Penelope stared into the hall, wincing as she heard, rather than saw, the front door slam shut. Her anger and indignation left her abruptly and she found herself rushing to the window, watching as Colin stalked past her window, then to his carriage, rather glad he didn't look back to see her nor the sudden tears in her eyes.

"Miss Penelope?" Briarly asked behind her, his voice soft. "Are you well?"

"I thought I was." When Colin had first stormed out, she'd felt strong, decisive, as if her position was unassailable, but now she was tempted to chase after him and... she didn't know what she would do after that. All she knew was that she felt wretched. She didn't like ending any visit on such a cold and angry note, least of all one from Colin Bridgerton, rare as they were.

The part of her that had always longed to please Colin was eager to run after him, hop in his carriage again, tell him that she would do as he wished, then perhaps repeat yesterday's delights. But the slam of the carriage door, loud even from inside, seemed quite final.

It wasn't as if marrying him wasn't tempting. It was more than tempting. It was irresistible. And yet she'd resisted — twice now. "Do you think I've made a horrible mistake?" she asked helplessly, turning to Briarly.

He seemed to consider it carefully, tilting his head. "May I tell you a story? It might help."

"Please!" She moved to the sofa and gestured him to the over-stuffed chair she'd caught him napping in a time or two. She only hoped he would not fall asleep now. She needed him. Without a father to guide her and a mother that was lacking in sense, then the loss of the father figure she'd had in Mr. Abernathy, his solicitor, Penelope had come to depend on Briarly and his stalwart presence. She waited with baited breath for his answer now.

"When I was younger, though not much younger, some thousand years ago," he said, grunting as he sat, "I'd grown too old to be a mere footmanand had no hope of advancement in my current house. So I applied for, and was happy to be offered, three positions as Butler. One was a wealthy household with an older couple of the gentry, but with no children, nor grandchildren. While I was over forty, I didn't feel quite old enough to take a position that felt more like a retirement than a job. Another, this one a marquess, would have paid me almost exorbitantly, but the exacting standards put forth in the interview took me aback. I held off answering, held out for a better offer."

"And did you get one?" she asked slyly, curious how her family, of all things, could be considered the better offer.

"It was a family with no noble titles and not as handsome a salary to offer as the first two, to be sure. They were also quite silly at times, but they had four daughters. Two very silly older girls, one just a babe, and one," he said, also slyly, "who might have been the most intelligent young lady I'd ever encountered."

Penelope dipped her head, blushing. "What possessed you to accept such an offer? Later, you might have grown quite fond of that silly family, but then—"

"It doesn't make sense, does it? I thought having the most prestigious position possible was what I wanted, or what I should want."

It was so close to her conundrum. A life with Colin Bridgerton was everything she'd wanted for so long, but she'd also spent just as long a time convincing herself it would never be.

"My mind told me that I would be a simpleton not to accept the marquess," Briarly went on. "But my heart pulled me away. Something about that other silly family made me feel welcome, needed."

"Well, we certainly did need you. I'm not sure what we'd have done without you. Especially after Papa departed." She shook her head. "It's not the same for me. It's my heart telling me to accept the offer while my head disagrees so strongly."

"Eventually, they will come together. For me, I thought upon it as long as I could, weighing everything carefully. In the end, I simply could not see myself being happy in such a position, no matter how prestigious. I wanted be somewhere I felt more at home here, perhaps more... needed."

She'd thought she'd had her head and heart together all these years, but these last days had torn them apart. She'd stayed strong after their first kiss, knowing it was no more than kindness on Colin's part, but then came the second... the third... the fourth... She hadn't the presence of mind to count how many kisses there were in that carriage.

Her head and heart became strangers then. In the heat and rapture of those thrilling moments, her heart rhapsodized over him calling her beautiful, cooed that perhaps Colin was born for her as she'd always felt she was for him, while her head told her to enjoy it now as it might never happen again, that she might as well make a memory of it.

And after he proposed, her head had its way — as it should. It was much more practical. She just needed her silly heart to join it.

"Forgive my familiarity, Miss, but I'd like to think I know you fairly well and..." Briarly hesitated.

Penelope smiled at him fondly. "That is quite an understatement, Briarly. I'm certain you know me better than anyone in this house."

He gave her a warm smile back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "The young lady I see before me is the same who often curbed the worst of her mother's excesses and, when that failed, tucked her own pocket money into Mrs. Varley's hand before she went to market. She's the one who I've seen sneaking into the servants' rooms on Christmas Eve to leave presents when it might have otherwise been forgotten. She's the one who, when needed, provided more than her mother would ever know to keep this house — and all in it, including the servants — out of the workhouse. You have also been a dependable voice of reason in a family where it is sorely needed."

