They skated along in silence for a while, before Penelope said, “I did it so you would not have to accept Castleton, Pippa. Michael and I . . . the story was for your benefit. Yours and Olivia’s.”

  Pippa smiled. “And that’s sweet of you. But it’s silly to think we’ll have love matches, Penny. They don’t come along every day. You know that better than most.”

  Penelope swallowed around the knot in her throat at the words, at the reminder that her own marriage was nothing near a love match. “Others marry for love,” she pointed out, adjusting her fur-lined gloves and looking out over the little lake. “Consider Leighton and his wife.”

  Pippa cut her a look, eyes large and owl-like behind her spectacles. “That’s the best you can do? A scandalous marriage from eight years ago?”

  It was the example she carried closest to her heart.

  “The number of years does not matter. Nor does the scandal.”

  “Of course it does,” Pippa said, standing and tying her own bonnet beneath her chin. “A scandal like that would send Mother into hysterics. And the rest of you into hiding.”

  “Not me.” She was emphatic.

  Pippa considered the words. “No, not you. You’ve a scandalous husband of your own.”

  Penelope considered her husband, far across the lake, her eyes lingering over the enormous bruise on one side of his face. “He is a scandal.”

  Pippa turned to face her. “Whatever the reason for your match, Penny . . . he does seem to care for you.”

  Drury Lane is missing a great talent, surely. She did not say that. Pippa did not need to hear it.

  “I might as well marry Castleton,” Pippa said. “It will make Father happy. And I shall never have to see the inside of a season again. Think of all the visits to the dressmaker I can forgo.”

  Penelope smiled at the jest, even as she wanted to open her mouth and scream at the unfairness of it all. Pippa did not deserve a loveless marriage any more than the other Marbury girls did. Any more than Penelope did.

  But this was London society, where loveless marriages were the norm. She sighed but said nothing.

  “Don’t worry about me, Penny,” Philippa said, pulling Penelope into the throngs of skaters once more. “I shall be fine with Castleton. He’s a good enough man. I don’t think Father would have allowed his suit if he weren’t.” She leaned closer. “And don’t worry about Olivia. She hasn’t any idea that you and Lord Bourne are . . .” She trailed off. “She’s too focused on trapping herself a handsome peer.”

  Penelope was not comforted by the idea that she might have fooled her youngest sister into believing that her marriage was a love match. It made her terribly uncomfortable. Olivia, The Scandal Sheet, the rest of society’s believing that Michael loved her—that she loved Michael—only served to prove the worst . . . that Penelope was losing herself to this charade.

  If her sisters barely questioned her feelings for Michael, who was to say that she wouldn’t soon believe the pretense herself?

  Then where would she be?

  Alone again.

  “Penelope?” Pippa’s question pulled her from her reverie.

  She forced a smile.

  Pippa watched her for a long while, seeming to see more than Penelope wished, and she looked away from the scrutiny. Finally, her sister said, “I think I shall join Olivia and Louisa. Will you come?”

  Penelope shook her head. “No.”

  “Shall I stay with you?”

  Penelope shook her head. “No. Thank you.”

  The younger Marbury smiled. “Waiting for your husband?” Penelope instantly denied it, and Pippa’s smile turned knowing. “I think you like him, sister. Against your best judgment. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know.” She paused, then said matter-of-factly, “I should think it would be rather nice to like one’s husband.”

  Before Penelope could reply, Pippa was gone. Without thinking, she sought Michael once more, now gone from the spot on the hill where she’d seen him last. She scanned the lake and located him, just on the edge of the ice, in conversation with Viscount Tottenham.

  She watched for a long moment before Michael looked out across the ice, his serious gaze finding hers almost instantly. Nervousness shot through her and she turned away, unable to stand firm with half of London between them. She tucked her chin into her muff and skated, head down, through a nearby crowd to the far end of the lake, where she stepped off the ice and hobbled toward a chestnut vendor who had set up shop on the rise there.

  She’d barely taken a step when she heard the chatter.

  “Can you believe Tottenham is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt?” The question came from behind her, and Penelope paused, knowing instantly that someone was discussing her husband.

  “I can’t even imagine how Tottenham would be acquainted with someone like him.”

  “I hear that Bourne is still managing that scandalous club. What do you think that says?”

  “Nothing good. Bourne is wicked as sin, just like the men who frequent that club.” Penelope resisted the urge to turn around and tell the gossipers that they were very likely sired by or espoused to men who would give their left arms for a chance to wager at The Fallen Angel.

  “They say he’s angling for invitations this season. They say he’s ready to return to the ton. They say she’s the reason why.”

  Penelope leaned closer as the wind picked up, and the words became more difficult to hear. “Lady Holloway told my mother’s cousin that he could not stop touching her at dinner last week.”

  “I heard the same—and did you see The Scandal Sheet this morning?”

  “Can you believe it? A love match? With Penelope Marbury? I would have sworn he married her for her reputation, poor thing.”

