Colin was staring at her as if mystified. Penelope had no idea why. Hadn't she just explained it? His letters were the answer.

Well, not to everything about her life, but they certainly made the last two years, not to mention their courtship, less of a mystery. Perhaps he didn't quite see it as she did.

"See, now no one has to worry about what to tell me or not to tell me. I think it will so helpful for me to find things on my own." She leaned over the bed, eyeing her little bounty. "Now I have all these letters to—"

"All these letters," he repeated on a wheeze.

"Yes, they are quite a lot. I'd thought it would be a chore to put them in order, but they were already perfectly organized." She straightened and turned to him, unable to help blushing a bit. "I must be a sentimental old fool about them, bringing them with me, even when traveling, having them all neatly together in order of date, tying them with a little blue ribbon."

He met her eyes. "So you haven't... read them?"

"But of course I did!"

He took a deep breath then, looking almost terrified. "And?"

"Oh, please don't be worried about me. I was very careful about it. I told myself that, if I felt even slightly faint, I would stop, but once I started reading, I couldn't stop even if I fainted dead away. The way you write, Colin—"

"You didn't find them... confusing?"

"On the contrary. They actually made some things much clearer."

He swallowed hard as she approached him. "Such as..."

She slid a finger over his cravat, wishing it away. The poor man looked choked. "Well, I knew we were newlyweds, but I didn't realize precisely how new. It's no wonder the staff still call me Miss Featherington sometimes." She laughed. "It's obvious we started off as only friends. Your letters are polite and very amusing at first, but well... no more than friendly."

"Well, of course. We were unmarried and even corresponding was an improper—"

"Though they aren't friendly for long." She started pulling at his cravat just a little, unable to help it. "Things do get increasingly romantic as they go on. We probably haven't even had a proper honeymoon, something I'm extremely eager for now, after reading your descriptions of—"

"Wait..." He shook his head and backed away. "So you still think... even after reading... Pen, you don't underst—"

"Are you still so concerned about this quarrel we must have had? Yes, it's obvious there was one, but I still can't recall what it was that had me so cross." She sighed and moved to the bed, looking over the letters. "I know you think you must have wronged me somehow, but I can't help thinking that I must have been unreasonably cold, not reading all the lovely, romantic things you wrote." She sighed again as she plucked up one of her favorites.

"Romantic things?" He paled slightly.

"You can be quite poetic. And you're such a wonderful writer!"

He went from pale to blushing. "Me? Poetic? What a ridiculous... I mean, my family thinks I go on too much."

"I certainly don't think so. The way you illustrate what you see... It's all so evocative, the way you describe the shifting color of the sand in Cypress, the finer, softer feel of it compared to our beaches, the deep, blue water that lightens in the sun and the warmth... It's just lovely! I dearly wish it could be read by more than just me!"

"What?" He scoffed loudly, though she noticed he looked a bit pleased. "Who'd want to read all that?"

"Possibly anyone! There are many people who wish to know a wider world, but lack the means or the freedom to see it. And when it's written in a way that makes it easy to understand like... See here?" She moved closer to him. This time, he didn't move away, as if eager for what she might say. "I find your comparison of the Mediterranean to a bath that had been drawn a half-hour ago quite clever. Everyone knows what that feels like. It makes me feel as if I'm dipping my toe in tight alongside you."

He smiled then — an adorably shy sort of smile. "That was just... I mean, I didn't think it was that clever."

"But it is! It makes me feel like I'm right with you. Perhaps I shall be, when you travel next. You seem quite eager for that." She found herself blushing as she read his words. "I rather wish you could see this sunset so I could compare it directly to your hair against one of your many yellow dresses. I know you have a certain distaste for them, but there's a vibrancy in those colors that I dare any sunset to..." She trailed off, almost unable to continue between his words and his closeness as she turned to meet his eyes. "Well... things do get a bit romantic, as I said."

He was staring at her strangely now. "Yes. Romantic. I hadn't quite realized... how... Romantic? Really?"

She dropped the letter and turned to him more fully, caressing the buttons on his waistcoat. "It's not just they way you compare my hair to the sunset or my eyes to the Sardinian sea or—"

"So I wrote that?" He let out a shaky laugh. "I thought I only thought—"

"Well, you also said it the other night." She looped her hands around his neck. "It's little wonder that I couldn't help kissing you after that. And little wonder we married after all this." She nodded to the letters as she drew him closer. "You'd been courting me with your wonderful words for so long."