"I'm not quite sure how to respond to such praise," Penelope said with a dark sort of chuckle, "especially when it's likely my dependable nature that has Mama bound and determined that I care for her in her dotage."

"And can you envision yourself being happy in such a position?" He prodded.

"No," she said quickly and loudly. She didn't even have to consider it, since she'd thought of it with nothing but dread all year.

"It's only the first offer. And what of your other offer?"

That, she had also considered, but only over the space of a day, if that. And as tempting as it was, how could she be happy in a marriage where the other party's strongest motivation was duty? Colin had given his reasons and it couldn't be plainer that, if he'd not lost his head in those heated moments, he would not be offering for her now. Her heart told her that he may grow to love her, but her mind envisioned, rather than happiness, loneliness. She imagined him resentful, perhaps even bitter, escaping on his travels again and again. Only this time, rather than avoiding the marriage mart and his mother's matchmaking, he'd be avoiding her.

"No," she sighed.

He stared at her, tilting his head. "You might take time to think upon it. After that, I trust you, above all, to make the right decision in the end."

"But it is the end. He surely will not... I've twice now... I'm certain my decision has been made." Now she had but to live with it.

"Aye, perhaps it has. Or perhaps you might hold out for a better offer from that party. I believe there might be room for negotiation." He stood and started putting plates back on the barely-touched tray. "I'd best get back to work. I'm certain Cook can use some of this later."

Penelope stood as well. Though she'd never do such a thing in company, in private, she'd often help the staff, when they allowed her. "That must be heavy. Can't I take some—"

"This is just the sort of behavior that led to your first offer," Briarly tutted. "Let's not start your life of drudgery too early now."

Penelope let out a slight laugh as he left the room. But it died as she stared at the doorway, thinking of Colin stalking out angrily... then back in for his candies, of course.

She wished he could understand that she was trying to save him from this hasty offer. Perhaps she could explain it when they next met, hopefully in a public setting where he wouldn't be able to renew his proposal. She might not wish to enter into a loveless — well, a half-loveless — marriage with him, but she still wanted his friendship.

She turned to the window, seeing his carriage door slam again, as if he wasn't long gone. Perhaps that was why she felt so wretched. They parted in anger and...

"I must say, that could have gone better."

She turned to find Felicity leaning in the doorway. She sighed. "Were you listening at the door all this time?"

"No," Felicity scoffed with an offended scowl. "I was waiting patiently for a full report, as promised... at the top of the stairs. You can't expect me to mind my own business indefinitely! I might have gone mad!"

Penelope shook her head. "Well, you are wrong. It couldn't have been better."

"How can that be? I saw him stomp out. Twice! What did you do to make him so angry?"

"What did I do?" Penelope was offended now.

"You must have done something. Hy says Colin might be a dolt, but he's a pleasant one. He always keeps his temper."

"Well, that wasn't the case today," Pen huffed. "And all I did was very reasonably — and very politely, mind you — resist his proposals," she finished, now feeling quite proud of herself.

Felicity stomped her foot. "That's not how it was supposed to happen at all!"

"Yes, it was. I told you I aimed to refuse him and I did precisely that." She'd been quite afraid she'd capitulate and give in to his kisses, at least. There was one moment when she nearly weakened, her body growing languid as he pressed her against the library doors. She'd felt nearly as feverish as she had on that fateful carriage ride, and that was without him even touching her lips! They'd merely hovered an inch from hers until she was ready to close the distance herself... until Briarly, bless him, knocked on the door. "I quite successfully avoided his... other efforts as well."

"Well, that's no fun." Felicity frowned heavily. "I wish Mr. Albansdale would make 'other efforts.' He never kisses more than my hand. Really, you could at least have kissed him a bit more, for my sake!"

"Felicity!"

"What? I thought we'd have a nice little giggle over biscuits, but now there's nothing to giggle about and," she pointed at the empty table as if accusing it, "no biscuits! Did he eat them all?"

"No. He ate nothing, trying to make some sort of stubborn show of it. Really, he was quite easy to resist, especially when he started acting like a complete, utter boar," Penelope grumbled, almost to herself, "what with his ideas about my freedom, or lack thereof, and his ridiculous opinions about women, which I won't repeat and then..." Penelope found her righteous indignation returning. "Then there was that moment where he seemed to think my refusal was out of some sort of disbelief at my luck, rather than a reasonable response to 'We will be married and that's all there is to it!' "

Felicity stared at her, her mouth wide open. "He said that? Hy thought he was an arse before. Wait till she hears—"

"Felicity! That's an awful thing to call someone!"

"What else should I call him? A buttocks?" Felicity winced, then mused, "Why does that somehow sound worse?"

"Whatever you call him, you are not to tell Hyacinth. You promised."

