Chapter Text
Colin Bridgerton was, paradoxically, both an impatient and a patient man. He was known to speak his mind, particularly when it came to matters of the heart—often in the most chaotic and impassioned manner. Yet he was not without self-awareness. From the earliest days of their marriage, he had acknowledged his many shortcomings, and after the momentous reveal of Lady Whistledown's true identity—followed by that heartfelt conversation with Penelope at the Flinch-Dankworth Ball—he had resolved to amend every foolish word and action he had once inflicted upon her.
Never again would he be the cause of her sorrow. He had made a solemn vow: that the only tears she would henceforth shed would be those born of happiness, and that he would stand steadfastly by her side, shielding her from every cruel whisper and lurking shadow.
And so now, as he gazed upon her—barely veiled by the tangled sheets, her skin aglow with the morning light, a vision of contentment and intimacy left in the wake of last night’s shared tenderness—Colin could not help but murmur under his breath, “Oh, Colin Bridgerton, you lucky bastard.” A boyish grin curved his lips.
He remembered his plan to surprise her that morning. Moving with great care so as not to wake her, he slipped from the bed, dressed with quiet efficiency, and before departing the room, leaned over to kiss her cheek and whisper, “I love you, Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton.”
He had gone to great lengths to arrange a grand breakfast—having spoken to the cook in advance to ensure all of Penelope’s favorite dishes would be prepared—but he wished to personally oversee the final presentation. However, as he stepped into their drawing room, he was stopped dead in his tracks.
Flowers. An abundance of them. Bouquets upon bouquets filled every available surface, and even more were being carried in by bewildered footmen.
“Rae! Please, I need you here,” Colin called sharply, eyes scanning the room in disbelief.
“Mr. Bridgerton, I—I do apologise,” Rae stammered as she approached.
“May I know why, precisely, our drawing room now resembles Covent Garden?” Colin asked, arching a brow.
“Yes, well… they are for my lady, Mrs. Bridgerton,” Rae replied, carefully.
“For Penelope?” Colin repeated. “Are they from family?”
“No, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said with a hesitant glance. “They are from… callers. Each bouquet bears a card, should you wish to inspect the names. There are also boxes of chocolates… and a few pieces of jewelry.”
“They what?” Colin's voice rose. “Are they unaware that my wife is, in fact, my wife? Surely they are not all living under rocks?”
“I believe they know quite well,” Rae said delicately, “but they cannot seem to help themselves. Her charms, sir, are not easily ignored.”
Colin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, God. Thank you, Rae. Kindly ensure no further deliveries are allowed through the door. I’d prefer not to drown in a sea of unsolicited affection.”
“Very good, Mr. Bridgerton. Also,” she added, holding out a folded letter, “a missive arrived—one from your mother, and another from the Viscount.”
Colin unfolded the first letter with idle curiosity, only to find his expression darkening with each word he read. By the time he reached the final line, his jaw was clenched and his brow furrowed in barely restrained fury.
Dearest Colin,
Apologies for the sudden missive. It is just that it has now been a week since Penelope revealed herself to be Lady Whistledown, and since then, the gentlemen of the ton have not ceased in their relentless admiration. They have taken to sending flowers—by the dozen—to our house, under the mistaken assumption that the two of you are staying with us. The butlers and footmen are quite exhausted from turning away callers every day. Some even shout Penelope’s name from the street in hopes of glimpsing her. One particularly persistent gentleman stood outside this morning and began reciting poetry, much to the amusement of Hyacinth and the dismay of your brother.
I have always known how lovely your wife is—from the very first day I met her—but I daresay this attention is getting rather out of hand. I do hope you both are well and happy.
Sincerely,
Your mother
Colin blinked at the letter, then read it again, as though his eyes had betrayed him the first time.
“What the devil are these gentlemen thinking?” he muttered, his voice a growl. “Standing outside like troubadours? Shouting? Poetry?”
He tore open the second letter, one penned in the familiar, infuriatingly amused hand of his eldest brother.
