She 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. “Don’t worry,” Colin said through a smooth smile, grabbing hold of her
hand and yanking her back down. “Your mother said Prudence could go.” “Philippa,” Penelope said.
“What about Philippa?”
“She said Philippa could go, not Prudence.”
He wondered what had happened to her brain, because somewhere between his carriage and this sofa, it had clearly disappeared. “Does it matter?” he asked.
“No, not really, but—”
“Felicity,” Mrs. Featherington interrupted, “why don’t you tell Mr.
Bridgerton about your watercolors?”
For the life of him, Colin couldn’t imagine a less interesting topic (except, maybe, for Philippa’s watercolors), but he nonetheless turned to the youngest Featherington with a friendly smile and asked, “And how are your watercolors?”
But Felicity, bless her heart, gave him a rather friendly smile herself and said nothing but, “I imagine they’re fine, thank you.”
Mrs. Featherington looked as if she’d just swallowed a live eel, then exclaimed, “Felicity!”
“Yes?” Felicity said sweetly.
“You didn’t tell him that you’d won an award.” She turned to Colin. “Felicity’s watercolors are very unique.” She turned back to Felicity. “Do tell Mr. Bridgerton about your award.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine he is interested in that.”
“Of course he is,” Mrs. Featherington ground out.
Normally, Colin would have chimed in with, Of course I am, since he was, after all, an exceedingly affable fellow, but doing so would have validated Mrs. Featherington’s statement and, perhaps more critically, ruined Felicity’s good fun.
And Felicity appeared to be having a lot of fun. “Philippa,” she said, “weren’t you going to go after the food?”
“Oh, right,” Philippa replied. “Forgot all about it. I do that a lot. Come along, Nigel. You can keep me company.”
“Right-o!” Nigel beamed. And then he and Philippa left the room, giggling all the way.
Colin reaffirmed his conviction that the Berbrooke-Featherington match had been a good one, indeed.
“I think I shall go out to the garden,” Prudence suddenly announced, taking hold of her husband’s arm. “Penelope, why don’t you come with me?”
Penelope opened her mouth a few seconds before she figured out what to say, leaving her looking a little bit like a confused fish (but in Colin’s
opinion a rather fetching fish, if such a thing were possible). Finally, her chin took on a resolute mien, and she said, “I don’t think so, Prudence.”
“Penelope!” Mrs. Featherington exclaimed.
“I need you to show me something,” Prudence ground out.
“I really think I’m needed here,” Penelope replied. “I can join you later this afternoon, if you like.”
“I need you now.”
Penelope looked to her sister in surprise, clearly not expecting quite so much resistance. “I’m sorry, Prudence,” she reiterated. “I believe I’m needed here.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Featherington said breezily. “Felicity and I can keep Mr. Bridgerton company.”
Felicity jumped to her feet. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, her eyes round and innocent. “I forgot something.”
“What,” Mrs. Featherington asked between her teeth, “could you possibly have forgotten?”
“Uhh…my watercolors.” She turned to Colin with a sweet, mischievous smile. “You did want to see them, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” he murmured, deciding he very much liked Penelope’s younger sister. “Seeing as how they are so unique.”
“One might say they are uniquely ordinary,” Felicity said with an overly earnest nod.
“Penelope,” Mrs. Featherington said, obviously trying to hide her annoyance, “would you be so kind as to fetch Felicity’s watercolors?”
“Penelope doesn’t know where they are,” Felicity said quickly.
“Why don’t you tell her?”
“For God’s sake,” Colin finally exploded, “let Felicity go. I need a private moment with you, anyway.”
Silence reigned. It was the first time Colin Bridgerton had ever lost his temper in public. Beside him, Colin heard Penelope let out a little gasp, but when he glanced at her, she was hiding a tiny smile behind her hand.
And that made him feel ridiculously good.
“A private moment?” Mrs. Featherington echoed, her hand fluttering to her chest. She glanced over at Prudence and Robert, who were still standing by the window. They immediately left the room, although not without a fair bit of grumbling on Prudence’s part.
“Penelope,” Mrs. Featherington said, “perhaps you should accompany Felicity.”
“Penelope will remain,” Colin ground out.
“Penelope?” Mrs. Featherington asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” he said slowly, in case she still didn’t understand his meaning, “Penelope.”
“But—”
Colin gave her such a glare that she actually drew back and folded her hands in her lap.
“I’m gone!” Felicity chirped, sailing out of the room. But before she closed the door behind her, Colin saw her give a quick wink to Penelope.
And Penelope smiled, love for her younger sister shining clearly in her eyes.
Colin relaxed. He hadn’t realized just how tense Penelope’s misery was making him. And she was definitely miserable. Good God, he couldn’t wait
to remove her from the bosom of her ridiculous family.
Mrs. Featherington’s lips spread into a feeble attempt at a smile. She looked from Colin to Penelope and back again, and then finally said, “You desired a word?”
