He lifted his hand to her cheek, running his thumb across the impossibly smooth skin there, knowing even as he did that he was making it harder to let her go. He shook his head. “Don’t you see, Sixpence? I already have. I’ve already brought you here, exposed you to this world.”

  She shook her head. “You didn’t! I brought myself here. I made this choice.”

  “But you wouldn’t have if not for me. And the worst part is—”

  He stopped, not wanting to say any more, but she lifted her hand and covered his, holding him to her cheek. “What is it, Michael? What is the worst part?”

  He closed his eyes at the touch, at the way she made him burn.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  She wasn’t supposed to affect him like this.

  He wasn’t supposed to want her so very much.

  He wasn’t supposed to be so very drawn to this adventurous, exciting woman who had evolved from the woman he’d married.

  And yet he was.

  He pressed his forehead to hers, aching to kiss her, to touch her, to throw her down and make love to her. “The worst part is that if I don’t send you back, I’m going to want to keep you here.”

  Her eyes were so blue, so lovely, framed with full, golden lashes the color of autumn wheat, and he could see desire in them. She wanted him.

  Her hand moved to his chest, settling for a long moment before it slid up and around to the nape of his neck, her fingers twining in his hair with a beautiful, unbearable touch. Time slowed as he savored the feel of her against him, the warmth of her in his arms, the scent of her trapping his thoughts, the knowledge that she was soft and flawless and his for that moment.

  “And you’ll hate me for it.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “You deserve better.”

  So much better than me.

  “Michael,” she said softly, “there’s no one better. Not for me.”

  The words crashed through him, and she tilted her head, came up on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his lips.

  It was the most perfect kiss he’d ever experienced, her lips firmly on his, soft and sweet and utterly mesmerizing. He’d ached for her for days and she laid claim to him with the caress, taking his lower lip between hers and stroking once, twice, until he opened for her, and she stole his breath with the tentative exploration of her tongue—a silken slide against his. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tightly against him, loving the way she felt, soft where he was hard, silk where he was steel.

  When she finally pulled back from the kiss, her lips were swollen and pink, and he could not keep his gaze from them, parted sweetly before they curved around her words. “I do not wish to learn about billiards tonight, Michael.”

  His gaze flickered up from those lips, meeting her gaze. “No?”

  She shook her head slowly, the movement a sinful promise. “I should much rather learn about you.”

  She kissed him again, and he could not resist her. There wasn’t a man alive who could. His hands were on her, pulling her tightly against him.

  He was lost.

  His wife stood before him like temptation incarnate, asking him to make love to her—risking her reputation and everything for which he’d been working.

  And he found he didn’t care.

  He reached past her, throwing a hidden switch and swinging the wall away to reveal a staircase beyond, steps stretching up into a great, yawning darkness. He extended his hand to her, palm up, allowing her to make the choice to ascend with him. He did not want her to ever think that he had forced her into this moment. Into this experience. Indeed, it felt just the opposite, as though this courageous, female explorer were calling to him.

  And when she settled her hand in his without hesitation, without remorse, desire shot through him, quick and nearly unbearable.

  He pulled her to him, kissing her thoroughly before leading her into the dark stairwell, closing the door behind them, plunging them into blackness.

  “Michael?”

  She whispered his name, and the sound, soft and decadent, was a siren’s call. He turned toward her, his hand squeezing hers, pulling her to stand on the first step with him, feeling his way to her waist, loving the way her body felt beneath his hands, the roundness of her hips, the soft swell of her stomach.

  Her breath hitched as he lifted her to stand on the step above him. Her lips were even with hers now, and he stole a kiss, stroking deep, loving the taste of her, a drug of which he could never have enough.

  He pulled away, just barely, and she sighed, the sound of her pleasure making him want her more than he’d ever imagined. He took her mouth again, and her hands came to his hair, her fingers tangling in his curls, tugging at them, making him wish they were naked, and she was guiding his mouth to where she wanted it most.

  He growled at the fantasy and pulled away, grasping her hand in his and saying, “Not here. Not in the darkness. I want to see you.”

  She kissed him, pressing her breasts to his chest, robbing his breath, making him desperate for her, for her skin, her touch, the little cries that made him harder than stone. When she released him from the intoxicating caress, he found he’d lost his patience.

  He wanted her that moment.

  Immediately.

  Without hesitation.

  So he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Up to decadence. Up to pleasure.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear M—

  Today, I am twenty-six.

  Twenty-six and unmarried—growing older and more wizened by the hour, despite what my mother likes to say in her high-pitched moments.

  Eight years of seasons, and not one decent match . . . a shabby record for the eldest daughter of the House of Needham and Dolby. This morning, over breakfast, I saw the disappointment in all their gazes.

  But, knowing what my options have been, I found I couldn’t bring myself to agree with their censure.

  I am a bad daughter, indeed.

  Unsigned

  Needham Manor, August 1828

  Letter unsent

  The stairs led to the owners’ suite.

