Colin decided, quite magnanimously, that he was not going to pick bones about Penelope's clothing nor her spending. There were far more important things to argue about. And they still had nearly a third of the journey left.

He was determined that, by the time they reached Aubrey Hall, they would have that very good fight and be done with this nonsense. And he was not going to achieve that by squabbling over little things now. They would eat, they would find comfort and... joy, he supposed. Twas the season, after all. And then he would fight their way back to being as they were, with or without her participation.

Well, he'd rather she'd fight as well or, ideally, just acquiesce so no one had to fight, just somehow become the Pen he knew again.

Still, if he wanted her to be the Pen he knew again, rather than this stranger who wore gowns that barely contained her and spoke to him tartly while waving bulging reticules around, then he could also attempt to be, he decided as he returned to the table, the Colin he knew again. The one that did not stare at her, as he was doing now, in way that was... not lecherous. Never that. He was simply concerned, he amended as he glanced around. The place was filling up and her cloak was still on the back of her chair and not on her shoulders where it belonged.

This was far too much flesh to display in a public house. An innocent like Pen must not realize it. He growled under his breath, still determined to save the fight for later, yet thinking that a simple suggestion would be not only advisable but necessary. But how was he to tell the poor girl without embarrassing her?

He stared at the wall above her head. "Hadn't you best keep your cloak on? It's rather cold."

"We are directly by the fire," she said, calm as she pleased.

So they were. Damn it. "Still, I'm certain there's a draft," he tried.

"Then you should keep your coat on."

"It's not that much of a draft," he muttered. He was tempted to do it, if only to make a point, but he would surely be boiling this close to the fire. He stood and removed it as well as his gloves, surreptitiously glancing around, certain the others were gawking at such a...

Or perhaps not. Some of the men, and the few women scattered about, glanced their way briefly at his movement, and while some of their eyes might have landed on Pen, they didn't linger with gaping jaws as he was expecting. Was he the only one?

He had to admit that, glancing over what ladies there were in the dining room, their necklines were no higher. But it was different on Pen.

Wasn't it?

He sighed as he sat across from her again, hoping he'd feel better when the food came and he had something else to look at, when he was distracted by the look upon her face. It was the same dazed stare she'd worn this morning. "What's the matter?"

Her eyes shot up to his. "Nothing at all."

"Liar," he chuckled.

"What? I wasn't—"

"You must be faint from hunger. You didn't eat a thing in the carriage."

"Oh! Yes," she agreed eagerly. "That is the... matter," she finished, her voice trailing off, her eyes fixed upon his sleeves.

She'd stared at his shirt in the carriage as well. He found himself pulling at his cuffs sheepishly. People might more likely stare at him. "I'm afraid I'm a bit wrinkled. I'm sure you've never seen me so disheveled."

"No, you look perfectly... sheveled." She made a face. "That's not a word, is it?" She stared at her lap and shook her head, giggling.

Colin quite liked the sound of it. It had been so long. "I don't believe it is, Pen."

"I only mean that you look thick enough." She looked up, her eyes wide. "I mean... er... What's the word... I mean... You look thi... No..."

"No. That's fair." He grinned and shrugged. "My brothers and sisters call me thick every chance they get."

She laughed, glancing down again, "Well, you really should stop giving them opportunities, Colin."

He laughed as well. She'd never teased him, not that he remembered. She'd always been too kind for even that. But he didn't mind it. It felt nice and, as long as she was smiling, so nearly like before.

Then he remembered that nothing was like before and she still hadn't told him why.

He told himself not to do it. It was too soon. Hadn't he decided that after lunch was the best possible time for that good fight? She would be sated then, perhaps content, perhaps less likely to get angrier with him. But they were in a public place right, so the chances of her storming off seemed unlikely. Here she was, laughing and smiling and calling him by his name again. If he was going to ruin it anyhow...

"So I am 'Colin' again? Does this mean you've stopped being angry with me?"

Penelope glanced sharply up at him, her laughter drying up with a quickness. "I'm not angry with you."

He lifted a brow. "Oh, yes, you are."

"I just told you I am not."

"Then why did you stop answering my letters?"

"Anythin' to drink, luvs?" A harried woman asked, stopping at their table.

Colin gave Pen a stare that told her this wasn't over before turning to smile up at the barmaid. "Yes, I'd like an ale and I think my companion would like a pot of—"

"I'd like a glass of Madeira, please," Penelope said.

He frowned. "Are you sure you wouldn't like tea or a glass of lemonade?"

