A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 34
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.”
“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.”
