Second only to idyllic ruination.

Penelope pushed the wry thought aside as conversation came to a stop and those assembled hung on the silence, waiting for Michael’s response.

His gaze slid to Penelope’s, warm and rich. “I defy anyone to spend more than a quarter of an hour in my lady’s company and not come away adoring her.” The words were scandalous—not at all the kind of thing that well-bred, callous members of the aristocracy said aloud, even if they believed it—and there was a collective intake of breath, punctuating amusement and surprise. Michael seemed not to care as he added, “I was lucky indeed that I was there, on St. Stephen’s. And that she was there—her laughter reminding me of all the ways I needed mending.”

Her heart quickened at the words and the way the corner of his mouth lifted in a ghost of a smile.

Amazing, the power of words. Even false ones.

She could not stop herself from smiling back at him, and she had no need of faking the way she dipped her head, suddenly embarrassed by his attention.

“How lucky, also, that her dowry abuts land belonging to the marquessate.” The words sailed down the table on a drunken burst from the Countess of Holloway, a miserable woman who took pleasure in others’ pain and whom Penelope had never liked. She did not look to the countess, focusing, instead on her husband before taking her turn.

“Fortuitous mostly for me, Lady Holloway,” she said, her gaze steadfast on her husband. “For without our being childhood neighbors, I am certain that my husband would never have found me.”

Michael’s gaze lit with admiration, and he lifted his glass in her direction. “At some point I would have realized what I was missing, darling. And I would have come looking for you.”

The words warmed her to her core before she remembered that it was all a game.

She took a deep breath as Michael took control, spinning their tale, assuring those assembled that he had lost head, heart, and reason to love.

He was handsome and clever, charming and funny, with just the right amount of contrition . . . as though he were attempting to make amends for past ills, and he was willing to do whatever it took to return to the aristocracy—for the sake of his new wife.

He was perfect.

He made her believe that he’d been there, in the main room of the Coldharbour parsonage, surrounded by revelers and holly wreaths and a St. Stephen’s feast. He made her believe that he’d met her gaze across the room—she could feel the knot in her stomach as she imagined the long, serious look that he would have given her, the one that made her breathless and light-headed, the one that made her believe that she was the only woman in the world.

And he captured her with his pretty words.

Just as he captured the rest of them.

“ . . . Honestly, I’ve never danced a reel in my life. But she made me want to dance a score of them.”

Laughter rang out around the table as Penelope lifted her glass and took a small sip of wine, hoping the alcohol would calm her roiling stomach, watching her husband as he regaled the roomful of diners with the tale of their whirlwind love affair.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time before I returned to Coldharbour and realized that Falconwell Manor was not the only thing I had left behind.” His gaze found hers across the table, and she caught her breath at the sparkle in those eyes. “Thank heavens I found her before someone else did.”

A collection of feminine sighs from around the table punctuated the racing of Penelope’s heart. Michael was as silver-tongued as they came.

“It wasn’t as though additional suitors were legion in number,” Lady Holloway said snidely, laughing a touch too loudly. “Were they, Lady Bourne?”

Penelope’s mind went blank at the cruel reference to her spinsterhood, and she searched for a cutting remark before her husband came to the rescue. “I couldn’t bear the thought of them,” he said, staring straight at her, all seriousness, until she was flushed with his attention. “Which is why we married so quickly.”

Lady Holloway harrumphed into her wine as Mr. West smiled warmly, and asked, “And you, Lady Bourne? Did your connection . . . surprise you?”

“Be careful, darling,” Michael said scandalously, a sparkle in his grey-green eyes. “He shall quote you in tomorrow’s news.”

She could not take her eyes from Michael as laughter sounded around them. He captured her and held her expertly in his web. When she replied to the newspaperman’s question, it was straight to her husband. “I was not at all surprised. If I were to tell the truth, it seemed as though I had been waiting for Michael to return for years.” She paused, shaking her head, registering the attention around the table. “I’m sorry—not Michael. Lord Bourne.” She gave a little, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve known he would make a wonderful husband forever. I am very happy that he will be my wonderful husband.”

There was a flash of surprise in Michael’s eyes, there and instantly gone, hidden by his warm laugh—so unfamiliar. “You see? How could I fail to mend my wicked ways?”

“How indeed.” Mr. West took a drink of wine, considering her over the rim of his glass and, for a moment, Penelope was certain that the man saw their falsehood as clearly as if she had embroidered Liar into her dinner dress, and knew that she and Michael had been married for a reason far removed from love, and that her husband had not shared a moment with her in the days since he’d carried her back to her bedchamber after consummating their marriage.

That he’d only touched her to ensure that their marriage was legitimate. And now he spent his nights away from her, with God knew whom, doing God knew what.

She made a show of eating her crème caramel, hoping that Mr. West would not press her for more information.

Michael spoke up, all charm. “It isn’t true, of course. I’m absolutely rubbish at husbanding; I can’t bear the thought of her being apart from me; I hate the idea of other men capturing her attention; and I warn you now, I shall be a veritable bear when it comes time for the season and I am required to relinquish her to dance partners and dinner companions.” He paused, and Penelope noticed the skill with which he used the silence, eyes glittering with a humor she had not seen in him since he was a child. Humor that wasn’t there. Not really. “You shall all be very sorry indeed that I’ve decided to dust off my title.”

“Not at all,” the Dowager Viscountess interjected, her normally cool eyes flashing with excitement. “We are thrilled to welcome you back into society, Lord Bourne. For truly, there can be nothing more cleansing than a love match.”

It was a lie, of course. Love matches were scandals in themselves, but Michael and Penelope outranked her, and their invitation had come from the young Tottenham, so the old woman had very little control of the situation.

Michael smiled at the words nonetheless, and Penelope could not tear her eyes from him in that moment. Everything about him lightened with the smile—a dimple flashed in one cheek, and his wide, full lips curved, making him even more handsome.

Who was this man with his easy jokes and charming smiles?

And how could she convince him to stay?

“And a love match it must be . . . look at how your bride hangs upon your every word,” Viscount Tottenham spoke up, obviously throwing his support behind them, and Penelope did not have to feign her embarrassment when Michael turned to face her, his smile fading.