“Neither should you.”

  He turned to Cross, who had appeared in the doorway next to Bruno. “You were to take her home.”

  Cross lifted a shoulder in a lanky shrug. “The lady is rather . . . unbiddable.”

  Penelope turned a smile on the tall, ginger-haired man. “Thank you. That might well be the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me.”

  Michael had the distinct impression that this entire evening was about to get out of hand. Before he could say any more, Penelope moved past him, farther into the room. “Lord Langford,” she acknowledged, looking right down her nose at the man.

  “Penelope,” the older man said, unable to keep the surprise from his gaze.

  “It’s Lady Bourne to you.” The words were cool and cutting, and Michael was sure she’d never been more beautiful. “Come to think of it, it was always lady to you. And you never referred to me as such.”

  The older man’s gaze narrowed in irritation, and Michael had an intense urge to put a fist into the viscount’s face for the look.

  It was not necessary. His wife was more than able to care for herself. “You don’t like that, I see. Well, let me tell you what I don’t like. I don’t like insolence. And I don’t like cruelty. And I most definitely don’t like you. It is time you and I have it out, Langford, because while you might have stolen my husband’s lands and funds and reputation, and you might have been a truly horrendous father to my friend, I absolutely refuse to have you take another thing from me, you despicable old man.”

  Michael’s brows went up at the words. He should stop her, he knew.

  Except, he found he didn’t want to.

  “I do not have to listen to this.” Langford turned a mottled, unpleasant shade of red and shot up from his chair in irate disbelief. He looked to Michael. “Control your female before I am forced to do it for you.”

  Michael came forward, fury roaring through him at the threat. Penelope turned to face him before he could get to the viscount, strong as steel. “No. This is not your battle.”

  He was struck dumb at the words though he should not be surprised; his wife kept him in a perpetual state of speechlessness. What in hell was she talking about? This was absolutely his battle. As if he’d not been waiting for this moment for almost a decade, Langford had just threatened the only thing he held dear.

  He stilled at the thought. The only thing he held dear.

  It was true. There was Penelope, and there was everything else. All the land, the money, The Angel, the revenge . . . none of it was worth even a fraction of this woman.

  This marvelous woman who had turned her back on him once more.

  She faced his enemy and waved a hand at the door, where Bruno and now Cross stood, looking very serious and very frightening. “Would you care to attempt escape before I am through?”

  Michael couldn’t help it. He grinned. She was a warrior queen.

  His warrior queen.

  “You have lived a life too free of consequence, Langford, and, while I assure you that I would dearly enjoy your losing everything you care for in one fell swoop, I fear that it would take too great a toll on those I love.”

  She looked to the table, taking in the papers there, immediately understanding the situation. “It’s to be a wager, then? Winner take all?” She looked at Michael, her eyes wide with emotion for a fraction of a second before she shuttered her gaze. He recognized it anyway—disappointment. “You were going to wager?”

  He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d decided before she entered that it wasn’t worth it . . . that none of it was worth risking her happiness. Their future.

  But she’d already turned to the door. “Cross?”

  Cross straightened. “My lady?”

  “Bring us a deck.”

  Cross looked to Bourne. “I don’t think—”

  Bourne nodded once. “The lady wants a deck.”

  Cross went nowhere without his cards, and he crossed the room, withdrawing them, and extending the deck to Penelope.

  She shook her head. “I intend to play. We require a dealer.”

  Michael’s gaze snapped to her as Langford sneered, “I will not play cards with a woman.”

  She took the seat at one side of the table. “I usually will not play cards with men who rob children of their inheritance, but tonight appears to be one for exceptions.”

  Cross looked to Michael. “She is incredible.”

  Possessiveness flared as he took his seat, eyes on his wife. “She is mine.”

  Langford leaned toward Penelope, fury in his gaze. “I don’t play cards with women. And I certainly don’t play them with women who have nothing I want.”

  Penelope reached into her bodice and withdrew a paper of her own, setting it on the table. “On the contrary, I have something you desperately want.” Michael leaned forward to get a better look at the paper, but Penelope covered it with her hand. When he looked up, her cool blue gaze was on the viscount. “Tommy is not your only secret, is he?”

  Langford’s gaze narrowed, furious. “What do you have? Where did you get it?”

  Penelope raised a brow. “It seems that you’ll be playing cards with a woman after all.”

  “Anything you have will ruin Tommy as well.”

  “I think he’ll be fine if it is allowed out. But I assure you, you will not be.” She paused. “And I think you know why.”

  Langford’s brows snapped together, and Michael recognized the frustration and anger on the other man’s face as he turned to Cross. “Deal the cards.”

  Cross looked to Michael, the question in his gaze as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud. Michael had not wagered in nine years. Had not played a single hand of cards, as though he’d been waiting all that time for this night, this moment, when he would wager against Langford again . . . and this time, win.

