Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,74

turned to her, a slight veil of confusion descending over his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

Her voice rose slightly in volume. “Cressida said she was Lady Whistledown, and she wasn’t ruined.”

“That’s because no one believed her,” Colin replied. “And besides,” he added without thinking, “she’s . . . different.”

She turned to him slowly. Very slowly, with steadfast eyes. “Different how?”

Something akin to panic began to pound in Colin’s chest. He’d known he wasn’t saying the right words even as they’d spilled from his lips. How could one little sentence, one little word be so very wrong?

She’s different.

They both knew what he’d meant. Cressida was popular, Cressida was beautiful, Cressida could carry it all off with aplomb.

Penelope, on the other hand . . .

She was Penelope. Penelope Featherington. And she hadn’t the clout nor the connections to save her from ruin. The Bridgertons could stand behind her and offer support, but even they wouldn’t be able prevent her downfall. Any other scandal might have been manageable, but Lady Whistledown had, at one time or another, insulted almost every person of consequence in the British Isles. Once people were over their surprise, that was when the unkind remarks would begin.

Penelope wouldn’t be praised for being clever or witty or daring.

She’d be called mean, and petty, and jealous.

Colin knew the ton well. He knew how his peers acted. The aristocracy was capable of individual greatness, but collectively they tended to sink to the lowest common denominator.

Which was very low, indeed.

“I see,” Penelope said into the silence.

“No,” he said quickly, “you don’t. I—”

“No, Colin,” she said, sounding almost painfully wise, “I do. I suppose I’d just always hoped you were different.”

His eyes caught hers, and somehow his hands were on her shoulders, gripping her with such intensity that she couldn’t possibly look away. He didn’t say anything, letting his eyes ask his questions.

“I thought you believed in me,” she said, “that you saw beyond the ugly duckling.”

Her face was so familiar to him; he’d seen it a thousand times before, and yet until these past few weeks, he couldn’t have said he truly knew it. Would he have remembered that she had a small birthmark near her left earlobe? Had he ever noticed the warm glow to her skin? Or that her brown eyes had flecks of gold in them, right near the pupil?

How had he danced with her so many times and never noticed that her mouth was full and wide and made for kissing?

She licked her lips when she was nervous. He’d seen her do that just the other day. Surely she’d done that at some point in the dozen years of their acquaintance, and yet it was only now that the mere sight of her tongue made his body clench with need.

“You’re not ugly,” he told her, his voice low and urgent.

Her eyes widened.

And he whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

“No,” she said, the word barely more than a breath. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders. “You’re beautiful,” he repeated. “I don’t know how . . . I don’t know when . . .” He touched her lips, feeling her hot breath on his fingertips. “But you are,” he whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, reverently, no longer quite so surprised that this was happening, that he wanted her so badly. The shock was gone, replaced by a simple, primitive need to claim her, to brand her, to mark her as his.

His?

He pulled back and looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face.

Why not?

“What is it?” she whispered.

“You are beautiful,” he said, shaking his head in confusion. “I don’t know why nobody else sees it.”

Something warm and lovely began to spread in Penelope’s chest. She couldn’t quite explain it; it was almost as if someone had heated her blood. It started in her heart and then slowly swept through her arms, her belly, down to the tips of her toes.

It made her light-headed. It made her content.

It made her whole.

She wasn’t beautiful. She knew she wasn’t beautiful, she knew she’d never be more than passably attractive, and that was only on her good days. But he thought she was beautiful, and when he looked at her . . .

She felt beautiful. And she’d never felt that way before.

He kissed her again, his lips hungrier this time, nibbling, caressing, waking her body, rousing her soul. Her belly had begun to tingle, and her skin felt hot and needy where his hands touched her through the thin