Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

He shook his head. “No, you’re my chosen victim, I’m afraid.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a softer expression, tempered by a fair dose of curiosity. “Is something wrong?”

“No, of course not,” he said quickly. “Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know.” She cocked her head to the side. “You seem odd, that’s all.”

“Just tired.”

She nodded knowingly. “Wedding plans, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” he said, jumping on the excuse, although for the life of him, he wasn’t even sure what it was he was trying to hide from her.

“Well, remember that whatever you’re going through,” she said with a peevish twist to her lips, “it’s a thousand times worse for Penelope. It’s always worse for women. Trust me.”

“For weddings or for everything?” he asked mildly.

“Everything,” she said promptly. “I know you men think you’re actually in charge, but—”

“I wouldn’t dream of thinking we’re actually in charge,” Colin said, and not entirely sarcastically.

Her face pinched into a peevish expression. “Women have far more to do than men. Especially with weddings. With all the fittings I’m sure Penelope has had for her wedding gown, she probably feels like a pincushion.”

“I suggested eloping,” Colin said conversationally, “and I think she rather hoped I was serious.”

Daphne chuckled. “I’m so glad you’re marrying her, Colin.”

He nodded, not planning to say anything, and then somehow, he was saying her name. “Daff—”

“Yes?”

He opened his mouth, and then—“Never mind.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Now you really have my curiosity piqued.”

He drummed his fingers against the sofa. “Do you suppose the food might arrive soon?”

“Are you even hungry or are you merely trying to change the subject?”

“I’m always hungry.”

She was silent for several seconds. “Colin,” she finally asked, her voice soft and carefully gentle, “what were you going to say?”

He jumped to his feet, too restless to remain still, and began to pace. He stopped, turned to her, looked at her concerned face. “It’s nothing,” he started to say, except it wasn’t nothing, and—

“How does one know?” he blurted out, not even aware that he hadn’t completed his question until she replied, “How does one know what?”

He stopped in front of the window. It looked like it might rain. He’d have to borrow a carriage from Daphne unless he wanted to get soaked on the long walk home. Yet, he didn’t know why he was even thinking about precipitation, because what he really wanted to know was—

“How does one know what , Colin?” Daphne repeated.

He turned around and just let the words break free. “How do you know if it’s love?”

For a moment she just stared at him, her large brown eyes wide with surprise, her lips parted and utterly still.

“Forget I asked,” he muttered.

“No!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “I’m glad you asked. Very glad. I’m just . . . surprised, I must say.”

He closed his eyes, thoroughly disgusted with himself. “I can’t believe I just asked you that.”

“No, Colin, don’t be silly. It’s really rather . . . sweet that you asked. And I can’t even begin to tell you how flattered I am that you would come to me when—”

“Daphne . . .” he said warningly. She had a way of wandering off the topic, and he really wasn’t in the right frame of mind to follow her errant thoughts.

Impulsively, she reached out and hugged him; then, her hands still on his shoulders, she said, “I don’t know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She gave her head a little shake. “I don’t know how you know it’s love. I think it’s different for everyone.”

“How did you know?”

She chewed on her lower lip for several seconds before replying, “I don’t know.”

“What?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t remember. It’s been so long. I just . . . knew .”

“So what you’re saying,” he said, leaning against the windowsill and crossing his arms, “is that if one doesn’t know one’s in love, then one probably isn’t.”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “No! No, that’s not what I mean at all.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she said weakly.

He stared at her. “And how long have you been married?” he muttered.

“Colin, don’t tease. I’m trying to be helpful.”

“And I appreciate the attempt, but truly, Daphne, you—”

“I know, I know,” she interrupted. “I’m useless. But listen to me. Do you like Penelope?” Then she gasped in horror. “We are talking about Penelope, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” he snapped.

She let out a relieved sigh. “Good, because if we weren’t, then I can assure you I would have had no advice whatsoever.”

“I’ll go,” he said abruptly.

“No, don’t,” she pleaded, placing her hand on his arm. “Stay, Colin, please.”

He looked at her, sighing, feeling defeated. “I feel like an ass.”

“Colin,” she said, guiding him to the sofa and pushing him down until he sat, “listen to me. Love grows and changes every day. And it isn’t like some thunderbolt from the sky, instantly transforming you into a different man. I know Benedict says it was that way for him, and that’s just lovely, but you know, Benedict is not normal.”

Colin very much wanted to take that bait, but he just couldn’t summon the energy.

“It wasn’t like that for me,” Daphne said, “and I don’t think it was like that for Simon, although truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

“You should.”

She paused while her mouth was forming a word, leaving her looking like a surprised bird. “Why?”

He shrugged. “So you can tell me.”

“What, do you think it’s different for men?”

“Everything else is.”

She grimaced. “I’m beginning to develop a fair dose of pity for Penelope.”

“Oh, absolutely you should,” he agreed. “I’ll make a dreadful husband, to be sure.”

“You will not,” she said, batting his arm. “Why on earth would you say that? You would never be unfaithful to her.”

“No,” he agreed. He was quiet for a moment, and when he finally spoke again, his voice was soft. “But I might not love her the way she deserves.”

“But you might .” She threw up her hands in a gesture of exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, Colin, just the fact that you’re sitting here asking your sister about love probably means you’re more than halfway there.”

“Do you think?”

“If I didn’t think so,” she said, “I wouldn’t have said so.” She sighed. “Stop thinking so hard, Colin. You’ll find marriage a lot easier if you simply allow it to be.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “When did you grow so philosophical?”

“When you came by to see me and forced the issue,” she said promptly. “You’re marrying the right person. Stop worrying so much.”

“I’m not worrying,” he said automatically, but of course he was worrying, so he didn’t even bother to defend himself when Daphne shot him an extremely sarcastic look. But it wasn’t as if he were worrying whether Penelope was the right woman. He was certain of that.

And he wasn’t worried about whether his marriage would be a good one. He was certain of that, as well.

No, he was worrying about stupid things. About whether or not he loved her, not because it would be the end of the world if he did (or the end of the world if he didn’t), but because he found it extremely unsettling not to know exactly what it was he was feeling.