Romancing Mister Bridgerton (4 page)

“Her birthday is at the end of this month, is it not? I shall have to neglect her some more, I think.”

“Speaking of birthdays,” Anthony said, settling into the large chair behind his desk, “Mother's is a week from Sunday.”

“Why do you think I hurried to return?”

Anthony raised a brow, and Colin had the distinct impression that he was trying to decide if Colin had truly rushed home for their mother's birthday, or if he was simply taking advantage of some very good timing.

“We're holding a party for her,” Anthony said.

“She's letting you?” It was Colin's experience that women of a certain age did not enjoy birthday celebrations. And although his mother was still exceedingly lovely, she was definitely of a certain age.

“We were forced to resort to blackmail,” Anthony admitted. “She agreed to the party or we revealed her true age.”

Colin shouldn't have taken a sip of his brandy; he choked on it and just barely managed to avert spraying it all over his brother. “I should have liked to have seen
that
.”

Anthony offered a rather satisfied smile. “It was a brilliant maneuver on my part.”

Colin finished the rest of his drink. “What, do you think, are the chances she won't use the party as an opportunity to find me a wife?”

“Very small.”

“I thought so.”

Anthony leaned back in his chair. “You
are
thirty-three now, Colin…”

Colin stared at him in disbelief. “God above, don't
you
start on me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. I was merely going to suggest that you keep your eyes open this season. You needn't actively look for a wife, but there's no harm in remaining at least amenable to the possibility.”

Colin eyed the doorway, intending to pass through it very shortly. “I assure you I am not averse to the idea of marriage.”

“I didn't think you were,” Anthony demurred.

“I see little reason to rush, however.”

“There's never a reason to rush,” Anthony returned. “Well, rarely, anyway. Just humor Mother, will you?”

Colin hadn't realized he was still holding his empty glass until it slipped through his fingers and landed on the carpet with a loud thunk. “Good God,” he whispered, “is she ill?”

“No!” Anthony said, his surprise making his voice loud and forceful. “She'll outlive us all, I'm sure of it.”

“Then what is this about?”

Anthony sighed. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy,” Colin insisted.

“Are you?”

“Hell, I'm the happiest man in London. Just read Lady Whistledown. She'll tell you so.”

Anthony glanced down at the paper on his desk.

“Well, maybe not this column, but anything from last year. I've been called charming more times than Lady Danbury has been called opinionated, and we both know what a feat
that
is.”

“Charming doesn't necessarily equal happy,” Anthony said softly.

“I don't have time for this,” Colin muttered. The door had never looked so good.

“If you were truly happy,” Anthony persisted, “you wouldn't keep leaving.”

Colin paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Anthony, I
like
to travel.”

“Constantly?”

“I must, or I wouldn't do it.”

“That's an evasive sentence if ever I've heard one.”

“And this”—Colin flashed his brother a wicked smile—

“is an evasive maneuver.”

“Colin!”

But he'd already left the room.

S
pinsterhood
was a word that tended to invoke either panic or pity, but Penelope was coming to realize that there were decided advantages to the unmarried state.

First of all, no one really expected the spinsters to dance at balls, which meant that Penelope was no longer forced to hover at the edge of the dance floor, looking this way and that, pretending that she didn't really want to dance. Now she could sit off to the side with the other spinsters and chaperones. She still wanted to dance, of course—she rather liked dancing, and she was actually quite good at it, not that anyone ever noticed—but it was much easier to feign disinterest the farther one got from the waltzing couples.

Second, the number of hours spent in dull conversation had been drastically reduced. Mrs. Featherington had officially given up hope that Penelope might ever snag a husband, and so she'd stopped thrusting her in the path of every third-tier eligible bachelor. Portia had never really thought Penelope had a prayer of attracting the attention of a first-or second-tier bachelor, which was probably true, but most of the third-tier bachelors were classified as such for a reason, and sadly, that reason was often personality, or lack thereof. Which, when combined with Penelope's shyness with strangers, didn't tend to promote sparkling conversation.

And finally, she could eat again. It was maddening, considering the amount of food generally on display at
ton
parties, but women on the hunt for husbands weren't supposed to exhibit anything more robust than a bird's appetite. This, Penelope thought gleefully (as she bit into what had to be the most heavenly éclair outside of France), had to be the best spinster perk of all.

“Good heavens,” she moaned. If sin could take a solid form, surely it would be a pastry. Preferably one with chocolate.

“That good, eh?”

