A Rogue by Any Other Name #6

Dear M—

may think that since you’ve returned to school, I’ve been in a constant state of  ennui  (note the use of French), but you would be entirely wrong. The excitement is nearly overwhelming.

The bull got loose from Lord Langford’s pasture two nights ago, and he (the bull, not the viscount) had a fine time knocking down fences and making the acquaintance of the cattle in the area until he was captured this morning, by Mr. Bullworth. I wager you wish you were home, don’t you?

Always—P

Needham Manor, September 1815

 

* * *

 

Dear P—

I believed you until the bit about Bullworth capturing his namesake. Now, I’m convinced you’re merely attempting to lure me home with your extravagant tales of attempted animal husbandry.

Though, I would be lying if I told you it wasn’t working. I wish I’d been there to see the look on Langford’s face. And the smile on yours.

—M

post script—I am happy to see that your governess is teaching you something. Très bon.

Eton College, September 1815

 

Dawn had barely broken when Bourne paused outside the room where he had left Penelope the night before, the cold and his thoughts joining forces to keep him from rest.

He’d paced the house, haunted by the memories of the empty rooms, waiting for the sun to rise on the day when he would see Falconwell restored to its right and proper owner.

There was no doubt in Bourne’s mind that the Marquess of Needham and Dolby would relinquish Falconwell. The man was no fool. He had three unmarried daughters, and the fact that the eldest had spent the evening with a man in an abandoned house—with Bourne in an abandoned house—would not endear the remaining unwed ladies Marbury to potential suitors.

The solution was marriage. A quick one.

And with that marriage, the passing of Falconwell.

Falconwell, and Penelope.

A different man would feel remorse at the unfortunate role Penelope was forced to play in this game, but Bourne knew better. Certainly, he was using the lady, but was that not how marriage worked? Were not all marital relations devised on that very premise—mutual benefit?

She would gain access to his money, his freedoms, and anything else she wished.

He would gain Falconwell.

That was that. They were not the first to marry for land, nor would they be the last. It was a remarkable offer, the one he’d made her. He was rich and well connected, and he was offering her a chance to trade her future as a spinster for one as a marchioness. She could have anything she wanted. He’d give it to her with pleasure.

After all, she was giving him the only thing he’d ever really wanted.

Not quite. No one gave Bourne anything.

He was taking it.

Taking her.

A vision flashed, large blue eyes set wide in her plain face, pleasure and something more blazing there. Something too close to emotion. Too close to caring.

That was why he’d left her, strategically. Coolly. Calculatingly.

To prove the marriage would be a business arrangement.

Not because he had wanted to stay.

Not because removing his mouth and hands from her had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Not because he’d been tempted to do just the opposite—to sink into her and revel in her, soft where women were meant to be soft and sweet where they were meant to be sweet. Not because those little sighs that came from the back of her throat while he kissed her were the most erotic things he’d ever heard, or that she tasted like innocence.

He forced himself to move away from her door. There was no reason to knock. He’d be back before she woke, ready to take her to the nearest vicar, present the special license for which he’d paid a handsome sum, and get her married.

Then, they would return to London and live their separate lives.

He took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the crisp morning air in his lungs, satisfied with his plan.

That was when she screamed, the heart-stopping sound punctuated with the sound of shattering glass.

He responded instinctively, unlocking the door and nearly tearing it from its hinges to get it open. He pulled up short just inside the room, heart pounding.

She stood unharmed at the side of the broken window, back against the wall, barefoot, wrapped in his greatcoat, which hung open to reveal her ruined gown, gaping wide, baring an expanse of peach-colored skin.

For one fleeting moment, Bourne was arrested by that skin, by the way a single blond curl cut across it, drawing his attention to the place where a lovely rose-colored nipple stood peaked and proud in the cold room.

His mouth went dry, and he forced himself to return his gaze to her face, where her wide eyes blinked in shock and disbelief as she stared at the great glass window next to her, now missing a pane, shattered by . . .

A bullet.

He was across the tiny room in seconds, shielding her with his body and pushing her from the room into the hallway beyond. “Stay here.”

She nodded, shock apparently making her more agreeable than he would have expected. He returned to the room and the window, but before he could inspect the damage, a second gunshot shattered another pane of glass, missing Bourne by a distance with which he was not at all comfortable.

What in hell?

He swore once, harshly, and pressed himself against the wall of the room, next to the window.

Someone was shooting at him.

The question was, Who?

“Be careful—”

Penelope stuck her head back into the room, and Bourne was already moving toward her, sending her a look that had sent the worst of London’s underground into retreat. “Get out.”

