The danger was over for the moment, but Penelope could not enjoy the reprieve. Of course the nurse had no idea. But the Baileys would surely recognize the name. Someone would, anyway. Soon everyone at Loweston would know that the new Lord Bedlow had had his mistress brought to Loweston under his wife’s nose. Then the neighbors would find out, and everyone would know; everyone would look at her with pity or thinly veiled contempt. It would be confirmation of everything-that Nev didn’t care about her, that the new Lady Bedlow was a citified fool who couldn’t see what was before her eyes.

Miss Wray tried to push away her blanket. “Nev.” Nev swallowed convulsively and balled his hands into fists.

Penelope blinked; the horror receded a little. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she said to the nurse.

“Oh, begging your pardon, your ladyship, it’s Rawley.”

“We appreciate your coming all this way, Rawley. I hope you will explain to the Baileys what is required for Miss Wr-” Penelope stopped, panicking a little.

“Miss Raeburn,” the nurse prompted her.

“Yes, of course,” she said gratefully. “Miss Raeburn’s care. And I hope you will oblige us by looking at Jack Bailey’s leg before you go. Lord Bedlow can sit with the patient for a few minutes, if you will step into the other room.”

“Certainly, your ladyship.” Rawley stepped back to let Penelope leave the room ahead of her. “Just call me if you see any change, my lord.”

Penelope didn’t look back; she couldn’t and still keep her wits about her sufficiently to get them all through the next ten minutes without a scandal.

Mr. Bailey was still grumbling that his leg was fine, but Mrs. Bailey, face set, said to Rawley, “Please, if you could look-”

“It’s what her ladyship was just asking me to do. Sit down, Mr. Bailey.”

Mr. Bailey sat reluctantly on one of the rush-bottomed chairs. Penelope sank down on the other and tried to think what to do. They could hardly send the girl away, not when she was so ill; to be moved again might kill her. Nor could they ask someone else to nurse her who might not recognize Nev’s nickname or whom Penelope could trust; the secret the disappointed Baileys and their friends would create in explanation would no doubt be worse than the truth.

She could find no solution but to try to brazen it out, and take the scandal and humiliation with grace when it came. Penelope had lived with pitying, contemptuous glances all her life. She could do it again. Since Miss Wray-Penelope was still thinking of her by her stage name-was so sick, at least there could be no suggestion that Nev was carrying on with her in his home, which might have injured Louisa’s reputation.

It was not Nev’s fault. Even if he had known his mistress was carrying his child and had kept it from her, it was certainly because he had thought it would hurt her. It was painfully evident from his reaction that he had not known their invalid would be Miss Wray. Nev was sorry and worried for his mistress, and when he had had time to compose himself he would be sorry and worried for Penelope. She could not add to his burden by unreasonable complaints or recriminations. She could not even wish that Nev cared less for Miss Wray’s danger; it would make him a lesser man.

No, there was no use blaming anyone. It was no one’s fault that Penelope was miserable, and so no one but her should suffer because of it. There was no use being angry, no use crying, no use doing anything but making the best of it.

Penelope felt robbed: cheated of her anger and her sorrow.

A low groan made her look up. Rawley had unwrapped Jack Bailey’s leg. It looked awful-red and swollen and raw, and not entirely straight. There were two ghastly holes near the knee, as well: one on each side. Penelope could not imagine what they might be. Rawley must have been equally puzzled, because Jack was saying, “I fell on the pitchfork, don’t you know.” Penelope swallowed and didn’t let herself look away. You have little enough to complain of, she told herself.

“Mrs. Bailey,” Penelope said when the leg was wrapped up again, a nauseating eternity later.

Mrs. Bailey turned to look at her, looking drawn and apprehensive. “Yes, Lady Bedlow?”

“I-please take good care of Miss Raeburn.”

Mrs. Bailey nodded. “Her mother knew yours, is that right? Was she a friend of your’n?”

Penelope recoiled inwardly at the suggestion-at the idea that someone might look at a piece of Covent Garden ware and think she was Penelope’s friend, that she was like Penelope. “No, but-” She did not know what to say. She only knew that she could not bear it if Miss Wray died; it would be, somehow, too much injustice all at once, and Nev would be so miserable. “And take care of Jack’s leg, please. If you need anything at all-if anyone needs anything-please let us know. I-I couldn’t bear it if anyone died, and I might have prevented it.” She felt near tears.

Mrs. Bailey laughed a little. “I wish we’d had you when my Rosie took sick.”

Penelope’s throat closed. She had met the Bailey children, and none of them were named Rosie. There was so much pain, everywhere, and there was nothing to do to fight back, there was nothing anyone could do but bear it.

“Here now,” Mrs. Bailey said, “don’t take on so. Let’s get Lord Bedlow to take you home.”

Nev drove silently, without looking at her, his hands white-knuckled on the reins. Penelope did not quite trust herself to speak anyway. They arrived at the house, and Nev handed the cart over to a groom. He offered Penelope his arm to climb the steps and opened the door for her, and all that time he did not turn to her. There was a tension to him that Penelope didn’t understand. He took her hand and pulled her up the stairs after him and into her room. Shutting the door behind him, he finally, finally turned to look at her.

Before she could even catch a glimpse of his face he was crushing her to him, his arms around her. Despite all her misgivings and her fears, she relaxed against him. Her sense of hopelessness receded, melting into his warmth. A small, petty part of her could not help a fierce joy that whatever he might feel for Miss Wray, it was she, Penelope, who was his wife, and she to whom he turned for comfort.

“Oh, God, Penelope,” he said against her hair in a broken voice. “If that were you-if-”

She pulled away a little, surprised, and he kissed her fiercely and did not stop. She let everything burn away, all the bitterness and worries-they were consumed in a great rush of fire. She kissed him back with everything that was in her, her hands gripping his shoulders hard enough to hurt; she was his wife, she was his, she wanted him, that was all that mattered.

He pressed hot, urgent kisses on her neck and shoulders. “I need to see you.”

Shaking, she turned around and let him unbutton her gown with hasty, fumbling fingers. She did not think, at that moment, that she would have cared if he ripped the gown apart; damn the expense, damn the embarrassment of lying to the dressmaker about what had happened.

She was wearing her most intricate set of stays, with a double row of laces down the back. He cursed, low in his throat, and Penelope said, barely able to get the words out, “Penknife-my desk-”

He paused for a moment, and then he snatched up the knife and cut the laces. Her corset fell away in three panels, she tore off her shift, and she was naked.

She remembered the first time she had stood before him naked. She’d been nervous, and he had looked her up and down and smiled and touched her, oh so gently. This was nothing like that. He swept her with his gaze, once, and then he bent and took one of her breasts in his mouth, sucking hard. She cried out-she couldn’t help it-and he bore her back until she fetched up against the bed. Taking hold of her waist, he pushed her down so that she sat on the edge of the mattress and he knelt between her spread legs, his hands firm around her buttocks. There was nothing else, no warning, no gentleness, before he dipped his head between her legs and sucked her center of sensation into his mouth.