Romancing Mister Bridgerton (9 page)

She carefully set the paper down and retrieved the handkerchief from his breast pocket, trying not to notice the warm beat of his heart as her fingers fumbled for the creamy white scrap of cloth. “Does it hurt?” she asked as she wrapped it around his hand. “No, don't answer that. Of course it hurts.”

He managed a very wobbly smile. “It hurts.”

She peered down at the gash, forcing herself to look at it closely even though the blood made her stomach turn. “I don't think you'll need stitches.”

“Do you know much about wounds?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. But it doesn't look too bad. Except for…ah, all the blood.”

“Feels worse than it looks,” he joked.

Her eyes flew to his face in horror.

“Another joke,” he reassured her. “Well, not really. It
does
feel worse than it looks, but I assure you it's bearable.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, increasing pressure on the wound to staunch the flow of blood. “This is all my fault.”

“That I sliced open my hand?”

“If you hadn't been so angry…”

He just shook his head, closing his eyes briefly against the pain. “Don't be silly, Penelope. If I hadn't gotten angry with you, I would have gotten angry with someone else some other time.”

“And you'd of course have a letter opener by your side when that happened,” she murmured, looking up at him through her lashes as she bent over his hand.

When his eyes met hers, they were filled with humor and maybe just a touch of admiration.

And something else she'd never thought to see—vulnerability, hesitancy, and even insecurity. He didn't know how good his writing was, she realized with amazement. He had no idea, and he was actually embarrassed that she'd seen it.

“Colin,” Penelope said, instinctively pressing harder on his wound as she leaned in, “I must tell you. You—”

She broke off when she heard the sharp, even clatter of footsteps coming down the hall. “That will be Wickham,” she said, glancing toward the door. “He insisted upon bringing me a small meal. Can you keep the pressure on this for now?”

Colin nodded. “I don't want him to know I've hurt myself. He'll only tell Mother, and then I'll never hear the end of it.”

“Well, here, then.” She stood and tossed him his journal. “Pretend you're reading this.”

Colin barely had time to open it and lay it across his injured hand before the butler entered with a large tray.

“Wickham!” Penelope said, jumping to her feet and turning to face him as if she hadn't already known he was coming. “As usual you've brought far more than I could possibly eat. Luckily, Mr. Bridgerton has been keeping me company. I'm certain that with his help, I'll be able to do justice to your meal.”

Wickham nodded and removed the covers from the serving dishes. It was a cold repast—pieces of meat, cheese, and fruit, accompanied by a tall pitcher of lemonade.

Penelope smiled brightly. “I hope you didn't think I could eat all of this myself.”

“Lady Bridgerton and her daughters are expected soon. I thought they might be hungry as well.”

“Won't be any left after I'm through with it,” Colin said with a jovial smile.

Wickham bowed slightly in his direction. “If I'd known you were here, Mr. Bridgerton, I would have trebled the portions. Would you like me to fix you a plate?”

“No, no,” Colin said, waving his uninjured hand. “I'll get up just as soon as I…ah…finish reading this chapter.”

The butler said, “Let me know if you require further assistance,” and exited the room.

“Aaaaaahhh,” Colin groaned, the moment he heard Wickham's steps disappear down the hall. “Damn—I mean, dash it—it hurts.”

Penelope plucked a napkin off the tray. “Here, let's replace that handkerchief.” She peeled it away from his skin, keeping her eyes on the cloth rather than the wound. For some reason that didn't seem to bother her stomach quite as much. “I'm afraid your handkerchief is ruined.”

Colin just closed his eyes and shook his head. Penelope was smart enough to interpret the action to mean,
I don't care.
And she was sensible enough not to say anything further on the subject. Nothing worse than a female who chattered forever about nothing.

He'd always liked Penelope, but how was it he'd never realized how intelligent she was up till now? Oh, he supposed if someone had asked him, he would have said she was bright, but he'd certainly never taken the time to think about it.

