Needham followed the movement with his gaze, his jaw clenching at the sound. “No, it shall be because I have the one thing you want more than the land.”

  Bourne considered Needham for a long moment, the words echoing in their dark corner before he brushed them aside. “You can’t give me the only thing I want more than Falconwell.”

  “Langford’s ruin.”

  Revenge.

  The word shot through him, a whisper of promise, and Bourne leaned forward, slowly. “You lie.”

  “I should call you out for the suggestion.”

  “It won’t be my first duel.” He waited. When Needham did not rise to the bait, he said, “I’ve looked. There’s nothing to be found that can ruin him.”

  “You haven’t looked in the right places.”

  It had to be a lie. “You think that with my reach, with the reach of The Angel, I have not turned London inside out for a whiff of scandal on the stench of Langford?”

  “Not even the files at your precious hell would have this.”

  “I know everything he’s done, everywhere he’s been. I know the man’s life better than he himself. And I am telling you, he took everything I had and spent the last nine years living a pristine life off my lands.”

  Needham reached into his coat again. Withdrew another document, this one smaller. Older. “This happened far more than nine years ago.”

  Bourne’s gaze narrowed on the paper, registered the Langford seal. He raised his eyes to his future father-in-law. His heart began to pound, something frighteningly akin to hope in his chest. He didn’t like the way he hung on the silence that swirled between them. Willed himself calm. “You think to tempt me with some ancient letter?”

  “You want this letter, Bourne. It’s worth a dozen of your famous files. And it’s yours, assuming you keep my girls’ names out of your dirt.”

  The marquess had never been one to pull his punches. He said precisely what he thought, whenever he thought it—the product of holding two of the more venerable titles in the peerage—and Bourne couldn’t help but admire the man for his straightforwardness. He knew what he wanted, aimed for it.

  What the marquess did not know was that his eldest daughter had negotiated these precise terms the evening before. That document, whatever it was, would not require additional payment.

  But Needham deserved his own punishment—punishment for ignoring Langford’s behavior all those years ago. Punishment for using Falconwell on the marriage mart.

  Punishment that Bourne was more than willing to mete out. “You are a fool if you think I will agree without knowing what is inside. I built my fortune on scandal, thieved it from pockets of sin. I shall be the judge of whether that document is worth my effort.”

  Needham opened the letter, laid it on the table, slowly. Turned it to face Bourne and held it down with one finger. Bourne couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward more quickly than he would have liked, his eyes scanning the page.

  Dear God.

  He looked up, met Needham’s knowing gaze. “It’s real?”

  The older man nodded once. Twice.

  Bourne reread the lines. Took in the scrawl across the bottom of the paper, unmistakably Langford’s, though the paper was thirty years old.

  Twenty-nine.

  “Why would you share this? Why give it to me?”

  “You give me little choice.” Needham hedged. “I like the boy . . . I kept this close at hand because I thought that Penelope would marry him eventually, and he’d require protection. Now my girls need that protection. A father does what he must. You make sure that Penelope’s reputation is unblemished by this match and that the others’ are worthy of decent matches, and it is yours.”

  Bourne turned his glass in a slow circle, watching the way it caught the candlelight of the pub for a long moment before lifting his gaze to Needham. “I shan’t wait for the girls’ weddings.”

  Needham dipped his head, suddenly gracious. “I shall settle for betrothals.”

  “No. Betrothals are dangerous indeed when it comes to your daughters, I hear.”

  “I should walk away from you right now,” Needham threatened.

  “But you won’t. We are strange bedfellows, you and I.” He sat back in his chair, tasting victory. “I want the other daughters in town as quickly as possible. I’ll get them courted. They’ll not be tarnished by their sister’s marriage.”

  “Courted by decent men,” Needham qualified. “No one with half his estate in hock to The Angel.”

  “Get them to town. I find I am no longer willing to wait for my revenge.”

  Needham’s gaze narrowed. “I shall regret marrying her to you.”

  Bourne tossed back his drink and turned the glass upside down on the wooden table. “It is unfortunate, then, that you haven’t a choice.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dear M—

  I’ve just seen you off, and I came inside straightaway to write.

  I haven’t anything to say, really, nothing that every other person in Surrey hasn’t already said. It seems silly to say, “I am sorry,” doesn’t it? Of course, everyone is sorry. It’s horrible, what’s happened.

  I am not only sorry for your loss, however; I am sorry that we were not able to talk when you were home. I am sorry that I could not attend the funeral . . . it’s a stupid rule, and I wish I had been born a male so I could have been there (I plan to have a chat with Vicar Compton regarding that idiocy). I am sorry I could not be—more of a friend.

  I am here now, on the page, where girls are allowed. Please write when you have time. Or inclination.

  Your friend—P

  Needham Manor, April 1816

  No reply

  Surely there had never been a longer carriage ride than this—four interminable, deathly silent hours from Surrey to London. Penelope would rather have been trapped in a mail coach with Olivia and a collection of ladies’ magazines.

