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.”
Bourne’s brows snapped together. “What are you saying?”
Cross smirked. “I’m merely suggesting you ensure that your wife hasn’t grounds for annulment. Take the woman to bed, Bourne. Quickly.”
Bourne did not have a chance to reply, as there was a sudden commotion in the main entryway to the club, beyond a wide oak door that stood half-open. “I don’t give a damn that I’m not a member. You’ll let me see him, or I shall make it my life’s purpose to destroy this place . . . and you with it.”
Bourne met Cross’s gaze, and the taller man said casually, “Have you ever noticed that it’s always the same promise, but never from one powerful enough to deliver?”
“Did your companion have a husband by chance?”
Cross went stone-faced. “That is one puddle in which I do not play.”
“Not for you, then.” Bourne headed for the door, pushing it open to find Bruno and Asriel, two of the door-men of the hell, holding a man of average height and average build face-first against the wall. “Gentlemen,” he drawled. “What have you found?”
Asriel turned to him. “He’s after you.”
At the words, the man began to fight in earnest. “Bourne! You’ll see me now, or you’ll see me at dawn.”
He recognized the voice.
Tommy.
It had been nine years since the last time he’d seen Tommy Alles, since the night his father had taken everything that Bourne had, with pleasure. Since Tommy had chosen his inheritance—Bourne’s inheritance—over his friend.
Nine years, and still the hot betrayal coursed through him at the way his friend had turned his back. At the way he had been so complicit in his father’s actions.
“Do not for one moment imagine that I would not gleefully meet you at dawn,” he said. “Indeed, I would think very carefully before making the offer if I were you.”