Three days later, Penelope and Michael were the guests of honor at dinner at Tottenham House—an event that provided them the perfect opportunity to tell the carefully developed story of their love match to several of the most vocal gossips of the ton.
Gossips who were very eager to live up to their name if the way they hung upon each of Penelope’s and Michael’s words was any indication.
Not to mention the looks.
Penelope hadn’t missed them . . . not when they’d entered Tottenham House, several minutes early, having carefully planned their arrival to be neither too early nor too late, only to discover that the rest of the invitees had carefully planned their arrivals to be early—ostensibly to ensure that they wouldn’t miss a single moment of the Marchioness and Marquess of Bourne’s first evening in society.
Nor had she missed the looks when Michael had thoughtfully placed one large, warm hand at Penelope’s back, shepherding her into the receiving room where the dinner guests waited for their meal to be served. The hand had been placed with such precision, paired perfectly with such a warm smile—one that she barely recognized—that Penelope had been hard-pressed to hide both her admiration for his strategy and her unexpected pleasure at the little movement.
Those looks had been followed with a fluttering of fans in the too-cool room, a cacophony of whispers that she pretended not to hear, looking up at her husband, instead, with what she hoped was a suitably doting look. She must have achieved it, because he had leaned close and whispered, “You’re doing splendidly,” low in her ear, sending a flood of pleasure through her even as she swore to resist his power over her.
She’d chided herself for the warm, treacly feeling.
She reminded herself that she hadn’t seen him since their wedding night—that he’d made it quite clear that any husbandly interaction was all for show, but by that time the flush was high on her cheeks, and when she met her husband’s eyes, it was to find a look of supreme satisfaction in them. He’d leaned in again. “The blush is perfect, my little innocent,” the words fanning the flames, as though they were very much in love and utterly devoted to each other when quite the opposite was true.
They’d been separated for dinner, of course, and the real challenge had begun. The Viscount Tottenham had escorted her to her place, sandwiched between himself and Mr. Donovan West, the publisher of two of the most-read newspapers in Britain. West was a golden-haired charmer who seemed to notice everything, including Penelope’s nervousness.
He kept his words for only her ears. “Do not allow them a chance to skewer you. They’ll take it quickly. And you’ll be done for.”
He was referring to the women.
There were six of them dispersed around the table, with equal pursed lips and disdainful glances. Their conversation—casual enough—was laced with a tone that made each word seem to have a double meaning; as though all assembled were in on some jest of which Michael and Penelope had no knowledge.
Penelope would have been irritated if it weren’t for the fact that she and Michael had a spate of secrets themselves.
It was near the end of the meal when the conversation turned to them.
“Tell us, Lord Bourne.” The Dowager Viscountess Tottenham’s words oozed along the table, too loud for privacy. “How was it, precisely, that you and Lady Bourne became affianced? I do love a love match.”
Of course she did. Love matches were the best kind of scandal.
Second only to idyllic ruination.
Penelope pushed the wry thought aside as conversation came to a stop and those assembled hung on the silence, waiting for Michael’s response.
His gaze slid to Penelope’s, warm and rich. “I defy anyone to spend more than a quarter of an hour in my lady’s company and not come away adoring her.” The words were scandalous—not at all the kind of thing that well-bred, callous members of the aristocracy said aloud, even if they believed it—and there was a collective intake of breath, punctuating amusement and surprise. Michael seemed not to care as he added, “I was lucky indeed that I was there, on St. Stephen’s. And that she was there—her laughter reminding me of all the ways I needed mending.”
Her heart quickened at the words and the way the corner of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile.
Amazing, the power of words. Even false ones.
She could not stop herself from smiling back at him, and she had no need of faking the way she dipped her head, suddenly embarrassed by his attention.
“How lucky, also, that her dowry abuts land belonging to the marquessate.” The words sailed down the table on a drunken burst from the Countess of Holloway, a miserable woman who took pleasure in others’ pain and whom Penelope had never liked. She did not look to the countess, focusing, instead on her husband before taking her turn.