anthony isn’t here.”

“Exactly.” Her laugh was brittle, sharp with pain. “So I endure it.”

The hours dragged. The pains ebbed and flowed, never quite sharpening into the rhythm of true labour. Hyacinth checked on her twice in the night, but the young girl looked exhausted, and after the second time, on Penelope's behest, she had been coaxed to bed. Now only Penelope and Benedict remained in the chamber, the clock ticking steadily against the silence.

Penelope shifted restlessly, pressing her palms into her lower back. “It won’t start,” she muttered, frustration thick in her voice, as she grew near tears. “It only teases me.”

Benedict sat opposite, elbows braced on his knees, watching her with concern. He had not left her side since his arrival, fetching water, steadying her through each spasm, checking her once again when she begged him to. But still nothing.

“Perhaps we should call for the midwife anyway,” he suggested gently.

“She will only tell me what I already know,” Penelope said bitterly. “That my body is stubborn. That it refuses to open. And—” She stopped, biting her lip.

Benedict frowned. “And what?”

She turned her gaze to the fire, cheeks flushed not with pain this time but with something deeper. The midwife’s words returned with startling clarity. Her body remembered them too—the ache in her loins, the restless need that sometimes accompanied the cramping. She swallowed.

“She had said in her last visit,” she said softly, almost conspiratorially, “that when labour stalls… sometimes the body needs a… a push. A reminder. A… release of good feelings.”

Benedict’s head snapped up, his eyes widening. For a long, stunned beat he simply stared at her.

Penelope’s cheeks burned hotter, but she forced herself on. “She said a husband’s touch can coax the body to soften, to open. That sometimes his seed—” Her voice broke, “—can prepare the birth canal for the smooth arrival of the babe…”

Benedict dragged a hand through his hair, visibly wrestling with himself. “Penelope… you cannot mean—”

“I do not mean anything by telling you that,” she whispered, desperate now. Her eyes locked on his, pleading. “My husband's gone. And if it is labour… if it begins in earnest and yet continues to keep me in this hell for hours… I will have to do it alone. And I cannot….I cannot imagine…”

He rose, paced once, then came back to kneel before her. His hands hovered over hers, not quite touching. His voice was rough when he spoke. “Penny, all I wish for you is to have a safe delivery, and I will do my best to ensure that you don't have to do it alone—”

“I know.” Her breath hitched. “Benedict, I know. And I trust you to stay at my side. But I am frightened.”

Her words hung between them, heavier than the silence.

Benedict’s throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes searching hers as though he might find an answer to his conundrum in the blue depths of her eyes. He wanted to help her, speed up her labours. He truly wished that for her. But…really, how could he? 

Even the idea of doing something intimate with his pregnant sister-in-law should have felt taboo. She was bound to someone else. And he was mourning the loss of his most profound relationship. Paul. The first major heartbreak of his life. But then he once again took her tiny swollen form, desperate for relief from this agony. Clutching at the sheets, biting her lips, her eyes watery… and so very sad and scared. He couldn't leave her alone. And he couldn't let her endure hours of labour without at least trying.

Finally, his hand closed around hers, warm and steady.

“Penny, let me help you. I can't watch you writhing in pain like this. Not when I'm perfectly capable of helping you. So tell me, do you want me to speed up the labours,” he said quietly, “You will have to tell me clearly. Say it to me, Penelope.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She leaned forward, eyes glistening, exhausted by the pain, and whispered, “I dont know Benedict. How could I ask you to do something so monumental for me?”

Another contraction wracked her, pulling a whimper from her lips. He held her through it, jaw clenched, mind racing. Each sound she made stabbed through him, and with every passing moment he felt more helpless.

At last, when she sagged back, trembling, he spoke. His voice was rough, hesitant, but there was steel in it too. “I can’t just sit here watching you suffer. Penny…” His gaze locked with hers, burning with conflicted intensity. “…I could really help.”

Her eyes fluttered open, wide and astonished. “Would you, really?” she breathed, barely more than a whisper, as if the air itself might shatter if she spoke louder.

The pause that followed was thick with unspoken things—their breaths, the weight of the hour, the dangerous line he was offering to cross.

Penelope blinked at him, her lips parting in shock. “You would do it?”

Benedict didn’t answer at once. His throat bobbed, his hand still braced on her arm. He looked torn, as though even saying the words had startled him. “If it would spare you this pain,” he said finally, low and raw, “then yes. This wouldn't mean anything more than what it is for me.”

She searched his face, disbelief flickering through her. She let out a shaky laugh, half-incredulous, half-pained. “Forgive me, Benedict, but… I thought you…” Her gaze faltered, embarrassment tinting her cheeks. “…preferred the company of men. How can I possibly force you to—”

He stiffened, then gave a strangled chuckle, though there was no amusement in it. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m… incapable of wanting or pleasuring a woman?” His eyes darkened, the hurt sharp and unguarded.

“I never meant—” she began, but faltered, caught by the look in his eyes.

Silence stretched between them, heavy and unrelenting.

Penelope's thoughts whirled, spinning back to that day—almost two years ago, before Edmund, Anthony, or Colin made her theirs, before her wedding vows, both official and unofficial, before any of this. The day she had gone to Benedict in secret, awkward and trembling, trying to do what her mother had instructed her to do—to entice him, seduce him into a courtship—and how gently he had turned her away. She had told herself ever since it was because he did not desire women, that his inclinations lay elsewhere. But tonight… his words shattered that certainty. He was capable of being with women. Just not her.

Benedict’s hand twitched where it rested against his legs. His gaze lifted back to her, stormy and unsure. She held it—unflinching, despite the sheen of sweat on her brow, despite the tremors wracking her body—and for a moment it seemed the entire world contracted down to this: her pain, his helplessness, and the dangerous possibility hovering between them.

When he spoke next, Benedict’s voice was a whisper, but steady. “Penelope, make no mistake—I am perfectly capable of pleasing a woman. I have been with both men and women. I know how to touch, how to give pleasure. But then…” His jaw tightened, the memory flickering painfully across his face. “When I fell in love with Paul, I chose to be only with him and that was the end of my dalliances with other people.”

Penelope’s lips parted. “Then I cannot ask you to break your oath of monogamy on my account.”

His gaze burned, full of something raw. “It doesn’t matter. Paul has already broken it.” The words came bitter, clipped, and yet soft when he added, “You care about my oath…But you—what of your marriage vow?”

Her answer was lost to a sharp cry as a contraction seized her. She doubled over, fingers clenching the sheets, her breath ragged. He was at her side instantly, holding her hand, whispering useless comforts, until at last the spasm ebbed. With careful hands he checked her dilation again, his brow furrowed. Too slow. Too painful.

When he looked up, the anguish in his eyes was unbearable. In that instant, his decision was finally made. It would be clinical. Necessary. He wouldn't attach any feelings to it. He cared for her as his brother's wife and he would do anything to shorten her ordeal. “Penelope,” he murmured, “Please. Let me help you. I cannot stand to see you like this.”

For Penelope, the reason behind his rejection made it sting a bit less. When previously she had thought he didn't want her because of the way she looked, now she knew it was because he was already in love with someone by that point. So she said, “If you are willing… you may touch me. It is not as if you are doing this for pleasure, but out of duty.”

For a long moment, silence pressed between them, broken only by the tick of the clock and her shallow breaths. Benedict’s eyes searched hers, stricken, as though her words had wounded him more than she knew. He opened his mouth to argue, to insist it was not duty—care, never merely duty—but then closed it again, choosing silence. In a way she was right. He was doing his familial duty to her, her baby. His little nephew or niece.

He shifted closer, his hand trembling just slightly as it brushed against her arm, down to her wrist. Testing. Seeking. And then, with a tender resolve, he let his fingers trail lower, stroking gently, reverently, as though the act itself was a prayer.

At first, she told herself to stay still, to endure his touch as she endured the contractions — something clinical, detached, necessary. But her body had never listened well to reason.

Benedict’s hand moved lower, feather-light at first, tracing her hip, the swell of her belly, then brushing the tender skin of her thigh. The heat of his palm seared through her thin gown, and Penelope sucked in a breath, sharp as glass. She shut her eyes, willing herself to think of anything but the man beside her, anything but the intimacy of his touch.

And yet—when his thumb pressed in just the right place, circling with maddening tenderness. Instead of the sharpness stealing her breath, she gasped from a different sensation altogether. The pain dulled, blunted, her body quivering with a strange mixture of ache and pleasure.

Her hips tilted, unbidden, towards his hand. Her fingers clutched the sheets tighter, as if the linen could anchor her. This is only duty. She reminded herself.

But Benedict’s touch was no longer clinical. He stroked her with careful reverence, each movement deliberate, coaxing. His own lips parted, his breathing ragged, just by watching her bosom heave up and down. And when he leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear, she shuddered and closed her eyes.

“Do you mind if I lower your neckline?,” he murmured, his voice rough. 

Her lashes fluttered open, and she caught his gaze. The intensity there burned her—confusion, guilt, desire, all tangled together. Another contraction threatened, yet instead of agony it carried her into a rush of heat, her body damp and pliant under his hand.

A moan slipped free, unbidden, soft and broken.

Her face flushed crimson, her shame a fire in her chest. But her body—her body arched into him, desperate for more, betraying her with every tremor. “Yes, you may.” She said at last.

Benedict had meant to stop at his hand. He had told himself—sworn to himself—that it was only to ease her pain, nothing more. But Penelope’s body trembled under his touch, her lips parting around gasps that were no longer only from labour. He could feel it in the way her hips shifted, the way her thighs pressed together and then eased apart again, instinctively seeking relief.

His chest ached. God help him, he could not look at her like this—flushed, sweat beading at her temples, her breasts heaving against the loosened neckline of her gown—without wanting. And he had the sudden urge to see those round, lush tits full of milk. So he asked her if he could see them. And the moment she gave him the permission, he pulled the loosened nightgown down to bare them to his eyes.

Another contraction seized her. She clutched his wrist, her nails biting into his skin. “Benedict—”

He bent over her before he knew he meant to. His lips brushed her temple, then her damp cheek, murmuring nonsense to soothe her. But her scent—her warmth—overwhelmed him. His mouth drifted lower, grazing her jaw, the delicate line of her throat. She gasped again, this time not from pain.

He stilled, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, shaking with the effort it took to resist. “Penelope… I cannot…I cannot stop…”

“You don't have to,” she whispered back, voice hoarse. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him there. “If it eases me… do not stop what you've begun.”

That was his undoing.

With a broken sound, he pressed his lips fully to her throat, kissing hungrily, reverently. His mouth travelled down, tasting the pulse fluttering beneath her skin, then lower still until it brushed the swell of her breast. Her bodice was already pulled down, nipples already stiff—taut, darkened, begging for his mouth.

He groaned, his resolve shattering, and closed his lips around it.

Penelope cried out, arching, her fingers tangling in his hair. The sensation startled her—sharp and soothing all at once—cutting through the pain of the contraction like balm. He suckled gently at first, testing, his hand steadying the other breast with reverence. But when her back bowed, offering herself more fully, when a shudder ran through her body that had nothing to do with labour, his restraint slipped further.

He suckled harder, drawing deep, greedy pulls as though he could drink her very strength. His tongue flicked across the peak, soothing, teasing, worshipping. One hand cradled her belly protectively, while the other kneaded her breast, thumb brushing her other nipple until it hardened under his touch.

Penelope’s cries turned breathless, fragmented—half pain, half pleasure. The contraction ebbed, eased, leaving her floating in a haze of heat and relief.

And still he nursed at her, unwilling to let go, as though giving her his mouth was the only way he could bear her suffering.

Her body eased again beneath his mouth, the sharp edge of pain dulled by the pleasure he coaxed from her breasts. For a few breaths she almost forgot herself, floating, but then another contraction should have gripped her—only it didn’t. It hovered instead, weak and faltering, leaving her half in pain and half in limbo.

Penelope’s brows knit. “It isn’t starting right,” she gasped. “It should—oh, God—it should be stronger by now.”

Benedict lifted his head, lips swollen from suckling, eyes dark with worry and something more primal. He rested a hand low on her belly, feeling the faint tightening there, then looked at her with grim determination.

“Didnt the midwife say… stimulation can quicken the labour,” he said, voice rough. “You told me yourself. And if your body responds like this to.my mouth—” his thumb swept across her damp nipple, making her shudder, “—then perhaps… perhaps more is needed.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. She searched his face, stunned by the weight in his gaze.

“You mean…” she whispered.

He swallowed hard. “Yes. I mean—me, inside you. If you’ll have it. It would just be a duty I perform. Nothing more.”

She flushed hotly, torn between shock and the memory of how her body had just sung beneath his mouth. “Benedict… that isn’t duty. That is—”

“It is what will help,” he cut in, but his voice broke with raw want. “And it is what I cannot stop wanting to give you.” His hand trembled as he cupped her cheek. “Say the word, and I’ll stop. But if you allow it—if you ask—I’ll ease you the only way I can.”

Her belly tightened faintly again, a useless half-contraction, and she cried out in frustration. Her nails bit into his forearm. “Then do it. Please. Make it stronger.”

Something inside him snapped at her plea.

With a groan he finally kissed her on her lips, fierce and hungry, pushing her back against the pillows. His hands fumbled at her skirts, baring her thighs, spreading them wide to make room for himself. She gasped at the shock of air on her wet heat—she was already slick from the blend of pain and pleasure, from his mouth, from need she hadn’t admitted until now.

Benedict’s breath stuttered as he guided himself against her, the thick head of his cock nudging at her folds. “God, you’re ready,” he murmured, half in awe, half in torment.

“Then hurry up and do it already,” she whispered, clutching his shoulders, “help me.”

With a ragged cry, he pushed into her, slow but steadily, filling her completely. Penelope moaned—half relief, half desperate ache—as her body stretched around him.

And just like that, a true contraction ripped through her, powerful and full, made bearable only by the hot, solid weight of him inside her. She clung to him, gasping, and for the first time since it all began she felt the strange, shocking truth: the pain and the pleasure could blur together, and maybe this was what her body had needed all along. This was what her husband's could have coaxed from her body. But her husbands weren't here. And the only person who was, didn't know the reality of her marriage or the way she had already been tangled with all his male kin. And yet, yet he had offered to ease her pain. Why? Was it mere duty? Or he wanted her, truly… viscerally wanted her?

If so what was she going to do about it. And the more pressing question was, what would her husbands say, if they discovered what was happening with her and Benedict right now? 

And then another sharp contraction followed and she whimpered in pain below Benedict, “Please, fuck me.”

For a moment Benedict stayed still, forehead pressed to hers, chest heaving as he tried to master the wildness that threatened to consume him. But her nails dug into his back, her hips shifted impatiently beneath his, and that single pleading whimper—“please”—shattered his restraint.

Benedict drew back and thrust into her with a steady, desperate rhythm.

Penelope cried out, her voice breaking on a moan. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, then slid to his arms, holding tight as though he were the only anchor keeping her from flying apart. The pressure of the contraction returned, but instead of fear she felt release—pleasure twining with the pain, pulling it into something sharper, sweeter.

