A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 76
“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.”
Pippa chimed in. “Indeed. You married so quickly . . . we never had a chance to properly reacquaint ourselves.”
Penelope’s gaze shot to her sister. Something was off. Pippa knew. She had to.
“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.”
Pippa chimed in. “Indeed. You married so quickly . . . we never had a chance to properly reacquaint ourselves.”
Penelope’s gaze shot to her sister. Something was off. Pippa knew. She had to.
