Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,59

had yelled good evening to the earl.

Cressida ignored the interruption. “I have come to the conclusion that I can no longer continue the deception that has ruled my life for the last eleven years.”

The ballroom was rocked with the low buzz of whispers. Everyone knew what she was going to say, and yet no one could believe it was actually true.

“Therefore,” Cressida continued, her voice growing in volume, “I have decided to reveal my secret.

“Ladies and gentleman, I am Lady Whistledown.”

Chapter 11

Colin couldn’t remember the last time he’d entered a ballroom with quite so much apprehension.

The last few days had not been among his best. He’d been in a bad mood, which had only been worsened by the fact that he was rather renowned for his good humor, which meant that everyone had felt compelled to comment on his foul disposition.

There was nothing worse for a bad mood than being subjected to constant queries of, “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

His family had stopped asking after he’d actually snarled—snarled!—at Hyacinth when she’d asked him to accompany her to the theater the following week.

Colin hadn’t even been aware that he knew how to snarl.

He was going to have to apologize to Hyacinth, which was going to be a chore, since Hyacinth never accepted apologies gracefully—at least not those that came from fellow Bridgertons.

But Hyacinth was the least of his problems. Colin groaned. His sister wasn’t the only person who deserved his apology.

And that was why his heart was beating with this strange, nervous, and completely unprecedented rapidity as he entered the Macclesfield ballroom. Penelope would be here. He knew she’d be here because she always attended the major balls, even if she was now most often doing so as her sister’s chaperone.

There was something quite humbling in feeling nervous about seeing Penelope. Penelope was . . . Penelope. It was almost as if she’d always been there, smiling politely at the perimeter of a ballroom. And he’d taken her for granted, in a way. Some things didn’t change, and Penelope was one of them.

Except she had changed.

Colin didn’t know when it had happened, or even if anyone other than himself had noticed it, but Penelope Featherington was not the same woman he used to know.

Or maybe she was, and he had changed.

Which made him feel even worse, because if that was the case, then Penelope had been interesting and lovely and kissable years ago, and he hadn’t the maturity to notice.

No, better to think that Penelope had changed. Colin had never been a great fan of self-flagellation.

Whatever the case, he needed to make his apology, and he needed to do it soon. He had to apologize for the kiss, because she was a lady and he was (most of the time, at least) a gentleman. And he had to apologize for behaving like a raving idiot afterward, because it was simply the right thing to do.

God only knew what Penelope thought he thought of her now.

It wasn’t difficult to find her once he entered the ballroom. He didn’t bother to look among the dancing couples (which angered him—why didn’t the other men think to ask her to dance?). Rather, he focused his attention along the walls, and sure enough, there she was, seated on a long bench next to—oh, God—Lady Danbury.

Well, there was nothing else to do but walk right up. The way Penelope and the old busybody were clutching each other’s hands, he couldn’t expect Lady Danbury to disappear anytime soon.

When he reached the pair of ladies, he turned first to Lady Danbury and swept into an elegant bow. “Lady Danbury,” he said, before turning his attention to Penelope. “Miss Featherington.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said, with a surprising lack of sharpness in her voice, “how nice to see you.”

He nodded, then looked to Penelope, wondering what she was thinking, and whether he’d be able to see it in her eyes.

But whatever she was thinking—or feeling—it was hidden under a rather thick layer of nervousness. Or maybe the nervousness was all she was feeling. He couldn’t really blame her. The way he’d stormed out of her drawing room without an explanation . . . she had to feel confused. And it was his experience that confusion invariably led to apprehension.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” she finally murmured, her entire bearing scrupulously polite.

He cleared his throat. How to extract her from Lady Danbury’s clutches? He’d really rather not humble himself in front of the nosy old countess.

“I’d hoped . . .” he began,