Penelope Bridgerton draws in a breath, her lip catching between her teeth as a smile creeps across her lips as her husband presses a kiss to her shoulder and his hand slips up over her knee.

Her body is flushed, her cheeks rosy, and their room radiates warmth. Fading embers flicker at the hearth, cracking and popping as if to mimic her still-racing heart and her breath as it catches in her throat.

Colin's lips swipe across her clavicle and she smiles as his fingertips swirl, feather-like over her skin.

"Colin—" She presses her eyes closed and her head falls back against her pillow. "You are insatiable."

"It's true," he murmurs, his lips fluttering against her skin. "But tomorrow I have to not only behave, but share you."

"Eloise and I will be spending the day together. I said nothing of the night."

A smirk edges onto Colin's lips and his eyebrow arches devilishly. "Hm, her letters were awfully coy," he says absently, his attention focuses far more on his actions than his words. "I am just being… cautious."

Penelope smiles at his sweet absurdity—she can't help herself.

There were still moments she could hardly believe that her life was her own—that she was married to a man who showed her love unconditionally, that she had a thriving column published in her own name, and the support of, not one, but two strong and supportive families. And though she'd never been the type of girl who believed that finding love—or rather marriage—was the answer to all of life's problems, the confidence that love and marriage had brought to her astounded her.

"I assure you, we'll have our time together."

Colin's head lifts. "Do you promise?"

She grins. "I do."

For a moment, they held each other's gaze—their eyes were growing weary, but neither was yet willing to sleep.

"So, tell me, Pen, how will you and my sister be spending your day? She was awfully vague about this visit in her letters."

Colin had settled on to his side, his head propped up by one hand while the other settled just above her knee, his fingers moving back and forth, ever so slightly. She grins back at him, her eyes momentarily following his fingers before traveling up to meet his eyes.

"A long walk, I think," she tells him, her smile deepening. "And I want to show her the library here, and then…" Penelope's voice trails off. "I am just glad to have her back, even for just a few days."

"My mother agrees."

"Just your mother?"

Penelope's brow arches and Colin offers a rugged grin. "You know that I've missed her, too."

She nods. She loves moments like this—moments when it was just the two of them, when the rest of the world ceases to exist. There seem to have been hundreds of them since their marriage and countless more lie in their future, and though there is nothing particularly noteworthy about any of them, they never fail to fill her with excitement.

"I'm sure Eloise is just dying to tell you all about her adventures in the highlands—all three weeks of them."

Penelope smirks. "I do not think she would call them adventures."

"No. Probably not," Colin says, a little laugh rising into his voice. "I'm not sure what she expected. A secluded castle surrounded by nothing other than green pastures, sheep, and—"

"And I do not think we should chide her for returning so soon," Penelope interjects as her eyes rise to meet Colin's. "How could El have possibly known? Her whole life has been spent either on your family's isolated country estate or in Mayfair and nowhere else. She longed for something else, anything else…"

"You're right," Colin says, cutting in as his smile fades apologetically. "Do you think she'll stay? I know she says she plans to be moving on to Daphne's to help with the new baby, but—"

"I cannot imagine that," Penelope says, her nose scrunching at the thought of Eloise rocking Daphne's infant while two toddlers run in circles around her. "I believe she will be just as bored." A soft sigh escapes her. "I do wish she would stay. I miss her."

A part of her feels selfish for even considering the possibility; after all, she had found the life she'd longed for, Eloise was still searching.

"It would be different if she were happy."

"Mm…" he murmurs, nodding as his gaze falls away from hers and for a moment, he seems lost in thought.

Penelope lets the silence sit between them for a moment, watching the distant look in Colin's eyes, the pensive wrinkle of his brow, the regrets he's loathe to voice.

"I believe that is a feeling you can relate to," she says finally, grinning gently as her voice pulls Colin back into the present moment and his eyes meet hers. "Despite the challenge it's been, I have not read your manuscript."

For weeks, Colin had been working on editing his travel journal to turn it into a proper manuscript, taking out the bits he did not wish to share with the world and adding memories of colorful details that had not made it into the original.

And then, his work had just stopped.

She was unsure of when that was exactly—but she knew better than anyone how frustrating it could be when the right words just would not come, when the pages crumpled up and cast to the floor outnumbered the ones with coherent words written on them. It was normal, she now knew, to get stuck and to struggle, to spend days thinking about the proper wording or the myriad of ways something might be received by a reader. Though it could be crippling, it was temporary—but that was a lesson learned from experience.

As was the remedy.

Eloise had always been her sounding board, even when Eloise was unaware of it. And desperately, Penelope wanted to be that for Colin.

But he'd said that this was a journey he wanted to take on his own, that it was something he needed to prove to himself and to her—and then, somewhere along the way, he'd stopped. He played it off as simply having changed his mind, but she could see that it was deeper than that.

Colin's brow furrows with confusion. "I… did not say that you had."

"But I did read the letters that you sent to me while you were away and I—"

"I've no real proof of that—" he murmurs, his voice low as he feigns self-pity. "As you never bothered to make a single reply."

"You know why I did not respond."

Colin frowns. It's no longer a sore spot between them, but still the ways they hurt one another in the past is not a topic either of them particularly enjoys dredging up—but tonight, she has a purpose in doing so.

