Ben, who was not easily shocked, let out a gasp as he took in the scene before him.

Colin couldn't blame him. It must be quite a sight, what with Colin on the floor and Eloise standing over him, heaving angry breaths, her fist still closed and held aloft as if she might want to use it again.

Colin wouldn't blame her either. Eloise didn't even know the half of it.

She didn't know that Colin had promised Pen that he'd always look after her, told her she was special to him, right before he...

"Eloise!" Ben rushed to her, gripping her fist in his hand.

"Ben! Let me go! I'm not going to hit him again!" She struggled out of his grasp, then glared down at Colin. "It's far less satisfying now that he's on the floor anyhow."

"I could get up," Colin groaned from the carpet, attempting that very thing. At this point, he almost wanted to be hit again. That didn't mean he could actually get to his feet, however. The best he managed was to roll over and groan, "Very well. Just hit me again from here."

"Don't think I'm not tempted," Eloise growled.

"El!" Ben held her back again.

"Do you even know what he did?" Eloise demanded. "If you did—"

"He can hit me, too," Colin cut in, rolling over. "I deserve it."

Benedict stared between the two of them. "I take it this is more than a fight over the last drumstick."

Colin lifted his head at that. "Are there still drumsticks?"

Eloise looked like she wanted to hit him again at that, perhaps with a drumstick.

"Look, whatever you two are scrapping over," Ben said, lowering his voice, "let it be done. Lest we draw more than me into you two and your mess."

"Our mess?" Eloise shook her head. "This is his mess. He's the one who humiliated Penelope, the one who embarrassed her in front of... of everyone!"

Ben shook his head. "Look, I know this marital mess isn't the best situation, but Colin is surely not going to go on with his Gretna Green nonsense," Ben said with a warning glance thrown down Colin's way.

"God, she'd kill me if I did," Colin moaned.

"Pen or me?" Eloise growled.

Colin shook his head against the carpet. "Both?" Pen had reason enough to kill him without that, and deservedly, for ruining her prospects in the eyes of every gentleman of the ton.

Ben laughed, as if to break the tension. Ben always tried that. Usually, it worked. But not this time. Poor fool. He didn't even know it. "Look, nothing can be so bad that—"

"No, you look!" Eloise strode to her box, pulling out that particular Whistledown, the most damning one, and slapping it into Benedict's hand. "Remember this?" she demanded shrilly. "Remember when some absolute cur declared Penelope unworthy of courting?"

"Of course, but whoever—" Benedict lost his words, also his smile, staring from the pamphlet in his hand to Colin, shaking his head before squeezing his eyes shut. "Please say you didn't..."

"Oh, but he did," Eloise said.

"Colin, why?" Ben demanded. "Why on earth would you—"

Colin tried very hard to sit up. "You see, when I said that, I didn't mean—"

"I don't want to hear it." She snatched the pamphlet back from Benedict, growling, "Get him out of my sight before I hit him again."

Colin groaned as, despite his efforts to get himself out of her sight, he only succeeded in falling on his side.

"Or before he casts his accounts up on my carpet," she added with disgust and alarm.

Ben leapt to action, gripping Colin under his arms and heaving him upright.

"You're stronger than you look," Colin marveled.

"Or I'm not several sheets to the wind," Ben grunted, urging him toward the door — which Eloise slammed behind them.

"Do you want to hit me, too?" Colin asked, leaning against the wall, considering sliding down it.

"Can't say I'm not tempted," Ben groaned, pulling him up again and slinging Colin's arm over his shoulder. "I'd actually thought it was Fife who'd said it and I would have felt very satisfied to let my fist fly into his smug face several times, knocking him flat. But now that it's you—"

"You can do it if you like." Colin stepped back, swaying, then leaning hard on Ben's shoulder. "It actually doesn't hurt much now, though. So perhaps you should do it later."

"It will hurt in the morning, I guarantee it," Ben gasped, turning away from Colin. "As it is, your breath is nearly knocking me flat. Let's get you to bed."

Colin stared down at his cravat. "I think I dropped things on it. Manning will scold me for certain."

"Manning has gone to bed with the rest of the staff. I told him not to bother with you till the morning."

"Ben! You are too good to me."