“God, Ben,” she gasped, her head falling back against the pillows. Each deep stroke sent shivers of sensation through her belly, through her aching body, easing the tightness even as it drove her higher. “Don’t stop… don’t stop…”

His teeth grazed her throat, his breath hot and ragged. “I won’t,” he growled, thrusts deepening, faster now, his hips slapping against her swollen curves. “You feel so—Christ, Penelope—so perfect around me.”

She moaned, legs trembling as they wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper still. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies meeting, her gasps and cries tangled with his low groans. Every movement wrung another wave of pleasure from her, another easing of the pain.

“Harder,” she begged, her voice thick, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes—not from sorrow, but from sheer overwhelming sensation. “Please, harder—”

And Benedict obeyed, surging into her with raw force, each thrust making her cunt stretch and burn deliciously. He was so gentle, so careful not to jostke her belly much, and yet, his thrusts stoked the fire inside her cunt so perfectly. Her cries rose with him, gasping, moaning, the rhythm of his body driving both pleasure and labour forward together.

Penelope’s breaths came ragged, little cries tumbling free no matter how hard she bit down on them. Her body arched helplessly, pressing into his every movement, greedy for more even as the tension pulled tighter and tighter inside her.

“Benedict—” Her voice broke, a desperate cry as her nails raked down his back. “I can’t—oh God—don’t stop…”

He buried his face against her neck, thrusting harder, as though he could brand himself into her very soul. “I won’t stop. Not until you fall apart for me.”

Penelope’s whole body tightened at once, a strangled cry tearing from her throat as the pressure finally snapped. The contraction gripped her, sharp and unrelenting—but laced with such fierce, consuming pleasure that she shattered beneath it. Her walls clenched around Benedict, milking him as her climax tore through her, every nerve alight, every muscle trembling.

He groaned her name against her skin, his own rhythm faltering as the heat coiled too tightly to hold back. With one final thrust, he spilled into her, clutching her desperately as his release pulsed deep inside her. His hips jerked with every spasm, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.

They clung together as though drowning, the room echoing with their cries, the mingling of their gasps and moans filling the silence between contractions. His release seemed endless, filling her until she swore she could feel every drop seeping into her, his body shuddering above hers.

When at last the waves began to ebb, he pressed trembling kisses along her cheek, her temple, her damp hairline, whispering her name like a prayer.

Penelope, dazed and still quivering, wrapped her arms around him and held him tight, her body heavy with the aftershocks. The pain had eased, the pressure dulled for the moment—but in its place burned something else entirely, fierce and unspoken, binding them together in the dim-lit chamber.

They collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, Benedict still half-buried inside her, his weight braced on trembling arms. He was still mostly dressed, as was she, save for the rucked up skirt and the lowered neckline. For a long moment neither of them spoke, both stunned into silence by what had just transpired. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room, the air thick with sweat, sex, and candle wax.

Penelope shifted first, her hand stroking absently over his damp back. A low chuckle escaped her, soft and shaky. “God, Benedict… what have we done?”

Before he could form an answer, another contraction seized her, sharper this time, undeniable. She gasped, clutching at his arm, but the edge of her pain was softened by the lingering afterglow of their coupling. When it passed, she was laughing breathlessly, almost delirious. “Well—if the goal was to start my labour properly… it seems you’ve succeeded.”

Benedict dropped his forehead to hers, groaning, though a wry smile curved his lips. “Trust me to finally bed my sister-in-law in the name of midwifery.”

She laughed again, the sound breaking into another moan as her belly tightened. He held her through it, pressing kisses to her damp hairline, murmuring soothing nonsense until the wave ebbed. When she blinked up at him, eyes shining with exhaustion and some wicked spark beneath it, he found he couldn’t stop himself.

With a strangled sound, he cupped her face and kissed her—properly kissed her. Not gentle, not dutiful, but as a man overcome at last, claiming her mouth in fierce, hungry desperation. His lips moved hard against hers, tasting her sighs, his tongue sweeping in to claim more. She yielded instantly, moaning into him, kissing him back with equal fervour.

It was the kiss of lovers, unrestrained and consuming, all pretence stripped away.

When they broke apart for air, their foreheads rested together, both panting, both laughing shakily as another contraction built between them.

By the time the midwife bustled in, Benedict had already righted his clothes and helped Penelope straighten her gown, though his hands still trembled faintly with the memory of what they had done. She was flushed, damp with sweat, her hair clinging in loose strands around her face, and though she looked exhausted, there was an odd glow about her—half from the labour, half from their forbidden intimacy.

The midwife clicked her tongue at the sight of Penelope gripping the bedsheets. “Well, you’ve gone and got yourself started in earnest, haven’t you? Let’s have a look.” She set about her work, calm and brisk, unfazed by the urgency of the moment.

Benedict hovered, unsure if he ought to remain, but when he tried to step back Penelope’s hand shot out, catching his wrist. “Stay,” she whispered, breathless, her eyes wide but steady. “I want you here.”

The midwife gave a brief arch of her brow but said nothing, having been paid handsomely for her silence by the viscount anyway. The original plan included all her husbands to stay at her side while she birthed the child. This was just a small change now. She merely adjusted her instruments, when Penelope grabbed Benedict's hand and stopped him. Benedict, however, swallowed hard, torn between propriety and the fierce command in her gaze. He lowered himself back to her side, taking her hand into his own.

He stayed. Through every moan, every cry, every crushing squeeze of her fingers, Benedict anchored her. He wiped her brow, murmured encouragements in her ear, held her steady when the contractions racked her body. And though he prayed the midwife had no inkling of what had transpired before her arrival (which was highly unlikely as his spend was still in her cunt when the midwife checked Penelope's dilation), he couldn’t help the surge of pride, of tenderness, that filled him as Penelope bore down with all her strength.

When at last the first thin wail split the night air, Penelope sagged back into the pillows, tears streaking her cheeks. Benedict’s hand shook in hers, but he squeezed tight, unable to take his eyes off the tiny, squalling life now being swaddled at the foot of the bed. 

A girl. A sweet little daughter.

“You did it,” he whispered, voice thick, brushing damp curls from her forehead. And when her gaze met his—soft, tired, but blazing with something unspoken—they both knew this night would never leave them, no matter how tightly they wrapped it in silence.

Chapter Text

The chamber was hushed now, the cries of the newborn softened into little hiccups as the midwife wrapped her snugly in a blanket. Penelope lay propped against pillows, her skin pale with exhaustion though her lips curved faintly as she gazed at the tiny bundle resting in the crook of her arm.

Benedict lingered at the door for a moment, hesitant. He had been ushered out during the final tending, pacing the corridor with his heart in his throat. Now, when the midwife beckoned him softly, he stepped forward, his breath catching as he took in the sight before him.

“Mother and daughter, both doing well,” the midwife said in her brisk tone, gathering her things to give them a moment of peace.

Penelope lifted her eyes to Benedict, weary but warm. “Come closer,” she murmured.

He obeyed, lowering himself to sit at the edge of the bed. For a moment he could do nothing but look at the infant’s impossibly small fingers curled tight, at Penelope’s protective arms, at the strange, fragile perfection of them both. His hand moved almost without thought, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.

“She’s… she’s beautiful,” he whispered, voice thick.

Penelope smiled faintly. “She looks like her papa.”

Benedict’s chest tightened. He wanted to ask which one she meant, wanted to tell her he wasn't as oblivious as she thought him to be, but he didn’t. Instead, he reached out slowly, offering a finger to the baby. The tiny hand grasped him, impossibly strong, and he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh.

For a long while, he simply sat there, silent, watching mother and daughter. A sense of awe settled over him, mingled with the knowledge that whatever lay between him and Penelope now, it had changed it's shape forever.

Hyacinth was the first to burst the bubble of calm, her skirts swishing as she nearly tripped over herself in eagerness. “Let me see! Let me see my niece!” She squealed at the bundle in Penelope’s arms, all but bouncing as she leaned close. The infant gave a soft hiccup, and Hyacinth cooed, utterly enchanted. “Oh, she’s perfect. My niece is perfect.”

Penelope laughed softly, though her arms tightened protectively around the child. Benedict, watching from his chair nearby, couldn’t help but smile as well. The sight of Hyacinth’s delight softened the heaviness that had lingered in his chest the entire night.

When the midwife quietly mentioned it was time for the babe’s first proper feed, Hyacinth stepped back reluctantly, and Benedict rose before Penelope could even ask. “Here, let me,” he said gently, carefully taking the baby from Hyacinth’s arms and carrying her to the bed.

Penelope’s eyes met his as he settled the bundle back into her arms. There was gratitude there, warm and quiet, threaded with something unspoken. “Thank you, Benedict,” she whispered.

He shook his head, his throat tight. “No… thank you. For letting me stay, for trusting me.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them, the weight of the night heavy in their shared gaze. Then Penelope shifted, loosening her gown with practiced movements until her breast was bared. The babe rooted instinctively, latching with a soft sound that filled the room with a tender hush.

Benedict’s eyes widened, he threw a look behind him but Hyacinth and the midwife had already left. He turned halfway, as if to give her privacy, but Penelope’s voice stopped him. “You needn’t leave,” she said softly, a faint curve at her lips. “There’s nothing you’ve not seen already.”

The words, light as they were, struck him like a bell. His body tensed, his mind flashing back to the intimacy they had shared only hours before, her warmth, her voice breaking on his name, the way she had clung to him as both lover and anchor. Now, seeing her bare breast claimed by her child, he knew he should look away, should turn and go. But instead, he lingered.

He lingered, and the memory of her gasps and sighs haunted him. And though he despised himself for it, his body betrayed him, heat coiling low, cock stirring as he watched her in this most natural of acts.

He shifted uncomfortably, jaw tight, praying Penelope would not notice. Yet a part of him understood now, with a clarity that both shamed and exhilarated him: he was drawn to her, beyond reason, beyond propriety. And no matter how wrong it was, that truth had rooted itself deep in him.

Penelope smoothed her daughter’s downy hair as the babe suckled contentedly. She should have been wholly absorbed in the miracle at her breast, yet she was keenly aware of Benedict’s stillness. He stood a little too rigid, a little too deliberate in his attempt at nonchalance, and when she glanced up, his eyes were already darting away.

But she had seen.

There had been something in his look, something darker than tenderness, warmer than mere protectiveness. It was the same fire that had burned between them hours ago, when she had let him touch her, when she had let him claim her body while he tried shortening her pain. That memory shimmered between them now, silent but alive.

“Benedict,” she said softly, breaking the hush of the chamber.

His gaze snapped back to her, wide and uncertain.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she murmured. “I can feel when someone is looking at me.” She shifted slightly, drawing the baby closer, but her gown remained open, the curve of her breast unabashed in the lamplight.

He swallowed hard, guilt and desire warring visibly in the set of his mouth. “Penelope, I…”

Her eyes softened, though her voice was steady. “You think I don’t know? That you enjoyed it as much as I did?”

A flush crept up his throat. He wanted to deny it, to dismiss it as imagination, but she silenced him with the faintest smile.

“It doesn’t frighten me, Benedict,” she said quietly. “You’ve only ever been kind to me. Even when you’re tempted by what you shouldn’t want. You were gentle, loving. Thanks for that experience.”

For a moment, he could hardly breathe. The babe made a soft noise, pulling at Penelope’s breast, and Benedict forced himself to look away, to steady his breathing. But her words, her look, stayed with him, burning into the marrow of his bones.

Penelope shifted the babe against her shoulder, stroking the tiny back until a satisfied burp escaped. She looked up to find Benedict still hovering, half-turned as if he ought to leave, but unwilling to step away entirely.

“Benedict,” she said softly, drawing his eyes to her again. “Don’t look as though you’ve committed a crime.”

He blinked, startled by her tone.

“I enjoyed your attention,” she admitted gently, a faint colour rising in her cheeks. “And you need not feel guilty for it. You helped me through the hardest night of my life. You helped bring my daughter safely into this world.”

The weight of her gratitude hit him harder than any censure could. He opened his mouth, but words failed him.

“You were with me when no one else was,” she went on, voice warm though hushed, mindful of the sleeping child in her arms. “And I’ll never forget that. Whatever passed between us, it wasn’t wrong. Not to me.”

Benedict’s throat worked as he swallowed, his heart pounding like a boy’s. He had expected shame, perhaps even anger, once the heat of the moment had passed. But she looked at him now with a softness he could barely stand.

“Penelope…” he whispered, half in protest, half in longing.

She smiled faintly, tired but true. “You gave me strength, Benedict. And for that, I am only grateful.”

Benedict drew a sharp breath and let it out slowly, as though her words had unbound a weight from his chest. Relief softened his features, though he kept his gaze lowered to the little bundle in her arms rather than to her face.

“I’ll take your gratitude, then,” he said at last, voice low and steady. “And keep it close.”

He reached out, brushing a finger over the baby’s impossibly small hand, marvelling when the tiny fist curled around him. It gave him an excuse not to meet Penelope’s eyes, for he knew if he did, she would see too much.

What he wanted.

What he shouldn’t.

“I am glad,” he added after a beat, “that I could be here when you needed someone. Nothing more matters.”

The words tasted like a lie on his tongue, but he forced them out anyway, because it was the right thing to say. And he couldn’t very well say what was actually going on in his mind. 

“Yes, I enjoyed fucking you. Yes, I cant wait to do it again.”

Penelope’s smile lingered as she watched Benedict’s finger cradled in her daughter’s tiny grasp. He looked so utterly absorbed, so careful and gentle with the child, that it tugged at something deep in her chest. She had always known him to be kind, but last night had shown her another side, one she had not expected, one she could not forget.

She sensed the yearning beneath his carefully spoken words, the restraint that cloaked his tone. And she could not deny, even to herself, that he had been… good. Far more skilled and attentive with women than she could have imagined, especially under the strange, desperate circumstances. A skilled lover, yes, and a tender one too.

Her body remembered it, even now, though she sat with her newborn nestled to her breast.

But memory was all it could be.

Her husbands were away, still in the dark about everything. She was in confinement, with her body raw from birth, her heart heavy with gratitude and confusion both. To imply anything further could continue with Benedict now would be folly of the worst sort. She would not betray her darling husbands so completely, not when they had yet to even meet their daugter.

So Penelope simply laid her head back against the pillows, her voice soft but firm.

“You’ve given me more than enough, Benedict. And I will never forget it. But… nothing more can happen between us. For now.”

Benedict’s shoulders shifted, a subtle tightening, as though he’d expected as much yet still his mind lingered near the words ‘for now’. Not never. Simply for now. He nodded once, forcing a smile as though to assure her he accepted her words without question. But his eyes, when they rose to hers, were dark and conflicted.

Penelope held his gaze. Her lips curved faintly, an almost-smile, almost-teasing, before she looked down again at her daughter. “Besides,” she murmured, as if to herself, “I am still in confinement. We shall see what sense I have when I am well again.”

The words landed between them, soft as down and yet weighted as lead.

