His anger was entirely unwarranted. He had no right to expect that Penelope share her secrets with him. They had no commitments to each other, nothing beyond a rather nice friendship and a single, albeit disturbingly moving, kiss. He
certainly wouldn't have shared his journals with her if she hadn't stumbled upon them herself.
"Colin," she whispered. "Please ... don't."
She'd seen his secret writings. Why shouldn't he see hers? Did she have a lover? Was all that nonsense about never having been kissed exactly that—nonsense?
Dear God, was this fire burning in his belly ... jealousy?
"Colin," she said again, choking now. She placed her hand on his, trying to prevent him from opening the envelope. Not with strength, for she could never match him on that, just with her presence.
But there was no way ... no way he could have stopped himself at that point. He would have died before surrendering that envelope to her unopened.
He tore it open.
Penelope let out a strangled cry and ran from the church.
Colin read the words.
And then he sank to the pew, bloodless, breathless.
"Oh, my God," he whispered. "Oh, my God."
* * *
By the time Penelope reached the outer steps to St. Bride's Church, she was hysterical. Or at least as hysterical as she'd
ever been. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, tears pricked her eyes, and her heart felt...
Well, her heart felt as if it wanted to throw up, if such a thing were possible.
How could he have done this? He'd followed her. Followed her! Why would Colin follow her? What would he have to gain? Why would he—
She suddenly looked around.
"Oh, damn!" she wailed, not caring if anyone heard her. The hack had left. She'd given specific instructions to the driver to wait for her, that she'd only be a minute, but he was nowhere in sight.
Another transgression she could lay at Colin's door. He'd delayed her inside the church, and now the hack had left, and she was stuck here on the steps of St. Bride's Church, in the middle of the City of London, so far from her home in Mayfair that she might as well have been in France. People were staring at her and any minute now she was sure to be accosted, because who had ever seen a gently bred lady alone in the City, much less one who was so clearly on the verge of a nervous attack?
Why why why had she been so foolish as to think that he was the perfect man? She'd spent half her life worshiping someone who wasn't even real. Because the Colin she knew— no, the Colin she'd thought she'd known—clearly didn't exist. And whoever this man was, she wasn't even sure she liked him. The man she'd loved so faithfully over the years never would have behaved like this. He wouldn't have followed her—Oh, very well, he would have, but only to assure himself of her safety. But he wouldn't have been so cruel, and he certainly wouldn't have opened her private correspondence.
She had read two pages of his journal, that was true, but they hadn't been in a sealed envelope!
She sank onto the steps and sat down, the stone cool even through the fabric of her dress. There was little she could do now besides sit here and wait for Colin. Only a fool would take off on foot by herself so far from home. She supposed she could
hail a hack on Fleet Street, but what if they were all occupied, and besides, was there really any point in running from Colin? He knew where she lived, and unless she decided to run to the Orkney Islands, she wasn't likely to escape a confrontation.
She sighed. Colin would probably find her in the Orkneys, seasoned traveler that he was. And she didn't even want to go to the Orkneys.
She choked back a sob. Now she wasn't even making sense. Why was she fixated on the Orkney Islands?
And then there was Colin's voice behind her, clipped and so very cold. "Get up," was all he said.
She did, not because he'd ordered her to (or at least that was what she told herself), and not because she was afraid of him, but rather because she couldn't sit on the steps of St. Bride's forever, and even if she wanted nothing more than to hide herself from Colin for the next six months, at the moment he was her only safe means home.
He jerked his head toward the street. "Into the carriage."
She went, climbing up as she heard Colin give the driver her address and then instruct him to "take the long way."
Oh, God.
They'd been moving a good thirty seconds before he handed her the single sheet of paper that had been folded into the envelope she'd left in the church. "I believe this is yours," he said.
She gulped and looked down, not that she needed to. She already had the words memorized. She'd written and rewritten them so many times the previous night, she didn't think they'd ever escape her memory.
There is nothing I despise more than a gentleman who thinks it amusing to give a lady a condescending pat on the hand as he murmurs, "It is a woman's prerogative to change her mind." And indeed, because I feel one should always support one's words with one's actions, I endeavor to keep my opinions and decisions steadfast and true.
Which is why, Gentle Reader, when I wrote my column of 19 April, I truly intended it to be my last. However, events entirely beyond my control (or indeed beyond my approval) force me to put my pen to paper one last time.
Ladies and Gentleman, This Author is NOT Lady Cressida Twombley. She is nothing more than a scheming imposter, and it would break my heart to see my years of hard work attributed to one such as her.
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, 21 April 1824
Penelope refolded the paper with great precision, using the time to try to compose herself and figure out what on earth she was supposed to say at a moment like that. Finally, she attempted a smile, didn't quite meet his eyes, and joked, "Did you guess?"
He didn't say anything, so she was forced to look up. She immediately wished she hadn't. Colin looked completely unlike himself. The easy smile that always tugged at his lips, the good humor forever lurking in his eyes—they were all gone, replaced by harsh lines and cold, pure ice.
