“More than a handsome dowry.”

  She looked away from the words. “They’re supposed to have a better chance than us. You gave me your marker.”

  “And at least one of them will.” He pointed to the far end of the lake and she followed the line of sight to where Olivia and Tottenham stood in conversation, a blush on Olivia’s perfect cheeks and a wide grin on Tottenham’s face. “He’s worth a fortune, and his reputation is clean enough to make him prime minister someday. If they suit, it could be a tremendous match.”

  “They are alone? Together?” She began to skate again, toward them. “Michael, we must go back!”

  He reached for her hand, slowing her pace. “Penelope, they are not alone on a balcony at a ball. They are standing, quite happily, on the lakeshore, conversing.”

  “Sans chaperone.” She said, “I’m serious. We must return!”

  “Well, if you say it in French, it must be very serious indeed.” His face was turned away, so she couldn’t exactly tell, but she thought he was teasing her. “It’s all entirely aboveboard.” He reached out and took her hand, turning her to skate in a different direction even as she tried to pull away. “You owe me an afternoon, wife.” When he held her firm, she stopped resisting, and he orbited her until she couldn’t help but follow him, facing him the entire way.

  And then he pulled her into his arms as though they were dancing, and they skated back in an approximation of a waltz, until they were a fair distance from anyone overhearing them.

  “Everyone is watching.”

  “Let them watch.” He held her tightly, whispering low at her ear, “Don’t you remember what it was like to spend those first, breathless minutes alone with a suitor?”

  “No.” She tried to pull away. “Michael, we must go back.”

  Suddenly, it wasn’t for Olivia that she felt she must return. It was for herself. For her sanity. Because being in his arms, like this, with his voice at her ear, was not good for her convictions.

  He twirled them in a slow circle. “We shall return to them in a few minutes. For now, answer the question.”

  “I did answer it.” She tried to pull back, but he held her firmly. “This isn’t proper.”

  “I’m not letting you go. If anyone sees us, they’ll simply see the Marquess of Bourne doting on his lovely wife. Now answer the question.”

  Except, he wasn’t doting on her. It wasn’t real.

  Was it?

  “I’ve never been courted. Not to breathlessness.” She couldn’t believe she’d admitted it to him.

  “Didn’t your duke do his best to woo you?”

  Penelope couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Have you ever met the Duke of Leighton? His is not the most wooing of dispositions.” She paused, a memory of the duke stopping a ball for his future wife flashing through her mind, before adding, “At least, it was not with me.”

  “And the others?”

  “Which others?”

  “The other suitors, Penelope. Surely one of them did his best to . . .”

  She shook her head, looking around them, searching for her sisters, afraid of being seen. Philippa was standing with a group of girls at the center of the glittering ice. “I’ve never been rendered breathless by a suitor.”

  “Not even Tommy?”

  No. She should have said it, but didn’t want to. Didn’t want to betray her friend. Didn’t want Michael to know she’d been a means to an end for all of them . . . even Tommy. “I thought we weren’t discussing Tommy.”

  “Do you love him?” There was urgency in his tone, and she knew he would not relent until she answered him.

  She lifted one shoulder. “He is a dear friend. Of course I care for him.”

  His eyes grew dark. “That isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”

  She did not pretend to misunderstand. Instead, she told him the truth, knowing the confession would give him power. Not caring, because she wanted something in their relationship to be real. “He did not make me breathless either.”

  A small child—no older than four or five—skated past, followed by his apologetic father and a laughing mother who turned to dip a curtsy to them. Penelope smiled and waved away the apology before she said, softly, “Perhaps that is the problem, though. Perhaps I waited too long for breathlessness and missed . . . well . . . everything else.”

  When he said nothing, she looked up at him to find him tracking the same family she had been watching. Finally, he looked down at her very seriously, and she could not look away as they turned and turned in the momentum of the waltz, neither of them forcing movement, but spinning nonetheless. Something shifted in the air between them.

  “I’m very happy that you did not marry Leighton or Tommy or any of the woefully lacking others, Sixpence.”

  No one but Michael had ever called her Sixpence, a silly nickname he’d given her a lifetime ago, assuring her that she was worth far more than a penny to him. They had been sweet words at the time, a lovely little idea that had been sure to make her smile, and her response now was no different.

  Warmth spread through her at the name, followed by a question far more serious than the name. “Is that honesty? Or is it false honesty? Who are you, right now? The real you? Or some approximation of the man you think they want you to be? Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter, because now . . . in this moment . . . it matters.” Her voice grew soft. “And I’m not even sure why.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  And maybe it made her a fool, but she believed him.

  They stood there for a long moment, his eyes flecked with greys and golds and greens and so intent upon her, as though they were alone on that lake—as though all of London were not swaying and gliding around them—and she wondered what might happen if all of London weren’t there. If all of London did not matter.

  He was so close, the heat of him so real and tempting, and she thought he might kiss her there.

  No.

  She pulled away before he could.

  She had to.

  She couldn’t bear the idea of him using her again.

