Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

He was going to have to apologize to Hyacinth, which was going to be a chore, since Hyacinth never accepted apologies gracefully—at least not those that came from fellow Bridgertons.

But Hyacinth was the least of his problems. Colin groaned. His sister wasn’t the only person who deserved his apology.

And that was why his heart was beating with this strange, nervous, and completely unprecedented rapidity as he entered the Macclesfield ballroom. Penelope would be here. He knew she’d be here because she always attended the major balls, even if she was now most often doing so as her sister’s chaperone.

There was something quite humbling in feeling nervous about seeing Penelope. Penelope was . . . Penelope. It was almost as if she’d always been there, smiling politely at the perimeter of a ballroom. And he’d taken her for granted, in a way. Some things didn’t change, and Penelope was one of them.

Except she had changed.

Colin didn’t know when it had happened, or even if anyone other than himself had noticed it, but Penelope Featherington was not the same woman he used to know.

Or maybe she was, and he had changed.

Which made him feel even worse, because if that was the case, then Penelope had been interesting and lovely and kissable years ago, and he hadn’t the maturity to notice.

No, better to think that Penelope had changed. Colin had never been a great fan of self-flagellation.

Whatever the case, he needed to make his apology, and he needed to do it soon. He had to apologize for the kiss, because she was a lady and he was (most of the time, at least) a gentleman. And he had to apologize for behaving like a raving idiot afterward, because it was simply the right thing to do.

God only knew what Penelope thought he thought of her now.

It wasn’t difficult to find her once he entered the ballroom. He didn’t bother to look among the dancing couples (which angered him—why didn’t the other men think to ask her to dance?). Rather, he focused his attention along the walls, and sure enough, there she was, seated on a long bench next to—oh, God —Lady Danbury.

Well, there was nothing else to do but walk right up. The way Penelope and the old busybody were clutching each other’s hands, he couldn’t expect Lady Danbury to disappear anytime soon.

When he reached the pair of ladies, he turned first to Lady Danbury and swept into an elegant bow. “Lady Danbury,” he said, before turning his attention to Penelope. “Miss Featherington.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said, with a surprising lack of sharpness in her voice, “how nice to see you.”

He nodded, then looked to Penelope, wondering what she was thinking, and whether he’d be able to see it in her eyes.

But whatever she was thinking—or feeling—it was hidden under a rather thick layer of nervousness. Or maybe the nervousness was all she was feeling. He couldn’t really blame her. The way he’d stormed out of her drawing room without an explanation . . . she had to feel confused. And it was his experience that confusion invariably led to apprehension.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she finally murmured, her entire bearing scrupulously polite.

He cleared his throat. How to extract her from Lady Danbury’s clutches? He’d really rather not humble himself in front of the nosy old countess.

“I’d hoped . . .” he began, intending to say that he’d hoped to have a private word with Penelope. Lady Danbury would be ferociously curious, but there was really no other course of action, and it would probably do her good to be left in the dark for once.

But just as his lips were forming his query, he realized that something strange was afoot in the Macclesfield ballroom. People were whispering and pointing toward the small orchestra, whose members had recently laid their instruments down. Furthermore, neither Penelope nor Lady Danbury were paying him the least attention.

“What is everyone looking at?” Colin asked.

Lady Danbury didn’t even bother looking back at him as she replied, “Cressida Twombley has some sort of announcement.”

How annoying. He’d never liked Cressida. She’d been mean and petty when she was Cressida Cowper, and she was meaner and pettier as Cressida Twombley. But she was beautiful, and she was intelligent, in a rather cruel sort of way, and so she was still considered a leader in certain society circles.

“Can’t imagine what she has to say that I’d want to listen to,” Colin muttered.

He spied Penelope trying to stifle a smile and flashed her an I-caught-you sort of look. But it was the sort of I-caught-you look that also said And-I-agree-completely.

“Good evening!” came the loud voice of the Earl of Macclesfield.

“Good evening to you!” replied some drunken fool in the back. Colin twisted to see who it was, but the crowd had grown too thick.

The earl spoke some more, then Cressida opened her mouth, at which point Colin ceased paying attention. Whatever Cressida had to say, it wasn’t going to help him solve his main problem: figuring out exactly how he was going to apologize to Penelope. He’d tried rehearsing the words in his mind, but they never sounded quite right, and so he was hoping his famously glib tongue would lead him in the right direction when the time came. Surely she’d understand—

“Whistledown!”

Colin only caught the last word of Cressida’s monologue, but there was no way he could have missed the massive collective indrawn breath that swept the ballroom.

Followed by the flurry of harsh, urgent whispers one generally only hears after someone is caught in a very embarrassing, very public compromising position.

“What?” he blurted out, turning to Penelope, who’d gone white as a sheet. “What did she say?”

But Penelope was speechless.

He looked to Lady Danbury, but the old lady had her hand over her mouth and looked as if she might possibly swoon.

Which was somewhat alarming, as Colin would have bet large sums of money that Lady Danbury had never once swooned in all of her seventy-odd years.

“What?” he demanded again, hoping one of them would break free of her stupor.

“It can’t be true,” Lady Danbury finally whispered, her mouth slack even as she spoke the words. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

She pointed toward Cressida, her extended index finger quivering in the flickering candlelight. “That lady is not Lady Whistledown.”

Colin’s head snapped back and forth. To Cressida. To Lady Danbury. To Cressida. To Penelope. “ She’s Lady Whistledown?” he finally blurted out.

“So she says,” Lady Danbury replied, doubt written all over her face.

Colin tended to agree with her. Cressida Twombley was the last person he’d have pegged as Lady Whistledown. She was smart; there was no denying that. But she wasn’t clever, and she wasn’t terribly witty unless she was poking fun at others. Lady Whistledown had a rather cutting sense of humor, but with the exception of her infamous comments on fashion, she never seemed to pick on the less popular members of society.

When all was said and done, Colin had to say that Lady Whistledown had rather good taste in people.

“I can’t believe this,” Lady Danbury said with a loud snort of disgust. “If I’d dreamed this would happen, I would never have made that beastly challenge.”

“This is horrible,” Penelope whispered.

Her voice was quavering, and it made Colin uneasy. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am. I feel rather ill, actually.”

“Do you want to leave?”

Penelope shook her head again. “But I’ll sit right here, if you don’t mind.”