A Rogue by Any Other Name #7

Dear M—

I’ve just seen you off, and I came inside straightaway to write.

I haven’t anything to say, really, nothing that every other person in Surrey hasn’t already said. It seems silly to say, “I am sorry,” doesn’t it? Of course, everyone is sorry. It’s horrible, what’s happened.

I am not only sorry for your loss, however; I am sorry that we were not able to talk when you were home. I am sorry that I could not attend the funeral . . . it’s a stupid rule, and I wish I had been born a male so I could have been there (I plan to have a chat with Vicar Compton regarding that idiocy). I am sorry I could not be—more of a friend.

I am here now, on the page, where girls are allowed. Please write when you have time. Or inclination.

Your friend—P

Needham Manor, April 1816

No reply

 

Surely there had never been a longer carriage ride than this—four interminable, deathly silent hours from Surrey to London. Penelope would rather have been trapped in a mail coach with Olivia and a collection of ladies’ magazines.

She slid a glance across the wide, dark interior of the conveyance, taking in her hours-old husband, leaning back against his seat, long legs extended, eyes closed, corpse-still, and attempted to quiet her rioting thoughts, which seemed to be focused on a handful of extraordinarily disquieting things. Namely:

She was married.

Which led to,

She was the Marchioness of Bourne.

Which explained why,

She was traveling in a conveyance that was stuffed to the gills with her possessions and would soon be in London, where she would live, with her new husband.

Which brought her to,Michael was her new husband.

Which meant,

She would share her wedding night with Michael.

Perhaps he’d kiss her again. Touch her again.

More.

One would think he’d have to, wouldn’t he? If they were married. It was what husbands and wives did, after all.

She hoped.

Oh, dear.

The thought was enough to make her wish she had the courage to throw open the door to the carriage and toss herself right out of the vehicle.

They’d been married so quickly and so efficiently that she barely remembered the ceremony—barely remembered promising to love, comfort, honor, and obey, which was probably for the best, as the love portion of the promise was something of a lie.

He’d married her for land and nothing else.

And it did not matter that he’d touched her and made her feel things she’d never imagined a body could feel. In the end, this was precisely the kind of marriage she’d been raised to have—a marriage of convenience. A marriage of duty. A marriage of propriety.

He’d made that more than clear.

The coach bounced over a particularly uneven bit of road, and Penelope gave a little squeak as she nearly slid off the extravagantly upholstered seat. Regaining her composure, she rearranged herself, planting both of her feet squarely on the floor of the coach and throwing a glance toward Michael, who had not moved, except to open his eyes to slits—presumably to ensure that she had not injured herself.

When he was certain that she was not in need of a surgeon, he closed his eyes once more.

He was ignoring her, his silence easy and utterly off-putting.

He couldn’t even feign interest in her.

Perhaps, if she weren’t so consumed by nervousness at the events of the day, she might have been able to remain quiet herself—to match him silence for silence.

Perhaps.

Penelope would never know, because she was unable to remain silent for a moment longer.

She cleared her throat, as though preparing to make a public statement. He opened his eyes and slid his gaze to her but did not move otherwise. “I think it would be best if we took this time to discuss our plan.”

“Our plan?”

“The plan to ensure that my sisters have a successful season. You do recall your promise?” Her hand moved to the pocket of her traveling dress, where the coin he’d given her two nights earlier weighed heavily against her thigh.

Something she couldn’t recognize played across his face. “I recall the promise.”

“What is the plan?”

He stretched, his legs extending even farther across the coach. “I plan to find husbands for your sisters.”

She blinked. “You mean suitors.”

“If you like. I’ve two men in mind.”

Curiosity flared. “What are they like?”

“Titled.”

“And?” she prompted.

“And in the market for wives.”

He was exasperating. “Do they have sound, husbandly traits?”

“In the sense that they are male and unmarried.”

Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “Those are not the qualities to which I refer.”

“Qualities.”

“The characteristics that make for a good husband.”

“You are expert in the subject, I see.” He dipped his head, mocking her. “Please. Enlighten me.”

She pulled herself up, ticking the items off on her fingers as she went. “Kindness. Generosity. A modicum of good humor—”

“Only a modicum of it? Ill humor on say, Tuesdays and Thursdays would be acceptable?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Good humor,” she repeated before pausing, then adding, “A warm smile.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Though, in your case, I would accept any smile at all.”

He did not smile.

“Do they have these qualities?” she prodded. He did not reply. “Will my sisters like them?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“Do you like them?”

“Not particularly.”

“You are an obstinate man.”

“Consider it one of my qualities.”

He turned away, and she raised a brow in his direction. She couldn’t help it. No one in her life had ever irritated her quite so much as this man. Her husband. Her husband, who had plucked her, without remorse, from her life. Her husband, whom she’d agreed to marry because she did not want her sisters to suffer another blow to their reputations at her hands. Her husband, who had agreed to help her. Only now did she realize that by help, he’d meant, arrange another loveless marriage. Or two.She wasn’t having it.

