It was as if the sun had suddenly taken up residence in her smile. "Of course I want to read more," she gushed. "I can't wait to see what happened when you went to Kintyre and Mull and"—frowning, she checked the open book—"and Skye and Ullapool and Culloden and Grampian"—she glanced back down at the book again—"oh, yes, and Blair Castle, of course, if you ever made it. I assume you were planning to visit friends."
He nodded. "Murray," he said, referring to a school chum whose brother was the Duke of Atholl. "But I should tell you, I didn't end up following the exact route prescribed by old Angus Campbell. For one thing, I didn't even find roads connecting half the places he mentioned."wMaybe," she said, her eyes growing dreamy, "that is where we ought to go for our honeymoon trip."wScotland?" he asked, thoroughly surprised. "Don't you want to travel someplace warm and exotic?"
'To one who has never traveled more than one hundred miles from London," she said pertly, "Scotland is exotic."wI can assure you," he said with a smile as he walked across the room and perched on the edge of the bed, "that Italy is moreexotic. And more romantic."
She blushed, which delighted him. "Oh," she said, looking vaguely embarrassed. (He wondered how long he'd be able to embarrass her with talk of romance and love and all the splendid activities that went with them.)wWe'll go to Scotland another time," he assured her. "I usually find myself heading north every few years or so to visit Francesca, anyway."wI was surprised that you asked for my opinion," Penelope said after a short silence.wWho else would I ask?"wI don't know," she replied, suddenly very interested in the way her fingers were plucking at the bedcovers. "Your brothers, I suppose."
He laid his hand on hers. "What do they know about writing?"
Her chin lifted and her eyes, clear, warm, and brown, met his. "I know you value their opinions."wThat 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 ashe 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.wNot 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.wWhy, 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."wI'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.wI'm jealous." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm so sorry."wI don't know what you mean," she said, not intending to whisper, but lacking the voice to do anything else.wLook 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."wAn anonymous success," she reminded him.wBut 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."wBut you have—"wWhat do I have, Penelope?" he interrupted, his voice growing agitated as he rose to his feet and began to pace. "What do I have?"wWell, 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—"wI know."w—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."wColin, you're not. You're—"wI'm tired of being thought of as nothing but an—" He stopped short.wWhat, Colin?" she asked, a bit startled by the disgusted expression that suddenly crossed his face.wChrist above," he swore, his voice low, the S hissing from his lips.
Her eyes widened. Colin was not one for frequent profanity.wI can't believe it," he muttered, his head moving jerkily to the left, almost as if he was flinching.wI 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."wI can't believe it. I complained to you about how Lady Whistledown called me charming."wShe called me an overripe citrus fruit," Penelope said, attempting levity.