Bridgerton - Romancing Mr. Bridgerton Part 12

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 a.s.sure 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 G.o.d 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. "Imagine it's a heavy burden."

Colin tried to keep his face impa.s.sive, 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.

"G.o.d, how to say this without sounding a complete a.s.s?"

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 pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sure 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 h.e.l.l 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 friends.h.i.+p with Penelope.

Which made him feel worst of all, since (A) he rather valued his friends.h.i.+p with Penelope and (B) he hadn't realized how much he valued his friends.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+fting. 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 G.o.d, 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 embarra.s.sment 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 embarra.s.sed 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.

h.e.l.l, 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 G.o.d's sake, for having found their pa.s.sions, 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.