t was not very difficult to get the wedding date pushed forward.

It occurred to Colin as he was returning to his home in Bloomsbury (after sneaking an extremely disheveled Penelope into her own house in Mayfair), that there might be a very good reason why they should be married sooner rather than later.

Of course, it was quite unlikely that she would become pregnant after only one encounter. And, he had to admit, even if she did become pregnant, the child would be an eight-month baby, which wasn’t too terribly suspect in a world full of children born a mere six months or so following a wedding. Not to mention that first babies were usually late (Colin was uncle to enough nieces and nephews to know this to be true), which would make the baby an eight-and-a-half-month baby, which wasn’t unusual at all.

So really, there was no urgent need to move up the wedding.

Except that he wanted to.

So he had a little “talk” with the mothers, in which he conveyed a great deal without actually saying anything explicit, and they hastily agreed to his plan to rush the wedding.

Especially since he might have possibly misled them to believe that his and Penelope’s intimacies had occurred several weeks prior.

Ah, well, little white lies really weren’t such a large transgression when they were told to serve the greater good.

And a hasty wedding, Colin reflected as he lay in bed each night, reliving his time with Penelope and fervently wishing she were there beside him, definitely served the greater good.

The mothers, who had become inseparable in recent days as they planned the wedding, initially protested the change, worrying about unsavory gossip (which in this case would have been entirely true), but Lady Whistledown came, somewhat indirectly, to their rescue.

The gossip surrounding Lady Whistledown and Cressida Twombley and whether the two were actually the same person raged like nothing London had heretofore seen or heard. In fact, the talk was so ubiquitous, so utterly impossible to escape, that no one paused to consider the fact that the date of the Bridgerton-Featherington wedding had been altered.

Which suited the Bridgertons and the Featheringtons just fine.

Except, perhaps, for Colin and Penelope, neither of whom were especially comfortable when talk turned to Lady Whistledown. Penelope was used to it by now, of course; nary a month had gone by in the past ten years when someone had not made idle speculation in her presence about the identity of Lady Whistledown. But Colin was still so upset and angry over her secret life that she’d grown uncomfortable herself. She’d tried to broach the subject with him a few times, but he’d become tight-lipped and told her (in a very un-Colin-like tone) that he didn’t want to talk about it.

She could only deduce that he was ashamed of her. Or if not of her, precisely, then of her work as Lady Whistledown. Which was like a blow to her heart, because her writing was the one segment in her life that she could point to with a great sense of pride and accomplishment. She had done something. She had, even if she could not put her own name on her work, become a wild success. How many of her contemporaries, male or female, could claim the same?

She might be ready to leave Lady Whistledown behind and live her new life as Mrs. Colin Bridgerton, wife and mother, but that in no way meant that she was ashamed of what she had done.

If only Colin could take pride in her accomplishments as well.

Oh, she believed, with every fiber of her being, that he loved her. Colin would never lie about such a thing. He had enough clever words and teasing smiles to make a woman feel happy and content without actually uttering words of love he did not feel. But perhaps it was possible—indeed, after regarding Colin’s behavior, she was now sure it was possible—that someone could love another person and still feel shame and displeasure with that person.

Penelope just hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

They were strolling through Mayfair one afternoon, just days before the wedding, when she attempted to broach the subject once again. Why, she didn’t know, since she couldn’t imagine that his attitude would have miraculously changed since the last time she’d mentioned it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Besides, she was hoping that their position out in public, where all the world could see them, would force Colin to keep a smile on his face and listen to what she had to say.

She gauged the distance to Number Five, where they were expected for tea. “I think,” she said, estimating that she had five minutes of conversation before he could usher her inside and change the subject, “that we have unfinished business that must be discussed.”

He raised a brow and looked at her with a curious but still very playful grin. She knew exactly what he was trying to do: use his charming and witty personality to steer the conversation where he wanted it. Any minute now, that grin would turn boyishly lopsided, and he would say something designed to change the topic without her realizing, something like—

“Rather serious for such a sunny day.”

She pursed her lips. It wasn’t precisely what she’d expected, but it certainly echoed the sentiment.

“Colin,” she said, trying to remain patient, “I wish you wouldn’t try to change the subject every time I bring up Lady Whistledown.”

His voice grew even, controlled. “I don’t believe I heard you mention her name, or I suppose I should say your name. And besides, all I did was compliment the fine weather.”

Penelope wanted more than anything to plant her feet firmly on the pavement and yank him to a startling halt, but they were in public (her own fault, she supposed, for choosing such a place to initiate the conversation) and so she kept walking, her gait smooth and sedate, even as her fingers curled into tense little fists. “The other night, when my last column was published—you were furious with me,” she continued.

He shrugged. “I’m over it.”

“I don’t think so.”

He turned to her with a rather condescending expression. “And now you’re telling me what I feel?”

