A Rogue by Any Other Name (15 page)

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.”