"I actually hadn't considered it... Courting? Wonderful?"

"How could any woman resist? You wishing I was there with you, imagining what I might say... I imagine I was longing for you the way you were so clearly longing for me."

"Longing?"

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

Penelope's lips were so close now. And longing felt like a very good word for how he'd like nothing more than to meet them, yet he found himself turning away, letting her hands drop from his shoulders as he picked up the letter she'd discarded.

Not only was she operating under the ridiculous notion that he was some sort of "wonderful writer" — something he did wish to hear much more about before dismissing it completely — but she seemed to be talking as if his letters had been love letters.

Yes, Anthony and others had pointed to the impropriety of him writing to her at all, but he'd always defended himself with the idea that his letters had been no more than friendly.

But now, his eyes moving over his own words, he couldn't deny that he'd gone far beyond friendship. He should have known those things he'd said to her that night they first kissed hadn't come from thin air. He'd never been spontaneously poetic. But he'd written more than that...

"...with your partiality for lemonade, the way your lips pucker rather like a little raspberry at the first taste before softening at the sweetness, I can only imagine you tasting these lemons. Even without sugar, they are so sweet your lips might not pucker at all. I would bring you a bushel if my trunk weren't already so full..."

"...and that's nothing to the way it feels to walk along the canals when the city still sleeps. It's lovely for a moment. There's a certain comfort in the solitude around you. But then it starts to feel as if I'm the only person left in the world and I'd rather have someone to share it with. Sometimes I imagine you beside me. I wonder if you would silently enjoy the quiet or wish to fill it. I'd welcome either..."

"...can't begin to describe the feeling. I'd once dived beyond the waves in Brighton, but felt bogged down by the bathing costume, which was barely less than being fully covered. But to wade into water so warm, until it's well above your neck, and without a stitch on feels like true freedom. To feel one's body move with the swells and ride the waves..."

Good God! Had he actually written about swimming naked to an unattached young woman?

He did note that these were his later letters, the ones that had received no reply. And it was little damned wonder they hadn't!

"I don't blame you for being cross with me." Penelope said behind him as he snatched up another letter. "To think that you wrote such loving, romantic things without a reply... I must have been very cold to ignore them."

He turned to her. "What? You are not to blame. I'm the one who wrote such things and didn't even consider—"

"No, whatever this quarrel between us was, I was obviously being unreasonable about it."

"But you weren't!" God, he remembered their argument at the inn all too well now. "You were the only reasonable one among us." He'd demanded to know why she hadn't answered his letters and...

"You'd do better to ask me why I answered them before. It was a mistake to have done so in the first place. It isn't proper for a single young lady to write to an unattached gentleman..."

" Our perfectly innocent correspondence might not seem so to others. I'm certain we both knew this day would come. Really, it should have come much sooner. We cannot be so free with each other any longer. I do hope you understand..."

She'd tried to explain it several ways, yet he'd been too stubborn to hear it.

"Colin, I've said what I needed to say several times. The fact that you refuse to listen—"

"I have not refused to listen. I heard you quite plainly. What I refuse to do is accept it."

But he had refused to listen. He kept insisting there was some other reason, something she wasn't telling him because he refused to think there was a problem with his perfectly innocent letters. But now, seeing not only the sheer number of them, but the indecent things he'd written, it seemed obvious she'd been scandalized by his letters, but was too kind to say so directly.

"Pen, if I said or did something... untoward, especially to you," he said lowly, putting it as delicately as he could, "I need to know."

"Oh, Colin. Of course you didn't do anything."

No, he hadn't done anything, not then. But he'd written some very untoward things, hadn't he? The letters from the previous year might be innocent enough, but the last few... Yes, the bits about strolling the canals might be less prurient, but talking about her puckered lips and his naked body had certainly made her uncomfortable with their correspondence.

And now he could no longer say he'd not done anything, because he'd done far too many somethings over these last few days.

"Colin, what is the matter?" she prodded gently. "You look so far away."

He should be far away — far away from her person and this bedchamber, but he couldn't seem to move, just frozen at the idea that his unseemly letters had made her wish to end their friendship.

