Bridgerton - Romancing Mr. Bridgerton Part 15

"Which makes it all the more interesting," Eloise said. She looked to Penelope expectantly.

"I'm sorry," Penelope said. "I really can't say."

"I can't believe it!" Eloise cried out. "You're not going to tell me."

"No," Penelope replied, feeling rather oddly satisfied with herself, "I'm not."

"I can't believe it," Eloise said again, turning to her brother. "I can't believe it."

His lips quirked into the barest of smiles. "Believe it."

"You're keeping secrets from me."

He raised his brows. "Did you think I told you everything?"

"Of course not." She scowled. "But I thought Penelope did."

"But this isn't my secret to tell," Penelope said. "It's Colin's."

"I think the planet has shifted on its axis," Eloise grumbled. "Or perhaps England has crashed into France. All I know is this is not the same world I inhabited just this morning."

Penelope couldn't help it. She giggled.

"And you're laughing at me!" Eloise added.

"No, I'm not," Penelope said, laughing. "Really, I'm not."

"Do you know what you need?" Colin asked.

"Me?" Eloise queried.

He nodded. "A husband."

"You're as bad as Mother!"

"I could be a lot worse if I really put my mind to it."

"Of that I have no doubt," Eloise shot back.

"Stop, stop!" Penelope said, truly laughing in earnest now.

They both looked at her expectantly, as if to say, Now what?

"I'm so glad I came tonight," Penelope said, the words tumbling unbidden from her lips. "I can't remember a nicer evening. Truly, I can't."

Several hours later, as Colin was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling in the bedroom of his new flat in Bloomsbury, it occurred to him that he felt the exact same way.

CHAPTER 8.

Colin Bridgerton and Penelope Featherington were seen in conversation at the Smythe-Smith musicale, although no one seems to know what exactly they were discussing. This Author would venture to guess that their conversation centered upon This Authors ident.i.ty, since that was what everyone else seemed to be talking about before, after, and (rather rudely, in This Authors esteemed opinion) during the performance.

In other news, Honoria Smythe-Smith s violin was damaged when Lady Danbury accidentally knocked it off a table while waving her cane.

Lady Danbury insisted upon replacing the instrument, but then declared that as it is not her habit to buy anything but the best, Honoria will have a Ruggieri violin, imported from Cremona, Italy.

It is This Author's understanding that, when one factors in manufacture and shipping time, along with a lengthy waiting list, it takes six months for a Ruggieri violin to reach our sh.o.r.es There are moments in a woman's life when her heart flips in her chest, when the world suddenly seems uncommonly pink and perfect, when a symphony can be heard in the tinkle of a doorbell.

Penelope Featherington had just such a moment two days after the Smythe-Smith musicale.

All it took was a knock on her bedroom door, followed by her butler's voice, informing her: "Mr. Colin Bridgerton is here to see you." Penelope tumbled right off the bed. Briarly, who had butlered for the Featherington family long enough so that he did not even so much as bat an eyelash at Penelope's clumsiness, murmured, "Shall I tell him you are not in?"

"No!" Penelope nearly shrieked, stumbling to her feet. "I mean, no," she added in a more reasonable voice. "But I will require ten minutes to prepare myself." She glanced in the mirror and winced at her disheveled appearance. "Fifteen."

"As you wish, Miss Penelope."

"Oh, and make certain to prepare a tray of food. Mr. Bridgerton is sure to be hungry. He's always hungry." The butler nodded again.

Penelope stood stock-still as Briarly disappeared out the door, then, completely unable to contain herself, danced from foot to foot, emitting a strange squealing sort of noise-one that she was convinced-or at least hoped-had never before crossed her lips.

Then again, she couldn't remember the last time a gentleman had called upon her, much less the one with whom she'd been desperately in love for almost half of her life.

"Settle down," she said, spreading her fingers and pressing her flattened palms out in much the same motion she might make if she were trying to placate a small, unruly crowd. "You must remain calm. Calm," she repeated, as if that would actually do the trick. "Calm." But inside, her heart was dancing.

She took a few deep breaths, walked over to her dressing table, and picked up her hairbrush. It would only take a few minutes to repin her hair; surely Colin wasn't going to flee if she kept him waiting for a short while. He'd expect her to take a bit of time to ready herself, wouldn't he?

But still, she found herself fixing her hair in record time, and by the time she stepped through the sitting room door, a mere five minutes had pa.s.sed since the butler's announcement.

"That was quick," Colin said with a quirky grin. He'd been standing by the window, peering out at Mount Street.

"Oh, was it?" Penelope said, hoping that the heat she felt on her skin wasn't translating into a blush. A woman was supposed to keep a gentleman waiting, although not too long. Still, it made no sense to hold to such silly behavior with Colin, of all people. He would never be interested in her in a romantic fashion, and besides, they were friends.

