Chapter Twenty-Seven
Penelope
Penelope swallowed a bite of roasted capon and mused on the fact that Simon had managed to circumvent Lady Gipson’s seating arrangements. The smug satisfaction he wore like a coat grated her nerves. The man was an insufferable manipulator who charmed and cajoled until he got his way.
He was also her husband and the only person in the entire world, aside from Emily and Charlotte, with whom she felt completely at ease.
She sighed and was immediately rewarded with Simon’s undivided attention.
His gaze slid to her as though the sigh was a summons, and Penelope’s fingers tightened around the fork she held.
Simon possessed an infuriating sensitivity to her smallest shifts in mood; he could ignore an entire ballroom yet detect the faintest tremor in her breathing.
Some small part of her rejoiced in that fact.
The rest of her wondered why his attention thrilled her.
“Am I to understand,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair with deliberate leisure, “that you disapprove of my triumph?”
Penelope shot him a look from the corner of her eye. “Triumph implies merit. I suspect trickery.”
A corner of Simon’s mouth curved. There it was again—that look of private amusement, as though the world were a chessboard and only he understood the rules. “Lady Gipson rearranged the seating of her own accord.”
“After you spent a quarter hour complimenting her orchids and the color palette of the ballroom.”
“I thought I was being polite. Rarely have I even noticed the color of the draperies of any ballroom during my years of attending social functions such as these.”
“You were laying siege.” The accusation came out in a whisper. The man was extremely talented at laying siege. He demolished Penelope’s defenses every night with scarcely any effort at all. What chance did an older woman bombarded with compliments have against such wit and charm?
Simon’s soft chuckle threaded through the clink of silverware and the low murmur of the midnight gathering.
Around them, candles guttered in crystal sconces, casting a warm golden glow over polished mahogany and silk gowns.
Several guests noticed the quiet battle being waged between the newlyweds, their whispers hidden behind raised hands.
But no one could know what was said between the two.
Simon’s wars were conducted with devastating smiles and an air of arrogance, while Penelope fought to contain the bothersome blushes staining her cheeks.
Simon leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Would you have preferred I take my initially assigned seat at the far end of the table, condemned to discussing hunting dogs with our host?”
“That would have been a noble sacrifice.”
“For you?” Simon’s indigo-blue eyes sharpened, his faint amusement giving way to something warmer. “Always.”
The simplicity of his statement stole the retort from Penelope’s lips.
Confusion flitted through her, and for a moment, she wondered what it might be like to truly be adored by a man like Simon.
Not the lustful fixation he currently displayed for his new toy, but true affection like that shared by the fellow Rakehells with their wives.
How foolish was she to long for closeness?
Would he ever feel the same emotions she experienced since becoming his wife?
Every day, she was assailed with yearning, hope, despair, and loneliness.
Pathetic, but Penelope really only wanted one thing.
She wanted him to feel for her what she felt for him.
Love. Pure and all-consuming. Wild and unpredictable. Steady and forever.
But this was the difficulty in being married to a man like Simon.
He infuriated her with his maneuvering, his sheer confidence, the ease with which he bent circumstance to his will.
When he looked at her—truly looked at her—there was no calculation in it.
Only a steady, unwavering obsession that made the rest of the world seem irrelevant.
It was everything when she really had nothing else.
But it wasn’t love.
She dared to meet his gaze fully. “You need not conquer entire households on my behalf.”
“I do not,” he agreed mildly. “I conquer them because it pleases me. Sitting beside my wife pleases me more.”
Heat crept up Penelope’s chest. She despised that he could do that—reduce her to a flustered girl with a single sentence. It made the moments when she surrendered to him all the more concerning. And gut-wrenching.
Simon reached for his wine, but his fingers brushed hers first. Warmth spread throughout her body when she thought of all the sinful things his hands had done to her.
“You are cross with me,” he said quietly, taking a sip and setting the glass back down.
