The Lady Who Came in from the Cold

by Grace Callaway

Lowering his voice—and hoping his friend would take the cue—Marcus said, “Miss Kent is quite respectable: she is the sister-in-law of a duke and a marquess.”

  “Unless her dowry exceeds twenty thousand—trust me, Wickham will need at least that much of a cushion—I don’t care if she’s related to the King himself.” The viscount’s lips curled in disdain. “Moreover, my brother needs a suitable wife to keep him in line, and I’m quite certain that chit,”—he cast a pointed glance at Miss Kent, who was flushed and laughing from yet another risqué spin—“can’t even spell propriety, let alone put it into practice.”

  This time, gasps rose from the eavesdropping ladies, loud enough that they caught the viscount’s attention. He narrowed his eyes at them, and they quickly waddled away, skirts rustling and palavering behind their fluttering fans.

  “For a man averse to scandal,” Marcus remarked dryly, “you’ve just provided enough fodder to satisfy the gossips for weeks.”

  “I was speaking the truth. If that’s fodder, so be it.” The viscount scowled. “This is precisely why I detest such social functions—no offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Especially since Marcus happened to be in agreement as it pertained to this particular ball. His gaze honed in on Pandora once again, and the pressure in his veins shot up dangerously. The Earl of Edgecombe had joined her circle, and, as he did so, the bastard placed a hand on the small of her back.

  Another man was touching his wife. The bugger’s paw rested for an instant too long above the scarlet bow on her back—the one that beckoned like a gift to be unwrapped—before he removed it. Yet the damage was done. The scars flared on Marcus’ brain: Pierre Chenet, Jean-Philippe Martin, Vincent Barone. Images of Penny being touched by those faceless others, moaning beneath them, made him burn beneath his collar. Savage instinct roared over him.

  “You might want to rethink that.” Carlisle gripped his arm, holding him back.

  “He touched her.” They all did. Rage quivered in his muscles.

  “For only a moment, and Edgecomb would claim it was innocent. Now do you really wish to make a scene over a trifle like that? Do you want to appear like a jealous husband tied to your lady’s apron strings?”

  Carlisle’s words penetrated his miasma of fury. It took everything he had, but Marcus willed himself to calm.

  “I thought you said things were improved between the two of you,” the viscount said.

  Marcus pulled his jacket back into place. He wanted to punch something. Namely the face of the bastard standing next to his wife, peering down her blasted bodice. “They are.”

  “Right.” The other’s lips twisted. “This is why I’ll never marry for love. Things may be good or they may be bad, but either way you wind up looking like a fool.”

  “You’re not helping matters,” Marcus said through his teeth.

  “Of course I am. If it weren’t for me, you’d be bashing in Edgecombe’s skull, and trust me, the bastard’s noggin doesn’t need further damage. He’s stupid enough as it is. Now you want my advice?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Ignore her. Go be a host. You don’t need to air your laundry in front of the entire ton.”

  Carlisle had a point. Expelling a breath, Marcus got himself back under control. Carry on. Don’t look like an idiot in front of the world. He scanned the ballroom—and saw Lady Cora Ashley waving at him.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Care to join me in greeting some guests?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve seen all I can stomach for the evening.” Bowing, Carlisle said, “Good luck and good night, my friend.”

  The viscount went one way and Marcus the other.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ball was turning into a nightmare.

  To make matters worse, Penny was at present cornered by her mama-in-law.

  “You do have a way with parties,” Lady Aileen, the dowager Marchioness of Blackwood, said. “This ball appears to be no exception.”

  The tiny, wrinkled lady waved the jeweled knob of her walking stick to indicate the winter wonderland Penny had spent weeks creating. Through the years, Penny had learned that success lay in the details, in setting a scene that contained the comfort of the familiar as well as the element of surprise. In this way, entertaining was not so very different from her work as an agent.

  For tonight’s event, she’d had evergreen branches and silver ribbons festooned across the high ceiling. Potted palms had been painted by hand to give the appearance of frost on the fronds, and icicles made of glass tinkled on the branches. The finest food and drink flowed freely.