  Michael set her on her feet just inside the secret doorway that opened at the top of the passage, closing it securely behind them before moving with quick grace to the main door to the room. She followed him closely, eager for what was to come next, not wanting to miss a moment of this. Of him.

  She had thought he would take her to bed—for surely in this massive club, where men came to explore wickedness and pleasure, there was a place where he slept. Where she might sleep with him.

  Where they might do other things, as well, before they had to return to reality and remember all the reasons their marriage was in shambles and their lives were all wrong.

  When he locked the door and turned back to her, she stilled in the room, lit by the warm light of a trio of fireplaces and the large golden window that looked out onto the floor of The Angel.

  Realization coursing through her. He meant for them to . . .

  Here.

  She backed away instinctively, and he followed, slow and steady, a silken promise gleaming in his eyes. “Where are you going?” he asked, and she caught her breath at the deep gravel in his voice.

  She took a step back. “We’ll be discovered.”

  He shook his head. “We won’t be disturbed.”

  “How do you know?”

  He raised a brow. “I know.”

  She believed him. Her heart pounded in her ears as he stalked her across the large, dark room, toward the window, his intent clear.

  He would have her. And it would be glorious.

  And suddenly, she was not backing away from him out of nervousness or concern or embarrassment. She was backing away because it was unbearably exciting to be pursued by him. He was beautiful and sleek, and he moved with a purpose lacking in lesser men. It was that single-mindedness that drew her to him, that made him so tempting. His pursuit of those things he wanted was relentless.

  And right now, he wanted her.

  Anticipation thrummed through her and she stilled. In the next heartbeat, he was upon her. He reached for her, cupping her cheek, tilting her face up to his, capturing her gaze with such attention. Such focus.

  All on her.

  She was consumed with excitement at the realization. With breathlessness.

  “What are you thinking?” His thumb stroked along the line of her jaw, leaving heat in its wake.

  “The way you look at me,” she said, unable to look away from him. “It makes me feel . . .” She trailed off, uncertain of her words, and he leaned down to press a kiss to the base of her throat, where her pulse raced.

  He lifted his head once more. “How does it make you feel, love?”

  “It makes me feel powerful.”

  She hadn’t realized it until the words were spoken, and one side of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile, his fingertips tracing over her skin, brushing across her collarbone, running along the edge of her silk dress, sending pleasure rippling across her skin. “How so?”

  She took a deep breath at the pleasure he wreaked, at the way his eyes tracked his fingers along her skin, and said, “You want me.”

  Hazel darkened to brown, and his voice turned to smoke. “I do.”

  “It makes me feel like I could have anything.”

  He tugged gently at the bow that kept the bodice of her dress tight across her breasts, the movement loosening the ribbon and causing the fabric to gape. His finger dipped below the hem of the fabric, hinting, teasing there. “I would give you anything you want. Anything you ask.”

  Love me.

  Not that. That, she knew, he wouldn’t give her.

  But before she could trace the thought, he was lifting her hands and unbuttoning her gloves, sliding them off slowly, the lush stroke of kidskin against flesh ensuring that she would never again be able to think of the donning or doffing of a glove as anything other than a sexual act.

  He slipped one hand into her gaping bodice, beneath the edge of her chemise, to cup one breast and lift it from the fabric. She gasped at the sensation, and he leaned in to capture the sound with his kiss. “I want to lay you down in the light of The Angel and make love to you.” The words were punctuated with the rough stroke of his thumb across one nipple, and the scrape of his teeth down her neck. “And I think you want it, too.”

  She could not stop her nod. Or her confession. “I do.”

  As long as it is with you.

  He released her, turning her to face the massive painted-glass window. She looked out on the floor of The Angel, teeming with people, as he worked at her buttons, releasing them methodically. “Tell me what you see,” he whispered, his lips pressing hot and soft along the curve of her shoulder.

  “There are . . . men . . . everywhere.” Penelope gasped and clutched the fast-loosening fabric to her chest.

  He reached her corset and made fast work of the laces, releasing her from the bone-and-linen prison. She sighed at the sensation, and his hands stroked across the cotton chemise, soothing the skin beneath. One hand came up to the window to hold her steady at the sensation, so welcome against her worried skin.

  He seemed to understand the sound, and he licked at her ear, his hands sliding beneath dress and corset, stroking, leaving a path of pleasure in their wake. “Poor love,” he whispered, the words like fine brandy. “You’ve been neglected.”

  And it felt like she had been. It was as though her skin ached for his touch alone. For his kiss. For the long, warm strokes that brought her nearly excruciating pleasure.

  “Only men?” he whispered, snapping her attention back to the room through the mottled glass that defined Lucifer’s beautiful, corded neck.

  His hands came around to cup her breasts over her chemise, lifting them and shaping them with his warm palms before he took the aching tips between his fingers and pinched just barely, just enough to send a spear of pleasure straight through her. She gasped. “Answer me, Penelope.”