“I am.” The admission was a daring one. Rarely did she stand up for herself with anyone else, but with Simon, it was becoming easier. Strangely enough, Penelope was left with the feeling that her husband enjoyed sparring with her, in spite of his focus on obedience and submission.
“Will you forgive my insistence to our hosts that I sit with my new wife?”
“Certainly not,” she said primly.
His eyes glinted. “Perhaps later tonight, you may be convinced otherwise.”
Penelope tried maintaining the irritation needling her. But when Simon leaned closer with that same smug, devastating expression, his lips brushing her ear, her resolve crumbled as it always did. She could not withstand the manner of siege he plied with such expertise.
“Come,” he said. “If I must be a tyrant, I should at the very least be granted a smile for my audacity.”
And because he was her insufferable and confounding husband, Penelope placed a hand on his arm, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of his evening coat. Her lips lifted at the corners in a reluctant smile. “At least you admit you are a tyrant.”
“Tyrant. Teacher. Master.” His warm breath whispered against her ear, sending a thrilling shiver down her spine until her heartbeat pulsed like a drum in her ears. “Husband. Lover. Punisher. Which role would you prefer when we find ourselves alone at the end of this evening?”
Her breath hitched as the weight of his question settled over her. “I have a choice?”
The query seemed to unsettle Simon, his brow furrowing in thought. “Do you truly desire that? The power of choice? Or would you rather trust me to decide for you?”
“Rarely have I been granted the opportunity to make my own choices,” she replied, her voice a mixture of defiance and vulnerability. “That has not changed since we wed.”
Simon leaned back, his piercing gaze sweeping over her as if trying to unearth the layers of her soul. “Then tonight, mouse, you shall hold the reins. But be forewarned, that control will only last until I lose mine.”
Penelope’s eyes darted around the lavish dining table, hoping no one could overhear their scandalous exchange.
“Do you mean that?” she asked softly, her gaze returning to his. “You led me to believe that I would be punished for accepting champagne from Lord Grant. And now, you are saying I shall be in control of everything that occurs between us?”
Simon’s eyes turned a molten blue, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“For a while, yes. But do not fret, wife. I still intend to exact your punishments. Indeed, you have earned additional ones for deliberately choosing to dance with the frivolous Lord Scott rather than obeying my directive to stay where I left you.”
“You cannot mean to hold that against me, Simon,” Penelope huffed. “Lord Scott was penciled in on my dance card. It would have been very rude to ignore him.”
“Rude,” he repeated, his voice quiet and dangerous in a way that sent a traitorous shiver down her spine. “My wife is concerned with being rude.”
“I am always concerned with being rude,” she retorted. “Unlike some.”
His mouth twitched, but his gaze did not soften. “Lord Scott’s hand rested rather familiarly at your waist.”
“It rested precisely where the dance requires.”
“It lingered.”
“It did not,” Penelope hissed. He was purposefully drawing her into an argument, and she would not stand for it.
“It did.” He seemed faintly amused by the situation.
Penelope leaned back in her chair, folding her napkin in her lap. “You are inventing offenses to justify your tyranny.”
“Tyranny?” he echoed, one dark eyebrow arching high. “Again, I am accused of being a tyrant.”
“Yes. You cannot simply issue directives and expect unquestioning obedience.” Why he was needling her, she did not know. It made her extremely nervous, mostly because she could not be sure of his intentions.
His jaw flexed again as though he were trying mightily to rein in his frustration. “But I can,” he said evenly. “You are my wife.”
“And what precisely does that entail?” Penelope demanded in a harsh whisper. “Blind submission? Must I consult you before taking a single step?”
Simon’s gaze dipped—briefly, infuriatingly—to her mouth before returning to her eyes. “It entails,” he said, “that when I ask you to remain where I left you, I expect you to obey for your own safety.”