"I think I know what I would like to drink," she said stiffly before smiling up at the woman. "Could you tell me where the ladies' retiring room is, please?"

"Back this way," the woman supplied. "You can follow me if you like."

"Thank you," she breathed, doing so with alacrity.

Colin sat back. Let her make her little escape. He could wait... and wait... and wait. He'd actually finished his tankard of ale and was given another before she returned.

"Well, this seems to be a popular place to dine," she said, blithely unfolding her napkin and placing it in her lap. "Was it the lamb stew that you said was particularly nice?"

"Yes. Definitely the lamb stew. And the brown bread here is very good." He leaned forward. "And the pork roast is not bad either. And why haven't you answered my letters?"

She glanced up at him, her eyes wide for a moment before she seemed to school her expression back into one more placid, then took a long sip, perhaps more rightly a gulp, from her glass before she spoke. "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."

"But it wasn't like—"

"And while I do realize you meant nothing by it," she said, holding up a hand, "and as much as I have enjoyed our written intimacy in the past, 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 finished, smiling again before taking up her glass and indulging in another long sip.

He stared at her, wondering if she'd rehearsed that in the retiring room. It certainly sounded like she had. It also sounded quite reasonable. And maybe every damned word of it was true.

But that wasn't the reason she'd stopped writing to him... even as much as he'd hoped it was. By now, nothing could convince him that Penelope hadn't been quite obviously fuming with him since the moment she saw him.

"So you suddenly decided," he began with all the nonchalance he could muster, "that writing to your oldest friend is suddenly improper."

"This isn't sudden." She slid her eyes to his, frowning. "And you're not my oldest friend."

"Yes, I am."

"Eloise is my—"

"I met you first. It wasn't El you knocked into that puddle of mud."

"I didn't knock you."

"Very well," he said, waving a hand, "your bonnet did. The material point is that I've known you longer by several minutes." He knew it well. He liked to remind El of it whenever she complained of him talking poor Penelope's ear off.

"Doesn't make it any less improper," she muttered. "Mother certainly didn't approve."

"But did she forbid you to write to me?" How he wished she would say that was it, that was the reason.

She opened her mouth, but then stopped herself, shaking her head. "She did not."

At least she was partially honest.

"But she'd seen that there were letters before," she went on. "And she certainly thinks I should not have been writing to you and I now agree."

"But why?"

"Because single young ladies do not write to unattached—"

"So you said. But when has that ever bothered you before? Why stop now?"

"I stopped long before now."

"So I noticed," he grumbled. "But you still refuse to say why."

"I did," she said abruptly, "twice now."

"And I don't believe you," he hissed. "I don't believe you give a fig for propriety. I think you're angry with me."

"I told you I am not and for you to assume I am, based on a few unanswered letters, is ridiculous."

"It's ridiculous? If my family had stopped answering me—"

"Well, I'm not your family."

"You may as well be. The only difference is that my sisters would tell me the truth, even if it was that I was a thick-headed dolt. They wouldn't torture me with this blasted uncertainty—"

"Sorry 'bout the wait, luvs." The Barmaid appeared. "Quite a lot o' travelers today. All goin' home for Christmas." She smiled at Colin. "Where are you and the missus bound?"

Colin drew back slightly, droning, "Me and the missus... We are not..."

The woman's eyes widened. "I apologize. I only assumed, with all the bickerin..."

"Is that what you thought?" Penelope laughed, gesturing to Colin. "Oh, no. Oh, Brother! You should see the horrified look on your face!" She glanced up at the barmaid. "I am not his wife. I am his sister." She pinned Colin with a stare. "That is what I am — all I am — to him. And we would like the lamb stew and the brown bread. Wouldn't we, Brother?"

He shuddered. Her being called his "missus" was strange, but her calling him "Brother" felt somehow much, much worse. "Yes. Stew. Bread," he agreed dully before getting his wits back. "And another ale. Thank you."

"Also another Madeira," Pen put in, tipping back her glass, then handing it to the barmaid, who was looking askance at both of them before she turned away.

He didn't blame her. Pen was acting very strange. He waited till the woman walked away before hissing, "Why would you say that?"

"Because I wanted another glass."

"Not that. The 'Oh, Brother!' nonsense."

"You just said I may as well be family. Would you rather she keep thinking I was your wife?" She widened her eyes. "That way lies madness. I'm sure you'd agree."

