“I am told she has been pursued by several suitors in the years since. And yet, she remains unmarried.” Chase appeared to be losing interest in the tale, continuing on a bored sigh. “Though I imagine not for long, with Falconwell to sweeten the honey pot. The temptation will have suitors swarming.”

“They’ll want a chance to lord it over me.”

“Probably. You are not high on the list of favorite peers.”

“I’m nowhere on the list of favorite peers. Nevertheless, I shall have the land.”

“And you are prepared to do what it takes to get it?” Chase looked amused.

Bourne did not miss his partner’s meaning.

A vision flashed of a young, kind Penelope, the opposite of what he was. Of what he’d become.

He pushed it aside. For nine years, he’d been waiting for this moment. For the chance to restore that which had been built for him.

That which had been left to him.

That which he had lost.

It was the closest he would ever get to redemption. And nothing would stand in his way.

“Anything.” Bourne stood and carefully straightened his coat. “If a wife comes with it, so be it.”

The door slammed shut after him.

Chase toasted the sound and spoke to the empty room. “Felicitations.”

Chapter Two

Dear M—

You absolutely must come home. It’s dreadfully boring without you; neither Victoria nor Valerie makes for a sound lakeside companion.

Are you very sure that you must attend school? My governess seems fairly intelligent. I’m sure she can teach you anything you need know.

Yrs—P

Needham Manor, September 1813

* * *

Dear P—

I’m afraid you’re in for dreadful boredom until Christmas. If it is any consolation, I don’t even have access to a lake. May I suggest teaching the twins to fish?

I’m sure I must attend school . . . your governess is not fond of me.

—M

Eton College, September 1813

Late January 1831

Surrey

Lady Penelope Marbury, being highborn and well-bred, knew that she should be very grateful indeed when, on a frigid January afternoon well into her twenty-eighth year, she received her fifth (and likely final) proposal of marriage.

She knew that half of London would think her not entirely out of bounds if she were to join The Honorable Mr. Thomas Alles on one knee and thank him and her maker for the very kind and exceedingly generous offer. After all, the gentleman in question was handsome, friendly, and had all his teeth and a full head of hair—a rare combination of traits for a not-so-young woman with a broken engagement and only a handful of suitors in her past.

She also knew that her father, who had no doubt blessed the match at some point prior to this moment—as she stared down at the top of Thomas’s well-appointed head—liked him. The Marquess of Needham and Dolby had liked “That Tommy Alles” since the day, twenty-some-odd years ago, when the boy had rolled up his sleeves, hunkered down in the stables of her childhood home, and assisted in the whelping of one of the marquess’s favorite hunting dogs.

From that day on, Tommy was a good lad.

The kind of lad that Penelope had always thought her father would have liked for his own son. If, of course, he’d had a son, instead of five daughters.

And then there was the fact that Tommy would someday be a viscount—a wealthy one, at that. As Penelope’s mother was no doubt saying from her place beyond the drawing-room door, where she was no doubt watching the scene unfold in quiet desperation:

Beggars cannot be choosers, Penelope.

Penelope knew all this.

Which was why, when she met the warm brown gaze of this boy-turned-man she’d known all her life, this dear friend, she realized that this was absolutely the most generous offer of marriage she would ever receive, and she should say yes. Resoundingly.

Except she didn’t.

Instead, she said, “Why?”

The silence that followed the words was punctuated by a dramatic “What does she think she is doing?” from beyond the drawing-room door, and Tommy’s gaze filled with amusement and not a little bit of surprise as he came to his feet.

“Why not?” he replied, companionably, adding after a moment, “We’ve been friends for an age; we enjoy each other’s company; I’ve need of a wife; you’ve need of a husband.”

As reasons for marrying went, they weren’t terrible ones. Nevertheless, “I’ve been out for nine years, Tommy. You’ve had all that time to offer for me.”

Tommy had the grace to look chagrined before he smiled, looking not a small bit like a Water Dog. “That’s true. And I haven’t a good excuse for waiting except . . . well, I’m happy to say I’ve come to my senses, Pen.”

She smiled back at him. “Nonsense. You’ll never come to your senses. Why me, Tommy?” she pressed. “Why now, Tommy?”

When he laughed at the question, it wasn’t his great, booming, friendly laugh. It was a nervous laugh. The one he always laughed when he did not wish to answer the question. “It’s time to settle down,” he said, before cocking his head to one side, smiling broadly, and continuing, “Come on, Pen. Let’s make a go of it, shall we?”

Penelope had received four previous offers of marriage and imagined countless other proposals in a myriad of fashions, from the glorious, dramatic interruption of a ball to the private, wonderful proposal in a secluded gazebo in the middle of a Surrey summer. She’d imagined professions of love and undying passion, profusions of her favorite flower (the peony), blankets spread lovingly across a field of wild daisies, the crisp taste of champagne on her tongue as all of London raised their glasses to her happiness. The feel of her fiancé’s arms around her as she tossed herself into his embrace and sighed, Yes . . . Yes!