Benedict’s breath caught, his composure faltering for a beat before he inclined his head. He dared not press her, dared not betray how fiercely the suggestion ignited his blood.

“Then I shall leave you to it,” he said quietly, stepping back from the bedside. He straightened, smoothing his coat as though he could set himself to rights with the simple gesture.

But when he reached the door, he paused. His hand rested on the latch, his breath drawn sharp and heavy in his chest. Something in him refused to let the night end with nothing more than words.

He turned back.

Penelope’s gaze lifted, questioning. She did not move, her child dozing peacefully in her arms, but her eyes waited for him.

Benedict crossed the small distance in two strides, bent, and captured her mouth in a sudden, searing kiss. It was not gentle, not chaste, but fierce and claiming, the kind of kiss that betrayed everything he had tried so hard to hold back. Her lips parted beneath his, answering with a startled hunger before he tore himself away.

He stood for half a heartbeat, his breath ragged, eyes burning with words unsaid. Then he wrenched himself back, opened the door, and left without another glance.

The chamber felt strangely still after his departure, as though the kiss itself had set something smouldering that would not easily burn out.

Before long, hoofbeats and voices reached the house. Penelope straightened just as Hyacinth slipped into the chamber, her face bright with news: “They’re here!”

Anthony was the first to enter, followed closely by Colin and Edmund, a sulking Eloise at their heels. Relief softened all three of her husband’s features as their gaze landed on Penelope, then on the bundle in her arms. Anthony was the one who, being the public face of dutiful husband, crossed the room and bent to kiss her temple, while his father and brother hovered, eyes shining but careful under Hyacinth’s watchful presence.

“Safe, thank God,” Anthony murmured, his hand brushing the baby’s cheek.

Colin’s grin was boyish, his fingers itching to hold the child. Edmund’s eyes glistened, his throat tight with unspoken joy. Penelope, tired though she was, glowed at the sight of them. Watching them each in turn cradle their daughter filled her heart near to bursting.

The little girl bore no obvious mark of paternity. Her features were wholly Penelope’s own, soft and perfect, like a miniature version of Penelope herself. And perhaps that was best.

Later, in private, once Hyacinth and Eloise had gone, they clamoured around Pen, showering her with kisses and tender touches, each man desperate to assure himself that she was well, that the child was real. She laughed softly through their fussing, letting herself bask in their love.

But even as she watched them, one hand stroking her baby’s downy head, her mind betrayed her. She thought of Benedict. The secret of what they had done sat heavy and bright inside her chest.

Her husbands would not judge her; she knew that. And yet, they truly loved her now. That changed everything. What had once been a shared game, a bold arrangement, now risked jealousy. Hurt.

And there was the other truth. Benedict did not know. He thought it illicit, a sin he carried alone. If he ever discovered the whole of her marriage, how freely she had shared herself with the men of his kin, would it crush what had flared between them? Or make it burn brighter?

She did not know.

For now, she chose silence. Nothing more was going to happen for now. It couldn’t. Still, as she rocked her daughter gently, a shiver coursed through her at the thought of keeping one part of herself tucked away, a secret. A secret she would not, could not, give up.

Later, once the baby had been fed and rested dozing in her cradle, Penelope rested back against the pillows, Anthony seated at her side. His hand absently stroked her arm, though she could tell from the tension in his jaw that his thoughts were elsewhere.

“What is it?” she asked quietly. “You’ve been preoccupied since you returned. What happened in the countryside?”

Anthony exhaled, his thumb stilling. “It was Eloise. She’s been writing to Sir Crane. They fancied themselves in love or so she believed. She intended to elope with him. For the thrill of it, I suspect, more than anything.”

Penelope pressed her lips together, half exasperated, half unsurprised. “Of course she did. That is such an Eloise thing to do.” She shook her head, though her smile was indulgent. “So what are we to do about it?”

Anthony’s gaze softened as it returned to her. He brushed a lock of hair from her damp forehead, his fingers lingering against her skin. “Once you’ve recovered enough, we’ll have another wedding. In two months’ time. Properly, with the family and with your blessing.”

Penelope’s brows rose. “Another wedding? So soon?”

“Better soon than scandal, sweetheart. Eloise will do as she pleases unless we guide her hand. If she is to marry Sir Crane, better it be under our roof, with our blessing, than under cover of darkness on some half-mad whim.”

Penelope’s smile curved knowingly. “And of course, you’ll give her a lecture that she will ignore the moment your back is turned.”

Anthony gave a low laugh, kissing her knuckles. “Undoubtedly. But at least this way she will be a wife before she has time to dream up another scheme.”

Penelope leaned her head against his shoulder, tired but warmed by his certainty. “Very well. Two months, then. But only if you promise not to shout at her until I am strong enough to enjoy the spectacle.”

Anthony smirked, pressing his lips to her hair. “On my honour.”

Eloise swept into the room with her usual energy, skirts rustling as though she had run rather than walked from the carriage. She bent over the cradle with narrowed eyes, her expression sceptical until the baby gave a tiny sneeze.

“Do you like your niece?” Penelope asked.

“She’s… pretty, I suppose,” Eloise declared at last, as if granting a rare concession. “In that infant sort of way. All squashed and red, but in a manner one might call charming.”

Penelope laughed softly, adjusting the shawl about her shoulders. “That’s high praise indeed. I shall tell her she’s been approved by her most exacting aunt.”

Eloise’s lips quirked, though her eyes stayed on the baby. “Does she look like anyone yet?”

Penelope’s smile softened. “She looks like herself. That’s enough for now.” She paused, then added, in a tone of carefully feigned casualness, “But tell me about this Sir Crane of yours. Anthony was not particularly detailed in his account.”

At once, Eloise flushed, her hands tightening on the cradle’s edge. “Oh, Anthony is a tyrant. He makes it sound as though I’ve been cavorting with a highwayman. Philip Crane is perfectly respectable, dull, even, if you must know. He writes letters about botany.”

“Botany?” Penelope arched a brow, amused. “How very thrilling.”

Eloise glared at her, though her lips twitched. “Well, perhaps not thrilling, but honest. He isn’t like half the idle young men here in Town. He thinks about plants and soil and… and experiments with seeds. He is serious, Pen. Grounded.” Her voice softened in a way that surprised even her. “When I read his words, I feel as though I am speaking to someone who truly listens.”

Penelope tilted her head, watching her friend with fondness. “That does sound rather like the beginnings of love, you know.”

Eloise huffed. “It is the beginnings of common sense, which Anthony sorely lacks.” She straightened, tugging her gloves back on with unnecessary briskness. “I wasn’t planning to marry the man tomorrow, only to see if what I felt in letters matched what I might feel in person. Anthony exaggerated, as usual.”

Penelope smiled knowingly. “Well, if you’re to convince your brother, you may need to do more than insist he exaggerated. He is already planning a wedding, you realise.”

Eloise groaned loudly, throwing her hands up. “Of course he is.” She dropped into the nearest chair, muttering, “Tyrant.”

Penelope leaned back against her pillows, watching Eloise fidget with her gloves. “You may call Anthony a tyrant as much as you like, but he isn’t wrong to see something more in this than you are admitting aloud.”

Eloise shot her a sharp look. “I hardly know Sir Crane, Penelope.”

“Mm,” Pen said softly, not pressing, only letting the silence draw Eloise out. “And yet you wrote letters. Letters are… intimate things. More so than the chatter at a ball or the passing pleasantries of a dance.”

Eloise’s cheeks warmed at that. She pulled her hands into her lap, twisting the gloves between her fingers. “He… he sees me,” she confessed at last, eyes flicking toward the cradle as if to avoid Pen’s steady gaze. “Not as the sister of a viscount, not as some strange, bookish spinster. Just… as Eloise. It startled me. And it felt—” She cut herself off.

“Felt like freedom?” Pen supplied gently.

Eloise nodded quickly, almost relieved to have the word given to her. “Yes. As though I could do something wild, something mine. That’s why I thought of running off to meet him. Not because I had decided on marriage, but because…” Her lips curved into a wry little smile. “Because the idea of meeting and knowing him thrilled me. For once, it would be my story, not anyone's.”

Penelope chuckled, reaching for her friend’s hand and squeezing it. “That does sound exactly like you. But tell me honestly, when you thought of Philip Crane, not of Anthony or rebellion, did you feel something?”

Eloise hesitated, then whispered, “Yes.” Her eyes softened, shy in a way Pen had rarely seen. “When I imagined his face, his voice… I wanted to know if the warmth I felt in his letters could be found in person too. And I did. He is warm.”

Penelope smiled, both teasing and tender. “Well, if you have already felt his 'warmth', then perhaps Anthony’s talk of a wedding isn’t so very far off the mark after all.”

Eloise groaned and dropped her head into her hands, but her laughter slipped through her fingers. “You are insufferable.”

Penelope only laughed with her, rocking the cradle lightly so the baby cooed in her sleep.

Eloise and her chatted about the baby and the birth after that, before the baby needed Pen for milk again. Then Eloise was gone, and Penelope kept thinking about Eloise and letters and realised soon that she had to send a letter of her own, to Oxford.

Gregory sat hunched over his desk in his rooms at Oxford, a stack of Latin translations abandoned before him. The fire in the grate had burned low, and his ink-stained fingers tapped restlessly on the parchment. When the knock came at his door, he barely looked up, until a folded letter, sealed in familiar wax, was set upon the desk.

His pulse quickened the instant he saw her handwriting. Penelope’s script, flowing and neat, as unmistakable as her voice.

With trembling hands he broke the seal, devouring the words in greedy silence.

My dear Gregory,

 She is here. Our daughter has come safely into the world, and both she and I are well. You mustn’t worry, though the hours were long, Benedict proved himself a steady presence when none of the others could be at my side. You should see her, Greg; her cheeks are plump, her eyes dark, and already she has a stubborn set to her tiny mouth. She looks rather like me, I think, though the others all argue otherwise.

I wanted you to be among the first to know, before the news travels through the family. I thought of you as the pains came, wishing you were near to steady my hand. You are far away, but not forgotten.

With affection,

Penelope

Greg read the letter again, slower this time, the words blurring in places. A daughter. Her daughter. Their family had grown, and he was not there to see it. The ache of absence gnawed at him more fiercely than he had expected.

He pressed the page to his lips before folding it reverently. In the silence of his chamber, he whispered to himself, “I will come back to you, Pen. To see her. To see you.”

And for the rest of that night, his books lay forgotten, his thoughts consumed not by Cicero or Aristotle, but by the image of Penelope cradling a child, her breasts heavy with milk, her body radiant with new life. An image that made his blood stir with longing and shame in equal measure.

“I will come back to you, Pen.” He vowed quietly.

The first weeks of Annie's life passed in a haze of exhaustion and wonder. Penelope scarcely knew where her body ended and Annie's began; her breasts ached, her belly still tender, but her arms never seemed to tire of holding her daughter. She could not stop staring at the tiny rosebud mouth, the impossibly small fists curling against her chest.

Her husbands hardly let her stir.

Edmund was the most diligent, almost military in his attentions. He ordered basins of warm water for her baths, arranged her pillows, and hovered when she tried to rise from bed. “Back,” he would chide gently, guiding her down again. “You’ve done the hardest work of all. Let us manage the rest.” He was the one who insisted she eat broth, spooning it patiently to her when she grew too weary to hold the bowl.

Anthony, by contrast, took command of the household. He saw to it that Hyacinth was properly entertained and not constantly underfoot, managed the flow of visitors, and barked at servants if they so much as opened a door too noisily while Penelope slept. Yet in the quiet hours, he was tender, stretching out beside her when the baby fed, rubbing circles over her back, pressing his lips to her damp hair.

And Colin…ah, Colin had transformed into something she had never imagined. He was endlessly besotted, wandering about with the baby tucked against his shoulder as if he had been born with the knack. She would wake from a nap to find him pacing the chamber, humming softly, while the little one dozed against him. He brought her flowers daily, laid them by the bedside, and often pressed kisses to her feet when he thought she slept.

The days blurred into a rhythm of feeding, changing, resting. At night, when the babe cried, one or another of them rose before Penelope stirred. They would bring the swaddled bundle to her breast, then whisk her away again when she was done so Penelope might sleep. Sometimes, half-dreaming, she watched Edmund cradle the child with such reverence, or Anthony’s large hands adjusting the blanket with surprising delicacy, or Colin crooning some nonsense song until the fussing ceased.

Her confinement was meant to keep her apart from the world, but she did not feel imprisoned. Instead, she felt cocooned in love and devotion. The men argued amiably over who had the softest touch, who made the child smile first, who should be allowed the honour of carrying her from the nursery. Hyacinth darted in and out like a whirlwind, scattering laughter and questions, but she too fell easily beneath the spell of her tiny niece.

And always, at the centre of it, was Penelope. She marvelled at it sometimes, wondering if any woman had ever been more adored in her confinement.

Yet in the rare silences when the baby finally slept and her husbands dozed, tangled on chairs and rugs around her bed, her thoughts returned, unbidden, to Benedict. To the heat of his kiss that last night, the hunger in his eyes when he watched her nurse. She should not think of it, not now, not when her world brimmed with blessings. But still, the memory pulsed like a secret vein beneath the surface of her joy.

Benedict. She didn't know yet whether he would be a problem or an addition to their arrangement.

Chapter Text

Six weeks later, Penelope emerged from her chamber with her daughter in her arms, blinking at the brightness of the household as though she had stepped into a different season entirely. Her confinement had ended, and though her body still carried the softness of new motherhood, her step felt lighter for being out of bed, part of the world again.

Her three husbands kept hovering close to her. Edmund steady at her side, not overly close, as Hyacinth was still around, Anthony offering his arm, Colin beaming like she had performed some great miracle merely by descending the stairs. Hyacinth, of course, darted forward to snatch the baby from her, crooning over her niece with such possessive pride that the men laughed and let her keep hold.

But the quiet household of the past weeks was gone. In its place, preparations hummed in every room. Eloise was to be married, and the Bridgertons were determined to make it an event worthy of the family name.

“It must be done properly,” Edmund said one evening, spreading papers across the drawing-room table. Guest lists, flower orders, arrangements for the church. “Two weeks is hardly any time, but if we begin now—”

“If you begin now,” Eloise interrupted with a smirk, sprawled sideways in an armchair. “I shall simply stand at the altar and do my part.”

“You shall not ‘simply stand,’” Anthony shot back, voice rising. “You will comport yourself as a Bridgerton bride. No impropriety, no scandal—”

“Anthony,” Penelope cut in gently, shifting the baby in her arms. “She’s marrying the man she wants. Isn’t that what matters most?”

Eloise shot her a grateful glance, though her eyes softened more at the baby, who yawned against Penelope’s shoulder. “You, Pen, you survived confinement better than I ever expected. Motherhood suits you.”

“Perhaps,” Penelope said with a small smile, though she felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Though I do hope your own wedding passes more smoothly than my lying-in.”

That drew laughter around the room, even from Edmund, though his expression sobered quickly as he bent over his papers again. “We’ve only weeks to settle everything. Anthony, Colin, you’ll see to the invitations and other preparations. I’ll handle the banns and licence.”

