What a Duke Dares (Sons of Sin 3)

“I’m hardly likely to promote the joys of matrimony to someone I care about,” she said bitterly.

A blistering silence crashed down.

Shock at her unguarded response had her stiffening against the carriage’s sway and peering through the darkness at Cam. Her voice quivered with remorse. “Cam, I’m sorry.”

A passing street lamp revealed his devastated expression. At that moment, she loathed herself.

She loathed herself more when he caught her hand and stared at her with piercing concern. “Pen, I’m so sorry that you’re unhappy.” His regret made her poor, aching heart cramp. “Tell me what I can do.”

Love me.

She bit back the inevitable answer and forced an unconvincing laugh. Surely they must be nearly at Rothermere House. She could retire to her room for a serious conversation with herself about making one’s bed and lying in it.

“I’m so sorry, Your Grace.” She pulled free. “I’m a fishwife. I hope you’ll pardon me. The evening’s been difficult.”

His sweeping gesture conveyed impatience. This situation bore down on him too, even if he didn’t live

with the object of an impossible passion. “Hell’s bells, stop it, Pen.”

“I don’t understand,” she said in a leaden tone, retreating against the seat and huddling into her cape.

“For God’s sake—”

To Pen’s craven relief, the carriage turned into Grosvenor Square. “We’re here.”

“We’re home,” he snapped. “Don’t imagine this discussion is over.”

Most men wouldn’t notice that she was yet to call any of the Rothermere properties home. She cursed his perception. But none of his houses felt like home. Amidst all the oppressive splendor, she felt like an interloper.

She fell back on the standard excuse. “I’m tired—”

“I’m sure you are,” he flashed back. “And I’m tired of being called ‘Your Grace’ and treated like a pariah. I’m tired of seeing you shy away from me as if you expect a kick for the slightest show of spirit.”

“I hardly think—” she began heatedly, before she reminded herself that an argument would shatter their fragile truce.

The door opened. She hurriedly gathered her reticule and stepped out of the carriage, leaving Cam fuming behind her. In his usual dignified style.

Cam watched sourly as his beautiful wife sailed into his imposing London house. He felt like a toad for haranguing Penelope. None of this was easy for her.

It wasn’t easy for him either. Ever since he’d discovered her in the Alps, Penelope Thorne had demonstrated an unprecedented and decidedly disagreeable ability to stir his emotions.

He’d spent weeks burning up with lust. Foolishly he’d imagined that appeasing his hunger would end it. Yet he wanted her more now than before. Somehow the simple fact that he wanted his bride—surely a good thing—became just another tangle in the knots she tied him in outside the bedroom.

It was a damnable situation.

He stared like a moonling after his wife. Even worse, he did it in view of the servants. He caught Thomas, the footman’s eye, as he descended from the carriage. The man’s neutral expression must hide a wealth of speculation.

Disheartened, Cam trudged inside. Although the night had been a success. Society seemed willing to wait and see if Pen was ready to put her wild ways behind her. Even the sticklers had admired her poise. His friends had rallied around her. There was some sign that the scandalous Thornes mightn’t be quite so scandalous from now on. Elias had always been the steadiest of the family and his behavior tonight had been commendably restrained. Harry remained unpredictable, but even so, the evening could have gone worse.

So why did Cam feel like his dog had died?

He paused in the hallway under the cold stare of the marble Roman worthies. His habit since his marriage was to have a quiet brandy in his library, then undress before seeking Pen.

Thomas opened the library door. Cam stared into the starkly masculine room as his mind sifted the quarrel—or what they’d managed of a quarrel before reaching home. It was clear that Pen regretted her frankness. Which cut at his heart. Once he’d thought they could share anything. But that was long ago.

She was upstairs preparing for bed, even though within the hour, if every other night was any indication, her nightdress would be a tangled heap on the floor. Right now her maid was brushing out Pen’s shining hair and turning back the covers. There Pen would lie waiting for him. After they’d got past their disastrous wedding night, he’d assumed she enjoyed their encounters, but tonight’s acerbic comment made him wonder.

Damn it, did she welcome him to her bed only to make the best of a bad job?