“Of course they were!” she exploded. “They were threatening my safety, my security, my future. If not Leighton or Tommy or you, what? What was to happen when my father died, and I had nothing?”

  He came toward her then, taking her shoulders in his hands. “Except it was not out of self-preservation, was it? It was out of guilt and responsibility, and a desire to give your sisters the life you could not have.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I will not apologize for doing what was right for them. We are not all you, Michael, spoiled and selfish and . . .”

  “Don’t stop now, darling,” he drawled, releasing her and crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You were just coming to the good bit.” When she didn’t reply, he raised a brow. “Coward. Like it or not, you made your choices, Sixpence. No one else.”

  She hated him for using the nickname with her now. “You’re wrong. You think I would have chosen Leighton? You think I would have chosen Tommy? You think I would have chosen—”

  She stopped herself . . . wanting desperately to finish the sentence, to say you. Wanting to hurt him. To punish him for making everything so much more difficult. For making it impossible to simply love him.

  He heard the word anyway. “Say it.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “Why not? It’s true. If I were the last man in Britain, it would never have been me. I’m the villain in this play, the one who snatched you from your perfect country life, all vengeance and wrath, far too hard and cold and undeserving of you. Of your feelings. Of your company.”

  “Your words. Not mine.” Except they weren’t true. Because, of all the things she’d done, of all the matches she’d almost made, he was the only one she’d really wanted.

  He took a step backward, raked a hand through his hair, and gave a short huff of laughter. “You have learned to do battle, haven’t you? Poor Penelope no longer.”

  She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, promising herself that she would put him—and the fact that she loved him—from her mind. “No,” she finally agreed. “Poor Penelope no longer.”

  Something shifted in him, and for the first time since their marriage, she did not question the emotion in his gaze. Resignation. “So that’s that, is it?”

  She nodded once, every inch of her resisting the words, wanting to scream at the injustice of it all. “That’s that. If you insist upon revenge, you do so without me at your side.”

  She knew the ultimatum would never be met, but it was no less of a blow when he said, “So be it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dear M—

  I was at the theater tonight, and I heard your name. A handful of ladies were discussing a new gaming hell and its scandalous owners, and I could not help but listen when I heard them mention you. It’s so odd to hear you referred to as Bourne—a name I still associate with your father, but I suppose it’s been yours for a decade.

  A decade. Ten years since I’ve seen you or talked to you. Ten years since everything changed. Ten years, and I still miss you.

  Unsigned

  Dolby House, May 1826

  Letter unsent

  Michael climbed the steps to Dolby House one week later, responding to the summons from his father-in-law that had arrived at Hell House that morning, as he’d stood in his study and tried to keep himself from rocketing through the house to take hold of his wife and prove once and for all that they were married and that she was his.

  It had come to this . . . the embarrassing truth that he spent most of his time at home listening for her footstep beyond the door, waiting for her to come to him, to tell him that she’d changed her mind, to beg him to touch her.

  Just as he wished her to touch him.

  For six nights, he had spent evenings at the house, avoiding his wife even as he stood on his side of that cursed adjoining bedchamber door, listening as servants filled her bath and chatted with her, then as she’d slid into the water, the sounds of her movement in the water making him ache with temptation.

  With desire to prove himself to her.

  The experience was torturous. And he deserved it, punishing himself by refusing to enter that room, pull her from her bath and lay her out on her bed, lovely and lush, to ravish her. As he’d turned away from the door that taunted him with the secrets that lay beyond, it was regret he felt.

  She was becoming everything he wanted, and she had always been more than he deserved.

  Last night had been the worst—she’d been laughing with her maid about something, and he’d stood, one hand on the door handle, the sound of her lyric laughter a siren’s call. He’d pressed his forehead to the door like a fool and listened for long minutes, waiting for something to shift.

  Finally, he’d turned away, aching to go to her, to find Worth standing at the far end of the room, just inside the closed door.

  He’d been embarrassed and irritated. “Is knocking no longer done?”

  Worth raised one ginger brow. “I did not think it necessary, as you are rarely home at this hour.”

  “I am home tonight.”

  “You are also an idiot.” The housekeeper had never been one to mince words.

  “I should sack you for insolence.”

  “But you won’t. Because I’m right. What is wrong with you? You clearly care for the lady, and she clearly cares for you.”

  “There’s nothing clear about it.”

  “You’re right,” the housekeeper said, setting a stack of towels down near the washbasin. “It’s perfectly obscure—the reason why both of you spend so much time on opposite sides of that door, listening for the other.”

  Michael’s brows pulled together. “Does she—”

  Worth shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose you’ll never know.” She paused. “Dammit, Bourne. You’ve spent so much of your adult life protecting others. Who will protect you from yourself?”

  He turned away from the housekeeper. “Leave me.”

