Quinn, Julia - Romancing Mister Bridgerton With 2nd Epilogue

Colin just closed his eyes and shook his head. Penelope was smart enough to interpret the action to mean, I don’t care . And she was sensible enough not to say anything further on the subject. Nothing worse than a female who chattered forever about nothing.

He’d always liked Penelope, but how was it he’d never realized how intelligent she was up till now? Oh, he supposed if someone had asked him, he would have said she was bright, but he’d certainly never taken the time to think about it.

It was becoming clear to him, however, that she was very intelligent, indeed. And he thought he remembered his sister once telling him that she was an avid reader.

And probably a discriminating one as well.

“I think the bleeding is slowing down,” she was saying as she wrapped the fresh napkin around his hand. “In fact, I’m sure it is, if only because I don’t feel quite so sick every time I look at the wound.”

He wished that she hadn’t read his journal, but now that she had . . .

“Ah, Penelope,” he began, startled by the hesitancy in his own voice.

She looked up. “I’m sorry. Am I pressing too hard?”

For a moment Colin did nothing but blink. How was it possible he’d never noticed how big her eyes were? He’d known they were brown, of course, and . . . No, come to think of it, if he were to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that if asked earlier this morning, he’d not have been able to identify the color of her eyes.

But somehow he knew that he’d never forget again.

She eased up on the pressure. “Is this all right?”

He nodded. “Thank you. I would do it myself, but it’s my right hand, and—”

“Say no more. It’s the very least I can do, after . . . after . . .” Her eyes slid slightly to the side, and he knew she was about to apologize another time.

“Penelope,” he began again.

“No, wait!” she cried out, her dark eyes flashing with . . . could it be passion? Certainly not the brand of passion with which he was most familiar. But there were other sorts, weren’t there? Passion for learning. Passion for . . . literature?

“I must tell you this,” she said urgently. “I know it was unforgivably intrusive of me to look at your journal. I was just . . . bored . . . and waiting . . . and I had nothing to do, and then I saw the book and I was curious.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt her, to tell her that what was done was done, but the words were rushing from her mouth, and he found himself oddly compelled to listen.

“I should have stepped away the moment I realized what it was,” she continued, “but as soon as I read one sentence I had to read another! Colin, it was wonderful! It was just like I was there. I could feel the water—I knew exactly the temperature. It was so clever of you to describe it the way you did. Everyone knows exactly what a bath feels like a half an hour after it has been filled.”

For a moment Colin could do nothing but stare at her. He’d never seen Penelope quite so animated, and it was strange and . . . good, really, that all that excitement was over his journal.

“You—you liked it?” he finally asked.

“Liked it? Colin, I loved it! I—”

“Ow!”

In her excitement, she’d started squeezing his hand a bit too hard. “Oh, sorry,” she said perfunctorily. “Colin, I really must know. What was the danger? I couldn’t bear to be left hanging like that.”

“It was nothing,” he said modestly. “The page you read really wasn’t a very exciting passage.”

“No, it was mostly description,” she agreed, “but the description was very compelling and evocative. I could see everything. But it wasn’t—oh, dear, how do I explain this?”

Colin discovered that he was very impatient for her to figure out what she was trying to say.

“Sometimes,” she finally continued, “when one reads a passage of description, it’s rather . . . oh, I don’t know . . . detached. Clinical, even. You brought the island to life. Other people might call the water warm, but you related it to something we all know and understand. It made me feel as if I were there, dipping my toe in right alongside you.”

Colin smiled, ridiculously pleased by her praise.

“Oh! And I don’t want to forget—there was another brilliant thing I wanted to mention.”

Now he knew he must be grinning like an idiot. Brilliant brilliant brilliant. What a good word.

Penelope leaned in slightly as she said, “You also showed the reader how you relate to the scene and how it affects you. It becomes more than mere description because we see how you react to it.”

Colin knew he was fishing for compliments, but he didn’t much care as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you look at—May I see the journal to refresh my memory?”

“Of course,” he murmured, handing it to her. “Wait, let me find the correct page again.”

Once he had done so, she scanned his lines until she found the section she was looking for. “Here we are. Look at this part about how you are reminded that England is your home.”

“It’s funny how travel can do that to a person.”

“Do what to a person?” she asked, her eyes wide with interest.

“Make one appreciate home,” he said softly.

Her eyes met his, and they were serious, inquisitive. “And yet you still like to go away.”

He nodded. “I can’t help it. It’s like a disease.”

She laughed, and it sounded unexpectedly musical. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “A disease is harmful. It’s clear that your travels feed your soul.” She looked down to his hand, carefully peeling the napkin back to inspect his wound. “It’s almost better,” she said.

“Almost,” he agreed. In truth, he suspected the bleeding had stopped altogether, but he was reluctant to let the conversation end. And he knew that the moment she was done caring for him, she would go.

He didn’t think she wanted to go, but he somehow knew that she would. She’d think it was the proper thing to do, and she’d probably also think it was what he wanted.

Nothing, he was surprised to realize, could be further from the truth.

And nothing could have scared him more.

Chapter 6

Everyone has secrets .

Especially me .

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS , 14 APRIL 1824

“I wish I’d known you kept a journal,” Penelope said, reapplying pressure to his palm.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure,” she said with a shrug. “It’s always interesting to find out that there is more to someone than meets the eye, don’t you think?”

Colin didn’t say anything for several moments, and then, quite suddenly, he blurted out, “You really liked it?”

She looked amused. He was horrified. Here he was, considered one of the most popular and sophisticated men of the ton , and he’d been reduced to a bashful schoolboy, hanging on Penelope Featherington’s every word, just for a single scrap of praise.

Penelope Featherington, for God’s sake.

Not that there was anything wrong with Penelope, of course, he hastened to remind himself. Just that she was . . . well . . . Penelope.

“Of course I liked it,” she said with a soft smile. “I just finished telling you so.”

“What was the first thing that struck you about it?” he asked, deciding that he might as well act like a complete fool, since he was already more than halfway there.

She smiled wickedly. “Actually, the first thing that struck me was that your penmanship was quite a bit neater than I would have guessed.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I have difficulty seeing you bent over a desk, practicing your flicks,” she replied, her lips tightening at the corners to suppress a smile.