  “And don’t forget Falconwell—it was the seat of the marquessate before—”

  The words were lost in the wind, but Penelope heard them anyway. Before he lost it.

  “One does wonder how someone as pristine as Penelope Marbury can care for someone as wicked as the Marquess of Bourne.”

  Far too easily, Penelope feared.

  “Nonsense. Look at the man. The real question is how someone like him could tumble into love with someone as boring as she! She couldn’t even keep cold, boring Leighton.”

  The two dissolved into giggles, and Penelope closed her eyes at the high-pitched sound. “You’re terrible! Poor Penelope.”

  God, she hated that name.

  “Well really. Wicked as sin and twice as handsome—even with that eye. Where do you think he got it?”

  “I am told there are fights at the hell. Brawls that rival those of the gladiators.” Penelope rolled her eyes. Her husband was many things, but a modern-day gladiator was not one of them.

  “Well, I confess, I would not refuse to tend to his wounds . . .” The voice trailed off on a sigh.

  Penelope resisted the urge to show the wicked women just what kind of wounds could be inflicted on a person.

  “Perhaps Penelope would give you some tips—you could try to catch one of the other members.”

  Their cruel laughter faded into the distance. She turned to watch them go, fists clenched, unable to recognize them from the rear. Not that she would have done anything if she had.

  Of course they found the story worthy of gossip. It was laughable that she and Michael had a love match. That their marriage might be anything more than a business arrangement.

  That someone like him could love someone like me.

  She sucked in a deep breath at the thought, the cold sting of the air combating the knot of emotion in her throat.

  “Lady Bourne.” She spun toward the still-strange title only to find Donovan West scant feet away, headed for her. There was no indication that the newspaperman had overheard the women, but Penelope could not help but think that he had.

  “Mr. West,” she said, pushing thoughts of boredom aside and matching his smile. “What a surprise.”

  “My sister required my chaperon,” he said, pointing to a group of young girls several yards away. “And I confess to a weakness for winter sport.” He offered her an arm and indicated the vendor nearby. “Would you care for some chestnuts?”

  She followed his gaze, the smoke from the chestnut cart obscuring its owner’s face. “I should like that very much, thank you.” They moved slowly toward the stall, Penelope hobbling along on her blades, Mr. West too gentlemanly to mention her lack of coordination. “I, too, have sisters.” She thought of Pippa’s resignation—her decision to marry Castleton despite her disinterest, for all the wrong reasons.

  “Troublesome creatures, are they not?”

  She forced a smile. “As a sister myself, I must refrain from answering.”

  “A fair point.” The blond man paused, adding teasingly, “I imagine that a marriage to Bourne would make any sister somewhat troublesome.”

  She smiled. “Consider yourself lucky that you are not my brother.”

  He paid the vendor and passed a bag of roasted nuts to Penelope, waiting for her to try one before saying, “You are doing very well.”

  Her attention snapped to his shrewd brown gaze. He knew. She did her best to sound unmoved when she spoke, deliberately misunderstanding his words. “I’ve skated for my whole life.”

  He tilted his head, acknowledging the way she avoided his words. “Well, your technique shows more skill than would be expected of a lady.”

  They were not discussing skating, that much she knew, but was he referencing the gossip about her and Bourne? Or their farcical marriage? Or something even more damning?

  She nibbled on a chestnut, savoring the sweet meat as she considered her response. “I’m always happy to surprise those around me.”

  “Performing with such finesse takes a great deal of strength.”

  She raised a brow and leveled the newspaperman with a frank look. “I’ve had years of practice.”

  He smiled warmly then. “Indeed you have, my lady. And may I say how very lucky Bourne is to have finally secured you. I look forward to seeing you throughout the season—surely you’ll be the most talked about couple in London. I know my columnists are already thrilled to have you in town.”

  Clarity came like icy wind. “Your columnists.”

  He dipped his head, smiling secretly, “The Scandal Sheet is one of mine.”

  “The item today . . .” she trailed off.

  “Shall pale in comparison to the one about your skating skills.”

  She pursed her lips. “So unexpected.”

  He laughed. She was not trying to be amusing.

  “Penelope has been able to skate rings around me since we were barely old enough to stand.” Michael’s words startled her, and she spun to face him, her surprise at his appearance upsetting her precarious balance on her blades and tipping her into his waiting arms, as though he’d planned the whole thing. She gave a little squeak as he pulled her against him.

  “As indicated by my extraordinary grace in this particular moment,” Penelope offered, eliciting a warm laugh from Michael that rumbled through her all-too-pleasantly. She pulled back to meet his gaze.

  He did not look away from her as he said, “It’s one of the many reasons I married her. I’m sure you can’t blame me, West.”

  A blush flooding her cheeks, Penelope turned to face the newspaperman, who dipped his head, and said, “Not in the slightest. It’s a lucky match indeed.” He winked at Penelope. “She’s obviously committed to you.” He looked off to the distance then before tipping his hat and giving Penelope a short bow. “I have neglected my sister for too long, I think. Lady Bourne, it has been an honor to skate with you.”