  “’Tis fortunate that my son’s pockets are sufficiently deep to support your hobby,” the dowager went on.

  Penny had been waiting for the dig. As always, any compliment from the old harpy was double-edged. The passing years and the three grandsons Penny had produced had eased but not taken away the friction between her and Lady Aileen. Secretly, she suspected that the termagant was bored and enjoyed their feisty exchanges, and she, for her part, gave as good as she got. At times, this resulted in warfare, but overall the two managed to coexist without too much bloodshed. They did this for the sake of the man they both loved.

  Swallowing, Penny snuck another peak at Marcus. Normally, the sight of him so starkly handsome in his formal wear elicited a tingle of feminine satisfaction, but tonight hurt and frustration bubbled inside her. She’d done her very best to please her husband… and he was acting like a blooming ass. He’d ignored her all evening and currently stood several yards away, entertaining a group of insipid ladies who hung upon his every word.

  Cora Ashley was amongst them. Dressed in a delicate shade of pink, the blonde stood across from Marcus, batting her false eyelashes at him. As usual, her husband, the Earl of Ashley, was nowhere to be seen.

  “What is going on between you and my son?”

  The blunt words jerked Penny’s attention back to the dowager, who was studying her with narrowed blue eyes that were a faded version of Marcus’.

  “Nothing.” Penny refused to give her mama-in-law the satisfaction.

  “Utter claptrap. I may be old, but I am not stupid. In the past, Marcus never left your side for more than a half-hour at most, yet tonight he’s acting as if he doesn’t notice your existence.” Before Penny could recover from the humiliating knowledge that Marcus’ contempt of her was visible to all, Lady Aileen swept a glance over her from head to toe and announced, “It’s the gown. Dear heavens, did you forget half of it upstairs? No man wishes his wife to be dressed like a strumpet, my dear.”

  Even as Penny’s blood boiled, she kept a polite expression pasted on her face. Her marriage with Marcus was none of the other’s business. And the last thing she was going to do was take fashion advice from the dowager; the old mort wore her trademark black from head to toe, and if she traded her walking stick for a scythe, then the look would be complete.

  Furthermore, not being an idiot, Penny didn’t need her mama-in-law to point out that Marcus’ behavior was due to her dress; his expression had grown as dark as thunderclouds when he saw the back of it. Or the lack of the back of it. But it had been too late for her to don another frock, and, moreover, it would fuel gossip amongst the guests if she ran off to change the very garment they were complimenting.

  Thus, while Penny could admit that she’d made a miscalculation on her wardrobe choice, she couldn’t stem her billowing anger. In the past, Marcus had liked her chic gowns, even if they were a bit daring. How was she supposed to know that his entire bleeding personality had changed? She couldn’t read his mind, and instead of talking to her, he’d absented himself from her side all evening.

  “Madame Rousseau assures me the gown is all the rage in Paris,” Penny said.

  Lady Aileen sniffed. “Yes, well, that says something about the French, doesn’t it?”

  “It says they have an excellent eye for fashion,” Penny said through clenched teeth.

  “And I have an
excellent eye for my son’s mood. If I were you, I’d go straight upstairs, my girl, and change into something more suitable.”

  If Penny had harbored even a spark of an inclination to change her dress, it was snuffed out by the fact that her mama-in-law had suggested it.

  “I’m fine as I am.” She drew her shoulders back.

  “You shall reap what you sow. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The vultures,”—the dowager pointed her cane at the horde around Marcus—“are circling as we speak.”

  With that, she hobbled off to greet a circle of her cronies.

  Penny’s gaze went back to Marcus, still surrounded by ladies. The loathsome Lady Ashley was now not only batting her lashes at Marcus, she was also giving that annoyingly tinkling laugh at everything he said. Penny wanted to go over and tackle the trollop; good sense and her pride held her back.

  “What a marvelous crush, Lady Blackwood!”

