Colin woke with a groan, the events of last night still so fresh in his mind that his affliction was back with a vengeance. And though Benedict had set his mind to rest on certain aspects...

When you are standing in front of an attractive young woman who is also attracted to you, he'd said, it's the hardest thing in the world to resist. Your body is tempted to do what the both of you want, often beyond your mind's will to forbid it.

...he was also to blame for what Colin did the moment he entered his room. It was Benedict's gift that made him do the thing he swore he would not do again. He had very determinedly imagined Mother scolding him, the vicar also joining in, then Anthony in a very ruffled dress berating him as well, but none of it had stopped him from unrolling Benedict's Christmas present and using it in a manner that he was sure his brother had not intended.

It was a very good likeness of Penelope — almost too good. It captured her with a slight smile and a sidelong glance, as if she'd just said something clever and was quite pleased with herself. That thought led to him thinking of whether his clumsy fumblings could make her extremely pleased with herself... Well, there was nothing else for it then.

And this was after he'd done the very same thing in the library, her scent still lingering around him as he remembered her moans and sighs, his cock in a death-grip. It was the only thing that had stopped him from opening that door and chasing Penelope and her teasing laugh up the stairs. After, he cleaned himself up with his cravat and put the mistletoe sprig she'd defeated him with in his pocket.

He wasn't sure if he dreaded the sight of the stuff or wanted it everywhere.

He turned over, glaring at the drawing, partially rolled back into itself on his nightstand now. He wondered about Ben's gift to Pen. Eloise had described it as "romantic looking" and he wondered if that meant she was as tempted by his likeness as he was by hers. Could girls even...

Well, he knew they could. Ben had actually assured him of it once, and he should know, but did girls like Penelope do it?

Oh, God! His affliction was growing more urgent at the thought.

It didn't help that he could see a bit of her smile in that illicit illustration even now. It had looked so sweet and innocent when he first looked upon it, but then he saw her eyes and it seemed more teasing, the little vixen.

He could imagine that smile growing wider as she neared him, then turning to a laugh as she ran away as he'd ordered her to last night. He'd give chase this time, of course. She wanted him to. How could he help it?

He couldn't help it, not in his fantasy and not in reality. His hand slid down his chest before he gripped himself and...

"Good morning, Mr. Bridgerton."

...and let himself go immediately, sitting up and putting a pillow over his lap. "Manning. Why so early?"

"Your mother ordered that all should rise early today," his valet said blandly as he pulled open the curtains. "The day is slightly warmer and she believes all should enjoy the snow. I think a sledding expedition is being planned."

Well, at least the thought of his mother's orders was working today. Colin stood and stretched, his affliction gone for now. He might have been weak yesterday, but today he would be strong.

He stopped Manning in the middle of clearing his pockets. "Wait! Not that!" He rushed forward and dug through the candied nut wrappers in his valet's hands, plucking out the sprig of mistletoe. Maybe he was a sentimental fool, but he'd rather like to keep the thing. "There. You can toss the rest."

As he washed and dressed, he reflected that he shouldn't feel too guilty for relieving himself last night. At least it stopped him from doing what he truly wanted. He certainly wasn't the kind of gentleman who did such things without an offer of marriage. So, until they were married in earnest, he and Penelope should surely curtail all illicit...

"Oh, good God!"

Manning jerked away in the middle of his shave. "I'm sorry, sir! Did I nick you?"

"No. I just... thought of a little something." He sat back, trying to stay calm... even though it was a very big something. It was a hell-of-an enormous thought to have in the middle of something as mundane as a shave, yet it felt so... natural.

He'd marry Penelope.

Of course he would.

If she would.

Yes, she might think them married already, but that didn't mean she might not balk upon the reveal that they weren't.

What if he told her, very gently, about Mrs. Harris' mistake? What if he, also gently, explained that he went along with it so as not to tax her slightly addled mind?

Of course, then he would also have to explain why he went along with it so enthusiastically as to kiss her several times now, and grope her, and fantasize about her to a ridiculous extent.

She might not know about that last part, but the rest might have her scandalized, considering they were not married. They were not even engaged.

Of course, both of those things could be remedied. And quickly. But not while Penelope didn't know that those were things that needed remedies. Didn't Doctor Dorset mention something about her having an examination today? Maybe he'd diagnose her as healthy as a horse and Colin could tell her everything.

