Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,31

are expected soon. I thought they might be hungry as well.”

“Won’t be any left after I’m through with it,” Colin said with a jovial smile.

Wickham bowed slightly in his direction. “If I’d known you were here, Mr. Bridgerton, I would have trebled the portions. Would you like me to fix you a plate?”

“No, no,” Colin said, waving his uninjured hand. “I’ll get up just as soon as I . . . ah . . . finish reading this chapter.”

The butler said, “Let me know if you require further assistance,” and exited the room.

“Aaaaaahhh,” Colin groaned, the moment he heard Wickham’s steps disappear down the hall. “Damn—I mean, dash it—it hurts.”

Penelope plucked a napkin off the tray. “Here, let’s replace that handkerchief.” She peeled it away from his skin, keeping her eyes on the cloth rather than the wound. For some reason that didn’t seem to bother her stomach quite as much. “I’m afraid your handkerchief is ruined.”

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