Lady Holloway harrumphed into her wine as Mr. West smiled warmly, and asked, “And you, Lady Bourne? Did your connection . . . surprise you?”
“Be careful, darling,” Michael said scandalously, a sparkle in his grey-green eyes. “He shall quote you in tomorrow’s news.”
She could not take her eyes from Michael as laughter sounded around them. He captured her and held her expertly in his web. When she replied to the newspaperman’s question, it was straight to her husband. “I was not at all surprised. If I were to tell the truth, it seemed as though I had been waiting for Michael to return for years.” She paused, shaking her head, registering the attention around the table. “I’m sorry—not Michael. Lord Bourne.” She gave a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve known he would make a wonderful husband forever. I am very happy that he will be my wonderful husband.”
There was a flash of surprise in Michael’s eyes, there and instantly gone, hidden by his warm laugh—so unfamiliar. “You see? How could I fail to mend my wicked ways?”
“How indeed.” Mr. West took a drink of wine, considering her over the rim of his glass and, for a moment, Penelope was certain that the man saw their falsehood as clearly as if she had embroidered Liar into her dinner dress, and knew that she and Michael had been married for a reason far removed from love, and that her husband had not shared a moment with her in the days since he’d carried her back to her bedchamber after consummating their marriage.
That he’d only touched her to ensure that their marriage was legitimate. And now he spent his nights away from her, with God knew whom, doing God knew what.
She made a show of eating her crème caramel, hoping that Mr. West would not press her for more information.
Michael spoke up, all charm. “It isn’t true, of course. I’m absolutely rubbish at husbanding; I can’t bear the thought of her being apart from me; I hate the idea of other men capturing her attention; and I warn you now, I shall be a veritable bear when it comes time for the season and I am required to relinquish her to dance partners and dinner companions.” He paused, and Penelope noticed the skill with which he used the silence, eyes glittering with a humor she had not seen in him since he was a child. Humor that wasn’t there. Not really. “You shall all be very sorry indeed that I’ve decided to dust off my title.”
“Not at all,” the Dowager Viscountess interjected, her normally cool eyes flashing with excitement. “We are thrilled to welcome you back into society, Lord Bourne. For truly, there can be nothing more cleansing than a love match.”
It was a lie, of course. Love matches were scandals in themselves, but Michael and Penelope outranked her, and their invitation had come from the young Tottenham, so the old woman had very little control of the situation.
Michael smiled at the words nonetheless, and Penelope could not tear her eyes from him in that moment. Everything about him lightened with the smile—a dimple flashed in one cheek, and his wide, full lips curved, making him even more handsome.
Who was this man with his easy jokes and charming smiles?
And how could she convince him to stay?
“And a love match it must be . . . look at how your bride hangs upon your every word,” Viscount Tottenham spoke up, obviously throwing his support behind them, and Penelope did not have to feign her embarrassment when Michael turned to face her, his smile fading.
The dowager pressed on, turning a pointed look on her son. “Now, if only you would take a cue from Bourne and find a wife.”
The viscount gave a little laugh and made a show of shaking his head before settling his gaze on Penelope. “I fear Bourne has found the last ideal bride.”
“She has sisters, Tottenham,” Michael added, teasing in his tone.
Tottenham smiled graciously. “I shall look forward to meeting them.”
Understanding dawned. There, as simply as taking sweets from a babe, Michael had expertly laid the groundwork for Olivia to meet Lord Tottenham and possibly marry him.
Her eyes went wide, and she turned her surprise on her husband, who took her look in stride, immediately redefining it. “I find that now that I am so very enamored by my own wife, I cannot help but encourage those around me to seek their own.”
Such lies. So smooth.
So easy to believe.
The dowager chimed in, “Well, I, for one, think it a marvelous idea.” She stood, the men assembled following her to her feet. “In fact, I think we shall leave the gentlemen to their discussion.”
The rest of the attendees took their cue, the ladies peeling away from the table to retire to another room for sherry and gossip. Penelope had no doubt that she would be the center of attention for the last.
She followed the dowager viscountess with heavy footsteps to a lovely little salon, but had barely made her way inside when a large warm hand enveloped her own, and Michael’s deep, familiar voice rumbled, “Excuse me, ladies, I’ve need of my wife for one, brief moment, if you don’t mind. I told you, I cannot bear to be without her.” There was a collective gasp as Michael pulled Penelope from the room and into the hallway, closing the door to the salon behind them.
Penelope wrenched her hand from his, looking both ways down the hall to ensure that they had not been seen. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “This is not done!”
“I do wish you would stop telling me what is and is not done,” he said. “Don’t you see it only makes me want to do it more?” He pulled her farther away from the door into a dimly lit alcove. “Gossip about how much I adore you is the kind of gossip we’re looking for, darling.”