The Lady Who Came in from the Cold(19)

Yet all had not been smooth sailing. In the past, Marcus had been the even-tempered one in their marriage, the anchor to her occasional (or, more accurately, not infrequent) storms. He’d been her safe harbor, and he’d never been prone to moodiness or irritability. This new Marcus did have moods, however, and they were as changeable as the weather.

Whilst he kept his promise to not lash out at her, he would suddenly grow quiet, distant, his thoughts clearly occupying a dark and gloomy space. She hated his brooding, would prefer a full-fledged row over the tension that could set in at any moment like a deadly frost and wipe out their budding reconciliation. She felt as though she were a performer at Astley’s, walking a tightrope no less treacherous than that of Madame Monique le Magnifique.

At the same time, she didn’t dare to confront him. She’d given her word that she wouldn’t push, and with their truce so new, she didn’t want to drive them into conflict once more. Thus, she forced herself to bide her time and to let him dictate the pace of their rapprochement.

Yet a dangerous feeling was taking root inside her: impatience.

Just this morning, she’d received a note from Sister Agatha, a reply to her plea for counsel. Her old friend’s advice had consisted of two words: Be yourself. But surely Agatha didn’t mean Penny’s true self.

Back when Penny had been Pompeia, the ruthless spy, she’d channeled her innate hotheadedness to her advantage. She’d been bold and daring, taking on perilous missions that others had declined. Since she hadn’t had much to lose, she’d had little to fear. She’d thrown herself fully into any character that she was playing, nothing held back, and she’d played to win. Always.

Twelve years of marriage had tempered this part of her. She’d gotten accustomed to being Marcus’ devoted marchioness, a role she’d chosen and, in truth, delighted in. So much so that it hadn’t bothered her to suppress certain aspects of her old self because having Marcus’ love—the love of the best man she’d ever known—was worth any price.

The fact was that she’d gotten so used to being Lady Blackwood that Pompeia had receded to a figure in the background. A dab of paint on a landscape. This had seemed a blessing since, in all honesty, she’d never liked Pompeia all that much anyway.

Yet now, for some inexplicable reason, that shadow of her former self was back and growing more prominent by the moment. ’Twas as if the spilling of her secrets had resurrected the Pompeia of old: a woman who would not be welcomed in any of the ton’s ballrooms. Who would not have the love of a man as decent and honorable as the Marquess of Blackwood.

But you don’t have his blooming love now anyway, do you?

She blocked out the insidious inner voice, the one that had made itself more and more at home in her head. She didn’t understand why now, after all this time, this unwelcome part of herself had come back. Perhaps the Spectre’s reemergence had stirred up this hornet’s nest. Whatever the cause, she vowed not to give into the hot, reckless impulses that Pompeia inevitably brought in her wake.

Pompeia, for instance, didn’t want to abide by Marcus’ dictate that they must take things slowly. That he should take the lead. No, Pompeia wanted to live by the adage, “Let bygones be bygones.” And she wanted to do so by throwing open the door between their adjoining bedchambers, climbing into her lord’s bed, and claiming what was rightfully hers.

So giving Pompeia free rein? Not an option.

To do so would destroy any chance of finding happiness with Marcus again.

Thus, Penny resolved to stick to her original plan. For two full weeks, she continued to behave as the good, properly contrite wife. And whilst Marcus did not visit her bed, he did at least stay home at nights. Pleasant bantering increased between them, some of their former camaraderie returning. They even passed an evening playing chess (in keeping with her penitent role, she let him win).

Now it was the evening of her much anticipated Winter Ball. ’Twas her chance to show Marcus that she was the perfect marchioness for him. And to show the world that the Blackwood Estrangement was over.

Inspecting herself in the cheval glass, she said, “You don’t think the gown is too much, Jenny?”

“It’s perfect,” the maid declared. “Always said Madame Rousseau was the best modiste in all o’ London, and she outdid ’erself this time. You’re a masterpiece, milady: I han’t seen anything ’alf so beautiful in all my life.”

In commissioning her gown for the ball, Penny had told the modiste to spare no expense, and Madame Rousseau, being both an astute businesswoman and an artiste, had taken her at her word. The dress was constructed of pale ice blue silk, the fabric embellished with hand-sewn seed pearls to create the subtle, swirling effect of snow drifts. The bodice left Penny’s shoulders bare, clinging to her bosom and waist, while the fashionably full skirts cascaded to her matching ice blue slippers.