  She slid a glance across the wide, dark interior of the conveyance, taking in her hours-old husband, leaning back against his seat, long legs extended, eyes closed, corpse-still, and attempted to quiet her rioting thoughts, which seemed to be focused on a handful of extraordinarily disquieting things. Namely:

  She was married.

  Which led to,

  She was the Marchioness of Bourne.

  Which explained why,

  She was traveling in a conveyance that was stuffed to the gills with her possessions and would soon be in London, where she would live, with her new husband.

  Which brought her to,

  Michael was her new husband.

  Which meant,

  She would share her wedding night with Michael.

  Perhaps he’d kiss her again. Touch her again.

  More.

  One would think he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If they were married. It was what husbands and wives did, after all.

  She hoped.

  Oh, dear.

  The thought was enough to make her wish she had the courage to throw open the door to the carriage and toss herself right out of the vehicle.

  They’d been married so quickly and so efficiently that she barely remembered the ceremony—barely remembered promising to love, comfort, honor, and obey, which was probably for the best, as the love portion of the promise was something of a lie.

  He’d married her for land and nothing else.

  And it did not matter that he’d touched her and made her feel things she’d never imagined a body could feel. In the end, this was precisely the kind of marriage she’d been raised to have—a marriage of convenience. A marriage of duty. A marriage of propriety.

  He’d made that more than clear.

  The coach bounced over a particularly uneven bit of road, and Penelope gave a little squeak as she nearly slid off the extravagantly upholstered seat. Regaining her composure, she rearranged herself, planting both of her feet squarely on the floor of the coach and throwing a glance toward Michael, who had not moved, except to open his eyes to slits—presumably to ensure that she had not injured herself.

  When he was certain that she was not in need of a surgeon, he closed his eyes once more.

  He was ignoring her, his silence easy and utterly off-putting.

  He couldn’t even feign interest in her.

  Perhaps, if she weren’t so consumed by nervousness at the events of the day, she might have been able to remain quiet herself—to match him silence for silence.

  Perhaps.

  Penelope would never know, because she was unable to remain silent for a moment longer.

  She cleared her throat, as though preparing to make a public statement. He opened his eyes and slid his gaze to her but did not move otherwise. “I think it would be best if we took this time to discuss our plan.”

  “Our plan?”

  “The plan to ensure that my sisters have a successful season. You do recall your promise?” Her hand moved to the pocket of her traveling dress, where the coin he’d given her two nights earlier weighed heavily against her thigh.

  Something she couldn’t recognize played across his face. “I recall the promise.”

  “What is the plan?”

  He stretched, his legs extending even farther across the coach. “I plan to find husbands for your sisters.”

  She blinked. “You mean suitors.”

  “If you like. I’ve two men in mind.”

  Curiosity flared. “What are they like?”

  “Titled.”

  “And?” she prompted.

  “And in the market for wives.”

  He was exasperating. “Do they have sound, husbandly traits?”

  “In the sense that they are male and unmarried.”

  Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “Those are not the qualities to which I refer.”

  “Qualities.”

  “The characteristics that make for a good husband.”

  “You are expert in the subject, I see.” He dipped his head, mocking her. “Please. Enlighten me.”

  She pulled herself up, ticking the items off on her fingers as she went. “Kindness. Generosity. A modicum of good humor—”

  “Only a modicum of it? Ill humor on say, Tuesdays and Thursdays would be acceptable?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Good humor,” she repeated before pausing, then adding, “A warm smile.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Though, in your case, I would accept any smile at all.”

  He did not smile.

  “Do they have these qualities?” she prodded. He did not reply. “Will my sisters like them?”

  “I haven’t any idea.”

  “Do you like them?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “You are an obstinate man.”

  “Consider it one of my qualities.”

  He turned away, and she raised a brow in his direction. She couldn’t help it. No one in her life had ever irritated her quite so much as this man. Her husband. Her husband, who had plucked her, without remorse, from her life. Her husband, whom she’d agreed to marry because she did not want her sisters to suffer another blow to their reputations at her hands. Her husband, who had agreed to help her. Only now did she realize that by help, he’d meant, arrange another loveless marriage. Or two.

  She wasn’t having it.

  She couldn’t do much, but she could make certain that Olivia and Pippa had their chance at happy marriages.

  The chance she hadn’t had.

  “First, you don’t even know if these men will have them.”

  “They will.” He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes once more.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because they owe me a great deal of money, and I will forgive their debts in exchange for marriage.”

  Penelope’s jaw dropped. “You will buy their fidelity?”

  “I’m not certain that fidelity is part of the bargain.”

  He said it without opening his eyes—eyes that remained closed for the long minutes during which she considered the horrible words.

  She leaned forward and poked him in the leg with one finger. Hard.

