The Lady Who Came in from the Cold

by Grace Callaway

  For the time being, she had to soldier on. Focus on her plan. Showing Marcus that she was truly contrite and that she could be a wife worthy of him were her only hopes of winning him back.

  “I appreciate your concern.” Her gaze included all of her guests. “Truly, I am grateful for your visit, but I think it best to persevere with my plan. I’ll continue trying to please my husband, and that includes putting on the biggest crush the ton has ever seen.”

  Steeling herself against astute glances, Penny held her smile in place.

  After a moment, Marianne said quietly, “Then you must let us know how we may assist with the ball preparations.”

  Relief trickled through her that her friends wouldn’t push her on the issue.

  “I haven’t even made the guest list yet,” she admitted.

  “If you have a pen and parchment handy, I could jot down a list,” Emma volunteered. “Between all of us, we ought to know who’s in Town.”

  “We could make a list of anything else you need too,” Thea added.

  Penny could think of a few things.

  My husband’s forgiveness.

  His love.

  The marriage I once had.

  “Thank you. That sounds lovely,” she said and smiled to hide her aching heart.

  Chapter Twelve

  As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of their townhouse, Marcus’ youngest son, indigo eyes wide and tone wheedling said, “Please Papa, can’t we go for a walk in the square before supper?”

  “We’re already dressed for the snow, and it’s the warmest it has been all week.” His middle child took up the cause. “What would ten minutes hurt?”

  Not to be bested, his eldest quoted, “Walking is man’s best medicine.”

  When the rascals joined forces, they were a force to be reckoned with.

  Stifling a smile, Marcus said, “Who am I to argue with Hippocrates? As long as your mama agrees.”

  The last words emerged from him automatically, without conscious consideration. It was a habit borne from over a decade of parenting three high-spirited boys with his wife. As it was too late to take the words back, he raised a brow at her.

  Sitting on the opposite bench with their youngest, Pandora stared at him, her sooty lashes fluttering. Uncertainty flitted through her eyes, making his gut twist… with shame.

  Of late, he’d been a bastard to her, and he knew it. He just didn’t know how to stop. How to stem the jealous rage that roared over him at the thought of her betrayal… of her being with other men. Even now, his muscles bunched instinctively, and he had to barricade his fury.

  She looked to their children, saying firmly, “No more than ten minutes.” She adjusted the collar of Owen’s coat and pulled his knitted cap down tightly over his dark curls. “Be sure to keep your scarves and gloves on and watch for the icy patches.”

  “Yes, Mama,” the boys chorused.

  The groom let down the steps, and the three scamps bounded out, heading for the square, their navy woolen coats and red scarves bright splashes against the snow-dusted terrain. Marcus alighted next and helped his wife down. Her boots touched lightly to the ground, her ermine-lined cloak of ruby velvet swirling gracefully around her. Wordlessly, he offered her his arm. Her eyes wide, her breath puffing in the chilled air, she took it, holding onto him tightly as they followed their children through the gates.

  It was nearing dusk, and the park was empty. The setting sun cast glinting jewels over the snow-crusted ground and trees. Ice crunched beneath their feet as they trailed their sons, who were whooping and pelting each other with snowballs.

  “They’re little savages,” Marcus remarked.

  “They’ve just been cooped up as of late. What with the snow and the cold weather, they haven’t had a chance to expend their energy,” Penny said. “They’re just boys being boys.”

  Which she would say even if the rascals committed bloody murder. Marcus felt his lips twitch. His wife always defended their offspring—even when they didn’t deserve it—a tendency that he found both exasperating and adorable. And, damn it, it was good to have a normal conversation with her again. To be walking arm and arm with her, talking about their children.

  Not wanting to lose the feeling, he said, “Have you forgotten that we just took them to the spectacle at Astley’s? After an afternoon of watching Madame Monique le Magnifique balancing on a tightrope, I should think they’ve had their fair share of excitement for the day.”

