“Is there a problem with him dancing with Miss Kent?” Marcus said.
“Ten thousand of them, to be precise.” Carlisle’s features were set in foreboding lines. “My brother is in debt, and as I’m in no position to get him out of it, for once he’ll have to take care of his own affairs. Which means he ought to be courting an heiress and not some middling class hoyden with aspirations to respectability.”
Marcus noticed the whispers emanating from a gaggle of ladies posted by a nearby potted palm. Their fans beating the air in titillated synchrony, they were clearly taking note of and delighting in Carlisle’s every word.
Lowering his voice—and hoping his friend would take the cue—Marcus said, “Miss Kent is quite respectable: she is the sister-in-law of a duke and a marquess.”
“Unless her dowry exceeds twenty thousand—trust me, Wickham will need at least that much of a cushion—I don’t care if she’s related to the King himself.” The viscount’s lips curled in disdain. “Moreover, my brother needs a suitable wife to keep him in line, and I’m quite certain that chit,”—he cast a pointed glance at Miss Kent, who was flushed and laughing from yet another risqué spin—“can’t even spell propriety, let alone put it into practice.”
This time, gasps rose from the eavesdropping ladies, loud enough that they caught the viscount’s attention. He narrowed his eyes at them, and they quickly waddled away, skirts rustling and palavering behind their fluttering fans.
“For a man averse to scandal,” Marcus remarked dryly, “you’ve just provided enough fodder to satisfy the gossips for weeks.”
“I was speaking the truth. If that’s fodder, so be it.” The viscount scowled. “This is precisely why I detest such social functions—no offense.”
“None taken.”
Especially since Marcus happened to be in agreement as it pertained to this particular ball. His gaze honed in on Pandora once again, and the pressure in his veins shot up dangerously. The Earl of Edgecombe had joined her circle, and, as he did so, the bastard placed a hand on the small of her back.
Another man was touching his wife. The bugger’s paw rested for an instant too long above the scarlet bow on her back—the one that beckoned like a gift to be unwrapped—before he removed it. Yet the damage was done. The scars flared on Marcus’ brain: Pierre Chenet, Jean-Philippe Martin, Vincent Barone. Images of Penny being touched by those faceless others, moaning beneath them, made him burn beneath his collar. Savage instinct roared over him.
“You might want to rethink that.” Carlisle gripped his arm, holding him back.
“He touched her.” They all did. Rage quivered in his muscles.
“For only a moment, and Edgecomb would claim it was innocent. Now do you really wish to make a scene over a trifle like that? Do you want to appear like a jealous husband tied to your lady’s apron strings?”
Carlisle’s words penetrated his miasma of fury. It took everything he had, but Marcus willed himself to calm.
“I thought you said things were improved between the two of you,” the viscount said.
Marcus pulled his jacket back into place. He wanted to punch something. Namely the face of the bastard standing next to his wife, peering down her blasted bodice. “They are.”
“Right.” The other’s lips twisted. “This is why I’ll never marry for love. Things may be good or they may be bad, but either way you wind up looking like a fool.”
“You’re not helping matters,” Marcus said through his teeth.
“Of course I am. If it weren’t for me, you’d be bashing in Edgecombe’s skull, and trust me, the bastard’s noggin doesn’t need further damage. He’s stupid enough as it is. Now you want my advice?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Ignore her. Go be a host. You don’t need to air your laundry in front of the entire ton.”
Carlisle had a point. Expelling a breath, Marcus got himself back under control. Carry on. Don’t look like an idiot in front of the world. He scanned the ballroom—and saw Lady Cora Ashley waving at him.
“You’re right,” he said. “Care to join me in greeting some guests?”
“No, thank you. I’ve seen all I can stomach for the evening.” Bowing, Carlisle said, “Good luck and good night, my friend.”
The viscount went one way and Marcus the other.
Chapter Fifteen
The ball was turning into a nightmare.
To make matters worse, Penny was at present cornered by her mama-in-law.
“You do have a way with parties,” Lady Aileen, the dowager Marchioness of Blackwood, said. “This ball appears to be no exception.”
