Penelope wrenched her hand from his, looking both ways down the hall to ensure that they had not been seen. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “This is not done!”

  “I do wish you would stop telling me what is and is not done,” he said. “Don’t you see it only makes me want to do it more?” He pulled her farther away from the door into a dimly lit alcove. “Gossip about how much I adore you is the kind of gossip we’re looking for, darling.”

  “There’s no need to call me that, and you know it,” she whispered. “I’m not your darling.”

  He lifted a hand to her face. “You are when we are in public.”

  She swatted it away. “Stop it.” She paused, then lowered her voice. “Do you think they believe us?”

  He gave her an indignant look. “Why wouldn’t they, my love? Every word of it is true.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “You know what I mean.”

  He leaned close, and whispered, “I know that the walls in houses like this have ears, love.” And then he licked her. Actually licked her, a lovely caress on the lobe of her ear that had her clutching his arms at unexpected pleasure. Before she could respond, his lips were gone, and he returned his hand to her jaw, tipping her face up to his. “You were splendid in there.”

  Splendid. The word echoed through her on a flood of pleasure as he set a warm kiss to the place where her pulse beat frantically at her throat.

  “I don’t like the way they judge you,” she whispered. “Especially Holloway.”

  “Holloway is a bitch.” She gasped at the word, and he continued in her ear. “She deserves a thrashing. It’s a shame that her earl is too feeble to do it.”

  Pleasure lanced through Penelope at the words, and she could not help her smile. “You seem to have few qualms about spanking women.”

  “Only those I like.” He stilled and lifted his head, dark gaze finding hers in the close quarters.

  She tried to ignore the silken promise in the words. Tried to remember that it wasn’t real. That this night was all façade. That this strange man was not her husband. That her husband had done nothing but use her for his own gain.

  Except, tonight wasn’t about him. It was about her and her sisters. “Thank you, Michael,” she whispered in the darkness, “I know that you did not have to honor this part of the arrangement. That you did not have to help my sisters.”

  He was silent for a long moment. “I do have to.”

  His willingness to keep his word surprised her even as it reminded her of their agreement. “I suppose there is honor among thieves after all.” She hesitated, then said, “And the rest of the agreement?”

  One of his dark brows rose.

  “When do I get my tour?”

  “You’re learning to drive a hard bargain.”

  “I’ve little else to keep me entertained,” she replied.

  “Are you bored, wife?”

  “Why would I be bored? Staring at the walls of your town house is so fascinating.”

  He chuckled at her words, and the sound sent a shiver of heat through her. “Fair enough. Why not take your excitement now?”

  “Because right now, we’re trying to convince them that you have changed and our disappearing from the festivities will not help.”

  “Oh, I think my disappearing with my proper wife would help a great deal.” He crowded closer. “More than that, I know you’ll enjoy it.”

  “Hiding in the hallway of Tottenham House like a thief?”

  “Not like a thief.” He peeked around the edge of their hiding place before returning his attention to her. “Like a lady having a clandestine affair.”

  She gave a little snort of disapproval. “With her husband.”

  “Having an affair with one’s husband is . . . He trailed off, his eyes darkening.

  “Bourgeois?”

  One side of his mouth twitched. “I was going to say it was an adventure.”

  An adventure.

  She stilled at the word, looking up at him where he towered above her, his lips turned up in something akin to a smirk, his hands cupping her face, everything about him, his heat, his scent . . . him, surrounding her.

  She should deny him. She should tell him that she found their wedding night as plain and uninteresting as dinner at Tottenham House.

  Should put him in his smug place.

  But she couldn’t. Because she wanted it again. She wanted him to kiss her and touch her and make her feel all those glorious things she had felt before he’d left her as though he hadn’t felt a thing.

  He was so close and so handsome and so male. And as she looked up into the eyes of this man who was one moment exciting and entertaining and the next dark and dangerous, she realized that she would take adventure with him any way he offered it.

  Even here, in the alcove of Tottenham’s hallway.

  Even if it was a mistake.

  She placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling the hard, flat strength that coiled there beneath layers of perfectly fitted linen and wool. “You’re so different tonight. I don’t know who you are.”

  Something flashed in his eyes at the words, something there, then gone so fast that she could not identify it. When he spoke, his words were low and soft and liquid, with a hint of teasing. “Then why not get to know me a little better?”

  Why not, indeed.

  She lifted herself onto her toes, reaching up for him as he bent toward her and claimed her lips in a searing, nearly unbearable kiss.

  He pressed closer to her, pushing her back against the wall, covering her with his body until she could do nothing but reach up and thread her arms around his neck, pulling him toward her until his lips, firm and silken, gave her what she had not even known she wanted, what she had not even known could be—a hard, possessing kiss that she would never, ever forget. She was consumed with the feel of him, his broadness, his strength, as his hands cupped her jaw and moved her to align her mouth more lushly, more perfectly to his own.

