The Lady Who Came in from the Cold(13)

Back then, I thought of it as completing a mission. Her words were a haunting echo in his head. It was the only life I knew. I didn’t think I deserved any better.

His fury reared again, along with a pain that sliced through him as excruciatingly as a surgeon’s scalpel. And he would know as he’d once had a bullet removed from his shoulder. The only thing that had made the agony bearable had been the alternative: had the assassin shot him three inches over, he’d have been dead on the spot.

Even so, he’d take a dozen bullets over knowing that Pandora had been with other men. That she’d not thought herself worthy of a better life. That she’d bartered her beautiful body as if it were naught but a cheap commodity.

Jealousy and rage scalded his insides. For so long, he’d thought of her as exclusively his. His virgin bride, his precious wife, his one and only love. To accept that she’d lain with others and that she’d lied to him about it…

Everything I did was because I loved you so much and knew that you’d never love me back as Pandora Smith.

Bloody hell, would he have married her had he known the truth of her origins and all that she’d done? His gut knotted; he didn’t know the answer. Yet the thought of never having been wed to her, never knowing the love and laughter and passion they’d shared, never having the boys…

His eyes shut, his head falling back against the tub. It was too bloody much to contend with. Pressure roiled in his head, his groin. God, he just needed to release some of his pent-up frustration…

He fisted himself again. He tried to summon up a fantasy that didn’t involve Penny… but it was impossible. From the moment they’d met, she’d been his every desire. His one and only. Cursing himself a fool, he couldn’t deny that the past month hadn’t changed that fact for him one whit. He still lusted after his damned wife. A woman who’d made a fool of him. He frigged himself harder, the water slapping against the tub. Her name wrenched from him in a tortured groan as his pleasure spiked, his balls tautening.

“Marcus?”

His eyes snapped open; his gaze locked with Penny’s through the haze of steam. Heart pounding, his blood rushing hot in his veins, for one disorienting moment, he didn’t know whether this was part of his fantasy or reality. The distinction didn’t become any clearer when she shrugged off her robe, revealing a sensual slip of creamy satin and lace. She untied the bow on her left shoulder, his mouth watering as the bodice fell, revealing one perfect round breast crowned with a ripe cherry nipple. She untied the bow on her other shoulder, and the negligee fell completely to join her robe on the floor.

“I miss you so much,” she whispered.

Hell. Bloody fucking hell.

His vision darkened, and the next instant, he was out of the tub. He didn’t have time to think, didn’t want to. His primal instinct took over, and he reached for what was his.



Relief. Desire. Excitement.

The emotions hit her simultaneously, a barrage that left her breathless.

Her pulse leapt as Marcus stalked toward her, water sluicing off his lean, hard form—and by all that was holy, he was hard everywhere. Her gaze dipped to his groin, and her knees quivered. His cock was huge and thick, boldly erect, his bollocks swinging heavily between his muscled thighs as he prowled towards her. Jerking her gaze back up, she saw his eyes were smoldering and heavy-lidded.

All man, her husband.

Everything she’d ever wanted.

He reached for her at the same time that she reached for him. Their bodies collided, the impact of hard and soft sending a shock of pleasure through her system. His kiss was crushing, equal parts hunger and anger, and she didn’t care. Having him back was more than she deserved. More than she’d hoped for when she made her daring play a moment ago. Moaning, she reached up, winding her arms around his neck, closing the distance between them in the only way she knew how.

An instant later, she was driven backward, her back meeting with hard smooth tile. Her neck arched against the wall as his lips closed around her nipple—not gently as he’d done in the past but with a ferocity that made her gasp aloud. The edge of his teeth grazed her, and her pussy clenched. When he suckled hard, wetness gushed between her legs.

Then his mouth was back on hers, claiming and savage, and the glory of it made her wild. Her fingers tangling in his wet hair, she rubbed herself shamelessly against him, whimpering as her budded nipples dragged against the taut planes of his chest, the wiry hair an exquisite friction. Lower, she felt his poker-hard staff prodding her belly, so she pressed even closer, wanting it, wanting him with every fiber of who she was.