She did not move. “It is not safe for you to stay in there. You could be—” Another shot sounded from outside, interrupting, and he leapt for her, praying he could get to her before a bullet did. He barreled into her, pushing her back out the door until they were both pressed up against the opposite wall.

They were still for a long minute before she continued, her words muffled by his bulk. “You could be hurt!”

Was she out of her mind?

He grasped her shoulders, not caring that his ordinarily tightly reined temper was beginning to fray. “Idiot woman! What did I say?” He waited for her to answer the question. When she didn’t, he couldn’t help himself. Shaking her once by the shoulders, he repeated, “What did I say?”

Her eyes went wide.

Good. She should fear him.

“Answer me, Penelope.” He heard the growl in his voice. Didn’t care.

“You—” The words caught in her throat. “You said I should stay here.”

“And are you somehow unable to understand such a simple direction?”

Her gaze narrowed. “No.”

He’d insulted her. Again, he did not care. “Stay. The bloody hell. Here.” He ignored her wince and returned to the room, inching around toward the window.

He was just about to risk looking out onto the grounds to attempt a glimpse at his would-be assassin when words floated up from below. “Do you surrender?”

Surrender?

Perhaps Penelope had been right. Perhaps there were indeed pirates in Surrey.

He didn’t have much time to consider the question, as Penelope cried out, “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” from the hallway and rushed back into the room, clutching his coat around her and heading straight for the window.

“Stop!” Bourne lunged to block her progress, catching her around the waist and hauling her back. “If you get anywhere near that window, I’ll paddle you. Do you hear me?”

“But . . .”

“No.”

“It’s just—”

“No.”

“It’s my father!”

The words coursed through him, remaining hazy for longer than he would care to admit.

She couldn’t be right.

“I came for my daughter, ruffian! And I shall leave with her!”

“How did he know the room at which to shoot?”

“I—I was standing at the window. He must have seen the movement.”

Another bullet sent glass splintering across the room, and Bourne pressed closer to her, shielding her with his body. “Do you think he is aware that he could shoot you?”

“It does not appear to have occurred to him.”

He swore again. “He deserves to be hit in the head with his rifle.”

“I think he might be overcome with the fact that he’s hit his target. Thrice. Of course, considering the target was a house, it would have been something of a surprise if he hadn’t hit it.”

Was she amused?

She couldn’t be. Another shot rang out, and Bourne felt the final thread of his temper snap. He strode to the window, not caring that he might get shot in the process. “Dammit, Needham! You could kill her!”

The Marquess of Needham and Dolby did not look up from where he was aiming a second rifle, a nearby footman reloading the first. “I could also kill you. I like my odds!”

Penelope came up behind him. “If it’s any consolation, I sincerely doubt that he could kill you. He’s a terrible shot.”

Michael leveled her with a look. “Get away from this window. Now.”

Miracle of miracles, she did.

“I should have known you’d come for her, you ruffian. I should have known you’d do something worthy of your foul reputation.”

Bourne forced himself to appear calm. “Come now, Needham, is that any way to speak to your future son-in-law?”

“Over my dead body!” Fury made the other man’s voice crack.

“It can be arranged,” Bourne called out.

“You send the girl down here. Immediately. She won’t marry you.”

“After last night, there’s little question she will, Needham.”

The rifle cocked below, and Bourne ducked away from the window, pressing Penelope back into the corner as the bullet flew through another pane of glass.

“Scoundrel!”

He wanted to rail at her father for the lack of caution he exhibited for his daughter. Instead, he turned to the window, affected a tone of utter disinterest, and called out, “I found her. I’m keeping her.”

There was a long pause, so long that Michael could not help but lift his head around the window frame to see if the marquess had left.

He had not.

A bullet lodged itself in the exterior wall, several inches from Michael’s head. “You’re not getting Falconwell, Bourne. Nor are you getting my daughter!”

“Well, I’ll be honest, Needham . . . I’ve already had your daughter—”

The words were cut off by Needham’s bellow. “Blighter!”

Penelope gasped. “You did not just tell my father you’ve had me.”

He should have seen this potential outcome. Should have known that it would not be so easy. The whole morning was spiraling out of control, and Bourne did not like being out of control. He took a long, slow breath, trying for patience. “Penelope, we are holed up inside a house as your irate father fires numerous rifles at my head. I should think you’d forgive me for doing what I can to ensure we both survive this event.”

“And our reputations? Were they to survive as well?”

“My reputation is rather shot to hell,” he said, pressing his back to the wall.

