“As indicated by my extraordinary grace in this particular moment,” Penelope offered, eliciting a warm laugh from Michael that rumbled through her all-too-pleasantly. She pulled back to meet his gaze.

He did not look away from her as he said, “It’s one of the many reasons I married her. I’m sure you can’t blame me, West.”

A blush flooding her cheeks, Penelope turned to face the newspaperman, who dipped his head, and said, “Not in the slightest. It’s a lucky match indeed.” He winked at Penelope. “She’s obviously committed to you.” He looked off to the distance then before tipping his hat and giving Penelope a short bow. “I have neglected my sister for too long, I think. Lady Bourne, it has been an honor to skate with you.”

She dropped a tiny curtsy. “The pleasure was mine.” When he skated away, she turned to face Michael again, lowering her voice to a whisper. “That man knows that there is more to our marriage than a love match.”

He leaned in, matching her volume. “Don’t you mean less to our marriage?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You are avoiding the point.”

“Of course West knows,” he said casually. “He’s one of the smartest men in Britain. Possibly the smartest man in Britain, and one of the most successful, as well. But he will keep our secrets.”

“He’s a journalist,” she reminded him.

He laughed then, a lovely, honest laugh that made him infinitely more handsome. “You needn’t say it as though he is an insect under glass.” He paused, watching the man in question charm his sister and her gaggle of friends. “West knows better than to speculate on our marriage in print.”

She did not believe him. The truth of their marriage would make for incredible scandal. “How do you know him?”

“He likes hazard.”

“It seems like the smartest man in Britain would not enjoy a game of chance so very much.”

“He would if he had the luck of the devil.”

“You don’t seem worried that he knows.”

“That is because I am not. I know too many of his secrets for him to share any of mine.”

“But he’ll happily share Tommy’s?”

Michael slid her a look. “Let’s not talk about that.”

She pressed on. “Are you still planning to ruin him?”

“Not today.”

“When, then?”

He sighed. “At least a week from now, as promised.”

There was something there, in the soft, resigned way that he spoke, something she wished she could identify. Was it doubt? Regret? “Michael—”

“I have bought and paid for this afternoon, wife. No more.” He reached into her bag of chestnuts and popped one, whole, into his mouth. Instantly, his eyes went wide, and he sucked in a long breath. “Those are scalding!”

She should not have taken pleasure in his pain, but she did. “If you had asked for one before simply taking what you wanted, I would have warned you.”

One of his brows rose. “Never ask. Take what you want, when you want it.”

“Another rule of scoundrels?”

He dipped his head to acknowledge the quip. “It is part of the fun.”

The words sizzled through her as the memory came—unbidden—of his tossing her over his shoulder on that first night . . . the night that had changed everything.

She raised her chin, refusing to be embarrassed. “Yes, I discovered as much last night at your club when I won at the wheel.” His brows shot up, and Penelope was rather proud of herself. A direct hit.

“It’s a game of chance. It requires no skill.”

“No skill but luck,” she quipped.

He smiled, more handsome than one man should be. “Come, wife. Let’s around the lake.”

He took the bag from her hands, stuffing it into his coat pocket before he guided her to the ice, and she returned the conversation to secrets. “Is that the way of it? You trade in secrets?”

“Only when I must.”

“Only as a means to an end.” The words were more for herself than for him.

“I know I have been out of the aristocracy for a decade, but this remains London, does it not? Information is still the most valuable commodity?”

“I suppose it is.” She did not like how simple it was to him. How callous he was. How easily he kept secrets. How easily he used them to punish those around him. She forced a smile, knowing that all of London watched them. Hating being on display. “And that is the way of it with you and Langford?”

Michael shook his head. “No Langford either, today. We made our deal.”

“I never agreed.”

“Your not tossing me from the carriage on the way here was tacit agreement,” he said dryly. “But if you’d like to formally agree, I will accept your marker in good faith.”

“I don’t have a marker of my own.”

“All is well,” he smiled. “You may borrow mine.”

She cut him a look. “You mean I may return yours.”

“Semantics.”

She could not hide her small smile as she reached into the pocket of her cloak, where she carried the guinea he’d given her and extracted the coin. “One afternoon,” she said.

“For one week,” he agreed.

She dropped the coin in his outstretched palm, watching as he deposited it inside his coat pocket. She turned away, watching Pippa laughing across the pond with a group of young women. “Lord Castleton has proposed to Pippa.”