“You think it would have been different with your precious Tommy?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I shan’t apologize for caring for him. There was a time when you cared for him as well. He was your oldest friend.” The third of their trio. She let her disappointment edge into her tone.

  Anger flashed in his eyes. “He was no friend at all when it was time to show himself.”

  She shook her head. “You think he did not regret his father’s actions? You are wrong. He did. From the start.”

  “Not enough. But he will when I am through with him.”

  She became protective. “I shan’t let you hurt him.”

  “You haven’t any choice. Your dear Tommy will be ruined alongside his father. I vowed revenge nine years ago, and nothing will stand in my way. And you shall thank God you did not marry him, or I would level you with them.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “If you ruin Tommy, I promise I shall regret every moment of my marriage to you.”

  He laughed at that, humor absent in the sound. “I imagine you’re already on that path, darling.”

  She shook her head. “Hear me. This misguided vendetta—should you follow through with it—it will prove that everything you ever were, all the good in you . . . it is gone.”

  He did not move. Did not even show he’d heard her.

  He didn’t care. Not about Tommy. Or about her. Or about their past, and the truth of it made her ache. She could not stem the tide of words. “He was devastated by the loss of you. Just as—” She stopped.

  “Just as—?” he prompted.

  “Just as I was,” she spat, hating the words even as they came on a flood of memory, along with the aching sorrow she had felt when she’d heard the story of Michael’s ruin. “He missed you just as I did. He worried about you just as I worried. He looked for you. Tried to find you. Just as I did. But you were gone.” She took a step toward him. “You think he left you? It was you who left, Michael. You left us.” Her voice was shaking now, all the anger and sadness and fear she had felt in those months, those years after Michael had disappeared.

  “You left me.” She put her hands to his chest, pushing him with all her might, with all her anger. “And I missed you so much.” He took several steps back in the silence of the dark room, and Penelope realized that she had said more than she should have said—more than she ever would have imagined saying. She took a deep breath, pushing back the tears that threatened, so close. She would not cry. Not for him.

  Instead, she whispered around the knot in her throat, “I missed you so much. I still do, damn you.”

  She waited there, in the darkness, for him to say something. Anything.

  For him to apologize.

  To tell her that he missed her, as well.

  A minute passed. Two. More.

  When she realized he was not going to speak, she spun away, wrenching open the door before he moved, his hand shooting over her shoulder to slam it shut again. She tugged at the handle, but he held the door closed with one, wide hand. “You’re a brute. Let me out.”

  “No. Not until we finish this. I’m no longer that boy.”

  She gave a little, humorless laugh. “I know.”

  “And I’m not Tommy.”

  “I know that, too.”

  His hand came to her neck, his fingers tracing the corded muscle there, and she knew he could feel her pulse racing. “You think I did not miss you?” She froze at the words, her breath coming shallow, desperate for him to say more. “You think I did not miss everything about you? Everything you represented?”

  He pressed against her, his breath soft against her temple. She closed her eyes. How had they found themselves here, in this place where he was so dark and so broken? “You think I did not want to come home?” His voice was thick with emotion. “But there was no home to which I could return. There was no one there.”

  “You’re wrong,” she argued. “I was there. I was there . . . and I was . . .” Alone. She swallowed. “I was there.”

  “No.” The word was harsh and graveled. “Langford took it all. And that boy . . . the one you miss . . . he took him, as well.”

  “That may be, but Tommy didn’t. Can’t you see, Michael? He’s just a pawn in your game . . . just like me . . . just like my sisters. You married me; you’ll match them. But if you ruin him . . . you’ll never forgive yourself. I know that.”

  “You’re wrong,” he replied. “I shall sleep well. Better than I have in a decade.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not true. You think your revenge will not hurt? You think you will not ache with the impact of it? The knowledge that you destroyed another man in the systematic, horrible way that Langford destroyed you?”

  “Tommy was an unfortunate casualty in this war. After today, after his attempt to take you away, I am not certain he will not deserve the punishment I mete out.”

  “I’ll wager you for it.” The words were out of her mouth before she had thought of them. “Name the game and your price. I’ll play. For Tommy’s secrets.”

  He stilled. “You have nothing I want.”

  She hated the words, and him for saying them. She had herself. She had their marriage. She had their future, none of it of value to him.

  And that was the moment she realized that Tommy had been right—that it always had been Michael, that strong, sure boy she’d known. The one she’d laughed with and grown with and mourned for too long. The one who was gone, leaving in his place this dark, haunted man who was, in his own way, just as tempting.

  The fight left her. “Let me go.”

  He pressed closer, speaking in her ear. “I will have my revenge. The faster you realize that, the easier our marriage will be.”

  She stayed quiet, silence her resistance.

  “You want to leave?” he asked, the words raw and graveled.