Yet just because her health was in order didn't mean her mind was ready to hear the truth — all the truths. And until she knew, he should certainly avoid any of the activities he'd been enjoying thus far. There would be no more kissing. No more caressing.

Aye, and if it were that easy, how had he failed so spectacularly so far?

See, but that was before he'd decided to marry her. Now that he had, it should be much easier to control such impulses. They would lack that strange urgency now. There would be time for all that nonsense, and much more enjoyable nonsense, when they were married.

"All done, sir," Manning said, pulling away the towel with a flourish.

Colin stood and moved for the door, wondering how soon that could happen? Anthony had connections. Perhaps they could be married before the week was out. Yes, the snow fall might make the travel involved in special licenses much more complicated, but when needs must...

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

He stilled. God, what an idiot he was. She'd have to accept him first. And there was no guarantee that, after all this...

"Your cravat, sir."

"Yes. That, too." He sighed and let Manning tie it. He'd likely put it in hopeless knots if he attempted such a thing in his state.

"There. Now I must attend to Master Gregory."

Colin laughed. "Does he still insist you shave him?"

"Every day," Manning sighed.

"Any hairs yet?"

"Not a one. But the ritual of it does seem to be enjoyable to him."

Colin quite agreed with that. There was something about a fresh shave that made a man feel renewed. By the time Manning had finished with him and he stepped out of his room, he felt ready to take on the world... or at least face this day.

And what was he so nervous about anyway? All he had to do was eat, sled, eat some more, perhaps sled some more, and enjoy his family... and Penelope... while not enjoying her too much. Because until she was his fiancée, he had very little right to...

"Colin!"

And there she was, skipping toward him from the girls' hall. He let out a long breath as she bounced about in a jade green dress, looking especially lovely. She did look quite alluring in greens.

Had her breasts somehow grown since the last time he'd seen her? He knew it wasn't possible, yet they were bouncing with her steps.

God, he shouldn't be leering at her so, but it was damned hard to help. Besides, his intentions were mostly honorable. By the time she reached him, he was certain he was grinning like an idiot. This was his wife.

Well, not now, but she very soon would be. She had to be!

"That's a very pretty dress," he said, trying to keep his eyes on her sleeves or hem, avoiding all the more tempting bits in the middle. The dress looked familiar, but he could not remember it looking so... so...

She smiled up at him. "Do you like it?"

"Very much." Yes, his eyes had strayed now. He tried to put them back on the straight and narrow, but how could he when there were such curves before him? He grasped a bit of the ribbon hanging from a bow in the front. Just one bow. This can't be one of her mother's creations. "Did someone give you this yesterday?"

She glanced at him through her lashes, the coy little thing! "In a way. Daphne had her maid, Rose, take some of my dresses to improve them a little. This is the first of her creations." She gave a little spin, which he found rather delightful. He'd never seen Penelope refer to her clothes with such pleasure.

He remembered her once expressing some enthusiasm over wearing pink rather than yellow, but even that was more of a shy glance down, her eyes still unsure whether she looked well enough.

As his fiancée, he'd make sure she knew how lovely she was. He'd start now. "It's a tempting creation, made all the more so by the wearer."

"Colin!" She giggled. Yet she also preened. He quite liked to see her preening. She deserved to preen.

He wondered in which corners Daphne and Frannie had put the mistletoe. Perhaps he could drag her to one for just a moment. Surely that wouldn't be a crime. They were practically engaged!

But hadn't you just resolved not to kiss her unless and until—

He shushed his conscience. Penelope was speaking.

"I had hoped to see you before anyone," she said merrily. "I found something that—"

He put a finger over her lovely, plump lips, shushing Penelope, too, as he suddenly remembered what he had in his pocket. "I found something too. Is that mistletoe?"

"Where?" Penelope glanced up, then around.

He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the limp sprig of mistletoe, holding it over her head. "There," he said, and then he was kissing her... after pushing her into an alcove where they nearly knocked over what was probably a very priceless vase.

It was unharmed. They were unharmed. Practically engaged was very nearly married. Surely one little kiss wouldn't hurt.

Of course, one kiss turned to two when, upon descending the stairs, Penelope pointed out a sprig of mistletoe hanging to the right side. There was no one about, so why not just one more? Then there was another over the dining room doorway that had not been there last night, but who were they to disobey the call of the mistletoe?

