Matchmaking mamas are united in their glee—Colin Bridgerton has returned from Greece!
For those gentle (and ignorant) readers who are new to town this year, Mr. Bridgerton is third in the legendary string of eight Bridgerton siblings (hence the name Colin, beginning with C; he follows Anthony and Benedict, and precedes Daphne, Eloise, Francesca, Gregory, and Hyacinth).
Although Mr. Bridgerton holds no noble title and is unlikely ever to do so (he is seventh in line for the title of Viscount Bridgerton, behind the two sons of the current viscount, his elder brother Benedict, and his three sons) he is still considered one of the prime
catches of the season, due to his fortune, his face, his form, and most of all, his charm. It is difficult, however, to predict whether Mr.
Bridgerton will succumb to matrimonial bliss this season; he is certainly of an age to marry (three-and-thirty), but he has never
shown a decided interest in any lady of proper parentage, and to
make matters even more complicated, he has an appalling tendency to leave London at the drop of a hat, bound for some exotic destination.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 2 APRIL 1824
“Look at this!” Portia Featherington squealed. “Colin Bridgerton is back!”
Penelope looked up from her needlework. Her mother was clutching the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers the way Penelope might clutch, say, a rope while hanging off a building. “I know,” she murmured.
Portia frowned. She hated when someone—anyone—was aware of gossip before she was. “How did you get to Whistledown before I did? I told Briarly to set it aside for me and not to let anyone touch—”
“I didn’t see it in Whistledown,” Penelope interrupted, before her mother went off to castigate the poor, beleaguered butler. “Felicity told me. Yesterday afternoon. Hyacinth Bridgerton told her.”
“Your sister spends a great deal of time over at the Bridgerton household.”
“As do I,” Penelope pointed out, wondering where this was leading.
Portia tapped her finger against the side of her chin, as she always did when she was plotting or scheming. “Colin Bridgerton is of an age to be looking for a wife.”
Penelope managed to blink just before her eyes bugged right out of her head. “Colin Bridgerton is not going to marry Felicity!”
Portia gave a little shrug. “Stranger things have happened.” “Not that I’ve ever seen,” Penelope muttered.
“Anthony Bridgerton married that Kate Sheffield girl, and she was even less popular than you.”
That wasn’t exactly true; Penelope rather thought they’d been on equally low rungs of the social ladder. But there seemed little point in
telling this to her mother, who probably thought she’d complimented her third daughter by saying she’d not been the least popular girl that season.
Penelope felt her lips tightening. Her mother’s “compliments” had a habit of landing rather like wasps.
“Do not think I mean to criticize,” Portia said, suddenly all concern. “In truth, I am glad for your spinsterhood. I am alone in this world save for my daughters, and it’s comforting to know that one of you shall be able to care for me in my older years.”
Penelope had a vision of the future—the future as described by her mother—and she had a sudden urge to run out and marry the chimney sweep. She’d long since resigned herself to a life of eternal spinsterhood, but somehow she’d always pictured herself off in her own neat little terrace house. Or maybe a snug cottage by the sea.
But lately Portia had been peppering her conversations with references to her old age and how lucky she was that Penelope could care for her.
Never mind that both Prudence and Philippa had married well-heeled men and possessed ample funds to see to their mother’s every comfort. Or that Portia was moderately wealthy in her own right; when her family had settled money on her as a dowry, one-fourth had been set aside for her own personal account.
No, when Portia talked about being “cared for,” she wasn’t referring to money. What Portia wanted was a slave.
Penelope sighed. She was being overly harsh with her mother, if only in her own mind. She did that too often. Her mother loved her. She knew her mother loved her. And she loved her mother back.
It was just that sometimes she didn’t much like her mother.
She hoped that didn’t make her a bad person. But truly, her mother could try the patience of even the kindest, gentlest of daughters, and as Penelope was the first to admit, she could be a wee bit sarcastic at times.
“Why don’t you think Colin would marry Felicity?” Portia asked.
Penelope looked up, startled. She’d thought they were done with that subject. She should have known better. Her mother was nothing if not tenacious. “Well,” she said slowly, “to begin with, she’s twelve years younger than he is.”
“Pfft,” Portia said, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s nothing, and you know it.”
Penelope frowned, then yelped as she accidentally stabbed her finger with her needle.
