Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,107

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.

Chapter 20

A few days later, Penelope returned from a shopping expedition with Eloise, Hyacinth, and Felicity to find her husband seated behind his desk in his study. He was reading something, uncharacteristically hunched as he pored over some unknown book or document.

“Colin?”

His head jerked up. He must not have heard her coming, which was surprising, since she hadn’t made any effort to soften her steps. “Penelope,” he said, rising to his feet as she entered the room, “how was your, er, whatever it was you did when you went out?”

“Shopping,” she said with an amused smile. “I went shopping.”

“Right. So you did.” He rocked slightly from foot to foot. “Did you buy anything?”

“A bonnet,” she replied, tempted to add and three diamond rings, just to see if he was listening.

“Good, good,” he murmured, obviously eager to get back to whatever it was on his desk.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, almost reflexively, then he added, “Well, actually it’s one of my journals.”

His face took on a strange expression, a little sheepish, a little defiant, almost as if he were embarrassed that he’d been caught, and at the same time daring her to ask more.

“May I look at it?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and, she hoped, unthreatening. It was strange to think that Colin was insecure about anything. Mention of his journals, however, seemed to bring out a vulnerability that was surprising . . . and touching.

Penelope had spent so much of