Penelope watched Olivia for a long moment, and Michael had difficulty looking away from her—entranced by her focus. He wondered what it would be like to be the recipient of such interest. Of such contentment. Jealousy flared again, and he scolded himself. No grown man should be envious of dogs or sisters-in-law. “The Taming of the Shrew.”

Olivia stopped. “Yes! Thank you, Pen. I was beginning to feel foolish up there.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Pippa said, dryly. “I don’t think shrews are blind, Olivia.” This, from Philippa.

“Oh, tosh. I should like to see you do it better. Who is next?”

“It’s Penny’s turn. She guessed the last.”

Penelope stood and smoothed out her skirts, and Michael watched as she made her way to the makeshift stage, withdrawing a slip of paper and unfolding it. She considered the phrase for a long moment before an idea dawned, and her face lit up. He shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly wanting to hurry her from the room and the house, home, to his bed.

But the round had begun, and he would have to wait.

She held up three fingers, and he imagined the feel of them on his jaw, his lips, his cheeks.

“Three words!”

She stiffened her posture and saluted her sisters, then marched stiffly around the stage, her full br**sts straining at the edge of her gown. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched, enjoying the view.

“Marching!”

“Soldiers!”

She made an encouraging sign with her hands.

“Napoleon!”

She mimed firing a rifle, and his attention lingered at the place where her shoulder and neck met, the soft, shadowed indentation there that he ached to kiss . . . the place he would kiss in another time and place, if they were married and he were a different man.

If he were a man she could love.

If theirs was a marriage built on something other than revenge.

Do not touch me. The words whispered through him, and he loathed them. Loathed what they represented—the way she thought of him, the way she believed he would treat her. The way he had treated her.

The way he was treating her.

“Hunting!”

“Father!”

“Father hunting Napoleon!” Olivia’s silly guess pulled Penelope from her mime with a laugh. She shook her head, then pointed at herself. “Father hunting you!”

Pippa looked at Olivia. “Why on earth would that be in the charades bowl?”

“I don’t know. Once, I had Aunt Hester’s wig.”

Pippa laughed. “I put that one in!” Penelope cleared her throat. “Right. Sorry, Pen. What were you not saying?”

Penelope pointed to herself.

“Lady?”

“Female?”

Wife. His wife.

“Girl?”

“Daughter?”

“Marchioness!” The Marchioness of Needham and Dolby interjected her first guess with such exuberant glee that Michael thought she might topple from her settee.

Penelope sighed and rolled her eyes before meeting his gaze, eyebrows raised as if to say, Help?

Something startlingly akin to pride exploded in his chest at the request—at the idea that she might come to him for assistance. He found he wanted to be the man to whom she turned. He wanted to help her.

For chrissake’s, Bourne, it’s charades.

“Penelope,” he said.

Her eyes lit. She pointed at him.

“Penelope? You’re a part of the clue?” Olivia looked skeptical. Penelope began to mime again. “Sewing?”

She grinned and pointed at Olivia, then mimed pulling a thread out of needlepoint quickly. “Unsewing?”

She pointed at Olivia again, then to herself, then mimed sewing and unsewing once more before she looked to Pippa, clearly the sister she really expected to be able to put all the clues together.

He did not want Pippa to win. He wanted to win. To impress her.

“The Odyssey,” he said.

Penelope smiled, broad and beautiful, clapping her hands and jumping up and down, enjoying the fleeting triumph, then mimed firing a rifle and marched around the little stage once more. Penny spun around, pointing directly at Michael, all her attention on him, and he felt like a hero when he guessed, “The Trojan War.”

“Yes!” Penelope announced on a great sigh of breath. “Well done, Michael.”

He couldn’t stop himself from preening. “It was, rather, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t understand,” Olivia said. “How did Penny sewing and unsewing make for the Trojan War?”

“Penelope was Odysseus’s wife,” Philippa explained. “He left her, and she sat at her loom, sewing all day, and unraveling all her work at night. For years.”

“Why on earth would someone do that?” Olivia wrinkled her nose, selecting a sweet from a nearby tray. “Years? Really.”

“She was waiting for him to come home,” Penelope said, meeting Michael’s gaze. There was something meaningful there, and he thought she might be speaking of more than the Greek myth. Did she wait for him at night? She’d told him not to touch her . . . she’d pushed him away . . . but tonight, if he went to her, would she accept him? Would she follow the path of her namesake?

“I hope you have more exciting things to do when you are waiting for Michael to come home, Penny,” Olivia teased.

Penelope smiled, but there was something in her gaze that he did not like, something akin to sadness. He blamed himself for it. Before him, she was happier. Before him, she smiled and laughed and played games with her sisters without reminder of her unfortunate fate.

He stood to meet her as she approached the settee. “I would never leave my Penelope for years.” He said, “I would be too afraid that someone would snatch her away.” His mother-in-law sighed audibly from across the room as his new sisters laughed. He lifted one of Penelope’s hands in his and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Penelope and Odysseus were never my favored mythic couple, anyway. I was always more partial to Persephone and Hades.”

Penelope smiled at him, and the room was suddenly much much warmer. “You think they were a happier couple?” she asked, wry.

He met her little smile, enjoying himself as he lowered his voice. “I think six months of feast is better than twenty years of famine.” She blushed, and he resisted the urge to kiss her there, in the drawing room, hang propriety and ladies’ delicate sensibilities.

Missing the exchange, Olivia announced, “Lord Bourne, I make it your turn.”

He did not look away from his wife. “It grows late, I am afraid. I think I should take my wife home.”

Lady Needham came to her feet, toppling a small dog from her lap with a little yelp. “Oh, do stay a little longer. We are all so enjoying your visit.”

He looked at Penelope, wanting to snatch her away to his underworld but allowing her to make their decision. She turned to her mother. “Lord Bourne is right,” she said, sending a thrill through him. “We have had a long afternoon. I should like to go home.”

With him.

Triumph surged, and he resisted the impulse to toss her over his shoulder and carry her from the room. She would let him touch her tonight. She would let him woo her.

He was sure of it.