Such a nasty shot could not go unreturned. “Isn’t that what a wife is supposed to do?”

“You’re not my wife yet.”

Penelope counted to three—no, better make that ten—before replying. “I am sorry if what I did upset you, but I had no other choice.”

“You had every choice in the world, but I am certainly not going to debate the issue right here on Bruton Street.”

And they were on Bruton Street. Oh, bother, Penelope had completely misjudged how quickly they were walking. She only had another minute or so at the most before they ascended the front steps to Number Five.

“I can assure you,” she said, “that you-know-who will never again emerge from retirement.”

“I can hardly express my relief.”

“I wish you wouldn’t be so sarcastic.”

He turned to face her with flashing eyes. His expression was so different from the mask of bland boredom that had been there just moments earlier that Penelope nearly backed up a step. “Be careful what you wish for, Penelope,” he said. “The sarcasm is the only thing keeping my real feelings at bay, and believe me, you don’t want those in full view.”

“I think I do,” she said, her voice quite small, because in truth she wasn’t sure that she did.

“Not a day goes by when I’m not forced to stop and consider what on earth I am going to do to protect you should your secret get out. I love you, Penelope. God help me, but I do.”

Penelope could have done without the plea for God’s help, but the declaration of love was quite nice.

“In three days,” he continued, “I will be your husband. I will take a solemn vow to protect you until death do us part. Do you understand what that means?”

“You’ll save me from marauding minotaurs?” she tried to joke.

His expression told her he did not find that amusing.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so angry,” she muttered.

He turned to her with a disbelieving expression, as if he didn’t think she had the right to mutter about anything. “If I’m angry, it’s because I did not appreciate finding out about your last column at the same time as everyone else.”

She nodded, catching her bottom lip between her teeth before saying, “I apologize for that. You certainly had the right to know ahead of time, but how could I have told you? You would have tried to stop me.”

“Exactly.”

They were now just a few houses away from Number Five. If Penelope wanted to ask him anything more, she would have to do it quickly. “Are you sure—” she began, then cut herself off, not certain if she wanted to finish the question.

“Am I sure of what?”

She gave her head a little shake. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s obviously not nothing.”

“I was just wondering…” She looked to the side, as if the sight of the London cityscape could somehow give her the necessary courage to continue. “I was just wondering…”

“Spit it out, Penelope.”

It was unlike him to be so curt, and his tone prodded her into action. “I was wondering,” she said, “if perhaps your unease with my, er…”

“Secret life?” he supplied in a drawl.

“If that is what you want to call it,” she acceded. “It had occurred to me that perhaps your unease does not stem entirely from your desire to protect my reputation should I be found out.”

“What, precisely,” he asked in a clipped tone, “do you mean by that?”

She’d already voiced her question; there was nothing to do now but supply complete honesty. “I think you’re ashamed of me.”

He stared at her for three full seconds before answering, “I’m not ashamed of you. I told you once already I wasn’t.”

“What, then?”

Colin’s steps faltered, and before he realized what his body was doing, he was standing still in front of Number Three, Bruton Street. His mother’s home was only two houses away, and he was fairly certain they were expected for tea about five minutes ago, and…

And he couldn’t quite get his feet to move.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said again, mostly because he couldn’t bring himself to tell her the truth—that he was jealous. Jealous of her achievements, jealous of her.

It was such a distasteful feeling, such an unpleasant emotion. It ate at him, creating a vague sense of shame every time someone mentioned Lady Whistledown, which, given the tenor of London’s current gossip, was about ten times each day. And he wasn’t quite certain what to do about it.

His sister Daphne had once commented that he always seemed to know what to say, how to set others at ease. He’d thought about that for several days after she’d said it, and he’d come to the conclusion that his ability to make others feel good about themselves must stem from his own sense of self.

He was a man who had always felt supremely comfortable in his own skin. He didn’t know why he was so blessed—perhaps it was good parents, maybe simple luck. But now he felt awkward and uncomfortable and it was spilling into every corner of his life. He snapped at Penelope, he barely spoke at parties.

And it was all due to this detestable jealousy, and its attendant shame.

Or was it?

Would he be jealous of Penelope if he hadn’t already sensed a lack in his own life?

It was an interesting psychological question. Or at least it would be if it were about anyone else but him.

“My mother will be expecting us,” he said curtly, knowing that he was avoiding the issue, and hating himself for it, but quite unable to do anything else. “And your mother will be there as well, so we had better not be late.”

“We’re already late,” she pointed out.

He took her arm and tugged her toward Number Five. “All the more reason not to dally.”

“You’re avoiding me,” she said.

“How can I be avoiding you if you’re right here on my arm?”

That made her scowl. “You’re avoiding my question.”

“We will discuss it later,” he said, “when we are not standing in the middle of Bruton Street, with heaven knows whom staring at us through their windows.”

