Chapter Text
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that England’s upper crust circle will always delight in a bit of old-fashioned misogyny – so long as it’s under the guise of a good cause.
Penelope doesn’t begrudge this fact as much as she should. She once had, picking fights with her mother over double standards and exchanging eye rolls with other debutantes when men looked down the front of their dresses. She’s even written about it, hiding behind a screen name to extol biting commentary later echoed in the mouths of her peers. Being underestimated on the basis of her sex is taxing, to say the least. That being said, however, the stars will occasionally align in just a way that it works in her favor.
Such is the case tonight. As an elderly businessman regales her with the same tired tale for the third time, Pen resists the urge to absently pick at the pearl finish of her acrylics. Instead, she raises the champagne flute to her mouth, reclaiming the spot where her pink lip smear has already left its mark. Alastair Aitken is nearing 90, with the lengthy nose hair and shortened memory to show for it. Rather than the sharp-witted, illustrious hedge fund manager she’d heard about, he seems more like a walking ghoul. With a leathery hand at her elbow, he keeps calling her “ Miss ,” covering for the fact he’d clearly forgotten her name.
The annual charity gala has always been skilled at drawing out even the most reclusive brokers and dowagers, many of whom often looking to both support a good cause and have a good time. As such, the board has rented out a banquet hall for guests to wine, dine and, of course, sign massive checks.
If there ever was the perfect place to peddle at the upper class, it would be at the Dorchester. Even the hall’s pillars are ornate, each one covered in overlapping golden plates like a serpent’s skin. The floor has a sweeping design of sharp curves and dark spirals – marble so polished that if she were to drop her gaze to her shoes, a clear duplicate would stare back at her. Not that Penelope needs any help in that department. Mirrors are everywhere in the hall – lining every other door, wall and ceiling pane.
“You know,” Aitken says, after she somehow manages to compare the housing market to a dry golf tournament from 1964. “You remind me of my wife. God rest her soul.”
She bites back a smile. Hook, line, sinker.
All throughout tonight, she’d been zeroed in like a hawk on the old man, making her small bits of conversation with him casual yet memorable. And she’s so close to the finish line. She just has to steer their dialogue to –
“Bridgerton.” The name carries across the ballroom in a whisper, uttered by a giddy, wide-eyed debutant to her match-making mama. Penelope feels it as a sort of sick burn in the back of her throat. You knew they were coming, she reminds herself, do not be dissuaded from your goal.
She swore she wouldn’t even cast a backwards glance their way, but once Penelope catches their reflection in one of those damned mirrors, it’s impossible to look away.
The family’s matriarch, Violet, leads the pack. Anthony is not far from her shoulder, offering his arm to his mother while his other is taken by his wife, Kate. Those three take the brunt of the glances with forced smiles, exchanging the usual pleasantries to everyone who has rushed into their vicinity to greet them.
When Penelope finally turns toward them at the front of the hall, she catches Eloise ducking behind Benedict, an obvious attempt to shield her attire from outside eyes as much as she can. She wears a midnight blue dress, with a neckline pulled up to meet the base of her throat. With her hair pinned up, everyone has a good view of her neck, its stark white column in contrast to the darkness of her dress. She looks beautiful; Pen is certain Eloise hates it.
She hasn’t seen her best friend – former, she corrects herself – since that disastrous party in May. That was nearly six months ago, and despite Pen’s calls, texts and emails since then, what could have just been a minor skirmish between the two girls has fully escalated into a cold war.
It’s a shock at first when Eloise makes eye contact with her, but then again, it shouldn’t be all that surprising. They had always sought each other out in crowded rooms. How can that natural instinct fade away with something as inconsequential as time? For her part, Eloise looks just as caught off guard to see her. Though her eyes widen for just a split second, it isn’t long before it bleeds into a hard stare.
That’s enough to break her from the spell. Penelope looks away, only to find herself pinned down by the stare of a different Bridgerton. Of course, she thinks, her stomach sinking into her shoes, because why would anything be easy for me?
