God help her, he so easily managed her.

  “One week,” she said, voice shaking. “One week of safety for him.” One week to convince you that you are wrong. That revenge is not the answer.

  He did not immediately agree, and she forced herself to turn back to the staircase, disappointed by her utter lack of power over him. As she set foot on the top step, Philippa noticed her. “Penny!” she announced. “And Lord Bourne!”

  Penelope looked back at Michael, and whispered, “You need not escort me. I assure you I am quite capable of finding my way to the front door.”

  “You have a deal,” he said quietly at her elbow. “One week.”

  Success coursed through her, heady and exciting. They had reached the bottom of the stairs before she could say anything, and Olivia pounced. “Have you seen The Scandal Sheet today?”

  “I haven’t, I regret,” Penelope teased, pretending not to notice that Michael was uncomfortably close behind her. “What scintillating gossip have you heard?”

  “No gossip for us,” Pippa replied. “Gossip about us . . . well, about you, at least.”

  Oh, no. Someone had discovered the truth of their marriage. Of her ruination in the country. “What kind of gossip?”

  “The kind in which all of London is envious of your gorgeous, unbearably romantic marriage!” Olivia cried.

  It took a moment for the meaning of the words to register.

  “We did not know that you met on St. Stephen’s, Penelope,” Olivia said. “We did not even know that Lord Bourne had been in Surrey over Christmas!”

  Pippa met Penelope’s gaze, all seriousness. “No. We didn’t.”

  Pippa was no fool, but Penelope forced a smile.

  “Read it, Pippa,” Olivia demanded.

  The youngest Marbury pushed her glasses farther up her nose and lifted the paper. “The last days of January are not always the time for the ripest fruits of gossip, but this year we have a particularly juicy treat in the newly returned Marquess of Bourne!” She looked up at Michael. “That’s you, my lord.”

  “I suspect he knows that,” Olivia said.

  Pippa ignored her sister and pressed on. “Certainly our discerning readers—I’m not sure that readers of The Scandal Sheet are precisely ‘discerning,’ are you?”

  “Really, Philippa. Keep reading!”

  “Certainly our discerning readers have heard that the marquess has taken a wife.” Philippa looked up at Penelope, but before she could say anything, Olivia groaned and snatched the paper from her hands.

  “Fine. I shall read it. We hear that Lord and Lady Bourne are so entirely encompassed with each other that they are rarely seen apart. And, a delicious addendum! It seems that it is not only Lord Bourne’s eyes that follow his wife . . . but hands and lips as well! In public, no less! How excellent!”

  “That last bit was Olivia editorializing,” Pippa interjected.

  Penelope thought she might die of embarrassment. Right there. On the spot.

  Olivia continued. “Not that we expect anything less of Lord Bourne—husband or not, he remains a rogue! And that which we call a rogue, by any other name would scandalize as sweet!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Penelope did roll her eyes at that, looking to Michael, who looked . . . pleased. “You’re complimented?”

  He turned innocent eyes on her. “Should I not be?”

  “Well,” Philippa added thoughtfully, “anything Shakespearean must be at least a vague compliment.”

  “Precisely,” Michael said, gifting Pippa with a smile that made Penelope more than a little envious of her younger sister. “By all means, continue.”

  “Suffice to say, readers, we are very pleased with this winter’s tale—”

  “Do you think they meant the second Shakespearean pun?” Philippa interrupted.

  “Yes,” said Olivia.

  “No,” said Penelope.

  “—and we can only hope that the arrival of the final duo of Ladies Marbury—”

  Pippa pushed her glasses back on her nose, and said, “That’s us.”

  “—will make for excitement enough to keep us all warm in these cold days. Isn’t that the most salacious item you’ve ever heard?” Olivia asked, and Penelope resisted the urge to tear the ridiculous newspaper article to shreds.

  It had not occurred to her that her sisters might not know the truth.

  That her marriage was a fraud.

  It made sense, of course. The fewer people who knew—the fewer young women with a penchant for gossip who knew—the easier it would be for them to be matched. Bourne slid one arm around her waist. Her sisters eyed that arm, the way his hand snaked, warm and direct, across her body, resting on the curve of her hip as though it belonged there. As though he belonged there.

  As though she belonged with him.

  She stepped away from his touch.

  She might have agreed to lie to half of Christendom, but she would not lie to her sisters.

  She opened her mouth to deny the article, to tell them the truth.

  And stopped.

  The love match might be a farce, Michael might be in it for his own mysterious purposes, but Penelope had a reason. She’d had a reason from the beginning. Her sisters had lived in the shadow of her ruin for too long. She would shade them no longer.

  He was already speaking, silver-tongued. “With the advent of this article, you’ll be needing protection from the droves of suitors who will almost certainly come swarming.”

  “You must join us!” Olivia said, and Penelope resisted the urge to scream at the way that her sisters played right into his hands.

  His gaze flickered to her, and she willed him to refuse, to remember what she had said abovestairs. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

  She should have been pleased, but up was too often down when it came to her husband, and instead, she found herself so pleasantly surprised that he had honored her request that she was wishing that he had agreed to join them.