It was becoming clear to him, however, that she was very intelligent, indeed. And he thought he remembered his sister once telling him that she was an avid reader.

And probably a discriminating one as well.

“I think the bleeding is slowing down,” she was saying as she wrapped the fresh napkin around his hand. “In fact, I'm sure it is, if only because I don't feel quite so sick every time I look at the wound.”

He wished that she hadn't read his journal, but now that she
had
…

“Ah, Penelope,” he began, startled by the hesitancy in his own voice.

She looked up. “I'm sorry. Am I pressing too hard?”

For a moment Colin did nothing but blink. How was it possible he'd never noticed how big her eyes were? He'd known they were brown, of course, and…No, come to think of it, if he were to be honest with himself, he would
have to admit that if asked earlier this morning, he'd not have been able to identify the color of her eyes.

But somehow he knew that he'd never forget again.

She eased up on the pressure. “Is this all right?”

He nodded. “Thank you. I would do it myself, but it's my right hand, and—”

“Say no more. It's the very least I can do, after…after…” Her eyes slid slightly to the side, and he knew she was about to apologize another time.

“Penelope,” he began again.

“No, wait!” she cried out, her dark eyes flashing with…could it be passion? Certainly not the brand of passion with which he was most familiar. But there were other sorts, weren't there? Passion for learning. Passion for…literature?

“I must tell you this,” she said urgently. “I know it was unforgivably intrusive of me to look at your journal. I was just…bored…and waiting…and I had nothing to do, and then I saw the book and I was curious.”

He opened his mouth to interrupt her, to tell her that what was done was done, but the words were rushing from her mouth, and he found himself oddly compelled to listen.

“I should have stepped away the moment I realized what it was,” she continued, “but as soon as I read one sentence I had to read another! Colin, it was wonderful! It was just like I was there. I could feel the water—I knew exactly the temperature. It was so clever of you to describe it the way you did. Everyone knows exactly what a bath feels like a half an hour after it has been filled.”

For a moment Colin could do nothing but stare at her. He'd never seen Penelope quite so animated, and it was strange and…good, really, that all that excitement was over his journal.

“You—you liked it?” he finally asked.

“Liked it? Colin, I loved it! I—”

“Ow!”

In her excitement, she'd started squeezing his hand a bit too hard. “Oh, sorry,” she said perfunctorily. “Colin, I really must know. What was the danger? I couldn't bear to be left hanging like that.”

“It was nothing,” he said modestly. “The page you read really wasn't a very exciting passage.”

“No, it was mostly description,” she agreed, “but the description was very compelling and evocative. I could see everything. But it wasn't—oh, dear, how do I explain this?”

Colin discovered that he was very impatient for her to figure out what she was trying to say.

“Sometimes,” she finally continued, “when one reads a passage of description, it's rather…oh, I don't know…detached. Clinical, even. You brought the island to life. Other people might call the water warm, but you related it to something we all know and understand. It made me feel as if I were there, dipping my toe in right alongside you.”

Colin smiled, ridiculously pleased by her praise.

“Oh! And I don't want to forget—there was another brilliant thing I wanted to mention.”

Now he knew he must be grinning like an idiot. Brilliant brilliant brilliant. What a
good
word.

Penelope leaned in slightly as she said, “You also showed the reader how
you
relate to the scene and how it affects you. It becomes more than mere description because we see how you react to it.”

Colin knew he was fishing for compliments, but he didn't much care as he asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you look at—May I see the journal to refresh my memory?”

“Of course,” he murmured, handing it to her. “Wait, let me find the correct page again.”

Once he had done so, she scanned his lines until she found the section she was looking for. “Here we are. Look at this
part about how you are reminded that England is your home.”

“It's funny how travel can do that to a person.”

“Do what to a person?” she asked, her eyes wide with interest.

“Make one appreciate home,” he said softly.

Her eyes met his, and they were serious, inquisitive. “And yet you still like to go away.”

He nodded. “I can't help it. It's like a disease.”