He peered at her closely, something tickling at the back of his mind. Maybe it was just her half-truths from before. He drank down the last of his ale, barely tasting it, before he muttered, "It was nine, actually."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You claimed it was a few unanswered letters," he said accusingly, " but it was nine unanswered letters. There were five from my time in Italy, two when I stayed at Aubrey Hall to visit with Kate and Anthony on their return from India, one when I'd arrived in Athens, then a last from Cyprus before I finally realized you would never reply. If you'd written someone nine letters with no reply, wouldn't you think they were cross with you?"

She was silent a moment, drumming her fingers on the table, before she burst out, "Why should my letters matter to you anyhow?"

"What does that mean? Why should they... not?" He began to reach for her hand. "Penelope..."

She quickly pulled her hand from the table. "Please don't!"

"I only—"

"I know you mean nothing by it, Colin, as ever. But unattached ladies and gentlemen do not... touch each other when they are not dancing or promenading and, even then, never ungloved. And if you cannot keep that in mind, then I must."

He drew back, rather hurt. "Is that what you've been angry about? If you think I've taken liberties, I... I... Pen, you know me. You know I'd never dream of doing anything to—"

She laughed suddenly, and rather bitterly, to his ears. "Oh, I know that. All too well. And I am not angry."

"Then why are you acting this way? Why will you give me no—"

"Lamb stews, brown bread, another ale and a Madeira!"

They both leaned back a bit as the the barmaid started setting down two large bowls, a board, a goblet and a tankard.

"My, that was much faster than expected," Penelope said brightly, far too brightly.

"Oh, we always got these two ready." She preened slightly. "Famous for 'em, aren't we?"

"Deservedly so," Colin said, matching Penelope's tone, even as he glared at her while drinking down half his new pint. "I'm also quite fond of your ale. Another, when you can."

"Then I'd like another Madeira," Pen said, taking the one she'd just been given and tossing it back as if it were water before handing her glass up, empty.

The barmaid stared between them, taking both glasses. "If you say so..." She started walking away, muttering, "Long as they ain't driving the carriage, I got no say in what these fancy folk do. Ain't my no how..."

Colin waited until the barmaid was gone. She was right. Penelope was certainly overindulging. "That will be your third glass."

She scoffed. "It will be your third as well."

It would actually be his fourth, but he didn't think saying that would do him any good. "I am a man and more accustomed to—"

"What if I want to get accustomed to it, too? It's the only thing making this lunch," she hiccuped slightly, then giggled, "tolerable."

He wondered at her cheek, laughing at him now. "I must be mad to think you angry with me when you say such sweet words."

"Really, must we be mad?" She let out a long, languid sigh now. "Can we not simply stop for a moment?"

He pointed at her. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"So would you," she countered. "Or would you rather argue than eat?"

"I would rather do both," he found himself grumbling.

It wasn't like him at all. He'd never wanted to argue in his life. He wasn't even sure this "good fight" nonsense of Kate's worked outside of her and Anthony. So why couldn't he stop? Why was there something about their heated words flying back and forth, Pen's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes and her heaving... breathing that made him wish to keep at it until... until... until she admitted she was angry, blast her blue eyes!

The stew was far too hot to eat yet anyhow. "Really, it seems like it's you who wants to argue. This could end like... like..." He snapped his fingers... or he attempted to. It took three tries. "...like that! All you must do is simply admit you're cross, tell me why, and forgive me."

"Oh, is that the etiquette in these situations?" She serenely blew on her spoonful. "Seems something is missing, but you seem to know best. Please go on..."

"And, yes! I suppose there should also be an apology somewhere in there, but I can't bloody well give one if you keep refusing to tell me what for!"

She set her spoon down. "I've told you. There's nothing."

"And yet you keep finding things. First, my letters are improper, now I shouldn't touch you. Soon enough, you'll tell me we can no longer dance or even talk or some such—"

"Well, now that you mention it—"

"I was joking!"

"And I am serious. If I am to find a husband or even a suitor, then I can't be seen laughing in the corner with you."

A husband? Surely she was too young for such a thing. The thought was appalling.

"Or dancing only with you," she added.

He laughed. "Pen, I'm certainly not the only one who dances with you."

"I'm afraid you are."

Was he truly? He'd never noticed. Then again, he'd never seen her take to the floor with anyone else.

"And I've been grateful for it so far."

He didn't like the sound of that. He tried to catch her eyes. "I don't dance with you for your gratitude."

"Whatever the reason, it's very kind of you to dance with me, but with you being the only one... It looks like I'm pitifully dangling after you."

"I would never think that!"

