But the round had begun, and he would have to wait.

  She held up three fingers, and he imagined the feel of them on his jaw, his lips, his cheeks.

  “Three words!”

  She stiffened her posture and saluted her sisters, then marched stiffly around the stage, her full breasts straining at the edge of her gown. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched, enjoying the view.

  “Marching!”

  “Soldiers!”

  She made an encouraging sign with her hands.

  “Napoleon!”

  She mimed firing a rifle, and his attention lingered at the place where her shoulder and neck met, the soft, shadowed indentation there that he ached to kiss . . . the place he would kiss in another time and place, if they were married and he were a different man.

  If he were a man she could love.

  If theirs was a marriage built on something other than revenge.

  Do not touch me. The words whispered through him, and he loathed them. Loathed what they represented—the way she thought of him, the way she believed he would treat her. The way he had treated her.

  The way he was treating her.

  “Hunting!”

  “Father!”

  “Father hunting Napoleon!” Olivia’s silly guess pulled Penelope from her mime with a laugh. She shook her head, then pointed at herself. “Father hunting you!”

  Pippa looked at Olivia. “Why on earth would that be in the charades bowl?”

  “I don’t know. Once, I had Aunt Hester’s wig.”

  Pippa laughed. “I put that one in!” Penelope cleared her throat. “Right. Sorry, Pen. What were you not saying?”

  Penelope pointed to herself.

  “Lady?”

  “Female?”

  Wife. His wife.

  “Girl?”

  “Daughter?”

  “Marchioness!” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby interjected her first guess with such exuberant glee that Michael thought she might topple from her settee.

  Penelope sighed and rolled her eyes before meeting his gaze, eyebrows raised as if to say, Help?

  Something startlingly akin to pride exploded in his chest at the request—at the idea that she might come to him for assistance. He found he wanted to be the man to whom she turned. He wanted to help her.

  For chrissake’s, Bourne, it’s charades.

  “Penelope,” he said.

  Her eyes lit. She pointed at him.

  “Penelope? You’re a part of the clue?” Olivia looked skeptical. Penelope began to mime again. “Sewing?”

  She grinned and pointed at Olivia, then mimed pulling a thread out of needlepoint quickly. “Unsewing?”

  She pointed at Olivia again, then to herself, then mimed sewing and unsewing once more before she looked to Pippa, clearly the sister she really expected to be able to put all the clues together.

  He did not want Pippa to win. He wanted to win. To impress her.

  “The Odyssey,” he said.

  Penelope smiled, broad and beautiful, clapping her hands and jumping up and down, enjoying the fleeting triumph, then mimed firing a rifle and marched around the little stage once more. Penny spun around, pointing directly at Michael, all her attention on him, and he felt like a hero when he guessed, “The Trojan War.”

  “Yes!” Penelope announced on a great sigh of breath. “Well done, Michael.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from preening. “It was, rather, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t understand,” Olivia said. “How did Penny sewing and unsewing make for the Trojan War?”

  “Penelope was Odysseus’s wife,” Philippa explained. “He left her, and she sat at her loom, sewing all day, and unraveling all her work at night. For years.”

  “Why on earth would someone do that?” Olivia wrinkled her nose, selecting a sweet from a nearby tray. “Years? Really.”

  “She was waiting for him to come home,” Penelope said, meeting Michael’s gaze. There was something meaningful there, and he thought she might be speaking of more than the Greek myth. Did she wait for him at night? She’d told him not to touch her . . . she’d pushed him away . . . but tonight, if he went to her, would she accept him? Would she follow the path of her namesake?

  “I hope you have more exciting things to do when you are waiting for Michael to come home, Penny,” Olivia teased.

  Penelope smiled, but there was something in her gaze that he did not like, something akin to sadness. He blamed himself for it. Before him, she was happier. Before him, she smiled and laughed and played games with her sisters without reminder of her unfortunate fate.

  He stood to meet her as she approached the settee. “I would never leave my Penelope for years.” He said, “I would be too afraid that someone would snatch her away.” His mother-in-law sighed audibly from across the room as his new sisters laughed. He lifted one of Penelope’s hands in his and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Penelope and Odysseus were never my favored mythic couple, anyway. I was always more partial to Persephone and Hades.”

  Penelope smiled at him, and the room was suddenly much much warmer. “You think they were a happier couple?” she asked, wry.

  He met her little smile, enjoying himself as he lowered his voice. “I think six months of feast is better than twenty years of famine.” She blushed, and he resisted the urge to kiss her there, in the drawing room, hang propriety and ladies’ delicate sensibilities.

  Missing the exchange, Olivia announced, “Lord Bourne, I make it your turn.”

  He did not look away from his wife. “It grows late, I am afraid. I think I should take my wife home.”

  Lady Needham came to her feet, toppling a small dog from her lap with a little yelp. “Oh, do stay a little longer. We are all so enjoying your visit.”

