Penelope exchanged her white kidskin gloves for navy blue suede. As she fitted the fingers to her hand, she spoke honestly. “He’s a horse’s bottom. And I am not entirely certain I would have him if he begged either. Except for the fact that I am married to him.”
“Well, if you’ll beg my pardon, you should absolutely not have him until he begs. He shouldn’t be leaving you so . . .”
“Regularly?” Penelope filled in the gap, deciding that perhaps she had misjudged the housekeeper. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Worth, I do not believe that begging is in my husband’s repertoire.”
The housekeeper smiled. “You are welcome to call me Worth. It’s what all the others call me.”
“The others?”
“The other partners in The Angel.”
Penelope’s brows snapped together. “How do you know my husband’s partners?”
“I used to work at The Angel, scrubbing pots, plucking chickens, whatever needed to be done.”
Curiosity flared. “How did you end up here?”
A cloud passed over the other woman’s face. “I aged into my body. People began to notice.”
“Men?” It didn’t have to be a question. Penelope knew the answer. A face like Worth’s could not hide for long even in the kitchens of a gaming hell.
“The employees did everything they could to keep the members from getting too close—not just to me—to all the girls.” Penelope leaned forward, knowing what was coming. Loathing it. Wishing she could erase the words before they were spoken. “But I was careless. Powerful men can be persistent. Wealthy men can be a temptation. And the entire sex are pretty liars when they want to be.”
Penelope knew it. Her husband was as silver-tongued as they came.
Worth’s smile was sad. “Bourne found us.”
Penelope watched as the other woman ran a finger across the gilded frame of a large oil painting on the wall. “He was furious,” she said, knowing instinctively that—whatever his faults—her husband would never have stood for such behavior.
“He nearly killed the man.” Penelope felt a surge of pride as Worth continued. “For all his darkness . . . for all his selfishness . . . he’s a good man.” She stepped back, assessing Penelope’s garments. “If you’re going to march into The Angel, you’re going to have to enter through the owner’s entrance. It’s the only way you’ll get onto the main floor. And you’ll need a cloak with a larger hood if you’re going to keep your face covered.”
Penelope hadn’t thought of that. She crossed the room, passing into the dimly lit hallway beyond. “Thank you.”
“He’ll be furious when you get there,” Worth added. “My note will not have helped.” She paused. “I am sorry about that.”
Penelope cut Worth a look as they reached the foot of the stairs. “I shall collect on that debt,” Penelope said, “but not tonight. Tonight, I shall simply tell you that your message was incomplete. And I intend to deliver the rest of it in person.”
* * *
Dear M—
My birthday has come again, and this one more troublesome than any of those prior. My mother is ready to host a coming-out ball, and I am targeted as the fatted calf (It’s not the most becoming of metaphors, is it?). At any rate, she’s already making plans for March, if you can believe it—I’m certain I shan’t last the winter.
Do promise you’ll come to the fated event . . . I know that twenty is far too young for you to be attending balls or caring a bit about the season, but it would be nice to see a friendly face.
Always—P
Needham Manor, August 1820
No reply
“You should be at home with your wife.”
Bourne did not turn away from his place at the window overlooking the pit floor of The Fallen Angel. “My wife is tucked safely in her bed, asleep.”
He knew how that would look, Penelope in her pristine, white linen nightgown, wrapped in a collection of blankets, curled on her side, her blond hair spread out like a wave behind her—sighing a sweet little sigh in her sleep, tempting him, even in fantasy.
Or, even better, in his bed, on his fur, lush and waiting to be discovered.
The days since she’d requested he not touch her had been interminable.
The night at Tottenham’s had begun with a single, achievable goal—to lay the foundation of Bourne and Penelope’s false love for the rest of society. But then she’d gone and stood strong in that viper pit of a dining room, bolstering his story, feigning fondness and devotion and, ultimately, defending him in her perfect, cultured way.
As much as he’d told himself that he had gone after her to further convince Tottenham’s guests of his fascination with his new wife, he knew, deep down, that it wasn’t true. The guests had been far from his mind, and his fascination had been nothing close to fraudulent. He’d had to touch her. He’d had to be close to her.
The moment he’d kissed her, he’d lost control of the situation—gasping for breath, clutching her to him, wishing that they were anywhere but there, in that hallway, in that house, with those people. He’d wanted to murder Tottenham for interrupting them, but God knew what would have happened if the viscount hadn’t done just that, considering that Bourne had been seriously considering lifting his bride’s skirts, lowering himself to his knees, and showing her precisely where pleasure could take them both when the viscount had cleared his throat—and Bourne’s head.