As soon as she meets his gaze, Colin’s bright, affable smile fades into something softer, more genuine. Pen, he mouths, and she leans forward, shamelessly eager to hear her name on the tip of his tongue. Her sharp exhale of breath causes a ripple to skim across her champagne flute’s surface.
Great. So much for being unaffected.
Morbid curiosity sated, she whirls back around, but there’s only an empty space where Aitken had been. The man must have hobbled somewhere else while she was mooning over the Bridgerton siblings. Dammit. It takes a few minutes before she can lay eyes on him again, all the way across the room. He’s plopped down at his table, using the charity pamphlet to fan himself. It’s fine. She’s spoken with the man enough for one evening. After all, she doesn’t want to be too transparent.
While there are a few posters spelling out the charity aspect of this event, those are all more or less hidden by intricate balloon sculptures near the initial entrance and stage area. Idly, Penelope wonders if that was on purpose – after all, nothing puts a damper on a socialite’s conversation than a hunger-paned child’s visage – or if it was done without even a hint of self-awareness. Given how she’s been surrounded by people like this her entire childhood, she’s leaning more toward the latter.
As a waiter passes by with a silver tray, Penelope gives away her glass and watches him dip toward the other room, presumably where the kitchen lies. With less than an hour to go before this night closes, she might as well retreat back into old habits. She’s already spotted a shadowed corner with her name on it, one that even falls along the waitstaff’s route. It’s the best vantage point to keep an eye and ear out for any unseemly talk.
She starts her meandering journey, side-stepping each small table and throng of people polluting the hall’s wide space. All the while, she keeps her stare on that corner, or else risk getting sick by the unintentional optical illusions. This place really is like a house of mirrors – anywhere Penelope looks, each guest is mirrored three different ways, to the point where she’s afraid of accidentally stumbling into one of them. She just has a few meters left. If she can just slip away before –
“Pen,” a hand grabs her own, self-assured in his grip. The motion is fluid, given its years of practice. Penelope reckons it’s that aspect of his nature – how he always communicated with touch: his elbow nudging her rib to get her attention, his hand on her waist while dancing, his nose brushing against her ear as he whispers a joke – that made Colin Bridgerton so easy to fall for.
As a young, starry-eyed girl, she once looked forward to these moments, hoarding them away like pieces of fool’s gold. Now, however, his touch feels acidic. Penelope pulls away from his grasp before she can think of a more subtle brush off. Colin blinks, thrown by her rejection, before he quickly recovers.
“Sorry,” he flashes her an embarrassed, silly-me grin, retracting his hand immediately. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
In return, Penelope tries to emulate his friendly expression. While it looks natural on him, it rings taut on her own features.
While she’d vaguely known he was back in town, this is the first time she’s actually seen Colin in half a year. As someone who’s spent the past decade committing his outline to memory, the subtle differences in his appearance immediately jump out to her. His hair has grown just a tad bit longer. Even when it’s parted to the side in his usual style, he doesn’t yet know how to tame the new volume – a single strand has broken loose from the pack, curling loosely against his forehead. While the drab London sky hasn’t had the chance to erase the tan he’d gotten overbroad, his hometown has taken its toll in other ways. Behind that ever-present smile, he looks tired, that fact being attested by the light shadow on his jawline.
She forces a cheerful, if a little reserved tone. “Colin! It’s good to see you. You look, um –” Drop dead gorgeous, like always. “Well,” she finishes lamely.
While the sight of Eloise had been cutting, Colin is like a punch in the stomach. It’s made all the worse when he just keeps smiling – a small, private one, if a look can still be characterized as private while on full display in a crowded room.
“You might be the only one who thinks so,” he responds dryly, rubbing at his stubble. “Haven’t shaken off the jetlag yet, and my sleep schedule’s been a bit busted ever since. Anthony had to talk Mother out of stopping for some shaving cream on the way here.” His gaze skirts over her. Penelope fights the urge to preen under his gaze. “You, on the other hand, look great. Is that a new dress?”
