You Must Remember This

Chapter 9: Mirror Gazing and Solitary Vices

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.