He raised a brow. “I think you will feel differently after tonight.”
The specter of their wedding night loomed in the words, and Penelope hated that her pulse quickened even as she wanted to spit at him. “Yes, well, however you might ensorcel the women of the ton, I can guarantee you that they are far more discerning in their company in public than they are in private. And you are not good enough.”
She couldn’t believe she’d said it. But he made her so very angry.
When he looked at her, there was something powerful in his gaze. Something akin to admiration. “I’m happy you’ve discovered the truth, wife. It’s best to remove any false hope that I might be a decent man or a decent husband early in our time together.” He paused, brushing a speck from his sleeve. “I don’t need the women.”
“Women are the gatekeepers to society. You do, in fact, need them.”
“That’s why I have you.”
“I’m not enough.”
“Why not? Aren’t you the perfect English lady?”
She gritted her teeth at the description and the way it underscored her once-and-future purpose. Her utter lack of value. “I’m inches from the shelf. It’s been years since I was belle of the ball.”
“You’re Marchioness of Bourne now. I’ve no doubt you’ll fast become a person of interest, darling.”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “I’m not your darling.”
His eyes widened. “You wound me. Don’t you remember St. Stephen’s? Did our reel mean nothing to you?”
She would not be sorry if he fell right out the side of the carriage and rolled into a ditch. Indeed, if he did that, she would not stop to retrieve his remains.
She didn’t care if Falconwell were ever returned to him.
But she cared for her sisters, and she would not allow their reputations to be clouded by that of her husband. She took a deep breath, willing herself calm. “You’ll need to prove your worth again. They’ll need to see it. To believe I see it.”
He cut her a look. “My worth is three times that of most respected men of the ton.”
She shook her head. “I mean your value. As a marquess. As a man.”
He went still. “Anyone who knows my tale can tell you that I haven’t much value as either of those things. I lost it all a decade ago. Perhaps you hadn’t heard?”
The words oozed from him, all condescension, and she knew the question was rhetorical, but she would not be cowed. “I have heard.” She lifted her chin to meet his gaze head-on. “And you are willing to let one foolish, childhood peccadillo cloud your image for the rest of eternity? And mine as well, now?”
He shifted, leaning toward her, all danger and threat. She held her own, refusing to sit back. To look away. “I lost it all. Hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth. On one card. It was colossal. A loss for the history books. And you call it a peccadillo?”
She swallowed. “Hundreds of thousands?”
“Give or take.”
She resisted the urge to ask precisely how much was to be given or taken. “On one card?”
“One card.”
“Perhaps not a peccadillo, then. But foolish, to be sure.” She had no idea where the words came from, but they came nonetheless, and she knew that her choices were to brazen it through or show her fear. Miraculously, she kept her gaze steady, trained upon him.
His voice went low, almost a growl. “Did you just call me a fool?”
Her heart was pounding—so hard that she was surprised he could not hear it in the close quarters of the carriage. She waved one hand, hoping it appeared nonchalant. “It isn’t the point. If we’re to convince society that my sisters are worth marrying, you must prove that you’re a more-than-worthy escort for them.” She paused. “You need to make amends.”
He was silent for a long time. Long enough for her to think she might have gone too far. “Amends.”
She nodded. “I shall help you.”
“Do you always negotiate so well?”
“Not at all. In fact, I never negotiate. I simply give in.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You haven’t given in once in three days.”
She’d certainly been less biddable than usual. “Not true. I agreed to marry you, didn’t I?”
“So you did.”
She went warm at the words, the way they made her so very aware of him.
Her husband.
“What else is there?”
Confusion flared. “My lord?”
“I find I do not like the constant surprises that come from our arrangement. Let us put the cards on the table, shall we? You want a successful season for your sisters, good matches for them. You want my return to society. What else?”
“There is nothing else.”
A flash of something—displeasure, maybe?—crossed his face. “If your opponent makes it impossible for you to lose, Penelope, you should wager.”
“Another rule of gambling?”
“Another rule of scoundrels. One that also holds true with husbands. Doubly so with husbands like me.”
Husbands like him. She wondered what that meant, but before she could ask, he pressed on. “What else, Penelope? Ask it now, or not again.”
The question was so broad, so open . . . and its answers so myriad. She hesitated, her mind racing. What did she want? Really want.
What did she want from him?
More.
The word whispered through her, not simply an echo from that evening that already seemed so far away . . . that evening that had changed everything, but an opportunity. A chance to be more than a puppet on strings for him and for her family and for society. A chance to have remarkable experiences. A remarkable life.