Romancing Mister Bridgerton (31 page)

“How much, Cressida?” Penelope ground out. She knew
that Cressida was drawing this out just to torture her, and she held little hope that she would actually name a figure before she was good and ready.

“Then I realized,” Cressida continued, ignoring Penelope's question (and proving her point), “that you must be quite wealthy, too. Unless you're an utter fool—and considering your success at hiding your little secret for so long, I've revised my initial opinion of you, so I don't think you are—you'd have to have made a fortune after writing the column for all those years. And from all outward appearances”—she gave a scornful glance to Penelope's afternoon dress—“you haven't been spending it. So I can only deduce that it is all sitting in a discreet little bank account somewhere, just waiting for a withdrawal.”

“How much, Cressida?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

Penelope gasped. “You're mad!”

“No.” Cressida smiled. “Just very, very clever.”

“I don't have ten thousand pounds.”

“I think you're lying.”

“I can assure you I'm not!” And she wasn't. The last time Penelope had checked her account balance, she'd had £8246, although she supposed that with interest, it had grown by a few pounds since then. It was an enormous sum of money, to be sure, enough to keep any reasonable person happy for several lifetimes, but it wasn't ten thousand, and it wasn't anything she wished to hand over to Cressida Twombley.

Cressida smiled serenely. “I'm sure you'll figure out what to do. Between your savings and your husband's money, ten thousand pounds is a paltry sum.”

“Ten thousand pounds is
never
a paltry sum.”

“How long will you need to gather your funds?” Cressida asked, completely ignoring Penelope's outburst. “A day? Two days?”

“Two days?” Penelope echoed, gaping. “I couldn't do it in two weeks!”

“Aha, so then you
do
have the money.”

“I don't!”

“One week,” Cressida said, her voice turning sharp. “I want the money in one week.”

“I won't give it to you,” Penelope whispered, more for her own benefit than Cressida's.

“You will,” Cressida replied confidently. “If you don't, I'll ruin you.”

“Mrs. Bridgerton?”

Penelope looked up to see Dunwoody standing in the doorway.

“There is an urgent matter which requires your attention,” he said. “Immediately.”

“Just as well,” Cressida said, walking toward the door. “I'm done here.” She walked through the doorway, then turned around once she reached the hall, so that Penelope was forced to look at her, perfectly framed in the portal. “I'll hear from you soon?” she inquired, her voice mild and innocent, as if she were talking about nothing more weighty than an invitation to a party, or perhaps the agenda for a charity meeting.

Penelope gave her a little nod, just to be rid of her.

But it didn't matter. The front door may have thunked shut, and Cressida might be gone, but Penelope's troubles weren't going anywhere.

T
hree hours later, Penelope was still in the drawing room, still sitting on the sofa, still staring into space, still trying to figure out how she was going to solve her problems.

Correction: problem, singular.

She had only one problem, but for the size of it, she might as well have had a thousand.

She wasn't an aggressive person, and she couldn't remember the last time she had a violent thought, but at that moment, she could have gladly wrung Cressida Twombley's neck.

She watched the door with a morose sense of fatalism, waiting for her husband to come home, knowing that each ticking second brought her closer to her moment of truth, when she would have to confess everything to him.

He wouldn't say,
I told you so.
He would never say such a thing.

But he would be thinking it.

It never occurred to her, not even for a minute, that she might keep this from him. Cressida's threats weren't the sort of thing one hid from one's husband, and besides, she was going to need his help.

She wasn't certain what she needed to do, but whatever it was, she didn't know how to do it alone.

But there was one thing she knew for sure—she didn't want to pay Cressida. There was no way Cressida would be satisfied with ten thousand pounds, not when she thought she could get more. If Penelope capitulated now, she'd be handing money over to Cressida for the rest of her life.

Which meant that in one week's time, Cressida Twombley would tell all the world that Penelope Featherington Bridgerton was the infamous Lady Whistledown.

Penelope reckoned she had two choices. She could lie, and call Cressida a fool, and hope that everyone believed her; or she could try to find some way to twist Cressida's revelation to her advantage.

But for the life of her, she didn't know how.

“Penelope?”

Colin's voice. She wanted to fling herself into his arms, and at the same time, she could barely bring herself to turn around.

“Penelope?” He sounded concerned now, his footsteps increasing in speed as he crossed the room. “Dunwoody said that Cressida was here.”

He sat next to her and touched her cheek. She turned and saw his face, the corners of his eyes crinkled with worry, his lips, slightly parted as they murmured her name.

And that was when she finally allowed herself to cry.

Funny how she could hold herself together, keep it all inside until she saw him. But now that he was here, all she could do was bury her face in the warmth of his chest, snuggle closer as his arms wrapped around her.

