At first, Colin is as worried as she is.
He observes her quietly, noticing as her appetites change, craving fruit more and more until one day, it’s all she eats. He doesn’t say anything then, just ensures the freshest berries are picked from the grounds and available to her whenever she needs them.
He doesn’t say anything when she rushes from the dining table at breakfast, her eyes widening, to find a chamber pot to empty that fruit into. He simply follows and holds her hair back, gently rubbing her back and whispering soothing words of encouragement until she stops protesting his presence and clutches his hand in gratitude.
He doesn’t say anything when they make love and his hands squeeze her breasts and she winces, telling him they feel tender. He just brushes his palm away, slides it down her side and then between her thighs where a different kind of ache burns for him.
He doesn’t say anything when she sleeps until noon and still feels tired when she wakes.
He doesn’t say anything — but he does worry.
What if something is terribly wrong with her? What if she is sick? What if he loses her? He feels untethered at the thought, white hot panic crowding his chest until he cannot breathe.
It is unthinkable.
He worries and he knows she does too, but then over dinner at Bridgerton House one evening, Daphne tells them she’s pregnant again and it hits him like a thunderbolt.
That tight ball of anxiety in his chest bursts into happy sunlight, spreading warmth through his body. He pushes his food around his plate, suddenly not hungry anymore (and he’s always hungry). He doesn’t want to eat, or drink, or even talk to the family he loves so much. In-fact, sitting at that table, a sudden urge to cry overwhelms him. He has to clear his throat to hide the lump that resides there, the love he feels for his wife so intense, it takes his breath away.
He needs to get her home.
When he does, when Rae has been dismissed for the night and they stand in their bedroom, he wastes no time in broaching the subject. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his back against the mahogany set of drawers as she sits at the dressing table brushing her hair.
“Are you feeling well, my love?”
Her hand pauses mid-air as her eyes lock with his in the reflection of the mirror.
“I suppose I do feel a little nauseous,” she hums contemplatively, “but perhaps it is just the excitement of the evening. I was so pleased to hear of Daphne’s happy news.”
His lips twitch into a small smile, that warmth in his chest blossoming again. After-all, if his suspicions are correct, with Kate also at the beginning of her pregnancy, they will welcome three Bridgerton babies at once and isn’t that what he’s always wanted? For his children to have lots of cousins, to never be alone in the world the way he was never alone. Since he was a boy, Colin has wanted a big family.
“As was I,” he murmurs, “but this sickness you speak of… you have been feeling it often, have you not? Particularly in the mornings? And your appetites have changed… I noticed you have been having certain cravings lately, but you do not touch those tea cakes you used to love.”
She begins brushing her hair again, tackling a particularly stubborn knot. In the mirror’s reflection, she smiles at him.
“Well, more for you. You do not seem to consider it a chore when you eat them all yourself.”
“No, certainly not,” he agrees with a chuckle, “but there are other things I have noticed too. Your breasts are unusually tender—”
“Colin,” she blushes, a lovely pink tint spreading high across her cheekbones.
“I do not mean to embarrass you,” he takes a step towards her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “only to get to the bottom of something.”
She puts the hairbrush down and twists on the stool until she’s facing him. She looks up at him, her brows knitting together in concern. She waits for him to continue, her expression puzzled.
“Pen…” he begins, voice dipped to a calming hum, “when was the last time you bled?”
Her frown intensifies. She looks confused for a moment before she realises what he means — and then he watches her do the calculations in her head. Her concern only magnifies when she works it out.
“God, it must be over two months now!” she says incredulously, “oh no, Colin, what is it? Do you think I am ill? Some disease, some sickness? What is wrong—”
He grabs her hands from where she’s anxiously wringing them in her lap and slowly lowers himself to his knees before her. He watches the movement of her throat as she swallows, watches her blink furiously, the panic sweeping over her face.
“Penelope,” he soothes, nestling between her thighs as she subconsciously parts them to let him closer, “there is nothing wrong with you.”
Her eyes search his, imploring.
“Then what is it?”
His thumb rubs soothingly over the back of her hand.
He locks his gaze with hers and then smiles — slow, loving and calm.
“My love,” one of his hands leaves hers to cup her cheek, his thumb swiping tenderly over her flushed skin, “I believe you are with child.”
She blinks.
