Romancing Mister Bridgerton (21 page)

He groaned when she touched him, then tensed when her fingers skimmed along his skin. Her heart leaped. He liked this; he liked the way she was touching him. She hadn't the least clue what to do with herself, but he liked it just the same.

“You're perfect,” he whispered against her skin, his lips blazing a trail back up to the underside of her chin. His mouth claimed hers again, this time with increased fervor, and his hands slid underneath to cup her derriere, squeezing and kneading and pressing her up against his arousal.

“My God, I want you,” he gasped, grinding his hips down. “I want to strip you bare and sink into you and never let you go.”

Penelope groaned with desire, unable to believe how much pleasure she could feel from mere words. He made her feel wicked, naughty, and oh-so-desirable.

And she never wanted it to end.

“Oh, Penelope,” he was groaning, his lips and hands growing more frantic. “Oh, Penelope. Oh, Penelope, oh—” He lifted his head. Very abruptly.

“Oh, God.”

“What is it?” she asked, trying to lift the back of her head from the cushion.

“We've stopped.”

It took her a moment to recognize the import of this. If they'd stopped, that meant they'd most likely reached their destination, which was…

Her home.

“Oh, God!”
She started yanking at the bodice of her gown with frantic motions. “Can't we just ask the driver to keep going?”

She'd already proven herself a complete wanton. There seemed little harm at this point in adding “shameless” to her list of behaviors.

He grabbed the bodice for her and hauled it into place. “What is the possibility your mother won't have noticed my carriage in front of your house yet?”

“Fairly good, actually,” she said, “but Briarly will have done.”

“Your butler will recognize my carriage?” he asked in disbelief.

She nodded. “You came the other day. He always remembers things like that.”

His lips twisted in a grimly determined manner. “Very well, then,” he said. “Make yourself presentable.”

“I can race up to my room,” Penelope said. “No one will see me.”

“I doubt that,” he said ominously, tucking in his shirt and smoothing his hair.

“No, I assure you—”

“And I assure you,” he said, leaping on top of her words. “You will be seen.” He licked his fingers, then ran them through his hair. “Do I look presentable?”

“Yes,” she lied. In truth, he looked rather flushed, with swollen lips, and hair that didn't remotely adhere to a current style.

“Good.” He hopped down from the carriage and held his hand out to her.

“You're coming in as well?” she asked.

He looked at her as if she'd suddenly gone daft. “Of course.”

She didn't move, too perplexed by his actions to give her legs the orders to step down. There was certainly no reason he had to accompany her inside. Propriety didn't really demand it, and—

“For God's sake, Penelope,” he said, grabbing her hand and yanking her down. “Are you going to marry me or not?”

S
he hit the pavement.

Penelope was—in her opinion, at least—a bit more graceful than most people gave her credit for. She was a good dancer, could play the piano with her fingers arched perfectly, and could usually navigate a crowded room without bumping into an uncommon amount of people or furniture.

But when Colin made his rather matter-of-fact proposal, her foot—at the time halfway out of the carriage—found only air, her left hip found the curb, and her head found Colin's toes.

“Good God, Penelope,” he exclaimed, crouching down. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine,” she managed to get out, searching for the hole in the ground that must have just opened up, so that she could crawl into it and die.

“Are you certain?”

“It's nothing, really,” she replied, holding her cheek, which she was certain now sported a perfect imprint of the top of Colin's boot. “Just a bit surprised, that is all.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed.

“Yes, why?”

She blinked. Once, twice, then again. “Er, well, it might have to do with your mentioning marriage.”

He yanked her unceremoniously to her feet, nearly dislocating her shoulder in the process. “Well, what did you think I would say?”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he mad? “Not
that,
” she finally replied.

“I'm not a complete boor,” he muttered.

She brushed dust and pebbles off her sleeves. “I never said you were, I just—”

“I can assure you,” he continued, now looking mortally offended, “that I do not behave as I did with a woman of your background without rendering a marriage proposal.”

Penelope's mouth fell open, leaving her feeling rather like an owl.

“Don't you have a reply?” he demanded.

“I'm still trying to figure out what you said,” she admitted.

He planted his hands on his hips and stared at her with a decided lack of indulgence.

“You must admit,” she said, her chin dipping until she was regarding him rather dubiously through her lashes, “it did sound rather like you've, er—how did you say it—rendered marriage proposals before.”

He scowled at her. “Of course I haven't. Now take my arm before it starts to rain.”

She looked up at the clear blue sky.

“At the rate you're going,” he said impatiently, “we'll be here for days.”

“I…well…” She cleared her throat. “Surely you can forgive me my lack of composure in the face of such tremendous surprise.”

“Now who's speaking in circles?” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “Let's just get going.”