Penelope choked on the éclair, then coughed, sending a fine spray of pastry cream through the air. “Colin,” she gasped, fervently praying the largest of the globs had missed his ear.

“Penelope.” He smiled warmly. “It's good to see you.”

“And you.”

He rocked on his heels—once, twice, thrice—then said, “You look well.”

“And you,” she said, too preoccupied with trying to figure out where to set down her éclair to offer much variety to her conversation.

“That's a nice dress,” he said, motioning to her green silk gown.

She smiled ruefully, explaining, “It's not yellow.”

“So it's not.” He grinned, and the ice was broken. It was strange, because one would think her tongue would be tied the tightest around the man she loved, but there was something about Colin that set everyone at ease.

Maybe, Penelope had thought on more than one occasion, part of the reason she loved him was that he made her feel comfortable with herself.

“Eloise tells me you had a splendid time in Cyprus,” she said.

He grinned. “Couldn't resist the birthplace of Aphrodite, after all.”

Penelope found herself smiling as well. His good humor was infectious, even if the last thing she wanted to do was take part in a discussion of the goddess of love. “Was it as sunny as everyone says?” she asked. “No, forget I asked. I can see from your face that it was.”

“I did acquire a bit of a tan,” he said with a nod. “My mother nearly fainted when she saw me.”

“From delight, I'm sure,” Penelope said emphatically. “She misses you terribly when you're gone.”

He leaned in. “Come, now, Penelope, surely you're not going to start in on me? Between my mother, Anthony, Eloise, and Daphne, I'm liable to perish of guilt.”

“Not Benedict?” she couldn't help quipping.

He shot her a slightly smirky look. “He's out of town.”

“Ah, well, that explains his silence.”

His narrowed eyes matched his crossed arms to perfection. “You've always been cheeky, did you know that?”

“I hide it well,” she said modestly.

“It's easy to see,” he said in a dry voice, “why you are such good friends with my sister.”

“I'm assuming you intended that as a compliment?”

“I'm fairly certain I'd be endangering my health if I'd intended it any other way.”

Penelope was standing there hoping she'd think of a witty rejoinder when she heard a strange, wet, splattish sound. She looked down to discover that a large yellowish blob of pastry cream had slid from her half-eaten éclair and landed on the pristine wooden floor. She looked back up to find Colin's oh-so-green eyes dancing with laughter, even as his mouth fought for a serious expression.

“Well, now, that's embarrassing,” Penelope said, deciding that the only way to avoid dying of mortification was to state the painfully obvious.

“I suggest,” Colin said, raising one brow into a perfectly debonair arch, “that we flee the scene.”

Penelope looked down at the empty carcass of the éclair still in her hand. Colin answered her with a nod toward a nearby potted plant.

“No!” she said, her eyes growing wide.

He leaned in closer. “I dare you.”

Her eyes darted from the éclair to the plant and back to Colin's face. “I couldn't,” she said.

“As far as naughty things go, this one is fairly mild,” he pointed out.

It was a dare, and Penelope was usually immune to such childish ploys, but Colin's half-smile was difficult to resist. “Very well,” she said, squaring her shoulders and dropping
the pastry onto the soil. She took a step back, examined her handiwork, looked around to see if anyone besides Colin was watching her, then leaned down and rotated the pot so that a leafy branch covered the evidence.

“I didn't think you'd do it,” Colin said.

“As you said, it's not terribly naughty.”

“No, but it is my mother's favorite potted palm.”

“Colin!” Penelope whirled around, fully intending to sink her hand right back into the plant to retrieve the éclair. “How could you let me—Wait a second.” She straightened, her eyes narrowed. “This isn't a palm.”

He was all innocence. “It's not?”

“It's a miniature orange tree.”

He blinked. “Is it, now?”

She scowled at him. Or at least she hoped it was a scowl. It was difficult to scowl at Colin Bridgerton. Even his mother had once remarked that it was nearly impossible to reprimand him.

He would just smile and look contrite and say something funny, and you just couldn't stay angry with him. You simply couldn't do it.

“You were trying to make me feel guilty,” Penelope said.

“Anyone could confuse a palm with an orange tree.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Except for the oranges.”

He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes thoughtful. “Yes, hmmm, one would think they'd be a bit of a giveaway.”

“You're a terrible liar, did you know that?”

He straightened, tugging slightly at his waistcoat as he lifted his chin. “Actually, I'm an excellent liar. But what I'm really good at is appearing appropriately sheepish and adorable after I'm caught.”

