Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,40

musicale is starting,” Eloise said.

“Heaven help us all,” Lady Danbury announced. “I don’t know why I—Mr. Bridgerton!”

Penelope had turned to face the small stage area, but she whipped back around to see Colin making his way along the row to the empty seat beside Lady Danbury, apologizing good-naturedly as he bumped into people’s knees.

His apologies, of course, were accompanied by one of his lethal smiles, and no fewer than three ladies positively melted in their seats as a result.

Penelope frowned. It was disgusting.

“Penelope,” Felicity whispered. “Did you just growl?”

“Colin,” Eloise said. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

He shrugged, his face alight with a lopsided grin. “Changed my mind at the last moment. I’ve always been a great lover of music, after all.”

“Which would explain your presence here,” Eloise said in an exceptionally dry voice.

Colin acknowledged her statement with nothing more than an arch of his brow before turning to Penelope and saying, “Good evening, Miss Featherington.” He nodded at Felicity with another, “Miss Featherington.”

It took Penelope a moment to find her voice. They had parted most awkwardly that afternoon, and now here he was with a friendly smile. “Good evening, Mr. Bridgerton,” she finally managed.

“Does anyone know what is on the program tonight?” he asked, looking terribly interested.

Penelope had to admire that. Colin had a way of looking at you as if nothing in the world could be more interesting than your next sentence. It was a talent, that. Especially now, when they all knew that he couldn’t possibly care one way or another what the Smythe-Smith girls chose to play that evening.

“I believe it’s Mozart,” Felicity said. “They almost always choose Mozart.”

“Lovely,” Colin replied, leaning back in his chair as if he’d just finished an excellent meal. “I’m a great fan of Mr. Mozart.”

“In that case,” Lady Danbury cackled, elbowing him in the ribs, “you might want to make your escape while the possibility still exists.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m sure the girls will do their best.”

“Oh, there’s no question of them doing their best,” Eloise said ominously.

“Shhh,” Penelope said. “I think they’re ready to begin.”

Not, she admitted to herself, that she was especially eager to listen to the Smythe-Smith version of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. But she felt profoundly ill-at-ease with Colin. She wasn’t sure what to say to him—except that whatever it was she should say definitely shouldn’t be said in front of Eloise, Felicity, and most of all Lady Danbury.

A butler came around and snuffed out a few candles to signal that the girls were ready to begin. Penelope braced herself, swallowed in such a way as to clog her inner ear canals (it didn’t work), and then the torture began.

And went on . . . and on . . . and on.

Penelope wasn’t certain what was more agonizing—the music or the knowledge that Colin was sitting right behind her. The back of her neck prickled with awareness, and she found herself fidgeting like mad, her fingers tapping relentlessly on the dark blue velvet of her skirts.

When the Smythe-Smith quartet was finally done, three of the girls were beaming at the polite applause, and the fourth—the cellist—looked as if she wanted to crawl under a rock.

Penelope sighed. At least she, in all of her unsuccessful seasons, hadn’t ever been forced to parade her deficiencies before all the ton like these girls had. She’d always been allowed to melt into the shadows, to hover quietly at the perimeter of the room, watching the other girls take their turns on the dance floor. Oh, her mother dragged her here and there, trying to place her in the path of some eligible gentleman or another, but that was nothing—nothing!—like what the Smythe-Smith girls were forced to endure.

Although, in all honesty, three out of the four seemed blissfully unaware of their musical ineptitude. Penelope just smiled and clapped. She certainly wasn’t going to burst their collective bubble.

And if Lady Danbury’s theory was correct, Lady Whistledown wasn’t going to write a word about the musicale.

The applause petered out rather quickly, and soon everyone was milling about, making polite conversation with their neighbors and eyeing the sparsely laid refreshment table at the back of the room.

“Lemonade,” Penelope murmured to herself. Perfect. She was dreadfully hot—really, what had she been thinking, wearing velvet on such a warm night?—and a cool beverage would be just the thing to make her feel better. Not to mention that Colin was trapped in conversation with Lady Danbury, so it was the ideal time to make her escape.

But