“Besides,” Portia continued blithely, “he’s”—she looked back down at Whistledown and scanned it for his exact age—“three-and-thirty! How is he meant to avoid a twelve-year difference between him and his wife? Surely you don’t expect him to marry someone your age.”
Penelope sucked on her abused finger even though she knew it was hopelessly uncouth to do so. But she needed to put something in her mouth to keep her from saying something horrible and horribly spiteful.
Everything her mother said was true. Many ton weddings—maybe even most of them—saw men marrying girls a dozen or more years their junior. But somehow the age gap between Colin and Felicity seemed even larger,
perhaps because…
Penelope was unable to keep the disgust off her face. “She’s like a sister to him. A little sister.”
“Really, Penelope. I hardly think—”
“It’s almost incestuous,” Penelope muttered. “What did you say?”
Penelope snatched up her needlework again. “Nothing.” “I’m sure you said something.”
Penelope shook her head. “I did clear my throat. Perhaps you heard—” “I heard you saying something. I’m sure of it!”
Penelope groaned. Her life loomed long and tedious ahead of her. “Mother,” she said, with the patience of, if not a saint, at least a very devout nun, “Felicity is practically engaged to Mr. Albansdale.”
Portia actually began rubbing her hands together. “She won’t be engaged to him if she can catch Colin Bridgerton.”
“Felicity would die before chasing after Colin.”
“Of course not. She’s a smart girl. Anyone can see that Colin Bridgerton is a better catch.”
“But Felicity loves Mr. Albansdale!”
Portia deflated into her perfectly upholstered chair. “There is that.” “And,” Penelope added with great feeling, “Mr. Albansdale is in
possession of a perfectly respectable fortune.”
Portia tapped her index finger against her cheek. “True. Not,” she said sharply, “as respectable as a Bridgerton portion, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, I suppose.”
Penelope knew it was time to let it go, but she couldn’t stop her mouth from opening one last time. “In all truth, Mother, he’s a wonderful match for Felicity. We should be delighted for her.”
“I know, I know,” Portia grumbled. “It’s just that I so wanted one of my daughters to marry a Bridgerton. What a coup! I would be the talk of London for weeks. Years, maybe.”
Penelope stabbed her needle into the cushion beside her. It was a rather foolish way to vent her anger, but the alternative was to jump to her feet and yell, What about me? Portia seemed to think that once Felicity was wed, her
hopes for a Bridgerton union were forever dashed. But Penelope was still unmarried—didn’t that count for anything?
Was it so much to wish that her mother thought of her with the same pride she felt for her other three daughters? Penelope knew that Colin
wasn’t going to choose her as his bride, but shouldn’t a mother be at least a little bit blind to her children’s faults? It was obvious to Penelope that neither Prudence, Philippa, nor even Felicity had ever had a chance with a Bridgerton. Why did her mother seem to think their charms so exceeded Penelope’s?
Very well, Penelope had to admit that Felicity enjoyed a popularity that exceeded that of her three older sisters combined. But Prudence and
Philippa had never been Incomparables. They’d hovered on the perimeters of ballrooms just as much as Penelope had.
Except, of course, that they were married now. Penelope wouldn’t have wanted to cleave herself unto either of their husbands, but at least they were wives.
Thankfully, however, Portia’s mind had already moved on to greener pastures. “I must pay a call upon Violet,” she was saying. “She’ll be so relieved that Colin is back.”
“I’m sure Lady Bridgerton will be delighted to see you,” Penelope said. “That poor woman,” Portia said, her sigh dramatic. “She worries about
him, you know—” “I know.”
“Truly, I think it is more than a mother should be expected to bear. He goes gallivanting about, the good Lord only knows where, to countries that are positively unheathen—”
“I believe they practice Christianity in Greece,” Penelope murmured, her eyes back down on her needlework.
“Don’t be impertinent, Penelope Anne Featherington, and they’re
Catholics!” Portia shuddered on the word.
“They’re not Catholics at all,” Penelope replied, giving up on the needlework and setting it aside. “They’re Greek Orthodox.”
“Well, they’re not Church of England,” Portia said with a sniff. “Seeing as how they’re Greek, I don’t think they’re terribly worried
about that.”
Portia’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “And how do you know about this Greek religion, anyway? No, don’t tell me,” she said with a dramatic flourish. “You read it somewhere.”
Penelope just blinked as she tried to think of a suitable reply.
