The Lady Who Came in from the Cold(34)

Marcus shoved her off. The next instant, he was prowling over to Penny. Yanking off his jacket, he placed it gently on her shoulders.

He cupped her jaw. “What happened, darling?”

Flames smoldered in his eyes, but his touch and voice were gentle. His rage wasn’t at her. It wasn’t at her. Relief dissolved the starch in her knees, and she would have fallen had he not caught her around the waist, steadying her against his solid strength.

“The punch,” she managed. “I think… it was drugged. The next thing I knew, I woke up here.”

Hell-fire leapt in his eyes. “Can you stand on your own?” he bit out.

She nodded.

He spun to face the footman, who, obviously sensing the direction the wind was blowing, had scrambled to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him as he backed away.

“Now look here, my lord. It wasn’t my fault. Your wife wanted it—”

Marcus’ fist flew out, connecting with a loud crack.

“My nose! You’ve broken my bleeding nose—” The footman groaned, doubling over from the punch to his ribs.

“I’m going to kill you, you bastard,” Marcus snarled.

The footman tried to fight back. His attempts were as ineffectual as a cat batting its paws at a lion—and an enraged king of the jungle at that. Stumbling back from another of Marcus’ powerful blows, he gasped, “It wasn’t my fault. It was Lady Ashley’s. Promised me a hundred quid, she did, to drug the punch. To set this all up.”

Anger swept through Penny, clearing away some of her wooziness. She’d guessed as much, but hearing confirmation of Cora’s vile plot made her hands curl at her sides. Cora’s cheeks were as pallid as her dress, her eyes darting, and, without a word, she dashed out of the gallery.

Marcus had the servant by the neck, pinning him to the wall. “What drug was used?”

“Just a sleeping draught,” the bastard gasped. “The mistress uses it herself, said it wouldn’t harm the lady. Just put double the dose, she said, and bring her up to the gallery and make it look like a tryst. Nothing happened, I swear. I was just following orders—”

Marcus’ fist plowed into the footman’s jaw, and, with a feeble moan, the latter slid down the wall, crumpled and unconscious.

Marcus strode over to Penny. The battle light hadn’t left his eyes, and she knew the effort it cost him to gentle his voice as he said, “Let’s get you dressed and out of here.”

She nodded, and he helped her into her gown, straightening her coiffure.

“Ready?” he said.

“Yes. Marcus?”

“Yes, love?”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He touched her cheek, self-recrimination darkening his eyes. “Don’t thank me. It’s my fault. I should have protected you—I just never guessed that Cora Ashley would be capable of such deviousness.”

Cora’s maliciousness didn’t surprise Penny at all… but she decided to let it go.

For now.

“Thank you for rescuing me anyway,” she said softly. “Most of all, thank you for trusting me.”

Some of the brooding left his gaze. Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he touched the ruby necklace at her throat.

“Don’t you know that your worth is beyond compare, Penny? I trust and love you with everything that I am,” he said.

She didn’t know how she’d come to deserve such a husband. But he was hers. All hers.

“I love you so much, Marcus.” Her eyes welled, her balance wavering.

He swept her up into his arms. Kissed her tenderly. “Let’s go home.”





Epilogue



Several days later, on Christmas Day, the Blackwoods’ drawing room was the site of cozy pandemonium. Against Marcus’ wishes—he’d been adamant that Penny should stay in bed and rest after her ordeal—Penny had arranged a little party. She’d wanted to celebrate the holiday with their closest friends and family.

Now she was sitting with Emma and Thea at a window seat, watching as plump snowflakes drifted lazily outside. Inside, the fire leapt merrily, conversation and children’s laughter flowing through the halls, the scent of gingerbread and spiced Yuletide posset warming the air.

“Thank goodness you’ve recovered,” Thea said.

“I feel absolutely fine.” Penny gave a wry smile. “In fact, I slept like a babe the day after the Ashleys’ ball, and now I’m more rested than I’ve been in ages.”

“I cannot believe the sheer maliciousness of Cora Ashley.” Emma’s chestnut curls bobbed as she shook her head. “Imagine hatching such a devious plot.”

“At least her punishment fits the crime,” Thea said philosophically.

