Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,22

corner of Davies Street. It can’t be more than a five-minute walk to your mother’s. Four, if I’m feeling exceptionally sprightly.”

“I was just looking to see if there were any darkened or recessed spots.” He turned back to face her. “Where a criminal might lurk.”

“In Mayfair?”

“In Mayfair,” he said grimly. “I really think you ought to have a maid accompany you when you journey to and fro. I should hate for something to happen to you.”

She was oddly touched by his concern, even though she knew he would have extended equal thoughtfulness to just about every female of his acquaintance. That was simply the sort of man he was.

“I can assure you that I observe all of the usual proprieties when I am traveling longer distances,” she said. “But truly, this is so close. Just a few blocks, really. Even my mother doesn’t mind.”

Colin’s jaw suddenly looked quite stiff.

“Not to mention,” Penelope added, “that I am eight-and-twenty.”

“What has that to do with anything? I am three-and-thirty, if you care to know.”

She knew that, of course, since she knew almost everything about him. “Colin,” she said, a slightly annoyed whine creeping into her voice.

“Penelope,” he replied, in exactly the same tone.

She let out a long exhale before saying, “I am quite firmly on the shelf, Colin. I needn’t worry about all of the rules that plagued me when I was seventeen.”

“I hardly think—”

One of Penelope’s hands planted itself on her hip. “Ask your sister if you don’t believe me.”

He suddenly looked more serious than she had ever seen him. “I make it a point not to ask my sister on matters that relate to common sense.”

“Colin!” Penelope exclaimed. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“I didn’t say I don’t love her. I didn’t even say I don’t like her. I adore Eloise, as you well know. However—”

“Anything that begins with however has got to be bad,” Penelope muttered.

“Eloise,” he said with uncharacteristic high-handedness, “should be married by now.”

Now, that was really too much, especially in that tone of voice. “Some might say,” Penelope returned with a self-righteous little tilt of her chin, “that you should be married by now, too.”

“Oh, pl—”

“You are, as you so proudly informed me, three-and-thirty.”

His expression was slightly amused, but with that pale tinge of irritation which told her he would not remain amused for long. “Penelope, don’t even—”

“Ancient!” she chirped.

He swore under his breath, which surprised her, since she didn’t think she’d ever heard him do so in the presence of a lady. She probably should have taken it as a warning, but she was too riled up. She supposed the old saying was true—courage spawned more courage.

Or maybe it was more that recklessness emboldened more recklessness, because she just looked at him archly and said, “Weren’t both of your older brothers married by the age of thirty?”

To her surprise, Colin merely smiled and crossed his arms as he leaned one shoulder against the tree they were standing beneath. “My brothers and I are very different men.”

It was, Penelope realized, a very telling statement, because so many members of the ton, including the fabled Lady Whistledown, made so much of the fact that the Bridgerton brothers looked so alike. Some had even gone so far as to call them interchangeable. Penelope hadn’t thought any of them were bothered by this—in fact, she’d assumed they’d all felt flattered by the comparison, since they seemed to like each other so well. But maybe she was wrong.

Or maybe she’d never looked closely enough.

Which was rather strange, because she felt as if she’d spent half her life watching Colin Bridgerton.

One thing she did know, however, and should have remembered, was that if Colin had any sort of a temper, he had never chosen to let her see it. Surely she’d flattered herself when she thought that her little quip about his brothers marrying before they turned thirty might set him off.

No, his method of attack was a lazy smile, a well-timed joke. If Colin ever lost his temper . . .

Penelope shook her head slightly, unable even to fathom it. Colin would never lose his temper. At least not in front of her. He’d have to be really, truly—no, profoundly—upset to lose his temper. And that kind of fury could only be sparked by someone you really, truly, profoundly cared about.

Colin liked her well enough—maybe even better than he liked most people—but he didn’t care. Not that way.

“Perhaps we should just agree to disagree,” she finally said.

“On what?”

“Er . . .”