Romancing Mister Bridgerton (28 page)

He said he wasn't ashamed of her, and maybe he even thought that was true, but she couldn't quite bring herself to believe him. She'd seen his face when he swore that all he wanted was to protect her. But protectiveness was a fierce, burning feeling, and when Colin was talking about Lady Whistledown, his eyes were shuttered and flat.

She tried not to feel so disappointed. She tried to tell herself that she had no right to expect Colin to live up to her dreams, that her vision of him had been unfairly idealized, but…

But she still wanted him to be the man she'd dreamed of.

And she felt so guilty for every pang of disappointment. This was Colin! Colin, for heaven's sake. Colin, who was as close to perfect as any human being could ever hope to be. She had no right to find fault with him, and yet…

And yet she did.

She wanted him to be proud of her. She wanted it more than anything in the world, more even than she'd wanted
him
all those years when she'd watched him from afar.

But she cherished her marriage, and awkward moments aside, she cherished her husband. And so she stopped mentioning Lady Whistledown. She was tired of Colin's hooded expression. She didn't want to see the tight lines of displeasure around his mouth.

It wasn't as if she could avoid the topic forever; any trip out into society seemed to bring mention of her alter ego. But she didn't have to introduce the subject at home.

And so, as they sat at breakfast one morning, chatting amiably as they each perused that morning's newspaper, she searched for other topics.

“Do you think we shall take a honeymoon trip?” she asked, spreading a generous portion of raspberry jam on her muffin. She probably ought not to eat so much, but the jam
was really quite tasty, and besides, she always ate a lot when she was anxious.

She frowned, first at the muffin and then at nothing in particular. She hadn't realized she was so anxious. She'd thought she'd been able to push the Lady Whistledown problem to the back of her mind.

“Perhaps later in the year,” Colin replied, reaching for the jam once she was through with it. “Pass me the toast, would you?”

She did so, silently.

He glanced up, either at her or over at the plate of kippers—she couldn't be sure. “You look disappointed,” he said.

She supposed she should be flattered that he'd looked up from his food. Or maybe he was looking at the kippers and she just got in the way. Probably the latter. It was difficult to compete with food for Colin's attention.

“Penelope?” he queried.

She blinked.

“You looked disappointed?” he reminded her.

“Oh. Yes, well, I am, I suppose.” She gave him a faltering smile. “I've never been anywhere, and you've been everywhere, and I guess I thought you could take me someplace you especially liked. Greece, perhaps. Or maybe Italy. I've always wanted to see Italy.”

“You would like it,” he murmured distractedly, his attention more on his eggs than on her. “Venice especially, I think.”

“Then why don't you take me?”

“I will,” he said, spearing a pink piece of bacon and popping it into his mouth. “Just not now.”

Penelope licked a bit of jam off her muffin and tried not to look too crestfallen.

“If you must know,” Colin said with a sigh, “the reason I don't want to leave is…” He glanced at the open door, his lips pursing with annoyance. “Well, I can't say it here.”

Penelope's eyes widened. “You mean…” She traced a large
W
on the tablecloth.

“Exactly.”

She stared at him in surprise, a bit startled that he had brought up the subject, and even more so that he didn't seem terribly upset by it. “But why?” she finally asked.

“Should the secret come out,” he said cryptically, just in case there were any servants about, which there usually were, “I should like to be in town to control the damage.”

Penelope deflated in her chair. It was never pleasant to be referred to as damage. Which was what he had done. Well, indirectly, at least. She stared at her muffin, trying to decide if she was hungry. She wasn't, not really.

But she ate it, anyway.

A
few days later, Penelope returned from a shopping expedition with Eloise, Hyacinth, and Felicity to find her husband seated behind his desk in his study. He was reading something, uncharacteristically hunched as he pored over some unknown book or document.

“Colin?”

His head jerked up. He must not have heard her coming, which was surprising, since she hadn't made any effort to soften her steps. “Penelope,” he said, rising to his feet as she entered the room, “how was your, er, whatever it was you did when you went out?”

“Shopping,” she said with an amused smile. “I went shopping.”

“Right. So you did.” He rocked slightly from foot to foot. “Did you buy anything?”

“A bonnet,” she replied, tempted to add
and three diamond rings,
just to see if he was listening.