  Tearing her attention away from Marcus and his harem, Penny focused on greeting the newcomers. The group consisted of four couples, all of whom she liked, so for the first time that evening, her smile felt genuine.

  She first exchanged air kisses with Lady Helena Harteford. As usual, the beautiful, curvaceous brunette was accompanied by her tall, austere marquess, who bowed politely over Penny’s hand. They were followed by Marianne and Ambrose Kent; the former’s moon-kissed glamour was a direct contrast to her husband’s lanky, salt-of-the-earth handsomeness, yet the pair went together like a fork and knife. The Duke and Duchess of Strathaven, a dark-haired and lively couple, said their hellos next, and then came Thea and her new husband Gabriel, the Marquess of Tremont.

  Tremont inclined his tawny head. “Good evening, Lady Blackwood,” he said.

  Not long ago, mutual mistrust would have colored any exchange between Penny and her former colleague. First rule of espionage: trust no one—particularly another spy. But Tremont’s recent marriage had changed him; the love of his marchioness had made him a different man, one whom Penny had trusted enough to join forces with. With the help of the Kents, Tremont and Penny had put an end to the affair of the Spectre and, in doing so, laid their past animosity to rest.

  “I’m so glad to see you all here,” Penny said and meant it.

  “We’ve been here for a while,” Thea confided, “but we didn’t want to interfere with your hostess duties.”

  “What she means is that you were positively swarmed with admirers. We couldn’t beat a path through to you,” Marianne drawled.

  “A problem I’m all too familiar with,” Ambrose Kent muttered.

  Being gorgeous and witty, Marianne Kent received her fair share of male attention. She winked at her husband. “You know I save all my waltzes for you, darling.”

  “Speaking of waltzes, has anyone seen Violet?” This came from Emma, who was craning her neck to get a view of the dance floor. “The minute she arrives at a ball, she’s like a fish let loose in the ocean. I keep losing track of her.”

  “I don’t see her, pet.” Having the advantage of height, the Duke of Strathaven towered over his petite duchess, his pale green eyes alertly scanning the ballroom. “Could she be out in the garden?”

  “Knowing Violet, she could be anywhere doing anything—which is precisely what I’m afraid of,” Emma said, her brows knitting.

  “Don’t fret, love. We’ll find her.” Sliding a proprietary arm around his wife’s waist, Strathaven said dryly to the group, “Excuse us while we attend to a domestic emergency,” and the pair took off into the crowd.

  “Should we help them look?” Thea asked.

  “Tremont, Harteford, and I can go,” Kent said. “You ladies enjoy yourselves.”

  As the men took leave of their wives, Penny suffered a stab of envy. Harteford murmured something in his lady’s ear that made her cheeks turn pink, and Tremont kissed his new bride tenderly on the forehead. Whereas Penny’s husband… she couldn’t help but glance beneath her lashes in Marcus’ direction. Blooming hell, he was still in Cora Ashley’s group, only now the scheming bitch had wormed her way to his side. Penny gripped her lace fan as Lady Cora leaned up and whispered something in Marcus’ ear, laying a pink glove on his arm.

  On my husband’s arm.

  Fragile sticks snapped in Penny’s hand.

  “Is everything all right, my dear?”

  Marianne’s quiet words broke Penny’s anguished reverie. For once, she felt too hurt and angry to measure her words. She didn’t even have the heart to care about the presence of Lady Helena, who was a mere acquaintance. Seeing as the marchioness was Marianne’s bosom friend, she probably knew some of the truth anyway.

  “No.” Bitterly, Penny tossed her broken fan into the pot of an adjacent palm. “Things are far from being right.”

  “Lord Blackwood must be proud of your event,” Thea countered. “I’ve never been to a ball so beautifully planned, and no one can deny this is a crush.”

  This evening was supposed to be Penny’s piece de resistance. Her way to win her husband back and show the world how much they loved each other. Instead, the entire affair was a fiasco.

  “I thought this would help, but clearly it doesn’t. None of this matters.” She waved a weary hand at the roaring merriment. “He’s still angry at me.”

