With that quiet rebuke, she returned her attention to her dish.
Disquieted, Ryker sipped from his drink. He’d come to recognize and appreciate the black-and-white quality to every aspect of life, from strangers to his family to business dealings at the club.
So how was this lady with her tight black curls throwing shades of grey into his life?
And through the remainder of the meal, not another word was uttered between Ryker and his wife.
Chapter 9
Dearest Fezzimore,
You mustn’t tell anyone. Today, Prudence, Poppy, and I crafted a plan to invade a gentleman’s club. Mother mustn’t find out.
Penny
Age 10
They hadn’t spoken since the breakfast.
To be precise, they hadn’t spoken since Penelope had challenged Ryker on his perceptions of her. Instead, nothing remained between them but a tense, stilted silence. Or that’s what it was to her. Implacable as he always was, Ryker may as well have been carved from granite. And she may as well have imagined the soul-searing kiss he’d given her just prior to their wedding breakfast.
This is the man I am now married to . . . She grappled for control over the mounting panic that threatened to suffocate her. The truth of her circumstances made only worse by the finality of parting with her family . . . sisters, a brother, and mother who’d driven her batty over the years, but who’d been so unfiltered in their thoughts and love. Only to now leave, forever . . . with a man who knew her not at all and who seemed even less interested in taking time to know her.
Standing in the foyer while servants rushed forward with their cloaks, Penelope fiddled with her gown. Jonathan, Juliet, and Mother conversed in subdued tones. They periodically stole glances in her direction, and then looked to Ryker. He stood off to the side, an outsider in this final parting, which only deepened Penelope’s misery.
She hadn’t known he had brothers. He didn’t wish to cement a relationship with her family, as he’d evidenced with his stony silence at breakfast. What have I done . . . ? Poppy surged forward and launched herself into Penelope’s arms. With a grunt, she stumbled back under the weight of her sister’s embrace, grateful for the temporary distraction. “Oh, Penny, I shall miss you so very much,” Poppy whispered against her ear.
Throat working painfully, Penelope folded her arms about the younger girl and squeezed tight. “Liar,” she said in a bid for levity, but the utterance emerged shaky and breathless.
“Whoever will try to talk me from my schemes? And distract Mama and Jonathan when they’re lecturing me?”
Tears filled her eyes, and she held on to her sister, all the tighter. Even as she’d fashioned herself into a lady, attempting to be the lone proper Tidemore, she had always been, and would always be, a Tidemore. The girls, whose older brother had taught them to ride, spit, and plant a facer with the best of them, had at last grown up. And she mourned the loss of that innocence just as she mourned the future that would never be. A tear slipped down her cheek.
“You must promise to be ever spirited with your husband,” Poppy whispered. “You are a Tidemore.” She drew back and gave a watery smile. “How could he not love you?”
Very easily. Her neck pricked and she glanced briefly over her shoulder. A chill went through her at the hard, emotionless stare Ryker trained on her and Poppy. Ryker Black didn’t seem capable of loving anyone. Only how could a man whose body had radiated such heat and passion be so wholly indifferent now?
Prudence stepped between them and reluctantly Poppy stepped aside so their elder sister could make her good-byes.
“I am so very sorry,” Prudence said softly, stroking the back of her head the way she’d done when Penelope tumbled into a thorny rosebush as a girl. “I wanted more for you.” These words were not the hopeful, romantic ones given by Poppy, who believed Penelope could earn Ryker’s love. Rather, these came from a sister who had known scandal and also precisely what the world was.
“It is fine.” She stretched her lips into a forced smile that threatened to shatter her cheeks. “I will be happy.” Was that false pledge for her sister? Or for herself?
Prudence looked as though she wished to say more, but Jonathan and Juliet came forward. Juliet, this woman who’d become like a sister. A woman she’d so singularly hated at first meeting. But then Penelope had been a troublesome child, miserable to her governesses. Juliet held her arms open now, and she stepped into her embrace.