"Yes, thanks. Now can we—"

"I don't deserve it." Colin shook his head. "You have to understand. I never meant it like... like she wasn't worthy, but... see, they were talking about girls in this way that was... that was... Pen was too important for them to talk about her like that. I'd never trifle with—"

"Look, I know you think you need to say it," Ben sighed, trying to help him down the hall, "but I'm not the one you need to say it to, so—"

"Say what to? Perhaps he can tell me, then?"

They stilled as they passed the top of the stairs.

"Anthony," Ben said with horror.

"Anthony!" Colin said with delight, moving past Ben toward his oldest brother, embracing him... or falling on him.

It took both of his brothers to keep him standing. They were the best.

"We don't do this enough," Colin sighed.

"Do what?" Anthony grunted as he propped Colin up on the other side. "Fall down the stairs together?"

Colin let out a giggle as they both shored him up. "No, but we could slide down the banister. Remember when we used to have fun like that?"

Anthony turned away. "It smells like you've had enough fun for the night." They started walking him down the hall.

"It was just the rum," Colin said. "El thought you wouldn't care about that."

Anthony's brows drew together. "What did Eloise have to do with—"

"Our poor sister was only helping him sober himself," Ben cut in quickly.

Ben always did cover up for Eloise. Perhaps Colin should, too. "Yes, she didn't even eat all the chicken... I think."

"She didn't do a very good job of sobering him," Anthony grunted, moving them along. "But that explains her absence at supper and the tray that went to her room." He turned to Colin. "It would be best not to tell our mother you're in such a state."

"Oh, God! Don't tell her, Anthony!" Colin drew them to a stop. "Remember when we didn't tell Mother things? Let's do that some more!"

Anthony rolled his eyes and hastened him along to Benedict's door, which was first. "Go on now. I've got him."

Benedict looked hesitant. "Do you, though?"

"I think I can manage it," Anthony nodded to Colin's door down the hall. "It's just over there."

Benedict seemed to consider it, then suddenly embraced Colin.

Colin felt oddly touched.

Until Benedict whispered harshly against his ear, "Don't you dare go confessing to him. You'll be up all night," before putting himself on the other side of his door.

Anthony stared at Ben's door. "What was that?"

"He told me not to be up all night," Colin said. It was half true. He turned to Anthony. "What are you doing over here, anyhow? You're all married now."

"I'm making certain you're not doing yourself in with drink. We all suspected there was something amiss. And yes. I did notice the missing rum." Anthony frowned. "Did any of that food sent up get into you?"

"What do you think?"

"Should have sent more, knowing you." Anthony hoisted him closer as started down the hall again. "How much of my rum did you drink?"

"I thought you didn't like rum."

"That wasn't the question."

Colin stopped, several feet from his own door, leaning against the wall. "You know Lady Whistledown?"

Anthony stilled, looking annoyed. "Gossip harridan? Plagues our family? Yes, I'm familiar."

Colin sagged against the wall. "Isn't plague a strong word for it?" This was his wife Anthony was talking about now. Was there no hope? "She has helped, has she not?"

"Very well, yes. She certainly helped Daphne get out of that doomed marriage to Berbrooke and got you out of that similarly doomed marriage to Miss Thompson?" Anthony stared at him a moment. "Or are you still regretting that?"

Colin shook his head against the wall. "Not at all. I assure you. But... I mean. She's not all bad."

"Miss Thompson?"

"No!" He shook his head again. "I mean, yes! She's not all bad either. No one is, really. Not even Lady Whistledown. Right?"

Anthony stared at him a moment, looking quite impatient. "No. Lady Whistledown is not all bad. We probably owe her a debt of gratitude. And Miss Thompson is also not all bad. She didn't insist her children were yours, after all. I did worry she might try to press you into marriage, claiming that."

"But Lady Whistledown made it impossible," Colin said. "She revealed that she was always—"

"Yes. As I said at the time. We are all grateful for that." Anthony let out a beleaguered sigh. "Colin, what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing," he said, hooking his arm over Anthony's shoulder again. "I just... I want the past to be the past."

"Very magnanimous of you. And I want you to be in your bed." He stopped by Colin's door. "Can you manage that?"

He patted Anthony's chest, using it to push himself up. "Yes. I can."

