A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 91
And now it was too late to fix those mistakes.
“That,” Needham went on, “and you were the one she liked best.”
A thrum of excitement coursed through him at the words, at the truth in them. She had liked him best. Until he’d left. And she’d been alone. And she’d stopped trusting him. She was right not to, of course. He’d made his goals clear, and in securing the only thing he’d ever wanted, he would lose her.
She was the sacrifice he had planned to make from the beginning. Not so much sacrifice then—now, too much to think on.
It was expected, of course—he’d ruined everything of value he ever held.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Needham went on, unaware of the cacophony of Michael’s thoughts. “You’ve done well. This morning’s paper extolled the virtues of your marriage . . . I confess, I am surprised by the effort you’ve put into spinning your tale—chestnut eating and waltzing on ice and spending afternoons with my girls and other ridiculousness. But you’ve done well . . . and West seems to believe it. The papers swear yours is a love match. Castleton wouldn’t have proposed if our name was in any way tainted by a scandalous marriage.”
It should be you who opposes the match, not Castleton. Pippa would be better off with a man who was half otter. Michael opened his mouth to say just that when Needham said, “At any rate, you’ve fooled them. Revenge is yours, as agreed.”
Revenge is yours. The words he’d waited a decade to hear.
“I’ve the letter in the house, ready for you.”
“You don’t want to wait for Olivia to be betrothed as well?” The question was out before he could stop it . . . before he could consider the fact that he was reminding his father-in-law that Michael’s end of the bargain had not been officially completed.
Needham lifted his rifle, pointing it in the direction of a low-lying hedge at the bank of the river. “Tottenham’s invited her to ride today. The boy will be prime minister one day; Olivia’s future appears bright.” He fired, then looked to Michael. “And, besides, you’ve done well by the girls. I keep my promises.”
But he’d not done well by them, had he? Philippa was to marry an imbecile, and Penelope—Penelope had married an ass. He shoved his hands into his pockets, bracing against the wind, and turned back to look up at the looming Dolby House. “Why give it to me?”
“I’ve five girls, and, though they drive me to drink, if something were to happen to me, I would want to know that their guardian—the man I appointed to the deed—would care for them as I did.” Needham turned back toward the house, retracing his tracks. “Langford ignored that code. He deserves everything you give him.”
Michael should have felt triumph. Should have felt pleasure. After all, he’d just been given the thing he’d wanted most in the world.
Instead, he felt empty. Empty save a single, incontrovertible truth.
She would hate him for this.
But not as much as he would hate himself.
* * *
Billiards tonight.
A carriage will collect you at half eleven.
Éloa
The small ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel, arrived just after luncheon, delivered by Worth with a knowing smile. Penelope unfolded the letter with trembling hands and read the dark, mysterious promise on the note.
The promise of adventure.
She looked up from the summons, color springing to her cheeks, and asked the housekeeper, “Where is my husband?”
“He has been out all day, my lady.”
Penelope lifted the paper. “And this?”
“Arrived not five minutes ago.”
She nodded, considering the invitation and its implications. She had not seen Michael since the day they’d ice-skated and argued, and she’d realized that she loved him. He’d left her bedchamber that night and never returned—even as she’d waited, knowing better than to hope he might decide to give up on his quest for vengeance and choose life with her instead.
Was it possible that the invitation was from him?
The thought had her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had chosen her. Perhaps he was giving her an adventure and giving them both a new chance at life.
Perhaps not.
Either way, the note was a temptation she could not resist—she wanted her chance at adventure, at billiards, at a night at The Angel. And she would not lie, she wanted her chance to see her husband again. Her husband, for whom she ached even as she knew it was pointless.
She might have committed to avoiding him, to keeping her distance from his temptation, to protecting herself from the way he made her feel, but she could not resist him.
It was all she could do to wait for nightfall, then, in the darkness, for the appointed hour to come. She dressed carefully, wishing she didn’t care so much for what he might think, for how he might see her, choosing a deep, salmon silk, entirely inappropriate for early February, but a color she’d always thought flattered her pale skin and made her seem less plain and more . . . more.
The carriage had arrived at the servants’ entrance of Hell House, and it was Mrs. Worth who came to fetch her, eyes light with a knowledge that had Penelope flushing with anticipation.
“You’ll need this,” the housekeeper whispered as she pressed a domino of plain, black silk, adorned with scarlet ribbons, into Penelope’s hand.
“I shall?”
“You’ll enjoy your evening much more if you are not concerned with discovery.”
Penelope’s heart began to race as she stroked the mask, loving the feel of the silk—its promised thrill. “A mask,” she whispered, more to herself than to the housekeeper. Anticipation flared. “Thank you.”