“And what of me?” Hyacinth demanded.

“You, sister,” Colin said dryly, “will make sure Eloise is busy with choosing the fabric and texture of her wedding gown and refrain herself from planning anything that might scandalise Sir Crane before he can say his vows.”

Penelope hid her smile against her baby’s soft hair. The house, so hushed during her confinement, now brimmed with life again with plans, quarrels, laughter. Yet beneath it all, a current tugged at her still. The memory of that night with Benedict had not faded with the weeks. If anything, the distance made it sharper, more illicit. She watched her husbands fuss over her, saw Eloise preen beneath her brother’s protective scolding, and wondered what would happen if any of them ever learned the truth.

But for now, there was a wedding to plan.

For the next few days Penelope found herself caught in a haze of the wedding festivities, until it was the wedding day. Eloise, looking radiant in ivory lace, stood at the altar with Sir Crane, a scene that was almost serene save for Eloise's nervous fidgeting.

But it wasn’t Eloise everyone’s eyes turned to when the Bridgertons swept into the pews. Penelope, at last freed from her confinement, moved down the aisle on Anthony’s arm. Her gown was a soft shade of blue that clung delicately to her figure, the colour chosen to flatter both her fair complexion and the warmth in her eyes. A small spray of pearls glimmered in her hair, catching the light each time she turned her head.

Edmund’s gaze never left her, proud and possessive, while Colin, who was next to her as she and Anthony slid in the pews, found her hand the moment they sat, thumb tracing her knuckles as though to reassure himself she was truly here. Even Anthony, stiff with responsibility, allowed himself a fleeting smile down at her. 

And then walked Benedict, this time sharp on time for the wedding, earning a nod of approval from his father and elder brother and a gasp from Penelope when his eyes met and held her gaze. He winked at her and took a seat.

The ceremony itself passed in a blur. Eloise snorted at inappropriate moments, Sir Crane answered questions with surprising steadiness. When the couple kissed to seal their union, Hyacinth’s shriek of delight drew half the congregation into laughter.

The reception, held at Aubrey Hall, glittered with music and chatter. Penelope, seated near the head of the room, tried to nurse her glass of wine slowly, her first since before the baby, while her husbands hovered, fetching her sweets, easing her into comfort. She felt their love in every small gesture, their pride in the way they looked at her, as though she shone brighter than the bride herself.

And then approached Benedict.

He slid next to her when the musicians struck up a waltz, cutting across the floor with a calm ease that belied the flicker in his eyes. He bowed, extending his hand. “May I?”

Penelope hesitated, aware of Anthony’s watchful gaze, Colin’s protective nearness. But Edmund gave a little nod, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and she allowed Benedict to lead her onto the floor.

His hand settled at her waist, firm but careful, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the thin silk of her gown. Their eyes met and for a moment the memory of that night two months ago roared back between them. She swallowed hard, letting him guide her in the slow circles of the waltz, every step a reminder of what lay unspoken.

“You look…” Benedict’s voice was low, meant only for her. “More beautiful than I have ever seen you.”

Penelope’s lips curved, though her heart stuttered. “Careful, Benedict. One might think you’re trying to charm a lady to get in her bed.”

His answering smile was fleeting, tinged with something deeper. “Perhaps I am.”

Penelope gasped. 

Around them, the hall whirled with laughter, skirts, and music. But for those few minutes, it felt as though the dance floor belonged only to them. Two people holding a secret too heavy to name.

The music swelled around them, a glittering backdrop of violins and laughter. Benedict guided her effortlessly, his hand warm at her waist, the pressure of his fingers careful but possessive in a way that made Penelope’s pulse quicken.

“You look quite beautiful tonight,” he murmured, eyes fixed on hers.

Penelope arched a brow, lips curving. “Tonight? Only tonight? I should be insulted, Mr Bridgerton.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Then allow me to amend: you are dazzling every night, but tonight you’ve chosen to prove it in public.”

The orchestra swelled, their bodies gliding in perfect time, but Penelope felt every inch of Benedict’s hand at her waist as though it burned. His gaze lingered, not just polite admiration but something hungrier, and she found herself smiling up at him with deliberate mischief.

“You’ve been staring all evening,” she murmured, her voice just for him. “Surely you’ve had your fill of me by now.”

“Not nearly,” Benedict returned smoothly, eyes dropping for a daring second to her mouth. “In truth, I think I could never have my fill.”

Her lips curved wickedly. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll begin to think you’re trying to seduce me, right here in front of all Mayfair.”

His chuckle was low, almost sinful. “Would it work, if I were?”

She arched a brow, leaning in so that her breath teased the edge of his jaw. “You’d be surprised what works on me, Benedict.”

The dance carried them in another slow turn, but his fingers tightened at her waist, as though bracing against his own want. Then his voice, quieter still, almost a confession: “Is your confinement over?”

The boldness of it made her pulse skip. Her eyes glittered as she studied him, not shocked but amused, almost pleased. “Ah. So that is what you’ve been wondering.”

Colour rose faintly on his cheekbones, though his jaw stayed firm. “Among other things.”

Her laughter was soft, throaty, edged with invitation. “Yes, Benedict. I am free of my confinement.” She let the pause linger, then tipped her head, her lips close enough to his ear that it could have been mistaken for a lover’s whisper. “If you are asking whether I may be touched again… the answer is yes.”

He exhaled sharply, a sound almost lost to the music.

Her eyes met his, openly teasing, deliberately cruel in her sweetness. “Does that please you, dearest brother-in-law?”

For once, Benedict had no ready quip. Only the dark heat in his gaze, the hunger he could no longer disguise. “I wish I could kiss you right now.”

Her laugh was soft when she tilted her head towards him in mock chastisement. “You’re shameless, Benedict. Truly. You’ll have every girl in this room dreaming of you before the evening’s out.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice dipping low enough that she felt it more than heard it, “the only one I dream of is you.”

Her heart gave a treacherous lurch, though she managed to mask it with another teasing smile. “Flatterer.”

The orchestra eased into the final strains, their steps slowing until Benedict held her in stillness, just long enough to make it feel like more than a dance. His thumb brushed the edge of her waist, subtle enough to pass for propriety, though his gaze was anything but.

“Tomorrow evening,” he said, voice low, steady as though he’d rehearsed it. “After supper, when the house is quiet.”

Her brows lifted slightly, the faintest tilt of surprise, but her smile curved with unmistakable satisfaction. “So bold,” she teased, though her pulse thrummed with a wicked thrill. “And what do you imagine will happen tomorrow, Benedict?”

His eyes burned into hers, lips twitching as if fighting the smile. “I imagine… I will finally take more than you have let me steal.”

Her breath caught, her lashes lowering before she looked at him again through a veil of mischief. “And I imagine,” she whispered, letting her body lean closer in the guise of a final bow, “that I will let you know whether I want to or not, tomorrow.”

The applause of the crowd around them rose as the dance ended, but for a moment Penelope felt as though no one else existed, only Benedict’s dark gaze, the heat coiled tight in her belly, and the promise of tomorrow night.

The morning after Eloise’s wedding came with calm and golden light, but Penelope felt restless under the covers. She had scarcely slept; every time she closed her eyes, she saw Benedict’s gaze from the night before…dark, unwavering, and carrying a promise she hadn’t expected to hear spoken aloud.

Her day began as always, with the baby. Her daughter fussed at dawn, and Penelope drew her close, guiding her to her breast. As the infant latched and suckled greedily, Pen let her head fall back against the pillows, her own body remembering all too vividly the heat Benedict had awakened in her before. She shivered, scolded herself, then smiled faintly, because anticipation was half the pleasure.

At breakfast she tried to sit as she always did, serene and composed. Yet every time her gaze flicked across the table, it met his. Once, as Edmund remarked upon the latest pamphlet from Parliament, Benedict caught her eye and lifted his coffee cup to his lips, the gesture deceptively innocent. But the faint curve of his mouth, the glint in his eye, made her shift in her chair as though he had touched her.

By luncheon she was half mad with the game. He said very little, spoke instead with Francesca and Hyacinth, told a lively story that made even Anthony’s lips twitch…but somehow Penelope felt each word was meant for her alone. Every now and then his gaze swept lazily in her direction, a silent reminder: tonight.

In the late afternoon, she climbed the nursery stairs with her babe, intending nothing more scandalous than feeding her in peace. But when the door opened again, she was startled to see Benedict leaning casually in the doorway, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to find her there, half-unlaced, gown slipping low from her shoulders.

“You should knock,” she murmured, though her voice lacked conviction.

He crossed the room without hesitation. “And miss this?”

Her cheeks flushed. She turned her gaze down to the infant at her breast, but he settled himself in a chair nearby, watching her with that infuriating calm. They talked about idle things, about the wedding, about Eloise’s dramatics, about whether the baby favoured her mother or father. It felt almost harmless. Almost.

But then his tone shifted. Lower, quieter. “Wouldn’t your husband notice, if I stayed too long like this?”

Her heart skipped. She swallowed. “Anthony is in Westminster,” she replied carefully. “On Parliament business.”

He leaned forward, smile sharpening. “And the others? Edmund? Colin?”

She gasped softly, eyes flicking to him in shock, though the baby kept nursing, oblivious. “You… you knew?”

His chuckle was low, warm, and maddening. “Did you think I hadn’t noticed, Penny?”

A shiver ran down her spine at the intimacy of the name on his lips. She turned her face aside, embarrassed and yet strangely exhilarated. “You never said anything.”

“Because it wasn’t my business,” he said simply, rising now, coming close enough that she felt his breath stir her hair. His nose brushed along the tender curve of her neck, making her shiver even as her daughter suckled on.

“And now it is?” she whispered.

Benedict’s hand slid down, bold and unhesitating. He cupped her breast, pinched the nipple her babe had left unattended, and she gasped outright this time. “After tonight,” he murmured against her skin, “you will be my business too.”

Penelope’s breath trembled in her chest. Her babe shifted in her arms, still drinking, and the domesticity of the moment tangled dizzyingly with the wickedness of what he was promising. She dared to smile, soft and secretive, even as her whole body hummed with dangerous delight. Tonight could not come fast enough.

By the time supper was cleared and the household dispersed, Penelope felt as though she had lived through a year in a single day. Every glance, every smile, every accidental brush of Benedict’s shoulder when he passed her in the corridor had been a brand on her skin.

Now, with the baby settled and her nursemaid watching over the nursery, Penelope finally slipped away to her chamber. She closed the door softly behind her and leaned against it for a moment, heart pounding as though she’d already been caught.

It was one thing to flirt with Benedict under candlelight at a wedding, to let words carry the promise. But to act on it… to dress for him, knowing exactly what she was preparing for, was something else entirely.

She moved to her looking glass and studied herself, pressing her palms to the bodice of her gown. Her confinement had softened her. Her hips were fuller, breasts were heavier, her whole body tinged with maternal ripeness. Once she might have fretted, but now she only wondered what he would think when she bared herself before him. Would he hunger for her, as her other husbands did? Or would he hesitate, not finding her as per his liking?

Her fingers trembled as she opened her wardrobe. She bypassed the heavy gowns and reached instead for a silk shift, thin as breath, the fabric whispering over her skin as she slipped it on. She bound her hair loosely, letting curls fall over her shoulders, a deliberate carelessness that spoke of intimacy. A dressing robe followed, tied with a ribbon that could be undone with a single tug.

In her vanity, a small box of scents sat waiting. She dabbed a drop of rose oil at her throat, another between her breasts, then blushed at her own reflection, like a bride primping for her first night.

The house was quiet now. She knew she should rest, knew that her body was only just healed, that she ought to keep her strength for her child. But the thought of denying herself this chance… of letting Benedict slip back into distance and silence… was unbearable.

She sat on the edge of the bed, silk shift riding high over her thighs, and let herself imagine him entering her chamber. His mouth on hers, his hand sliding to her breast, the heat of his body pinning her to the mattress. The fantasy made her shiver.

A soft knock startled her from her reverie. Once. Twice. She pressed a hand to her racing heart, stood, and moved to the door.

When she opened it, Benedict stood there, candle in hand, eyes sweeping over her in one slow, searing glance.

She stepped back to let him in, her robe slipping at her shoulders in the movement. Benedict closed the door behind him, set the candle on a table, and turned to her with a look that nearly stole her breath away.

Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. He crossed the space between them in two strides, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle, it was hungry, hot, as though he had been starving for her since that night months ago. Penelope melted into him, her lips parting, her arms winding about his shoulders. His tongue found hers, tasting her, coaxing her deeper, until she moaned softly against his mouth.

Benedict pulled her tighter, his hands slipping down her back, gripping her waist as if afraid she’d vanish. Their mouths fused again and again, lips swollen from the insistence, each kiss more desperate than the last. She clung to him, dizzy with the rush of it, feeling the hard press of his body against hers through the thin silk of her shift.

When at last he broke from her lips, he trailed his mouth along her jaw, down to her throat, sucking lightly at the soft skin there. She tipped her head back with a gasp, giving him more to claim, her fingers threading through his hair.

“God, Penelope,” he murmured against her pulse, his voice rough. “I thought I’d go mad waiting for this.”

Her robe had slipped even further, hanging loose, and his hands found the ribbon at her waist. With a tug it gave way, the fabric parting, baring the silk beneath. He drew back slightly, his gaze drinking her in, then slid his hands beneath the robe to ease it down her arms. It puddled at her feet, leaving her standing before him in nothing but the whisper of her shift.

He kissed her again, softer this time, while his fingers traced the line of her neckline. Then, deliberately slow, he hooked his thumbs under the straps and tugged them down, baring the pale swell of her breasts. His lips followed, kissing the exposed skin as he undressed her by degrees, until the silk was slipping lower, loosening, threatening to reveal everything.

Penelope’s breath hitched. She was trembling from anticipation.

“Benedict,” she whispered.

He answered with another kiss, deep and consuming, her shift slipped away entirely, and Benedict drew in a sharp breath as he took in the sight of her. She was all soft curves still fuller from recent birth, her skin glowing in the candlelight.

“Exquisite,” he whispered, almost reverent. His hands framed her waist, then slid up, palms spanning her ribs, before settling just beneath her breasts.

She flushed, trembling under his gaze, instinctively bringing her arms across herself. But Benedict caught her wrists gently and lowered them. “No,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles, then her shoulder, “never hide that from me.”

His mouth descended again, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the slope of her breast. She gasped when his tongue flicked against the taut tip, still sensitive.

“Ben—”

He hummed against her, the vibration making her knees weaken. His lips closed around her nipple, suckling softly, then harder, until a bead of warm milk welled. He drew it into his mouth, drinking her. Penelope shuddered, her head falling back, a low moan escaping her.

“Oh, God…”

He shifted, bracing her with one arm about her back while his mouth moved greedily. “Sweet,” he murmured between pulls, before latching again. His hand stroked her other breast, coaxing, until that one too began to leak. Without hesitation he bent his head and gave each equal worship, his tongue circling, his lips drawing until the ache eased and the flow slowed.