She couldn’t do much, but she could make certain that Olivia and Pippa had their chance at happy marriages.

The chance she hadn’t had.

“First, you don’t even know if these men will have them.”

“They will.” He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes once more.

“How do you know that?”

“Because they owe me a great deal of money, and I will forgive their debts in exchange for marriage.”

Penelope’s jaw dropped. “You will buy their fidelity?”

“I’m not certain that fidelity is part of the bargain.”

He said it without opening his eyes—eyes that remained closed for the long minutes during which she considered the horrible words.

She leaned forward and poked him in the leg with one finger. Hard.His eyes opened.

There was no room for triumph in her as she was too full of outrage. “No,” she said, the word short and sharp in the small carriage.

“No?”

“No,” she repeated. “You gave me your word that our marriage wouldn’t ruin my sisters.”

“And it will not. Indeed, marriage to these men would make them quite revered in society.”

“Marriage to titled men who owe you money and might not be faithful will ruin them in other ways. In the ways that matter.”

One of his dark brows rose in that irritating expression she was coming to dislike. “The ways that matter?”

She would not be cowed. “Yes. The ways that matter. My sisters will not have marriages built on stupid agreements related to gaming. It’s bad enough that I have one of those. They shall choose their husbands. They shall have marriage built on more. Built on—” She stopped, not wanting him to laugh at her.

“Built on . . . ?”

She did not speak. Would not give him the pleasure of a reply. Waited for him to press her.

Oddly, he did not. “I suppose you have a plan to capture these men with qualities?”

She didn’t. Not really. “Of course I do.”

“Well then?”

“You reenter society. Prove to them that our marriage was not forced.”

He raised a brow. “Your dowry included my land. You think they will not see that I forced you into wedlock?”

She worried her lip, hating his logic. And she said the first thing that came to her mind. The first, ridiculous, utterly insane thing that came to her mind. “We must feign a love match.”

He showed none of the shock that she felt at the words. “How is it—I saw you in the village square and decided to mend my wicked ways?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “That seems—reasonable.”

That brow arched once more. “Does it? You think people will believe it when the truth is that I ruined you on an abandoned estate before your father stormed the house with a rifle?”

She hesitated. “I would not call it storming.”

“He fired several rounds at my house. If that isn’t storming, I don’t know what is.”

It was a salient point. “Fair. He stormed. But that is not the story we are going to tell.” She hoped the words came out emphatically even as she silently pleaded, Please, say it isn’t. “If they’re to have a chance at real marriages, they need this. You gave me your word. Your marker.”

He was silent for a long while, and she thought he might refuse, offering her marriage for her sisters or nothing at all. And what would she do? What could she do now that she was beholden to him and his will—his power—as her husband?

Finally, he leaned back once more, all mockery when he said, “By all means. Devise our magical tale. I am all attention.” He closed his eyes, shutting her out.

She would have given everything she held dear for a single, biting retort in that moment—for something that would have stung him as quickly and deftly as his words. Of course, nothing sprang to mind. Instead, she ignored him and plunged ahead, building the story. “Since we have known each other all our lives, we might have become reacquainted on St. Stephen’s.”

His eyes opened, barely. “St. Stephen’s?”

“It might be best if our story began prior to the announcement that Falconwell was . . . part of my dowry.” Penelope pretended to inspect a speck on her traveling cloak, hating the fullness in her throat at the words, the reminder of her true worth. “I’ve always liked Christmas, and the Feast of St. Stephen in Coldharbour is quite . . . festive.”

“Figgy pudding and the rest, I assume?” The question was not a question at all.

“Yes. And caroling,” she added.

“With small children?”

“Many of them, yes.”

“It sounds like precisely the kind of thing I would attend.”

She did not miss his sarcasm, but she refused to be cowed by it. She gave him a firm look and could not resist saying, “If you were ever at Falconwell for Christmas, I imagine you would enjoy it very much.”He seemed to consider responding, but he held back the words, and Penelope felt a wave of triumph course through her at the crack in his cool demeanor—a minor victory. He closed his eyes and leaned back once more. “So, there I was, feasting on St. Stephen’s Day and there you were, my childhood sweetheart.”

“We weren’t childhood sweethearts.”

“Truth is irrelevant. What is relevant is whether or not they believe it.”

The logic in the words grated. “The first rule of scoundrels?”

“The first rule of gambling.”

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” she said, tartly.

“Come now, you think anyone will care to confirm the part of our tale that began during our childhood?”

“I suppose not,” she grumbled.

“They won’t. And besides, it’s the closest thing to the truth in the entire thing.”

It was?