  She forced herself to focus on the tableau before her. “No. There are women.”

  “And what are they doing?”

  She focused on one woman in a lovely periwinkle silk, her black hair piled high on top of her head, curls falling down around her. “One is sitting on a gentleman’s lap.”

  He pressed against her then, rocking his hips into her bottom, and Penelope wished they were not separated by layers and layers of clothing. “What else?”

  “She has her arms around his neck.”

  He took the hand that braced her against the window and wrapped it behind her, around his neck, affording him better access to her lovely curves. “And?”

  “And she’s talking in his ear.”

  “Coaching his card game?” His fingers pinched again, and she gasped, closing her eyes and turning toward him.

  “Michael,” she whispered, wishing he would kiss her.

  “I love the way you say my name. You’re the only one who calls me Michael,” he said, before he gave her what she wanted, his tongue stroking deep and smooth until she was squirming in his arms, pressing her breasts into his magic hands.

  “You hated it,” she protested.

  “You’ve worn me down.” He sucked gently at the soft skin of her neck. “Tell me more about the woman.”

  Penelope turned back to the window, struggling to focus once more. She watched the woman lean forward, allowing her partner a view straight down her bodice. He smiled, leaning in to press a kiss on her collarbone before one of his hands slid over her thigh and along her calf before finally disappearing beneath the hem of her dress.

  Penelope arched back, against Michael. “Oh, he’s touching her . . .”

  His fingers lightened at the words, the caress barely there, its softness making Penelope wish they were both naked in the dark room. “Touching her where?”

  “Beneath her—” She paused as Michael’s hand moved downward, toward the place where she ached for him. She sighed the next word as his fingers found her core, stroking softly. “—skirts.”

  “Like this?” Despite the fabric of her skirts, Michael’s knee found its way between her thighs, spreading her wider as his hand slid into the heat there, the heel of his palm rocking against her.

  Her head fell back against his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you think?”

  “For her sake, I hope so,” she whispered, as he stroked her.

  He laughed, the sound a low rumble behind her. “And I for his.”

  She closed her eyes as his hands moved in concert, one at her breast, toying, tempting, there and the other between her thighs, stroking masterfully. The caresses went on for several long moments before Penelope sighed, relishing the feel of him against her, pressing herself back to fit as perfectly as possible to him. He rocked into her movements, hissing at her ear. “If you keep up with that, darling, you shan’t be able to watch them much longer.”

  “I don’t want to watch them, anymore, Michael.”

  “No?” The question was curious at her shoulder, where his teeth were scraping across her skin.

  She shook her head, tilting to afford him better access. “No,” she confessed. “I want to watch you.” His fingers did something wonderful between her thighs, and she sighed. “Please.”

  “Well,” he said, and she heard the teasing smile in the words. “Since you asked so nicely . . .”

  He turned her to face him, his eyes flickering over the place where she still held the fabric of her dress to her chest. “Let go of the dress, Penelope,” he ordered, the words liquid smoke, and her grip tightened.

  “What if—”

  “No one can see you.”

  “But . . .”

  He shook his head. “You cannot imagine I would let anyone see you, my glorious darling. You can’t imagine I’d allow that and not murder them.”

  The words were so possessive, she could not help the pleasure that coursed through her at them. No one had ever called her glorious. No one had ever seemed the least bit interested in possessing her.

  But in this moment, Michael wanted her.

  She watched him carefully for a long moment, loving the way his eyes begged her to bare herself to him, before she released her grip on the fabric, letting it drop to the floor, leaving her bare, save for her stockings, to the dim light of the room . . . and to her husband.

  He went still, his eyes roaming over her body, finally settling on her face before he said, reverently, “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He was at her feet, removing her boots and pantalets, leaving her in nothing but her stockings. He stroked up her legs along her stockings, lingering at the place where silk met skin. When she gasped at the sensation, he licked at the skin there. “I have a weakness for stockings, love. Smooth and silk, like the softest part of you.”

  She blushed, not wanting to admit that she loved the feel of them against her skin, not wanting to tell him that since their wedding night, she’d savored the stroke of the satin along her legs, pretending that it was his touch.

  “You like them, too, I see,” he teased, and she felt the curve of his lips against her thigh.

  “I like you,” she whispered, one of her hands settling on the back of his head, her fingers stroking through his soft curls.

  He stood at that, leaving her stockings on, kissing her, rough and wonderful. “You’re all perfect curves and soft skin,” one hand stroked up, palmed the underside of her breast, “so lovely and full.”

  His words were destroying her sanity. They were more damaging than even his touch. She arched toward him, into his kiss, and he stole her breath and words and thought, his lips and tongue stroking along hers, promising more pleasure than she could possibly imagine. When he stopped the kiss, she sighed, forgetting her protest and watching as he stepped back, removed his clothes in quick, economical movements, and stood to face her, the light from the casino beyond the window turning him into a mosaic of color and texture, all long legs and corded muscle, lean hips and broad shoulders and . . .