Knowing she’d need the extra boost, Penelope had spent hours on her hair, every loose curl that wasn’t framing her face being held together with pins, spray and borderline cement. Her make-up was courtesy of Genevieve – all winged eyeliner, coral-painted lips and high blush cheeks. The dress is also from the seamstress’s shop, a rosy pink number with the sleeves falling off the shoulder. Sewn carnations gather loosely near her plunged neckline, with petals falling as it drifts to her abdomen.
“On loan from a friend,” Penelope admits, raising on her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. She looks around for anyone to interrupt them, but it’s a moot search. Eloise has only ever been the one to seek out her company, and the girl has made it abundantly clear that she no longer desires it.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, forcing her attention back to him. “Eloise never said anything.”
“Well, you know what they say,” she makes an awkwardly jilted motion. She should have kept the champagne flute; she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. “Bad penny and all that.”
“Are you mad?” he waves off her self-deprecation. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since my plane touched down.”
Her heart skips a beat. She can’t help it, nor can she stop her lips forming the question: “Well, go on then, how was Cyprus?” It’s the trip he’d talked about for ages, even taking six weeks of scuba lessons in preparation to see the Zenobia shipwreck.
“Phenomenal,” he enthuses, floodgates opening with the sweep of his arms. “Pen, the ship glowed green, I swear it…” It’s easy to fall back into this tired routine. Colin talks, Pen listens. Colin smiles, Pen swoons. Colin leaves, Pen waits.
From across the room, Eloise steals glances over at them, whispering something in Anthony’s ear. Bingo.
“I’m really glad you loved it,” Penelope interjects as politely as she can, laying a feathery touch on his wrist to halt his rant. “Now, I’d hate to take up too much of your time. I think your family is missing you.” He follows her gaze, only to scoff.
“Trust me, they’re sick of me already. But I get the hint,” he raises up his hands in mock-surrender. It almost gives Penelope a bit of hope until he continues. “Enough of my rambling then. Tell me: how have you been?”
Her hands fist in the loose fabric of her dress.
“There’s not much to tell. I’ve just been, uh –” Lying, scheming, watching my family fall from grace and deeper into debt. But she can’t say any of those things. Instead, she blurts out the next thing that comes to mind, “Needing to go to the toilet, actually.”
Colin crooks an eyebrow. Penelope can only smile awkwardly back, all the while fighting the urge to strangle herself.
“Oh, well, alright then. We’ll catch up later.” She takes advantage of his surprise to start slipping past him. But just as she’s almost free, he stops her cold with a casual request. “You’ll have to give me your new number.”
At first, it doesn’t really register. “My what?”
“You got a new phone or something, right?” he expands, pulling his own cell from his pocket to update her contact. “Don’t think you’ve gotten rid of me so easily. I need to pester you with grainy travel photos and weird questions at 3 a.m.”
Two realizations drop on her at once: He’d texted or called her while he was away. And he hasn’t yet realized she’d blocked his number.
She should have found a way to side-step this turn in conversation, maybe emphasizing the imaginary pressure on her bladder, but he’s looking so expectantly at her, blissful and unaware, and her brain suddenly short circuits, for lack of a better word. It’s the only explanation for why she continues: “Right, of course. It’s 8-6-7…5-3-0-9.”
As she goes on, his typing slows, until finally he glances up at her.
“Pen,” he says after regarding her for a second. “You didn’t change your number, did you?”
Penelope bites the inside of her cheek. Not trusting herself to respond this time, she just shakes her head with a strained smile.
He waits for her to continue, to dole out some explanation. When it doesn’t come, he fills in the gaps.
“Well, I did text you. A lot,” he tells her, face creasing as he tries to work out this puzzle. “I imagine that got annoying.”
“That’s not –” she begins to scoff but stops herself. She sighs, pivoting, “You’re not annoying, Colin. I’ve just been, you know…busy.”
“Of course,” he takes her excuse easily enough, despite obviously not believing it. “Not too busy to talk later though, yeah?”