"Perhaps you don't, but others do." She met his eyes now, her own pained. "It's not your fault the way people talk, but it still needs to stop. I cannot be seen leaving the room with my hand in yours or be found in rooms alone or—"

"But I never intended—"

"Believe me, I know. I know you didn't intend any of that in a scandalous way. You've made that perfectly clear." She leaned forward, lowering her voice. "But imagine if someone besides my mother had walked into that drawing room. She knows you would never touch me, but another might think me, at best, a careless girl who lets men toy with her or, at worst, a lightskirt. After all, it's common knowledge you would never court me, so what does that leave?"

He was starting think she'd gone mad. Where was she getting any of this? "How is that considered common knowledge?"

She laughed, the sound bitter and hollow again, nothing at all like the Pen he knew. "Are you joking now?"

"Of course I'm not. I'd like to know who is talking about you like this. I'll correct them at dawn if I need to!"

"Will you stop shouting?" she hissed, her eyes wide as she glanced around. "People are looking."

"I don't care if they are. Pen, if someone is speaking of you in such a way—"

"I didn't say they were. Please lower your voice." She pasted on a smile as the barmaid approached again. "Brothers, you know. So overly protective."

The woman looked hesitant as she placed their fresh drinks on the table. "And how is everythin'?"

"Simply wonderful," Pen said breathlessly. "I can see why you're so famous."

The barmaid glanced doubtfully at their nearly-untouched food. "Glad to hear it," she droned, making her escape.

"I imagine our stew has cooled now," she said, taking up her spoon. "Shouldn't we eat at last?"

"I won't eat a thing. Not until I know who—"

"Suit yourself, but I've eaten nothing today."

Damn it all. That was true. He wouldn't have her starve.

He didn't press her further, shoveling in bites of his stew, though it might as well taste of mud, he enjoyed it so little. Still, he finished far before she did, waiting...

It seemed like an eternity before she finally set her spoon down.

"Penelope..."

She didn't meet his eyes.

"Tell me who is talking about you like that," he prodded.

"No one," she said impatiently. "Well... Cressida, as ever. Not the... lightskirt part," she finished on a whisper, "but she had a lot to say about how you must pity me. And others haven't been much kinder." She shook her head. "And if things continue as they have, it won't be long before more is said. That's what happens. I've seen it myself. Men can act as they like. It's we ladies who bear the burden where rumors are concerned and those rumors grow and—"

"What rumors?"

"You don't know, do you? It must be nice not to know." She shook her head, her lips pursed. "The last thing I want to do is argue. I've avoided it thus far."

"Oh, have you?" he scoffed.

"I have been nothing but calm, collected, and civil."

He opened his mouth to argue, but he couldn't deny that she had been so. And it was driving him mad.

"Isn't that enough for you, Colin? Or will you settle for no less than me fawning all over you like a giddy girl?"

Now she was driving him madder. "Fawning?"

"And perhaps you think I should. But while I am grateful for what you did for my family in exposing our cousin—"

"I wish I'd done more or he'd not have escaped. And do you really think I did it for your family? Pen, I did it for you more than any of them. You must know that."

"I must? How am I to believe that after what you said?"

"And what did I say? I danced with you. I told you that you were special to me, as you are," he threw up his hands, "and now you look at me as if you hate me!"

There was silence for a moment, jarring after several minutes of them speaking over each other.

"That isn't all you said," she finally whispered. "And I do not hate you. Even if I wished to, I could not."

"What did I say?" His voice was soft as well. "I might have had a few too many glasses of champagne, but I can't imagine..." He trailed off, thinking of the direction his thoughts had taken on this carriage ride alone. They weren't new thoughts. But they were extremely shameful thoughts to have about a friend so dear that she may as well be family, and he had tried to avoid such thoughts when he could.

But with enough drink... God, the latter part of that night was lost to him. He'd gone to Mondrich's and Will had poured many a generous drink and... Well, the next he knew, he'd woke up in a boat with a head that ached like the very devil, sandwiched between Ben and two other fellows he didn't even know. According to Ben, there had been some sort of attempt at an impromptu rowing race. They were all probably lucky they hadn't worked out how to untie a rope between them, else they might have slept at the bottom of the Serpentine.

But what might have happened until then? He didn't remember much after that dance. Except that he'd had a few more glasses of champagne, then flashes of fireworks and crowded carriage rides and several glasses of something much stronger than champagne... Ben had told him the next morning that if a man started with wine, he finished with it, that or beer, perhaps, or something lighter. "No one ends the night with whiskey. It never allows the night to end."

