His eyes widened. “You wound me. Don’t you remember St. Stephen’s? Did our reel mean nothing to you?”
She would not be sorry if he fell right out the side of the carriage and rolled into a ditch. Indeed, if he did that, she would not stop to retrieve his remains.
She didn’t care if Falconwell were ever returned to him.
But she cared for her sisters, and she would not allow their reputations to be clouded by that of her husband. She took a deep breath, willing herself calm. “You’ll need to prove your worth again. They’ll need to see it. To believe I see it.”
He cut her a look. “My worth is three times that of most respected men of the ton.”
She shook her head. “I mean your value. As a marquess. As a man.”
He went still. “Anyone who knows my tale can tell you that I haven’t much value as either of those things. I lost it all a decade ago. Perhaps you hadn’t heard?”
The words oozed from him, all condescension, and she knew the question was rhetorical, but she would not be cowed. “I have heard.” She lifted her chin to meet his gaze head-on. “And you are willing to let one foolish, childhood peccadillo cloud your image for the rest of eternity? And mine as well, now?”
He shifted, leaning toward her, all danger and threat. She held her own, refusing to sit back. To look away. “I lost it all. Hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth. On one card. It was colossal. A loss for the history books. And you call it a peccadillo?”
She swallowed. “Hundreds of thousands?”
“Give or take.”
She resisted the urge to ask precisely how much was to be given or taken. “On one card?”
“One card.”
“Perhaps not a peccadillo, then. But foolish, to be sure.” She had no idea where the words came from, but they came nonetheless, and she knew that her choices were to brazen it through or show her fear. Miraculously, she kept her gaze steady, trained upon him.
His voice went low, almost a growl. “Did you just call me a fool?”
Her heart was pounding—so hard that she was surprised he could not hear it in the close quarters of the carriage. She waved one hand, hoping it appeared nonchalant. “It isn’t the point. If we’re to convince society that my sisters are worth marrying, you must prove that you’re a more-than-worthy escort for them.” She paused. “You need to make amends.”
He was silent for a long time. Long enough for her to think she might have gone too far. “Amends.”
She nodded. “I shall help you.”
“Do you always negotiate so well?”
“Not at all. In fact, I never negotiate. I simply give in.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t given in once in three days.”
She’d certainly been less biddable than usual. “Not true. I agreed to marry you, didn’t I?”
“So you did.”
She went warm at the words, the way they made her so very aware of him.
Her husband.
“What else is there?”
Confusion flared. “My lord?”
“I find I do not like the constant surprises that come from our arrangement. Let us put the cards on the table, shall we? You want a successful season for your sisters, good matches for them. You want my return to society. What else?”
“There is nothing else.”
A flash of something—displeasure, maybe?—crossed his face. “If your opponent makes it impossible for you to lose, Penelope, you should wager.”
“Another rule of gambling?”
“Another rule of scoundrels. One that also holds true with husbands. Doubly so with husbands like me.”
Husbands like him. She wondered what that meant, but before she could ask, he pressed on. “What else, Penelope? Ask it now, or not again.”
The question was so broad, so open . . . and its answers so myriad. She hesitated, her mind racing. What did she want? Really want.
What did she want from him?
More.
The word whispered through her, not simply an echo from that evening that already seemed so far away . . . that evening that had changed everything, but an opportunity. A chance to be more than a puppet on strings for him and for her family and for society. A chance to have remarkable experiences. A remarkable life.
She met his gaze, all golds and greens. “You might not like it.”
“I’m certain I shan’t.”
“But, as you asked . . .”
“It is my own fault, I assure you.”
She pursed her lips together. “I want more than a plain, proper life as a plain, proper wife.”
That seemed to set him back. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve spent my life as a model young lady . . . edging into a model spinster. And it was . . . Awful.” The words surprised her. She’d never thought it awful before. She’d never imagined anything else. Until now. Until him. And he was offering her a chance to change it. “I want a different sort of marriage. One where I’m allowed to be more than a lady who spends her days on needlepoint and charitable works and knows little more than her husband’s favorite pudding.”