Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,34

made no indication. “It’s all very well and good to keep a journal while you’re traveling,” he continued, “but once I’m home I still have nothing to do.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

He didn’t say anything, just reached for a piece of cheese off the tray. She watched him while he ate, and then, after he’d washed it down with more lemonade, his entire demeanor changed. He seemed more alert, more on edge as he asked, “Have you read Whistledown lately?”

Penelope blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Yes, of course, why? Doesn’t everyone read it?”

He waved off her question. “Have you noticed how she describes me?”

“Er, it’s almost always favorable, isn’t it?”

His hand began to wave again—rather dismissively, in her opinion. “Yes, yes, that’s not the point,” he said in a distracted voice.

“You might think it more the point,” Penelope replied testily, “if you’d ever been likened to an overripe citrus fruit.”

He winced, and he opened and closed his mouth twice before finally saying, “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t remember that she’d called you that until just now.” He stopped, thought for a moment, then added, “In fact, I still don’t remember it.”

“It’s all right,” she said, putting on her best I’m-a-good-sport face. “I assure you, I’m quite beyond it. And I’ve always had a fondness for oranges and lemons.”

He started to say something again, then stopped, then looked at her rather directly and said, “I hope what I’m about to say isn’t abominably insensitive or insulting, given that when all is said and done, I’ve very little to complain about.”

The implication being, Penelope realized, that perhaps she did.

“But I’m telling you,” he continued, his eyes clear and earnest, “because I think maybe you’ll understand.”

It was a compliment. A strange, uncommon one, but a compliment nonetheless. Penelope wanted nothing more than to lay her hand across his, but of course she could not, so she just nodded and said, “You can tell me anything, Colin.”

“My brothers—” he began. “They’re—” He stopped, staring rather blankly toward the window before finally turning back to her and saying, “They’re very accomplished. Anthony is the viscount, and God knows I wouldn’t want that responsibility, but he has a purpose. Our entire heritage is in his hands.”

“More than that, I should think,” Penelope said softly.

He looked at her, question in his eyes.

“I think your brother feels responsible for your entire family,” she said. “I imagine it’s a heavy burden.”

Colin tried to keep his face impassive, but he’d never been an accomplished stoic, and he must have shown his dismay on his face, because Penelope practically rose from her seat as she rushed to add, “Not that I think he minds it! It’s part of who he is.”

“Exactly!” Colin exclaimed, as if he’d just discovered something that was actually important. As opposed to this . . . this . . . this inane discussion about his life. He had nothing to complain about. He knew he had nothing to complain about, and yet . . .

“Did you know Benedict paints?” he found himself asking.

“Of course,” she replied. “Everyone knows he paints. He has a painting in the National Gallery. And I believe they are planning to hang another soon. Another landscape.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Eloise told me.”

He slumped again. “Then it must be true. I can’t believe no one mentioned it to me.”

“You have been away,” she reminded him.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continued, “is that they both have a purpose to their lives. I have nothing.”

“That can’t be true,” she said.

“I should think I would be in a position to know.”

Penelope sat back, startled by the sharp tone of his voice.

“I know what people think of me,” he began, and although Penelope had told herself that she was going to remain silent, to allow him to speak his mind fully, she couldn’t help but interrupt.

“Everyone likes you,” she rushed to say. “They adore you.”

“I know,” he groaned, looking anguished and sheepish at the same time. “But . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “God, how to say this without sounding a complete ass?”

Penelope’s eyes widened.

“I’m sick of being thought an empty-headed charmer,” he finally blurted out.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, faster than immediately, if that were possible.

“Penelope—”

“No one thinks you’re stupid,” she said.

“How would—”

“Because I’ve been stuck here in London for more years than anyone should have to,” she said sharply. “I may not be the most popular woman in town, but after ten years, I’ve heard more than