Felicity huffed. "Very well. I won't say a word, but I really can't believe he's bungled it so badly. I thought, after the roses, that he would be much more... courtly about the whole thing. How disappointing!"

"He did bring sweets," Penelope said, feeling this odd urge to defend him. "Then again, he did take them with him when he didn't get his way."

"See, the next time he proposes, secure the sweets first. Then if he acts like an ar..." She trailed off at Penelope's warning look. "...like a really disagreeable person again, at least you get something out of it. You could end up with so much chocolate!"

Penelope laughed slightly. "I doubt he will be repeating his proposal." Her laughter dried up quickly. Her silly heart clenching at the loss, while her head, cooler as always, spoke for her. "All in all, I deem this morning a success and I'm certain, once he reflects upon it, he shall see it with relief. And our friendship will be as it was."

Felicity snorted. "I doubt that very much. I think you and I both know the Bridgertons are as stubborn as they are impulsive. You wouldn't believe the things Hy drags me into, practically against my will."

"Something tells me I would rather not know, but a change of subject would be most welcome if—"

"Is this where you two have been hiding?" Portia Featherington exclaimed as she sailed in, securing her bonnet. "Such a dreary room! It's all to your father's taste. I'd rather—"

"You look very smart, Mother. Are you going somewhere?" Penelope asked quickly. Her mother had often threatened to decorate the library to suit herself, but nothing could distract her like a compliment.

"We are going somewhere, or have you forgotten?" she tutted, though she did pat at the curls peeking from her bonnet. "Felicity, you look hopelessly creased. Please refresh yourself. You're never to catch the right gentleman if you don't take more care to—"

"As I am all but engaged to Mr. Albansdale," Felicity said dryly, "I think I may have already succeeded despite my hopeless creases."

"Have you now? Has there been a proposal?"

Felicity lost her cool expression. "You know very well that Geoffrey intends—"

"Yet he still hasn't," Portia Featherington sighed. "But he might very well come up to scratch within the week if he sees you catching other gentlemen's eyes. Have you thought of that? Now make haste!"

"But—"

"Quickly or all the fashionable people will have left!"

Felicity rolled her eyes, but slumped her way out the door.

"And if someone else catches her eye," Portia said in a whisper to Penelope, staring after her, "perhaps someone with connections to the nobility, all the better."

"Mama, we've talked of this," Penelope chided. "Felicity is in love with Mr—"

"Yes, yes. But it only happened over a month. She may very well fall for someone better even more quickly. I'm only thinking of her happiness." Portia tilted her head. "Do you think Colin Bridgerton..."

Oh, God! Had she heard he'd been here? What would she say if--

"...might be at the gallery?" she finished.

"I very much doubt it, Mama," Penelope said with a relieved sigh. She'd feared Varley might have told her, at least, but perhaps Briarly had convinced her to be discreet.

Portia frowned. "Yes. I expect we'll only see the other one."

"The other one?"

"The one who..." She waved her hand. "He draws, I think."

"You mean Benedict. The one who paints," Penelope said with annoyance. Really, she was quite protective of the Bridgertons and quite resented when people acted as if they were interchangeable. "Benedict Bridgerton? The one whose work hangs in The National Gallery?"

"Oh, you know very well I meant no ill."

"Well, considering last week, when you were loudly lamenting that none of your daughters were Bridgertons," Penelope muttered, "I'd think you'd care to know more about the family in question."

"I can't be blamed for forgetting his name. He is married, after all."

Ah, yes. Marriage. The one thing that could turn a man invisible in the eyes of Portia Featherington.

"Now as for you, you should..." She sighed, gesturing to Penelope's blue dress. "I suppose you look acceptable as you are. Single ladies like us do not need to attract attention anymore, do we?" She adjusted her overly ruffled dress of orange and purple. "But do wear a bonnet, at least." She tipped Penelope's chin up. "You don't want to be old before your time, Darling."

Penelope gaped after her, half-tempted to rush to a mirror and inspect herself for wrinkles, while the other half wanted to rush after her mother and inform her that they were not in the same situation. Then again, they were indeed both single ladies — a widow and a spinster with no prospects... not serious ones, at least.

Still, as she wandered to the front hall, she wondered what her mother would say if Penelope told her that she had, in fact, refused an offer from a Bridgerton, and twice! She'd likely rush to bring one of her horrid old yellow frocks down from the attics, then march her over to Colin's lodgings — wherever they were, she was sure her mother could sniff them out — and prod her to apologize at once.

That or she'd laugh in disbelief and tell Penelope to stop bamming her, which was really most likely.

She frowned as she tied her bonnet, thinking that an apology might be in order. She still felt awful about the way they parted. Perhaps she'd think of one by tomorrow — not that it wouldn't be sincere, but she'd also like to craft it so it was clear that he need not renew his proposals.