“Good, good,” he murmured, obviously eager to get back to whatever it was on his desk.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied, almost reflexively, then he added, “Well, actually it's one of my journals.”

His face took on a strange expression, a little sheepish, a
little defiant, almost as if he were embarrassed that he'd been caught, and at the same time daring her to ask more.

“May I look at it?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and, she hoped, unthreatening. It was strange to think that Colin was insecure about anything. Mention of his journals, however, seemed to bring out a vulnerability that was surprising…and touching.

Penelope had spent so much of her life regarding Colin as an invincible tower of happiness and good cheer. He was self-confident, handsome, well liked, and intelligent. How easy it must be to be a Bridgerton, she'd thought on more than one occasion.

There had been so many times—more than she could count—that she'd come home from tea with Eloise and her family, curled up on her bed, and wished that she'd been born a Bridgerton. Life was easy for them. They were smart and attractive and rich and everyone seemed to like them.

And you couldn't even hate them for living such splendid existences because they were so
nice.

Well, now she was a Bridgerton, by marriage if not by birth, and it was true—life
was
better as a Bridgerton, although that had less to do with any great change in herself than it did because she was madly in love with her husband, and by some fabulous miracle, he actually returned the emotion.

But life wasn't perfect, not even for the Bridgertons.

Even Colin—the golden boy, the man with the easy smile and devilish humor—had raw spots of his own. He was haunted by unfulfilled dreams and secret insecurities. How unfair she had been when she'd pondered his life, not to allow him his weaknesses.

“I don't need to see it in its entirety,” she reassured him. “Maybe just a short passage or two. Of your own choosing. Perhaps something you especially like.”

He looked down at the open book, staring blankly, as if the
words were written in Chinese. “I wouldn't know what to pick out,” he mumbled. “It's all the same, really.”

“Of course it's not. I understand that more than anyone. I—” She suddenly looked about, realized the door was open, and quickly went to shut it. “I've written countless columns,” she continued, “and I assure you, they are not all the same. Some I adored.” She smiled nostalgically, remembering the rush of contentment and pride that washed over her whenever she'd written what she thought was an especially good installment. “It was lovely, do you know what I mean?”

He shook his head.

“That feeling you get,” she tried to explain, “when you just
know
that the words you've chosen are exactly right. And you can only really appreciate it after you've sat there, slumped and dejected, staring at your blank sheet of paper, not having a clue what to say.”

“I know
that,
” he said.

Penelope tried not to smile. “I know you know the first feeling. You're a splendid writer, Colin. I've read your work.”

He looked up, alarmed.

“Just the bit you know about,” she assured him. “I would never read your journals without your invitation.” She blushed, remembering that that was exactly how she'd read the passage about his trip to Cyprus. “Well, not now, anyway,” she added. “But it was
good,
Colin. Almost magical, and somewhere inside of you, you have to know that.”

He just stared at her, looking like he simply didn't know what to say. It was an expression she'd seen on countless faces, but never on
his
face, and it was so very odd and strange. She wanted to cry, she wanted to throw her arms around him. Most of all, she was gripped by an intense need to restore a smile to his face.

“I know you must have had those days I described,” she insisted. “The ones when you know you've written something
good.” She looked at him hopefully. “You know what I mean, don't you?”

He made no response.

“You do,” she said. “I know you do. You can't be a writer and not know it.”

“I'm not a writer,” he said.

“Of course you are.” She motioned to the journal. “The proof is right there.” She stepped forward. “Colin, please. Please may I read a little bit more?”

For the first time, he looked undecided, which Penelope took as a small victory. “You've already read almost everything
I've
ever written,” she cajoled. “It's really only fair to—”

She stopped when she saw his face. She didn't know how to describe it, but he looked shuttered, cut off, utterly unreachable.

“Colin?” she whispered.

“I'd rather keep this to myself,” he said curtly. “If you don't mind.”

“No, of course I don't mind,” she said, but they both knew she was lying.

Colin stood so still and silent that she had no choice but to excuse herself, leaving him alone in the room, staring helplessly at the door.

He'd hurt her.

It didn't matter that he hadn't meant to. She'd reached out to him, and he'd been unable to take her hand.

