Colin hadn't meant to be in this part of the house. In fact, he'd told himself quite firmly that the southeast wing, the girls' wing, was the absolute last place he should be.

Penelope's kiss landing on his cheek should have been a proper and innocent end to the night, like a sweet little dessert, but instead it felt like... like an unfinished meal to him.

And Colin was always one to clean his plate.

Just after that, when he put himself behind his door — after a very awkward dash up the stairs and a determined stride down the opposite hall to the one that housed Penelope — his hand had immediately gone to the fall of his breeches but dared not delve inside because he knew, whatever he told himself, where his thoughts would wander.

It was bad enough that he had spent the better part of the night with his eyes on her decolletage. He might have tried to tell himself that it was out of concern, but who was he fooling? He really wasn't clever enough to fool anyone, not even himself.

Penelope's breasts had been a hotly debated, yet also a studiously avoided, topic within his own mind for longer than he'd like to admit. Glancing at them and then, later, thinking of them, felt like the worst sort of betrayal...

On one hand, he told himself he was only a weak-willed young man who had never seen an unclothed breast outside of paintings or statues and it was only natural to imagine breasts, even those of respectable young debutantes, in times when he was alone and in need of... resolution.

But not Penelope! Never Penelope! Penelope's breasts — Penelope, herself, he corrected — had always seemed too important to be used in such a way. He'd instead pictured a hundred different imaginary pairs of breasts, all lovely and desirable and begging for his attention, but he knew now that none of those imaginings would satisfy him now. He'd seen too much.

Between her too-tight carriage dress and her open robe... God, he could almost imagine the shape of her now.

He'd also felt too much.

As she leaned into him so closely, as her lips met his cheek... Really, it had only been for that bare second but, good God, her breasts had felt good pressing against his chest.

His palms had itched to cup them, but he'd forced his hands to remain at his sides — and not only because nearly his entire family had been staring at them, but because Penelope – he had to remind himself yet again – was far too important to be thought of in such a way.

He'd paced his room, trying to keep his hands at his sides even now, rather than on himself. He'd told Bamber, his valet, not to wait up, so at least there was no one else to witness his near depravity, picturing new and better endings to that moment under the mistletoe. One involved him scooping her up and taking her away from the prying eyes of his family and dropping her onto his very empty bed, so thoughtfully turned down for sleep, but he doubted they'd be sleeping.

Even though they should be. He should just sleep, dash it. Hadn't he done little enough of that these last days? Instead, he'd spent a good five minutes staring balefully at his bed before he'd decided that he certainly could not sleep in his condition.

And Penelope wasn't the only unfinished meal on his plate.

Some men visited brothels, some frequented gaming hells, some followed horse races. Colin Bridgerton had food.

Food had always been his means of solace and consolation, also celebration. It was his most constant and faithfully followed hobby. And he'd been neglecting it of late.

So Colin took himself to the kitchens, relieved to find them empty, with the staff abed after their own Christmas Eve festivities.

In London, Mrs. O'Hara might turn a blind eye to him raiding the larder or the pantry at night, but he wasn't sure if Chef Antonin would be so forgiving, so he tried to stay extremely quiet as he piled his plate. Still, he must not have been silent enough as he found the hall boy stumbling in from his cot, rubbing his eyes.

"Never mind me, Kenneth," Colin said. "I just came down for some warm milk to help me sleep..."

Kenneth's eyes widened at the repast Colin was laying out for himself

"...also cold pheasant and potatoes and some brussels sprouts and some biscuits." Colin shrugged. "Care for anything?" Though the staff were never underfed, it wouldn't be the first time the boy had joined him in a midnight feast.

"Oh, I had more than my fill tonight," Kenneth said, patting his belly with a large yawn. "But if you need anythin..."

"Come now," Colin waved him off as he lit the stove. "You know by now I can warm my own milk even if the rest of my siblings still haven't mastered it. Off to your cot with you. No one shall know I was here. I promise."

