And in that woman’s place was an Amazon, standing at the center of his club, in the heart of the London underworld, placing bets on roulette while the city watched, demanding the safety of her friends and the reputation of her sisters, and scheduling billiards lessons with one of the most powerful and feared men in the city.

  And now, she stood in front of him, and bold as brass, suggested he leave her alone.

  He should do just that.

  He should walk away from her and pretend they’d never married.

  Return her to Surrey or, better, ship her to the North Country to live out her newfound scandalous desires far from him. He had Falconwell, and the tools for his revenge, and it was time to chase her from his life.

  But he did not want to give her up.

  He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and take her home to bed. Hell. The bed wasn’t even necessary. He’d wanted to throw her down on the snowy banks of the Serpentine or the floor of her father’s drawing room or the too-narrow seat of his coach and strip her bare, leaving her unprotected from his hands and lips, and that desire had not changed.

  The billiard table was sturdy enough to hold them both, he guaranteed.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you are here.” He growled, not trusting himself to move closer, uncertain of his ability to be near her without railing against her, without explaining to her, very clearly, that this was not a place for her.

  That she was not welcome here.

  That it would ruin her.

  The final thought pushed him over the edge. “Answer me, Penelope. Why are you here?”

  She met his gaze, her blue eyes firm. “I told you. I’m here to play billiards.”

  “With Cross.”

  “Well, to be fair, I thought it might be with you.”

  “Why would you think that?” He would never have invited her to his gaming hell.

  “The invitation was delivered by Mrs. Worth. I thought you sent it.”

  “Why would I send you an invitation?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you’d realized you were wrong and did not want to admit it aloud?”

  Cross gave a little snort of laughter from his position at the door, and Michael considered killing him. But he was too busy dealing with his difficult wife. “You thought wrong. Tell me you hired a hack again.”

  “No,” she said, “a carriage came to fetch me.”

  His eyes went wide. “A carriage owned by whom?”

  She tilted her head, thinking. “I’m not certain.”

  He honestly thought he might have gone mad. “You accepted transportation in a strange carriage to the back entrance of the most notorious gaming hell in London—”

  “Which my husband owns,” she said, as though it should make a difference.

  “Wrong answer, darling.” He took a step back, forcing himself to lean on the billiard table. “You came here in a strange carriage.”

  “I thought you had sent it!”

  “Well, I didn’t!” he thundered.

  “Well, that’s not my fault!”

  They both went silent, her furious retort echoing around the little room, their breath coming hard and fast.

  He was not going to let her win. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  “My invitation included a password,” she said, and he heard the pleasure in her voice. She was enjoying his surprise.

  She came closer, and he was drawn to the way her skin glistened in the light. He took a deep breath, telling himself it was meant to be calming and not because he was desperate to catch her delicate scent—like the violets that grew in Surrey summer. “Did anyone see you come in?”

  “No one but the coachman and the man at the door who took the password.”

  The words did not appease. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I had no choice.”

  “Really? No choice but to leave our warm, comfortable home in the dead of night and come to my place of business—a place to which I expressly told you never to come? A place that is not at all the kind of place that women of your ilk should be?”

  She stilled, her blue eyes glittering with something he did not recognize. “First of all, it is not our home. It is your home. Though I can’t imagine why you even have it considering how little time you spend there. It’s most certainly not my home, though.”

  “Of course it is.” What was she talking about? He’d virtually handed the house over to her.

  “No. It isn’t. The servants answer to you. The post comes to you. For heaven’s sake, you won’t even let me reply to social invitations!” He opened his mouth to retort but found he had no defense. “We’re supposed to be married, but I haven’t any idea of how that house operates. Of how you live. I don’t even know your favorite pudding!” The words were coming faster and more furious now.

  “I thought you didn’t want a marriage based on pudding,” he said.

  “I don’t! At least, I didn’t think I did! But since I know virtually nothing else about you, I would settle for pudding!”

  “Figgy pudding, darling,” he mocked. “You’ve made it my favorite.”

  Her gaze narrowed on him. “I should like to drop a figgy pudding on your head.”

  Cross snickered, and Michael remembered that they had an audience. He slid a look at his partner. “Out.”

  “No. He invited me here. Let him stay.”

  Cross raised a brow. “It’s hard to say no to a lady, Bourne.”

  He was going to murder the ginger-topped beanpole. And he was going to enjoy it. “What are you doing inviting my wife out of her home in the dead of night?” he asked, unable to keep himself from taking one menacing step toward his former friend.

  “I assure you, Bourne, I am so enjoying watching your wife run you in circles that I wish it had been me who had sent the invitation. But it wasn’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Penelope interjected. “You did not send the invitation? If not you, then who?”

  Bourne knew the answer. “Chase.”

