But the door opened before she could get to it, and Mrs. Worth entered, leaving Penelope with no choice but to stop short, the skirts of her yellow day dress, chosen for beauty rather than sense on this frigid January day, swishing around her legs as she halted.

The stunning young housekeeper paused on the threshold of the room, not revealing any emotion as she dipped a quick curtsy, and said, “Good morning, my lady.”

Penelope resisted the urge to do the same, instead clasping her hands tightly in front of her, and saying, “Good morning to you, Mrs. Worth.”

Pleasantries behind them, the two women stared at each other for a long moment before the housekeeper said, “Lord Bourne asked me to inform you that you will be dining at Tottenham House on Wednesday.”

Three days hence.

“Oh.” That Michael had passed such a simple message to her via a servant made her realize just how misguided she had been about the events of the evening prior. If he could not find the time to tell his wife about a dinner engagement, he had little interest in his wife indeed.

She took a deep breath, willing disappointment away.

“He also asked me to remind you that the dinner will be the first you attend as husband and wife.”

There was no need to will disappointment away, as it was almost instantly replaced by irritation. Penelope’s attention snapped to the housekeeper. For a moment, she wondered if it was Mrs. Worth who saw fit to make such an obvious pronouncement, as though Penelope were some kind of imbecile and could not recall the events of the last day. As though she might have somehow forgotten that they had not yet been introduced to society.

But one look at Mrs. Worth’s downcast gaze made Penelope absolutely certain of the identity of the irritant in this particular situation—her husband, who seemingly had little confidence in her ability to either reply to dinner invitations or understand the importance of the invitations themselves.

Without thinking, she raised a brow, met the housekeeper’s eyes, and said, “What an excellent reminder. I had not realized that we’ve been married for less than twenty-four hours and that, during that time, I have not left the house. It is lucky, is it not, that I have a husband so willing to remind me of the simpler things?” Mrs. Worth’s eyes widened at the sarcasm dripping from Penelope’s words, but she did not reply. “It is a shame he could not remind me himself, at breakfast. Is he at home?”

Mrs. Worth hesitated before saying, “No, my lady. He has not been home since you returned from Surrey.”

It wasn’t true, of course. But what it told Penelope was that Michael had returned late last night and left immediately following their interlude.

Of course he had.

Penelope’s anger burned hotter.

He’d come home to consummate the marriage and left again, almost instantly.

This was to be her life. Coming and going at his whim, doing his bidding, attending his dinners when the invitation included her and standing by, alone, when it did not.

What a disaster.

She met Mrs. Worth’s gaze, registered the sympathy there. Loathed it.

Loathed him for making her feel so embarrassed. For making her feel so unfortunate. For making her feel so much less.

But this was her marriage. This had been her choice. Even as it had been his—there had been a small part of her that had wanted it. That had believed it might be more.

Silly Penelope.

Silly, poor Penelope.

Straightening her shoulders, she said, “You may tell my husband that I will see him Wednesday. For dinner at Tottenham House.”

Chapter Eleven

Dear M—

Tommy said he saw you in town at the beginning of your holiday, but that you barely had time to speak to him. I am sorry for that, and so is he.

Pippa has adopted a three-legged dog, and (unflattering as it sounds) when I watch him gambol by the lake, his limp makes me think of you. Without you, Tommy and I are a three-legged dog. Dear God. This is the kind of metaphor to which I must resort without you to keep me quick-tongued; the situation grows dire.

Desperately—P

Needham Manor, June 1817

No reply

The trouble with lies was that they were too easy to believe.

Even if you were the one telling them.

Perhaps especially if you were the one telling them.

Three days later, Penelope and Michael were the guests of honor at dinner at Tottenham House—an event that provided them the perfect opportunity to tell the carefully developed story of their love match to several of the most vocal gossips of the ton.

Gossips who were very eager to live up to their name if the way they hung upon each of Penelope’s and Michael’s words was any indication.

Not to mention the looks.

Penelope hadn’t missed them . . . not when they’d entered Tottenham House, several minutes early, having carefully planned their arrival to be neither too early nor too late, only to discover that the rest of the invitees had carefully planned their arrivals to be early—ostensibly to ensure that they wouldn’t miss a single moment of the Marchioness and Marquess of Bourne’s first evening in society.

Nor had she missed the looks when Michael had thoughtfully placed one large, warm hand at Penelope’s back, shepherding her into the receiving room where the dinner guests waited for their meal to be served. The hand had been placed with such precision, paired perfectly with such a warm smile—one that she barely recognized—that Penelope had been hard-pressed to hide both her admiration for his strategy and her unexpected pleasure at the little movement.

Those looks had been followed with a fluttering of fans in the too-cool room, a cacophony of whispers that she pretended not to hear, looking up at her husband, instead, with what she hoped was a suitably doting look. She must have achieved it, because he had leaned close and whispered, “You’re doing splendidly,” low in her ear, sending a flood of pleasure through her even as she swore to resist his power over her.