"Are you certain? Should I call Manning or should I—"

"I can manage, Brother." Colin grabbed his cheeks, kissing his forehead. "We can all go to sleep soundly."

"I shall torment you about this tomorrow," Anthony promised, drawing back and wiping his brow.

"I expect nothing less," Colin sighed as he opened his door, letting it fall in before he put himself on the other side and closed it.

He leaned heavily against it a moment.

Yes, he would be teased, but at least his wife... at least Lady Whistledown was safe. They owed her a debt. Even Anthony said so. The others might also understand, mightn't they? Yes, Eloise was still angry with her, but obviously not as angry as she was with him. He ran a hand over his eye, feeling the puffy flesh above and below it.

At the moment, he didn't care much about himself. Why should he?

He stumbled through his room, tearing off his loosened cravat, his shirt, his breeches, letting them fall where they may. He cared not. He could only think of her, of her writing the words he'd said. Had she been angry? Had she been sad? God, maybe it was both. Of course it was both.

He'd told her he would always look after her and then...

He rushed to the window, pulling it open before he emptied the contents of his stomach into the snow-covered bushes below.

He choked on nothing for several moments before he staggered back back, gasping, still thinking of how he'd hurt her. He wished he could expel that from himself.

As it was, he could only rub tooth powder into his mouth and over his teeth to erase the sour taste before he filled his chamberpot so much that he pitied the poor sod who had to empty it tomorrow. And then he emptied half of the pitcher of clean water beside it down his throat before stumbling to his bed, shoving back the covers and falling to the sheets.

He thought of pulling the covers over himself, but decided he didn't deserve it.

Never dream of courting Penelope Featherington.

What a laugh. Forget courting her. He'd be lucky if she let him speak to her in the end.

And no matter what he felt about her, she might feel nothing for him once she knew. No wonder she'd detested the sight of him. Before, she saw him as the man who mocked her. And now... What would she see now?

Was he staring at a life where Penelope treated him as a villain at worst, an indifferent acquaintance at best?

No. Never.

Please, not that.

He groaned and rolled over, curling into himself, not bothering with the blankets even as he shivered... and not noticing the small red-headed figure on the other side of the bed, also shivering...

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

Penelope, upon awakening, didn't expect to feel such... warmth. In fact, she starkly remembered falling asleep stiff and shivering with cold. She remembered the fire had died, leaving only the candelabra to warm her before that had abandoned her as well. She remembered thinking she should do something about that, but unable to stop herself from...

She shook herself, trying to remember...

She wasn't in her own room — or the room she had made hers these last few days.

No.

She was in Colin's room, in Colin's bed, a fact that was only made clearer as she attempted to rise only to find an arm imprisoning her, clutching her tighter now and even a leg tossed over her own.

Both were hairy and decidedly naked.

She let out a slight gasp at the discovery, yet she didn't move again, wondering if she was mistaken and this was just one of the naughtier dreams that had been plaguing her of late, not that it was an unwelcome one.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember the night before...

Before supper, she'd dressed with Colin on her mind, hoping her dusty-rose dress might please him. It certainly pleased her. "I am amazed that you have done so much in so little time," she'd marveled to Rose.

Rose had chuckled at the compliment. "There wasn't much to do but putting the bodice where it should be and changing the trim — and by that I mean removing a great deal of it. The others might be a bit more challenging, which is why I did this one first. Your mother certainly seems to be one for excess frippery."

"I wouldn't know," Penelope said, frowning a bit now, "not for certain. I wish I did." In all the sudden flashes she'd have of the scowling woman, she'd mostly seen the scowl and not much else. It was as if the woman was defined by it.

"Now, don't fret on that," Rose said gently. "Did the doctor not say you should let your memories come as they do? I'm certain all will be well."

"I hope you're right." It had been pleasant this afternoon, despite Colin's absence, to simply enjoy the snow and the laughter around her. Perhaps seeking out her letters would do her little good. Perhaps simply enjoying dinner and her husband's company would do her much better.

Yet Colin was not at dinner. She'd been informed he was ill and that Eloise was tending to him. Despite the lack of concrete memories of Eloise, this didn't sound like something she would feel naturally inclined to do. It worried her. He must be feeling very unwell indeed!