  Chase was unable to stay out of the affairs of others.

  Penelope turned on him. “Who is Chase?”

  When Bourne did not answer, Cross did, “Chase is the founder of The Angel, my lady, who brought us all into partnership.”

  Penelope shook her head. “Why would he invite me to billiards?”

  “An excellent question.” He turned to Cross. “Cross?”

  Cross crossed his arms and leaned back against the door. “It seems Chase feels the lady is owed a debt.”

  One of Bourne’s brows rose, but he did not speak.

  Penelope shook her head. “Impossible. We’ve never met.”

  Michael narrowed his gaze on Cross, who smiled, and said, “Sadly, Chase is always one step ahead of the rest of us. If I were you, I would simply accept payment.”

  Penelope’s brows rose. “In visits to a gaming hell?”

  “It seems that is the offer.”

  She smiled. “It would be rude to refuse.”

  “Indeed it would, my lady.” Cross laughed, and Michael despised the familiarity in the sound.

  “She’ll accept invitations to The Angel from Chase, or anyone else, over my dead body,” he growled, and Cross seemed, finally, to recognize that he was serious. “Get out.”

  Cross looked to Penelope. “I shall be just outside should you need me.”

  The words set Bourne further on edge. “She won’t need you.”

  I shall give her everything she needs.

  He did not have to say it, as Cross was already gone, and Penelope was speaking. “I have put up with a great deal from men over the years, Michael. I have suffered betrothal to a man who cared not a whit for me and everything for my reputation, and a broken engagement that echoed through ballrooms for two complete seasons—while my fiancé married his love and birthed his heir, and no one seemed to mind.”

  She ticked off the items on her fingers as she spoke, moving toward him. “After that came five years of courting from men who saw me as nothing more than my dowry—not that avoiding those marriages helped a whit, as I seem to have landed myself in a marriage that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with my connection to a piece of land.”

  “What about Tommy, your dearest love?”

  Her eyes flashed with fire. “He’s not my dearest love, and you know it. He wasn’t even my fiancé.”

  He could not conceal his surprise. “He wasn’t?”

  “No. I lied to you. I pretended he was so you would stop your insane plans to abduct me into marriage.”

  “I didn’t stop.”

  “No, you didn’t. And by that point, I did not feel much like telling the truth.” She stopped and collected herself. “You were just like all the others, so why should I have? At least the engagement to Leighton involved some aspect of my own character—even if it was the boring, proper aspect of it.”

  Michael held his tongue as she advanced. There was nothing boring or proper about this Penelope, standing in a gaming hell as though she owned it, absolutely livid. She was vibrant and magnificent, and he’d never wanted anything in the world the way he wanted her in that moment.

  She pressed on. “As you care not a bit about my wishes, I have decided to take my own pleasures in hand. As long as I receive invitations to adventure, I shall accept them.”

  Not without him, she wouldn’t.

  It was his turn to advance upon her, not knowing where to begin, pressing her back toward the billiard table. “Do you realize what could happen to you in a place like this? You could have been attacked and left for dead.”

  “People are rarely attacked and left for dead in Mayfair, Michael.” She gave a little laugh. An actual laugh, and he considered strangling her himself. “Unless I was at risk of accosting by your literary door-man, I think this place is quite safe, frankly.”

  “How would you know? You don’t even know where you are.”

  “I know I’m on the other side of The Angel. That’s how the man at the door referred to it. How Cross referred to it. How you referred to it.”

  “What password were you given?”

  “Éloa.”

  He sucked in a breath. Chase had given her carte blanche at the club. Access to any room, any event, any adventure she wanted, without chaperone.

  Without him.

  “What does it mean?” she asked, registering his surprise.

  “It means I’m going to have words with Chase.”

  “I mean, what does Éloa mean?”

  He narrowed his gaze, answered her literally. “It’s the name of an angel.”

  Penelope tilted her head, thinking. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You wouldn’t have.”

  “Was he a fallen angel?”

  “She was, yes.” He hesitated, not wanting to tell her the story, but unable to stop himself. “Lucifer tricked her into falling from heaven.”

  “Tricked her how?”

  He met her gaze. “She fell in love with him.”

  Penelope’s eyes widened. “Did he love her?”

  Like an addict loves his addiction. “The only way he knew how.”

  She shook her head. “How could he trick her?”

  “He never told her his name.”

  A beat.

  “No names.”

  “Not on this side, no.”

  “What happens on this side?” She leaned back against the billiard table, her hands clutching the side cushions.

  “Nothing you need think about.”

  She smiled. “You can’t keep it from me, Michael. I’m a member, now.”

  He didn’t want her to be. He didn’t want her touched by this world. He moved toward her slowly, unable to resist. “You shouldn’t be.”

  “What if I want to be?”

