A memory flashed of her writhing against him, pressing up into his hands, his mouth. The feel of her. The taste of her. “I am fairly certain that I did.”

  She shook her head. “No. You didn’t. I know enough to understand the mechanics of the process, you know.”

  He wanted to explore that knowledge. In depth. “I see.”

  “I know there’s . . . more.”

  So much more. So much more that he wanted to show her. So much that he had planned to show her upon his return home. But . . . “You have been drinking.”

  “Just a little.” She sighed, looking over his shoulder into the darkness of the room beyond. “Michael, you promised me adventure.”

  “I did.”

  “A nighttime adventure.”

  His fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her to him. Or maybe she was simply swaying in that direction. Either way, he didn’t stop the movement. “I promised you a tour of my club.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want that tonight. Not anymore.”

  She had the most beautiful, blue eyes. A man could lose himself in those eyes. “What do you want instead?”

  “We were married today.”

  Yes. They were.

  “I’m your wife.”

  He stroked his hands up her back until his fingers slid deep into golden curls, taking hold of her head and tilting her just so, perfectly, so he could lay claim to her and remind her that he was her husband.

  He, and no one else.

  He leaned in, brushing his lips across hers, light and teasing.

  She sighed and pressed closer, but he pulled back, refusing to allow her to take over. She’d married him. She’d given him the chance to restore his name and his lands. And tonight, he wanted nothing more than to give her access to a world of pleasure as his thanks.

  “Penelope.”

  Her eyes drifted open. “Yes?”

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  She shook her head. “I am not in my cups. It seems I drank just enough to find the courage to ask for what I want.”

  She’d had too much, then. He knew it, even as her words sent desire lancing through him, “And what is it you want, darling?”

  She met his gaze head-on. “I want my wedding night.”

  So simple, so direct. So irresistible. He took her lips again knowing he shouldn’t, and kissed her as though they had all the time in the world, as though he was not dying to be a part of her. To be inside her. To make her his. He sucked her full lower lip between his teeth, licking and stroking with his tongue until she moaned her pleasure at the back of her throat.

  He released her mouth, kissing across her cheek, whispering, “Say my name.”

  “Michael,” she said without hesitation, the word trembling at his ear, sending a shaft of pleasure straight through him.

  “No. Bourne.” He took the lobe of one ear into his mouth and worried it before releasing her and saying, “Say it.”

  “Bourne,” she shifted, pressing against him, asking for more. “Please.”

  “There will be no turning back after this,” he promised, his lips at her temple, hands reveling in her softness.

  Her blue eyes opened, unbelievably light in the darkness, and she whispered, “Why would you think I would turn back?”

  He stilled at the question, at the honest confusion in her words. It was the drink talking. It had to be. It was inconceivable to think that she did not understand what he meant. That she did not see that he was nothing like the men who had courted her before.

  “I’m not the man you had planned to marry.” He should confront her with Tommy. But he did not want another man’s name spoken in this moment. In this place.

  She was already making him weak.

  She smiled, small and perhaps sad. “You are the man I married nonetheless. I know that you don’t care about me, Michael. I know that you only married me for Falconwell. But it’s rather too late to look back, isn’t it? We are married. And I wish to have a wedding night. I deserve it, I think, after all these years. Please. If you don’t mind too much.”

  His hands moved to the collar of her nightgown, and, with a mighty tug, he rent the clothing in two. She gasped at the movement, her eyes going wide. “You ruined it.” Bourne groaned at the wonder in the words. At the pleasure there.

  He wanted to ruin more than the linen.

  He brushed the night rail down her arms until it pooled at her knees, leaving her pale and naked in the candlelight. The too-dim candlelight. He wanted to see every inch of her . . . to watch the way her pulse raced at his touch, the way she quivered as he stroked the insides of her thighs, the way she clenched around him as he entered her.

  As he claimed her.

  He eased her back onto the fur, aching at the way she sighed as her back rubbed against the soft mink, as she learned the sheer decadence of skin against fur. He leaned over her, claiming her mouth until her hands were tangled in his hair, and she was pressing up against him. Only then did he lift his lips from hers and whisper, “I’m going to make love to you on this fur. You’re going to feel it against every inch of you. And the pleasure I give you will be more than you’ve ever imagined. You will cry my name as it comes.”

  He left her then, removing his clothes, carefully arranging them in a neat pile on a chair nearby before returning to the bed to find that she had covered herself, one hand across her breasts, the other pressed to the triangle of curls that hid her most private parts. He stretched out on his side next to her, one hand propping up his head, the other smoothing over the soft swell of her thigh, up over the curve of her hip, across her rounded stomach. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her breath coming in harsh little bursts, and Bourne could not help himself. He leaned down, licking the curve of one ear, nibbling at the lobe before asking, “Never hide from me.”

  She shook her head then, blue eyes wide. “I can’t. I can’t just . . . lie here. Bare.”