She did try, as his wife and Eloise's friend, to insist that she must help, but no one seemed to think that a fine idea. Benedict, in fact, actively discouraged her from it and assured all that Colin had a... headache of sorts and simply needed sleep. "He'll surely be feeling more like himself on the morrow."

Violet Bridgerton seemed a little put out, tossing Ben a sharp glance, which he pointedly ignored as dinner chatter started. Apart from that, no one seemed overly concerned, which greatly concerned Penelope.

She was still concerned after supper. She'd found herself unequal to dessert and tea in the drawing room and begged to go to bed early. Rose had been kind enough to tend to her, taking off the dress carefully. "I confess, I did rush this job a bit. Some of these hooks are quite loose. I'll fix them up nicely, along with another frock for the morning."

"You really don't need to go to all this trouble for me," Penelope insisted. It felt almost wrong to her, the way everyone seemed to leap to help her. She had the feeling she was little used to such fuss.

"Tis no trouble at all," Rose assured her. "Her Grace's gowns are always in very good taste and she's quite neat with them. I have only to repair the odd button or hook after His Grace gets a bit... Well, no more on that." Rose laughed. "Suffice it to say she gives me very little to do apart from her hair and the odd repair. I quite like a challenge."

"So do I," Penelope found herself saying. "I've never enjoyed being idle."

"Oh? And what pursuits do you occupy yourself with?" Rose asked mildly as she held out Penelope's nightgown.

"I... I don't remember." Why had she said that? It felt true, but...

"Oh, I didn't mean to pry," Rose said quickly, blushing a bit, "especially not with the state of you, you poor thing. I was just making conversation. For a moment, I forgot—"

"No, please don't apologize. I truly wish I did remember. Sometimes my memories feel so close, but when I try to grasp them..." She trailed off with a sigh. "Perhaps I would do better not to try. The Doctor keeps saying to let them come to me."

"Perhaps they'll more readily come to you in sleep," Rose said, helping her into the nightgown.

"Yes. Perhaps." But how could they come when sleep would not?

She turned toward the adjoining door. The walls and wood were thick and sturdy, but she could still hear Eloise at times, but soft like a murmur, even though El was never soft-spoken. She was tempted to join her rather than continue to fail at sleeping, but the other voice... If she and Benedict were smoking again, she'd rather not intrude. She was not fond of the smell.

Once, when Eloise had just started her nasty little habit, she'd offered Penelope one of her papelates, claiming they were quite beneficial to the mind and very relaxing. Penelope — and her stomach — strongly disagreed. She'd lost her supper after only one puff. Just the smell now, even through the door, brought back the memory of a fish dinner being experienced in the reverse. Not the most appetizing...

She sat up, her mind buzzing at the memory. Now why did they come like that, coaxed out over tiny little nothing thoughts? She'd much rather her memories come when she willed them to. It was the damnable involuntary nature of it. She closed her eyes, going over the memory again, trying to remember the sights, sounds, and — unpleasant as they were — smells, willing them to bring on more, others, or just the rest of that day! Was it spring, winter, or...

She let out a huff and tossed off her blankets. The memory was not coming. And neither was sleep. She toed on her slippers and paced the room, thinking she'd be better off finding a book. Did Eloise not say there were several ones touted as "by a lady" that they'd both greatly enjoyed? Perhaps one was in the library. Perhaps reading it would distract her enough that her memories might come. Then again, if she was reading it in that hope, then they might not come at all and leave her still...

Lord, anything was better than pacing about!

She made for the door, starting for the stairs... until she saw both ladies Bridgerton going up the opposite staircase from the landing. She quickly tucked herself behind the wall, hoping they didn't turn back to see her, staring at the doors along the other side of the hall. This was where the boys' rooms were... or the men, in the case of Benedict and Colin. The one nearest her wall must be Ben's or Gregory's, but the one across...

She was certain that was Colin's. She'd seen him coming out of it this morning... just before he kissed her. A little thrill went through her as she approached it, wondering if she dared. Then again, why should she not? He was her husband. He was ill. He was very likely sleeping, but she'd do no harm looking in on him, just to be certain he slept soundly.

This was what she told herself as she turned his doorknob, still unable to shake the feeling that she was very naughty indeed, entering his bedchamber without even a knock. But since she didn't want to wake him...

