Perhaps.
Penelope would never know, because she was unable to remain silent for a moment longer.
She cleared her throat, as though preparing to make a public statement. He opened his eyes and slid his gaze to her but did not move otherwise. “I think it would be best if we took this time to discuss our plan.”
“Our plan?”
“The plan to ensure that my sisters have a successful season. You do recall your promise?” Her hand moved to the pocket of her traveling dress, where the coin he’d given her two nights earlier weighed heavily against her thigh.
Something she couldn’t recognize played across his face. “I recall the promise.”
“What is the plan?”
He stretched, his legs extending even farther across the coach. “I plan to find husbands for your sisters.”
She blinked. “You mean suitors.”
“If you like. I’ve two men in mind.”
Curiosity flared. “What are they like?”
“Titled.”
“And?” she prompted.
“And in the market for wives.”
He was exasperating. “Do they have sound, husbandly traits?”
“In the sense that they are male and unmarried.”
Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “Those are not the qualities to which I refer.”
“Qualities.”
“The characteristics that make for a good husband.”
“You are expert in the subject, I see.” He dipped his head, mocking her. “Please. Enlighten me.”
She pulled herself up, ticking the items off on her fingers as she went. “Kindness. Generosity. A modicum of good humor—”
“Only a modicum of it? Ill humor on say, Tuesdays and Thursdays would be acceptable?”
Her gaze narrowed. “Good humor,” she repeated before pausing, then adding, “A warm smile.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Though, in your case, I would accept any smile at all.”
He did not smile.
“Do they have these qualities?” she prodded. He did not reply. “Will my sisters like them?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“Do you like them?”
“Not particularly.”
“You are an obstinate man.”
“Consider it one of my qualities.”
He turned away, and she raised a brow in his direction. She couldn’t help it. No one in her life had ever irritated her quite so much as this man. Her husband. Her husband, who had plucked her, without remorse, from her life. Her husband, whom she’d agreed to marry because she did not want her sisters to suffer another blow to their reputations at her hands. Her husband, who had agreed to help her. Only now did she realize that by help, he’d meant, arrange another loveless marriage. Or two.
She wasn’t having it.
She couldn’t do much, but she could make certain that Olivia and Pippa had their chance at happy marriages.
The chance she hadn’t had.
“First, you don’t even know if these men will have them.”
“They will.” He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes once more.
“How do you know that?”
“Because they owe me a great deal of money, and I will forgive their debts in exchange for marriage.”
Penelope’s jaw dropped. “You will buy their fidelity?”
“I’m not certain that fidelity is part of the bargain.”
He said it without opening his eyes—eyes that remained closed for the long minutes during which she considered the horrible words.
She leaned forward and poked him in the leg with one finger. Hard.
His eyes opened.
There was no room for triumph in her as she was too full of outrage. “No,” she said, the word short and sharp in the small carriage.
“No?”
“No,” she repeated. “You gave me your word that our marriage wouldn’t ruin my sisters.”
“And it will not. Indeed, marriage to these men would make them quite revered in society.”
“Marriage to titled men who owe you money and might not be faithful will ruin them in other ways. In the ways that matter.”
One of his dark brows rose in that irritating expression she was coming to dislike. “The ways that matter?”
She would not be cowed. “Yes. The ways that matter. My sisters will not have marriages built on stupid agreements related to gaming. It’s bad enough that I have one of those. They shall choose their husbands. They shall have marriage built on more. Built on—” She stopped, not wanting him to laugh at her.
“Built on . . . ?”
She did not speak. Would not give him the pleasure of a reply. Waited for him to press her.
Oddly, he did not. “I suppose you have a plan to capture these men with qualities?”
She didn’t. Not really. “Of course I do.”
“Well then?”
“You reenter society. Prove to them that our marriage was not forced.”
He raised a brow. “Your dowry included my land. You think they will not see that I forced you into wedlock?”
She worried her lip, hating his logic. And she said the first thing that came to her mind. The first, ridiculous, utterly insane thing that came to her mind. “We must feign a love match.”
He showed none of the shock that she felt at the words. “How is it—I saw you in the village square and decided to mend my wicked ways?”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “That seems—reasonable.”
That brow arched once more. “Does it? You think people will believe it when the truth is that I ruined you on an abandoned estate before your father stormed the house with a rifle?”
She hesitated. “I would not call it storming.”
“He fired several rounds at my house. If that isn’t storming, I don’t know what is.”
It was a salient point. “Fair. He stormed. But that is not the story we are going to tell.” She hoped the words came out emphatically even as she silently pleaded, Please, say it isn’t. “If they’re to have a chance at real marriages, they need this. You gave me your word. Your marker.”
He was silent for a long while, and she thought he might refuse, offering her marriage for her sisters or nothing at all. And what would she do? What could she do now that she was beholden to him and his will—his power—as her husband?
Finally, he leaned back once more, all mockery when he said, “By all means. Devise our magical tale. I am all attention.” He closed his eyes, shutting her out.
She would have given everything she held dear for a single, biting retort in that moment—for something that would have stung him as quickly and deftly as his words. Of course, nothing sprang to mind. Instead, she ignored him and plunged ahead, building the story. “Since we have known each other all our lives, we might have become reacquainted on St. Stephen’s.”
His eyes opened, barely. “St. Stephen’s?”
“It might be best if our story began prior to the announcement that Falconwell was . . . part of my dowry.” Penelope pretended to inspect a speck on her traveling cloak, hating the fullness in her throat at the words, the reminder of her true worth. “I’ve always liked Christmas, and the Feast of St. Stephen in Coldharbour is quite . . . festive.”