Not that he would, of course.

After today, she was certain he wouldn't.

Which was a very good thing.

Yes, however wretched she felt about it, today had gone just as she'd hoped.

Truly.

********************

It was a complete and utter failure.

Colin stared out the window at the passing houses, stiffening when the carriage turned onto Mount Street, knowing it would soon be passing her house. The site of his spectacular failure.

How had it all gone so wrong? He'd come there with two very clear tasks: be forceful and sweeten her up.

He'd tried one, but it had backfired to the extent he hadn't even been allowed to try the second, and much more attractive, part of the plan. She'd become far too sour to be sweetened, by the end.

The worst part was that, looking back, he should have foreseen that after what he'd learned yesterday. She did spend half her life pretending to be that shrewish gossip monger. That was the part of her he wasn't prepared for.

"But she is me!"

Penelope had said those words and he still couldn't believe them. He was still unable to reconcile the sweet Penelope he knew with that... that... harridan.

She was the one blocking him, not his sweet Pen. Even armed with Anthony's best advice, he'd not been able to get past her.

Then again, Anthony's advice was for courting Penelope Featherington, not Lady Whistledown. If Anthony had known about Whistledown, they might have come up with a more effective strategy. But that was just the problem. Anthony could not know about Whistledown. Nobody could. Nobody would if he could help it. Whistledown had retired, anyhow, so how did she signify now?

Of course, that was not an argument he'd use with Pen. She'd probably say it was all the more reason to dismiss his notions of curbing her reckless behavior.

"...and especially at my age, these protective notions seem almost silly, don't you agree... no one saw us...There is no reason for you to marry me... There are no brigands in Mayfair!"

The blasted girl had an answer for everything.

"I am not some green maiden. I am now seven years past the age of majority!"

Simply everything!

"Colin, are you well?"

He started slightly, remembering that his brother was sitting across from him. "Perfectly well," he lied. "Why do you ask?"

"Perhaps because you barely talked through lunch. I was able to get through all of my theories about Johannes Vermeer and that's never happened before."

"I was hungry... and listening, of course."

Benedict stared at him, doubtful. "And now?"

"What about now?"

Benedict scoffed. "You haven't said a word for ten minutes, at least."

"Is it that long?" Colin pretended to be very interested in the view out the window. "We should be there by now."

"And you should be chatting my ear off about Rubens. You're the one who's seen his work, after all."

"I simply thought not to spoil them for you," he lied... again. "Aren't you the one always saying that art should be viewed with fresh eyes and without expectation?"

Benedict sat up, looking pleased. "That's actually quite thoughtful of you. And it's nice to know you listen to me, at least sometimes. But I know that was certainly not the case today. And I shall not rest until you tell me what is bothering you."

He turned to the window again, noting that they were finally passing the Featherington house. He turned away with a grimace. "It's just this damnable traffic. I feel as if we are barely moving and it's so bloody hot."

Ben shrugged. "I think it's quite a mild day. But if the traffic bothers you so much, we could simply get out and walk. The gallery is barely a mile from here."

"That actually sounds good."

Ben knocked on the roof and the already-slow carriage rolled to a stop.

Colin scrambled out gratefully as Benedict instructed his coachman to come collect them at four. They hadn't gone far past the Featherington townhouse and he couldn't resist a look back as the carriage moved away... barely.

"Will you tell me now?" his brother prodded, standing behind him.

"There's nothing to tell." Colin turned away and started walking.

"Rubbish! There's some havey-cavey business afoot," Benedict said, falling into step beside him. "You're not the only one acting strange. Anthony was fidgeting and hedging when I saw him at Mother's. He wouldn't tell me why, but assured me nothing was the matter. 'Quite the opposite,' he'd said, practically rubbing his hands together with glee. And now I find you, moping about as if someone ate the last biscuit in existence. So pardon my curiosity, but—"

"Very well. There is something going on... or not going on, blast it. But I would much rather take my mind away from it. I'm sure it'll put me right off the Rubens. And I've been looking forward to this for ages—"

"Hogwash! You didn't even remember it was happening, yesterday or today."

"Well, I was looking forward to it before that. I've just been distracted, but no more," he said firmly, "at least not today. It's a fair day and I am with my brother, who I've barely seen since... since..."

"Since Christmas, actually."

Colin stilled. "Has it been that long? You need to come to town more often," he said, walking on.

"What's the use in that for you?" Benedict laughed. "You're out of town more than you're in it."