They only stopped obeying that call when they heard voices, springing apart and finding seats on opposite sides of the table as the rest of the party trickled in for breakfast.

He couldn't take his eyes off her, not even when the food came out. Yes, he still ate. He was not completely without wits, but he had one eye on his (nearly, practically) wife the whole time, especially when the last mini mince pie was in question...

"I didn't get one before," Eloise protested, trying to take it off him.

Why he'd let her sit next to him, he'd never know. Colin resolutely put it on his plate. "Then you should have paid attention before."

"At least give me half," El tried. "It's Christmas. And you never share food."

"Christmas was yesterday. And neither do you." Colin stood, unmoved. "When I asked for a small piece of your chocolate tart, you not only refused, but—"

"Because I've seen your definition of a small piece," Eloise grumbled. Yet she couldn't deny it. She'd actually shoved the whole thing into her mouth the moment he asked, as she always did when chocolate was involved.

"Anyhow, this pie is spoken for," Colin said as he rounded the table and stopped behind Penelope.

"Oh, Colin!" Penelope stared at him, aghast. "Yet another minced pie?"

"See?" Eloise pointed at her. "Penelope can't abide minced pie. Pen, let me relieve you of that—"

"Yes! Eloise can—"

"It's bad luck if you don't," Colin reminded Penelope.

"Not so concerned about my luck, I see," Eloise said dryly.

"Oh, hush up," Colin chided. "There'll be more at supper. And since Penelope has had the worst luck of all of us..."

"I suppose I can't argue that," Eloise muttered.

"You know," Penelope tried, "I feel my luck has turned already, so..."

"You must not take chances." Colin held the plate up to her nose until she took the little pie with a sigh, staring at the table around her, quite confused at all the wide eyes.

Unlike Penelope, Colin knew why his family was so surprised. Eloise was right. He never shared food. But Penelope was, in all things, an exception. He would share anything with her. Food, nights, the rest of his days. Really, there wasn't anything he wouldn't give her.

They wouldn't be surprised for long. Once they were more than practically, nearly engaged, they'd surely be all for it.

He took his seat again as Penelope dutifully ate her pie, grinning at her defiant little glare.

"Laying it on a bit thick, don't you think?" Eloise hissed.

Well, perhaps not all.

"This doting husband act of yours," Eloise sneered.

El would come around, he hoped, once Penelope did.

If she did, an annoying little voice supplied. God, it sounded like El now.

Still, he couldn't help smiling again as Penelope shoved the remainder in, making quite a little show of chewing with her arms crossed as if this was the worst thing to be borne.

"There. I have tolerated yet another mince pie for you," Penelope said, a sly smile on her face. "Now what will you do for me?"

Colin had many suggestions, none of which would be appropriate with his family present. How much more mistletoe could they find today?

"Oh! I've got it!" Penelope stood, clasping her hands. "I should like to hear you sing, above all else. Francesca says you do it wonderfully."

And that was how Colin spent most of the morning after Christmas in a more wholesome way than he'd wanted — singing Christmas carols.

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

There was something so simple and dear and familiar about Christmas carols. Every single one plucked at her mind. Yet they didn't make her feel overwhelmed, as memories sometimes did. Perhaps, when the memory involved music, it "hath charms to sooth the savage breast."

William Congreve. He'd said that or some variation. Now why was that so easy to grasp when everything else had to be learned?

Then again, she'd learned an awful lot — or read, up at dawn and poring over letters — this morning. And she'd yet to faint. She felt nearly energized. Perhaps her mind was becoming inured to swooning at every recollection. These little sparks of recognition kept pricking at her mind, but never overwhelming her. They were more like answers to questions she had yet to ask.

This morning, when Molly had come in to draw her bath, she'd said without even thinking that she preferred rose petals to lavender. And at breakfast, she'd put a good deal of pepper on her eggs. Hyacinth, who'd been next to her, felt quite alarmed at the amount, but Penelope reassured her that she preferred it that way... and then realized that was true. It was as if parts of her were coming together, like a little puzzle. She couldn't wait to fit in the rest of the pieces. She had more letters to read, and she hoped Colin might help her in piecing together the confusing bits.

But that was for later.

For now, Penelope was absolutely enchanted by this impromptu musicale. All of the Bridgertons had enough musical skills to carry a tune. While some were quite good, others preferred to display their enthusiasm as opposed to their talents. Still, it was all so very merry that she enjoyed every moment.