"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. I've told you..." She looked away and he could see her eyes growing damp. "I do not wish to simply... go back to whatever it is we were. Why must it be some simple little thing that can be apologized for and wiped away? Why can you not accept that things simply cannot go on as they have?" She shook her head, her eyes hardening. "That isn't what I want. That isn't what I came for. I came to mend my friendship with Eloise. Not with you. For it cannot be mended. It must not."

"Cannot be... Pen, are you saying our friendship is irreparably broken?"

"I'm saying it is over. It needs to be."

He couldn't think of a thing to say to that. He could only stare silently as she pulled her reticule from her cloak, fishing for coins before slapping some on the table.

"That was lovely. You were right about this place." Her eyes were wide and far too bright as she stood. "I fear I need to refresh myself just one more time before we depart. If you'll excuse me..."

He hastily pushed back his chair, but she was already rushing away, stumbling a little.

Colin stared almost numbly at the untouched brown bread. He'd never left bread untouched at a meal. At the very least, it was put to use in mopping up the plate. He often declared doing so the most enjoyable part of supper despite his mother's protests that it was terribly uncivilized. But he wasn't sure he deserved to enjoy anything about this meal.

I'm saying it is over. It needs to be.

That look in her eyes just now... He'd seen it before, and more than once. He'd seen enough of her true smiles to know when she was putting on a false one — lips wobbling, voice breaking, eyes wide and blinking as if in danger of spilling over in tears...

Every time, there was a reason to let her have her pretense that all was well, to maintain his own pretense that he did not see her distress. Sometimes, it was simply that she ran away before he had even recognized she was not herself. Other times, he thought pressing her on the subject would only upset her more and restrained himself. But there were times when he chose to ignore what he saw, weren't there? Times when it seemed easier to pretend she was her merry self because it was easier for him, easier for her, he told himself.

Even worse, there were times when he suspected he could very well be the cause of her distress and its only possible remedy, yet he did not act. This was such a time. But what could he do? What could he say after what she had said?

I'm saying it is over. It needs to be.

He put on his coat, cursing as he scooped up her coins before placing down his own. He then put her cloak over his arm, moving past the large dining room. He signaled to John and George in the tavern before placing himself in front of a curtained doorway until she emerged.

She looked sheepish when she saw him there, holding her cloak open, but didn't say a word as he placed it over her shoulders. Neither did he. He was almost afraid to say anything that might make her say it again.

I'm saying it is over. It needs to be.

The both of them stumbled a bit as they made their way to the carriage, poor John stuck with helping not only Penelope in, but giving Colin quite the push. He belatedly realized that four ales and three Madeiras might not have been the wisest refreshment for the middle of a winter's day.

Rather than being warmed by it, he felt chilled. Or perhaps that was the afternoon wind and snow, both increasing as the sun began its slow descent. He moved his hamper over on the bench, arranging himself across and opposite to her side now. Everything felt so brittle now, he didn't want to be in her sights, lest she say it again.

I'm saying it is over.

She was shivering as they started and he wordlessly pushed the footwarmer to her side, grateful it was hot with fresh coal, before tucking the fur around her.

She glanced at him, surprised, but said nothing.

He pulled his coat close, rather wishing it was woolen rather than leather, holding in a shiver as he watched the snow speeding past the carriage window, playing with the coins in his pockets before he remembered what they were.

He sighed, hating that he must break the silence. "Hold out your hand," he said softly, sliding his gaze to her.

Penelope looked confused, but did so.

He placed her coins there.

"That was for my lunch. I can—"

"Out of the question," he said over her, before leaning back and closing his eyes, hoping she would not try to argue about it. Her words had already chilled him to the bone. He didn't want to see how much worse it could get.

"Colin?" he heard after some time.

He closed his eyes tighter, pretending he hadn't heard her. He'd really had enough arguing for today, or perhaps for a lifetime. Obviously, Kate and Anthony had far more experience with that nonsense. He couldn't fathom why he thought it would solve anything for him. It had only made things worse.

I'm saying it is over.

"Colin," she said, persisting.

It was only when he heard some shifting and shuffling that he opened his eyes. She was attempting to lift the hamper next to her which, unlike the near-empty one at his side, was quite heavy. "Lord, Pen! Why are you—"

"If I can move it, then we can—"

"You'll hurt yourself trying."

"I've nearly—"

After some struggle, he finally wrested the hamper from her grasp and heaved it on top of the other, though Pen seemed to come with it, landing half on his lap.