  Which was ridiculous, of course.

  Men were vexing indeed.

  And her husband, more than most.

  “Oh, do,” Olivia pressed, “it would be lovely to come to know our new brother.”

  Pippa chimed in. “Indeed. You married so quickly . . . we never had a chance to properly reacquaint ourselves.”

  Penelope’s gaze shot to her sister. Something was off. Pippa knew. She had to.

  He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I haven’t any skates.”

  “We’ve extra skates in the coach,” Olivia said. “Now you’ve no reason not to come.”

  Penelope was instantly suspicious. “Why would you have extra skates in the coach?”

  Olivia smiled, bright and beautiful. “One never knows when one might meet someone with whom one wants to skate.”

  Penelope turned surprised eyes on Michael, who appeared to be having difficulty holding back a smile. She raised a brow as he said, “An excellent adage. It seems I have no choice but to play chaperone.”

  “You may not make the best chaperone, Bourne,” Penelope said through her teeth. “What with you being such a rogue.”

  He winked at her. Actually winked at her! Who was this man?

  “Ah, but who better than a rogue undergoing reformation to identify the same? And I confess, I would like the chance to skate with my wife again. It’s been too long.”

  Lie.

  He didn’t remember skating with her. He’d virtually admitted it earlier, upstairs.

  She did not think she could suffer an outing with all of them, with him constantly touching her, asking after her well-being, teasing her, tempting her.

  Not after last night, when she’d been so strong. When she’d been so sure of herself.

  Of what she wanted.

  Suddenly, by day, this kinder, gentler Michael did not seem so resistible.

  And that was a very bad thing indeed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dear M—

  By now you’ve heard the news, even from wherever you are. I’m ruined. The duke did everything he could to save me from embarrassment, but this is London, and such an effort is, of course, futile. He married again within a week—in a love match, no less. Mother is (no surprise) beside herself, keening and wailing like a chorus of mourners.

  Is it wrong that I feel as though something of a weight has been lifted? Probably.

  I wish you were here. You would know what to say.

  Unsigned

  Dolby House, November 1823

  Letter unsent

  Penelope sat on a wooden bench, looking out toward the frozen Serpentine, where half of London appeared to teem. The winter’s uncommon cold had resulted in the thickest ice in nearly a decade, leaving the little lake packed to the gills with people eager to spend their afternoon ice-skating.

  There was no escaping the watchful eyes of the ton.

  Once their skating party had alighted from the carriage and crested the hill that sloped gently down to the Serpentine Lake, they took turns sitting to attach the wood-and-steel blades to the soles of their walking boots. Penelope waited as long as possible to take her seat and strap on her blades, keenly aware of the fact that ice-skating with Michael would be a challenge, as he would likely take the opportunity to show all of London how very much in love they were.

  For the hundredth time, Penelope cursed the ridiculous farce and watched her sisters make their way down the hill, hand in hand, reminding her of the greater purpose of her frustration.

  Her distraction made it difficult to slide the ice blades onto her feet, and after her third try, Michael tossed his own blades to the side and crouched before her, taking one of her feet by the ankle before she realized his intentions. She yanked her foot back, sending him tipping backward to catch himself on his hands in the snow and drawing the attention of a nearby cluster of young women. “What do you think you are doing?” she whispered, leaning forward, not wanting to cause any more of a scene.

  He looked up at her, all handsome angles and falsely innocent eyes, and said, simply, “Helping you with your skate.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “Forgive me, but it seems that you do.” He lowered his voice to a level only she could hear. “Let me help you.”

  He was not helping her for her. He was helping her for them, those watchful others who would love the scene and no doubt fall over themselves in a frenzy to tell their friends and families all about how the Marquess of Bourne was the most solicitous, kindhearted, wonderful man ever to walk the banks of the Serpentine Lake.

  But she wouldn’t love it.

  She would put on her own damned skates.

  “I’m fine. Thank you.” And she promptly slid the contraptions over her walking boots, carefully tightening the straps to ensure a snug fit. “There.” She looked up at Michael, watching her carefully, something strange and unidentifiable in his gaze. “Perfect.”

  He came out of his crouch then, reaching down to help her up. “At least let me do this, Penelope,” he whispered, and she couldn’t resist the soft words.

  She placed her hands in his.

  He lifted her to her feet and held her as she regained her balance on the blades. “If I remember correctly, you were never as good at walking on your blades as you were at skating on them.”

  She blinked up at him, nearly tipping over with the movement and clasping his arms carefully as she regained her balance. “You said you didn’t remember.”

  “No,” he said, quietly, guiding her down the hill and toward the lake. “You said I didn’t remember.”

  “You do, though.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a small, sad smile. “You’d be amazed by all that I remember.”

  There was something in the words, a softness that was foreign to him, and she couldn’t help her suspicion. “Why are you behaving like this?” Her brow furrowed. “Another chance to prove our love match?”

