Romancing Mister Bridgerton (Bridgertons, #4)

by Julia Quinn

Deep inside, she knew who she was, and that person was smart and kind and often even funny, but somehow her personality always got lost somewhere between her heart and her mouth, and she found herself saying the wrong thing or, more often, nothing at all.

“Isn’t it nice,” the older lady said, leaning in so that only Penelope could hear her words, “to discover that we’re not exactly what we thought we were?”

There wasn’t a woman alive who could go from point A to B without stopping at C, D, X, and 12 along the way.

When people were convinced they had problems, the last thing they wanted to hear was a simple, straightforward solution.

Isn’t it nice to discover that we’re not exactly what we thought we were?

And so, on an otherwise unremarkable Friday afternoon, in the heart of Mayfair, in a quiet drawing room on Mount Street, Colin Bridgerton kissed Penelope Featherington. And it was glorious.

“For God’s sake, Penelope,” he said, grabbing her hand and yanking her down. “Are you going to marry me or not?”

His love hadn’t been a thunderbolt from the sky. It had started with a smile, a word, a teasing glance. Every second he had spent in her presence it had grown, until he’d reached this moment, and he suddenly knew. He loved her.

Maybe this, then, was the definition of love. When you wanted someone, needed her, adored her still, even when you were utterly furious and quite ready to tie her to the bed just to keep her from going out and making more trouble.