Colin had long since learned to avail himself of the kitchen's bounty at all hours as needed. One didn't enjoy food as much as he did without knowing a bit more about how to procure it without help, he thought, sighing as he dunked one last bit of biscuit in his now-cooled mug of milk before drinking it down. He even cleaned his own dishes, leaving no trace of his presence... except perhaps the mysterious absence of certain foods. Really, after what Benedict and Anthony had said, Chef Antonin might find that more comforting than not.

He certainly felt comforted after his hearty little feast. Surely, he would sleep well now without any errant thoughts of certain forbidden red-headed...

He stilled at the top of the stairs, just shy of turning down the boys' hall, a clattering noise from the girls' hall setting him on edge. It was likely Eloise. The last he'd seen of her, when he'd stopped and hid on his way to the kitchen, Benedict had been coaxing her up the stairs while she protested she was not tired in the least... just before she tried to lay herself to bed on the landing. Luckily, Benedict had gotten her up and over the last steps without needing his help.

But she might have woke herself up by now and made a mess. Yes. He should look in on Eloise and, while he was there... While he was sure Penelope was sleeping and, hence, no danger to herself or to him, it was her first night alone and surely it wouldn't hurt to glance in on her as well, for just a moment.

As he neared the hall, there was yet more noise. It wasn't coming from Fran or Hyacinth's rooms on the left and, as he opened the first door on the right, it wasn't coming from Eloise's room either as he saw — or heard, rather — nothing but loud snores as he opened her door. El was sprawled across her bed sideways, on her stomach and still in her dress. There seemed to have been some effort to remove her shoes and roll her blankets over her, she was kicking them off, even now. He did consider bundling her properly, but then he heard a rather loud scraping sound... and not in this room.

He closed Eloise's door and approached the next, holding his candle up. It had once been Daphne's room, but since Daphne's marriage, she'd taken a larger room in the northwest wing to accommodate Simon and, later, the children. The last time Penelope visited, this room had been hers... even if his mother laughed and said she shouldn't bother, that Pen ended up in Eloise's bed more often than not. That wasn't the case tonight.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob. He'd become quite familiar with the room by now, but that was when she was asleep. Now that she was awake, it felt intrusive to just... enter her room unbidden.

He closed his fist, now vacillating on whether to knock. Pen was always far too polite. She'd surely let him in even if she didn't wish to. And what if she was resting? What if he only imagined those noises because he couldn't seem to stay away from her. After days at her side, it felt almost unnatural not to be so, if only for a moment, for a glimpse...

His decision was made when he heard another loud, scraping noise which was far too loud to be imagined. It could be the fireplace collapsing. It could be a tree falling against the house. It could be her window being pried open from the outside by particularly ambitious highwaymen and brigands.

It could also be, he realized as he opened the door, Penelope attempting to drag a screen away from the fireplace. He stared at her dumbly with the bottom half of her nightgown raised up and wrapped around her fist, baring her legs... even more so when she fell back and landed on the carpet.

He'd been rather distracted by her admittedly plump and shapely calves — enough that he definitely missed whatever she had been saying and very nearly missed the fireplace screen tipping in her direction.

He rushed forward and caught it, hissing as the hot iron of it met his palm, but still righted it quickly.

"Oh, Colin!" Penelope scrambled to her knees, crawling forward to pull his hand away. "What on earth are you doing to yourself?"

"I could ask the same of you," he muttered, staring around. Between the mess on the carpet, near the dressing table, and the now-sooty skirt of her nightgown, he wasn't sure some brigands hadn't blown through the room.

"You see, I was attempting to light a candle and... certain things went wrong," she said with a sigh. "But never mind that. Is your hand awfully hurt?"

"Well, I've had..." He'd been about to say he'd had worse, but then she took his hand in hers.

"You poor thing," she said, running her fingers over his palm.

He found himself nodding like an idiot. "Yes. Yes, it's... quite painful," he breathed. It was true. Not of the hand, but of other parts. Penelope Featherington, kneeling before him, cooing and caressing his hand, brought his previous affliction raging back.

"I truly didn't mean to wake you, nor injure you," she said sheepishly. "I shall take better care in the..."

"You didn't wake me, though I did hear you down the hall. It's a wonder no one else did," he realized quickly, his eyes widening. Anthony was in the other wing, but he could only imagine his thoughts coming upon this scene. He'd have a respectable old woman from the village guarding Penelope's door every night! He quickly grasped her hand, pulling her up.