“We’ll see,” she offers. Her noncommittal answer just further saps the ease from Colin’s expression.
When he smiles again, it’s pinched, pairing well with the furrow of his brow, “Forgive me, Pen. Have I – Did I do something to upset you?”
“No, of course not,” the lie slips from her tongue, light and airy. Her goodbye is much harder. Tearing her gaze from his bemused expression, she slips past him, a hand brushing his waist in order to get by. “Enjoy the party, Colin.”
Because she’s not one to shy away from self-flagellation, she drafts a text to Eloise while sitting on the toilet: A bit surprised to see you here, with the whole ‘auctioning off women’ deal. Should I expect a bucket of pig’s blood on the stage when I take my turn around?
The text, like all the ones previous, returns undeliverable. Penelope sits with her knees tucked in for a long time.
Penelope hides behind the cramped backstage area as one venue employee, playing the reluctant emcee, readies everything for the show. She has the upper half of her face covered with a silver bird-like mask, the sharp curve of her beak emphasizing her bold red lips.
“Can I help at all?” Penelope had asked. “Even if it’s meaningless work. I just want to do something with my hands right now other than crease up my dress.”
The lady shrugged and tossed her some cue cards to reshuffle. After spending thirty minutes together, Penelope mindlessly prattling on and the woman only giving some half-smiles and nods in return, she learns her name.
“Why are you wearing that?” Pen gathers the courage to ask. “If you don’t mind telling me.”
“Protecting my identity. I don’t need any guy showing up at my other place of work wondering how much a night with me costs,” Sophie tells her in low tones. “Covering events like this for almost a decade now, I’ve learned two things: never trust the clam dip, and rich guys who are willing to pay for a girl to spend time with them are creeps with no set of boundaries.” At Penelope’s widened stare, Sophie quickly tacks on, “I’m sure your date will be lovely though.”
After last year’s gift basket auction was a very muted success, the board is mixing it up with a different kind of auction – one that includes young girls traipsing on stage and old, gummy men throwing money for an all-expenses paid date night. It’s something that Penelope hadn’t been sure was even a real thing beyond seeing it on television. Knowing the air-headed committee chair, that’s likely where they got the idea.
Penelope is set to be one of those young girls. While the other beauties will probably go for over £1,000 each, Pen will be lucky to reach £50. But that’s alright by her. She didn’t volunteer for some ego boost, nor can she even hide behind the excuse of wanting to contribute in her own way for a charitable cause. The sad truth of the matter is simple: Penelope needs to get Dr. Aitken alone.
“My first one ever,” she informs her, a sardonic twist in her smile. “Glad I’m starting with the cream of the crop.”
Sophie pauses in her ministrations. “You’ve never been on a proper date before?”
Penelope gives a small shake of her head. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit that at 19, she hasn’t even been asked out. It’s something she used to dwell on, but that was before she had real-life responsibilities to keep her up at night. Like the bills piling up on their countertops. Or her mother discreetly selling off her jewelry online in order to keep the lights on. Or her whole family being snubbed at every public event for months until they stopped receiving invitations altogether. Hell, the only reason Penelope was even allowed on this gala’s guest list was because she’d volunteered to be one of the dates up for auction.
“Look at it this way,” Sophie tries her shot at encouragement. “If you start at the bottom, you can only go up from here?”
Penelope scoffs, moving over in order to part through the curtain and peek outside. Aitken is falling asleep at his table, requiring his granddaughter to elbow him every once in a while so that his head doesn’t fall into a bowl of soup. At least he’s still here. And breathing. That’s a plus.
Her hubris at sneaking peeks of the crowd is punished when, of course, her eyeline connects with Colin. He’s speaking animatedly with Benedict, complete with sweeping hand motions, before stopping dead in his tracks once he sees her. Penelope snaps the curtain shut, but it’s too late. Soon enough, it opens again, revealing a breathless Bridgerton.
“There you are,” the curtain closes behind him as he corners her. “I’ve been looking everywhere. I tried waiting for you, but I was afraid I’d get some kind of reputation, loitering around the women’s toilets.”
