He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I haven’t any skates.”

“We’ve extra skates in the coach,” Olivia said. “Now you’ve no reason not to come.”

Penelope was instantly suspicious. “Why would you have extra skates in the coach?”

Olivia smiled, bright and beautiful. “One never knows when one might meet someone with whom one wants to skate.”

Penelope turned surprised eyes on Michael, who appeared to be having difficulty holding back a smile. She raised a brow as he said, “An excellent adage. It seems I have no choice but to play chaperone.”

“You may not make the best chaperone, Bourne,” Penelope said through her teeth. “What with you being such a rogue.”

He winked at her. Actually winked at her! Who was this man?

“Ah, but who better than a rogue undergoing reformation to identify the same? And I confess, I would like the chance to skate with my wife again. It’s been too long.”

Lie.

He didn’t remember skating with her. He’d virtually admitted it earlier, upstairs.

She did not think she could suffer an outing with all of them, with him constantly touching her, asking after her well-being, teasing her, tempting her.

Not after last night, when she’d been so strong. When she’d been so sure of herself.

Of what she wanted.

Suddenly, by day, this kinder, gentler Michael did not seem so resistible.

And that was a very bad thing indeed.

Chapter Fifteen

Dear M—

By now you’ve heard the news, even from wherever you are. I’m ruined. The duke did everything he could to save me from embarrassment, but this is London, and such an effort is, of course, futile. He married again within a week—in a love match, no less. Mother is (no surprise) beside herself, keening and wailing like a chorus of mourners.

Is it wrong that I feel as though something of a weight has been lifted? Probably.

I wish you were here. You would know what to say.

Unsigned

Dolby House, November 1823

Letter unsent

Penelope sat on a wooden bench, looking out toward the frozen Serpentine, where half of London appeared to teem. The winter’s uncommon cold had resulted in the thickest ice in nearly a decade, leaving the little lake packed to the gills with people eager to spend their afternoon ice-skating.

There was no escaping the watchful eyes of the ton.

Once their skating party had alighted from the carriage and crested the hill that sloped gently down to the Serpentine Lake, they took turns sitting to attach the wood-and-steel blades to the soles of their walking boots. Penelope waited as long as possible to take her seat and strap on her blades, keenly aware of the fact that ice-skating with Michael would be a challenge, as he would likely take the opportunity to show all of London how very much in love they were.

For the hundredth time, Penelope cursed the ridiculous farce and watched her sisters make their way down the hill, hand in hand, reminding her of the greater purpose of her frustration.

Her distraction made it difficult to slide the ice blades onto her feet, and after her third try, Michael tossed his own blades to the side and crouched before her, taking one of her feet by the ankle before she realized his intentions. She yanked her foot back, sending him tipping backward to catch himself on his hands in the snow and drawing the attention of a nearby cluster of young women. “What do you think you are doing?” she whispered, leaning forward, not wanting to cause any more of a scene.

He looked up at her, all handsome angles and falsely innocent eyes, and said, simply, “Helping you with your skate.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Forgive me, but it seems that you do.” He lowered his voice to a level only she could hear. “Let me help you.”

He was not helping her for her. He was helping her for them, those watchful others who would love the scene and no doubt fall over themselves in a frenzy to tell their friends and families all about how the Marquess of Bourne was the most solicitous, kindhearted, wonderful man ever to walk the banks of the Serpentine Lake.

But she wouldn’t love it.

She would put on her own damned skates.

“I’m fine. Thank you.” And she promptly slid the contraptions over her walking boots, carefully tightening the straps to ensure a snug fit. “There.” She looked up at Michael, watching her carefully, something strange and unidentifiable in his gaze. “Perfect.”

He came out of his crouch then, reaching down to help her up. “At least let me do this, Penelope,” he whispered, and she couldn’t resist the soft words.

She placed her hands in his.

He lifted her to her feet and held her as she regained her balance on the blades. “If I remember correctly, you were never as good at walking on your blades as you were at skating on them.”

She blinked up at him, nearly tipping over with the movement and clasping his arms carefully as she regained her balance. “You said you didn’t remember.”

“No,” he said, quietly, guiding her down the hill and toward the lake. “You said I didn’t remember.”

“You do, though.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a small, sad smile. “You’d be amazed by all that I remember.”

There was something in the words, a softness that was foreign to him, and she couldn’t help her suspicion. “Why are you behaving like this?” Her brow furrowed. “Another chance to prove our love match?”

Something flickered in his gaze, there then gone. “Any chance to prove it,” he said, softly before he looked away. She followed the line of his gaze to find Pippa and Olivia, hand in hand, helping each other toward the ice. Any chance to match her sisters.