She’d chided herself for the warm, treacly feeling.
She reminded herself that she hadn’t seen him since their wedding night—that he’d made it quite clear that any husbandly interaction was all for show, but by that time the flush was high on her cheeks, and when she met her husband’s eyes, it was to find a look of supreme satisfaction in them. He’d leaned in again. “The blush is perfect, my little innocent,” the words fanning the flames, as though they were very much in love and utterly devoted to each other when quite the opposite was true.
They’d been separated for dinner, of course, and the real challenge had begun. The Viscount Tottenham had escorted her to her place, sandwiched between himself and Mr. Donovan West, the publisher of two of the most-read newspapers in Britain. West was a golden-haired charmer who seemed to notice everything, including Penelope’s nervousness.
He kept his words for only her ears. “Do not allow them a chance to skewer you. They’ll take it quickly. And you’ll be done for.”
He was referring to the women.
There were six of them dispersed around the table, with equal pursed lips and disdainful glances. Their conversation—casual enough—was laced with a tone that made each word seem to have a double meaning; as though all assembled were in on some jest of which Michael and Penelope had no knowledge.
Penelope would have been irritated if it weren’t for the fact that she and Michael had a spate of secrets themselves.
It was near the end of the meal when the conversation turned to them.
“Tell us, Lord Bourne.” The Dowager Viscountess Tottenham’s words oozed along the table, too loud for privacy. “How was it, precisely, that you and Lady Bourne became affianced? I do love a love match.”
Of course she did. Love matches were the best kind of scandal.
Second only to idyllic ruination.
Penelope pushed the wry thought aside as conversation came to a stop and those assembled hung on the silence, waiting for Michael’s response.
His gaze slid to Penelope’s, warm and rich. “I defy anyone to spend more than a quarter of an hour in my lady’s company and not come away adoring her.” The words were scandalous—not at all the kind of thing that well-bred, callous members of the aristocracy said aloud, even if they believed it—and there was a collective intake of breath, punctuating amusement and surprise. Michael seemed not to care as he added, “I was lucky indeed that I was there, on St. Stephen’s. And that she was there—her laughter reminding me of all the ways I needed mending.”
Her heart quickened at the words and the way the corner of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile.
Amazing, the power of words. Even false ones.
She could not stop herself from smiling back at him, and she had no need of faking the way she dipped her head, suddenly embarrassed by his attention.
“How lucky, also, that her dowry abuts land belonging to the marquessate.” The words sailed down the table on a drunken burst from the Countess of Holloway, a miserable woman who took pleasure in others’ pain and whom Penelope had never liked. She did not look to the countess, focusing, instead on her husband before taking her turn.
“Fortuitous mostly for me, Lady Holloway,” she said, her gaze steadfast on her husband. “For without our being childhood neighbors, I am certain that my husband would never have found me.”
Michael’s gaze lit with admiration, and he lifted his glass in her direction. “At some point I would have realized what I was missing, darling. And I would have come looking for you.”
The words warmed her to her core before she remembered that it was all a game.
She took a deep breath as Michael took control, spinning their tale, assuring those assembled that he had lost head, heart, and reason to love.
He was handsome and clever, charming and funny, with just the right amount of contrition . . . as though he were attempting to make amends for past ills, and he was willing to do whatever it took to return to the aristocracy—for the sake of his new wife.
He was perfect.
He made her believe that he’d been there, in the main room of the Coldharbour parsonage, surrounded by revelers and holly wreaths and a St. Stephen’s feast. He made her believe that he’d met her gaze across the room—she could feel the knot in her stomach as she imagined the long, serious look that he would have given her, the one that made her breathless and light-headed, the one that made her believe that she was the only woman in the world.
And he captured her with his pretty words.
Just as he captured the rest of them.
“ . . . Honestly, I’ve never danced a reel in my life. But she made me want to dance a score of them.”
Laughter rang out around the table as Penelope lifted her glass and took a small sip of wine, hoping the alcohol would calm her roiling stomach, watching her husband as he regaled the roomful of diners with the tale of their whirlwind love affair.
“I suppose it was only a matter of time before I returned to Coldharbour and realized that Falconwell Manor was not the only thing I had left behind.” His gaze found hers across the table, and she caught her breath at the sparkle in those eyes. “Thank heavens I found her before someone else did.”
A collection of feminine sighs from around the table punctuated the racing of Penelope’s heart. Michael was as silver-tongued as they came.
“It wasn’t as though additional suitors were legion in number,” Lady Holloway said snidely, laughing a touch too loudly. “Were they, Lady Bourne?”
Penelope’s mind went blank at the cruel reference to her spinsterhood, and she searched for a cutting remark before her husband came to the rescue. “I couldn’t bear the thought of them,” he said, staring straight at her, all seriousness, until she was flushed with his attention. “Which is why we married so quickly.”