Carlisle rose from one of them. The Scot was a tall fellow, dark-haired with saturnine features. “Blackwood, welcome.” He raised a brow. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yes, sorry. I ought to have sent word. If it’s a bad time—”
“Nonsense. Come sit. We’ll have a drink,” Carlisle said.
Once they were both settled in the wingchairs, whiskies in hand, Marcus addressed the situation. “How bad are things?” he said quietly.
“They’re not ideal at the moment.” Carlisle took a drink.
The Scot was the king of understatement. In fact, his sardonic wit coupled with an intensely private nature had earned him a reputation for being standoffish. Marcus, however, had known the other for the better part of a decade and, when it came down to it, couldn’t name a more honorable gentleman. It was a little known fact that Carlisle had inherited a financial disaster, and he’d taken on the Sisyphean task of reversing the family fortune. He rarely spoke of it and never complained. Just dealt with one crisis after another and carried on.
He was the kind of man you’d want at your back in battle—and that wasn’t a compliment Marcus gave easily. Still, the viscount could be hard-headed and prickly when it came to his pride, as likely to welcome assistance as he would a bullet to the brain.
Nonetheless, Marcus had to try. Leaning forward, he said, “If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I’ve got it in hand.”
Typical Carlisle.
“Unfortunately,” the Scot went on, “our options for the evening are rather limited. This,”—he pointed at the whiskey bottle—“will be our main entertainment, I’m afraid.”
Marcus downed the contents of his glass. It didn’t drown out his demons: hell, there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to do that. Just like that, his rage broke the surface.
It was bad enough that Pandora had been a spy. Like most Englishmen, he viewed espionage with distrust and not a little disdain. It was a dishonorable activity—a necessary evil, perhaps, but evil nonetheless. To think that the woman he’d married had been involved in such disgraceful business… he could scarcely credit it. Didn’t want to.
Even worse, he had to confront the fact that his wife—his Penny—had given herself freely before their marriage. Had used her body to play despicable games and then pretended to be a virgin on their wedding night. Acid scalded his gut as the memory surfaced of their wedding trip at his cottage in the Cotswolds.
The morning after their first night together, he’d just returned from washing up. Penny was puttering behind the dressing screen, and he sat on the bed, waiting for her. Marveling at the passion that had nigh set his marital bed aflame—and wondering if his new bride might be up for another tumble before breakfast. But then his gaze caught on the stains: large reddish-brown splotches amidst the rumpled sheets. Remorse struck him like a thunderbolt.
“Marcus, is that you? I was thinking that after breakfast we might take a walk…” Penny rounded the screen, stopping as her gaze met his. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He went to her, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.
“Forgive me, my love,” he muttered.
“Forgive you? Whatever for?”
For being a selfish ass. For not realizing that my pleasure meant your pain.
“I hurt you.” Self-loathing roughened his voice. “I’m sorry, Penny. I never meant to.”
“Hurt me? Oh…” Her lashes lowered. She bit her lip. “It wasn’t that bad. Truly.”
“I don’t want it to be bad at all. You know that, don’t you?” He tipped her chin up, relief and tenderness bursting in his chest at the love and trust he saw in her violet eyes. Thank God his carelessness hadn’t damaged her faith in him. Humbled, he vowed, “I swear it’ll get better. I’ll make it better for you.”
She smiled at him, and he didn’t know how she could after he’d been such a brute—so consumed by his own desire that he hadn’t sensed that she must have been hurting. In truth, he’d believed that she’d enjoyed their lovemaking every bit as much as he had, those little moans she’d made, the sweet bite of her nails against his back—
“No time like the present, darling.” She stunned him by rising on her toes, putting her arms around his neck, and whispering in his ear, “There’s plenty of time before breakfast.”
The memory faded, but this time it wasn’t poignant gratitude that it left in its wake but a bitterness that wouldn’t recede. Bile lingered in his throat, his hands clenching around the arms of the chair.
