Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,41

as soon as Penelope had her glass in hand, she heard Colin’s achingly familiar voice behind her, murmuring her name.

She turned around, and before she had any idea what she was doing, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“You are?”

“Yes,” she assured him. “At least I think I am.”

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “The conversation grows more intriguing by the second.”

“Colin—”

He held out his arm. “Take a turn with me around the room, will you?”

“I don’t think—”

He moved his arm closer to her—just by an inch or so, but the message was clear. “Please,” he said.

She nodded and set her lemonade down. “Very well.”

They walked in silence for almost a minute, then Colin said, “I would like to apologize to you.”

“I was the one who stormed out of the room,” Penelope pointed out.

He tilted his head slightly, and she could see an indulgent smile playing across his lips. “I’d hardly call it ‘storming,’” he said.

Penelope frowned. She probably shouldn’t have left in such a huff, but now that she had, she was oddly proud of it. It wasn’t every day that a woman such as herself got to make such a dramatic exit.

“Well, I shouldn’t have been so rude,” she muttered, by now not really meaning it.

He arched a brow, then obviously decided not to pursue the matter. “I would like to apologize,” he said, “for being such a whiny little brat.”

Penelope actually tripped over her feet.

He helped her regain her balance, then said, “I am aware that I have many, many things in my life for which I should be grateful. For which I am grateful,” he corrected, his mouth not quite smiling but certainly sheepish. “It was unforgivably rude to complain to you.”

“No,” she said, “I have spent all evening thinking about what you said, and while I . . .” She swallowed, then licked her lips, which had gone quite dry. She’d spent all day trying to think of the right words, and she’d thought that she’d found them, but now that he was here, at her side, she couldn’t think of a deuced thing.

“Do you need another glass of lemonade?” Colin asked politely.

She shook her head. “You have every right to your feelings,” she blurted out. “They may not be what I would feel, were I in your shoes, but you have every right to them. But—”

She broke off, and Colin found himself rather desperate to know what she’d planned to say. “But what, Penelope?” he urged.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing to me.” His hand was on her arm, and so he squeezed slightly, to let her know that he meant what he said.

For the longest time, he didn’t think she was actually going to respond, and then, just when he thought his face would crack from the smile he held so carefully on his lips—they were in public, after all, and it wouldn’t do to invite comment and speculation by appearing urgent and disturbed—she sighed.

It was a lovely sound, strangely comforting, soft, and wise. And it made him want to look at her more closely, to see into her mind, to hear the rhythms of her soul.

“Colin,” Penelope said quietly, “if you feel frustrated by your current situation, you should do something to change it. It’s really that simple.”

“That’s what I do,” he said with a careless shrug of his outside shoulder. “My mother accuses me of picking up and leaving the country completely on whim, but the truth is—”

“You do it when you’re feeling frustrated,” she finished for him.

He nodded. She understood him. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, or even that it made any sense, but Penelope Featherington understood him.

“I think you should publish your journals,” she said.

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

He stopped in his tracks, letting go of her arm. He didn’t really have an answer, other than the odd pounding in his heart. “Who would want to read them?” he finally asked.

“I would,” she said frankly. “Eloise, Felicity . . .” she added, ticking off names on her fingers. “Your mother, Lady Whistledown, I’m sure,” she added with a mischievous smile. “She does write about you rather a lot.”

Her good humor was infectious, and Colin couldn’t quite suppress his smile. “Penelope, it doesn’t count if the only people who buy the book are the people I know.”

“Why not?” Her lips twitched. “You know a lot of people. Why, if you only count Bridgertons—”

He grabbed her hand. He didn’t know why, but he grabbed her hand. “Penelope, stop.”

She just laughed. “I think Eloise told me