  He looked at Penelope, wanting to snatch her away to his underworld but allowing her to make their decision. She turned to her mother. “Lord Bourne is right,” she said, sending a thrill through him. “We have had a long afternoon. I should like to go home.”

  With him.

  Triumph surged, and he resisted the impulse to toss her over his shoulder and carry her from the room. She would let him touch her tonight. She would let him woo her.

  He was sure of it.

  Tomorrow remained a question, but tonight . . . tonight, she would be his.

  Even if he did not deserve her.

  * * *

  Dear M—

  Victoria and Valerie were married today in a double wedding to mediocre husbands indeed. I’ve no doubt that their choices were limited because of my scandal, and I can barely swallow back the anger and the unfairness of it all.

  It seems so unfair that some of us get such a life—filled with happiness and love and companionship and all the things we are taught never to even dream of because they are so rare and not at all the kind of things to expect from a good English marriage.

  I know envy is a sin, and covetousness, as well. But I cannot help wanting what others have. For me, and for my sisters.

  Unsigned

  Dolby House, June 1825

  Letter unsent

  She was falling in love with her husband.

  The startling realization came as he handed her up into the carriage, knocking twice on the roof before settling in beside her for their return home.

  She was falling in love with the part of him that ice-skated, played charades, teased her with wordplay, and smiled at her as though she were the only woman in the world. She was falling in love with the kindness that lurked beneath his exterior.

  And there was a part of her, dark and quiet, that was falling in love with the rest of him. She did not know how she could manage being in love with all of him. He was too much.

  She shivered.

  “Are you cold?” he asked, already moving to pull a blanket over her.

  “Yes,” she lied, clutching the wool to her, trying to remember that this man, the kind solicitous man who asked after her comfort, was only a fleeting part of her husband.

  The part that she loved.

  “We shall be home soon enough,” he said, coming close, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, a band of warm steel. She loved his touch. “Did you enjoy your afternoon?”

  The word simmered through her like a promise, and she could not keep the flush from her cheeks, even as she did her best to distance herself from him and the emotions he inspired. “I did. Charades with my sisters is always amusing.”

  “I like your sisters very much.” The words were soft, a rumble of sound in the darkness. “I was happy to be a part of the game.”

  “I think they are happy to have a brother they enjoy,” she said, thinking of her brothers-in-law. “Victoria’s and Valerie’s husbands are less . . .” She hesitated.

  “Handsome?”

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “That as well, but I was going to say—”

  “Charming?”

  “And that, but—”

  “Utterly enthralling?”

  Her brows rose. “Utterly enthralling, are you?”

  He feigned affront. “Have you not noticed that about me?”

  The frightening thing was that she had. Not that she would tell him that. “I hadn’t. But I can see that you are also infinitely more modest than the others.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “They must be very difficult, indeed.”

  She grinned. “I see you know your limitations.”

  Silence fell again, and she was surprised when he broke it. “I enjoyed charades. It was as though I was a part of the family.”

  The words were so honest and unexpected, so honest, and tears came, unbidden, to prick at Penelope’s eyes. She blinked them back, saying simply, “We are married.”

  He searched for her gaze in the darkness. “Is that all it takes? The exchange of vows in front of Vicar Compton, and a family is born?” When she did not reply, he added, “I wish it were so.”

  She tried to keep the words light. “You are welcome to my sisters, my lord. I am certain that they would both enjoy having you for a brother . . . what with your friendship with Lord Tottenham and . . .” She stopped.

  “And?” he prompted.

  She took a breath. “And your ability to keep Pippa from becoming Lady Castleton.”

  He sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “Penelope . . . it is not so easy.”

  She stilled, then pulled away from his embrace, the cold attacking instantly. “You mean it does not serve you.”

  “No. It does not.”

  “Why do their quick marriages matter?” He hesitated, and she filled the silence. “I have tried to understand, Michael . . . but I cannot see it. How does one serve the other? You already have proof of Tommy’s illegitimacy . . .” And suddenly, she understood. “You don’t though, do you?”

  He did not look away, but neither did he speak. Her mind spun as she tried to make sense of the arrangement, of how it must have been organized, of the parties who must have been involved, of the logic of the situation. “You don’t have it, but my father does. And you will pay him handsomely for it in married daughters. His favorite commodity.”

  “Penelope.” He leaned forward.

  She pressed against the door of the coach, as far away as she could get. “Do you deny it?”

  He stilled. “No.”

  “And so it goes,” she said bitterly, the reality of the situation filling the small space of the carriage, threatening to suffocate her. “My father and my husband conspiring to manage both my sisters and me. Nothing changes. That’s the choice, is it? My sisters’ reputations or my friend’s? One, or t’other?”

  “At first, it was a choice,” he conceded. “But now . . . I would not allow your sisters to be ruined, Penelope.”

  She raised a brow. “Forgive me if I do not believe you, my lord, considering how much you have threatened those same reputations since our meeting.”

