Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,96

was supposed to be romantic.”

“It could have been,” he said cruelly.

His hand slipped from its position at her waist, but he held on to her other hand, grasping her fingers lightly to weave her through the crowd until they stepped through the French doors out onto the terrace.

“Not here,” Penelope whispered, glancing anxiously back toward the ballroom.

He didn’t even dignify her comment with a reply, instead pulling her farther into the inky night, drifting around a corner until they were quite alone.

But they didn’t stop there. With a quick glance to make sure that no one was about, Colin pushed open a small, unobtrusive side door.

“What’s this?” Penelope asked.

His answer was a little shove at the small of her back, until she was fully inside the dark hallway.

“Up,” he said, motioning to the steps.

Penelope didn’t know whether to be scared or thrilled, but she climbed the stairs anyway, ever aware of Colin’s hot presence, right at her back.

After they’d climbed several flights, Colin stepped ahead of her and pushed open a door, peeking out into the hall. It was empty, so he stepped out, pulling her along with him, dashing quietly through the hall (which Penelope now recognized as the family’s private chambers) until they reached a room she had never before entered.

Colin’s room. She’d always known where it was. Through all her years of coming here to visit with Eloise, she’d never once done more than trail her fingers along the heavy wood of the door. It had been years since he’d lived here at Number Five on a permanent basis, but his mother had insisted upon maintaining his room for him. One never knew when he might need it, she’d said, and she’d been proven right earlier that season when Colin had returned from Cyprus without a house under lease.

He pushed open the door and pulled her inside after him. But the room was dark, and she was stumbling, and when she stopped moving it was because his body was right there in front of hers.

He touched her arms to steady her, but then he didn’t let go, just held her there in the dark. It wasn’t an embrace, not really, but the length of her body was touching the length of his. She couldn’t see anything, but she could feel him, and she could smell him, and she could hear his breathing, swirling through the night air, gently caressing her cheek.

It was agony.

It was ecstasy.

His hands slid slowly down her bare arms, torturing her every nerve, and then, abruptly, he stepped away.

Followed by—silence.

Penelope wasn’t sure what she had expected. He would yell at her, he would berate her, he would order her to explain herself.

But he was doing none of those things. He was just standing there in the dark, forcing the issue, forcing her to say something.

“Could you . . . could you light a candle?” she finally asked.

“You don’t like the dark?” he drawled.

“Not now. Not like this.”

“I see,” he murmured. “So you’re saying you might like it like this?” His fingers were suddenly on her skin, trailing along the edge of her bodice.

And then they were gone.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Don’t touch you?” His voice grew mocking, and Penelope was glad that she couldn’t see his face. “But you’re mine, aren’t you?”

“Not yet,” she warned him.

“Oh, but you are. You saw to that. It was rather clever timing, actually, waiting until our engagement ball to make your final announcement. You knew I didn’t want you to publish that last column. I forbade it! We agreed—”

“We never agreed!”

He ignored her outburst. “You waited until—”

“We never agreed,” Penelope cried out again, needing to make it clear that she had not broken her word. Whatever else she had done, she had not lied to him. Well, aside from keeping Whistledown a secret for nearly a dozen years, but he certainly hadn’t been alone in that deception. “And yes,” she admitted, because it didn’t seem right to start lying now, “I knew you wouldn’t jilt me. But I hoped—”

Her voice broke, and she was unable to finish.

“You hoped what?” Colin asked after an interminable silence.

“I hoped that you would forgive me,” she whispered. “Or at least that you would understand. I always thought you were the sort of man who . . .”

“What sort of man?” he asked, this time after the barest hint of a pause.

“It’s my fault, really,” she said, sounding tired and sad. “I’ve put you on a pedestal. You’ve been so nice all