He caught her before she sank to the floor. "If you wanted room to lay down, you could have told me," he grunted, gripping what he was pretty certain was her bottom through all the layers and trying not to address it.

"I wasn't trying to lay down. I was trying to make room for..." She trailed off, glancing down. At some point in the scuffle, she'd ended up with her hands braced against his chest, one set of fingers curled against the open neck of his shirt, something that sent a fresh shiver through him... also a chill. Yes, definitely a chill!

"Good God, your fingers are freezing." He hastily rearranged his hands to take her by the shoulders, placing her back against the opposite bench and trying to bundle her up in the fur again.

"I simply forgot my gloves." She batted his hands away, pulling them from her pocket.

"Those little nothings?" He stared at the thin, pink lace. "I'd wager you're warmer without them. Give them here."

She furrowed her brow and held out the gloves.

"Not those." He moved to the bench beside her, tossing the gloves God-knows-where before taking her small hands between his own, leaning down to breathe warm air into the space between. "You know, everyone worries about covering their heads in the cold, but I had a mountain guide who told me that's all nonsense. The hands and feet are the most important bits," he said, rubbing vigorously.

"I remember. The one who took you up Mount Pelion last year."

He smiled, surprised she recalled. "He was a man who knew his business. I'd have frozen on that climb without his advice... and warmth." He chuckled. "We had to huddle up for sleep a time or two, lest they find us only after the thaw."

"That's what I was thinking of, you see..." Pen nodded to the fur that had now slid to the floor, starting to pull her hands from his.

He held them tighter, not sure why, except for perhaps... "Just a minute," he said, bending to breathe on them again. They were still cold. That was why. "I don't think we'll need to huddle for survival. There's not that much of this journey left."

"It doesn't mean you must contend with the cold." She finally did pull her hands free, her eyes also darting away as she lifted the fur over the both of them. "We can share."

He wanted to protest that he didn't need it, but just the feel of the fur settling over the two of them warmed him more than any fire could. He was surprised there was any warmth from her, considering...

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

Penelope wasn't sure what she was doing now. She wasn't certain it was wise, having him this close when she felt so raw, so exposed. But it had grown too cold not to band together against it. Though she did avoid touching him, fisting her hands and burying them in her skirts and under the fur, hoping he'd not insist on warming them again.

She couldn't take it if he did. His damned solicitude had confused her before, annoyed her as well, but now it only rubbed salt into her wounds.

Even without the close quarters that had his hands or hers in places they certainly didn't belong, the last hour had been something akin to torture, the way he insisted upon needling at her, demanding she admit her anger, take his apology, grant her forgiveness...

How was she to do any of that? Even admitting her anger to him was a weakness she could not confess. Doing so meant that these months spent putting him out of her mind and trying to build an indifference to him had been all for naught. How could he have the power to truly anger her after all she had done to inure herself to him?

Annoyance? That, she could feel. Discomfort was reasonable as well. For why should she find comfort in his presence now that their friendship was at an end? But anger? He no longer held enough sway over her to inspire such passion.

What a lie that was. Colin held so much power, still, otherwise she wouldn't have spent this entire day struggling in reaction to him, trying every possible method of contending with him. Indifference was impossible. First she'd tried silence, even if it was mostly borne in shock to start. Then she'd tried resistance. Unsurprisingly, he refused to be ignored. So she'd tried being cool towards him, so very not-bothered by his large, looming presence.

Failing that, she'd tried being cavalier and oh-so-amused at his silliness. She'd been so good at that part that she'd forgot that she wasn't to laugh and joke with him anymore, slipping so easily into familiar, friendly habits again.

But then he'd reminded her that their friendship was over, pressing her, needling her for answers as to why she'd ended it. She'd held her ground again, answering all of his arguments with her own and with such ease, perhaps with the help of several glasses of Madeira, that he was the one becoming untethered soon enough.

It should have been satisfying. It should have felt like victory. Yet it felt hollow, especially once she felt that she was the one in the wrong.

Soon enough, she had no idea how to be anymore. The only thing she wanted to be was alone. How she wished she could flee his presence and find a safe corner within which to nurse her wounds, to make sense of all that had passed between them. But it would be nearly an hour before she could possibly find herself alone.

It wasn't only rejecting his friendship that made this day so unbearable. That, she'd been preparing to do for months now — rehearsed, even. It was that he was not allowing it that opened her wounds anew. It would be so much easier if he didn't care.

But he must care. Her letters had mattered to him. Her company had been more than a pleasant convenience to him. It was much easier when it was only herself she imagined in pain. And, to be sure, her pain was greater, much as her love had been greater or, at least, different than what small amount of care he had for her.

