A Rogue by Any Other Name (40 page)

Her eyes went wide. “
Real
ladies?”

He could not help his dry tone. “Well, I am not certain how much they deserve the adjective, but yes. They bear the titles, for the most part.”

“How many of them?” She was fascinated. He couldn’t blame her. The idea that any number of aristocratic females had access to vice and sin on a moment’s notice was scandalous indeed.

“Not many. One hundred?”

“
One hundred?
” She laid her hands flat on the table and leaned forward, and his eyes were drawn to the swell of her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath the edge of her dress. The fabric was fastened with a long white ribbon, the silk ends begging to be unfastened. “How does this remain a secret?”

He smiled. “I already told you, love, we deal in secrets.”

She shook her head, admiration on her face. “Amazing. And they come here to gamble?”

“Among other things.”

“
What
things?”

“Everything men do. They gamble, they watch fights, they drink extravagantly, they eat extravagantly . . .”

“Do they meet lovers here?”

He did not like the question, but he knew he should answer it. Perhaps it would scare her away. “Sometimes.”

“How exciting!”

“Do not get any ideas.”

“About taking a lover?”

“About any of it. You’re not to make use of The Fallen Angel, Penelope. It’s not for women like you.”
And certainly not with a lover.
The idea of another man touching her had Michael itching to strike something.

She watched him in silence for a long while before she moved, easing back around the table toward him. “You keep saying things like that.
Women like me.
What does that mean?”

There were so many ways to answer the question—women who were innocent. Women who were perfectly behaved, with perfect backgrounds and perfect upbringings, and perfect lives. Women who were perfect. “I don’t want you touched by this life.”

“Why not? It’s your life, too.”

“That’s different. It’s not for you.”

It’s not good enough for you.

She stopped at the near corner of the table, and he saw the hurt in her eyes. Knew she was bothered by his words. Knew, too, that it was best for both of them if she remained hurt. And stayed away from this place.

“What’s so wrong with me?” she whispered.

His eyes widened. Had he had a year to think of what she might say in this situation, the idea that she would perceive his forbidding her to come to The Fallen Angel because there was something wrong with her would never have occurred to him.

God, there was nothing wrong with her. She was perfect. Too perfect for this.

Too perfect for him.

“Penelope.” He stepped toward her, then stopped, wanting to say the right thing. With women across Britain, he knew what to say, but he never seemed to know what to say with her.

She released the billiard ball, letting it roll across the table to send another careening off in a new direction. When it came to a stop, she looked back at him, her blue eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “What if I weren’t Penelope, Michael? What if the rules were in effect here? What if there really were no names?”

“If there really were no names, you would be in serious danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

The kind that ends with another angel fallen.

“It’s irrelevant. There are names. You are my
wife.
”

Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “Ironic, is it not, that beyond that door, one hundred wives of the most powerful men in England are taking what they want with whomever they want, and in here, I can’t even persuade my husband to show me what might be. My husband, who
owns
the club. Who loves it. Why not share it with me?” The words were soft and tempting, and there was nothing that Michael wanted more in that moment than to show her every inch of this decadent life.

But for once in his life, he was going to do the right thing.

So he said, “Because you deserve better.” Her eyes went wide as he tracked her across the room, backing her away from the table. “You deserve better than a billiard room in a gaming hell, than roulette with a handful of men who think you’re, at best, someone’s mistress and, at worst, something far less flattering. You deserve better than a place where at any moment a brawl might begin, or a fortune might be wagered, or an innocence might be lost. You deserve to be kept far from this life of sin and vice, where pleasure and devastation are red and black, in and out. You deserve better,” he repeated. “Better than me.”

He kept coming, watching as her eyes widened, as their blue darkened with fear or nervousness or something more, but he couldn’t stop himself. “There hasn’t been a single valuable thing in my life that I haven’t ruined when I touched it, Penelope. And I will be damned if I allow the same to happen to you.”

She shook her head. “You won’t ruin me. You wouldn’t.”

He lifted his hand to her cheek, running his thumb across the impossibly smooth skin there, knowing even as he did that he was making it harder to let her go. He shook his head. “Don’t you see, Sixpence? I already have. I’ve already brought you here, exposed you to this world.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t! I brought myself here. I made this choice.”

“But you wouldn’t have if not for me. And the worst part is—”

He stopped, not wanting to say any more, but she lifted her hand and covered his, holding him to her cheek. “What is it, Michael? What is the worst part?”

He closed his eyes at the touch, at the way she made him burn.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

She wasn’t supposed to affect him like this.

He wasn’t supposed to want her so very much.

He wasn’t supposed to be so very drawn to this adventurous, exciting woman who had evolved from the woman he’d married.

And yet he was.

He pressed his forehead to hers, aching to kiss her, to touch her, to throw her down and make love to her. “The worst part is that if I don’t send you back, I’m going to want to keep you here.”

Her eyes were so blue, so lovely, framed with full, golden lashes the color of autumn wheat, and he could see desire in them. She wanted him.

Her hand moved to his chest, settling for a long moment before it slid up and around to the nape of his neck, her fingers twining in his hair with a beautiful, unbearable touch. Time slowed as he savored the feel of her against him, the warmth of her in his arms, the scent of her trapping his thoughts, the knowledge that she was soft and flawless and
his
for that moment.

“And you’ll hate me for it.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “You deserve better.”

So much better than me.

“Michael,” she said softly, “there’s no one better. Not for me.”

The words crashed through him, and she tilted her head, came up on her toes, and pressed a kiss to his lips.