  He nipped her earlobe again. “I didn’t say anything about just lying there, darling.” He lifted the hand that was covering her breasts and slipped one finger into his mouth, licking the pad delicately before scraping it gently between his teeth.

  “Oh . . .” She sighed, her gaze rapt on his lips. “You’re very good at that.”

  He slowly extracted the finger and leaned down to kiss her, long and lush. “It’s not the only thing I am good at.”

  Her eyelids flickered at the erotic promise in the words, and she said, softly, “I imagine you have had much more practice than I have.”

  It did not matter that he had been with other women in that moment. All he wanted was to learn Penelope. To be the one to show her pleasure. To be the one to teach her to take it for herself. “Show me where you want me,” he whispered.

  She blushed, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “I couldn’t.”

  He returned her finger to his mouth, sucking carefully until her blue eyes opened, finding him, ethereal in the candlelight. She watched the movement of his lips, and the moment was so intense, he thought he might spend there and then. “Show me. Say, ‘Please, Bourne,’ and show me.”

  Courage flared in her eyes then, and he watched with keen pleasure as that finger, the one he’d made love to, trailed along her breast, circling the puckered, straining tip of it. He swiped the back of one hand across his lips as he watched the movement, as she tempted him beyond belief.

  “Please . . .” She trailed off.

  He lifted his head. “Please, who?”

  “Please, Bourne.” And he wanted to reward her for saying his name—his and no one else’s. He leaned down, suckling her gently as her finger moved to her other breast and she exhaled on a long, shuddering, “Yes . . .”

  His hand stroked over her stomach, lower, lower still before he removed it and nipped at the soft skin on the underside of her breast. “Don’t stop now, darling.”

  She didn’t, her finger wandering over the soft skin of her rounded stomach, into the curls that hid that magnificent place between her thighs. He watched, encouraging her with whispered guidance as she explored for herself, as she tested her own knowledge, her own skill, until he thought he might die if he was not inside her.

  He pressed a long, lingering kiss on the swell of her belly, then on her extended wrist, the hitch in her breath at the touch a reward in itself. He whispered his question to her skin. “What do you feel here?” One finger slid over the back of her hand, lingered at her knuckles. When she did not reply, he looked up to meet her gaze, reading the embarrassment there.

  She shook her head, her words barely audible. “I can’t.”

  He met her fingers in silken heat, and said, “I can.” He pressed one finger into her, curling deep, and she gasped at the sensation. “You’re wet, darling . . . wet and ready for me. For me. No one else.”

  “Michael,” she whispered his given name, and the pleasure of the simple moment was nearly unbearable. With a shy, uncertain smile, she spread her thighs and welcomed him with such trust that he could hardly bear it. He moved against her, the smooth head of him cradled against the velvet opening of her body and hovering there, resting his weight on his arms, looking down at her face, a mix of relaxation and pleasure and bewilderment, and he could not stop himself from kissing her, his tongue stroking slickly against hers, before pulling back. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, pausing there on the precipice of what he knew would be a remarkable moment . . . easing against her gently, just barely pushing inside before pulling out.

  He thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

  Her eyes eased shut, and he whispered, “Open your eyes. Watch me. I want you to see me.” When she did as she was told, he rocked into her smoothly, as gently as possible. She sucked in a short breath, pain flooding her gaze. He stopped, not wanting to hurt her. He leaned down, kissed her once—deeply—to regain her attention. “Are you all right?”

  She smiled, and he recognized the strain there. “I am fine!”

  He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his voice. “Liar.” He reached down to where she was so small and tight—marvelously tight—around the thickness of him. He found the hard, straining nub at the core of her and rubbed a slow circle there, watching as her eyes narrowed with pleasure. He continued the movement as he slid into her, slow and deep until she held all of him.

  He stilled, aching to move against her. “Now?” She took a deep breath, and he sank deeper, surprising them both. He put his forehead to hers. “Tell me it’s all right. Tell me I can move.”

  His innocent little wife slid her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and whispered, “Please, Michael.”

  And he could not resist the little plea. He took her lips with a wicked kiss, a growl rolling deep as he moved carefully, slowly pulling out until he was nearly gone from her, then rocking back into her gently, over and over, his thumb working against her, ensuring her pleasure even as he wondered if he would be able to hold his at bay.

  “Michael,” she whispered, and he met her gaze, worried that he might be hurting her. He stilled.

  She arched her back. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop moving. You were right . . .” Her eyes drifted closed, and she gave a moan of pleasure as he sank into her with one long stroke. He thought he might lose control at the sound of that moan, low and beautiful, at the back of her throat, but he did not stop.

  She shook her head, her hands running over his shoulders and down his back, finally coming to rest on his buttocks, clasping in time to his movements, to the stroke of his thumb. “Michael!”

  It was happening to him, too.

