“He’ll be furious when you get there,” Worth added. “My note will not have helped.” She paused. “I am sorry about that.”
Penelope cut Worth a look as they reached the foot of the stairs. “I shall collect on that debt,” Penelope said, “but not tonight. Tonight, I shall simply tell you that your message was incomplete. And I intend to deliver the rest of it in person.”
*
Dear M—
My birthday has come again, and this one more troublesome than any of those prior. My mother is ready to host a coming-out ball, and I am targeted as the fatted calf (It’s not the most becoming of metaphors, is it?). At any rate, she’s already making plans for March, if you can believe it—I’m certain I shan’t last the winter.
Do promise you’ll come to the fated event . . . I know that twenty is far too young for you to be attending balls or caring a bit about the season, but it would be nice to see a friendly face.
Always—P
Needham Manor, August 1820
No reply
“You should be at home with your wife.”
Bourne did not turn away from his place at the window overlooking the pit floor of The Fallen Angel. “My wife is tucked safely in her bed, asleep.”
He knew how that would look, Penelope in her pristine, white linen nightgown, wrapped in a collection of blankets, curled on her side, her blond hair spread out like a wave behind her—sighing a sweet little sigh in her sleep, tempting him, even in fantasy.
Or, even better, in his bed, on his fur, lush and waiting to be discovered.
The days since she’d requested he not touch her had been interminable.
The night at Tottenham’s had begun with a single, achievable goal—to lay the foundation of Bourne and Penelope’s false love for the rest of society. But then she’d gone and stood strong in that viper pit of a dining room, bolstering his story, feigning fondness and devotion and, ultimately, defending him in her perfect, cultured way.
As much as he’d told himself that he had gone after her to further convince Tottenham’s guests of his fascination with his new wife, he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t true. The guests had been far from his mind, and his fascination had been nothing close to fraudulent. He’d had to touch her. He’d had to be close to her.
The moment he’d kissed her, he’d lost control of the situation—gasping for breath, clutching her to him, wishing that they were anywhere but there, in that hallway, in that house, with those people. He’d wanted to murder Tottenham for interrupting them, but God knew what would have happened if the viscount hadn’t done just that, considering that Bourne had been seriously considering lifting his bride’s skirts, lowering himself to his knees, and showing her precisely where pleasure could take them both when the viscount had cleared his throat—and Bourne’s head.
She’d gone statue-still in his arms, and he’d known in that moment that she’d believed the worst of him. She’d believed it had all been concocted for Tottenham’s benefit . . . and it had—but Bourne hadn’t expected it to go so far. And he’d never admit to her that he’d been just as carried away as she was.
So he’d told her the truth about the arrangement, knowing that the words would sting. Knowing she’d hate him more for deceiving her. And when she’d pronounced, with all the poise of a queen, that he was not to touch her again, he’d known it was best for them both.
Even if he’d wanted nothing more than to take her home and make her recant the words.
Chase tried again. “You’ve been here every night since your return.”
“Why do you care so much?”
“I know women. And I know they do not like to be ignored.”
Bourne did not reply.
“I hear that you’re angling for one of the Marbury girls to become Lady Tottenham.”
Bourne narrowed his gaze. “You hear.”
Chase shrugged one shoulder and smirked. “I have my sources.”
Bourne turned back to the window, watching Tottenham far below at the piquet table. “The unmarried young ladies Marbury are just today in town. That gives me a few days to secure the interest of the viscount.”
“So the dinner was a success?”
“I dream of invitations arriving in droves.”
Chase laughed. “Poor, sad Bourne. Forced to restore the only thing he doesn’t want for the only thing he does.” Bourne leveled Chase with a look, but he did not disagree. “You realize that the club has made you more money than you could ever spend, and that there’s no reason at all for you to prove yourself by exacting your revenge, do you not?”
“It’s not about the money.”
“What is it about, then, the title? The way he cheapened it?”
“I don’t care about the title.”