“Thank you, mum.” She turned for the door and had almost reached freedom when Penelope called her back.

  “Oh, there is one thing.” The girl turned back, wide-eyed and waiting. “Could you tell me where the master’s chamber is?”

  “You mean, Bourne’s rooms?”

  There it was again. Bourne.

  “Yes.”

  “Most of us use the next door down the hallway, but you’ve a door direct,” Alice said, pointing at a door at the far end of the room, nearly tucked away behind the dressing screen.

  A door direct.

  Penelope’s heart began to beat a bit faster. “I see.”

  Of course she’d have a direct passage to her husband’s rooms.

  He was, after all, her husband.

  Perhaps he’d use it.

  Something shimmered through her, something that she could not identify. Fear, possibly.

  Excitement.

  Adventure.

  “I’m certain he won’t mind you being in here, milady. He does not often sleep here.”

  Penelope felt heat wash over her cheeks again. “I see,” she repeated. He slept somewhere else. With someone else.

  “Good night, m’lady.”

  “Good night, Alice.”

  The girl was gone then, and Penelope stood staring at that door, unbearably curious about what was behind it. The curiosity remained as her trunks arrived, followed by her supper—a simple, sumptuous meal of fresh bread and cheese, warm ham, and lovely, rich chutney. It gnawed at her while she ate, and as her newly arrived maid unpacked her most vital pieces of clothing, and while the boys who had brought her trunks filled her bath, and while she bathed, and dried, and dressed, and tried desperately to write a letter to her cousin Catherine.

  When the clock struck midnight, and she realized that her wedding day—and wedding night—had come and gone, the curiosity about what was behind that door turned into disappointment.

  And then irritation. Her gaze was drawn to the adjoining door once more. She eyed the mahogany, anger and not a little bit of embarrassment coursing through her. And in that split second, she made her decision.

  She went to the door and yanked it open, revealing a great, yawning darkness.

  The servants knew he did not plan to return that night, or they would have kept a fire lit for him. She was the only one who had expected him to return. The only one who thought, perhaps, their wedding night might be something . . . more.

  Silly Penelope.

  He hadn’t wanted to marry her.

  He’d married her for Falconwell. Why was that so difficult for her to remember? She swallowed around the knot in her throat, taking a deep breath. She would not allow herself to cry. Not tonight. Not in this new house, with its curious servants. Not on her wedding night.

  The first night of the rest of her life.

  Her first night as Marchioness of Bourne, with the freedoms that came with the title.

  So, no, she would not cry. Instead, she would have an adventure.

  Lifting a large candlestick from a nearby table, she entered the room, a pool of golden light following her, revealing a long wall of shelves filled to bursting with books and a marble fireplace with two large, lovely chairs arranged comfortably nearby. She paused at the hearth to investigate the enormous painting that hung above, lifting her candle to lend more light to the landscape.

  Recognition flared.

  It was Falconwell.

  Not the house, but the land. The rolling hills that gave way to the stunning, glittering lake that marked the western edge of the lush, green property—the jewel of Surrey. The land that had once been his birthright.

  He awoke to Falconwell.

  When he slept in this room, that was.

  The thought chased away any sympathy she might have felt in that moment, and she spun away, irritation and disappointment flaring. Her candle revealed the end of a massive bed—bigger than any bed she’d ever seen. Penelope gasped at its sheer size, enormous oak posts at each of its corners, each more finely wrought than the last, the canopy above rising at least seven feet—maybe more. It was shrouded in fabrics the color of wine and midnight, and she could not stop herself from reaching out to run her fingers over the velvet draping.

  It was lush and rich and extravagant in the extreme.

  And devastatingly masculine.

  The thought had her turning away to face the rest of the room, her gaze following the candlelight as it caught a large crystal decanter filled with dark liquid and a matching set of tumblers.

  She wondered how often he poured himself a finger of scotch and took to his massive bed. Wondered how often he poured an equal amount of the liquor for a guest.

  The idea of another woman in Michael’s bed, dark and voluptuous, matching him in her beauty and her boldness, fueled Penelope’s ire.

  He’d left her there, in his home, on her first night as his wife.

  And he’d gone off to drink scotch with a goddess.

  It did not matter that she had no proof; it made her angry nonetheless.

  Had their conversation in the carriage meant nothing? How were they to prove to London and to society that this sham of a marriage was nothing close to the scandal it was if he was off gallivanting with . . . with . . . ladies of the evening?

  And what was she to do while he lived the life of a rakish libertine?

  Sit here with needlepoint until he decided to grace her with his presence?

  No.

  She would not do it.

  “Most definitely not,” she vowed softly, triumphantly in the dark room, as though once the words were spoken aloud, they could not be rescinded.

  And perhaps they couldn’t.

  Her gaze set upon the decanter once more, the deep cuts in the glass, the wide base, designed to keep the bottle from tipping over on rough seas. He would have a ship’s captain’s decanter in this decadent room, a den of fabric and sin that could have belonged to any self-respecting pirate.

  Well. She would show him rough seas.