Penelope’s hands tangled in his hair, clutching, her body arching helplessly. There was nothing clinical in the way he fed from her, only lust, and the shocking intimacy of being consumed by him so fully. She couldn’t stop trembling.

“You taste of life itself,” Benedict whispered against her skin, before suckling again. “I could live on you.”

“Ben…” Her voice broke on his name, torn between embarrassment and wild, aching pleasure.

He kissed across her chest, lingering on the valley between her breasts, then returned to her nipples, taking her deeper, drinking until her body sagged against his in a haze of relief and arousal.

When at last he drew back, his lips glistened, his eyes dark. He kissed her softly, her mouth, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone, as though in gratitude. “Let me love all of you,” he murmured, kneeling before her, his hands sliding lower.

He lowered himself, kissing a slow trail from her breast down over her belly, pausing to murmur against her skin, “Every part of you… I want to adore it tonight.”

Her thighs trembled when his lips brushed the soft flesh just above her mound. He spread her gently, reverently, and Penelope felt her breath catch, half-shocked at the brazenness, half-dizzy with need.

“Ben…” she whispered, almost a plea.

He only glanced up, eyes burning into hers, before bowing his head and pressing his mouth to her most tender place. The first stroke of his tongue made her cry out, clutching at the sheets.

Slow at first, he savoured her, tasting her as though she were the finest delicacy. His hands pinned her thighs open, holding her steady as he worked his tongue in languid circles, teasing, coaxing. Each movement was deliberate, unhurried, meant to drive her mad.

“Oh—God—” she gasped, hips lifting despite herself.

He chuckled against her, the vibration sending shocks of pleasure through her. “That’s it, Penny,” he murmured, lips slick with her. “feel what I'm doing to you.”

Then his mouth grew hungrier. He licked deeper, sucked harder, tracing her folds, flicking his tongue over that aching bud until she writhed beneath him. His name spilled from her lips in broken sounds, her fingers tangling desperately in his hair.

When he sealed his mouth around her and drew on her with greedy precision, she shattered. The pleasure tore through her, blinding, her cries muffled only by her own bitten lip as wave after wave rolled over her.

Benedict did not stop. He drank from her, coaxing every last tremor until she lay gasping, boneless, her thighs trembling around his shoulders.

Only then did he lift his head, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction. He kissed her inner thigh, tender, before looking up with a sinful little smile. “You’re far more sweeter than I had imagined,” he said hoarsely, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He lifted himself from between her thighs, his lips slick, his expression half feral and half adoring. Penelope reached for him at once, dragging him up to her mouth, kissing him greedily. She tasted herself on his tongue, and the sheer indecency of it made her moan into his kiss.

His hands roamed all over, one cupping her breast, thumb circling the taut, dampened nipple, the other sliding over her hip, holding her close as though he couldn’t bear to let her go. Their mouths tangled, slow and deep at first, until the urgency began to swell between them again.

He broke the kiss with a ragged breath, resting his forehead against hers. “Penny… you're addictive. if I keep touching you like this, I may never stop.”

Her laugh was soft, trembling. She cupped his face with both hands, pulling him to look at her properly. “Then don’t stop,” she whispered. “Not this time. Don’t do it as duty, don’t think of easing my pain. Just… take me. As a woman. As yours, even if only tonight. Fuck me hard. Put your seed inside me.”

His whole body shuddered with restraint fraying. “You know what you’re asking?”

She smiled faintly, flushed, eyes wide with an honesty that undid him. “Yes. I want all of it. I want you to have me, Ben. Fully.”

Something dark and determined lit in his gaze. He kissed her hard then, teeth catching her lip, tongue pushing into her mouth with all the hunger he’d been holding back. His hand slid between her thighs again, testing her, finding her wet and open, ready for him.

With a low groan he pressed himself against her entrance, the blunt heat of his cock nudging her folds. She gasped, clutching his shoulders.

“God,” he rasped, eyes closing as though fighting a losing battle with his own desire. “You feel too good already…”

“Then stop torturing us both,” she whispered, nails digging into his back. “Please, Ben. Take me.”

Her plea broke what little restraint remained. With a hoarse sound, he pushed forward, slowly at first, inch by inch, until he was buried deep inside her. They both cried out at the joining, she at the fullness, he at the impossible tightness of her body gripping him.

For a moment he stilled, trembling above her, kissing her face, her cheek, her jaw, her mouth, murmuring almost desperately, “You’re perfect, Penny… perfect…”

Then, with her legs twined around his waist urging him closer, Benedict began to move. Not for pain, not for duty…This time, each thrust was deliberate, meant to drive her higher and higher, to make her feel cherished, desired, utterly undone.

His thrusts grew slower, deeper, as though he were carving his possession into her with each movement. His mouth trailed her skin, her breasts, her lips, and she arched up into him, clutching his shoulders.

Between gasps and moans she whispered, “You could have been with me for years, Ben. If only you hadn’t rejected me back then…”

Her words struck him like a blade. He stilled, eyes burning as he pressed his forehead to hers. “God, Penny…I … I wasted a year for Paul. And then he was gone. I…I wanted you. I always wanted you. But Paul demanded we could not be with anyone but each other. I thought… if I touched you, I’d ruin everything between him and me. So I buried it, told myself I couldn’t. I should have left him. If I had claimed yoy first we would have already been married.”

The creak of the door silenced him. Penelope’s head whipped toward the sound, her breath hitched in terror, in shock.

“—but then we wouldn’t have been able to be with you, my sweet girl.”

Her eyes widened. Standing in the doorway, gaze heavy and knowing, was Edmund.

“Edmund?” she whispered, body trembling beneath Benedict, shattering with a powerful orgasm.

Before she could recover from her release, Colin stepped inside too, shutting the door softly behind him. His smirk was wicked, his eyes fixed on her flushed, glistening body beneath his brother. “My greedy girl,” he drawled, voice warm with teasing hunger. “Sneaking a taste of another Bridgerton when you already had us.”

Her pulse thundered. “Colin—”

And then the final figure appeared. Anthony, tall and imposing, stepped into the chamber and turned the key in the lock with deliberate calm. His eyes met hers, steady, almost amused. “Pen,” he said softly, “do you truly think we would be angry, if you told us?”

Her lips parted, speechless.

All three brothers stood watching as Benedict, still buried deep inside her, struggled to breathe. His body shuddered above hers as he confessed, voice breaking: “I wanted you. God, I wanted you, Penny. But I couldn’t take you from them. I thought I’d caused enough problems just by wanting… So when it happened, during the night of her daughter’s birth…I told Colin afterwards. I had to...”

“And I told the rest of them, when you danced with Ben during Eloise's reception. I could see how much you both were aching for each other.” Explained Colin. 

Penelope gasped, staring at Benedict, then at the men gathered around them. “You… you all knew?”

Edmund's mouth curved into a half-smile, slow and unreadable. “Of course we knew. Did you think we’d let such a secret slip past us?”

Colin stepped closer to the bed, his eyes devouring her with fondness and heat. “And now, Penny… now it seems you’ll have to decide how many of us you can take at once.”

Chapter Text

Colin stepped closer to the bed, his eyes devouring her with fondness and heat. “And now, Penny… now it seems you’ll have to decide how many of us you can take at once.”

Benedict’s hands gripped her hips even tighter. “I’m not done yet,” he growled against her ear. “I need to fuck her properly.”

Edmund’s low hum of approval rolled through the room like thunder. He stepped forward, tilting his head with quiet command. “Then who's stopping you? Fuck her. Let's take her like she’s meant to.”

With all three of her husband's help, Penelope was guided, breathless and pliant, onto Benedict’s lap. He pulled her down on himself, her back pressed tight to his chest, his cock thick and pulsing entered her again. She gasped as she sank deeper onto him in this position, thighs trembling, and Benedict groaned at the sensation of her tight cunt around him.

“Beautiful,” Edmund murmured, leaning down to capture her mouth in a hungry kiss while his hands roamed over her flushed skin.

Anthony and Colin came to either side of her, their gazes hot and possessive. Without hesitation, they each claimed a breast. Anthony’s mouth closed around one taut nipple, Colin’s lips fastening hungrily on the other. Penelope cried out, arching, her hands flying into their hair as they suckled and licked and both the skin around her nipple.

Benedict twitched violently inside her, straining. “God— I can’t hold— I need to move now.”

The others released her just enough, making space for him.

“Do it, Ben,” Edmund urged, his lips grazing Penelope’s jaw, his hands steadying her hips. “Take her the way she clearly wants you to.”

And then Benedict began to thrust wildly, desperate in his rhythm, pounding into her with a hunger that shook them both. She moaned and whimpered, the sound tangled with laughter from his brothers and pleas from her to go faster, while the brothers kissed, caressed, kneaded every inch of her body. Anthony’s hand slid up her throat to tilt her head back, so that he could suckle on the sensitive skin of her throat, Colin teased both her nipples between his teeth, Edmund’s lips claimed hers again and again.

Penelope clung to all of them, her voice breaking into ragged cries. “Yes—oh, yes, all of you—don’t stop, don’t stop…”

Her body shivered with every stroke, every kiss, every possessive grope, overwhelmed yet gloriously alive, as Benedict drove into her with wild abandon.

Penelope’s cries broke into a sharp, keening sound as her climax seized her. Her whole body tightened around Benedict’s cock, fluttering and pulsing in hot waves. Her back arched against his chest, her nails dug into Edmund’s shoulders, and her thighs shook violently.

“God, yes—fuck, she’s squeezing me—” Benedict gasped, slamming into her erratically, riding out her release as she milked him. Her screams tumbled into whimpers, then into breathless laughter as her body shuddered through every last spasm.

The moment her orgasm ebbed, the brothers moved with practiced instinct, as though they had been waiting for this.

“Colin, take Benedict's position. Let’s give our sweet girl what she wants,” Edmund murmured, kissing her lips gently.

Benedict slipped free, still panting, and helped her onto hands and knees. Edmund took his place at her front, stroking his thick length across her lips until she opened obediently. He was pleased at her eagerness to take him in her mouth. She knew how much he liked to fuck her mouth, to watch her gag on his cock, and yet keep sucking on his hardness, and he loved to see the way her eyes would widen everytime he spilled into her mouth, how she gulped it all despite nearly choking on his cum. “That’s it, darling. Take me now.”

Behind her, Colin’s low growl vibrated in his chest as he pressed into her slick heat in one smooth, claiming thrust, groaning as her walls welcomed him greedily. “Fuck, you're so warm and wet, Pen,” he hissed, his hips already beginning a ruthless rhythm.

Penelope’s muffled moan vibrated around Edmund’s cock when his tip brushed the back of her throat, filling her mouth completely. She gagged sweetly, then adjusted, her eyes watering as she clutched at his thighs.

Anthony and Benedict stayed close, kneeling at her sides, their hands mauling her breasts, their mouths lavishing attention on each swollen nipple. They sucked and teased in tandem, fingers pinching and tugging, until she writhed beneath the overwhelming tide of sensation.

The room was a cacophony of lewd sounds. Colin grunted as he pounded into her, Edmund cursed as she suckled hungrily at his cock, her own muffled cries of pleasure, and the wet sounds of her nipples being sucked and licked, being used thoroughly by Anthony and Benedict at both ends.

“Sweet girl,” Anthony whispered against her breast, when she whimpered in delight at their ministration. “Such a greedy, perfect wife.”

“God, I can suck on these perfect breasts forever,” Benedict rasped, twisting her nipple until she shuddered.

Colin’s thrusts grew sharper, rougher while Edmund rocked deeper into her mouth, groaning when she gagged and slobbered around him, strings of wetness clinging to her chin.

Penelope’s entire body trembled, torn between the brutal rhythm of Colin's thrusts behind her and the insistent weight of his father's cock filling her throat. Every tug on her nipples sent lightning bolts straight to her core. She clawed at the sheets, half-sobbing, half-moaning around Edmund’s cock.

“Look at her,” Benedict murmured, watching her face contort in wild ecstasy. “She’s going to come again—”

Anthony pinched her nipple hard, twisting it until she yelped around Edmund. “Do it, Pen. Come on my brother’s cock. Show us how messy you get.”

That was all it took. Her cunt clenched violently around Colin, gush spilling out between her thighs in wet, noisy spurts. She screamed, the sound muffled by Edmund’s length, and her body convulsed helplessly.

Colin groaned, head falling back. “Fuck—she’s soaking me—” He kept pounding through her spasms, splashing in her wetness, the lewd sounds echoing through the chamber.

Edmund hissed as she whimpered around him, throat contracting, saliva running down her chin in a filthy sheen. “Sweet girl, you’re drowning me…such a perfect slut.”

Her orgasm went on and on, violent waves that left her thrashing, her body shuddering between them. She gagged again as Edmund’s cock pulsed thickly at the back of her throat. His hand held her steady, thumb brushing her wet cheek as he groaned low and deep. “Take it, sweet girl—swallow me down.”

She whimpered, the vibration making him spill in hot, heavy spurts across her tongue. She coughed, swallowing frantically as he fucked the last of it into her mouth, until his groan broke into a laugh, ragged and breathless.

When he pulled free, strands of cum and spit clung between her swollen lips and his tip. She blinked up at him, dazed, and he brushed her cheek with a fondness that only made the filth of it all sharper.

But Colin wasn’t finished. With a growl, he shifted, changing to an angle that helped him drive deeper, so deep she cried out, the sound hoarse and cracked. “Colin—please!”

“Not letting you off easy, Pen,” he gritted, fucking into her slick, overstretched cunt with brutal precision. “You wanted to get a good fucking, right, love? Well I'm giving you what your heart desires.” He said with a wicked smile. The slap of his hips echoed, wet and loud, making her body jolt helplessly with each thrust.

Anthony stepped in smoothly, cock already hard, and slid it into her open mouth without hesitation, taking Edmund's position. “Take me in your mouth, wife,” he ordered, voice dark velvet. She did, her lips sealing tight as she took him to the hilt, her throat already raw but eager. He hissed as her tongue curled along the underside of his length. “Perfect little wife.”

Her muffled moans vibrated around him, making him groan and fuck her mouth shallow and steady while Colin hammered into her below.

Meanwhile, Benedict who was steadily getting aroused and hard again, stood at her side. His cock was twitching helplessly at the sight of her being taken by his brothers in such a way and wondered why exactly had he chosen to stay away from such an exquisite experience for so.long. He played with his balls, his erection growing to full mast as he stroked himself with steady, urgent pulls. His hand that was cupping his ball slowly reached and cupped and kneaded her breast, pinching at her nipple until she writhed even harder between Colin and Anthony.

“She’s insatiable,” Ben muttered, voice rough with want. “Look at her, taking both of you and still reacting to my touch. Like she was made for all of us.”

Anthony smirked down at her, his hand guiding her head on his cock. “She was, brother. Our perfect, greedy girl.”

“I want to fuck her arse.” Benedict said, running his hands on her body over and over again. 

Colin hummed, then slipped out of her only to slide below her, his back on the mattress and his face gazing at her bouncing tits as Anthony kept thrusting in her mouth. He pulled her down on his cock once again, entering her cunt once again. “Go, Ben. Fulfill your wish.”

