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.
CHAPTER 20
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.wColin?"
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?"wShopping," she said with an amused smile. "I went shopping."wRight. So you did." He rocked slightly from foot to foot. "Did you buy anything?"wA bonnet," she replied, tempted to add and three diamond rings, just to see if he was listening.wGood, good," he murmured, obviously eager to get back to whatever it was on his desk.wWhat are you reading?" she asked.wNothing," 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.wMay 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.wI 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 ifthe words were written in Chinese. "I wouldn't know what to pick out," he mumbled. "It's all the same, really."wOf 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.wThat 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."wI 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.wJust 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.wI 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.wYou do," she said. "I know you do. You can't be a writer and not know it."wI'm not a writer," he said.wOf course you are." She motioned to the journal. "The proof is right there." She stepped forward.wColin, 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.wColin?" she whispered.wI'd rather keep this to myself," he said curtly. "If you don't mind."wNo, of course I don't mind," she said, but they both knew she was lying.