Hyacinth and Gregory's performance of "Here We come a-Wassailing" had to be one of the more raucous renditions ever performed. From what she knew of the song, it didn't involve as much leaping and shouting and kicking as they put in. Auggie "helping" his mother on the pianoforte, by banging whatever keys he could, didn't lessen the assault on the ears. But everyone applauded him when Daphne stood him on the bench to take his bows which, thankfully, pleased him greatly enough to not perform any more.

As for Hyacinth and Gregory, they were quite tired from their exertions — which involved much more dancing than singing — and they retired to fortify themselves with plum cake.

Daphne then played "Joy to the World" for all to sing and Penelope was pleasantly surprised to find herself humming the tune and mouthing the odd phrase.

Then it was Edwina plucking out "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks" on the harp with such skill that Penelope wished she had coins to toss at her.

Kate then volunteered to play her flute, at which her husband protested that she should definitely not do that. Softening his request to her singing instead.

Kate and Anthony then argued over which of them would sing "God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman," each insisting the other would do it justice and that their own rendition would be poor indeed, their compliments to each other actually getting quite heated and angry. Finally, Violet Bridgerton decreed that the both of them must do it or this would go on until Twelfth Night. She accompanied them — not with as much skill as her eldest daughter, hitting a wrong note here and there, but with such enjoyment that it was infectious.

As for the pair, despite their initial bickering, they sang together quite nicely, and Penelope suspected that it was so for them in all things. Their arguments were more of a game to them, something to do away with before they joined in perfect harmony. She wondered if she and Colin were the same.

With all she'd read earlier, they'd certainly had their little fights. Perhaps now was the time for harmony. It certainly seemed so.

She dearly wanted to hear him sing, but Colin pressed Francesca to exhibit her talents next. And though her performance of "Stille Nacht," a new hymn from Austria, brought tears to Penelope's eyes, she still wished Colin would...

"Come now, Colin," Francesca called out. "It's your turn. Or will you insist Eloise perform first? You know she won't."

Colin sighed. "Now that you mention it... El..."

"I certainly will not," Eloise said from her place next to Penelope, leaning indolently against the arm of the sofa, turning a page in what looked like a very new book. Penelope hoped she took better care with this one than with the others. "If Mama cannot persuade me to subject myself to such things, you have no hope. But if you insist on a performance, I can do a recitation. There's an essay from Miss Wollstonecraft on the subjugation of women that you might all benefit from—"

"Very well. You cannot be persuaded," Anthony cut in quickly.

Penelope leaned toward Eloise. "You can read it to me later, if you like."

"Do you remember her?" Eloise sat up suddenly. "Mary Wollstonecraft."

"I... I know the name, I think," Penelope whispered, realizing that Colin wasn't the only one she might share her findings this morning with. Hadn't Eloise tried to help her remember things yesterday? "Besides, I've done some reading myself, and if we could speak—"

"No. Absolutely not. I've not had enough to drink for that."

They both looked up to find Benedict with his hands up.

"You've been swilling tea all morning," Colin was insisting.

"You know very well what kind of drink I mean," Benedict chuckled. "Besides, half the songs I know would scandalize the ladies."

"Yes, I've heard some of his renditions," Doctor Dorset supplied with a laugh. "I'd need to have smelling salts on hand."

"Not for this lady." Eloise stood, intrigued now. "Ben, what songs are these? Now I must know!"

Benedict shrugged and moved to the pianoforte. "Well, if you insist..."

"Oh, no!" Violet Bridgerton stood and pulled Benedict away and sat him down. "No bawdy tunes today. It's Christmas."

"That was yesterday," Ben pointed out with a grin. "But I suppose I've been rejected soundly." He gestured to Colin, not looking at all disappointed. "All yours, little brother."

"Little brother. Taller than you," Colin muttered before he took his place by the pianoforte, conferring with Francesca.

"I shall have to make Ben sing those later," Eloise said, then shook her head, turning to Penelope. "But never mind all that. What did you want to speak of?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Penelope said breathlessly, quite distracted at the thought of Colin finally singing for her. His face reddened a bit as he glanced Penelope's way, almost as if he felt shy about his singing.

