He was close to her now, close enough to reach out and touch her, to run his finger down the pale, smooth skin of her cheek. When he lifted his hand to do that, she edged away, turning and running one gloved hand along the green baize.

Do not touch me.

Her words whispered through his mind, and he stopped himself from following her.

“Michael?” His name pulled him from his reverie. “What happens here?”

He met her blue eyes. “This is the ladies’ side of the club.”

“There are women on the other side, too.”

“Not ladies. Those women come with men . . . or leave with them.”

“You mean they are mistresses.” Her fingers found a white billiard ball, and she rolled it to and fro beneath her hand, and he was transfixed by the way her hand moved, capturing and releasing, rolling and stopping.

He wanted that hand on him.

“Yes.”

“And on this side?”

She was directly across from him now, six feet of slate and felt between them. “On this side, there are ladies.”

Her eyes went wide. “Real ladies?”

He could not help his dry tone. “Well, I am not certain how much they deserve the adjective, but yes. They bear the titles, for the most part.”

“How many of them?” She was fascinated. He couldn’t blame her. The idea that any number of aristocratic females had access to vice and sin on a moment’s notice was scandalous indeed.

“Not many. One hundred?”

“One hundred?” She laid her hands flat on the table and leaned forward, and his eyes were drawn to the swell of her br**sts rising and falling rapidly beneath the edge of her dress. The fabric was fastened with a long white ribbon, the silk ends begging to be unfastened. “How does this remain a secret?”

He smiled. “I already told you, love, we deal in secrets.”

She shook her head, admiration on her face. “Amazing. And they come here to gamble?”

“Among other things.”

“What things?”

“Everything men do. They gamble, they watch fights, they drink extravagantly, they eat extravagantly . . .”

“Do they meet lovers here?”

He did not like the question, but he knew he should answer it. Perhaps it would scare her away. “Sometimes.”

“How exciting!”

“Do not get any ideas.”

“About taking a lover?”

“About any of it. You’re not to make use of The Fallen Angel, Penelope. It’s not for women like you.” And certainly not with a lover. The idea of another man touching her had Michael itching to strike something.

She watched him in silence for a long while before she moved, easing back around the table toward him. “You keep saying things like that. Women like me. What does that mean?”

There were so many ways to answer the question—women who were innocent. Women who were perfectly behaved, with perfect backgrounds and perfect upbringings, and perfect lives. Women who were perfect. “I don’t want you touched by this life.”

“Why not? It’s your life, too.”

“That’s different. It’s not for you.”

It’s not good enough for you.

She stopped at the near corner of the table, and he saw the hurt in her eyes. Knew she was bothered by his words. Knew, too, that it was best for both of them if she remained hurt. And stayed away from this place.

“What’s so wrong with me?” she whispered.

His eyes widened. Had he had a year to think of what she might say in this situation, the idea that she would perceive his forbidding her to come to The Fallen Angel because there was something wrong with her would never have occurred to him.

God, there was nothing wrong with her. She was perfect. Too perfect for this.

Too perfect for him.

“Penelope.” He stepped toward her, then stopped, wanting to say the right thing. With women across Britain, he knew what to say, but he never seemed to know what to say with her.

She released the billiard ball, letting it roll across the table to send another careening off in a new direction. When it came to a stop, she looked back at him, her blue eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “What if I weren’t Penelope, Michael? What if the rules were in effect here? What if there really were no names?”

“If there really were no names, you would be in serious danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

The kind that ends with another angel fallen.

“It’s irrelevant. There are names. You are my wife.”

Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “Ironic, is it not, that beyond that door, one hundred wives of the most powerful men in England are taking what they want with whomever they want, and in here, I can’t even persuade my husband to show me what might be. My husband, who owns the club. Who loves it. Why not share it with me?” The words were soft and tempting, and there was nothing that Michael wanted more in that moment than to show her every inch of this decadent life.

But for once in his life, he was going to do the right thing.

So he said, “Because you deserve better.” Her eyes went wide as he tracked her across the room, backing her away from the table. “You deserve better than a billiard room in a gaming hell, than roulette with a handful of men who think you’re, at best, someone’s mistress and, at worst, something far less flattering. You deserve better than a place where at any moment a brawl might begin, or a fortune might be wagered, or an innocence might be lost. You deserve to be kept far from this life of sin and vice, where pleasure and devastation are red and black, in and out. You deserve better,” he repeated. “Better than me.”