She laughed, and it sounded unexpectedly musical. “Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “A disease is harmful. It's clear that your travels feed your soul.” She looked down to his hand, carefully peeling the napkin back to inspect his wound. “It's almost better,” she said.

“Almost,” he agreed. In truth, he suspected the bleeding had stopped altogether, but he was reluctant to let the conversation end. And he knew that the moment she was done caring for him, she would go.

He didn't think she wanted to go, but he somehow knew that she would. She'd think it was the proper thing to do, and she'd probably also think it was what he wanted.

Nothing, he was surprised to realize, could be further from the truth.

And nothing could have scared him more.

“I
wish I'd known you kept a journal,” Penelope said, reapplying pressure to his palm.

“Why?”

“I'm not sure,” she said with a shrug. “It's always interesting to find out that there is more to someone than meets the eye, don't you think?”

Colin didn't say anything for several moments, and then, quite suddenly, he blurted out, “You really liked it?”

She looked amused. He was horrified. Here he was, considered one of the most popular and sophisticated men of the
ton,
and he'd been reduced to a bashful schoolboy, hanging on Penelope Featherington's every word, just for a single scrap of praise.

Penelope Featherington, for God's sake.

Not that there was anything wrong with Penelope, of course, he hastened to remind himself. Just that she was…well…Penelope.

“Of course I liked it,” she said with a soft smile. “I just finished telling you so.”

“What was the first thing that struck you about it?” he asked, deciding that he might as well act like a complete fool, since he was already more than halfway there.

She smiled wickedly. “Actually, the first thing that struck me was that your penmanship was quite a bit neater than I would have guessed.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I have difficulty seeing you bent over a desk, practicing your flicks,” she replied, her lips tightening at the corners to suppress a smile.

If ever there were a time for righteous indignation, this was clearly it. “I'll have you know I spent many an hour in the nursery schoolroom, bent over a desk, as you so delicately put it.”

“I'm sure,” she murmured.

“Hmmmph.”

She looked down, clearly trying not to smile.

“I'm quite good with my flicks,” he added. It was just a game now, but somehow it was rather fun to play the part of the petulant schoolboy.

“Obviously,” she replied. “I especially liked them on the H's. Very well done. Quite…flicky of you.”

“Indeed.”

She matched his straight face perfectly. “Indeed.”

His gaze slid from hers, and for a moment he felt quite unaccountably shy. “I'm glad you liked the journal,” he said.

“It was lovely,” she said in a soft, faraway kind of voice. “Very lovely, and…” She looked away, blushing. “You're going to think I'm silly.”

“Never,” he promised.

“Well, I think one of the reasons I enjoyed it so much is that I could somehow feel that
you'd
enjoyed writing it.”

Colin was silent for a long moment. It hadn't ever occurred
to him that he enjoyed his writing; it was just something he
did.

He did it because he couldn't imagine not doing it. How could he travel to foreign lands and not keep a record of what he saw, what he experienced, and perhaps most importantly, what he felt?

But when he thought back, he realized that he felt a strange rush of satisfaction whenever he wrote a phrase that was exactly right, a sentence that was particularly true. He distinctly remembered the moment he'd written the passage Penelope had read. He'd been sitting on the beach at dusk, the sun still warm on his skin, the sand somehow rough and smooth at the same time under his bare feet. It had been a heavenly moment—full of that warm, lazy feeling one can truly only experience in the dead of summer (or on the perfect beaches of the Mediterranean), and he'd been trying to think of the exact right way to describe the water.

He'd sat there for ages—surely a full half an hour—his pen poised above the paper of his journal, waiting for inspiration. And then suddenly he'd realized the temperature was precisely that of slightly old bathwater, and his face had broken into a wide, delighted smile.

Yes, he enjoyed writing. Funny how he'd never realized it before.

“It's good to have something in your life,” Penelope said quietly. “Something satisfying—that will fill the hours with a sense of purpose.” She crossed her hands in her lap and looked down, seemingly engrossed by her knuckles. “I've never understood the supposed joys of a lazy life.”