  Before she could give it much thought, she was headed for the drink, setting down her candelabrum, turning over a tumbler and pouring more scotch into the glass than any decent woman should drink.

  That she was not certain exactly how much scotch a decent woman could drink was irrelevant.

  She took a perverse pleasure in the way the amber liquid filled the crystal, and she snickered as she wondered what her new husband would think if he arrived home to that moment—his proper wife, plucked from the path to spinsterhood, clutching a glass half-full of scotch.

  Half-full of the future.

  Half-full of adventure.

  With a grin, Penelope toasted herself in the wide mirror mounted behind the decanter and took a long drink of the whiskey.

  And nearly died.

  She was not prepared for the wicked burn that seared down her throat and pooled in her stomach, making her retch once before she regained control of her faculties. “Blech!” she announced to the empty room, looking down into the glass and wondering why anyone—particularly the wealthiest men in Britain—might actually choose to drink such smoky, bitter swill.

  It tasted like fire. Fire and . . . trees.

  And it was foul.

  As far as adventures went, this one was not looking at all promising.

  She thought she might be sick.

  She perched on the edge of the sideboard, bending over and wondering if it was possible that she might have actually done serious, irreversible damage to her innards. She took several deep breaths, and the burn started to subside, leaving behind a languid, vaguely encouraging warmth.

  She righted herself.

  It wasn’t so bad, after all.

  She stood again, lifting the candelabrum once more and heading for the bookshelves, tilting her head to read the titles of the leather-bound books that filled them to bursting. It seemed strange that Michael might have books. She could not imagine him ever stopping long enough to read. But here they were—Homer, Shakespeare, Chaucer, several German tomes on agriculture, and an entire shelf of histories of the British Kings. And Debrett’s Peerage.

  She ran her fingers across the gilded lettering of the volume—the complete history of the British aristocracy—its spine worn from use. For someone who was so happily absent from society, Michael seemed to peruse the volume quite a bit.

  She pulled the book from the shelf, smoothing one hand across the leather binding before opening it at random. It fell open to a page, oft-viewed.

  The entry for the Marquessate of Bourne.

  Penelope ran her fingers across the letters, the long line of men who held the title before Michael. Before now. And there he was. Michael Henry Stephen, 10th Marquess of Bourne, 2nd Earl Arran, born 1800. In 1816, he was created Marquess of Bourne, to him and the heirs male of his body.

  He might play at not caring for his title . . . but he felt connected to it in some way, or this book would not be so well used. Pleasure ripped through her at the thought, at the idea that he might still think of his time in Surrey, of his land there, of his childhood there, of her.

  Perhaps he had not forgotten her—just as she had not forgotten him.

  Her index finger ran along the line of text. The heirs male of his body. She imagined a set of gangly, dark-haired boys, dimples in their cheeks and mussed clothing.

  Little Michaels.

  The heirs male of her body as well.

  If he ever came home.

  She returned the book to its home and inched closer to the bed, investigating the enormous piece of furniture more closely, taking in that dark coverlet, wondering if it was velvet—if it matched the curtains around the bed. She set her light down and reached out, wanting to touch the bed. Wanting to feel the place where he slept.

  The coverlet was not velvet.

  It was fur. Soft, lush fur.

  Of course it was.

  She ran the flat of her hand across the fabric, and imagined, for one fleeting moment, what it might be like to lie in this bed, wrapped in darkness and fur.

  And in Michael.

  He was a rogue and a scoundrel, and his bed was an adventure in itself.

  The soft fur beckoned to her, tempting her to climb up and bask in its warmth, its decadence. As quickly as the idea occurred to her, she was moving, letting her glass fall to the floor, unheeded, as she climbed onto the bed like a child on the hunt for biscuits, scaling the larder shelves.

  It was the softest, most luxurious thing she’d ever experienced.

  She rolled onto her back, spreading her arms and legs wide, loving the way the feathers and fur cradled her weight, allowing her to sink into the covers in pure, utter pleasure.

  No bed should be this comfortable.

  But, of course, his was.

  “He is depraved,” she said aloud to the room, hearing the lingering echo of the words as they faded into the darkness.

  She lifted her arms, which seemed heavier than usual, and raised them straight up to the canopy above, wriggling deeper into the covers before closing her eyes, turning her cheek to one side, and rubbing against the fur.

  She sighed. It seemed unfair that such a bed would go unused.

  Her thoughts were slow, as though they were coming to her from underwater, and she was keenly aware of the weight of her body sinking into the mattress.

  This glorious relaxation must be why people drank.

  It certainly made her more open to the idea.

  “It seems you have lost your way.”

  She opened her eyes at the words, low and soft in the darkness, to find her husband standing beside the bed, staring down at her.

  Chapter Ten

  Dear M—

  Having received no reply from you in English, I thought perhaps you might respond to alternate languages. Be warned, there is (likely incorrect) Latin ahead.

  Écrivez, s’il vous plaît

  Placet scribes

  Bitte schreiben Sie

  Scrivimi, per favore

  Ysgrifennwch, os gwelwch yn dda

  I confess, I had one of the Welsh kitchen girls help with that last one, but the sentiment remains.

