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It wasn't the sort of a kiss one initiates because one is overcome with passion or emotion or anger or desire. It was a slower thing, a learning experience—for Colin just as much as for Penelope.
And he was learning that everything he thought he'd known about kissing was rubbish.
Everything else had been mere lips and tongue and softly murmured but meaningless words.
This was a kiss.
There was something in the friction, the way he could hear and feel her breath at the same time. Something in the way she held perfectly still, and yet he could feel her heart pounding through her skin.
There was something in the fact that he knew it was her.
Colin moved his lips slightly to the left, until he was nipping the corner of her mouth, softly tickling the very spot where her lips joined. His tongue dipped and traced, learning the contours of her mouth, tasting the sweet-salty essence of her.
This was more than a kiss.
His hands, which had been lightly splayed against her back, grew rigid, more tense as they pressed into the fabric of her dress. He could feel the heat of her under his fingertips, seeping up through the muslin, swirling in the delicate muscles of her back.
He drew her to him, pulling her closer, closer, until their bodies were pressed together. He could feel her, the entire length of her, and it set him on fire. He was growing hard, and he wanted her—dear God, how he wanted her.
His mouth grew more insistent, and his tongue darted forward, nudging her until her lips parted. He swallowed her soft moan of acquiescence, then pushed forward to taste her. She was sweet and a little tart from the lemonade, and she was clearly as intoxicating as fine brandy, because Colin was starting to doubt his ability to remain on his feet.
He moved his hands along the length of her—slowly, so as not to frighten her. She was soft, curvy, and lush, just as he'd always thought a woman should be. Her hips flared, and her bottom was perfect, and her breasts... good God, her breasts felt good pressing against his chest. His palms itched to cup them, but he forced his hands to remain where they were (rather enjoyably on her derriere, so it really wasn't that much of a sacrifice.) Beside the fact that he really shouldn't be groping a gently bred lady's breasts in the middle of her drawing room, he had a rather painful suspicion that if he touched her in that way, he would lose himself completely.
"Penelope, Penelope," he murmured, wondering why her name tasted so good on his lips. He was ravenous for her, heady and drugged by passion, and he wanted desperately for her to feel the same way. She felt perfect in his arms, but thus far, she had made no reaction. Oh, she had swayed in his arms and opened her mouth to welcome his sweet invasion, but other than that, she had done nothing.
And yet, from the pant of her breath and the beat of her heart, he knew that she was aroused.
He pulled back, just a few inches so that he could touch her chin and tilt her face up toward his. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes that were dazed with passion, perfectly matching her lips, which were lightly parted, completely soft, and thoroughly swollen from his kisses.
She was beautiful. Utterly, completely, soul-stirringly beautiful. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed it all these years.
Was the world populated with blind men, or merely stupid ones?
"You can kiss me, too," he whispered, leaning his forehead lightly against hers.
She did nothing but blink.
"A kiss," he murmured, lowering his lips to hers again, although just for a fleeting moment, "is for two people."
Her hand stirred at his back. "What do I do?" she whispered.
"Whatever you want to do."
Slowly, tentatively, she lifted one of her hands to his face. Her fingers trailed lightly over his cheek, skimming along the line of his jaw until they fell away.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Thank you?
He went still.
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. He didn't want to be thanked for his kiss.
It made him feel guilty.
And shallow.
As if it had been something done out of pity. And the worst part was he knew that if all this had come to pass only a few months earlier, it would have been out of pity.
What the hell did that say about him?
"Don't thank me," he said gruffly, shoving himself backward until they were no longer touching.
"But—"
"I said don't," he repeated harshly, turning away as if he couldn't bear the sight of her, when the truth was that he couldn't quite bear himself.
And the damnedest thing was—he wasn't sure why. This desperate, gnawing feeling—was it guilt? Because he shouldn't have kissed her? Because he shouldn't have liked it?
"Colin," she said, "don't be angry with yourself."
"I'm not," he snapped.
"I asked you to kiss me. I practically forced you—"
Now, there was a surefire way to make a man feel manly. "You didn't force me," he bit off.
"No, but—"
"For the love of God, Penelope, enoughl"
She drew back, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
He looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He closed his eyes in agony. Why why why was he being such an ass?
"Penelope ..." he began.
"No, it's all right," she said, her words rushed. "You don't have to say anything."
"No, I should."
"I really wish you wouldn't."
And now she looked so quietly dignified. Which made him feel even worse. She was standing there, her hands clasped demurely in front of her, her eyes downward—not quite on the floor, but not on his face.
She thought he'd kissed her out of pity.
And he was a knave because a small part of him wanted her to think that. Because if she thought it, then maybe he could convince himself that it was true, that it was just pity, that it couldn't possibly be more.
"I should go," he said, the words quiet, and yet still too loud in the silent room.
She didn't try to stop him.
He motioned to the door. "I should go," he said again, even as his feet refused to move.
She nodded.
"I didn't—" he started to say, and then, horrified by the words that had nearly come out of his mouth, he actually did head toward the door.
But Penelope called out—of course she called out—"You didn't what?"
And he didn't know what to say, because what he'd started to say was, I didn't kiss you out of pity. If he wanted her to
know that, if he wanted to convince himself of that, then that could only mean that he craved her good opinion, which could only mean—
"I have to go," he blurted out, desperate now, as if leaving the room might be the only way to keep his thoughts from traveling down such a dangerous road. He crossed the remaining distance to the door, waiting for her to say something, to call out his name.
But she didn't.
And he left.
And he'd never hated himself more.
Colin was in an exceedingly bad mood before the footman showed up at his front door with a summons from his mother. Afterward, he was beyond repair.
Bloody hell. She was going to start in on him again about getting married. Her summonses were always about getting married. And he really wasn't in the mood for it right now.
But she was his mother. And he loved her. And that meant he couldn't very well ignore her. So with considerable grumbling and a fair bit of cursing while he was at it, he yanked on his boots and coat, and headed out the door.
He was living in Bloomsbury, not the most fashionable section of town for a member of the aristocracy, although Bedford Square, where he had taken out a lease on a small but elegant terrace house, was certainly an upscale and respectable address.
Colin rather liked living in Bloomsbury, where his neighbors were doctors and lawyers and scholars and people who actually did things other than attend party after party. He wasn't ready to trade i
n his heritage for a life in trade—it was rather good to be a Bridgerton, after all—but there was something stimulating about watching professional men going about their daily business, the lawyers heading east to the Inns of the Court, the doctors northwest to Portland Place.
It would have been easy enough to drive his curricle across town; it had only been brought back to the mews an hour ago upon his return from the Featheringtons'. But Colin was feeling a bit in need of some fresh air, not to mention perverse enough to take the slowest means possible to Number Five.
If his mother intended to deliver another lecture on the virtues of marriage, followed by a lengthy dissertation on the attributes of each and every eligible miss in London, she could bloody well wait for him.
Colin closed his eyes and groaned. His mood must be worse than even he had thought if he was cursing in relation to his mother, whom he (and all the Bridgertons, really) held in the highest esteem and affection.
It was Penelope's fault.
No, it was Eloise's fault, he thought, grinding his teeth. Better to blame a sibling.
