Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,32

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.

If ever there were a time for righteous indignation, this was clearly it. “I’ll have you know I spent many an hour in the nursery schoolroom, bent over a desk, as you so delicately put it.”

“I’m sure,” she murmured.

“Hmmmph.”

She looked down, clearly trying