Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

“And what the hell does that mean?” he bit off.

“I thought it was rather obvious.”

He drew back. “I can’t believe you’re speaking to me like this.”

“You can’t believe I’m doing it,” she taunted, “or that I possess the nerve to do so?”

He just stared at her, obviously surprised by her question.

“There’s more to me than you think, Colin,” she said. And then, in a quieter tone of voice, she added, “There’s more to me than I used to think.”

He said nothing for several moments, and then, as if he just couldn’t drag himself away from the topic, he asked, practically between his teeth, “What did you mean when you said I run from responsibility?”

She pursed her lips, then relaxed as she let out what she hoped would be a calming exhale. “Why do you think you travel so much?”

“Because I like it,” he replied, his tone clipped.

“And because you’re bored out of your mind here in England.”

“And that makes me a child because . . . ?”

“Because you’re not willing to grow up and do something adult that would keep you in one place.”

“Like what?”

Her hands came up in an I-should-think-it-was-obvious sort of gesture. “Like get married.”

“Is that a proposal?” he mocked, one corner of his mouth rising into a rather insolent smile.

She could feel her cheeks flushing deep and hot, but she forced herself to continue. “You know it’s not, and don’t try to change the subject by being deliberately cruel.” She waited for him to say something, perhaps an apology. His silence was an insult, and so she let out a snort and said, “For heaven’s sake, Colin, you’re three-and-thirty.”

“And you’re eight-and-twenty,” he pointed out, and not in a particularly kind tone of voice.

It felt like a punch in the belly, but she was too riled up to retreat into her familiar shell. “Unlike you,” she said with low precision, “I don’t have the luxury of asking someone. And unlike you ,” she added, her intention now solely to induce the guilt she’d accused him of just minutes earlier, “I don’t have a massive pool of prospective suitors, so I’ve never had the luxury of saying no.”

His lips tightened. “And you think that your unveiling as Lady Whistledown is going to increase the number of your suitors?”

“Are you trying to be insulting?” she ground out.

“I’m trying to be realistic! Something which you seem to have completely lost sight of.”

“I never said I was planning to unveil myself as Lady Whistledown.”

He snatched the envelope with the final column in it back up off the cushioned bench. “Then what is this about?”

She grabbed it back, yanking the paper from the envelope. “I beg your pardon,” she said, every syllable heavy with sarcasm. “I must have missed the sentence proclaiming my identity.”

“You think this swan song of yours will do anything to dampen the frenzy of interest in Lady Whistledown’s identity? Oh, excuse me”—he placed one insolent hand over his heart—“perhaps I should have said your identity. After all, I don’t want to deny you your credit .”

“Now you’re just being ugly,” she said, a little voice at the back of her brain wondering why she wasn’t crying by now. This was Colin, and she’d loved him forever, and he was acting as if he hated her. Was there anything else in the world more worthy of tears?

Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe all this sadness building up inside of her was for the death of a dream. Her dream of him. She’d built up the perfect image of him in her mind, and with every word he spat in her face, it was becoming more and more obvious that her dream was quite simply wrong.

“I’m making a point,” he said, snatching the paper back from her hands. “Look at this. It might as well be an invitation for further investigation. You’re mocking society, daring them to uncover you.”

“That’s not at all what I’m doing!”

“It may not be your intention, but it is certainly the end result.”

He probably had something of a point there, but she was loath to give him credit for it. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” she replied, crossing her arms and looking pointedly away from him. “I’ve gone eleven years without detection. I don’t see why I’m in need of undue worry now.”

His breath left him in a short punch of exasperation. “Do you have any concept of money? Any idea how many people would like Lady Danbury’s thousand pounds?”

“I have more of a concept of money than you do,” she replied, bristling at the insult. “And besides, Lady Danbury’s reward doesn’t make my secret any more vulnerable.”

“It makes everyone else more determined, and that makes you more vulnerable. Not to mention,” he added with a wry twist to his lips, “as my youngest sister pointed out, there is the glory.”

“Hyacinth?” she asked.

He nodded grimly, setting the paper down on the bench beside him. “And if Hyacinth thinks the glory at having uncovered your identity is enviable, then you can be sure she’s not the only one. It may very well be why Cressida is pursuing her stupid ruse.”

“Cressida’s doing it for the money,” Penelope grumbled. “I’m sure of it.”

“Fine. It doesn’t matter why she’s doing it. All that matters is that she is, and once you dispose of her with your idiocy”—he slammed his hand against the paper, causing Penelope to wince as a loud crinkle filled the air—“someone else will take her place.”

“This is nothing I don’t already know,” she said, mostly because she couldn’t bear to give him the last word.

“Then for the love of God, woman,” he burst out, “let Cressida get away with her scheme. She’s the answer to your prayers.”

Her eyes snapped up to his. “You don’t know my prayers.”

Something in her tone hit Colin squarely in the chest. She hadn’t changed his mind, hadn’t even budged it, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words to fill the moment. He looked at her, then he looked out the window, his mind absently focusing on the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“We really are taking the long way home,” he murmured.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t blame her. It had been a stupid non sequitur, words to fill the silence and nothing else.

“If you let Cressida—” he began.

“Stop,” she implored him. “Please, don’t say any more. I can’t let her do it.”

“Have you really thought about what you’d gain?”

She looked at him sharply. “Do you think I’ve been able to think of anything else these past few days?”

He tried another tactic. “Does it truly matter that people know you were Lady Whistledown? You know that you were clever and fooled us all. Can’t that be enough?”

“You’re not listening to me!” Her mouth remained frozen open, in an odd incredulous oval, as if she couldn’t quite believe that he didn’t understand what she was saying. “I don’t need for people to know it was me. I just need for them to know it wasn’t her .”

“But clearly you don’t mind if people think someone else is Lady Whistledown,” he insisted. “After all, you’ve been accusing Lady Danbury for weeks.”

“I had to accuse some one,” she explained. “Lady Danbury asked me point-blank who I thought it was, and I couldn’t very well say myself. Besides, it wouldn’t be so very bad if people thought it was Lady Danbury. At least I like Lady Danbury.”

“Penelope—”

“How would you feel if your journals were published with Nigel Berbrooke as the author?” she demanded.