God, if the Pen he'd been in that carriage with was here now, she'd wish to end him after the way he'd pawed at her last night.

He took a deep breath and turned to face her "Pen, I understand now. These letters... These must be why you'd been angry with me. For me to write such improper things was an inexcusable—"

"Colin! Surely none of that matters," she said with a grin, "not now that we are married."

Oh, God. It was definitely time to tell her now. He shook his head. Just say it! Quick! "Pen, you... need to...to know..." Damn it, that's nothing near quick! "We're... We're not—"

"And, really Colin, how could I have been angry about those letters? I never even read them!"

He drew back, confused now. "You didn't?"

"No. They were left unopened." She laughed. "I'd wager I'd have married you sooner if I had read—"

"Well, then why?" he demanded, throwing his hands up.

Penelope's laughter stopped abruptly. "Why... what?"

"Why were you so angry with me?" He found himself gripping her arms. "Why were you so eager to throw away our entire friendship?"

"I... I don't know!"

"Yes, of course you don't." He gentled his grip. "I... I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"Not at all. I'd actually find this display quite thrilling if I thought it was out of passion," she tilted her head and frowned, "but I suspect it's not."

He'd love to say it was or, at least, turn things in that direction, but all he could feel now was that damnable confusion.

Yes, it had been terrible, thinking he'd scared her away with his impropriety. But at least that was an answer. At least that didn't toss him right back into the terrible torture of not knowing why Penelope had been so determined, not even a week ago, to end their friendship as if it had been nothing at all to her.

There was something she'd been hiding. But considering her state now, neither of them had any hope of finding it.

"I just wish I knew... why," he whispered, letting her go.

"I wish so as well. But I've read these and they don't say." She lifted a hand to his cheek. "But does it really matter? After we married, surely that quarrel was put away. Obviously, there was another, but—"

"Pen, we... We were... n..." God, why couldn't he just say it? Surely now was the time to tell her. She was looking for answers, was she not? Surely, his silence was making it harder for her.

Yet, he couldn't do it. He still didn't know, not for sure, that letting this lie fall to pieces might not hurt more than it helped. God, and even if it didn't hurt her in a physical way, it would hurt her in other ways.

How could he bear to be the means of hurting her, in any way?

"It matters to me," he finally said.

"I am sorry that I can't remember," she said softly, turning away.

"God, no! Don't ever be..." He pulled her to face him. "Pen, you have nothing to be sorry for. I'm the one who should be sorry. I only... wish I knew what for." Besides what a bloody coward he was. Yes, telling her might hurt her. But it would certainly hurt him. Which one of them was he protecting, really?

"So I never told you what made me stop writing to you?" Penelope asked. "Not even after we—"

"No, you never told me," he said before she could finish that sentence.

"That's badly done of me. At the very least, I should have cleared the air between us before we—"

"Please stop thinking you did anything wrong, Pen. I know where the blame lies between us." He released her and plucked up another letter. This one seemed to be rhapsodizing about seeing a woman in Greece that reminded him of her.

He was rather grateful he hadn't gone into detail because the similarities were only from the neck down. He remembered staring at that particular woman's breasts, her unfashionably cinched waist and tied up bodice, thinking she looked like a medieval lass and wondering what Pen might look like dressed like that before he'd pushed the thought away.

God, he had been longing for her. One might even call it pining. The absence of her letters only reminded him how much more pleasant she'd made his first tour. His family hadn't written to him nearly as faithfully. Knowing he'd have her letters to look forward to, nearly every week, made him feel less alone.

"These are still quite improper," he said. "As a single man writing to an unmarried young lady... God, if you had read them, you'd have been incensed at my forwardness."

She laughed then. "I highly doubt that. I'd have been thrilled, I'd imagine, considering I've loved you since... Well, I can't remember when, but it has obviously been going on for quite some time."

He dropped the letter and turned his head. "Loved me?"

She blushed at his scrutiny, her gaze dropping. "Well, I don't remember everything, obviously, but I see us... at balls and in parks and every memory of you almost... glows. I can almost feel it."

"Feel what?" he breathed, turning to face her fully.

