A Rogue by Any Other Name (31 page)

Dolby House, September 1823

Letter unsent

The next morning, Penelope sent a note round to the newly inhabited Dolby House to invite Olivia and Philippa to join her for the day—her first in which she stopped waiting for her husband and began to live her life once more.

She was going ice-skating.

She was very much in need of an afternoon with her sisters to remind her that there was a reason for the arguments with Michael and her own discontent, and for keeping up this foolish ruse—ensuring that her marriage appear to be real and not the tragic sham that it was.

She needed to remind herself that her scandal would be theirs in no time if it were allowed to get out, and Philippa and Olivia deserved their chance at better. At more.

She gritted her teeth at the word, at everything it had meant on that fateful night when she’d allowed herself to be caught up in the adventure of marriage—of Michael. Pushing the thought from her mind, she nodded to her maid, who helped her to step into her clothes, tightening corset strings and tying bows, fastening tapes and buttons.

Penelope knew that she would be scrutinized beyond the walls of Hell House, and she dressed carefully for the eyes of all of London—at least, all of those who were in residence in London in January—who would be watching, searching for the chink in the armor of the new Marchioness of Bourne.

The woman who they believed had captured the heart of the wickedest partner in The Fallen Angel, convincing him to restore his title and return to their ranks.

The woman he avoided at all costs.

She selected a bright green wool dress, thinking it warm and festive for the outing, and paired it with the navy blue cloak that she had worn that fateful evening when she’d crossed Needham and Falconwell lands and met Michael, now Bourne, in the cold, dark night.

It could have been a nod to that evening, to the moment she’d unlocked this strange new future, to the hope that she might find more, despite a husband who wanted nothing to do with her. She would have her adventure in this cloak, with or without him.

A fur-lined bonnet and gloves rounded out her outdoor dress, and in perfect time; she descended the wide central stairs of Hell House to the sounds of her sisters’ chattering in the foyer below, their conversation rising to fill the empty space that seemed to loom everywhere in her husband’s home.

Her
home, she supposed
.

As she hurried across the first-floor landing, eager to reach her sisters and leave the house, the door to Bourne’s private study opened and he strode out, papers in hand, frock coat unbuttoned, his white linen shirt pulling taut across his broad chest. He came up short at the sight of her and instantly reached to button his coat.

She stilled, her eyes dragging over his face, taking in the mottled discoloration at one eye, the wicked-looking cut on his lower lip. She stepped forward, one gloved hand rising of its own accord, unable to stop herself from reaching for his battered face. “What happened to you?”

He retreated from the touch, his gaze flickering over her. “Where are you going?”

The abrupt change in conversation did not give her a chance to decide if she wanted him to hear the truth. “Ice-skating. Your eye . . .”

“It’s nothing.” He lifted a hand to the bruise.

“It looks awful.” He raised a brow, and she shook her head. “I mean . . . oh, you know what I mean. It’s all black and yellow.”

“Is it disgusting?”

She nodded once. “Quite.”

“That’s what I was hoping for.”
Was he teasing her?
“Thank you for the concern.” There was a long pause, during which she would have thought Michael was uncomfortable if she had not known better. Ultimately, he added, “You saw that I accepted an invitation to the Beaufetheringstone Ball.”

She could not help her response. “I did. You do know that it is usually the wife who accepts social invitations, do you not?”

“When we are more adept at receiving them, I shall happily relinquish the task of accepting them. I was surprised we were invited at all.”

“I would not be. Lady B enjoys a scandal more than most. Especially if it’s in her ballroom.”

A cacophony of laughter rose from the ground floor, saving her from having to answer, and Michael edged toward the banister to look down into the foyer. “The young ladies Marbury, I presume?”

Penelope tried her best to look away from the gash on his lip. She really did.

That she failed was not of import.

“They have returned to town.” She paused, unable to keep the edge from her tone when she added, “Sure to be matched soon enough . . .”