"Very well. We shall make up for lost time by having a very pleasant walk, then a lovely time at the gallery and perhaps an early supper after... at the Piazza." Yes, that would console him for now. A nice afternoon of brotherly devotion, fine art, and fine food. Tomorrow, he would awake, refreshed and ready to try again. He could see Anthony first thing, devise a new stratagem. He would not be telling him about the Whistledown business, obviously, but perhaps he could imply that Penelope has some traits, some unexpectedly stubborn traits, that must be taken into consideration.

"As nice as it is be fed, I'm not sure if I could muster up an appetite while sitting across from you woolgathering and frowning again."

"Then I won't."

"You're doing it now."

"Then I shall stop." Colin resolutely turned his mind away from Penelope. "How does Sophie fare these days?"

"Miserably, according to her. Little Violet, or Victor since we seemed to be cursed with only rambunctious boys... We've just taken to calling the baby V. Anyhow, V apparently dances several energetic jigs inside her every morning, yet will not come out. We're staying with Daphne. Did I mention that?"

"Er... yes." Colin could barely remember what Benedict said before lunch, he'd been so damned angry, also hungry. But he thought he'd heard something about Daphne and strange concoctions.

"Daph insists she knows precisely how to get V to join the rest of us, after the way David made himself at home for so long. So she's filling my poor wife's belly with all kinds of noxious things. Spicy peppers, pineapple..."

"That doesn't sound so noxious to me." Colin was actually quite intrigued by the idea of the two together.

"It is when it's soaked in vinegar."

He nearly choked. "Gah! Why? Why would someone—"

"There's also pickled herring, primrose oil, castor oil... Just imagine every possible thing Mother tried to shove down our throats when we were sick."

Colin grimaced. "Stop! I've heard enough!" Such things were a vicious crime against food.

"Simon and I have taken to stealing down to the kitchen after every meal and begging for scraps and sandwiches, far away from the smell of whatever creatively disgusting thing Daphne is trying this time. Daph thinks we're great big babies, but she must be immune as she did the same things to herself. Does she think to torture the baby out?"

"It might work," Colin said, considering it. "I know I'd like to escape castor oil, let alone the other concoctions."

"Well, it's not working so far. I think the problem is the boys. V's brothers cause too much of a ruckus, especially with Daphne's David as their ringleader. I wouldn't be too eager to come out and greet that, myself, the little scoundrels," he said fondly. "Charles and Alexander have always followed where David led, but now even little William can't be trusted. Yesterday, he painted Simon's backside blue with my best cerulean and that's nothing to what Alex got up to. Suffice it to say, Daphne's favorite slippers suffered a terrible fate."

"What's wrong with a little prank? If we told them half of what we got up to—"

"Oh, God! Please don't give them any more ideas! It's not quite as fun from the other side. Trust me. You'll find out, if you stay long enough, what little demons your nieces and nephews can be. You've bought their loyalty so far, with your exotic presents from afar, and with enough absence that they're fearful of chasing you away."

"What?"

"They'd never dream of pranking you. They cry when you leave."

"Do they?" Colin stilled. "Is that why I've been spared, that they're fearful of chasing me away?" Something about it made him feel wretched. He'd rather be pranked.

Ben sighed. "Sometimes I think we all are. We always hope you might stay, even consider setting down roots near your family, but then you always—"

"What about my house in Bloomsbury? I have a house and four servants! That's plenty of roots!"

"Yes, when you're there." Benedict shook his head, sighing again. "But it never seems long before you pack up again. Sometimes we think it's us, that our company is so hard for you to bear that you must constantly escape—"

"What? I've never said anything like that!"

"Mother despairs, as do we all. Most of us think you might wish to be near us if you just found a nice girl and settled down. But you've barely—"

"No! I refuse to feel bad about that," Colin burst out. "I'm trying."

"How hard can you be trying?"

"Much harder than you know! I'm not the problem! She's the one who—"

"Aha!" Benedict grinned. "So there's a 'she' at the root of your misery."

Colin walked on, glaring ahead. "Now, I see what you're doing, making up all that stuff to make me feel guilty and annoyed so you can pry at me!"

Ben caught up, chuckling. "It's not all made up. It's partially true. Just... exaggerated a bit."

"So the boys cry when I leave?"

"It's more like pouting."

"You're an awful brother. I shall never look upon a Ruben with you again!"

"Come now, it's not me you're angry with," Ben prodded, "It's this 'she' of yours."

"For the last time, I don't want to talk about it!"

"It's Penelope, isn't it?"

Colin halted so fast, he nearly fell backwards. He turned back to his brother. "How do you know?"

"Because you never spend more than three minutes in the company of any young lady excepting her." Benedict smiled widely, walking on. "Is that why Anthony was so gleeful? Of course it was. We've been waiting ages for you to finally look her way."