All of a sudden, she was lifted off the ground, her back against the wall, Marcus between her spread legs. His eyes glittering, he notched his cock to her and brought her down on the rearing shaft. All the way. So deep his head nudged her womb. No sooner had the pleasured whimper left her then he did it again, lifting her and slamming her down on his rod.

On the third rise and fall, she flew apart. Her entire being convulsed around the thickness holding her aloft, piercing her very core, the heart of who she was. Through the misty bliss, she heard him grunt, the slapping of flesh as he drove into her again and again. She held onto him, her hands clutching his bunching biceps, her legs circling his flexing hips, so she felt and heard his fulfillment. His powerful body quaked against her, his groan reverberating against the tiles.

Dazed, happy, she inhaled the scent of him, stroked the slick muscles of his back. It was heaven to be with him this way again. Words tumbled through her head.

I love you. I’ve missed you. Forgive me, and I swear I won’t lie to you again.

She searched for the right thing to say.

He pulled out so abruptly that she gasped. Her feet landed on the slippery tiles, and the moment she gained her balance, he let her go. Leaning over, he retrieved her clothes from the ground.

“Get dressed.” He tossed the items at her.

She caught them out of reflex, clutching the satin to her chest. Happiness evaporated the instant she saw Marcus’ face. Hard jaw, harder eyes. He turned from her, and wrapping a towel around his waist, headed for the doorway.

Stunned, she said, “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he said curtly.

“But after we… I mean, we just…” she stammered, “we ought to talk…”

“We fucked, Pandora.” His harsh words cut short her breath. “If you think to manipulate me with your sexual charms, think again. Your wiles no longer work on me. I will take as much time as I want to decide upon our future, and you have no say about it. Now I’m going out. When I return, I’ll expect you back in your own room.”

Silent, her lungs straining for air, she tried to summon a reply.

Brushing past her as if she were invisible, he stalked out.





Chapter Ten



1819



“Milady, it isn’t safe for you—”

“I’ll be quite alright.” Penny cut the footman off in tones that brooked no argument. “Wait here at the carriage. I shall return shortly.”

She headed down the narrow lane framed on both sides by leaning, ramshackle tenements. The air was choked with smoke from cooking fires, and lines of wash crisscrossed overhead, the garments swaying like limp flags of surrender. Poverty was an invincible enemy, but to Penny’s mind, the inhabitants of this small street on the fringes of St. Giles were still fighting the good fight. At least the folk here still bothered to cook and do laundry—which was more than she could say for some of the places she’d lived growing up.

Poor but not yet beaten, she thought, tucking away the information.

As an agent, she’d learned that information was power. A spy was only as good as her informants and the knowledge they passed her way. In the nearly two years that Penny had lived amongst the ton, she’d come to understand that the Upper Crust operated by similar principles and thus her visit today. She found the address she was looking for and, gathering up her pale blue skirts, climbed up the creaky steps.

Arriving at her destination, she rapped her kidskin-covered knuckles against the peeling wood. She heard shuffling from inside, a high-pitched voice quickly shushed. The flat had no windows, not even a peephole on the door.

A voice emerged from the other side of the barrier. “Who is it?”

“The Marchioness of Blackwood,” Penny said.

Silence. The door cracked open. A thin, ginger-haired woman in her twenties peered out, her light brown eyes widening beneath her cap at the sight of Penny.

“Milady,” she stammered and bobbed an uncertain curtsy.

“Miss Randall,” Penny said pleasantly. “I have a proposition to discuss. I’d rather do it indoors, if I may?”

Blinking, the woman stepped aside, and Penny entered, taking in her surroundings at a glance. Seeing as the place consisted of a single cramped room, there wasn’t much to see, and, in truth, the space was much like Miss Randall: destitute and tidy. What drew Penny’s attention was the small table at the center of the room.

Sitting there upon a rickety chair was a young red-haired girl—four or five, by Penny’s guess—working stitches into a piece of cloth. She was a pretty little moppet, her hair tamed into two pristine and elegant braids. She was dressed similarly to her mama in a plain, worn frock that was meticulously patched, pressed, and free of stains. The work of someone who had perfected their craft and would practice it regardless of circumstance.