“I wish you wouldn’t read so much,” Portia sighed. “I probably could have married you off years ago if you had concentrated more on the social graces and less on…less on…”
Penelope had to ask. “Less on what?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is you do that has you staring into space and daydreaming so often.”
“I’m just thinking,” Penelope said quietly. “Sometimes I just like to stop and think.”
“Stop what?” Portia wanted to know.
Penelope couldn’t help but smile. Portia’s query seemed to sum up all that was different between mother and daughter. “It’s nothing, Mother,” Penelope said. “Really.”
Portia looked as if she wanted to say more, then thought the better of it. Or maybe she was just hungry. She did pluck a biscuit off the tea tray and pop it into her mouth.
Penelope started to reach out to take the last biscuit for herself, then decided to let her mother have it. She might as well keep her mother’s mouth full. The last thing she wanted was to find herself in another conversation about Colin Bridgerton.
“Colin’s back!”
Penelope looked up from her book—A Brief History of Greece—to see Eloise Bridgerton bursting into her room. As usual, Eloise had not been announced. The Featherington butler was so used to seeing her there that he treated her like a member of the family.
“Is he?” Penelope asked, managing to feign (in her opinion) rather
realistic indifference. Of course, she did set A Brief History of Greece down behind Mathilda, the novel by S.R. Fielding that had been all the rage a year earlier. Everyone had a copy of Mathilda on their bedstand. And it was thick enough to hide A Brief History of Greece.
Eloise sat down in Penelope’s desk chair. “Indeed, and he’s very tanned.
All that time in the sun, I suppose.” “He went to Greece, didn’t he?”
Eloise shook her head. “He said the war there has worsened, and it was too dangerous. So he went to Cyprus instead.”
“My, my,” Penelope said with a smile. “Lady Whistledown got something wrong.”
Eloise smiled that cheeky Bridgerton smile, and once again Penelope realized how lucky she was to have her as her closest friend. She and Eloise had been inseparable since the age of seventeen. They’d had their London
seasons together, reached adulthood together, and, much to their mothers’ dismay, had become spinsters together.
Eloise claimed that she hadn’t met the right person.
Penelope, of course, hadn’t been asked. “Did he enjoy Cyprus?” Penelope inquired.
Eloise sighed. “He said it was brilliant. How I should love to travel. It seems everyone has been somewhere but me.”
“And me,” Penelope reminded her.
“And you,” Eloise agreed. “Thank goodness for you.”
“Eloise!” Penelope exclaimed, throwing a pillow at her. But she thanked goodness for Eloise, too. Every day. Many women went through their entire lives without a close female friend, and here she had someone to whom she could tell anything. Well, almost anything. Penelope had never told her of her feelings for Colin, although she rather thought Eloise suspected the truth. Eloise was far too tactful to mention it, though, which only validated Penelope’s certainty that Colin would never love her. If Eloise had thought, for even one moment, that Penelope actually had a chance at snaring Colin as a husband, she would have been plotting her matchmaking strategies with a ruthlessness that would have impressed any army general.
When it came right down to it, Eloise was a rather managing sort of person.
“…and then he said that the water was so choppy that he actually cast up his accounts over the side of the boat, and—” Eloise scowled. “You’re not listening to me.”
“No,” Penelope admitted. “Well, yes, actually, parts of it. I cannot believe Colin actually told you he vomited.”
“Well, I am his sister.”
“He’d be furious with you if he knew you’d told me.”
Eloise waved off her protest. “He won’t mind. You’re like another sister to him.”
Penelope smiled, but she sighed at the same time.
“Mother asked him—of course—whether he was planning to remain in town for the season,” Eloise continued, “and—of course—he was terribly evasive, but then I decided to interrogate him myself—”
“Terribly smart of you,” Penelope murmured.
Eloise threw the pillow back at her. “And I finally got him to admit to me that yes, he thinks he will stay for at least a few months. But he made me promise not to tell Mother.”
“Now, that’s not”—Penelope cleared her throat—“terribly intelligent of him. If your mother thinks his time here is limited, she will redouble her efforts to see him married. I should think that was what he wanted most to avoid.”
“It does seem his usual aim in life,” Eloise concurred.
“If he lulled her into thinking that there was no rush, perhaps she might not badger him quite so much.”
“An interesting idea,” Eloise said, “but probably more true in theory than in practice. My mother is so determined to see him wed that it matters not if she increases her efforts. Her regular efforts are enough to drive him mad as it is.”
“Can one go doubly mad?” Penelope mused.