  “Well, watching someone on a tightrope isn’t the same as walking it yourself,” she replied softly.

  The subtext didn’t escape him, and her uncharacteristic tentativeness again knotted his insides, made him want to apologize for acting like a damned cad these past two weeks. At the same time, his vulnerability when it came to his wife angered him. Having full knowledge of her deceptive nature, he would no longer countenance being played like a puppet, and yet he couldn’t free himself from her strings. As the episode in his bathing room had so clearly proved.

  Desire and anger washed through him in a confounding wave. Christ, one look at her and he’d lost control, succumbing to urges he didn’t want to have—at least, not until his head was clear, and he could decide upon the future. Yet she’d snapped her fingers, and he’d gone running to her like a bloody trained hound.

  He resented her power over him even as he hated the way he was treating her. It was a devilish conundrum, and one he didn’t yet know how to resolve. But he also didn’t want things to continue as they had been, tension hanging over them like a shroud.

  More silence passed than he had intended, which he realized when Penny tugged her hand free as if she sensed the downward spiral of his mood. Her lashes lowered, she said, “I’ll just go check on the boys—”

  “They’re fine.” He caught her hand, tucked it firmly back into the crook of his arm. “Stay and walk with me a moment.”

  Doubt shadowed her gaze. “You want me to?”

  “I asked, didn’t I?” Hearing the curtness of his words, he strove for a calmer tone. “It’s been a while since we’ve spoken alone.”

  She said nothing. She didn’t have to seeing as he’d been the one to erect the wall of silence between them. Her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth; he didn’t miss her cautious sidelong glance as they trudged on.

  His mind latched onto a suitable topic. “How are the plans progressing for the Winter Ball?”

  “Nicely.” Some of her hesitation faded. “It’s only been a week since I sent out invitations, and already I’ve received positive replies from nearly all. We’ll have a crush on our hands.”

  This didn’t surprise Marcus. Over the years, it had been a source of pride for him to watch Penny flourish in her role as the Marchioness of Blackwood. She’d tackled the job the way she seemed to do everything in life: with passion and verve, a willful determination to succeed. Through hard work (that she somehow made look easy), she’d become one of the ton’s most influential and fashionable hostesses… not to mention a doting mama and a mistress adored by all her servants.

  Yet despite all her success, the confidence she’d earned by right, she’d never lost her vulnerability with him. After every glittering ball she threw, she’d always ask him, a hint of anxiety in her eyes, “What did you think, Marcus? Did you enjoy it?”

  The knot tightened in his chest. How could he reconcile the loving wife who’d dedicated herself to pleasing him with the devious ex-spy who’d been lying to him for the entirety of their marriage?

  He… couldn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t possible.

  Enjoy the bloody walk. Don’t think about it now.

  Pushing aside his turmoil, he cleared his throat. “Who will we be expecting?” He asked not because he cared but because he wanted to prolong this domestic conversation. To linger for a little longer in this oasis of normality.

  “The usual off-Season crowd: the Temples, Osterwicks, Knowles. Oh, the Hartefords will be there as well as Lady Helena is recuperating in Town.�
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  “Recuperating?”

  “From childbirth.”

  Marcus felt the resonance of sorrow and saw it in the trembling of his wife’s lips. Despite the three years that had passed since they’d laid their stillborn child into the ground, the memory of loss quivered between them. It was yet another reminder of the intricate connections that bound them, invisible threads spun by time and shared experience. It flitted through his head that grief as well as joy could cement the bricks of a marriage.

  “From what I hear, Lady Helena is doing well,” Penny said quietly.

  “I’m glad,” he said.

  Lord Nicholas and Lady Helena Harteford were more acquaintances than friends to them, but this was due mainly to the fact that the couple spent most of their time at their country estate. Whenever he and Penny did see the other pair, conversation flowed easily as they had much in common. Both couples had married around the same time and shared the experience of raising little hellions. Indeed, the Hartefords’ three boys made James, Ethan, and Owen appear sedate by comparison.

  “Girl?” he inquired.

