Penelope squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the room beyond, nervousness coiling deep within. She hovered on the threshold, her breath coming fast and shallow. Things that thrived in the dark . . . like him.

  He pushed past her slowly, the movement simultaneously a caress and a threat. As he passed, he whispered, “You’re a terrible bluff.” The words were barely a sound, and the feel of his breath on her skin counteracted its insult.

  Lanternlight flickered across the walls of the small, unfamiliar room, casting a golden glow across the once-elegant, now hopelessly faded wall coverings in what must have once been a lovely rose. The room was barely large enough to hold them both, a fireplace nearly taking up one wall, across from which two small windows looked out on the copse of trees.

  Michael bent to build a fire, and Penelope went to the windows, watching a sliver of moonlight cut across the snowy landscape beyond. “What is this room? I don’t remember it.”

  “You very likely never had a chance to see it. It was my mother’s study.”

  A memory flashed of the marchioness, tall and beautiful, with a wide, welcoming smile and kind eyes. Of course this room, quiet and serene, had been hers.

  “Michael,” Penelope turned to face him, where he crouched low at the fireplace, laying a bed of straw and kindling. “I never had a chance to . . .” She searched for the right words.

  He stopped her from finding them. “No need. What happened, happened.”

  The coolness in his tone seemed wrong. Off. “Nevertheless . . . I wrote. I don’t know if you ever . . .”

  “Possibly.” He remained half-inside the hearth. She heard the flint scrape across the tinderbox. “Many people wrote.”

  The words shouldn’t have cut, but they did. She’d been devastated by the news of the deaths of the Marquess and Marchioness of Bourne. Unlike her own parents, who seemed to have little more than a quiet civility between them—Michael’s parents had seemed to care deeply for one another, for their son, for Penelope.

  When she’d heard of the carriage accident, she’d been overcome with sadness, for what had been lost, for what might have been.

  She’d written him letters, dozens of them over several years before her father had refused to mail any more. After that, she’d continued to write, hoping that he would somehow know that she was thinking of him. That he would always have friends at Falconwell . . . in Surrey . . . no matter how alone he might have felt. She’d imagined that one day, he’d come home.

  But he hadn’t returned. Ever.

  Eventually, Penelope had stopped expecting him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tinder flashed; straw ignited.

  He stood, turning to face her. “You’ll have to do with firelight. Your lantern is in the snow.”

  She swallowed back her sadness, nodding. “I will be fine.”

  “Don’t leave this room. The house is in disrepair, and I have not married you yet.”

  He turned and left the room.

  Chapter Five

  She woke in the dim light of the fire with an unbearably cold nose and an unbearably warm everything else.

  Disoriented, she blinked several times, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings before the glowing embers in the fireplace and the rose-colored walls brought clarity.

  She was lying on her back in the nest of blankets she had arranged before she’d fallen asleep, and she was covered with a large and warm one that smelled wonderful. She buried her frigid nose in the fabric and inhaled deeply, trying to place the smell—a blend of bergamot and tobacco flower.

  She turned her head.

  Michael.

  Shock flared, then panic.

  Michael was asleep next to her.

  Well, not exactly next to her. Against her, more like.

  But it felt like he was all around her.

  He was turned on his side, head on one bent arm, his other arm draped across her, hand firmly clasping the far side of her person. She inhaled abruptly as she realized just how close his arm was to certain . . . parts of her . . . that were not to be touched.

  Not that there were many parts of her that were open for reasonable touching, but that was not the point.

  His arm was not the only problem. He was pressed to her quite thoroughly, his chest, his arm, his legs . . . and other parts as well. She couldn’t decide if she should be horrified or utterly thrilled.

  Both?

  It was best that she not explore the question too thoroughly.

  She turned toward him, trying to avoid unnecessary movement or sound and unable to ignore the feel of his arm stroking across her midsection in a steady caress as she rotated beneath it. When she faced him, she let out a long, careful breath and considered her next course of action.

  It was not, after all, every day that she awoke in the arms of—well, under the arm of—a gentleman.

  Not much of a gentleman anymore, was he?

  While awake, he was all angles and tension—the muscles of his jaw were strung tight as a bow, as though he were in a perpetual state of holding himself back. But now, in slumber, in the glow of the fire, he was . . .

  Beautiful.

  The angles were still there, sharp and perfect, as though a master sculptor had had a hand in creating him—the tilt of his jaw, the cleft of his chin, his long, straight nose, the perfect curve of his brows, and those eyelashes, just as they were when he was a boy, unbelievably long and lush, a black, sooty caress against his cheeks.

  And his lips. Not pressed in a firm, grim line at the moment, instead lovely and full. They had once been so quick to smile, but . . . they had become dangerous and tempting in a way they’d never been when he was a boy. She traced the peak and valleys of his upper lip with her gaze, wondering how many women had kissed him. Wondering what his mouth would feel like—soft or firm, light or dark.

