Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,134

in the ribs.

“Wha . . . ?” Colin shot straight awake, blinking and coughing. “What? What? What?”

“I think we’re here,” Penelope said.

He looked out the window, then back at her. “And you needed to inform of this by taking a weapon to my body?”

“It was my elbow.”

He glanced down at her arm. “You, my dear, are in possession of exceedingly bony elbows.”

Penelope was quite sure her elbows—or any part of her, for that matter—were not the least bit bony, but there seemed little to gain by contradicting him, so she said, again, “I think we’re here.”

Colin leaned toward the glass with a couple of sleepy blinks. “I think you’re right.”

“It’s lovely,” Penelope said, taking in the exquisitely maintained grounds. “Why did you tell me it was run-down?”

“It is,” Colin replied, handing her her shawl. “Here,” he said with a gruff smile, as if he weren’t yet used to caring for another person’s welfare in quite the way he did hers. “It will be chilly yet.”

It was still fairly early in the morning; the inn at which they had slept was only an hour’s ride away. Most of the family had stayed with Benedict and Sophie, but their home was not large enough to accommodate all of the Bridgertons. Besides, Colin had explained, they were newlyweds. They needed their privacy.

Penelope hugged the soft wool to her body and leaned against him to get a better look out the window. And, to be honest, just because she liked to lean against him. “I think it looks lovely,” she said. “I have never seen such roses.”

“It’s nicer on the outside than in,” Colin explained as the carriage drew to a halt. “But I expect Eloise will change that.”

He opened the door himself and hopped out, then offered his arm to assist her down. “Come along, Lady Whistledown—”

“Mrs. Bridgerton,” she corrected.

“Whatever you wish to call yourself,” he said with a grand smile, “you’re still mine. And this is your swan song.”

As Colin stepped across the threshold of what was to be his sister’s new home, he was struck by an unexpected sense of relief. For all his irritation with her, he loved his sister. They had not been particularly intimate while growing up; he had been much closer in age to Daphne, and Eloise had often seemed nothing so much as a pesky afterthought. But the previous year had brought them closer, and if it hadn’t been for Eloise, he might never have discovered Penelope.

And without Penelope, he’d be . . .

It was funny. He couldn’t imagine what he’d be without her.

He looked down at his new wife. She was glancing around the entry hall, trying not to be too obvious about it. Her face was impassive, but he knew she was taking everything in. And tomorrow, when they were musing about the events of the day, she would have remembered every last detail.

Mind like an elephant, she had. He loved it.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” the butler said, greeting them with a little nod of his head. “Welcome back to Romney Hall.”

“A pleasure, Gunning,” Colin murmured. “So sorry about the last time.”

Penelope looked to him in askance.

“We entered rather . . . suddenly,” Colin explained.

The butler must have seen Penelope’s expression of alarm, because he quickly added, “I stepped out of the way.”

“Oh,” she started to say, “I’m so—”

“Sir Phillip did not,” Gunning cut in.

“Oh.” Penelope coughed awkwardly. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Bit of swelling around the throat,” Colin said, unconcerned. “I expect he’s improved by now.” He caught her glancing down at his hands and let out a chuckle. “Oh, it wasn’t me,” he said, taking her arm to lead her down the hall. “I just watched.”

She grimaced. “I think that might be worse.”

“Quite possibly,” he said with great cheer. “But it all turned out well in the end. I quite like the fellow now, and I rather—Ah, Mother, there you are.”

And sure enough, Violet Bridgerton was bustling down the hall. “You’re late,” she said, even though Colin was fairly certain they were not. He bent down to kiss her proffered cheek, then stepped to the side as his mother came forward to take both of Penelope’s hands in hers. “My dear, we need you in back. You are the matron of honor, after all.”

Colin had a sudden vision of the scene—a gaggle of chatty females, all talking over one another about minutiae he couldn’t begin to care about, much less understand. They told each other everything, and—

He turned sharply. “Don’t,” he warned,