"What?" Colin caught up, slightly miffed. "I know Mother has her hopes, but then Anthony acted as if he knew it all along, and now you—"

"I'll have you know I was much closer than Anthony. He predicted that the two of you would be married within a year and I thought it would take longer." Benedict huffed. "Then again, I thought it would take two years. Seven is a bit more than I anticipated, but it's closer than Anthony."

"How the devil would either of you purport to know? I certainly didn't... until I did."

"Who else would it be? You've never looked twice at another. I may not be in town much since I married, but on every occasion, wherever she is, there you are."

Colin stilled. "I hadn't realized..."

"Sometimes she's the only one you even bother to dance with."

"Well, I like talking to Penelope. She's always been kind and witty. The others are always listing their fine qualities or flirting so hard I fear they'll strain something, or just... so obviously trying to entice me into matrimony and Pen is just... Pen. She's never flirted with me, only talked to me, entertained me with her observations and her open, easy... She's never flirted with me," he repeated, as if it was a new observation. But he hadn't realized what that meant before. She'd never tried to entice him, even though he'd clearly been enticed lately. After that first kiss, when he'd made it painfully obvious he wanted more, she'd pulled away and thanked him. God, she may as well have patted him on the head and told him that was enough!

He'd been the one to attack her in the carriage. And yes, she might have participated, but perhaps that was only her having another last hurrah, like that first kiss. Another thing to do before she died some in some tragic, spinstery accident.

Had he been fooling himself, thinking that she loved him? Yes, there were her sweet gazes, but did they mean anything or was she simply just that kind to everyone? She actually was kind to everyone — without her naughty quill, that is. Perhaps he saw a little something more in her gaze simply because she was gazing at him and, perhaps, because he wanted to see it.

"She doesn't love me," he said, staring around him as if the world no longer made sense. "And she doesn't want to marry me, not at all,"

"Because you've obviously made a hash of it," Ben said with a laugh, "or you wouldn't be in such a ghastly mood today."

"What was there to make a hash of?" Colin miserably kicked at a rock and walked on. "She doesn't want me."

"Have you even considered that I don't want to marry you?"

She'd said that within minutes of his first proposal, but he refused to believe it. And today...

"My refusal is not the problem. Your refusal to accept it is why this nonsense has been drawn out far longer than it should be."

She couldn't have been clearer, and yet he'd persisted.

"She has no interest in marrying me," he breathed, finally letting the words sink in.

"Nonsense! The way she looks at you—"

"Probably looks at everybody that way," Colin grumbled. "Now it's finally clear. It damned well better be with everything she's said to me, but my stupid, thick head wouldn't accept it. How could it be otherwise?"

"I highly doubt that. Why don't you just tell me what you did and what she said?"

"There's no use in—"

"And start from the beginning," Benedict said with a tired sigh. "I need to know how badly you've mucked it up before I know if we have a hope of righting this mess."

Considering how Benedict had mucked up his own courtship, according to himself during a drunken confession some years back, perhaps he could help. Not everyone was as competent as Anthony. In fact, Colin told Benedict details he'd never dare tell Anthony. He'd always felt more at ease talking to Benedict about this sort of thing. There were far fewer glowers and outraged exclamations. Benedict was more likely to laugh at the whole business.

He started with that very first kiss in her drawing room and, while he left out the Whistledown aspect, he did make it quite clear that Penelope tended to traipse about all parts of London by herself, and apparently had done so for years. And he also made it quite clear that the kissing— and other activities — in the carriage had been more than reciprocated, though the first kiss had ended with her thanking and dismissing him, so he could see how that might be confusing.

Benedict did, indeed, find the whole thing quite funny, particularly Anthony's advice. "Our brother is a wise man, but definitely not in these matters."

"I did rather think Anthony's version of his engagement seemed to be missing—"

"Everything he did wrong?" Benedict finished for him. "As someone who freely admits how close I came to losing the best thing that ever happened to me since I first laid pencil to paper, I think I'll be more of a help here. At the very least, forcefulness is not very effective with the fairer sex. There are much better ways to entice a woman."

"But I tried! I tried tempting her with travels and pastries and everything. The woman is made of stone!"

"Those are bribes and I suspect our dear Miss Featherington is not susceptible to those kind of enticements. I'm talking about stoking her desire."

"But I tried that, too. Or at least I wanted to, but she kept... slipping away," Colin said miserably. "Maybe if I'd sweetened her up before I laid down the law, she'd have been more willing."

Benedict groaned. "You shouldn't have laid down the law at all."

"You know, I did suspect she might balk at the forceful bits. Especially knowing she's..." He stopped himself. While he was at ease with Benedict, he should take care not to let loose all aspects of Penelope. "Well, she's less biddable than I originally thought."

