What the hell did that say about him?wDon't thank me," he said gruffly, shoving himself backward until they were no longer touching.wBut—"wI 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?wColin," she said, "don't be angry with yourself."wI'm not," he snapped.wI asked you to kiss me. I practically forcedyou—"
Now, there was a surefire way to make a man feel manly. "You didn't force me," he bit off.wNo, but—"wFor 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?wPenelope ..." he began.wNo, it's all right," she said, her words rushed. "You don't have to say anything."wNo, I should."wI 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.wI 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.wI 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, Ididn'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—wI 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 in 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.
No—he slumped back into his desk chair, groaning—it was his fault. If he was in a bad mood, if he was ready to yank someone's head off with his bare hands, it was his fault and his fault alone.
He shouldn't have kissed Penelope. It didn't matter that he'd wanted to kiss her, even though he hadn't even realized that he wanted to until right before she'd mentioned it. He still shouldn't have kissed her.
Although, when he really thought about it, he wasn't quite sure why he shouldn't have kissed her.
He stood, then trudged to the window and let his forehead rest against the pane. Bedford Square was quiet, with only a few men walking along the pavement. Laborers, they looked to be, probably working on the new museum being built just to the east. (It was why Colin had taken a house on the west side of the square; the construction could get very noisy.)
His gaze traveled north, to the statue of Charles James Fox. Now, there was a man with a purpose. Led the Whigs for years. He hadn't always been very well liked, if some of the older members of the ton were to be believed, but Colin was coming to think that perhaps being well liked was overrated. Heaven knew that no one was better liked than he was, and look at him now, frustrated and malcontent, grumpy and ready to lash out at anyone who crossed his path.