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happiest man in London. Just read Lady Whistledown. She’ll tell you so.”
    Anthony glanced down at the paper on his desk.
    â€œWell, maybe not this column, but anything from last year. I’ve been called charming more times than Lady Danbury has been called opinionated, and we both know what a feat that is.”
    â€œCharming doesn’t necessarily equal happy,” Anthony said softly.
    â€œI don’t have time for this,” Colin muttered. The door had never looked so good.
    â€œIf you were truly happy,” Anthony persisted, “you wouldn’t keep leaving.”
    Colin paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Anthony, I like to travel.”
    â€œConstantly?”
    â€œI must, or I wouldn’t do it.”
    â€œThat’s an evasive sentence if ever I’ve heard one.”
    â€œAnd this”—Colin flashed his brother a wicked smile—
    â€œis an evasive maneuver.”
    â€œColin!”
    But he’d already left the room.

Chapter 2
    It has always been fashionable among the ton to complain of ennui, but surely this year’s crop of partygoers has raised boredom to an art form. One cannot take two steps at a society function these days without hearing the phrase “dreadfully dull,” or “hopelessly banal.” Indeed, This Author has even been informed that Cressida Twombley recently remarked that she was convinced that she might perish of eternal boredom if forced to attend one more off-key musicale.
    (This Author must concur with Lady Twombley on that note; while this year’s selection of debutantes are an amiable bunch, there is not a decent musician among them.)
    If there is to be an antidote for the disease of tedium, surely it will be Sunday’s fête at Bridgerton House. The entire family will gather, along with a hundred or so of their closest friends, to celebrate the dowager viscountess’s birthday.
    It is considered crass to mention a lady’s age, and so This Author will not reveal which birthday Lady Bridgerton is celebrating.
    But have no fear! This Author knows!
    L ADY W HISTLEDOWN’S S OCIETY P APERS , 9 A PRIL 1824
    S pinsterhood was a word that tended to invoke either panic or pity, but Penelope was coming to realize that there were decided advantages to the unmarried state.
    First of all, no one really expected the spinsters to dance at balls, which meant that Penelope was no longer forced to hover at the edge of the dance floor, looking this way and that, pretending that she didn’t really want to dance. Now she could sit off to the side with the other spinsters and chaperones. She still wanted to dance, of course—she rather liked dancing, and she was actually quite good at it, not that anyone ever noticed—but it was much easier to feign disinterest the farther one got from the waltzing couples.
    Second, the number of hours spent in dull conversation had been drastically reduced. Mrs. Featherington had officially given up hope that Penelope might ever snag a husband, and so she’d stopped thrusting her in the path of every third-tier eligible bachelor. Portia had never really thought Penelope had a prayer of attracting the attention of a first-or second-tier bachelor, which was probably true, but most of the third-tier bachelors were classified as such for a reason, and sadly, that reason was often personality, or lack thereof. Which, when combined with Penelope’s shyness with strangers, didn’t tend to promote sparkling conversation.
    And finally, she could eat again. It was maddening, considering the amount of food generally on display at ton parties, but women on the hunt for husbands weren’t supposed to exhibit anything more robust than a bird’s appetite. This, Penelope thought gleefully (as she bit into what had to be the most heavenly éclair outside of France), had to be the best spinster perk of all.
    â€œGood heavens,” she moaned. If sin could take