Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,56

of this world, but the people like you”—lacking a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes with her fingers—“well, I’d like to see you settled.”

For several seconds, Penelope did nothing but stare at her. “Lady Danbury,” she said carefully, “I very much appreciate the gesture . . . and the sentiment . . . but you must know that I am not your responsibility.”

“Of course I know that,” Lady Danbury scoffed. “Have no fear, I feel no responsibility to you. If I did, this wouldn’t be half so much fun.”

Penelope knew she sounded the veriest ninny, but all she could think to say was, “I don’t understand.”

Lady Danbury held silent while the footmen returned with their lemonade, then began speaking once she had taken several small sips. “I like you, Miss Featherington. I don’t like a lot of people. It’s as simple as that. And I want to see you happy.”

“But I am happy,” Penelope said, more out of reflex than anything else.

Lady Danbury raised one arrogant brow—an expression that she did to perfection. “Are you?” she murmured.

Was she? What did it mean, that she had to stop and think about the answer? She wasn’t unhappy, of that she was sure. She had wonderful friends, a true confidante in her younger sister Felicity, and if her mother and older sisters weren’t women she’d have chosen as close friends—well, she still loved them. And she knew they loved her.

Hers wasn’t such a bad lot. Her life lacked drama and excitement, but she was content.

But contentment wasn’t the same thing as happiness, and she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest as she realized that she could not answer Lady Danbury’s softly worded question in the affirmative.

“I’ve raised my family,” Lady Danbury said. “Four children, and they all married well. I even found a bride for my nephew, who, truth be told”—she leaned in and whispered the last three words, giving Penelope the impression that she was about to divulge a state secret—“I like better than my own children.”

Penelope couldn’t help but smile. Lady Danbury looked so furtive, so naughty. It was rather cute, actually.

“It may surprise you,” Lady Danbury continued, “but by nature I’m a bit of a meddler.”

Penelope kept her expression scrupulously even.

“I find myself at loose ends,” Lady Danbury said, holding up her hands as if in surrender. “I’d like to see one last person happily settled before I go.”

“Don’t talk that way, Lady Danbury,” Penelope said, impulsively reaching out and taking her hand. She gave it a little squeeze. “You’ll outlive us all, I am certain.”

“Pfffft, don’t be silly.” Lady Danbury’s tone was dismissive, but she made no move to remove her hand from Penelope’s grasp. “I’m not being depressive,” she added. “I’m just realistic. I’ve passed seventy years of age, and I’m not going to tell you how many years ago that was. I haven’t much time left in this world, and that doesn’t bother me one bit.”

Penelope hoped she would be able to face her own mortality with the same equanimity.

“But I like you, Miss Featherington. You remind me of myself. You’re not afraid to speak your mind.”

Penelope could only look at her in shock. She’d spent the last ten years of her life never quite saying what she wanted to say. With people she knew well she was open and honest and even sometimes a little funny, but among strangers her tongue was quite firmly tied.

She remembered a masquerade ball she’d once attended. She’d attended many masquerade balls, actually, but this one had been unique because she’d actually found a costume—nothing special, just a gown styled as if from the 1600s—in which she’d truly felt her identity was hidden. It had probably been the mask. It was overly large and covered almost all of her face.

She had felt transformed. Suddenly free of the burden of being Penelope Featherington, she felt a new personality coming to the fore. It wasn’t as if she had been putting on false airs; rather, it was more like her true self—the one she didn’t know how to show to anyone she didn’t know well—had finally broken loose.

She’d laughed; she’d joked. She’d even flirted.

And she’d sworn that the following night, when the costumes were all put away and she was once again attired in her finest evening dress, she’d remember how to be herself.

But it hadn’t happened. She’d arrived at the ball and she’d nodded and smiled politely and once again found herself standing near the perimeter of the room, quite