  He licked at the seam of her lips, the feel of his tongue tempting her until she gasped, and he took advantage of the sound to capture her open lips and slide into her, pressing against her, tickling and tasting until she thought she might die from the excitement of it. Of their own volition, her fingers threaded into the curls at the nape of his neck, and she leveraged herself up to press against him, more firmly, more scandalously . . . and she didn’t care.

  She didn’t care a whit . . . not as long as he didn’t stop.

  Not as long as he never stopped.

  As she pressed closer, he shifted his grasp, his hands lowering in a long, torturous slide, pressing just barely at the outside of her breasts, just enough for her to ache in places of which she’d never thought, before sliding lower, lower still, until he clasped her bottom and pulled her tight against him with a force that both shocked and aroused.

  He groaned his pleasure at the movement, and she pulled back at the sound, wondering at the very idea that he might be as consumed by the caress as she was, and he opened his eyes to meet hers once, fleetingly, before he captured her mouth again, delving more deeply, stroking more firmly, until she was overcome by the pleasure. By the adventure. By him.

  Seconds passed. Minutes. Hours . . . it didn’t matter.

  All that mattered was this man. This kiss.

  This.

  It ended, and he raised his head slowly, placing one soft, lingering kiss on her lips before he reached up and untangled her arms from around his neck. He smiled down at her, something breathtaking in his gaze, and she realized that this was the first time he’d smiled at her—only at her—since they were children.

  It was magical.

  He opened his mouth to speak, and she was on tenterhooks, unable to control the anticipation that coursed through her as his lips formed words.

  “Tottenham.”

  Confusion flared, and Penelope’s brows shot together.

  “Ordinarily, I frown upon gentlemen accosting ladies in my hallway, Bourne.”

  “How do you feel about husbands kissing their wives?”

  “Honestly?” Tottenham’s voice was dry as sand. “I think I might like it even less.”

  Penelope closed her eyes, mortification flooding her. He played her so well.

  “You’ll change your mind when you meet my sister-in-law, Olivia, I wager.”

  The words made her want to do him harm. Actual. Physical. Harm.

  He’d done it on purpose.

  It had all been for Tottenham’s benefit.

  To keep up the pretense of their love match.

  Not because he could not keep his hands off her.

  Would she not learn?

  “If she’s anything like her sister, I fear that is a wager I would not win.”

  Michael laughed, and she winced at the sound, hating it. Hating the falseness of it. “I don’t suppose you can give us a moment?”

  “I think I have to, or Lady Bourne might never be able to meet my eyes again.”

  Penelope was staring at the folds of Michael’s cravat. She willed her voice calm, knowing that carefree was too far out of reach. “I am not sure a moment will change that, my lord.”

  He’d used her again.

  Tottenham chuckled. “The brandy is poured.”

  And then he was gone. And she was alone.

  With her husband, who seemed to make a practice of disappointing her. She did not look away from the crisp linen at his neck. “That was well played,” she said, an edge of sadness in her voice. If he heard it, he did not show it.

  When he spoke, it was as though they had been discussing the weather rather than kissing in the dark corner. “It will likely go a long way toward proving that we are matched for more than Falconwell.”

  She’d almost believed it herself.

  Indeed, she seemed unable to learn her lesson. It wasn’t fair that she was so angry with him. So hurt. The silly love match had been her idea, had it not? She had only herself to blame for the way it made her feel.

  Cheap. Used. But her sisters would get their proper, unblemished matches from this. And that would be worth it. She had to believe that.

  Penelope pushed her sadness aside. “Why are you doing this?” His brows rose in question and she continued, “Agreeing to this farce?”

  He looked away. “I gave you my word.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t you feel . . . as though I am taking advantage of you?”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Did I not take advantage of you when I married you?”

  She’d not thought of it in such a stark way. “I suppose you did. And still . . .” This feels worse, she wanted to say. I feel like everything I am, everything I have, it’s all in service to others. She shook her head. “It seems different. And I regret it, nonetheless, asking you to do this for them. For me.”

  He shook his head. “Never regret.”

  “Another rule?”

  “Of scoundrels only. Gamers inevitably regret.”

  She supposed he would know.

  “Well, I regret it, nonetheless.”

  “It’s unnecessary. I’ve a good reason to join you in this farce.”

  She stilled. “You do?”

  He nodded. “I do. We all receive something from the game.”

  “What do you receive?” He was silent, and uncertainty flared deep within her. “From whom do you receive it?” He did not reply, but Penelope was no fool. “My father. He had something else. What is it?”

  “It’s not important,” he said, in a way that made her feel that it was very much important. “Suffice to say, you should not regret our agreement as I shall benefit well from it. I will walk you back to the rest of the ladies,” he offered, reaching out to take her elbow.