  No. I want you to want me to stay.

  Why? Why must he have such an effect on her? She took a deep breath. “Yes.”

  He lifted his hand from the door and took a step back, and she missed his warmth almost instantly. “Go then.”

  She did not hesitate.

  She fled into the hallway beyond, unable to shake the thought that something had just happened between them. Something that could not be taken back. She paused, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply as she was cloaked in the darkness and the muffled din from the casino beyond.

  She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, closing her eyes against the thought—against the words they’d just shared, against the keen understanding that she’d waited eight years for a marriage that was about more than what she owned, or represented, or had been bred for, only to marry a man who saw her for nothing more than those things.

  Worse, a man she had always thought would be different.

  That man had never existed.

  He’d never grown from the boy she’d known.

  From the boy she’d loved.

  She released one long breath and laughed harshly in the darkness.

  Fate was cruel indeed.

  “Lady Bourne?”

  She started at the sound of her name—still so foreign to her—and pressed back to the wall as a very tall man materialized from the blackness. He was reed thin, with a strong, square jaw, and the expression in his eyes, a mix of sympathy and something else that she could not name, had her believing him more friend than foe.

  He gave a short, barely there bow. “I am Cross. I have your winnings.”

  He held out a dark pouch, and it took Penelope a moment to understand what it was—to remember that she’d come here tonight for excitement and adventure and pleasure, and she was leaving with nothing but disappointment.

  She reached for it, the heavy weight of the coins within surprising her.

  He laughed, low and rich. “Thirty-five pounds is quite a bit of money,” he said. “And on roulette? You’re very lucky.”

  “I’m not at all lucky.” Not tonight, at least.

  A beat. “Well, perhaps your luck is changing.”

  Doubtful.

  “Perhaps.”

  There was a long silence as he considered her before he dipped his head in a little nod, and he said, “Be careful on your journey home. That’s enough blunt to make a thief’s year.” He turned away, and she transferred the pouch from one hand to the other, testing the weight of the coins inside, the sound they made as they rubbed against each other.

  And then, before she could reconsider, she called after him, “Mr. Cross?”

  He stopped, turning back. “My lady?”

  “Do you know my husband well?” she blurted into the darkness, and, for a long moment, Penelope thought he might not reply.

  And then he did. “As well as anyone knows Bourne.”

  She could not help her little laugh at the words. “Better than I do, to be sure.”

  He did not reply to the statement. He didn’t have to. “Is there something that you want to ask?”

  There were so many things she wanted to ask. Too many things.

  Who is he? What happened to the boy she once knew? What made him so distant? Why wouldn’t he give an inch to this marriage?

  She could not ask any of them. “No.”

  He waited for a long moment for her to change her mind. When she didn’t, he said, “You are exactly what I expected.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Only that the woman who sets Bourne so completely on edge must be something remarkable indeed.”

  “I don’t set him on edge. He doesn’t think of me beyond what I can do in service to his higher goals.” She regretted the words instantly. Regretted their peevishness.

  One of Cross’s brows shot up. “I assure you, my lady, that is not at all the case.”

  If only it were true.

  Of course, it wasn’t.

  “It seems you do not know him very well after all.”

  He seemed to understand that she was not interested in arguing the point. Instead, he changed the subject. “Where is he?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I left him.”

  His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I’m sure he adored that.”

  He’d forced her away. “I don’t entirely care how he felt about it.”

  He laughed, then, the sound loud and friendly. “You’re perfect.”

  She didn’t feel perfect. She felt like a singular idiot. “I beg your pardon?”

  “In all the years that I’ve known Bourne, I’ve never known a woman to affect him the way you do. I’ve never seen him resist someone the way he does you.”

  “It’s not resistance. It’s disinterest.”

  One ginger brow rose. “Lady Bourne, it is most definitely not disinterest.”

  He did not know. He had not seen how Michael left her. How he stayed so very far from her. How he cared so little for her.

  She did not wish to think on it. Not tonight. “Do you think you could help me hire a hack? I should like to go home.”

  He shook his head. “Bourne would murder me if he knew I’d let you return home in a hack. Let me find him.”

  “No!” she blurted before she could stop herself. She lowered her gaze to the floor. “I do not wish to see him.”

  He does not wish to see me.

  She no longer knew which was more important.

  “If not he, then I shall escort you myself. You are safe with me.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “How do I know you are telling the truth?”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “Among other things, Bourne would take visceral pleasure in destroying me if I harmed you.”

  She recalled the way Michael had tossed Densmore across the casino floor without breaking a sweat earlier in the evening. The way he stood over the sputtering earl, fist clenched, voice shaking with anger.

  If there was one thing of which she was certain, it was that Bourne would never allow her to be hurt.

