She didn’t care a whit . . . not as long as he didn’t stop.

Not as long as he never stopped.

As she pressed closer, he shifted his grasp, his hands lowering in a long, torturous slide, pressing just barely at the outside of her br**sts, just enough for her to ache in places of which she’d never thought, before sliding lower, lower still, until he clasped her bottom and pulled her tight against him with a force that both shocked and aroused.

He groaned his pleasure at the movement, and she pulled back at the sound, wondering at the very idea that he might be as consumed by the caress as she was, and he opened his eyes to meet hers once, fleetingly, before he captured her mouth again, delving more deeply, stroking more firmly, until she was overcome by the pleasure. By the adventure. By him.

Seconds passed. Minutes. Hours . . . it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was this man. This kiss.

This.

It ended, and he raised his head slowly, placing one soft, lingering kiss on her lips before he reached up and untangled her arms from around his neck. He smiled down at her, something breathtaking in his gaze, and she realized that this was the first time he’d smiled at her—only at her—since they were children.

It was magical.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she was on tenterhooks, unable to control the anticipation that coursed through her as his lips formed words.

“Tottenham.”

Confusion flared, and Penelope’s brows shot together.

“Ordinarily, I frown upon gentlemen accosting ladies in my hallway, Bourne.”

“How do you feel about husbands kissing their wives?”

“Honestly?” Tottenham’s voice was dry as sand. “I think I might like it even less.”

Penelope closed her eyes, mortification flooding her. He played her so well.

“You’ll change your mind when you meet my sister-in-law, Olivia, I wager.”

The words made her want to do him harm. Actual. Physical. Harm.

He’d done it on purpose.

It had all been for Tottenham’s benefit.

To keep up the pretense of their love match.

Not because he could not keep his hands off her.

Would she not learn?

“If she’s anything like her sister, I fear that is a wager I would not win.”

Michael laughed, and she winced at the sound, hating it. Hating the falseness of it. “I don’t suppose you can give us a moment?”

“I think I have to, or Lady Bourne might never be able to meet my eyes again.”

Penelope was staring at the folds of Michael’s cravat. She willed her voice calm, knowing that carefree was too far out of reach. “I am not sure a moment will change that, my lord.”

He’d used her again.

Tottenham chuckled. “The brandy is poured.”

And then he was gone. And she was alone.

With her husband, who seemed to make a practice of disappointing her. She did not look away from the crisp linen at his neck. “That was well played,” she said, an edge of sadness in her voice. If he heard it, he did not show it.

When he spoke, it was as though they had been discussing the weather rather than kissing in the dark corner. “It will likely go a long way toward proving that we are matched for more than Falconwell.”

She’d almost believed it herself.

Indeed, she seemed unable to learn her lesson. It wasn’t fair that she was so angry with him. So hurt. The silly love match had been her idea, had it not? She had only herself to blame for the way it made her feel.

Cheap. Used. But her sisters would get their proper, unblemished matches from this. And that would be worth it. She had to believe that.

Penelope pushed her sadness aside. “Why are you doing this?” His brows rose in question and she continued, “Agreeing to this farce?”

He looked away. “I gave you my word.”

She shook her head. “Don’t you feel . . . as though I am taking advantage of you?”

One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Did I not take advantage of you when I married you?”

She’d not thought of it in such a stark way. “I suppose you did. And still . . .” This feels worse, she wanted to say. I feel like everything I am, everything I have, it’s all in service to others. She shook her head. “It seems different. And I regret it, nonetheless, asking you to do this for them. For me.”

He shook his head. “Never regret.”

“Another rule?”

“Of scoundrels only. Gamers inevitably regret.”

She supposed he would know.

“Well, I regret it, nonetheless.”

“It’s unnecessary. I’ve a good reason to join you in this farce.”

She stilled. “You do?”

He nodded. “I do. We all receive something from the game.”

“What do you receive?” He was silent, and uncertainty flared deep within her. “From whom do you receive it?” He did not reply, but Penelope was no fool. “My father. He had something else. What is it?”

“It’s not important,” he said, in a way that made her feel that it was very much important. “Suffice to say, you should not regret our agreement as I shall benefit well from it. I will walk you back to the rest of the ladies,” he offered, reaching out to take her elbow.

And, perversely, the idea that he’d been playing their game for his own benefit made her feel worse. As though she, too, had been the victim of his lies.

Betrayal flared, hot and instant, and she pulled back almost violently at his touch. “Don’t touch me.”

His brows rose at the words, at their ire. “I beg your pardon?”