Of dishonoring her.

  And there, in the pit of his stomach, still unmasked by the pain of Temple’s beating, was the emotion he’d feared since the beginning of this charade.

  Guilt.

  She’d been right. He’d misused her. He’d treated her as less than she deserved. And she’d defended herself with strength and pride. Remarkably.

  And even as he’d tried to let her go, to push her from him, he’d known that he wanted her. He didn’t fool himself into thinking that the desire was new. He’d wanted her in Surrey, when she’d stood in the darkness with nothing but a lantern to protect her. But now . . . want had become something more serious. More visceral. More dangerous. Now, he wanted her—his strong, intelligent, kindhearted wife, who became more tempting every day as she shifted and blossomed into someone new and different than the girl he’d met on that dark Surrey evening.

  And now, he was married to her, virtually bound by laws of God and man to take her. To lay her down and worship her. To touch her in every wicked way he could imagine.

  To claim her as his.

  And she wanted nothing to do with him.

  He fisted his left hand, enjoying the stinging ache beneath the linen strips—the feel of the fight he’d just had, the promise of the one yet to come—and lowered the handkerchief. His nose had stopped bleeding.

  If she had not decided to push him away today, it would have come eventually—perhaps after it was too late, when he was unwilling to release her. “I need someone to watch her.”

  Chase looked to him. “Why?”

  “Alles asked her to flee with him when I drag him through the mud.”

  The other men shared a look before Temple said, “And you wish to pay someone to make certain it does not happen?”

  He wanted to believe it would not happen. That she would choose him.

  That she would fight for him the way she fought for Tommy.

  A long-buried memory came unbidden—young Penelope, hands outstretched at a garden party, playing blind man’s buff. Children were scattered everywhere, calling out to her, and she lurched and lunged, laughing at the silly game. He and Tommy had crept toward her and simultaneously whispered her name. She’d spun toward him, capturing him easily, her hands coming to settle on his cheeks, her smile wide and lovely. “Michael,” she’d said softly, “I’ve caught you.”

  He ran his hands down his face and looked to his feet, covered in sawdust. “I think it’s best.”

  Chase was the first to respond. “It might not be the best way to endear yourself to the lady, Bourne, having her followed.”

  He came to his feet. “I am open to less villainous ideas.”

  Temple smirked and said, “Why not leave the ring and go to her? Give her the words she’s looking for, take the girl to bed, and remind her why you’re better than Alles in all ways that count?” He bounced back into the ropes several times in a foul approximation of coitus. “A different fight, but far more pleasurable.”

  Bourne scowled and came to his feet, shaking out his hands and testing his weight on tired legs.

  “How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Chase asked.

  “I sleep.” Not much.

  He took a step toward the center of the ring, feeling the room sway just barely. Temple did not pull his punches. Ever. It was what made him such a stellar opponent on those days when one wanted nothing but oblivion.

  “How long since you’ve slept more than an hour here and there?”

  “I do not require a mother.”

  Chase lifted a brow. “Perhaps a wife, then?”

  Bourne wished Chase were in the damn ring, too.

  The sound of Temple’s drawing a line in the wood shavings at the center of the ring echoed through the dark, cavernous room. “Come to scratch, old man. Let me give you the beating you richly deserve. We’ll send you home to your marchioness in desperate need of her care and concern.”

  Bourne headed for the center of the ring, ignoring both the words and the unpleasantness that settled in his heart at the idea that his marchioness was no longer willing to provide him with either care or concern.

  After another round of boxing, Bourne exited the ring, barely able to see out of his left eye. Temple remained in the box, stretching against the ropes, watching as Bourne accepted a side of raw beef from the icebox at Bruno’s feet and took the seat next to Chase, leaning back and placing the meat over his swelling eye.

  Minutes went by—several of them—before Chase broke the silence. “Why did she leave without you?”

  Bourne released a long breath. “She’s furious with me.”

  “They always are,” Temple said, beginning to unwrap the length of linen he had wrapped around his knuckles before the fight.

  “What did you do?” Chase asked.

  There were a hundred reasons why she was furious. But only one mattered, and it came quick and clear, like a blow from one of Temple’s massive fists. “I’m an ass.”

  Bourne expected instant agreement from his partners, so when no one spoke, he wondered if, perhaps, they’d left him alone in the room. He lifted the piece of beef from his eye and looked up, only to discover that Chase, Temple, and Bruno had all gone wide-eyed, watching him. “What?” he asked.

  Chase found words first. “Only that in the five years I’ve known you—”

  “Much longer for me,” Temple interjected.

  “—I’ve never known you to admit that you were wrong.”

  Bourne slid his gaze from Chase to Temple to Chase again. “Sod off.” He returned the steak to his eye and leaned back again. “I can’t give her what she wants.”

  “Which is?”

  It was easier to speak to them without having to look at them. “A normal marriage. A normal life.”

  “Why not?” Chase prodded.

  “All I succeed at is sin and vice. She is the opposite of those things. She will want more. She will want . . .” He trailed off.