Sophie throws her a sideways glance: See what I mean? Creep behavior. She clocks Penelope’s discomfort with Colin and pauses her work to glare at him.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but the stage area is for employees and our volunteers for the auction,” Sophie tells him with a customer service smile sharp enough to bite. “I’m gonna have to ask you to rejoin the party on the main floor.”
“My apologies. No problem,” Colin says, a hand appearing at Pen’s elbow. “Come on. You can sit with us.”
Penelope doesn’t budge. “I’m supposed to be back here.” Colin doesn’t seem to hear her. Or, rather, he seems certain that he’s mis heard her.
“What do you mean?” She doesn’t dignify his inquiry with a response, waiting for the gears in his head to slowly start churning. When his eyes light up with belated realization, they darken just as quickly. “You’re a volunteer?”
His tone is so incredulous that she gets a bit offended. Sure, she’ll go for less than the other girls, but she’s worth some offer. She sticks her chin out, “And why is that so hard to believe?”
“I thought you’d find the whole ‘auctioning off women’ thing a bit medieval,” Colin looks scandalized that he even has to explain this to her. “We’ve only come because Anthony donates to this thing every year in our father’s name. Though after learning the theme tonight, even he’s seriously reconsidering. Why on earth would you want to be paraded on stage like some prized calf?”
Of course he doesn’t know. The ignorance that comes with well-timed absences.
“I’m just really into older guys at the moment,” she deadpans.
He scoffs, raising his hands in a Well, here I am gesture. “Fine then. If that’s all you’re looking for, I’ll pick you up next Friday at 8.”
She suppresses an eye roll. Instead, Penelope pretends to consider him, looking up and down with a narrowed stare. “Eh, too much hair on the head, not enough in the ears,” he blanches, to which she only responds with a shrug. “Sorry, I’m quite picky.”
“Penelope,” something hard and stern enters his voice as he says her full name. It sends an unwanted chill up her spine. “You cannot be serious.”
She does roll her eyes this time, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why do you even care?”
He scoffs. “Right, so you are joking. How can you even ask that? We’re friends –” And it’s that, of course, that finally sets her off.
“We are not friends,” she corrects him, her tone so sharp that it makes him stumble back. “Eloise and I were friends. And now that she wants nothing to do with me,” Her voice catches before she can steel herself, continuing through clenched teeth. “That lets you off the hook.”
It takes a moment for Colin to find his voice again, and even when he does, it’s bewildered, pairing well with the wideness of his eyes. “Off the hook,” he repeats, brow furrowed. “What does that even mean?”
“It means you don’t have to pity the insipid wallflower by roping her into group conversations or asking her to dance at parties so she doesn’t feel left out. No more check-in texts or birthday cards or awkward small talk at galas,” she explains, short and to the point. “Thank you for your service. You’re relieved of your post.”
Colin just looks at her, in a way that makes her squirm in this little dress. When he responds, it’s so low that she has to strain to hear him. “Is that really what you think of me?”
While Penelope tries to sound detached, her delivery just comes out defeated. “It’s what you think of me.”
He starts to shake his head, preparing another tirade, but Sophie takes this moment to interject on her behalf.
“Seriously, Sir, the ladies are coming backstage to prepare,” she tells him. “You need to make your way to a seat.”
At first, Colin doesn’t move, his jaw working. But just as Sophie looks ready to push him out herself, he relents.
“Fine,” he nods stiffly to Penelope, forcing a smile in Sophie’s direction. “My apologies, again.”
Pen thought she’d be able to breathe easier when he disappeared back behind the curtain; instead, a lump rises in her throat. She’d hurt him. It was necessary, in order to get her point across, but that doesn’t mean she still can’t feel rotten about it.
“I’m not going to ask what that was about,” Sophie fills the beat of silence. “What I will ask is, are you okay?”
She hasn’t been in quite awhile now, but that doesn’t matter. It’s time to get back to work.
