Tommy pulled out of the large man’s grasp. “I can see myself out.” He crossed to the exterior door, hovering there for the briefest of seconds before turning back to meet Bourne’s gaze. “Return her to Surrey, Michael. Leave her alone. Before you destroy her with your anger and your vengeance.”
He wanted to reject the premise. But he was not a fool. He would destroy her, of course. He would, because it was what he did. “If I were you, I would worry less about protecting my wife and more about protecting your name. Because when I am through with your father, you won’t be able to show your face in London.”
When Tommy replied, there was steel in his tone—conviction that Michael did not recognize from the boy he’d once known. “I don’t fool myself into believing that I can protect myself from the scandal you plan to unleash, but I shall do everything I can to fight you—everything I can to protect Penelope. To remind her that there was a time when her friends would have done anything to keep her from harm.”
Bourne raised a brow. “It appears you failed in that, didn’t you?”
Regret flashed quick and unguarded on Tommy’s face. “I did. But it was never supposed to be my role.”
If he’d allowed it, the words would have stung. Instead, he mocked, “Take comfort, Tom, at least she will not have to deal with your scandal when I release it to the papers.”
Tommy turned back, his knowing gaze finding Bourne’s in the darkness before he spoke his parting words. “No, she won’t have the scandal on her head . . . but she will have the regret of marrying you. Do not doubt that.”
He did not doubt it in the slightest.
The heavy door closed behind Tommy, and Bourne turned away from the sound, anger and irritation and something else—something he did not wish to define—coursing through him.
Chapter Nine
Dear M—
I am writing to you from a carriage, where I have spent the last six days with all four of my sisters and my mother trundling through the North Country to visit Aunt Hester (whom you will remember from my last letter). I cannot imagine what would have possessed the Romans to continue their march north to build Hadrian’s Wall. They must not have had sisters, or they would not have made it through Tuscany.
Yrs, persevering—P
Somewhere on the Great North Road, June 1816
No reply
He’d left her.
It had taken a quarter of an hour for Penelope to come to her senses, standing there in the entryway of Michael’s London home, along with several piles of her belongings.
He’d left her, summarily, with a simple, “Good-bye.”
She stared at the massive oak door through which he had departed for longer than she cared to admit, struggling with several key truths.
He had left her.
On her first night at his London home.
Without even introducing her to the staff before leaving.
On their wedding night.
She did not want to think too carefully about that bit.
Instead, she focused on the fact that she was standing like a fool in the foyer of her husband’s town house, with no companions but two very young-looking footmen who seemed uncertain of their exact role in such an event. Penelope wasn’t certain if she should take comfort in the idea that they were not often met with solitary females in this town house, or if she should be offended that they had not thought to put her in a receiving room while they devised a plan for her.
She forced a smile and addressed the older of the two—who could not have been more than fifteen—desperate to soldier on. “I assume the house has a housekeeper?”
She watched a wave of relief flood the young man and felt a bit envious. She wished she knew how to behave in this situation. “Yes, m’lady.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you could fetch her?”
The footman bowed once, then again, obviously eager to do his best. “Yes, m’lady. As you wish, m’lady.” He was off like a flash, his counterpart growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute.
She knew the feeling.
But just because she was in a state of complete uncertainty did not mean the poor boy standing in front of her was required to suffer as well. “You needn’t remain here,” she said with a little, encouraging smile, “I’m sure the housekeeper will be along presently.”
The footman—far too young to be a footman, frankly—mumbled an agreement and disappeared, nearly instantly.
Penelope let out a long breath and considered the entryway of the town house, all marble and gilt, the height of fashion and expense—a touch too extravagant for her tastes, but she instantly understood the décor.
Michael might have lost everything in a now-infamous game of chance, but he’d earned it back twentyfold; anyone entering his home would see that.
Something clenched in her chest at the thought of the young marquess working so hard to restore his fortunes. What strength it must have taken . . . what commitment.