Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,95

of a waltz.

“Colin,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

He affixed a smile on his face. This was supposed to be his first official dance with his intended, after all. “Not now,” he ordered.

“But—”

“In ten minutes, I will have a great deal to say to you, but for right now, we are simply going to dance.”

“I just wanted to say—”

His hand tightened around hers in a gesture of unmistakable warning. She pursed her lips and looked at his face for the briefest of moments, then looked away.

“I should be smiling,” she whispered, still not looking at him.

“Then smile.”

“You should be smiling.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I should.”

But he didn’t.

Penelope felt like frowning. She felt like crying, in all honesty, but somehow she managed to nudge her lips up at the corners. The entire world was watching her—her entire world, at least—and she knew they were examining her every move, cataloguing each expression that crossed her face.

Years she’d spent, feeling like she was invisible and hating it. And now she’d have given anything for a few brief moments of anonymity again.

No, not anything. She wouldn’t have given up Colin. If having him meant that she would spend the rest of her life under close scrutiny from the ton, it would be worth it. And if having to endure his anger and disdain at a time like this was to be a part of marriage as well, then that would be worth it, too.

She’d known that he would be furious with her for publishing one last column. Her hands had been shaking as she’d rewritten the words, and she’d been terrified the entire time she’d been at St. Bride’s Church (as well as the ride to and from), sure that he was going to jump out at her at any moment, calling off the wedding because he couldn’t bear to be married to Lady Whistledown.

But she’d done it anyway.

She knew he thought she was making a mistake, but she simply could not allow Cressida Twombley to take the credit for her life’s work. But was it so much to ask that Colin at least make the attempt to see it all from her point of view? It would have been hard enough allowing anyone to pretend to be Lady Whistledown, but Cressida was unbearable. Penelope had worked too hard and endured too much at Cressida’s hands.

Plus, she knew that Colin would never jilt her once their engagement became public. That was part of the reason she’d specifically instructed her publisher to have the papers delivered on Monday to the Mottram ball. Well, that and the fact that it seemed terribly wrong to do it at her own engagement ball, especially when Colin was so opposed to the idea.

Damn Mr. Lacey! He’d surely done this to maximize circulation and exposure. He knew enough about society from reading Whistledown to know that a Bridgerton engagement ball would be the most coveted invitation of the season. Why this should matter, she didn’t know, since increasing interest in Whistledown would not lead to more money in his pocket; Whistledown was well and truly through, and neither Penelope nor Mr. Lacey would receive another pound from its publication.

Unless . . .

Penelope frowned and sighed. Mr. Lacey must be hoping that she would change her mind.

Colin’s hand tightened at her waist, and she looked back up. His eyes were on hers, startlingly green even in the candlelight. Or maybe it was just that she knew they were so green. She probably would have thought them emerald in the dark.

He nodded toward the other dancers on the floor, which was now crowded with revelers. “Time to make our escape,” he said.

She returned his nod with one of her own. They had already told his family that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home, so no one would think overmuch of their departure. And if it wasn’t quite de rigeur for them to be alone in his carriage, well, sometimes rules were stretched for affianced couples, especially on such romantic evenings.

A bubble of ridiculous, panicky laughter escaped her lips. The night was turning out to be the least romantic of her life.

Colin looked at her sharply, one arrogant brow raised in question.

“It’s nothing,” Penelope said.

He squeezed her hand, although not terribly affectionately. “I want to know,” he said.

She shrugged fatalistically. She couldn’t imagine what she could do or say to make the night any worse than it already was. “I was just thinking about how this evening