The man she knew, the man she'd loved for so very long— she didn't know who he was anymore.
"I'll take that as a no," she said shakily.
"Do you know what I am trying to do right now?" he asked, his voice startling and loud against the rhythmic clip-clop of the horses' hooves.
She opened her mouth to say no, but one look at his face told her he didn't desire an answer, so she held her tongue.
"I am trying to decide what, precisely, I am most angry with you about," he said. "Because there are so many things—so very many things—that I am finding it extraordinarily difficult to focus upon just one."
It was on the tip of Penelope's tongue to suggest something—her deception was a likely place to start—but on second thought, now seemed an excellent time to hold her counsel.
"First of all," he said, the terribly even tone of his voice suggesting that he was trying very hard to keep his temper in check (and this was, in and of itself, rather disturbing, as she hadn't been aware that Colin even possessed a temper), "I cannot believe you were stupid enough to venture into the City by yourself, and in a hired hack, no less!"
"I could hardly go by myself in one of our own carriages," Penelope blurted out before she remembered that she'd meant to remain silent.
His head moved about an inch to the left. She didn't know what that meant, but she couldn't imagine it was good, especially since it almost seemed as if his neck were tightening as it twisted. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, his voice still that awful blend of satin and steel.
Well, now she had to answer, didn't she? "Er, it's nothing," she said, hoping the evasion would reduce his attention on the rest of her reply. "Just that I'm not allowed to go out by myself."
"I am aware of that," he bit off. "There's a damned good reason for it, too."
"So if I wanted to go out by myself," she continued, choosing to ignore the second part of his reply, "I couldn't very well use one of
our carriages. None of our drivers would agree to take me here."
"Your drivers," he snapped, "are clearly men of impeccable wisdom and sense."
Penelope said nothing.
"Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?" he demanded, his sharp mask of control beginning to crack.
"Er, very little, actually," she said, gulping on the sentence. "I've come here before, and—"
"What? " His hand closed over her upper arm with painful force. "What did you just say?"
Repeating it seemed almost dangerous to her health, so Penelope just stared at him, hoping that maybe she could break
through the wild anger in his eyes and find the man she knew and loved so dearly.
"It's only when I need to leave an urgent message for my publisher," she explained. "I send a coded message, then he knows to pick up my note here."
"And speaking of which," Colin said roughly, snatching the folded paper back from her hands, "what the hell is this?"
Penelope stared at him in confusion. "I would have thought it was obvious. I'm—"
"Yes, of course, you're bloody Lady Whistledown, and you've probably been laughing at me for weeks as I insisted it was Eloise." His face twisted as he spoke, nearly breaking her heart.
"No!" she cried out. "No, Colin, never. I would never laugh at you!"
But his face told her clearly that he did not believe her. There was humiliation in his emerald eyes, something she'd never seen there, something she'd never expected to see. He was a Bridgerton. He was popular, confident, self-possessed. Nothing could embarrass him. No one could humiliate him.
Except, apparently, her.
"I couldn't tell you," she whispered, desperately trying to make that awful look in his eyes go away. "Surely you knew I couldn't tell you."
He was silent for an agonizingly long moment, and then, as if she'd never spoken, never tried to explain herself, he lifted the incriminating sheet of paper into the air and shook it, completely disregarding her impassioned outcry. "This is stupidity," he said. "Have you lost your mind?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You had a perfectly good escape, just waiting for you. Cressida Twombley was willing to take the blame for you."
And then suddenly his hands were on her shoulders, and he was holding her so tightly she could barely breathe.
"Why couldn't you just let it die, Penelope?" His voice was urgent, his eyes blazing. It was the most feeling she'd ever seen in him, and it broke her heart that it was directed toward her in anger. And in shame.
"I couldn't let her do it," she whispered. "I couldn't let her be me."
CHAPTER 13
"Why the hell not?"
Penelope could do nothing but stare for several seconds. "Because ... because ..." she flailed, wondering how she was supposed to explain this. Her heart was breaking, her most terrifying—and exhilarating—secret had been shattered, and
he thought she had the presence of mind to explain herself?
"I realize she's quite possibly the biggest bitch..."
Penelope gasped.
"... that England has produced in this generation at least, but for God's sake, Penelope"—he raked his hand through his hair, then fixed a hard stare on her face—"she was going to take the blame—"
"The credit," Penelope interrupted testily.
"The blame," he continued. "Do you have any idea what will happen to you if people find out who you really are?"
The corners of her lips tightened with impatience ... and irritation at being so obviously condescended to. "I've had over a decade to ruminate the possibility."
His eyes narrowed. "Are you being sarcastic?"
"Not at all," she shot back. "Do you really think I haven't spent a good portion of the last ten years of my life contemplating what would happen if I were found out? I'd be a blind idiot if I hadn't."
He grabbed her by the shoulders, holding tight even as the carriage bumped over uneven cobbles. "You will be ruined, Penelope. Ruined! Do you understand what I am saying?"