As if somehow he could make all her problems go away by his presence alone.

“Penelope?” he asked, his voice soft and worried. “What happened? What's wrong?”

Penelope just shook her head, the motion having to suffice until she could think of the words, summon the courage, stop the tears.

“What did she do to you?”

“Oh, Colin,” she said, somehow summoning the energy to pull herself far enough back so that she could see his face. “She knows.”

His skin went white. “How?”

Penelope sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “It's my fault,” she whispered.

He handed her a handkerchief without ever taking his eyes off of her face. “It's not your fault,” he said sharply.

Her lips slid into a sad smile. She knew that his harsh tone was meant for Cressida, but she deserved it as well. “No,” she said, her voice laced with resignation, “it is. It happened exactly as you said it would. I wasn't paying attention to what I wrote. I slipped up.”

“What did you do?” he asked.

She told him everything, starting with Cressida's entrance and ending with her demands for money. She confessed that her poor choice of words was going to be her ruin, but wasn't it ironic, because it really did feel like her heart was breaking.

But the whole time she spoke, she felt him slipping away. He was listening to her, but he wasn't there with her. His eyes took on a strange, faraway look, and yet they were narrowed, intense.

He was plotting something. She was sure of it.

It terrified her.

And thrilled her.

Whatever he was planning, whatever he was thinking, it was all for her. She hated that it had been her stupidity that had forced him into this dilemma, but she couldn't stem the tingle of excitement that swept across her skin as she watched him.

“Colin?” she asked hesitantly. She'd been done speaking for a full minute, and still he hadn't said anything.

“I'll take care of everything,” he said. “I don't want you to worry about a thing.”

“I assure you that that is impossible,” she said with shaking voice.

“I take my wedding vows quite seriously,” he replied, his tone almost frighteningly even. “I believe I promised to honor and keep you.”

“Let me help you,” she said impulsively. “Together we can solve this.”

One corner of his mouth lifted into a hint of a smile. “Have you a solution?”

She shook her head. “No. I've been thinking all day, and I don't know…although…”

“Although what?” he asked, his brows rising.

Her lips parted, then pursed, then parted again as she said, “What if I enlisted the aid of Lady Danbury?”

“You're planning to ask her to pay off Cressida?”

“No,” she said, even though the tone of his voice told her that his had not been a serious question. “I'm going to ask her to be me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everyone thinks she's Lady Whistledown, anyway,” Penelope explained. “At least, quite a lot of people do. If she were to make an announcement—”

“Cressida would refute it instantly,” Colin interrupted.

“Who would believe Cressida over Lady Danbury?” Penelope turned to him with wide, earnest eyes. “I wouldn't dare cross Lady Danbury in any matter. If she were to say she was Lady Whistledown, I'd probably believe her myself.”

“What makes you think you can convince Lady Danbury to lie for you?”

“Well,” Penelope replied, chewing on her lower lip, “she likes me.”

“She likes you?” Colin echoed.

“She does, rather. I think she might like to help me, especially since she detests Cressida almost as much as I do.”

“You think her fondness for you will lead her to lie to the entire
ton
?” he asked doubtfully.

She sagged in her seat. “It's worth asking.”

He stood, his movements abrupt, and walked to the window. “Promise me you won't go to her.”

“But—”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” she said, “but—”

“No buts,” he said. “If we need to, we'll contact Lady Danbury, but not until I have a chance to think of something else.” He raked his hand through his hair. “There must be something else.”

“We have a week,” she said softly, but she didn't find her words reassuring, and it was difficult to imagine that Colin did, either.

He turned around, his about-face so precise he might have been in the military. “I'll be back,” he said, heading for the door.

“But where are you going?” Penelope cried out, jumping to her feet.

“I have to think,” he said, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.

“You can't think here with me?” she whispered.

His face softened, and he crossed back to her side. He murmured her name, tenderly taking her face in his hands. “I love you,” he said, his voice low and fervent. “I love you with everything I am, everything I've been, and everything I hope to be.”

“Colin…”

“I love you with my past, and I love you for my future.” He bent forward and kissed her, once, softly, on the lips. “I love you for the children we'll have and for the years we'll have together. I love you for every one of my smiles, and even more, for every one of your smiles.”

Penelope sagged against the back of a nearby chair.

“I love you,” he repeated. “You know that, don't you?”

She nodded, closing her eyes as her cheeks rubbed against his hands.

“I have things to do,” he said, “and I won't be able to concentrate if I'm thinking about you, worrying if you're crying, wondering if you're hurt.”

“I'm fine,” she whispered. “I'm fine now that I've told you.”

“I will make this right,” he vowed. “I just need you to trust me.”

She opened her eyes. “With my life.”

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.