The Lady Who Came in from the Cold(7)

“Why she did what?”

“Lied to you.”

“I didn’t ask,” he snapped. “It was enough that she did—for twelve bloody years.”

Carlisle raised his brows. “Point taken. In my experience, however, having full possession of the facts aids the rendering of any decision. Up to you, of course. You’re welcome to mull over matters here as long as you like.”

Marcus jerked his chin in sullen thanks.

“I’ve just remembered. I’ve got a deck of cards lying about somewhere. How about a game?”

“Capital.” Anything was better than continuing the conversation.

As Carlisle hunted for the elusive deck, Marcus rubbed his temples, willing the pounding to stop. Somehow he’d have to find a way to lock down his emotions—his rage in particular—so that he could think clearly about the future. It struck him that never before in his life had he had difficulty making calm, rational decisions. During the war, he’d been known for having a cool head and ice in his veins during the most catastrophic of situations.

Hell, twice in his life he’d come within Death’s crosshairs. In Toulouse, during the capture and securing of critical enemy ground, a sniper’s bullet had sliced through his left shoulder. Had the enemy’s aim been true, he’d be dead. Same thing near Quatre Bras, only that time the shot had whizzed right by his ear.

Both times he’d been mere inches from losing his life… and when those moments had passed and he’d found himself still breathing, he’d picked himself up and soldiered on. It was what he did—who he was.

Never before had he lost that will to carry on. To confront reality and do what had to be done. Anguish festered around the pain. Damn you, Penny. Damn you for that as well.

Carlisle dragged his chair over and set a tattered pack on the side table.

“Do you want to deal or shall I?” the Scot said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Marcus said dully.

Thanks to his wife’s perfidy, nothing did. Not any longer.





Chapter Six



“Papa’s home!”

At her youngest son Owen’s happy shout, butterflies swarmed in Pandora’s belly. She forced a smile. “Yes, dearest. Now come here and let me fix your hair. You don’t want Papa to see you looking like you’ve just been in a wrestling match, do you?”

Not one to hold still, her five-year-old son squirmed as she attempted to smooth down his wild mop of ebony curls. In appearance and manner, he took after her.

“Ethan was wrestling too,” Owen pointed out.

“Yes, but I won,” Ethan said loftily. Her middle child had her eyes and Marcus’ gilded brown hair. “And I didn’t have to muss up my hair doing so.”

“You didn’t win! I only stopped wrestling because I heard Papa’s carriage—”

“Quiet, you two.” The imperious command came from her eldest son James. At eleven, Jamie had his father’s serious mien and a tall, gangly build that would one day be as muscular as his sire’s. “Papa has been gone a fortnight on important business. He shan’t want to be greeted with pandemonium on the home front,” he advised his brothers.

Shame and gratitude tightened Pandora’s throat as she thought of Marcus’ letter to the boys. Ever the good father, he’d written them with the excuse that he’d been called away on urgent business so that they wouldn’t worry. So they wouldn’t know the truth of what had transpired between their parents: the rift that her lies had caused.

Now he was home, and she didn’t know what to expect. Didn’t know if the time apart would prove her enemy or her ally. All she knew was that the two weeks of separation—the longest of their marriage—had been hell for her.

She hadn’t been able to eat or sleep. For years, she hadn’t had a nightmare; happiness and the security of falling asleep every night in Marcus’ arms had walled off the old terror, but now it had broken through. Three times in the past fortnight, she’d awoken gasping against the leather glove, the cold stone of the alleyway against her back, the scent of crushed violets mingling with blood…

During the day, she was able to shove the memories back into the locked box where they belonged. She tried to keep up a cheerful front for the sake of the children; inside she was hollow, gutted out by an abundance of tears she hadn’t known she could weep and the overwhelming terror that she’d destroyed everything. She still didn’t understand why the truth had leaked from her like the fester from a boil… Shivering, she counted herself lucky that the worst of it hadn’t emerged.

