by Quinn, Julia
"Well, don't worry over him," Lady Danbury said quite suddenly. "We'll find you someone else."
Penelope delicately cleared her throat. "Lady Danbury, have you made me your project?"
The old lady beamed, her smile a bright and glowing streak in her wrinkled face. "Of course! I'm surprised it has taken you so long to figure it out."
"But why?" Penelope asked, truly unable to fathom it.
Lady Danbury sighed. The sound wasn't sad—more wistful, really. "Would you mind if we sat down for a spell? These old bones aren't what they used to be."
"Of course," Penelope said quickly, feeling terrible that she'd never once considered Lady Danbury's age as they stood there in the stuffy ballroom. But the countess was so vibrant; it was difficult to imagine her ailing or weak.
"Here we are," Penelope said, taking her arm and leading her to a nearby chair. Once Lady Danbury was settled, Penelope took a seat beside her. "Are you more comfortable now? Would you like something to drink?"
Lady Danbury nodded gratefully, and Penelope signaled to a footman to bring them two glasses of lemonade, since she didn't want to leave the countess while she was looking so pale.
"I'm not as young as I used to be," Lady Danbury told her once the footman had hied off to the refreshment table.
"None of us are," Penelope replied. It could have been a flip comment, but it was spoken with wry warmth, and somehow Penelope thought that Lady Danbury would appreciate the sentiment.
She was right. Lady D chuckled and sent Penelope an appreciative glance before saying, "The older I get, the more I realize that most of the people in this world are fools."
"You're only just figuring that out now?" Penelope asked, not to mock, but rather because, given Lady Danbury's usual demeanor, it was difficult to believe that she hadn't reached that conclusion years ago.
Lady Danbury laughed heartily. "No, sometimes I think I knew that before I was born. What I'm realizing now is that it's time I did something about it."
"What do you mean?"
"I couldn't care less what happens to the fools of this world, but the people like you"—lacking a handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes with her fingers—"well, I'd like to see you settled."
For several seconds, Penelope did nothing but stare at her. "Lady Danbury," she said carefully, "I very much appreciate the gesture ... and the sentiment... but you must know that I am not your responsibility."
"Of course I know that," Lady Danbury scoffed. "Have no fear, I feel no responsibility to you. If I did, this wouldn't be half so much fun."
Penelope knew she sounded the veriest ninny, but all she could think to say was, "I don't understand."
Lady Danbury held silent while the footmen returned with their lemonade, then began speaking once she had taken several small sips. "I like you, Miss Featherington. I don't like a lot of people. It's as simple as that. And I want to see you happy."
"But I am happy," Penelope said, more out of reflex than anything else.
Lady Danbury raised one arrogant brow—an expression that she did to perfection. "Are you?" she murmured.
Was she? What did it mean, that she had to stop and think about the answer? She wasn't unhappy, of that she was sure. She had wonderful friends, a true confidante in her younger sister Felicity, and if her mother and older sisters weren't women she'd have chosen as close friends—well, she still loved them. And she knew they loved her.
Hers wasn't such a bad lot. Her life lacked drama and excitement, but she was content.
But contentment wasn't the same thing as happiness, and she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest as she realized that she could not answer Lady Danbury's softly worded question in the affirmative.
"I've raised my family," Lady Danbury said. "Four children, and they all married well. I even found a bride for my nephew, who, truth be told"—she leaned in and whispered the last three words, giving Penelope the impression that she was about to divulge a state secret—"I like better than my own children."
Penelope couldn't help but smile. Lady Danbury looked so furtive, so naughty. It was rather cute, actually.
"It may surprise you," Lady Danbury continued, "but by nature I'm a bit of a meddler."
Penelope kept her expression scrupulously even.
"I find myself at loose ends," Lady Danbury said, holding up her hands as if in surrender. "I'd like to see one last person
happily settled before I go."
"Don't talk that way, Lady Danbury," Penelope said, impulsively reaching out and taking her hand. She gave it a little squeeze. "You'll outlive us all, I am certain."
"Pfffft, don't be silly." Lady Danbury's tone was dismissive, but she made no move to remove her hand from Penelope's grasp. "I'm not being depressive," she added. "I'm just realistic. I've passed seventy years of age, and I'm not going to tell you how many years ago that was. I haven't much time left in this world, and that doesn't bother me one bit."
Penelope hoped she would be able to face her own mortality with the same equanimity.
"But I like you, Miss Featherington. You remind me of myself. You're not afraid to speak your mind."
