A Rogue by Any Other Name #4

 

Penelope reached out and took hold of the whiskey, snatching it from Michael’s hand and considering, for a fleeting moment, drinking deep, for surely there was no better time than this to begin a life of drink.

“I will not marry you!”

“I’m afraid it’s done.”

Indignation flared. “It is most certainly not done!” She clutched the bottle to her chest and began to push past him toward the door. When he did not move, she stopped, a hairsbreadth away, her cloak brushing against him. She stared directly into his serious, hazel gaze, refusing to bend to his ridiculous will. “Step aside, Lord Bourne. I am returning home. You are a madman.”

One irritating dark brow rose. “Such tone,” he mocked. “I find I am not in a mood to move. You shall have to find another way.”

“Do not make me do something I shall regret.”

“Why regret it?” He lifted one hand, a single, warm finger tilting her chin up. “Poor Penelope,” he said, “so afraid of risk.”

Poor Penelope.

Her gaze narrowed at the hated name. “I am not afraid of risk. Nor am I afraid of you.”

One dark brow arched. “No?”

“No.”

He leaned in, close. Too close. Close enough to wrap her in bergamot and cedar. Close enough for her to notice that his eyes had turned a lovely shade of brown. “Prove it.”

His voice had gone low and gravelly, sending a thrum of excitement down her spine.

He stepped closer, close enough to touch—close enough for the heat of him to warm her in the freezing room—and the fingers of his hand slid into the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still as he hovered above her, threatening. Promising.

As though he wanted her.

As though he’d come for her.

Which, of course, he hadn’t.

If it weren’t for Falconwell, he wouldn’t be here.

And she would do well to remember that.

He didn’t want her any more than any of the other men in her life did. He was just like all the others.

And it wasn’t fair.

But she’d be damned if he took the only choice she had in the matter away from her. She lifted her hands, the bottle of whiskey firmly clasped in the left, and shoved him with all her might—not enough to move a man of his size usually, but she had the element of surprise on her side.

He stumbled back, and she rushed past him, almost reaching the door to the kitchens before he regained his footing and came after her, catching her with an “Oh, no you don’t!” and spinning her to face him.

Frustration flared. “Let me go!”

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I need you.”

“For Falconwell.” He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. She took a deep breath. He was compromising her. As though it were the Dark Ages. As though she were nothing more than chattel. As though she were worth nothing but the land attached to her hand in marriage.She paused at the thought, disappointment coursing through her.

He was worse than the others.

“Well, that is unfortunate for you,” she said, “as I am already spoken for.”

“Not after tonight you’re not,” he said. “No one will marry you after you’ve spent the night alone with me.”

They were words that should have held a hint of menace in them. Of danger. But instead, they were stated as simple fact. He was the worst kind of rogue; her reputation would be in tatters tomorrow.

He’d taken the choice from her.

As her father had earlier.

As the Duke of Leighton had all those years ago.

She was trapped by a man once again.

“Do you love him?”

The question interrupted her rising ire. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your fiancé. Do you fancy yourself very much in love?” The words were mocking, as though love and Penelope were a laughable combination. “Are you starry-eyed with happiness?”

“Does it matter?”

She surprised him. She could see it in his eyes before he crossed his arms and raised a brow. “Not in the slightest.”

A gust of cold wind ripped through the kitchen, and Penelope wrapped her cloak tightly around her. Michael noticed and muttered harshly beneath his breath—Penny imagined that the words he used were not for polite company. He removed his greatcoat, then frock coat, carefully folding them and placing them on the edge of the large sink before confronting the large oak table that sat at the center of the kitchens. It was missing a leg, and there was an axe half-buried in its scarred top. She should be surprised by the mangled piece of furniture, but there was very little about the evening that was at all normal.

Before she could think of what to say, he grasped the axe and turned toward her, his face a mass of angles in the lanternlight. “Step back.”

This was a man who expected to be heeded. He did not wait to see if she followed his direction before he lifted the axe high above his head. She pressed herself into the corner of the dark room as he attacked the furniture with a vengeance, her surprise making her unable to resist watching him.

He was built beautifully.

Like a glorious Roman statue, all strong, lean muscles outlined by the crisp linen of his shirtsleeves when he lifted the tool overhead, his hands sliding purposefully along the haft, fingers grasping tightly as he brought the steel blade down into the age-old oak with a mighty thwack, sending a splinter of oak flying across the kitchen, landing atop the long-unused stove.

He splayed one long-fingered hand flat on the table, gripping the axe once more to work the blade out of the wood. He turned his head as he stood back, making sure she was out of the way of any potential projectiles—a movement she could not help but find comforting—before confronting the furniture and taking his next swing with a mighty heave.

The blade sliced into the oak, but the table held.

He shook his head and yanked the axe out once more, this time aiming for one of the remaining table legs.

Thwack!

Penelope’s eyes went wide as the lanternlight caught the way his wool trousers wrapped tightly around his massive thighs. She should not notice . . . should not be paying attention to such obvious . . . maleness.

But she’d never seen legs like his.

Thwack!

Never imagined they could be so . . . compelling.

