Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,77

hip found the curb, and her head found Colin’s toes.

“Good God, Penelope,” he exclaimed, crouching down. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine,” she managed to get out, searching for the hole in the ground that must have just opened up, so that she could crawl into it and die.

“Are you certain?”

“It’s nothing, really,” she replied, holding her cheek, which she was certain now sported a perfect imprint of the top of Colin’s boot. “Just a bit surprised, that is all.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoed.

“Yes, why?”

She blinked. Once, twice, then again. “Er, well, it might have to do with your mentioning marriage.”

He yanked her unceremoniously to her feet, nearly dislocating her shoulder in the process. “Well, what did you think I would say?”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was he mad? “Not that,” she finally replied.

“I’m not a complete boor,” he muttered.

She brushed dust and pebbles off her sleeves. “I never said you were, I just—”

“I can assure you,” he continued, now looking mortally offended, “that I do not behave as I did with a woman of your background without rendering a marriage proposal.”

Penelope’s mouth fell open, leaving her feeling rather like an owl.

“Don’t you have a reply?” he demanded.

“I’m still trying to figure out what you said,” she admitted.

He planted his hands on his hips and stared at her with a decided lack of indulgence.

“You must admit,” she said, her chin dipping until she was regarding him rather dubiously through her lashes, “it did sound rather like you’ve, er—how did you say it—rendered marriage proposals before.”

He scowled at her. “Of course I haven’t. Now take my arm before it starts to rain.”

She looked up at the clear blue sky.

“At the rate you’re going,” he said impatiently, “we’ll be here for days.”

“I . . . well . . .” She cleared her throat. “Surely you can forgive me my lack of composure in the face of such tremendous surprise.”

“Now who’s speaking in circles?” he muttered.

“I beg your pardon.”

His hand tightened on her arm. “Let’s just get going.”

“Colin!” she nearly shrieked, tripping over her feet as she stumbled up the stairs. “Are you sure—”

“No time like the present,” he said, almost jauntily. He seemed quite pleased with himself, which puzzled her, because she would have bet her entire fortune—and as Lady Whistledown, she’d amassed quite a fortune—that he had not intended to ask her to marry him until the moment his carriage had ground to a halt in front her house.

Perhaps not even until the words had left his lips.

He turned to her. “Do I need to knock?”

“No, I—”

He knocked anyway, or rather banged, if one wanted to be particular about it.

“Briarly,” Penelope said through an attempted smile as the butler opened the door to receive them.

“Miss Penelope,” he murmured, one brow rising in surprise. He nodded at Colin. “Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Is Mrs. Featherington at home?” Colin asked brusquely.

“Yes, but—”

“Excellent.” Colin barged in, pulling Penelope along with him. “Where is she?”

“In the drawing room, but I should tell you—”

But Colin was already halfway down the hall, Penelope one step behind him. (Not that she could be anywhere else, seeing as how his hand was wrapped rather tightly around her upper arm.)

“Mr. Bridgerton!” the butler yelled out, sounding slightly panicked.

Penelope twisted, even as her feet continued to follow Colin. Briarly never panicked. About anything. If he didn’t think she and Colin ought to enter the drawing room, he had to have a very good reason.

Maybe even—

Oh, no.

Penelope dug in her heels, skidding along the hardwood floor as Colin dragged her along by the arm. “Colin,” she said, gulping on the first syllable. “Colin!”

“What?” he asked, not breaking his stride.

“I really think—Aaack!” Her skidding heels hit the edge of the runner carpet, sending her flying forward.

He caught her neatly and set her on her feet. “What is it?”

She glanced nervously at the door to the drawing room. It was slightly ajar, but maybe there was enough noise inside so that her mother hadn’t yet heard them approaching.

“Penelope . . .” Colin prompted impatiently.

“Er . . .” There was still time to escape, wasn’t there? She looked frantically about, not that she was likely to find a solution to her problems anywhere in the hall.

“Penelope,” Colin said, now tapping his foot, “what the devil is the matter?”

She looked back to Briarly, who simply shrugged his shoulders. “This really might not be the best time to speak to my mother.”

He raised one brow, looking rather like the butler had just seconds earlier. “You’re not planning to refuse me, are you?”

“No,