Penelope could only look at her in shock. She'd spent the last ten years of her life never quite saying what she wanted to say. With people she knew well she was open and honest and even sometimes a little funny, but among strangers her tongue was quite firmly tied.
She remembered a masquerade ball she'd once attended. She'd attended many masquerade balls, actually, but this one had been unique because she'd actually found a costume— nothing special, just a gown styled as if from the 1600s—in which she'd truly felt her identity was hidden. It had probably been the mask. It was overly large and covered almost all of her face.
She had felt transformed. Suddenly free of the burden of being Penelope Featherington, she felt a new personality coming to the fore. It wasn't as if she had been putting on false airs; rather, it was more like her true self—the one she didn't know how to show to anyone she didn't know well— had finally broken loose.
She'd laughed; she'd joked. She'd even flirted.
And she'd sworn that the following night, when the costumes were all put away and she was once again attired in her finest evening dress, she'd remember how to be herself.
But it hadn't happened. She'd arrived at the ball and she'd nodded and smiled politely and once again found herself standing near the perimeter of the room, quite literally a wallflower.
It seemed that being Penelope Featherington meant something. Her lot had been cast years ago, during that first awful season when her mother had insisted she make her debut even though Penelope had begged otherwise. The pudgy girl. The awkward girl. The one always dressed in colors that didn't suit her. It didn't matter that she'd slimmed and grown graceful and finally thrown out all of her yellow dresses. In this world—the world of London society and the ton—she would always be the same old Penelope Featherington.
It was her own fault just as much as anyone else's. A vicious circle, really. Every time Penelope stepped into a ballroom, and she saw all those people who had known her for so long, she felt herself folding up inside, turning into the shy, awkward girl of years gone past, rather than the self-assured woman she liked to think she'd become—at least in her heart.
"Miss Featherington?" came Lady Danbury's soft—and surprisingly gentle—voice. "Is something wrong?"
Penelope knew she took longer than she should have to reply, but somehow she needed a few seconds to find her voice.
"I don't think I know how to speak my mind," she finally said, turning to look at Lady Danbury only as she uttered the final words of the sentence. "I never know what to say to people."
"You know what to say to me."
"You're different."
Lady Danbury threw her head back and laughed. "If ever there was an understatement... Oh, Penelope—I hope you don't mind if I call you by your given name—if you can speak your mind to me, you can speak it to anyone. Half the grown
men in this room run cowering into corners the minute they see me coming."
"They just don't know you," Penelope said, patting her on the hand.
"And they don't know you, either," Lady Danbury quite pointedly replied.
"No," Penelope said, a touch of resignation in her voice, "they don't."
"I'd say that it was their loss, but that would be rather cavalier of me," Lady Danbury said. "Not to them, but to you, because as often as I call them all fools—and I do call them fools often, as I'm sure you know—some of them are actually rather decent people, and it's a crime they haven't gotten to know you. I—Hmmm ... I wonder what is going on."
Penelope found herself unaccountably sitting up a little straighten She asked Lady Danbury, "What do you mean?" but it was clear that something was afoot. People were whispering and motioning to the small dais where the musicians were seated.
"You there!" Lady Danbury said, poking her cane into the hip of a nearby gentleman. "What is going on?"
"Cressida Twombley wants to make some sort of announcement," he said, then quickly stepped away, presumably to avoid any further conversation with Lady Danbury or her cane.
"I hate Cressida Twombley," Penelope muttered.
Lady Danbury choked on a bit of laughter. "And you say you don't know how to speak your mind. Don't keep me in suspense. Why do you detest her so?"
Penelope shrugged. "She's always behaved quite badly toward me."
Lady Danbury nodded knowingly. "All bullies have a favorite victim."
"It's not so bad now," Penelope said. "But back when we were both out—when she was still Cressida Cowper—she never could resist the chance to torment me. And people ... well..." She shook her head. "Never mind."
"No, please," Lady Danbury said, "do go on."
Penelope sighed. "It's nothing, really. Just that I've noticed that people don't often rush to another's defense. Cressida was popular—at least with a certain set—and she was rather frightening to the other girls our age. No one dared go against her. Well, almost no one."
That got Lady Danbury's attention, and she smiled. "Who was your champion, Penelope?"
"Champions, actually," Penelope replied. 'The Bridgertons always came to my aid. Anthony Bridgerton once gave her the cut direct and took me in to dinner, and"—her voice rose with remembered excitement—"he really shouldn't have done so. It was a formal dinner party, and he was supposed to escort in some marchioness, I think." She sighed, treasuring the memory. "It was lovely."
