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Simon had only just arrived at Lady Danbury's ball and he was already exhausted by the ambitious mamas and their equally ambitious daughters. Regret was too light a word for what he felt about having promised his godmother that he would attend her festivities.
With every step and every glance, he was reminded why he enjoyed travelling so much. He searched the room for a familiar face, preferably a gentleman bearing the name Bridgerton or Fife, acquaintances from his days at Eton and later Oxford, though he had never troubled himself to finish his studies. For better or for worse, he had been born a duke, and it did not get any better than that—unless, perhaps, he had been born at St. James's Palace.
It was taking far too long to locate one of his old friends, and he could already sense the curious ladies beginning to close in on him. He needed an escape, one that did not involve actually leaving the ballroom.
Across the room, he noticed a young lady standing entirely alone, seemingly uninterested in him or in the commotion surrounding his arrival. It was quite refreshing.
Where she stood, unbothered, seemed like a good hiding place in plain sight. Precisely what he was looking for.
Unfortunately, as soon as he approached her, he was barricaded by three tall women with vivid red hair and even more vivid gowns.
“Your Grace, I did not see you there. But since we have run into each other, let me introduce you to my daughters.” The older woman motioned to the two tall ladies who had arrived with her and, to his surprise, pointed to the one he had first noticed standing alone.
“Are they not lovely?” the lady continued. “My pride and joy. And so even-tempered. Well, except that one.” She tilted her head toward the shorter of the three.
Simon had the queasy feeling that he had heard a dog receive better commentary.
“May I present Prudence, Philippa, and Penelope. And I am Lady Portia Featherington, of course.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed lightly, his tone carefully bored.
The three girls curtsied, and only one dared to meet his eyes. Her gaze was apologetic, as though she already knew the absurdities that were about to come out of her mother’s mouth.
“Prudence is quite accomplished on the pianoforte, and my darling Philippa is an expert watercolorist,” Lady Featherington said proudly.
Given the expressions on Prudence and Philippa’s faces, he had a feeling they would not be participating in a musicale or art exhibition any time soon.
“And Penelope?” Simon asked, glancing between mother and daughter.
Lady Featherington shot a panicked look at her youngest daughter, who looked even more miserable than she had when she was alone. He could not blame her.
She was not terribly attractive, and her figure was certainly not improved by her mother’s choice of attire. He did not know her, but somehow he knew she would not have chosen it herself.
But she had kind eyes.
And he was not accustomed to being looked at in a way that did not contain either calculation or some second intention.
“Penelope?” Lady Featherington almost huffed. “Penelope is a… well, Penelope!”
Penelope looked as though she wanted nothing more than to disappear behind the nearest curtain.
Simon decided that if he was to fulfill his godmother’s wish and dance at her ball, he would ask Penelope.
“Lady Featherington, are you pestering the duke?”
A sharp voice came from behind them, unmistakably belonging to Lady Danbury.
Although Simon could not agree more with the accusation, the mortified look on Penelope’s face made his decision for him.
“Of course not.” He turned toward Lady Danbury, then back to Penelope. “I came to ask Miss Penelope to dance.”
—
One may say modesty is a virtue, yet this author has never claimed to be a virtuous woman.
It is therefore my great pleasure to announce what others may question, but I never doubted: the Duke of Hastings has found his match among the wallflowers rather than the diamonds.
Lady Featherington is positively giddy with anticipation of the impending nuptials of her youngest daughter, an event that will apparently take place sooner rather than later.
Of course, there are only two reasons for a special licence and a race to the altar: true love or the desperate concealment of a scandal.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS
—
Simon left London before the sun came up.
He wanted to run as far away as possible and never look back, but unfortunately, he still had plenty of affairs to tend to following his father’s death. He decided he could manage them from Clyvedon. He could employ solicitors, send letters, delegate whatever was necessary.
Anything that meant he would never have to set foot in the capital during the social season again.
He was angry and he poured every ounce of his frustration into the ride, urging his poor stallion onward until the horse was almost as displeased with him as he was with the world.
He did not have time to secure a carriage or gather his personal belongings. The moment he read the pamphlet delivered to his door that morning, he knew he needed to leave.
He should have known Portia Featherington would attempt to take advantage of him. And he had given her the perfect ammunition when he asked Penelope to dance.
What he could not have anticipated was how quickly Portia would act, or that she would have some connection to Lady Whistledown.