“Well, mine isn’t!” she cried. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” She paused. “And your language is atrocious.”

“You’ll have to get used to my language, darling. As for the rest, when we marry, your reputation will be shot to hell, as well. Your father may as well know it now.”

He couldn’t stop himself from turning to face her, to watch the way the words affected her . . . the way the light went out of her eyes . . . the way she stiffened as though he’d struck her. “You’re horrible,” she said, simply. Honestly.

In that moment, as she looked at him, all calm accusation, he hated himself enough for both of them. But he was a master at hiding his emotions. “It seems that way.” The words were flippant. Forced.

Her distaste showed. “Why would you do this?”

There was only one reason—only one thing that had ever guided his actions. Only one thing that had turned him into this cold, calculating man.

“Does Falconwell mean so much?”

Silence fell outside, and something dark and unpleasant settled in the pit of his stomach, the feeling all too familiar. For nine years, he’d taken every measure to regain his land. To restore his history. To secure his future. And he was not about to stop now.

“Of course it does,” she said with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I am a means to an end.”

In the hours that had passed since he’d stumbled upon Penelope at the lake, he’d heard her irritated and surprised and affronted and impassioned . . . but he had not heard her like this.

He’d not heard her resigned.

He did not like it.

For the first time in a very long time—in nine years—Bourne felt the urge to apologize to someone he’d used. He steeled himself against the inclination.

He turned his head toward her—not enough to meet her gaze—just enough to watch her from the corner of his eye. Enough to see her head bowed, her hands holding his greatcoat closed around her. “Come here,” he said, and a small part of him was surprised when she did.

She crossed the room, and he was consumed with the sound of her—the slide of her skirts, the soft fall of her footsteps, the way her breath came in little uneven spurts marking her nervousness and anticipation.

She stopped behind him, hovering, as he played out the next few moves of this chess match in his mind. He wondered, fleetingly, if he should let her go.

No.

What was done was done.

“Marry me, Penelope.”

“Just because you phrase it in such a way does not give me a choice, you know.”

He wanted to smile at the irritated way she said the words, but he didn’t. She watched him carefully for a long moment and he—a man who had made a fortune by reading the truth in the faces of those around him—could not say what she was thinking. For a long moment, he thought she might refuse him, and he prepared himself for her resistance, cataloging the number of clergymen who owed him and The Angel enough debt to marry an unwilling bride—preparing himself to do what needed to be done to secure her hand.

It would be one more wrongdoing to add to his ever-expanding list.

“You will keep your word from last night? My sisters will remain untouched by this marriage.”

Even now, even as she faced a lifetime with him, she thought of her sisters.

She was legions too good for him.

He ignored the thought. “I will keep my word.”

“I require proof.”

Smart girl. Of course, there wasn’t any proof. And she was right to doubt him.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a guinea rubbed nearly bare over the nine years that he’d kept it with him. He held it out to her. “My marker.”

She took the coin. “What am I to do with this?”

“You return it when your sisters are married.”

“One guinea?”

“It’s been enough for men across Britain, darling.”

She raised her brows. “And they say men are the more intelligent sex.” She took a deep breath, slipping the coin into her pocket, making him long for the weight of it again. “I shall marry you.”

He nodded once. “And the fiancé?”

She hesitated, her gaze flickering past his shoulder as she considered the words. “He will find another bride,” she said softly, fondly. Too fondly. Instantly, Bourne felt a perverse anger at this man who had not protected her. Who had left her alone in the world. Who had made it too easy for Bourne to step in and claim her.

There was movement in the doorway over her shoulder. Her father. Needham had obviously grown tired of waiting for them to exit the building, and so he had come in to fetch them.

Bourne took it as his cue to hammer the final nail into this marital coffin, knowing even as he did it that he was using her. That she didn’t deserve it.

That it didn’t matter.

He lifted her chin and pressed a single, soft kiss to her lips, trying not to notice when she leaned into the touch, when she breathed a little sigh as he lifted his head a touch . . .

A rifle cocked in the doorway, punctuating the words of the Marquess of Needham and Dolby.

“Dammit, Penelope, look what you’ve done now.”

 

* * *

 

Dear M—

My father thinks that we should stop writing. He’s certain that “boys like him” (meaning you) haven’t the time for “silly letters” from “silly girls” (meaning me). He says you’re only replying because you’re well-raised and you feel obligated. I realize you’re nearly sixteen, and you’ve likely got more interesting things to do than write to me, but remember: I have no such interesting things. I shall have to make do with your pity.

Sillily—P

post script—He’s not right, is he?