  She exhaled, temptation making the breath long and heavy.

  She wanted to touch him.

  She stilled at the thought, the idea so foreign and still so true.

  She shouldn’t want to touch him. He was a beast. Cold and rude and selfish and absolutely nothing like the boy she’d once known. Like the husband whom she’d imagined. Her thoughts flickered back to earlier in the evening, to imagining her plain, boring old husband.

  No. Michael was nothing like that man.

  Perhaps that was why she wanted to touch him.

  Her gaze lingered at his mouth. Maybe not there, on his tempting, terrifying lips . . . maybe she wanted to touch his hair, dark and curly the way it had always been, but devoid of its youthful unruliness. The curls behaved now, even as they brushed against his ears and fell against his brow, even as they recovered from a day of travel and snow and caps.

  They knew better than to rebel.

  Yes. She wanted to touch his hair.

  The hair of the man she would marry.

  Her hand was moving of its own volition, heading for those dark curls. “Michael,” she whispered, as her fingertips touched the silken strands, before she could think better of it.

  His eyes snapped open, as though he had been waiting for her to speak, and he moved like lightning, capturing her wrist in one strong, steel hand.

  She gasped at the movement. “I beg your pardon . . . I did not mean . . .” She tugged at her hand once, twice, and he let her go.

  He returned his arm to where it had been quite inappropriately draped across her midsection, and the movement reminded her of every place where they touched—his leg pressed distractingly against her own, his gaze, a mosaic of color that hid his thoughts so very well.

  She swallowed, hesitated, then said the only thing she could think to say. “You’re in my bed.”

  He did not reply.

  She pressed on. “It’s not . . .” She searched for the word.

  “Done?” Sleep made his voice rough and soft, and she could not stop the shiver of excitement that coursed through her at the word.

  She nodded once.

  He slid his arm away from her, all too slowly, and she ignored the pang of regret that flared at the loss of the weight. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “I mean, why are you in my bed?”

  “It’s not your bed, Penelope. It’s mine.”

  Silence fell, and a shiver of nervousness slipped down Penelope’s spine. What did she say to that? It did not seem at all appropriate to discuss his bed in detail. Nor hers, for that matter.

  He rolled to his back, unfolding the long arm that had been under his cheek and stretching long and luxurious before he turned away from her.

  She tried to sleep. Really, she did.

  She took a deep breath, studying the way his shoulders curved, pulling the linen of his shirt taut. She was in a bed. With a man. A man who, though he would soon be her husband, did not yet hold the title. The situation should have been devastatingly scandalous. Wickedly exciting. And yet . . . no matter what her mother would think when she heard of it, the situation did not seem at all scandalous.

  Which was a bit of a disappointment, really. It seemed that even when she was face-to-face with the prospect of adventure, she couldn’t get it right.

  It did not matter how scandalous her future husband was . . . she was not the kind of woman who compelled him to scandal. That much had been made clear.

  Even now, alone in an abandoned manor house, she wasn’t enough to capture a gentleman’s attention.

  She exhaled audibly, and he turned his head toward her, giving her a view of one perfectly curled ear.

  She’d never noticed anyone’s ears before.

  “What is it?” he said, his voice a low gravel.

  “ ‘It’?” she asked.

  He rolled to his back again, jostling the blanket and baring one of her arms to the cold air in the room. When he replied, it was to the ceiling. “I know enough about women to know that sighs are never simply sighs. They indicate one of two things. That particular sigh represents feminine displeasure.”

  “I am not surprised that you recognize the sound.” Penelope could not resist. “What does the other indicate?”

  He pinned her with his beautiful hazel gaze. “Feminine pleasure.”

  Heat flared on her cheeks. She supposed he would easily recognize that, too. “Oh.”

  He returned his attention to the ceiling. “Would you care to tell me what it is, precisely, that has made you unhappy?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “No.” The blankets beneath her provided ample padding against the wooden floor.

  “Are you frightened?”

  She considered the question. “No. Should I be?”

  He slid her a look. “I don’t hurt women.”

  “You draw the line at abducting and spanking them?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  He turned his back to her once more, through with the conversation, and she watched the back of him for long moments before, whether from exhaustion or exasperation, she blurted, “It’s just that when a woman is kidnapped and forced into agreeing to marriage, she hopes for a bit more . . . excitement. Than this.”

  He rolled slowly—maddeningly—to face her, the air between them thickened, and Penelope was instantly aware of their position, scant inches apart, on a warm pallet in a small room in an empty house, beneath the same blanket—which happened to be his greatcoat. And she realized that perhaps she should not have implied that the evening was unexciting.

  Because she was not at all certain that she was prepared for it to become any more exciting. “I didn’t mean—” She rushed to correct herself.

