brisk (and he always did), less if the pavements weren’t littered with slow people. It was longer than most members of the ton cared to be outside in London unless they were shopping or fashionably strolling in the park, but Colin felt the need to clear his head. And if the air in London wasn’t particularly fresh, well, it would still have to do.
His luck that day being what it was, however, by the time he reached the intersection of Oxford and Regent Streets, the first splats of raindrops began to dance against his face. By the time he was turning off Hanover Square onto St. George Street, it was pouring in earnest. And he was just close enough to Bruton Street that it would have been really ridiculous to have tried to hail a hackney to take him the rest of the way.
So he walked on.
After the first minute or so of annoyance, however, the rain began to feel oddly good. It was warm enough out that it didn’t chill him to the bone, and the fat, wet sting of it almost felt like a penance.
And he felt like maybe that was what he deserved.
The door to his mother’s house opened before Colin’s foot had even found the top step; Wickham must have been waiting for him.
“Might I suggest a towel?” the butler intoned, handing him a large white cloth.
Colin took it, wondering how on earth Wickham had had time to get a towel. He couldn’t have known that Colin would be fool enough to walk in the rain.
Not for the first time it occurred to Colin that butlers must be possessed of strange, mystical powers. Perhaps it was a job requirement.
Colin used the towel to dry his hair, causing great consternation to Wickham, who was terribly proper and surely expected Colin to retire to a private room for at least a half an hour to mend his appearance.
“Where’s my mother?” Colin asked.
Wickham’s lips tightened, and he looked pointedly down at Colin’s feet, which were now creating small puddles. “She is in her office,” he replied, “but she is speaking with your sister.”
“Which sister?” Colin asked, keeping a sunny smile on his face, just to annoy Wickham, who had surely been trying to annoy him by omitting his sister’s name.
As if you could simply say “your sister” to a Bridgerton and expect him to know who you were talking about.
“Francesca.”
“Ah, yes. She’s returning to Scotland soon, isn’t she?”
“Tomorrow.”
Colin handed the towel back to Wickham, who regarded it as he might a large insect. “I won’t bother her, then. Just let her know I’m here when she’s done with Francesca.”
Wickham nodded. “Would you care to change your clothes, Mr. Bridgerton? I believe we have some of your brother Gregory’s garments upstairs in his bedchamber.”
Colin found himself smiling. Gregory was finishing up his final term at Cambridge. He was eleven years younger than Colin, and it was difficult to believe they could actually share clothing, but he supposed it was time to accept that his little brother had finally grown up.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Colin said. He gave his sodden sleeve a rueful glance. “I’ll leave these here to be cleaned and fetch them later.”
Wickham nodded again, murmured, “As you wish,” and disappeared down the hall to parts unknown.
Colin took the steps two at a time up to the family quarters. As he sloshed down the hall, he heard the sound of a door opening. Turning around, he saw that it was Eloise.
Not the person he wanted to see. She immediately brought back all the memories of his afternoon with Penelope. Their conversation. The kiss.
Especially the kiss.
And even worse, the guilt he’d felt afterward.
The guilt he still felt.
“Colin,” Eloise said brightly, “I didn’t realize you—what did you do, walk?”
He shrugged. “I like the rain.”
She eyed him curiously, her head cocking to the side as it always did when she was puzzling through something. “You’re in a rather odd mood today.”
“I’m soaking wet, Eloise.”
“No need to snap at me about it,” she said with a sniff. “I didn’t force you to walk across town in the rain.”
“It wasn’t raining when I left,” he felt rather compelled to say. There was something about a sibling that brought out the eight-year-old in a body.
“I’m sure the sky was gray,” she returned.
Clearly, she had a bit of the eight-year-old in her as well.
“May we continue this discussion when I’m dry?” he asked, his voice deliberately impatient.
“Of course,” she said expansively, all accommodation. “I’ll wait for