She would be lying if she said that she had never imagined marrying him, the first boy she’d ever known, the one who made her smile and laugh as a child. But he’d never imagined it, had he? It didn’t matter. Now, as she stared at the man, she was unable to find any trace of the boy she’d once known . . . the boy who might have considered her sweet.

He moved on, pulling her from her thoughts. “So, there you were, all blue-eyed and lovely, veritably glowing in the flames of the figgy pudding, and I couldn’t bear another moment of my unbridled, unsaddled, suddenly unwelcome state of bachelorhood. In you, I saw my heart, my purpose, my very soul.”

Penelope knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t stop the wash of warmth that flooded her cheeks at the words, quiet and low in the close quarters of the carriage.

“That—that sounds fine.”

He made a noise. She wasn’t sure what it meant. “I was wearing an evergreen velvet.”

“Very becoming.”

She ignored him. “You had a sprig of holly in your lapel.”

“A nod to the holiday spirit.”

“We danced.”

“A jig?”

His mocking tone pulled her out of her little fantasy, reminding her of the truth. “Possibly.”

He sat up at that. “Come now, Penelope,” he said, chiding, “it was mere weeks ago, and you don’t remember?”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Fine. A reel.”

“Ah. Yes. Much more exciting than a jig.”

He was exasperating.

“Tell me, why was I there, in Coldharbour, celebrating the Feast of St. Stephen?”

She was beginning to dislike this conversation. “I don’t know.”

“You know I wore a sprig of holly in my lapel . . . surely you considered my motivation in this particular story?”

She hated the way the words oozed out of him, condescending, bordering on scathing. Perhaps that was why she said, “You were here to visit your parents’ graves.”

He stiffened at the words, the only movement in the carriage the slight sway of their bodies with the rhythm of the wheels. “My parents’ graves.”

She did not back down. “Yes. You do it every year at Christmas. You leave roses on your mother’s marker, dahlias on your father’s.”

“I do?” She looked away, out the window. “I must have an excellent connection at a nearby hothouse.”

“You do. My younger sister—Philippa—grows the loveliest flowers, year-round, at Needham Manor.”

He leaned forward, mocking in his whisper. “The first rule of falsehoods is that we only tell them about ourselves, darling.”

She watched the spindly birch trees at the road’s edge fading into the white snow beyond. “It’s not a falsehood. Pippa is a horticulturalist.”

There was a long silence before she looked at him again, discovering him watching her intently. “If someone were to have visited my parents’ gravesites on St. Stephen’s, what would they have found there?”

She could lie. But she didn’t want to. As silly as it was, she wanted him to know that she’d thought of him every Christmas . . . that she’d wondered about him. That she’d cared. Even if he hadn’t bothered to. “Roses and dahlias. Just as you leave them every year.”

It was his turn to look out the window, then, and she took the opportunity to study his features, his firm jaw, the hard look in his eyes, the way his lips—lips she knew from experience were full and soft and wonderful—pressed into a straight line. He was so guarded, the tension in him so unyielding, and she wished she could shake him into emotion, into some shift in his rigid control.

There had been a time when he had been so fluid, filled with unbridled movement. But watching him, it was nearly impossible to believe that he was the same person. She would have given everything she had to know what he was thinking in that moment.

He did not look at her when he spoke. “Well, you seem to have thought of everything. I shall do my best to memorize the tale of our love at first sight. I assume we will be sharing it a great deal.”

She hesitated, then, “Thank you, my lord.”

He snapped his head around. “My lord? My my, Penelope. You intend to be something of a ceremonial wife, don’t you?”

“It is expected that a wife show deference to her husband.”

Michael’s brows pulled together at that. “I suppose that’s how you’ve been trained to behave.”

“You forget I was to be a duchess.”

“I’m sorry you had to settle for a besmirched marquessate.”

“I shall endeavor to persevere,” she replied, the words dry as sand. They rode in silence for a long while before she said, “You will need to return to society. For my sisters.”

“You have grown rather comfortable making demands of me.”

“I married you. I should think you could make a sacrifice or two, considering I gave up everything so you could have your land.”

“Your perfect marriage, you mean?”

She sat back. “It wouldn’t have been perfect.” He said nothing, but his keen gaze made her add quietly, “I do not doubt that it would have been more perfect than this, however.”

Tommy wouldn’t irritate her nearly as much.

They rode in silence for a long while before he said, “I shall attend the requisite functions.” He was looking out the window, the portrait of boredom. “We’ll start with Tottenham. He is as close to a friend as I have.”

The description was discomfiting. Michael had never been one to be without friends. He had been bright and vibrant and charming and filled with life . . . and anyone who knew him as a child had loved him. She had loved him. He had been her dearest friend. What had happened to him? How had he become this cold dark man?

She pushed the thought aside. Viscount Tottenham was one of the most-sought-after bachelors of the ton, with a mother who was above reproach. “A fine choice. Does he owe you money?”

“No.” Silence fell. “We will dine with him this week.”