"If I did not," she replied, "I assure you I would now, after your lengthy dissertations on the subject when you were accusing Eloise of being Lady Whistledown."
He scowled, obviously annoyed at having his errors thrown in his face. "People will stop talking to you," he continued.
"They will cut you dead—"
"People never talked to me," she snapped. "Half the time they didn't even know I was there. How do you think I was able to keep up the ruse for so long in the first place? I was invisible, Colin. No one saw me, no one talked to me. I just stood and listened, and no one noticed"
"That's not true." But his eyes slid from hers as he said it.
"Oh, it is true, and you know it. You only deny it," she said, jabbing him in the arm, "because you feel guilty."
"I do not!"
"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Everything you do, you do out of guilt."
"Pen—"
"That involves me, at least," she corrected. Her breath was rushing through her throat, and her skin was pricking with heat, and for once, her soul was on fire. "Do you think I don't know how your family pities me? Do you think it escapes my notice that anytime you or your brothers happen to be at the same party as me, you ask me to dance?"
"We're polite," he ground out, "and we like you."
"And you feel sorry for me. You like Felicity but I don't see you dancing with her every time your paths cross."
He let go of her quite suddenly and crossed his arms. "Well, I don't like her as well as I do you."
She blinked, knocked rather neatly off her verbal stride. Trust him to go and compliment her in the middle of an argument. Nothing could have disarmed her more.
"And," he continued with a rather arch and superior lifting of his chin, "you have not addressed my original point."
"Which was?"
"That Lady Whistledown will ruin you!"
"For God's sake," she muttered, "you talk as if she were a separate person."
"Well, excuse me if I still have difficulty reconciling the woman in front of me with the harridan writing the column."
"Colin!"
"Insulted?" he mocked.
"Yes! I've worked very hard on that column." She clenched her fists around the thin fabric of her mint-green morning dress, oblivious to the wrinkled spirals she was creating. She had to do something with her hands or she'd quite possibly explode with the nervous energy and anger coursing through her veins. Her only other option seemed to be crossing her arms, and she refused to give in to such an obvious show of petulance. Besides, he was crossing his arms, and one of them needed to act older than six.
"I wouldn't dream of denigrating what you've done," he said condescendingly.
"Of course you would," she interrupted.
"No, I wouldn't."
"Then what do you think you're doing?"
"Being an adult!" he answered, his voice growing loud and impatient. "One of us has to be."
"Don't you dare speak to me of adult behavior!" she exploded. "You, who run at the very hint of responsibility."
"And what the hell does that mean?" he bit off.
"I thought it was rather obvious."
He drew back. "I can't believe you're speaking to me like this."
"You can't believe I'm doing it," she taunted, "or that I possess the nerve to do so?"
He just stared at her, obviously surprised by her question.
"There's more to me than you think, Colin," she said. And then, in a quieter tone of voice, she added, "There's more to me than I used to think."
He said nothing for several moments, and then, as if he just couldn't drag himself away from the topic, he asked, practically between his teeth, "What did you mean when you said I run from responsibility?"
She pursed her lips, then relaxed as she let out what she hoped would be a calming exhale. "Why do you think you travel so much?"
"Because I like it," he replied, his tone clipped.
/> "And because you're bored out of your mind here in England."
"And that makes me a child because ... ?"
"Because you're not willing to grow up and do something adult that would keep you in one place."
"Like what?"
Her hands came up in an I-should-think-it-was-obvious sort of gesture. "Like get married."
"Is that a proposal?" he mocked, one corner of his mouth rising into a rather insolent smile.
She could feel her cheeks flushing deep and hot, but she forced herself to continue. "You know it's not, and don't try to change the subject by being deliberately cruel." She waited for him to say something, perhaps an apology. His silence was an insult, and so she let out a snort and said, "For heaven's sake, Colin, you're three-and-thirty."
"And you're eight-and-twenty," he pointed out, and not in a particularly kind tone of voice.
It felt like a punch in the belly, but she was too riled up to retreat into her familiar shell. "Unlike you," she said with low precision, "I don't have the luxury of asking someone. And unlike you," she added, her intention now solely to induce the guilt she'd accused him of just minutes earlier, "I don't have a massive pool of prospective suitors, so I've never had the luxury of saying no."
His lips tightened. "And you think that your unveiling as Lady Whistledown is going to increase the number of your suitors?"
"Are you trying to be insulting?" she ground out.
"I'm trying to be realistic! Something which you seem to have completely lost sight of."
"I never said I was planning to unveil myself as Lady Whistledown."
He snatched the envelope with the final column in it back up off the cushioned bench. "Then what is this about?"
She grabbed it back, yanking the paper from the envelope. "I beg your pardon," she said, every syllable heavy with sarcasm. "I must have missed the sentence proclaiming my identity."
"You think this swan song of yours will do anything to dampen the frenzy of interest in Lady Whistledown's identity? Oh, excuse me"—he placed one insolent hand over his heart—"perhaps I should have said your identity. After all, I don't want to deny you your credit."