"This sort of... eagerness for you to look my way, then this burst inside when you do, and then this... giddiness when we talk or laugh." She closed her eyes. "I can't always hear what we say, but it seems so very clear to me that..."

He found himself leaning closer to her. "What?"

She opened her eyes slowly and he felt as if he might fall right into them, bathe in their warm, blue waters. "That I love you. That I quite obviously have for some time."

God, he felt faint. He knew that was what she might say, but to actually hear her say it made him so weak that he stumbled back, steadying himself against the bed post.

Perhaps she was mistaken. She'd always greeted him with such eager warmth. Perhaps she only thought it must be love because she believed them married. And, really, she didn't always greet him with warmth. The first time he'd seen her after his many months away, the morning of their journey, she'd been so cold that, if she had been in love, she'd certainly fallen out of it.

He'd always been eager to see her, too, more so after his first tour, after all her letters and the sort of... intimacy of their talks, but... love?

Yes, obviously he wrote all those pining letters, thought of her everywhere he went, wondered what she might say about the sights he'd seen, only to receive nothing and feel so empty and alone, but... love?

And yes, he'd been lusting after her quite diligently for days or, if he were honest with himself, all week, since that blasted carriage ride and that indecently low-cut dress, but... love?

"There's so much mist in my mind," she was saying now, drawing closer, her fingers walking up the front of his waist jacket until they slid into the hair at his nape, "but one thing is always clear as day — how much I love you." She leaned up to meet his lips.

He started to lean down as well, then felt like an absolute cur because she was staring at him, so open and so certain, when he wasn't certain at all.

Yes, he was determined to marry her as soon as he could, possibly to the point of spiriting her away to Gretna Green in the dead of winter so nothing could get in the way of their union, but... love?

God, if he didn't love her, then what was this?

But did she love him?

It was entirely possible that she didn't love him anymore, not before she fell down and woke up thinking herself his wife. What if, without this fall, she'd be horrified to find herself bound to him in any way?

There was no way he could kiss her under these circumstances!

She leaned back, letting out a slight laugh. "What?"

"I... I don't think... there is any mistletoe about."

She let out another laugh, this one rather low and sultry. "Here, I thought that was just an excuse." One hand slid downward. "Don't you have some on you?"

"No," he said, sliding from between her and the bedpost with a nervous laugh. He certainly couldn't have her rooting in his pockets in his condition. "I must have dropped it."

"You know, we could kiss without the lure of the mistletoe," she said with a sly smile, not fazed a bit obviously. "One might even say we could do more than that. Didn't Doctor Dorset declare me perfectly healthy?"

His legs nearly buckled at the thought.

No!

There would be no more kissing, not until he knew what she truly felt for him. Because if she loved him, then she could forgive all of this, but if she didn't... Yes, she'd obviously thought she did, but had she really?

She was staring up at him now, her eyes wide and guileless, her little smile so tempting.

She'd looked at him that way before, and several times. But the best one was the time she'd favored him with during their dance at her family's ball, the look she'd graced him with when she called him "astonishing," when she'd thanked him for looking after her, when she'd made him feel like the tallest man in the world.

He'd craved that look. He'd reveled in it.

And he still had no idea what he did to make it go away.

After that night, after their conversations that season, he'd thought their letters would be even deeper, more meaningful.

He'd never thought they'd stop entirely.

"Back to our quarrel," he said. "Are you certain these letters tell you nothing about what it might—"

"I told you. They don't say anything about it. You only seem increasingly mystified at my lack of response. If I'd only written back to you, then maybe..." She trailed off, her eyes widening. "What about my letters?"

"But you didn't write any."

"No, I mean, the ones I'd written before," she said excitedly. "Seeing my own writing might... spark something."

"It might." If she found out for herself, might that not be better than being told? And what better way to know herself than reading her own words?

"So... Have you any older letters from me?" she asked eagerly.

"I do!" he said, rather eager himself... until he realized he didn't. Not here. "But they are in London," he amended miserably.

"Oh... drat." She sighed, then smiled suddenly. "But perhaps there's been enough of this nonsense for today anyhow." She drew nearer again.

He stepped back. "But who needs letters? If you think hard, perhaps you can remember a time when you were angry with me and that might help you think of other times—"

"With you?" She laughed, still getting closer. "I've not remembered anything like that. I can't imagine such a thing."

