by Quinn, Julia
Her chin lifted and her eyes, clear, warm, and brown, met his. "I know you value their opinions."
"That is true," he acceded, "but I value yours more."
He watched her face closely, as emotions played across her features. "But you don't like my writing," she said, her voice hesitant and hopeful at the same time.
He moved his hand to the curve of her cheek, holding it there gently, making sure that she was looking at him as he spoke. "Nothing could be further from the truth," he said, a burning intensity firing his words. "I think you are a marvelous writer. You cut right into the essence of a person with a simplicity and wit that is matchless. For ten years, you have made people laugh. You've made them wince. You've made them think, Penelope. You have made people think. I don't know what could be a higher achievement.
"Not to mention," he continued, almost as if he couldn't quite stop now that he'd gotten started, "that you write about society, of all things. You write about society, and you make it fun and interesting and witty, when we all know that more often than not it's beyond dull."
For the longest time, Penelope couldn't say anything. She had been proud of her work for years, and had secretly smiled whenever she had heard someone reciting from one of her columns or laughing at one of her quips. But she'd had no one with whom to share her triumphs.
Being anonymous had been a lonely prospect.
But now she had Colin. And even though the world would never know that Lady Whistledown was actually plain,
overlooked, spinster-until-the-last-possible-moment Penelope Featherington, Colin knew. And Penelope was coming to realize that even if that wasn't all that mattered, it was what mattered most.
But she still didn't understand his actions.
"Why, then," she asked him, her words slow and carefully measured, "do you grow so distant and cold every time I bring it up?"
When he spoke, his words were close to a mumble. "It's difficult to explain."
"I'm a good listener," she said softly.
His hand, which had been cradling her face so lovingly, dropped to his lap. And he said the one thing she never would have expected.
"I'm jealous." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm so sorry."
"I don't know what you mean," she said, not intending to whisper, but lacking the voice to do anything else.
"Look at yourself, Penelope." He took both of her hands in his and twisted so that they were facing one another. "You're a huge success."
"An anonymous success," she reminded him.
"But you know, and I know, and besides, that's not what I'm talking about." He let go of one of her hands, raking his fingers through his hair as he searched for words. "You have done something. You have a body of work."
"But you have—"
"What do I have, Penelope?" he interrupted, his voice growing agitated as he rose to his feet and began to pace. "What
do I have?"
"Well, you have me," she said, but her words lacked force. She knew that wasn't what he meant.
He looked at her wearily. "I'm not talking about that, Penelope—"
"I know."
"—I need something I can point to," he said, right on top of her soft sentence. "I need a purpose. Anthony has one, and Benedict has one, but I'm at odds and ends."
"Colin, you're not. You're—"
"I'm tired of being thought of as nothing but an—" He stopped short.
"What, Colin?" she asked, a bit startled by the disgusted expression that suddenly crossed his face.
"Christ above," he swore, his voice low, the S hissing from his lips.
Her eyes widened. Colin was not one for frequent profanity.
"I can't believe it," he muttered, his head moving jerkily to the left, almost as if he was flinching.
"I complained to you," he said incredulously. "I complained to you about Lady Whistledown."
She grimaced. "A lot of people have done that, Colin. I'm used to it."
"I can't believe it. I complained to you about how Lady Whistledown called me charming."
"She called me an overripe citrus fruit," Penelope said, attempting levity.
He stopped his pacing for just long enough to shoot her an annoyed look. "Were you laughing at me the whole time I was moaning about how the only way I would be remembered by future generations was in Whistledown columns?"
"No!" she exclaimed. "I would hope you know me better than that."
He shook his head in a disbelieving manner. "I can't believe I sat there, complaining to you that I had no accomplishments, when you had all of Whistledown."
She got off the bed and stood. It was impossible just to sit there while he was pacing like a caged tiger. "Colin, you couldn't have known."
"Still." He let out a disgusted exhale. "The irony would be beautiful, if it weren't directed at me."
Penelope parted her lips to speak, but she didn't know how to say everything that was in her heart. Colin had so many achievements, she couldn't even begin to count them all. They weren't something you could pick up, like an edition of
Lady Whistledown's Society Papers, but they were just as special.
Perhaps even more so.
Penelope remembered all the moments he had made people smile, all the times he had walked past all of the popular girls at balls and asked a wallflower to dance. She thought of the strong, almost magical bond he shared with his siblings. If those weren't achievements, she didn't know what was.
But she knew that those weren't the sorts of milestones he was talking about. She knew what he needed: a purpose, a calling.
Something to show the world that he was more than they thought he was.
"Publish your travel memoirs," she said.
"I'm not—"
"Publish them," she said again. 'Take a chance and see if you soar."
His eyes met hers for a moment, then they slid back down to his journal, still clutched in her hands. "They need editing," he mumbled.
Penelope laughed, because she knew she had won. And he had won, too. He didn't know it yet, but he had.
"Everyone needs editing," she said, her smile broadening with each word. "Well, except me, I guess," she teased. "Or maybe I did need it," she added with a shrug. "We'll never know, because I had no one to edit me."
