The coin was gone. Another reminder of his unwanted wife.

He moved to the roulette table, brushing his fingers across the heavy silver handle of the wheel, spinning it, running the colors together, all speed and luxury, as he reached for the ivory ball on which so many hopes had been pinned—and lost. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he sent the ball spinning into the well, loving the sound of bone on metal, the way it shivered over him, all smoothness and sin.

Red.

The whisper echoed through him, unbidden, unstoppable.

Unsurprising.

He turned away before the wheel slowed, before gravity and providence pulled the ball into its seat.

“You’re back.”

On the other side of the room, silhouetted by the open door to the bookkeeper’s suite, stood Cross, the fourth partner in The Fallen Angel. Cross handled the club’s finances, ensuring every penny that came through the door to the hell was well accounted for. He was a genius with numbers, but he neither looked nor lived like the unparalleled man of finance he was. He was tall, a half a foot taller than Michael, even taller than Temple. But where Temple was the size of a small house, Cross was long and slim, all angles and sinew. Bourne rarely saw him eat, and if the dark hollows beneath his eyes were any indication, it had been a day or two since the other man had slept.

“You’re here early.”

Cross rubbed one hand over his unshaven jaw at the words. “Late, really.” He moved aside, allowing a beautiful woman to exit the room behind him. She flashed Bourne a shy smile before pulling the enormous hood of her cloak up to shield her face.

Bourne watched as the woman hurried to the entrance of the club, letting herself out with barely a sound, before he met Cross’s gaze. “I see you were working very hard.”

One side of Cross’s mouth rose at the words. “She’s good with the books.”

“I imagine she is.”

“We weren’t expecting you back so quickly.”

He hadn’t expected to be back so quickly. “Things took a bit of a turn.”

“For better or worse?”

The echo of the marriage vows he’d spoken with Penelope set Bourne on edge. “It depends on your view of the situation.”

“I see.”

“I doubt you do.”

“Falconwell?”

“Mine.”

“Did you marry the girl?”

“I did.”

Cross let out a long, low whistle. Bourne couldn’t agree more.

“Where is she?”

Too near. “At the town house.”

“Your town house?”

“I did not think it appropriate for me to bring her here.”

Cross was silent for a long while. “I confess, I am eager to meet this woman who looked into the face of marriage with cold, hard Bourne and did not run away.”

She hadn’t had a choice.

There was no way that she would have gone through with a wedding to him if he hadn’t forced her to the parish vicar. If she’d had more time to think it through. He was everything that she was not, coarse and angry, with no hope of ever returning to the world into which he’d been born. Into which she’d been born.

Penelope . . . she was proper and perfectly bred for a life in that world. This world—filled with gaming and drink and sex and worse—it would scare her to death. He would scare her to death.

But she’d asked to see it.

And so he would show it to her.

Because he could not resist the temptation of her corruption. It was too compelling. Too sweet.

She didn’t know what she asked. She thought adventure was a late-night walk in the woods surrounding her childhood home. The main floor of The Angel on any given night would send her into hysterics.

“The turn?” Cross said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You said it did not go as planned.”

“I agreed to match her sisters as well.”

Cross’s brows rose. “How many of them?”

“Two. Easy enough, I think.” He met Cross’s serious grey gaze. “You should know it was a love match. We married this morning. I couldn’t bear being apart from her a moment longer.”

A beat passed as Cross heard the lie. Understood its meaning. “Since you are so very much in love.”

“Precisely.”

“This morning,” Cross tested the words. Bourne turned away and placed his hands flat on the roulette table, pressing them firmly into the plush green baize. Knowing what was to come even before the words were spoken. “You left her alone on your wedding night.”

“I did.”

“Is she horsefaced?”

No.

When she was in the throes of passion, she was stunning. He wanted to lay her down on his bed and make her his. The memory of her writhing against him in Falconwell Manor had him shifting to accommodate the way his breeches tightened against him.

He scrubbed one hand across his face at the lie. “I need some time in the ring with Temple.”

“Ah. I see that she is.”

“She’s not.”

“Then perhaps you should return home and consummate your marriage to this woman whom you love so very passionately. Lord knows it’s a more pleasurable experience than having Temple serve you your ass in the ring.”

Even if you deserve the pounding.

For a fleeting moment, Bourne considered the words. Played out the events that would occur if he returned home and sought out his innocent new wife. Imagined what it would be like to lay her down on his bed and stake his claim, to make her his. To show her the adventure she did not even know she had requested. Her silken hair would cling to the rough stubble on his chin, her full lips would part on a sigh as he stroked her soft skin, and she would cry out at the pleasure he wrung from her.