“Perhaps.”
There was a long silence as he considered her before he dipped his head in a little nod, and he said, “Be careful on your journey home. That’s enough blunt to make a thief’s year.” He turned away, and she transferred the pouch from one hand to the other, testing the weight of the coins inside, the sound they made as they rubbed against each other.
And then, before she could reconsider, she called after him, “Mr. Cross?”
He stopped, turning back. “My lady?”
“Do you know my husband well?” she blurted into the darkness, and, for a long moment, Penelope thought he might not reply.
And then he did. “As well as anyone knows Bourne.”
She could not help her little laugh at the words. “Better than I do, to be sure.”
He did not reply to the statement. He didn’t have to. “Is there something that you want to ask?”
There were so many things she wanted to ask. Too many things.
Who is he? What happened to the boy she once knew? What made him so distant? Why wouldn’t he give an inch to this marriage?
She could not ask any of them. “No.”
He waited for a long moment for her to change her mind. When she didn’t, he said, “You are exactly what I expected.”
“What does that mean?”
“Only that the woman who sets Bourne so completely on edge must be something remarkable indeed.”
“I don’t set him on edge. He doesn’t think of me beyond what I can do in service to his higher goals.” She regretted the words instantly. Regretted their peevishness.
One of Cross’s brows shot up. “I assure you, my lady, that is not at all the case.”
If only it were true.
Of course, it wasn’t.
“It seems you do not know him very well after all.”
He seemed to understand that she was not interested in arguing the point. Instead, he changed the subject. “Where is he?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I left him.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I’m sure he adored that.”
He’d forced her away. “I don’t entirely care how he felt about it.”
He laughed, then, the sound loud and friendly. “You’re perfect.”
She didn’t feel perfect. She felt like a singular idiot. “I beg your pardon?”
“In all the years that I’ve known Bourne, I’ve never known a woman to affect him the way you do. I’ve never seen him resist someone the way he does you.”
“It’s not resistance. It’s disinterest.”
One ginger brow rose. “Lady Bourne, it is most definitely not disinterest.”
He did not know. He had not seen how Michael left her. How he stayed so very far from her. How he cared so little for her.
She did not wish to think on it. Not tonight. “Do you think you could help me hire a hack? I should like to go home.”
He shook his head. “Bourne would murder me if he knew I’d let you return home in a hack. Let me find him.”
“No!” she blurted before she could stop herself. She lowered her gaze to the floor. “I do not wish to see him.”
He does not wish to see me.
She no longer knew which was more important.
“If not he, then I shall escort you myself. You are safe with me.”
She narrowed her gaze. “How do I know you are telling the truth?”
One side of his mouth kicked up. “Among other things, Bourne would take visceral pleasure in destroying me if I harmed you.”
She recalled the way Michael had tossed Densmore across the casino floor without breaking a sweat earlier in the evening. The way he stood over the sputtering earl, fist clenched, voice shaking with anger.
If there was one thing of which she was certain, it was that Bourne would never allow her to be hurt.
Unless, of course, he was doing the hurting.
Chapter Fourteen
Dear M—
I’ve heard about Langford, that beast of a man, and about what he’s done. It’s atrocious, of course. No one believes he could be so hateful—no one but Tommy and me. As for Tommy . . . he’s been looking for you. I pray that he finds you.
Quickly.
Ever—P
Needham Manor, February 1821
Letter unsent
Temple’s left hook was wicked and welcome.
And deserved.
It connected with Bourne’s jaw, snapping his head back and sending him careening into a wooden post at the edge of the boxing ring in the basement of The Angel. Bourne caught himself before he fell to the sawdust-covered floor, his eyes meeting Chase’s over the top rope of the ring before he pulled himself up and turned to face his sparring partner.
Temple danced from one foot to the other as Bourne advanced. “You’re a fool.”
Bourne ignored the words and the truth in them, throwing a punch that would have felled an oak.
Temple ducked and feinted away before flashing a grin. “You’re a fool, and you’re losing your touch. Perhaps with the ladies, as well?”
Bourne landed a quick blow to Temple’s cheek, enjoying the sound of fist on flesh. “What do you have to say about my touch now?”
“Half-decent punch,” Temple offered with a grin, swerving left, out of the way of Bourne’s second blow. “But your wife did go home with Cross, so I can’t speak to that.”
Bourne swore and went after his friend, taller by several inches and wider by half a foot, but Bourne more than made up for the difference in speed and agility and, tonight, sheer will.
He attacked with no hesitation, his fists, wrapped in a length of linen, eager to connect with the larger man’s bare torso. First left, then right. The movements were punctuated with Temple’s short grunts before the larger man danced away.