Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,67

he did nothing but give her a sardonic stare as she continued with, “But I’m sure about the writers.” And then, with a flourish that might have been triumphant if she hadn’t ruined it with a nervous swallow, “And you’re a writer!”

“So you’re saying this is my church?”

“Er . . .” Her eyes darted to her left. “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

She gulped. “It is?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a smooth casualness to his words that was intended to terrify her.

Her eyes darted to her left again . . . toward the pew where she’d hidden her correspondence. She’d been so good until now, keeping her attention off of her incriminating evidence. He’d almost been proud of her for it.

“My church,” he repeated. “What a lovely notion.”

Her eyes grew round, scared. “I’m afraid I don’t catch your meaning.”

He tapped his finger to his jaw, then held out his hand in a thoughtful manner. “I believe I’m developing a taste for prayer.”

“Prayer?” she echoed weakly. “You?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I . . . well . . . I . . . I . . .”

“Yes?” he queried, beginning to enjoy this in a sick sort of way. He’d never been the angry, brooding type. Clearly, he hadn’t known what he was missing. There was something rather pleasing in making her squirm. “Penelope?” he continued. “Did you have something to say?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Good.” He smiled blandly. “Then I believe I require a few moments for myself.”

“I’m sorry?”

He stepped to his right. “I’m in a church. I believe I want to pray.”

She stepped to her left. “I beg your pardon?”

He cocked his head very slightly to the side in question. “I said that I want to pray. It wasn’t a terribly complicated sentiment.”

He could tell that she was straining hard not to rise to his bait. She was trying to smile, but her jaw was tense, and he’d wager that her teeth were going to grind themselves to powder within minutes.

“I didn’t think you were a particularly religious person,” she said.

“I’m not.” He waited for her to react, then added, “I intend to pray for you.”

She swallowed uncontrollably. “Me?” she squeaked.

“Because,” he began, unable to prevent his voice from rising in volume, “by the time I’m done, prayer is the only thing that is going to save you!”

And with that he brushed her aside and strode to where she’d hidden the envelope.

“Colin!” she yelled, running frantically after him. “No!”

He yanked the envelope out from behind the prayer book but didn’t yet look at it. “Do you want to tell me what this is?” he demanded. “Before I look myself, do you want to tell me?”

“No,” she said, her voice breaking on the word.

His heart breaking at the expression in her eyes.

“Please,” she begged him. “Please give it to me.” And then, when he did nothing but stare at her with hard, angry eyes, she whispered, “It’s mine. It’s a secret.”

“A secret worth your welfare?” he nearly roared. “Worth your life?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a woman alone in the City? Alone anywhere?”

All she said was, “Colin, please.” She reached for the envelope, still held out of her reach.

And suddenly he didn’t know what he was doing. This wasn’t him. This insane fury, this anger—it couldn’t be his.

And yet it was.

But the troubling part was . . . it was Penelope who had made him thus. And what had she done? Traveled across London by herself? He was rather irritated at her for her lack of concern for her own safety, but that paled in comparison to the fury he felt at her keeping of secrets.

His anger was entirely unwarranted. He had no right to expect that Penelope share her secrets with him. They had no commitments to each other, nothing beyond a rather nice friendship and a single, albeit disturbingly moving, kiss. He certainly wouldn’t have shared his journals with her if she hadn’t stumbled upon them herself.

“Colin,” she whispered. “Please . . . don’t.”

She’d seen his secret writings. Why shouldn’t he see hers? Did she have a lover? Was all that nonsense about never having been kissed exactly that—nonsense?

Dear God, was this fire burning in his belly . . . jealousy?

“Colin,” she said again, choking now. She placed her hand on his, trying to prevent him from opening the envelope. Not with strength, for she could never match him on that, just with her presence.

But there was no way . . . no way he could have stopped himself at