From Contract to Vow

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Registry Season

When I came out, towel slung low around my waist, the room was empty. Of course, Penelope was already downstairs. I dressed quickly—white shirt, black trousers, cufflinks glinting—and descended the grand staircase to the scent of coffee and baked scones.

From the dining hall, Penelope's voice floated in—calm, practiced. "Yes, Mama, he's about to eat breakfast. You can come anytime now. I'll call once he's done." A pause. "Thank you, Mama. Be safe."

She ended the call, placing the phone down with a relieved sigh just as she spotted me entering.

"Colin, hurry up, please," she said, the strain already showing around her eyes.

"Pen," I murmured, taking my seat. "It's just the fitting today, not the actual photograph. Relax."

That was my first mistake.

Her head snapped toward me so fast I thought I heard her neck crack. "What did you say?"

I glanced at Martin, who wisely bowed his head and poured the coffee in silence.

"Pen, it's—"

"Colin!" she cut in, voice sharp. "I told you last night to sleep early so you'd wake early! But no—you had to stay up watching the replay of your own match!"

I opened my mouth. She wasn't done.

"It took me three tries to wake you up! You took your bloody time in the shower! And now—it's already nine forty-five! The tailor's coming at ten!"

Martin and Rae both froze mid-step, pretending to polish nonexistent silverware.

"Pen—"

"Colin, I am your wife!" Her voice cracked slightly, frustration spilling over. "When your mama calls, it's me she calls! Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to tell her you're still asleep? You being late, grumpy, distracted—it all reflects on me!"

Her chest heaved. My jaw tightened.

She went on, voice trembling now. "I've been trying to keep everything in order, even when it's hard being married to you. You're grumpy—bloody grumpy—and I just want to be a good daughter-in-law, Colin!"

Silence fell over the room. Even the clock on the mantel seemed to hold its breath.

Then she whispered, voice breaking, "Why do you have to be so grumpy?"

Her eyes glistened, and I felt something twist in my chest.

I rose, slowly, and reached for her. She tried to step back, shaking her head. "Don't touch me."

But I did anyway—gently, carefully—pulling her against me. Her hands pushed weakly against my chest before she gave in, her forehead resting against my chest.

Martin turned discreetly away, a faint grin ghosting across his lips. Rae coughed softly, hiding a smile.

"I'm sorry," I murmured into her hair. "I've been thinking of myself. I didn't realize my carelessness was reflecting on you."

Penelope's breath hitched, and I felt her nod against my shirt.

"From now on," I added, "I'll listen."

For a long moment, we stayed like that—her cheek pressed against my chest, the faint scent of her shampoo mingling with my cologne, the quiet hum of domestic chaos settling around us.

Then she stepped back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "Eat now. Please."

"Yes, my lady."

That earned a small, reluctant smile.

I finished breakfast quickly, knowing it was the closest thing to peace I'd have before the storm.

By ten sharp, the tailor arrived with an entourage—fabrics, measuring tapes, pins, and sharp eyes. Mama came shortly after, impeccable as ever in her cream coatdress and pearls.

"Penelope, my dear," Mama said warmly, kissing her cheek. "You look radiant."

Penelope's composure returned instantly. "Thank you, Mama. We're just making sure everything's ready for the photoshoot."

"Good girl," Mama said approvingly, then turned to me with that look. "And you, Colin. Awake before noon. Miracles do happen."

I sighed. "Barely."

The tailor began his work, muttering measurements while Mama and Penelope discussed fabrics and palettes—ivory, black, muted gold.

"I was thinking," Mama said, "Penelope should wear that emerald gown. It complements the Featherington heritage and the Bridgerton palette."

"That's exactly what I thought, Mama," Penelope said earnestly.

Their voices flowed together easily, and I realized—she truly was trying. Not out of obligation, but love. She wanted to belong. She wanted to make Mama proud.

Watching them, I felt that quiet, grounding weight again—the understanding that for Penelope, this wasn't just about a portrait or reputation. This was her family now. The only one she had left.

And I'd do anything to keep that peace intact.

Mama looked at me over her teacup. "Colin, do not slouch in the portrait. Remember, shoulders back. And smile as if you actually like being a lord."

I gave her a mock salute. "Yes, Mama."

Penelope's laugh—soft, genuine—filled the room, and for the first time that morning, the tension eased.

As I stood there, being measured and pinned, watching my wife and mother discuss embroidery and lighting, I realized something simple yet heavy:

The world saw titles, trophies, prestige.

But in that quiet morning, all I saw was the woman who made sure I ate breakfast on time, fought for our name, and still looked at me as if I was worth the chaos.

And maybe that was enough.