Penelope shivered when she felt Benedict's fingers part her ass cheeks and lick her butthole. He kept licking and fingering it, till he found herself relaxing and buckling her rump in his face, offering him her butt. He spat on her butthole , rubbed it with his fingers and then began fingering her anal cavity, making her moan loudly. Her mouth was stretched wide around Anthony’s thick length, his fingers tangled in her hair as he groaned, urging her to take him deeper. His hips moved with controlled force, feeding her rhythm in perfect counterpoint to Colin’s. Every time her throat spasmed, Anthony let out a ragged growl of approval. And now… now, Benedict was going to spear her in the arse. She shivered in delight. 

Benedict pressed into her arse slowly, driving past her anal ring and into the right canal. Penelope moaned around Anthony, causing him to grip her hair tighter. 

Her eyes rolled back, her body a trembling conduit for their lust, every hole filled, every part of her worshipped. She was drowning in them, her husbands, her lover, were undoing her completely.

Pinned like this her body arched beautifully. Ben’s hands slid around her chest, palms heavy as they cupped both her breasts and squeezed, rolling her stiff nipples between his fingers. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re perfect like this, Pen… look at you, taking us all,” he murmured, voice shaking with hunger. His cock was already slick from his own stroking, leaking against her back as he rutted in short, impatient bursts into her butt.

Her moans were muffled, swallowed by Anthony, but her body betrayed her, clenching hard around Colin, shuddering under Ben’s possessive grip, thighs trembling as pleasure built to a blinding edge.

Colin hissed, his pace faltering as her cunt seized him tight. “Bloody hell, Pen, I can’t hold—” His hips snapped forward, a deep groan tearing from his chest as he spilled hot inside her, grinding through it, pushing every last drop into her quivering cunt.

Anthony cursed low and finished down her throat in the same moment, his hands tightening as he forced her to drink him deep. Penelope swallowed desperately, her vision flashing white as their release triggered her own orgasm.

Her body bowed between them, her cry lost around Anthony, every muscle clenching in messy, overwhelming ecstasy. Ben groaned against her ear, his grip on her breasts tightening as if he could wring more from her body, his cock jerking in her arse as he watched her come undone so beautifully in their hands.

When she finally collapsed, boneless, against Ben’s chest, all four men exchanged a look—satisfaction, hunger, and promise that this was only the beginning.

Benedict kept her on his lap, cock buried deep inside her from behind, his thighs spread wide as he held her open. His hands clamped tight on her hips, guiding every subtle grind so he could feel her squeeze him full.

Edmund, who was watching from his armchair, walked upto them and climbed on bed. He guided himself to her slick folds, slicking his length with eager strokes before pressing into the tight heat of her cunt. She wailed in delight, overwhelmed as he filled her sensitive hope fully.

She was trembling in Benedict’s hold, stretched, shaking, tears sliding down her cheeks, yet the bliss was unmistakable. “Look at her,” Edmund groaned, driving up into her slick centre, hips slapping against her thighs. “So greedy—so beautiful like this.”

Benedict’s teeth grazed her neck as he panted, “Ours. Every inch of her. She was meant to take us all.”

Edmund’s thrusts grew deeper, heavier, his groans vibrating against her neck as he kissed her damp shoulder. “She’ll remember this, our marks, our seed, everywhere.”

It built fast, too fast. Edmund was the first to shudder, hot release spilling inside her already stuffed cunt. Benedict followed a breath later, grinding into her, milking his cock against Edmund’s still-pumping length inside her.

Even as they finished, they didn’t let her fall. Benedict and Edmund rocked shallowly, keeping her plugged full, while Anthony and Colin pumped themselves slowly, once again getting ready to spend themselves on their wife's beautiful body. Soon ropes of cum landed on her chest, face and hair, and they smeared their spend across her lips, her breasts, rubbing it into her skin.

Penelope was wrecked, sobbing softly, her whole body twitching with aftershocks as she tried to catch her breath. Her body was a vision of ruin and devotion. Every inch of her was marked. Her breasts slick and shining with their spend, streaks drying across her belly and thighs, her lips swollen and glistening with the remnants of them, her cunt leaking thick with their seed. Her hair clung damply to her flushed cheeks, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, lashes wet with the tears she had cried when the pleasure tipped past bearable.

She trembled even when still, legs quivering, her sex so swollen and raw from being filled over and over again that she whimpered at the smallest movement. Her skin glowed red where hands had held, teeth had grazed, and mouths had claimed. She looked utterly undone, a masterpiece of indulgence…fucked, marked, utterly claimed.

When her head lolled against Benedict’s chest and her breath came in shallow gasps, they hushed her softly, gentling their touch. Anthony pressed a cool glass of water to her lips. “Just a sip, darling girl,” he murmured. She swallowed shakily, dribbles wetting her chin.

“Perfect,” Edmund praised, brushing his thumb across her mouth before kissing her damp cheek.

Colin stroked her tangled hair, reverent despite the mess. “So beautiful, Pen. So strong for us.”

Benedict tightened his arms around her, whispering against her ear, “Our sweetest girl… ours.”

She gave a broken sigh, a sound of surrender and trust, before her eyes slipped closed at last. They eased her down into the middle of the bed, surrounding her with their warmth. The air smelled of sex and sweat. As she succumbed to sleep, they murmured over her soft praises.

Penelope startled awake, the world heavy and hazy around her. The sheets were warm with the heat of too many bodies, but when she blinked herself into focus, only Edmund lay there, propped up on one elbow, watching her.

“Where is everyone?” she whispered, her throat dry and voice rough from the night before.

“Dealing with life,” Edmund said simply, his mouth quirking in the faintest of smiles. He traced a lazy line along her bare shoulder with his fingertip.

She jolted, suddenly sitting up straighter, clutching at the coverlet. “Oh god—I’ve overslept. Annie—she’ll need me, she’ll be hungry—” She pushed the sheet aside and swung her legs to the floor, panic rising like a tide.

But before she could stand, Edmund’s strong hand closed over her wrist, tugging her back down. In a heartbeat, he rolled with her, pinning her to the mattress with a controlled weight that brooked no argument. His chest pressed to hers, his eyes hot and unyielding.

“Wait.”

“Edmund, I can’t—”

“You can,” he cut in, voice quiet but absolute. “Annie is with her wet nurse. She’s safe, cared for. You, my darling girl, are spending today here, in bed. With me.”

She blinked up at him, breathless, her protest dying in her throat. The certainty in his tone, the command in his gaze disarmed her, left her caught between exasperation and a low, fluttering thrill.

“Edmund…” she said softly, torn between duty and the ache still lingering in her body from the night before.

He bent close, his lips brushing her temple, his voice velvet and steel. “You’ve given us everything, Pen. Your strength, your sweetness, your body, your child. Today just give me this. Let me keep you here.”

Her heartbeat stuttered, her limbs strangely weak beneath his hold. She realised with a dizzying clarity that, for once, she didn’t want to fight him.

Penelope lay pinned beneath Edmund’s solid weight, her breath coming a little unsteady as his words hung in the quiet chamber. The faint bustle of household life drifted faintly from the windows, but here, with him above her, it felt like the world had shrunk down to their two bodies.

After a long pause, she whispered, “And how do you feel… about me being with Ben?”

Edmund’s eyes darkened, though not with anger. Instead, a raw, steady hunger smouldered there. He didn’t flinch, didn’t avert his gaze. “It thrills me.” he admitted, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, lingering as if he were savouring the shape of her mouth. “At first, when I took you to my bed, I wanted to punish you. You had the audacity to lay your claim on my boys, and for what? Personal gain, I thought. The convenience of attaching yourself to Bridgerton men.”

Penelope swallowed, guilt and defiance mingling in her chest. “And yet?”

His mouth curved in a slow, dangerous smile. “And yet, the first time I took you, I realised the truth. That you just wanted to be loved. Cherished. And your body was a treasure. Not something to punish, but to revere. To revel in. And when you give yourself to my sons, when you let them take you however they please, I cannot help but be… aroused. Watching you greedy, wanton, every inch of you lit with fire, it turns me on more than I can say. Thanks for being our perfect little slut.”

She flushed deeply, but her lips parted in a soft laugh, half-pleasure, half-confession. “I’ll admit it… I’ve always harboured some attraction for them. At certain points in life. You created such beautiful men with your late wife, Edmund. How could I not feel drawn to them?”

He hummed low in his throat, his hand cupping her jaw. “And they to you. They’ve fallen, each in their way.”

Her eyes softened, though her voice grew huskier. “It’s fun,” she admitted. “And I crave you all. But it won’t always be the same. Taking so many at once… it spends me, Edmund. Leaves me emptied out. I'm so sore.”

He kissed the edge of her jaw, his voice vibrating against her skin. “I know. That’s why I threw them all out.”

She blinked at him, startled, then laughed quietly, relieved. “Good thinking. Maybe today… I needed something slower. Softer.”

His lips ghosted over hers, the promise unmistakable in his tone. “Then slow and soft is what you shall have, darling girl. But first, let's wash all this cum off your body.”

Edmund guided her into the adjoining bath where the tub was already filled with warm water. Steam curled around them, softening the edges of the morning. Edmund guided her into the bath with an ease that was both commanding and tender, lowering her carefully into the warm water before sinking in behind her. His arms circled her waist, his hands spread wide over her belly and breasts, and for a long moment he simply held her there, pressing his lips to her damp temple.

Penelope shivered at his kiss, and then leaned back against his chest. The water lapped gently around them as Edmund reached for the cloth. He dragged it slowly across her shoulders, down her arms, the roughness of linen softened by his deliberate touch. Every sweep of the cloth was followed by his hand, his palm, his lips. He kissed the hollow behind her ear, the slope of her neck, the top of her breast, while his fingers rubbed and soothed.

Her breath deepened, soft sighs escaping as he worked his way lower. He turned her carefully, straddling her now, and washed her thighs, the insides of them, her hips. “You are mine,” he said lowly, “and you are beautiful.” When she flushed, he kissed the colour into her cheeks with a smile that was devastatingly soft.

By the time the tray of food was delivered to the room, they were tangled again in each other's arms. But then Edmund left the bed long enough to bring the tray to the bed, arranging it, and sat opposite her, feeding her morsels of food.

Penelope giggled into his mouth when he pressed a piece of bread to her lips only to steal it himself in a kiss. He poured her a glass, holding it for her as she sipped, his eyes fixed on hers all the while. “You’re radiant,” he told her, almost in awe.

When the food was gone and her hunger dulled, Edmund set the tray aside. He returned to her with purpose, easing her back against the pillows. His body loomed over hers, shadow and warmth, his mouth descending on her body in a slow pace. He kissed her lips first, deep and unhurried, then her jaw, then lower…her collarbone, the soft valley of her breasts.

Penelope’s eyes fluttered shut, her hands sliding into his hair. Edmund’s kisses grew hungrier, his tongue tracing lazy patterns, his teeth grazing as if he could not decide whether to devour or adore her. He cupped her breast, teasing the nipple between his fingers, then sealed his lips over it, drawing hard enough to make her arch and moan.

“Edmund…” she whispered, voice shaking.

“Yes, my darling girl, today Annie has no need for you. So all your milk is for me.” he murmured against her skin, before taking his nipple in his mouth, suckling at it. He kept switching back and forth, drinking deeply from her. When Edmund finally pulled back from her breasts, his face was taut with restraint. He kissed her mouth again, hard, almost bruising, and then shifted her with a strength that made her gasp. He turned her onto her hands and knees, pressing her chest low against the pillows while his body loomed behind her.

“Edmund—” she began, but her words cut off in a shuddering moan when he spread her thighs wider, his hands greedy on her hips.

“Shh, darling girl,” he rasped, leaning over her so his chest pressed to her back. “This time I won’t be gentle.”

And then he was pushing inside her in one long, relentless stroke. The stretch made her cry out, her fingers clutching at the sheets. Edmund growled low in his throat, both hands sliding up to seize her breasts, filling his palms with the heavy weight of them as he thrust deep.

The rhythm was wild from the start. Each movement slammed her forward into the pillows, her nipples dragging against the fabric, milk leaking and staining the sheets. Her moans were muffled as she bit down on the sheet to keep from screaming too loud. Edmund’s voice was rough against her ear, when he spoke next, “You take me so well,” he started driving harder, faster. “God, Penelope…you’re beautiful, every inch of you.”

Her body quaked beneath him, torn between the rough handling and the sheer pleasure flooding through her veins. Her breasts ached from the friction, her cunt clenched greedily around him, and she sobbed with the sharp joy of it.

Edmund shifted his stance, driving even deeper, his thrusts pounding her into the mattress while his hands grabbed and kneaded her tits. “I’ll fill you,” he promised raggedly, “I’ll breed you properly, keep you full of my seed.”

Her answering moan was broken, desperate, as her body began to shake with the force of what he was giving her.

When he spilled into her, he refused to let it leak, pressing her closed and holding her tight until her body calmed.

Once, when he shifted as if to pull away, she whispered hoarsely, “Don’t. Keep your cock buried inside me.” And he obeyed, gathering her close. They drifted into sleep still joined, his length nestled deep within her.

When Penelope woke, the late afternoon light was slipping through the curtains, warm on her skin. She stretched faintly, only to realise with a startled smile that he was still inside her, heavy and thick, as though his body had refused to let go even in rest. Her heart swelled at the intimacy of it.

She reached up, fingers feathering across Edmund’s face until his lashes fluttered open. “Move,” she whispered with a grin, eyes glowing with mischief and need.

He groaned low in his throat, waking fully, and without hesitation folded her body once more, pinning her knees high as he thrust into her, deeper than before. Her sore, stretched body yielded to him, quivering as he worshipped her with each push. His lips and hands roamed, reverent yet greedy, and when her climax shattered through her again, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside her once more.

They kept panting, their breath intermingling, while riding out the Aftershock of their orgasm. For a long while there was only the sound of their slowing breaths, the faint rustle of sheets.

Then, softly, almost shyly, Penelope broke the silence. “Do you… do you want me to be pregnant again? You keep holding me like this, folding me, spilling into me as if you mean to.”

He turned his head, caught her gaze, and the corner of his mouth curved into a slow, knowing smirk. “Yes. I want that. Very much.”

She flushed, glancing down before whispering, “Hmmm… after yesterday, after all of them spending inside me, perhaps I already am. Would you even know if it's you who is the father? Doesn't it bother you?”

Instead of anger or jealousy, Edmund only chuckled low in his throat. His hand swept over her belly, palm broad and warm, and he said with unshaken certainty, “Does it bother you?”

Penelope thought about it. She felt that she'd rather not know who Annie's father is if it meant all the men loved her equally. She shook her head resolutely.

“Exactly. I don’t care whose it is. As long as you’re full. As long as you’re carrying…always. I adore it, Pen. The way your little body swells with a baby. There’s nothing more beautiful. Not knowing whether it's fathered by me or one of my son's makes it even more tiltilating…”

His words sent a shiver through her, half scandalised and half aroused, her lips parting as if to argue…but she found no reply. Not when his hand lingered, protective and reverent, over the softness of her stomach as though already claiming what might one day grow there.