Thwack!

Could not help it.

Thwack!

The final blow ended with the splintering of wood, the leg twisting under the force as the massive tabletop tilted, one end dropping to the floor as Michael tossed the axe aside to grasp the leg with his bare hands and wrench it free from its seat.

He turned back to her, tapping one end of the leg against the empty palm of his left hand.

“Success,” he announced.

As if she had expected anything less.

As if he would have accepted anything less.

“Well-done,” she said, for lack of anything better.

He rested the wood on his wide shoulder. “You didn’t take the opportunity to escape.”

She froze. “No. I didn’t.” Though she couldn’t for the life of her say why.

He moved to set the table leg in the wide sink and carefully lifted his frock coat, shook out any possible wrinkles, and pulled it on.

She watched as he rolled his shoulders into the exceptionally well made clothing, underscoring the perfect fit—a fit she no longer took for granted now that she had seen hints of the Vitruvian Man beneath.

No.

She shook her head. She would not think of him as a Leonardo. He was already far too intimidating a character.

She shook her head. “I’m not marrying you.”

He straightened his cuffs, buttoned his coat carefully, and brushed a dusting of moisture from the sleeves of the coat. “It is not up for discussion.”

She tried for reason. “You would make a terrible husband.”

“I never said I would make a good one.”

“So you would condemn me to a life of unhappy marriage?”

“If needs be. Though your unhappiness is not a direct goal, if that’s any consolation.”

She blinked. He was serious. This conversation was honestly occurring. “And this is supposed to endear me to your suit?”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I do not fool myself into thinking that the goal of marriage is happiness for one or both of the parties involved. My plan is to restore Falconwell’s lands to its manor and, unfortunately for you, it requires our marriage. I shan’t be a good husband, but I also haven’t the slightest interest in keeping you under my thumb.”

Her jaw dropped at his honesty. He did not even feign kindness. Interest. Concern. She closed her mouth. “I see.”

He went on. “You can do or have whatever you wish, whenever you wish it. I’ve enough money for you to fritter it away doing whatever it is women of your ilk like to do.”

“Women of my ilk?”

“Spinsters with dreams of more.”

The air left the room on a whoosh. What a horrible, unpleasant, entirely apt description. A spinster with dreams of more. It was as though he had stood in her receiving room earlier that evening and watched as Tommy’s proposal had filled her with disappointment. With hopes of something more.

Something different.

Well, this certainly was different.He reached for her, stroking one finger down her cheek, and she flinched from the touch. “Don’t.”

“You’re going to marry me, Penelope.”

She snapped her head back, out of his reach, not wanting him to touch her. “Why should I?”

“Because, darling,” he leaned in, his voice a dark promise as he trailed that strong, warm finger down her neck and across the skin above her dress, setting her heart racing and turning her breath shallow, “no one will ever believe that I didn’t utterly compromise you.”

He grasped the edge of her gown and with a mighty tug, rent her gown and chemise in two, baring her to the waist.

She gasped, dropping the bottle to clutch her gown to her chest, whiskey sloshing down the front of her as it fell. “You . . . you . . .”

“Take your time, darling,” he drawled, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “I shall wait for you to find the word.”

Her gaze narrowed. She didn’t need a word. She needed a horsewhip.

She did the only thing she could think to do. Her hand flew of its own volition, connecting with a mighty crack!—a sound that would have been immensely satisfying if she hadn’t been so utterly mortified.

His head snapped around at the blow, his hand coming instantly to his cheek, where a red splotch was already beginning to show. Penelope stepped backward again, toward the door, her voice shaking. “I will never . . . never . . . marry someone like you. Have you forgotten everything you were? Everything you could have been? One would think you had been raised by wolves.”

She turned then, and did what she should have done the moment she’d seen him come around the house.

She ran.

Yanking open the door, she plunged into the snow beyond, heading blindly toward Needham Manor, getting only a few yards before he caught her from behind with one, steel-banded arm, and lifted her clean off the ground. It was only then that she screamed. “Let me go! You beast! Help!”

She kicked out, her heel coming in direct contact with his shin, and he swore wickedly at her ear. “Stop fighting, you harpy.”

Not on her life. She redoubled her efforts. “Help! Somebody!”

“There’s no one alive for nearly a mile. And no one awake for farther than that.” The words spurred her on, and he grunted when her elbow caught him in the side just as they returned to the kitchens.

“Put me down!” she screamed, as loudly as she could, directly into his ear.

He turned his head away and kept walking, lifting the lantern and the leg he’d hacked from the table as he passed through the kitchen. “No.”

She struggled more, but his grip was firm. “How do you intend to do it?” she asked. “Ravish me here, in your empty house, and return me to my father’s home slightly worse for wear?” They were headed down a long hallway, lined on one side with a series of wooden slats that marked the landing of a servants’ stairwell. She reached out and clasped one of the slats, hanging on for all she was worth.

He stopped walking, waiting for her to release her grip. When he spoke, there was immense patience in his tone. “I don’t ravish women. At least, not without them asking very nicely.”

The statement gave her pause.

Of course he wouldn’t ravish her.

