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It had been a while since he had laughed so hard. Marcus rarely laughed—unless it involved Honoria in some way—but his current companion was quite witty, and her droll conversation was just what he needed to pass the time until he might congratulate the quartet on their performance. Now if only if he didn’t have to embarrass himself by asking her name.
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” the redhead asked with a sympathetic smile.
“Umm, I am afraid not,” Marcus replied, embarrassed to be found out.
He was relieved when she looked not upset by his confession, but rather amused. “Penelope Featherington—you danced with me at the Dowager Countess Bridgerton’s birthday ball.” How mortifying. To forget a young lady within days of dancing with her. Marcus felt instantly guilty. He had been so perplexed after Honoria left the ball he barely remembered anything else about the night. “You need not feel poorly about it,” she said affably. “I am accustomed to being overlooked. I’m convinced I’m more wallpaper than wallflower these days.”
He chuckled, surprised by her frankness. “My apologies. I was distracted that night. I am sure I would have remembered if I had been my right self.”
“Think nothing of it,” she swept her hand forward as if brushing away all traces of remorse. “I truly am not upset.”
“And we have not met prior to that evening, of that I am sure. I am not in London often.” It was another meager excuse, but a truthful one, nonetheless.
“I know,” she said with certainty.
“You do?” he asked with raised brows. Had he somehow stumbled into the clutches of a marriage-minded miss? She certainly didn’t seem the type.
Penelope nodded, quickly scanning the room with her eyes before returning her attention to him. “I am friends with Lady Danbury.”
He feigned shock. “Friends? With Agatha Danbury? I didn’t know such creatures existed.”
She laughed, an unexpectedly musical sound—well, definitely more musical than the musicale. The Smthye-Smiths were not known for their musical prowess. Had Marcus not been completely and hopelessly in love with the first violist, he could see how she would make an excellent companion.
“I think she is almost free.”
He glanced about the room, looking for his aunt and only finding the angry face of Colin Bridgerton glowering in his direction. “Lady Danbury?” he asked distractedly. It wasn’t every day the most charming, and most exhausting in Marcus’ opinion, Bridgerton brother scowled at someone. In fact, he couldn’t ever remember a single instance.
“No, Honoria. You are in love with her, aren’t you?”
Colin frowned, not listening a whit to whatever it was Lady Rutledge was telling their small group. Across the ballroom Penelope stood beaming at the Earl of Chatteris and he was smiling right back at her, no doubt laughing at some clever thing she must have said. Since when was Penelope such good friends with Marcus Holroyd? And since when had Marcus Holroyd even attended the Season? And why was is that every time he looked up Marcus Holroyd seemed to be standing next to Penelope?
Very well, not every time. But as Penelope made her way to the refreshment table at his mother’s birthday ball Marcus been trailing behind her like a lost puppy. And later that same night the Earl had danced with her, a waltz of all things. He’d been the only other gentleman besides Colin that took her to the floor. And now here he was giggling with her like they were bosom friends.
Marcus Holroyd had been the close friend of Daniel Smythe-Smith at school. He observed them enough while drinking at playing cards at White’s to form an opinion of them. He’d thought Marcus to be the level-headed gentleman to Daniel’s charming rake. Perhaps that shy, reserved demeanor was an act, maybe the Earl of Chatteris was just as much of a rogue as his friend. Colin narrowed his eyes.
“Mr. Bridgerton… was it?”
He looked over to see four pairs of eyes staring at him, awaiting a response. “Excuse me?”
“Was Italy very hot? I can’t imagine how warm it might be,” the young Lady Rutledge asked, sweeping her fan across her bosom, intending to titillate. Colin could not have been less interested.
“Yes, very,” he replied quickly. “Lord Cho, you’ve been to Italy, haven’t you?”
“I have,” the gentleman replied, a bit bewildered to be put on the spot.
“You shall have to tell Lady Rutledge all about it,” he said smoothly, “since she is so interested.”
“But I was—” the blonde began.
