As Michael considered the possibility—that after all this time he would have come so close to destroying Langford and restoring the lands of the marquessate, and failed—he realized that for too long he’d considered those things to be the markers of his redemption. Now, however, he knew the truth.

Penelope was his redemption.

In front of her, facing up, was the four of clubs. He watched as she lifted the corner of the other card, looking for any indication of what she might have. Nothing impressive, he was guessing. He turned to Langford, facing a ten of hearts, left hand flat on the table, as ever.

Cross looked to Langford, who tapped his flat palm once on the table. “Hold.” A decent hand.

Langford had likely come to the same conclusion as Michael—that Penelope was a novice, and like all novices, she would overhit.

Cross looked to Penelope. “My lady?”

She nibbled at her lower lip, drawing Michael’s attention. “May I have another?”

One side of Michael’s mouth lifted in the hint of a smile. So polite, even as she wagered for more than a million pounds’ worth of real estate in the most exclusive of London’s gaming hells.

Cross dealt another card, the three of hearts. Seven. Michael willed her to hold, knowing that the next hit would likely bring her over twenty-one. It was the easiest of mistakes, to wager on a pair of low cards.

“Another, please.”

Cross hesitated, knowing the odds and not liking them.

“The girl asked for another,” Langford said, all smugness, knowing he was about to win, and Michael vowed that, while the older man might leave the club without losing a thing, he’d leave having felt the full force of Michael’s fist.

The six of hearts slid into place beside the other cards. Thirteen.

Penelope bit her lip and checked the facedown card again—proof that she was a novice at the game. If she had twenty-one, she would not have looked. She met Cross’s gaze, then Michael’s, worry in her eyes, and Michael would have wagered his entire fortune that she’d gone over. “Is that it?”

“Unless you’d like another.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“The girl is over. A blind man could see it.” Langford revealed his second card with a smirk. A queen. Twenty.

The viscount was the luckiest man in London tonight.

And Michael didn’t care.

He simply wanted this evening over, so he could bring his wife home and tell her that he loved her. Finally.

“I am, indeed, over twenty,” Penelope said, revealing her final card.

Michael leaned forward, sure he was mistaken.

The eight of diamonds.

Cross could not keep the surprise from his voice. “The lady has twenty-one.”

“Impossible.” Langford leaned forward. “Impossible!”

Michael could not help himself. He laughed, drawing her attention with the sound. “My magnificent wife,” he said, pride in his words as he shook his head in disbelief.

There was a movement behind her, then all hell broke loose.

“You cheating bitch.” Langford’s heavy hands were on her shoulders, yanking her out of her chair with furious anger, and she cried out and stumbled before he lifted her from the floor and shook her violently. “You think this a game? You cheating bitch!”

It couldn’t have lasted more than a second or two before Michael reached her, but it felt like an eternity before he extracted her from Langford’s grasp and passed her to Cross, already there, waiting to keep her safe.

And then Michael went after Langford with visceral intent. “I don’t have to ruin you, after all,” he growled. “I shall kill you instead.” And then he had the other man’s lapels in hand, and he was spinning him toward the wall, thrusting him into it with all his might, wanting to punish him over and over again for daring to touch Penelope.

For daring to hurt her.

He wanted this man dead. Now.

“You think I am still a boy?” he asked, pulling Langford away from the wall and pounding him back into it. “You think you can come to my club and threaten my wife without repercussions? You think I would let you touch her? You aren’t fit to breathe her air.”

“Michael!” she cried from across the room, where Cross kept her from entering the fray. “Stop it!” He turned to her, saw the tears running down her cheeks and stilled, torn between hurting Langford and comforting her. “He’s not worth it, Michael.”

“You married her for land,” Langford said, sucking air into his lungs. “You might have fooled the rest of London. But not me. I know Falconwell matters more to you than anything in the world. She was a means to an end. You think I don’t see that?”

A means to an end. The echo of the words—so oft repeated at the beginning of their marriage—was a blow, in part because they were true, but mostly because they were so very false. “You bastard. You think you know me?” He slammed Langford into the wall again, the force of the emotion making him more furious. “I love her. She is the only thing that matters. And you dared to touch her.”

Langford opened his mouth to speak, but Michael cut him off. “You don’t deserve mercy. You’ve been a disgrace as a father and a guardian and a man. You owe the fact that you remain able to walk entirely to the generosity of the lady. But if you come within a mile of her again, or if I ever hear a whisper of your speaking ill of her, I shall take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb. Is that clear?”

Langford swallowed and nodded quickly. “Yes.”