"Down the hall?" She frowned, her head turning to the adjoining room's door. "I thought you must be in the next room."

"Oh, no. That's Eloise there. I shouldn't wonder that you aren't asleep, the way she snores. No, I'm in the northwest hall. All the boys are. Mother likes to keep us boys at a distance from the girls. Make it just a little harder for us to put flour buckets over their doors or slugs in their hair." He laughed nervously, not quite ready to release her hand.

Yet she pulled it away, looking rather crestfallen. "Oh, I'd thought... But of course, I suppose married couples don't always prefer to have adjoining rooms."

Oh, God, yes! They were married... at least, in her eyes. With all his self-chastising efforts to avoid thoughts of her, he'd nearly forgot. He didn't like the look in her eyes. "No. It's not like... You see..."

She shook her head. "No. It's not... I completely understand. I don't know much about married life, but I do have a certain understanding that most couples prefer to keep things separate and keep to their own—"

"They certainly do not," he said, rather annoyed she thought that.

"Yes, but this is your childhood home and... Well, of course you'd prefer your own room without your wife barging in on you at all hours for every little—"

"My wife can barge in all she likes," he broke in hotly, not even sure why he was so irritated, except that he was. "I'd not want the sort of marriage where I'm across the house from my wife!"

"Oh!" She stared up at him, tilting her head. "Then... Why?"

"It was... was..." God, why had he said all that? He knew why, really. His parents didn't have that sort of marriage and neither would he, damn it! He'd never enter into something like that. He couldn't stand her having some idea that their marriage was some cold, separate sort of arrangement where they avoided each other at all costs.

But, as he now reminded himself, their marriage was not, in fact, real.

Still, she didn't know that and he couldn't abide the thought that she thought he wished to be away from her. Hadn't Ben warned him about this, too? Why hadn't he thought about it then? Why hadn't he thought upon some reasonable explanation that did not have her staring at him with hurt in her eyes?

Regarding that, he also knew why. It's because he was too preoccupied with his selfish, lustful thoughts to consider anything else.

"It was... doctor's orders," he said, finally filling the silence. "You see, I snore. Terribly. Worse than Eloise."

"Oh, I shouldn't mind that so—"

"I also flail about and thrash and roll and take all the covers and... You know, until your head has healed, it would be far too dangerous for you. I don't know how you didn't knock your head before this," he finished on a mutter, letting out an awkward laugh.

"Still, I wouldn't mind the company," she said, with a breathless sort of giggle.

God, how he wished she wouldn't say things like that.

"Especially when it's so hard to sleep," she added.

"Yes, I can see that," he said, glancing around. "You hold this." He handed her his candle and began picking up the mess.

"Oh, I should clean it up. It's my own—"

"It's nothing," he said. "I'll not have you falling again. Allow me."

"It was just so dark and, apparently, I'm incapable of lighting my own candle and—"

"That's no wonder. This fire's died down." He finished tidying up the spills, then turned his attention to the fire, pulling off his cravat and putting it over his hand before pulling the screen back.

"Oh, no. You'll soil it," Penelope said.

"Don't worry. Eloise has already wiped her nose on it tonight, so it can't get much worse," he said, putting another two logs on her fire. "Now... candles." He lit a spill, then picked up the candelabra from the dressing table that she must have knocked over. "Is this enough? Did you want to read or..."

"No. I've no books."

"I can get you some if you—"

"Nay, I've no need. I only wanted... Well... It's silly," she said, staring down at the lone candle in her hand.

"I'm sure it's not."

"Well, I feel like it is now that I've made all this fuss and brought you all the way down the hall."

"I'm precisely where I want to be," he said, quite sincerely.

She stared at him a moment, then dipped her head. "I wanted to look in the mirror. You see, somehow I've forgotten what I look like."

"That's not silly at all! Of course, if you don't know what you look like, then—"

"It does feel silly. I just kept forgetting to look before, but now..." She started for the dressing table, then stopped herself. "Well, goodness! Now, it feels strange to look. I don't even know what to expect."

