A Rogue by Any Other Name

For daring to hurt her.

He wanted this man dead. Now.

“You think I am still a boy?” he asked, pulling Langford away from the wall and pounding him back into it. “You think you can come to my club and threaten my wife without repercussions? You think I would let you touch her? You aren’t fit to breathe her air.”

“Michael!” she cried from across the room, where Cross kept her from entering the fray. “Stop it!” He turned to her, saw the tears running down her cheeks and stilled, torn between hurting Langford and comforting her. “He’s not worth it, Michael.”

“You married her for land,” Langford said, sucking air into his lungs. “You might have fooled the rest of London. But not me. I know Falconwell matters more to you than anything in the world. She was a means to an end. You think I don’t see that?”

A means to an end. The echo of the words—so oft repeated at the beginning of their marriage—was a blow, in part because they were true, but mostly because they were so very false. “You bastard. You think you know me?” He slammed Langford into the wall again, the force of the emotion making him more furious. “I love her. She is the only thing that matters. And you dared to touch her.”

Langford opened his mouth to speak, but Michael cut him off. “You don’t deserve mercy. You’ve been a disgrace as a father and a guardian and a man. You owe the fact that you remain able to walk entirely to the generosity of the lady. But if you come within a mile of her again, or if I ever hear a whisper of your speaking ill of her, I shall take pleasure in tearing you limb from limb. Is that clear?”

Langford swallowed and nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“Do you doubt I would do it?”

“No.”

He thrust the viscount toward Bruno. “Get rid of him. And send for Thomas Alles.” Michael was already moving across the room, sure that his bidding would be done, crushing Penelope in his arms.

She pressed her face to the curve of his neck. “What did you say?” she whispered to the skin there, her voice shaking as his hands ran over her back clasping her to him. She lifted her head, blue eyes glistening with tears, and repeated, “What did you say?”

It was not the way he would have planned to tell her, but nothing about their marriage had happened in a traditional manner, and he supposed this moment should be no different than all the rest. So there, standing in the middle of an overturned card room in a gaming hell, he met his wife’s gaze, and said, “I love you.”

She shook her head. “But, you chose him. You chose vengeance.”

“No,” he said, leaning against the card table, pulling her to stand between his thighs, taking her hands in his. “No. I choose you. I choose love.”

She tilted her head, searching his gaze. “Is that true?”

And suddenly, the truth mattered more than he could ever have imagined. “God, yes. Yes, it’s true.” He cupped her face in his hands. “I choose you, Penelope. I choose love over revenge; I choose the future over the past; I choose your happiness over all else.”

She was silent for a long while, long enough for him to worry. “Sixpence?” he asked, suddenly terrified. “Do you believe me?”

“I—” She started, then stopped, and he knew what she was about to say.

Wished he could stop it.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Twenty-two

Penelope did not sleep that night. She did not even try.

And so, when Tommy called the next morning, it did not matter that it was at an hour far too early for callers. He was standing at the fireplace, greatcoat on, hat and cane in hand, when she entered the receiving room.

He turned, met her red eyes, and said, all tact, “Dear God. You look as awful as he does.”

That was all it took. She burst into tears.

He came toward her, “Oh, Pen. Don’t. Ah—dammit. Don’t cry. I take it back. You don’t look awful at all.”

“Liar,” she said, wiping away tears.

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Not at all. You look entirely fine. Not in the least bit like a simpering female.”

She felt like a fool. “I can’t help it, you know.”

“You love him.”

She took a deep breath. “Terribly.”

“And he loves you.”

Tears threatened again. “He says he does.”

“You don’t believe him?”

She wanted to. Desperately. “I can’t . . . I don’t understand why he would. I don’t understand what about me would have changed him. Would have moved him. Would have made him love me.” She shrugged one shoulder and looked down at her feet, the toes of her green slippers peeping out from beneath the hem of her dress.

“Oh, Pen . . .” He sighed, pulling her into a warm, brotherly embrace. “I was an idiot. And so was Leighton. And all the others. You were better than any of us. Than all of us combined.” He stepped back and took her shoulders, firmly, looking straight into her gaze. “And you’re better than Michael, too.”

She took a deep breath, reaching out to smooth the lapel of his greatcoat. “I’m not, you know.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “And that is the reason why he doesn’t deserve you. Because he’s a royal ass, and you love him anyway.”

“I do,” she said softly.

“I saw him last night, you know, after you left him.” She looked up. “He gave me the proof of my scandal. Told me you’d won it back from him.”

“He gave it to me,” she corrected. “I didn’t have to wager for it. He wasn’t going to ruin you, Tommy. He stopped it.”

Tommy shook his head. “You stopped it. You loved him enough to show him that there was more to life than revenge. You’ve changed him. You’ve given him another chance to be the Michael we knew instead of the cold, hard Bourne he became. You’ve moved the mountain.” He lifted one hand to tap her on the chin. “He adores you. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

I choose you. I choose love.

The words she’d played over and over in her mind throughout the night suddenly made sense. And, as though a candle had been lit, she knew, without doubt, that they were true. That he loved her.

The realization made her giddy. “He loves me,” she said, quietly first, letting the words echo through her, testing the way they felt on her tongue. “He loves me,” she repeated, on a laugh, this time to Tommy. “He really does.”

“Of course he does, you silly girl,” Tommy said with a smile. “Men like Bourne do not falsely profess love.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not exactly in keeping with his character.”

It wasn’t, of course. The great, dangerous Bourne, all cold and cruel, the man who ran a gaming hell and abducted women in the dead of night and lived his life for revenge was not a man who fell in love with his wife.

But somehow, he had.

And Penelope knew better than to spend another moment asking how or why . . . when she could simply spend the rest of her life loving him back.

She smiled up at Tommy, and said, “I have to go to him. I have to tell him I believe him.”