She stilled, disappointed as she opened the door. He was not sleeping. He was not even in the room.

There was a fire and a lone candle on one nightstand that had nearly burned itself out, but no sign of Colin.

She heard laughter and bickering from the stairs. It sounded like Hyacinth and Gregory. She closed the door, pressing her ear to it, deciding she'd wait until they passed, but they seemed to be having an argument over who had cheated at Whist and didn't seem likely to end it soon.

She sighed and moved to the bed, taking a seat, wondering where Colin was. Was he in the kitchens foraging for food? That seemed the most likely case. Unless... was he with El? She had rather thought the muted male voice might not be Benedict as she'd left him downstairs playing Whist with Gregory and Hyacinth. Ben also seemed to think Hy must be cheating, but Penelope suspected she was just more skilled than her brothers.

Wherever Colin was, he was bound to return to his room eventually and she'd do best to wait here. Or perhaps she just wanted to see this room, his room.

There was a book open on the nightstand — a handwritten book. The writing was the same as his letters. She tore her eyes away resolutely. It was obviously some sort of diary. Diaries were private, were they not? No matter how tempting it was, she'd not look.

She stood and meandered about, gazing at the walls in the faint candlelight, noting a map with little red push-pins stuck in certain areas, yellow in others. Italy had red, as did Greece and Albania. But France was yellow, as was Switzerland, Scotland and Germany. The red, he must have seen. The yellow... she suspected those were what he'd see next. Would he take her with him?

A little thrill went through her at the thought.

She moved to his desk next, running her fingers over the books there. There was a volume on the Swiss Alps with little ribbons stuck in certain pages. Yes, perhaps Switzerland was next.

The candle on his nightstand flickered and she rushed to it, careful not to put it out. She'd already proved herself rubbish at lighting a spill from the fire without making a mess. She spied a candelabra on the other nightstand and carefully moved that way, lighting the three candles with relief. The room was at least a little brighter.

Perhaps she could read about the Swiss Alps while she waited. Or perhaps she could read something else...

She spied the diary, still open on the nightstand. She tore her eyes away from it, plucking up a scrolled up bit of paper instead. Perhaps another map?

She let out a slight gasp as she unrolled it. It was her!

Or a drawing of her. The style looked a lot like the one Benedict had given her, but hers was of Colin. Had she been what he'd given Colin?

Penelope tilted her head as she stared at it. It was strange, looking at a likeness of oneself as taken by someone else. The look on her face was sort of sly and mischievous, as if she was in on some private joke. She didn't feel like that represented her at all. Most of the time she felt confused and unsure of herself.

Still, it was rather sweet of Benedict to draw her for Colin as he'd drawn him for her. That didn't mean she wanted to look at it overlong. She rolled it up again, her eyes drawn to the diary again. Except, this time, her eyes caught a few words....

...wish you could see it, Pen!

She took a closer look, then. That was her name, after all. Yes, diaries were private, but if he was addressing this one to her... Well, didn't she have some excuse to read it?

That was what she told herself as she plucked it up, devouring the paragraph that contained her name.

The water is a blue unimaginable in England, aquamarine with the glint of the sun, deep cobalt when the clouds take the sky. I wish you could see it, Pen! And it is warm— surprisingly astoundingly warm, like a bath that was heated perhaps a half an hour earlier. The waves are gentle, and they...

"They what?" she groaned, feeling conflicted about turning the page. Yes, this page had her name on it, but she didn't know for certain the next did. And even if he'd written this as a letter to her, he'd not sent it. So perhaps it wasn't hers to read.

Yet she couldn't help herself.

She turned one page, then another, then several more, finally laying on the bed, leaning closer to the fading candles...

Not every paragraph addressed her by name, but enough did that she felt justified in her continued perusal. And as he described these wonders to her, she imagined herself beside him, seeing each sight, hearing each crashing wave, feeling each balmy breeze...

Why didn't he send her all he'd written? She would have loved to read every bit of it. At least she could read it all now, deep into the night, as the fires died and the candles burned down, her eyes growing heavy until they closed...

Yes, now she remembered. She'd fallen asleep reading... also shivering. She'd had some thought that she should pull the blankets over herself, but she'd been falling into oblivion by then. Her dreams had her suddenly buried in a snowbank, shivering with cold, until a bear laid beside her and cradled her with warmth...