“You are all grown up, Penelope,” her sister-in-law said softly. “Promise you will never lose who Penny is, though.”
She managed a jerky nod.
Jonathan stepped forward. “Penny,” he said solemnly.
Penelope glanced down at the tips of her slippers. “Jonathan.”
Her only brother, a man who’d been more like a father, nudged her chin up. “Do you remember Mrs. Jenkins?”
She cocked her head at that unexpected question. Mrs. Jenkins, one of the many governesses the Tidemore girls had run off, who’d put her hands on Penelope. “I failed you then,” he said solemnly, and her heart wrenched. She made a sound of protest.
“But I did,” he insisted matter-of-factly, letting his arm fall to his side. “Just as I failed to give you or my other sisters the proper attention they deserved. You should have never been outside in those gardens.”
Penelope bit hard on her lower lip. “Oh, Jonathan.” He’d take this on, too. Once again, he’d absolve her of wrongdoing and blame, and take ownership of her decisions. “This is not your fault.” If she didn’t love him so much for that devotion, she’d have planted him one of those facers he’d taught her.
He went on as though she’d not spoken. “If he hurts you in any way, I will come for you. You will always have a place here.”
Penelope went up on tiptoe and kissed her brother on the cheek. “You taught me how to take care of myself, Jonathan. I will be all right,” she said softly, unable to determine whom that assurance was most for.
Jonathan slid his gaze beyond her shoulder and she followed his look.
Ryker stepped forward.
No! I am not ready . . . Then, would she ever be ready for this parting?
Jonathan stretched out a reluctant hand, and the other man eyed it for a long moment, and for an even longer, more agonizing one, Penelope thought he intended to reject that offering. She didn’t realize she held her breath until Ryker returned that handshake.
A moment later, he started for the door. There was no gentlemanly elbow proffered. He didn’t take her fingers in his hand. Penelope hugged herself tight and, head high, marched after him.
Her mother stepped into her path, and Penelope braced for the always-common maternal disappointment. Instead, tenderness radiated from her eyes. “Oh, Penelope,” she said, taking her cheeks between her hands with such tenderness that tears dotted her vision. “My one girl who tried to behave, what you never knew was that I am proud of you for who you always have been. How I shall miss you.” A tear trickled down Penelope’s cheek, and because she was just another word from her mother from breaking down into a blubbering mess, she kissed her sole living parent on the cheek and stepped away.
“I love you, M-mama.” Oh, God. She drew in a shuddery breath and took one last glance at the assembled family. Prudence stood, fingers entwined with Christian’s. Poppy, Juliet, and Sir Faithful, at their feet, all stared back. Penelope managed one final tremulous smile, and then lifting her hand in farewell, she stepped outside the front door of the only home she’d ever known. It was time to begin a new life—as Penelope Black . . . Or Banbury.
With a husband who couldn’t even be bothered to accompany her to the carriage. What did you expect? An attentive groom?
A black curl fell over her eye and she blew it back. She would have settled for, at the very least, a polite groom.
Muttering under her breath, Penelope walked down the handful of steps, and then froze. It wasn’t raining. She tilted her head back. The rains had since let
up, and through the thick grey of the clouds hanging in the sky, the faintest glow of sun penetrated.
Her heart tripped a beat. Surely that was a sign. She looked to the black conveyance where Ryker stood at the carriage speaking to the driver. Unease curled her toes.
The tall, brutish servant’s right cheek had been branded with a large T. She stared at that mark, horrified. What pain he must have endured. What was his relationship to her husband?
Both men looked up, and her cheeks warmed at being caught staring. Giving another toss of her curls, she started forward. Wordlessly, Ryker held a hand out and assisted her into the carriage. He climbed in after her, and immediately his towering frame shrunk the space in the conveyance as he settled into the opposite seat.