He laughed. "I can tell you there's nothing to be afraid of. You're quite..." Now he was feeling strange. Her robe wasn't only unbuttoned now, it was nowhere to be found, and he slid his eyes away from her bodice to her skirt. "I mean, I should tell you, there's usually not soot stains on your nightgown or your hands or... your face," he finished, resolutely keeping his eyes above her neck. "And that bump on the side of your head is not always there." He laughed slightly, stupidly. God, he needed to go back to his room!

"You've got a bit of soot on you as well," she said, also laughing awkwardly.

"That's quite normal for me. Though usually, my stains involve food." He glanced down at his shirt, glad of the distraction. He had ended up a bit sooty after building up the fire. "Thank goodness, I'd removed my jacket and waistcoat or Bamber — my valet, that is — would have my head. Soot is a bit harder to remove from clothes than... jam and mustard and the like."

"I hope no one is too cross with me over this," she said, lifting up the skirt of her nightgown and examining the stain... just a little... just enough that, while he couldn't see her leg, he could see her small, bare feet and her trim little ankles and...

"So... a mirror," he said loudly.

"Yes," she breathed out, starting to the dressing table again. "Finally, I can—"

He took her arm. "No, that one's too small. You should see yourself in full." He pulled her to the wardrobe and opened the door, nudging her in front of it as he held his candelabra aloft. "There now. There you are." He expected a gasp of recognition then, perhaps, a smile.

But she only frowned, tilting her head. "There I am."

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

Penelope wasn't quite sure what she was expecting. It's not like she was a fright, though there was a bit of soot on her cheek and her nightgown, it was only...

"Is something the matter?" Colin prodded, looking quite confused. "Is the bump worse than you imagined?"

"No, I can hardly see it with all this... hair." She was rather grateful for that, at least. "I was just thinking there might be... more to me." She couldn't think how to explain it, but everyone in this house — even the servants, from what she'd seen — was so very lovely to look at and, having married into such a family, she anticipated...

"While I will say you aren't the tallest person in this house, I don't see anything wrong with that." Colin lifted his chin slightly, resting it just over the top of her head. "Hmm. Just as I thought. Perfect chin resting height," he said with a laugh.

"Oh, no. I suspected that, what with having to look up at simply everyone else." Penelope tried to laugh as well, but she couldn't quite manage it. "I am... perfectly content with my height," she said, "and it's not as if I could change it."

"Well, you'd better not," he warned playfully. "You've always made me feel quite massive and manly and I should not like to lose that."

She forced a smile. "Surely, you shall not. But it is not my height that's so..."

"So what?" He glanced over her shoulder, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

"Tis nothing." This was what she looked like. And it would have to do. But it was a bit less than what she'd imagined. Not that she'd even had a clear picture. But after looking at Daphne and her sweet smile and graceful demeanor, and Eloise with her lovely, long neck, and Kate with her large, expressive eyes, and Edwina with her heart-shaped face and perfect pout and, even Violet and Lady Mary were quite stunning... "I just might have expected... more than this," she finished, still not quite sure what she meant to say.

She looked well enough. There was nothing to complain about, except possibly her hips and her arms, where she could spy freckles, even in this light and, she wasn't sure why, but something told her those were a crime in and of themselves and actually her own fault.

Do you wish to appear like a befreckled beggar spending all day in the sun?

The words came to her then, in an annoyed voice, as if repeating some oft-said warning. They echoed in her head so loudly, she nearly didn't hear what Colin said next.

"More than what?" Colin drew back now, looking rather irritated. "You're just not looking properly, silly." He huffed and put his candelabra on top of the wardrobe, moving behind her and turning her more fully to face the mirror, one hand gripping her shoulder and the other moving to adjust the candle in her own hand. "Have you even seen your eyes?"

"Oh, yes. They're... blue. So are yours, but a much lighter—"

"Mine aren't blue the way yours are blue," he scoffed, his arm coming around her waist and taking the candle from her hand now and moving it higher, his arm brushing her side. "Aye, do you see now? They're as blue as the Sardinian sea."

"Are they? How nice." She shook her head. "I actually don't know what that looks like."