“Colin!” she nearly shrieked, tripping over her feet as she stumbled up the stairs. “Are you sure—”

“No time like the present,” he said, almost jauntily. He
seemed quite pleased with himself, which puzzled her, because she would have bet her entire fortune—and as Lady Whistledown, she'd amassed quite a fortune—that he had not intended to ask her to marry him until the moment his carriage had ground to a halt in front her house.

Perhaps not even until the words had left his lips.

He turned to her. “Do I need to knock?”

“No, I—”

He knocked anyway, or rather banged, if one wanted to be particular about it.

“Briarly,” Penelope said through an attempted smile as the butler opened the door to receive them.

“Miss Penelope,” he murmured, one brow rising in surprise. He nodded at Colin. “Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Is Mrs. Featherington at home?” Colin asked brusquely.

“Yes, but—”

“Excellent.” Colin barged in, pulling Penelope along with him. “Where is she?”

“In the drawing room, but I should tell you—”

But Colin was already halfway down the hall, Penelope one step behind him. (Not that she could be anywhere else, seeing as how his hand was wrapped rather tightly around her upper arm.)

“Mr. Bridgerton!” the butler yelled out, sounding slightly panicked.

Penelope twisted, even as her feet continued to follow Colin. Briarly never panicked. About anything. If he didn't think she and Colin ought to enter the drawing room, he had to have a very good reason.

Maybe even—

Oh,
no
.

Penelope dug in her heels, skidding along the hardwood floor as Colin dragged her along by the arm. “Colin,” she said, gulping on the first syllable. “Colin!”

“What?” he asked, not breaking his stride.

“I really think—Aaack!” Her skidding heels hit the edge of the runner carpet, sending her flying forward.

He caught her neatly and set her on her feet. “What is it?”

She glanced nervously at the door to the drawing room. It was slightly ajar, but maybe there was enough noise inside so that her mother hadn't yet heard them approaching.

“Penelope…” Colin prompted impatiently.

“Er…” There was still time to escape, wasn't there? She looked frantically about, not that she was likely to find a solution to her problems anywhere in the hall.

“Penelope,” Colin said, now tapping his foot, “what the devil is the matter?”

She looked back to Briarly, who simply shrugged his shoulders. “This really might not be the best time to speak to my mother.”

He raised one brow, looking rather like the butler had just seconds earlier. “You're not planning to refuse me, are you?”

“No, of course not,” she said hastily, even though she hadn't truly accepted the fact that he even intended to offer for her.

“Then this is an excellent time,” he stated, his tone inviting no further protest.

“But it's—”

“What?”

Tuesday,
she thought miserably. And it was just past noon, which meant—

“Let's go,” Colin said, striding forward, and before she could stop him, he pushed open the door.

 

Colin's first thought upon stepping into the drawing room was that the day, while certainly not proceeding in any manner he might have anticipated when he'd risen from bed that morning, was turning out to be a most excellent endeavor. Marriage to Penelope was an eminently sensible idea, and
surprisingly appealing as well, if their recent encounter in the carriage was any indication.

His second thought was that he'd just entered his worst nightmare.

Because Penelope's mother was not alone in the drawing room. Every last Featherington, current and former, was there, along with assorted spouses and even a cat.

It was the most frightening assemblage of people Colin had ever witnessed. Penelope's family was…well…except for Felicity (whom he'd always held in some suspicion; how could one truly trust anyone who was such good friends with Hyacinth?), her family was…well…

He couldn't think of a good word for it. Certainly nothing complimentary (although he'd like to think he could have avoided an outright insult), and really, was there a word that effectively combined slightly dim, overly talkative, rather meddlesome, excruciatingly dull, and—and one couldn't forget this, not with Robert Huxley a recent addition to the clan—uncommonly loud.

So Colin just smiled. His great, big, friendly, slightly mischievous smile. It almost always worked, and today was no exception. The Featheringtons all smiled right back at him, and—thank God—said nothing.

At least not right away.

“Colin,” Mrs. Featherington said with visible surprise. “How nice of you to bring Penelope home for our family meeting.”

“Your family meeting?” he echoed. He looked to Penelope, who was standing next to him, looking rather ill.

“Every Tuesday,” she said, smiling weakly. “Didn't I mention it?”

“No,” he replied, even though it was obvious her question had been for the benefit of their audience. “No, you didn't mention it.”

“Bridgerton!” bellowed Robert Huxley, who was married to Penelope's eldest sister Prudence.

“Huxley,” Colin returned, taking a discreet step back. Best to protect his eardrums in case Penelope's brother-in-law decided to leave his post near the window.

Thankfully, Huxley stayed put, but Penelope's other brother-in-law, the well-meaning but vacant-minded Nigel Berbrooke, did cross the room, greeting Colin with a hearty slap on the back. “Wasn't expecting you,” Berbrooke said jovially.

