Her brows rose. “Utterly enthralling, are you?”
He feigned affront. “Have you not noticed that about me?”
The frightening thing was that she had. Not that she would tell him that. “I hadn’t. But I can see that you are also infinitely more modest than the others.”
It was his turn to laugh. “They must be very difficult, indeed.”
She grinned. “I see you know your limitations.”
Silence fell again, and she was surprised when he broke it. “I enjoyed charades. It was as though I was a part of the family.”
The words were so honest and unexpected, so honest, and tears came, unbidden, to prick at Penelope’s eyes. She blinked them back, saying simply, “We are married.”
He searched for her gaze in the darkness. “Is that all it takes? The exchange of vows in front of Vicar Compton, and a family is born?” When she did not reply, he added, “I wish it were so.”
She tried to keep the words light. “You are welcome to my sisters, my lord. I am certain that they would both enjoy having you for a brother . . . what with your friendship with Lord Tottenham and . . .” She stopped.
“And?” he prompted.
She took a breath. “And your ability to keep Pippa from becoming Lady Castleton.”
He sighed, leaning his head back against the seat. “Penelope . . . it is not so easy.”
She stilled, then pulled away from his embrace, the cold attacking instantly. “You mean it does not serve you.”
“No. It does not.”
“Why do their quick marriages matter?” He hesitated, and she filled the silence. “I have tried to understand, Michael . . . but I cannot see it. How does one serve the other? You already have proof of Tommy’s illegitimacy . . .” And suddenly, she understood. “You don’t though, do you?”
He did not look away, but neither did he speak. Her mind spun as she tried to make sense of the arrangement, of how it must have been organized, of the parties who must have been involved, of the logic of the situation. “You don’t have it, but my father does. And you will pay him handsomely for it in married daughters. His favorite commodity.”
“Penelope.” He leaned forward.
She pressed against the door of the coach, as far away as she could get. “Do you deny it?”
He stilled. “No.”
“And so it goes,” she said bitterly, the reality of the situation filling the small space of the carriage, threatening to suffocate her. “My father and my husband conspiring to manage both my sisters and me. Nothing changes. That’s the choice, is it? My sisters’ reputations or my friend’s? One, or t’other?”
“At first, it was a choice,” he conceded. “But now . . . I would not allow your sisters to be ruined, Penelope.”
She raised a brow. “Forgive me if I do not believe you, my lord, considering how much you have threatened those same reputations since our meeting.”
“No more threats. I want them happy. I want you happy.”
He could make her happy. The thought whispered through her, and she did not doubt it. Not at all. This was a man who had singular focus, and if he set his mind to giving her a lifetime of happiness, he would succeed. But that was not in the cards. “You want your revenge more.”
“I want both. I want everything.”
She turned away from him, speaking to the street beyond the carriage window, suddenly irritated. “Oh, Michael, whoever told you that you could have everything?”
They rode in silence for an age before the coach stopped, and Michael descended, turning back to help her from the conveyance. As he stood there in the dim shadows of the coach, one hand extended, she was reminded of that night at Falconwell, when he’d offered her his hand and his name and his adventure, and she’d taken it, thinking he was still the boy she’d once known.
He was not. He was nothing of that boy . . . now entirely a man with two sides—kind protector and vicious redeemer. He was her husband.
And, God help her, she loved him.
All those years she’d waited for this moment, for this revelation, sure that it would change her life and cause flowers to bloom and birds to sing with its euphoria.
But this love was not euphoric. It was painful.
It was not enough.
She lowered herself from the carriage without his aid, avoiding his strong, gloved hand as she climbed the steps and entered the town house foyer, empty of servants. He followed her, but she did not hesitate, instead heading straight for the stairs and beginning her climb.
“Penelope,” he called from the foot of the stairs, and she closed her eyes against her name, against the way its sound on his lips made her ache.
She did not stop.
He followed, slowly and methodically, up the stairs and down the long, dark hallway to her bedchamber. She had left the door open, knowing that he would find entry even if she locked herself inside. He closed the door behind him as she moved to her dressing table and removed her gloves, draping them carefully over a chair.
“Penelope,” he repeated, with a firmness that demanded obedience.
Well, she was through obeying.
“Please, look at me.”
She did not waver. Did not reply.
“Penelope . . .” He trailed off, and from the corner of her eye, she saw him rake his fingers through his hair, leaving a path of glorious imperfection there—so handsome, so uncharacteristic. “For a decade, I have lived this life. Revenge. Retribution. This is what has fed me—nourished me.”
She did not turn back. Could not. Did not want him to see how he moved her. How much she wanted to scream and rail and tell him that there was more to life . . . more to him . . . than this wicked goal.