He could only assume she had fed the woman the information herself. She was too daft to be the scrivener herself, though now he was questioning everything. Perhaps the extravagant demeanor and even more extravagant dresses were nothing more than a façade.
So he burned the damned pamphlet, and decided to run and hide. After all, it was how he had solved—or, more accurately, ignored—every single problem or inconvenience in his life.
It seemed considerably easier than recruiting the favor of his godmother and the Queen to repair his name and reputation, or launching a witch hunt for the author of the blasted pamphlet for reparations.
He preferred to leave. He never wanted to be there in the first place, and this ordeal had just proven his point.
Simon believed in the principle that those who were not seen were easily forgotten. The Ton would talk for a few days, certainly, but eventually they would find another subject. The Featheringtons would be left to explain how their daughter had been abandoned by her supposed betrothed, and Penelope…
Well, it did not matter.
She was not his problem.
He had business to take care of and no time for scandals. What was supposed to have been an unsuspecting evening had now spoiled his life, and there was only one way out.
He groaned and tapped his foot against the horse's flank, urging it to run faster, as if it could somehow make him forget it all had ever happened.
But, for reasons he could not yet explain, dancing with Penelope was the one memory he could not seem to outrun.
—
Simon woke up with his head pounding.
He could not remember whether he had made it all the way home or stopped at an inn along the way. The bed beneath him felt both familiar and strange at the same time.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was alone, though he could not quite make out the room. Judging by its size, however, he suspected he was at Clyvedon.
With a grunt, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, then made his way towards the window. It did not strike him as odd that he was not wearing any clothes. It was how he typically slept.
Outside, it was still dark. The moon offered little light, barely enough to illuminate the world below.
The more awake he became, however, the more certain he was of where he was.
The intricate window frame. The wooden floorboards that creaked in familiar places. The faint outline of the courtyard beyond the glass.
He felt entirely convinced he was in his bedchambers until he heard a soft voice behind him.
“Simon? Is that you?”
He did not turn around immediately.
He remained facing the forward, his mind slowly trying to make sense of what he had just heard.
He was standing completely naked in front of the window, and the woman behind him had not so much as flinched. There was no gasp, no startled exclamation, not even the slightest hesitation in her voice.
She sounded entirely at ease with his state of undress, and there were several problems with that.
First, he had travelled alone.
Second, he certainly did not have any acquaintances in his ancestral home, much less one who would casually walk into his bedchamber in the middle of the night without announcing herself.
Third, and the most inconvenient of all, it appeared that the mere sound of this woman's voice was enough to cause his body to react.
He looked down at his growing problem and took a deep breath.
Simon slowly turned around and found a woman standing near the bedframe, holding a plate with a lit candle. She was dressed in a pale nightgown, her hair braided and gathered over one shoulder.
“Penelope?” He murmured.
He stared at her as she looked back at him with the mildest expression of confusion.
“What are you doing here? How did you get here before me?” He asked, grinding his teeth.
He did not know how it was possible, but this had gone too far.
Not only had she and her family staged an engagement, now she was alone with him in his bedchamber while he stood wearing nothing. He looked around, expecting Lady Featherington to appear from behind a door or a plant, claiming he had compromised her daughter just as the pamphlet had announced.
His palms were beginning to sweat.
“You are asking about me?” Penelope chuckled lightly. “I thought you were not returning until two days from now.”
“Do not…” He let out a dry laugh. “Do not try to fool me. We were in London together. And I have no idea how you arrived here first, but perhaps you left right after the ball and sent the hint to the column, then hurried here to make it before me and…”
His breathing quickened and the words began to catch in his throat, his stutter threatening to resurface.
“Simon,” she said softly, placing the plate on the cabinet and reaching for him. “Breathe.”
“Do not touch me.” He stepped back, stretching one arm between them to keep his distance. “I know what you are doing. What you are trying to do.”
Penelope tilted her head slightly. “Then you know I am trying to help you.”
He scoffed. “You expect me to believe—”
“Good heavens, Simon.” She was gradually losing her patience, folding her arms as she took in the sight of him. “I see your week with the farmers was a spirited one. Has Mr. Fairbanks been plying you with his own mead again?”
He furrowed his brows and breathed heavily.
Simon was still very confused as to how she could look completely unfazed by the fact that he was standing entirely bare before her. Especially when his body seemed determined to react to the way her folded arms framed her curves, the neckline of her nightgown doing very little to disguise what lay under it.