Needham Manor, January 1816

 

* * *

 

Dear P—

What your father doesn’t know is that the only thing that breaks up the monotony of Latin, Shakespeare and the droning on about the responsibilities boys like me shall one day have in the House of Lords are silly letters from silly girls. You of all people should know that I’ve been very poorly raised, and I rarely feel obligated.

—M

post script—He’s not right.

Eton College, January 1816

 

“You bastard.”

Bourne looked up from his whiskey in the Hound and Hen and met the angry gaze of his future father-in-law. Leaning back in his chair, he affected the look of vague amusement that had thrown off far greater opponents than the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, and waved one hand at the empty chair across the pub table. “Father,” he mocked, “please, join me.”

Bourne had been seated in a dark corner of the tavern for several hours, waiting for Needham to arrive with the papers that would restore Falconwell. As evening gave way to night, and the lively room filled with laughter and chatter, he’d waited, fingers itching to sign the papers, dreaming of what came next.

Of revenge.

Trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was betrothed.

Trying even harder not to think of the woman to whom he was betrothed—so earnest and innocent and entirely the wrong kind of wife for him.

Not that he had any idea of the right kind of wife for him.

Irrelevant. He’d not had a choice.

The only way he’d had a chance at Falconwell was through Penelope. Which made her entirely the right kind of wife for him.

And Needham knew it.

The portly marquess sat, calling over a servant girl with the wave of one enormous hand. She was smart enough to bring a glass and the bottle of whiskey with her, leaving it quickly and hurrying away to brighter—and friendlier—climes.

Needham drank deep and slammed his glass onto the hard oak table. “You bastard. This is blackmail.”

Michael affected a look of boredom. “Nonsense. I’m paying you handsomely. I’m taking your eldest, unmarried daughter off your hands.”

“You’ll make her miserable.”

“Probably.”

“She’s not strong enough for you. You’ll ruin her.”

Bourne refrained from pointing out that Penelope was stronger than most women he’d encountered. “You should have considered that before you attached her to my land.” He tapped the scarred oak. “The deed, Needham. I find myself disinclined to marry the girl without it in my possession. I want it now. I want the papers signed before Penelope stands before a vicar.”

“Else?”

Bourne turned in his chair, extending his boots out from under the table, crossing one leg over the other. “Else Penelope doesn’t stand before the vicar at all.”

Needham’s gaze was fast on his. “You wouldn’t. It would destroy her. Her mother. Her sisters.”

“Then I suggest you seriously consider your next course of action. It’s been nine years, Needham. Nine long years during which I’ve longed for this moment. For Falconwell. And if you think I’m going to allow you to get in the way of my restoring those lands to the marquessate, you are sorely mistaken. I happen to be quite friendly with the publisher of The Scandal Sheet. One word from me, and no one of good ton will come near the young ladies Marbury.” He paused and poured himself another drink, allowing the cold threat to settle between them. “Go on. Try me.”

Needham’s gaze narrowed. “So this is the way of it? You threaten everything I have in order to get what you want?”

Bourne smirked. “I play to win.”

“Ironic, is it not, that you are famous for losing?”

The barb struck true. Not that Bourne would show it. Instead, he remained silent, knowing that there was nothing like quiet to unsettle an opponent.

Needham filled the silence. “You’re an ass.” With a curse, he reached into his coat and retrieved a large, folded piece of paper.

Bourne’s triumph was heady as he read the document. Falconwell was his, upon the marriage, which would come tomorrow. His only regret was that Vicar Compton did not work at night.

When Bourne placed the document safely in his own pocket, imagining he could feel the weight of the deed against his chest, Needham spoke. “I’ll not have her sisters ruined by this.”

They were all so worried about her sisters.

What of Penelope?

Bourne ignored the question and toyed with Needham—the man who had tried so hard to keep Falconwell from him. Bourne lifted his glass. “I’m marrying Penelope. Falconwell is mine tomorrow. Tell me why I should bother caring even a bit about the reputation of your other daughters. They are your problem, are they not?” He threw back the scotch and set the empty glass on the table.

Needham leaned into the table, his tone all force. “You’re an ass, and your father would be devastated to know what you’ve become.”

Bourne snapped his gaze to Needham’s, registering, oddly, that the marquess did not share Penelope’s blue eyes. Instead, his eyes were deep brown and lit with a knowledge that Bourne knew all too well—the knowledge that he had wounded his opponent. Bourne stilled, a memory of his father coming unbidden, of him standing in the center of the massive foyer at Falconwell, in breeches and shirtsleeves, laughing up at his son.