“You have an invitation?”

“Not yet.”

“Then how—”

He sighed. “Let’s end this before it starts, shall we? I own the most lucrative gaming hell in London. There are few men in Britain who cannot find time to speak to me.”

“And what of their wives?”

“What of them?”

“You think they won’t judge you?”

“I think they all want me in their beds, so they will find room for me in their drawing rooms.”

Her head snapped back at the words, at their indelicacy. At the idea that he would say such a thing to his wife. At the idea that he would spend time in other wives’ beds. “I think that you mistake the value of your presence in a lady’s bedchamber.”

He raised a brow. “I think you will feel differently after tonight.”

The specter of their wedding night loomed in the words, and Penelope hated that her pulse quickened even as she wanted to spit at him. “Yes, well, however you might ensorcel the women of the ton, I can guarantee you that they are far more discerning in their company in public than they are in private. And you are not good enough.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said it. But he made her so very angry.When he looked at her, there was something powerful in his gaze. Something akin to admiration. “I’m happy you’ve discovered the truth, wife. It’s best to remove any false hope that I might be a decent man or a decent husband early in our time together.” He paused, brushing a speck from his sleeve. “I don’t need the women.”

“Women are the gatekeepers to society. You do, in fact, need them.”

“That’s why I have you.”

“I’m not enough.”

“Why not? Aren’t you the perfect English lady?”

She gritted her teeth at the description and the way it underscored her once-and-future purpose. Her utter lack of value. “I’m inches from the shelf. It’s been years since I was belle of the ball.”

“You’re Marchioness of Bourne now. I’ve no doubt you’ll fast become a person of interest, darling.”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “I’m not your darling.”

His eyes widened. “You wound me. Don’t you remember St. Stephen’s? Did our reel mean nothing to you?”

She would not be sorry if he fell right out the side of the carriage and rolled into a ditch. Indeed, if he did that, she would not stop to retrieve his remains.

She didn’t care if Falconwell were ever returned to him.

But she cared for her sisters, and she would not allow their reputations to be clouded by that of her husband. She took a deep breath, willing herself calm. “You’ll need to prove your worth again. They’ll need to see it. To believe I see it.”

He cut her a look. “My worth is three times that of most respected men of the ton.”

She shook her head. “I mean your value. As a marquess. As a man.”

He went still. “Anyone who knows my tale can tell you that I haven’t much value as either of those things. I lost it all a decade ago. Perhaps you hadn’t heard?”

The words oozed from him, all condescension, and she knew the question was rhetorical, but she would not be cowed. “I have heard.” She lifted her chin to meet his gaze head-on. “And you are willing to let one foolish, childhood peccadillo cloud your image for the rest of eternity? And mine as well, now?”

He shifted, leaning toward her, all danger and threat. She held her own, refusing to sit back. To look away. “I lost it all. Hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth. On one card. It was colossal. A loss for the history books. And you call it a peccadillo?”

She swallowed. “Hundreds of thousands?”

“Give or take.”

She resisted the urge to ask precisely how much was to be given or taken. “On one card?”

“One card.”

“Perhaps not a peccadillo, then. But foolish, to be sure.” She had no idea where the words came from, but they came nonetheless, and she knew that her choices were to brazen it through or show her fear. Miraculously, she kept her gaze steady, trained upon him.

His voice went low, almost a growl. “Did you just call me a fool?”

Her heart was pounding—so hard that she was surprised he could not hear it in the close quarters of the carriage. She waved one hand, hoping it appeared nonchalant. “It isn’t the point. If we’re to convince society that my sisters are worth marrying, you must prove that you’re a more-than-worthy escort for them.” She paused. “You need to make amends.”He was silent for a long time. Long enough for her to think she might have gone too far. “Amends.”

She nodded. “I shall help you.”

“Do you always negotiate so well?”

“Not at all. In fact, I never negotiate. I simply give in.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t given in once in three days.”

She’d certainly been less biddable than usual. “Not true. I agreed to marry you, didn’t I?”

“So you did.”

She went warm at the words, the way they made her so very aware of him.

Her husband.

“What else is there?”

Confusion flared. “My lord?”

“I find I do not like the constant surprises that come from our arrangement. Let us put the cards on the table, shall we? You want a successful season for your sisters, good matches for them. You want my return to society. What else?”

“There is nothing else.”

A flash of something—displeasure, maybe?—crossed his face. “If your opponent makes it impossible for you to lose, Penelope, you should wager.”

“Another rule of gambling?”

“Another rule of scoundrels. One that also holds true with husbands. Doubly so with husbands like me.”

Husbands like him. She wondered what that meant, but before she could ask, he pressed on. “What else, Penelope? Ask it now, or not again.”

The question was so broad, so open . . . and its answers so myriad. She hesitated, her mind racing. What did she want? Really want.

What did she want from him?

More.

