Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,104

Lady Whistledown came, somewhat indirectly, to their rescue.

The gossip surrounding Lady Whistledown and Cressida Twombley and whether the two were actually the same person raged like nothing London had heretofore seen or heard. In fact, the talk was so ubiquitous, so utterly impossible to escape, that no one paused to consider the fact that the date of the Bridgerton-Featherington wedding had been altered.

Which suited the Bridgertons and the Featheringtons just fine.

Except, perhaps, for Colin and Penelope, neither of whom were especially comfortable when talk turned to Lady Whistledown. Penelope was used to it by now, of course; nary a month had gone by in the past ten years when someone had not made idle speculation in her presence about the identity of Lady Whistledown. But Colin was still so upset and angry over her secret life that she’d grown uncomfortable herself. She’d tried to broach the subject with him a few times, but he’d become tight-lipped and told her (in a very un-Colin-like tone) that he didn’t want to talk about it.

She could only deduce that he was ashamed of her. Or if not of her, precisely, then of her work as Lady Whistledown. Which was like a blow to her heart, because her writing was the one segment in her life that she could point to with a great sense of pride and accomplishment. She had done something. She had, even if she could not put her own name on her work, become a wild success. How many of her contemporaries, male or female, could claim the same?

She might be ready to leave Lady Whistledown behind and live her new life as Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, wife and mother, but that in no way meant that she was ashamed of what she had done.

If only Colin could take pride in her accomplishments as well.

Oh, she believed, with every fiber of her being, that he loved her. Colin would never lie about such a thing. He had enough clever words and teasing smiles to make a woman feel happy and content without actually uttering words of love he did not feel. But perhaps it was possible—indeed, after regarding Colin’s behavior, she was now sure it was possible—that someone could love another person and still feel shame and displeasure with that person.

Penelope just hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

They were strolling through Mayfair one afternoon, just days before the wedding, when she attempted to broach the subject once again. Why, she didn’t know, since she couldn’t imagine that his attitude would have miraculously changed since the last time she’d mentioned it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Besides, she was hoping that their position out in public, where all the world could see them, would force Colin to keep a smile on his face and listen to what she had to say.

She gauged the distance to Number Five, where they were expected for tea. “I think,” she said, estimating that she had five minutes of conversation before he could usher her inside and change the subject, “that we have unfinished business that must be discussed.”

He raised a brow and looked at her with a curious but still very playful grin. She knew exactly what he was trying to do: use his charming and witty personality to steer the conversation where he wanted it. Any minute now, that grin would turn boyishly lopsided, and he would say something designed to change the topic without her realizing, something like—

“Rather serious for such a sunny day.”

She pursed her lips. It wasn’t precisely what she’d expected, but it certainly echoed the sentiment.

“Colin,” she said, trying to remain patient, “I wish you wouldn’t try to change the subject every time I bring up Lady Whistledown.”

His voice grew even, controlled. “I don’t believe I heard you mention her name, or I suppose I should say your name. And besides, all I did was compliment the fine weather.”

Penelope wanted more than anything to plant her feet firmly on the pavement and yank him to a startling halt, but they were in public (her own fault, she supposed, for choosing such a place to initiate the conversation) and so she kept walking, her gait smooth and sedate, even as her fingers curled into tense little fists. “The other night, when my last column was published—you were furious with me,” she continued.

He shrugged. “I’m over it.”

“I don’t think so.”

He turned to her with a rather condescending expression. “And now you’re telling me what I feel?”

Such a nasty shot