Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,79

on Colin. “Won’t you sit down?” she asked, smiling widely and patting the seat next to her on the sofa.

“Of course,” he murmured, because there was really no getting out of it now. He still had to ask for Penelope’s hand in marriage, and even if he didn’t particularly want to do it in front of every last Featherington (and their two inane spouses), he was stuck here, at least until a polite opportunity to make his escape presented itself.

He turned and offered his arm to the woman he intended to make his bride. “Penelope?”

“Er, yes, of course,” she stammered, placing her hand at the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Featherington said, as if she’d completely forgotten about her daughter’s presence. “Terribly sorry, Penelope. Didn’t see you. Won’t you please go and ask Cook to increase our order? We’ll surely need more food with Mr. Bridgerton here.”

“Of course,” Penelope said, the corners of her lips quivering.

“Can’t she ring for it?” Colin asked loudly.

“What?” Mrs. Featherington said distractedly. “Well, I suppose she could, but it would take longer, and Penelope doesn’t mind, do you?”

Penelope gave her head a little shake.

“I mind,” Colin said.

Mrs. Featherington let out a little “Oh” of surprise, then said, “Very well. Penelope, er, why don’t you sit right there?” She motioned to a chair that was not quite situated to be a part of the inner conversation circle.

Felicity, who was seated directly across from her mother, jumped up. “Penelope, please take my seat.”

“No,” Mrs. Featherington said firmly. “You have been feeling under the weather, Felicity. You need to sit.”

Colin thought Felicity looked the picture of perfect health, but she sat back down.

“Penelope,” Prudence said loudly, from over by the window. “I need to speak with you.”

Penelope glanced helplessly from Colin to Prudence to Felicity to her mother.

Colin yanked her in closer. “I need to speak with her as well,” he said smoothly.

“Right, well, I suppose there is room for both of you,” Mrs. Featherington said, scooting over on the sofa.

Colin was caught between the good manners that had been drummed into his head since birth and the overwhelming urge to strangle the woman who would someday be his mother-in-law. He had no idea why she was treating Penelope like some sort of lesser-favored stepchild, but really, it had to stop.

“What brings you this way?” yelled Robert Huxley.

Colin touched his ears—he couldn’t help himself—then said, “I was—”

“Oh, goodness,” fluttered Mrs. Featherington, “we do not mean to interrogate our guest, do we?”

Colin hadn’t really thought Huxley’s question constituted an interrogation, but he didn’t really want to insult Mrs. Featherington by saying so, so he merely nodded and said something completely meaningless like, “Yes, well, of course.”

“Of course what?” asked Philippa.

Philippa was married to Nigel Berbrooke, and Colin had always thought it was a rather good match, indeed.

“I’m sorry?” he queried.

“You said, ‘Of course,’” Philippa said. “Of course what?”

“I don’t know,” Colin said.

“Oh. Well, then, why did you—”

“Philippa,” Mrs. Featherington said loudly, “perhaps you should fetch the food, since Penelope has forgotten to ring for it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Penelope said quickly, starting to rise to her feet.

“Don’t worry,” Colin said through a smooth smile, grabbing hold of her hand and yanking her back down. “Your mother said Prudence could go.”

“Philippa,” Penelope said.

“What about Philippa?”

“She said Philippa could go, not Prudence.”

He wondered what had happened to her brain, because somewhere between his carriage and this sofa, it had clearly disappeared. “Does it matter?” he asked.

“No, not really, but—”

“Felicity,” Mrs. Featherington interrupted, “why don’t you tell Mr. Bridgerton about your watercolors?”

For the life of him, Colin couldn’t imagine a less interesting topic (except, maybe, for Philippa’s watercolors), but he nonetheless turned to the youngest Featherington with a friendly smile and asked, “And how are your watercolors?”

But Felicity, bless her heart, gave him a rather friendly smile herself and said nothing but, “I imagine they’re fine, thank you.”

Mrs. Featherington looked as if she’d just swallowed a live eel, then exclaimed, “Felicity!”

“Yes?” Felicity said sweetly.

“You didn’t tell him that you’d won an award.” She turned to Colin. “Felicity’s watercolors are very unique.” She turned back to Felicity. “Do tell Mr. Bridgerton about your award.”

“Oh, I don’t imagine he is interested in that.”

“Of course he is,” Mrs. Featherington ground out.

Normally, Colin would have chimed in with, Of course I am, since he was, after all, an exceedingly affable fellow, but doing so would have validated Mrs. Featherington’s statement and, perhaps more critically, ruined Felicity’s good fun.

And Felicity appeared to be having a lot of