Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

She might be ready to leave Lady Whistledown behind and live her new life as Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, wife and mother, but that in no way meant that she was ashamed of what she had done.

If only Colin could take pride in her accomplishments as well.

Oh, she believed, with every fiber of her being, that he loved her. Colin would never lie about such a thing. He had enough clever words and teasing smiles to make a woman feel happy and content without actually uttering words of love he did not feel. But perhaps it was possible—indeed, after regarding Colin’s behavior, she was now sure it was possible—that someone could love another person and still feel shame and displeasure with that person.

Penelope just hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

They were strolling through Mayfair one afternoon, just days before the wedding, when she attempted to broach the subject once again. Why, she didn’t know, since she couldn’t imagine that his attitude would have miraculously changed since the last time she’d mentioned it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Besides, she was hoping that their position out in public, where all the world could see them, would force Colin to keep a smile on his face and listen to what she had to say.

She gauged the distance to Number Five, where they were expected for tea. “I think,” she said, estimating that she had five minutes of conversation before he could usher her inside and change the subject, “that we have unfinished business that must be discussed.”

He raised a brow and looked at her with a curious but still very playful grin. She knew exactly what he was trying to do: use his charming and witty personality to steer the conversation where he wanted it. Any minute now, that grin would turn boyishly lopsided, and he would say something designed to change the topic without her realizing, something like—

“Rather serious for such a sunny day.”

She pursed her lips. It wasn’t precisely what she’d expected, but it certainly echoed the sentiment.

“Colin,” she said, trying to remain patient, “I wish you wouldn’t try to change the subject every time I bring up Lady Whistledown.”

His voice grew even, controlled. “I don’t believe I heard you mention her name, or I suppose I should say your name. And besides, all I did was compliment the fine weather.”

Penelope wanted more than anything to plant her feet firmly on the pavement and yank him to a startling halt, but they were in public (her own fault, she supposed, for choosing such a place to initiate the conversation) and so she kept walking, her gait smooth and sedate, even as her fingers curled into tense little fists. “The other night, when my last column was published—you were furious with me,” she continued.

He shrugged. “I’m over it.”

“I don’t think so.”

He turned to her with a rather condescending expression. “And now you’re telling me what I feel?”

Such a nasty shot could not go unreturned. “Isn’t that what a wife is supposed to do?”

“You’re not my wife yet.”

Penelope counted to three—no, better make that ten—before replying. “I am sorry if what I did upset you, but I had no other choice.”

“You had every choice in the world, but I am certainly not going to debate the issue right here on Bruton Street.”

And they were on Bruton Street. Oh, bother , Penelope had completely misjudged how quickly they were walking. She only had another minute or so at the most before they ascended the front steps to Number Five.

“I can assure you,” she said, “that you-know-who will never again emerge from retirement.”

“I can hardly express my relief.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so sarcastic.”

He turned to face her with flashing eyes. His expression was so different from the mask of bland boredom that had been there just moments earlier that Penelope nearly backed up a step. “Be careful what you wish for, Penelope,” he said. “The sarcasm is the only thing keeping my real feelings at bay, and believe me, you don’t want those in full view.”

“I think I do,” she said, her voice quite small, because in truth she wasn’t sure that she did.

“Not a day goes by when I’m not forced to stop and consider what on earth I am going to do to protect you should your secret get out. I love you, Penelope. God help me, but I do.”

Penelope could have done without the plea for God’s help, but the declaration of love was quite nice.

“In three days,” he continued, “I will be your husband. I will take a solemn vow to protect you until death do us part. Do you understand what that means?”

“You’ll save me from marauding minotaurs?” she tried to joke.

His expression told her he did not find that amusing.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so angry,” she muttered.

He turned to her with a disbelieving expression, as if he didn’t think she had the right to mutter about anything. “If I’m angry, it’s because I did not appreciate finding out about your last column at the same time as everyone else.”

She nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth before saying, “I apologize for that. You certainly had the right to know ahead of time, but how could I have told you? You would have tried to stop me.”

“Exactly.”

They were now just a few houses away from Number Five. If Penelope wanted to ask him anything more, she would have to do it quickly. “Are you sure—” she began, then cut herself off, not certain if she wanted to finish the question.

“Am I sure of what?”

She gave her head a little shake. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing.”

“I was just wondering . . .” She looked to the side, as if the sight of the London cityscape could somehow give her the necessary courage to continue. “I was just wondering . . .”

“Spit it out, Penelope.”

It was unlike him to be so curt, and his tone prodded her into action. “I was wondering,” she said, “if perhaps your unease with my, er . . .”

“Secret life?” he supplied in a drawl.

“If that is what you want to call it,” she acceded. “It had occurred to me that perhaps your unease does not stem entirely from your desire to protect my reputation should I be found out.”

“What, precisely,” he asked in a clipped tone, “do you mean by that?”

She’d already voiced her question; there was nothing to do now but supply complete honesty. “I think you’re ashamed of me.”

He stared at her for three full seconds before answering, “I’m not ashamed of you. I told you once already I wasn’t.”

“What, then?”

Colin’s steps faltered, and before he realized what his body was doing, he was standing still in front of Number Three, Bruton Street. His mother’s home was only two houses away, and he was fairly certain they were expected for tea about five minutes ago, and . . .

And he couldn’t quite get his feet to move.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said again, mostly because he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth—that he was jealous. Jealous of her achievements, jealous of her.

It was such a distasteful feeling, such an unpleasant emotion. It ate at him, creating a vague sense of shame every time someone mentioned Lady Whistledown, which, given the tenor of London’s current gossip, was about ten times each day. And he wasn’t quite certain what to do about it.

His sister Daphne had once commented that he always seemed to know what to say, how to set others at ease. He’d thought about that for several days after she’d said it, and he’d come to the conclusion that his ability to make others feel good about themselves must stem from his own sense of self.