“That,” Needham went on, “and you were the one she liked best.”
A thrum of excitement coursed through him at the words, at the truth in them. She had liked him best. Until he’d left. And she’d been alone. And she’d stopped trusting him. She was right not to, of course. He’d made his goals clear, and in securing the only thing he’d ever wanted, he would lose her.
She was the sacrifice he had planned to make from the beginning. Not so much sacrifice then—now, too much to think on.
It was expected, of course—he’d ruined everything of value he ever held.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Needham went on, unaware of the cacophony of Michael’s thoughts. “You’ve done well. This morning’s paper extolled the virtues of your marriage . . . I confess, I am surprised by the effort you’ve put into spinning your tale—chestnut eating and waltzing on ice and spending afternoons with my girls and other ridiculousness. But you’ve done well . . . and West seems to believe it. The papers swear yours is a love match. Castleton wouldn’t have proposed if our name was in any way tainted by a scandalous marriage.”
It should be you who opposes the match, not Castleton. Pippa would be better off with a man who was half otter. Michael opened his mouth to say just that when Needham said, “At any rate, you’ve fooled them. Revenge is yours, as agreed.”
Revenge is yours. The words he’d waited a decade to hear.
“I’ve the letter in the house, ready for you.”
“You don’t want to wait for Olivia to be betrothed as well?” The question was out before he could stop it . . . before he could consider the fact that he was reminding his father-in-law that Michael’s end of the bargain had not been officially completed.
Needham lifted his rifle, pointing it in the direction of a low-lying hedge at the bank of the river. “Tottenham’s invited her to ride today. The boy will be prime minister one day; Olivia’s future appears bright.” He fired, then looked to Michael. “And, besides, you’ve done well by the girls. I keep my promises.”
But he’d not done well by them, had he? Philippa was to marry an imbecile, and Penelope—Penelope had married an ass. He shoved his hands into his pockets, bracing against the wind, and turned back to look up at the looming Dolby House. “Why give it to me?”
“I’ve five girls, and, though they drive me to drink, if something were to happen to me, I would want to know that their guardian—the man I appointed to the deed—would care for them as I did.” Needham turned back toward the house, retracing his tracks. “Langford ignored that code. He deserves everything you give him.”
Michael should have felt triumph. Should have felt pleasure. After all, he’d just been given the thing he’d wanted most in the world.
Instead, he felt empty. Empty save a single, incontrovertible truth.
She would hate him for this.
But not as much as he would hate himself.
* * *
Billiards tonight.
A carriage will collect you at half eleven.
Éloa
The small ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel, arrived just after luncheon, delivered by Worth with a knowing smile. Penelope unfolded the letter with trembling hands and read the dark, mysterious promise on the note.
The promise of adventure.
She looked up from the summons, color springing to her cheeks, and asked the housekeeper, “Where is my husband?”
“He has been out all day, my lady.”
Penelope lifted the paper. “And this?”
“Arrived not five minutes ago.”
She nodded, considering the invitation and its implications. She had not seen Michael since the day they’d ice-skated and argued, and she’d realized that she loved him. He’d left her bedchamber that night and never returned—even as she’d waited, knowing better than to hope he might decide to give up on his quest for vengeance and choose life with her instead.
Was it possible that the invitation was from him?
The thought had her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had chosen her. Perhaps he was giving her an adventure and giving them both a new chance at life.
Perhaps not.
Either way, the note was a temptation she could not resist—she wanted her chance at adventure, at billiards, at a night at The Angel. And she would not lie, she wanted her chance to see her husband again. Her husband, for whom she ached even as she knew it was pointless.
She might have committed to avoiding him, to keeping her distance from his temptation, to protecting herself from the way he made her feel, but she could not resist him.
It was all she could do to wait for nightfall, then, in the darkness, for the appointed hour to come. She dressed carefully, wishing she didn’t care so much for what he might think, for how he might see her, choosing a deep, salmon silk, entirely inappropriate for early February, but a color she’d always thought flattered her pale skin and made her seem less plain and more . . . more.
The carriage had arrived at the servants’ entrance of Hell House, and it was Mrs. Worth who came to fetch her, eyes light with a knowledge that had Penelope flushing with anticipation.
“You’ll need this,” the housekeeper whispered as she pressed a domino of plain, black silk, adorned with scarlet ribbons, into Penelope’s hand.
“I shall?”
“You’ll enjoy your evening much more if you are not concerned with discovery.”
Penelope’s heart began to race as she stroked the mask, loving the feel of the silk—its promised thrill. “A mask,” she whispered, more to herself than to the housekeeper. Anticipation flared. “Thank you.”
