Needham shook his head. “I’ve got to take the offers that come, or I’ll have another Penelope on my hands. Can’t afford that.”

Bourne gritted his teeth at the words. “Penelope is a marchioness.”

“She wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t come after Falconwell, would she? Why do you think I attached the land to her in the first place? It was my last chance.”

“Your last chance at what?”

“I don’t have a son, Bourne.” He looked toward Dolby House. “When I die, this house and the manor shall be passed down to some idiot cousin who doesn’t care a whit for them, or the land on which they sit. Penelope’s a good girl. She does what she’s told. I made it clear to her that she had to marry to keep her sisters valuable. She couldn’t decide to be a spinster and spend the rest of her days languishing in Surrey. She knew her duty. She knew that Falconwell would go to her children, and with it, some of the history of the Needham land.”

A little row of towheaded girls appeared in his thoughts.

Not memory. Fantasy.

Her children.

Their children.

The thought consumed him, as did the desire that came with it. He’d never considered children. He’d never imagined he’d want them. Never thought he’d be the kind of father they deserved. “You wanted something of your past to give to your future.”

The marquess turned back toward the house. “Something you understand, I’d wager.”

How strange that he’d never really thought of it in such a way. Not until this moment. He’d been so focused on regaining Falconwell that he’d never thought of what he would do with it. Of what would come next. Of who would come next.

In his mind, nothing had come after the restoration of Falconwell. Nothing but revenge.

Except, now there was something more, beyond the hulking shadow of the house and his past.

Something that revenge would kill.

He pushed the thought aside.

“I confess, when Langford offered Falconwell as his stake in the game, I knew you’d come after it. I was happy to win it, knowing that it would summon you.”

Michael heard the self-satisfaction in them. “Why?”

Needham lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “I’d always known that she’d marry you or Tommy Alles and, between us, I’d always hoped it would be you—not for the obvious reason—Alles’s illegitimacy—though that was a bit of it; I always liked you, boy. Always thought that you’d come back from school and be ready to take the title and the land and the girl. When Langford paupered you, and I had to hunt for Leighton, I was not a small bit put out, I’ll tell you.”

Michael would have found the selfishness of the statement amusing if he weren’t so shocked by the idea that Needham had always wanted him for Penelope.

“Why me?”

Needham looked out over the Thames, considering the question. Finally, he said, “You were the one who cared the most for the land.”

It was true. He’d cared for the land and its people. So much, that when he’d lost it all, he hadn’t had the courage to come back to face them. To face her.

And now it was too late to fix those mistakes.

“That,” Needham went on, “and you were the one she liked best.”

A thrum of excitement coursed through him at the words, at the truth in them. She had liked him best. Until he’d left. And she’d been alone. And she’d stopped trusting him. She was right not to, of course. He’d made his goals clear, and in securing the only thing he’d ever wanted, he would lose her.

She was the sacrifice he had planned to make from the beginning. Not so much sacrifice then—now, too much to think on.

It was expected, of course—he’d ruined everything of value he ever held.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Needham went on, unaware of the cacophony of Michael’s thoughts. “You’ve done well. This morning’s paper extolled the virtues of your marriage . . . I confess, I am surprised by the effort you’ve put into spinning your tale—chestnut eating and waltzing on ice and spending afternoons with my girls and other ridiculousness. But you’ve done well . . . and West seems to believe it. The papers swear yours is a love match. Castleton wouldn’t have proposed if our name was in any way tainted by a scandalous marriage.”

It should be you who opposes the match, not Castleton. Pippa would be better off with a man who was half otter. Michael opened his mouth to say just that when Needham said, “At any rate, you’ve fooled them. Revenge is yours, as agreed.”

Revenge is yours. The words he’d waited a decade to hear.

“I’ve the letter in the house, ready for you.”

“You don’t want to wait for Olivia to be betrothed as well?” The question was out before he could stop it . . . before he could consider the fact that he was reminding his father-in-law that Michael’s end of the bargain had not been officially completed.

Needham lifted his rifle, pointing it in the direction of a low-lying hedge at the bank of the river. “Tottenham’s invited her to ride today. The boy will be prime minister one day; Olivia’s future appears bright.” He fired, then looked to Michael. “And, besides, you’ve done well by the girls. I keep my promises.”

But he’d not done well by them, had he? Philippa was to marry an imbecile, and Penelope—Penelope had married an ass. He shoved his hands into his pockets, bracing against the wind, and turned back to look up at the looming Dolby House. “Why give it to me?”

“I’ve five girls, and, though they drive me to drink, if something were to happen to me, I would want to know that their guardian—the man I appointed to the deed—would care for them as I did.” Needham turned back toward the house, retracing his tracks. “Langford ignored that code. He deserves everything you give him.”

Michael should have felt triumph. Should have felt pleasure. After all, he’d just been given the thing he’d wanted most in the world.

Instead, he felt empty. Empty save a single, incontrovertible truth.

She would hate him for this.

But not as much as he would hate himself.

* * *

Billiards tonight.

A carriage will collect you at half eleven.

Éloa

The small ecru square, stamped with a delicate female angel, arrived just after luncheon, delivered by Worth with a knowing smile. Penelope unfolded the letter with trembling hands and read the dark, mysterious promise on the note.

The promise of adventure.

She looked up from the summons, color springing to her cheeks, and asked the housekeeper, “Where is my husband?”

“He has been out all day, my lady.”

Penelope lifted the paper. “And this?”

“Arrived not five minutes ago.”

She nodded, considering the invitation and its implications. She had not seen Michael since the day they’d ice-skated and argued, and she’d realized that she loved him. He’d left her bedchamber that night and never returned—even as she’d waited, knowing better than to hope he might decide to give up on his quest for vengeance and choose life with her instead.

Was it possible that the invitation was from him?

The thought had her breath catching in her throat. Perhaps it was. Perhaps he had chosen her. Perhaps he was giving her an adventure and giving them both a new chance at life.