The door closed behind them, and a moment later, the carriage dipped as the scarred servant climbed atop his perch. Then it rattled forward, officially severing the thread to her childhood and the hopes she’d carried for a loving union. Another dratted sheen of tears filled her eyes, and burrowing inside her velvet cloak, Penelope huddled against the wall and stared miserably outside.
Good God, she was crying. Again.
Could he blame her? Not a single lady in the realm would dream of binding herself to a ruthless, heartless bastard like himself. Just as the last thing he’d wanted in his life was any connection to the peerage. That is, beyond the profitable ones who visited his gaming tables.
He continued to study her and frowned. The only emotions he’d made himself available for were fear, anger, and hatred. Those coolly empty sentiments had built him up and allowed him to conquer his enemies and protect those dependent on him.
Only now, for the first time in his life, staring at his young bride’s slumped shoulders, Ryker felt a new sentiment—an emotion he’d believed himself incapable of—guilt.
He balked. By Christ, with her faint sniffles and shaking shoulders, he felt guilt. He scowled. She’d come to him presenting the possibility of marriage. Even with that, the guilt wouldn’t go away. It remained a niggling deep in his chest.
“Are you crying?” he demanded brusquely, needlessly. The evidence was there.
“No.” She sniffled, discreetly brushing a hand over her cheeks.
Ryker narrowed his eyes. Those in his circle did not withhold truths. Not without risking the good of the group. “Are you a liar?”
“Are you a bully?” she shot back, meeting his gaze squarely.
The sight of her tear-dampened cheeks struck him like a punch in the belly. He’d thought himself completely immune to . . . well, anything, really. But those revealing tracks Penelope had proudly tried to keep from him squeezed at his chest. Tightening his mouth, he said nothing, and Penelope returned her attention to the passing landscape.
“And would it matter if I was?” she countered wearily.
He rolled his shoulders. No, it would not. So, then, why had he asked? Why, when he’d already known the answer, did he, in fact, care? “It would,” he said quietly.
Her gaze, filled with surprise, shot to his.
“I’ve been bullied by others once, and I am not that person. I am blunt and honest . . . but I am not cruel.”
“You were bullied?” Shock coated her inquiry.
His neck heated. He’d said too much. Nonetheless, he gave a slight nod and braced for a string of questions from this lady who let no matter die.
Penelope’s eyes, filled with sadness, pierced through him—eyes that saw too much. He remained motionless.
“Sometimes honesty and cruelty go hand in hand, do they not?” she asked softly and released the curtain. It fluttered into place. “Sometimes honesty can be the greatest form of cruelty.”
Ryker furrowed his brow. That made less sense than her presenting him with the prospect of marriage two days earlier.
Warming to the topic, Penelope held her palms up. “What was the harm in allowing me to my misery?” Again, the dull blade of guilt twisted all the deeper. “If I wished to keep that sadness private, why should you force me to experience it?”
With that, she restored logic and order. “Because emotion weakens you,” he said curtly. The sooner she learned that, the safer she’d be. “Your tears and smiles will be used against you.” His countless enemies now belonged to her, and as such, any weakness would be her downfall.
His wife eyed him as though he’d sprouted several limbs. “Surely you don’t believe that?”
“It is fact, my lady, and the sooner you realize it, the safer you will be in this new world.”
Worry darkened her eyes. She looked away first. Once again, she pulled aside the curtain and stared out at the passing scenery. As the fashionable Grosvenor Square streets gave way to dirtier, more crowded ones, he studied his wife’s profile. Her full lips tipped down at the corners. As their carriage drew them through the dangerous streets of St. Giles, Penelope pressed her forehead to the windowpane and stared out.
Ryker peered at his bride. What did an innocent like her think of the sights before her? The whores on the street corner. A fight breaking out between two rough beggars. Just then, one man drew a knife. Penelope gasped. Ryker leaned forward and freed the curtain from his wife’s grip.
I shouldn’t have done that. He should have allowed her to see just what life in the Dials entailed. So why had he wanted to protect her from that sight? Ryker brushed off the thought. Just as his sister had been protected in the Hell and Sin, Penelope would be closeted away. Married to him, she had no reason to attend her frivolous ton events or walk outside the walls of the club.