He swallowed. And, for a brief moment, he thought again that the dress she had worn to the ball had truly been an awful choice for her.
But he was even more baffled that she knew the name of one of his tenants and about his home-brewing endeavor.
She must be truly obsessed with him to have orchestrated such an intricate plan to marry him, he thought.
Penelope walked closer, a slow smirk spreading across her face.
“Are you trying to seduce me?” She asked. “Because I must tell you, Your Grace, it is highly effective.”
“Do not put this on my account.” He shook his head and looked away. “You are trying to seduce me.”
“That I will not deny.” Penelope slid the sleeves of her nightgown down, revealing her shoulders. “It has been awfully lonely without you.”
“Penelope…”
He inhaled, his gaze fixed on her smooth skin despite himself.
“Did you know honey in honeymoon comes from honey-wine?” She walked slowly towards him. “No wonder we were gifted a month’s supply.”
His eyes widened. “A month’s supply?”
“It was very thoughtful, although you never needed any additional stimulation for your… appetite.”
“How do you…” He blinked, confused. “This is not… You cannot make me marry you.”
She stopped. For the first time since she had walked into the room, she looked more confused than he was.
“I am afraid it is too late for that, considering we have been married for years.”
Simon’s mouth opened, then closed.
He stared at her.
Married? Years?
Penelope watched him as his mind seemed to seize upon that and promptly refused to do anything else.
“Come lie down with me.” She said softly.
Simon did not move at first. She reached for his hand, and after a moment, he allowed her to lead him.
“You must be tired from your journey.”
The anger and frustration he had been carrying since leaving London slowly began to ebb away, replaced by comfort.
He laid down on the bed, and when he thought nothing else could surprise him, Penelope pulled him closer, guiding his head to rest against her bosom. His body settled lazily over hers as her fingers trailed from his scalp down his back, each slow stroke relaxing something inside him.
He closed his eyes and gave in to her touch.
Perhaps this was all a dream.
Her familiarity with him, the ease with which she held him, the way his body seemed to fit perfectly against hers—it was all far too intimate to be part of some elaborate scheme.
But he still needed to make sure.
“Your mother is not here, is she?” He murmured without moving, his eyes still closed.
Penelope chuckled, the sound vibrating through her chest under his cheek. “I thought we had a rule about not talking about my mother in bed.”
He chuckled softly in return. “Mm. That is a good rule.”
“But if you must know, she is not. She is coming next month to visit.”
“That is what I thought,” he coughed, pretending none of this was new information.
If this was a vivid dream, Simon silently wished it did not include one about Lady Featherington's visit in the future.
“The children will be delighted that you are back,” Penelope said with a smile.
Simon almost lifted his head, but he was far too comfortable to move.
Children?
That did it. It had to be a dream, it was ironically the only logical explanation. Even in the odd case he were to marry one day, he would not have children. Not after everything his father did, nor after what had happened to his mother.
Not after growing up with the weight that being an heir had mattered more than the woman who had given birth to him.
“Levi is still too young to understand, but Sarah asked for you every night,” Penelope continued.
Simon blinked. His mother’s name struck him with such force that his eyes opened.
Sarah.
The strange dream began to suffocate him again. His breathing shortened, and the room seemed suddenly too warm, too small.
“Simon…” Penelope's voice was gentle.
He shifted, lifting himself onto one hand, his face hovering above hers as he tried to draw another breath.
She reached up and cupped his cheek. “I missed you too.”
He looked down at her, at her soft expression and kind eyes, and for a fleeting moment he felt that he was back in the ballroom, dancing with Penelope.
Her eyes had met his with that same warmth, but there was something more mature about them now. Something like love and admiration, that could have only grown over time.
Penelope pulled him down for a soft kiss, and he promptly deepened it, letting his fingers tangle in her fiery hair.
She responded by rolling on top of him, reclaiming control with a confidence that made him smirk against her lips. A smirk which quickly dissolved into a groan when she lowered herself and settled against him, her hands already tugging at the ties of her nightgown.
She lowered the neckline, and his breath caught in his throat at the sight of her generous bosom.
When she grabbed his hands and guided them to cup her breasts, he could do little more than stare at her, utterly captivated.
It had to be a dream.
“Si…” She said breathlessly, tilting her head back.
Penelope began to move, hips undulating unhurriedly at first, but as two of his fingers teased where she was most sensitive her pace fervidly quickened. Simon surrendered himself to the moment, letting her set the pace and giving her his full, undivided attention.
