He smiled, his voice turning dark. “And it has been a long time since I have run.”

Her gaze flickered to the glass window, where the night was growing long, and the candles in the chandeliers beyond were fading. “And The Angel?”

He lifted a hand and took a long lock of blond hair in hand, threading it through his fingers, loving the way it clung to him. “Four and a half years later, Temple and I had perfected our business . . . our dice games moved from place to place depending upon the players, and one night, we had twenty or thirty men, all betting on the outcome. I had a stack of money in hand, and we knew that it was a matter of time before we would have to end the game or risk being robbed.” He released her hair and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. “I was never good at knowing when to stop. I always wanted one more game, one more roll of the dice.”

“You wagered on the games?”

He met her gaze, wanting her to hear the words. The promise in them. “I haven’t placed a bet in nine years.”

Understanding flared in her gaze. Pride, too. “Not since you lost to Langford.”

“It doesn’t change the way the tables call to me. Doesn’t make the dice less tempting. And when the roulette wheel spins . . . I always make a guess at where it will stop.”

“But you never wager.”

“No. But I love to watch others do it. That night, Temple said it several times—that we should leave. That the game was getting cold, but I could have gone another hour, another two, and I kept putting him off. One more roll of the dice. One more round of bets. One more main.” He was lost to the memory. “They came out of nowhere, and we should be grateful that they had clubs and not pistols. The men rolling the ivories ran at the first hint of trouble, but they would have been fine even if they’d stayed.”

“They wanted you.” Penelope’s words were a whisper.

He nodded. “They wanted our take. A thousand pounds. Maybe more.”

More than anyone should have on a street in Temple Bar.

“We fought as well as we could, but it was two on six . . . felt like nine.” He laughed, the sound barely there. “Nineteen, more like.”

She was not amused. “You should have given them the money. It wasn’t worth your life.”

“My clever wife. If only you’d been there.” Her face had gone white. Michael brought her mouth down to his for a quick kiss. “I’m here. Alive and well, unfortunately for you.”

She shook her head, her urgency doing strange things to his gut. “Do not even jest. What happened?”

“I thought we were done for when a carriage careened in from God knows where, and a battalion of men Temple’s size and larger exited. They joined our side, vanquished the foes, and when the scoundrels had run off, tails tucked between their legs, Temple and I were tossed into the carriage to meet our savior.”

She was ahead of the tale. “Chase.”

“The owner of The Fallen Angel.”

“What did he want?”

“Business partners. Someone to run the games. Someone to handle security. Men who understood both the glitter and the vulgarity of the aristocracy.”

She let out a long breath. “He saved your life.”

Michael was lost in the memory of that first meeting, when he’d realized he might have a chance to regain everything he’d lost. “Indeed.”

She leaned up and kissed him on his swollen lip, her tongue coming out to lick the bruise there. “He is wrong.”

His attention snapped back to her. “Chase?”

She nodded her head. “He thinks he owes me a debt.”

“So it seems.”

“It is I who owe him one. He saved you. For me.”

She kissed him again, and he caught his breath, telling himself it was in response to the caress, when it was her words that threatened his strength. His hands came up to burrow into her hair as he tasted her gratitude, her relief, and something else he could not place . . . a wonderful temptation.

Something he was certain he did not deserve.

He fisted one hand in her hair and pulled back from the kiss, wishing, desperately, that he could continue it. But he couldn’t allow her—couldn’t allow himself—another moment without reminding her of precisely who he was . . . what he was. “I lost everything, Penelope. Everything. Land, money, the contents of my homes . . . of my father’s homes. I lost everything that reminded me of them.” There was a long silence. Then, softly, “I lost you.”

She tilted her head, fixing him with her gaze. “You’ve rebuilt it. Doubled it. More.”

He shook his head. “Not the most important part.”

She stilled, as though she’d forgotten his plans. Their future. “Your revenge.”

“No. The respect. The place in society. The things that I should have been able to give my wife. The things I should have been able to give you.”

“Michael—” He heard the censure in her tone, ignored it.

“You are not listening. I am not the man for you. I’ve never been that man. You deserve someone who has never made the mistakes I’ve made. Someone who can cloak you in titles and respectability and decency and more than a little perfection.” He paused, loathing the way she stiffened in his arms at the words, resisting their truth. He forced her to look into his eyes, forced himself to say the rest. “I wish I were that man, Sixpence. But I’m not. Don’t you see? I have none of those things. I have nothing deserving of you. Nothing that will keep you happy.”