Everyone has secrets. Especially me.
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 14 APRIL 1824
“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.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You most certainly did!”
“I said I have nothing,” he corrected, trying not to wince as he realized how stupid that sounded.
“You have more than anyone I know,” she said, jabbing him in the shoulder. “But if you don’t realize that, then maybe you are correct—your life is nothing.”
“It’s too hard to explain,” he said in a petulant mutter.
“If you want a new direction for your life,” she said, “then for heaven’s sake, just pick something out and do it. The world is your oyster, Colin.
You’re young, wealthy, and you’re a man.” Penelope’s voice turned bitter, resentful. “You can do anything you want.”
He scowled, which didn’t surprise her. When people were convinced they had problems, the last thing they wanted to hear was a simple, straightforward solution.
“It’s not that simple,” he said.
“It’s exactly that simple.” She stared at him for the longest moment, wondering, perhaps for the first time in her life, just who he was.
She’d thought she knew everything about him, but she hadn’t known that he kept a journal.
She hadn’t known that he possessed a temper.
She hadn’t known that he felt dissatisfied with his life.
And she certainly hadn’t known that he was petulant and spoiled enough to feel that dissatisfaction, when heaven knew he didn’t deserve to. What right did he have to feel unhappy with his life? How dare he complain, especially to her?
She stood, smoothing out her skirts in an awkward, defensive gesture. “Next time you want to complain about the trials and tribulations of universal adoration, try being an on-the-shelf spinster for a day. See how that feels and then let me know what you want to complain about.”
And then, while Colin was still sprawled on the sofa, gaping at her as if she were some bizarre creature with three heads, twelve fingers, and a tail, she swept out of the room.
It was, she thought as she descended the outer steps to Bruton Street, quite the most splendid exit of her existence.
It was really too bad, then, that the man she’d been leaving was the only one in whose company she’d ever wanted to remain.
Colin felt like hell all day.
His hand hurt like the devil, despite the brandy he’d sloshed both on his skin and into his mouth. The estate agent who’d handled the lease for the snug little terrace house he’d found in Bloomsbury had informed him that
the previous tenant was having difficulties and Colin wouldn’t be able to move in today as planned—would next week be acceptable?
And to top it off, he suspected that he might have done irreparable harm to his friendship with Penelope.
Which made him feel worst of all, since (A) he rather valued his friendship with Penelope and (B) he hadn’t realized how much he valued his friendship with Penelope, which (C) made him feel slightly panicked.
Penelope was a constant in his life. His sister’s friend—the one who
was always at the fringes of the party; nearby, but not truly a part of things.
But the world seemed to be shifting. He’d only been back in England for a fortnight, but already Penelope had changed. Or maybe he’d changed. Or maybe she hadn’t changed but the way he saw her had changed.
She mattered. He didn’t know how else to put it.
And after ten years of her just being…there, it was rather bizarre for her to matter quite so much.
He didn’t like that they’d parted ways that afternoon on such awkward terms. He couldn’t remember feeling awkward with Penelope, ever—no, that wasn’t true. There was that time…dear God, how many years ago was it? Six? Seven? His mother had been pestering him about getting married, which was nothing new, except this time she’d suggested Penelope as a potential bride, which was new, and Colin just hadn’t been in the mood to deal with his mother’s matchmaking in his usual manner, which was to
tease her back.
And then she just hadn’t stopped. She’d talked about Penelope all day and night, it seemed, until Colin finally fled the country. Nothing drastic— just a short jaunt to Wales. But really, what had his mother been thinking?
When he’d returned, his mother had wanted to speak with him, of course—except this time it had been because his sister Daphne was with child again and she had wanted to make a family announcement. But how was he to have known that? So he had not been looking forward to the visit, since he was sure it would involve a great deal of completely unveiled hints about marriage. Then he had run into his brothers, and they’d started tormenting him about the very same subject, as only brothers can do, and
the next thing he knew, he announced, in a very loud voice, that he was not going to marry Penelope Featherington!
Except somehow Penelope had been standing right there in the doorway, her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with pain and
embarrassment and probably a dozen other unpleasant emotions that he’d been too ashamed to delve into.
It had been one of the most awful moments of his life. One, in fact, that he made an effort not to remember. He didn’t think Penelope had ever fancied him—at least not any more than other ladies fancied him—but he’d embarrassed her. To single her out for such an announcement…
It had been unforgivable.
He’d apologized, of course, and she’d accepted, but he’d never quite forgiven himself.
And now he’d gone and insulted her again. Not in as direct a manner, of course, but he should have thought a bit longer and harder before complaining about his life.
Hell, it had sounded stupid, even to him. What did he have to complain about?
Nothing.
And yet there was still this nagging emptiness. A longing, really, for something he couldn’t define. He was jealous of his brothers, for God’s sake, for having found their passions, their legacies.
The only mark Colin had left on the world was in the pages of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers.
What a joke.
But all things were relative, weren’t they? And compared to Penelope, he had little to complain about.
Which probably meant that he should have kept his thoughts to himself.
He didn’t like to think of her as an on-the-shelf spinster, but he supposed that was exactly what she was. And it wasn’t a position of much reverence in British society.
In fact, it was a situation about which many people would complain.
Bitterly.
Penelope had never once presented herself as anything less than a stoic
—perhaps not content with her lot, but at least accepting of it.
And who knows? Maybe Penelope had hopes and dreams of a life beyond the one she shared with her mother and sister in their small home on Mount Street. Maybe she had plans and goals of her own but kept them to herself under a veil of dignity and good humor.
Maybe there was more to her than there seemed.
Maybe, he thought with a sigh, she deserved an apology. He wasn’t precisely certain what he needed to apologize for; he wasn’t certain there was a precise thing that needed it.
But the situation needed some thing.
Aw, hell. Now he was going to have to attend the Smythe-Smith
musicale this evening. It was a painful, discordant, annual event; just when one was sure that all the Smythe-Smith daughters had grown up, some new cousin rose to take her place, each more tone deaf than the last.
But that was where Penelope was going to be that evening, and that meant that was where Colin would have to be as well.