The carriage drew to a halt, and Ryker didn’t wait for Terry, instead shoving the door open. Reaching back, he held a hand out for Penelope, and without hesitation she placed her fingertips in his palm. How trusting she was.
Young men and women who trusted were ultimately destroyed. He’d learned that quickly as a boy, at Diggory’s knee.
Go ahead. Take it, Ryker . . . take the bread . . .
His mind screamed with the echoed memory of Diggory nearly crushing his small fingers in his large, punishing hold.
Penelope winced, and he looked blankly at their twined hands. He swiftly dropped his arm. Nearly twenty-five years free of that bastard and Diggory’s memory held him vulnerable still.
“Ryker?” Penelope’s tentative voice came as if from a distance, as all the noise of the street sounds dulled and blurred in his ears, ultimately sharpening his focus.
They were being watched.
He whipped his gaze about. Of course, in St. Giles secrets were hard kept, and even harder won. Ryker’s entrance into polite Society and word he’d taken a wife would find its way through every alley and hell. To men who’d lost fortunes at his tables and men who’d displace him as king of the gaming world. It marked him. A frisson of darkness worked through him.
And now it had marked Penelope, a detail that he’d coolly dismissed yesterday. Now he’d watched her cry and sat with the people who mattered to her, whom she called family. She’d become just one more person whose well-being he was responsible for. Penelope touched a hand to his sleeve. “What is it?” she asked, her husky contralto layered with worry.
“It is nothing,” he lied. Terry caught his eye. An imperceptible look passed between them, and the driver removed the pistol from the front of his jacket.
“Come,” Ryker said roughly, as he positioned himself between her and the street. Killoran’s eyes were everywhere, and his quest for revenge would not be satisfied until one of Ryker’s men paid for the death of their beloved leader. For the first time since agreeing to a partnership that would salvage Penelope’s reputation and save his club, the ramifications of their union hit him with all the force of a fast-moving carriage.
Taking her by the forearm, Ryker guided her up the front steps of the club.
The doors were immediately opened by Niall, who stood sentry at the front. To the man’s credit he showed no outward reaction to the sudden appearance of a white-skirt-wearing lady.
&
nbsp; A white-skirt-wearing lady who stood at the threshold of the club with her mouth agape. Her eyes round like saucers. The silver flecks in their blue depths glimmered with excitement. It was the damned glimmer. That bloody, more powerful than words testament to the certain fact—the lady was going to be trouble.
He swallowed a curse. The last thing he required was a young wife with a romantic sense of what transpired on these floors.
“Ryker,” Niall greeted, angling his body away from Penelope in a clear cut direct. Yes, Ryker had wed her, and she’d have their protection, but she’d never be accepted by the men who shared the same disdain Ryker did for the peerage.
He inclined his head when he registered the lords scattered about the hell, boldly staring.
Another growl escaped him. “Come,” he said again, and taking his wife by the hand, proceeded to lead her down the steps.
“You are dragging me,” she gritted out. She dug her heels in and stopped beside a roulette table. “What is that?”
All his first assumptions of this one’s sanity reared again. “A roulette wheel,” he bit out. Did she truly think he intended to show her about the goddamn gaming hell? Desperate to be free of her and her damned curiosity, Ryker caught the eye of Clara.
Within a moment, the lush, blond proprietress of the whores in the club sauntered over. “Clara, show . . .” He grimaced. “Mrs. Black to my rooms.”
The madam rounded her eyes, but then quickly concealed her shock. “Mrs. Black,” she greeted.
Penelope smiled. “Hullo, and you are?” She held a hand out.
Blinking frantically, Clara glanced down at that extended offering, and for the first time in the course of the years he’d known her, the prostitute-turned–business owner blushed. “Clara, ma’am,” she said at last, shaking Penelope’s hand.
The Scoundrel's Honor Page 11