“Of course he does, you silly girl,” Tommy said with a smile. “Men like Bourne do not falsely profess love.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not exactly in keeping with his character.”

  It wasn’t, of course. The great, dangerous Bourne, all cold and cruel, the man who ran a gaming hell and abducted women in the dead of night and lived his life for revenge was not a man who fell in love with his wife.

  But somehow, he had.

  And Penelope knew better than to spend another moment asking how or why . . . when she could simply spend the rest of her life loving him back.

  She smiled up at Tommy, and said, “I have to go to him. I have to tell him I believe him.”

  He nodded once, satisfied, straightening his greatcoat. “Excellent plan. But, before you rush off to save your marriage, do you have a moment to say good-bye to an old friend?”

  In her eagerness to get to Michael, she didn’t understand the words immediately. “Yes, of course.” She paused. “Wait. Good-bye?”

  “I’m for India. The ship leaves today.”

  “India? Why?” Her brows knitted together. “Tommy, you don’t have to go now. Your secret . . . it is yours again.”

  “And for that I shall be eternally grateful. But I’ve passage booked, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

  She watched him carefully. “You really want this?”

  He raised a blond brow. “You really want Michael?”

  Yes. God, yes. She smiled. “It’s to be adventure for both of us, then.”

  He laughed. “Yours more challenging than mine, I suspect.”

  “I shall miss you,” she said.

  Tommy dipped his head. “And I you. But I shall send your children treats from faraway lands.”

  Children. She wanted to see Michael. Immediately.

  “See that you do,” she said. “And I shall regale them with tales of their uncle Tommy.”

  “Michael will love that,” he replied with a great laugh. “I expect them to follow in my footsteps, becoming remarkable fishermen and mediocre poets. Now, go fetch your husband.”

  She grinned. “I believe I shall.”

  Michael took the steps to Hell House two at a time, desperate to get to his wife, berating himself for not locking her in a room at the club the night before and refusing to allow her to leave until she believed that he loved her.

  How could she not believe him? How could she not see that she was wreaking havoc on his mind and body, that she had destroyed his calm and devastated him with her love? How could she not see that he was desperate for her?

  The door opened as he reached the top step, and the object of his thoughts came barreling out of the house, nearly toppling him down the stairs. She pulled up short, her green cloak swirling around her, brushing against his legs, and they stared at each other for a long moment.

  He caught his breath at the sight of her. How was it possible that he’d ever thought her plain? She was a jewel in the cold, grey mid-February sleet, all rosy cheeks and blue eyes and lovely pink lips that made him want to carry her to the nearest bed. To their bed. For it was time they had a bed. He was going to knock down the wall between their bedchambers so he never had to stare at that godforsaken door again.

  She broke into his thoughts. “Michael—”

  “Wait.” He cut her off, not wanting to risk hearing what she had to say. Not before he said his piece. “I’m sorry. Come inside. Please?”

  She followed him inside, the sound of the great oak door closing behind them echoing through the marble foyer. Her gaze flickered to the package in his hand. “What is that?”

  He’d forgotten he had it. His weapon.

  “Come with me.” He took her hand, wishing they weren’t wearing gloves, wishing he could touch her, skin to skin, and climbed the stairs to the first floor of the house, pulling her into the dining room and setting the parchment-wrapped bundle on the long, mahogany table.

  “It’s for you.”

  She smiled, curious, and he resisted the urge to kiss her, not wanting to rush. Not wanting to scare her. She opened the paper carefully, peeling it back just enough to peer inside. She looked up, brow furrowed in confusion before she removed the parchment. “It’s . . .”

  “Wait.” He reached for a match, then set the item on fire.

  She laughed, and he relaxed slightly at the sound—music in the big empty room. “It’s a figgy pudding.”

  “I don’t want it to be a lie, Sixpence. I want it to be the truth. I want us to have fallen in love over a figgy pudding,” he said, his voice catching. “In you I see my heart, my purpose . . . my very soul.”

  There was a moment of complete stillness as she recalled the first time he’d said the words, and he thought, fleetingly, that he might be too late. That this silly pudding was too little.

  But then she was in his arms, kissing him, and he put all his love, all his emotion into that caress, loving the way her hands came up to play in the hair at the base of his neck, loving her little gasp as he worried her lower lip with his teeth. She pulled away and opened her beautiful blue eyes to meet his gaze, but he was not ready to release her, and he stole another kiss before vowing, “I am yours, my love . . . yours to do with as you will. When I stole you in the dead of night and claimed you for my own, how could I have known that now—tonight—forever—it would be I who am claimed? My heart that is stolen?

