She crossed the room, and he was consumed with the sound of her—the slide of her skirts, the soft fall of her footsteps, the way her breath came in little uneven spurts marking her nervousness and anticipation.

She stopped behind him, hovering, as he played out the next few moves of this chess match in his mind. He wondered, fleetingly, if he should let her go.

No.

What was done was done.

“Marry me, Penelope.”

“Just because you phrase it in such a way does not give me a choice, you know.”

He wanted to smile at the irritated way she said the words, but he didn’t. She watched him carefully for a long moment and he—a man who had made a fortune by reading the truth in the faces of those around him—could not say what she was thinking. For a long moment, he thought she might refuse him, and he prepared himself for her resistance, cataloging the number of clergymen who owed him and The Angel enough debt to marry an unwilling bride—preparing himself to do what needed to be done to secure her hand.

It would be one more wrongdoing to add to his ever-expanding list.

“You will keep your word from last night? My sisters will remain untouched by this marriage.”

Even now, even as she faced a lifetime with him, she thought of her sisters.

She was legions too good for him.

He ignored the thought. “I will keep my word.”

“I require proof.”

Smart girl. Of course, there wasn’t any proof. And she was right to doubt him.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a guinea rubbed nearly bare over the nine years that he’d kept it with him. He held it out to her. “My marker.”

She took the coin. “What am I to do with this?”

“You return it when your sisters are married.”

“One guinea?”

“It’s been enough for men across Britain, darling.”

She raised her brows. “And they say men are the more intelligent sex.” She took a deep breath, slipping the coin into her pocket, making him long for the weight of it again. “I shall marry you.”

He nodded once. “And the fiancé?”

She hesitated, her gaze flickering past his shoulder as she considered the words. “He will find another bride,” she said softly, fondly. Too fondly. Instantly, Bourne felt a perverse anger at this man who had not protected her. Who had left her alone in the world. Who had made it too easy for Bourne to step in and claim her.

There was movement in the doorway over her shoulder. Her father. Needham had obviously grown tired of waiting for them to exit the building, and so he had come in to fetch them.

Bourne took it as his cue to hammer the final nail into this marital coffin, knowing even as he did it that he was using her. That she didn’t deserve it.

That it didn’t matter.

He lifted her chin and pressed a single, soft kiss to her lips, trying not to notice when she leaned into the touch, when she breathed a little sigh as he lifted his head a touch . . .

A rifle cocked in the doorway, punctuating the words of the Marquess of Needham and Dolby. “Dammit, Penelope, look what you’ve done now.”

* * *

Dear M—

My father thinks that we should stop writing. He’s certain that “boys like him” (meaning you) haven’t the time for “silly letters” from “silly girls” (meaning me). He says you’re only replying because you’re well-raised and you feel obligated. I realize you’re nearly sixteen, and you’ve likely got more interesting things to do than write to me, but remember: I have no such interesting things. I shall have to make do with your pity.

Sillily—P

post script—He’s not right, is he?

Needham Manor, January 1816

* * *

Dear P—

What your father doesn’t know is that the only thing that breaks up the monotony of Latin, Shakespeare and the droning on about the responsibilities boys like me shall one day have in the House of Lords are silly letters from silly girls. You of all people should know that I’ve been very poorly raised, and I rarely feel obligated.

—M

post script—He’s not right.

Eton College, January 1816

“You bastard.”

Bourne looked up from his whiskey in the Hound and Hen and met the angry gaze of his future father-in-law. Leaning back in his chair, he affected the look of vague amusement that had thrown off far greater opponents than the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, and waved one hand at the empty chair across the pub table. “Father,” he mocked, “please, join me.”

Bourne had been seated in a dark corner of the tavern for several hours, waiting for Needham to arrive with the papers that would restore Falconwell. As evening gave way to night, and the lively room filled with laughter and chatter, he’d waited, fingers itching to sign the papers, dreaming of what came next.

Of revenge.

Trying very hard not to think about the fact that he was betrothed.

Trying even harder not to think of the woman to whom he was betrothed—so earnest and innocent and entirely the wrong kind of wife for him.

Not that he had any idea of the right kind of wife for him.

Irrelevant. He’d not had a choice.

The only way he’d had a chance at Falconwell was through Penelope. Which made her entirely the right kind of wife for him.

And Needham knew it.

The portly marquess sat, calling over a servant girl with the wave of one enormous hand. She was smart enough to bring a glass and the bottle of whiskey with her, leaving it quickly and hurrying away to brighter—and friendlier—climes.

Needham drank deep and slammed his glass onto the hard oak table. “You bastard. This is blackmail.”