The word whispered through her, not simply an echo from that evening that already seemed so far away . . . that evening that had changed everything, but an opportunity. A chance to be more than a puppet on strings for him and for her family and for society. A chance to have remarkable experiences. A remarkable life.

She met his gaze, all golds and greens. “You might not like it.”

“I’m certain I shan’t.”

“But, as you asked . . .”

“It is my own fault, I assure you.”

She pursed her lips together. “I want more than a plain, proper life as a plain, proper wife.”

That seemed to set him back. “What does that mean?”

“I’ve spent my life as a model young lady . . . edging into a model spinster. And it was . . . Awful.” The words surprised her. She’d never thought it awful before. She’d never imagined anything else. Until now. Until him. And he was offering her a chance to change it. “I want a different sort of marriage. One where I’m allowed to be more than a lady who spends her days on needlepoint and charitable works and knows little more than her husband’s favorite pudding.”

“I don’t care if you do needlepoint or not, and if I recall correctly, the activity and you do not exactly suit.”

She smiled. “An excellent start.”

“If you never give a moment of your time to charity . . . I honestly can’t imagine I’d care a whit.”

The smile widened. “Also promising. And I assume you haven’t a favorite pudding?”

“Not one of note, no.” He paused, watching her. “There is more, I imagine?”

She liked the way the word sounded on his lips. The liquid curl of it. Its promise.

“I hope so. And I should like very much if you would show it to me.”

His gaze darkened almost instantly to a lovely mossy green. “I am not certain I follow.”

“It’s quite simple, really. I want the adventure.”

“Which adventure?”

“The one you promised me at Falconwell.”

He leaned back, a gleam of amusement in his eyes—a gleam she recognized from their childhood. “Name your adventure, Lady Penelope.”

She corrected him. “Lady Bourne, please.”

There was a slight widening of his eyes. Just enough for her to see his surprise before he tilted his head. “Lady Bourne, then.”

She liked the sound of the name. Even though she shouldn’t. Even though he’d given her no reason to.

“I should like to see your gaming hell.”

He cocked a brow. “Why?”

“It seems like it would be an adventure.”

“It would indeed.”

“I suppose women don’t frequent the place?”

“Not women like you, no.”

Women like you.

She didn’t like the insinuation in the words. The implication that she was plain and boring and unlikely to do anything adventurous . . . ever. She soldiered on.

“Nevertheless, I should like to go.” She thought for a moment, then added, “At night.”

“Why should time of day matter?”

“Events of the evening are much more adventurous. Much more illicit.”

“What do you know about illicitness?”

“Not much. But I feel confident that I shall be a quick study.” Her heart pounded as the memory of their first night together—of the pleasure she’d felt at his hands—flashed, before she recalled the way he’d left her that evening, having ensured their marriage. She cleared her throat, suddenly unsettled. “What luck that I’ve a husband who can give me a tour of these dark excitements.”

“What luck, indeed,” he drawled. “If only your desire for adventure did not run directly counter the respectability with which you insist I cloak myself, I would happily oblige. Unfortunately, I must refuse.”

Anger flared.

His offer for more had not been a real offer at all. He was willing to entertain her whims, willing to pay a price for their marriage, for Falconwell—but only the price he set.

He was no different than any of the others. Than her father, than her fiancé, than any of the other gentlemen who had tried to court her in the ensuing years.

And she wasn’t having it.

She had accepted being forced into marriage by events she had not been able to control. She had accepted a marriage to a notorious scoundrel. But she would not be made a pawn.Not when he so tempted her to be a player.

“It was part of our agreement. You promised me on the night I agreed to marry you. You told me I could have whatever life I wanted, whatever adventures I desired. You promised me you’d allow me to explore, that assuming the besmirched title of Marchioness of Bourne might ruin my reputation, but it would give me the world.”

“That was before you insisted on my respectability.” He leaned forward. “You want your sisters respectably married. Do not bet what you are not willing to lose, darling. Third rule of gambling.”

“And of scoundrels,” she said, irritated.

“Those as well.” He watched her for a long moment, as though testing her anger. “Your problem is that you do not know what you really want. You know what you should want. But it’s not the same as the real desire, is it?”

He was an infuriating man.

“Such pique,” he said, amusement in his tone as he leaned back.

She leaned forward and said, “At least tell me about it.”

“About what?”

“About your hell.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I imagine it would be very similar to a long carriage ride with a bride with a newfound taste for adventure.”

She laughed, surprised by the jest. “Not that kind of hell. Your gaming hell.”

“What would you like to know about it?”

“I want to know everything.” She smiled at him, all teeth. “You wouldn’t have to tell me about it if you brought me there to experience it firsthand.” The corner of his lips lifted once, just barely. She noticed. “I see you agree.”

He cocked a brow. “Not entirely.”

“But you’ll take me, nonetheless?”