The crowning achievement of the frock, in her opinion, was its element of surprise. From the front, the gown appeared quite modest; the décolletage, trimmed with a wide band of cerise ribbon, showed only the barest hint of her cleavage (no small feat given that she was rather generously endowed in this area). The other side of the garment, however, took a plunge, both literally and figuratively: it bared the smooth line of her spine, the bright red ribbon coming together in a perfect, elegant bow a hairsbreadth above the small of her back.

The dress was delicious… if a tad daring.

Penny straightened her shoulders. With Jenny’s help, she’d cultivated a style of her own. As the Marchioness of Blackwood, she was known for taking risks when it came to fashion, and her bold style had always borne fruit. Marcus, for one, seemed to take special note of her more seductive gowns. Shivering, she couldn’t count the times they had returned from an evening on the Town and barely made it to one of their bedchambers before he had her bodice pushed down to her waist, her skirts tossed up, his touch scorching and possessive…

You’ve tempted me all night, Penny, and now I get my just reward, he’d growl.

Blooming hell, there’d been times when they hadn’t even made it back to the house. It was a private joke between them that Owen’s lively temperament might be attributed to the fact that he’d been conceived during a rather bouncy carriage ride home from the Opera.

The memory of their prior after-party activities raised her hopes and bolstered her resolve. If everything went as planned tonight, she would have a smashing social success on her hands. Surely Marcus would be impressed by that. And maybe, just maybe, he might be inclined to extend the celebration to a private one of their own afterward…

One could always hope.

“The ruby necklace, milady?” Jenny asked.

She nodded, and the maid secured the heavy spangle of jewels around her neck. The collar of large blood-red rubies connected by cool, glittering diamonds had been a present from Marcus. He’d given it to her on the occasion of their tenth wedding anniversary.

For my wife, whose price is above rubies, he’d murmured in her ear.

Her throat thickened, her fingers brushing against the symbol of his esteem. The esteem she would win back, no matter what. She glanced in the mirror one last time and saw the battle light in her eyes.

“I’m ready,” she said, lifting her chin.

If everything went as planned, tonight’s ball would be the beginning of a fresh start.



Tossing back another glass of champagne, Marcus wished the bloody ball would end.

His gut tightened as he caught sight of Penny surrounded by a circle of admirers, four-fifths of them male. She was laughing, wearing a gown so indecent that it was all he could do not to stalk over and demand that she march upstairs to change. When he’d first watched her descending down the staircase to greet their arriving guests, he’d been struck anew by her loveliness, the juxtaposition of her cool beauty and passionate violet eyes causing his blood to rush.

Then she’d turned around, and his blood had plummeted to one part of his anatomy in particular. Lust bled into fury. Bloody hell, her entire backside was exposed.

By then, he couldn’t do anything about it—at least, not without appearing like a jealous, lovesick husband. The very notion made him want to snarl. He wasn’t going to give their damned guests a show, nor was he going to give Pandora the satisfaction of knowing that she could provoke him into acting like a fool.

If she wanted to display her charms in a manner worthy of a harlot, he thought grimly, then so be it. He would have words with her after the party. But if she made one untoward move tonight, if her behavior even edged toward impropriety… His hands balled at his sides.

“That’s twice.”

Carlisle’s grim tones yanked him from his brooding. The viscount was standing next to him, watching dancers whirl by to a Scottish air, looking even less happy than Marcus felt.

“Twice?” Marcus said.

“Wick has danced with that damned chit two times,” Carlisle clarified.

Marcus followed the direction of his friend’s gaze.

Sure enough, Carlisle’s younger brother, Wickham Murray, was cutting a swath through the dance floor. A great favorite of the ladies, Murray was a dashing Adonis type, his tall, muscular form clad in the latest fashion. Marcus recognized his present partner as Miss Violet Kent, younger sister to the Duchess of Strathaven. Murray and Miss Kent made a dashing pair. As Marcus watched, Murray led the dark-haired miss into a particularly energetic spin, their shared laughter eliciting looks from the others around them.