  Love.

  The one thing he could not buy her. The one thing he could not risk giving her.

  Chase’s papers rustled. “And therein, the fear of Alles.”

  Bourne stiffened. “Not fear.”

  “Of course not,” Chase revised in a tone laced with humor. “Following the lady, Bourne, is not the answer. It’s giving her the things she wants. It’s being the husband she deserves.”

  Damn him, he wanted to be that husband. She was slowly destroying him with her strength and her spirit. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be easy and clean—a quick abduction, an easy marriage, and a tranquil parting of ways that served them both.

  Except, nothing about his wife seemed easy or tranquil.

  Michael flexed his fingers, feeling the ache in the knuckles from the fight. “It’s not that easy.”

  “It never is, with women,” Chase continued. “You can say all you like that you’ll toss her away after your revenge is meted out, but you shan’t be able to. Not entirely. You’ll still be married.”

  “Unless she goes with Alles,” Temple taunted from inside the ring.

  Michael cursed him wickedly. “She doesn’t need Alles for the life she wants. I’ll give it to her. Everything she wants.”

  “Everything?” Chase asked. Michael did not reply. “It’s no longer all for the land and the revenge, is it? You care for the lady.”

  He should not. He had lost everything he had ever cared for. He had ruined everything good that he had ever touched. His care was a harbinger of her destruction.

  But he defied any man in Britain to spend a day with his wife and not care for her.

  “At the very least, he wants her,” Temple interjected. “And you can’t blame him. Her courage tonight would tempt a saint.”

  “Did tempt a saint,” Chase replied. “Cross escorted her home.”

  Anger flooded through Michael at the words. “Cross won’t touch her.”

  “No. He won’t. But not because she’s not tempting; because he’s Cross,” Chase said.

  “And if he weren’t, he wouldn’t touch her because she’s yours,” Temple added.

  God help him, he wanted her to be his.

  “She’s not mine. I can’t have her.”

  She wants nothing to do with me. He’d ruined any chance of that, just as he had ruined everything else that was good and right in his life.

  “But Bourne,” Temple said, “you do have her.”

  There was a long silence as the words echoed around the room. They weren’t true, of course. They weren’t right. If he had her, he wouldn’t be so afraid of going home to her. If he had her, he wouldn’t be here, stinking of sweat and raw meat. If he had her, she wouldn’t have left him.

  Finally, he said, “I’m married to her. That’s not the same thing.”

  “Well, it’s a start, I’d think.” Chase stood at that, lifting the sheaf of papers and adding, “She’s yours, bought and paid. And since you are stuck with each other—God help her—perhaps it’s time you attempt a marriage that does not end as awfully as it began.”

  The idea—the possibility that she might someday care for him—that they might someday have more than a shell of a marriage, it tempted him more than cards, more than the wheel.

  Tempted him to be the husband she deserved.

  * * *

  Dear M—

  Her Grace, Duchess of Leighton. It seems a glut of young, eligible dukes was unrequired. One was enough. The Duke of Leighton has expressed a desire to court me, my father has agreed, and my mother is utterly overcome with glee.

  There is much to recommend him, of course. He is handsome and intelligent, powerful and wealthy, and as Mother likes to remind me at every opportunity—he is a DUKE. If he were horseflesh, there would be a run on Tattersalls, no doubt.

  Of course, I will do my duty. This will be a marriage for the ages. It’s hard to believe I shall be a duchess—the holy grail of the eldest, aristocratic daughter. Huzzah.

  I have not missed you so much in a long time. Where are you?

  Unsigned

  Dolby House, September 1823

  Letter unsent

  The next morning, Penelope sent a note round to the newly inhabited Dolby House to invite Olivia and Philippa to join her for the day—her first in which she stopped waiting for her husband and began to live her life once more.

  She was going ice-skating.

  She was very much in need of an afternoon with her sisters to remind her that there was a reason for the arguments with Michael and her own discontent, and for keeping up this foolish ruse—ensuring that her marriage appear to be real and not the tragic sham that it was.

  She needed to remind herself that her scandal would be theirs in no time if it were allowed to get out, and Philippa and Olivia deserved their chance at better. At more.

  She gritted her teeth at the word, at everything it had meant on that fateful night when she’d allowed herself to be caught up in the adventure of marriage—of Michael. Pushing the thought from her mind, she nodded to her maid, who helped her to step into her clothes, tightening corset strings and tying bows, fastening tapes and buttons.

  Penelope knew that she would be scrutinized beyond the walls of Hell House, and she dressed carefully for the eyes of all of London—at least, all of those who were in residence in London in January—who would be watching, searching for the chink in the armor of the new Marchioness of Bourne.

  The woman who they believed had captured the heart of the wickedest partner in The Fallen Angel, convincing him to restore his title and return to their ranks.

  The woman he avoided at all costs.