"Trust me, it's the best possible blue and your hair is... Well, I won't put the candle too close, but it's almost the exact shade of a desert sunset."

"I don't quite know what that looks like either."

"Well, I'm the world traveler in these parts," he lifted his chin, "so you should trust me on that.."

"Are you? A world traveler?"

"Well... Part of the world. Not as much as I'd like. But I'll see it all as I go."

"Shall I see it with you?"

He was silent a moment. "I... I certainly wouldn't mind if... I mean, there's... At the moment, we don't know if..."

"I'm asking too many questions, aren't I?" She sighed. "I just feel so... so hungry to know." She laughed slightly. "I suppose desert sunsets must be very messy affairs judging by all this." She picked up a hank of hair, frowning at it. "But Mrs. Harris says it's to be unbound until my wound has healed."

"I quite like it that way." He drew back, his shaky breath moving her hair. "And your lips are as... as full and soft and pink as a raspberry... blancmange," he finished on a groan, as if the word somehow pained him.

"I... I do know what that looks like." Her breath was a bit shaky, too, the candle's flame flickering before her. "You see all that? In me?" It almost didn't matter that she didn't.

"I see more than that," he said, his other hand now sliding toward the back of her neck, brushing her hair aside. "Then there's all this... clear, soft skin."

She let out a harsh breath now. Her candle's flame flickering again, threatening to go out. No matter. She'd closed her eyes anyhow at the feel of his breath upon her — apparently, clear and soft — skin, then the brush of his fingers as they stole around to the front of her neck, so gently, cradling it between his thumb and forefinger.

"Pen... Good God, what more do you expect?"

She opened her eyes then, seeing his head bending toward her, his lips nearly meeting the exposed skin between her neck and shoulder. "No," she breathed.

He stilled, his eyes darting to hers in the mirror, wide and apologetic, his hand falling from her neck. "Yes, of course not. God, Pen. I'm sorry. I... I didn't mean..."

She didn't say anything more. She used what breath she had to blow out the candle, then took it from his hand, letting it drop to the floor before she turned, gripping his neck in both hands... his bare neck, warm under her fingers, supple yet corded with muscle, straining in her hands as she grasped it. It was a very strong neck, not even bending as she used it to pull herself upward.

She needed to feel his lips on her lips, first and foremost. After that, she might like to feel them elsewhere, perhaps everywhere. But after missing that golden opportunity to feel them before, she would not be so remiss now.

She pressed her lips against his, glorying in the feel of them, the softness of them, yet with that hint of coarse hair around them, tickling her skin and making it sing. The sensation was almost unbearably sweet as she moved her lips against his, tasting his ... unmoving lips, she suddenly realized.

She stilled, then, loosening her grip about his neck and feeling herself sliding down, her lips leaving his, trailing along his stubbled chin for a delicious moment before she found reality again.

She stared at his chest, wondering what had come over her. Yes, she might have thought he meant to kiss her shoulder before, but perhaps that was a mistake. In fact, hadn't he said he didn't mean...

Really, she hadn't let him finish. He might have begun to say that he didn't mean to kiss her at all. Perhaps he was just tired. Hadn't Violet said he'd not slept in a proper bed for days? He might have been falling toward her in exhaustion.

She stared at the open neck of his shirt, at the hair curling on his chest, entranced by it. How she wished to touch it. Yet she felt embarrassed by the impulse now. She'd had it all so wrong.

"I'm sorry," she began, her voice halting. "I... I thought it might be nice to kiss you earlier, with the mistletoe. Then I realized that I... I don't quite remember our first kiss and it felt strange to be kissing you then, with everyone looking. So I thought I might kiss you now. I even thought you might also wish..." She shook her head, feeling like a fool. "It's rather presumptuous of me as I don't know if we're the sort of couple who kiss. I mean, we don't even share a bed, so it follows that we might not—"

She didn't get to say more.

Colin gripped her neck then, tilting her head upwards, meeting her lips with a muffled moan.

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

He simply couldn't stand it anymore. Her blushes, her sighs, her nervous little laughs, her ridiculous ideas that she was anything less than achingly, utterly, soul-stirringly lovely because she was.