“And Lord Cho is very insightful,” Colin added, lying through his teeth. “The way he describes the sights and sounds are second-to-none.” Cho gave him a dubious look, obviously suspicious of Colin’s high praise. “I remember how he described a night in a Tuscan villa.” Cho blushed, as he should. The only time the lord was truly a dynamic speaker was when he was detailing his dalliances. “Very evocative,” he added with a cheeky grin.
Lady Rutledge turned towards the other gentleman, an indulgent, if forced, smile painted on her pretty face. “Do tell, my Lord. If Mr. Bridgerton says it is evocative, I sure I will find it most enlightening.”
Cho chuckled nervously, “Mr. Bridgerton overstates the interest.”
“Don’t be modest! I think the knowledge would be eye-opening to anyone.” Cho’s dark eyes glared at him, finally understanding that Colin did not wish to be bothered by the conversation and was foisting Sarah Rutledge on him. But before Cho could say anything else, Colin excused himself and stepped away.
He turned his attention back to the corner of the room where the Earl stood chatting with Penelope. It wouldn’t do for Penelope to associate with someone close friends with a man embroiled in a violent scandal—wait. What on earth was he thinking? Marcus Holroyd. Really, Bridgerton. He might be overreacting… no, he was certainly overreacting. The Earl of Chatteris was about as dangerous as drying paint. He looked on as Penelope took the Earl’s hand and gave it a squeeze. No. This will not do. Marcus might be a perfectly pleasant man, but he did not trust him with Penelope. Something will have to be done.
“I beg your pardon?” he sputtered. Is it that obvious?
“I saw you dance with her at the ball. I can always tell how serious a suitor is by the way he watches a lady dance with another—or by the way he looks at a lady when he is dancing with her. It is obvious that you care a great deal for her. I could see it in your eyes.”
“And here I fancied myself a stoic.”
Penelope laughed. “Perhaps to most of the Ton, but to someone like myself, accustomed to observing from the edges of ballrooms, I’m afraid not. And I suppose I recognize a bit of a kindred soul.”
“How so?” She barely knew him, how could she feel a kinship with him?
“You were close to her older brother, weren’t you?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“It was reported in Lady Whistledown a couple of years ago.”
Ah, that.
“I had almost forgotten.” As if he could.
Somehow the legendary gossip had ferreted out the details of that blasted card game and the resulting duel, but the reporting was actually very fair. She’d omitted, or perhaps didn’t know, that Daniel and Hugh were drunk, and then written the remainder almost like a newssheet. Whistledown had come down firmly on Daniel’s side, while at the same time shown deep sympathy for Hugh. Then she ended the story by encouraging everyone in the Ton to mind their own business—a staggeringly surprising, if hypocritical, line for a gossip columnist to tow. There was also an opinion about men and how they often chose to resolve things in the most ridiculous manner possible, but Marcus couldn’t disagree with that after the events that had taken place—Daniel run out of the country by a madman, and he somehow made responsible for his friend’s sister. His friend’s sister who he now found himself in love with.
“I am dear friends with Eloise Bridgerton,” she explained. He wondered where this line of conversation would take them.
“And has Miss Bridgerton been embroiled in some sort of scandal?” he asked, trying to make the connection.
She shook her head, smiling. “No, nothing like that. It’s just…” she trailed off.
He found himself curious. “It’s just?"
“Well, you are enamored with your closest friend’s sister and I…” Penelope grew quiet and he followed her eyes over to the crowd surrounding Colin Bridgerton, whose attention, thankfully, was now focused on a pretty blonde rather than looking at him with murderous intent.
“Ah,” Marcus said, finally understanding. She was in love with Colin Bridgerton and likely neither her friend or the gentleman in question knew. He felt almost humbled to be confided in by her. “We do share a particular affliction, it seems.”
Penelope nodded. “I can count on your discretion.”
It was a statement rather than a question, but he still felt the need to assure her. “Of course, I give you my word.”
She smiled at him, “I did not doubt you.”
Her trust in him was puzzling. “But we have just met.”
