You Must Remember This

Chapter Three: When We Were Gone Astray

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."