The echo of the marriage vows he’d spoken with Penelope set Bourne on edge. “It depends on your view of the situation.”
“I see.”
“I doubt you do.”
“Falconwell?”
“Mine.”
“Did you marry the girl?”
“I did.”
Cross let out a long, low whistle. Bourne couldn’t agree more.
“Where is she?”
Too near. “At the town house.”
“Your town house?”
“I did not think it appropriate for me to bring her here.”
Cross was silent for a long while. “I confess, I am eager to meet this woman who looked into the face of marriage with cold, hard Bourne and did not run away.”
She hadn’t had a choice.
There was no way that she would have gone through with a wedding to him if he hadn’t forced her to the parish vicar. If she’d had more time to think it through. He was everything that she was not, coarse and angry, with no hope of ever returning to the world into which he’d been born. Into which she’d been born.
Penelope . . . she was proper and perfectly bred for a life in that world. This world—filled with gaming and drink and sex and worse—it would scare her to death. He would scare her to death.
But she’d asked to see it.
And so he would show it to her.
Because he could not resist the temptation of her corruption. It was too compelling. Too sweet.
She didn’t know what she asked. She thought adventure was a late-night walk in the woods surrounding her childhood home. The main floor of The Angel on any given night would send her into hysterics.
“The turn?” Cross said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You said it did not go as planned.”
“I agreed to match her sisters as well.”
Cross’s brows rose. “How many of them?”
“Two. Easy enough, I think.” He met Cross’s serious grey gaze. “You should know it was a love match. We married this morning. I couldn’t bear being apart from her a moment longer.”
A beat passed as Cross heard the lie. Understood its meaning. “Since you are so very much in love.”
“Precisely.”
“This morning,” Cross tested the words. Bourne turned away and placed his hands flat on the roulette table, pressing them firmly into the plush green baize. Knowing what was to come even before the words were spoken. “You left her alone on your wedding night.”
“I did.”
“Is she horsefaced?”
No.
When she was in the throes of passion, she was stunning. He wanted to lay her down on his bed and make her his. The memory of her writhing against him in Falconwell Manor had him shifting to accommodate the way his breeches tightened against him.
He scrubbed one hand across his face at the lie. “I need some time in the ring with Temple.”
“Ah. I see that she is.”
“She’s not.”
“Then perhaps you should return home and consummate your marriage to this woman whom you love so very passionately. Lord knows it’s a more pleasurable experience than having Temple serve you your ass in the ring.”
Even if you deserve the pounding.
For a fleeting moment, Bourne considered the words. Played out the events that would occur if he returned home and sought out his innocent new wife. Imagined what it would be like to lay her down on his bed and stake his claim, to make her his. To show her the adventure she did not even know she had requested. Her silken hair would cling to the rough stubble on his chin, her full lips would part on a sigh as he stroked her soft skin, and she would cry out at the pleasure he wrung from her.
It was a wicked, wonderful temptation.
But she would not take the experience as it was given. She would ask him for more. More than he was willing to give.
His gaze returned to the roulette wheel, drawn, inexorably, to where the little white ball had found its seat.
Black.
Of course.
He turned back. “There is more.”
“There always is.”
“I agreed to return to society.”
“Good God. Why?”
“The sisters need to be matched.”
Cross swore, amazement in the single, vicious word. “Needham negotiated your reentry? Brilliant.”
Bourne did not tell the truth—that it had been his wife who had negotiated the terms first. Most successfully. Instead, he said, “He has information that will ruin Langford.”
Cross’s eyes widened. “How is that possible?”
“We weren’t looking in the right place.”
“Are you sure it—”
“It will destroy him.”
“And Needham will give it to you when the daughters are matched?”
“Shouldn’t take long; apparently one of them is halfway to the altar with Castleton.”
Cross’s brows rose. “Castleton is a dimwit.”
One of Bourne’s shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug. “He’s not the first aristocrat to marry a woman above his intelligence. Won’t be the last, either.”
“Would you let your unmarried sister marry him?”
“I don’t have an unmarried sister.”
“It sounds to me like you have two of them now.”
Bourne heard the censure in the words . . . knew what Cross was saying. Knew that marriage to Castleton would condemn any woman with a brain in her head to a lifetime of boredom.
And Penelope would suffer knowing that another one of her sisters had made a bad match. I don’t fool myself into thinking that they could find love. But they could be happy, couldn’t they?
He ignored the echo. “It’s virtually done. It gets me one step closer to Langford. I’m not about to stop it. Besides, most women of the aristocracy have to suffer their husbands.”
Cross raised a brow. “You have to admit . . . marriage to Castleton would be something of a trial. Particularly for a young lady hoping for say, conversation. You should introduce her to someone else. Someone with a thought in his head.”
Bourne raised a brow. “Are you offering your services?”
Cross cut him a look. “Surely there is someone.”
“Why look for someone else when Castleton is here, and ready?”
“You’re a cold bastard.”
“I do what it takes. Perhaps you’re growing soft.”
“And you’re hard as you’ve ever been.” When Bourne did not reply, he pressed on. “You may get some of the invitations without help, but for the rest—for a true return to society—you’re going to need Chase. It’s the only way you’ll unlock all the doors you require.”
Bourne nodded once, standing straight, taking a deep breath and adjusting the sleeves of his frock coat carefully. “Well, then I ought to find Chase.” He met Cross’s grey gaze. “You’ll start putting it out that . . .”
Cross nodded. “You’ve been laid low by love.”
There was a heartbeat of hesitation before Bourne nodded.
Cross saw it. “You shall have to do better than that if you want anyone to believe you.” Bourne turned away, ignoring the words until Cross called him back. “And one other thing. If your revenge relies upon your marriage and your pristine reputation, you’ll want to secure them both quickly.”