And then, to demonstrate that he would brook no further protest, he placed his hand at her back and steered her none-too-gently up the steps to Number Five.

One week later, nothing had changed, except, Penelope reflected, her last name.

The wedding had been magical. It was a small affair, much to the dismay of London society. And the wedding night—well, that had been magical, too.

And, in fact, marriage was magical. Colin was a wonderful husband—teasing, gentle, attentive…

Except when the topic of Lady Whistledown arose.

Then he became…well, Penelope wasn’t sure what he became, except that he was not himself. Gone was his easy grace, his glib tongue, everything wonderful that made him the man she’d loved for so very long.

In a way, it was almost funny. For so long, all of her dreams had revolved around marrying this man. And at some point those dreams had come to include her telling him about her secret life. How could they not? In Penelope’s dreams, her marriage to Colin had been a perfect union, and that meant complete honesty.

In her dreams, she sat him down, shyly revealed her secret. He reacted first with disbelief, then with delight and pride. How remarkable she was, to have fooled all of London for so many years. How witty to have written such clever turns of phrase. He admired her for her resourcefulness, praised her for her success. In some of the dreams, he even suggested that he become her secret reporter.

It had seemed the sort of thing Colin would enjoy, just the sort of amusing, devious task that he would relish.

But that wasn’t the way it had turned out.

He said he wasn’t ashamed of her, and maybe he even thought that was true, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe him. She’d seen his face when he swore that all he wanted was to protect her. But protectiveness was a fierce, burning feeling, and when Colin was talking about Lady Whistledown, his eyes were shuttered and flat.

She tried not to feel so disappointed. She tried to tell herself that she had no right to expect Colin to live up to her dreams, that her vision of him had been unfairly idealized, but…

But she still wanted him to be the man she’d dreamed of.

And she felt so guilty for every pang of disappointment. This was Colin! Colin, for heaven’s sake. Colin, who was as close to perfect as any human being could ever hope to be. She had no right to find fault with him, and yet…

And yet she did.

She wanted him to be proud of her. She wanted it more than anything in the world, more even than she’d wanted him all those years when she’d watched him from afar.

But she cherished her marriage, and awkward moments aside, she cherished her husband. And so she stopped mentioning Lady Whistledown. She was tired of Colin’s hooded expression. She didn’t want to see the tight lines of displeasure around his mouth.

It wasn’t as if she could avoid the topic forever; any trip out into society seemed to bring mention of her alter ego. But she didn’t have to introduce the subject at home.

And so, as they sat at breakfast one morning, chatting amiably as they each perused that morning’s newspaper, she searched for other topics.

“Do you think we shall take a honeymoon trip?” she asked, spreading a generous portion of raspberry jam on her muffin. She probably ought not to eat so much, but the jam was really quite tasty, and besides, she always ate a lot when she was anxious.

She frowned, first at the muffin and then at nothing in particular. She hadn’t realized she was so anxious. She’d thought she’d been able to push the Lady Whistledown problem to the back of her mind.

“Perhaps later in the year,” Colin replied, reaching for the jam once she was through with it. “Pass me the toast, would you?”

She did so, silently.

He glanced up, either at her or over at the plate of kippers—she couldn’t be sure. “You look disappointed,” he said.

She supposed she should be flattered that he’d looked up from his food. Or maybe he was looking at the kippers and she just got in the way. Probably the latter. It was difficult to compete with food for Colin’s attention.

“Penelope?” he queried.

She blinked.

“You looked disappointed?” he reminded her.

“Oh. Yes, well, I am, I suppose.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I’ve never been anywhere, and you’ve been everywhere, and I guess I thought you could take me someplace you especially liked. Greece, perhaps. Or maybe Italy. I’ve always wanted to see Italy.”

“You would like it,” he murmured distractedly, his attention more on his eggs than on her. “Venice especially, I think.”

“Then why don’t you take me?”

“I will,” he said, spearing a pink piece of bacon and popping it into his mouth. “Just not now.”

Penelope licked a bit of jam off her muffin and tried not to look too crestfallen.

“If you must know,” Colin said with a sigh, “the reason I don’t want to leave is…” He glanced at the open door, his lips pursing with annoyance. “Well, I can’t say it here.”

Penelope’s eyes widened. “You mean…” She traced a large W on the tablecloth.

“Exactly.”

She stared at him in surprise, a bit startled that he had brought up the subject, and even more so that he didn’t seem terribly upset by it. “But why?” she finally asked.

“Should the secret come out,” he said cryptically, just in case there were any servants about, which there usually were, “I should like to be in town to control the damage.”

Penelope deflated in her chair. It was never pleasant to be referred to as damage. Which was what he had done. Well, indirectly, at least. She stared at her muffin, trying to decide if she was hungry. She wasn’t, not really.

But she ate it, anyway.