Romancing Mister Bridgerton (2 page)

Which at least seemed to imply that Penelope was the most intelligent member of her family, although the compliment was backhanded, indeed.

But Penelope wasn't the only one singled out by the acerbic gossip columnist. Dark-haired Kate Sheffield was likened to a singed daffodil in her yellow dress, and Kate went on to marry Anthony Bridgerton, Colin's older brother and a viscount to boot!

So Penelope held out hope.

Well, not really. She knew Colin wasn't going to marry her, but at least he danced with her at every ball, and he made her laugh, and every now and then she made him laugh, and she knew that that would have to be enough.

 

And so Penelope's life continued. She had her third season, then her fourth. Her two older sisters, Prudence and Philippa, finally found husbands of their own and moved away. Mrs. Featherington held out hope that Penelope might still make a match, since it had taken both Prudence and Philippa five seasons to snare husbands, but Penelope knew that she was destined to remain a spinster. It wouldn't be fair to marry someone when she was still so desperately in love with Colin. And maybe, in the far reaches of her mind—in the farthest-back corner, tucked away behind the French verb conjugations she'd never mastered and the arithmetic she never used—she still held out a tiny shred of hope.

Until
that
day.

Even now, seven years later, she still referred to it as
that
day.

She'd gone to the Bridgerton household, as she frequently did, to take tea with Eloise and her mother and sisters. It was right before Eloise's brother Benedict had married Sophie, only he didn't know who she really was, and—well, that didn't signify, except that it may have been the one truly great secret in the last decade that Lady Whistledown had never managed to unearth.

Anyway, she was walking through the front hall, listening to her feet tap along the marble tile as she saw herself out. She was adjusting her pelisse and preparing to walk the short distance to her own home (just around the corner, really) when she heard voices. Male voices. Male Bridgerton voices.

It was the three elder Bridgerton brothers: Anthony, Benedict, and Colin. They were having one of those conversations that men have, the kind in which they grumble a lot and poke fun at each other. Penelope had always liked to watch the Bridgertons interact in this manner; they were such a
family.

Penelope could see them through the open front door, but she couldn't hear what they were saying until she'd reached the threshold. And in a testament to the bad timing that had plagued her throughout her life, the first voice she heard was Colin's, and the words were not kind.

“…
and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!
”

“Oh!” The word slipped over her lips before she could even think, the squeal of it piercing the air like an off-key whistle.

The three Bridgerton men turned to face her with identical horrified faces, and Penelope knew that she had just entered into what would certainly be the most awful five minutes of her life.

She said nothing for what seemed like an eternity, and then, finally, with a dignity she never dreamed she possessed, she looked straight at Colin and said, “I never asked you to marry me.”

His cheeks went from pink to red. He opened his mouth, but not a sound came out. It was, Penelope thought with wry satisfaction, probably the only time in his life he'd ever been at a loss for words.

“And I never—” She swallowed convulsively. “I never said to anyone that I wanted you to ask me.”

“Penelope,” Colin finally managed, “I'm so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said.

“No,” he insisted, “I do. I hurt your feelings, and—”

“You didn't know I was there.”

“But nevertheless—”

“You are not going to marry me,” she said, her voice sounding very strange and hollow to her ears. “There is nothing wrong with that. I am not going to marry your brother Benedict.”

Benedict had clearly been trying not to look, but he snapped to attention at that.

Penelope fisted her hands at her sides. “It doesn't hurt his feelings when I announce that I am not going to marry him.” She turned to Benedict, forcing her eyes directly on his. “Does it, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Of course not,” Benedict answered quickly.

“It's settled, then,” she said tightly, amazed that, for once,
exactly
the right words were coming out of her mouth. “No feelings were hurt. Now, then, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to go home.”

The three gentlemen immediately stood back to let her pass, and she would have made a clean escape, except that Colin suddenly blurted out, “Don't you have a maid?”

She shook her head. “I live just around the corner.”

“I know, but—”

“I'll escort you,” Anthony said smoothly.

“That's really not necessary, my lord.”

“Humor me,” he said, in a tone that told her quite clearly she hadn't any choice in the matter.

She nodded, and the two of them took off down the street. After they had passed about three houses, Anthony said in a strangely respectful voice, “He didn't know you were there.”

Penelope felt her lips tighten at the corners—not out of anger, just out of a weary sense of resignation. “I know,” she replied. “He's not the sort to be cruel. I expect your mother has been hounding him to get married.”