  “No more threats. I want them happy. I want you happy.”

  He could make her happy. The thought whispered through her, and she did not doubt it. Not at all. This was a man who had singular focus, and if he set his mind to giving her a lifetime of happiness, he would succeed. But that was not in the cards. “You want your revenge more.”

  “I want both. I want everything.”

  She turned away from him, speaking to the street beyond the carriage window, suddenly irritated. “Oh, Michael, whoever told you that you could have everything?”

  They rode in silence for an age before the coach stopped, and Michael descended, turning back to help her from the conveyance. As he stood there in the dim shadows of the coach, one hand extended, she was reminded of that night at Falconwell, when he’d offered her his hand and his name and his adventure, and she’d taken it, thinking he was still the boy she’d once known.

  He was not. He was nothing of that boy . . . now entirely a man with two sides—kind protector and vicious redeemer. He was her husband.

  And, God help her, she loved him.

  All those years she’d waited for this moment, for this revelation, sure that it would change her life and cause flowers to bloom and birds to sing with its euphoria.

  But this love was not euphoric. It was painful.

  It was not enough.

  She lowered herself from the carriage without his aid, avoiding his strong, gloved hand as she climbed the steps and entered the town house foyer, empty of servants. He followed her, but she did not hesitate, instead heading straight for the stairs and beginning her climb.

  “Penelope,” he called from the foot of the stairs, and she closed her eyes against her name, against the way its sound on his lips made her ache.

  She did not stop.

  He followed, slowly and methodically, up the stairs and down the long, dark hallway to her bedchamber. She had left the door open, knowing that he would find entry even if she locked herself inside. He closed the door behind him as she moved to her dressing table and removed her gloves, draping them carefully over a chair.

  “Penelope,” he repeated, with a firmness that demanded obedience.

  Well, she was through obeying.

  “Please, look at me.”

  She did not waver. Did not reply.

  “Penelope . . .” He trailed off, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him rake his fingers through his hair, leaving a path of glorious imperfection there—so handsome, so uncharacteristic. “For a decade, I have lived this life. Revenge. Retribution. This is what has fed me—nourished me.”

  She did not turn back. Could not. Did not want him to see how he moved her. How much she wanted to scream and rail and tell him that there was more to life . . . more to him . . . than this wicked goal.

  He would not hear her.

  “You’re wrong,” she said, moving to the washbasin at the window. “It has poisoned you, instead.”

  “Perhaps it has.”

  She poured cool, clear water into the bowl and submerged her hands, watching them pale and waver against the porcelain, the water distorting their truth. When she spoke, it was to those foreign limbs. “You know it will not work, don’t you?” When he did not reply, she continued. “You know that once you’ve meted out your precious revenge, there will be something else. Falconwell, Langford, Tommy . . . then what? What comes next?”

  “Then life. Finally,” he said, simply. “Life out from beneath the specter of that man and the past he gave me. Life without retribution.” He paused. “Life with you.”

  He was close when he said it, closer than she expected, and she lifted her hands from the water and turned around even as the words stung—even as they made her ache. They were words she had desperately wanted to hear . . . since the beginning of their marriage . . . perhaps since before that. Perhaps since she began writing him letters, knowing he’d never receive them. But no matter how much she wanted to hear those words, she found she could not believe him.

  And it was belief—not truth—that mattered. He had taught her that.

  He stood less than an arm’s length away, serious and stark, his hazel eyes black in the shadows of the room, and she could not stop herself from speaking even as she knew she would never make him see the truth. “You’re wrong. You shan’t change. Instead, you shall remain in the darkness, cloaked in revenge.” She paused, knowing that the next words were the most important for him to hear. For her to say. “You shall be unhappy, Michael. And I shall be unhappy with you.”

  His jaw steeled. “And you are such an expert? You with your charmed life, tucked away in Surrey, never a moment risked, not a single mark on your perfect, proper name. You don’t know the first thing about anger, or disappointment, or devastation. You don’t know what it’s like to have your life ripped from under you and want nothing more than to punish the man who did it.”

  The quiet words were like a cannon in the room, echoing around Penelope until she could no longer hold her tongue. “You . . . selfish . . . man.” She took a step toward him. “You think I do not understand disappointment? You think I was not disappointed when I watched everyone around me—my friends, my sisters—marry? You think I was not devastated the day I discovered that the man I was to marry was in love with another? You think I was not angry every day that I woke in my father’s home knowing that I might never have contentment . . . and that I would never find love? You think it is easy to be a woman like me, tossed from one man to another to control—father, fiancé, now husband?”

  She was advancing on him, pressing him back toward the door of the room, too irritated to enjoy the fact that he was retreating along with her. “Need I remind you that I have never, ever had a choice in the direction of my life? That everything I do, everything I am, has been in service to others?”

  “That is your fault, Penelope. Not ours. You could have refused. No one was threatening your life.”