It was a question without an easy answer. She wanted nothing to do with one-half of Michael, with the cold, distant man who had married her for land. But the other half—the man who held her and cared for her comfort and did delicious, wonderful things to her mind and body—she wouldn’t mind seeing him again.
Of course, she could not say that to Tommy. Could not explain that Michael was two men and that she was at once furious with and fascinated by him.
She could not say it because she barely wanted to admit it to herself.
“Pen?”
She sighed. “Marriage is a strange thing.”
“Indeed it is. Doubly so if one is married to Michael, I’m guessing. I knew he’d come for you. Knew he’d be cold and heartless and devise a way to marry you quickly—for Falconwell.” Belatedly, Penelope realized she should be protesting the words and telling Tommy their well-spun tale, but he was moving on, and it was too late. “I tried to marry you first . . . to spare you marriage to him.”
Tommy’s words from the morning of his proposal echoed in her mind. “That’s what you meant. You wanted to protect me from Michael.”
“He’s not the same as he was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
He tilted his head. “Would you have believed me?”
“Yes.” No.
He smiled, smaller than usual. More serious. “Penny, if you’d known he was coming for you, you would have waited.” He paused. “It was always him.”
Penelope’s brow furrowed. It wasn’t true. Was it?
A vision flashed—a warm spring day, the three of them inside the old Norman tower that stood on Falconwell lands. As they had explored, a staircase had given way beneath Penelope, and she’d been trapped a level above Michael and Tommy. It hadn’t been far, a yard or two, but far enough for her to be afraid of jumping. She’d called for help, and Tommy had been the first to find her. He’d urged her to jump, promised to catch her. But she’d been frozen in fear.
And then Michael had come. Calm, fearless Michael, who had looked up into her eyes and given her strength. Jump, Sixpence. I shall be your net.
She’d believed him.
She took a deep breath at the memory, at the reminder of her time with Michael, of the way he had always made her safe. She looked to Tommy. “He’s not that boy any longer.”
“No. He’s not. Langford made sure of that.” He paused, then said, “I wish I could have prevented it, Pen. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “No apologies. He’s cold and infuriating when he wishes to be, but he’s built so much for himself—proven his worth tenfold. The marriage may be challenging, but I imagine most of them are, don’t you?”
“Ours would not have been.”
“Ours would have been a challenge in a different way, Tommy. You know that.” She smiled. “Your poetry . . . it is abhorrent.”
“There is that.” His smile was there, then gone. He changed the conversation. “I’ve been thinking of India. They say there is a world of opportunity there.”
“You would leave England? Why?”
He drank deep at the words, placing his empty glass on a nearby table. “Your husband plans to ruin me.”
It took a moment for her to comprehend the words. “I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It is. He told me.”
Confusion flared. “When?”
“On the day of your wedding. I came to Needham House to find you, to convince you to marry me, only to find that I was too late and that you’d already left for London with him. I followed you. Went straight to his club.”
Michael hadn’t said anything. “And you saw him?”
“Long enough for him to explain that he had plans for revenge against my father. Against me. When he’s through, I shall have no choice but to leave Britain.”
The words did not surprise her. Of course Falconwell would not be enough for her immovable husband. Of course he would want vengeance against Langford. But Tommy? “He wouldn’t do that, Tommy. You have a past. A history. The three of us do.”
Tommy smiled a small wry smile. “Our past does not weigh so heavily as revenge, I’m afraid.”
She shook her head. “What could he possibly plan—”
“I am not . . .” He took a deep breath. “He knows . . .” Paused. Looked away. Tried again. “I am not Langford’s son.”
Her jaw dropped, along with her voice. “You cannot mean it.”
He laughed a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I certainly would not lie about it, Pen.”
He was right, of course. This was not the sort of thing one lied about. “You are not—”
“No.”
“Who—”
“I don’t know. I didn’t know I was a bastard until a few years ago, when my—when Langford told me the truth.”
She watched him carefully, registering the quiet sadness behind his eyes. “You never said anything.”
“It’s not something one says, really.” He paused. “You do what you can to keep it a secret . . . and hope no one discovers.”
But someone had discovered.
Penelope swallowed, turning her attention to a large oil painting on the wall—another landscape—this one in a wilderness too rugged and untouched to be anything but the North Country. She fixed her stare on a large boulder to one side of the artwork as understanding dawned. “It would ruin your father.”
“His only child, a bastard.”
Her gaze returned to his. “Don’t call yourself that.”
“Everyone else will, soon enough.”
Silence. And in it, the keen awareness that Tommy was right. That Michael’s plans included his ruin. A means to an end. He saw the moment she recognized the truth and took a step toward her. “Come with me, Penny. We can leave this place and this life and start fresh. India. The Americas. Greece. Spain. The Orient. Anywhere you choose.”
Her eyes went wide. He was serious. “I’m married, Tommy.”
One side of his mouth crooked up. “To Michael. You require escape as much as I do. Maybe more—at least my ruin at his hands will come swiftly.”
“Be that as it may, I’m married. And you . . .” She trailed off.
“I am nothing. Not when he’s through with me.”
She thought of her husband, to whom she had vowed fidelity and loyalty, who had fought for so long to rebuild his fortunes without his name. He knew the importance of a name. Of an identity. She couldn’t believe he’d do this.
She shook her head. “You’re wrong. He wouldn’t . . .” But even as she said the words, she knew they weren’t true.
He would do anything for his revenge.
Even ruin his friends.
Tommy’s jaw set, and she was suddenly nervous. She’d never seen him so serious. So driven. “I’m not wrong. He has proof. He’s willing to use it. He’s ruthless, Pen . . . no longer the friend we once knew.” He was close, and he took one of her hands in both of his. “He doesn’t deserve you. Come with me. Come with me, and we neither of us shall be lonely.”
She was quiet for a long moment before she said softly, “He is my husband.”