Anthony nodded. Lady Bridgerton's intentions to see each and every one of her eight offspring happily married were legendary.

“She likes me,” Penelope said. “Your mother, that is. She can't see beyond that, I'm afraid. But the truth is, it doesn't matter so much if she likes Colin's bride.”

“Well, I wouldn't say
that,
” Anthony mused, sounding not so much like a highly feared and respected viscount and rather more like a well-behaved son. “I shouldn't like to be married to someone my mother didn't like.” He shook his head in a gesture of great awe and respect. “She's a force of nature.”

“Your mother or your wife?”

He considered that for about half a second. “Both.”

They walked for a few moments, and then Penelope blurted out, “Colin should go away.”

Anthony eyed her curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

“He should go away. Travel. He's not ready to marry, and your mother won't be able to restrain herself from pressuring him. She means well….” Penelope bit her lip in horror. She hoped the viscount didn't think she was actually criticizing Lady Bridgerton. As far as she was concerned, there was no greater lady in England.

“My mother always means well,” Anthony said with an indulgent smile. “But maybe you're right. Perhaps he should get away. Colin does enjoy travel. Although he did just return from Wales.”

“Did he?” Penelope murmured politely, as if she didn't know perfectly well that he'd been in Wales.

“Here we are,” he said as he nodded his reply. “This is your house, is it not?”

“Yes. Thank you for accompanying me home.”

“It was my pleasure, I assure you.”

Penelope watched as he left, then she went inside and cried.

The very next day, the following account appeared in
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers
:

It seemed even Lady Whistledown understood the futility of Penelope's feelings for Colin.

 

The years drifted by, and somehow, without realizing it, Penelope ceased to be a debutante and found herself sitting with the chaperones, watching her younger sister Felicity—surely the only Featherington sister blessed with both natural beauty and charm—enjoying her own London seasons.

Colin developed a taste for travel and began to spend more and more time outside of London; it seemed that every few months he was off to some new destination. When he was in town, he always saved a dance and a smile for Penelope, and somehow she managed to pretend that nothing had ever happened, that he'd never declared his distaste for her on a public street, that her dreams had never been shattered.

And when he was in town, which wasn't often, they seemed to settle into an easy, if not terribly deep, friendship. Which was all an almost twenty-eight-year-old spinster could hope for, right?

Unrequited love was never easy, but at least Penelope Featherington was used to it.

“L
ook at this!” Portia Featherington squealed. “Colin Bridgerton is back!”

Penelope looked up from her needlework. Her mother was clutching the latest edition of
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers
the way Penelope might clutch, say, a rope while hanging off a building. “I know,” she murmured.

Portia frowned. She hated when someone—anyone—was aware of gossip before she was. “How did you get to
Whistledown
before I did? I told Briarly to set it aside for me and not to let anyone touch—”

“I didn't see it in
Whistledown,
” Penelope interrupted, before her mother went off to castigate the poor, beleaguered butler. “Felicity told me. Yesterday afternoon. Hyacinth Bridgerton told her.”

“Your sister spends a great deal of time over at the Bridgerton household.”

“As do I,” Penelope pointed out, wondering where this was leading.

Portia tapped her finger against the side of her chin, as she always did when she was plotting or scheming. “Colin Bridgerton is of an age to be looking for a wife.”

Penelope managed to blink just before her eyes bugged right out of her head. “Colin Bridgerton is not going to marry Felicity!”

Portia gave a little shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

“Not that I've ever seen,” Penelope muttered.

“Anthony Bridgerton married that Kate Sheffield girl, and she was even less popular than
you
.”

That wasn't exactly true; Penelope rather thought they'd been on equally low rungs of the social ladder. But there seemed little point in telling this to her mother, who probably thought she'd complimented her third daughter by saying she'd not been the least popular girl that season.

Penelope felt her lips tightening. Her mother's “compliments” had a habit of landing rather like wasps.

“Do not think I mean to criticize,” Portia said, suddenly all
concern. “In truth, I am glad for your spinsterhood. I am alone in this world save for my daughters, and it's comforting to know that one of you shall be able to care for me in my older years.”

Penelope had a vision of the future—the future as described by her mother—and she had a sudden urge to run out and marry the chimney sweep. She'd long since resigned herself to a life of eternal spinsterhood, but somehow she'd always pictured herself off in her own neat little terrace house. Or maybe a snug cottage by the sea.

