Tottenham was in a great deal of trouble, indeed.
“Oh, I’m certain that it will,” Penelope said, dryly, “what with all the talk of jewels and ladies’ complexions that men like Bourne and Tottenham must have.”
“You would be surprised,” he said to his wife, all seriousness, and she laughed again. “I shall endeavor to remember your preference for rubies, Lady Olivia.”
She smiled. “See that you do.”
“I’m not sure jewels complement a complexion,” Pippa said smartly. “A play.”
“Philippa, we’ve invited Lord Castleton to luncheon tomorrow,” the marchioness announced. “The two of you shall have time in the afternoon for a walk, I hope.”
“That would be fine, Mother.” Pippa’s attention did not waver. “Five words.”
“Tottenham wasn’t invited to luncheon,” Olivia said with a pout.
“You’re not supposed to talk, Olivia,” Pippa said. “Though that was five words, so well done.”
Michael smiled at the clever retort, but did not miss the disinterest in his sister-in-law’s response. She did not wish to marry Castleton. Not that he could blame her; Castleton was an idiot. It had taken only a few hours for Bourne to discover that Pippa was smarter than most men and that Castleton would make her a terrible match. Of course, Castleton would make anyone a terrible match, but Philippa would find her marriage particularly soul-destroying.
And Penelope would hate him for not putting a stop to it.
He looked to his wife, who was watching him carefully. She leaned in. “You do not like the match.”
He could have lied. The faster Philippa and Castleton were matched, the faster Michael had his revenge, the faster he could live his life out from beneath the cloud of anger and fury that had shadowed his last decade. Nothing had changed.
Except, something had.
Penelope.
He shook his head. “I do not.”
Something lit in her beautiful blue eyes, something that could become his addiction. Hope. Happiness. It made him feel ten times a man to be the reason for it. “You will stop it?”
He hesitated. Would he stop it?
It would make Penelope happy.
But at what price?
He was saved from having to reply by Philippa, turning to face them. “What on earth? Do you see this?”
He had not been paying attention, but Olivia was now alternately pantomiming cracking a whip, and screwing up her face, eyes tightly closed, teeth bared, with her fingers splayed out at either edge of her mouth.
“Driving a squid! Whipping the sunshine!” the marchioness called out, pride in her tone, drawing laughter from the rest of the room.
“Driving a Squid is a play I would dearly love to read,” Philippa said on a giggle, turning back to Penelope. “Penny, really. We could use your help.”
Penelope watched Olivia for a long moment, and Michael had difficulty looking away from her—entranced by her focus. He wondered what it would be like to be the recipient of such interest. Of such contentment. Jealousy flared again, and he scolded himself. No grown man should be envious of dogs or sisters-in-law. “The Taming of the Shrew.”
Olivia stopped. “Yes! Thank you, Pen. I was beginning to feel foolish up there.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Pippa said, dryly. “I don’t think shrews are blind, Olivia.” This, from Philippa.
“Oh, tosh. I should like to see you do it better. Who is next?”
“It’s Penny’s turn. She guessed the last.”
Penelope stood and smoothed out her skirts, and Michael watched as she made her way to the makeshift stage, withdrawing a slip of paper and unfolding it. She considered the phrase for a long moment before an idea dawned, and her face lit up. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly wanting to hurry her from the room and the house, home, to his bed.
But the round had begun, and he would have to wait.
She held up three fingers, and he imagined the feel of them on his jaw, his lips, his cheeks.
“Three words!”
She stiffened her posture and saluted her sisters, then marched stiffly around the stage, her full breasts straining at the edge of her gown. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched, enjoying the view.
“Marching!”
“Soldiers!”
She made an encouraging sign with her hands.
“Napoleon!”
She mimed firing a rifle, and his attention lingered at the place where her shoulder and neck met, the soft, shadowed indentation there that he ached to kiss . . . the place he would kiss in another time and place, if they were married and he were a different man.
If he were a man she could love.
If theirs was a marriage built on something other than revenge.
Do not touch me. The words whispered through him, and he loathed them. Loathed what they represented—the way she thought of him, the way she believed he would treat her. The way he had treated her.
The way he was treating her.
“Hunting!”