  That night, he’d listened intently, waiting for Penelope to step from her bath and come to the adjoining door. He swore that if he even caught a hint of her standing on the opposite side, waiting, he would open it, and they would have it out. But instead, he watched the light beneath the door extinguish, heard the rustle of blankets as she climbed into bed, and fled to The Angel, where he spent the evening in the pit, watching as tens of thousands of pounds were wagered and lost, reminding him of the power of desire, of weakness. Reminding him of what he had conquered.

  Of what he had lost.

  Still wearing his coat and hat, Bourne followed a footman through the maze of Dolby House—one of the few estates within the borders of London—and out onto a large balcony that led down to the snow-covered lands of the property. There was a set of human footprints leading away from the house, surrounded by a collection of paw prints.

  A rifle’s report echoed in the silence, and Michael turned to the footman, knowing he was expected to follow the sound. He followed the track, the freshly fallen snow muffling his footsteps, toward his father-in-law.

  A brisk wind blew, and he slowed, turning his head away from the gust, baring his teeth at the bitter cold. A hunting rifle sounded from beyond a small hill, and trepidation flared. He was not in the market for being shot by the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, at least, not accidentally.

  Considering his options, he stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out, “Needham!”

  “Huzzah!” A rich cry sounded from beyond the ridge, punctuated with a half dozen different barks and howls.

  Bourne took it as a sign to approach.

  He paused as he crested the rise, looking at the wide spread of land that stretched down to the Thames. He took a deep breath, enjoying the feel of the cold air in his lungs, and directed his attention to Needham, who was shielding his eyes from the morning sun.

  Halfway down the rise, Needham called up, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I find that it behooves one to respond to the summons of one’s father-in-law.”

  Needham laughed. “Especially when the man in question holds the only thing you want.”

  Michael accepted Needham’s firm handshake. “It’s bloody cold, Needham. What are we doing out here?”

  The marquess ignored him, turning away with a loud “Ha!” and sending the dogs into the brush twenty yards away. A single pheasant was flushed into the air. Needham lifted his shotgun and fired.

  “Damn! Missed it!”

  A shock, certainly.

  The two men walked toward the bushes, and Bourne waited for the older man to speak first. “You’ve done a fine job of keeping my girls out of your mud.” Michael did not reply, and Needham continued, “Castleton has proposed to Pippa.”

  “I heard that. I confess, I’m surprised you agreed.”

  Needham grimaced as the wind tore past them. A dog barked nearby, and Needham turned back. “Come on, Brutus! We’re not finished!” He resumed walking. “Dog can’t hunt worth a damn.” Bourne resisted the obvious retort. “Castelton’s a simpleton, but he’s an earl, and that makes the wife happy.” The dogs flushed another pheasant, and Needham fired and missed. “Pippa’s too smart for her own good.”

  “Pippa is too smart for a life with Castleton.” He knew he shouldn’t say it. Knew that he shouldn’t care who the girl married as long as the betrothal ended with the means for Langford’s revenge in his hands.

  But he couldn’t stop thinking of Penelope, and the way Pippa’s uninspired match had upset her. He didn’t want her upset. He wanted her happy.

  He was going soft.

  Needham didn’t seem to notice. “The girl accepted. I can’t call it off. Not without a decent reason.”

  “And the fact that Castleton is a muttonhead?”

  “Not good enough.”

  “What if I find you another reason? A better one?” Surely there was something in the files at The Angel—something that would condemn Castleton and end the betrothal.

  Needham cut him a look. “You forget, I am keenly aware of the punishment for broken engagements. Even the ones with good reason damage girls. And their sisters.”

  Like Penelope.

  “Give me a few days. I shall find something to end it.” Suddenly, it was critical that Bourne find Pippa a way out of her engagement. It did not matter that he could taste revenge, so close and sweet.

  Needham shook his head. “I’ve got to take the offers that come, or I’ll have another Penelope on my hands. Can’t afford that.”

  Bourne gritted his teeth at the words. “Penelope is a marchioness.”

  “She wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t come after Falconwell, would she? Why do you think I attached the land to her in the first place? It was my last chance.”

  “Your last chance at what?”

  “I don’t have a son, Bourne.” He looked toward Dolby House. “When I die, this house and the manor shall be passed down to some idiot cousin who doesn’t care a whit for them, or the land on which they sit. Penelope’s a good girl. She does what she’s told. I made it clear to her that she had to marry to keep her sisters valuable. She couldn’t decide to be a spinster and spend the rest of her days languishing in Surrey. She knew her duty. She knew that Falconwell would go to her children, and with it, some of the history of the Needham land.”

  A little row of towheaded girls appeared in his thoughts.

  Not memory. Fantasy.

  Her children.

  Their children.

  The thought consumed him, as did the desire that came with it. He’d never considered children. He’d never imagined he’d want them. Never thought he’d be the kind of father they deserved. “You wanted something of your past to give to your future.”

  The marquess turned back toward the house. “Something you understand, I’d wager.”

  How strange that he’d never really thought of it in such a way. Not until this moment. He’d been so focused on regaining Falconwell that he’d never thought of what he would do with it. Of what would come next. Of who would come next.