  “I realize that I am unworthy of you. I realize that I have a lifetime of ruin for which I must make amends. But I swear to you, I shall do everything I can to make you happy, my love. I shall work every day to be a man deserving of you. Of your love. Please . . . please give me that chance.”

  Please believe me.

  Her eyes glistened with tears, and when she shook her head, he lost his breath, unable to face the possibility that she might refuse him. That she might not believe him. Silence stretched between them, and he was desperate for her words.

  “For so long, I have ached,” she whispered, her fingers at his face, as if to convince herself that he was there. That he was hers. “I have ached for more, dreamed of love. I have ached for this moment. I have ached for you.” A tear spilled over, tracking down one of her lovely cheeks, and he lifted his hand to wipe it away. “I think I have loved you since we were children, Michael. I think it was always you.”

  He placed his forehead to hers, pulling her to him, wanting her near. “I am here. I am yours. And dear God, Penelope, I have ached for you as well. So very much.”

  She smiled, so beautiful. “How is that possible?”

  “How could it not be?” he asked, the words harsh and graveled with emotion. “For nine years, I thought it was vengeance that would save me, and it took you—my strong, beautiful wife—to prove that I was wrong and that love was my salvation. You are my redemption,” he whispered. “You are my benediction.”

  She was crying in earnest, and he sipped at the tears before taking her mouth in one long, lush kiss, pouring all his love into the caress, stroking deep until they were both gasping for breath. He lifted his head. “Tell me you believe me.”

  “I believe you.”

  He closed his eyes against the wave of relief that coursed through him at the words. “Say it again.”

  “I believe you, Michael.”

  “I love you.”

  She smiled. “I know.”

  He kissed her, deep and quick. “It is customary for the lady to return the sentiment.”

  She laughed. “Is it?”

  He scowled. “Tell me you love me, Lady Penelope.”

  “It’s Lady Bourne, to you.” She wrapped her arms about his shoulders and let her fingers tangle in his hair. “I love you, Michael. I love you quite desperately. And I’m very happy that you’ve decided to love me back.”

  “How could I not?” he asked. “You are my warrior. Facing down Bruno and Langford to fight.”

  She smiled shyly. “I could not leave. I would not be your fallen angel. I would follow you into hell . . . but only to bring you back.”

  The words humbled him. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, “But I am afraid I cannot let you go.”

  Her serious blue gaze did not waver as she asked, “Do you promise?”

  With everything he was. “I do.” He wrapped her in his arms, resting his chin upon her head, before he remembered the other item he’d brought for her. “I brought your winnings, love.” He extracted the papers from the card game the previous evening and set them next to the pudding.

  “Your property.”

  He pressed a kiss to her neck, and smiled against the skin when she sighed at the caress. “Not mine. Yours. Won handily.”

  She shook her head. “There is only one thing from last night’s winnings that I want.”

  “What is that?”

  She leaned up to kiss him thoroughly, robbing him of breath. “You.”

  “I think you might regret that win, Sixpence.”

  She shook her head, all seriousness. “Never.”

  They kissed again, lost in each other for long minutes before curiosity flared and he lifted his head. “What did you have on Langford?”

  She gave a little laugh and curled around him to reach for the wager, sifting through the pile of papers to retrieve the small square of paper. “You forgot to teach me the most important rule of scoundrels.”

  “Which one is that?”

  She unfolded the paper carefully and handed it to him. “When in doubt, bluff.”

  It was her invitation to The Angel.

  Surprise gave way to laughter, then to pride. “My wicked, gambling wife. I believed you had something truly damning.”

  She smiled, bold and brilliant, and he found he’d had enough of talking.

  Instead, he lowered his wife to the floor of his dining room and stripped her bare, worshipping every glorious inch of skin he revealed. And as her laughter gave way to sighs, he reminded her again and again of how very much he loved her.

  For years, when children and grandchildren inquired about the round black mark on the Hell House dining-room table, the Marchioness of Bourne would tell tale of a figgy pudding gone wrong . . . before the marquess would interject that in his opinion, it had gone rather perfectly.

  Epilogue

  Dear Sixpence,

  I saved them all, you know. Every letter you ever sent, even those to which I never replied. I’m sorry for so many things, my love: that I left you; that I never came home; that it took me so long to realize that you were my home and that, with you by my side, none of the rest mattered.

  But in the darkest hours, on the coldest nights, when I felt I’d lost everything, I still had your letters. And through them, in some small way, I still had you.

  I loved you then, my darling Penelope, more than I could imagine—just as I love you now, more than you can know.

  Michael

  Hell House, February 1831

  One week later

  Cross woke as usual, on a makeshift pallet inside his office at The Fallen Angel, wedged between an overflowing bookcase and a massive globe, surrounded by papers.