He shouldn't. She'd heard "Adeste Fideles" before. She couldn't remember where or when, but she was certain that she would never think of the song again without hearing his sweet tenor, soft and reverent at parts, then strong and joyful where it needed to be. She didn't understand a word of it. She had dearly wished to learn Latin, so as to better read the classics, but her mother said, "only the papists bother with that nonsense" and it was highly unfashionable, so the expense of a tutor was a waste of...

She gasped. Yet another memory coming together.

"He's not that good."

She turned to find El, looking rather put out.

"But don't you see? There's still no swoon coming on."

"I should hope not," Eloise said, glancing between her and Colin.

Though she did feel a bit light-headed when Colin stared at her as he sang out his final note, she still had the strength to stand, clapping her hands rapturously.

It felt quite awkward... once she realized that she was the only one doing it.

Eloise was certainly staring at her strangely. Her next words were stranger still. "None so blind as those who will not see," she intoned dully.

Penelope wanted to ask what she meant, but was diverted when Violet Bridgerton also stood. "Well done, Colin!"

That prompted more people to stand, which made Colin redden again, which Penelope found rather sweet. "Isn't he marvelous?" she sighed, glancing toward Eloise.

El stared at her, then stood as well, though with a slight roll of her eyes. "Yes. Bravo and all that. Are we done with singing now? Penelope and I have matters to—"

"Yes! We should be sledding!" Hyacinth skipped to her mother. "Can't we now, Mother? Please! I've picked the best hill. I call it Suicide Hill because only those courting death would brave the—"

"That's not the name," Gregory put in. "We agreed it was Death Mountain."

"But it's not a mountain, silly! If it was, someone would have named it on a map already."

"Well, Death Hill, then. That sounds better than—"

"Neither name sounds very safe to me," Violet said with a laugh. "I'm not sure if I want any of my children sliding to their doom."

As both of them rushed to assure their mother that the names were only in jest, and no one would be meeting their ends this very morning, Colin approached Penelope.

"I'm glad you enjoyed that," he said hesitantly, "though I'm not sure so much applause was warranted."

"Of course it was! You sing so beautifully," she enthused. "I've always loved hearing you!"

He tilted his head. "Always?"

She drew back slightly, realizing that was true. She had heard him sing many times. And she'd enjoyed it again... and again. She couldn't precisely remember when, except...

He was singing, a mirthful tune as little Hyacinth and Gregory linked arms and messed about. He was quite joyful himself, until he met her eyes... His smile fell a little. Why? Something pricked at the back of her mind. Was it her that made him suddenly somber? Yet he seemed to pick up his song again, and then Eloise grasped her arm, saying, "I have news!"

Penelope, or the past Penelope, was pulled to the sofa.

"I finally found her," Eloise said breathlessly. "Lady Whistledown."

Penelope felt strangely shaky at the declaration. "Who is she?" she found herself asking Eloise, her heart in her throat...

"Who is... who?" Colin was staring at her, concerned.

Penelope shook herself. Has she said that aloud? "I'm sorry. I must have gotten a bit lost. I meant... Who is to be... going sledding?" she corrected stupidly. "I'd dearly love to try it after I speak to..." She trailed off, looking for Eloise now. But Eloise was gone.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, or at least not yet."

They both turned to find Doctor Dorset.

"You've been doing very well," he said. "And I'm not saying that some light exercise is out of the question, but I believe at least one more examination is in order."

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

Colin was not about to allow his fiancée — well, practically his fiancée and nearly his wife — to be alone with another man, so he insisted on being present during this, he hoped, final examination with Dorset.

It didn't help that it was happening in the library, the site of last night's illicit activities. And the fact that Penelope was sat upon the very table he'd hoisted her onto also made him feel a bit strange about letting another man — even a doctor — touch her in this very room.

In the beginning, it seemed innocent enough, having her follow his finger with his eyes and answer questions about what day it was. Then he removed her stitches, which was a relief in itself.

But then he was squeezing her legs and arms again and, while Colin might have been forced to put up with this before, this was now his future wife this man was groping!

"I think her reflexes are good enough," Colin broke in. God, why had he not insisted his mother or Kate be present? He had tried, but they both seemed suddenly preoccupied with sledding preparations.

"Do you now?" Doctor Dorset seemed amused as he glanced Colin's way. "Considering she is contemplating riding a sled down a hill named after either suicide or death, according to your brother and sister—"

"They were in jest," Colin broke in. "And I will personally be behind her on that sled... to be certain nothing happens, of course." He could feel her now, her bottom nestled between his legs, leaning back against him, her hair caressing his face as they flew down the slope...