"I'll tell you a secret," Benedict said, nudging him as they walked along, "if there's a biddable woman in the world, I've yet to meet her. They like to pretend they are, but they always get their way in the end — and often while having you convinced it was your idea in the first place."

"If you're referring to your wife, I'm not surprised," Colin said with a laugh. Sophie did still seem like an innocent doe, at times, but after years spent messing about with Daphne and Eloise, there was a certain cunning behind her wide-eyed glances. He still remembered being cheated out of the last cinnamon bun by her. Such grievances were never forgotten. She'd whispered that she strongly suspected she was with child and that cinnamon bun was the only thing between her child and starvation. And even though he'd been holding Little Charles, who she'd given birth to not even a week before, he'd given it up to her. It took him several moments to realize he'd been bamboozled.

"Sophie is strong. She'd had to be, in her life before," Benedict was saying. "Even after escaping her family, nightmare that they were, she'd had only dishonorable offers since — including mine, I regret to say. She was not tempted to be mine until I gave her an honorable offer."

"But I did. I even made it clear—"

"Penelope needs the opposite," Benedict interrupted.

"What?"

"Penelope isn't a flirt and she's not bold enough to try to entice a man in the ways other ladies might. I'd wager she's never had a dishonorable offer in her life. She needs to know that you want to marry her for more than protecting her honor."

"You think I should seduce her?" Colin sucked in a breath. This was some damned good advice. Best advice he'd ever heard. He was eager to apply it now. "I can't say it's not a little tempting -- quite a lot, actually. It would be a much quicker means to-"

"God, no! I'm not saying to seduce her, you little lech! At least... Well, not all the way. But she needs to be in no doubt that you want her."

"How could she doubt it? God, ever since that damned kiss, she's all I can bloody well think about!"

"And have you told her that?"

"Well... not in so many words, but it was certainly implied when... I told you about the carriage!"

"Look, just tell her. And don't mince words," Benedict warned, then he gave a low chuckle. "Also, it wouldn't hurt if you manage to get your shirt off. Trust me."

Colin stopped, scoffing, "How in God's name am I to get my shirt off?"

Benedict stilled and tilted his head. "Ah, yes. London. There's almost nowhere to swim here that wouldn't leave one sick abed. Could you, perhaps, invite her on a little jaunt to the country? Kent is quite near. Some lovely little lakes."

"So, even though she refuses to marry me or kiss me again," Colin pouted, "I'm now expected to kidnap her to Kent and somehow strip down to my—"

"Doubt all you want, but it's how I attracted Sophie, at least to start. Didn't I tell you? She'd caught me bathing in the lake and, once she had a look," he said quite smugly, "she was hooked."

Colin walked on. "Aye, you did tell me. But that was more than a month before you married. So she couldn't have been that hooked or you'd have reeled her in sooner. In fact, didn't you—"

"Yes. Mistakes were made. You are missing my point entirely. You need to tempt her. Believe me, they enjoy the sight of us bare just as much as we enjoy their attributes."

"I highly doubt that," Colin said, half-dazed. "Have you even seen Penelope's attributes?" Colin hadn't even seen them fully bare and he was still laid low at the thought of them.

"As a married man who might be talking of my future sister-in-law," Benedict began, "no. Never noticed them."

Colin shook himself. Really, he hadn't meant to ask that and was glad Benedict was respectful enough that he'd never...

"But also yes," Ben said with a ribald chuckle. "And I can see the appeal."

Colin felt his face heat up as he turned to his brother. "I hope pigeons peck out your eyes and—"

"What? You did ask. I'm just answering that your children will be... er... well-fed."

Colin suddenly felt himself melting at the idea. Earlier today, the thought of Pen large with child — their child — had him inexplicably aroused, but the idea of her nursing one made him feel a comforting, enveloping warmth all over. It left him quickly, though, remembering where things stood.

He felt chilled at the loss. It was ridiculous, missing something he'd never even had.

"Colin?"

He glanced up to see Benedict, standing in the middle of the wide stairs along the front of the gallery. "Yes. Of course. Coming." He started up the steps, but Benedict stopped him, a hand squeezing his shoulder.

"You needn't look so forlorn," his brother said with a bracing smile. "It's not over. All that's happened is a bit of bungling on your end, for which you should really blame Anthony. The next time you see her, just remember that she is a woman who deserves be seen as desirable. Not some damsel you are rescuing for the sake of her honor. Let Mother drag you to the Dartmore ball tomorrow, then dance with Penelope, whisper in her ear, let her know how much you want her."

Colin still thought he'd made it clear, but making it clearer might be enjoyable for both of them. Did it have to be words only or might he also show her?

"Oh, also tell her what an arse you've been," Benedict said, effectively dampening his ardor as they neared the ticket man. "They always like hearing that. And it's usually always true. Two, please."