That warmth was what she awoke to, surrounding her and behind her. Even with the covers still underneath them, Colin was as warm as a furnace, wrapped around her.

She sighed and relaxed into his embrace, snuggling back into him. Even knowing he was quite naked, she felt no shame. He was her husband, after all. Who else should keep her warm? Who else should nuzzle his nose so sweetly into her neck, making her shiver with delight? Who else should...

Here, she gasped, another sort of warmth creeping over her.

His hand gripped at her breast through her nightgown, but that alone wasn't what had her gasping for breath.

It was what she felt behind her, pressing into her. His appendage was hard and insistent and, though she felt it in fleeting moments before, now it was pressing into her insistently, seeking. Whatever he was seeking, she wanted him to find it.

She knew what was to happen, that they must have done it before. She must have enjoyed it or she wouldn't be so hungry for it now.

She found herself pressing his hand harder to her breast, moving with him, pressing back against him. He huffed against the back of her neck, his fingers digging into her thigh, his hips moving against her.

"God... Penelope!"

"Colin," she gasped, turning her head to meet his lips.

His mouth met hers back lazily, in sharp contrast to the movement below. He tasted of faded traces of mint as they kissed softly, teasingly, tongues flirting until he gripped her chin, keeping her still as he rose over her, delving into her mouth with a groan rumbling deep in his throat, his hips settling between her parted legs.

"Colin," she moaned when their lips parted.

"Penelope," he breathed as his eyes opened, blissful and hazy, then widened. "Penelope!"

"Good morning," she said, not having come up with anything better, not after all that.

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

"Gah... gah... gah... Good morning?" Colin finally sputtered before launching himself off the bed and clear across the room. "What are you... Why are you..."

"I was waiting for you," Penelope said, sitting up. "I must have fallen asl..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes growing wide as they lowered from his face to his...

"Good God!" He quickly moved his hands to hide what was dangling — not so much dangling as popping up — between his legs. He was naked. That wasn't new. He ran hot and very often slept in the nude, even in winter. What was new was waking up wrapped around Penelope Featherington... who was still staring, quite openly, at what his hands were failing to cover.

He plucked his waistcoat from the floor, bunching it in front of him. Was this one of those awful dreams? Usually, when he was naked in dreams, it was at a ball or a lecture at Eton or, in one terrible night's scenario, his mother's garden party as several scandalized matrons scolded him and beat him with their fans.

The earlier bits had certainly felt like a dream, but the better kind — the warmth and softness of her against him, the giving flesh in his hands... This part was veering into nightmare territory.

He would rather it was a nightmare, but the chill from the partially opened window at his back told him he was already awake. He must have forgot to close it after he tossed his supper out of it last night, along with most of a bottle of rum.

Penelope sat there, on his bed, hands twisting the skirt of her nightgown. "I certainly didn't mean to fall asleep. I was just so engrossed..." Her nightgown was rising as she twisted, exposing the skin of her ankles, her supple calves...

He tore his eyes away, looking about, desperately wondering where he'd tossed his breeches.

"...I must not have been in here before, everything felt so new..."

Was she truly still talking? How was she talking? He could barely breathe! He spied his shirt, at least, hovering over his changing screen, the wrist dangling precariously over a very full chamberpot. God, he'd pissed with her in the room!

"...and your maps are very interesting. As were your books and..."

He sidestepped toward the shirt, trying to keep her from being exposed to any more of him, and snatched it, letting it join his waistcoat in covering him as he continued the search for his breeches as she went on... and on...

"... so I thought I might read while waiting, but then—"

"Penelope." He stilled, gripping his head, his own voice sounded like a knife thrust into his ear. Hers wasn't helping either. "If you could perhaps not speak for now, I would very much appreciate that."

"Oh!" She stood and moved to him. "I'd forgot. You've been ill. Have you a headache or—"

"I have an everything ache," he said quite honestly, putting a hand up... the one not covering everything she must not see. "And I am not... equal to conversation at the moment."

She stilled, though she reached a hand toward him. "But your eye! How did that happen?"