He snapped his attention back to her. “Ice-skating?” There was surprise in the words.

“You don’t remember skating on the pond when we were children?” The words were out before she could stop them, and she wished that she’d said something else . . . anything else . . . anything that did not remind her of the Michael she’d once known. Once understood.

It was as though he had erased the memory of her. She hated the way that made her feel. “I am late.” She spun away from him, heading for the staircase, not expecting him to say anything. He was so good at remaining silent; she’d given up thinking he would speak without prodding. And she was through prodding him.

So, when he did speak, she was shocked. “Penelope.”

The sound of her name on his lips shocked her. She turned back instantly. “Yes?”

“May I join you?”

Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He took a deep breath. “Ice-skating. May I join you?”

Her gaze narrowed. “Why? Do you think Lord and Lady Bourne will receive an inch or two in the papers if we are seen hand in hand, gliding across the Serpentine?”

He raked a hand through his dark curls. “I deserved that.”

She would not feel guilty.

“Yes. You did. And more, too.”

“I should like to make it up to you.”

Her eyes widened.
What was this?

He was likely manipulating her and their future and this time, she would not be swayed. She would not be fooled.

She knew better. She was tired of the ache that settled in her chest whenever he was near—whenever he was not near. She was tired of the battles, the games, the falsehoods. She was tired of the disappointments.

He could not possibly imagine that one small offer of companionship would make up for everything that he’d done . . . everything that he’d threatened. Steeling herself and her voice, she said, “I don’t think so.”

He blinked. “I should have expected that.”

After the way they’d left each other the evening before? Yes. He should have. She turned away, heading for the stairs leading down to her sisters.

“Penelope.” He stayed her with her name, low and lovely on his lips.

She could not help but turn back. “Yes?”

“What would it take? To join you?”

“What would it
take
?”

“Name your price.” He paused. “One afternoon with my wife without the specter of the past or future with us. What would it take?”

She replied without hesitation, straight and serious. “Don’t ruin Tommy.”

“Always asking for others. Never for yourself.”

“And you, always doing for yourself and never for others.”

“I find I prefer the outcome.” He was an infuriating man. He came closer, spoke low, sending a thrum of awareness through her. “What would it take for me to have you for an afternoon?”

Her breath quickened as the words conjured up a variety of images that had nothing to do with ice-skating or her sisters and everything to do with the fur coverlet in his luxurious bedroom.

He reached out and trailed one finger down her cheek. “Name your price.”

God help her, he so easily managed her.

“One week,” she said, voice shaking. “One week of safety for him.”
One week to convince you that you are wrong. That revenge is not the answer.

He did not immediately agree, and she forced herself to turn back to the staircase, disappointed by her utter lack of power over him. As she set foot on the top step, Philippa noticed her. “Penny!” she announced. “And Lord Bourne!”

Penelope looked back at Michael, and whispered, “You need not escort me. I assure you I am quite capable of finding my way to the front door.”

“You have a deal,” he said quietly at her elbow. “One week.”

Success coursed through her, heady and exciting. They had reached the bottom of the stairs before she could say anything, and Olivia pounced. “Have you seen
The Scandal Sheet
today?”

“I haven’t, I regret,” Penelope teased, pretending not to notice that Michael was uncomfortably close behind her. “What scintillating gossip have you heard?”

“No gossip
for
us,” Pippa replied. “Gossip
about
us . . . well, about
you,
at least.”

Oh, no. Someone had discovered the truth of their marriage. Of her ruination in the country.
“What kind of gossip?”

“The kind in which all of London is envious of your gorgeous, unbearably romantic marriage!” Olivia cried.

It took a moment for the meaning of the words to register.

“We did not know that you met on St. Stephen’s, Penelope,” Olivia said. “We did not even know that Lord Bourne had been in Surrey over Christmas!”

Pippa met Penelope’s gaze, all seriousness. “No. We didn’t.”