“No,” Colin murmured, “I wouldn't think so.”

“Just family, after all,” Berbrooke said, “and you're not family. Not my family, at least.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Colin murmured, stealing a glance at Penelope. She was blushing.

Then he looked back at Mrs. Featherington, who looked as if she might faint from excitement. Colin groaned through his smile. He hadn't meant for her to hear his comment about possibly joining the family. For some reason he'd wanted to retain an element of surprise before he asked for Penelope's hand. If Portia Featherington knew his intentions ahead of time, she'd likely twist the whole thing around (in her mind, at least) so that she had somehow orchestrated the match herself.

And for some reason, Colin found that exceedingly distasteful.

“I hope I'm not intruding,” he said to Mrs. Featherington.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “We are delighted to have you here, at a
family
gathering.” But she looked rather odd, not precisely undecided about his presence there, but certainly unsure of what her next move should be. She was chewing on her lower lip, and then she darted a furtive glance at Felicity, of all people.

Colin turned to Felicity. She was looking at Penelope, a
small secret smile fixed to her face. Penelope was glaring at her mother, her mouth twisted into an irritated grimace.

Colin's gaze went from Featherington to Featherington to Featherington. Something was clearly simmering under the surface here and if he weren't trying to figure out (A) how to avoid being trapped into conversation with Penelope's relations while (B) somehow managing to issue a proposal of marriage at the same time—well, he'd be rather curious as to what was causing all the secret, underhanded glances being tossed back and forth between the Featherington women.

Mrs. Featherington cast one last glance at Felicity, did a little gesture that Colin could have sworn meant,
Sit up straight,
then fixed her attention on Colin. “Won't you sit down?” she asked, smiling widely and patting the seat next to her on the sofa.

“Of course,” he murmured, because there was really no getting out of it now. He still had to ask for Penelope's hand in marriage, and even if he didn't particularly want to do it in front of every last Featherington (and their two inane spouses), he was stuck here, at least until a polite opportunity to make his escape presented itself.

He turned and offered his arm to the woman he intended to make his bride. “Penelope?”

“Er, yes, of course,” she stammered, placing her hand at the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Featherington said, as if she'd completely forgotten about her daughter's presence. “Terribly sorry, Penelope. Didn't see you. Won't you please go and ask Cook to increase our order? We'll surely need more food with Mr. Bridgerton here.”

“Of course,” Penelope said, the corners of her lips quivering.

“Can't she ring for it?” Colin asked loudly.

“What?” Mrs. Featherington said distractedly. “Well, I
suppose she could, but it would take longer, and Penelope doesn't mind, do you?”

Penelope gave her head a little shake.

“I mind,” Colin said.

Mrs. Featherington let out a little “Oh” of surprise, then said, “Very well. Penelope, er, why don't you sit right there?” She motioned to a chair that was not quite situated to be a part of the inner conversation circle.

Felicity, who was seated directly across from her mother, jumped up. “Penelope, please take my seat.”

“No,” Mrs. Featherington said firmly. “You have been feeling under the weather, Felicity. You need to sit.”

Colin thought Felicity looked the picture of perfect health, but she sat back down.

“Penelope,” Prudence said loudly, from over by the window. “I need to speak with you.”

Penelope glanced helplessly from Colin to Prudence to Felicity to her mother.

Colin yanked her in closer. “I need to speak with her as well,” he said smoothly.

“Right, well, I suppose there is room for both of you,” Mrs. Featherington said, scooting over on the sofa.

Colin was caught between the good manners that had been drummed into his head since birth and the overwhelming urge to strangle the woman who would someday be his mother-in-law. He had no idea why she was treating Penelope like some sort of lesser-favored stepchild, but really, it had to stop.

“What brings you this way?” yelled Robert Huxley.

Colin touched his ears—he couldn't help himself—then said, “I was—”

“Oh, goodness,” fluttered Mrs. Featherington, “we do not mean to interrogate our guest, do we?”

Colin hadn't really thought Huxley's question constituted an interrogation, but he didn't really want to insult Mrs. Featherington
by saying so, so he merely nodded and said something completely meaningless like, “Yes, well, of course.”

“Of course what?” asked Philippa.

Philippa was married to Nigel Berbrooke, and Colin had always thought it was a rather good match, indeed.

“I'm sorry?” he queried.

“You said, ‘Of course,' ” Philippa said. “Of course what?”

“I don't know,” Colin said.

“Oh. Well, then, why did you—”

“Philippa,” Mrs. Featherington said loudly, “perhaps you should fetch the food, since Penelope has forgotten to ring for it.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Penelope said quickly, starting to rise to her feet.