  And, perversely, the idea that he’d been playing their game for his own benefit made her feel worse. As though she, too, had been the victim of his lies.

  Betrayal flared, hot and instant, and she pulled back almost violently at his touch. “Don’t touch me.”

  His brows rose at the words, at their ire. “I beg your pardon?”

  She did not want him near her. Did not want to be reminded that she, too, had been fooled. “We may be feigning a romance for them, but I am not them. Don’t touch me again. Not if it’s not for their benefit.”

  I don’t think I can bear it.

  He lifted both hands high, proof that he heard the request. Heeded it.

  She turned away before she said anything else. Before she betrayed her feelings.

  “Penelope.” He called to her as she stepped into the dim hallway. She stopped, a flicker of hope deep in her, hope that he might apologize. That he might tell her that she was wrong. That he actually did care for her. That he did want her. “This is the most difficult part—with the ladies—you understand?”

  False hope.

  He meant that she would have to keep up their pretense. That the women would question her far more carefully in private than they had in public.

  It would be a challenge.

  But that he would call it the most difficult portion of the evening was almost laughable, for surely she had just experienced the most difficult portion of the evening.

  “I shall manage the ladies, my lord, as we agreed. By the end of the evening, they shall be certain that you and I are very much in love, and my sisters will be on their way to having a sound season.” She steeled her voice. “But you would do well to remember that you promised me a tour of your club, which I now see was not generosity but payment for my part in your ruse.”

  He stiffened. “So I did.”

  She nodded once, firmly. “When?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Her gaze narrowed at the words, the universal synonym for no. “Yes, I suppose we shall.”

  She turned her back and returned to the ladies’ salon, head high, shoulders straight as she turned the handle and pushed the door open, rejoining the women.

  Temper fraying, vowing to remain unmoved.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dear M—

  Tommy was home for Michaelmas and we celebrated in grand style, even though we were sorely lacking our own Michael. Nevertheless, we soldiered on, picked the lingering blackberries and ate them until we were ill, as per tradition. Our teeth turned thoroughly troublingly greyish blue in the process—you would have been proud.

  Perhaps we’ll see you for Christmas this year? The St. Stephen’s feast in Coldharbour is becoming a fine fête indeed.

  We are all thinking of you, and miss you very much.

  Always—P

  Needham Manor, September 1818

  No reply

  She’d asked him not to touch her, and he granted the request.

  Taken it a step further.

  He’d left her completely alone.

  He’d left her alone that night, when he’d returned her to Hell House and promptly left, without a word, headed to wherever it was that husbands went without their wives.

  And again the next night as she ate her supper in the enormous, empty dining room under the watchful eyes of several mismatched, too-young footmen. She was getting used to them, at least, and was quite proud of herself for not blushing through the entire meal.

  And again the night after, while she stood at the window of her bedchamber like a ninny, pulled in the direction of his carriage as though attached with a string as she watched it trundle away. As though, if she watched long enough, he would return.

  And he would give her the marriage she wanted.

  “No more windows,” she vowed, turning away from the cold dark street and heading across the room to submerge her hands in the washbasin, watching the cool water pale and distort her hands beneath the surface. “No more windows,” she repeated, quietly, when she heard a carriage pull to a stop outside the town house, ignoring the increased beat of her heart and the pull of the glass.

  Instead, she dried her hands with impressive calm and moved to the door that adjoined her husband’s bedchamber to her own, pressing her ear to the cool wood and listening for his arrival.

  After long minutes that provided her with nothing but a rather irritating crick in her neck, Penelope’s curiosity got the best of her, and she headed for the door to her bedchamber to sneak into the hallway and see if her husband had indeed, returned home.

  She cracked the door—less than an inch—to look into the hallway.

  And came face to face with Mrs. Worth.

  She gave a little start and slammed the door shut, heart pounding, before she realized that she’d just made a fool of herself in front of her husband’s unsettling housekeeper.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door with a wide smile. “Mrs. Worth, you startled me.”

  The housekeeper dipped her head. “You have a visitor.”

  Penelope’s brows snapped together. “A visitor?” It was past eleven o’clock.

  The housekeeper extended a card. “He says it’s very important.”

  He.

  Penelope took the card.

  Tommy.

  Happiness thrummed through her. He was the first person to visit her here in this large, empty house—not even her mother had come, instead sending word that she would visit once the newly wedded bloom was off the rose.

  Little did her mother know that such bloom had never even hinted at the rose.

  But Tommy was her friend. And friends visited. She was unable to keep the smile from Mrs. Worth. “I shall be right down. Give him tea. Or . . . wine. Or . . . scotch.” She shook her head. “Whatever it is that people drink at this hour.”

  She closed the door and righted her appearance before throwing herself down the stairs and into the front receiving room, where he stood at a large marble fireplace, dwarfed by the extravagant room. “Tommy!” she called, moving directly to him, thrilled to see him. “What are you doing here?”