  Snow had begun to fall, dusting the brim of his pin-striped cap and the shoulders of his beautifully tailored coat. “I should go to Olivia before she and Tottenham decide to elope.” She paused. “Thank you for the afternoon.”

  She turned and left, skating away, feeling the loss of him keenly. It was wrong that he could make her want him so much, so quickly, with a single soft smile or kind word. She was weak when it came to him.

  And he was so very strong.

  “Penelope,” he called out to her, and she turned back to meet his gaze, something altogether dangerous sparkling in his brown eyes. “The afternoon is not over.”

  And, for a brief instant, Penelope thought she might be breathless.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dear M—

  I had absolutely no doubt that this season would be horrid, but it’s worse than I thought. Oh, I can suffer the gossip, the whispers, the way that I have become invisible to those eligible bachelors who used to ask me to dance, but seeing the duke and his new, beautiful duchess—that is difficult.

  They’re so very much in love; they don’t even seem to notice the chatter that follows them. And then, yesterday, I heard tell in a ladies’ salon that she is increasing.

  It is so strange to see someone else live the life you might have had. Stranger still to ache for it and exalt in the freedom of not having it all at once.

  Unsigned

  Dolby House, April 1824

  Letter unsent

  It was a strange thing indeed, wooing one’s wife.

  He would have expected such a thing to involve candlelight, a quiet bedchamber, and an hour or two of salacious whispering. And yet it appeared that the wooing of his wife would involve her sisters, her somewhat ridiculous mother, five of her father’s hounds, and a game of charades.

  It was the first time he’d played charades since he’d left Surrey for school eighteen years earlier.

  “You needn’t remain here, you know,” Penelope said, sotto voce, from her place next to him on the Dolby House drawing-room settee.

  He leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other. “I enjoy a good round of charades as much as the next man.”

  “And it is my experience that men do adore parlor games,” she said wryly. “The afternoon is past, you know.”

  The words were a not-so-subtle reminder that she’d paid him in full . . . that his time was up. He met her blue gaze. “It’s still past the hour of noon, Sixpence.” He lowered his voice. “By my count, I’ve at least five more hours with you—well into the night.”

  She blushed, and he resisted the urge to make love to her right there—to strip her out of her too-becoming frock and lay her down bare on the very settee on which they sat.

  Her family would likely not have approved.

  It was not the first time that he’d considered stripping her of her clothes that day, nor was it the tenth. Nor, likely, the hundredth.

  Something had happened on the ice, something for which he had not been prepared.

  He’d enjoyed himself.

  He’d enjoyed Penelope.

  He’d enjoyed skating with her, and teasing her, and watching her with her sisters, each charming in her own right. And he’d been so tempted to reach out and claim his wife. But when he’d tried, she’d turned from him—filled with glorious strength—chin high, lovely, refusing to settle for less than what she deserved.

  He’d been riveted as she left him, so proud of her as she crossed the Serpentine, and it had taken all his control not to follow her and keep her there, in that place that seemed so far from where their marriage actually existed. He’d luxuriated in the feel of her in his arms as they’d skated, exalted in the way she smiled up at him when he’d stolen a chestnut from her paper sack, and when she’d asked him, wide-eyed, for the truth—he’d been happy to answer her with honesty.

  His honesty had not been enough, though. A well-learned lesson.

  She’d expected him to refuse the invitation to charades, he knew, and he likely should have. But he found he was not ready to leave her—indeed, he found he did not like the idea of ever leaving her. And so here he was, in a drawing room, playing charades in family idyll.

  Her sisters tumbled into the room, Philippa carrying a bowl filled with slips of paper, followed by a large brown dog that trotted over to the settee and pushed his way up to sit between him and Penelope, turning twice before settling, chin on Penelope’s thigh, hindquarters shoved against Michael’s hip. He shifted, making room for the hound, as her hands moved to idly stroke the dog’s ears.

  Jealousy flared as the dog sighed and burrowed into the touch. Michael cleared his throat, irritated at his canine envy, and asked, “How many dogs are there in this house?”

  She wrinkled her nose, thoughtfully, and he was struck by the expression—a vestige from their youth that made him want to reach out and run his finger down the creases in the pert little slope. “Ten? Eleven?” She shrugged, small and sweet. “I’ve honestly lost count. This is Brutus.”

  “He appears to like you.”

  She smiled. “He likes attention.”

  Michael decided that foolish or not, he would happily turn over his stake in The Angel to have her hands on him in such a lovely, soothing way.

  “Did you see how tall Tottenham is? And so handsome!” Olivia gushed, coming over to take the chair next to Michael, leaning in to speak to him. “I had no idea that a brother-in-law with a reputation like yours would have access to such a tremendous potential husband!”

  “Olivia!” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby looked as though she might perish with embarrassment. “One does not discuss such things with peers!”

  “Not even one’s brother-in-law?”

  “Not even him!” Lady Needham’s voice had risen several octaves. “An apology would not be out of hand!”

  Pippa looked up from where she had set the large bowl of charades clues and pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “She doesn’t mean that your reputation is bad, my lord. Just that it’s . . .”

