Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,13

at him. Or at least she hoped it was a scowl. It was difficult to scowl at Colin Bridgerton. Even his mother had once remarked that it was nearly impossible to reprimand him.

He would just smile and look contrite and say something funny, and you just couldn’t stay angry with him. You simply couldn’t do it.

“You were trying to make me feel guilty,” Penelope said.

“Anyone could confuse a palm with an orange tree.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Except for the oranges.”

He chewed on his lower lip, his eyes thoughtful. “Yes, hmmm, one would think they’d be a bit of a giveaway.”

“You’re a terrible liar, did you know that?”

He straightened, tugging slightly at his waistcoat as he lifted his chin. “Actually, I’m an excellent liar. But what I’m really good at is appearing appropriately sheepish and adorable after I’m caught.”

What, Penelope wondered, was she meant to say to that? Because surely there was no one more adorably sheepish (sheepishly adorable?) than Colin Bridgerton with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes flitting along the ceiling, and his lips puckered into an innocent whistle.

“When you were a child,” Penelope asked, abruptly changing the subject, “were you ever punished?”

Colin immediately straightened to attention. “I beg your pardon?”

“Were you ever punished as a child?” she repeated. “Are you ever punished now?”

Colin just stared at her, wondering if she had any idea what she was asking. Probably not. “Errr . . .” he said, mostly because he hadn’t anything else to say.

She let out a vaguely patronizing sigh. “I thought not.”

If he were a less indulgent man, and if this were anyone but Penelope Featherington, whom he knew did not possess a malicious bone in her body, he might take offense. But he was an uncommonly easygoing fellow, and this was Penelope Featherington, who had been a faithful friend to his sister for God knows how many years, so instead of adopting a hard, cynical stare (which, admittedly, was an expression at which he’d never excelled), he merely smiled and murmured, “Your point being?”

“Do not think I mean to criticize your parents,” she said with an expression that was innocent and sly at the same time. “I would never dream of implying that you were spoiled in any way.”

He nodded graciously.

“It’s just that”—she leaned in, as if imparting a grave secret—“I rather think you could get away with murder if you so chose.”

He coughed—not to clear his throat and not because he wasn’t feeling well, but rather because he was so damned startled. Penelope was such a funny character. No, that wasn’t quite right. She was . . . surprising. Yes, that seemed to sum her up. Very few people really knew her; she had certainly never developed a reputation as a sterling conversationalist. He was fairly certain she’d made it through three-hour parties without ever venturing beyond words of a single syllable.

But when Penelope was in the company of someone with whom she felt comfortable—and Colin realized that he was probably privileged to count himself among that number—she had a dry wit, a sly smile, and evidence of a very intelligent mind, indeed.

He wasn’t surprised that she’d never attracted any serious suitors for her hand; she wasn’t a beauty by any stretch, although upon close examination she was more attractive than he’d remembered her to be. Her brown hair had a touch of red to it, highlighted nicely by the flickering candles. And her skin was quite lovely—that perfect peaches-and-cream complexion that ladies were always slathering their faces with arsenic to achieve.

But Penelope’s attractiveness wasn’t the sort that men usually noticed. And her normally shy and occasionally even stuttering demeanor didn’t exactly showcase her personality.

Still, it was too bad about her lack of popularity. She would have made someone a perfectly good wife.

“So you’re saying,” he mused, steering his mind back to the matter at hand, “that I should consider a life of crime?”

“Nothing of the sort,” she replied, a demure smile on her face. “Just that I rather suspect you could talk your way out of anything.” And then, unexpectedly, her mien grew serious, and she quietly said, “I envy that.”

Colin surprised himself by holding out his hand and saying, “Penelope Featherington, I think you should dance with me.”

And then Penelope surprised him by laughing and saying, “That’s very sweet of you to ask, but you don’t have to dance with me any longer.”

His pride felt oddly pricked. “What the devil do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “It’s official