A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 38
“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 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?”