Colin wanted to touch his fingers to her chin, to see her eyes when he asked her—
And what do you do to fill your hours with a sense of purpose?
But he didn't. It would be far too forward, and it would mean admitting to himself just how interested he was in her answer.

So he asked the question, and he kept his own hands still.

“Nothing, really,” she replied, still examining her fingernails. Then, after a pause, she looked up quite suddenly, her chin rising so quickly it almost made him dizzy. “I like to read,” she said. “I read quite a bit, actually. And I do a bit of embroidery now and then, but I'm not very good at it. I wish there were more, but, well…”

“What?” Colin prodded.

Penelope shook her head. “It's nothing. You should be grateful for your travels. I'm quite envious of you.”

There was a long silence, not awkward, but strange nonetheless, and finally Colin said brusquely, “It's not enough.”

The tone of his voice seemed so out of place in the conversation that Penelope could do nothing but stare. “What do you mean?” she finally asked.

He shrugged carelessly. “A man can't travel forever; to do so would take all the fun out of it.”

She laughed, then looked at him and realized he was serious. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to be rude.”

“You weren't rude,” he said, taking a swig of his lemonade. It sloshed on the table when he set the glass down; clearly, he was unused to using his left hand. “Two of the best parts of travel,” he explained, wiping his mouth with one of the clean napkins, “are the leaving and the coming home, and besides, I'd miss my family too much were I to go off indefinitely.”

Penelope had no reply—at least nothing that wouldn't sound like platitudes, so she just waited for him to continue.

For a moment he didn't say anything, then he scoffed and shut his journal with a resounding thud. “These don't count. They're just for me.”

“They don't have to be,” she said softly.

If he heard her, he made no indication. “It's all very well and good to keep a journal while you're traveling,” he continued, “but once I'm home I still have nothing to do.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

He didn't say anything, just reached for a piece of cheese off the tray. She watched him while he ate, and then, after he'd washed it down with more lemonade, his entire demeanor changed. He seemed more alert, more on edge as he asked, “Have you read
Whistledown
lately?”

Penelope blinked at the sudden change of subject. “Yes, of course, why? Doesn't everyone read it?”

He waved off her question. “Have you noticed how she describes me?”

“Er, it's almost always favorable, isn't it?”

His hand began to wave again—rather dismissively, in her opinion. “Yes, yes, that's not the point,” he said in a distracted voice.

“You might think it more the point,” Penelope replied testily, “if you'd ever been likened to an overripe citrus fruit.”

He winced, and he opened and closed his mouth twice before finally saying, “If it makes you feel better, I didn't remember that she'd called you that until just now.” He stopped, thought for a moment, then added, “In fact, I still don't remember it.”

“It's all right,” she said, putting on her best I'm-a-good-sport face. “I assure you, I'm quite beyond it. And I've always had a fondness for oranges and lemons.”

He started to say something again, then stopped, then looked at her rather directly and said, “I hope what I'm about to say isn't abominably insensitive or insulting, given that when all is said and done, I've very little to complain about.”

The implication being, Penelope realized, that perhaps
she
did.

“But I'm telling you,” he continued, his eyes clear and earnest, “because I think maybe you'll understand.”

It was a compliment. A strange, uncommon one, but a
compliment nonetheless. Penelope wanted nothing more than to lay her hand across his, but of course she could not, so she just nodded and said, “You can tell me anything, Colin.”

“My brothers—” he began. “They're—” He stopped, staring rather blankly toward the window before finally turning back to her and saying, “They're very accomplished. Anthony is the viscount, and God knows I wouldn't want that responsibility, but he has a purpose. Our entire heritage is in his hands.”

“More than that, I should think,” Penelope said softly.

He looked at her, question in his eyes.

“I think your brother feels responsible for your entire family,” she said. “I imagine it's a heavy burden.”