“You are dogged.” He stared at her for a long time, considering his answer. Finally, he said, “I’ll take you.” She smiled broadly and he hastened to add, “Once.”It was enough.

“Is it very exciting?”

“If you like to gamble,” he said simply, and Penelope wrinkled her nose.

“I’ve never gambled.”

“Nonsense. You’ve wagered every minute we have been together. First for your sisters and today, for yourself.”

She considered the words. “I suppose I have. And I’ve won.”

“That’s because I’ve let you win.”

“I gather that does not happen at your hell?”

He gave a little huff of laughter. “No. We prefer to allow gamers to lose.”

“Why?”

He cut her a look. “Because their loss is our gain.”

“You mean money?”

“Money, land, jewels . . . whatever they are foolish enough to wager.”

It sounded fascinating. “And it is called The Angel?”

“The Fallen Angel.”

She considered the name for a long moment. “Did you name it?”

“No.”

“It seems appropriate for you.”

“I imagine that’s why Chase chose it. It’s appropriate for all of us.”

“All of you?”

He sighed, opening one eye and leveling her with a look. “You are voracious.”

“I prefer curious.”

He sat up, fiddling with the edge of one sleeve. “There are four of us.”

“And you are all . . . fallen?” The last came on a whisper.

Hazel eyes found hers in the dim carriage. “In a sense.”

She considered the answer, the way he said the words with neither shame nor pride. Just simple, unbridled honesty. And she realized that there was something very tempting in the idea of his being fallen . . . of his being a scoundrel. Of his having lost everything—hundreds of thousands of pounds!—and gained it all back in such a short time. He’d somehow restored it all. With no help from society. With nothing but his unflagging will and his fierce commitment to his cause.

Not only tempting.

Heroic.

She met his gaze, suddenly seeing him in an entirely new light.

He shot forward, and the carriage became instantly small. “Don’t do that.”She sat back, pressing away from him. “Don’t do what?”

“I can see you romanticizing it. I can see you turning The Angel into something it is not. Turning me into something I am not.”

She shook her head, unnerved by the way he had read her thoughts. “I wasn’t . . .”

“Of course you were. You think I haven’t seen the same look in the eyes of a dozen other women? A hundred of them? Don’t do it,” he said firmly. “You shall only be disappointed.”

Silence fell. He uncrossed his long, booted legs and recrossed them, one ankle over the other, before closing his eyes again. Shutting her out.

She watched him quietly, marveling at his stillness, as though they were nothing more than traveling companions, this nothing more than an ordinary carriage ride. And perhaps he was right, for there was nothing about this man that felt husbandly, and she certainly felt nothing like a wife.

Wives were more certain of their purpose, she imagined.

Not that she had felt any more certain of her purpose the last time she’d come close to becoming a wife. The last time she’d come close to marriage to a man she hadn’t known.

The thought gave her pause. He was no different than the duke, this new, grown-up Michael, who was not at all the boy she’d once known. She searched his face now for some hint of her old friend, for the deep-set dimples in his cheeks, for the easy, companionable smiles, for the wide-mouthed laughter that never failed to get him into trouble.

He wasn’t there.

He was replaced by this cold, hard, unyielding man who cut a wide swath through the lives of those around him and took what he wanted without care.

Her husband.

Suddenly, Penelope felt very alone—more alone than she’d ever been before—here in this carriage with this strange man, far from her parents and her sisters and Tommy and everything she’d ever known, rattling toward London and what was bound to be the strangest day of her life.

Everything had changed that morning. Everything.

Forevermore, her life would be thought of in two parts—before she was married, and after.

Before, there was Dolby House and Needham Manor and her family. And after, there was . . . Michael.

Michael, and no one else.

Michael, and who knew what else.

Michael, stranger turned husband.

An ache settled deep in her chest, sadness perhaps? No. Longing.Married.

She took a deep breath, and it shuddered out of her, the sound rattling around the close confines of the carriage.

He opened his eyes, capturing her gaze before she could pretend to be asleep. “What is it?”

She supposed she should be touched that he even asked, but in fact, she found she could feel nothing but annoyance at his insensitive tone. Did he not understand that this was a rather complicated afternoon as far as emotions went? “You may lay claim to my life, my dowry, and my person, my lord. But I am still keeper of my thoughts, am I not?”

He stared at her for a long while, and Penelope had the distinct, uncomfortable impression that he was able to read her thoughts. “Why did you require such a large dowry?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why were you unmarried?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Surely you are the only person in Britain who does not know the story.” He did not reply, and she filled the silence with the truth. “I was the victim of the worst sort of broken engagement.”

“There are ‘sorts’ of broken engagements?”

“Oh, yes. Mine was particularly bad. Not the breaking part . . . circumstances allowed me to call it off. But the rest . . . marriage to a woman he actually loved within a week? That was not so complimentary. It took me years to learn to ignore the whispers.”