Friends. It seemed like such an odd concept, and yet that was exactly what they were. They'd always been friendly acquaintances, but since his return from Cyprus, they'd become friends in truth.

It was magical.

Even if he never loved her-and she rather thought he never would-this was better than what they'd had before.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked, taking a seat on her mother's slightly faded yellow damask sofa.

Colin sat across from her in a rather uncomfortable straight-backed chair. He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, and Penelope knew instantly that something was wrong. It simply wasn't the pose a gentleman adopted for a regular social call. He looked too distraught, too intense.

"It's rather serious," he said, his face grim.

Penelope nearly rose to her feet. "Has something happened? Is someone ill?"

"No, no, nothing like that." He paused, let out a long breath, then raked his hand through his already mussed-up hair. "It's about Eloise."

"What is it?"

"I don't know how to say this. I-Do you have anything to eat?"

Penelope was ready to wring his neck. "For heaven's sake, Colin!"

"Sorry," he muttered. "I haven't eaten all day."

"A first, I'm sure," Penelope said impatiently. "I already told Briarly to fix a tray. Now, will you just tell me what is wrong, or do you plan to wait until I expire of impatience?"

"I think she's Lady Whistledown," he blurted out.

Penelope's mouth fell open. She wasn't sure what she'd expected him to say, but it wasn't this.

"Penelope, did you hear me?"

"Eloise?" she asked, even though she knew exactly who he was talking about.

He nodded.

"She can't be."

He stood and began to pace, too full of nervous energy to sit still. "Why not?"

"Because ... because ..." Because why? "Because there is no way she could have done that for ten years without my knowing."

His expression went from disturbed to disdainful in an instant. "I hardly think you're privy to everything that Eloise does."

"Of course not," Penelope replied, giving him a rather irritated look, "but I can tell you with absolute certainty that there is no way Eloise could keep a secret of that magnitude from me for over ten years. She's simply not capable of it."

"Penelope, she's the nosiest person I know."

"Well, that much is true," Penelope agreed. "Except for my mother, I suppose. But that's hardly enough to convict her."

Colin stopped his pacing and planted his hands on his hips. "She is always writing things down."

"Why would you think that?"

He held up bis hand, rubbing his thumb briskly against his fingertips. "Inkstains. Constantly."

"Lots of people use pen and ink." Penelope motioned broadly at Colin. "You write in journals. I am certain you've had your share of ink on your fingers."

"Yes, but I don't disappear when I write in my journals."

Penelope felt her pulse quicken. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice growing breathless.

"I mean that she locks herself in her room for hours on end, and it's after those periods that her fingers are covered with ink."

Penelope didn't say anything for an agonizingly long moment. Colin's "evidence" was d.a.m.ning, indeed, especially when combined with Eloise's well-known and well-doc.u.mented penchant for nosiness.

But she wasn't Lady Whistledown. She couldn't be. Penelope would bet her life on it.

Finally Penelope just crossed her arms and, in a tone of voice that probably would have been more at home on an exceedingly stubborn six-year-old, said, "It's not her. It's not."

Colin sat back down, looking defeated. "I wish I could share your certainty."

"Colin, you need to-"

"Where the h.e.l.l is the food?" he grumbled.

She should have been shocked, but somehow his lack of manners amused her. "I'm sure Briarly will be here shortly."

He sprawled into a chair. "I'm hungry."

"Yes," Penelope said, lips twitching, "I surmised as much."

He sighed, weary and worried. "If she's Lady Whistledown, it'll be a disaster. A pure, unmitigated disaster."

"It wouldn't be that bad," Penelope said carefully. "Not that I think she's Lady Whistledown, because I don't! But truly, if she were, would it be so very dreadful? I rather like Lady Whistledown myself."

"Yes, Penelope," Colin said rather sharply, "it would be so very dreadful. She'd be ruined."

"I don't think she'd be ruined...."

"Of course she'd be ruined. Do you have any idea how many people that woman has insulted over the years?"

"I didn't realize you hated Lady Whistledown so much," Penelope said.

"I don't hate her," Colin said impatiently. "It doesn't matter if I hate her. Everyone else hates her."

"I don't think that's true. They all buy her paper."

"Of course they buy her paper! Everyone buys her b.l.o.o.d.y paper."

"Colin!"

"Sorry," he muttered, but it didn't really sound like he meant it.

Penelope nodded her acceptance of his apology.

"Whoever that Lady Whistledown is," Colin said, shaking his finger at her with such vehemence that she actually lurched backward, "when she is unmasked, she will not be able to show her face in London."

Penelope delicately cleared her throat. "I didn't realize you cared so much about the opinions of society."

"I don't," he retorted. "Well, not much, at least. Anyone who tells you they don't care at all is a liar and a hypocrite."