The love in Penelope’s gaze gave way to confusion, and he was filled with self-loathing.
Sadly, that, too, was coming to be a familiar emotion.
A knock sounded on the door, saving him. Michael checked the clock; it was nearly three in the morning, far too late for visitors, which meant only one thing. News.
He crossed the room quickly and opened the door, reading Cross’s face before the other man had a chance to speak.
“He is here?”
Cross’s gaze flickered over Michael’s shoulder to Penelope, then back to Michael, grey and inscrutable. “Yes.”
He couldn’t look at her. She was close, close enough for her delicate scent, to wrap around him, likely for the last time.
“Who is here?” she asked, and he didn’t want to answer, even as he knew that she had to know. And that once she did, he would lose her forever.
He met her gaze, trying his best to be calm and unmoved.
Remembering the singular goal that he had set for himself a decade earlier.
“Langford.”
She stilled as the words crashed through the room. “One week,” she said softly, recalling their agreement before shaking her head. “Michael. Please. Don’t do this.”
He couldn’t stop himself. It was all he’d ever wanted.
Until her.
“Stay here. Someone will take you home.” He left the room, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing like a gunshot in the dark, empty hallway beyond, and with every step he took, he steeled himself against what was to come. Oddly, it was not facing Langford—the man who had ripped his life from him—that required the added strength.
It was losing Penelope.
“Michael!” She had followed him into the hallway, and the sound of his name on her lips had him turning back, unable to ignore the anguish there. Wanting desperately, instinctively, to protect her from it.
To protect her from himself.
She was racing toward him, fast and furious, and he could not do anything but catch her, lifting her in his arms as her hands clasped his face, and she stared into his eyes. “You don’t have to do this,” she whispered, her thumbs stroking across his cheeks, leaving agonizing tracks. “You have Falconwell . . . and you have The Angel . . . and more than he could ever dream. So much more than anger and vengeance and fury. You have me.” She searched his gaze before finally saying, achingly soft, “I love you.”
He’d told himself that he did not want the words, but once said, the pleasure that coursed through him at their sound on her lips was nearly unbearable. He closed his eyes and kissed her, deep and soul-searching, wishing to remember the taste of her, the feel of her, the smell of her—of this moment—forever. When he released her lips and returned her to her feet, he took a step back, breathing deep, loving the way her beautiful blue eyes flashed when he touched her.
He had not touched her enough.
If he could go back, he would have touched her more.
I love you.
The whisper echoed through him, all temptation.
He shook his head. “You shouldn’t.”
He turned away, leaving her in the dark hallway, heading to face his past, refusing to look back. Refusing to acknowledge what he was leaving.
What he was losing.
Chapter Twenty-one
Dear M—
No. No more of this.
Unsigned
Needham Manor, January 1830
Letter destroyed
Bourne had imagined this moment hundreds of times—thousands of them.
He’d played the scene over in his mind, entering a private card room where Langford sat, alone and on edge, dwarfed by the sheer size and power of The Angel, the kingdom over which Michael reigned.
Never once, in all that time, had he imagined he would feel anything but triumph in this moment, when nine years’ worth of anger and frustration finally came to an end. But it was not triumph Michael felt as he opened the door to the luxurious private suite set far from the main floor of the club and met the emotionless gaze of his longtime enemy.
It was frustration. And anger.
For even now, nine years later, this man was still fleecing Michael. Tonight, he had robbed him of his future with his wife.
And it could not be allowed to continue.
Langford had always loomed large in his memory—bronze skin, white teeth, wide fists—the kind of man who took what he wanted without hesitation. The kind of man who ruined lives without looking back.
And nearly a decade later, Langford had not changed. He was just as healthy and hale as he’d always been, with a bit more grey hair, but the same thick neck and wide shoulders. The years had been kind to him.
Michael’s gaze flickered to the place where Langford’s left hand lay flat against the green velvet of the table. He remembered the mannerism, the way that hand would fist and knock against the wood to demand additional cards or to celebrate a win. When Michael was a young man, just learning the tables, he would watch that hand and envy its utter control.