“He is using you.”
The words, however true, stung. She met his gaze. “Of course he is. Just as every other man in my life has done. My father, the Duke of Leighton, the other suitors . . . you.” When he opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head and raised one finger. “Don’t, Tommy. Don’t try to make fools of us both. You might not be using me for land or money or reputation, but you are afraid of your life once the truth is out, and you think I will make a friendly companion—someone to keep the loneliness at bay.”
“Is that so bad?” Tommy asked, desperation creeping into his voice. “What of our friendship? What of our past? What of me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand the words and the ultimatum in them, born of distress. He was asking her to make a choice. Her longest-standing friend—the one who had never left, or her husband, her family, her life. It was no choice. Not really. “He’s my husband!” she said. “Perhaps I would not have written this tale, but this is the tale, nonetheless.”
She stopped, irritation and frustration taking her breath. Tommy watched her for a long moment, her words hanging between them. “And that is that.” He smiled, sad. “I confess, I am not surprised. You always liked him best.”
She shook her head. “That’s not true.”
“Of course it is. One day, you’ll realize it.” He lifted one hand to her chin in a brotherly gesture. That was the problem, of course, Tommy had always been more brother than beau. Not like Michael. There was nothing brotherly about Michael.
There was nothing kind about him, either. And while she might have chosen him in this strange, sad war, she would not stand by as he tore down Tommy. “I shan’t let him ruin you,” she vowed. “I swear it.”
Tommy sliced one hand through the air, his disbelief palpable. “Oh, Penny . . . as though you could stop it.”
The words should have made her sad. She should have heard the truth in them.
But instead, they made her angry.
Michael had taken her from her family, changed her life in a hundred ways, forced this farce upon her, and threatened her dearest friend. And he’d done it all while keeping her at a safe distance, as though she were an insignificant thing about which he need not worry.
Well, he had better begin to worry.
She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders. “He is not God,” she said, her voice firm. “He does not have the right to toy with us like little tin soldiers.”
Tommy recognized her ire. He smiled, sad. “Don’t do this, Pen. I’m not worth it.”
She raised a brow. “I disagree. And even if you weren’t, I am. And I am through with him.”
“He will hurt you.”
One side of her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “He’ll likely hurt me anyway. All the more reason to face him.” She headed for the door to the receiving room, pulling it open to let him exit. As he neared, his shining black Hessians soft on the lush carpet, sadness twisted through her. “I am sorry, Tommy.”
He took her shoulders in his and pressed a warm kiss to her forehead, before he said, “I do want your happiness, Pen, you know that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“You’ll let me know if you change your mind?”
She nodded. “I will.”
He stared at her for a long time before turning away, a shadow crossing his handsome face. “I shall wait for you. Until I can wait no more.”
She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to tell him to stay. But whether from sadness or fear or a keen knowledge that her husband was a ship that would not be turned, instead she said, “Good night, Tommy.”
He turned and walked through the open door into the foyer, and Penelope followed the line of his shoulders as he made his way to the exit to Hell House. The door closed behind him and she heard the clatter of carriage wheels in the silent space, punctuating her solitude. She was alone.
Alone in this mausoleum of a house, filled with things that were not hers and people she did not know. Alone in this quiet world.
There was a movement in the shadows at the far side of the foyer, and Penelope knew immediately that it was Mrs. Worth. She knew, as well, where the housekeeper’s loyalties lay.
Penelope spoke in the darkness, “How long before he hears that I had a gentleman caller at eleven o’clock?”
The housekeeper came into the light but did not speak for a long moment. When she did, it was with all calm. “I sent word to the club upon Mr. Alles’s arrival.”
Penelope watched the beautiful woman, the betrayal—however expected—washing through her, stoking the fires of her ire. “You wasted your paper.”
She headed for the central staircase of Hell House and began to climb. Halfway up, she turned back to face the housekeeper, standing at the foot of the stairs, watching her with her perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect eyes, as though if she stood sentry, she could prevent Penelope from doing anything else that might irritate her master.