  Penny’s lips curved wryly, and she shook her head.

  “Poor Harteford,” he said ruefully.

  “Poor Lady Harteford. She’s entirely outnumbered.” His wife smiled at him.

  At that moment, they walked into a patch of sun, the glow illuminating her. Diamonds of ice clung to her dark lashes. The ermine lining of her hood was no match for the downy perfection of her skin, the richness of her red coat setting off her vivid coloring.

  God, but her beauty affected him, its impact as visceral as a fist in the gut. It had been this way from the start, and despite everything, he knew it would be this way until his dying breath.

  Devil take it.

  Tamping down the crazed urge to pull her into his arms, he cleared his throat, said gruffly, “Who else is coming?”

  “I invited Carlisle as you requested. Both he and his brother Mr. Murray gave affirmative replies.” A furrow formed between her brows. “Carlisle’s not usually one for parties. I’m rather surprised that he agreed to come.”

  Marcus wasn’t surprised. During his stay with his friend, it had become clear that there was only one way out of Carlisle’s financial dilemma. As the viscount had cynically put it, “I’ve got a title to sell off, and I’ll look for the highest bidder. It’s a business arrangement pure and simple. As long as that’s made clear, no reason marriage should interfere with my life.”

  The man had a lot to learn.

  “Carlisle’s turning over a new leaf,” he said noncommittally. “Who else?”

  “The Ashleys. Lady Cora most definitely and her husband possibly.”

  Marcus didn’t miss the edge to his wife’s tone. For some reason, she’d never liked the Countess of Ashley, in spite of the fact that she had been the one to lure Marcus away from the other—not that he’d needed much luring. One look at Penny had blinded him to other women. In the past, he’d secretly found his wife’s possessiveness amusing and not a little arousing, but now it struck an unpleasant chord in him.

  What did she have to be jealous about? He’d never carried on in secret with Cora or with anyone. He’d kept his vows, been honest and fully disclosing for the whole of his marriage—unlike his wife who’d lied about her past, about her other men.

  Just like that, peace fled him. His shoulders bunched, his blood pumping hotly.

  “Papa! Over here!” Jamie’s voice penetrated his angry haze. His eldest son was waving at him, standing by the far edge of the park. “I think I’ve found a burrow of some sort. But I can’t be sure what kind of animal made it.”

  Marcus drew a breath, glad for the interruption. “I’ll be right there, son,” he called. To Pandora, he said curtly, “I’ll go see what he’s found.”

  “Of course.”

  The hurt returned to her eyes, but he couldn’t do a damn about it. Better to walk away than to let loose what was roiling inside him. He strode toward Jamie, fuming that the worst thing she’d done wasn’t just betraying his trust. No, it was that she’d made him doubt himself.

  He’d always been a man who’d known his own mind. Hell, he’d commanded an entire battalion, made snap decisions that had affected the lives of countless others, and never faltered. Never wavered. Since Pandora’s revelations, however, his thoughts had been like a teeter-totter, going back and forth with galling ambivalence. His mood could shift wildly from one moment to the next, so much so that he thought he might be going mad.

  He barely knew himself, and he hated it.

  Shaking off his dour thoughts, he approached Jamie. “Now where’s this burrow?”

  “Right here, Papa.” Jamie pointed excitedly at a hole in the snow by the base of a tree. “I think it may be a rabbit or possum—”

  “Get down from there right this instant, Owen!”

  Penny’s urgent words made Marcus spin around. His heart rammed into his chest as he saw his youngest son balancing on the branch of an oak tree, some fifteen feet off the ground.

  “But Mama I can walk just like Madame Magnifique,” the boy sang, taking a step on the icy ledge. “Look at me—”

  His words ended in a shriek as he lost his balance, tumbling, his arms flailing.

  Marcus was already racing over, but Penny got there first, her arms outstretched. Their son plowed into her, and she took his full weight, falling backward with a thud. Her head hit the icy ground with a heart-halting crack.