  He was close to her now, close enough to reach out and touch her, to run his finger down the pale, smooth skin of her cheek. When he lifted his hand to do that, she edged away, turning and running one gloved hand along the green baize.

  Do not touch me.

  Her words whispered through his mind, and he stopped himself from following her.

  “Michael?” His name pulled him from his reverie. “What happens here?”

  He met her blue eyes. “This is the ladies’ side of the club.”

  “There are women on the other side, too.”

  “Not ladies. Those women come with men . . . or leave with them.”

  “You mean they are mistresses.” Her fingers found a white billiard ball, and she rolled it to and fro beneath her hand, and he was transfixed by the way her hand moved, capturing and releasing, rolling and stopping.

  He wanted that hand on him.

  “Yes.”

  “And on this side?”

  She was directly across from him now, six feet of slate and felt between them. “On this side, there are ladies.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Real ladies?”

  He could not help his dry tone. “Well, I am not certain how much they deserve the adjective, but yes. They bear the titles, for the most part.”

  “How many of them?” She was fascinated. He couldn’t blame her. The idea that any number of aristocratic females had access to vice and sin on a moment’s notice was scandalous indeed.

  “Not many. One hundred?”

  “One hundred?” She laid her hands flat on the table and leaned forward, and his eyes were drawn to the swell of her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath the edge of her dress. The fabric was fastened with a long white ribbon, the silk ends begging to be unfastened. “How does this remain a secret?”

  He smiled. “I already told you, love, we deal in secrets.”

  She shook her head, admiration on her face. “Amazing. And they come here to gamble?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What things?”

  “Everything men do. They gamble, they watch fights, they drink extravagantly, they eat extravagantly . . .”

  “Do they meet lovers here?”

  He did not like the question, but he knew he should answer it. Perhaps it would scare her away. “Sometimes.”

  “How exciting!”

  “Do not get any ideas.”

  “About taking a lover?”

  “About any of it. You’re not to make use of The Fallen Angel, Penelope. It’s not for women like you.” And certainly not with a lover. The idea of another man touching her had Michael itching to strike something.

  She watched him in silence for a long while before she moved, easing back around the table toward him. “You keep saying things like that. Women like me. What does that mean?”

  There were so many ways to answer the question—women who were innocent. Women who were perfectly behaved, with perfect backgrounds and perfect upbringings, and perfect lives. Women who were perfect. “I don’t want you touched by this life.”

  “Why not? It’s your life, too.”

  “That’s different. It’s not for you.”

  It’s not good enough for you.

  She stopped at the near corner of the table, and he saw the hurt in her eyes. Knew she was bothered by his words. Knew, too, that it was best for both of them if she remained hurt. And stayed away from this place.

  “What’s so wrong with me?” she whispered.

  His eyes widened. Had he had a year to think of what she might say in this situation, the idea that she would perceive his forbidding her to come to The Fallen Angel because there was something wrong with her would never have occurred to him.

  God, there was nothing wrong with her. She was perfect. Too perfect for this.

  Too perfect for him.

  “Penelope.” He stepped toward her, then stopped, wanting to say the right thing. With women across Britain, he knew what to say, but he never seemed to know what to say with her.

  She released the billiard ball, letting it roll across the table to send another careening off in a new direction. When it came to a stop, she looked back at him, her blue eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “What if I weren’t Penelope, Michael? What if the rules were in effect here? What if there really were no names?”

  “If there really were no names, you would be in serious danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  The kind that ends with another angel fallen.

  “It’s irrelevant. There are names. You are my wife.”

  Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “Ironic, is it not, that beyond that door, one hundred wives of the most powerful men in England are taking what they want with whomever they want, and in here, I can’t even persuade my husband to show me what might be. My husband, who owns the club. Who loves it. Why not share it with me?” The words were soft and tempting, and there was nothing that Michael wanted more in that moment than to show her every inch of this decadent life.

  But for once in his life, he was going to do the right thing.

  So he said, “Because you deserve better.” Her eyes went wide as he tracked her across the room, backing her away from the table. “You deserve better than a billiard room in a gaming hell, than roulette with a handful of men who think you’re, at best, someone’s mistress and, at worst, something far less flattering. You deserve better than a place where at any moment a brawl might begin, or a fortune might be wagered, or an innocence might be lost. You deserve to be kept far from this life of sin and vice, where pleasure and devastation are red and black, in and out. You deserve better,” he repeated. “Better than me.”

  He kept coming, watching as her eyes widened, as their blue darkened with fear or nervousness or something more, but he couldn’t stop himself. “There hasn’t been a single valuable thing in my life that I haven’t ruined when I touched it, Penelope. And I will be damned if I allow the same to happen to you.”

  She shook her head. “You won’t ruin me. You wouldn’t.”