"Perhaps being in front would be best," Doctor Dorset suggested, kneeling down now.

"Yes, that's even better," Colin sighed. She'd be gripping him from behind, her breasts pressed against his back, her hands across his chest, her breath against his neck... "Here now! Is that necessary?" The man was now caressing her ankles!

"I happened to be seeing if, after days spent largely sedentary, she was holding water." Doctor Dorset gave him a withering look as he pulled Penelope's skirts back into place, standing. "I assure you that, each thing I examine is necessary for her—"

"Please ignore my husband," Penelope said, obviously amused. "Apparently, he's the jealous sort."

"That's not why... I'm not..." Colin threw up his hands and paced away. "This is not jealousy. This is concern at the level of excessive examination happening. I am only thinking of your comfort!"

"Well, I am perfectly comfortable," she said, smiling at Doctor Dorset, as if he was the one who needed reassurance. "And I do feel my limbs are strong enough for a day in the snow. But there is one small worry I have..."

"What is that?" Doctor Dorset frowned.

Colin rushed to her. "Yes, what is that?"

Penelope shushed him, turning to Dorset instead. "Before, my memories seemed to come with a strange sort of headache and even a... faintness."

"Yes," Colin supplied. "This is precisely why she must take care. She's looked quite pale at times when—"

Penelope turned and actually shooed him away before turning to Dorset again. "This morning, I've been much less... like to swoon at the thoughts that come, and so I thought perhaps, they'd come more readily, yet..."

Doctor Dorset sighed and examined her head again. "With your cut healed, the swelling seems to have gone down. It's very likely that the swelling we cannot see, inside, has subsided as well. So it makes sense that your brain is working to get back to its prior state."

"It's not as if I know absolutely everything," she said haltingly, "but what I do remember... it feels almost... mundane. These little pin-pricks, these reveries, they come and they... stay. But not all of them make sense and I can't work out why. I thought it would be like a puzzle coming together, yet so many pieces don't fit."

Doctor Dorset slid his eyes to Colin then. The both of them knew why her memories might not make sense.

"So might I be told now," she pleaded, "all those things I do not know? So that it fits, you see."

Doctor Dorset swallowed hard before he spoke, "It is not imperative that everything fits neatly together at this time. The most important thing is that you are physically well and not over-taxing yourself."

"Yes, but is it really overtaxing myself to know? As I just said, if there are no headaches nor faintness, then perhaps. If it poses no danger—"

"I am still of the belief that your memories should come from you, and no one else," Dorset added. "I know that you might be impatient and that these... mundane sort of reveries don't feel like enough, but they are what your mind is giving you willingly, without forcing it. So for now, I... I advise you to... to embrace the mundane," he finally said. "Just try to imagine what you do with your mornings, your afternoons, your... daily routine and... see what you can find in that." He packed his bag up and starting heading out before he stopped. "Mr. Bridgerton, a word?"

Colin followed him out the door, closing it and hissing, "Is that all you have to say to her?"

"What do you expect me to say?" Doctor Dorset whispered harshly. "I told you all that I am no expert on maladies of the mind."

"But what are we to do?" Colin demanded.

"She has a very keen mind. It's very possible realizing that her memories do not align with the reality she has been living these last days."

"So are you saying we must tell her?" Colin asked, aghast at the idea.

"No, I'm not saying that." He frowned.

"So we must not tell her?" He was aghast at that idea, too. "We just let her continue living this lie until—"

"No! I... I don't know." Dorset rubbed at his temples. "With what happened, with what she believed, she was living a lie, as you call it. But it's a lie that gave her comfort, comfort that I did not want to take away at the time. But now... I still believe it is she who must work things out for herself, at her own pace."

"And what if she doesn't?" Colin said, almost to himself. "Or what if she does?"

Doctor Dorset peered closely at him. "Which of those frightens you more?"

Colin shook his head. "The... the former, of course."

"Well, it shouldn't. I have no doubt she will recover fully, but how she does it is beyond my expertise. For God's sake, you know more of her life than I do!"

"So are you saying I should tell—"

Dorset sighed. "Perhaps you can help her put those pieces together... very gently, of course. Maybe those that know her best can help! Or perhaps you should stay out of her way and allow her to do it herself. I might not know Miss Penelope well, but I think her constitution, and her mind, are not so delicate as all that."