  She selected a bright green wool dress, thinking it warm and festive for the outing, and paired it with the navy blue cloak that she had worn that fateful evening when she’d crossed Needham and Falconwell lands and met Michael, now Bourne, in the cold, dark night.

  It could have been a nod to that evening, to the moment she’d unlocked this strange new future, to the hope that she might find more, despite a husband who wanted nothing to do with her. She would have her adventure in this cloak, with or without him.

  A fur-lined bonnet and gloves rounded out her outdoor dress, and in perfect time; she descended the wide central stairs of Hell House to the sounds of her sisters’ chattering in the foyer below, their conversation rising to fill the empty space that seemed to loom everywhere in her husband’s home.

  Her home, she supposed.

  As she hurried across the first-floor landing, eager to reach her sisters and leave the house, the door to Bourne’s private study opened and he strode out, papers in hand, frock coat unbuttoned, his white linen shirt pulling taut across his broad chest. He came up short at the sight of her and instantly reached to button his coat.

  She stilled, her eyes dragging over his face, taking in the mottled discoloration at one eye, the wicked-looking cut on his lower lip. She stepped forward, one gloved hand rising of its own accord, unable to stop herself from reaching for his battered face. “What happened to you?”

  He retreated from the touch, his gaze flickering over her. “Where are you going?”

  The abrupt change in conversation did not give her a chance to decide if she wanted him to hear the truth. “Ice-skating. Your eye . . .”

  “It’s nothing.” He lifted a hand to the bruise.

  “It looks awful.” He raised a brow, and she shook her head. “I mean . . . oh, you know what I mean. It’s all black and yellow.”

  “Is it disgusting?”

  She nodded once. “Quite.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for.” Was he teasing her? “Thank you for the concern.” There was a long pause, during which she would have thought Michael was uncomfortable if she had not known better. Ultimately, he added, “You saw that I accepted an invitation to the Beaufetheringstone Ball.”

  She could not help her response. “I did. You do know that it is usually the wife who accepts social invitations, do you not?”

  “When we are more adept at receiving them, I shall happily relinquish the task of accepting them. I was surprised we were invited at all.”

  “I would not be. Lady B enjoys a scandal more than most. Especially if it’s in her ballroom.”

  A cacophony of laughter rose from the ground floor, saving her from having to answer, and Michael edged toward the banister to look down into the foyer. “The young ladies Marbury, I presume?”

  Penelope tried her best to look away from the gash on his lip. She really did.

  That she failed was not of import.

  “They have returned to town.” She paused, unable to keep the edge from her tone when she added, “Sure to be matched soon enough . . .”

  He snapped his attention back to her. “Ice-skating?” There was surprise in the words.

  “You don’t remember skating on the pond when we were children?” The words were out before she could stop them, and she wished that she’d said something else . . . anything else . . . anything that did not remind her of the Michael she’d once known. Once understood.

  It was as though he had erased the memory of her. She hated the way that made her feel. “I am late.” She spun away from him, heading for the staircase, not expecting him to say anything. He was so good at remaining silent; she’d given up thinking he would speak without prodding. And she was through prodding him.

  So, when he did speak, she was shocked. “Penelope.”

  The sound of her name on his lips shocked her. She turned back instantly. “Yes?”

  “May I join you?”

  Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  He took a deep breath. “Ice-skating. May I join you?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Why? Do you think Lord and Lady Bourne will receive an inch or two in the papers if we are seen hand in hand, gliding across the Serpentine?”

  He raked a hand through his dark curls. “I deserved that.”

  She would not feel guilty.

  “Yes. You did. And more, too.”

  “I should like to make it up to you.”

  Her eyes widened. What was this?

  He was likely manipulating her and their future and this time, she would not be swayed. She would not be fooled.

  She knew better. She was tired of the ache that settled in her chest whenever he was near—whenever he was not near. She was tired of the battles, the games, the falsehoods. She was tired of the disappointments.

  He could not possibly imagine that one small offer of companionship would make up for everything that he’d done . . . everything that he’d threatened. Steeling herself and her voice, she said, “I don’t think so.”

  He blinked. “I should have expected that.”

  After the way they’d left each other the evening before? Yes. He should have. She turned away, heading for the stairs leading down to her sisters.

  “Penelope.” He stayed her with her name, low and lovely on his lips.

  She could not help but turn back. “Yes?”

  “What would it take? To join you?”

  “What would it take?”

  “Name your price.” He paused. “One afternoon with my wife without the specter of the past or future with us. What would it take?”

  She replied without hesitation, straight and serious. “Don’t ruin Tommy.”

  “Always asking for others. Never for yourself.”

  “And you, always doing for yourself and never for others.”

  “I find I prefer the outcome.” He was an infuriating man. He came closer, spoke low, sending a thrum of awareness through her. “What would it take for me to have you for an afternoon?”

  Her breath quickened as the words conjured up a variety of images that had nothing to do with ice-skating or her sisters and everything to do with the fur coverlet in his luxurious bedroom.

  He reached out and trailed one finger down her cheek. “Name your price.”