“What could people have possibly had to whisper about?”

“Namely, why I—a perfect English bride, pampered and dowered and titled and all—was unable to retain control over a duke for even one month.”

“And? Why couldn’t you?”

She looked away from him, unable to say the words to his face. “He was madly in love with another. It seems that love indeed conquers all. Even aristocratic marriages.”

“You believe that?”

“I do. I’ve seen them together. They’re . . .” she searched for the word. “Perfect.” He did not reply, so she pushed on. “At least, I like to think so.”

“Why should it matter to you?”

“It shouldn’t, I suppose . . . but I like to think that if they weren’t perfect together . . . if they did not love each other so very much . . . then he would not have done what he did, and . . .”

“And you would be married.”

She looked at him, a wry smile on her lips. “I’m married anyway.”

“But you’d have the marriage you were raised to have instead of this one, a scandal waiting to be discovered.”

“I did not know it, but that one was a scandal waiting to be discovered, too.” At his questioning look, she said, “The duke’s sister. She was unmarried, not even out, and with child. He wanted our marriage to ensure that there was more to the House of Leighton than her scandal.”

“He planned to use you to cover up the scandal? Without telling you?”

“Is that any different than using me for money? Or land?”

“Of course it’s different. I didn’t lie.”

It was true, and for some reason, it mattered. Enough to make her realize that she would not exchange this marriage for that long-ago one.

It was growing cold in the carriage, and she adjusted her skirts, trying to leech the very last of the heat from the warming brick at her feet. The action bought time to think. “My sisters, Victoria and Valerie?” She waited for him to recall the twins. When he nodded, she continued. “They had their first season immediately following my scandal. And they suffered for it. My mother was so terrified they’d be colored by my tragedy, she urged them to take the first offers they received. Victoria was matched with an aging earl, desperate for an heir, Valerie to a viscount—handsome, but with more money than sense. I’m not sure they are happy . . . but I don’t imagine they ever expected to be—not once marriage became a real possibility.” She paused, thinking. “We all knew better. We weren’t raised to believe that marriage was anything more than a business arrangement, but I made it impossible for them to have more.”

She kept talking, not entirely understanding why she felt she should tell him the whole story. “My marriage was to be the most calculated, the most businesslike of them all. I was to become the Duchess of Leighton. I was to keep quiet and do my husband’s bidding and breed the next Duke of Leighton. And I would have done it. Happily.” She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “The duke—he had other plans.”

“You escaped.”

No one had ever referred to it in such a way. She’d never admitted it, the quiet comfort that had come in the dissolution of the engagement, even as her world had come crashing down around her. She’d never wanted her mother to accuse her of being selfish. Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to agree with Michael. “I’m not sure that most women would call what happened to me an escape. It’s funny how a little thing like a broken engagement can change everything.”

“Not so little, I imagine.”

She met his gaze again, realizing that he was paying close attention to her. “No . . . I suppose not.”

“How did it change you?”

“I was no longer a prize. No longer the ideal aristocratic bride.” She ran her hands over her skirts, smoothing out the wrinkles that had appeared during their journey. “I was no longer perfect. Not in their eyes.”

“In my experience, perfection in the eyes of society is highly overrated.” He was staring at her, his hazel eyes glittering with something she could not identify.

“That’s easy for you to say; you walked away from them.”

He ignored the shift of focus, refused to allow the conversation to turn to him. “All those things—everything you just said—that’s how your broken engagement changed you for them. How did it change you, Penelope?”

The question gave her pause. In the years since the Duke of Leighton had caused the scandal of the ages and destroyed any chance of Penelope’s becoming his duchess, she’d never once asked herself how it had changed her.

But now, as she looked across the carriage at her new husband—a man she’d approached in the dead of night and whom she’d wed only days later—the truth whispered through her.

It had made happiness a possibility.

She swallowed back the thought, and he leaned forward quickly, almost eager. “There. There—you just answered the question.”

“I—” She stopped.

“Say it.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Anymore. Because of me?”

I was never destined to have what they have. She considered her words carefully. “It made me realize that marriage did not have to be an arrangement. The duke—he loves his wife madly. Their marriage . . . there is nothing quiet and sedate about it.”

“And you wanted that?”

Only once I knew it was an option.But it hadn’t mattered.

She gave a little shrug. “It doesn’t matter what I wanted, does it? I’ve got my marriage now.”

Her teeth chattered on the last, and he muttered his disapproval at the sound, shifting and moving across the carriage to sit next to her. “You’re cold.” He wrapped one long arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him, his heat pouring off of him in waves. “Here,” he added, pulling a traveling blanket around them, “this will help.”

She huddled against him, trying not to remember the last time she was this close to him. “It seems you are always sharing your blankets with me, my lord.”

