He did not move. “And?”
“And she will say yes.” He did not respond. Of course he didn’t. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand. “They are not a good match.”
“Is that so strange?”
No. No, it wasn’t. But he didn’t have to be so callous about it.
She began to skate faster. “She deserves a chance at more.”
“She need not say yes.”
She cast him a sidelong glance. “I’m surprised you would say such a thing. Don’t you want her married as quickly as possible?”
He looked away, focusing on his skating for long minutes. “You know I do. But I have no interest in forcing her hand.”
“It is only my hand that you were interested in forcing?”
“Penelope,” he began, and she pulled ahead of him, skating faster, feeling the cold wind on her cheeks, wishing that she could keep going, wishing that she could glide away from this strange, forced life that she was living. She edged past a large group of people, and he was beside her again, his hand on her arm, slowing her. “Penelope,” he said again. “Please.”
Perhaps it was the word. The softness of it. The strangeness of it on his tongue. The way he said it, as though she could ignore him and he would let her go.
But she stopped, her skates digging deep into the ice as she turned to face him. “I was supposed to stop this,” she said, knowing there was too much emotion in her words. “I was supposed to make it so that they could have a different life. Marriages that were built on more than . . .”
“More than a handsome dowry.”
She looked away from the words. “They’re supposed to have a better chance than us. You gave me your marker.”
“And at least one of them will.” He pointed to the far end of the lake and she followed the line of sight to where Olivia and Tottenham stood in conversation, a blush on Olivia’s perfect cheeks and a wide grin on Tottenham’s face. “He’s worth a fortune, and his reputation is clean enough to make him prime minister someday. If they suit, it could be a tremendous match.”
“They are alone? Together?” She began to skate again, toward them. “Michael, we must go back!”
He reached for her hand, slowing her pace. “Penelope, they are not alone on a balcony at a ball. They are standing, quite happily, on the lakeshore, conversing.”
“Sans chaperone.” She said, “I’m serious. We must return!”
“Well, if you say it in French, it must be very serious indeed.” His face was turned away, so she couldn’t exactly tell, but she thought he was teasing her. “It’s all entirely aboveboard.” He reached out and took her hand, turning her to skate in a different direction even as she tried to pull away. “You owe me an afternoon, wife.” When he held her firm, she stopped resisting, and he orbited her until she couldn’t help but follow him, facing him the entire way.
And then he pulled her into his arms as though they were dancing, and they skated back in an approximation of a waltz, until they were a fair distance from anyone overhearing them.
“Everyone is watching.”
“Let them watch.” He held her tightly, whispering low at her ear, “Don’t you remember what it was like to spend those first, breathless minutes alone with a suitor?”
“No.” She tried to pull away. “Michael, we must go back.”
Suddenly, it wasn’t for Olivia that she felt she must return. It was for herself. For her sanity. Because being in his arms, like this, with his voice at her ear, was not good for her convictions.
He twirled them in a slow circle. “We shall return to them in a few minutes. For now, answer the question.”
“I did answer it.” She tried to pull back, but he held her firmly. “This isn’t proper.”
“I’m not letting you go. If anyone sees us, they’ll simply see the Marquess of Bourne doting on his lovely wife. Now answer the question.”
Except, he wasn’t doting on her. It wasn’t real.
Was it?
“I’ve never been courted. Not to breathlessness.” She couldn’t believe she’d admitted it to him.
“Didn’t your duke do his best to woo you?”
Penelope couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Have you ever met the Duke of Leighton? His is not the most wooing of dispositions.” She paused, a memory of the duke stopping a ball for his future wife flashing through her mind, before adding, “At least, it was not with me.”
“And the others?”
“Which others?”
“The other suitors, Penelope. Surely one of them did his best to . . .”
She shook her head, looking around them, searching for her sisters, afraid of being seen. Philippa was standing with a group of girls at the center of the glittering ice. “I’ve never been rendered breathless by a suitor.”
“Not even Tommy?”
No. She should have said it, but didn’t want to. Didn’t want to betray her friend. Didn’t want Michael to know she’d been a means to an end for all of them . . . even Tommy. “I thought we weren’t discussing Tommy.”
“Do you love him?” There was urgency in his tone, and she knew he would not relent until she answered him.
She lifted one shoulder. “He is a dear friend. Of course I care for him.”
His eyes grew dark. “That isn’t what I mean, and you know it.”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. Instead, she told him the truth, knowing the confession would give him power. Not caring, because she wanted something in their relationship to be real. “He did not make me breathless either.”