But Tommy was her friend. And friends visited. She was unable to keep the smile from Mrs. Worth. “I shall be right down. Give him tea. Or . . . wine. Or . . . scotch.” She shook her head. “Whatever it is that people drink at this hour.”
She closed the door and righted her appearance before throwing herself down the stairs and into the front receiving room, where he stood at a large marble fireplace, dwarfed by the extravagant room. “Tommy!” she called, moving directly to him, thrilled to see him. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled. “I’m here to steal you away, of course.”
It should have been a jest, but there was an edge to the words that she did not like, and it was in that moment that she realized Tommy should not be there—that Michael would be furious if he discovered Tommy Alles in his receiving room, with his wife. It would not matter that Tommy and Penelope had been friends for an age. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said as he turned to her, taking her hands and lifting them to his lips. “He shall be livid.”
“You and I are friends still, are we not?”
She did not hesitate, her guilt over their last meeting still fresh. “Of course we are.”
“And as a good friend, I’m here to make sure that you are all right. Hang him.”
After the last interaction she had with her husband, she should have supported the Hang him strategy, but she couldn’t. For some reason, the very idea of standing here in this room with Tommy made Penelope feel as though she was betraying her husband and their marriage.
She shook her head. “It is not a good idea for you to be here, Tommy.”
Tommy looked down at her, uncommon seriousness in his gaze. “Tell me one thing. Are you all right?”
The words were soft with concern, and she wasn’t expecting the emotion that crashed through her at them, the tears that sprang instantly to her eyes. It had been a week she’d been married in a tiny, rushed ceremony in Surrey, and no one had thought to ask after her. Not even her husband. “I—” she stopped, emotion closing her throat.
Tommy’s normally friendly blue eyes darkened. “You’re miserable. I’ll kill him.”
“No! No.” She put one hand out, resting it on his arm. “I’m not miserable. I’m not. I’m just . . . I’m . . .” she took a deep breath, finally settling for, “It’s not easy.”
“Has he hurt you?”
“No!” She leapt to defend Michael before considering the question. “Not . . . no.” Not in the way he meant.
He did not believe her. He crossed his arms. “Do not protect him. Has he hurt you?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I don’t see him much.”
“That is not a surprise,” he said, and she heard the sting in his words. The emotion that came with friendship lost. She had felt it when Michael had left. When he’d stopped writing. When he’d stopped caring. Tommy was quiet for a long time before he said, “Do you wish to see him more?”
It was a question without an easy answer. She wanted nothing to do with one-half of Michael, with the cold, distant man who had married her for land. But the other half—the man who held her and cared for her comfort and did delicious, wonderful things to her mind and body—she wouldn’t mind seeing him again.
Of course, she could not say that to Tommy. Could not explain that Michael was two men and that she was at once furious with and fascinated by him.
She could not say it because she barely wanted to admit it to herself.
“Pen?”
She sighed. “Marriage is a strange thing.”
“Indeed it is. Doubly so if one is married to Michael, I’m guessing. I knew he’d come for you. Knew he’d be cold and heartless and devise a way to marry you quickly—for Falconwell.” Belatedly, Penelope realized she should be protesting the words and telling Tommy their well-spun tale, but he was moving on, and it was too late. “I tried to marry you first . . . to spare you marriage to him.”
Tommy’s words from the morning of his proposal echoed in her mind. “That’s what you meant. You wanted to protect me from Michael.”
“He’s not the same as he was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He tilted his head. “Would you have believed me?”
“Yes.” No.
He smiled, smaller than usual. More serious. “Penny, if you’d known he was coming for you, you would have waited.” He paused. “It was always him.”
Penelope’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t true. Was it?
A vision flashed—a warm spring day, the three of them inside the old Norman tower that stood on Falconwell lands. As they had explored, a staircase had given way beneath Penelope, and she’d been trapped a level above Michael and Tommy. It hadn’t been far, a yard or two, but far enough for her to be afraid of jumping. She’d called for help, and Tommy had been the first to find her. He’d urged her to jump, promised to catch her. But she’d been frozen in fear.
And then Michael had come. Calm, fearless Michael, who had looked up into her eyes and given her strength. Jump, Sixpence. I shall be your net.