Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,35

my fair share of gossip and lies and foolish opinions, and I have never—not once—heard someone refer to you as stupid.”

He stared at her for a moment, a bit startled by her passionate defense. “I didn’t mean stupid, precisely,” he said in a soft, and he hoped humble, voice. “More . . . without substance. Even Lady Whistledown refers to me as a charmer.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he replied testily, “if she didn’t do it every other day.”

“She only publishes every other day.”

“My point exactly,” he shot back. “If she thought there was anything to me other than my so-called legendary charm, don’t you think she would have said so by now?”

Penelope was quiet for a long moment, then she said, “Does it really matter what Lady Whistledown thinks?”

He slumped forward, smacking his hands against his knees, then yelping with pain when he (belatedly) remembered his injury. “You’re missing the point,” he said, wincing as he reapplied pressure to his palm. “I couldn’t care less about Lady Whistledown. But whether we like it or not, she represents the rest of society.”

“I would imagine that there are quite a few people who would take exception to that statement.”

He raised one brow. “Including yourself?”

“Actually, I think Lady Whistledown is rather astute,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap.

“The woman called you an overripe melon!”

Two splotches of red burned in her cheeks. “An overripe citrus fruit,” she ground out. “I assure you there is a very big difference.”

Colin decided then and there that the female mind was a strange and incomprehensible organ—one which no man should even attempt to understand. There wasn’t a woman alive who could go from point A to B without stopping at C, D, X, and 12 along the way.

“Penelope,” he finally said, staring at her in disbelief, “the woman insulted you. How can you defend her?”

“She said nothing more than the truth,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “She’s been rather kind, actually, since my mother started allowing me to pick out my own clothing.”

Colin groaned. “Surely we were talking about something else at some point. Tell me we didn’t intend to discuss your wardrobe.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “I believe we were discussing your dissatisfaction with life as the most popular man in London.”

Her voice rose on the last four words, and Colin realized he’d been scolded. Soundly.

Which he found extraordinarily irritating. “I don’t know why I thought you’d understand,” he bit off, hating the childish tinge in his voice but completely unable to edit it out.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s a little difficult for me to sit here and listen to you complain that your life is nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You most certainly did!”

“I said I have nothing,” he corrected, trying not to wince as he realized how stupid that sounded.

“You have more than anyone I know,” she said, jabbing him in the shoulder. “But if you don’t realize that, then maybe you are correct—your life is nothing.”

“It’s too hard to explain,” he said in a petulant mutter.

“If you want a new direction for your life,” she said, “then for heaven’s sake, just pick something out and do it. The world is your oyster, Colin. You’re young, wealthy, and you’re a man.” Penelope’s voice turned bitter, resentful. “You can do anything you want.”

He scowled, which didn’t surprise her. When people were convinced they had problems, the last thing they wanted to hear was a simple, straightforward solution.

“It’s not that simple,” he said.

“It’s exactly that simple.” She stared at him for the longest moment, wondering, perhaps for the first time in her life, just who he was.

She’d thought she knew everything about him, but she hadn’t known that he kept a journal.

She hadn’t known that he possessed a temper.

She hadn’t known that he felt dissatisfied with his life.

And she certainly hadn’t known that he was petulant and spoiled enough to feel that dissatisfaction, when heaven knew he didn’t deserve to. What right did he have to feel unhappy with his life? How dare he complain, especially to her?

She stood, smoothing out her skirts in an awkward, defensive gesture. “Next time you want to complain about the trials and tribulations of universal adoration, try being an on-the-shelf spinster for a day. See how that feels and then let me know what you want to complain about.”

And then, while Colin was still sprawled on the sofa, gaping at her as if she were some bizarre creature with three heads, twelve fingers, and a tail, she swept