Michael came forward, fury roaring through him at the threat. Penelope turned to face him before he could get to the viscount, strong as steel. “No. This is not your battle.”

He was struck dumb at the words though he should not be surprised; his wife kept him in a perpetual state of speechlessness. What in hell was she talking about? This was absolutely his battle. As if he’d not been waiting for this moment for almost a decade, Langford had just threatened the only thing he held dear.

He stilled at the thought. The only thing he held dear.

It was true. There was Penelope, and there was everything else. All the land, the money, The Angel, the revenge . . . none of it was worth even a fraction of this woman.

This marvelous woman who had turned her back on him once more.

She faced his enemy and waved a hand at the door, where Bruno and now Cross stood, looking very serious and very frightening. “Would you care to attempt escape before I am through?”

Michael couldn’t help it. He grinned. She was a warrior queen.

His warrior queen.

“You have lived a life too free of consequence, Langford, and, while I assure you that I would dearly enjoy your losing everything you care for in one fell swoop, I fear that it would take too great a toll on those I love.”

She looked to the table, taking in the papers there, immediately understanding the situation. “It’s to be a wager, then? Winner take all?” She looked at Michael, her eyes wide with emotion for a fraction of a second before she shuttered her gaze. He recognized it anyway—disappointment. “You were going to wager?”

He wanted to tell her the truth, that he’d decided before she entered that it wasn’t worth it . . . that none of it was worth risking her happiness. Their future.

But she’d already turned to the door. “Cross?”

Cross straightened. “My lady?”

“Bring us a deck.”

Cross looked to Bourne. “I don’t think—”

Bourne nodded once. “The lady wants a deck.”

Cross went nowhere without his cards, and he crossed the room, withdrawing them, and extending the deck to Penelope.

She shook her head. “I intend to play. We require a dealer.”

Michael’s gaze snapped to her as Langford sneered, “I will not play cards with a woman.”

She took the seat at one side of the table. “I usually will not play cards with men who rob children of their inheritance, but tonight appears to be one for exceptions.”

Cross looked to Michael. “She is incredible.”

Possessiveness flared as he took his seat, eyes on his wife. “She is mine.”

Langford leaned toward Penelope, fury in his gaze. “I don’t play cards with women. And I certainly don’t play them with women who have nothing I want.”

Penelope reached into her bodice and withdrew a paper of her own, setting it on the table. “On the contrary, I have something you desperately want.” Michael leaned forward to get a better look at the paper, but Penelope covered it with her hand. When he looked up, her cool blue gaze was on the viscount. “Tommy is not your only secret, is he?”

Langford’s gaze narrowed, furious. “What do you have? Where did you get it?”

Penelope raised a brow. “It seems that you’ll be playing cards with a woman after all.”

“Anything you have will ruin Tommy as well.”

“I think he’ll be fine if it is allowed out. But I assure you, you will not be.” She paused. “And I think you know why.”

Langford’s brows snapped together, and Michael recognized the frustration and anger on the other man’s face as he turned to Cross. “Deal the cards.”

Cross looked to Michael, the question in his gaze as clear as if he’d spoken it aloud. Michael had not wagered in nine years. Had not played a single hand of cards, as though he’d been waiting all that time for this night, this moment, when he would wager against Langford again . . . and this time, win.

But as he watched his wife, proud and glorious, take on the man he’d spent so much of his life hating, he realized that the wicked desire that had gnawed at him for the last decade every time he thought of Langford and the lands he’d stolen was gone, lost along with his desire for revenge.

They were his past.

Penelope was his future.

If he could deserve her.

“The lady plays for me.” He lifted the proof of Tommy’s legitimacy from where it sat in front of him and placed it on the table in front of her. She snapped her attention to him, her eyes clear and blue and filled with surprise as she registered the meaning of the move. He would not ruin Tommy. Something flashed across her face . . . a mix of happiness and pride and something else, and he made the decision in that moment to bring it back again and again, every day. It was gone in an instant, replaced by . . . sudden trepidation.

“You have what you want, love. It is yours.” He raised a brow. “But I would not stop if I were you. You’re on a winning streak.”

She looked to Langford’s wager—Michael’s past—and he wanted to kiss her thoroughly for the emotion that showed on her face . . . nervousness and desire . . . desire to win.

For him.

She nodded to Cross, who took the change in stride, shuffling the deck with quick, economical movements. “One hand of vingt-et-un. Winner take all.”

Cross dealt the cards, one down, one up, and it occurred to Michael that the game was not for ladies. While the rules were deceptively simple, Penelope had likely never played, and without a very good stroke of luck, she would find herself crushed by a veteran player like Langford.