He searches her face, eyes flitting across her features for any sign of understanding. When he finds none, his chest tightens with something akin to guilt.
“Did your mother never explain…” he lets his voice trail off, not bothering to finish the question.
They have both made their peace with Portia Featherington and he now believes her to be a good woman… but he has heard from Eloise, who heard from Daphne, that even their mother neglected to tell her daughters how a woman comes to be with child. He cannot imagine Portia ever sitting Penelope down and taking the time to explain.
And neither did he.
“Forgive me,” he mutters, shame lacing his voice, “this was my error. I should have explained. I have tried to teach you all I know of pleasure... but I neglected to tell you the certain outcome of it.”
He should have known. From the moment she stared up at him, wide eyed and innocent, asking ‘is there more?’ he should have known.
He is pulled from his guilt when he feels her hand on his, covering her cheek.
She doesn’t ask him to explain, or teach her, or fill in the gaps. She simply looks down at him with tears filling her eyes and whispers—
“I am pregnant?”
A smile creeps over his face again.
“I believe so.”
She inhales shakily and exhales just the same.
“Are you happy?”
His chest tightens at the question, at how utterly selfless she is. Here she is, discovering something that will change her entire world, and her first concern is for his feelings. He brings their entwined hands down from her cheek to his mouth, laying a kiss on the backs of her fingers.
“As soon as the idea occurred to me tonight, all I wanted to do was bring you home. All I wanted was to be alone with you, to share it with you, to celebrate with you. Darling, I am ecstatic. You already made me the happiest man alive when you agreed to marry me and now? Now I am so happy I can hardly stand it. I feel fit to burst.”
She laughs — a pretty, musical sound choked with tears.
“I am scared,” she admits in a whisper.
He nods in understanding.
“But happy too?” he asks cautiously, hopefully.
Her smile widens and she looks at him like he’s a little mad.
“Colin, I have loved you since I was one and six years old,” she tells him, voice thin with emotion, “if I could go back and tell that little girl that she would one day be your wife and the mother of your children… well, I think she would be the one falling off her horse. Being with you… building a family with you… it is all I have ever wanted. Yes, I am happy.”
He swallows, his eyes and throat suddenly burning.
“There are no words to express how grateful I am for you,” he murmurs, laying another kiss on her hands, “we are going to have the most beautiful life together, Pen.”
She nods in agreement and brings their entwined fingers to her belly. He unfurls his fingers so his palm lays flat, the soft, flickering candlelight dancing off the ruby in his ring.
“And more babies,” she laughs tearfully.
He matches her happiness, gently stroking her stomach.
“Yes, you must give me more babies,” he agrees, “lots of babies. I am quite an insatiable man, you know.”
She grins, her eyes sparkling with a sudden heat.
“Oh, I know.”
Silence falls over them then, easy and comfortable, until he breaks it with a question.
“Would you like a girl or a boy?”
She shakes her head.
“I do not mind,” she says, “I confess I like the idea of a little boy with your curls and eyes.”
“A remarkable shade of blue,” he remembers, chest aching with the memory. He had just been waking up to it back then, the knowledge that she was absolutely everything to him. He hadn’t been able to put a name to it, hadn’t been able to get to it, but it had been there all along.
“But I like the idea of a daughter too. Someone to challenge the ton’s ideas of what a girl should be. Someone brave and strong.”
“Just like her mother,” he murmurs fondly.
She smiles, her cheeks tinging red.
“What about you?”
He tilts his head to the side, considering it.
“A mini-Penelope sounds like a dream,” he chuckles, loving the idea even as he acknowledges what a stubborn little thing she would be, “but I should also like to revel in your success should we have a son and win that dreadful heir race, as your mother keeps calling it.”
Her eyes flicker and she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. He can tell she likes the sound of that. She has spent so many years as a wallflower, loitering on the periphery, being made to feel less important than her sisters. He imagines she would feel very smug indeed — and rightfully so — if Prudence and Phillipa were to have girls while she carried the next Lord Featherington.
“Colin,” she says suddenly, her voice turning serious.
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
He swallows, emotion strangling his throat.
“I love you too,” he tells her and then he leans down to place a kiss to her stomach.
He hasn’t even met them yet, but as his lips move against the white lace of her nightgown, he knows the next words he utters are completely, unquestionably true.
“And I love you. More than you will ever know.”