  Michael raised a brow, wondering how she would finish the sentence.

  “Really, Pippa. He’s not addlepated. He knows he’s a scandalous reputation. I’d wager he enjoys it.” She smiled at him, all teeth, and he decided he liked these girls. They were entertaining, if nothing else.

  “All right. That’s enough,” Penelope interjected. “Shall we play? Olivia, you first.”

  Olivia seemed more than willing to begin the game, and she headed for the large fireplace to take her turn. Selecting a slip of paper from the bowl, she read, pursing her lips, ostensibly considering her strategy.

  Instead of pantomiming the item on the paper, however, she looked up, and said, “Do you think Tottenham will buy me a very large betrothal ring?”

  “The Marriage of Figaro,” Penelope said, matter-of-factly.

  “Yes!” Olivia said. “How did you know?”

  “How indeed,” Penelope replied.

  “What a clever girl!” the marchioness announced.

  Michael couldn’t help it. He laughed, drawing his wife’s attention, her brow furrowed in confusion as though he were a strange specimen of flora that she’d just discovered. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing . . . I just . . . you don’t laugh much.”

  He leaned in, as close as he could get with the dog between them. “Is it unbecoming?”

  She laughed, the sound like music. “No . . . I . . .” She blushed again, and he would have given his fortune for her thoughts at that moment. “No.”

  “Olivia,” Pippa said, “try again.”

  Olivia reached into the bowl once more, but not before looking straight at Michael and announcing, “I’ve always liked rubies, Lord Bourne. I believe they complement my complexion. In case it should arise in conversation. With anyone.”

  Tottenham was in a great deal of trouble, indeed.

  “Oh, I’m certain that it will,” Penelope said, dryly, “what with all the talk of jewels and ladies’ complexions that men like Bourne and Tottenham must have.”

  “You would be surprised,” he said to his wife, all seriousness, and she laughed again. “I shall endeavor to remember your preference for rubies, Lady Olivia.”

  She smiled. “See that you do.”

  “I’m not sure jewels complement a complexion,” Pippa said smartly. “A play.”

  “Philippa, we’ve invited Lord Castleton to luncheon tomorrow,” the marchioness announced. “The two of you shall have time in the afternoon for a walk, I hope.”

  “That would be fine, Mother.” Pippa’s attention did not waver. “Five words.”

  “Tottenham wasn’t invited to luncheon,” Olivia said with a pout.

  “You’re not supposed to talk, Olivia,” Pippa said. “Though that was five words, so well done.”

  Michael smiled at the clever retort, but did not miss the disinterest in his sister-in-law’s response. She did not wish to marry Castleton. Not that he could blame her; Castleton was an idiot. It had taken only a few hours for Bourne to discover that Pippa was smarter than most men and that Castleton would make her a terrible match. Of course, Castleton would make anyone a terrible match, but Philippa would find her marriage particularly soul-destroying.

  And Penelope would hate him for not putting a stop to it.

  He looked to his wife, who was watching him carefully. She leaned in. “You do not like the match.”

  He could have lied. The faster Philippa and Castleton were matched, the faster Michael had his revenge, the faster he could live his life out from beneath the cloud of anger and fury that had shadowed his last decade. Nothing had changed.

  Except, something had.

  Penelope.

  He shook his head. “I do not.”

  Something lit in her beautiful blue eyes, something that could become his addiction. Hope. Happiness. It made him feel ten times a man to be the reason for it. “You will stop it?”

  He hesitated. Would he stop it?

  It would make Penelope happy.

  But at what price?

  He was saved from having to reply by Philippa, turning to face them. “What on earth? Do you see this?”

  He had not been paying attention, but Olivia was now alternately pantomiming cracking a whip, and screwing up her face, eyes tightly closed, teeth bared, with her fingers splayed out at either edge of her mouth.

  “Driving a squid! Whipping the sunshine!” the marchioness called out, pride in her tone, drawing laughter from the rest of the room.

  “Driving a Squid is a play I would dearly love to read,” Philippa said on a giggle, turning back to Penelope. “Penny, really. We could use your help.”

  Penelope watched Olivia for a long moment, and Michael had difficulty looking away from her—entranced by her focus. He wondered what it would be like to be the recipient of such interest. Of such contentment. Jealousy flared again, and he scolded himself. No grown man should be envious of dogs or sisters-in-law. “The Taming of the Shrew.”

  Olivia stopped. “Yes! Thank you, Pen. I was beginning to feel foolish up there.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Pippa said, dryly. “I don’t think shrews are blind, Olivia.” This, from Philippa.

  “Oh, tosh. I should like to see you do it better. Who is next?”

  “It’s Penny’s turn. She guessed the last.”

  Penelope stood and smoothed out her skirts, and Michael watched as she made her way to the makeshift stage, withdrawing a slip of paper and unfolding it. She considered the phrase for a long moment before an idea dawned, and her face lit up. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly wanting to hurry her from the room and the house, home, to his bed.