She was sculpted like a Greek goddess sent to earth to torture him into a love he could never resist, and he would gladly be shackled to her for eternity, even if it meant ending in tragedy. Whatever fate awaited him, he would take it.
She was breathtaking, and he would never have known it had he not found himself writhing beneath her at that very moment.
Whatever he had thought about her—or about this impossible marriage—seemed irrelevant now.
Simon wondered if his mind had a particularly dark sense of humor, or if, perhaps, it was trying to tell him that being happy like this was possible.
—
Simon watched Penelope sleep peacefully, smoothing the curls of her hair that had become tangled along with the sheets under them. He was almost afraid to close his eyes, terrified that he would wake and find himself back in the life he knew.
She inhaled softly and turned onto her other side. As much as he wanted to keep roaming his hands over her skin, it had begun to feel wrong.
It was beginning to feel as though this was not a dream, though he could not explain what it was.
He rose from the bed, put on a robe he found lying nearby, and reluctantly left the room, giving Penelope one last look before closing the door behind him.
He wandered through the large hallways, and before he knew it, his steps had carried him to the nursery.
Simon had not been back to Clyvedon in years, but this room in particular was one he had promised himself he would never set foot in again. The thought that his children were sleeping there brought complicated emotions, but ultimately, he needed to know if they were real.
He opened the door softly, careful not to wake them.
The young boy, Levi, was fast asleep in the crib. He could not have been more than two years old. The bed on the other side of the room was empty, though the blankets had clearly been slept in.
His eyes found a little girl standing by the window, drawing shapes in the condensation on the glass with her finger.
“Papa?” She turned toward the door and ran to him immediately.
She wrapped her arms around him, giggling softly, but Simon remained frozen in place.
The little girl pulled away almost at once. “You are not my Papa.”
“What?”
“Why do you look like him?” She asked, confused.
“I am not sure.” He swallowed. “But how do you know?”
“Papa always hugs. And spins.”
He blinked, trying to make sense of why he did not belong in his own dream. “I am sorry to have disappointed you, then.”
She simply shrugged. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“I appreciate that.” He tilted his head. “You must be Sarah.”
“You know my name?”
“Of course.” His voice softened. “It was my mother’s name.”
“My Nana!” She exclaimed, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I see her sometimes.”
“Really?” Simon swallowed hard. “I am jealous, then.”
“Don’t be.” Sarah looked at him with complete certainty. “She sees you too.”
“What?”
“She saw you dancing with Mama. At other Nana’s ball.”
Simon blinked several times, unable to decide whether he was dreaming again or whether he was very close to believing that perhaps his mother had been watching over him all along.
He had never known her, but perhaps she knew him.
All because this little girl—his daughter, apparently—was telling him so.
“She gave you something to help you.”
He raised a brow.
“The pamphlet,” Sarah whispered. “From the future.”
He went still.
He stared into her eyes as the realization settled.
The Lady Whistledown pamphlet he received the morning after the ball. The one he was certain it was meant to trap him into a life he did not want, forcing him to marry Penelope.
It had not been a threat, it had been a glimpse.
A gift from his mother showing that there was happiness waiting for him, and that he could have everything his father had—the land, the title, marriage, and an heir— without ever becoming like him.
“Also, you call me Sweet Pea,” she whispered, offering the hint.
A soft chuckle escaped him. “I like that.”
“Are you leaving now?”
“I…”
“Go. Papa can’t see you. He will be angry you made Mama cry.”
Simon winced.
He had not expected the children to have heard them. In his defense, he did not know they existed—or that any of this was real—until after it had happened.
Sarah was right. He needed to leave.
He leaned down and pressed a hesitant kiss to the top of her head. “Goodnight, Sweet Pea.”
She smiled. “Goodnight.”
Simon turned toward the door, then stopped to look back at her.
He wanted to have one last look at the life he never believed he could have.
—
Simon rode all night back to London, hoping it would also mean returning to his own time.
To his surprise, he arrived even earlier than expected. When he picked up Lady Whistledown pamphlet hot off the press, it was the morning after the ball.
There was no engagement announcement, nothing about the Duke of Hastings and Miss Featherington.
It was exactly as Sarah had told him.
He was less concerned with trying to understand how any of it had happened and more concerned with ensuring his own future.
He started riding his horse towards Featherington House which if he was not mistaken was across from Bridgerton House. It was a different feeling to be running towards it rather than away from it.
He could only hope Penelope would feel the same way.