Colin tried to keep his face impassive, but he'd never been an accomplished stoic, and he must have shown his dismay on his face, because Penelope practically rose from her seat as she rushed to add, “Not that I think he minds it! It's part of who he is.”

“Exactly!” Colin exclaimed, as if he'd just discovered something that was actually important. As opposed to this…this…this inane discussion about his life. He had nothing to complain about. He
knew
he had nothing to complain about, and yet…

“Did you know Benedict paints?” he found himself asking.

“Of course,” she replied. “Everyone knows he paints. He has a painting in the National Gallery. And I believe they are planning to hang another soon. Another landscape.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Eloise told me.”

He slumped again. “Then it must be true. I can't believe no one mentioned it to me.”

“You
have
been away,” she reminded him.

“What I'm trying to say,” he continued, “is that they both have a purpose to their lives. I have nothing.”

“That can't be true,” she said.

“I should think I would be in a position to know.”

Penelope sat back, startled by the sharp tone of his voice.

“I know what people think of me,” he began, and although Penelope had told herself that she was going to remain silent, to allow him to speak his mind fully, she couldn't help but interrupt.

“Everyone likes you,” she rushed to say. “They adore you.”

“I know,” he groaned, looking anguished and sheepish at the same time. “But…” He raked a hand through his hair. “God, how to say this without sounding a complete ass?”

Penelope's eyes widened.

“I'm sick of being thought an empty-headed charmer,” he finally blurted out.

“Don't be silly,” she said, faster than immediately, if that were possible.

“Penelope—”

“No one thinks you're stupid,” she said.

“How would—”

“Because I've been stuck here in London for more years than anyone should have to,” she said sharply. “I may not be the most popular woman in town, but after ten years, I've heard more than my fair share of gossip and lies and foolish opinions, and I have never—not once—heard someone refer to you as stupid.”

He stared at her for a moment, a bit startled by her passionate defense. “I didn't mean
stupid,
precisely,” he said in a soft, and he hoped humble, voice. “More…without substance. Even Lady Whistledown refers to me as a charmer.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he replied testily, “if she didn't do it every other day.”

“She only
publishes
every other day.”

“My point exactly,” he shot back. “If she thought there was anything to me other than my so-called legendary charm, don't you think she would have said so by now?”

Penelope was quiet for a long moment, then she said, “Does it really matter what Lady Whistledown thinks?”

He slumped forward, smacking his hands against his knees, then yelping with pain when he (belatedly) remembered his injury. “You're missing the point,” he said, wincing as he reapplied pressure to his palm. “I couldn't care less about Lady Whistledown. But whether we like it or not, she represents the rest of society.”

“I would imagine that there are quite a few people who would take exception to that statement.”

He raised one brow. “Including yourself?”

“Actually, I think Lady Whistledown is rather astute,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap.

“The woman called you an overripe melon!”

Two splotches of red burned in her cheeks. “An overripe citrus fruit,” she ground out. “I assure you there is a very big difference.”

Colin decided then and there that the female mind was a strange and incomprehensible organ—one which no man should even attempt to understand. There wasn't a woman alive who could go from point A to B without stopping at C, D, X, and 12 along the way.

“Penelope,” he finally said, staring at her in disbelief, “the woman insulted you. How can you defend her?”

“She said nothing more than the truth,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “She's been rather kind, actually, since my mother started allowing me to pick out my own clothing.”

Colin groaned. “Surely we were talking about something else at some point. Tell me we didn't
intend
to discuss your wardrobe.”

Penelope's eyes narrowed. “I believe we were discussing your dissatisfaction with life as the most popular man in London.”

Her voice rose on the last four words, and Colin realized he'd been scolded. Soundly.

Which he found extraordinarily irritating. “I don't know why I thought you'd understand,” he bit off, hating the childish tinge in his voice but completely unable to edit it out.

“I'm sorry,” she said, “but it's a little difficult for me to sit here and listen to you complain that your life is nothing.”