He stopped walking, waiting for her to release her grip. When he spoke, there was immense patience in his tone. “I don’t ravish women. At least, not without them asking very nicely.”
The statement gave her pause.
Of course he wouldn’t ravish her.
He’d likely not had a single moment of considering her as anything more than plain, proper Penelope, the only thing standing between him and the return of his familial right.
She wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse.
But it did make her heart ache. He didn’t care for her. Didn’t want her. Didn’t even think highly enough of her to pretend those things. To feign interest. To attempt to seduce her.
He was using her for Falconwell.
Wasn’t Tommy?
Of course he was. Tommy had looked deep into her gaze and saw not the blue of her eyes but the blue of the Surrey sky above Falconwell. Certainly, he’d seen his friend, but that wasn’t why he’d offered for her hand.
At least Michael was honest about it.
“This is the best offer you’ll get, Penelope,” he said softly, and she heard the edge in his tone, the urgency.
The truth.
Her grip loosened. “Your reputation is deserved, you know.”
“Yes. It is. And this is not at all the worst thing I’ve done. You should know that.”
The words should have been prideful. If not that, unemotional. But they weren’t. They were honest. And there was something in them, there and then gone, something that she wasn’t entirely certain she’d heard. Something she would not allow herself to recognize.
But she released the rail of the banister, and he set her down several steps above him.
She was actually considering it. Like a madwoman.
Actually imagining what it would be to marry this new, strange Michael. Except, she couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t even begin to conceive of what it would be like to marry a man who took an axe to a kitchen table without a second thought. And carried screaming women off into abandoned houses.
It would not be a normal marriage of the ton, that was certain.
She met his gaze, straight on, thanks to the step upon which he’d deposited her. “If I marry you, I’ll be ruined.”
“The great secret of society is that ruination is not nearly as bad as they make it out to be. You’ll have all the freedoms that come with a ruined reputation. They are not inconsiderable.”
He would know.
She shook her head. “It’s not simply me. My sisters will be ruined as well. They’ll never find good matches if we marry. All of society will think they’re as . . . easily scandalized . . . as I was.”
“Your sisters are not my concern.”
“But they are my concern.”
He raised a brow. “Are you certain that you are in a condition to be making demands?”
She wasn’t. Not at all. But she soldiered on nonetheless, squaring her shoulders. “You forget that no vicar in Britain will marry us if I refuse.”
“You think I would not spread it across London that I thoroughly ruined you this evening if you did so?”
“I do.”
“You think wrong. The story I would concoct would make the most hardened of prostitutes blush.”
It was Penelope who blushed, but she refused to be cowed. She took a deep breath and played her most powerful card. “I don’t doubt it, but in ruining me, you would also ruin your chances at Falconwell.”
He stiffened. Penelope was breathless with excitement as she waited for his reply.
“Name your price.”
She had won.
She had won.
She wanted to crow her success, her defeat of this great, immovable beast of a man. But she retained some sense of self-preservation. “Tonight must not affect my sisters’ reputations.”
He nodded. “You have my word on it.”
She clenched the torn fabric of her dress in a tight fist. “The word of a notorious scoundrel?”
He took a step up, coming closer, crowding her in the darkness. She forced herself to remain still when he spoke, his voice at once danger and promise. “There is honor among thieves, Penelope. Doubly so for gamblers.”
She swallowed, proximity squelching her courage. “I—I’m neither of those.”
“Nonsense,” he whispered, and she imagined she could feel his lips at her temple. “It appears you are a born gamer. You simply require instruction.”
No doubt he could teach her more than she had ever imagined.
She pushed the thought—and the images that came with it—from her mind as he added, “Do we have an agreement?”
Triumph was gone, chased by trepidation.
She wished she could see his eyes. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.” There was no emotion in the word. No hint of sorrow or guilt. Just cold honesty.
He offered her his hand once more, and the wide, flat palm beckoned.
Hades, offering pomegranate seeds.
If she took it, everything would change. Everything would be different.
There would be no going back. Though, somewhere in her mind, she knew there was no going back anyway.