It was not the first time that he’d considered stripping her of her clothes that day, nor was it the tenth. Nor, likely, the hundredth.
Something had happened on the ice, something for which he had not been prepared.
He’d enjoyed himself.
He’d enjoyed Penelope.
He’d enjoyed skating with her, and teasing her, and watching her with her sisters, each charming in her own right. And he’d been so tempted to reach out and claim his wife. But when he’d tried, she’d turned from him—filled with glorious strength—chin high, lovely, refusing to settle for less than what she deserved.
He’d been riveted as she left him, so proud of her as she crossed the Serpentine, and it had taken all his control not to follow her and keep her there, in that place that seemed so far from where their marriage actually existed. He’d luxuriated in the feel of her in his arms as they’d skated, exalted in the way she smiled up at him when he’d stolen a chestnut from her paper sack, and when she’d asked him, wide-eyed, for the truth—he’d been happy to answer her with honesty.
His honesty had not been enough, though. A well-learned lesson.
She’d expected him to refuse the invitation to charades, he knew, and he likely should have. But he found he was not ready to leave her—indeed, he found he did not like the idea of ever leaving her. And so here he was, in a drawing room, playing charades in family idyll.
Her sisters tumbled into the room, Philippa carrying a bowl filled with slips of paper, followed by a large brown dog that trotted over to the settee and pushed his way up to sit between him and Penelope, turning twice before settling, chin on Penelope’s thigh, hindquarters shoved against Michael’s hip. He shifted, making room for the hound, as her hands moved to idly stroke the dog’s ears.
Jealousy flared as the dog sighed and burrowed into the touch. Michael cleared his throat, irritated at his canine envy, and asked, “How many dogs are there in this house?”
She wrinkled her nose, thoughtfully, and he was struck by the expression—a vestige from their youth that made him want to reach out and run his finger down the creases in the pert little slope. “Ten? Eleven?” She shrugged, small and sweet. “I’ve honestly lost count. This is Brutus.”
“He appears to like you.”
She smiled. “He likes attention.”
Michael decided that foolish or not, he would happily turn over his stake in The Angel to have her hands on him in such a lovely, soothing way.
“Did you see how tall Tottenham is? And so handsome!” Olivia gushed, coming over to take the chair next to Michael, leaning in to speak to him. “I had no idea that a brother-in-law with a reputation like yours would have access to such a tremendous potential husband!”
“Olivia!” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby looked as though she might perish with embarrassment. “One does not discuss such things with peers!”
“Not even one’s brother-in-law?”
“Not even him!” Lady Needham’s voice had risen several octaves. “An apology would not be out of hand!”
Pippa looked up from where she had set the large bowl of charades clues and pushed her glasses higher on her nose. “She doesn’t mean that your reputation is bad, my lord. Just that it’s . . .”
Michael raised a brow, wondering how she would finish the sentence.
“Really, Pippa. He’s not addlepated. He knows he’s a scandalous reputation. I’d wager he enjoys it.” She smiled at him, all teeth, and he decided he liked these girls. They were entertaining, if nothing else.
“All right. That’s enough,” Penelope interjected. “Shall we play? Olivia, you first.”
Olivia seemed more than willing to begin the game, and she headed for the large fireplace to take her turn. Selecting a slip of paper from the bowl, she read, pursing her lips, ostensibly considering her strategy.
Instead of pantomiming the item on the paper, however, she looked up, and said, “Do you think Tottenham will buy me a very large betrothal ring?”
“The Marriage of Figaro,” Penelope said, matter-of-factly.
“Yes!” Olivia said. “How did you know?”
“How indeed,” Penelope replied.
“What a clever girl!” the marchioness announced.
Michael couldn’t help it. He laughed, drawing his wife’s attention, her brow furrowed in confusion as though he were a strange specimen of flora that she’d just discovered. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing . . . I just . . . you don’t laugh much.”
He leaned in, as close as he could get with the dog between them. “Is it unbecoming?”
She laughed, the sound like music. “No . . . I . . .” She blushed again, and he would have given his fortune for her thoughts at that moment. “No.”
“Olivia,” Pippa said, “try again.”
Olivia reached into the bowl once more, but not before looking straight at Michael and announcing, “I’ve always liked rubies, Lord Bourne. I believe they complement my complexion. In case it should arise in conversation. With anyone.”