"I'm not your family," she'd said.

"You may as well be," he'd answered.

Marina had been right.

He did care for her, much as he did for Eloise or any of his sisters. In that light, what he'd said to the other gentlemen — their laughter aside — might have been perfectly honorable on Colin's end. Why would anyone dream of courting a person they saw as no more than a sister?

As bitter as it tasted, she would have to swallow it. But did that mean she had to swim in it? That she had to wallow in it? That she had to keep immersing herself in a friendship that hurt more than it could ever heal?

Those things that made their friendship fodder for gossip were still there. She was not his sister, however he saw her, and they could not go on as they had. Her attempts at putting herself on the marriage mart had been bad enough without his well-meaning but quite obviously improper friendship muddying the already-murky waters.

But did you have to end it? a chiding voice asked — a voice that sounded, as ever, like Eloise. Couldn't you have told him to behave one way in public, another in private? You could still have him in that small way.

The answer was... no.

It would hurt too much because, as she now knew for certain, her love for him was not the kind that decreased the more she knew him, nor the kind that withered away in his absence. After all these months, it took only a few hours in his presence, even with most of it spent at odds and arguing, for her to love him as if she hadn't missed a day. It would be impossible to bear. The only remedy would be to spend as little time as possible in his presence.

As for Colin, he would not suffer long without her presence. He was charming and kind and he could surely find better friends than she. Friends that would accept what he could give them without wanting more, wanting impossible things, without harboring a secret...

"You said something before."

Penelope started, nearly dropping the fur and letting the cold in. She tucked the fur to her side again. They'd been bundled up for some time, Colin and she, without a word between them. She'd hoped they might fall asleep before the silence was broken.

But it had now been shattered and he was staring at her as if expecting her to elaborate.

"I said a lot of things before," she said. She'd been so desperately scrambling for anything with which to shield herself all day that it was all beginning to blur into one large, panicked mass of words.

"You said you came to mend your friendship with Eloise, not me."

Penelope kept her eyes ahead. She had said that, hadn't she? That was what she'd wanted from this visit, just a chance to mend things with El. It wasn't even a surety. But she wanted it, all the same. That hadn't changed.

"I didn't even hear it at first, I was so..." He sucked in a breath. "Since when did you and Eloise ever need... mending?"

She was silent a moment. It felt strange to confide in him something she hadn't said aloud, not to anyone. "Eloise does not wish to speak to me. She hasn't answered any of my... letters," she finished on a breath, knowing very well how that sounded.

He didn't miss it. "I wonder how that must feel," Colin droned. She could feel his eyes boring into her. "Imagine writing letter after letter with no hope of reply."

"It's different for me," Pen found herself saying brokenly, turning to meet his hard eyes. "Eloise is my dearest friend."

His brows drew together. "And what do you think you are to—"

There was a rap on the roof.

"Goodness, we must be there." Penelope sat up straighter, turning to the window. She couldn't see the house yet, but she took the opportunity to surreptitiously wipe under her eyes.

"God, not yet," she heard him groan. "Pen... Look at me..."

She shook her head. "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," he said, his voice firm. "What I refuse to do is accept it."

"Whether you accept it or not, it is what must be. It is what should have been all along. In our society, friendships between—"

"So you keep saying. Hang society! I don't give a damn what anyone thinks."

"Not all of us have that luxury," she said evenly.

He was silent as the carriage slowed and she hoped that meant he might allow this to end, at least for now. She knew enough of Bridgerton stubbornness to know he'd not let it rest entirely, but she needed respite, she needed time alone, she needed to steel herself before facing him again and finding the words that might finally make him see that she would not be swayed.

"And is this truly what you wish?" he demanded. "To end a friendship out of fear of the idle thoughts of others? Thoughts that, I might add, are more conjecture than reality, for I have heard nothing that justifies—"

"But you have," she burst out, struggling to keep her voice steady. "You only refused to hear it for what it was, what it meant."

"Hear what? What are you—"

The door opened then. She hadn't even realized they had stopped, but she was grateful for it. She was tempted to clamber over Colin to make her escape, but she wouldn't want to cause a scene in front of John. She only hoped Colin had the same scruples. She swore she could see his hand reaching for the door, as if he might shut it again.

She let out a breath of relief when he only gripped the side of the opening, pulling himself out. She hoped he might also walk away, leaving John to help her down, but there was no such luck to be had.

"Please see to fetching help with the trunks. I shall assist Miss Featherington."