  But as he watched his wife, proud and glorious, take on the man he’d spent so much of his life hating, he realized that the wicked desire that had gnawed at him for the last decade every time he thought of Langford and the lands he’d stolen was gone, lost along with his desire for revenge.

  They were his past.

  Penelope was his future.

  If he could deserve her.

  “The lady plays for me.” He lifted the proof of Tommy’s legitimacy from where it sat in front of him and placed it on the table in front of her. She snapped her attention to him, her eyes clear and blue and filled with surprise as she registered the meaning of the move. He would not ruin Tommy. Something flashed across her face . . . a mix of happiness and pride and something else, and he made the decision in that moment to bring it back again and again, every day. It was gone in an instant, replaced by . . . sudden trepidation.

  “You have what you want, love. It is yours.” He raised a brow. “But I would not stop if I were you. You’re on a winning streak.”

  She looked to Langford’s wager—Michael’s past—and he wanted to kiss her thoroughly for the emotion that showed on her face . . . nervousness and desire . . . desire to win.

  For him.

  She nodded to Cross, who took the change in stride, shuffling the deck with quick, economical movements. “One hand of vingt-et-un. Winner take all.”

  Cross dealt the cards, one down, one up, and it occurred to Michael that the game was not for ladies. While the rules were deceptively simple, Penelope had likely never played, and without a very good stroke of luck, she would find herself crushed by a veteran player like Langford.

  As Michael considered the possibility—that after all this time he would have come so close to destroying Langford and restoring the lands of the marquessate, and failed—he realized that for too long he’d considered those things to be the markers of his redemption. Now, however, he knew the truth.

  Penelope was his redemption.

  In front of her, facing up, was the four of clubs. He watched as she lifted the corner of the other card, looking for any indication of what she might have. Nothing impressive, he was guessing. He turned to Langford, facing a ten of hearts, left hand flat on the table, as ever.

  Cross looked to Langford, who tapped his flat palm once on the table. “Hold.” A decent hand.

  Langford had likely come to the same conclusion as Michael—that Penelope was a novice, and like all novices, she would overhit.

  Cross looked to Penelope. “My lady?”

  She nibbled at her lower lip, drawing Michael’s attention. “May I have another?”

  One side of Michael’s mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. So polite, even as she wagered for more than a million pounds’ worth of real estate in the most exclusive of London’s gaming hells.

  Cross dealt another card, the three of hearts. Seven. Michael willed her to hold, knowing that the next hit would likely bring her over twenty-one. It was the easiest of mistakes, to wager on a pair of low cards.

  “Another, please.”

  Cross hesitated, knowing the odds and not liking them.

  “The girl asked for another,” Langford said, all smugness, knowing he was about to win, and Michael vowed that, while the older man might leave the club without losing a thing, he’d leave having felt the full force of Michael’s fist.

  The six of hearts slid into place beside the other cards. Thirteen.

  Penelope bit her lip and checked the facedown card again—proof that she was a novice at the game. If she had twenty-one, she would not have looked. She met Cross’s gaze, then Michael’s, worry in her eyes, and Michael would have wagered his entire fortune that she’d gone over. “Is that it?”

  “Unless you’d like another.”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “The girl is over. A blind man could see it.” Langford revealed his second card with a smirk. A queen. Twenty.

  The viscount was the luckiest man in London tonight.

  And Michael didn’t care.

  He simply wanted this evening over, so he could bring his wife home and tell her that he loved her. Finally.

  “I am, indeed, over twenty,” Penelope said, revealing her final card.

  Michael leaned forward, sure he was mistaken.

  The eight of diamonds.

  Cross could not keep the surprise from his voice. “The lady has twenty-one.”

  “Impossible.” Langford leaned forward. “Impossible!”

  Michael could not help himself. He laughed, drawing her attention with the sound. “My magnificent wife,” he said, pride in his words as he shook his head in disbelief.

  There was a movement behind her, then all hell broke loose.

  “You cheating bitch.” Langford’s heavy hands were on her shoulders, yanking her out of her chair with furious anger, and she cried out and stumbled before he lifted her from the floor and shook her violently. “You think this a game? You cheating bitch!”

  It couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two before Michael reached her, but it felt like an eternity before he extracted her from Langford’s grasp and passed her to Cross, already there, waiting to keep her safe.

  And then Michael went after Langford with visceral intent. “I don’t have to ruin you, after all,” he growled. “I shall kill you instead.” And then he had the other man’s lapels in hand, and he was spinning him toward the wall, thrusting him into it with all his might, wanting to punish him over and over again for daring to touch Penelope.

  For daring to hurt her.

  He wanted this man dead. Now.

  “You think I am still a boy?” he asked, pulling Langford away from the wall and pounding him back into it. “You think you can come to my club and threaten my wife without repercussions? You think I would let you touch her? You aren’t fit to breathe her air.”

  “Michael!” she cried from across the room, where Cross kept her from entering the fray. “Stop it!” He turned to her, saw the tears running down her cheeks and stilled, torn between hurting Langford and comforting her. “He’s not worth it, Michael.”