  Unless, of course, he was doing the hurting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear M—

  I’ve heard about Langford, that beast of a man, and about what he’s done. It’s atrocious, of course. No one believes he could be so hateful—no one but Tommy and me. As for Tommy . . . he’s been looking for you. I pray that he finds you.

  Quickly.

  Ever—P

  Needham Manor, February 1821

  Letter unsent

  Temple’s left hook was wicked and welcome.

  And deserved.

  It connected with Bourne’s jaw, snapping his head back and sending him careening into a wooden post at the edge of the boxing ring in the basement of The Angel. Bourne caught himself before he fell to the sawdust-covered floor, his eyes meeting Chase’s over the top rope of the ring before he pulled himself up and turned to face his sparring partner.

  Temple danced from one foot to the other as Bourne advanced. “You’re a fool.”

  Bourne ignored the words and the truth in them, throwing a punch that would have felled an oak.

  Temple ducked and feinted away before flashing a grin. “You’re a fool, and you’re losing your touch. Perhaps with the ladies, as well?”

  Bourne landed a quick blow to Temple’s cheek, enjoying the sound of fist on flesh. “What do you have to say about my touch now?”

  “Half-decent punch,” Temple offered with a grin, swerving left, out of the way of Bourne’s second blow. “But your wife did go home with Cross, so I can’t speak to that.”

  Bourne swore and went after his friend, taller by several inches and wider by half a foot, but Bourne more than made up for the difference in speed and agility and, tonight, sheer will.

  He attacked with no hesitation, his fists, wrapped in a length of linen, eager to connect with the larger man’s bare torso. First left, then right. The movements were punctuated with Temple’s short grunts before the larger man danced away.

  “Don’t tease him, Temple,” Chase said from beyond the ring, shuffling through a pile of papers, only half paying attention to the sparring. “He’s having a difficult enough evening as it is.”

  Lord knew it was true.

  He’d let her go home. It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  Because what he’d really wanted to do was make love to her on the floor of the owners’ suite, with the light from beyond the stained glass bathing her in a myriad of colors. He’d wanted to prove that he had never once intended to dishonor her.

  Indeed, the idea that he had dishonored her made him feel like a dozen kinds of ass.

  Temple’s fist connected with his jaw in a perfect straight right, and Bourne rocked back on his heels.

  “Why not go after her?” Temple asked, bending away from Bourne’s fists and coming back to land a quick blow to his chest. “Take her to bed. That usually makes them feel better, no?”

  Bourne could not tell his friend that taking his wife to bed had landed him in this predicament to begin with. “When you find yourself with a wife of your own, you can offer all the advice you like.”

  “By that time I won’t have to. You’ll have driven yours away for good.” He dodged back. “I like the girl.”

  Sadly, so did Michael. “You don’t even know her.”

  “Don’t have to.” Bourne’s right hook would have knocked out a lesser man, but the blow had no effect on Temple. Unfortunately. He simply pressed on. “Anyone who sets you off the way she does deserves my admiration. She’s garnered my loyalty for her part in tonight’s entertainment alone. And I imagine that Cross will be half in love with her by the time he returns.”

  The words were meant to incite, and they did. With a growl, Bourne charged at Temple, who blocked two quick punches before getting in a jab to the stomach. Bourne cursed, and leaned into the other man, his breath coming as fast as his perspiration for one second, two. Five. Finally, Temple pulled back, and before Bourne had a chance to move, the larger man jabbed once, twice, sending Bourne reeling into the ropes, blood pouring from his nose.

  This time, he was not fast enough to catch himself. He landed on his knees.

  “That’s the round,” Chase called, and Bourne swore wickedly as Temple came forward to help him up.

  “Leave it,” he snapped, coming to his feet and making his way to the chair at one corner of the ring, marked by a green handkerchief. “Thirty-eight seconds,” he said, ripping the cloth from the post, holding it to his nose, and tilting his head back. “I suggest you prepare your next counterattack.”

  Temple accepted a drink from Bruno, his second in command, and drank deep before leaning against the ropes, widespread arms—each sporting a wide-banded tattoo across the massive biceps—covering nearly half the length of the ring. Temple might have been born into the aristocracy, but this was his kingdom now. “What did she say that has you so eager to take a beating?”

  Bourne ignored the question, the explosion of pain in his cheek not doing its job, failing to take away all thought of what had happened earlier with his wife. Of how her blue eyes had flashed as she’d accused him of using her body to secure his interests. Of how she’d squared her shoulders and defended her own honor—something he should have done for her.

  Of how she’d looked at him, truth and tears in her eyes, and told him that she’d missed him.

  The words had taken his breath away—the idea that pure, perfect Penelope had thought of him, had worried about him.

  Because he had missed her, too.

  It had taken him years to forget—years that were erased in one moment of honesty, when she’d looked into his eyes and accused him of leaving her.