Colin waved Benedict off and paid his own admission. He'd do better to stop thinking of Penelope for now, anyhow, not until he could do something about it. He'd not planned to attend The Duke of Dartmore's ball, since the invitation boasted a presentation on fossils and antiquities taking place before anyone could dance or even be fed. Really, viewing Rubens' work was all the antiquities and cultural education he could stand in a week, but he'd do it.

God, even if she never married him, he'd like to make up for their last meeting, with him stomping off like an angry little boy, taking his candies and going home. He'd surely do better when next they met.

For now, he'd think of nothing but the paintings before him as they sort of wound their way into the throng, It was a rather large crowd, some older and some younger, the latter giggling and pointing, perhaps having their first look at society-approved nudity. They all moved in dutiful circles rather like horses in a pen, some stopping longer, some moving along to the next, some making quite a show of themselves, loudly gasping in wonder and delight, to be sure everyone saw them and how very much they appreciated art.

"Isn't it remarkable?" Benedict shook his head as they stood before the first.

Colin was a bit arrested himself, staring at The Judgement of Paris, 1636. He remembered being enthralled by it the first time he'd seen it in Antwerp. It was so colorful and sensual. Really, all of the works were vibrant and delightfully free with nudity, but there was something about those ladies...

"Do you know he did four other versions of this very scene?" Ben supplied.

"Er... yes. I think I heard that. Anyhow, I like this one best." There were three goddesses undressing, but his eyes were, as when he first saw it, drawn to the one who had shed the least clothing, her back to the viewer, her deep red robe in the midst of falling from her generous form, her red hair gathered on top of her head, baring her neck and all the skin below...

Benedict was already pulling him to the next, a rather ghastly depiction of war. Though Ben was rhapsodizing about the animation and seeming motion of the figures, Colin was already on to the next, a much more tempting work.

Samson and Delilah. Yet another woman with generous proportions, her golden-red curls falling over her face, her breast bare for no particular reason, but still drawing the eye. Yes, this was one he'd really liked.

He passed another one, poor old Daniel in the Lion's Den. Though sympathetic — he'd certainly not wish to be surrounded by lions with barely any clothes to hide his bits — he was also much more interested in the next.

The Three Graces. Just as he did on his first viewing, he studied the one on the right, the one with the long, auburn hair loose down her back. All three were curved in all the right ways, but he supposed he must have a penchant for those red locks flowing...

He choked on air, backing away, then looking about him as the crowds moved in their little circle, glancing through the moving gaps at painting after painting, some depicting holy scenes or hellscapes, but quite a lot depicting women with dimpled flesh and bare breasts. He felt nearly faint at the sight of one of Rubens' ladies actually offering her breast to a prisoner chained to the wall. The face was nothing to the one haunting him — the nose too straight, the lips too thin and the eyes not nearly round enough — but those unkempt red curls falling into her face had him seeing another head of hair, hopelessly mussed in his carriage.

"Ah, yes. Roman Charity. I'd seen etchings, but no more," Benedict sighed, joining him. "Really, I thought perhaps this one would be too scandalous for the exhibition. Daughters breastfeeding fathers and all that. But the man is starving in prison, so if needs must..."

Colin groaned, rushing to the refreshment table, taking a glass of cool water and gulping it while contemplating emptying it over his head. It would have been nice if Ben's rather incestuous knowledge of that last painting had worked in tamping down his lustful thoughts, but there had already been too many red heads by then.

It certainly cast his initial attraction to Rubens' work in a different light, also his time in Italy staring dumbly at certain works by Titian and Botticelli, among others, specifically the ones with a certain sort of body and a certain shade of hair. Whether it was a strawberry blonde or a deep auburn or a violent red, those were the ladies he'd contemplated, sometimes for hours, wondering why they fascinated him so. He suppose he knew why now.

"Good God!" he gasped, causing at least three old ladies to glare in disapproval. This was a hell of a revelation to have in public. He needed air. He turned to the door as if to flee, but she was there, too, as if to tell him there was no escaping her. This time, she was cloaked in sunlight, her eyes wide with disbelief, her lips open on a gasp of his name.

"Colin?"

The door swung shut taking away the blinding sunlight. He expected the specter of her to leave with it, but she was still there.

"Pen," he breathed.

Was this a good thing or a terrible thing? He wasn't certain. All he knew was that it was a wonder he hadn't dropped his glass yet.

TBC

That 's all for now. But hey! It was extra long. And the wait was a whole week shorter than last time. May the next be even sooner. 

In the meantime, I'll be posting another nibble of my other Polin fic and, for those following it, I will finally be diving back into The Lady in Disguise! Feel free to check out my finished originals and fics in the meantime!