She could lie. But she didn’t want to. As silly as it was, she wanted him to know that she’d thought of him every Christmas . . . that she’d wondered about him. That she’d cared. Even if he hadn’t bothered to. “Roses and dahlias. Just as you leave them every year.”
It was his turn to look out the window, then, and she took the opportunity to study his features, his firm jaw, the hard look in his eyes, the way his lips—lips she knew from experience were full and soft and wonderful—pressed into a straight line. He was so guarded, the tension in him so unyielding, and she wished she could shake him into emotion, into some shift in his rigid control.
There had been a time when he had been so fluid, filled with unbridled movement. But watching him, it was nearly impossible to believe that he was the same person. She would have given everything she had to know what he was thinking in that moment.
He did not look at her when he spoke. “Well, you seem to have thought of everything. I shall do my best to memorize the tale of our love at first sight. I assume we will be sharing it a great deal.”
She hesitated, then, “Thank you, my lord.”
He snapped his head around. “My lord? My my, Penelope. You intend to be something of a ceremonial wife, don’t you?”
“It is expected that a wife show deference to her husband.”
Michael’s brows pulled together at that. “I suppose that’s how you’ve been trained to behave.”
“You forget I was to be a duchess.”
“I’m sorry you had to settle for a besmirched marquessate.”
“I shall endeavor to persevere,” she replied, the words dry as sand. They rode in silence for a long while before she said, “You will need to return to society. For my sisters.”
“You have grown rather comfortable making demands of me.”
“I married you. I should think you could make a sacrifice or two, considering I gave up everything so you could have your land.”
“Your perfect marriage, you mean?”
She sat back. “It wouldn’t have been perfect.” He said nothing, but his keen gaze made her add quietly, “I do not doubt that it would have been more perfect than this, however.”
Tommy wouldn’t irritate her nearly as much.
They rode in silence for a long while before he said, “I shall attend the requisite functions.” He was looking out the window, the portrait of boredom. “We’ll start with Tottenham. He is as close to a friend as I have.”
The description was discomfiting. Michael had never been one to be without friends. He had been bright and vibrant and charming and filled with life . . . and anyone who knew him as a child had loved him. She had loved him. He had been her dearest friend. What had happened to him? How had he become this cold dark man?
She pushed the thought aside. Viscount Tottenham was one of the most-sought-after bachelors of the ton, with a mother who was above reproach. “A fine choice. Does he owe you money?”
“No.” Silence fell. “We will dine with him this week.”
“You have an invitation?”
“Not yet.”
“Then how—”
He sighed. “Let’s end this before it starts, shall we? I own the most lucrative gaming hell in London. There are few men in Britain who cannot find time to speak to me.”
“And what of their wives?”
“What of them?”
“You think they won’t judge you?”
“I think they all want me in their beds, so they will find room for me in their drawing rooms.”
Her head snapped back at the words, at their indelicacy. At the idea that he would say such a thing to his wife. At the idea that he would spend time in other wives’ beds. “I think that you mistake the value of your presence in a lady’s bedchamber.”
He raised a brow. “I think you will feel differently after tonight.”
The specter of their wedding night loomed in the words, and Penelope hated that her pulse quickened even as she wanted to spit at him. “Yes, well, however you might ensorcel the women of the ton, I can guarantee you that they are far more discerning in their company in public than they are in private. And you are not good enough.”
She couldn’t believe she’d said it. But he made her so very angry.
When he looked at her, there was something powerful in his gaze. Something akin to admiration. “I’m happy you’ve discovered the truth, wife. It’s best to remove any false hope that I might be a decent man or a decent husband early in our time together.” He paused, brushing a speck from his sleeve. “I don’t need the women.”
“Women are the gatekeepers to society. You do, in fact, need them.”
“That’s why I have you.”
“I’m not enough.”
“Why not? Aren’t you the perfect English lady?”
She gritted her teeth at the description and the way it underscored her once-and-future purpose. Her utter lack of value. “I’m inches from the shelf. It’s been years since I was belle of the ball.”
“You’re Marchioness of Bourne now. I’ve no doubt you’ll fast become a person of interest, darling.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “I’m not your darling.”