Sillily—P
post script—He’s not right, is he?
Needham Manor, January 1816
* * *
Dear P—
What your father doesn’t know is that the only thing that breaks up the monotony of Latin, Shakespeare and the droning on about the responsibilities boys like me shall one day have in the House of Lords are silly letters from silly girls. You of all people should know that I’ve been very poorly raised, and I rarely feel obligated.
—M
post script—He’s not right.
Eton College, January 1816
“You bastard.”
Bourne looked up from his whiskey in the Hound and Hen and met the angry gaze of his future father-in-law. Leaning back in his chair, he affected the look of vague amusement that had thrown off far greater opponents than the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, and waved one hand at the empty chair across the pub table. “Father,” he mocked, “please, join me.”
Bourne had been seated in a dark corner of the tavern for several hours, waiting for Needham to arrive with the papers that would restore Falconwell. As evening gave way to night, and the lively room filled with laughter and chatter, he’d waited, fingers itching to sign the papers, dreaming of what came next.
Of revenge.
Trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was betrothed.
Trying even harder not to think of the woman to whom he was betrothed—so earnest and innocent and entirely the wrong kind of wife for him.
Not that he had any idea of the right kind of wife for him.
Irrelevant. He’d not had a choice.
The only way he’d had a chance at Falconwell was through Penelope. Which made her entirely the right kind of wife for him.
And Needham knew it.
The portly marquess sat, calling over a servant girl with the wave of one enormous hand. She was smart enough to bring a glass and the bottle of whiskey with her, leaving it quickly and hurrying away to brighter—and friendlier—climes.
Needham drank deep and slammed his glass onto the hard oak table. “You bastard. This is blackmail.”
Michael affected a look of boredom. “Nonsense. I’m paying you handsomely. I’m taking your eldest, unmarried daughter off your hands.”
“You’ll make her miserable.”
“Probably.”
“She’s not strong enough for you. You’ll ruin her.”
Bourne refrained from pointing out that Penelope was stronger than most women he’d encountered. “You should have considered that before you attached her to my land.” He tapped the scarred oak. “The deed, Needham. I find myself disinclined to marry the girl without it in my possession. I want it now. I want the papers signed before Penelope stands before a vicar.”
“Else?”
Bourne turned in his chair, extending his boots out from under the table, crossing one leg over the other. “Else Penelope doesn’t stand before the vicar at all.”
Needham’s gaze was fast on his. “You wouldn’t. It would destroy her. Her mother. Her sisters.”
“Then I suggest you seriously consider your next course of action. It’s been nine years, Needham. Nine long years during which I’ve longed for this moment. For Falconwell. And if you think I’m going to allow you to get in the way of my restoring those lands to the marquessate, you are sorely mistaken. I happen to be quite friendly with the publisher of The Scandal Sheet. One word from me, and no one of good ton will come near the young ladies Marbury.” He paused and poured himself another drink, allowing the cold threat to settle between them. “Go on. Try me.”
Needham’s gaze narrowed. “So this is the way of it? You threaten everything I have in order to get what you want?”
Bourne smirked. “I play to win.”
“Ironic, is it not, that you are famous for losing?”
The barb struck true. Not that Bourne would show it. Instead, he remained silent, knowing that there was nothing like quiet to unsettle an opponent.
Needham filled the silence. “You’re an ass.” With a curse, he reached into his coat and retrieved a large, folded piece of paper.
Bourne’s triumph was heady as he read the document. Falconwell was his, upon the marriage, which would come tomorrow. His only regret was that Vicar Compton did not work at night.
When Bourne placed the document safely in his own pocket, imagining he could feel the weight of the deed against his chest, Needham spoke. “I’ll not have her sisters ruined by this.”
They were all so worried about her sisters.
What of Penelope?
Bourne ignored the question and toyed with Needham—the man who had tried so hard to keep Falconwell from him. Bourne lifted his glass. “I’m marrying Penelope. Falconwell is mine tomorrow. Tell me why I should bother caring even a bit about the reputation of your other daughters. They are your problem, are they not?” He threw back the scotch and set the empty glass on the table.
Needham leaned into the table, his tone all force. “You’re an ass, and your father would be devastated to know what you’ve become.”
Bourne snapped his gaze to Needham’s, registering, oddly, that the marquess did not share Penelope’s blue eyes. Instead, his eyes were deep brown and lit with a knowledge that Bourne knew all too well—the knowledge that he had wounded his opponent. Bourne stilled, a memory of his father coming unbidden, of him standing in the center of the massive foyer at Falconwell, in breeches and shirtsleeves, laughing up at his son.
The muscles in his jaw tensed. “Then we are lucky that he is dead.”
Needham seemed to understand that he was treading dangerously close to ground that was out-of-bounds. He relaxed away from the table. “The details of your betrothal are never to be revealed. I’ve two other daughters who need marrying. No one can know Penelope went to a fortune hunter.”
“I’ve three times the holdings you have, Needham.”
Needham’s gaze turned black. “You didn’t have the holding you wanted, did you?”
“I have it now.” Bourne pushed his chair back from the table. “You are in no position to make demands. If your daughters survive my entry into the family, it shall be because I condescend to allow it and for no other reason.”
Needham followed the movement with his gaze, his jaw clenching at the sound. “No, it shall be because I have the one thing you want more than the land.”
Bourne considered Needham for a long moment, the words echoing in their dark corner before he brushed them aside. “You can’t give me the only thing I want more than Falconwell.”
“Langford’s ruin.”
Revenge.
The word shot through him, a whisper of promise, and Bourne leaned forward, slowly. “You lie.”
“I should call you out for the suggestion.”
“It won’t be my first duel.” He waited. When Needham did not rise to the bait, he said, “I’ve looked. There’s nothing to be found that can ruin him.”
“You haven’t looked in the right places.”
It had to be a lie. “You think that with my reach, with the reach of The Angel, I have not turned London inside out for a whiff of scandal on the stench of Langford?”
“Not even the files at your precious hell would have this.”