  Please write—P

  Needham Manor, September 1816

  No reply (in any language)

  As part-owner in London’s most luxurious gaming hell, Bourne was no stranger to temptation. He specialized in sin. He was a personal acquaintance of vice. He knew the pull of emerald baize stretched across a billiard table, he understood the way the heart raced at the sound of hazard dice clattering in one’s hand, he knew the precipice upon which a gamer teetered when waiting for that single card that would make—or lose—a fortune.

  But he had never in his life experienced temptation as acute as this—the call to sin and wickedness that rang in his head as he watched his new, virginal wife writhe upon his fur coverlet in nothing but a linen shift.

  Desire shot through him, thick and intense, and he fought to keep himself from reaching down and tearing her night rail in two, baring her to his eyes and his hands and his mouth for the rest of the night.

  To claim her as his.

  Anger lingered, now mixed in heady combination with desire as she blinked up at him, slow and languid in the flickering candlelight. The whisper of a smile she offered him made him want to strip bare and climb onto that bed with her to rub the fur coverlet across her pristine skin and show her precisely how glorious depravity could be.

  She blinked again, and he thickened, his perfectly tailored trousers suddenly too tight. “Michael,” she whispered, a hint of pleased discovery in her tone that did not help matters. “You are not supposed to be here.”

  And yet he was, a fox leaping into a henhouse. “Were you expecting someone else?” The words were harsh to his ears, filled with a meaning that she would not understand. “It remains my bedchamber, does it not?”

  She smiled. “You made a joke. Of course it does.”

  “Then why am I not to be here?”

  The question seemed to bother her. She wrinkled her nose. “You’re supposed to be with your goddess.” She closed her eyes and rocked into the fur again with a low hum of pleasure.

  “My goddess?”

  “Mmm. Alice told me that you do not sleep here.” She tried to sit up, the fur and the feather bed making the movement difficult, and Michael watched as the edge of her nightgown slipped, devastatingly, beautifully, down the slope of one bare breast. “You are always so silent, Michael. Do you try to intimidate me?”

  He willed his voice calm. “Do I intimidate you?”

  “Sometimes. But not right now.”

  She crawled toward him, kneeling in front of him on the bed, one knee pulling the fabric taut, and Bourne found himself praying that her night rail would fall an inch more . . . half an inch. Just enough to bare one of her perfect pink nipples.

  He shook off the thought. He was a man of thirty, not a boy of twelve. He had seen plenty of breasts in his day. He did not need to lust after his wife, swaying before him, testing the strength of her nightgown’s fabric and his sanity, all at once.

  Indeed, he had not returned in a fit of lust. He’d returned because he was angry. Angry at her for nearly marrying Tommy. For not telling him the truth.

  She broke into his thoughts, and he caught her by the waist to steady her. “I am sorry that I am not perfect.”

  Right now, the only thing imperfect about her was the fact that she was clothed.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “We were married today,” she said. “Or perhaps you do not remember?”

  “I remember.” She was making it impossible to forget.

  “Really? Because you left me.”

  “I remember that, too.” He had returned, ready to consummate the marriage. Ready to claim her as his and eliminate any doubt that they were married, that Falconwell was his.

  That she was his. His, and not Tommy’s.

  “Brides do not expect to be left on their wedding night, Michael.” He did not reply, and she brazened on, raising her hands to his arms, clutching him through layers of clothing. “We do not like it. Especially when you forgo an evening with us for one with your . . . raven-haired beauty.”

  She wasn’t making sense. “Who?”

  She waved a hand. “They’re always raven-haired, the ones who win . . .”

  “Who win what?”

  She was still talking. “ . . . It doesn’t matter if she’s raven-haired or not, really. It just matters that she exists. And I don’t like it.”

  “I see,” he said. She thought he’d been with another woman? Perhaps if he’d been with another woman, he would not be here, wanting her so much.

  “I don’t think you do see, actually.” She wavered, watching him carefully. “Are you laughing at me?”

  “No.” He at least knew that was the correct answer.

  “Shall I tell you what else brides do not like on their wedding night?”

  “By all means.”

  “We do not like to sit at home. Alone.”

  “I imagine that goes with not liking being left.”

  She narrowed her gaze and lowered her hands, swaying back, enough for him to tighten his grip and hold her steady—to feel the soft warmth of her beneath her shift, reminding him of the way she molded to his hands . . . to his mouth . . . to the rest of him. “You mock me.”

  “I swear I don’t.”

  “We also don’t like to be mocked.”

  He had to take control before he lost his mind. “Penelope.”

  She smiled. “I like the way you say my name.”

  He ignored the words and the unplanned flirtation in them. She did not know what she was doing. “Why aren’t you in your own bed?”

  She tilted her head, considering the question. “We married for all the wrong reasons. Or, all the right reasons . . . if you’re looking for a marriage of convenience. But, either way, we did not marry for passion. I mean, think about it. You didn’t really compromise me at Falconwell.”