  She dropped a tiny curtsy. “The pleasure was mine.” When he skated away, she turned to face Michael again, lowering her voice to a whisper. “That man knows that there is more to our marriage than a love match.”

  He leaned in, matching her volume. “Don’t you mean less to our marriage?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You are avoiding the point.”

  “Of course West knows,” he said casually. “He’s one of the smartest men in Britain. Possibly the smartest man in Britain, and one of the most successful, as well. But he will keep our secrets.”

  “He’s a journalist,” she reminded him.

  He laughed then, a lovely, honest laugh that made him infinitely more handsome. “You needn’t say it as though he is an insect under glass.” He paused, watching the man in question charm his sister and her gaggle of friends. “West knows better than to speculate on our marriage in print.”

  She did not believe him. The truth of their marriage would make for incredible scandal. “How do you know him?”

  “He likes hazard.”

  “It seems like the smartest man in Britain would not enjoy a game of chance so very much.”

  “He would if he had the luck of the devil.”

  “You don’t seem worried that he knows.”

  “That is because I am not. I know too many of his secrets for him to share any of mine.”

  “But he’ll happily share Tommy’s?”

  Michael slid her a look. “Let’s not talk about that.”

  She pressed on. “Are you still planning to ruin him?”

  “Not today.”

  “When, then?”

  He sighed. “At least a week from now, as promised.”

  There was something there, in the soft, resigned way that he spoke, something she wished she could identify. Was it doubt? Regret? “Michael—”

  “I have bought and paid for this afternoon, wife. No more.” He reached into her bag of chestnuts and popped one, whole, into his mouth. Instantly, his eyes went wide, and he sucked in a long breath. “Those are scalding!”

  She should not have taken pleasure in his pain, but she did. “If you had asked for one before simply taking what you wanted, I would have warned you.”

  One of his brows rose. “Never ask. Take what you want, when you want it.”

  “Another rule of scoundrels?”

  He dipped his head to acknowledge the quip. “It is part of the fun.”

  The words sizzled through her as the memory came—unbidden—of his tossing her over his shoulder on that first night . . . the night that had changed everything.

  She raised her chin, refusing to be embarrassed. “Yes, I discovered as much last night at your club when I won at the wheel.” His brows shot up, and Penelope was rather proud of herself. A direct hit.

  “It’s a game of chance. It requires no skill.”

  “No skill but luck,” she quipped.

  He smiled, more handsome than one man should be. “Come, wife. Let’s around the lake.”

  He took the bag from her hands, stuffing it into his coat pocket before he guided her to the ice, and she returned the conversation to secrets. “Is that the way of it? You trade in secrets?”

  “Only when I must.”

  “Only as a means to an end.” The words were more for herself than for him.

  “I know I have been out of the aristocracy for a decade, but this remains London, does it not? Information is still the most valuable commodity?”

  “I suppose it is.” She did not like how simple it was to him. How callous he was. How easily he kept secrets. How easily he used them to punish those around him. She forced a smile, knowing that all of London watched them. Hating being on display. “And that is the way of it with you and Langford?”

  Michael shook his head. “No Langford either, today. We made our deal.”

  “I never agreed.”

  “Your not tossing me from the carriage on the way here was tacit agreement,” he said dryly. “But if you’d like to formally agree, I will accept your marker in good faith.”

  “I don’t have a marker of my own.”

  “All is well,” he smiled. “You may borrow mine.”

  She cut him a look. “You mean I may return yours.”

  “Semantics.”

  She could not hide her small smile as she reached into the pocket of her cloak, where she carried the guinea he’d given her and extracted the coin. “One afternoon,” she said.

  “For one week,” he agreed.

  She dropped the coin in his outstretched palm, watching as he deposited it inside his coat pocket. She turned away, watching Pippa laughing across the pond with a group of young women. “Lord Castleton has proposed to Pippa.”

  He did not move. “And?”

  “And she will say yes.” He did not respond. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand. “They are not a good match.”

  “Is that so strange?”

  No. No, it wasn’t. But he didn’t have to be so callous about it.

  She began to skate faster. “She deserves a chance at more.”

  “She need not say yes.”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. “I’m surprised you would say such a thing. Don’t you want her married as quickly as possible?”

  He looked away, focusing on his skating for long minutes. “You know I do. But I have no interest in forcing her hand.”

  “It is only my hand that you were interested in forcing?”

  “Penelope,” he began, and she pulled ahead of him, skating faster, feeling the cold wind on her cheeks, wishing that she could keep going, wishing that she could glide away from this strange, forced life that she was living. She edged past a large group of people, and he was beside her again, his hand on her arm, slowing her. “Penelope,” he said again. “Please.”

  Perhaps it was the word. The softness of it. The strangeness of it on his tongue. The way he said it, as though she could ignore him and he would let her go.

  But she stopped, her skates digging deep into the ice as she turned to face him. “I was supposed to stop this,” she said, knowing there was too much emotion in her words. “I was supposed to make it so that they could have a different life. Marriages that were built on more than . . .”