His words sliced through her; shame bled out.
“I did… I did what I had to do,” she whispered.
“You had to lie to me? In twelve years, not once have you mentioned that you were involved in this filthy business. Damnation.” He dragged his hands through his hair, his expression going from angry to ravaged. “On our wedding night, you acted like you were a virgin. Was that… was that just an act?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”
“There was blood on the sheets. How did it get there?” he roared.
A tremor travelled through her. In all their years together, Marcus had never raised his voice at her. But she was stripped bare now; there was nothing left to yield but the truth.
“It was chicken blood,” she whispered.
Blue flames leapt in his eyes, and then he was looking at her as if she were something he’d scraped off his shoe. As if he were seeing her for the first time—and what he saw disgusted him. She didn’t blame him. Even as self-revulsion made her stomach roil, she stumbled to her feet, held out a pleading hand.
“I was wrong to deceive you, Marcus. What I did was unforgivable. But I did all of it because I loved you so much—”
“Love?” Never had the word sounded ugly coming from his lips, but now it cracked like a whip. “Pandora—if that is even your name—you don’t know what love is. If you did, you would not have betrayed me from the moment we met.”
She’d faced death more than once, and yet her fear now made all past experiences fade to nothingness. Terror filled her lungs, closed over her head, waves and waves of it. Frantically, she fought to stay afloat.
“We’ve been happy. All I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy.” Tears streaming down her face, she touched his sleeve. “Please, Marcus, I can make things right—”
He shook her off as if her very touch disgusted him.
“Don’t,” he clipped out. “It’s too late.”
“T-too late?” Her voice quivered.
“Our marriage is a lie. All of it. Nothing was real.”
His cold, flat words punched harder than any fist. Shaking her head in denial, she said, “No, that’s not true. I love you. And the children—”
“I will decide what to tell them—once I decide what to do with you.”
Dread squeezed her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.
He turned and headed toward the door.
“Wait,” she croaked. “Where are you going?”
“That is none of your business.” He spoke with his back to her. “From now on, nothing I do concerns you.”
The door slammed behind him.
Alone, her strength left her. She sank to her knees, and everything she’d held back came rushing to the fore. The torrents swept over her, and for once in her life, she was lost.
Chapter Four
1817
Marcus Harrington leaned on the balcony railing and, for the first time that evening, breathed freely. The night air was cool and carried the budding scents of spring. Although lofty Mayfair rooftops crowded all around him, at least here he could see the sky, which calmed his inner restlessness. He slid a finger under his collar, loosening the life-threatening grip of his fashionable cravat. The roar of a ball in full swing seeped through the glass panes of the double doors, even though he’d closed them for privacy. He’d wanted a moment away from the mayhem. From the relentless, monotonous blur of gaiety.
Funny how he’d spent more than a decade of his life in army camps and barracks and during those last years all he’d wanted was to be back in civilization. To be away from the horrors of the battlefield. And now, two years after Waterloo, he was back. For good. He’d sold his commission when his older brother James died, leaving him the title.
Grief panged. Marcus had seen more than his fair share of death, and, even so, witnessing James struggle with that wasting disease, an invisible opponent that had worn his strong, vital brother down to skin and bones and then even less, had been devastating. If life was fair, James ought to still be alive, still the Marquess of Blackwood, standing where Marcus was.
But life wasn’t fair.
Thus, James had been buried in the cold earth for over a year now while Marcus wore the title like an ill-fitting castoff. He’d never had his brother’s charismatic personality, hadn’t been groomed to be a lord, and the years fighting abroad had made him even less suited to be a marquess. What he’d thought would be a homecoming turned out to be yet another foray into foreign territory.
He was a military man: he had no idea how to carry on as a nobleman. He had no penchant for the activities that made up a fashionable life. As far as he was concerned, clothing was to keep one warm and covered without getting in one’s way, and gambling and drinking to excess were a waste of time and money. Doing social rounds and making idle chitchat held even less appeal, and he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do with the townhouse and coterie of servants he’d inherited.