"Surely you can. Just ask my family," he said as he kept inching away from her around the bed. "I'm far too impulsive. I go on and on about my travels. When I pronounce places I've been, I've been told I do it in a very superior manner. I eat more than my share at supper. I've taken the last biscuit on more than one—"

"I happen to find all those things quite charming," she said, fingering his cravat.

She had him now. He was against the adjoining door and there was no escape. He'd be kissing her in seconds. Unless... "What about Eloise?"

"El?" She stilled. "Well, I'm certain she can list your faults quite readily, but—"

"No, I mean her letters from you."

"Hers might be in London as well, mightn't they?"

Colin grappled for the doorknob behind him, forcing a laugh. "Not El. She lugs every book, letter, and pamphlet she owns everywhere she goes. Mama's starting to think her trunks will need their own carriage soon. Shall we ask her?"

"Right now?" she pouted.

"No time like the present." He practically fell in as he opened the door, his voice cracking. "Eloise?"

He rather expected El might be a little miffed at the interruption, but he didn't expect a scream, followed by a coughing fit, then a loud crack.

He stared as Eloise tossed something hastily outside while Benedict rubbed the head he'd just knocked on the bottom of the window.

"God, Colin! Don't do that. We thought you were Mama," Benedict said, fanning at the air around him.

"Well, what are you two doing, hanging out the..." He trailed off as he neared them, sniffing, then gasping. "Were you two smoking?"

Eloise rolled her eyes. "Don't put on that tone. It doesn't work on us. You're not Anthony."

"You should be glad I'm not," he said, crossing his arms. "If he'd caught the pair of you, you'd be off to a nunnery and Ben would be off to a... a..."

"Monastery?" Benedict supplied, still rubbing his head. "I don't think it would suit me, but it would be much quieter than this place, I'll say that."

"Anyhow, Colin's not telling," Eloise said lifting her chin. "If he does, I have years and years of his little sins that I can tell."

Colin scoffed. "There's no way I've misbehaved nearly as much as you!"

Eloise narrowed her eyes. "I wouldn't test me on that at the moment. Even aside from what I know, I have my suspicions that this week alone—"

"El," Benedict cut in. "I thought we agreed—"

She turned to him. "That was before he came in all puffed up like a parson and threatened to—"

"I didn't threaten anything," Colin shot back. "And what are you two conspiring about, apart from this nasty habit?"

Benedict sighed. "It's not conspiring. It's simply... discussing. Sometimes, El and I have little talks about our hopes and dreams and... and..."

"And the rest of you," Eloise added with a smirk.

"Is that so? So the pair of you just sit about, criticizing everyone?" Colin demanded.

"I wouldn't call it criticizing," Ben said.

"I certainly would," Eloise said.

"Oh, please don't fight," Penelope said behind him, grasping his shoulder now. "We've come for El's help, Colin. Surely you won't betray this one little habit that—"

"I think our mother would disagree," Colin grumbled.

"Our mother can have more to disagree on than that," Eloise said.

"Penelope's right," Ben said firmly. "I thought we all agreed, a long time ago, that what Mama doesn't know will not hurt us. Does the Sibling Code mean nothing to you?"

Eloise stared at the floor. Colin did, too. Ben was right. If he told Mama about El smoking, then El would very likely let loose about that tray of missing scones Colin blamed on Newton some months back, then Colin would have to retaliate by exposing Eloise's slightly more scandalous book collection she hid behind the others, then Eloise would finally expose the deep, dark secret of how the toad got into Mrs. Wilson's apron some years back, the one that caused a chain reaction leading to several shattered statues in the garden and... Where would it stop?

"So why don't the pair of you stop your sniping," Benedict went on, "and help Penelope with... whatever it is?"

Colin sighed and met El's eyes, silently agreeing to a detente. "We need your letters," he finally said. "Or... Penelope's letters to you."

El glanced from him to Penelope. "What? Why?"

"Because we think it might help her remember."

Eloise paled. "Aye, I... I've no doubt it will, but... Well, isn't that the same as telling her things that might overwhelm—"

"But it's not," Penelope rushed to her, "not really. You see, I've been reading Colin's letters all morning and... Well, I don't know if it's because my swelling has gone down or because the very act of reading means I can absorb things better, but I've not been overwhelmed. I don't feel even a little... whelmed."

