Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,122

a carriage over to his brother’s house.

He’d wanted to walk—the vigorous use of his legs and feet and muscles seemed the only socially acceptable outlet for his fury. But he’d recognized that time was of the essence, and even with traffic, a carriage could convey him to Mayfair faster than could his own two feet.

But now the walls seemed too close and the air too thick, and goddamn it, was that an overturned milkwagon blocking the street?

Colin poked his head out the door, hanging out of the carriage even as they were still rolling to a halt. “God above,” he muttered, taking in the scene. Broken glass littered the street, milk was flowing everywhere, and he couldn’t tell who was screeching louder—the horses, which were still tangled in the reins, or the ladies on the pavement, whose dresses had been completely splattered with milk.

Colin jumped down from his carriage, intending to help clear the scene, but it quickly became apparent that Oxford Street would be a snarl for at least an hour, with or without his help. He checked to make sure that the milkwagon horses were being properly cared for, informed his driver that he would be continuing on foot, and took off walking.

He stared defiantly in the faces of each person he passed, perversely enjoying the way they averted their gaze when faced with his obvious hostility. He almost wished one of them would make a comment, just so he could have someone to lash out at. It didn’t matter that the only person he really wanted to throttle was Cressida Twombley; by this point anyone would have made a fine target.

His anger was making him unbalanced, unreasonable. Unlike himself.

He still wasn’t certain what had happened to him when Penelope had told him of Cressida’s threats. This was more than anger, greater than fury. This was physical; it coursed through his veins, pulsed beneath his skin.

He wanted to hit someone.

He wanted to kick things, put his fist through a wall.

He’d been furious when Penelope had published her last column. In fact, he’d thought he couldn’t possibly experience a greater anger.

He was wrong.

Or perhaps it was just that this was a different sort of anger. Someone was trying to hurt the one person he loved above all others.

How could he tolerate that? How could he allow it to happen?

The answer was simple. He couldn’t.

He had to stop this. He had to do something.

After so many years of ambling through life, laughing at the antics of others, it was time to take action himself.

He looked up, somewhat surprised that he was already at Bridgerton House. Funny how it no longer seemed like home. He’d grown up here, but now it was so obviously his brother’s house.

Home was in Bloomsbury. Home was with Penelope.

Home was anywhere with Penelope.

“Colin?”

He turned around. Anthony was on the pavement, obviously returning from an errand or appointment.

Anthony nodded toward the door. “Were you planning to knock?”

Colin looked blankly at his brother, just then realizing that he’d been standing perfectly still on the steps for God only knew how long.

“Colin?” Anthony asked again, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I need your help,” Colin said. It was all he needed to say.

Penelope was already dressed for the ball when her maid brought in a note from Colin.

“Dunwoody got it from the messenger,” the maid explained before bobbing a quick curtsy and leaving Penelope to read the note in privacy.

Penelope slid her gloved finger under the envelope flap and nudged it open, pulling out the single sheet of paper on which she saw the fine, neat handwriting that had become so familiar to her since she’d started editing Colin’s journals.

I will make my own way over to the ball this evening. Please proceed to Number Five. Mother, Eloise, and Hyacinth are waiting to accompany you to Hastings House.

All my love,

Colin

For someone who wrote so well in his journals, he wasn’t much of a correspondent, Penelope thought with a wry smile.

She stood, smoothing out the fine silk of her skirts. She’d chosen a dress of her favorite color—sage green—in hopes that it might lend her courage. Her mother had always said that when a woman looked good, she felt good, and she rather thought her mother was right. Heaven knows, she’d spent a good eight years of her life feeling rather bad in the dresses her mother had insisted looked good.

Her hair had been dressed in a loosely upswept fashion that flattered her face, and her maid had even combed something