“I’m fine,” she squares her shoulders. “Let’s just finish this.”
Penelope has always found her strength working in the shadows. Maybe that’s why, as Sophie narrates from the prompter with glib enthusiasm, she has to quell the urge to shrink back into the curtain. About a dozen other girls are lined up alongside her on the raised platform, which has been set up as a makeshift stage. As the lights glare down on them, threatening to melt their mascara and faux smiles off, Penelope wonders when exactly she developed such an affection for this kind of social self-torture.
“Each date with these lovely ladies includes a four-course meal at any of the Michelin star restaurants listed in the catalog at your table,” Sophie says. “But this isn’t what we’re really here for, folks. Remember, your money will go toward…”
Pen drowns out the rest, glancing between the brightly lit bored-looking beauties around her and the mostly shadowed crowd facing them. Although she knows that certainly no one is looking at her while being surrounded by these prettier women, there’s this pervading feeling of exposure that makes her feel hot and itchy all over. She shifts her weight from side to side, trying to relieve some tension nesting in her shoulders. One of those beautiful girls beside her seems to notice her nerves and discreetly loops an arm around hers.
“You’ll be okay,” the woman whispers. “I did this once a few summers ago. The ‘date’ itself is typically just boring. This right here is the hard part.”
It’s a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. Penelope squeezes the girl’s hand back in gratitude. As soon as Sophie gets the ball rolling, girls get introduced one by one in methodical order. Penelope is close toward the end of the line, which she can’t decide is a blessing or a curse.
The betting begins lively, with two or three gentlemen throwing their weight (or at least that of their wallets) around for each woman. By the middle, most of the quibbling has died down and the whole process moves as slow as molasses. The girl gives Pen’s hand one last squeeze before she’s up, going toward the front of the stage and sporting a false, bright smile. Her date eventually ends up being around £4,000, earning second place for highest bid behind Cressida Cowper’s £5,000 offer.
Finally, Sophie calls, “Our next lady, Penelope Featherington.” Her last name triggers a wave of murmurs from the crowd. Of course. Penelope doesn’t know why she hadn’t seen that coming. After all, the Featheringtons have made quite the spectacle out of themselves so far this year. They probably think the youngest one must have something up her sleeve.
The Bridgerton table is near the front, but Pen refuses to even spare a passing glance over to them. Instead, she trains her gaze on the Aitken table, where the elderly man has yet to raise his paddle a single time.
But he has to bid on her. They’ve shared a laugh over investment banking – what’s more romantically charged than that? Please, she wills, as if simply wishing something will make it true, I need to talk to you.
“Alright,” Sophie says. “Let’s begin the bid at –”
“£10,000.”
The bid bounces across the marbled hall. Penelope feels its ricochet like a slap to the face. Because the bid didn’t come from Mr. Aitken’s corner table. It came from the front, with a very familiar voice.
As if on cue, everyone’s neck snaps over to the Bridgerton table, where Anthony takes most of the eyes by coughing up a lung. If Colin notices everyone’s stare, he doesn’t give any indication. Instead, he keeps his paddle raised, staring pointedly at Penelope. No one even tries to outbid, much to her and Anthony’s abject horror.
When Sophie unenthusiastically confirms his victory, Colin’s focused expression melts into a smirk. Penelope wants to take off her heel and chuck it at him.
As soon as the auction is finished, Penelope tries to make a beeline for the exit. Colin falls in step beside her, ignoring her huff of frustration.
While they walk, Penelope refuses to even look at him. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve gathered that,” he intones, easily keeping pace with her. It’s those damned long legs. She’d never thought they could be used against her like this. “But I think we should talk, so you can tell me why you think we shouldn’t.”
“But that would require us to talk,” she points out stiffly.
“Fair point,” he concedes, before adding, “Counterpoint: we’re talking now.”