"Damn it all! Which is it?"

"I still don't know and demanding answers isn't helping. This is not my decision. This is down to those that know and love her best. For my part, I am satisfied that she is in no immediate danger of a physical ailment— depending upon how violent this sledding expedition is..."

"I would never allow her to be hurt," Colin protested.

"No. I don't think you would," Dorset said, nodding to himself. "But the fact remains that my work is, probably to your obvious relief, done here," he said before striding off.

Colin wanted to protest that he was not relieved. But, damn it all, Dorset was right about one thing. There was little else Dorset could do for Penelope beyond what he had.

But what could Colin do beyond... Well, what about telling her the truth? What if this... God, he hated to call it a lie, but these memories of hers might be coming back apace if they were not for this nonexistent marriage clouding her, blocking her from knowing herself? If that were taken away...

He'd flirted with the idea this morning, with very gently letting her know that Mrs. Harris had led her to the wrong conclusion. But even in imagining his very gentle correction, all he could think of was himself, lout that he was.

Every imagined recitation had him explaining himself, exonerating himself, desperate to make her understand that he didn't mean to deceive her, that he should still be the one she trusted, that he should still be the one she depended on.

And none of that was about making her better.

All of it was about keeping her at his side — his to comfort, his to guide, his to protect.

And what did he want to protect her from now?

The truth.

Because it would take her away from him.

Even as it would lead her further toward herself.

Yes, Dorset was right. The only ones who could help her put together her puzzle were those who knew her best. And while Colin wished he could cure it all himself, he knew there was another person who was equally — or almost equally — concerned.

Eloise and Penelope might have fallen out for some unknown reason, but that didn't mean Eloise didn't care about putting her back together. He shouldn't make a move without her guidance. As much as he liked to brag that he knew Penelope first, Eloise knew her best. Whatever her day-to-day routine was, Eloise knew far more about it than he did. She could help her best.

Even if it meant she helped her away from Colin.

He let himself back into the library, thinking they should let this sledding nonsense wait. Penelope had other hills to climb. "Pen, I think we—"

"Shhh!" She was sitting on the table, still, her eyes closed and her hands in her lap. "I'm busy."

"With what?"

"I am trying to embrace the mundane," she said, "and you are far too stimulating, so do be quiet."

He approached her, albeit quietly. Stimulating, was he? He must be. Just her saying the word had him nearly stimulated beyond remembering what he'd been about to say. If she wanted stimulating, he could certainly... No!

He was going to help her remember, not help her forget. What good would further stimulating her do?

Yes, she might enjoy it and so — it went without saying — would he, but would it help her?

"It would be nice," she said, her eyes still closed. "If you didn't have something to say about everything Doctor Dorset does. The poor man must feel as if he can't do his work."

Colin huffed at that. "I only say something when his examinations veer into improper—"

"It doesn't feel improper to me. It feels quite... clinical? Is that the word for it?"

"Clinical," he muttered. "Is that what he calls it?"

"I haven't heard him call it anything. What you call it is another matter." She smiled slightly, her eyes still closed. "But I suppose I'd rather have a jealous husband than one who didn't care a jot."

"What? Of course I'm not—

"No, I rather like it. I'd rather you be the only one who touches me as well."

He stared at her, frozen, trying very hard not to think of last night, which was a very hard thing not to do in this very room, where he'd touched her in ways that would have scandalized him a week ago. Hell, it would have more than scandalized her. The liberties he'd taken, the places he'd touched, the breathy moans he'd coaxed from her...

"Dash it. You're far too scintillating." She opened her eyes, giving him a little glare, but without much anger behind it. Coy little thing.

Scintillating, was he? That was even better than being stimulating. "I didn't say anything."

"No, but I could feel your eyes on me. I've lost it now."

"What have you lost?"

"My mundane morning. You see, I wake up, perhaps stretch to greet the day and then... nothing." She tilted her head, grinning. "I can only assume you are to blame."

"Me?"

"I obviously have not had a mundane morning with you." She turned fully to him, tucking a leg under her on the table. "So why don't you just tell me?"

Colin froze. "Tell you what?" God, did she remember? Was it time now? Time for the truth? Because he might have flirted with telling it, but not with what words he'd use.

"I know we haven't been married long, especially after what I've..." She trailed off. "Well, I just know we haven't had many mornings together as yet. But what are they like?"

