Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,36

out of the room.

It was, she thought as she descended the outer steps to Bruton Street, quite the most splendid exit of her existence.

It was really too bad, then, that the man she’d been leaving was the only one in whose company she’d ever wanted to remain.

Colin felt like hell all day.

His hand hurt like the devil, despite the brandy he’d sloshed both on his skin and into his mouth. The estate agent who’d handled the lease for the snug little terrace house he’d found in Bloomsbury had informed him that the previous tenant was having difficulties and Colin wouldn’t be able to move in today as planned—would next week be acceptable?

And to top it off, he suspected that he might have done irreparable harm to his friendship with Penelope.

Which made him feel worst of all, since (A) he rather valued his friendship with Penelope and (B) he hadn’t realized how much he valued his friendship with Penelope, which (C) made him feel slightly panicked.

Penelope was a constant in his life. His sister’s friend—the one who was always at the fringes of the party; nearby, but not truly a part of things.

But the world seemed to be shifting. He’d only been back in England for a fortnight, but already Penelope had changed. Or maybe he’d changed. Or maybe she hadn’t changed but the way he saw her had changed.

She mattered. He didn’t know how else to put it.

And after ten years of her just being . . . there, it was rather bizarre for her to matter quite so much.

He didn’t like that they’d parted ways that afternoon on such awkward terms. He couldn’t remember feeling awkward with Penelope, ever—no, that wasn’t true. There was that time . . . dear God, how many years ago was it? Six? Seven? His mother had been pestering him about getting married, which was nothing new, except this time she’d suggested Penelope as a potential bride, which was new, and Colin just hadn’t been in the mood to deal with his mother’s matchmaking in his usual manner, which was to tease her back.

And then she just hadn’t stopped. She’d talked about Penelope all day and night, it seemed, until Colin finally fled the country. Nothing drastic—just a short jaunt to Wales. But really, what had his mother been thinking?

When he’d returned, his mother had wanted to speak with him, of course—except this time it had been because his sister Daphne was with child again and she had wanted to make a family announcement. But how was he to have known that? So he had not been looking forward to the visit, since he was sure it would involve a great deal of completely unveiled hints about marriage. Then he had run into his brothers, and they’d started tormenting him about the very same subject, as only brothers can do, and the next thing he knew, he announced, in a very loud voice, that he was not going to marry Penelope Featherington!

Except somehow Penelope had been standing right there in the doorway, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with pain and embarrassment and probably a dozen other unpleasant emotions that he’d been too ashamed to delve into.

It had been one of the most awful moments of his life. One, in fact, that he made an effort not to remember. He didn’t think Penelope had ever fancied him—at least not any more than other ladies fancied him—but he’d embarrassed her. To single her out for such an announcement . . .

It had been unforgivable.

He’d apologized, of course, and she’d accepted, but he’d never quite forgiven himself.

And now he’d gone and insulted her again. Not in as direct a manner, of course, but he should have thought a bit longer and harder before complaining about his life.

Hell, it had sounded stupid, even to him. What did he have to complain about?

Nothing.

And yet there was still this nagging emptiness. A longing, really, for something he couldn’t define. He was jealous of his brothers, for God’s sake, for having found their passions, their legacies.

The only mark Colin had left on the world was in the pages of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.

What a joke.

But all things were relative, weren’t they? And compared to Penelope, he had little to complain about.

Which probably meant that he should have kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t like to think of her as an on-the-shelf spinster, but he supposed that was exactly what she was. And it wasn’t a position of