Chapter Text
The day was rather gloomy, much like his mood. He chanced another stormy glance across the study, gazing through the window there. The rain fell hard against the window panes, as another strong beat and vibration of thunder rolled throughout Aubrey Hall. The skies were dark, not as night would be, but a heavy cast of grey ran along the skies, with weighty dark clouds to frame it and the occasional glow of lightning running alongside it. Anthony had resigned to his study almost two hours ago, under the guise of polishing up finances and necessary book balancing. He had left his little redhead wife to her own devices in the library, although if he had to make a guess, there was a high probability Penelope was lettering the latest issue of Lady Whistledown. He bristled at the mere thought.
In front of him, scattered across the large mahogany desk in his study, were all the issues of Whistledown he could find. He had been studying them for hours, trying desperately to sort his thoughts before confronting his wife about her infamous pseudonym. Anthony was at odds with himself. They had been doing so well. At the beginning of this marriage, he had challenged himself to be the husband Penelope deserved, even though he knew he was a bastard, undeserving of her love. He had felt enormously weighted by the fact that he had trapped her in a marriage with him, feeling it was his fault. He had promised her friendship and companionship, as well as a life of comfort and security. And as they went forward, their relationship grew more and more, and somehow, she had snuck into his heart – his darling wallflower – and torn down every single wall he had spent years building around his heart. The very wall he had mistakenly let down for Kate and Sienna, but was left heartbroken for that decision. She knew how he felt – surely, she knew. He was starting to feel something for her, something that made his insides weak and warm at the very thought of her and them together. Anthony refused to call it love. But still, she had to have known or felt a slight inkling of how he felt for her, so why on God’s earth would she keep something of this magnitude from him? It was possible that maybe she did not feel the same.
Another heavy roll of thunder sounded.
His head was starting to throb. Getting up from behind his desk, Anthony made his way to the tray of liquor near the window and poured himself a drink. His cravat had been discarded a long time ago, as well as his jacket, both carelessly thrown over one of the leatherette chairs before his desk.
He had no idea what to do. Here on his desk lay a mighty portion of evidence against her. And now that he knew it was her and reread every last one of the damn columns, no one could convince Anthony that this wasn't Penelope Bridgerton née Featherington. Not a soul.
He threw the helping of whiskey he had poured into one of the crystal glasses, back - down his throat. A bit of liquid courage wouldn't hurt anyone. And it was then he decided he would confront her.
Now.
_____________________________________________________
Just as it would be on an evening during the fall season, Penelope was found sat by the window. He stopped for a moment and watched her. He knew she hadn’t heard him come in, or knock. Pen was in her own little world these days, and now he knew the reason why. She wasn’t dressed for outside company. A dark green house dress slunk across her figure, accentuating the wonder of her silhouette. Her hair was let down, running a wavy river down the length of her back. Anthony wondered how it was that Penelope had the gift to stare out into space and seemingly forget where she was. Possibly daydreaming about things, her favorite authors often wrote about.
A small smile broke its way through the frown set upon his lips at the very thought. That at least helped to soften him a bit. Well, that was before he remembered why exactly he was up here staring at her in the first place.
And with that thought, the familiar frown once again claimed its position.
"Pen?"
His eyes caught the slight tremble that ran through her at the sudden disturbance. Fright, he thought.
"Anthony?" His eyes met hers as she looked up towards the doorway of the library, and he could tell the beginning of a smile making its way to Penelope's face. A regular occurrence. It spoke volumes to how familiar they'd gotten. But, upon seeing the solemn look on her husband's face - it dropped rather quickly.
"We need to talk."
_____________________________________________________
“Do you have any idea the kind of persecution you would be under had the Queen known you were Whistledown?! For Christ’s sake Penelope! You would have been hung for treason.”
“Oh, Anthony. Let’s not get out of wits about this—”
“Out of wits? Out of wits?! You seem to be the one out of the both of us, seemingly out of wits about this ENTIRE ISSUE—”
Suddenly, a burst of light flashed through the room with a loud clap of thunder following quickly behind. The great roll of thunder was frightening enough to shake the two of them from the volume argument had escalated to. Penelope jumping slightly.
Anthony took a deep breath, calming himself. Fuck, he needed another drink.
“Penelope, can you at the very least try to comprehend why I’m so out of sorts about this? If something had happened to you — if something happens to you—”
“I do Anthony! Don’t you dare think for one second, I never took all of that under consideration. Every time I put out another issue at the prints, or heard about the Queen’s anger — for heaven’s sake, what about every time I wrote about you or the family? Or even my family? Even myself? You think I haven’t debated the issue, Anthony?!”
“Well if you debated the issue as you so claim you have – why do you insist on testing the fates so?!” He finds himself shouting again, chest heaving in a slight pant.
“Why does it even matter to you, Anthony?” Penelope gets out, frustrated. Her chest is heaving now too, face and neck flushing pink. “You should be happy if anything!”
“Happy? Happy?! Why on earth would I be happy about you finding yourself in harm’s way, Pen? You are my wife!”
“Yes! Yes, I know.” She’s shouting now, still frustrated but now even more so. “But we both know – no, everyone in the entire ton knows you never wanted to marry me Anthony – if you had it your way, you’d be in India right now, at this very moment, wrapped and entangled oh so gloriously with Miss Sharma, and I am not talking about Edwina.”
The dumbfounded expression that immediately captured his face was satisfaction enough. Pen felt almost powerful by her ability to confound the Viscount. She also felt her countenance prick with annoyance at the mere fact he thought her ignorant. Or perhaps he had truly forgotten in the heat of the moment that she was the Lady Whistledown.
“Oh yes, did you think me simple? Ignorant?” The words start bubbling out of her like boiling water from a cauldron. She can feel herself getting emotional from the climax of it all. Years of pent-up feelings finally flowing out. “Poor little Pen, too naïve and too young to be confounded by such complicated matters of the heart – especially as England’s well renowned wallflower!”
He feels the wind fly out of him. Astounded and baffled by the tiny, albeit aggravated red-head before him. The words spewing from her mouth about herself with such vitriol, pure disdain.
It made him want to throttle her.