  Not as usual, however, there was a woman sitting at his desk.

  Strike that. Not a woman. A lady. A young, blond-haired, bespectacled lady.

  She was reading the ledger.

  He sat up, ignoring the fact that he was not wearing a shirt and that, conventionally, gentlemen did not greet ladies half-naked. Hang convention. If the woman hadn’t wanted to see him half-naked, then she should not have invaded his offices in the night.

  That most men did not make a practice of sleeping in their offices was of little import.

  “May I help you?”

  She did not look up. “You’ve miscalculated column F.”

  What in hell?

  “I have not.”

  She pushed her glasses up her nose and tucked a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear, entirely focused on the ledger. “You have. The proper calculation should be one hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred forty-six and seventeen pence.”

  Impossible.

  He stood, moving to look over her shoulder. “That’s what it says.”

  She shook her head, placing one long finger on the tabulation line. He noticed the tip of the finger was slightly crooked, leaning a touch to the right. “You’ve written one hundred twelve thousand, three hundred, forty-five and seventeen pence. You—” She looked up at him, eyes owl-like behind her spectacles as she took in his height and his bare chest. “You—You’ve lost a quid.”

  He bent over her, deliberately crowding her and enjoying the way her breath caught at his nearness. “That is a six.”

  She cleared her throat and looked again. “Oh.” She leaned in and checked the number again. “I suppose you’ve lost your handwriting skills, instead,” she said dryly, and he chuckled as she reached for a pencil and repaired the number.

  He watched, riveted to the callus at the tip of her second finger, before he whispered low in her ear, “Are you an accounting fairy sent in the dead of night to check my figures?”

  She leaned away from the whisper and turned to look at him. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon,” she said, matter-of-factly, and he had an intense desire to take her spectacles from her face and kiss her senseless, just to see what this odd young woman would say.

  He quashed the desire.

  Instead, he smiled. “Sent in the dead of day, then?”

  She blinked. “I am Philippa Marbury.”

  His eyes went wide, and he took an enormous step backward, knocking into a hat stand and turning to rescue it before realizing that he absolutely could not be standing in his office, in a gaming hell, shirtless, with Bourne’s sister-in-law. Bourne’s betrothed sister-in-law.

  He reached for a shirt. It was wrinkled and worn, but it would do. As he searched fruitlessly for the opening in the linen, he backed away again. Farther.

  She stood and came around the desk toward him. “Have I upset you?”

  Why didn’t the shirt have an opening? As a last resort, he held the clothing in front of him, a shield from her enormous, all-seeing eyes. “Not at all, but I do not make a practice of having clandestine meetings with my partners’ sisters, half-nude.”

  She considered the words before tilting her head to one side, and saying, “Well, you were asleep, so you really couldn’t have prevented it.”

  “Somehow, I doubt that Bourne would see it that way.”

  “At least give me an audience. I came all the way here.”

  Cross knew he should refuse. Knew, with the keen sense of a lifelong gambler, that he should not continue this game. That it was unwinnable. But there was something about this young woman that made it impossible to stop himself. “Well, since you came all the way here . . . how may I be of service, Lady Philippa?”

  She took a deep breath. Released it. “I require ruination. And I hear you are an expert in the subject.”

  About the Author

  SARAH MACLEAN grew up in Rhode Island, obsessed with historical romance and bemoaning the fact that she was born far too late for her own season. Her love of all things historical helped to earn her degrees from Smith College and Harvard University before she finally set pen to paper and wrote her first book.

  Sarah now lives in New York City with her husband, their dog, and a ridiculously large collection of romance novels. She loves to hear from readers. Please visit her at www.macleanspace.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Romances by Sarah MacLean

  A Rogue by Any Other Name

  Eleven Scandals to Start to Win a Duke’s Heart

  Ten Ways to Be Adored when Landing a Lord

  Nine Rules to Break when Romancing a Rake

  The Season

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A ROGUE BY ANY OTHER NAME. Copyright © 2012 by Sarah Trabucchi. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  EPub Edition MARCH 2012 ISBN: 9780062065384

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062068521

  FIRST EDITION

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  About the Publisher

  Australia

  HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.

  Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street

  Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

  http://www.harpercollins.com.au/ebooks

  Canada

  HarperCollins Canada

  2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor

  Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada

  http://www.harpercollins.ca

  New Zealand

  HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

  P.O. Box 1

  Auckland, New Zealand

  http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

  United Kingdom

  HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

  77-85 Fulham Palace Road

  London, W6 8JB, UK

  http://www.harpercollins.co.uk