Edmund took her in a breeding position twice more before supper. And finally, when she told him that she could barely keep her eyes open, he left her alone in the chamber to sleep.

From the moment Edmund made that startling declaration, something shifted. Penelope felt it each time he or any other men came to her bed: the deliberateness of it, the way they folded her small body beneath theirs, pressed her knees high to keep every drop inside. They no longer hid their intent. 

Anthony, with his stern possessiveness, was no longer content to pull out, and Benedict, so often playful, took his pleasure deep within her with a kind of singular focus that left her trembling. Colin always hungry for her cunt, was perhaps the most desperate of all, clinging to her as if spilling himself inside her was a way to bind her soul to his.

It overwhelmed her at times, the relentlessness of them, the way her body was constantly filled, claimed, marked. She was still tender, still feeding little Annie at her breast, and by all rights her courses ought not to have returned yet. Everyone said nursing protected against conception. But there was no denying how they used her, over and over, until she felt more spent inside her than out.

And so, by the time Annie turned six months old, Penelope found herself pausing mid-morning, her stomach rebelling at the smell of bacon frying in the kitchens, roasted meats turning her pale and faint. She pressed a hand to her middle, breath catching with the dawning recognition.

It was happening again.

Chapter Text

Gregory Bridgerton had been bent over his desk, scratching out a line of translation, when the letter arrived. The familiar seal made his heart leap. He broke it quickly, eager for news from home.

But the words blurred as soon as he reached the heart of the message: Penelope is once more with child.

He sat back hard in his chair, the quill tumbling from his fingers. For a moment, he simply stared, as though he’d misread it. Penelope… already? Annie was barely six months old.

A strange heaviness filled his chest. Pride, yes—his father and brothers had always been so strong, so vigorous—but also something darker, a pang of envy he didn’t want to name. He remembered Pen’s laugh, the way she’d held Annie when he’d first met the sweet girl, the glow about her cheeks when she was content. And now she was carrying again, her body claimed by them, adored by them.

Gregory shut his eyes and exhaled shakily. He tried to scold himself—it wasn’t his place to judge them, he was too young, too far away, too unavailable to tend to her needs—to unaccomplished—but the thought circled him like a wolf: what would it have been like, if that child was sired by me?

When his roommate asked what was wrong, Gregory shoved the letter into his books and muttered something about homesickness. But when he lay awake that night, the candle burned low, his mind was still full of her. Penelope—round with child again, their child. Theirs, not his.

And he realised, with a mix of shame and longing, that he dreaded going home. Because one look at her, glowing with another pregnancy, and he feared he might betray himself with a single glance.

Gregory read the letter twice over, then a third time, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Already with child again.

He raked a hand through his hair and let out a low, incredulous laugh. His father, his brothers—insatiable in their lust for her, all of them. And Penelope… she must have yielded to them night after night, letting them spill into her, letting them keep her swollen and claimed.

His cock stirred at the thought before he could stop it. He shifted in his chair, ashamed, but the images kept flooding in. Penelope with her soft breasts heavy from nursing, her belly already beginning to round again, her thighs parted as one of them licked her. And not just one—he’d imagined one at her breasts suckling, one playing with the ring of muscles at her backside, one kissing her plump, juicy lips. They all shared her.

And here he was. Alone. Starving for her touch.

He pressed the heel of his hand hard against the ache in his trousers. What would it be like to come home and have her look at him with those lustful eyes? She had always been sweet to him, too kind, with her warm smiles and gentle voice guiding him into intimacy. He imagined her whispering his name as she had whispered theirs, tilting her hips up to take him deeper, telling him to give her another babe.

Gregory groaned under his breath and shoved the letter beneath his papers as though hiding it could banish the thoughts. But he knew, even as his fist closed around himself that night, that the seed of it had taken root.

He would go home eventually. And when he did, when he saw her ripe and glowing with a child… he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop imagining her round with his.

And so, exactly two months later, he stepped out of the carriage and into the familiar, lively chaos of Bridgerton House at Christmastime. Laughter carried through the hall, the smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine perfumed the air. He barely had time to remove his gloves before Hyacinth came bounding into his arms, hugging him with unrestrained joy.

But it wasn’t Hyacinth who held his attention.

It was Penelope.

She stood near the hearth, Annie perched comfortably on her hip, her other hand smoothing down the swell of her belly. His breath caught in his throat. She looked radiant—glowing skin, soft full breasts straining against her gown, lips curved into that same gentle smile she had always given him. But now it was different. Now she was round with life again, and still nursing Annie.

The fantasies he’d tried to silence at Oxford roared back with a vengeance. The countless nights he had imagined her like this—pregnant, ripe, his. His body betrayed him instantly, heat surging to his groin, cock stiffening against his trousers. All he wanted—irrational, reckless—was to stride across the room, pull her into his arms, and kiss her full on the lips in front of everyone. Claim her. Tell her he wanted to give her another child.

But Hyacinth tugged at his sleeve, laughing, demanding his attention, and he clenched his fists, forcing composure.

The family crowded him, Edmund clapping his shoulder, Anthony giving him a brief proud nod, Benedict commenting on the firmness of his biceps, Colin grinning as he pulled him into an embrace. He smiled and laughed where he could, the ache in his trousers nearly unbearable.

And then—it was Penelope’s turn.

She stepped into his arms for the hug, warm and soft, Annie gurgling between them. Her scent—milk and lavender—made his head swim. She tilted her face up just enough for her lips to brush close to his ear, and her hand, sly and certain, slid against the front of his trousers in the barest, briefest rub.

Her whisper ghosted over him:

"I see that you missed me, Greg."

The bulge in his breeches throbbed harder at her words, and it was all he could do not to groan in her ear. She smiled sweetly as she pulled away, as though nothing had happened, adjusting Annie on her hip and resumed chatting with Hyacinth again.

Gregory stood frozen, heart hammering, breath shallow.

It took a long time for him to find her alone again. Away from the interference of his family, as he closed the nursery door with a quiet, deliberate click. His pulse thundered in his ears as he turned back. Penelope sat serenely in the rocking chair, gown loosened, one full breast bared, Annie latched and suckled softly. She made no move to cover herself, only looked at him with that calm, knowing expression.

They spoke at first as though nothing were out of the ordinary. He told her of Oxford, of long nights bent over books, of the dull ache of missing home. She told him of the baby’s first smiles, her days filled with laughter and exhaustion, of Benedict being her constant companion when the others were away.

Greg’s jaw tightened. “So I have to fight one more of them for your attention, then?”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, head tipping gently to one side. She regarded him almost teasingly, as if she wanted to see what he would do with the jealousy simmering in him.

For a long moment, he just stared—at her exposed breast, at the baby’s tiny fist resting there, at the faint glow of candlelight on her flushed skin. His restraint crumbled.

“God,” he whispered hoarsely, stepping forward, “I can’t resist you…”

He surged down, catching her mouth with his. The kiss was fierce, needy, tasting of months of denial and fantasy. Penelope let him—tilting her head, opening for him, her free hand sliding up to the back of his neck as Annie suckled lazily between them.

When Annie finally released her grip, milk dribbled from the corner of her tiny mouth, and she gave a great sleepy yawn.

Penelope broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “I need to make her burp… and settle her in the cradle.”

Greg’s hand clamped gently but firmly around her wrist, his eyes dark, hungry. His lips ghosted over her ear as he whispered, “Good…”

He stepped back reluctantly, letting her rise from the chair. Penelope shifted Annie onto her shoulder, patting her back with practiced ease. Greg couldn’t take his eyes off her—the sight of Penelope, glowing and maternal, gown loose around her curves, one breast still heavy and damp from feeding, was almost too much for him to bear.

“Here,” he whispered, moving behind her, his big hands dwarfing her smaller frame. “Let me.”

She blinked at him, surprised but not resisting as he carefully placed his hands over hers, patting Annie’s back in steady rhythm. The baby gave a little burp, her tiny body relaxing into drowsy weight.

Penelope’s smile softened. “You’re good with her.”

Greg bent close, his lips brushing her temple as he murmured, “Only because she’s yours.”

Something in her chest tightened. She laid Annie gently into the cradle, covering her with a soft blanket. For a long moment, both of them just stood over the infant—Penelope, serene, Gregory, visibly struggling to breathe evenly, his chest rising and falling too fast.

When Penelope straightened, smoothing her gown back over her belly, Greg couldn’t stop himself. He caught her hand, turned her, pressed her back lightly against the edge of the cradle. His eyes blazed as he whispered, “I missed you every day, Pen. Every bloody day at Oxford, I thought of you. And now—”

His gaze dropped to the swell of her breasts, still full, the faint line of milk dampening her gown.

“Now,” he said, his voice rough, “I want to taste what I’ve missed so dearly.”

Penelope’s lips curved with a knowing little smile as she slipped her hand into Gregory’s, tugging him toward the settee tucked beneath the nursery window. He followed without resistance, his breath catching when she settled gracefully, her belly rounding her lap, her presence radiating warmth and command all at once.

“Sit with me,” she murmured, guiding him down beside her.

Greg obeyed, stiff with nerves and hunger all at once, his eyes darting from her face to her chest, unable to hide what he wanted. Penelope tilted her head, studying him, then reached for the neckline of her gown. Slowly, deliberately, she drew the fabric down, baring one full, heavy breast, her nipple already stiff from his stare alone.

His lips parted. He tried to speak, but nothing came.

“Hush,” she whispered, caressing his jaw with her palm, her thumb brushing over his trembling mouth. “You’ve imagined it often enough, haven’t you?”

Greg groaned softly, ashamed but unable to deny it. His answer was in the way he leaned into her touch, desperate.

“Then have it.”

She guided him with a gentle but insistent hand, pressing his cheek closer until his lips brushed her nipple. His hesitation lasted only a heartbeat before he latched on, sucking greedily, the warmth and taste overwhelming him.

Penelope’s breath shivered free, her head tilting back against the cushion. She stroked his hair as he suckled, the strong pull of his mouth sending heat coiling low in her belly. When he moaned around her nipple, she gasped, thighs clenching instinctively.

“That’s it, darling boy,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “Drink me.”

Greg shifted, cupping her other breast with unsteady hands. Penelope helped him, tugging the gown down fully so both were bare, swollen, waiting. He moved between them hungrily, sucking one until it leaked, then switching to the other, his tongue flicking, his teeth grazing just enough to make her whimper.

Her whole body was alive under his mouth. Her core ached, throbbed, and before she realised it she had shifted, grinding slowly against his thigh. The firm press of his leg beneath her skirts rubbed perfectly against her swollen flesh, and she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Greg groaned again at the sensation of her moving on him, his cock straining painfully against his breeches. He suckled harder, desperate, each tug of his mouth matched by the subtle roll of her hips.

Her voice was a whisper, low and trembling with want.

Your breeches. Take them off… now.”

Greg’s fingers shook as he fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches. He lowered them just enough to free himself, thick and flushed from straining so long against the confines. He leaned back on the settee, chest rising and falling quickly, eyes locked on her.

Penelope, steady in contrast, rose onto her knees and gathered her skirts. She straddled him with slow intent, the warmth of her thighs pressing against his hips. One hand guided him, the other splayed across his chest for balance.

The head of his cock nudged against her slick folds, and she shivered, the swollen tip brushing her clit before sliding lower. Her breath hitched. “Yes…” she murmured, pressing down. Inch by inch, she sank onto him, her walls clenching greedily as he filled her. Greg groaned, hands flying to her waist, almost afraid to grip too tightly lest he lose control.

“Oh God, Pen…” His voice cracked, head thrown back against the settee.

She rocked gently, circling her hips to take every last bit of him, savouring the deep stretch. Then, with a soft sigh, she cupped her breast again, guiding his mouth back to her.

Greg latched hungrily, lips closing around her nipple as he suckled, desperate and worshipful. His tongue flicked over the tender bud before drawing it deep into his mouth, switching back and forth between her breasts as if he couldn’t bear to leave either neglected.

Her hand threaded through his hair, holding him close, urging him on. Pleasure coiled low in her belly as she moved on him, rising and sinking slowly, grinding herself against the base of his cock while he suckled at her.

Her core throbbed with each pull of his mouth, each needy thrust of his hips meeting hers. “That’s it… suck harder,” she whispered against his temple, her voice breaking as her body shuddered with the rhythm.

His body trembled under her, every muscle strung tight. At first he let her guide the rhythm, her hips rolling down to take him deep, her breasts in his mouth as he suckled like a starving man. But then something inside him snapped.

Greg’s hands tightened on her waist, then slid up to grip her shoulders. His eyes—dark, hungry, desperate—lifted to meet hers. “I can’t… I can’t let you have all the control, Pen. I can't let you think that I'm still a young lad. I am a man now.” he ground out, voice rougher than she’d ever heard it.

Before she could answer, he surged up and over, flipping her onto her back against the settee cushions, careful enough not to jostle her too much but firm enough that it made her gasp in surprise. She laughed in surprised delight, skirts bunched high around her hips, hair tumbling wildly. He drove into her in one fierce thrust, so deep she cried out, clutching at his back.

“Oh God—Greg—”

He braced himself above her, one hand pressing into the cushion by her head, the other sliding down to hold her thigh open wide for him. His hips snapped forward, hard and fast, his cock slamming into her wet heat with a ferocity she had never felt from him before. The boy she’d teased, guided, let suckle at her breasts—he was gone.

Now, he was a man.

She arched beneath him, each thrust forcing a broken moan from her lips. “Yes—yes, like that—” Her voice was high, ragged, lost in the storm of his hunger.

He bent, catching her mouth in a rough kiss, his teeth clashing with hers, his tongue desperate. “You make me mad, Pen,” he panted against her lips, never slowing his pounding rhythm. “I’ve thought of this every night—thought of you carrying my child—I am not a lad anymore, I am a man… I could give you what any of them can.”

Her nails raked down his back, urging him harder. “Take me then, hard and fast—show me—show me you’re not a lad anymore.”

His answer came in the brutal snap of his hips, in the guttural sound he made as he drove into her again and again, until she was shaking beneath him, until she felt split wide open and completely his.

Her body fluttered around him, overwhelmed, and she thought through the haze of pleasure—yes, now he’s a man, and he’s taking me exactly the way I crave.

Her body writhed beneath him, every nerve ending aflame as Greg pounded into her. His rhythm was wild, unrestrained, the settee creaking under the force of it. Her thighs trembled, spread wide around his hips as she clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

The sharpness of his thrusts tipped her over—she broke apart beneath him, messy and uncontrollable. Her back arched high, breasts brushing his chest, her cunt clenching down hard around him. She cried his name, voice fractured, and her body milked him greedily, pulling him deeper with every wave of release.

Greg gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, and drove into her with desperate force until the tight spasms dragged his own climax from him. With a guttural groan, he spilled inside her, hot and deep, hips jerking as though he couldn’t stop himself.

