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Colin stood so still and silent that she had no choice but to excuse herself, leaving hi helplessly at the door

He'd hurt her

It didn't matter that he hadn't meant to She'd reached out to him, and he'd been unable to take her hand

And the worst part was that he knew she didn't understand She thought he was ashamed of her He'd told her that he wasn't, but since he'd not been able to bring himself to tell her the truth--that he was jealous--he couldn't iine that she'd believed him

Hell, he wouldn't have believed hi, because in a way, he was lying Or at least withholding a truth that made him uncomfortable

But theshe'd written, soly and black inside of hi she'd written because she'd published everything she'd written Whereas his scribblings sat dull and lifeless in his journals, tucked ahere no one would see them

Did it matter what aif they were neverheard?

He had never considered publishing his journals until Penelope had suggested it several weeks earlier;

now the thought consuht (when he wasn't consuripped by a powerful fear What if no one wanted to publish his work? What if someone did publish it, but only because his was a rich and powerful fa, to be his own man, to be known for his accomplishments, not for his name or position, or even his smile or charm

And then there was the scariest prospect of all: What if his writing was published but noone liked it?

How could he face that? Hoould he exist as afailure?

Or was it worse to re, after Penelope had finally pulled herself out of her chair and drunk a restorative cup

of tea and puttered aiainst her pilloith a book that she couldn't quiteat first, just stood there and smiled at her, except it wasn't one of his usual sht froht back

This was a sy

Penelope let her book rest, spine up, on her bellywMay I?" Colin inquired,to the eht "Of course," she ht table next to herwI'veforward his journal as he perched on the side of the bedwIf you'd like to read them, to"--he cleared his throat--"offer an opinion, that would be--" He coughed again "That would be acceptable"

Penelope looked at the journal in his hand, elegantly bound in crimson leather, then she looked up at hih he was absolutely still--no twitching or fidgeting--she could tell he was nervous

Nervous Colin It seeinablewI'd be honored," she said softly, gently tugging the book froes were ers, she opened to one of the selected spots