“Safety? Once again, you allude to hidden dangers lurking about Lady Gipson’s ballroom,” Penelope huffed, wanting to cross her arms over her chest but realizing it would only draw more attention to their interaction. “It’s quite ridiculous.”
Simon continued, “You had already accepted champagne from Lord Grant, and when I returned to the ballroom, you were being whirled about in Lord Scott’s arms, laughing at something he said. I did not like it.”
Heat bloomed in Penelope’s cheeks. “It was a jest about the orchestra. And you are being absurd.”
“Am I?” His tone was controlled, and the blue of his eyes sparkled like sapphires. “Tell me, Penelope. Do you think me immune to jealousy?”
The word hovered in the space between them.
Jealousy.
Simon did not look like a jealous man. He looked like a man accustomed to winning. To possessing. To bending others, including herself, to his will.
And yet—jealousy implied a certain level of caring that Penelope did not dare hope was real.
“You said I would be in control.” She deliberately ignored the subject he raised. Already, she was reeling from the possibility that her husband might possess more than lust for her.
“And you will be. For a while, anyway.”
Her heart gave a traitorous thud as Simon’s expression shifted.
No longer smug, nor even dominant, it became something raw and honest. A flicker of emotion that she’d not witnessed with him before now played across his features.
And it seemed like all the air in the room vanished, leaving a vacuum of heat that left her breathless as she stared at him.
“You wield power over me, Penelope,” he admitted quietly.
“More than you comprehend. When you look at another man as though he has amused you, I feel it. When you allow one to guide you across a dance floor, I endure it. And I hate that society says I am to accept it. But do not mistake endurance for indifference.”
The dinner was coming to an end, the footmen clearing away the last of the dessert dishes.
In a few moments, those attending supper would rise from the table and return to the ballroom where the dancing would last until dawn.
Penelope had no wish to stay any longer than was necessary to say their goodbyes.
She was overly warm, thinking about what might happen later in the privacy of their rooms, her skin prickling with awareness and desire.
The things that this man made her feel were beyond sinful.
“And yet you threaten punishments,” she said before taking a sip of water. She hoped it would steady her nerves; instead, it revealed her hand shaking the tiniest bit. Will he bind me again? Spank me? Make me beg him to take me? Or will he do much worse while I ache for his dominance?
Simon’s eyes darkened. “Do you know why that is, Penelope?”
She swallowed hard, striving to sound nonchalant and failing miserably. “To assert your authority.”
“No.” He leaned closer until the heat of him pressed through the silk and lace of her ballgown.
“That’s not the only reason. You will not understand…
I hardly understand it myself…but I enjoy the challenge you present.
It is intriguing when you test the edges of my composure and I love watching you break for me when you fight so hard against surrender.
But, you see, when you accept champagne from a man who has made no secret of his pursuit to make you his wife—when you dance with another after I have asked you to stay—I must decide if I will be the indulgent husband.
Or will I be the one who teaches you what it means to provoke him? ”
A pulse beat low in Penelope’s throat. That she could be so frightened of him and yet so aroused by simple words was mystifying. “And which are you tonight?” she whispered.
His hand moved beneath the edge of the table—slowly, deliberately resting on her thigh.
Even through the silk of her gown, his palm burned her skin like a brand.
“I already committed to giving you free rein for a short time.” A slow, devastating smile curved Simon’s mouth when she remained silent.
“Now, supper has come to an end, and you will make your first decision. Shall we return to the ballroom or make our escape to Camden House?”
A shudder of anticipation trickled through Penelope’s veins. “I wish to go home, Simon, if you are agreeable.”
The words tumbled out in a whisper. Was this sudden display of indulgence a trap, or would Simon truly let her take control? It was a heady thought…having this man at her mercy when he already possessed every ounce of her willpower.
Simon’s grin was one of pleased accomplishment. Sliding his large hand from her thigh and entwining his fingers with hers, he drew her up onto her feet. “Home, it is, little mouse.”