It was the most perfect kiss he’d ever experienced, her lips firmly on his, soft and sweet and utterly mesmerizing. He’d ached for her for days and she laid claim to him with the caress, taking his lower lip between hers and stroking once, twice, until he opened for her, and she stole his breath with the tentative exploration of her tongue—a silken slide against his. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her tightly against him, loving the way she felt, soft where he was hard, silk where he was steel.

When she finally pulled back from the kiss, her lips were swollen and pink, and he could not keep his gaze from them, parted sweetly before they curved around her words. “I do not wish to learn about billiards tonight, Michael.”

His gaze flickered up from those lips, meeting her gaze. “No?”

She shook her head slowly, the movement a sinful promise. “I should much rather learn about you.”

She kissed him again, and he could not resist her. There wasn’t a man alive who could. His hands were on her, pulling her tightly against him.

He was lost.

His wife stood before him like temptation incarnate, asking him to make love to her—risking her reputation and everything for which he’d been working.

And he found he didn’t care.

He reached past her, throwing a hidden switch and swinging the wall away to reveal a staircase beyond, steps stretching up into a great, yawning darkness. He extended his hand to her, palm up, allowing her to make the choice to ascend with him. He did not want her to ever think that he had forced her into this moment. Into this experience. Indeed, it felt just the opposite, as though this courageous, female explorer were calling to him.

And when she settled her hand in his without hesitation, without remorse, desire shot through him, quick and nearly unbearable.

He pulled her to him, kissing her thoroughly before leading her into the dark stairwell, closing the door behind them, plunging them into blackness.

“Michael?”

She whispered his name, and the sound, soft and decadent, was a siren’s call. He turned toward her, his hand squeezing hers, pulling her to stand on the first step with him, feeling his way to her waist, loving the way her body felt beneath his hands, the roundness of her hips, the soft swell of her stomach.

Her breath hitched as he lifted her to stand on the step above him. Her lips were even with hers now, and he stole a kiss, stroking deep, loving the taste of her, a drug of which he could never have enough.

He pulled away, just barely, and she sighed, the sound of her pleasure making him want her more than he’d ever imagined. He took her mouth again, and her hands came to his hair, her fingers tangling in his curls, tugging at them, making him wish they were naked, and she was guiding his mouth to where she wanted it most.

He growled at the fantasy and pulled away, grasping her hand in his and saying, “Not here. Not in the darkness. I want to see you.”

She kissed him, pressing her breasts to his chest, robbing his breath, making him desperate for her, for her skin, her touch, the little cries that made him harder than stone. When she released him from the intoxicating caress, he found he’d lost his patience.

He wanted her that moment.

Immediately.

Without hesitation.

So he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the stairs. Up to decadence. Up to pleasure.

Chapter Nineteen

Dear M—

Today, I am twenty-six.

Twenty-six and unmarried—growing older and more wizened by the hour, despite what my mother likes to say in her high-pitched moments.

Eight years of seasons, and not one decent match . . . a shabby record for the eldest daughter of the House of Needham and Dolby. This morning, over breakfast, I saw the disappointment in all their gazes.

But, knowing what my options have been, I found I couldn’t bring myself to agree with their censure.

I am a bad daughter, indeed.

Unsigned

Needham Manor, August 1828

Letter unsent

The stairs led to the owners’ suite.

Michael set her on her feet just inside the secret doorway that opened at the top of the passage, closing it securely behind them before moving with quick grace to the main door to the room. She followed him closely, eager for what was to come next, not wanting to miss a moment of this. Of him.

She had thought he would take her to bed—for surely in this massive club, where men came to explore wickedness and pleasure, there was a place where he slept. Where she might sleep with him.

Where they might do other things, as well, before they had to return to reality and remember all the reasons their marriage was in shambles and their lives were all wrong.

When he locked the door and turned back to her, she stilled in the room, lit by the warm light of a trio of fireplaces and the large golden window that looked out onto the floor of The Angel.

Realization coursing through her.
He meant for them to . . .

Here.

She backed away instinctively, and he followed, slow and steady, a silken promise gleaming in his eyes. “Where are you going?” he asked, and she caught her breath at the deep gravel in his voice.

She took a step back. “We’ll be discovered.”

He shook his head. “We won’t be disturbed.”

“How do you know?”

He raised a brow. “I know.”

She believed him. Her heart pounded in her ears as he stalked her across the large, dark room, toward the window, his intent clear.

He would have her. And it would be glorious.

And suddenly, she was not backing away from him out of nervousness or concern or embarrassment. She was backing away because it was unbearably exciting to be pursued by him. He was beautiful and sleek, and he moved with a purpose lacking in lesser men. It was that single-mindedness that drew her to him, that made him so tempting. His pursuit of those things he wanted was relentless.

And right now, he wanted her.

Anticipation thrummed through her and she stilled. In the next heartbeat, he was upon her. He reached for her, cupping her cheek, tilting her face up to his, capturing her gaze with such attention. Such focus.

All on her.

She was consumed with excitement at the realization. With breathlessness.

“What are you thinking?” His thumb stroked along the line of her jaw, leaving heat in its wake.

“The way you look at me,” she said, unable to look away from him. “It makes me feel . . .” She trailed off, uncertain of her words, and he leaned down to press a kiss to the base of her throat, where her pulse raced.

He lifted his head once more. “How does it make you feel, love?”

“It makes me feel powerful.”

She hadn’t realized it until the words were spoken, and one side of his mouth lifted in the hint of a smile, his fingertips tracing over her skin, brushing across her collarbone, running along the edge of her silk dress, sending pleasure rippling across her skin. “How so?”