That’s why you need a wife, my boy—to help you settle into a routine, his mama had said. Despite her grief over her eldest, she roused herself from mourning to give Marcus a lecture at every opportunity. Miss Pilkington is perfect for you. Good ton, pretty as she can stare, and an heiress to boot. You can’t do better. What are you waiting for?
He supposed his mother was right. Cora Pilkington, daughter of the evening’s hosts, was an ideal candidate. Blonde and demure, she had perfect manners and a spotless reputation, earning her the status of a Diamond of the First Water. During their chaperoned visits, she’d proved to be charming company… if a bit overzealous in her admiration of his wartime actions. He’d proceeded with a slow, cautious courtship over the past three months, and her father, Charles Pilkington III, had made clear that an offer from Marcus would be heartily accepted.
All Marcus had to do was take that final step. Society thought the marriage a fait accompli already, and he didn’t know why he balked. He was no rake, attached to fantasies of bachelorhood. No, he wanted to be married and to start a nursery. Cora was the rational choice. And if the idea of marrying her failed to stir elation in him… well, that had to be his own failing, not hers.
His brother wouldn’t have been ruled by sentiment. A lord down to his very bones, James had always known his duty and done the right thing. If he’d concluded that Cora would make a perfect Marchioness of Blackwood, he would have married her forthwith.
As their mama would put it, No use shilly-shallying about.
Marcus resolved to talk to Miss Pilkington’s father soon.
The orchestra suddenly grew in volume, voices swelling. He turned to see the double doors opening… and then a vision appeared. A woman so beautiful that longing began to throb in his chest, a hidden wound he never knew he had. His flesh and blood wound, the scar from a sniper’s bullet, tautened on his left shoulder as awareness sizzled through him.
“Oh… hello,” she said.
By Jove, even her voice was beautiful. Sultry, like her lustrous raven tresses, yet sweet like her rose-tinted lips. Mystery and innocence wrapped in one perfect package. When she smiled, his breath lodged in his throat.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” she went on. “It seems you were here first. I was just looking for some privacy, but perhaps,”—although her tone was apologetic, her eyes sparkled with humor—“I am merely depriving you of yours?”
Stop gawking and say something, you idiot.
“The balcony is large enough to accommodate the both of us,” he managed.
She rewarded him with another smile before coming to lean her gloved arms on the balustrade next to him. Her pose was relaxed and companionable, as casual as if they were two soldiers sharing a break on the battlements. Peering into the darkness, she did the most remarkable thing: closing her eyes, she leaned into the night and inhaled deeply. His blood pumped thickly at the unaffected sensuality of her actions. Moonlight shimmered over her flawless skin and the luscious bounty of her décolletage. It glinted off the sparkling threads shot through the fabric of her gown, the elegant white column an ode to her nubile form.
“Honeysuckle.”
At the throaty word, he hastily yanked his gaze up from her voluptuous bottom. “Er, pardon?”
Her long, sooty lashes swept against dark, curving brows. Though the darkness obscured the precise color of her eyes, he guessed they were some rich shade—blue, maybe. There was no hiding the glimmer of amusement in them.
“Honeysuckle,” she repeated. “Do you smell it?”
He blinked. He hadn’t been paying attention before, but now he sniffed the air, and there it was: a sweet and subtle scent. “Yes,” he said with surprise. “I do.”
“There’s musk rose too. And…” Her bosom rose delightfully as she inhaled again.
“Eglantine,” he finished for her.
“Yes, that’s it.” Her smile made heat bloom in his gut. “A uniquely English combination. I’ve just returned from living abroad, you see, so I notice these things.”
She was newly arrived in London then, which explained why he’d never met her before. It was inconceivable that he could have laid eyes on this woman and not noticed her. Questions burst into his head like a flock of birds at the crack of a gun—and belatedly, he realized he didn’t even know her name. His sense of propriety had abandoned him, along with his capacity for rational thought.