  Something flickered in his gaze, there then gone. “Any chance to prove it,” he said, softly before he looked away. She followed the line of his gaze to find Pippa and Olivia, hand in hand, helping each other toward the ice. Any chance to match her sisters.

  “I should join them,” she said, lifting her face to him, meeting his beautiful hazel eyes. It was only then that she realized how closely he held her, and how the gentle incline of the hill brought her almost eye to eye with him.

  One side of his mouth twitched. “Your cheeks are like cherries.”

  She tucked her chin into the fur cowl at her neck. “It’s cold,” she said, defensively.

  He shook his head. “I am not complaining. I think they’re rather charming. They make you look like a winter nymph.”

  “I am hardly nymphlike.”

  He lifted a hand and pressed one finger to her raised brow. “You never used to do that. Never used to be so sardonic.”

  She pulled away from the warm touch. “I must have learned it from you.”

  He looked at her for a long moment, all seriousness, before he leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Nymphs should not be cynical, love.”

  Suddenly, it did not seem so cold.

  He pulled back, shaking his head. “What a pity.”

  “What is?”

  He bent his head toward her, nearly touching her forehead with his. “I am almost certain that you are blushing. But the cold makes it impossible to tell.”

  Penelope could not help her smile, enjoying the banter, forgetting, for one fleeting moment, that it was not real. “How sad that you shall never know.”

  He lifted her hands to his lips, kissing first one set of kidskin-covered knuckles, then the other, and she wished that she were not wearing gloves. “Your ice awaits, my lady. I shall join you presently.”

  She looked past him to the crowded lake, where her sisters had joined the revelers in their circles on the lovely, smooth surface, and suddenly standing here with him seemed far more exciting than anything that could happen on the ice. But standing with him was not an option. “So it does.”

  Michael saw her down to the lake’s edge, where she pushed off and disappeared into the crowd, soon finding her sisters. Olivia looped one hand through Penelope’s arm, and said, “Bourne is wonderful, Penny. Tell me, are you ecstatic?” She sighed. “I would be ecstatic.”

  Penelope looked down at her feet, watching them glide across the ice, peeking out from beneath her dress. “Ecstatic is one way to describe it,” she said. Frustrated and impossibly confused would be another.

  Olivia made a show of looking around the lake. “I wonder if he knows any of these unattached lords?”

  If he was to be believed, half of them owed The Angel money. “I imagine he does, yes.”

  “Excellent!” Olivia added, “Well done, Penny. I think he shall be the brother-in-law worth his salt! And handsome, too, isn’t he? Oh! I see Louisa Holbrooke!”

  She waved furiously across the ice and was off to visit with her friend, leaving Penelope to say quietly, “Yes. He’s handsome,” grateful for one moment during which she did not have to lie.

  Her gaze moved to the spot on the hill where they’d stood mere moments ago. He stood stock-still, all attention on her. Her hand itched to wave. But that would be silly, wouldn’t it?

  It would be.

  As she was considering the action, he made the decision unnecessary. He raised one long arm and waved to her.

  It would be rude to ignore him.

  So she waved back.

  He lowered himself to the bench and began to strap on his skates, and Penelope gave a little sigh, forcing herself to turn away before she did something even more foolish.

  “Something’s happened.”

  For a moment, Penelope thought that Pippa had noticed the strange interactions between Michael and her. Mind racing, she turned to face her younger sister. “What do you mean?”

  “Castleton has proposed.”

  Penelope’s eyes went wide at the unexpected announcement, and she waited for Pippa to acknowledge the fact that they had spent much of the morning together, and Pippa had only just decided to mention the proposal.

  When Pippa said nothing, calmly gliding forward as though they were discussing the weather and not her future, Penelope could not stop herself. “You do not sound very happy about it.”

  Pippa kept her head down for a few long minutes. “He’s an earl. He seems friendly enough, he doesn’t mind that I hate dancing, and he has a handsome stable of horseflesh.”

  Penelope would have smiled at the simplicity in the words, as though the four character traits were enough to make a satisfactory marriage, if not for the hint of resignation in them.

  It occurred to Penelope that Pippa might have chosen her moment to share the proposal because there were so many people around—so many eyes watching and ears listening—too many to allow for a serious conversation.

  Nonetheless, Penelope clasped one of her sister’s hands and drew her to a halt there at the center of the lake. She leaned in and said, softly, “You don’t have to say yes.”

  “Will it matter if I say no?” Pippa replied, smiling broadly as though they were discussing some amusing event from the morning instead of her future. Her dreams. “Won’t there just be another man around the bend looking to capture my dowry? And another after that? And another? Until my choices disappear. He knows I’m smarter than he is, and he’s willing to let me run his estate. That’s something.” She faced Penelope. “I know what you did.”

  Penelope met her sister’s knowing gaze. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I was there on St. Stephen’s, Penny. I think I would have noticed Bourne’s return. As would have half the vicarage.”

  Penelope nibbled on one lip, wondering what she should say.

  “You needn’t tell me I’m right.” Pippa saved her. “But know that I see what you’ve done. I appreciate it.”