A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 74
He should not. He had lost everything he had ever cared for. He had ruined everything good that he had ever touched. His care was a harbinger of her destruction.
But he defied any man in Britain to spend a day with his wife and not care for her.
“At the very least, he wants her,” Temple interjected. “And you can’t blame him. Her courage tonight would tempt a saint.”
“Did tempt a saint,” Chase replied. “Cross escorted her home.”
Anger flooded through Michael at the words. “Cross won’t touch her.”
“No. He won’t. But not because she’s not tempting; because he’s Cross,” Chase said.
“And if he weren’t, he wouldn’t touch her because she’s yours,” Temple added.
God help him, he wanted her to be his.
“She’s not mine. I can’t have her.”
She wants nothing to do with me. He’d ruined any chance of that, just as he had ruined everything else that was good and right in his life.
“But Bourne,” Temple said, “you do have her.”
There was a long silence as the words echoed around the room. They weren’t true, of course. They weren’t right. If he had her, he wouldn’t be so afraid of going home to her. If he had her, he wouldn’t be here, stinking of sweat and raw meat. If he had her, she wouldn’t have left him.
Finally, he said, “I’m married to her. That’s not the same thing.”
“Well, it’s a start, I’d think.” Chase stood at that, lifting the sheaf of papers and adding, “She’s yours, bought and paid. And since you are stuck with each other—God help her—perhaps it’s time you attempt a marriage that does not end as awfully as it began.”
The idea—the possibility that she might someday care for him—that they might someday have more than a shell of a marriage, it tempted him more than cards, more than the wheel.
Tempted him to be the husband she deserved.
* * *
Dear M—
Her Grace, Duchess of Leighton. It seems a glut of young, eligible dukes was unrequired. One was enough. The Duke of Leighton has expressed a desire to court me, my father has agreed, and my mother is utterly overcome with glee.
There is much to recommend him, of course. He is handsome and intelligent, powerful and wealthy, and as Mother likes to remind me at every opportunity—he is a DUKE. If he were horseflesh, there would be a run on Tattersalls, no doubt.
Of course, I will do my duty. This will be a marriage for the ages. It’s hard to believe I shall be a duchess—the holy grail of the eldest, aristocratic daughter. Huzzah.
I have not missed you so much in a long time. Where are you?
Unsigned
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?”
But he defied any man in Britain to spend a day with his wife and not care for her.
“At the very least, he wants her,” Temple interjected. “And you can’t blame him. Her courage tonight would tempt a saint.”
“Did tempt a saint,” Chase replied. “Cross escorted her home.”
Anger flooded through Michael at the words. “Cross won’t touch her.”
“No. He won’t. But not because she’s not tempting; because he’s Cross,” Chase said.
“And if he weren’t, he wouldn’t touch her because she’s yours,” Temple added.
God help him, he wanted her to be his.
“She’s not mine. I can’t have her.”
She wants nothing to do with me. He’d ruined any chance of that, just as he had ruined everything else that was good and right in his life.
“But Bourne,” Temple said, “you do have her.”
There was a long silence as the words echoed around the room. They weren’t true, of course. They weren’t right. If he had her, he wouldn’t be so afraid of going home to her. If he had her, he wouldn’t be here, stinking of sweat and raw meat. If he had her, she wouldn’t have left him.
Finally, he said, “I’m married to her. That’s not the same thing.”
“Well, it’s a start, I’d think.” Chase stood at that, lifting the sheaf of papers and adding, “She’s yours, bought and paid. And since you are stuck with each other—God help her—perhaps it’s time you attempt a marriage that does not end as awfully as it began.”
The idea—the possibility that she might someday care for him—that they might someday have more than a shell of a marriage, it tempted him more than cards, more than the wheel.
Tempted him to be the husband she deserved.
* * *
Dear M—
Her Grace, Duchess of Leighton. It seems a glut of young, eligible dukes was unrequired. One was enough. The Duke of Leighton has expressed a desire to court me, my father has agreed, and my mother is utterly overcome with glee.
There is much to recommend him, of course. He is handsome and intelligent, powerful and wealthy, and as Mother likes to remind me at every opportunity—he is a DUKE. If he were horseflesh, there would be a run on Tattersalls, no doubt.
Of course, I will do my duty. This will be a marriage for the ages. It’s hard to believe I shall be a duchess—the holy grail of the eldest, aristocratic daughter. Huzzah.
I have not missed you so much in a long time. Where are you?
Unsigned
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?”
