A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 86

He couldn’t stop himself from preening. “It was, rather, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t understand,” Olivia said. “How did Penny sewing and unsewing make for the Trojan War?”
“Penelope was Odysseus’s wife,” Philippa explained. “He left her, and she sat at her loom, sewing all day, and unraveling all her work at night. For years.”
“Why on earth would someone do that?” Olivia wrinkled her nose, selecting a sweet from a nearby tray. “Years? Really.”
“She was waiting for him to come home,” Penelope said, meeting Michael’s gaze. There was something meaningful there, and he thought she might be speaking of more than the Greek myth. Did she wait for him at night? She’d told him not to touch her . . . she’d pushed him away . . . but tonight, if he went to her, would she accept him? Would she follow the path of her namesake?
“I hope you have more exciting things to do when you are waiting for Michael to come home, Penny,” Olivia teased.
Penelope smiled, but there was something in her gaze that he did not like, something akin to sadness. He blamed himself for it. Before him, she was happier. Before him, she smiled and laughed and played games with her sisters without reminder of her unfortunate fate.
He stood to meet her as she approached the settee. “I would never leave my Penelope for years.” He said, “I would be too afraid that someone would snatch her away.” His mother-in-law sighed audibly from across the room as his new sisters laughed. He lifted one of Penelope’s hands in his and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Penelope and Odysseus were never my favored mythic couple, anyway. I was always more partial to Persephone and Hades.”
Penelope smiled at him, and the room was suddenly much much warmer. “You think they were a happier couple?” she asked, wry.
He met her little smile, enjoying himself as he lowered his voice. “I think six months of feast is better than twenty years of famine.” She blushed, and he resisted the urge to kiss her there, in the drawing room, hang propriety and ladies’ delicate sensibilities.
Missing the exchange, Olivia announced, “Lord Bourne, I make it your turn.”
He did not look away from his wife. “It grows late, I am afraid. I think I should take my wife home.”
Lady Needham came to her feet, toppling a small dog from her lap with a little yelp. “Oh, do stay a little longer. We are all so enjoying your visit.”
He looked at Penelope, wanting to snatch her away to his underworld but allowing her to make their decision. She turned to her mother. “Lord Bourne is right,” she said, sending a thrill through him. “We have had a long afternoon. I should like to go home.”
With him.
Triumph surged, and he resisted the impulse to toss her over his shoulder and carry her from the room. She would let him touch her tonight. She would let him woo her.
He was sure of it.
Tomorrow remained a question, but tonight . . . tonight, she would be his.
Even if he did not deserve her.
* * *
Dear M—
Victoria and Valerie were married today in a double wedding to mediocre husbands indeed. I’ve no doubt that their choices were limited because of my scandal, and I can barely swallow back the anger and the unfairness of it all.
It seems so unfair that some of us get such a life—filled with happiness and love and companionship and all the things we are taught never to even dream of because they are so rare and not at all the kind of things to expect from a good English marriage.
I know envy is a sin, and covetousness, as well. But I cannot help wanting what others have. For me, and for my sisters.
Unsigned
Dolby House, June 1825
Letter unsent
She was falling in love with her husband.
The startling realization came as he handed her up into the carriage, knocking twice on the roof before settling in beside her for their return home.
She was falling in love with the part of him that ice-skated, played charades, teased her with wordplay, and smiled at her as though she were the only woman in the world. She was falling in love with the kindness that lurked beneath his exterior.
And there was a part of her, dark and quiet, that was falling in love with the rest of him. She did not know how she could manage being in love with all of him. He was too much.
She shivered.
“Are you cold?” he asked, already moving to pull a blanket over her.
“Yes,” she lied, clutching the wool to her, trying to remember that this man, the kind solicitous man who asked after her comfort, was only a fleeting part of her husband.
The part that she loved.
“We shall be home soon enough,” he said, coming close, wrapping one arm around her shoulders, a band of warm steel. She loved his touch. “Did you enjoy your afternoon?”
The word simmered through her like a promise, and she could not keep the flush from her cheeks, even as she did her best to distance herself from him and the emotions he inspired. “I did. Charades with my sisters is always amusing.”
“I like your sisters very much.” The words were soft, a rumble of sound in the darkness. “I was happy to be a part of the game.”
“I think they are happy to have a brother they enjoy,” she said, thinking of her brothers-in-law. “Victoria’s and Valerie’s husbands are less . . .” She hesitated.
“Handsome?”
She smiled. She couldn’t help it. “That as well, but I was going to say—”
“Charming?”
“And that, but—”
“Utterly enthralling?”