Eloise turned a glare to Colin. "You've been giving her—"

"I didn't give them to her," he insisted. "She had them in her trunk. She read them on her own."

"I confess, there's not much to be learned, unless one wants to know a great deal about baklava." Penelope took her arm.

"Baklava?" Eloise echoed as Penelope pulled her into the other room.

"It's a pastry with nuts and honey."

Colin scoffed and followed them. "It's more than that. It has a history dating back to the beginning of the Ottoman—"

"How many times have I told you, Colin?" Eloise said distractedly, staring at the letters on the bed. "I do not want to hear about food that is not currently on my plate."

"If we could have my letters to you, then that would help immensely," Penelope said.

Eloise stiffened and turned to her. "I... I don't have your letters... here... at this time."

Colin narrowed his eyes. He could tell very well when El was fibbing.

Benedict entered behind them, nudging Colin. "You wrote all of these?"

"Over two tours," Colin mumbled. Yes, it did look like a lot, but not when spread over two years.

"I answered them at first, not the latter half, but earlier," Penelope supplied, "but those are all in London, you see."

Eloise leaned toward the letters on the bed, obviously reading closer... damn it! He'd seen her make her way through a book in less than a day. How fast might she chew through this relatively small feast laid out now? "Yes, I see... now."

"But my letters to you," Penelope went on, "might contain more useful information." She laughed. "As much as I enjoy love letters, they aren't known for their factual—"

"Love letters?" Eloise snatched one up.

"Those weren't written to you!" Colin tried to grab it back.

Eloise held it away. "They shouldn't have been written to Penelope either, at the time! Perhaps I should see just what is in these supposed love—"

"Is that how you want to play it?" Colin marched back into Eloise's room.

Eloise followed, of course. "What are you—"

"I know where you keep your secrets. If you have letters, they're under your bed," he said, pulling out a box and upending it on her covers, "along with all the pamphlets and the—"

"No, Colin!" El grasped at the newsletters as they spilled out, .

"Well, this is all just... Whistledown stuff." He stared at the familiar gossip sheets, at the picture at the top and the familiar fine print. He had never read them faithfully, outside of one particular issue.

"Yes, it's my own collection," Eloise said, trying to stuff them back into the box. "Nothing more than that." She seemed ashamed of them. Yes, she'd said she no longer cared for gossip last spring, but why did she seem almost... afraid of them seeing the light?

A few slipped from her grasp and Penelope skipped forward, plucking one up.

Eloise closed her eyes. "Pen, don't..."

Penelope read, her eyes obviously catching on a passage. "... whichever darling miss receives such high esteem, let us hope there is a suitor available of only the sharpest wit, lest his dry musings leave a young lady wilting like a parched rose." She shook her head. "So you did find one of my letters?"

Eloise shook her head, rushing forward to snatch the column away. "No, this is... this is not one of your letters."

"But I... wrote it, did I not?" Penelope shook her head again, even as she let Eloise propel her back to her room. "It seems so... strangely familiar."

"Lady Whistledown wrote it." Eloise put an arm around her shoulders, ushering her toward the closet. "Perhaps you read it and... remembered it very well."

"Yes. Perhaps," Penelope echoed, though she sounded doubtful.

"You know what I think?" Eloise suggested, her voice unnaturally high. "I think everyone is out having fun in the snow without us!" She pulled a pair of boots from the closet and pushed them into Penelope's arms. "I think being stuck inside with these dreary old letters is bad for the... the constitution! Isn't that right, Ben?"

Benedict stared, wide-eyed as Eloise then pushed Penelope herself into Benedict's arms.

"You two should join the others," Eloise said, shoving them both toward the door. "Fresh air is precisely what a... a growing mind needs."

Penelope protested, "But Colin insisted he'd protect me on any sledding-related—"

"I'm certain Ben will protect you just as vigilantly," Eloise said, shoving them both out the door now. "I daresay you'll be in better hands than with Colin," she finished, closing the door.

Colin wanted to protest as well now. "Here now, if anyone should be protecting Penelope—"

"Oh, shut up!" She said this just before punching him in the stomach.

"Why?" Colin wheezed.

"For many reasons," Eloise said, before punching him yet again.