But this was London society, where loveless marriages were the norm. She sighed but said nothing.
“Don’t worry about me, Penny,” Philippa said, pulling Penelope into the throngs of skaters once more. “I shall be fine with Castleton. He’s a good enough man. I don’t think Father would have allowed his suit if he weren’t.” She leaned closer. “And don’t worry about Olivia. She hasn’t any idea that you and Lord Bourne are . . .” She trailed off. “She’s too focused on trapping herself a handsome peer.”
Penelope was not comforted by the idea that she might have fooled her youngest sister into believing that her marriage was a love match. It made her terribly uncomfortable. Olivia, The Scandal Sheet, the rest of society’s believing that Michael loved her—that she loved Michael—only served to prove the worst . . . that Penelope was losing herself to this charade.
If her sisters barely questioned her feelings for Michael, who was to say that she wouldn’t soon believe the pretense herself?
Then where would she be?
Alone again.
“Penelope?” Pippa’s question pulled her from her reverie.
She forced a smile.
Pippa watched her for a long while, seeming to see more than Penelope wished, and she looked away from the scrutiny. Finally, her sister said, “I think I shall join Olivia and Louisa. Will you come?”
Penelope shook her head. “No.”
“Shall I stay with you?”
Penelope shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
The younger Marbury smiled. “Waiting for your husband?” Penelope instantly denied it, and Pippa’s smile turned knowing. “I think you like him, sister. Against your best judgment. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know.” She paused, then said matter-of-factly, “I should think it would be rather nice to like one’s husband.”
Before Penelope could reply, Pippa was gone. Without thinking, she sought Michael once more, now gone from the spot on the hill where she’d seen him last. She scanned the lake and located him, just on the edge of the ice, in conversation with Viscount Tottenham.
She watched for a long moment before Michael looked out across the ice, his serious gaze finding hers almost instantly. Nervousness shot through her and she turned away, unable to stand firm with half of London between them. She tucked her chin into her muff and skated, head down, through a nearby crowd to the far end of the lake, where she stepped off the ice and hobbled toward a chestnut vendor who had set up shop on the rise there.
She’d barely taken a step when she heard the chatter.
“Can you believe Tottenham is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt?” The question came from behind her, and Penelope paused, knowing instantly that someone was discussing her husband.
“I can’t even imagine how Tottenham would be acquainted with someone like him.”
“I hear that Bourne is still managing that scandalous club. What do you think that says?”
“Nothing good. Bourne is wicked as sin, just like the men who frequent that club.” Penelope resisted the urge to turn around and tell the gossipers that they were very likely sired by or espoused to men who would give their left arms for a chance to wager at The Fallen Angel.
“They say he’s angling for invitations this season. They say he’s ready to return to the ton. They say she’s the reason why.”
Penelope leaned closer as the wind picked up, and the words became more difficult to hear. “Lady Holloway told my mother’s cousin that he could not stop touching her at dinner last week.”
“I heard the same—and did you see The Scandal Sheet this morning?”
“Can you believe it? A love match? With Penelope Marbury? I would have sworn he married her for her reputation, poor thing.”
“And don’t forget Falconwell—it was the seat of the marquessate before—”
The words were lost in the wind, but Penelope heard them anyway. Before he lost it.
“One does wonder how someone as pristine as Penelope Marbury can care for someone as wicked as the Marquess of Bourne.”
Far too easily, Penelope feared.
“Nonsense. Look at the man. The real question is how someone like him could tumble into love with someone as boring as she! She couldn’t even keep cold, boring Leighton.”
The two dissolved into giggles, and Penelope closed her eyes at the high-pitched sound. “You’re terrible! Poor Penelope.”
God, she hated that name.
“Well really. Wicked as sin and twice as handsome—even with that eye. Where do you think he got it?”
“I am told there are fights at the hell. Brawls that rival those of the gladiators.” Penelope rolled her eyes. Her husband was many things, but a modern-day gladiator was not one of them.
“Well, I confess, I would not refuse to tend to his wounds . . .” The voice trailed off on a sigh.
Penelope resisted the urge to show the wicked women just what kind of wounds could be inflicted on a person.