Eloise cocked her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I should want to find out.”
They both fell silent for a moment (a rare occurrence, indeed) and then Eloise quite suddenly jumped to her feet and said, “I must go.”
Penelope smiled. People who didn’t know Eloise very well thought she had a habit of changing the subject frequently (and abruptly), but Penelope knew that the truth was something else altogether. When Eloise had her mind set on something, she was completely unable to let it go. Which meant
that if Eloise suddenly wanted to leave, it probably had to do with something they’d been talking about earlier in the afternoon, and—
“Colin is expected for tea,” Eloise explained. Penelope smiled. She loved being right.
“You should come,” Eloise said.
Penelope shook her head. “He’ll want it to be just family.”
“You’re probably right,” Eloise said, nodding slightly. “Very well, then, I must be off. Terribly sorry to cut my visit so short, but I wanted to be sure that you knew Colin was home.”
“Whistledown,” Penelope reminded her.
“Right. Where does that woman get her information?” Eloise said, shaking her head in wonder. “I vow sometimes she knows so much about my family I wonder if I ought to be frightened.”
“She can’t go on forever,” Penelope commented, getting up to see her friend out. “Someone will eventually figure out who she is, don’t you
think?”
“I don’t know.” Eloise put her hand on the doorknob, twisted, and pulled. “I used to think so. But it’s been ten years. More, actually. If she were going to be caught, I think it would have happened already.”
Penelope followed Eloise down the stairs. “Eventually she’ll make a mistake. She has to. She’s only human.”
Eloise laughed. “And here I thought she was a minor god.” Penelope found herself grinning.
Eloise stopped and whirled around so suddenly that Penelope crashed right into her, nearly sending both of them tumbling down the last few steps on the staircase. “Do you know what?” Eloise demanded.
“I couldn’t begin to speculate.”
Eloise didn’t even bother to pull a face. “I’d wager that she has made a mistake,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said it yourself. She—or it could be he, I suppose—has been writing the column for over a decade. No one could do that for so long without making a mistake. Do you know what I think?”
Penelope just spread her hands in an impatient gesture.
“I think the problem is that the rest of us are too stupid to notice her mistakes.”
Penelope stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Oh, Eloise,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I do love you.”
Eloise grinned. “And it’s a good thing you do, spinster that I am. We shall have to set up a household together when we are thirty and truly
crones.”
Penelope caught hold of the idea like a lifeboat. “Do you think we
could?” she exclaimed. And then, in a hushed voice, after looking furtively up and down the hall, “Mother has begun to speak of her old age with alarming frequency.”
“What’s so alarming about that?”
“I’m in all of her visions, waiting on her hand and foot.” “Oh, dear.”
“A milder expletive than had crossed my mind.” “Penelope!” But Eloise was grinning.
“I love my mother,” Penelope said.
“I know you do,” Eloise said, in a rather placating sort of voice. “No, I really do.”
The left corner of Eloise’s mouth began to twitch. “I know you really do. Really.”
“It’s just that—”
Eloise put up a hand. “You don’t need to say any more. I understand perfectly. I—Oh! Good day, Mrs. Featherington!”
“Eloise,” Portia said, bustling down the hall. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I’m sneaky as always,” Eloise said. “Cheeky, even.”
Portia gave her an indulgent smile. “I heard your brother is back in town.”
“Yes, we are all overjoyed.”
“I’m sure you must be, especially your mother.”
“Indeed. She is beside herself. I believe she is drawing up a list right now.”
Portia’s entire aspect perked up, as it did at the mention of anything that might be construed as gossip. “A list? What sort of list?”
“Oh, you know, the same list she has made for all of her adult children.
Prospective spouses and all that.”
“It makes me wonder,” Penelope said in a dry voice, “what constitutes ‘all that.’ ”
“Sometimes she includes one or two people who are hopelessly unsuitable so as to highlight the qualities of the real possibilities.”
Portia laughed. “Perhaps she’ll put you on Colin’s list, Penelope!”
Penelope didn’t laugh. Neither did Eloise. Portia didn’t seem to notice. “Well, I’d best be off,” Eloise said, clearing her throat to cover a
moment that was awkward to two of the three people in the hall. “Colin is expected for tea. Mother wants the entire family in attendance.”
“Will you all fit?” Penelope asked. Lady Bridgerton’s home was large, but the Bridgerton children, spouses, and grandchildren numbered twenty- one. It was a large brood, indeed.
