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She was Penelope. Penelope Featherington. And she hadn't the clout nor the connections to save her from ruin. The Bridgertons could stand behind her and offer support, but even they wouldn't be able prevent her downfall. Any other
scandal might have been manageable, but Lady Whis-tledown had, at one time or another, insulted almost every person
of consequence in the British Isles. Once people were over their surprise, that was when the unkind remarks would begin.
Penelope wouldn't be praised for being clever or witty or daring.
She'd be called mean, and petty, and jealous.
Colin knew the ton well. He knew how his peers acted. The aristocracy was capable of individual greatness, but collectively they tended to sink to the lowest common denominator.
Which was very low, indeed.
"I see," Penelope said into the silence.
"No," he said quickly, "you don't. I—"
"No, Colin," she said, sounding almost painfully wise, "I do. I suppose I'd just always hoped you were different."
His eyes caught hers, and somehow his hands were on her shoulders, gripping her with such intensity that she couldn't possibly look away. He didn't say anything, letting his eyes ask his questions.
"I thought you believed in me," she said, "that you saw beyond the ugly duckling."
Her face was so familiar to him; he'd seen it a thousand times before, and yet until these past few weeks, he couldn't have said he truly knew it. Would he have remembered that she had a small birthmark near her left earlobe? Had he ever noticed the warm glow to her skin? Or that her brown eyes had flecks of gold in them, right near the pupil?
How had he danced with her so many times and never noticed that her mouth was full and wide and made for kissing?
She licked her lips when she was nervous. He'd seen her do that just the other day. Surely she'd done that at some point in the dozen years of their acquaintance, and yet it was only now that the mere sight of her tongue made his body clench with need.
"You're not ugly," he told her, his voice low and urgent.
Her eyes widened.
And he whispered, "You're beautiful."
"No," she said, the word barely more than a breath. "Don't say things you don't mean."
His fingers dug into her shoulders. "You're beautiful," he repeated. "I don't know how ... I don't know when ..." He touched her lips, feeling her hot breath on his fingertips. "But you are," he whispered.
He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, reverently, no longer quite so surprised that this was happening, that he wanted her so badly. The shock was gone, replaced by a simple, primitive need to claim her, to brand her, to mark her as his.
His?
He pulled back and looked at her for a moment, his eyes searching her face.
Why not?
"What is it?" she whispered.
"You are beautiful," he said, shaking his head in confusion. "I don't know why nobody else sees it."
Something warm and lovely began to spread in Penelope's chest. She couldn't quite explain it; it was almost as if someone had heated her blood. It started in her heart and then slowly swept through her arms, her belly, down to the tips of her toes.
It made her light-headed. It made her content.
It made her whole.
She wasn't beautiful. She knew she wasn't beautiful, she knew she'd never be more than passably attractive, and that was only on her good days. But he thought she was beautiful, and when he looked at her ...
She felt beautiful. And she'd never felt that way before.
He kissed her again, his lips hungrier this time, nibbling, caressing, waking her body, rousing her soul. Her belly had begun to tingle, and her skin felt hot and needy where his hands touched her through the thin green fabric of her dress.
And never once did she think, This is wrong. This kiss was everything she'd been brought up to fear and avoid, but she knew—body, mind, and soul—that nothing in her life had ever been so right. She had been born for this man, and she'd
spent so many years trying to accept the fact that he had been born for someone else.
To be proven wrong was the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.
She wanted him, she wanted this, she wanted the way he made her feel.
She wanted to be beautiful, even if it was only in one man's eyes.
They were, she thought dreamily as he laid her down on the plush cushion of the carriage bench, the only eyes that mattered.
She loved him. She had always loved him. Even now, when he was so angry with her that she barely recognized him, when he was so angry with her that she wasn't even sure she liked him, she loved him.
And she wanted to be his.
The first time he had kissed her, she had accepted his advances with a passive delight, but this time she was determined to be an active partner. She still couldn't quite believe that she was here, with him, and she certainly wasn't ready to let herself dream that he might ever be kissing her on a regular basis.
This might never happen again. She might never again feel the exquisite weight of him pressing against her, or the scandalous tickle of his tongue against hers.
She had one chance. One chance to make a memory that would have to last a lifetime. One chance to reach for bliss.
Tomorrow would be awful, knowing that he would find some other woman with whom to laugh and joke and even marry, but today ...
Today was hers.
And by God, she was going to make this a kiss to remember.
She reached up and touched his hair. She was hesitant at first—just because she was determined to be an active, willing partner didn't mean she had a clue what she was doing. His lips were slowly easing all the reason and intelligence from her mind, but still, she couldn't quite help noticing that his hair felt exactly like Eloise's, which she had brushed countless times during their years of friendship. And heaven help her...
She giggled.
That got his attention, and he lifted his head, his lips touched by an amused smile. "I beg yo
ur pardon?" he queried.
She shook her head, trying to fight off her smile, knowing she was losing the battle.
"Oh, no, you must," he insisted. "I couldn't possibly continue without knowing the reason for the giggle."
She felt her cheeks burning, which struck her as ridiculously ill-timed. Here she was, completely misbehaving in the back of a carriage, and it was only now that she had the decency to blush?
'Tell me," he murmured, nibbling at her ear.
She shook her head.
His lips found the exact point where her pulse beat in her throat. 'Tell me."
All she did—all she could do—was moan, arching her neck to give him greater access.
Her dress, which she hadn't even realized had been partially unbuttoned, slid down until her collarbone was exposed, and she watched with giddy fascination as his lips traced the line of it, until his entire face was nuzzled perilously close to her bosom.
""Will you tell me?" he whispered, grazing her skin with his teeth.
'Tell you what?" she gasped.
His lips were wicked, moving lower, then lower still. "Why you were laughing?"
For several seconds Penelope couldn't even remember what he was talking about.
His hand cupped her breast through her dress. "I'll torment you until you tell me," he threatened.
Penelope's answer was an arch of her back, settling her breast even more firmly in his grasp.
She liked his torment.
"I see," he murmured, simultaneously sliding her bodice down and moving his hand so that his palm grazed her nipple. "Then perhaps I'll"—his hand stilled, then lifted—"stop."
"No," she moaned.
"Then tell me."
She stared at her breast, mesmerized by the sight of it, bare and open to his gaze.
'Tell me," he whispered, blowing softly so that his breath brushed across her.
Something clenched inside Penelope, deep inside of her, in places that were never talked about.
"Colin, please," she begged.
He smiled, slow and lazy, satisfied and still somehow hungry. "Please what?" he asked.
"Touch me," she whispered.
His index finger slid along her shoulder. "Here?"
She shook her head frantically.
