A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 70

Instead, she whispered around the knot in her throat, “I missed you so much. I still do, damn you.”
She waited there, in the darkness, for him to say something. Anything.
For him to apologize.
To tell her that he missed her, as well.
A minute passed. Two. More.
When she realized he was not going to speak, she spun away, wrenching open the door before he moved, his hand shooting over her shoulder to slam it shut again. She tugged at the handle, but he held the door closed with one, wide hand. “You’re a brute. Let me out.”
“No. Not until we finish this. I’m no longer that boy.”
She gave a little, humorless laugh. “I know.”
“And I’m not Tommy.”
“I know that, too.”
His hand came to her neck, his fingers tracing the corded muscle there, and she knew he could feel her pulse racing. “You think I did not miss you?” She froze at the words, her breath coming shallow, desperate for him to say more. “You think I did not miss everything about you? Everything you represented?”
He pressed against her, his breath soft against her temple. She closed her eyes. How had they found themselves here, in this place where he was so dark and so broken? “You think I did not want to come home?” His voice was thick with emotion. “But there was no home to which I could return. There was no one there.”
“You’re wrong,” she argued. “I was there. I was there . . . and I was . . .” Alone. She swallowed. “I was there.”
“No.” The word was harsh and graveled. “Langford took it all. And that boy . . . the one you miss . . . he took him, as well.”
“That may be, but Tommy didn’t. Can’t you see, Michael? He’s just a pawn in your game . . . just like me . . . just like my sisters. You married me; you’ll match them. But if you ruin him . . . you’ll never forgive yourself. I know that.”
“You’re wrong,” he replied. “I shall sleep well. Better than I have in a decade.”
She shook her head. “It’s not true. You think your revenge will not hurt? You think you will not ache with the impact of it? The knowledge that you destroyed another man in the systematic, horrible way that Langford destroyed you?”
“Tommy was an unfortunate casualty in this war. After today, after his attempt to take you away, I am not certain he will not deserve the punishment I mete out.”
“I’ll wager you for it.” The words were out of her mouth before she had thought of them. “Name the game and your price. I’ll play. For Tommy’s secrets.”
He stilled. “You have nothing I want.”
She hated the words, and him for saying them. She had herself. She had their marriage. She had their future, none of it of value to him.
And that was the moment she realized that Tommy had been right—that it always had been Michael, that strong, sure boy she’d known. The one she’d laughed with and grown with and mourned for too long. The one who was gone, leaving in his place this dark, haunted man who was, in his own way, just as tempting.
The fight left her. “Let me go.”
He pressed closer, speaking in her ear. “I will have my revenge. The faster you realize that, the easier our marriage will be.”
She stayed quiet, silence her resistance.
“You want to leave?” he asked, the words raw and graveled.
No. I want you to want me to stay.
Why? Why must he have such an effect on her? She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
He lifted his hand from the door and took a step back, and she missed his warmth almost instantly. “Go then.”
She did not hesitate.
She fled into the hallway beyond, unable to shake the thought that something had just happened between them. Something that could not be taken back. She paused, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply as she was cloaked in the darkness and the muffled din from the casino beyond.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, closing her eyes against the thought—against the words they’d just shared, against the keen understanding that she’d waited eight years for a marriage that was about more than what she owned, or represented, or had been bred for, only to marry a man who saw her for nothing more than those things.
Worse, a man she had always thought would be different.
That man had never existed.
He’d never grown from the boy she’d known.
From the boy she’d loved.
She released one long breath and laughed harshly in the darkness.
Fate was cruel indeed.
“Lady Bourne?”
She started at the sound of her name—still so foreign to her—and pressed back to the wall as a very tall man materialized from the blackness. He was reed thin, with a strong, square jaw, and the expression in his eyes, a mix of sympathy and something else that she could not name, had her believing him more friend than foe.
He gave a short, barely there bow. “I am Cross. I have your winnings.”
He held out a dark pouch, and it took Penelope a moment to understand what it was—to remember that she’d come here tonight for excitement and adventure and pleasure, and she was leaving with nothing but disappointment.
She reached for it, the heavy weight of the coins within surprising her.
He laughed, low and rich. “Thirty-five pounds is quite a bit of money,” he said. “And on roulette? You’re very lucky.”
“I’m not at all lucky.” Not tonight, at least.
A beat. “Well, perhaps your luck is changing.”
Doubtful.