"And you also know that, despite my anger towards you, I could not resist ripping them open and devouring your every word." Penelope draws in a short breath. "I think you should reconsider your decision not to publish your manuscript."

"I do not have a manuscript to publish."

"Your travel journals then or even your letters."

A smirk edges across Colin's lips and he catches her hand in his, drawing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to her palm. "You are the writer of the family."

Penelope smiles gently, a twinge of guilt pinging at her core. This was not the first time he's said something of that nature, not the first time he'd reduced his own talents and hid behind hers. But what he didn't see was that his talents were different from hers—he had his own voice, his own stories to tell, his own value. He only needed practice and support.

"Society has its rules, but I am certain there is not a limit on that."

He laughs. "Should we go before the Queen to inquire?"

"Colin—"

"Some things," he murmurs as he leans in to peck her lips, "are better left for private eyes only."

"I do not disagree," she tells him, smiling as she reaches out to caress his cheek.

Her breath catches as he kisses her palm once more, peppering kisses down her arm and to her shoulder until his lips find the sweet spot on her neck, forcing her eyes closed. For a moment, she lets herself relax against her pillow, enjoying the sensation that he stirs within her—and then, drawing a breath to muster her resolve, she pushes him back.

"But, Colin, this is not one of those things."

Colin's eyebrow juts up playfully. "This?" he asks, gesturing between the two of them. "I rarely disagree with you, Pen, but this is governed by the strictest of rules and something I do immensely enjoy keeping between just the two of us."

"You know what I mean," she tells him, her voice soft as she reaches out to tilt his chin up and away from her skin. "You are brilliant—"

"Pen—"

"You and I write different things and somewhere out there is an audience craving your voice. I know that you have not always been happy with your journals and that you have struggled with the story you want to tell, but I believe that, if you'd let me, I could help."

Colin sighs, shaking his head as he looks away, but once more, she gently lifts his chin.

"Your letters were beautiful. They've always been beautiful—and clever and filled with such detail. You make the world sound like such a wonderful and yet beautifully flawed place, and—"

"That's all because I was writing to you."

"The small bit of your journal I did read was not written to me—"

He offers her a sheepish grin. "Sometimes it was. Sometimes, I would pretend I was writing to you, saying things that would never be appropriate to say to you in a letter."

"Then write your manuscript to me, write your book to me." Penelope watches as Colin's brow furrows—but he's not confused, he's intrigued. "Your issue was never that you didn't have anything to say or even that you didn't know what to say, only that you didn't know how to say it. That takes practice. It's easy to get lost in your head about things, to overthink every small detail to…" Her voice trails off. "I can help."

Colin doesn't say anything—and that's progress because it's not an absolute no.

"Let's just try it," she urges. "Please?"

Colin sighs again, but this time, a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth.

"For me?"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

A soft giggle escapes her and the thrill of victory surges through her. She sits up, letting the blankets fall around her, imagining them both sitting at their desks with ink-stained fingers and trading pages. "We could read them together—you could write them and I could offer you feedback. You could publish them in installments. It may be less daunting that way and would help to build an audience, and—"

"Leave them craving more?"

"Precisely."

"I… have been considering picking them up again," he tells her, his voice reluctant. "I've… missed it."

"I understand," she says, another little giggle bubbling out of her. "More than you know."

"You're really excited about this, aren't you?"

"I am. I'm excited for you."

Drawing in a breath, Colin nods, offering a tentative smile. "You really think people would want to hear the musings of—"

"Of a cleverly thoughtful and experienced world traveler?" Penelope nods as she reaches for him, her fingers sliding to the nape of his neck as she draws him closer. "I truly do." A coy little grin twists onto her lips. "Perhaps your sister may not have been in the predicament she is now in had she had the advice of a seasoned traveler."

"Well, then perhaps she should have responded to my letters," Colin says, once more feigning an air of despondency. But before she can say anything about it, his expression changes and there is a curious, but hesitant glint in his eye. "Pen, I know that you made the offer and I said previously it was something I wanted to do on my own, but—"

His voice halts. She waits for him to continue, but he does not.

"Asking for help is not admitting failure. It's quite the opposite, actually." She takes a breath, hating that for even a moment, he'd doubt his talent, that he'd doubt his worth. "You've helped me so much, Colin, by simply loving me and letting me be who I am," she tells him. "Love is reciprocal—let me return the favor."

"You do. Everyday, and everyday you inspire me." For a moment, he considers it—and then, she sees a hint of a smile. "Suppose I were to agree to this," he continues, a coyness rising into his voice, his whole demeanor once more shifting. "Would that make you my editor?"

"I prefer partner."

Colin nods his agreement.

"Does this mean… that you will consider it?"

"I suppose I must do something while Eloise steals you away to promenade around Mayfair."

For a moment neither says anything—and then a smile stretches across his lips as he leans back against his pillow, tucking his arm behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling. Penelope smiles, too, as she reaches across him and blows out the candle at their bedside. Then, in the nearly darkened room, she cuddles into his side. He presses a kiss to her hair—an unspoken thank you—before pulling her closer. In the darkness she smiles, excited for what their next chapter holds.