Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

He smiled, and suddenly she knew that his words were true. Everything would be all right. Maybe not today and maybe not tomorrow, but soon. Tragedy couldn’t coexist in a world with one of Colin’s smiles.

“I don’t think it will come to that,” he said fondly, giving her cheek one affectionate stroke before returning his arms to his sides. He walked back to the door, turning the moment his hand touched the knob. “Don’t forget about my sister’s party tonight.”

Penelope let out a short groan. “Do we have to? The last thing I want to do is go out in public.”

“We have to,” Colin said. “Daphne doesn’t host balls very often, and she’d be crushed if we did not attend.”

“I know,” Penelope said with a sigh. “I know. I knew it even as I complained. I’m sorry.”

He smiled wryly. “It’s all right. You’re entitled to a bit of a bad mood today.”

“Yes,” she said, trying to return the smile. “I am, aren’t I?”

“I’ll be back later,” he promised.

“Where are you—” she started to ask, then caught herself. He obviously didn’t want questions just then, even from her.

But to her surprise, he answered, “To see my brother.”

“Anthony?”

“Yes.”

She nodded encouragingly, murmuring, “Go. I will be fine.” The Bridgertons had always found strength in other Bridgertons. If Colin felt he needed his brother’s counsel, then he should go without delay.

“Don’t forget to prepare for Daphne’s ball,” he reminded her.

She gave him a halfhearted salute and watched as he left the room.

Then she moved to the window to watch him walk by, but he never appeared. He must have headed straight out the back to the mews. She sighed, allowing her bottom to rest against the windowsill for support. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d wanted to catch one last glimpse of him.

She wished she knew what he was planning.

She wished she could be sure he even had a plan.

But at the same time, she felt oddly at ease. Colin would make this right. He’d said he would, and he never lied.

She knew that her idea to enlist the aid of Lady Danbury wasn’t a perfect solution, but unless Colin came up with a better idea, what else could they do?

For now, she would try to push it all from her mind. She was so weary, and so very tired, and right now what she needed was to close her eyes and think of nothing but the green of her husband’s eyes, the shining light of his smile.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would help Colin solve their problems.

Today she would rest. She would take a nap and pray for sleep and try to figure out how she would face all of society this evening, knowing that Cressida would be there, watching and waiting for her to make a false move.

One would think that after nearly a dozen years of pretending she was nothing more than the wallflowerish Penelope Featherington, she’d be used to playing roles and hiding her true self.

But that was when her secret had been safe. Everything was different now.

Penelope curled up on the sofa and closed her eyes.

Everything was different now, but that didn’t mean that it had to be worse, did it?

Everything would be fine. It would. It had to.

Didn’t it?

Colin was starting to regret his decision to take a carriage over to his brother’s house.

He’d wanted to walk—the vigorous use of his legs and feet and muscles seemed the only socially acceptable outlet for his fury. But he’d recognized that time was of the essence, and even with traffic, a carriage could convey him to Mayfair faster than could his own two feet.

But now the walls seemed too close and the air too thick, and goddamn it , was that an overturned milkwagon blocking the street?

Colin poked his head out the door, hanging out of the carriage even as they were still rolling to a halt. “God above,” he muttered, taking in the scene. Broken glass littered the street, milk was flowing everywhere, and he couldn’t tell who was screeching louder—the horses, which were still tangled in the reins, or the ladies on the pavement, whose dresses had been completely splattered with milk.

Colin jumped down from his carriage, intending to help clear the scene, but it quickly became apparent that Oxford Street would be a snarl for at least an hour, with or without his help. He checked to make sure that the milkwagon horses were being properly cared for, informed his driver that he would be continuing on foot, and took off walking.

He stared defiantly in the faces of each person he passed, perversely enjoying the way they averted their gaze when faced with his obvious hostility. He almost wished one of them would make a comment, just so he could have someone to lash out at. It didn’t matter that the only person he really wanted to throttle was Cressida Twombley; by this point anyone would have made a fine target.

His anger was making him unbalanced, unreasonable. Unlike himself.

He still wasn’t certain what had happened to him when Penelope had told him of Cressida’s threats. This was more than anger, greater than fury. This was physical; it coursed through his veins, pulsed beneath his skin.

He wanted to hit someone.

He wanted to kick things, put his fist through a wall.

He’d been furious when Penelope had published her last column. In fact, he’d thought he couldn’t possibly experience a greater anger.

He was wrong.

Or perhaps it was just that this was a different sort of anger. Someone was trying to hurt the one person he loved above all others.

How could he tolerate that? How could he allow it to happen?

The answer was simple. He couldn’t.

He had to stop this. He had to do something.

After so many years of ambling through life, laughing at the antics of others, it was time to take action himself.

He looked up, somewhat surprised that he was already at Bridgerton House. Funny how it no longer seemed like home. He’d grown up here, but now it was so obviously his brother’s house.

Home was in Bloomsbury. Home was with Penelope.

Home was anywhere with Penelope.

“Colin?”

He turned around. Anthony was on the pavement, obviously returning from an errand or appointment.

Anthony nodded toward the door. “Were you planning to knock?”

Colin looked blankly at his brother, just then realizing that he’d been standing perfectly still on the steps for God only knew how long.

“Colin?” Anthony asked again, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I need your help,” Colin said. It was all he needed to say.

Penelope was already dressed for the ball when her maid brought in a note from Colin.

“Dunwoody got it from the messenger,” the maid explained before bobbing a quick curtsy and leaving Penelope to read the note in privacy.

Penelope slid her gloved finger under the envelope flap and nudged it open, pulling out the single sheet of paper on which she saw the fine, neat handwriting that had become so familiar to her since she’d started editing Colin’s journals.

I will make my own way over to the ball this evening. Please proceed to Number Five. Mother, Eloise, and Hyacinth are waiting to accompany you to Hastings House .

All my love ,

Colin

For someone who wrote so well in his journals, he wasn’t much of a correspondent, Penelope thought with a wry smile.

She stood, smoothing out the fine silk of her skirts. She’d chosen a dress of her favorite color—sage green—in hopes that it might lend her courage. Her mother had always said that when a woman looked good, she felt good, and she rather thought her mother was right. Heaven knows, she’d spent a good eight years of her life feeling rather bad in the dresses her mother had insisted looked good.