“You needn’t tell me I’m right.” Pippa saved her. “But know that I see what you’ve done. I appreciate it.”
They skated along in silence for a while, before Penelope said, “I did it so you would not have to accept Castleton, Pippa. Michael and I . . . the story was for your benefit. Yours and Olivia’s.”
Pippa smiled. “And that’s sweet of you. But it’s silly to think we’ll have love matches, Penny. They don’t come along every day. You know that better than most.”
Penelope swallowed around the knot in her throat at the words, at the reminder that her own marriage was nothing near a love match. “Others marry for love,” she pointed out, adjusting her fur-lined gloves and looking out over the little lake. “Consider Leighton and his wife.”
Pippa cut her a look, eyes large and owl-like behind her spectacles. “That’s the best you can do? A scandalous marriage from eight years ago?”
It was the example she carried closest to her heart.
“The number of years does not matter. Nor does the scandal.”
“Of course it does,” Pippa said, standing and tying her own bonnet beneath her chin. “A scandal like that would send Mother into hysterics. And the rest of you into hiding.”
“Not me.” She was emphatic.
Pippa considered the words. “No, not you. You’ve a scandalous husband of your own.”
Penelope considered her husband, far across the lake, her eyes lingering over the enormous bruise on one side of his face. “He is a scandal.”
Pippa turned to face her. “Whatever the reason for your match, Penny . . . he does seem to care for you.”
Drury Lane is missing a great talent, surely. She did not say that. Pippa did not need to hear it.
“I might as well marry Castleton,” Pippa said. “It will make Father happy. And I shall never have to see the inside of a season again. Think of all the visits to the dressmaker I can forgo.”
Penelope smiled at the jest, even as she wanted to open her mouth and scream at the unfairness of it all. Pippa did not deserve a loveless marriage any more than the other Marbury girls did. Any more than Penelope did.
But this was London society, where loveless marriages were the norm. She sighed but said nothing.
“Don’t worry about me, Penny,” Philippa said, pulling Penelope into the throngs of skaters once more. “I shall be fine with Castleton. He’s a good enough man. I don’t think Father would have allowed his suit if he weren’t.” She leaned closer. “And don’t worry about Olivia. She hasn’t any idea that you and Lord Bourne are . . .” She trailed off. “She’s too focused on trapping herself a handsome peer.”
Penelope was not comforted by the idea that she might have fooled her youngest sister into believing that her marriage was a love match. It made her terribly uncomfortable. Olivia, The Scandal Sheet, the rest of society’s believing that Michael loved her—that she loved Michael—only served to prove the worst . . . that Penelope was losing herself to this charade.
If her sisters barely questioned her feelings for Michael, who was to say that she wouldn’t soon believe the pretense herself?
Then where would she be?
Alone again.
“Penelope?” Pippa’s question pulled her from her reverie.
She forced a smile.
Pippa watched her for a long while, seeming to see more than Penelope wished, and she looked away from the scrutiny. Finally, her sister said, “I think I shall join Olivia and Louisa. Will you come?”
Penelope shook her head. “No.”
“Shall I stay with you?”
Penelope shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
The younger Marbury smiled. “Waiting for your husband?” Penelope instantly denied it, and Pippa’s smile turned knowing. “I think you like him, sister. Against your best judgment. There’s nothing wrong with that, you know.” She paused, then said matter-of-factly, “I should think it would be rather nice to like one’s husband.”
Before Penelope could reply, Pippa was gone. Without thinking, she sought Michael once more, now gone from the spot on the hill where she’d seen him last. She scanned the lake and located him, just on the edge of the ice, in conversation with Viscount Tottenham.
She watched for a long moment before Michael looked out across the ice, his serious gaze finding hers almost instantly. Nervousness shot through her and she turned away, unable to stand firm with half of London between them. She tucked her chin into her muff and skated, head down, through a nearby crowd to the far end of the lake, where she stepped off the ice and hobbled toward a chestnut vendor who had set up shop on the rise there.
She’d barely taken a step when she heard the chatter.
“Can you believe Tottenham is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt?” The question came from behind her, and Penelope paused, knowing instantly that someone was discussing her husband.
“I can’t even imagine how Tottenham would be acquainted with someone like him.”
“I hear that Bourne is still managing that scandalous club. What do you think that says?”
“Nothing good. Bourne is wicked as sin, just like the men who frequent that club.” Penelope resisted the urge to turn around and tell the gossipers that they were very likely sired by or espoused to men who would give their left arms for a chance to wager at The Fallen Angel.
“They say he’s angling for invitations this season. They say he’s ready to return to the ton. They say she’s the reason why.”