“Yes,” he replied, eager to get this done with. “I would be honored if you would grant me your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
For a moment Mrs. Featherington made no reaction. Then her eyes
grew round, her mouth grew round, her body—well, her body was already round—and she clapped her hands together, unable to say anything other than, “Oh! Oh!”
And then, “Felicity! Felicity!” Felicity?
Portia Featherington jumped to her feet, ran to the door and actually screamed like a fishwife. “Felicity! Felicity!”
“Oh, Mother,” Penelope moaned, closing her eyes.
“Why are you summoning Felicity?” Colin asked, rising to his feet. Mrs. Featherington turned to him quizzically. “Don’t you want to marry
Felicity?”
Colin actually thought he might be sick. “No, for God’s sake, I don’t want to marry Felicity,” he snapped. “If I’d wanted to marry Felicity, I’d hardly have sent her upstairs for her bloody watercolors, would I?”
Mrs. Featherington swallowed uncomfortably. “Mr. Bridgerton,” she said, wringing her hands together. “I don’t understand.”
He stared at her in horror, which then turned to disgust. “Penelope,” he said, grabbing her hand and yanking her until she was pressed close to his side. “I want to marry Penelope.”
“Penelope?” Mrs. Featherington echoed. “But—” “But what?” he interrupted, his voice pure menace. “But—but—”
“It’s all right, Colin,” Penelope said hastily. “I—”
“No, it is not all right,” he exploded. “I’ve never given any indication I’m the least bit interested in Felicity.”
Felicity appeared in the doorway, clapped her hand over her mouth, and quickly disappeared, wisely shutting the door behind her.
“Yes,” Penelope said placatingly, shooting a quick look at her mother, “but Felicity is unmarried, and—”
“So are you,” he pointed out. “I know, but I’m old, and—”
“And Felicity is an infant,” he spat. “Good God, marrying her would be like marrying Hyacinth.”
“Er, except for the incest,” Penelope said. He gave her an extremely unamused look.
“Right,” she said, mostly to fill the silence. “It’s just a terrible misunderstanding, isn’t it?”
No one said anything. Penelope looked at Colin pleadingly. “Isn’t it?” “It certainly is,” he muttered.
She turned to her mother. “Mama?”
“Penelope?” she murmured, and Penelope knew that her mother wasn’t asking her a question; rather, she was still expressing her disbelief that
Colin would want to marry her.
And oh, but it hurt so much. You’d think she’d be used to it by now. “I would like to marry Mr. Bridgerton,” Penelope said, trying to
summon up as much quiet dignity as she could manage. “He asked me, and I said yes.”
“Well, of course you would say yes,” her mother retorted. “You’d have to be an idiot to say no.”
“Mrs. Featherington,” Colin said tightly, “I suggest you begin treating my future wife with a bit more respect.”
“Colin, it’s not necessary,” Penelope said, placing her hand on his arm, but the truth was—her heart was soaring. He might not love her, but he cared about her. No man could defend a woman with such fierce
protectiveness without caring for her a little.
“It is necessary,” he returned. “For God’s sake, Penelope, I arrived with you. I made it abundantly clear that I required your presence in the room, and I practically shoved Felicity out the door to fetch her watercolors. Why on earth would anyone think I wanted Felicity?”
Mrs. Featherington opened and closed her mouth several times before finally saying, “I love Penelope, of course, but—”
“But do you know her?” Colin shot back. “She’s lovely and intelligent and has a fine sense of humor. Who wouldn’t want to marry a woman like that?”
Penelope would have melted to the floor if she weren’t already holding on to his hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, not caring if her mother heard her, not even really caring if Colin heard her. Somehow she needed to say the words for herself.
Not what she thought she was.
Lady Danbury’s face swam before her eyes, her expression warm and just a little bit cunning.
Something more. Maybe Penelope was something more, and maybe Colin was the only other person to realize that as well.
It made her love him all the more.
Her mother cleared her throat, then stepped forward and gave Penelope a hug. It was, at first, a hesitant embrace on both of their parts, but then
Portia tightened her arms around her thirdborn daughter, and with a choked cry, Penelope found herself returning the hug in equal measure.
“I do love you, Penelope,” Portia said, “and I am very pleased for you.” She drew back and wiped a tear from her eye. “I shall be lonely without you, of course, since I’d assumed we would grow old together, but this is what’s best for you, and that, I suppose, is what being a mother is all
about.”
Penelope let out a loud sniffle, then blindly reached for Colin’s handkerchief, which he had already pulled from his pocket and was holding in front of her.
“You’ll learn someday,” Portia said, patting her on the arm. She turned to Colin and said, “We are delighted to welcome you to the family.”
He nodded, not terribly warmly, but Penelope thought he made a rather nice effort considering how angry he’d been just moments earlier.
Penelope smiled and squeezed his hand, aware that she was about to embark upon the adventure of her life.