He didn't know how... He didn't know when... But suddenly...

No.

This wasn't sudden.

He actually hadn't given much thought to the hows and whys of the very undeniable attraction to Penelope Featherington that he was now suffering, but he knew quite well that it wasn't some bolt out of the blue.

Now, as he slid one hand further into her hair and the other around her waist, he knew that this had been coming upon him for years.

It might have started with a fleeting thought that he enjoyed making her laugh, then perhaps that he was also quite keen on seeing her smile, and then perhaps that the little tilt of her lips when she did smile was quite intriguing, and her full lower lip was also rather nice to look at, but now... God, her lips were full, and every bit as soft against his as he'd imagined they might be in these last dreadful days.

Yes, he'd stared at her lips, even before she woke. It was hard to help, as he'd tilted broth and tea and water past them, dabbed them with a napkin, rubbed salve into them to keep them from going dry. And though most of his thoughts were quite respectable and involved the care of said lips, they had sometimes teetered into territories that had him glad to be relieved of his duties before he did something ridiculous... like what he was doing now.

Not that he wanted to stop. He'd probably be unable to stop even if his entire family came marching in... and it was never a guarantee, even at this time of night, that they wouldn't. Hell, Anthony could be shouting in his ear about all the impropriety he was engaging in at the moment, but he'd be incapable of releasing her.

It was no bloody wonder he'd not kissed any girl before this moment. Why should he have bothered when no one else fit him so well? Every way he tilted his head, every way he pressed his lips to hers, felt... right, rather like she was a puzzle piece he had been seeking all this time.

Even their difference in height suited him as he pulled her closer, one hand still upon her neck and the other stealing down her back, bending his head over hers and cradling her smaller body into his almost as if shielding her from everything thing else in the world outside of this perfect kiss.

He was reeling with it, his head growing fuzzy until he remembered that he hadn't breathed in what felt like an age. He drew back slightly, just a little, just enough to draw breath before he seized her lips again, finally remembering that he could, in fact, breathe through his nose.

That changed everything. He kissed her harder, leaving no space between their lips or their bodies. He did wonder, for the barest hint of a second, if he was suffocating her and, perhaps, Penelope hadn't realized that noses also breathed, but then she was grasping his shoulders so hard that he couldn't pull away if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. If it were up to him alone, he'd spend hours here.

That swollen lower lip of hers was especially fascinating. In his eagerness, he might have bit it, just a little and, at her gasp, he soothed it with his tongue without thinking.

Then stars exploded behind his eyelids.

He knew that kissing could also involve tongues. Back at Eton, the lads had always bragged quite a lot about how many girls had let them put their tongues in their mouths, and Colin might have nodded along, pretending that he definitely also greatly enjoyed that and all the many, probably only half-true, other acts his friends had boasted of, though he'd thought it a rather odd thing to brag about.

But then — God, then — her tongue touched his. He'd never thought it would feel like this, that it would cause tingles to race all over his body and, especially, everywhere they touched. She tasted like chocolate and cream. Perhaps that was just from the éclair, but he couldn't help thinking he'd find her delicious, whatever she'd eaten.

The feel of her, the way her hands were now sliding into his hair, the way she grew soft and languid against him even as his arms gripped her harder... All of it was sweet and scorching and dizzying. He felt as if he could no longer keep himself upright. He stumbled them both toward the wardrobe, hitting the still-open mirrored door. He felt it groan as he pressed her against it. He really wasn't concerned. The bloody thing could break. The whole house could come tumbling down, for all he cared.

Still, he did try to take pains to cradle her head, sliding his hand up from her neck to...

"Ahhh!" She gasped against his mouth, and not in the good way she had before.

He drew back, pulling his hand from her hair, realizing he'd touched her wound. He certainly did care about that. "Pen, did I hurt you?"

"Not much," she panted, her eyes wide on his. "Surely, we shouldn't stop just for that."

He hung his head, pressing his forehead to hers. "I think we should," he groaned mournfully. God knew he didn't want to, but...

"But why?" She pressed up against him, gripping his neck and pulling herself up to meet his lips again.

Oh, she's dangerous...

