Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,48

always thought a woman should be. Her hips flared, and her bottom was perfect, and her breasts . . . good God, her breasts felt good pressing against his chest. His palms itched to cup them, but he forced his hands to remain where they were (rather enjoyably on her derrière, so it really wasn’t that much of a sacrifice.) Beside the fact that he really shouldn’t be groping a gently bred lady’s breasts in the middle of her drawing room, he had a rather painful suspicion that if he touched her in that way, he would lose himself completely.

“Penelope, Penelope,” he murmured, wondering why her name tasted so good on his lips. He was ravenous for her, heady and drugged by passion, and he wanted desperately for her to feel the same way. She felt perfect in his arms, but thus far, she had made no reaction. Oh, she had swayed in his arms and opened her mouth to welcome his sweet invasion, but other than that, she had done nothing.

And yet, from the pant of her breath and the beat of her heart, he knew that she was aroused.

He pulled back, just a few inches so that he could touch her chin and tilt her face up toward his. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that were dazed with passion, perfectly matching her lips, which were lightly parted, completely soft, and thoroughly swollen from his kisses.

She was beautiful. Utterly, completely, soul-stirringly beautiful. He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed it all these years.

Was the world populated with blind men, or merely stupid ones?

“You can kiss me, too,” he whispered, leaning his forehead lightly against hers.

She did nothing but blink.

“A kiss,” he murmured, lowering his lips to hers again, although just for a fleeting moment, “is for two people.”

Her hand stirred at his back. “What do I do?” she whispered.

“Whatever you want to do.”

Slowly, tentatively, she lifted one of her hands to his face. Her fingers trailed lightly over his cheek, skimming along the line of his jaw until they fell away.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Thank you?

He went still.

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. He didn’t want to be thanked for his kiss.

It made him feel guilty.

And shallow.

As if it had been something done out of pity. And the worst part was he knew that if all this had come to pass only a few months earlier, it would have been out of pity.

What the hell did that say about him?

“Don’t thank me,” he said gruffly, shoving himself backward until they were no longer touching.

“But—”

“I said don’t,” he repeated harshly, turning away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her, when the truth was that he couldn’t quite bear himself.

And the damnedest thing was—he wasn’t sure why. This desperate, gnawing feeling—was it guilt? Because he shouldn’t have kissed her? Because he shouldn’t have liked it?

“Colin,” she said, “don’t be angry with yourself.”

“I’m not,” he snapped.

“I asked you to kiss me. I practically forced you—”

Now, there was a surefire way to make a man feel manly. “You didn’t force me,” he bit off.

“No, but—”

“For the love of God, Penelope, enough!”

She drew back, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He closed his eyes in agony. Why why why was he being such an ass?

“Penelope . . .” he began.

“No, it’s all right,” she said, her words rushed. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I should.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t.”

And now she looked so quietly dignified. Which made him feel even worse. She was standing there, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, her eyes downward—not quite on the floor, but not on his face.

She thought he’d kissed her out of pity.

And he was a knave because a small part of him wanted her to think that. Because if she thought it, then maybe he could convince himself that it was true, that it was just pity, that it couldn’t possibly be more.

“I should go,” he said, the words quiet, and yet still too loud in the silent room.

She didn’t try to stop him.

He motioned to the door. “I should go,” he said again, even as his feet refused to move.

She nodded.

“I didn’t—” he started to say, and then, horrified by the words that had nearly come out of his mouth, he actually did head toward the door.

But Penelope called out—of course she called out—“You didn’t what?”

And he didn’t know what to say, because what he’d started to say was,