He looked up quite suddenly. "How did you do it?"
"How did I do what?"
His lips pursed impatiently. "You know what I mean. How did you do the column? There was more to it than the writing. You had to print and distribute. Someone had to have known who you were."
She let out a long breath. She'd held these secrets so long it felt strange to share them, even with her husband. "It's a long story," she told him. "Perhaps we should sit."
He led her back to the bed, and they both made themselves comfortable, propped up against the pillows, their legs stretched out before them.
"I was very young when it started," Penelope began. "Only seventeen. And it happened quite by accident."
He smiled. "How does something like that happen by accident?"
"I wrote it as a joke. I was so miserable that first season." She looked up at him earnestly. "I don't know if you recall, but I weighed over a stone more back then, and it's not as if I'm fashionably slender now."
"I think you're perfect," he said loyally.
Which was, Penelope thought, part of the reason she thought he was perfect as well.
"Anyway," she continued, "I wasn't terribly happy, and so I wrote a rather scathing report of the party I'd been to the night before. And then I did another, and another. I didn't sign them Lady Whistledown; I just wrote them for fun and hid them in my desk. Except one day, I forgot to hide them."
He leaned forward, utterly rapt. "What happened?"
"My family were all out, and I knew they'd be gone for some time, because that was when Mama still thought she could turn Prudence into a diamond of the first water, and their shopping trips took all day."
Colin rolled his hand through the air
, signaling that she should get to the point.
"Anyway," Penelope continued, "I decided to work in the drawing room because my room was damp and musty because someone—well, I suppose it was me—left the window open during a rainstorm. But then I had to ... well, you know."
"No," Colin said abruptly. "I don't know."
"Attend to my business," Penelope whispered, blushing.
"Oh. Right," he said dismissively, clearly not interested in that part of the story, either. "Go on."
"When I got back, my father's solicitor was there. And he was reading what I wrote. I was horrified!"
"What happened?"
"I couldn't even speak for the first minute. But then I realized he was laughing, and it wasn't because he thought I was foolish, it was because he thought I was good."
"Well, you are good"
"I know that now," she said with a wry smile, "but you have to remember, I was seventeen. And I'd said some pretty horrid things in there."
"About horrid people, I'm sure," he said.
"Well, yes, but still..." She closed her eyes as all the memories swam through her head. "They were popular people. Influential people. People who didn't like me very much. It didn't really matter that they were horrid if what I said got out. In fact, it would have been worse because they were horrid. I would have been ruined, and I would have ruined my entire family along with me."
"What happened then? I assume it was his idea to publish."
Penelope nodded. "Yes. He made all the arrangements with the printer, who in turn found the boys to deliver. And it was his idea to give it away for free for the first two weeks. He said we needed to addict the ton."
"I was out of the country when the column began," Colin said, "but I remember my mother and sisters telling me all about it."
"People grumbled when the newsboys demanded payment after two weeks for free," Penelope said. "But they all paid."
"A bright idea on the part of your solicitor," Colin murmured.
"Yes, he was quite savvy."
He picked up on her use of the past tense. "Was?"
She nodded sadly. "He passed on a few years ago. But he knew he was ill and so before he died he asked me if I wanted to continue. I suppose I could have stopped then, but I had nothing else in my life, and certainly no marriage prospects." She looked up quickly. "I don't mean to—That is to say—"
His lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. "You may scold me all you wish for not having proposed years ago."
Penelope returned his smile with one of her own. Was it any wonder she loved this man?
"But," he said rather firmly, "only if you finish the story."
"Right," she said, forcing her mind back to the matter at hand. "After Mr—" She looked up hesitantly. "I'm not certain I should say his name."
Colin knew she was torn between her love and trust for him, and her loyalty to a man who had, in all probability, been a father to her once her own had departed this earth. "It's all right," he said softly. "He's gone. His name doesn't matter."
She let out a soft breath. "Thank you," she said, chewing on her lower lip. "It's not that I don't trust you. I—"
"I know," he said reassuringly, squeezing her fingers with his. "If you want to tell me later, that's fine. And if you don't, that will be fine as well."
She nodded, her lips tight at the corners, in that strained expression people get when they are trying hard not to cry. "After he died, I worked directly with the publisher. We set up a system for delivery of the columns, and the payments continued the way they had always been made—into a discreet account in my name."
Colin sucked in his breath as he thought about how much money she must have made over the years. But how could she have spent it without incurring suspicion? "Did you make any withdrawals?" he asked.
She nodded. "After I'd been working about four years, my great-aunt passed away and left her estate to my mother. My father's solicitor wrote the will. She didn't have very much, so we took my money and pretended it was hers." Penelope's face brightened slightly as she shook her head in bewilderment. "My mother was surprised. She'd never dreamed Aunt Georgette had been so wealthy. She smiled for months. I've never seen anything like it."
"It was very kind of you," Colin said.
Penelope shrugged. "It was the only way I could actually use my money."