When he collapsed over her, chest heaving, his mouth pressed to her ear. “The next baby,” he panted, possessive, raw, “will be mine, Pen. I swear it.”

She was still shaking, still fluttering around his cock, and she let out a breathless giggle, kissing the side of his damp face. “Oh, Gregory… I’d rather not know whose baby I’m carrying. It’s for the best.”

His head lifted, eyes fierce, but her gentle smile softened the sting of her words. He kissed her hard again, tasting her laughter, tasting her surrender, even as his hips rolled one last time inside her, unwilling to let her go.

“You need to understand,” she said softly, tilting her head in that familiar, thoughtful way, “things are… different around here.” Her lips curved in a small, almost wistful smile. “Edmund, Anthony, Benedict, Colin—each of them love me, in their way. It is no longer a secret that I love them all too, including you. We are happy together, because we share. We are bound together because there is no place for jealousy.”

Gregory’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I thought… I thought Father was the only one you really liked—”

She cut him off with a gentle shake of her head. “No. He was the first I gave myself to, yes. But now, I love them all. Even Benedict lies beside me at night. When my body wasn’t carrying, they were relentless, taking me together, all at once, and I adored it. All those hands on me, all those mouths…I felt like the center of their universe. I felt cherished, even when they overwhelmed me. Do you understand?”

His jaw tightened, but she saw the flicker of hunger in his eyes, the possessiveness he tried to disguise. “And you want me in this too?”

Penelope leaned closer, her breath warm on his cheek. “Only if you can sustain this. I want you, Gregory. I have always liked you, in some way or the other, and I did cry a lot when you went away to Oxford. But you must decide—can you share me with them? When my pregnancy advances, they’re gentler with me, but when I’m not… it is everything, all at once. And I need to know you could bear that.”

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Gregory stared at her, torn between the desire blazing in him and the bitter taste of jealousy rising in his chest.

But he had shared her with Colin before hadn't he? And he had enjoyed the sensation, if he were being honest.

Finally, his voice came low, roughened. “I am not sure I'd want to share you with all of them like that, Pen. But God help me—I’d rather have a part of you than none of you at all.”

Her smile was soft, tinged with mischief and something like relief. She cupped his cheek, thumb stroking his skin. “Then that is enough for me. The rest… we’ll teach you.”

Gregory stared at her for a minute, then pressed a deep kiss on her mouth.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, trailing kisses across her temple and cheek. “Completely… perfect.” he remained nestled against her, his chest warm against hers, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing. She nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the crown of her head, letting his hands roam across her sides, her hips, her back. Each kiss, each caress, was unhurried—an affirmation, a wordless conversation of closeness.

Their legs tangled together, her thigh draped over his, his arm looped around her waist, drawing her impossibly close. She tilted her head, brushing her lips along his jaw, and he responded with a soft exhale against her skin, fingertips tracing the lines of her shoulders and arms.

They whispered nothing, needed nothing, save the touch of each other’s bodies. Her fingers threaded through his hair, his hand kneading her hipbone, caressing her rounding belly, the slow rhythm of their closeness gradually slowing, softening, melting into comfort. The tension that had coiled through them—the anticipation, the desire, the thrill of surrender—relaxed, leaving only the calm, lingering pleasure of being together.

Eventually, as she expressed that she could feel her eyelids droop, he helped her to her chamber. Once she was in her bed, Gregory promptly undressed himself and slid beside her, holding her soft, pliant body still covered by her thin muslin nursing gown. He pressed a last, lingering kiss to her temple, tucking her closer as sleep began to pull at them both. Her hand rested against his chest, his arm still securely around her, and they drifted into a quiet, heavy slumber—entwined, content, and utterly connected.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled through the tall windows of Penelope’s chamber as she stirred beneath the covers, only to find herself alone in her bed. She smiled to herself, the memory of the night before lingering like a soft, secret warmth. Gregory had really been transformed by Oxford, more mature, sturdier, firmer. Not at all the soft boy who had left her, but a man who knew what he wanted and took it unapologetically. Penelope sighed, and got up to get ready for the day ahead.

The house was alive with anticipation for Christmas Eve. Hyacinth darted from room to room, arranging plates of pastries, delicate cakes, and steaming bowls of broth while giggling at her own meticulous decorations. The scent of roasting meats and spiced cakes mingled in the air, filling every corner of the household with the unmistakable comfort of the season.

Annie, the bright-blue eyed little bundle on Penelope’s hip, cooed excitedly at the glittering ornaments, her tiny hands reaching for baubles that sparkled in the morning sun. Penelope laughed softly, adjusting the baby in her arms, while Anthony leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Annie’s temple. 

Just then Gregory entered the room. His eyes lingered on Penelope, still warm and sleepy-eyed, and she caught his gaze with a teasing smile, brushing a stray curl from her face.

The day passed in a blur of joy. Games arranged by Hyacinth for her niece were simple things like pinning the star on the tree and tossing wrapped presents into stockings. They kept Annie enthralled, her laughter ringing like little bells. Penelope joined in when she could, Colin and Benedict at her side, guiding her gently, sharing quiet looks and small touches, not very obvious, but it kept building as the time went on.

Food was laid out in abundance: roasted meats, honey-glazed vegetables, rich puddings, and warm bread. The family gathered around the table, plates piled high, and the house echoed with chatter and laughter. Edmund played along with Annie’s games, his eyes occasionally finding Penelope’s with a warmth that made her heart swell. She watched as the little one squealed in delight, wrapped in blankets, safe in the midst of such love.

Throughout it all, Gregory stayed near, sharing whispered jokes with her, passing her sips of mulled wine when Hyacinth wasn’t looking, and brushing her hand under the table in a secret, intimate acknowledgment of last night’s closeness. Even as the day unfolded with festivities, the quiet thrill of their connection lingered. Making her quietly aware of how much he desired her.

As the evening drew near and the candles were lit for a quiet Christmas Eve service at the estate, Penelope found herself sitting back, Annie asleep against her chest, watching the family gather. Laughter and chatter surrounded them, the warmth of the season wrapping everyone in comfort. And amidst it all, there was this joyful feeling bubbling inside her heart, that these men, these infuriatingly greedy Bridgerton men, were all in love with her. Her! The insipid wallflower! The girl who was made to go on shelf before anyone could take notice of her dressed in her citrus colored monstrosities. Penelope Bridgerton nee Featherington was now Lady of the Bridgerton house, commanding not only the household but the hearts of the men residing in it.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of festivities, and soon Penelope kissed Annie’s forehead as her nursemaid took her to the library. A few minutes later, Hyacinth too was sent to her chamber to sleep, as Edmund stated she probably snuck in more wine than she was allowed to.

Afterwards, the men and Penelope commenced to the library which smelled of mulled brandy, smoke, and the faint spice of cloves. Penelope took a seat curled on a velvet settee, and Colin rushed to claim a seat beside her, much to his younger brother’s dismay. Grumbling, he plopped down between Anthony and Benedict on another settee as Edmund himself sat in his high backed armchair behind his desk. She let the men have their drink, their laughter rising louder with every glass. Anthony told a bawdy story from Eton that made Benedict howl, while Colin smirked behind his tumbler as he put his head in her lap. Edmund rolled his eyes at Anthony’s story as though he hadn’t done the very same. Gregory, younger but keen to prove himself, downed his measure far too quickly and winced at the burn.

“You’ll learn to sip slowly, Greg,” Anthony teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder.

“Or you’ll learn to pour me another,” Gregory shot back with a grin, earning a ripple of amusement around the room.

Penelope only smiled, nursing her own glass of lemonade without drinking it. 

“Why aren't you not drinking your lemonade, love?”

“Penny looks like she wants to drink something else,” Benedict drawled, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, I know what you want me to drink,” she said lightly, swirling her untouched drink. “And I know when I start, if I start at all, you all will be begging for more. The drink helps loosen inhibitions, doesn’t it, Gregory?” she asked looking directly at the youngest Bridgerton.

That made Colin laugh, a low, husky sound, as he held her hand and brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

Gregory shifted in his seat, adjusting himself, emboldened, and finally said it aloud: “Then why don’t you tell us what you want to drink, Pen?”

Her lips curved. She set down her glass, the silk of her skirts whispering as she bent and kissed Colin’s mouth. They kissed for a while, tasting the insides of each others mouth, their tongues brushing with each other. But then penelope parted from the kiss and asked Colin, “Who shall I choose next, now that I’m drunk on your lips?” 

The room seemed to hold its breath. 

Colin looked at her with a burning intensity, one that made her quim wetter, as she saw the the promise of what was to come later in his eyes. Then he whispered in her ear, “Father.”

She stepped first to Edmund, fingers tracing his jaw, as she settled in his lap before kissing him full on the mouth, slow, deep, as though tasting the brandy clinging to his tongue. The others stirred restlessly, laughter turning to hunger now.

“Benedict, come here.” Edmund said, when Penelope asked him who was to be next. “Play with her breasts as she takes me in her pretty mouth.

Benedict immediately rushed to kneel beside her, his hands cupping her breasts, tweaking and pinching her nipples, until they pebbled as she sank to her knees before edmund, her lips closing around his member as he groaned and braced his hands against the chair. She felt benedict moving closer, rubbing his clothed erection on her backside.

Anthony too, knelt on her other side, hands were already in her skirts, his mouth hot and wet on her neck. He fucked her quim slowly with two, then three of her fingers until she was moaning around his father’s cock and shattering around his fingers. He brought his fingers to his lips, his mouth tasting her juice, his eyes dark. “You taste like Christmas tonight, dear wife,” he murmured, voice rough with hunger.

That made Benedict laugh breathlessly, now hard in his hand as he seemed to have pulled his length out of his trousers. “Then pass her around, brother, don’t keep her to yourself.”

Penelope kept sucking Edmund, until she came in her mouth, shooting thick ropes of come down her throat. “You’re going to drink us all,” he pulled himself out from her mouth once he was completely spent, “and I don’t think any of us will stop you.”

She roused from her kneeling position, catching his mouth with hers, slow and sweet, her tongue tracing the taste of aged brandy from his lips as his tasted his own come on her lips. 

Penelope gasped into Edmund’s kiss, one hand fisting in Anthony’s shirt, the other tangled in Benedict’s hair where he suckled her breast with near-desperate hunger. He had been teasing, licking, drawing soft sounds from Penelope’s throat.

Finally, Colin spoke up, chest heaving. “I can’t— not just sit here watching.” His breeches were already undone, his cock flushed and dripping, and he walked behind her and guided her back to the settee, her back pressed to his chest. Then he rucked up her skirt, and pulled her on his lap, on his cock, until it was firmly lodged inside her quim.

Gregory, emboldened, pulled free as well, his breath harsh as he smeared himself against her round belly first. “God, Pen… I need you.”

Anthony laughed, hoarse and unsteady. “Then take her, brother. She’s not made of glass.” He rose and caught Penelope’s chin, forcing her to look up at him as he stroked his own cock. “Show him how sweetly you can suck, as your cunt is being pounded from behind.”

Penelope nodded. “Colin,” she breathed out his name and Colin picked her up without dislodging himself from her, and set her on all fours on the rug, before he started moving inside her cunt again. When gregory presented his cock to her hungry mouth, she obeyed, lips closing over him, tongue swirling. Gregory groaned, head falling back, while Anthony kept playing with her breasts.

Soon Colin was rubbing her clit relentlessly and Penelope cried out, muffled around Greg’s cock, her nails digging into his thighs as Colin filled her quim with his seed. At the same time Greg too came in her mouth, unable to sustain the vibrations her moans were creating around his cock.

Benedict was not patient either; he rushed beside them, guiding himself to her mouth once Gregory slipped free, sliding in where she gasped for air. Anthony pressed at her cunt, once colin’s softened length slipped out of her.

Penelope was the centre of it — taken, filled, adored, pulled in every direction at once. Every thrust drove her higher, the taste of Benedict on her tongue, the fullness of Anthony stretching her. Her muffled scream when she came once again tore through them, dragging the men with her, each spilling in turn.

The first storm had left them sprawled in a tangle of limbs before the fire, the scent of sex and spilled brandy thick in the library air. But then Edmund shifted, still hard, still restless, and muttered hoarsely,

“I’m not finished with her. Not nearly.”

That was all it took. The others stirred, cocks swelling again, eyes drawn back to the flushed, marked beauty in their midst. Edmund caught her by the waist and rolled her onto all fours before she could protest, spreading her wide and slid into her from behind with a grunt, already fucking hard and fast.

Penelope moaned, but her mouth was filled almost instantly, once again, Colin pressing forward, guiding her lips around him. “Take me, my love,” he whispered, his hand tightening in her hair.

She obeyed, hollowing her cheeks, sucking him deep, even as Edmund drove into her with brutal force. Her body trembled, but then Anthony crowded in beside them, groaning low. “I can’t wait. She can take more.”

Edmund growled his agreement, shifting below her body, and again pressing into her quim to allow Anthony to press into her other hole, filling her again to the brim. Penelope gasped around Colin, stretched wide, every nerve alight as the father and sons fucked her in tandem.

Gregory, desperate, pushed closer. He stroked himself furiously until Penelope reached for him with one slick hand, pulling him to her breast instead. He latched onto her nipple greedily, teeth scraping, groaning like a man starved.

And still she pleased them, lips and tongue worshipping Colin, until he spilled down her throat. She swallowed, then turned her mouth to Benedict, stroking him until he slid between her lips as well. One by one she sucked them both, alternating between Colin and Benedict, coaxing moans and curses, while Anthony and Edmund used her body with rough abandon. Gregory, whose cock she was stroking, twitched into her hands, signaling he was close too, and she tapped on Benedict’s thigh, whose cock she was currently bobbing on. Benedict reluctantly pulled out, making space for Gregory, as she took him in her mouth.

Edmund lay on his back for a moment, watching the chaos he had unleashed. His sons rutting into her arse, his mouth as he rutted into her cunt, his darling girl taking them all, as one of her hand too was wrapped around Colin’s cock, stroking him to completion, as Benedict finished on her left breast and shoulder. His balls tightened, he sensed he was near and about to spill into her quim, when Anthony finally shuddered, pulling free to spill across her arse, Edmund seized her hips at that moment and drove into her himself, claiming the warmth of her cunt for himself.

She screamed, her body already wrung out but still clenching around him, milking him as he fucked her harder than before. He bent to bite her shoulder that wasn’t cum marked, leaving his teeth mark, while Gregory slipped out of her mouth and spilled messily over her breasts and belly, as she cried out Edmund’s name.

The night progressed like this. They took a few breaks, then passed her between them like that, rougher sometimes, sometimes gentle, each taking his turn inside her quim, her mouth, between her breasts, licking her cunt, while she licked and sucked the others, until she could no longer tell whose seed leaked from her mouth and whose was trickling down her thigh, only that she was utterly consumed, completely theirs and totally drunk on their cum.

When at last they collapsed around her, drunk and sated, she lay trembling, her body raw and filled, but her lips curled in a smile. This was her power, her delight: to be loved, worshipped, used by them all.