“I heard the same—and did you see The Scandal Sheet this morning?”
“Can you believe it? A love match? With Penelope Marbury? I would have sworn he married her for her reputation, poor thing.”
“And don’t forget Falconwell—it was the seat of the marquessate before—”
The words were lost in the wind, but Penelope heard them anyway. Before he lost it.
“One does wonder how someone as pristine as Penelope Marbury can care for someone as wicked as the Marquess of Bourne.”
Far too easily, Penelope feared.
“Nonsense. Look at the man. The real question is how someone like him could tumble into love with someone as boring as she! She couldn’t even keep cold, boring Leighton.”
The two dissolved into giggles, and Penelope closed her eyes at the high-pitched sound. “You’re terrible! Poor Penelope.”
God, she hated that name.
“Well really. Wicked as sin and twice as handsome—even with that eye. Where do you think he got it?”
“I am told there are fights at the hell. Brawls that rival those of the gladiators.” Penelope rolled her eyes. Her husband was many things, but a modern-day gladiator was not one of them.
“Well, I confess, I would not refuse to tend to his wounds . . .” The voice trailed off on a sigh.
Penelope resisted the urge to show the wicked women just what kind of wounds could be inflicted on a person.
“Perhaps Penelope would give you some tips—you could try to catch one of the other members.”
Their cruel laughter faded into the distance. She turned to watch them go, fists clenched, unable to recognize them from the rear. Not that she would have done anything if she had.
Of course they found the story worthy of gossip. It was laughable that she and Michael had a love match. That their marriage might be anything more than a business arrangement.
That someone like him could love someone like me.
She sucked in a deep breath at the thought, the cold sting of the air combating the knot of emotion in her throat.
“Lady Bourne.” She spun toward the still-strange title only to find Donovan West scant feet away, headed for her. There was no indication that the newspaperman had overheard the women, but Penelope could not help but think that he had.
“Mr. West,” she said, pushing thoughts of boredom aside and matching his smile. “What a surprise.”
“My sister required my chaperon,” he said, pointing to a group of young girls several yards away. “And I confess to a weakness for winter sport.” He offered her an arm and indicated the vendor nearby. “Would you care for some chestnuts?”
She followed his gaze, the smoke from the chestnut cart obscuring its owner’s face. “I should like that very much, thank you.” They moved slowly toward the stall, Penelope hobbling along on her blades, Mr. West too gentlemanly to mention her lack of coordination. “I, too, have sisters.” She thought of Pippa’s resignation—her decision to marry Castleton despite her disinterest, for all the wrong reasons.
“Troublesome creatures, are they not?”
She forced a smile. “As a sister myself, I must refrain from answering.”
“A fair point.” The blond man paused, adding teasingly, “I imagine that a marriage to Bourne would make any sister somewhat troublesome.”
She smiled. “Consider yourself lucky that you are not my brother.”
He paid the vendor and passed a bag of roasted nuts to Penelope, waiting for her to try one before saying, “You are doing very well.”
Her attention snapped to his shrewd brown gaze. He knew. She did her best to sound unmoved when she spoke, deliberately misunderstanding his words. “I’ve skated for my whole life.”
He tilted his head, acknowledging the way she avoided his words. “Well, your technique shows more skill than would be expected of a lady.”
They were not discussing skating, that much she knew, but was he referencing the gossip about her and Bourne? Or their farcical marriage? Or something even more damning?
She nibbled on a chestnut, savoring the sweet meat as she considered her response. “I’m always happy to surprise those around me.”
“Performing with such finesse takes a great deal of strength.”
She raised a brow and leveled the newspaperman with a frank look. “I’ve had years of practice.”
He smiled warmly then. “Indeed you have, my lady. And may I say how very lucky Bourne is to have finally secured you. I look forward to seeing you throughout the season—surely you’ll be the most talked about couple in London. I know my columnists are already thrilled to have you in town.”
Clarity came like icy wind. “Your columnists.”
He dipped his head, smiling secretly, “The Scandal Sheet is one of mine.”
“The item today . . .” she trailed off.
“Shall pale in comparison to the one about your skating skills.”
She pursed her lips. “So unexpected.”
He laughed. She was not trying to be amusing.
“Penelope has been able to skate rings around me since we were barely old enough to stand.” Michael’s words startled her, and she spun to face him, her surprise at his appearance upsetting her precarious balance on her blades and tipping her into his waiting arms, as though he’d planned the whole thing. She gave a little squeak as he pulled her against him.
“As indicated by my extraordinary grace in this particular moment,” Penelope offered, eliciting a warm laugh from Michael that rumbled through her all-too-pleasantly. She pulled back to meet his gaze.
He did not look away from her as he said, “It’s one of the many reasons I married her. I’m sure you can’t blame me, West.”
A blush flooding her cheeks, Penelope turned to face the newspaperman, who dipped his head, and said, “Not in the slightest. It’s a lucky match indeed.” He winked at Penelope. “She’s obviously committed to you.” He looked off to the distance then before tipping his hat and giving Penelope a short bow. “I have neglected my sister for too long, I think. Lady Bourne, it has been an honor to skate with you.”
She dropped a tiny curtsy. “The pleasure was mine.” When he skated away, she turned to face Michael again, lowering her voice to a whisper. “That man knows that there is more to our marriage than a love match.”
He leaned in, matching her volume. “Don’t you mean less to our marriage?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You are avoiding the point.”
“Of course West knows,” he said casually. “He’s one of the smartest men in Britain. Possibly the smartest man in Britain, and one of the most successful, as well. But he will keep our secrets.”
“He’s a journalist,” she reminded him.
He laughed then, a lovely, honest laugh that made him infinitely more handsome. “You needn’t say it as though he is an insect under glass.” He paused, watching the man in question charm his sister and her gaggle of friends. “West knows better than to speculate on our marriage in print.”
She did not believe him. The truth of their marriage would make for incredible scandal. “How do you know him?”
“He likes hazard.”
“It seems like the smartest man in Britain would not enjoy a game of chance so very much.”