  His eyes opened.

  There was no room for triumph in her as she was too full of outrage. “No,” she said, the word short and sharp in the small carriage.

  “No?”

  “No,” she repeated. “You gave me your word that our marriage wouldn’t ruin my sisters.”

  “And it will not. Indeed, marriage to these men would make them quite revered in society.”

  “Marriage to titled men who owe you money and might not be faithful will ruin them in other ways. In the ways that matter.”

  One of his dark brows rose in that irritating expression she was coming to dislike. “The ways that matter?”

  She would not be cowed. “Yes. The ways that matter. My sisters will not have marriages built on stupid agreements related to gaming. It’s bad enough that I have one of those. They shall choose their husbands. They shall have marriage built on more. Built on—” She stopped, not wanting him to laugh at her.

  “Built on . . . ?”

  She did not speak. Would not give him the pleasure of a reply. Waited for him to press her.

  Oddly, he did not. “I suppose you have a plan to capture these men with qualities?”

  She didn’t. Not really. “Of course I do.”

  “Well then?”

  “You reenter society. Prove to them that our marriage was not forced.”

  He raised a brow. “Your dowry included my land. You think they will not see that I forced you into wedlock?”

  She worried her lip, hating his logic. And she said the first thing that came to her mind. The first, ridiculous, utterly insane thing that came to her mind. “We must feign a love match.”

  He showed none of the shock that she felt at the words. “How is it—I saw you in the village square and decided to mend my wicked ways?”

  In for a penny, in for a pound. “That seems—reasonable.”

  That brow arched once more. “Does it? You think people will believe it when the truth is that I ruined you on an abandoned estate before your father stormed the house with a rifle?”

  She hesitated. “I would not call it storming.”

  “He fired several rounds at my house. If that isn’t storming, I don’t know what is.”

  It was a salient point. “Fair. He stormed. But that is not the story we are going to tell.” She hoped the words came out emphatically even as she silently pleaded, Please, say it isn’t. “If they’re to have a chance at real marriages, they need this. You gave me your word. Your marker.”

  He was silent for a long while, and she thought he might refuse, offering her marriage for her sisters or nothing at all. And what would she do? What could she do now that she was beholden to him and his will—his power—as her husband?

  Finally, he leaned back once more, all mockery when he said, “By all means. Devise our magical tale. I am all attention.” He closed his eyes, shutting her out.

  She would have given everything she held dear for a single, biting retort in that moment—for something that would have stung him as quickly and deftly as his words. Of course, nothing sprang to mind. Instead, she ignored him and plunged ahead, building the story. “Since we have known each other all our lives, we might have become reacquainted on St. Stephen’s.”

  His eyes opened, barely. “St. Stephen’s?”

  “It might be best if our story began prior to the announcement that Falconwell was . . . part of my dowry.” Penelope pretended to inspect a speck on her traveling cloak, hating the fullness in her throat at the words, the reminder of her true worth. “I’ve always liked Christmas, and the Feast of St. Stephen in Coldharbour is quite . . . festive.”

  “Figgy pudding and the rest, I assume?” The question was not a question at all.

  “Yes. And caroling,” she added.

  “With small children?”

  “Many of them, yes.”

  “It sounds like precisely the kind of thing I would attend.”

  She did not miss his sarcasm, but she refused to be cowed by it. She gave him a firm look and could not resist saying, “If you were ever at Falconwell for Christmas, I imagine you would enjoy it very much.”

  He seemed to consider responding, but he held back the words, and Penelope felt a wave of triumph course through her at the crack in his cool demeanor—a minor victory. He closed his eyes and leaned back once more. “So, there I was, feasting on St. Stephen’s Day and there you were, my childhood sweetheart.”

  “We weren’t childhood sweethearts.”

  “Truth is irrelevant. What is relevant is whether or not they believe it.”

  The logic in the words grated. “The first rule of scoundrels?”

  “The first rule of gambling.”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” she said, tartly.

  “Come now, you think anyone will care to confirm the part of our tale that began during our childhood?”

  “I suppose not,” she grumbled.

  “They won’t. And besides, it’s the closest thing to the truth in the entire thing.”

  It was?

  She would be lying if she said that she had never imagined marrying him, the first boy she’d ever known, the one who made her smile and laugh as a child. But he’d never imagined it, had he? It didn’t matter. Now, as she stared at the man, she was unable to find any trace of the boy she’d once known . . . the boy who might have considered her sweet.

  He moved on, pulling her from her thoughts. “So, there you were, all blue-eyed and lovely, veritably glowing in the flames of the figgy pudding, and I couldn’t bear another moment of my unbridled, unsaddled, suddenly unwelcome state of bachelorhood. In you, I saw my heart, my purpose, my very soul.”

  Penelope knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop the wash of warmth that flooded her cheeks at the words, quiet and low in the close quarters of the carriage.