Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,33

not to smile.

“I’m quite good with my flicks,” he added. It was just a game now, but somehow it was rather fun to play the part of the petulant schoolboy.

“Obviously,” she replied. “I especially liked them on the H’s. Very well done. Quite . . . flicky of you.”

“Indeed.”

She matched his straight face perfectly. “Indeed.”

His gaze slid from hers, and for a moment he felt quite unaccountably shy. “I’m glad you liked the journal,” he said.

“It was lovely,” she said in a soft, faraway kind of voice. “Very lovely, and . . .” She looked away, blushing. “You’re going to think I’m silly.”

“Never,” he promised.

“Well, I think one of the reasons I enjoyed it so much is that I could somehow feel that you’d enjoyed writing it.”

Colin was silent for a long moment. It hadn’t ever occurred to him that he enjoyed his writing; it was just something he did.

He did it because he couldn’t imagine not doing it. How could he travel to foreign lands and not keep a record of what he saw, what he experienced, and perhaps most importantly, what he felt?

But when he thought back, he realized that he felt a strange rush of satisfaction whenever he wrote a phrase that was exactly right, a sentence that was particularly true. He distinctly remembered the moment he’d written the passage Penelope had read. He’d been sitting on the beach at dusk, the sun still warm on his skin, the sand somehow rough and smooth at the same time under his bare feet. It had been a heavenly moment—full of that warm, lazy feeling one can truly only experience in the dead of summer (or on the perfect beaches of the Mediterranean), and he’d been trying to think of the exact right way to describe the water.

He’d sat there for ages—surely a full half an hour—his pen poised above the paper of his journal, waiting for inspiration. And then suddenly he’d realized the temperature was precisely that of slightly old bathwater, and his face had broken into a wide, delighted smile.

Yes, he enjoyed writing. Funny how he’d never realized it before.

“It’s good to have something in your life,” Penelope said quietly. “Something satisfying—that will fill the hours with a sense of purpose.” She crossed her hands in her lap and looked down, seemingly engrossed by her knuckles. “I’ve never understood the supposed joys of a lazy life.”

Colin wanted to touch his fingers to her chin, to see her eyes when he asked her—And what do you do to fill your hours with a sense of purpose? But he didn’t. It would be far too forward, and it would mean admitting to himself just how interested he was in her answer.

So he asked the question, and he kept his own hands still.

“Nothing, really,” she replied, still examining her fingernails. Then, after a pause, she looked up quite suddenly, her chin rising so quickly it almost made him dizzy. “I like to read,” she said. “I read quite a bit, actually. And I do a bit of embroidery now and then, but I’m not very good at it. I wish there were more, but, well . . .”

“What?” Colin prodded.

Penelope shook her head. “It’s nothing. You should be grateful for your travels. I’m quite envious of you.”

There was a long silence, not awkward, but strange nonetheless, and finally Colin said brusquely, “It’s not enough.”

The tone of his voice seemed so out of place in the conversation that Penelope could do nothing but stare. “What do you mean?” she finally asked.

He shrugged carelessly. “A man can’t travel forever; to do so would take all the fun out of it.”

She laughed, then looked at him and realized he was serious. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You weren’t rude,” he said, taking a swig of his lemonade. It sloshed on the table when he set the glass down; clearly, he was unused to using his left hand. “Two of the best parts of travel,” he explained, wiping his mouth with one of the clean napkins, “are the leaving and the coming home, and besides, I’d miss my family too much were I to go off indefinitely.”

Penelope had no reply—at least nothing that wouldn’t sound like platitudes, so she just waited for him to continue.

For a moment he didn’t say anything, then he scoffed and shut his journal with a resounding thud. “These don’t count. They’re just for me.”

“They don’t have to be,” she said softly.

If he heard her, he