The muscles in his jaw tensed. “Then we are lucky that he is dead.”

Needham seemed to understand that he was treading dangerously close to ground that was out-of-bounds. He relaxed away from the table. “The details of your betrothal are never to be revealed. I’ve two other daughters who need marrying. No one can know Penelope went to a fortune hunter.”

“I’ve three times the holdings you have, Needham.”

Needham’s gaze turned black. “You didn’t have the holding you wanted, did you?”

“I have it now.” Bourne pushed his chair back from the table. “You are in no position to make demands. If your daughters survive my entry into the family, it shall be because I condescend to allow it and for no other reason.”

Needham followed the movement with his gaze, his jaw clenching at the sound. “No, it shall be because I have the one thing you want more than the land.”

Bourne considered Needham for a long moment, the words echoing in their dark corner before he brushed them aside. “You can’t give me the only thing I want more than Falconwell.”

“Langford’s ruin.”

Revenge.

The word shot through him, a whisper of promise, and Bourne leaned forward, slowly. “You lie.”

“I should call you out for the suggestion.”

“It won’t be my first duel.” He waited. When Needham did not rise to the bait, he said, “I’ve looked. There’s nothing to be found that can ruin him.”

“You haven’t looked in the right places.”

It had to be a lie. “You think that with my reach, with the reach of The Angel, I have not turned London inside out for a whiff of scandal on the stench of Langford?”

“Not even the files at your precious hell would have this.”

“I know everything he’s done, everywhere he’s been. I know the man’s life better than he himself. And I am telling you, he took everything I had and spent the last nine years living a pristine life off my lands.”

Needham reached into his coat again. Withdrew another document, this one smaller. Older. “This happened far more than nine years ago.”

Bourne’s gaze narrowed on the paper, registered the Langford seal. He raised his eyes to his future father-in-law. His heart began to pound, something frighteningly akin to hope in his chest. He didn’t like the way he hung on the silence that swirled between them. Willed himself calm. “You think to tempt me with some ancient letter?”

“You want this letter, Bourne. It’s worth a dozen of your famous files. And it’s yours, assuming you keep my girls’ names out of your dirt.”

The marquess had never been one to pull his punches. He said precisely what he thought, whenever he thought it—the product of holding two of the more venerable titles in the peerage—and Bourne couldn’t help but admire the man for his straightforwardness. He knew what he wanted, aimed for it.

What the marquess did not know was that his eldest daughter had negotiated these precise terms the evening before. That document, whatever it was, would not require additional payment.

But Needham deserved his own punishment—punishment for ignoring Langford’s behavior all those years ago. Punishment for using Falconwell on the marriage mart.

Punishment that Bourne was more than willing to mete out. “You are a fool if you think I will agree without knowing what is inside. I built my fortune on scandal, thieved it from pockets of sin. I shall be the judge of whether that document is worth my effort.”

Needham opened the letter, laid it on the table, slowly. Turned it to face Bourne and held it down with one finger. Bourne couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward more quickly than he would have liked, his eyes scanning the page.

Dear God.

He looked up, met Needham’s knowing gaze. “It’s real?”

The older man nodded once. Twice.

Bourne reread the lines. Took in the scrawl across the bottom of the paper, unmistakably Langford’s, though the paper was thirty years old.

Twenty-nine.

“Why would you share this? Why give it to me?”

“You give me little choice.” Needham hedged. “I like the boy . . . I kept this close at hand because I thought that Penelope would marry him eventually, and he’d require protection. Now my girls need that protection. A father does what he must. You make sure that Penelope’s reputation is unblemished by this match and that the others’ are worthy of decent matches, and it is yours.”

Bourne turned his glass in a slow circle, watching the way it caught the candlelight of the pub for a long moment before lifting his gaze to Needham. “I shan’t wait for the girls’ weddings.”

Needham dipped his head, suddenly gracious. “I shall settle for betrothals.”

“No. Betrothals are dangerous indeed when it comes to your daughters, I hear.”

“I should walk away from you right now,” Needham threatened.

“But you won’t. We are strange bedfellows, you and I.” He sat back in his chair, tasting victory. “I want the other daughters in town as quickly as possible. I’ll get them courted. They’ll not be tarnished by their sister’s marriage.”

“Courted by decent men,” Needham qualified. “No one with half his estate in hock to The Angel.”

“Get them to town. I find I am no longer willing to wait for my revenge.”

Needham’s gaze narrowed. “I shall regret marrying her to you.”

Bourne tossed back his drink and turned the glass upside down on the wooden table. “It is unfortunate, then, that you haven’t a choice.”