“Fortuitous mostly for me, Lady Holloway,” she said, her gaze steadfast on her husband. “For without our being childhood neighbors, I am certain that my husband would never have found me.”
Michael’s gaze lit with admiration, and he lifted his glass in her direction. “At some point I would have realized what I was missing, darling. And I would have come looking for you.”
The words warmed her to her core before she remembered that it was all a game.
She took a deep breath as Michael took control, spinning their tale, assuring those assembled that he had lost head, heart, and reason to love.
He was handsome and clever, charming and funny, with just the right amount of contrition . . . as though he were attempting to make amends for past ills, and he was willing to do whatever it took to return to the aristocracy—for the sake of his new wife.
He was perfect.
He made her believe that he’d been there, in the main room of the Coldharbour parsonage, surrounded by revelers and holly wreaths and a St. Stephen’s feast. He made her believe that he’d met her gaze across the room—she could feel the knot in her stomach as she imagined the long, serious look that he would have given her, the one that made her breathless and light-headed, the one that made her believe that she was the only woman in the world.
And he captured her with his pretty words.
Just as he captured the rest of them.
“ . . . Honestly, I’ve never danced a reel in my life. But she made me want to dance a score of them.”
Laughter rang out around the table as Penelope lifted her glass and took a small sip of wine, hoping the alcohol would calm her roiling stomach, watching her husband as he regaled the roomful of diners with the tale of their whirlwind love affair.
“I suppose it was only a matter of time before I returned to Coldharbour and realized that Falconwell Manor was not the only thing I had left behind.” His gaze found hers across the table, and she caught her breath at the sparkle in those eyes. “Thank heavens I found her before someone else did.”
A collection of feminine sighs from around the table punctuated the racing of Penelope’s heart. Michael was as silver-tongued as they came.
“It wasn’t as though additional suitors were legion in number,” Lady Holloway said snidely, laughing a touch too loudly. “Were they, Lady Bourne?”
Penelope’s mind went blank at the cruel reference to her spinsterhood, and she searched for a cutting remark before her husband came to the rescue. “I couldn’t bear the thought of them,” he said, staring straight at her, all seriousness, until she was flushed with his attention. “Which is why we married so quickly.”
Lady Holloway harrumphed into her wine as Mr. West smiled warmly, and asked, “And you, Lady Bourne? Did your connection . . . surprise you?”
“Be careful, darling,” Michael said scandalously, a sparkle in his grey-green eyes. “He shall quote you in tomorrow’s news.”
She could not take her eyes from Michael as laughter sounded around them. He captured her and held her expertly in his web. When she replied to the newspaperman’s question, it was straight to her husband. “I was not at all surprised. If I were to tell the truth, it seemed as though I had been waiting for Michael to return for years.” She paused, shaking her head, registering the attention around the table. “I’m sorry—not Michael. Lord Bourne.” She gave a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve known he would make a wonderful husband forever. I am very happy that he will be my wonderful husband.”
There was a flash of surprise in Michael’s eyes, there and instantly gone, hidden by his warm laugh—so unfamiliar. “You see? How could I fail to mend my wicked ways?”
“How indeed.” Mr. West took a drink of wine, considering her over the rim of his glass and, for a moment, Penelope was certain that the man saw their falsehood as clearly as if she had embroidered Liar into her dinner dress, and knew that she and Michael had been married for a reason far removed from love, and that her husband had not shared a moment with her in the days since he’d carried her back to her bedchamber after consummating their marriage.
That he’d only touched her to ensure that their marriage was legitimate. And now he spent his nights away from her, with God knew whom, doing God knew what.
She made a show of eating her crème caramel, hoping that Mr. West would not press her for more information.