“Of course you do. You’re just like every other peer—consumed with the magical power of your title. Even if you resent it.” Chase paused. “Not that it matters anymore. You’ve married the girl, and you’re well down the road to revenge. Or is it resurrection?”
Bourne scowled through the red stained glass that marked a flame of hell, through which he could see the roulette wheel spinning far below. “I’ve no plans for resurrection. I shall do what is necessary to ruin Langford. And once that is done, I’m returning to my life.”
“Without her?”
“Without her.” But he wanted her.
He’d gone without things he wanted before. Survived.
“And how do you expect to explain that to the lady?”
“She doesn’t need me to have the life she wants. She can live where she wants, the way she wants, on my land, with my money. I’m happy to leave her to it.” He’d said it before, more than once, but it was becoming more difficult to believe.
“How do you envision that happening?” Chase fairly drawled. “You are married.”
“There are ways for her to be happy nonetheless.”
“And is that what you are looking for? Her happiness?”
He considered the words, heard the surprise in Chase’s tone. He certainly had not begun this journey with any thought of Penelope’s happiness. And still—even as he knew it made him the worst possible kind of husband—he would sacrifice her happiness for his revenge. But he was not a monster; if he could, he would keep her happy and ruin Langford.
As proof, he would honor her request not to touch her.
For he knew well enough that making a habit of taking his perfect, virginal bride to bed would be a mistake, as she was precisely the kind of woman who would want more.
Far more than he had to give.
So he would stay the hell away from her.
Even if he wanted her more than he could say.
“I forced her to marry me for a piece of land. The least I can do is think about what might make the lady content after our marriage has served its purpose. I’m sending her away the moment proof of Langford’s fall is mine.”
“Why?”
Because she deserves more.
He feigned disinterest. “I promised her freedom. And adventure.”
Chase chuckled at that. “Did you? I’m sure she was thrilled to accept it. She’s waited a long time since that first proposal—long enough to realize that most marriages aren’t worth the paper on which the licenses are printed. So you’ll honor the promise?”
Bourne did not look away from the pit floor. “I will.”
“Any adventure?”
Bourne turned his head. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, in my experience, ladies with excitement in their reach are rather . . . creative. Are you prepared for her to travel the globe? To toss your money away on frivolities? To host raucous parties and scandalize the ton? To take a lover?”
The last was spoken casually, but Bourne knew Chase was deliberately taunting him. “She may do whatever she likes.”
“So, should the lady choose, you’d allow her to cuckold you?”
He knew it was bait. Knew he should not rise. His fists clenched, nonetheless. “If she is discreet, it is not my concern.”
“You don’t want her for yourself?”
“No.” Liar.
“An unsatisfying experience, was it? Best to let another handle her, then.”
Bourne resisted the urge to put Chase straight into the wall. He hated the very idea of another man’s touching her. Another man’s discovering her eagerness, her passion—more tempting than cards, than billiards, than roulette. She threatened his control, his tightly leashed desires, his long-hidden conscience.
He could not make her happy.
And it was only a matter of time before he would want to.
It was better this way.
For both of them.
The door to the owners’ suite opened, and Temple saved Bourne from having to continue the irritating conversation. The third man’s hulking silhouette blocked out the light beyond as he crossed the room. It was Saturday evening, and Chase, Cross, and Temple had a standing faro game.
Cross followed behind Temple, shuffling a deck of cards. He spoke, surprise in his tone. “Bourne is playing?”
Bourne ignored the temptation that flared at the question. He wanted to play. He wanted to lose himself in the simple, straightforward rules of the game. He wanted to pretend that there was nothing more to life than luck.
But he knew better.
Luck had not been on his side for a very long time.
“I’m not playing.”
The three hadn’t really expected him to join, but they always asked. Chase met his eyes. “Stay for a drink, then.”
If he stayed, Chase would push him farther. Would ask him more.
But if he left, Penelope would haunt him, making him feel like a dozen kinds of fool.
He stayed.
The others had taken their seats at the owners’ table, used only for this game—Temple, Cross, and Chase the only players. Bourne sat in the fourth chair, always at the table, never at the game.
Temple shuffled the cards, and Michael watched as they fanned through the big man’s fingers once, twice, before they flew across the table, the rhythm of smooth paper against thick baize a temptation in itself.
They’d played two hands in silence before Chase’s question came, clear and unyielding across the table. “And when she desires children?”
Temple and Cross hesitated in considering their cards, the question so unexpected that they could not help but show their interest. Cross spoke first, “When who desires children?”
Chase leaned back. “Bourne’s Penelope.”
Bourne did not like the possessive description.
Or perhaps he liked it too much.
Children. They would require more than a father in London and a mother in the country. They would require more than a childhood spent living in the shadow of a gaming hell. And if they were girls, they would require more than a father with a sordid reputation. A father who ruined everything he touched.
Including their mother.
Shit.
“She will want them,” Chase pressed on. “She’s the type to want them.”
“How would you know?” Bourne asked, irritated that this was even a topic of discussion.
“I know a great deal about the lady.”
Temple and Cross now swung their attention to Chase. “Honestly?” Temple asked, disbelief in his tone.
“Is she horsefaced?” Cross asked. “Bourne says she’s not, but I think that must be the reason why he’s here with us instead of home, showing her how entertaining the late-night experiences of the Marchioness of Bourne can be.”
Irritation flared in Bourne. “Not all of us spend our evenings rutting like pigs.”
Cross considered his cards once more. “I prefer rabbits,” he said casually, drawing a bark of laughter from Temple before he looked to Chase once more. “Honestly, though. Tell us about the new Lady Bourne?”
Chase discarded. “She is not horsefaced.”
Bourne gritted his teeth. No. She isn’t.
Cross leaned forward. “Is she dull?”
“To my knowledge, no,” Chase said, before turning to Bourne. “Is she dull?”