"Because we need our rest," he said against her lips.

"Then let's go to bed," she cooed, her body taking a slow slide down his, her fingers sliding into the neck of his shirt, caressing the hair on his chest.

He shuddered. "Yes, you to yours and me to mine." He took her hands from his chest, holding them between his own as he backed away.

"But Colin..."

"You'll never get any rest with me in your bed and me with all my... my tossing about."

"Somehow, I don't think I'd mind some tossing about," she said softly, her eyes dark and wide, "not with you."

God! She didn't even know what she was saying. He might not know all there was to know about what went on in beds between healthy young men and soft, supple young women, but he'd heard enough to know that "tossing about" was one very tempting way of putting it.

"But we shouldn't. We really shouldn't," he insisted. "It would be so... detrimental to your healing." He folded her hands together and patted her hands before letting them go. "So I shall go and you shall sleep and I shall... go."

She stared at him as he backed away, her hands folded and her eyes confused. Still, she sighed and nodded, giving him a smile. "I... I understand. Pleasant dreams, Colin."

He probably should say it back, but he hadn't the strength for it. So he only wheezed out his thanks before putting himself on the other side of her door. He wasn't sure if her wishing him "pleasant dreams" was a blessing or a curse. He knew what his dreams would be filled with. And while there was nothing unpleasant about it, he also knew he shouldn't be dreaming of it, shouldn't even be thinking of it... of her.

Yet, the moment he found himself in his room, it was hard to help. He stumbled through his dark room and tossed himself on his bed, his hand over his eyes, as if willing himself not to see her. But closing his eyes hardly helped. She was all he could see, hear... even the feel of her still lingered.

He gave in, unbuttoning the falls of his breeches and freeing himself, tugging and pulling at his already hard cock, knowing it wouldn't take much.

Just the memory of the feel of her against him, the taste of her lips, the feel of her tongue against his, the slide of her body, her little moans and sighs, even the memory of her wide, possibly hungry, eyes as he left the room... Had he been imagining that? Could she want him even a tenth as much as he wanted her? That didn't even seem possible. She was an innocent... untouched... except by him... tonight... Oh, God!

It was all too much to be borne. It was seconds, not even a half-minute, before he was spilling over his hand, panting in the dark, then groaning as he cleaned himself up, pulling off his shirt to wipe away the worst of it before tossing it to the floor.

He pulled his duvet over himself, boneless and exhausted, yet groaning with guilt.

He was an absolute degenerate.

Not so much for touching himself. Though there had been some guilt about that sort of thing when it started. The headmasters at Eton distributed yearly pamphlets railing against the sins of onanism, defiling oneself, the sin of youth, the secret venery, the deluded and solitary vice. They had many names for it, none of them complimentary, and always accompanied by warnings of its attendant consequences. Those were everything from weakness and apathy to imbecility, barrenness, and even consumption.

Luckily for him, he had two older brothers who assured him — in a conversation that was both extremely embarrassing and awkward, yet informative — that it was rather more unhealthy for a young man not to relieve himself when the need arose. Until he was old enough to frequent brothels, they said, a young man did what he must.

As Colin still found little to tempt him at the brothels, he'd been doing what he must for a good eight years. But he usually did it with paintings in mind, sculptures, certain naughty illustrations and, if certain people he knew came to mind, they were quickly pushed away. Yet he hadn't done that tonight. He hadn't even tried.

Penelope Featherington was a respectable young woman who he admired... perhaps a bit more than was proper, these days. And he would not — would absolutely not — use the fact that she thought him her husband to take further advantage of her.

There would be no more kissing. There would be no more caressing. There would be no more gazing at certain parts of her, even while telling himself he was doing it in a protective manner, because he would obviously only use it as fodder for moments like this.

Pleasant dreams, Colin.

God, he hoped not.

Exhaustion crept over him, even as he tried to shove it away. Yet he couldn't help it. After days of fitful bouts of rest, most of it found in a chair, he found himself sinking into his bed and sliding into sleep. He shouldn't sleep. He didn't deserve to lay here, belly full and body sated. He didn't deserve to dream pleasant Penelope-filled dreams.

But he did it anyway.