  He reached them the next second. With practiced swiftness learned on the battlefield, he ascertained that Owen was stunned but unharmed. He lifted the boy off Penny and parked him at his side, barking, “Stay here and don’t move.”

  Owen nodded, his lips trembling. “Is Mama…?”

  Pulse pounding, Marcus tore off his gloves and gently examined his wife. Her eyes were closed, but there was no blood. Nothing broken as far as he could tell. Her pulse was weak but steady.

  “Penny, love,” he said urgently. “Open your eyes.”

  Nothing. His gut clenched.

  Pounding footsteps marked the arrival of Jamie and Ethan.

  “Is Mama all right?” they blurted as one.

  “She’ll be fine.” Hoarsely, Marcus said, “Wake up, Penny. You don’t want the boys to worry, do you?”

  An eternity seemed to pass before her lashes fluttered up, revealing dazed violet eyes.

  Thank God. Thank bloody God.

  “Owen…?” she whispered.

  Marcus forced the words through the fierce constriction of his throat. “He’s fine. It’s you we have to worry about.” With utmost care, he lifted her into his arms. “All right?”

  “I’m fine. Just the wind… knocked out of me,” she said, her voice breathless. “I can walk.”

  His heart knocking against his chest, Marcus carried her to the house, their sons following behind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Are you certain I can’t get you anythin’ else, milady?” Jenny said as she cleared away the breakfast tray. “Another pillow, more blankets—”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Penny assured the ginger-haired maid. “There’s no need to fuss.”

  “Well, you gave us a fright, you did, milady. All o’ us. Waitin’ for the doctor to finish with you last night, I ne’er saw the young masters so still and somber like. And ’is lordship nigh paced a trench in the drawing room.”

  Warmth unfurled in Penny’s belly. “He was worried for me?”

  “Beside ’imself, ’e was.” Jenny smiled, her eyes brightening. “The kind o’ worry that puts water ’neath the bridge, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Penny wasn’t surprised that Jenny had noticed the rift between her and Marcus. After all, the maid was used to walking in and finding Marcus in Penny’s bed. His absence and the tension between them outside the bedchamber must have caused speculation, and Penny wondered what the staff thought of the chill between master and mistress of the house.

  “Is there m
uch talk below stairs?” she asked.

  Through the years, the maid’s loyalty had proved unwavering. Penny trusted the other not only to be discreet but to tell her the truth. Jenny was worth her weight in gold.

  “Some, milady,” Jenny admitted, “but ev’ryone knows ’ow much the master dotes upon you, so most think it’s a tiff. The kind that’s part an’ parcel o’ any marriage. And like I said, ’is lordship’s wearing out the carpet with ’is worry over you as we speak. ’E wouldn’t do that if is ’eart weren’t true, would ’e now?”

  Hope flickered in Penny. “Thank you, Jenny. And I don’t want the boys or my husband to worry, so please help me get dressed. The saffron wool, I think.”

  “But milady you ought to rest some more—”

  An imperious rap on the door cut the maid off.

  Penny’s heart sped up. “Come in,” she called, a trifle breathlessly.

  Marcus strode in. He was in his shirtsleeves, his stark navy waistcoat molding to his lean torso, charcoal grey trousers hugging his muscular legs. The concern in his gaze stopped her breath altogether and made heat prickle behind her eyes.

  She’d feared that he would never look at her this way again.

  “Milord.” Jenny dipped her knees. “I’ll, um, just go get your toilette ready, milady.” With a smile on her face, the maid scurried off and closed the door behind her.

  The Ormulu clock ticked away on the mantel, Penny’s heart even louder in her ears.

  Wrapping a large hand around a poster at the end of the bed, Marcus said, “How are you feeling this morning?”

  “Much better. I’ve a bit of a bump on my head, but mostly the blow I took was to my pride.” She risked a smile. “I thought I could keep my balance.”

  “You caught our son falling out of a tree. You’re lucky Owen didn’t flatten you like a pancake.”