The day after the party, an incensed Marcus had gone to speak with Lord Ashley. He’d informed the earl of his countess’ transgressions, and, according to Marcus’ report, Ashley’s reaction had been neither shocked nor even particularly caring.

I’ll take care of it, the earl had said in a bored voice.

Three days after that, Cora Ashley had been shipped off to a distant property in Ireland. According to the on dit, there was no return date. Privately, Marcus told Penny that he thought it was good riddance, and Cora deserved her banishment.

Penny, for her part, wasn’t quite as magnanimous as Marcus. The bloody wench had drugged her, set her up, and tried to steal her husband: to her mind, that merited a fair bit more than some jaunt in the Irish countryside. Which was why she’d had a little gift planted in the lady’s carriage. Just a dozen or so of Cora’s favorite eight-legged friends to keep her company on the road.

Feeling generous, however, Penny hadn’t included any poisonous varieties.

See? She had turned over a new leaf.

“I’m just thankful that no scandal has resulted from all of this,” she said. “I shudder to think what might have happened if anyone else had come upon that dreadful scene.”

Even though she had the precious gift of Marcus’ trust, the last thing she wanted was to drag the Blackwood name through the mud. Especially since she and her mama-in-law were on peculiarly good terms these days. Upon arrival today, the old dragon had inspected her up and down and then patted her on the cheek, saying gruffly, “Always knew you were a hardy bloom, my dear. Just like me. Now fetch me some of that Yuletide posset—and mind you don’t skimp on the Madeira.”

“As for the lack of scandal, you might have Violet to thank,” Emma muttered.

“Violet?” Penny said in surprise. “What does she have to do with this?”

Emma and Thea exchanged glances.

“I must have your most solemn promise that you won’t tell anyone else—except your husband, of course,” Emma said.

Growing more intrigued by the moment, Penny nodded.

Thea leaned forward, her voice hushed. “You do know what happened to Viscount Carlisle at the Ashleys’ Ball?”

She did. The whole ton did.

Somehow, the proud and dignified Scotsman had managed to land on his arse… in the champagne fountain. How the mighty had fallen.

“I heard he created quite a splash.” Penny couldn’t help herself.

Emma gave her a wry look. “You and every tattle rag in London have used that line. At any rate, his mishap proved advantageous in one respect: it drew the attention away from Cora Ashley’s machinations upstairs. Everyone was focused on Carlisle’s accident and took no notice of your departure.”

“The only problem is,” Thea said in a whisper, “we don’t think it was an accident.”

“It wasn’t?” Penny said, puzzled.

“Violet had something to do with it,” Emma said.

“Never say she pushed Carlisle into the fountain?” A startled laugh escaped Penny.

Gnawing on her lower lip, Emma said, “Vi wouldn’t give us the exact details, but she was quite distressed over the whole business.”

“And it takes a lot to distress Violet,” Thea said, her hazel eyes brimming with concern.

“Oh, dear.” Sobering, Penny hoped that disaster didn’t lay in wait. She couldn’t imagine a more unlikely and volatile pairing than between the reckless hoyden and the haughty Scot. “You don’t think there’s anything... well, going on between your sister and Carlisle? I thought she was enamored of his younger brother Wickham?”

“You never know with Violet,” the duchess said with a sigh. “Which is precisely why we’re worried.”



Later on that evening, Marcus cuddled Penny against his side. They were in bed, naked, their skin still warm and damp from the exertions of their recent lovemaking. Although, in truth, his wife had done most of the work. He traced the sweet shape of her lips and decided he wanted the same thing for Christmas every year.

As if reading his thoughts, Penny murmured against his chest, “Merry Christmas, Lord Blackwood.”

“Merry Christmas, Lady Blackwood.” He played with a long raven tress.

“What did you think of the party? Did you enjoy it?”

Smiling, he said, “It was splendid. You did a marvelous job, love. Although next year I vote we do away with the Twelfth cake.”

To entertain the children, his wife had decided to buck tradition and serve a Twelfth cake on Christmas Day. Embedded in the beautifully iced confection had been a small golden crown: the guest who found the crown in his or her slice got to be king or queen for the day, with the accompanying right to order around the other guests.