I adored you, thought you were my soulmate. Damn you for deceiving me. For making me the world’s biggest dupe.
“What is the matter with you, Blackwood?”
Carlisle’s words punctured his silent seething.
He pulled air into his lungs. “Nothing.”
“You look like you swallowed glass.”
“I’m tired. It was a long ride,” he said curtly.
“Which you took on horseback, without valet or belongings. No protection either—even with the risk of highwaymen lurking about.”
Perhaps he ought to have gone somewhere more welcoming. Perdition, for example.
“Never known you to pry,” he said, his jaw taut.
“Never known you to arrive unannounced on my doorstep looking like something the cat dragged in.”
“Thank you for your hospitality.” Marcus shoved up from his chair. “I’ll be on my way—”
“Don’t be a damned fool. Sit. If you don’t want to talk, fine.”
“Fine.” Marcus returned his arse to the seat, staring moodily into the flames.
After a moment, his host said, “How’s the lovely Lady Blackwood?”
“Devil take you, Carlisle.”
“Probably.” The viscount raised an inquisitive brow.
With his elbows on his knees, Marcus dragged his hands through his hair, tugging at his scalp. Suddenly, it was all too much for his alcohol-infused and sleep-deprived brain to contain.
“I’ve left her,” he blurted.
“Ah.” Carlisle didn’t sound too surprised. “Any particular reason?”
She was a bloody spy. Slept with three men that I know of. Lied to me—about everything… God, was our marriage a mere cover? A way for her to hide from her past?
His mind reeled, his gust twisting at the possibilities, all of them ugly. “Our relationship is based on a lie,” he said starkly.
“That’s marriage for you. Fidelity, death-do-us-part, promises to obey.” The other’s mouth had a cynical edge. “All vows meant to be broken.”
In his early thirties, Carlisle remained a stalwart bachelor.
“It’s worse than that.” Through the haze of anger and alcohol, Marcus nonetheless found that he couldn’t betray the truth of Pandora’s past. He couldn’t betray her—that was rich. The fact that he still felt protective of her only made him more furious. “I won’t get into the details of it, but she wed me under false pretenses. And everything since—our lives, our home, our children.” His voice hoarsened as he thought of his sons. Dear God, how were they going to be affected by all of this? “All of it was conceived from a lie.”
“Fruit of the poisonous tree?”
He gave a rough nod. Taking the bottle Carlisle silently handed him, he refilled his glass and tossed back the drink. He had a glimpse of the chaos, the churning devastation beneath the waves of rage, and he… he couldn’t go there. Couldn’t contemplate the reality that his marriage—his entire life as he knew it—was no more than a falsehood. A mirage of such joy that agony speared him at the thought of losing it.
But he couldn’t lose it, could he?
Because he’d never had it in the first place.
He downed the liquid, the burn nothing compared to his inner inferno.
“What are you going to do?” Carlisle said.
In answer, Marcus sloshed more liquor into his glass.
“Are you planning on taking legal action?” his friend prodded.
His jaw clenched. On his ride over, crazed thoughts had whipped through his mind, and they’d included legal remedies that were within his right to pursue. Seeing as Pandora had wed him under fraudulent pretenses, he could seek an annulment… but any offspring of an annulled marriage would become illegitimate. His sons would lose their status and their inheritance. Under no circumstances would he do that to them.
That left divorce. This option was only marginally better. The scandal that would ensue would taint all of his family—including the boys—forever.
In the best scenario, they’d all become fodder for gossip, a laughingstock; in the worst, his family would become social pariahs. And for what? So that he could get retribution? His pound of flesh? His temples pounded with the truth: there was no remedy for what Pandora had done to him.
She’d ripped his heart out, drawn and quartered his very soul.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He swigged the rest of his spirits.
“From where I’m sitting, you have two options. End your marriage—or learn to live with it.” Carlisle paused, cocking his head. “Did she tell you why she did it?”