Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,20

held silent. There was something lurking deep in the brown depths of her eyes, some emotion he couldn’t even begin to identify.

An emotion he suspected he’d never even felt.

And he realized that the last thing he wanted to do was hurt Penelope Featherington. She was his sister’s best friend, and moreover, she was, plain and simple, a very nice girl.

He frowned. He supposed he shouldn’t be calling her a girl anymore. At eight-and-twenty she was no more a girl than he was still a boy at three-and-thirty.

Finally, with great care and what he hoped was a good dose of sensitivity, he asked, “Is there a reason why we should worry if people think we are courting?”

She closed her eyes, and for a moment Colin actually thought she might be in pain. When she opened them, her gaze was almost bittersweet. “It would be very funny, actually,” she said. “At first.”

He said nothing, just waited for her to continue.

“But eventually it would become apparent that we are not actually courting, and it would . . .” She stopped, swallowed, and Colin realized that she was not as composed on the inside as she hoped to appear.

“It would be assumed,” she continued, “that you were the one to break things off, because—well, it just would be.”

He didn’t argue with her. He knew that her words were true.

She let out a sad-sounding exhale. “I don’t want to subject myself to that. Even Lady Whistledown would probably write about it. How could she not? It would be far too juicy a piece of gossip for her to resist.”

“I’m sorry, Penelope,” Colin said. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, but it still seemed like the right thing to say.

She acknowledged him with a tiny nod. “I know I shouldn’t care what other people say, but I do.”

He found himself turning slightly away as he considered her words. Or maybe he was considering the tone of her voice. Or maybe both.

He’d always thought of himself as somewhat above society. Not really outside of it, precisely, since he certainly moved within it and usually enjoyed himself quite a bit. But he’d always assumed that his happiness did not depend upon the opinions of others.

But maybe he wasn’t thinking about this the right way. It was easy to assume that you didn’t care about the opinions of others when those opinions were consistently favorable. Would he be so quick to dismiss the rest of society if they treated him the way they treated Penelope?

She’d never been ostracized, never been made the subject of scandal. She just hadn’t been . . . popular.

Oh, people were polite, and the Bridgertons had all befriended her, but most of Colin’s memories of Penelope involved her standing at the perimeter of a ballroom, trying to look anywhere but at the dancing couples, clearly pretending that she really didn’t want to dance. That was usually when he went over and asked her himself. She always looked grateful for the request, but also a little bit embarrassed, because they both knew he was doing it at least a little bit because he felt sorry for her.

Colin tried to put himself in her shoes. It wasn’t easy. He’d always been popular; his friends had looked up to him at school and the women had flocked to his side when he’d entered society. And as much as he could say he didn’t care what people thought, when it came right down to it . . .

He rather liked being liked.

Suddenly he didn’t know what to say. Which was strange, because he always knew what to say. In fact, he was somewhat famous for always knowing what to say. It was, he reflected, probably one of the reasons he was so well liked.

But he sensed that Penelope’s feelings depended on his next words, and at some point in the last ten minutes, her feelings had become very important to him.

“You’re right,” he finally said, deciding that it was always a good idea to tell someone she was correct. “It was very insensitive of me. Perhaps we should start anew?”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He waved his hand about, as if the motion could explain everything. “Make a fresh start.”

She looked quite adorably confused, which confused him, since he’d never thought Penelope the least bit adorable.

“But we’ve known each other for twelve years,” she said.

“Has it really been that long?” He searched his brain, but for the life of him, he couldn’t recall the event of their