  “You married her for land,” Langford said, sucking air into his lungs. “You might have fooled the rest of London. But not me. I know Falconwell matters more to you than anything in the world. She was a means to an end. You think I don’t see that?”

  A means to an end. The echo of the words—so oft repeated at the beginning of their marriage—was a blow, in part because they were true, but mostly because they were so very false. “You bastard. You think you know me?” He slammed Langford into the wall again, the force of the emotion making him more furious. “I love her. She is the only thing that matters. And you dared to touch her.”

  Langford opened his mouth to speak, but Michael cut him off. “You don’t deserve mercy. You’ve been a disgrace as a father and a guardian and a man. You owe the fact that you remain able to walk entirely to the generosity of the lady. But if you come within a mile of her again, or if I ever hear a whisper of your speaking ill of her, I shall take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb. Is that clear?”

  Langford swallowed and nodded quickly. “Yes.”

  “Do you doubt I would do it?”

  “No.”

  He thrust the viscount toward Bruno. “Get rid of him. And send for Thomas Alles.” Michael was already moving across the room, sure that his bidding would be done, crushing Penelope in his arms.

  She pressed her face to the curve of his neck. “What did you say?” she whispered to the skin there, her voice shaking as his hands ran over her back clasping her to him. She lifted her head, blue eyes glistening with tears, and repeated, “What did you say?”

  It was not the way he would have planned to tell her, but nothing about their marriage had happened in a traditional manner, and he supposed this moment should be no different than all the rest. So there, standing in the middle of an overturned card room in a gaming hell, he met his wife’s gaze, and said, “I love you.”

  She shook her head. “But, you chose him. You chose vengeance.”

  “No,” he said, leaning against the card table, pulling her to stand between his thighs, taking her hands in his. “No. I choose you. I choose love.”

  She tilted her head, searching his gaze. “Is that true?”

  And suddenly, the truth mattered more than he could ever have imagined. “God, yes. Yes, it’s true.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I choose you, Penelope. I choose love over revenge; I choose the future over the past; I choose your happiness over all else.”

  She was silent for a long while, long enough for him to worry. “Sixpence?” he asked, suddenly terrified. “Do you believe me?”

  “I—” She started, then stopped, and he knew what she was about to say.

  Wished he could stop it.

  “I don’t know.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Penelope did not sleep that night. She did not even try.

  And so, when Tommy called the next morning, it did not matter that it was at an hour far too early for callers. He was standing at the fireplace, greatcoat on, hat and cane in hand, when she entered the receiving room.

  He turned, met her red eyes, and said, all tact, “Dear God. You look as awful as he does.”

  That was all it took. She burst into tears.

  He came toward her, “Oh, Pen. Don’t. Ah—dammit. Don’t cry. I take it back. You don’t look awful at all.”

  “Liar,” she said, wiping away tears.

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “Not at all. You look entirely fine. Not in the least bit like a simpering female.”

  She felt like a fool. “I can’t help it, you know.”

  “You love him.”

  She took a deep breath. “Terribly.”

  “And he loves you.”

  Tears threatened again. “He says he does.”

  “You don’t believe him?”

  She wanted to. Desperately. “I can’t . . . I don’t understand why he would. I don’t understand what about me would have changed him. Would have moved him. Would have made him love me.” She shrugged one shoulder and looked down at her feet, the toes of her green slippers peeping out from beneath the hem of her dress.

  “Oh, Pen . . .” He sighed, pulling her into a warm, brotherly embrace. “I was an idiot. And so was Leighton. And all the others. You were better than any of us. Than all of us combined.” He stepped back and took her shoulders, firmly, looking straight into her gaze. “And you’re better than Michael, too.”

  She took a deep breath, reaching out to smooth the lapel of his greatcoat. “I’m not, you know.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “And that is the reason why he doesn’t deserve you. Because he’s a royal ass, and you love him anyway.”

  “I do,” she said softly.

  “I saw him last night, you know, after you left him.” She looked up. “He gave me the proof of my scandal. Told me you’d won it back from him.”

  “He gave it to me,” she corrected. “I didn’t have to wager for it. He wasn’t going to ruin you, Tommy. He stopped it.”

  Tommy shook his head. “You stopped it. You loved him enough to show him that there was more to life than revenge. You’ve changed him. You’ve given him another chance to be the Michael we knew instead of the cold, hard Bourne he became. You’ve moved the mountain.” He lifted one hand to tap her on the chin. “He adores you. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

  I choose you. I choose love.

  The words she’d played over and over in her mind throughout the night suddenly made sense. And, as though a candle had been lit, she knew, without doubt, that they were true. That he loved her.

  The realization made her giddy. “He loves me,” she said, quietly first, letting the words echo through her, testing the way they felt on her tongue. “He loves me,” she repeated, on a laugh, this time to Tommy. “He really does.”