That she was not certain exactly how much scotch a decent woman could drink was irrelevant.
She took a perverse pleasure in the way the amber liquid filled the crystal, and she snickered as she wondered what her new husband would think if he arrived home to that moment—his proper wife, plucked from the path to spinsterhood, clutching a glass half-full of scotch.
Half-full of the future.
Half-full of adventure.
With a grin, Penelope toasted herself in the wide mirror mounted behind the decanter and took a long drink of the whiskey.
And nearly died.
She was not prepared for the wicked burn that seared down her throat and pooled in her stomach, making her retch once before she regained control of her faculties. “Blech!” she announced to the empty room, looking down into the glass and wondering why anyone—particularly the wealthiest men in Britain—might actually choose to drink such smoky, bitter swill.
It tasted like fire. Fire and . . . trees.
And it was foul.
As far as adventures went, this one was not looking at all promising.
She thought she might be sick.
She perched on the edge of the sideboard, bending over and wondering if it was possible that she might have actually done serious, irreversible damage to her innards. She took several deep breaths, and the burn started to subside, leaving behind a languid, vaguely encouraging warmth.
She righted herself.
It wasn’t so bad, after all.
She stood again, lifting the candelabrum once more and heading for the bookshelves, tilting her head to read the titles of the leather-bound books that filled them to bursting. It seemed strange that Michael might have books. She could not imagine him ever stopping long enough to read. But here they were—Homer, Shakespeare, Chaucer, several German tomes on agriculture, and an entire shelf of histories of the British Kings. And Debrett’s Peerage.
She ran her fingers across the gilded lettering of the volume—the complete history of the British aristocracy—its spine worn from use. For someone who was so happily absent from society, Michael seemed to peruse the volume quite a bit.
She pulled the book from the shelf, smoothing one hand across the leather binding before opening it at random. It fell open to a page, oft-viewed.
The entry for the Marquessate of Bourne.
Penelope ran her fingers across the letters, the long line of men who held the title before Michael. Before now. And there he was. Michael Henry Stephen, 10th Marquess of Bourne, 2nd Earl Arran, born 1800. In 1816, he was created Marquess of Bourne, to him and the heirs male of his body.
He might play at not caring for his title . . . but he felt connected to it in some way, or this book would not be so well used. Pleasure ripped through her at the thought, at the idea that he might still think of his time in Surrey, of his land there, of his childhood there, of her.
Perhaps he had not forgotten her—just as she had not forgotten him.
Her index finger ran along the line of text. The heirs male of his body. She imagined a set of gangly, dark-haired boys, dimples in their cheeks and mussed clothing.
Little Michaels.
The heirs male of her body as well.
If he ever came home.
She returned the book to its home and inched closer to the bed, investigating the enormous piece of furniture more closely, taking in that dark coverlet, wondering if it was velvet—if it matched the curtains around the bed. She set her light down and reached out, wanting to touch the bed. Wanting to feel the place where he slept.
The coverlet was not velvet.
It was fur. Soft, lush fur.
Of course it was.
She ran the flat of her hand across the fabric, and imagined, for one fleeting moment, what it might be like to lie in this bed, wrapped in darkness and fur.
And in Michael.
He was a rogue and a scoundrel, and his bed was an adventure in itself.
The soft fur beckoned to her, tempting her to climb up and bask in its warmth, its decadence. As quickly as the idea occurred to her, she was moving, letting her glass fall to the floor, unheeded, as she climbed onto the bed like a child on the hunt for biscuits, scaling the larder shelves.
It was the softest, most luxurious thing she’d ever experienced.
She rolled onto her back, spreading her arms and legs wide, loving the way the feathers and fur cradled her weight, allowing her to sink into the covers in pure, utter pleasure.
No bed should be this comfortable.
But, of course, his was.
“He is depraved,” she said aloud to the room, hearing the lingering echo of the words as they faded into the darkness.
She lifted her arms, which seemed heavier than usual, and raised them straight up to the canopy above, wriggling deeper into the covers before closing her eyes, turning her cheek to one side, and rubbing against the fur.
She sighed. It seemed unfair that such a bed would go unused.
Her thoughts were slow, as though they were coming to her from underwater, and she was keenly aware of the weight of her body sinking into the mattress.