“We’re going to Bridgerton House,” Eloise explained. Her mother had moved out of the Bridgertons’ official London residence after her eldest son had married. Anthony, who had been viscount since the age of eighteen, had told Violet that she needn’t go, but she had insisted that he and his wife needed their privacy. As a result, Anthony and Kate lived with their three children in Bridgerton House, while Violet lived with her unmarried children (with the exception of Colin, who kept his own lodgings) just a
few blocks away at 5 Bruton Street. After a year or so of unsuccessful attempts to name Lady Bridgerton’s new home, the family had taken to calling it simply Number Five.
“Do enjoy yourself,” Portia said. “I must go and find Felicity. We are late for an appointment at the modiste.”
Eloise watched Portia disappear up the stairs, then said to Penelope, “Your sister seems to spend a great deal of time at the modiste.”
Penelope shrugged. “Felicity is going mad with all the fittings, but she’s Mother’s only hope for a truly grand match. I’m afraid she’s convinced that Felicity will catch a duke if she’s wearing the right gown.”
“Isn’t she practically engaged to Mr. Albansdale?”
“I imagine he’ll make a formal offer next week. But until then, Mother is keeping her options open.” She rolled her eyes. “You’d best warn your brother to keep his distance.”
“Gregory?” Eloise asked in disbelief. “He’s not even out of university.” “Colin.”
“Colin?” Eloise exploded with laughter. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“That’s what I told her, but you know how she is once she gets an idea in her head.”
Eloise chuckled. “Rather like me, I imagine.” “Tenacious to the end.”
“Tenacity can be a very good thing,” Eloise reminded her, “at the proper time.”
“Right,” Penelope returned with a sarcastic smile, “and at the improper time, it’s an absolute nightmare.”
Eloise laughed. “Cheer up, friend. At least she let you rid yourself of all those yellow frocks.”
Penelope looked down at her morning dress, which was, if she did say so herself, a rather flattering shade of blue. “She stopped choosing my clothing once she finally realized I was officially on the shelf. A girl with no marriage prospects isn’t worth the time and energy it takes her to offer fashion advice. She hasn’t accompanied me to the modiste in over a year! Bliss!”
Eloise smiled at her friend, whose complexion turned the loveliest
peaches and cream whenever she wore cooler hues. “It was apparent to all, the moment you were allowed to choose your own clothing. Even Lady Whistledown commented upon it!”
“I hid that column from Mother,” Penelope admitted. “I didn’t want her feelings to be hurt.”
Eloise blinked a few times before saying, “That was very kind of you, Penelope.”
“I have my moments of charity and grace.”
“One would think,” Eloise said with a snort, “that a vital component of charity and grace is the ability not to draw attention to one’s possession of them.”
Penelope pursed her lips as she pushed Eloise toward the door. “Don’t you need to go home?”
“I’m leaving! I’m leaving!” And she left.
It was, Colin Bridgerton decided as he took a sip of some truly excellent brandy, rather nice to be back in England.
It was quite strange, actually, how he loved returning home just as much as he did the departure. In another few months—six at the most—he’d be itching to leave again, but for now, England in April was positively brilliant.
“It’s good, isn’t it?”
Colin looked up. His brother Anthony was leaning against the front of his massive mahogany desk, motioning to him with his own glass of brandy.
Colin nodded. “Hadn’t realized how much I missed it until I returned.
Ouzo has its charms, but this”—he lifted his glass—“is heaven.”
Anthony smiled wryly. “And how long do you plan to remain this time?”
Colin wandered over to the window and pretended to look out. His eldest brother made little attempt to disguise his impatience with Colin’s wanderlust. In truth, Colin really couldn’t blame him. Occasionally, it was difficult to get letters home; he supposed that his family often had to wait a month or even two for word of his welfare. But while he knew that he
would not relish being in their shoes—never knowing if a loved one was dead or alive, constantly waiting for the knock of the messenger at the front door—that just wasn’t enough to keep his feet firmly planted in England.
Every now and then, he simply had to get away. There was no other way to describe it.
Away from the ton, who thought him a charming rogue and nothing else, away from England, which encouraged younger sons to enter the military or the clergy, neither of which suited his temperament. Even away from his family, who loved him unconditionally but had no clue that what he really wanted, deep down inside, was something to do.