“You are a gentleman.” He looked at her, his dark eyes searching for an explanation. “At the ball, when you asked Honoria to dance she was surrounded by two other girls, so you asked them to dance as well. When other men were carrying on about Miss Theodore’s form, you told them to behave with respect. And though you were on your way to leave, when you saw me standing alone, you asked me to accompany you to the floor—the actions of a gentleman.”
“You are very observant,” he marveled. It had been quite some time since anyone had paid him so much attention outside a sick bed—well, anyone whom he did not employ.
“So I said,” she grinned.
“And did you… observe anything about Honoria?” He couldn’t believe the question had left his lips. She quirked a brow in his direction and he felt compelled to add, “About her feelings for me?” God. What was wrong with him? Was he asking a new acquaintance to tell him if Honoria was in love with him?
Penelope discreetly took his hand and squeezed it supportively. “I believe you have nothing to worry over.” She released him and ran her palms over her dress, needlessly smoothing the dark blue velvet.
“I wish I could feel the same way,” he mumbled.
“Is there a reason you feel as if she does not return your affection?”
“She has been behaving rather oddly. I have never understood the minds of women, but I thought I understood Honoria—” he stopped himself, realizing what he’d just said. “I did not mean that all women are—”
“Please do not trouble yourself with the explanation. I have heard many, many things men say about women and believe me, what you said is not offensive in the slightest—well, not to me, at least. My friend Eloise might feel differently. She—”
All of the sudden a young lady with dark red hair and a frazzled look on her face, one who clearly knew Miss Featherington, began talking. “Penelope, you must let me join your conversation. I have been cornered far too many times by Basil Grimston. Why he is not escorting Cressida Twombley around instead of bothering me, I do not know. I cannot believe he wishes to associate with a Featherington, but he seems very keen to stand close to me and make suggestions about how I should dress.”
“He does?” Marcus knew Grimston as a dandy with a rather nasty wit, but he could not believe him to be so forward.
“My apologies,” Penelope cut in. “Lord Chatteris, this is my younger sister, Felicity Featherington, Felicity this is Marcus Holroyd, the Earl of Chatteris.”
“Please to make your acquaintance, Miss Featherington,” Marcus said, giving her a polite nod of the head that she returned demurely. “You said you were having problems with Basil Grimston?”
“He’s a slimy little toad,” Felicity hissed.
Marcus snorted, trying to keep his composure. “Tell me your real opinion of him.”
“How long do you have?” He was unable to stop himself from laughing. She was much more amusing than he would have thought her to be. “I believe we are supposed to leave this room eventually.”
He heard a quiet sigh escape Penelope’s lips and both he and Felicity followed her gaze to where Colin Bridgerton, he of the legendary charm, was flirting with Honoria. Marcus scowled, then he looked over at Penelope whose eyes held resignation and whose hand Felicity has taken into her own.
“Please forgive me; I know this is terribly rude, but I am feeling quite warm.” Penelope’s eyes did not leave the pair across the room when she spoke.
“Would you like to sit perhaps?” Marcus suggested.
“No, no,” she insisted, “I will find my way to the refreshments table and get a glass of lemonade.”
“Why don’t you allow me to fetch it for you?” he offered. Colin Bridgerton had caught him staring and given him a smirky little smile. He wasn’t sure what the man was playing at, but he did not wish to leave Honoria with him much longer—the lemonade provided the perfect excuse for taking his leave.
“Nonsense,” Penelope answered. “I am more than capable of getting lemonade for myself. And you can once again be the gentleman hero and aid Felicity in warding off Lord Grimston.” He watched her rub her sister’s arm affectionately. “Lord Chatteris, it has been a pleasure. I do hope you will remember what I said earlier—sometimes others have a way of seeing things we do not.” Then she curtsied, bid him good night, and began walking in the direction of the refreshment table, leaving him alone with her younger sister.
Felicity’s brows bent together and she looked as if she had smelled an old fish. “Whatever did she mean by that?”
“I do not know,” he lied. There was no reason anyone else needed to know that he was pining over Honoria Smythe-Smith and all of the sudden hadn’t a blasted clue how speak with her.
