Romancing Mister Bridgerton (6 page)

He watched her closely, not understanding why she was disturbed. Who cared if people thought they were courting? The rumor would soon be proven false, and they'd have a good laugh at society's expense. It was on the tip of his tongue to say,
Hang society,
but he held silent. There was something lurking deep in the brown depths of her eyes, some emotion he couldn't even begin to identify.

An emotion he suspected he'd never even felt.

And he realized that the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Penelope Featherington. She was his sister's best friend, and moreover, she was, plain and simple, a very nice girl.

He frowned. He supposed he shouldn't be calling her a girl anymore. At eight-and-twenty she was no more a girl than he was still a boy at three-and-thirty.

Finally, with great care and what he hoped was a good dose of sensitivity, he asked, “Is there a reason why we should worry if people think we are courting?”

She closed her eyes, and for a moment Colin actually thought she might be in pain. When she opened them, her gaze was almost bittersweet. “It would be very funny, actually,” she said. “At first.”

He said nothing, just waited for her to continue.

“But eventually it would become apparent that we are not actually courting, and it would…” She stopped, swallowed,
and Colin realized that she was not as composed on the inside as she hoped to appear.

“It would be assumed,” she continued, “that you were the one to break things off, because—well, it just would be.”

He didn't argue with her. He knew that her words were true.

She let out a sad-sounding exhale. “I don't want to subject myself to that. Even Lady Whistledown would probably write about it. How could she not? It would be far too juicy a piece of gossip for her to resist.”

“I'm sorry, Penelope,” Colin said. He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for, but it still seemed like the right thing to say.

She acknowledged him with a tiny nod. “I know I shouldn't care what other people say, but I do.”

He found himself turning slightly away as he considered her words. Or maybe he was considering the tone of her voice. Or maybe both.

He'd always thought of himself as somewhat above society. Not really outside of it, precisely, since he certainly moved within it and usually enjoyed himself quite a bit. But he'd always assumed that his happiness did not depend upon the opinions of others.

But maybe he wasn't thinking about this the right way. It was easy to assume that you didn't care about the opinions of others when those opinions were consistently favorable. Would he be so quick to dismiss the rest of society if they treated him the way they treated Penelope?

She'd never been ostracized, never been made the subject of scandal. She just hadn't been…popular.

Oh, people were polite, and the Bridgertons had all befriended her, but most of Colin's memories of Penelope involved her standing at the perimeter of a ballroom, trying to look anywhere but at the dancing couples, clearly pretending that she really didn't want to dance. That was usually when
he went over and asked her himself. She always looked grateful for the request, but also a little bit embarrassed, because they both knew he was doing it at least a little bit because he felt sorry for her.

Colin tried to put himself in her shoes. It wasn't easy. He'd always been popular; his friends had looked up to him at school and the women had flocked to his side when he'd entered society. And as much as he could say he didn't care what people thought, when it came right down to it…

He rather liked being liked.

Suddenly he didn't know what to say. Which was strange, because he
always
knew what to say. In fact, he was somewhat famous for always knowing what to say. It was, he reflected, probably one of the reasons he was so well liked.

But he sensed that Penelope's feelings depended on his next words, and at some point in the last ten minutes, her feelings had become very important to him.

“You're right,” he finally said, deciding that it was always a good idea to tell someone she was correct. “It was very insensitive of me. Perhaps we should start anew?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He waved his hand about, as if the motion could explain everything. “Make a fresh start.”

She looked quite adorably confused, which confused
him,
since he'd never thought Penelope the least bit adorable.

“But we've known each other for twelve years,” she said.

“Has it really been that long?” He searched his brain, but for the life of him, he couldn't recall the event of their first meeting. “Never mind that. I meant just for this afternoon, you ninny.”

She smiled, clearly in spite of herself, and he knew that calling her a ninny had been the exact right thing to do, although in all truth he had no idea why.

“Here we go,” he said slowly, drawing his words out with
a long flourish of his arm. “You are walking across Berkeley Square, and you spy me in the distance. I call out your name, and you reply by saying…”

Penelope caught her lower lip between her teeth, trying, for some unknown reason, to contain her smile. What magical star had Colin been born under, that he
always
knew what to say? He was the pied piper, leaving nothing but happy hearts and smiling faces in his wake. Penelope would have bet money—far more than the thousand pounds Lady Danbury had offered up—that she was not the only woman in London desperately in love with the third Bridgerton.

He dipped his head to the side and then righted it in a prompting sort of motion.

“I would reply…” Penelope said slowly. “I would reply…”

Colin waited two seconds, then said, “Really, any words will do.”

Penelope had planned to fix a bright grin on her face, but she discovered that the smile on her lips was quite genuine. “Colin!” she said, trying to sound as if she'd just been surprised by his arrival. “What are you doing about?”

“Excellent reply,” he said.

She shook her finger at him. “You're breaking out of character.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Apologies.” He paused, blinked twice, then said, “Here we are. How about this: Much the same as you, I imagine. Heading to Number Five for tea.”

Penelope found herself falling into the rhythm of the conversation. “You sound as if you're just going for a visit. Don't you live there?”

He grimaced. “Hopefully just for the next week. A fortnight at most. I'm trying to find a new place to live. I had to give up the lease on my old set of rooms when I left for Cyprus, and I haven't found a suitable replacement yet. I had a bit of business down on Piccadilly and thought I'd walk back.”

“In the rain?”

He shrugged. “It wasn't raining when I left earlier this morning. And even now it's just drizzle.”