  In his mind, nothing had come after the restoration of Falconwell. Nothing but revenge.

  Except, now there was something more, beyond the hulking shadow of the house and his past.

  Something that revenge would kill.

  He pushed the thought aside.

  “I confess, when Langford offered Falconwell as his stake in the game, I knew you’d come after it. I was happy to win it, knowing that it would summon you.”

  Michael heard the self-satisfaction in them. “Why?”

  Needham lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “I’d always known that she’d marry you or Tommy Alles and, between us, I’d always hoped it would be you—not for the obvious reason—Alles’s illegitimacy—though that was a bit of it; I always liked you, boy. Always thought that you’d come back from school and be ready to take the title and the land and the girl. When Langford paupered you, and I had to hunt for Leighton, I was not a small bit put out, I’ll tell you.”

  Michael would have found the selfishness of the statement amusing if he weren’t so shocked by the idea that Needham had always wanted him for Penelope.

  “Why me?”

  Needham looked out over the Thames, considering the question. Finally, he said, “You were the one who cared the most for the land.”

  It was true. He’d cared for the land and its people. So much, that when he’d lost it all, he hadn’t had the courage to come back to face them. To face her.

  And now it was too late to fix those mistakes.

  “That,” Needham went on, “and you were the one she liked best.”

  A thrum of excitement coursed through him at the words, at the truth in them. She had liked him best. Until he’d left. And she’d been alone. And she’d stopped trusting him. She was right not to, of course. He’d made his goals clear, and in securing the only thing he’d ever wanted, he would lose her.

  She was the sacrifice he had planned to make from the beginning. Not so much sacrifice then—now, too much to think on.

  It was expected, of course—he’d ruined everything of value he ever held.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Needham went on, unaware of the cacophony of Michael’s thoughts. “You’ve done well. This morning’s paper extolled the virtues of your marriage . . . I confess, I am surprised by the effort you’ve put into spinning your tale—chestnut eating and waltzing on ice and spending afternoons with my girls and other ridiculousness. But you’ve done well . . . and West seems to believe it. The papers swear yours is a love match. Castleton wouldn’t have proposed if our name was in any way tainted by a scandalous marriage.”

  It should be you who opposes the match, not Castleton. Pippa would be better off with a man who was half otter. Michael opened his mouth to say just that when Needham said, “At any rate, you’ve fooled them. Revenge is yours, as agreed.”

  Revenge is yours. The words he’d waited a decade to hear.

  “I’ve the letter in the house, ready for you.”

  “You don’t want to wait for Olivia to be betrothed as well?” The question was out before he could stop it . . . before he could consider the fact that he was reminding his father-in-law that Michael’s end of the bargain had not been officially completed.

  Needham lifted his rifle, pointing it in the direction of a low-lying hedge at the bank of the river. “Tottenham’s invited her to ride today. The boy will be prime minister one day; Olivia’s future appears bright.” He fired, then looked to Michael. “And, besides, you’ve done well by the girls. I keep my promises.”

  But he’d not done well by them, had he? Philippa was to marry an imbecile, and Penelope—Penelope had married an ass. He shoved his hands into his pockets, bracing against the wind, and turned back to look up at the looming Dolby House. “Why give it to me?”

  “I’ve five girls, and, though they drive me to drink, if something were to happen to me, I would want to know that their guardian—the man I appointed to the deed—would care for them as I did.” Needham turned back toward the house, retracing his tracks. “Langford ignored that code. He deserves everything you give him.”

  Michael should have felt triumph. Should have felt pleasure. After all, he’d just been given the thing he’d wanted most in the world.

  Instead, he felt empty. Empty save a single, incontrovertible truth.

  She would hate him for this.

  But not as much as he would hate himself.

  * * *

  Billiards tonight.

  A carriage will collect you at half eleven.

  Éloa

  The small ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel, arrived just after luncheon, delivered by Worth with a knowing smile. Penelope unfolded the letter with trembling hands and read the dark, mysterious promise on the note.

  The promise of adventure.

  She looked up from the summons, color springing to her cheeks, and asked the housekeeper, “Where is my husband?”

  “He has been out all day, my lady.”

  Penelope lifted the paper. “And this?”

  “Arrived not five minutes ago.”

  She nodded, considering the invitation and its implications. She had not seen Michael since the day they’d ice-skated and argued, and she’d realized that she loved him. He’d left her bedchamber that night and never returned—even as she’d waited, knowing better than to hope he might decide to give up on his quest for vengeance and choose life with her instead.

  Was it possible that the invitation was from him?

  The thought had her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had chosen her. Perhaps he was giving her an adventure and giving them both a new chance at life.

  Perhaps not.

  Either way, the note was a temptation she could not resist—she wanted her chance at adventure, at billiards, at a night at The Angel. And she would not lie, she wanted her chance to see her husband again. Her husband, for whom she ached even as she knew it was pointless.