But lately Portia had been peppering her conversations with references to her old age and how lucky she was that Penelope could care for her. Never mind that both Prudence and Philippa had married well-heeled men and possessed ample funds to see to their mother's every comfort. Or that Portia was moderately wealthy in her own right; when her family had settled money on her as a dowry, one-fourth had been set aside for her own personal account.

No, when Portia talked about being “cared for,” she wasn't referring to money. What Portia wanted was a slave.

Penelope sighed. She was being overly harsh with her mother, if only in her own mind. She did that too often. Her mother loved her. She knew her mother loved her. And she loved her mother back.

It was just that sometimes she didn't much
like
her mother.

She hoped that didn't make her a bad person. But truly, her mother could try the patience of even the kindest, gentlest of daughters, and as Penelope was the first to admit, she could be a wee bit sarcastic at times.

“Why don't you think Colin would marry Felicity?” Portia asked.

Penelope looked up, startled. She'd thought they were done with that subject. She should have known better. Her mother was nothing if not tenacious. “Well,” she said slowly,
“to begin with, she's twelve years younger than he is.”

“Pfft,” Portia said, waving her hand dismissively. “That's nothing, and you know it.”

Penelope frowned, then yelped as she accidentally stabbed her finger with her needle.

“Besides,” Portia continued blithely, “he's”—she looked back down at
Whistledown
and scanned it for his exact age—“three-and-thirty! How is he meant to avoid a twelve-year difference between him and his wife? Surely you don't expect him to marry someone
your
age.”

Penelope sucked on her abused finger even though she knew it was hopelessly uncouth to do so. But she needed to put something in her mouth to keep her from saying something horrible
and
horribly spiteful.

Everything her mother said was true. Many
ton
weddings—maybe even most of them—saw men marrying girls a dozen or more years their junior. But somehow the age gap between Colin and Felicity seemed even larger, perhaps because…

Penelope was unable to keep the disgust off her face. “She's like a sister to him. A little sister.”

“Really, Penelope. I hardly think—”

“It's almost incestuous,” Penelope muttered.

“What did you say?”

Penelope snatched up her needlework again. “Nothing.”

“I'm sure you said something.”

Penelope shook her head. “I did clear my throat. Perhaps you heard—”

“I heard you saying something. I'm sure of it!”

Penelope groaned. Her life loomed long and tedious ahead of her. “Mother,” she said, with the patience of, if not a saint, at least a very devout nun, “Felicity is practically engaged to Mr. Albansdale.”

Portia actually began rubbing her hands together. “She won't be engaged to him if she can catch Colin Bridgerton.”

“Felicity would
die
before chasing after Colin.”

“Of course not. She's a smart girl. Anyone can see that Colin Bridgerton is a better catch.”

“But Felicity loves Mr. Albansdale!”

Portia deflated into her perfectly upholstered chair. “There is that.”

“And,” Penelope added with great feeling, “Mr. Albansdale is in possession of a perfectly respectable fortune.”

Portia tapped her index finger against her cheek. “True. Not,” she said sharply, “as respectable as a Bridgerton portion, but it's nothing to sneeze at, I suppose.”

Penelope knew it was time to let it go, but she couldn't stop her mouth from opening one last time. “In all truth, Mother, he's a wonderful match for Felicity. We should be delighted for her.”

“I know, I know,” Portia grumbled. “It's just that I so wanted one of my daughters to marry a Bridgerton. What a coup! I would be the talk of London for weeks. Years, maybe.”

Penelope stabbed her needle into the cushion beside her. It was a rather foolish way to vent her anger, but the alternative was to jump to her feet and yell,
What about me?
Portia seemed to think that once Felicity was wed, her hopes for a Bridgerton union were forever dashed. But Penelope was still unmarried—didn't that count for anything?

Was it so much to wish that her mother thought of her with the same pride she felt for her other three daughters? Penelope knew that Colin wasn't going to choose her as his bride, but shouldn't a mother be at least a little bit blind to her children's faults? It was obvious to Penelope that neither Prudence, Philippa, nor even Felicity had ever had a chance with a Bridgerton. Why did her mother seem to think their charms so exceeded Penelope's?

Very well, Penelope had to admit that Felicity enjoyed a popularity that exceeded that of her three older sisters combined. But Prudence and Philippa had never been Incomparables.
They'd hovered on the perimeters of ballrooms just as much as Penelope had.

