She’d gone statue-still in his arms, and he’d known in that moment that she’d believed the worst of him. She’d believed it had all been concocted for Tottenham’s benefit . . . and it had—but Bourne hadn’t expected it to go so far. And he’d never admit to her that he’d been just as carried away as she was.
So he’d told her the truth about the arrangement, knowing that the words would sting. Knowing she’d hate him more for deceiving her. And when she’d pronounced, with all the poise of a queen, that he was not to touch her again, he’d known it was best for them both.
Even if he’d wanted nothing more than to take her home and make her recant the words.
Chase tried again. “You’ve been here every night since your return.”
“Why do you care so much?”
“I know women. And I know they do not like to be ignored.”
Bourne did not reply.
“I hear that you’re angling for one of the Marbury girls to become Lady Tottenham.”
Bourne narrowed his gaze. “You hear.”
Chase shrugged one shoulder and smirked. “I have my sources.”
Bourne turned back to the window, watching Tottenham far below at the piquet table. “The unmarried young ladies Marbury are just today in town. That gives me a few days to secure the interest of the viscount.”
“So the dinner was a success?”
“I dream of invitations arriving in droves.”
Chase laughed. “Poor, sad Bourne. Forced to restore the only thing he doesn’t want for the only thing he does.” Bourne leveled Chase with a look, but he did not disagree. “You realize that the club has made you more money than you could ever spend, and that there’s no reason at all for you to prove yourself by exacting your revenge, do you not?”
“It’s not about the money.”
“What is it about, then, the title? The way he cheapened it?”
“I don’t care about the title.”
“Of course you do. You’re just like every other peer—consumed with the magical power of your title. Even if you resent it.” Chase paused. “Not that it matters anymore. You’ve married the girl, and you’re well down the road to revenge. Or is it resurrection?”
Bourne scowled through the red stained glass that marked a flame of hell, through which he could see the roulette wheel spinning far below. “I’ve no plans for resurrection. I shall do what is necessary to ruin Langford. And once that is done, I’m returning to my life.”
“Without her?”
“Without her.” But he wanted her.
He’d gone without things he wanted before. Survived.
“And how do you expect to explain that to the lady?”
“She doesn’t need me to have the life she wants. She can live where she wants, the way she wants, on my land, with my money. I’m happy to leave her to it.” He’d said it before, more than once, but it was becoming more difficult to believe.
“How do you envision that happening?” Chase fairly drawled. “You are married.”
“There are ways for her to be happy nonetheless.”
“And is that what you are looking for? Her happiness?”
He considered the words, heard the surprise in Chase’s tone. He certainly had not begun this journey with any thought of Penelope’s happiness. And still—even as he knew it made him the worst possible kind of husband—he would sacrifice her happiness for his revenge. But he was not a monster; if he could, he would keep her happy and ruin Langford.
As proof, he would honor her request not to touch her.
For he knew well enough that making a habit of taking his perfect, virginal bride to bed would be a mistake, as she was precisely the kind of woman who would want more.
Far more than he had to give.
So he would stay the hell away from her.
Even if he wanted her more than he could say.
“I forced her to marry me for a piece of land. The least I can do is think about what might make the lady content after our marriage has served its purpose. I’m sending her away the moment proof of Langford’s fall is mine.”
“Why?”
Because she deserves more.
He feigned disinterest. “I promised her freedom. And adventure.”
Chase chuckled at that. “Did you? I’m sure she was thrilled to accept it. She’s waited a long time since that first proposal—long enough to realize that most marriages aren’t worth the paper on which the licenses are printed. So you’ll honor the promise?”
Bourne did not look away from the pit floor. “I will.”
“Any adventure?”
Bourne turned his head. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, in my experience, ladies with excitement in their reach are rather . . . creative. Are you prepared for her to travel the globe? To toss your money away on frivolities? To host raucous parties and scandalize the ton? To take a lover?”
The last was spoken casually, but Bourne knew Chase was deliberately taunting him. “She may do whatever she likes.”
“So, should the lady choose, you’d allow her to cuckold you?”
He knew it was bait. Knew he should not rise. His fists clenched, nonetheless. “If she is discreet, it is not my concern.”
“You don’t want her for yourself?”
“No.” Liar.
“An unsatisfying experience, was it? Best to let another handle her, then.”
Bourne resisted the urge to put Chase straight into the wall. He hated the very idea of another man’s touching her. Another man’s discovering her eagerness, her passion—more tempting than cards, than billiards, than roulette. She threatened his control, his tightly leashed desires, his long-hidden conscience.