Colin backed away slightly. "Aren't we still not supposed to just tell you things? This is not good for you." Except it might be. He just didn't know anymore.

She hopped off the table, moving closer to him. "But didn't Doctor Dorset just talk about getting back to my routine? I can't get back to it unless I know what it is. What is it like at home in the morning?"

Colin shook his head. How was he supposed to help here? "What are all mornings at homes like?" he said carefully. "Ablutions, dressing, breakfast..."

"No, I mean our mornings together."

But they didn't have mornings together. "I don't know. We're... we're... we're..."

"Oh, I know," she said, sighing. "We're newlyweds. There can't have been many of them. But what is it like so far?" She took hold of his cravat. "What do you see, when you imagine a perfect morning between you and me?"

Imagine.

That word changed everything. He hadn't actually given it thought, what it might be like to wake up with her. Really, he couldn't quite get past the fevered imaginings of what might happen before falling asleep, but it wasn't hard to imagine her in the morning.

...she was living a lie, as you call it. But it's a lie that gave her comfort...

Was this like that? A lie that gave her comfort? Because he would gladly tell it. It would give him comfort as well. And it was just imagined, really...

Those days he spent staring at her sleeping had been fraught with worry. How nice it would be to imagine her sleeping peacefully, awaiting that moment when she opened her eyes with anticipation rather than concern...

He took a deep breath before he spoke, seeing it all so clearly, even without closing his eyes. "I imagine I'm awake first. I've always been an early riser, even after nights I barely sleep. You are not. So I let you laze about."

"Laze about?" she scoffed.

"Well, you're always up far too late." That was true, Eloise had complained of it whenever she and Penelope shared a room, how long she kept her candle burning, how many times she had to call her name and shake her before Penelope finally stirred and pleaded for a few more minutes until El finally gave up and tried again later. "I don't mind it, though. I might be tempted to wake you, but I can wait. Sometimes, I might laze about with you and sometimes I might rise and call for breakfast."

"Breakfast in bed?"

"On the balcony. My town house in Bloomsbury has one, just enough for a little table and two chairs." That part was true. The place was still being kitted up, mostly by his mother in his absence, but the upstairs balcony was his favorite part. "It looks out on the street. We can sit out there in our dressing gowns and sip from our cups — coffee for me, tea for you. There's a dining room, but it's much nicer to be out in the fresh air, when it's not too cold. We can watch the people go by, the street vendors, the early risers bustling about to open their shops or their offices. We can watch Bloomsbury go by as we talk about our plans for the day."

"And what are our plans?" she asked softly.

"It depends upon the day. If we've nowhere to go, then we... Well, we go to the library and I can pore over my maps while you pore over your books and correspondence."

Her face fell, a slight frown marring it.

"Not the most exciting morning, I imagine."

"No, it sounds lovely."

He smiled, glad she thought so. Even having only just imagined it, he wanted it so badly now.

She smiled back. "I can't wait to get back to it. It's only... Do I write a lot of letters?"

He chuckled and took her right hand. "Your fingers are always dotted with ink." He'd noticed it, whenever he'd had cause to see them ungloved. "It's faded, as if you've tried to wash it away, but it's always there. Not now, obviously..."

"I actually do imagine myself writing quite a lot and... You see... Well, on the subject of..." She turned her hand over in his, grasping his own and pulling at him. "Oh, just come with me."

He followed, not sure what to make of it as she led him out of the library and then to the stairs, then up, walking quite briskly. He marveled a bit at her speed, wondering if he should bid her to take her time, when he realized she was leading him to her bedchamber and his mind nearly emptied.

At that point, he thought he really should still her, but he was a bit too dazed, obviously, because she was leading him to her bedchamber.

This shouldn't be allowed. It was one thing when she was ill, or at odd sounds in the night, but now...

He was in the middle of panicking about whether they'd been seen when she nearly shoved him in and closed the door. He turned back to her. "Pen, I know I've been a bit free with... the mistletoe and all that, but we shouldn't..." He trailed off at the sight of her moving past him to the bed. "God, we really shouldn't... Not that I don't..." It was then that he turned and saw the bed was strewn with letters.

"I found them in my trunk last night," she said, leaning over the littered mattress. "I half thought I'd dreamt them. But there they were this morning."

Colin moved behind her, recognizing the handwriting all too well. "Are those my—"

"Yes! And they are the answer! I'm sure of it!"