Pippa was no fool, but Penelope forced a smile.

“Read it, Pippa,” Olivia demanded.

The youngest Marbury pushed her glasses farther up her nose and lifted the paper. “
The last days of January are not always the time for the ripest fruits of gossip, but this year we have a particularly juicy treat in the newly returned Marquess of Bourne!
” She looked up at Michael. “That’s you, my lord.”

“I suspect he knows that,” Olivia said.

Pippa ignored her sister and pressed on. “
Certainly our discerning readers
—I’m not sure that readers of
The Scandal Sheet
are precisely ‘discerning,’ are you?”

“Really, Philippa. Keep reading!”

“
Certainly our discerning readers have heard that the marquess has taken a wife.”
Philippa looked up at Penelope, but before she could say anything, Olivia groaned and snatched the paper from her hands.

“Fine.
I
shall read it.
We hear that Lord and Lady Bourne are so entirely encompassed with each other that they are rarely seen apart. And, a delicious addendum! It seems that it is not only Lord Bourne’s eyes that follow his wife . . . but hands and lips as well! In public, no less!
How excellent!”

“That last bit was Olivia editorializing,” Pippa interjected.

Penelope thought she might die of embarrassment. Right there. On the spot.

Olivia continued. “
Not that we expect anything less of Lord Bourne—husband or not, he remains a rogue! And that which we call a rogue, by any other name would scandalize as sweet!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Penelope did roll her eyes at that, looking to Michael, who looked . . . pleased. “You’re
complimented
?”

He turned innocent eyes on her. “Should I not be?”

“Well,” Philippa added thoughtfully, “anything Shakespearean must be at least a
vague
compliment.”

“Precisely,” Michael said, gifting Pippa with a smile that made Penelope more than a little envious of her younger sister. “By all means, continue.”

“
Suffice to say, readers, we are very pleased with this winter’s tale—”

“Do you think they meant the second Shakespearean pun?” Philippa interrupted.

“Yes,” said Olivia.

“No,” said Penelope.

“—and we can only hope that the arrival of the final duo of Ladies Marbury—”

Pippa pushed her glasses back on her nose, and said, “That’s us.”

“—will make for excitement enough to keep us all warm in these cold days.
Isn’t that the most salacious item you’ve ever heard?” Olivia asked, and Penelope resisted the urge to tear the ridiculous newspaper article to shreds.

It had not occurred to her that her sisters might not know the truth.

That her marriage was a fraud.

It made sense, of course. The fewer people who knew—the fewer young women with a penchant for gossip who knew—the easier it would be for them to be matched. Bourne slid one arm around her waist. Her sisters eyed that arm, the way his hand snaked, warm and direct, across her body, resting on the curve of her hip as though it belonged there. As though
he
belonged there.

As though she belonged with him.

She stepped away from his touch.

She might have agreed to lie to half of Christendom, but she would not lie to her sisters.

She opened her mouth to deny the article, to tell them the truth.

And stopped.

The love match might be a farce, Michael might be in it for his own mysterious purposes, but Penelope had a reason. She’d had a reason from the beginning. Her sisters had lived in the shadow of her ruin for too long. She would shade them no longer.

He was already speaking, silver-tongued. “With the advent of this article, you’ll be needing protection from the droves of suitors who will almost certainly come swarming.”

“You must join us!” Olivia said, and Penelope resisted the urge to scream at the way that her sisters played right into his hands.

His gaze flickered to her, and she willed him to refuse, to remember what she had said abovestairs. “I’m afraid I cannot.”

She should have been pleased, but up was too often down when it came to her husband, and instead, she found herself so pleasantly surprised that he had honored her request that she was wishing that he had agreed to join them.

Which was ridiculous, of course.

Men were vexing indeed.

And her husband, more than most.

“Oh, do,” Olivia pressed, “it would be lovely to come to know our new brother.”