The tiny, wrinkled lady waved the jeweled knob of her walking stick to indicate the winter wonderland Penny had spent weeks creating. Through the years, Penny had learned that success lay in the details, in setting a scene that contained the comfort of the familiar as well as the element of surprise. In this way, entertaining was not so very different from her work as an agent.
For tonight’s event, she’d had evergreen branches and silver ribbons festooned across the high ceiling. Potted palms had been painted by hand to give the appearance of frost on the fronds, and icicles made of glass tinkled on the branches. The finest food and drink flowed freely.
“’Tis fortunate that my son’s pockets are sufficiently deep to support your hobby,” the dowager went on.
Penny had been waiting for the dig. As always, any compliment from the old harpy was double-edged. The passing years and the three grandsons Penny had produced had eased but not taken away the friction between her and Lady Aileen. Secretly, she suspected that the termagant was bored and enjoyed their feisty exchanges, and she, for her part, gave as good as she got. At times, this resulted in warfare, but overall the two managed to coexist without too much bloodshed. They did this for the sake of the man they both loved.
Swallowing, Penny snuck another peak at Marcus. Normally, the sight of him so starkly handsome in his formal wear elicited a tingle of feminine satisfaction, but tonight hurt and frustration bubbled inside her. She’d done her very best to please her husband… and he was acting like a blooming ass. He’d ignored her all evening and currently stood several yards away, entertaining a group of insipid ladies who hung upon his every word.
Cora Ashley was amongst them. Dressed in a delicate shade of pink, the blonde stood across from Marcus, batting her false eyelashes at him. As usual, her husband, the Earl of Ashley, was nowhere to be seen.
“What is going on between you and my son?”
The blunt words jerked Penny’s attention back to the dowager, who was studying her with narrowed blue eyes that were a faded version of Marcus’.
“Nothing.” Penny refused to give her mama-in-law the satisfaction.
“Utter claptrap. I may be old, but I am not stupid. In the past, Marcus never left your side for more than a half-hour at most, yet tonight he’s acting as if he doesn’t notice your existence.” Before Penny could recover from the humiliating knowledge that Marcus’ contempt of her was visible to all, Lady Aileen swept a glance over her from head to toe and announced, “It’s the gown. Dear heavens, did you forget half of it upstairs? No man wishes his wife to be dressed like a strumpet, my dear.”
Even as Penny’s blood boiled, she kept a polite expression pasted on her face. Her marriage with Marcus was none of the other’s business. And the last thing she was going to do was take fashion advice from the dowager; the old mort wore her trademark black from head to toe, and if she traded her walking stick for a scythe, then the look would be complete.
Furthermore, not being an idiot, Penny didn’t need her mama-in-law to point out that Marcus’ behavior was due to her dress; his expression had grown as dark as thunderclouds when he saw the back of it. Or the lack of the back of it. But it had been too late for her to don another frock, and, moreover, it would fuel gossip amongst the guests if she ran off to change the very garment they were complimenting.
Thus, while Penny could admit that she’d made a miscalculation on her wardrobe choice, she couldn’t stem her billowing anger. In the past, Marcus had liked her chic gowns, even if they were a bit daring. How was she supposed to know that his entire bleeding personality had changed? She couldn’t read his mind, and instead of talking to her, he’d absented himself from her side all evening.
“Madame Rousseau assures me the gown is all the rage in Paris,” Penny said.
Lady Aileen sniffed. “Yes, well, that says something about the French, doesn’t it?”
“It says they have an excellent eye for fashion,” Penny said through clenched teeth.
“And I have an excellent eye for my son’s mood. If I were you, I’d go straight upstairs, my girl, and change into something more suitable.”
If Penny had harbored even a spark of an inclination to change her dress, it was snuffed out by the fact that her mama-in-law had suggested it.
“I’m fine as I am.” She drew her shoulders back.
“You shall reap what you sow. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The vultures,”—the dowager pointed her cane at the horde around Marcus—“are circling as we speak.”