“I don’t care if you do needlepoint or not, and if I recall correctly, the activity and you do not exactly suit.”
She smiled. “An excellent start.”
“If you never give a moment of your time to charity . . . I honestly can’t imagine I’d care a whit.”
The smile widened. “Also promising. And I assume you haven’t a favorite pudding?”
“Not one of note, no.” He paused, watching her. “There is more, I imagine?”
She liked the way the word sounded on his lips. The liquid curl of it. Its promise.
“I hope so. And I should like very much if you would show it to me.”
His gaze darkened almost instantly to a lovely mossy green. “I am not certain I follow.”
“It’s quite simple, really. I want the adventure.”
“Which adventure?”
“The one you promised me at Falconwell.”
He leaned back, a gleam of amusement in his eyes—a gleam she recognized from their childhood. “Name your adventure, Lady Penelope.”
She corrected him. “Lady Bourne, please.”
There was a slight widening of his eyes. Just enough for her to see his surprise before he tilted his head. “Lady Bourne, then.”
She liked the sound of the name. Even though she shouldn’t. Even though he’d given her no reason to.
“I should like to see your gaming hell.”
He cocked a brow. “Why?”
“It seems like it would be an adventure.”
“It would indeed.”
“I suppose women don’t frequent the place?”
“Not women like you, no.”
Women like you.
She didn’t like the insinuation in the words. The implication that she was plain and boring and unlikely to do anything adventurous . . . ever. She soldiered on. “Nevertheless, I should like to go.” She thought for a moment, then added, “At night.”
“Why should time of day matter?”
“Events of the evening are much more adventurous. Much more illicit.”
“What do you know about illicitness?”
“Not much. But I feel confident that I shall be a quick study.” Her heart pounded as the memory of their first night together—of the pleasure she’d felt at his hands—flashed, before she recalled the way he’d left her that evening, having ensured their marriage. She cleared her throat, suddenly unsettled. “What luck that I’ve a husband who can give me a tour of these dark excitements.”
“What luck, indeed,” he drawled. “If only your desire for adventure did not run directly counter the respectability with which you insist I cloak myself, I would happily oblige. Unfortunately, I must refuse.”
Anger flared.
His offer for more had not been a real offer at all. He was willing to entertain her whims, willing to pay a price for their marriage, for Falconwell—but only the price he set.
He was no different than any of the others. Than her father, than her fiancé, than any of the other gentlemen who had tried to court her in the ensuing years.
And she wasn’t having it.
She had accepted being forced into marriage by events she had not been able to control. She had accepted a marriage to a notorious scoundrel. But she would not be made a pawn.
Not when he so tempted her to be a player.
“It was part of our agreement. You promised me on the night I agreed to marry you. You told me I could have whatever life I wanted, whatever adventures I desired. You promised me you’d allow me to explore, that assuming the besmirched title of Marchioness of Bourne might ruin my reputation, but it would give me the world.”
“That was before you insisted on my respectability.” He leaned forward. “You want your sisters respectably married. Do not bet what you are not willing to lose, darling. Third rule of gambling.”
“And of scoundrels,” she said, irritated.
“Those as well.” He watched her for a long moment, as though testing her anger. “Your problem is that you do not know what you really want. You know what you should want. But it’s not the same as the real desire, is it?”
He was an infuriating man.
“Such pique,” he said, amusement in his tone as he leaned back.
She leaned forward and said, “At least tell me about it.”
“About what?”
“About your hell.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I imagine it would be very similar to a long carriage ride with a bride with a newfound taste for adventure.”
She laughed, surprised by the jest. “Not that kind of hell. Your gaming hell.”
“What would you like to know about it?”
“I want to know everything.” She smiled at him, all teeth. “You wouldn’t have to tell me about it if you brought me there to experience it firsthand.” The corner of his lips lifted once, just barely. She noticed. “I see you agree.”
He cocked a brow. “Not entirely.”
“But you’ll take me, nonetheless?”
“You are dogged.” He stared at her for a long time, considering his answer. Finally, he said, “I’ll take you.” She smiled broadly and he hastened to add, “Once.”
It was enough.
“Is it very exciting?”
“If you like to gamble,” he said simply, and Penelope wrinkled her nose.
“I’ve never gambled.”
“Nonsense. You’ve wagered every minute we have been together. First for your sisters and today, for yourself.”
She considered the words. “I suppose I have. And I’ve won.”
“That’s because I’ve let you win.”
“I gather that does not happen at your hell?”
He gave a little huff of laughter. “No. We prefer to allow gamers to lose.”
“Why?”
He cut her a look. “Because their loss is our gain.”
“You mean money?”
“Money, land, jewels . . . whatever they are foolish enough to wager.”
It sounded fascinating. “And it is called The Angel?”
“The Fallen Angel.”
She considered the name for a long moment. “Did you name it?”
“No.”
“It seems appropriate for you.”
“I imagine that’s why Chase chose it. It’s appropriate for all of us.”
“All of you?”
He sighed, opening one eye and leveling her with a look. “You are voracious.”
“I prefer curious.”
He sat up, fiddling with the edge of one sleeve. “There are four of us.”
“And you are all . . . fallen?” The last came on a whisper.
Hazel eyes found hers in the dim carriage. “In a sense.”
She considered the answer, the way he said the words with neither shame nor pride. Just simple, unbridled honesty. And she realized that there was something very tempting in the idea of his being fallen . . . of his being a scoundrel. Of his having lost everything—hundreds of thousands of pounds!—and gained it all back in such a short time. He’d somehow restored it all. With no help from society. With nothing but his unflagging will and his fierce commitment to his cause.