His brother Anthony held the viscountcy, and with that came myriad responsibilities. He ran estates, managed the family’s finances, and saw to the welfare of countless tenants and servants. Benedict, his elder by four years, had gained renown as an artist. He’d started with pencil and paper, but at the urging of his wife had moved on to oils. One of his landscapes now hung in the National Gallery.
Anthony would be forever remembered in family trees as the seventh Viscount Bridgerton. Benedict would live through his paintings, long after he left this earth.
But Colin had nothing. He managed the small property given to him by his family and he attended parties. He would never dream of claiming he didn’t have fun, but sometimes he wanted something a little more than fun.
He wanted a purpose. He wanted a legacy.
He wanted, if not to know then at least to hope, that when he was gone, he’d be memorialized in some manner other than in Lady Whistledown’s
Society Papers.
He sighed. No wonder he spent so much time traveling.
“Colin?” his brother prompted.
Colin turned to him and blinked. He was fairly certain Anthony had asked him a question, but somewhere in the meanderings of his mind, he’d forgotten what.
“Oh. Right.” Colin cleared his throat. “I’ll be here for the rest of the season, at least.”
Anthony said nothing, but it was difficult to miss the satisfied expression on his face.
“If nothing else,” Colin added, affixing his legendary crooked grin on his face, “someone has to spoil your children. I don’t think Charlotte has nearly enough dolls.”
“Only fifty,” Anthony agreed in a deadpan voice. “The poor girl is horribly neglected.”
“Her birthday is at the end of this month, is it not? I shall have to neglect her some more, I think.”
“Speaking of birthdays,” Anthony said, settling into the large chair behind his desk, “Mother’s is a week from Sunday.”
“Why do you think I hurried to return?”
Anthony raised a brow, and Colin had the distinct impression that he was trying to decide if Colin had truly rushed home for their mother’s birthday, or if he was simply taking advantage of some very good timing.
“We’re holding a party for her,” Anthony said.
“She’s letting you?” It was Colin’s experience that women of a certain age did not enjoy birthday celebrations. And although his mother was still exceedingly lovely, she was definitely of a certain age.
“We were forced to resort to blackmail,” Anthony admitted. “She agreed to the party or we revealed her true age.”
Colin shouldn’t have taken a sip of his brandy; he choked on it and just barely managed to avert spraying it all over his brother. “I should have liked to have seen that.”
Anthony offered a rather satisfied smile. “It was a brilliant maneuver on my part.”
Colin finished the rest of his drink. “What, do you think, are the chances she won’t use the party as an opportunity to find me a wife?”
“Very small.” “I thought so.”
Anthony leaned back in his chair. “You are thirty-three now, Colin…”
Colin stared at him in disbelief. “God above, don’t you start on me.” “I wouldn’t dream of it. I was merely going to suggest that you keep
your eyes open this season. You needn’t actively look for a wife, but there’s no harm in remaining at least amenable to the possibility.”
Colin eyed the doorway, intending to pass through it very shortly. “I assure you I am not averse to the idea of marriage.”
“I didn’t think you were,” Anthony demurred. “I see little reason to rush, however.”
“There’s never a reason to rush,” Anthony returned. “Well, rarely, anyway. Just humor Mother, will you?”
Colin hadn’t realized he was still holding his empty glass until it slipped through his fingers and landed on the carpet with a loud thunk. “Good
God,” he whispered, “is she ill?”
“No!” Anthony said, his surprise making his voice loud and forceful. “She’ll outlive us all, I’m sure of it.”
“Then what is this about?”
Anthony sighed. “I just want to see you happy.” “I am happy,” Colin insisted.
“Are you?”
“Hell, I’m the happiest man in London. Just read Lady Whistledown.
She’ll tell you so.”
Anthony glanced down at the paper on his desk.
“Well, maybe not this column, but anything from last year. I’ve been called charming more times than Lady Danbury has been called opinionated, and we both know what a feat that is.”
“Charming doesn’t necessarily equal happy,” Anthony said softly.
“I don’t have time for this,” Colin muttered. The door had never looked so good.
“If you were truly happy,” Anthony persisted, “you wouldn’t keep leaving.”
Colin paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Anthony, I like to travel.” “Constantly?”
“I must, or I wouldn’t do it.”
“That’s an evasive sentence if ever I’ve heard one.” “And this”—Colin flashed his brother a wicked smile— “is an evasive maneuver.”
“Colin!”
But he’d already left the room.