  He’d never given much thought to timing his release to his partner’s. He’d never cared to share the experience. But, suddenly, he could think of nothing but meeting Penelope there, on the edge of her pleasure, and letting it crash over both of them. “Wait for me,” he whispered at her ear, thrusting against her. “Don’t go without me.”

  “I can’t wait. I can’t stop it!” She convulsed around him, milking him in a rapid, stunning rhythm, his name on her lips sending him into oblivion, tumbling over the edge in a terrifying, extravagant climax that rivaled anything he’d ever experienced.

  He collapsed against her, his breath coming in great, heaving bursts as he buried his face in the angle of her neck and allowed the extraordinary pleasure to wash over him in waves unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

  Long minutes passed before, afraid that he would crush her with his weight, Bourne rolled away from Penelope, ran one hand down her side, and pulled her against him, not yet ready to release her.

  Dear God. It had been the most incredible sex he’d ever had.

  It had been mind-altering.

  It had been more than he’d ever imagined it could be.

  And the very idea that such an experience had come with Penelope spread cold fear through him.

  This woman. This marriage. This evening.

  It did not mean anything.

  It could not mean anything.

  She was a means to an end. The path to his revenge.

  That was all she could be.

  In his lifetime, Bourne had destroyed everything of value he’d ever held.

  When Penelope realized that . . . realized that he was every kind of disappointment, she’d thank him for not allowing her too close. She’d be grateful for his releasing her to a quiet, simple world, where she had everything she wanted . . . and did not have to worry about him.

  You do not deserve her.

  Tommy’s words echoed in his thoughts—those words that had sent him home, to his wife, to prove his place in her life. To prove that she belonged to him. That he could master her body in a way no other man had.

  But it was he who had been mastered.

  “Michael,” she whispered against his chest, his name a lingering promise on her lips as one of her hands stroked up his torso. The long, lush touch sent another wave of pleasure through him, followed all too closely by desire when she whispered, soft and sleepy and tempting, “That was splendid.”

  He meant to tell her not to become too comfortable in his bed.

  Not to become too comfortable in his life.

  He meant to tell her that the evening had been a means to an end.

  That their marriage would never be the kind she required.

  But she was already asleep.

  * * *

  Dear M—

  I realize that you may not wish to reply to my letters, but I plan to send them nonetheless. A year, two, or ten—I would never want you to think I had forgotten you. Not that you would believe such a thing, would you?

  It’s your birthday next week. I would have embroidered a handkerchief for you, but you know that needlepoint and I do not exactly suit.

  Remembering—P

  Needham Manor, January 1817

  No reply

  The next morning, Penelope entered the breakfast room, hoping to see her new husband—the man who had changed everything in one glorious day and glorious night, the man who had made her realize that perhaps their marriage could be more. That perhaps their contrived love match could be less contrived and more . . . well . . . a love match.

  For surely there was nothing so superb as the way he’d made her feel the prior evening in his bed. It was of little consequence that she had awoken not cloaked in decadent fur but in her perfectly pristine, perfectly pressed white linen sheets in the bedchamber she had been assigned.

  In fact, she was rather touched that he might have moved her there in the night without waking her. He was obviously a kind, caring, loving husband, and their marriage, which had begun as such a disastrous farce, was destined for something much much more.

  She hoped that he would join her as she took her seat at the lovely long table in the handsome and lavishly appointed breakfast room, wondering if he still enjoyed sausage at breakfast, as he had when he was very young.

  She hoped that he would join her as she accepted a plate of egg and toast (no sausage in sight) from the young footman, who clicked his heels together in a rather extravagant manner before returning to his post in the corner of the room.

  She hoped Michael would join her as she lingered over her toast.

  As she sipped her fast-cooling tea.

  As she eyed the newspaper, perfectly folded and placed to the left of the empty seat at the far end of the soon-growing-too-long table.

  And, after a full hour of waiting, Penelope stopped hoping.

  He was not coming.

  She remained alone.

  Suddenly, she was keenly aware of the footman in the corner of the room, whose job it was to simultaneously know immediately what his mistress might require and to ignore her altogether, and Penelope felt a blush rise high on her cheeks.

  For, surely, the young footman was thinking terribly embarrassing things.

  She slid a glance at him.

  He was not looking.

  But he was most definitely thinking.

  Michael wasn’t coming.

  Stupid, stupid Penelope.

  Of course he wasn’t coming.

  The events of the prior evening had not been magical to him. They’d been necessary. He’d officially taken her to wife. And then, like any good husband, he’d left her to her own devices.

  Alone.

  Penelope eyed her empty plate, where the bright yellow yolk of the egg she had eaten so happily had congealed, affixing itself rather grotesquely to the porcelain.

  It was the first full day of her life as a married woman, and she was eating breakfast alone. Ironic, that, considering she’d always viewed breakfast with a husband who barely knew her as a lonely affair indeed. But now, she would, with pleasure, take breakfast with her husband over breakfast by herself, under the watchful eyes of a too-young footman who was doing his very best not to see her.