Just drizzle, Penelope thought. Drizzle that clung to his obscenely long eyelashes, framing eyes of such perfect green that more than one young lady had been moved to write (extremely bad) poetry about them. Even Penelope, levelheaded as she liked to think herself, had spent many a night in bed, staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing but those eyes.

Just drizzle, indeed.

“Penelope?”

She snapped to attention. “Right. Yes. I'm going to your mother's for tea as well. I do so every Monday. And often on other days, too,” she admitted. “When there's, er, nothing interesting occurring at my house.”

“No need to sound so guilty about it. My mother's a lovely woman. If she wants you over for tea, you should go.”

Penelope had a bad habit of trying to hear between the lines of people's conversations, and she had a suspicion that Colin was really saying that he didn't blame her if she wanted to escape her own mother from time to time.

Which somehow, unaccountably, made her feel a little sad.

He rocked on his heels for a moment, then said, “Well, I shouldn't keep you out here in the rain.”

She smiled, since they'd been standing outside for at least fifteen minutes. Still, if he wanted to continue with the ruse, she would do so as well. “I'm the one with the parasol,” she pointed out.

His lips curved slightly. “So you are. But still, I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I didn't steer you toward a more hospitable environment. Speaking of which…” He frowned, looking around.

“Speaking of what?”

“Of being a gentleman. I believe we're supposed to see to the welfare of ladies.”

“And?”

He crossed his arms. “Shouldn't you have a maid with you?”

“I live just around the corner,” she said, a little bit deflated that he didn't remember that. She and her sister were best friends with two of his sisters, after all. He'd even walked her home once or twice. “On Mount Street,” she added, when his frown did not dissipate.

He squinted slightly, looking in the direction of Mount Street, although she had no idea what he hoped to accomplish by doing so.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Colin. It's just near the corner of Davies Street. It can't be more than a five-minute walk to your mother's. Four, if I'm feeling exceptionally sprightly.”

“I was just looking to see if there were any darkened or recessed spots.” He turned back to face her. “Where a criminal might lurk.”

“In
Mayfair
?”

“In Mayfair,” he said grimly. “I really think you ought to have a maid accompany you when you journey to and fro. I should hate for something to happen to you.”

She was oddly touched by his concern, even though she knew he would have extended equal thoughtfulness to just about every female of his acquaintance. That was simply the sort of man he was.

“I can assure you that I observe all of the usual proprieties when I am traveling longer distances,” she said. “But truly, this is so close. Just a few blocks, really. Even my mother doesn't mind.”

Colin's jaw suddenly looked quite stiff.

“Not to mention,” Penelope added, “that I am eight-and-twenty.”

“What has that to do with anything? I am three-and-thirty, if you care to know.”

She knew that, of course, since she knew almost everything
about him. “Colin,” she said, a slightly annoyed whine creeping into her voice.

“Penelope,” he replied, in exactly the same tone.

She let out a long exhale before saying, “I am quite firmly on the shelf, Colin. I needn't worry about all of the rules that plagued me when I was seventeen.”

“I hardly think—”

One of Penelope's hands planted itself on her hip. “Ask your sister if you don't believe me.”

He suddenly looked more serious than she had ever seen him. “I make it a point not to ask my sister on matters that relate to common sense.”

“Colin!” Penelope exclaimed. “That's a terrible thing to say.”

“I didn't say I don't love her. I didn't even say I don't like her. I adore Eloise, as you well know. However—”

“Anything that begins with
however
has got to be bad,” Penelope muttered.

“Eloise,” he said with uncharacteristic high-handedness, “should be married by now.”

Now,
that
was really too much, especially in that tone of voice. “Some might say,” Penelope returned with a self-righteous little tilt of her chin, “that you should be married by now, too.”

“Oh, pl—”

“You are, as you so proudly informed me, three-and-thirty.”

His expression was slightly amused, but with that pale tinge of irritation which told her he would not remain amused for long. “Penelope, don't even—”

“Ancient!” she chirped.

He swore under his breath, which surprised her, since she didn't think she'd ever heard him do so in the presence of a lady. She probably should have taken it as a warning, but she was too riled up. She supposed the old saying was true—courage spawned more courage.

Or maybe it was more that recklessness emboldened more recklessness, because she just looked at him archly and said, “Weren't both of your older brothers married by the age of thirty?”

To her surprise, Colin merely smiled and crossed his arms as he leaned one shoulder against the tree they were standing beneath. “My brothers and I are very different men.”

It was, Penelope realized, a very telling statement, because so many members of the
ton,
including the fabled Lady Whistledown, made so much of the fact that the Bridgerton brothers looked so alike. Some had even gone so far as to call them interchangeable. Penelope hadn't thought any of them were bothered by this—in fact, she'd assumed they'd all felt flattered by the comparison, since they seemed to like each other so well. But maybe she was wrong.

Or maybe she'd never looked closely enough.

Which was rather strange, because she felt as if she'd spent half her life watching Colin Bridgerton.

One thing she did know, however, and should have remembered, was that if Colin had any sort of a temper, he had never chosen to let her see it. Surely she'd flattered herself when she thought that her little quip about his brothers marrying before they turned thirty might set him off.

No, his method of attack was a lazy smile, a well-timed joke. If Colin ever lost his temper…

Penelope shook her head slightly, unable even to fathom it. Colin would never lose his temper. At least not in front of her. He'd have to be really, truly—no,
profoundly
—upset to lose his temper. And that kind of fury could only be sparked by someone you really, truly,
profoundly
cared about.

Colin liked her well enough—maybe even better than he liked most people—but he didn't
care
. Not that way.

“Perhaps we should just agree to disagree,” she finally said.