Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,127

groaned.

“I know, I know,” Hyacinth said unrepentantly, “I must be more ladylike.”

“If you know it,” Violet said, sounding every inch the mother she was, “then why don’t you do it?”

“What would be the fun in that?”

“Good evening, ladies,” Colin said, kissing his mother’s hand before smoothly taking his place beside Penelope and sliding his arm around her waist.

“Well?” Hyacinth demanded.

Colin merely quirked a brow.

“Are you going to tell us?” she persisted.

“All in good time, dear sister.”

“You’re a wretched, wretched man,” Hyacinth grumbled.

“I say,” Colin murmured, looking about, “what happened to Eloise?”

“That’s a very good question,” Hyacinth muttered, just as Penelope said, “I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

He nodded, not looking terribly interested. “Mother,” he said, turning toward Violet, “how have you been?”

“You’ve been sending cryptic notes all over town,” Violet demanded, “and you want to know how I’ve been?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

Violet actually started wagging her finger at him, something she’d forbidden her own children from ever doing in public. “Oh, no, you don’t, Colin Bridgerton. You are not going to get out of explaining yourself. I am your mother. Your mother!”

“I am aware of the relation,” he murmured.

“You are not going to waltz in here and distract me with a clever phrase and a beguiling smile.”

“You think my smile is beguiling?”

“Colin!”

“But,” he acceded, “you did make an excellent point.”

Violet blinked. “I did?”

“Yes. About the waltz.” He cocked his head slightly to the side. “I believe I hear one beginning.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Hyacinth said.

“Don’t you? Pity.” He grabbed Penelope’s hand. “Come along, wife. I do believe this is our dance.”

“But no one is dancing,” Hyacinth ground out.

He flashed her a satisfied smile. “They will be.”

And then, before anyone had a chance to comment, he’d yanked on Penelope’s hand, and they were weaving through the crowds.

“Didn’t you want to waltz?” Penelope asked breathlessly, right after they’d passed the small orchestra, the members of whom appeared to be taking an extended break.

“No, just to escape,” he explained, slipping through a side door and pulling her along with him.

A few moments later they had ascended a narrow staircase and were secreted in some small parlor, their only light the flickering torches that blazed outside the window.

“Where are we?” Penelope asked, looking around.

Colin shrugged. “I don’t know. It seemed as good a place as any.”

“Are you going to tell me what is going on?”

“No, first I’m going to kiss you.”

And before she had a chance to respond to that (not that she would have protested!) his lips found hers in a kiss that was hungry and urgent and tender all in one.

“Colin!” she gasped, in that split second when he took a breath.

“Not now,” he murmured, kissing her again.

“But—” this was muffled, lost against his lips.

It was the sort of kiss that enveloped her, from her head to her toes, from the way his teeth nibbled her lips, to his hands, squeezing her bottom and sliding across her back. It was the sort of kiss that could easily have turned her knees to water and led her to swoon on the sofa and allow him to do anything to her, the more wicked the better, even though they were mere yards away from over five hundred members of the ton, except—

“Colin!” she exclaimed, somehow breaking her mouth free of his.

“Shush.”

“Colin, you have to stop!”

He looked like a lost puppy. “Must I?”

“Yes, you must.”

“I suppose you’re going to say it’s because of all the people just next door.”

“No, although that’s a very good reason to consider restraint.”

“To consider and then reject, perhaps?” he asked hopefully.

“No! Colin—” She pulled herself from his arms and moved several feet away, lest his nearness tempt her into forgetting herself. “Colin, you need to tell me what is going on.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I was kissing you. . . .”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Very well.” He walked away, his footsteps echoing loudly in her ears. When he turned back around, his expression had turned deadly serious. “I have decided what to do about Cressida.”

“You have? What? Tell me.”

His face took on a slightly pained expression. “Actually, I think it might be best if I didn’t tell you until the plan is under way.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You’re not serious.”

“Well . . .” He was looking longingly at the door, clearly hoping for an escape.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“Very well.” He sighed, then sighed again.

“Colin!”

“I’m going to make an announcement,” he said, as if that would explain everything.

At first she said nothing, thinking that maybe it