Except, of course, that they were married now. Penelope wouldn't have wanted to cleave herself unto either of their husbands, but at least they were wives.

Thankfully, however, Portia's mind had already moved on to greener pastures. “I must pay a call upon Violet,” she was saying. “She'll be so relieved that Colin is back.”

“I'm sure Lady Bridgerton will be delighted to see you,” Penelope said.

“That poor woman,” Portia said, her sigh dramatic. “She worries about him, you know—”

“I know.”

“Truly, I think it is more than a mother should be expected to bear. He goes gallivanting about, the good Lord only knows where, to countries that are positively
unheathen
—”

“I believe they practice Christianity in Greece,” Penelope murmured, her eyes back down on her needlework.

“Don't be impertinent, Penelope Anne Featherington, and they're
Catholics
!” Portia shuddered on the word.

“They're not Catholics at all,” Penelope replied, giving up on the needlework and setting it aside. “They're Greek Orthodox.”

“Well, they're not Church of England,” Portia said with a sniff.

“Seeing as how they're Greek, I don't think they're terribly worried about that.”

Portia's eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “And how do you know about this Greek religion, anyway? No, don't tell me,” she said with a dramatic flourish. “You read it somewhere.”

Penelope just blinked as she tried to think of a suitable reply.

“I wish you wouldn't read so much,” Portia sighed. “I probably could have married you off years ago if you had
concentrated more on the social graces and less on…less on…”

Penelope had to ask. “Less on what?”

“I don't know. Whatever it is you do that has you staring into space and daydreaming so often.”

“I'm just thinking,” Penelope said quietly. “Sometimes I just like to stop and think.”

“Stop what?” Portia wanted to know.

Penelope couldn't help but smile. Portia's query seemed to sum up all that was different between mother and daughter. “It's nothing, Mother,” Penelope said. “Really.”

Portia looked as if she wanted to say more, then thought the better of it. Or maybe she was just hungry. She did pluck a biscuit off the tea tray and pop it into her mouth.

Penelope started to reach out to take the last biscuit for herself, then decided to let her mother have it. She might as well keep her mother's mouth full. The last thing she wanted was to find herself in another conversation about Colin Bridgerton.

 

“Colin's back!”

Penelope looked up from her book—
A Brief History of Greece
—to see Eloise Bridgerton bursting into her room. As usual, Eloise had not been announced. The Featherington butler was so used to seeing her there that he treated her like a member of the family.

“Is he?” Penelope asked, managing to feign (in her opinion) rather realistic indifference. Of course, she did set
A Brief History of Greece
down behind
Mathilda
, the novel by S.R. Fielding that had been all the rage a year earlier. Everyone had a copy of
Mathilda
on their bedstand. And it was thick enough to hide
A Brief History of Greece
.

Eloise sat down in Penelope's desk chair. “Indeed, and he's very tanned. All that time in the sun, I suppose.”

“He went to Greece, didn't he?”

Eloise shook her head. “He said the war there has worsened, and it was too dangerous. So he went to Cyprus instead.”

“My, my,” Penelope said with a smile. “Lady Whistledown got something wrong.”

Eloise smiled that cheeky Bridgerton smile, and once again Penelope realized how lucky she was to have her as her closest friend. She and Eloise had been inseparable since the age of seventeen. They'd had their London seasons together, reached adulthood together, and, much to their mothers' dismay, had become spinsters together.

Eloise claimed that she hadn't met the right person.

Penelope, of course, hadn't been asked.

“Did he enjoy Cyprus?” Penelope inquired.

Eloise sighed. “He said it was brilliant. How I should love to travel. It seems everyone has been somewhere but me.”

“And me,” Penelope reminded her.

“And you,” Eloise agreed. “Thank goodness for you.”

“Eloise!” Penelope exclaimed, throwing a pillow at her. But she thanked goodness for Eloise, too. Every day. Many women went through their entire lives without a close female friend, and here she had someone to whom she could tell anything. Well, almost anything. Penelope had never told her of her feelings for Colin, although she rather thought Eloise suspected the truth. Eloise was far too tactful to mention it, though, which only validated Penelope's certainty that Colin would never love her. If Eloise had thought, for even one moment, that Penelope actually had a chance at snaring Colin as a husband, she would have been plotting her matchmaking strategies with a ruthlessness that would have impressed any army general.