She steeled herself as she slid along the bench, wishing she knew where her gloves had ended up. To touch his hand again... She froze in the doorway, unable to step out with his body blocking it, his hands gripping either side of the frame.

"There is something you are not telling me," he said in a low voice.

"Good heavens, we've talked more in these hours than in the past years combined. I can't imagine there is anything unsaid after..." She trailed off as he moved in closer.

"I am quite serious, Penelope. I will not rest until—"

"Colin? I thought John must be mistaken, but here you are! What a lovely surprise!"

He turned then, letting out a huff. "Mother! When I arrived to find you'd all departed already, I was in deep despair, but then I learned Pen was traveling and thought she might not mind another protector on the road." He finally stepped back, taking her hand, his grip firmer than she expected.

"Oh, Penelope! What a relief!" Violet Bridgerton's eyes darted between her and Colin as Pen stepped down, her smile wavering slightly. Penelope wondered if she could sense the tense atmosphere that still hung over them. "Kate was uncertain if you would come, but I told her you would surely not miss a Christmas in the country. I know how you love the snow."

Colin finally released her hand, but not her eyes, saying with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "Even if she'd tried to escape, I wouldn't have allowed it. Nor will I now," he promised... or threatened.

If Violet was aware of the tension, she did not show it, glancing heavenward. "You shall be glad you've come. It looks as if we'll have a fine snowfall this very night."

She managed a shaky smile. "I so look forward to it, Lady Bridgerton, and thank you very much for your kind invitation."

"Oh, do not thank me. It's all Kate's doing. And we must be quieter now as she means to surprise Eloise. I'm not sure just where that girl's got off to, but she enjoys the snow as well, so I wouldn't doubt she's—"

"How very fortuitous," a rich voice said as the new Viscountess Bridgerton appeared in the doorway. "We had hoped you might arrive before supper. Though I suppose supper shall have to be fortified now that Colin is joining us."

Penelope dipped a curtsy as Kate Bridgerton started down the steps. "Lady Bridgerton. I was just telling... er... Lady Bridgerton how kind it was of you all to have me," she said, trying to quiet her nerves as she added, "And am I to understand Eloise is not yet aware—"

"You know, there are far too many Lady Bridgertons," Kate said on a laugh.

"What confusion this will be." Violet laughed as well. "I suggest we dispense with the honorific in my case."

"I shouldn't mind abandoning mine as well. I'd much rather... oh!"

"Oh, Kate! Do take care," Violet called out. "Those steps are quite slippery. And should you be out in the cold in your condition?"

Colin rushed forward to take Kate's hand. "Perhaps we'd do best to go in before we're all frozen to the flagstones."

"Goodness, yes!" Kate said quickly, leaning toward Penelope. "We must see that you are warm enough before we think how best to reveal our little surprise."

"So Eloise does not know," Penelope said, frozen, no longer able to maintain even a semblance of a smile. "Your letter seemed to indicate she might have... asked for me."

Kate's smile also faltered, though she seemed to recover quickly. "If she had, it wouldn't be as much of a surprise, now would it? Come along!"

Penelope felt herself being propelled up the steps with Violet's arm about her shoulders, a sinking feeling inside. Eloise didn't know. This did not bode well for her chances. Eloise didn't even enjoy surprises when she liked the thing being revealed.

She must take care in composing herself. Should she smile or would that only make her friend angrier? Yet if she frowned, El might think her unhappy to see her and that would not do either.

"Colin!" a familiar rasp of a voice called out from the drive behind them. "I was wondering who could possibly be arriving! It couldn't be a visitor, not in one of our carriages."

It appeared she had no time at all to compose herself now. Penelope dipped her head, glad her cloak was still covering her hair, at least, though the bright pink trim on it might still give her away even if she continued to hide.

"Yet this is far too many trunks for just you." Eloise laughed. "Or is your bragging about how lightly you travel just that? Oh, beg pardon! Seems we have another vis..." Her laughter died with her words. She stilled in the middle of the drive and in the midst of removing her mittens when Penelope turned.

Penelope wasn't sure what expression she was wearing, but Eloise looked simply furious, though her eyes weren't on Penelope.

"How could you?" she seethed.

It was Kate who answered. "Eloise, I only thought—"

El turned, running back to the fields she'd come from.

Penelope found herself spurred into action, pulling away from Violet. "Eloise! Please... Wait!"

The world turned upside down.

"Penelope!" Colin shouted. "For God's sake! Don't—"

She heard no more then. She also saw no more. Only blackness.

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