Sickly shame trickled through her. Only three others had knowledge of her most dark and despicable secret. One was her dearest confidante Flora. The second was Octavian, who’d given her the tools to put an end to her powerlessness. The third was dead and, she hoped, burning for an eternity in hell.

That part of your past is done. Focus on the future. On making things right with Marcus.

Like any good spy, she knew when the game was up and there was no longer any place to hide. She had to give her husband the truth—everything except that which would make him despise her further. She would beg his forgiveness; if he could give her another chance, she would make amends in whatever ways he would allow. There were no excuses for her deceptions. She could only explain that everything she’d done had been because she’d fallen in love with him—because she’d known that a gentleman like him could never love a woman like her in return.

Yes, she could give Marcus most of the truth. In the best case scenario, he might be able to forgive her for her lowly origins, for being a spy, perhaps even for deceiving him about her sexual experience. But if he were to discover how sullied she truly was…

Fear and self-disgust washed over her. No, he must never find out about that. If he did, whatever love he had for her would surely die for good then, and that was a consequence she couldn’t live with.

As his familiar, precise footsteps sounded in the hallway, anticipation palpitated in her. She had the panicky wish that she’d taken more care with her toilette this morning. She knew she looked haggard from yet another restless night. If she’d known that he would be returning today, she would have applied subtle cosmetic to hide the dark circles under her eyes, the hollows beneath her cheekbones. She wished she’d worn her best morning gown, the lavender silk with the lace trim and seed pearls embroidered on the bodice—

As if paint and a dress are going to bail you out of this disaster. Don’t be stupid. Focus.

The door to the drawing room opened, and Marcus walked in. Her chest squeezed at the sight of her beloved. Unlike her own appearance, his seemed to be entirely unaffected by their fortnight apart. He looked his usual handsome, austere self. The dark navy jacket and grey trousers fit his virile form like a second skin. His bronze hair gleamed in thick, orderly waves.

“Papa!” Their three sons bounded over to greet him like eager puppies.

Marcus ruffled their heads in turn, greeting them with fatherly affection. “Hello, lads. What have you been up to in the last fortnight?”

“I’ve been working on mathematics,” Jamie said seriously, “and Mr. Johnson says I’m making very good progress with fractions.”

“Excellent,” Marcus said.

Jamie beamed.

Not to be outdone, Ethan said, “I memorized all the Kings and Queens of England.”

“Have the memory of an elephant do you, son?” Marcus said with approval.

Ethan grinned at him.

Then, crouching to be eye level with their youngest son, Marcus said, “And you, Owen? What have you accomplished?”

Owen chewed on his lip, his brow furrowed. “I’ve grown… at least an inch.”

Ethan snorted. “That’s not an accomplishment.”

“It is too!”

“It isn’t. You don’t have to do anything to grow—it just happens.”

Owen’s cherubic face flushed. “I’m going to grow bigger than you. Then I’m going to beat you at wrestling and—”

“Boys.” Collecting herself, Pandora went over to join them. Softly, she said, “Don’t beleaguer your Papa when he’s only just arrived home.”

Marcus rose, his gaze cutting to hers. A vise gripped her heart. The warmth with which he’d greeted their children vanished. The eyes that met hers were cold and shuttered.

“Marcus,” she whispered.

“My lady.”

His response, chilly and formal, raised the hairs on her skin. At home, he always called her “Pandora” or “Penny,” the pet name he’d given her. In the past, he would greet her with a kiss, a touch, a gesture to show her that he’d missed her. Today, now, she was greeted with… nothing.

What did you expect? A loving welcome? Find a way to fix this.

Mindful of the children, she shaped her lips into a smile. “Boys, it’s time to start your lessons. You can visit with Papa at lunch.”

“But Mama,” the boys chorused in protest.

At least the three were in agreement upon something.

“Go on, now,” Marcus said. “I need to speak with your mother. I’ll see you all later.”

Reluctantly, their children tromped off, leaving them alone.