Dear Brother,
Firstly, allow me to say how pleased I am that all is now well between you and your wife. While I am still recovering from the shock of discovering that Penelope is Lady Whistledown, I am also immensely proud. She is a remarkable woman—Kate would say so too—and it appears we are not alone in that sentiment.
Since her reveal, an extraordinary number of floral arrangements, boxes of confections, and even a few pieces of rather expensive-looking jewelry have arrived at our home, all addressed to your dear wife. In fact, I daresay she has received more tokens of admiration than Daphne did during her debut season.
Just yesterday, a bouquet so large it required two footmen to carry it arrived at our doorstep. Kate laughed so hard I thought she might cry. I, however, thought of you—and I imagine you are currently seething with jealousy. Should you wish to mount a campaign against these so-called admirers, do not hesitate to call upon me. I shall gladly assist in scaring off half the bachelors in London.
Yours sincerely,
Anthony
Colin stared at the page, utterly aghast. He could hear Anthony's smug voice in every line, especially the part about him "seething with jealousy"—an observation that was, unfortunately, entirely accurate.
He tossed the letter onto the table and ran a hand through his hair. “This is madness. Absolutely—bloody—madness.”
The very idea that men were lining up, sending poems, and quite literally fighting to get a glimpse of his wife had him seeing red. Yes, he had always known she was brilliant, beautiful, and wholly captivating—but that knowledge had been his to cherish. He had not anticipated having to fight off half the eligible men in the city after putting a ring on her finger.
And Penelope… she was still sleeping, blissfully unaware of the war being waged in flower petals and rhymed verse outside their home.
One by one, Colin began to pluck the cards nestled among the many bouquets, his eyes narrowing with each name he read. A viscount. A marquess. A duke, for heaven’s sake. And no fewer than three barons. His blood began to simmer.
Not only were these men sending tokens of admiration to his wife—but they were paying extra for them to be delivered all the way to Bloomsbury. The sheer audacity of it sent him perilously close to the edge. With a most ungraceful sound of exasperation, he stomped his foot upon the carpet like a sulky child denied his sweets.
What he failed to notice, in his spiral of jealousy, was the presence of his wife—now very much awake and standing against the door, her hair tousled from slumber and her brow quirked in amusement.
“Is everything quite all right?” she asked, suppressing a yawn. “Why are there so many flowers? Are we to host an event?”
“No,” Colin said tersely. “They are—from your callers.”
“Callers?” Penelope repeated, her tone suddenly alert. “As in callers?”
“Yes. And you should read the letters sent by my mother and Anthony. It appears your admirers are attempting to see you at the Bridgerton house as well.”
Penelope walked closer to him and took the letters from his hand, reading them with growing amusement. A moment later, a laugh—clear and melodic—escaped her lips.
Colin turned to her, eyes narrowed. “Truly, you are laughing at this, Mrs. Bridgerton?”
“It is just—well,” she began, still chuckling. “I had expected a rather different outcome after the reveal. I thought I should be cast out of society.”
“Well, it is quite the opposite,” Colin grumbled, crossing his arms in a most displeased fashion.
Penelope tilted her head, eyes dancing. “Wait… Colin, are you jealous?”
“I am,” he said with the utmost seriousness. “I am so jealous. What if—what if this changes your mind? What if you leave me for one of them?”
“Oh, Colin,” she said, stepping closer to place a gentle hand upon his chest. “No one—no one—could ever change my mind. I was born to be yours. Only yours.”
“Only mine?” he repeated, eyes softening.
“Yours,” she whispered again.
“Good,” Colin said, tightening his hold around her waist. “It is time these people learn that you are well and truly mine.”
Later that day, Penelope stepped outside only to find a large piece of cardboard propped against the front gate. Painted across it, in bold letters, was the declaration:
“PENELOPE BRIDGERTON IS MINE. THOSE WHO WISH TO TRY SHALL BE MET WITH A PISTOL AT DAWN.”
She merely shook her head and walked past it with the same graceful dignity with which she endured society’s every whim—though the smile tugging at her lips suggested she was not entirely displeased.