"He's a good man, that Anthony Bridgerton."
Penelope nodded. "His wife told me that that was the day she fell in love with him. When she saw him being my hero."
Lady Danbury smiled. "And has the younger Mr. Bridgerton ever rushed to your aid?"
"Colin, you mean?" Penelope didn't even wait for Lady Danbury's nod before adding, "Of course, although never with quite so much drama. But I must say, as nice as it is that the Bridgertons are so supportive...."
"What is it, Penelope?" Lady Danbury asked.
Penelope sighed again. It seemed a night for sighs. "I just wish they didn't have to defend me so often. You'd think I could defend myself. Or at least comport myself in such a manner so that no defending was necessary."
Lady Danbury patted her hand. "I think you get on a great deal better than you think you do. And as for that Cressida Twombley..." Lady Danbury's face soured with distaste. "Well, she got her just desserts, if you ask me. Although," she added sharply, "people don't ask me as often as they should."
Penelope could not quite suppress a little snort of laughter.
"Look where she is now," Lady Danbury said sharply. "Widowed and without even a fortune to show for it. She married that old lecher Horace Twombley and it turned out he'd managed to fool everyone into thinking he had money. Now she has nothing but fading good looks."
Honesty compelled Penelope to say, "She is still quite attractive."
"Hmmph. If you like flashy women." Lady Danbury's eyes narrowed. "There is something far too obvious about that woman."
Penelope looked toward the dais, where Cressida was waiting, standing there with a surprising amount of patience while the ballroom quieted down. "I wonder what she is going to say."
"Nothing that could possibly interest me," Lady Danbury retorted. "I—Oh." She stopped, and her lips curved into the oddest of expressions, a little bit frown, a little bit smile.
"What is it?" Penelope asked. She craned her neck to try to see Lady Danbury's line of vision, but a rather portly gentleman was blocking her way.
"Your Mr. Bridgerton is approaching," Lady Danbury said, the smile edging out the frown. "And he looks quite determined."
Penelope immediately twisted her head around.
"For the love of God, girl, don't look!" Lady Danbury exclaimed, jamming her elbow into Penelope's upper arm. "He'll know you're interested."
"I don't think there's much of a chance he hasn't figured that out already," Penelope mumbled.
And then there he was, standing splendidly in front of her, looking like some handsome god, deigning to grace earth with his presence. "Lady Danbury," he said, executing a smooth and graceful bow. "Miss Featherington."
"Mr. Bridgerton," Lady Danbury said, "how nice to see you."
Colin looked to Penelope.
"Mr. Bridgerton," she murmured, not knowing what else to say. What did one say to a man one had recently kissed? Penelope certainly had no experience in that area. Not to mention the added complication of his storming out of the house once they were through.
"I'd hoped ..." Colin began, then stopped and frowned, looking up toward the dais. "What is everyone looking at?"
"Cressida Twombley has some sort of announcement," Lady Danbury said.
Colin's face slid into a vaguely annoyed frown. "Can't imagine what she has to say that I'd want to listen to," he muttered.
Penelope couldn't help but grin. Cressida Twombley was considered a leader in society, or at least she had been when she'd been young and unmarried, but the Bridgertons had never liked her, and somehow that had always made Penelope feel a little better.
Just then a trumpet blared, and the room fell silent as everyone turned their attention to the Earl of Macclesfield, who was standing on the dais next to Cressida, looking vaguely uncomfortable with all the attention.
Penelope smiled. She'd been told the earl had once been a terrible rake, but now he was a rather scholarly sort, devoted to his family. He was still handsome enough to be a rake, though. Almost as handsome as Colin.
But only almost. Penelope knew she was biased, but it was difficult to imagine any creature quite as magnetically good-looking as Colin when he was smiling.
"Good evening," the earl said loudly.
"Good evening to you!" came a drunken shout from the back of the room.
The earl gave a good-natured nod, a tolerant half-smile playing along his lips. "My, er, esteemed guest here"—he motioned to Cressida—"would like to make an announcement. So if you would all give your attention to the lady beside me, I give you Lady Twombley."
A low ripple of whispers spread across the room as Cressida stepped forward, nodding regally at the crowd. She waited for the room to fall into stark silence, and then she said, "Ladies and gentleman, thank you so much for taking time out of your festivities to lend me your attention."
"Hurry up with it!" someone shouted, probably the same person who 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 las
t 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.