Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,137

months of each other?” Penelope mused. “Weren’t we meant to be old crones together?”

“We can still be old crones,” Eloise replied gaily. “We shall simply be married old crones.”

“It will be grand.”

“Magnificent!”

“Stupendous!”

“We shall be leaders of crone fashion!”

“Arbiters of cronish taste.”

“What,” Hyacinth demanded, hands on hips, “are the two of you talking about?”

Eloise lifted her chin and looked down her nose at her. “You’re far too young to understand.”

And she and Penelope practically collapsed in a fit of giggles.

“They’ve gone mad, Mother,” Hyacinth announced.

Violet gazed lovingly at her daughter and daughter-in-law, both of whom had reached the unfashionable age of twenty-eight before becoming brides. “Leave them alone, Hyacinth,” she said, steering her toward the waiting carriage. “They’ll be along shortly.” And then she added, almost as an afterthought: “You’re too young to understand.”

After the ceremony, after the reception, and after Colin was able to assure himself once and for all that Sir Phillip Crane would indeed make an acceptable husband to his sister, he managed to find a quiet corner into which he could yank his wife and speak with her privately.

“Does she suspect?” he asked, grinning.

“You’re terrible,” Penelope replied. “It’s her wedding.”

Which was not one of the two customary answers to a yes-or-no question. Colin resisted the urge to let out an impatient breath, and instead offered a rather smooth and urbane “By this you mean . . . ?”

Penelope stared at him for a full ten seconds, and then she muttered, “I don’t know what Eloise was talking about. Men are abysmally simple creatures.”

“Well . . . yes,” Colin agreed, since it had long been obvious to him that the female mind was an utter and complete mystery. “But what has that got to do with anything?”

Penelope glanced over both shoulders before dropping her voice to a harsh whisper. “Why would she even be thinking about Whistledown at a time like this?”

She had a point there, loath as Colin was to admit it. In his mind, this had all played out with Eloise somehow being aware that she was the only person who didn’t know the secret of Lady Whistledown’s identity.

Which was ridiculous to be sure, but still, a satisfying daydream.

“Hmmmm,” he said.

Penelope looked at him suspiciously. “What are you thinking?”

“Are you certain we cannot tell her on her wedding day?”

“Colin . . .”

“Because if we don’t, she’s sure to find out from someone, and it doesn’t seem fair that we not be present to see her face.”

“Colin, no.”

“After all you’ve been through, wouldn’t you say you deserve to see her reaction?”

“No,” Penelope said slowly. “No. No, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, you sell yourself too cheaply, my darling,” he said, smiling benevolently at her. “And besides that, think of Eloise.”

“I fail to see what else it is I have been doing all morning.”

He shook his head. “She would be devastated. Hearing the awful truth from a complete stranger.”

“It’s not awful,” Penelope shot back, “and how do you know it would be a stranger?”

“We’ve sworn my entire family to secrecy. Who else does she know out in this godforsaken county?”

“I rather like Gloucestershire,” Penelope said, her teeth now charmingly clenched. “I find it delightful.”

“Yes,” he said equably, taking in her furrowed brow, pinched mouth, and narrowed eyes. “You look delighted.”

“Weren’t you the one who insisted we keep her in the dark for as long as humanly possible?”

“Humanly possible being the phrase of note,” Colin replied. “This human”—he gestured rather unnecessarily to himself—“finding it quite impossible to maintain his silence.”

“I can’t believe you’ve changed your mind.”

He shrugged. “Isn’t it a man’s prerogative?”

At that her lips parted, and Colin found himself wishing he’d found a corner as private as it was quiet, because she was practically begging to be kissed, whether she knew it or not.

But he was a patient man, and they did still have that comfortable room reserved at the inn, and there was still much mischief to be made right here at the wedding. “Oh, Penelope,” he said huskily, leaning in more than was proper, even with one’s wife, “don’t you want to have some fun?”

She flushed scarlet. “Not here.”

He laughed aloud at that.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” she muttered.

“Neither was I, as a matter of fact,” he returned, completely unable to keep the humor off his face, “but I am pleased that it comes to mind so readily.” He pretended to glance about the room. “When do you think it would be polite to leave?”

“Definitely not yet.”

He pretended to ponder. “Mmmm, yes, you’re probably correct at that. Pity. But”—at