What, Penelope wondered, was she meant to say to
that
? Because surely there was no one more adorably sheepish
(sheepishly adorable?) than Colin Bridgerton with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes flitting along the ceiling, and his lips puckered into an innocent whistle.

“When you were a child,” Penelope asked, abruptly changing the subject, “were you ever punished?”

Colin immediately straightened to attention. “I beg your pardon?”

“Were you ever punished as a child?” she repeated. “Are you ever punished now?”

Colin just stared at her, wondering if she had any idea what she was asking. Probably not. “Errr…” he said, mostly because he hadn't anything else to say.

She let out a vaguely patronizing sigh. “I thought not.”

If he were a less indulgent man, and if this were anyone but Penelope Featherington, whom he knew did not possess a malicious bone in her body, he might take offense. But he was an uncommonly easygoing fellow, and this
was
Penelope Featherington, who had been a faithful friend to his sister for God knows how many years, so instead of adopting a hard, cynical stare (which, admittedly, was an expression at which he'd never excelled), he merely smiled and murmured, “Your point being?”

“Do not think I mean to criticize your parents,” she said with an expression that was innocent and sly at the same time. “I would never dream of implying that you were spoiled in any way.”

He nodded graciously.

“It's just that”—she leaned in, as if imparting a grave secret—“I rather think you could get away with murder if you so chose.”

He coughed—not to clear his throat and not because he wasn't feeling well, but rather because he was so damned startled. Penelope was such a funny character. No, that wasn't quite right. She was…
surprising
. Yes, that seemed to sum her up. Very few people really knew her; she had certainly
never developed a reputation as a sterling conversationalist. He was fairly certain she'd made it through three-hour parties without ever venturing beyond words of a single syllable.

But when Penelope was in the company of someone with whom she felt comfortable—and Colin realized that he was probably privileged to count himself among that number—she had a dry wit, a sly smile, and evidence of a very intelligent mind, indeed.

He wasn't surprised that she'd never attracted any serious suitors for her hand; she wasn't a beauty by any stretch, although upon close examination she was more attractive than he'd remembered her to be. Her brown hair had a touch of red to it, highlighted nicely by the flickering candles. And her skin was quite lovely—that perfect peaches-and-cream complexion that ladies were always slathering their faces with arsenic to achieve.

But Penelope's attractiveness wasn't the sort that men usually noticed. And her normally shy and occasionally even stuttering demeanor didn't exactly showcase her personality.

Still, it was too bad about her lack of popularity. She would have made someone a perfectly good wife.

“So you're saying,” he mused, steering his mind back to the matter at hand, “that I should consider a life of crime?”

“Nothing of the sort,” she replied, a demure smile on her face. “Just that I rather suspect you could talk your way out of anything.” And then, unexpectedly, her mien grew serious, and she quietly said, “I envy that.”

Colin surprised himself by holding out his hand and saying, “Penelope Featherington, I think you should dance with me.”

And then Penelope surprised
him
by laughing and saying, “That's very sweet of you to ask, but you don't have to dance with me any longer.”

His pride felt oddly pricked. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “It's official now. I'm a spinster. There's no longer a reason to dance with me just so that I don't feel left out.”

“That's not why I danced with you,” he protested, but he knew that it was exactly the reason. And half the time he'd only remembered to ask because his mother had poked him—
hard
—in the back and reminded him.

She gave him a faintly pitying look, which galled him, because he'd never thought to be pitied by Penelope Featherington.

“If you think,” he said, feeling his spine grow stiff, “that I'm going to allow you to wiggle out of a dance with me
now,
you're quite delusional.”

“You don't have to dance with me just to prove you don't mind doing it,” she said.

“I
want
to dance with you,” he fairly growled.

“Very well,” she said, after what seemed to be a ridiculously long pause. “It would surely be churlish for me to refuse.”

“It was probably churlish of you to doubt my intentions,” he said as he took her arm, “but I'm willing to forgive you if you can forgive yourself.”

She stumbled, which made him smile.

“I do believe I'll manage,” she choked out.

“Excellent.” He offered her a bland smile. “I'd hate to think of you living with the guilt.”

The music was just beginning, so Penelope took his hand and curtsied as they began the minuet. It was difficult to talk during the dance, which gave Penelope a few moments to catch her breath and gather her thoughts.

Perhaps she'd been a bit too harsh with Colin. She shouldn't have scolded him for asking her to dance, when the truth was, those dances were among her most cherished memories. Did it really matter if he'd only done it out of pity? It would have been worse if he'd never asked her at all.