It could have been a nod to that evening, to the moment she’d unlocked this strange new future, to the hope that she might find more, despite a husband who wanted nothing to do with her. She would have her adventure in this cloak, with or without him.
A fur-lined bonnet and gloves rounded out her outdoor dress, and in perfect time; she descended the wide central stairs of Hell House to the sounds of her sisters’ chattering in the foyer below, their conversation rising to fill the empty space that seemed to loom everywhere in her husband’s home.
Her home, she supposed.
As she hurried across the first-floor landing, eager to reach her sisters and leave the house, the door to Bourne’s private study opened and he strode out, papers in hand, frock coat unbuttoned, his white linen shirt pulling taut across his broad chest. He came up short at the sight of her and instantly reached to button his coat.
She stilled, her eyes dragging over his face, taking in the mottled discoloration at one eye, the wicked-looking cut on his lower lip. She stepped forward, one gloved hand rising of its own accord, unable to stop herself from reaching for his battered face. “What happened to you?”
He retreated from the touch, his gaze flickering over her. “Where are you going?”
The abrupt change in conversation did not give her a chance to decide if she wanted him to hear the truth. “Ice-skating. Your eye . . .”
“It’s nothing.” He lifted a hand to the bruise.
“It looks awful.” He raised a brow, and she shook her head. “I mean . . . oh, you know what I mean. It’s all black and yellow.”
“Is it disgusting?”
She nodded once. “Quite.”
“That’s what I was hoping for.” Was he teasing her? “Thank you for the concern.” There was a long pause, during which she would have thought Michael was uncomfortable if she had not known better. Ultimately, he added, “You saw that I accepted an invitation to the Beaufetheringstone Ball.”
She could not help her response. “I did. You do know that it is usually the wife who accepts social invitations, do you not?”
“When we are more adept at receiving them, I shall happily relinquish the task of accepting them. I was surprised we were invited at all.”
“I would not be. Lady B enjoys a scandal more than most. Especially if it’s in her ballroom.”
A cacophony of laughter rose from the ground floor, saving her from having to answer, and Michael edged toward the banister to look down into the foyer. “The young ladies Marbury, I presume?”
Penelope tried her best to look away from the gash on his lip. She really did.
That she failed was not of import.
“They have returned to town.” She paused, unable to keep the edge from her tone when she added, “Sure to be matched soon enough . . .”
He snapped his attention back to her. “Ice-skating?” There was surprise in the words.
“You don’t remember skating on the pond when we were children?” The words were out before she could stop them, and she wished that she’d said something else . . . anything else . . . anything that did not remind her of the Michael she’d once known. Once understood.
It was as though he had erased the memory of her. She hated the way that made her feel. “I am late.” She spun away from him, heading for the staircase, not expecting him to say anything. He was so good at remaining silent; she’d given up thinking he would speak without prodding. And she was through prodding him.
So, when he did speak, she was shocked. “Penelope.”
The sound of her name on his lips shocked her. She turned back instantly. “Yes?”
“May I join you?”
Penelope blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
He took a deep breath. “Ice-skating. May I join you?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Why? Do you think Lord and Lady Bourne will receive an inch or two in the papers if we are seen hand in hand, gliding across the Serpentine?”
He raked a hand through his dark curls. “I deserved that.”
She would not feel guilty.
“Yes. You did. And more, too.”
“I should like to make it up to you.”
Her eyes widened. What was this?
He was likely manipulating her and their future and this time, she would not be swayed. She would not be fooled.
She knew better. She was tired of the ache that settled in her chest whenever he was near—whenever he was not near. She was tired of the battles, the games, the falsehoods. She was tired of the disappointments.
He could not possibly imagine that one small offer of companionship would make up for everything that he’d done . . . everything that he’d threatened. Steeling herself and her voice, she said, “I don’t think so.”
He blinked. “I should have expected that.”
After the way they’d left each other the evening before? Yes. He should have. She turned away, heading for the stairs leading down to her sisters.
“Penelope.” He stayed her with her name, low and lovely on his lips.
She could not help but turn back. “Yes?”
“What would it take? To join you?”
“What would it take?”
“Name your price.” He paused. “One afternoon with my wife without the specter of the past or future with us. What would it take?”
She replied without hesitation, straight and serious. “Don’t ruin Tommy.”
“Always asking for others. Never for yourself.”
“And you, always doing for yourself and never for others.”
“I find I prefer the outcome.” He was an infuriating man. He came closer, spoke low, sending a thrum of awareness through her. “What would it take for me to have you for an afternoon?”
Her breath quickened as the words conjured up a variety of images that had nothing to do with ice-skating or her sisters and everything to do with the fur coverlet in his luxurious bedroom.
He reached out and trailed one finger down her cheek. “Name your price.”
God help her, he so easily managed her.
“One week,” she said, voice shaking. “One week of safety for him.” One week to convince you that you are wrong. That revenge is not the answer.
He did not immediately agree, and she forced herself to turn back to the staircase, disappointed by her utter lack of power over him. As she set foot on the top step, Philippa noticed her. “Penny!” she announced. “And Lord Bourne!”
Penelope looked back at Michael, and whispered, “You need not escort me. I assure you I am quite capable of finding my way to the front door.”
“You have a deal,” he said quietly at her elbow. “One week.”
Success coursed through her, heady and exciting. They had reached the bottom of the stairs before she could say anything, and Olivia pounced. “Have you seen The Scandal Sheet today?”
“I haven’t, I regret,” Penelope teased, pretending not to notice that Michael was uncomfortably close behind her. “What scintillating gossip have you heard?”
“No gossip for us,” Pippa replied. “Gossip about us . . . well, about you, at least.”
Oh, no. Someone had discovered the truth of their marriage. Of her ruination in the country. “What kind of gossip?”