She nodded once, every inch of her resisting the words, wanting to scream at the injustice of it all. “That’s that. If you insist upon revenge, you do so without me at your side.”

She knew the ultimatum would never be met, but it was no less of a blow when he said, “So be it.”

Chapter Seventeen

Dear M—

I was at the theater tonight, and I heard your name. A handful of ladies were discussing a new gaming hell and its scandalous owners, and I could not help but listen when I heard them mention you. It’s so odd to hear you referred to as Bourne—a name I still associate with your father, but I suppose it’s been yours for a decade.

A decade. Ten years since I’ve seen you or talked to you. Ten years since everything changed. Ten years, and I still miss you.

Unsigned

Dolby House, May 1826

Letter unsent

Michael climbed the steps to Dolby House one week later, responding to the summons from his father-in-law that had arrived at Hell House that morning, as he’d stood in his study and tried to keep himself from rocketing through the house to take hold of his wife and prove once and for all that they were married and that she was his.

It had come to this . . . the embarrassing truth that he spent most of his time at home listening for her footstep beyond the door, waiting for her to come to him, to tell him that she’d changed her mind, to beg him to touch her.

Just as he wished her to touch him.

For six nights, he had spent evenings at the house, avoiding his wife even as he stood on his side of that cursed adjoining bedchamber door, listening as servants filled her bath and chatted with her, then as she’d slid into the water, the sounds of her movement in the water making him ache with temptation.

With desire to prove himself to her.

The experience was torturous. And he deserved it, punishing himself by refusing to enter that room, pull her from her bath and lay her out on her bed, lovely and lush, to ravish her. As he’d turned away from the door that taunted him with the secrets that lay beyond, it was regret he felt.

She was becoming everything he wanted, and she had always been more than he deserved.

Last night had been the worst—she’d been laughing with her maid about something, and he’d stood, one hand on the door handle, the sound of her lyric laughter a siren’s call. He’d pressed his forehead to the door like a fool and listened for long minutes, waiting for something to shift.

Finally, he’d turned away, aching to go to her, to find Worth standing at the far end of the room, just inside the closed door.

He’d been embarrassed and irritated. “Is knocking no longer done?”

Worth raised one ginger brow. “I did not think it necessary, as you are rarely home at this hour.”

“I am home tonight.”

“You are also an idiot.” The housekeeper had never been one to mince words.

“I should sack you for insolence.”

“But you won’t. Because I’m right. What is wrong with you? You clearly care for the lady, and she clearly cares for you.”

“There’s nothing clear about it.”

“You’re right,” the housekeeper said, setting a stack of towels down near the washbasin. “It’s perfectly obscure—the reason why both of you spend so much time on opposite sides of that door, listening for the other.”

Michael’s brows pulled together. “Does she—”

Worth shrugged one shoulder. “I suppose you’ll never know.” She paused. “Dammit, Bourne. You’ve spent so much of your adult life protecting others. Who will protect you from yourself?”

He turned away from the housekeeper. “Leave me.”

That night, he’d listened intently, waiting for Penelope to step from her bath and come to the adjoining door. He swore that if he even caught a hint of her standing on the opposite side, waiting, he would open it, and they would have it out. But instead, he watched the light beneath the door extinguish, heard the rustle of blankets as she climbed into bed, and fled to The Angel, where he spent the evening in the pit, watching as tens of thousands of pounds were wagered and lost, reminding him of the power of desire, of weakness. Reminding him of what he had conquered.

Of what he had lost.

Still wearing his coat and hat, Bourne followed a footman through the maze of Dolby House—one of the few estates within the borders of London—and out onto a large balcony that led down to the snow-covered lands of the property. There was a set of human footprints leading away from the house, surrounded by a collection of paw prints.

A rifle’s report echoed in the silence, and Michael turned to the footman, knowing he was expected to follow the sound. He followed the track, the freshly fallen snow muffling his footsteps, toward his father-in-law.

A brisk wind blew, and he slowed, turning his head away from the gust, baring his teeth at the bitter cold. A hunting rifle sounded from beyond a small hill, and trepidation flared. He was not in the market for being shot by the Marquess of Needham and Dolby, at least, not accidentally.

Considering his options, he stopped, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out, “Needham!”

“Huzzah!” A rich cry sounded from beyond the ridge, punctuated with a half dozen different barks and howls.

Bourne took it as a sign to approach.

He paused as he crested the rise, looking at the wide spread of land that stretched down to the Thames. He took a deep breath, enjoying the feel of the cold air in his lungs, and directed his attention to Needham, who was shielding his eyes from the morning sun.

Halfway down the rise, Needham called up, “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”