Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

“Then what is this about?”

Anthony sighed. “I just want to see you happy.”

“I am happy,” Colin insisted.

“Are you?”

“Hell, I’m the happiest man in London. Just read Lady Whistledown. She’ll tell you so.”

Anthony glanced down at the paper on his desk.

“Well, maybe not this column, but anything from last year. I’ve been called charming more times than Lady Danbury has been called opinionated, and we both know what a feat that is.”

“Charming doesn’t necessarily equal happy,” Anthony said softly.

“I don’t have time for this,” Colin muttered. The door had never looked so good.

“If you were truly happy,” Anthony persisted, “you wouldn’t keep leaving.”

Colin paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Anthony, I like to travel.”

“Constantly?”

“I must, or I wouldn’t do it.”

“That’s an evasive sentence if ever I’ve heard one.”

“And this”—Colin flashed his brother a wicked smile—“is an evasive maneuver.”

“Colin!”

But he’d already left the room.

Chapter 2

It has always been fashionable among the ton to complain of ennui, but surely this year’s crop of partygoers has raised boredom to an art form. One cannot take two steps at a society function these days without hearing the phrase “dreadfully dull,” or “hopelessly banal.” Indeed, This Author has even been informed that Cressida Twombley recently remarked that she was convinced that she might perish of eternal boredom if forced to attend one more off-key musicale .

(This Author must concur with Lady Twombley on that note; while this year’s selection of debutantes are an amiable bunch, there is not a decent musician among them.)

If there is to be an antidote for the disease of tedium, surely it will be Sunday’s fête at Bridgerton House. The entire family will gather, along with a hundred or so of their closest friends, to celebrate the dowager viscountess’s birthday .

It is considered crass to mention a lady’s age, and so This Author will not reveal which birthday Lady Bridgerton is celebrating .

But have no fear! This Author knows!

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS , 9 APRIL 1824

S pinsterhood was a word that tended to invoke either panic or pity, but Penelope was coming to realize that there were decided advantages to the unmarried state.

First of all, no one really expected the spinsters to dance at balls, which meant that Penelope was no longer forced to hover at the edge of the dance floor, looking this way and that, pretending that she didn’t really want to dance. Now she could sit off to the side with the other spinsters and chaperones. She still wanted to dance, of course—she rather liked dancing, and she was actually quite good at it, not that anyone ever noticed—but it was much easier to feign disinterest the farther one got from the waltzing couples.

Second, the number of hours spent in dull conversation had been drastically reduced. Mrs. Featherington had officially given up hope that Penelope might ever snag a husband, and so she’d stopped thrusting her in the path of every third-tier eligible bachelor. Portia had never really thought Penelope had a prayer of attracting the attention of a first- or second-tier bachelor, which was probably true, but most of the third-tier bachelors were classified as such for a reason, and sadly, that reason was often personality, or lack thereof. Which, when combined with Penelope’s shyness with strangers, didn’t tend to promote sparkling conversation.

And finally, she could eat again. It was maddening, considering the amount of food generally on display at ton parties, but women on the hunt for husbands weren’t supposed to exhibit anything more robust than a bird’s appetite. This, Penelope thought gleefully (as she bit into what had to be the most heavenly éclair outside of France), had to be the best spinster perk of all.

“Good heavens,” she moaned. If sin could take a solid form, surely it would be a pastry. Preferably one with chocolate.

“That good, eh?”

Penelope choked on the éclair, then coughed, sending a fine spray of pastry cream through the air. “Colin,” she gasped, fervently praying the largest of the globs had missed his ear.

“Penelope.” He smiled warmly. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you.”

He rocked on his heels—once, twice, thrice—then said, “You look well.”

“And you,” she said, too preoccupied with trying to figure out where to set down her éclair to offer much variety to her conversation.

“That’s a nice dress,” he said, motioning to her green silk gown.

She smiled ruefully, explaining, “It’s not yellow.”

“So it’s not.” He grinned, and the ice was broken. It was strange, because one would think her tongue would be tied the tightest around the man she loved, but there was something about Colin that set everyone at ease.

Maybe, Penelope had thought on more than one occasion, part of the reason she loved him was that he made her feel comfortable with herself.

“Eloise tells me you had a splendid time in Cyprus,” she said.

He grinned. “Couldn’t resist the birthplace of Aphrodite, after all.”

Penelope found herself smiling as well. His good humor was infectious, even if the last thing she wanted to do was take part in a discussion of the goddess of love. “Was it as sunny as everyone says?” she asked. “No, forget I asked. I can see from your face that it was.”

“I did acquire a bit of a tan,” he said with a nod. “My mother nearly fainted when she saw me.”

“From delight, I’m sure,” Penelope said emphatically. “She misses you terribly when you’re gone.”

He leaned in. “Come, now, Penelope, surely you’re not going to start in on me? Between my mother, Anthony, Eloise, and Daphne, I’m liable to perish of guilt.”

“Not Benedict?” she couldn’t help quipping.

He shot her a slightly smirky look. “He’s out of town.”

“Ah, well, that explains his silence.”

His narrowed eyes matched his crossed arms to perfection. “You’ve always been cheeky, did you know that?”

“I hide it well,” she said modestly.

“It’s easy to see,” he said in a dry voice, “why you are such good friends with my sister.”

“I’m assuming you intended that as a compliment?”

“I’m fairly certain I’d be endangering my health if I’d intended it any other way.”

Penelope was standing there hoping she’d think of a witty rejoinder when she heard a strange, wet, splattish sound. She looked down to discover that a large yellowish blob of pastry cream had slid from her half-eaten éclair and landed on the pristine wooden floor. She looked back up to find Colin’s oh-so-green eyes dancing with laughter, even as his mouth fought for a serious expression.

“Well, now, that’s embarrassing,” Penelope said, deciding that the only way to avoid dying of mortification was to state the painfully obvious.

“I suggest,” Colin said, raising one brow into a perfectly debonair arch, “that we flee the scene.”

Penelope looked down at the empty carcass of the éclair still in her hand. Colin answered her with a nod toward a nearby potted plant.

“No!” she said, her eyes growing wide.

He leaned in closer. “I dare you.”

Her eyes darted from the éclair to the plant and back to Colin’s face. “I couldn’t,” she said.

“As far as naughty things go, this one is fairly mild,” he pointed out.

It was a dare, and Penelope was usually immune to such childish ploys, but Colin’s half-smile was difficult to resist. “Very well,” she said, squaring her shoulders and dropping the pastry onto the soil. She took a step back, examined her handiwork, looked around to see if anyone besides Colin was watching her, then leaned down and rotated the pot so that a leafy branch covered the evidence.