He’d likely not had a single moment of considering her as anything more than plain, proper Penelope, the only thing standing between him and the return of his familial right.

She wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse.But it did make her heart ache. He didn’t care for her. Didn’t want her. Didn’t even think highly enough of her to pretend those things. To feign interest. To attempt to seduce her.

He was using her for Falconwell.

Wasn’t Tommy?

Of course he was. Tommy had looked deep into her gaze and saw not the blue of her eyes but the blue of the Surrey sky above Falconwell. Certainly, he’d seen his friend, but that wasn’t why he’d offered for her hand.

At least Michael was honest about it.

“This is the best offer you’ll get, Penelope,” he said softly, and she heard the edge in his tone, the urgency.

The truth.

Her grip loosened. “Your reputation is deserved, you know.”

“Yes. It is. And this is not at all the worst thing I’ve done. You should know that.”

The words should have been prideful. If not that, unemotional. But they weren’t. They were honest. And there was something in them, there and then gone, something that she wasn’t entirely certain she’d heard. Something she would not allow herself to recognize.

But she released the rail of the banister, and he set her down several steps above him.

She was actually considering it. Like a madwoman.

Actually imagining what it would be to marry this new, strange Michael. Except, she couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t even begin to conceive of what it would be like to marry a man who took an axe to a kitchen table without a second thought. And carried screaming women off into abandoned houses.

It would not be a normal marriage of the ton, that was certain.

She met his gaze, straight on, thanks to the step upon which he’d deposited her. “If I marry you, I’ll be ruined.”

“The great secret of society is that ruination is not nearly as bad as they make it out to be. You’ll have all the freedoms that come with a ruined reputation. They are not inconsiderable.”

He would know.

She shook her head. “It’s not simply me. My sisters will be ruined as well. They’ll never find good matches if we marry. All of society will think they’re as . . . easily scandalized . . . as I was.”

“Your sisters are not my concern.”

“But they are my concern.”

He raised a brow. “Are you certain that you are in a condition to be making demands?”

She wasn’t. Not at all. But she soldiered on nonetheless, squaring her shoulders. “You forget that no vicar in Britain will marry us if I refuse.”

“You think I would not spread it across London that I thoroughly ruined you this evening if you did so?”

“I do.”

“You think wrong. The story I would concoct would make the most hardened of prostitutes blush.”

It was Penelope who blushed, but she refused to be cowed. She took a deep breath and played her most powerful card. “I don’t doubt it, but in ruining me, you would also ruin your chances at Falconwell.”

He stiffened. Penelope was breathless with excitement as she waited for his reply.

“Name your price.”

She had won.

She had won.

She wanted to crow her success, her defeat of this great, immovable beast of a man. But she retained some sense of self-preservation. “Tonight must not affect my sisters’ reputations.”

He nodded. “You have my word on it.”

She clenched the torn fabric of her dress in a tight fist. “The word of a notorious scoundrel?”

He took a step up, coming closer, crowding her in the darkness. She forced herself to remain still when he spoke, his voice at once danger and promise. “There is honor among thieves, Penelope. Doubly so for gamblers.”

She swallowed, proximity squelching her courage. “I—I’m neither of those.”

“Nonsense,” he whispered, and she imagined she could feel his lips at her temple. “It appears you are a born gamer. You simply require instruction.”

No doubt he could teach her more than she had ever imagined.

She pushed the thought—and the images that came with it—from her mind as he added, “Do we have an agreement?”

Triumph was gone, chased by trepidation.

She wished she could see his eyes. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” There was no emotion in the word. No hint of sorrow or guilt. Just cold honesty.

He offered her his hand once more, and the wide, flat palm beckoned.

Hades, offering pomegranate seeds.

If she took it, everything would change. Everything would be different.

There would be no going back. Though, somewhere in her mind, she knew there was no going back anyway.

Clutching her dress together, she took his hand.He led her up the stairs, his lantern the only refuge from the pitch-blackness beyond, and Penelope could not help but cling to him. She wished that she’d had the courage to release him, to follow under her own control, to resist him in this small thing, but there was something about this walk—something mysterious and dark in a way that had nothing to do with light—that she could not force herself to let him go.

He turned back at the foot of the stairs, his eyes shadowed in the candlelight. “Still afraid of the dark?”

The reference to their childhood unsettled her. “It was a fox hole. Anything could have been down there.”

He started to climb the stairs. “For example?”

“A fox, perhaps?”

“There were no foxes in that hole.”

He had checked it first. That had been the only reason why she’d allowed him to convince her to enter it at all. “Well . . . something else then. A bear, perhaps.”

“Or perhaps you were afraid of the dark.”

“Perhaps. But I am not any longer.”

“No?”

“I was out in the dark tonight, wasn’t I?”

They turned down a long hallway. “So you were.” He released her hand then, and she did not like the way she missed his touch as he turned the handle of a nearby door and pushed it open with a long, ominous creak. He spoke low in her ear. “I will say, Penelope, that while it is unnecessary for you to be afraid of the dark, you are quite correct to be afraid of the things that thrive in it.”

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.