Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,11

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.

Chapter 2

It has always been fashionable among the ton to complain of ennui, but surely this year’s crop of partygoers has raised boredom to an art form. One cannot take two steps at a society function these days without hearing the phrase “dreadfully dull,” or “hopelessly banal.” Indeed, This Author has even been informed that Cressida Twombley recently remarked that she was convinced that she might perish of eternal boredom if forced to attend one more off-key musicale.

(This Author must concur with Lady Twombley on that note; while this year’s selection of debutantes are an amiable bunch, there is not a decent musician among them.)

If there is to be an antidote for the disease of tedium, surely it will be Sunday’s fête at Bridgerton House. The entire family will gather, along with a hundred or so of their closest friends, to celebrate the dowager viscountess’s birthday.

It is considered crass to mention a lady’s age, and so This Author will not reveal which birthday Lady Bridgerton is celebrating.

But have no fear! This Author knows!

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 9 APRIL 1824

Spinsterhood was a word that tended to invoke either panic or pity, but Penelope was coming to realize that there were decided advantages to the unmarried state.

First of all, no one really expected the spinsters to dance at balls, which meant that Penelope was no longer forced to hover at the edge of the dance floor, looking this way and that, pretending that she didn’t really want to dance. Now she could sit off to the side with the other spinsters and chaperones. She still wanted to dance, of course—she rather liked dancing, and she was actually quite good at it, not that anyone ever noticed—but it was much easier to feign disinterest the farther one got from the waltzing couples.

Second, the number of hours spent in dull conversation had been drastically reduced. Mrs. Featherington had officially given up hope that Penelope might ever snag a husband, and so she’d stopped thrusting her in the path of every third-tier eligible bachelor. Portia had never really thought Penelope had a prayer of attracting the attention of a first- or second-tier bachelor, which was probably true, but most of the third-tier bachelors were classified as such for a reason, and sadly, that reason was often personality, or lack thereof. Which, when combined with Penelope’s shyness with strangers, didn’t tend to promote sparkling conversation.

And finally, she could eat again. It