  “Oh, I think you did an excellent job of meaning.” The words were low and dark, and suddenly she was not so very sure that she wasn’t afraid after all. “I am not stimulating enough for you?”

  “Not you . . .” she was quick to reply. “The whole . . .” She waved one hand, lifting the greatcoat as she thought better of finishing. “Never mind.”

  His gaze was on her, intent and unmoving and, while he had not moved, it seemed as though he had grown larger, more looming. As though he had sucked a great deal of air from the room. “How can I make this night more satisfying for you, my lady?”

  The soft question sent a thrum of feeling through her . . . the way the word—satisfying—rolled languid from his tongue set her heart racing and her stomach turning.

  It seemed the night was becoming very exciting very quickly.

  And everything was moving much too quickly for Penelope’s tastes. “No need,” she said, at an alarmingly high pitch. “It’s fine.”

  “Fine?” The word rolled lazily from his tongue.

  “Quite thrilling.” She nodded, bringing one hand to her mouth to feign a yawn. “So thrilling, in fact, that I find myself unbearably exhausted.” She made to turn her back to him. “I think I shall bid you good night.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, the soft words as loud as a gunshot in the tiny space between them.

  And then he touched her.

  He clasped her wrist, staying her movement, turning her to face him, to meet his unflinching gaze. “I would hate for the evening to leave you so . . . unfulfilled.”

  Unfulfilled.

  The word unfurled deep in her stomach, and Penelope took a deep breath, trying to settle her roiling emotions.

  It did not work.

  He moved then, his hand sliding away from her wrist, settling on her hip instead, and in that moment, all of her awareness was focused on that spot, beneath skirts and petticoat and cloak, where she was certain she could feel the searing heat of his massive hand. He did not tighten his grip, did nothing to bring her closer, nothing to move her in one way or another. She knew she could pull away . . . knew she should pull away . . . and yet . . .

  She didn’t want to.

  Instead, she hovered there, on the brink of something new and different and altogether exciting.

  She met his eyes, dark in the firelight, and begged him silently to do something.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Play your card, Penelope.”

  Her mouth dropped open at the words, at the way he gave her power over the moment, and she realized that it was the first time in her entire life that a man had actually given her the opportunity to make a choice for herself.

  Ironic, wasn’t it, that it was this man. This man who had taken all choice from her in the span of mere hours.

  But now, there it was, the freedom of which he’d spoken. The adventure he’d promised. The power was heady. Irresistible.

  Dangerous.

  But she did not care, because it was that wicked, wonderful power that propelled her to speech.

  “Kiss me.”

  He was already moving, his lips capturing the words.

  * * *

  Dear M—

  It’s utter misery here—hot as Hades even now, in the dead of night. I’m sure I’m the only one awake, but who can sleep in the worst of a Surrey summer? If you were here, I’m sure we would be mischief-making at the lake.

  I confess, I’d like to take a walk . . . but I suppose that’s something young ladies should not do, isn’t it?

  Warmly—P

  Needham Manor, July 1815

  * * *

  Dear P—

  Nonsense. If I were there, I would be mischief-making. You would be enumerating all the ways that we would soon be caught and scolded for our transgressions.

  I’m not entirely sure what young ladies should or should not do, but your secrets are safe with me, even if your governess does not approve. Especially so.

  —M

  Eton College, July 1815

  It should be said that Penelope Marbury had a secret.

  It wasn’t a very big secret, nothing that would bring down Parliament or dethrone the King . . . nothing that would destroy her family or anyone else’s . . . but it was a rather devastating secret personally—one she tried very hard to forget whenever she could.

  It should not be a surprise, as, until that evening, Penelope had led a model life—entirely decorous. Her childhood of good behavior had aged into an adulthood of modeling excellent behavior for her younger sisters and behaving in precisely the manner that young women of good breeding were expected to behave.

  Therefore, it was the embarrassing truth that, despite the fact that she had been courted by a handful of men and even engaged to one of the most powerful men in England, who seemed to have no problem at all displaying passion when it moved him, Penelope Marbury had never been kissed.

  Until then.

  It really was ridiculous. She knew that.

  It was 1831, for goodness sake. Young ladies were dampening their petticoats and revealing their skin, and she knew from having four sisters that there was nothing at all wrong with a chaste brush of the lips now and then from an avid suitor.

  Except it had never happened before, and this did not feel at all chaste.

  This felt utterly wicked and not at all like the kind of kiss one received from one’s future husband.

  This felt like something one never discussed with one’s future husband.

  Michael pulled back just barely, just enough to whisper against her lips. “Stop thinking.”

  How did he know?

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it would be rude to ignore his request.

  So she gave herself up to it, this strange, new sensation of being kissed, his lips at once somehow both hard and soft, the sound of his breath harsh against her cheek. His fingertips stroking delicately, whisper-soft, along the column of her neck, tilting her chin to better access her mouth. “Much better.”