Cressida, renowned for her grace and carriage, tripping and spilling punch on Penelope's gown that first year—the only one her mother had allowed her to buy that wasn't yellow or orange.
Cressida, sweetly begging young bachelors to ask Penelope to dance, her requests made with such volume and fervor that Penelope could only be mortified by them.
Cressida, saying before a crowd how worried she was about Penelope's appearance. "It's just not healthful to weigh more than ten stone at our age," she'd cooed.
Penelope never knew whether Cressida had been able to hide her smirk following her barb. She'd fled the room, blinded by tears, unable to ignore the way her hips jiggled as she ran away.
Cressida had always known exactly where to stick her sword, and she'd known how to twist her bayonet. It didn't matter that Eloise remained Penelope's champion or that Lady Bridgerton always tried to bolster her confidence. Penelope had cried herself to sleep more times than she could remember, always due to some well-placed barb from Cressida Cowper Twombley.
She'd let Cressida get away with so much in the past, all because she hadn't the courage to stand up for herself. But she couldn't let Cressida have this. Not her secret life, not the one little corner of her soul that was strong and proud and completely without fear.
Penelope might not know how to defend herself, but by God, Lady Whistledown did.wPenelope?" Colin asked cautiously.
She looked at him blankly, taking several seconds to remember that it was 1824, not 1814, and she was here in a carriage with Colin Bridgerton, not cowering in the corner of a ballroom, trying to escape Cressida Cowper.wAre you all right?" he asked.
She nodded. Or at least she tried to.
He opened his mouth to say something, then paused, his lips remaining parted for several seconds.
Finally, he just placed his hand on hers, saying, "We'll talk about this later?"
This time she did manage a short nod. And truly, she just wanted the entire awful afternoon to be over, but there was one thing she couldn't quite let go of yet.wCressida wasn't ruined," she said quietly.
He turned to her, a slight veil of confusion descending over his eyes. "I beg your pardon?"
Her voice rose slightly in volume. "Cressida said she was Lady Whistledown, and she wasn't ruined."
'That's because no one believed her," Colin replied. "And besides," he added without thinking, "she's ...
different."
She turned to him slowly. Very slowly, with steadfast eyes. "Different how?"
Something akin to panic began to pound in Colin's chest. He'd known he wasn't saying the right words even as they'd spilled from his lips. How could one little sentence, one little word be sovery wrong?
She's different.
They both knew what he'd meant. Cressida was popular, Cressida was beautiful, Cressida could carry it all off with aplomb.
Penelope, on the other hand...
She was Penelope. Penelope Featherington. And she hadn't the clout nor the connections to save her from ruin. The Bridgertons could stand behind her and offer support, but even they wouldn't be able prevent her downfall. Any other scandal might have been manageable, but Lady Whis-tledown had, at one time or another, insulted almost every person of consequence in the British Isles. Once people were over their surprise, that was when the unkind remarks would begin.
Penelope wouldn't be praised for being clever or witty or daring.
She'd be called mean, and petty, and jealous.
Colin knew the ton well. He knew how his peers acted. The aristocracy was capable of individual greatness, but collectively they tended to sink to the lowest common denominator.
Which was very low, indeed.wI see," Penelope said into the silence.wNo," he said quickly, "you don't. I—"wNo, Colin," she said, sounding almost painfully wise, "I do. I suppose I'd just always hoped you were different."
His eyes caught hers, and somehow his hands were on her shoulders, gripping her with such intensity that shecouldn't possibly look away. He didn't say anything, letting his eyes ask his questions.wI thought you believed in me," she said, "that you saw beyond the ugly duckling."
Her face was so familiar to him; he'd seen it a thousand times before, and yet until these past few weeks, he couldn't have said he truly knew it. Would he have remembered that she had a small birthmark near her left earlobe? Had he ever noticed the warm glow to her skin? Or that her brown eyes had flecks of gold in them, right near the pupil?
How had he danced with her so many times and never noticed that her mouth was full and wide and made for kissing?
She licked her lips when she was nervous. He'd seen her do that just the other day. Surely she'd done that at some point in the dozen years of their acquaintance, and yet it was only now that the mere sight of her tongue made his body clench with need.wYou're not ugly," he told her, his voice low and urgent.
Her eyes widened.
And he whispered, "You're beautiful."wNo," she said, the word barely more than a breath. "Don't say things you don't mean."
His fingers dug into her shoulders. "You're beautiful," he repeated. "I don't know how ... I don't know when ..." He touched her lips, feeling her hot breath on his fingertips. "But you are," he whispered.
He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, reverently, no longer quite so surprised that this was happening, that he wanted her so badly. The shock was gone, replaced by a simple, primitive need to claim her, to brand her, to mark her as his.
His?
He pulled back and looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face.
Whynot?wWhat is it?" she whispered.wYou are beautiful," he said, shaking his head in confusion. "I don't know why nobody else sees it."