"I... don't know. Perhaps I tripped or something." Yes. Right into Eloise's fist. It must look awful. The night was slowly coming back to him. The pamphlets, the revelations, the rum, the other revelations, the punch...

"Does it pain you terribly?" She drew nearer again. But she wasn't looking at his eye. She was staring, quite boldly, at his chest. "Perhaps I can fetch—"

"The best thing you can do for me right now is turn around." He had half a mind to take her shoulders and turn her himself, but his hands were still holding his bundled-up clothes in front of him. This affliction of his was not going to go away if she kept staring at him. It was very likely making it worse.

She did turn, but he caught a slight smile on her face as she did it. "So modest. One might think we weren't married."

Oh, Pen! If only you knew...

She had to know now. He had to tell her. Not only about this supposed marriage, but that he had no right to even want it, not after what he'd said. As his mind cleared, last night came back to him. He'd been the cad, the cur, the beast who said those awful things about her.

Even if he'd thought he'd been protecting her from Fife's lecherous insinuations, the things he said... the way he'd said them... the way he'd laughed...

He let out a sigh of momentary relief as he spied his breeches, tossed half under the bed, tangled up with his boots. He had to reach past her to get at them and he spied the way her eyes drew his way until she stared at the ceiling.

"Are you always this shy about dressing in front of me?" she inquired lightly, a teasing note in her voice.

"I think I can safely say I am," he grunted, pulling his breeches on before he remembered the shirt came first. This being his first time dressing with her (or any woman) in the room, he felt shy indeed.

"I find that rather sweet," she said "But you might be interested to know that your previous attire was much more agreeable to me."

He stilled, letting out a breath. "I'd actually rather not know that at the moment," he said on a pained grunt as he struggled to tuck his shirt in and button his breeches and, for all purposes, contain himself.

"You are a terrible fibber, you know."

He froze again. "What? Why? What do you mean? What do you know?"

She shrugged, her back still to him. "You said you kick and snore and flail about and that it would be detrimental to my healing. But I felt quite comfortable with you."

"Comfortable?" He wasn't sure that was how he would describe it. In those moments before he realized what he was doing, who he was groping and kissing, he'd felt urgent and wild at the feel of her, sleep-warm and soft. He still felt so now, staring at her back, at the hair covering her neck. He wanted to pull it aside, feast on her warm skin...

"I would happily wake up with you thus every morning," she said, her voice still teasing and so damned sweet.

"That's only because I wasn't up to tossing about yet," he said, clearing his throat, moving past her to the bed now that he was decent. He felt this odd urge to make it nice, wholesome, smooth it out, as if this morning's delights hadn't happened. "I assure you, if you spent more time with..." He frowned, seeing the outline of a book under the covers he was trying to smooth over, the worn corner of it peeking out of the top.

She hadn't... had she?

He drew the covers back and pulled out his journal.

She had.

He turned to face Penelope. "You said you were reading. Were you reading this?"

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

Well, I did it. Got one of the most famous lines from the book in there. Couldn't leave out "gah... gah... gah." I'm sure you all would have rioted!

Thank you all for your patience in waiting for this chapter. Due to some circumstances, I had to get back into my own original Regency Romance after letting it sit for far too long. I also have more work lately as Summer is my busy season. Also I, and I assume many of you, suffered from Bridgerton Brain Rot as the season rolled out and did not allow us to think of anything else for like a whole month or more.

I do have love and complaints about season 3. In the end, I'm happy we had Polin on our screens and some of it was amazing! Some of it was... a bit of a letdown. I am slowly gathering notes and formulating a kind of fix-it fic involving missing scenes (that are still canon-compliant) that flesh out things I wish had a bit more... flesh, I guess. So stay tuned for that after this and probably A Little More Convincing are done. And I have not forgotten I'll Be Watching You for those interested. That is next up and should be updated this week.

As for this chapter, I had wanted to take things further, but after a point, I realized how long this was getting and how much more I had to do, so I've stopped things here and I will be back as soon as I can. I promise it will be less than a month this time! But I'm still putting my originals on the front burner for now, especially The Lady in Disguise.

I hope you understand, but if I ever want to get into the Regency Romance game, I need to prioritize my own works with my own characters and plots. BTW, if you ever want to read them and what I do with full control over a story, check them out on my profile.