And the worst part was that he knew she didn't understand. She thought he was ashamed of her. He'd told her that he wasn't, but since he'd not been able to bring himself to tell her the truth—that he was jealous—he couldn't imagine that she'd believed him.

Hell, he wouldn't have believed him, either. He'd clearly looked like he was lying, because in a way, he was lying. Or at least withholding a truth that made him uncomfortable.

But the minute she'd reminded him that he'd read everything she'd written, something had turned ugly and black inside of him.

He'd read everything she'd written because she'd
published
everything she'd written. Whereas his scribblings sat dull and lifeless in his journals, tucked away where no one would see them.

Did it matter what a man wrote if no one ever read it? Did words have meaning if they were never heard?

He had never considered publishing his journals until Penelope had suggested it several weeks earlier; now the thought consumed him day and night (when he wasn't consumed with Penelope, of course). But he was gripped by a powerful fear. What if no one wanted to publish his work? What if someone did publish it, but only because his was a rich and powerful family? Colin wanted, more than anything, to be his own man, to be known for his accomplishments, not for his name or position, or even his smile or charm.

And then there was the scariest prospect of all: What if his writing was published but no one liked it?

How could he face that? How would he exist as a failure?

Or was it worse to remain as he was now: a coward?

 

Later that evening, after Penelope had finally pulled herself out of her chair and drunk a restorative cup of tea and puttered aimlessly about the bedchamber and finally settled against her pillows with a book that she couldn't quite make herself read, Colin appeared.

He didn't say anything at first, just stood there and smiled at her, except it wasn't one of his usual smiles—the sort that light from within and compel their recipient to smile right back.

This was a small smile, a sheepish smile.

A smile of apology.

Penelope let her book rest, spine up, on her belly.

“May I?” Colin inquired, motioning to the empty spot beside her.

Penelope scooted over to the right. “Of course,” she murmured, moving her book to the night table next to her.

“I've marked a few passages,” he said, holding forward his journal as he perched on the side of the bed. “If you'd like to read them, to”—he cleared his throat—“offer an opinion, that would be—” He coughed again. “That would be acceptable.”

Penelope looked at the journal in his hand, elegantly bound in crimson leather, then she looked up at him. His face was serious, and his eyes were somber, and although he was absolutely still—no twitching or fidgeting—she could tell he was nervous.

Nervous. Colin. It seemed the strangest thing imaginable.

“I'd be honored,” she said softly, gently tugging the book from his fingers. She noticed that a few pages were marked with ribbons, and with careful fingers, she opened to one of the selected spots.

14 March 1819

The Highlands are oddly brown.

“That was when I visited Francesca in Scotland,” he interrupted.

Penelope gave him a slightly indulgent smile, meant as a gentle scolding for his interruption.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“That was when I was rather high up in elevation,” he explained. “When you're lower, or near the lochs, it's quite different.”

Penelope turned to him and gave him a look.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Maybe you'd be more comfortable if you didn't read over my shoulder?” she suggested.

He blinked in surprise.

“I would think you've already read all this before.” At his blank stare, she added, “So you don't need to read it now.” She waited for a reaction and got none. “So you don't need to hover over my shoulder,” she finally finished.

“Oh.” He inched away. “Sorry.”

Penelope eyed him dubiously. “Off the bed, Colin.”

Looking much chastened, Colin pushed himself off the bed and flopped into a chair in the far corner of the room, crossing his arms and tapping his foot in a mad dance of impatience.

Tap tap tap. Tappity tap tap tap
.

“Colin!”

He looked up in honest surprise. “What?”

“Stop tapping your foot!”

He looked down as if his foot were a foreign object. “Was I tapping it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He pulled his arms in more tightly against his chest. “Sorry.”

Penelope refocused her attention on the journal.

Tap tap
.

Penelope jerked head up. “Colin!”

He planted his feet down firmly on the carpet. “I couldn't
help myself. Didn't even realize I was doing it.” He un-crossed his arms, resting them on the upholstered side of the chair, but he didn't look relaxed; the fingers on both of his hands were tense and arched.

She stared at him for several moments, waiting to see if he was truly going to be able to hold still.

“I won't do it again,” he assured her. “I promise.”

She gave him one last assessing stare, then turned her attention back to the words in front of her.