But he did not want to give her up.
He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and take her home to bed. Hell. The bed wasn’t even necessary. He’d wanted to throw her down on the snowy banks of the Serpentine or the floor of her father’s drawing room or the too-narrow seat of his coach and strip her bare, leaving her unprotected from his hands and lips, and that desire had not changed.
The billiard table was sturdy enough to hold them both, he guaranteed.
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you are here.” He growled, not trusting himself to move closer, uncertain of his ability to be near her without railing against her, without explaining to her, very clearly, that this was not a place for her.
That she was not welcome here.
That it would ruin her.
The final thought pushed him over the edge. “Answer me, Penelope. Why are you here?”
She met his gaze, her blue eyes firm. “I told you. I’m here to play billiards.”
“With Cross.”
“Well, to be fair, I thought it might be with you.”
“Why would you think that?” He would never have invited her to his gaming hell.
“The invitation was delivered by Mrs. Worth. I thought you sent it.”
“Why would I send you an invitation?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps you’d realized you were wrong and did not want to admit it aloud?”
Cross gave a little snort of laughter from his position at the door, and Michael considered killing him. But he was too busy dealing with his difficult wife. “You thought wrong. Tell me you hired a hack again.”
“No,” she said, “a carriage came to fetch me.”
His eyes went wide. “A carriage owned by whom?”
She tilted her head, thinking. “I’m not certain.”
He honestly thought he might have gone mad. “You accepted transportation in a strange carriage to the back entrance of the most notorious gaming hell in London—”
“Which my husband owns,” she said, as though it should make a difference.
“Wrong answer, darling.” He took a step back, forcing himself to lean on the billiard table. “You came here in a strange carriage.”
“I thought you had sent it!”
“Well, I didn’t!” he thundered.
“Well, that’s not my fault!”
They both went silent, her furious retort echoing around the little room, their breath coming hard and fast.
He was not going to let her win. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“My invitation included a password,” she said, and he heard the pleasure in her voice. She was enjoying his surprise.
She came closer, and he was drawn to the way her skin glistened in the light. He took a deep breath, telling himself it was meant to be calming and not because he was desperate to catch her delicate scent—like the violets that grew in Surrey summer. “Did anyone see you come in?”
“No one but the coachman and the man at the door who took the password.”
The words did not appease. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I had no choice.”
“Really? No choice but to leave our warm, comfortable home in the dead of night and come to my place of business—a place to which I expressly told you never to come? A place that is not at all the kind of place that women of your ilk should be?”
She stilled, her blue eyes glittering with something he did not recognize. “First of all, it is not our home. It is your home. Though I can’t imagine why you even have it considering how little time you spend there. It’s most certainly not my home, though.”
“Of course it is.” What was she talking about? He’d virtually handed the house over to her.
“No. It isn’t. The servants answer to you. The post comes to you. For heaven’s sake, you won’t even let me reply to social invitations!” He opened his mouth to retort but found he had no defense. “We’re supposed to be married, but I haven’t any idea of how that house operates. Of how you live. I don’t even know your favorite pudding!” The words were coming faster and more furious now.
“I thought you didn’t want a marriage based on pudding,” he said.
“I don’t! At least, I didn’t think I did! But since I know virtually nothing else about you, I would settle for pudding!”
“Figgy pudding, darling,” he mocked. “You’ve made it my favorite.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “I should like to drop a figgy pudding on your head.”
Cross snickered, and Michael remembered that they had an audience. He slid a look at his partner. “Out.”
“No. He invited me here. Let him stay.”
Cross raised a brow. “It’s hard to say no to a lady, Bourne.”
He was going to murder the ginger-topped beanpole. And he was going to enjoy it. “What are you doing inviting my wife out of her home in the dead of night?” he asked, unable to keep himself from taking one menacing step toward his former friend.
“I assure you, Bourne, I am so enjoying watching your wife run you in circles that I wish it had been me who had sent the invitation. But it wasn’t.”
“I beg your pardon?” Penelope interjected. “You did not send the invitation? If not you, then who?”
Bourne knew the answer. “Chase.”
Chase was unable to stay out of the affairs of others.
Penelope turned on him. “Who is Chase?”
When Bourne did not answer, Cross did, “Chase is the founder of The Angel, my lady, who brought us all into partnership.”