From Contract to Vow

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Registry Season

Colin's POV

"Colin, wake up."

A soft hand pressed against my shoulder. My first coherent thought was please, not yet. I groaned, dragging the pillow over my head.

"Pen, just one more hour. Please." My voice came out rough, lower than usual, a product of sleep and exhaustion from last night's replay binge.

Her sigh was patient—too patient. "Colin, your tailor will be here in an hour. I want you to eat first and then shower because he'll be fitting you for five tuxedos."

Five. Bloody. Tuxedos.

"For what again?" I mumbled into the pillow.

She didn't even dignify that with a pause. "For the photoshoot. Next week. Our photoshoot."

Right. That bloody photoshoot. The annual circus politely known as The Royal Registry of Noble Houses.

Every year, the Crown curated its grand catalogue—the official portraits and photographs of every titled family still relevant to modern Britain. Archival, they called it. I called it an expensive excuse for the nobility to look smug in coordinated tailoring while pretending to still matter.

It wasn't just a photograph. It was the monarchy's yearly roll call of the powerful, the respected, and the scandal-free—or those pretending well enough. The pictures ended up in exhibitions, charity galas, and glossy features titled The Peerage Review.

This year, two invitations had arrived—one for the Bridgertons and one for the Featheringtons.

Because, somehow, I was now Lord Featherington-Bridgerton.

The title had passed to Penelope by inheritance, and by marriage, to me. Two houses, two histories, one marriage. Mama nearly fainted from joy. For her, it wasn't just a photograph—it was legacy, prestige. The Bridgertons had always been invited, but this year was different. This was our first joint appearance as the new Lord and Lady Featherington-Bridgerton.

The so-called fresh face of the modern ton.

God help us all.

Penelope's hand touched my shoulder again, gentler this time. "Colin, Mama will be coming here. I don't want her shouting at you because you're not ready."

That got my eyes open. I sighed and rolled onto my back, blinking at the ceiling. "Fine," I muttered.

Penelope's auburn hair was damp—she'd clearly just showered. Her cheeks had healed completely; the bruises that once marred them were gone. Mine too, though my ribs still remembered the last match. She looked composed, graceful in a soft cream robe, already halfway into her morning schedule.

"Hurry up, Colin," she said, worry softening her features.

My wife had many virtues—patience, kindness, an almost terrifying work ethic—but calm in the face of my morning sluggishness was not one of them. She just wanted everything perfect for Mama's arrival.

"Okay," I said finally, pushing off the sheets. "I'll shower. But tell Martin I want English breakfast."

Relief swept over her face like sunlight. "Alright. I'll tell him."

When she left the room, I dragged myself to the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I stood under the scalding water, thinking how absurd it was that I could face a scrum of six-foot athletes charging full speed at me without flinching, but not my own mother before noon.