Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,45

opened his eyes, wondering how long Penelope had been calling his name.

“I really think you should stop worrying about Eloise,” she said. “There are hundreds and hundreds of people in London. Lady Whistledown could be any one of them. Heavens, with your eye for detail”—she waggled her fingers to remind him of Eloise’s ink-stained fingertips—“you could be Lady Whistledown.”

He shot her a rather condescending look. “Except for the small detail of my having been out of the country half the time.”

Penelope chose to ignore his sarcasm. “You’re certainly a good enough writer to carry it off.”

Colin had intended to say something droll and slightly gruff, dismissing her rather weak arguments, but the truth was he was so secretly delighted about her “good writer” compliment that all he could do was sit there with a loopy smile on his face.

“Are you all right?” Penelope asked.

“Perfectly fine,” he replied, snapping to attention and trying to adopt a more sober mien. “Why would you ask?”

“Because you suddenly looked quite ill. Dizzy, actually.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, probably a little louder than was necessary. “I’m just thinking about the scandal.”

She let out a beleaguered sigh, which irritated him, because he didn’t see that she had any reason to feel so impatient with him. “What scandal?” she asked.

“The scandal that is going to erupt when she is discovered,” he ground out.

“She’s not Lady Whistledown!” she insisted.

Colin suddenly sat up straight, his eyes alight with a new idea. “Do you know,” he said in a rather intense sort of voice, “but I don’t think it matters if she is Lady Whistledown or not.”

Penelope stared at him blankly for a full three seconds before looking about the room, muttering, “Where’s the food? I must be light-headed. Haven’t you spent the last ten minutes positively going mad over the possibility that she is?”

As if on cue, Briarly entered the room with a heavily laden tray. Penelope and Colin watched in silence as the butler laid out the meal. “Would you like me to fix your plates?” he inquired.

“No, that’s quite all right,” Penelope said quickly. “We can manage for ourselves.”

Briarly nodded and, as soon as he’d laid the flatware and filled the two glasses with lemonade, left the room.

“Listen to me,” Colin said, jumping to his feet and moving the door so that it almost rested against the doorframe (but remained technically open, should anyone quibble about proprieties).

“Don’t you want something to eat?” Penelope inquired, holding aloft a plate that she’d filled with various small snacks.

He snatched a piece of cheese, ate it in two rather indelicate bites, then continued, “Even if Eloise isn’t Lady Whistledown—and mind you, I still think she is—it doesn’t matter. Because if I suspect that she’s Lady Whistledown, then surely someone else will as well.”

“Your point being?”

Colin realized that his arms were reaching forward, and he stopped himself before he reached out to shake her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter! Don’t you see? If someone points his finger at her, she’ll be ruined.”

“But not,” Penelope said, appearing to require a great deal of effort to unclench her teeth, “if she’s not Lady Whistledown!”

“How could she prove it?” Colin returned, jumping to his feet. “Once a rumor is started, the damage is done. It develops a life of its own.”

“Colin, you ceased to make sense five minutes ago.”

“No, hear me out.” He whirled to face her, and he was seized by a feeling of such intensity that he couldn’t have ripped his eyes from hers if the house were falling down around them. “Suppose I told everyone that I had seduced you.”

Penelope grew very, very still.

“You would be ruined forever,” he continued, crouching down near the edge of the sofa so that they were more on the same level. “It wouldn’t matter that we had never even kissed. That, my dear Penelope, is the power of the word.”

She looked oddly frozen. And at the same time flushed. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she stammered.

And then the most bizarre thing happened. He realized that he didn’t know what to say, either. Because he’d forgotten about rumors and the power of the word and all of that rot, and the only thing he could think of was the part about the kissing, and—

And—

And—

Good God in heaven, he wanted to kiss Penelope Featherington.

Penelope Featherington!

He might as well have said he wanted to kiss his sister.

Except—he stole a glance at her; she looked uncommonly fetching, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed that earlier that