“She was being quite cryptic. Are you sure you don’t know?” She narrowed her eyes in assessment, obviously suspecting he knew more.
“Absolutely,” he said firmly—best to stop that line of questioning all together. But with the end of the conversation Marcus found himself having to determine a new line of chatter, which was not a skill he was adept at. As he had no interest in gossip about Basil Grimston, he decided to turn the talk to the accomplishments young ladies seemed to enjoy going on about. “Do you play an instrument?” he asked politely.
She smiled sweetly at him, the perfect picture of English womanhood; clearly Felicity Featherington was a dangerous girl for any gentleman to engage with. Any gentleman but him, of course. The only woman he had any interest in was currently beaming at Colin Bridgerton. Of all gentleman, she had to choose the one famed for his glib tongue and pleasing features…and his family connections and his fortune and his always noted upon rakish charm and green eyes. Bridgerton was an absolute pest—a pest whose lopsided smile was currently amusing Honoria, making her laugh merrily. Marcus could not tolerate it. He would immediately have to extricate himself from Miss Featherington and rather rudely. But it couldn’t be helped. It was for the greater good—or so he told himself.
“—and sometimes I paint mustaches on my mama. She says they make her look distinguished.”
“If you will excuse me I—what did you just say?”
“I didn’t think you were listening.” She gave him a sly smile. “Go ahead and leave, as I know you’ve wanted to do since my sister did. You are absolved of your gentlemanly service, I see my dear friend Hyacinth. Basil Grimston would not dare cross her…I dare say no one would… except myself and her brother Gregory or—”
He cut in impolitely and unavoidably as she would not stop talking, “I was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Featherington. Have a lovely evening.” He offered a hasty bow then strode across to Honoria, reminding himself thrashing Colin Brigderton, while satisfying, would not aid him in securing her hand.
Colin looked up from his delightfully empty conversation with Honoria Smythe-Smith to find himself faced with a visibly agitated Lord Chatteris. It had been easier than he thought to goad the Earl into storming over, though he admittedly didn’t know how much of that was his own design or Lady Danbury’s.
He felt exceedingly pleased with himself. “Lord Chatteris,” he bowed his head and tried to keep the self-satisfaction from his face. Marcus Holroyd stared at him unblinkingly.
The Lord turned his hard gaze to the other member of their party. “Lady Honoria.” Colin thought his tone was quite distanced and cold for a man so clearly smitten.
“Lord Chatteris,” she replied with no more feeling than one might address the boy delivering the newssheet, “how lovely to see you.”“Are you acquainted with Mr. Bridgerton?”
Chatteris’ eyes bore into Colin’s with calm, unblinking fury, “I am.”
Clearly the Earl did not care enough to pretend to like him, so Colin felt no remorse in giving him a curt nod of acknowledgement. It was obvious Marcus Holroyd wanted him gone—choosing to eschew the societal expectation of starting a conversation and instead staring at him in silence. And while Colin wanted to be gone, there was something satisfying about pushing the buttons of the man. Knowing it would drive Holroyd insane, he decided to affix a bright smile to his face and stand there staring right back at him.
Honoria chose to break the tension for them. “Mr. Bridgerton was just saying—”
But Lord Chatteris had reached his limit apparently, because he bluntly, and rather loudly, spoke over Miss Smythe-Smith. “If you will excuse us. I require a private word with Lady Honoria.” She stopped speaking immediately, glaring at the Earl as if she wanted to throttle him.
Colin looked at Lady Honoria, flustered and frustrated, and then back at Holroyd, who looked like he might throw blows at any moment. They will be engaged by the end of the week, perhaps even sooner, Colin thought to himself. He considered staying a little longer and let Marcus sweat a bit more, but at that moment he spotted a head of bouncing, red curls by the refreshment table and suddenly he had no more interest in Honoria Smythe-Smith or Marcus Holroyd.
“But of course,” his was voice bright as he bowed his good-byes, “I was just thinking that I should like a glass of lemonade above all things.”