A Rogue by Any Other Name (16 page)

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.”