"But you gave it to your mother," he pointed out.
"She's my mother," she said, as if that ought to explain everything. "She supported me. It all trickled down."
He wanted to say more, but he didn't. Portia Featherington was Penelope's mother, and if Penelope wanted to love her,
he wasn't going to stop her.
"Since then," Penelope said, "I haven't touched it. Well, not for myself. I've given some money to charities." Her face took on a wry expression. "Anonymously."
He didn't say anything for a moment, just took the time to think about everything she had done in the last decade, all on her own, all in secret. "If you want the money now," he finally said, "you should use it. No one will question your suddenly having more funds. You're a Bridgerton, after all." He shrugged modestly. "It's well known that Anthony settled ample livings upon all of his brothers."
"I wouldn't even know what to do with it all."
"Buy something new," he suggested. Didn't all women like to shop?
She looked at him with an odd, almost inscrutable expression. "I'm not sure you understand how much money I have," she said hedgingly. "I don't think I could spend it all."
"Put it aside for our children, then," he said. "I've been fortunate that my father and brother saw fit to provide for me, but not all younger sons are so lucky."
"And daughters," Penelope reminded him. "Our daughters should have money of their own. Separate from their dowries."
Colin had to smile. Such arrangements were rare, but trust Penelope to insist upon it. "Whatever you wish," he said fondly.
She smiled and sighed, settling back against the pillows. Her fingers idly danced across the skin on the back of his hand, but her eyes were far away, and he doubted she was even aware of her movements.
"I have a confession to make," she said, her voice quiet and even just a touch shy.
He looked at her doubtfully. "Bigger than Whistledown?"
"Different."
"What is it?"
She dragged her eyes off of the random spot on the wall she seemed to be focused upon and gave him her full attention.
"I've been feeling a bit"—she chewed on her lip as she paused, searching for the right words—"impatient with you lately. No, that's not right," she said. "Disappointed, really."
An odd feeling began to prickle in his chest. "Disappointed how?" he asked carefully.
Her shoulders gave a little shrug. "You seemed so upset with me. About Whistledown."
"I already told you that was because—"
"No, please," she said, placing a gently restraining hand on his chest. "Please let me finish. I told you I thought it was because you were ashamed of me, and I tried to ignore it, but it hurt so much, really. I thought I knew who you were, and I couldn't believe that person would think himself so far above me that he would feel such shame at my achievements."
He stared at her silently, waiting for her to continue.
"But the funny thing is ..." She turned to him with a wise smile. "The funny thing is that it wasn't because you were ashamed at all. It was all because you wanted something like that for your own. Something like Whistledown. It seems silly now, but I was so worried because you weren't the perfect man of my dreams."
"No one is perfect," he said quietly.
"I know." She leaned over and planted an impulsive kiss on his cheek. "You're the imperfect man of my heart, and that's even better. I'd always thought you infallible, that your life was charmed, that you had no worries or fears or unfulfilled dreams. But that wasn't really fair of me."
"I was never ashamed of you, Penelope," he whispered. "Never."
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, and then Penelope said, "Do you remember when I asked you if we might take a belated honeymoon trip?"
He nodded.
"Why don't we use some of my Whistledown money for that?"
"I will pay for the honeymoon trip."
"Fine," she said with a lofty expression. "You may take it out of your quarterly allowance."
He stared at her in shock, then hooted with laughter. "You're going to give me pin money?" he asked, unable to control
the grin that spread across his face.
"Pen money," she corrected. "So you can work on your journals."
"Pen money," he mused. "I like that."
She smiled and placed her hand on his. "I like you."
He squeezed her fingers. "I like you, too."
Penelope sighed as she settled her head on his shoulder. "Is life supposed to be this wonderful?"
"I think so," he murmured. "I really do."
CHAPTER 21
One week later, Penelope was sitting at the desk in her drawing room, reading Colin's journals and making notes on a
separate piece of paper whenever she had a question or comment. He had asked her to help him edit his writing, a task
she found thrilling.
She was, of course, overjoyed that he had entrusted this critical job to her. It meant he trusted her judgment, thought she was smart and clever, felt that she could take what he had written and make it even better.
But there was more to her happiness than that. She'd needed a project, something to do. In the first days after giving up Whistledown, she'd reveled in her newfound free time. It was like having a holiday for the first time in ten years. She'd read like mad—all those novels and books she'd purchased but never gotten around to reading. And she'd taken long walks, ridden her horse in the park, sat in the small courtyard behind her house on Mount Street, enjoying the fine spring weather and tipping her face up toward the sun for a minute or so at a time—long enough to bask in the warmth, but not so long as to turn her cheeks brown.
Then, of course, the wedding and its myriad details had consumed all of her time. So she really hadn't had much opportunity to realize what might be missing in her life.
When she had been doing the column, the actual writing of it hadn't taken too terribly long, but she always had to be on the alert, watching and listening. And when she wasn't writing the column she was thinking about writing the column or desperately trying to remember some clever turn of phrase until she could get home and jot it down.