“Bourne,” he corrected, cocooning them tightly together in the rough wool, the words a rumble beneath her ear. “And it is either share my blankets or have you steal them.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed.They rode in silence for a long while before he spoke again. “So, all these years, you’ve been waiting for a happy marriage.”

“I don’t know if waiting is the word I would use. Hoping, more like.” He did not reply, and she fiddled with the button of his coat.

“And your fiancé, the one from whom I stole you, would he have given it to you?”

Maybe.Maybe not.

She should tell him the truth about Tommy. That they were never honestly engaged. But something held her back.

“It’s not worth thinking about it now. But I won’t be blamed for two more unhappy marriages. I don’t fool myself into thinking that my sisters could find love, but they could be happy, couldn’t they? They could find someone who suits them . . . or perhaps that’s too much to ask?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” he said, one hand slipping around her, pulling her close as the carriage rattled onto the bridge that would take them over the Thames and into London. “I am not the kind of man who understands how people suit.”

She should not enjoy the feel of his arm around her, but she could not help leaning into his warmth, pretending, for a fleeting moment, that this quiet conversation was the first of many. His hand was sliding slowly up and down her arm, transferring heat—and something more wonderful—to her with each lovely, warm stroke. “Pippa is virtually engaged to Lord Castleton; we expect he’ll propose within a matter of days of her return to London.”

His hand stilled for a moment before continuing its long, slow slide. “How did she and Castleton come to know each other?”

She thought of the plain, uninspiring earl. “The same way it happens with anyone, really. Balls, dinners, dancing. He seems nice enough, but . . . I do not care for the idea of him with Pippa.”

“Why not?”

“Some would say she’s peculiar, but she’s not. She’s simply bookish, loves the sciences. She is fascinated by how things work. He doesn’t seem to be able to keep up with her. But, honestly? I don’t think she gives a fig one way or another about whether or whom she marries. As long as he has a library and a few dogs, she’ll make a happiness of sorts for herself. I only wish she could find someone more . . . well, I hate to sound cruel, but . . . intelligent. ”

“Mmm.” Michael was noncommittal. “And your other sister?”

“Olivia,” she replied, “is very beautiful.”

“Then it sounds like she will suit most men quite well.”

Penelope sat up. “It’s that simple?”

He met her gaze. “Beauty helps.”

Penelope was never going to be considered beautiful. Plain, yes. Passable, even, on a good day, in a new frock. But never beautiful. Even when she was set to become Duchess of Leighton, she wasn’t beautiful. She was just . . . ideal.

She loathed the honesty in Michael’s words.

No one liked to be reminded that she was outvalued by a prettier lady.

“Well, Olivia is beautiful, and she knows it—”

“She sounds delightful.”

She ignored his wry tone. “—and she will need a man who treats her very very well. Who has a great deal of money and does not mind spending it to spoil her.”

“That sounds like the very opposite of what Olivia needs.”

“It’s not. You’ll see.”

Silence fell, and she did not mind, instead turning into his warmth, loving the way he felt against her, the heat of him making the carriage infinitely more comfortable. Just as the rocking motion of the coach was about to lull her to sleep, he spoke. “And you?”

Her eyes flew open. “Me?”

“Yes. You. What kind of man would suit you?”

She watched the way the blanket rose and fell against his chest as he breathed, the long, even movements calming her in a strange way.

I would like for you to suit me.

He was her husband, after all. It was only natural for her to imagine that he might be more than a fleeting companion. More than an acquaintance. More of a friend. More than the cold, hard man she’d come to expect him to be. She did not mind this Michael, the one next to her, warming her, talking to her.

Of course, she did not say any of those things. Instead, she said, “It doesn’t matter much anymore, does it?”

“If it did?” He was not going to let her avoid the question.Whether because of the warmth or the quiet or the journey or the man, she answered. “I suppose I should like someone interesting—someone kind—someone who is willing to show me . . .”

How to live.

She couldn’t say that. He would laugh her out of the carriage. “Someone to dance with—someone to laugh with—someone to care about.”

Someone who would care about me.

“Someone like your fiancé?”

She thought of Tommy, considered for a fleeting moment telling Michael that the unidentified man to whom he referred was the friend they’d known all their lives. The son of the man who took everything from him. But she didn’t want to upset him, not while they were quiet and warm, and she could pretend they enjoyed each other’s company.

So instead she whispered, “I should like for it to be someone like my husband.”

He was silent for a long time, long enough for her to wonder if he’d heard her. When she risked peering up at him through her lashes, she found that he was staring at her with an unsettling intent, his hazel eyes nearly golden in the fading light.

For one, fleeting moment, she thought he might kiss her.

She wished he would kiss her.

A flush spread high on her cheeks at the thought, and she turned away quickly, returning her head to his chest, closing her eyes tightly, and willing the moment gone—along with her silliness.

It wouldn’t be so bad if they did suit.

Sinopsis 

A Rogue by Any Other Name #6