“No, you are talking. I’m deflecting. And running away from you.” The crowd of the intermingling elite keeps acting as a wall, forcing Penelope to pivot and squeeze past them. All the while, Colin keeps on her tail. When she finally accepts she can’t outrun him, Penelope spins around on her heels. Her sudden stop nearly makes the man run over her, the tip of her nose just barely touching his chest before he rears back.
“Do you even know what the obscene amount of money you’re wasting is for?”
“Hardly a waste,” he argues, slightly breathless from the chase. “I get a dinner with you.”
“This is a charity gala, Colin,” she explains with the patience, she might add, of a saint at this point. “Who does the money benefit?”
“Oh, that. Well,” his eyes flit around the room, hoping to steal some clues. He taps a knuckle against his chin, muttering to himself. “Can’t be the sea otters, that was last year. Was there an oil spill that I’m forgetting? Are we buying the Smythe-Smith students even better instruments because we can’t yet admit the performers are just shit?”
“UNICEF,” she supplies tiredly. “You know, for children in need.”
“Ah, yes, of course. For the children,” Colin bobs his head before narrowing his eyes. “What is it they need this time?”
Penelope is about to snap back when she spies a ghost of a smile on his face. “You’re winding me up.”
He shrugs one shoulder, donning a lopsided grin. “A bit, yeah.”
“Well, brilliant joke, but not one worth ten grand. So you need to go speak with the chair and rescind your bid. I’m not going out with you, so you should at least get your family’s money back.”
“But Penelope,” he draws out her name, like he’s savoring it. Pe-nel-o-pe. “What about the children?”
“I take back what I said before,” her voice drips with disdain. “You are extremely annoying.” As she goes to turn away, he finally sobers up, on the verge of laying a hand on her shoulder until he catches her withering stare.
“Oh, come on. Look, I’m sorry for teasing. I’ll stop, I promise,” he waves his hands in surrender. “Please, just go to dinner with me.”
She’s shaking her head before he even finishes his sentence. “Colin, I can’t.”
“Well, why not?” His forced affability finally slips, revealing an expression twisted by frustration. He scrubs a hand through his hair. It makes his scruffy mop stick up at odd angles, adding a sheen of ridiculousness to the entire scenario. “I get it – you hate me now, you can’t think of a worse way to spend an evening, whatever . But humor me for just one second with an impossible scenario: you go out with me one time at an obscenely delicious, expensive restaurant. What’s the absolute worst that could happen – you start liking me again?”
Ding, ding, ding, she wants to scream.
“I could get sick from the clam dip,” she mutters stubbornly.
Colin’s mouth twitches, trying to refrain from a smile. “We’ll pick a different appetizer, in that case. Lady’s choice.”
She can’t help but think about the ironic timing of this whole thing. If this had just happened a year ago, her heart would be bursting out of her chest right about now. Hell, even with last summer chilling her feelings for him, Pen can’t ignore how her pulse is quickening the longer that he stares at her. But she can’t keep doing this.
“I don’t understand why you’re so keen on forfeiting £10,000 just to prove a point.”
“Because you’re under this impression that I’ve been putting up with you for the past ten years for Eloise’s sake – and you’re dead wrong. I know, it doesn’t happen often, so it’s hard for you to admit,” Colin explains, his teasing smile melting into something softer. “You’re my friend, Penelope. That’s a point worth proving.”
It isn’t lost on her that Colin is a Bridgerton. Of course he’d be as bull-headed as the rest of them. When she decided to give him the cold shoulder, she should have known that he would just take it as a challenge.
She clears her throat, blinking up at him. “And if you can’t prove it?”
“Then, message received: I’ll leave you alone.”
She considers this. It would make things easier in the long run. No more awkward small talk to evade, no more fake smiles to parrot back. With Colin back in town, she knew it would be harder to get over him. So if she’s able to get him out of her life completely? This could be a blessing in disguise. And, a traitorous part of her butts in, you’ll get what you’ve always wanted: one date, your very first, with Colin Bridgerton.
“So,” Colin prompts, unable to stew in the silence anymore. “What do you say?”
“Fine,” she relents, clarifying just for her pride’s sake. “For the children.”