After all, she was wearing a mask, about to receive a lesson in billiards from a man who was not—
“It’s about bloody time you showed up. I don’t have time to wait for you and your ladies tonight. And what on earth are we doing playing on this side? Chase will have our heads if—”
—her husband. Who was leaning against the billiard table in question, cue in hand, looking very very handsome.
And very very angry.
He came to his full height. “Penelope?”
So much for the mask.
“This side makes it easier for the lady to play,” Cross said, clearly amused.
Michael took two steps toward them before coming to a halt, hands fisted at his side. His gaze found hers, glittering green in the candlelight. “She’s not playing.”
“I don’t believe that you have a choice,” she said, “as I have an invitation.”
He seemed not to care. “Take off that ridiculous mask.”
Cross closed the door, and Penelope reached up to remove the domino, unmasking in front of her husband more difficult than stripping bare in front of all of Parliament.
Nevertheless, she squared her shoulders and removed the mask, facing him head-on. “I was invited, Michael,” she said, hearing the defensiveness in her voice.
“How? Did Cross offer you an invitation when he escorted you home in the dead of night? What else did he offer you?”
“Bourne,” Cross said, his words filled with warning as he stepped forward to defend himself.
To defend her. She did not need his defense. She had done nothing wrong. “No,” Penelope said, steel in her tone. “Lord Bourne knows precisely where I’ve been and with whom for the duration of our short, disastrous marriage.” She stepped toward Michael, her offense making her bold. “Home, alone. Instead of here, where the female half of London is apparently wishing they had the password to his bed.” His eyes went wide.
“I would appreciate it if you would leave, Michael,” she added, tossing the mask and the rose to the billiard table. “You see, I’ve been looking forward to this billiards lesson. And you are making it very difficult to enjoy.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dear M—
I wish I had the courage to come to your club and announce myself as your old friend, but of course I don’t. It is probably for the best, however, as I’m not certain which I’d like to do more: hit you or hug you.
Unsigned
Dolby House, March 1827
Letter unsent
She was running him ragged.
Gone was the soft, sweet wife he’d thought he was getting, snow dusting her bonnet as she confessed past courtships, one errant flake landing and melting almost instantly on the tip of her nose as she smiled up at him.
And in that woman’s place was an Amazon, standing at the center of his club, in the heart of the London underworld, placing bets on roulette while the city watched, demanding the safety of her friends and the reputation of her sisters, and scheduling billiards lessons with one of the most powerful and feared men in the city.
And now, she stood in front of him, and bold as brass, suggested he leave her alone.
He should do just that.
He should walk away from her and pretend they’d never married.
Return her to Surrey or, better, ship her to the North Country to live out her newfound scandalous desires far from him. He had Falconwell, and the tools for his revenge, and it was time to chase her from his life.
But he did not want to give her up.
He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and take her home to bed. Hell. The bed wasn’t even necessary. He’d wanted to throw her down on the snowy banks of the Serpentine or the floor of her father’s drawing room or the too-narrow seat of his coach and strip her bare, leaving her unprotected from his hands and lips, and that desire had not changed.
The billiard table was sturdy enough to hold them both, he guaranteed.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you are here.” He growled, not trusting himself to move closer, uncertain of his ability to be near her without railing against her, without explaining to her, very clearly, that this was not a place for her.
That she was not welcome here.
That it would ruin her.
The final thought pushed him over the edge. “Answer me, Penelope. Why are you here?”
She met his gaze, her blue eyes firm. “I told you. I’m here to play billiards.”
“With Cross.”
“Well, to be fair, I thought it might be with you.”
“Why would you think that?” He would never have invited her to his gaming hell.
“The invitation was delivered by Mrs. Worth. I thought you sent it.”
“Why would I send you an invitation?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you’d realized you were wrong and did not want to admit it aloud?”
Cross gave a little snort of laughter from his position at the door, and Michael considered killing him. But he was too busy dealing with his difficult wife. “You thought wrong. Tell me you hired a hack again.”
“No,” she said, “a carriage came to fetch me.”