Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,108

her life regarding Colin as an invincible tower of happiness and good cheer. He was self-confident, handsome, well liked, and intelligent. How easy it must be to be a Bridgerton, she’d thought on more than one occasion.

There had been so many times—more than she could count—that she’d come home from tea with Eloise and her family, curled up on her bed, and wished that she’d been born a Bridgerton. Life was easy for them. They were smart and attractive and rich and everyone seemed to like them.

And you couldn’t even hate them for living such splendid existences because they were so nice.

Well, now she was a Bridgerton, by marriage if not by birth, and it was true—life was better as a Bridgerton, although that had less to do with any great change in herself than it did because she was madly in love with her husband, and by some fabulous miracle, he actually returned the emotion.

But life wasn’t perfect, not even for the Bridgertons.

Even Colin—the golden boy, the man with the easy smile and devilish humor—had raw spots of his own. He was haunted by unfulfilled dreams and secret insecurities. How unfair she had been when she’d pondered his life, not to allow him his weaknesses.

“I don’t need to see it in its entirety,” she reassured him. “Maybe just a short passage or two. Of your own choosing. Perhaps something you especially like.”

He looked down at the open book, staring blankly, as if the words were written in Chinese. “I wouldn’t know what to pick out,” he mumbled. “It’s all the same, really.”

“Of course it’s not. I understand that more than anyone. I—” She suddenly looked about, realized the door was open, and quickly went to shut it. “I’ve written countless columns,” she continued, “and I assure you, they are not all the same. Some I adored.” She smiled nostalgically, remembering the rush of contentment and pride that washed over her whenever she’d written what she thought was an especially good installment. “It was lovely, do you know what I mean?”

He shook his head.

“That feeling you get,” she tried to explain, “when you just know that the words you’ve chosen are exactly right. And you can only really appreciate it after you’ve sat there, slumped and dejected, staring at your blank sheet of paper, not having a clue what to say.”

“I know that,” he said.

Penelope tried not to smile. “I know you know the first feeling. You’re a splendid writer, Colin. I’ve read your work.”

He looked up, alarmed.

“Just the bit you know about,” she assured him. “I would never read your journals without your invitation.” She blushed, remembering that that was exactly how she’d read the passage about his trip to Cyprus. “Well, not now, anyway,” she added. “But it was good, Colin. Almost magical, and somewhere inside of you, you have to know that.”

He just stared at her, looking like he simply didn’t know what to say. It was an expression she’d seen on countless faces, but never on his face, and it was so very odd and strange. She wanted to cry, she wanted to throw her arms around him. Most of all, she was gripped by an intense need to restore a smile to his face.

“I know you must have had those days I described,” she insisted. “The ones when you know you’ve written something good.” She looked at him hopefully. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”

He made no response.

“You do,” she said. “I know you do. You can’t be a writer and not know it.”

“I’m not a writer,” he said.

“Of course you are.” She motioned to the journal. “The proof is right there.” She stepped forward. “Colin, please. Please may I read a little bit more?”

For the first time, he looked undecided, which Penelope took as a small victory. “You’ve already read almost everything I’ve ever written,” she cajoled. “It’s really only fair to—”

She stopped when she saw his face. She didn’t know how to describe it, but he looked shuttered, cut off, utterly unreachable.

“Colin?” she whispered.

“I’d rather keep this to myself,” he said curtly. “If you don’t mind.”

“No, of course I don’t mind,” she said, but they both knew she was lying.

Colin stood so still and silent that she had no choice but to excuse herself, leaving him alone in the room, staring helplessly at the door.

He’d hurt her.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant to. She’d reached out to him, and he’d been unable to take her hand.

And the worst part was that