  “Then why don’t you go talk to him?” Marianne said. “Tell him how you feel.”

  “I don’t know what is going on, and it’s probably not my place to say.” Lady Helena’s soft, cultured voice broke in. “But if this has anything to do with husbandly problems, I might be able to help.”

  So Marianne hadn’t said anything to her friend. Penny was grateful for the other’s discretion. At the same time, she couldn’t help but say wryly, “What would you know about those, Lady Helena? Your husband adores you and probably hasn’t given you a moment’s trouble.”

  Marianne and Lady Helena looked at each other—and burst into gales of laughter.

  Penny frowned. “What is so amusing?”

  Thea shrugged, her expression equally puzzled. “I haven’t the faintest.”

  “Sorry—sorry,” Lady Helena gasped, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. When she was finished, she said, still smiling, “It’s just that I do know a thing or two about troublesome husbands.”

  “Trust me, she does,” Marianne said.

  “And what I know leads me to believe that the gossip circulating about your estrangement can’t possibly be true,” Helena went on.

  “Why would you say that?” Penny said with dull resignation. “Marcus hasn’t paid me any attention all evening.”

  “But he has been paying you attention, my dear,” Helena said, her eyes dancing. “He merely does so when you’re not looking. Right now, for example.”

  Penny’s head spun in Marcus’ direction. Her gaze locked with his stormy one, and her heartbeat took off in a wild gallop. The next instant, he looked away, bending his head to catch something Cora had to say. A minute after that, he left the group­.

  To fetch something for the needy tart? Penny thought, outraged.

  Jaw clenched, she said, “Why can’t he just talk to me about what’s gotten under his skin?”

  “Because he’s a gentleman,” Marianne said. “When it comes to talking about their emotions, they’d rather have a tooth drawn.”

  “Or drink. Or pummel each other in the ring,” Helena added.

  “Or clam up—even though they are suffering inside.” Thea’s voice was gentle. “Being newly married myself, I can’t profess to have the knowledge that you all do. But my mama always said there’s one important adage to live by in marriage: to err is human—and to forgive, divine.”

  Flora would have said something similar.

  “A wise woman, your mama,” Helena said, nodding.

  “I’ll be the first to admit that holding out an olive branch is not my favorite activity, but when I’ve done it,” Marianne said in philosophical tones, “it invariably works.”

  Given the disaster of the evening th
us far, talking couldn’t make things worse.

  Penny heaved a sigh. “I’ll go speak to him.”

  With impeccable timing, a footman walked past, and she snagged a flute of champagne from his tray. She swallowed first the bubbles and then her pride. After that, she went to look for her husband.

  ~~~

  A quarter hour later, Penny approached the small balcony off the north end of the ballroom. The area was deserted as steaming new refreshments had just been brought out, luring the partygoers to the buffet tables. Marcus had not been amongst them. In fact, Penny had looked for him in all the obvious places, and he was nowhere to be found. As the servants hadn’t recalled seeing him go upstairs, the balcony was the next likely place to search.

  The thick burgundy drapes were drawn, the doors left open behind them. A cool draft shivered over Penny’s skin. She pulled back one of the curtains… and her heart shot into her throat.

  Marcus, standing in the cold moonlight.

  He wasn’t alone.

  The scene ripped into Penny like a bayonet. Cora Ashley, in Marcus’ arms, her mouth plastered to his. A jagged sound tore from Penny’s throat. Marcus jerked, his head spinning in her direction, his gaze crashing into hers.

  He pushed Cora away. “Penny—”

  She didn’t hear the rest. Insides splintering, she ran away—as fast and far as she could.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next evening, Marcus made his way out of his club. He was drunk but not drunk enough. Guilt and self-recrimination swirled uneasily with the alcohol he’d imbibed as he waited for the footman to fetch his coat and hat.

  Devil take it, what have I done?

  He’d acted like a damned ass was what he’d done. He should never have agreed to meet bloody Cora Ashley on the balcony. When she’d begged him for a few minutes of his time, given him a teary-eyed Cheltenham Tragedy about her unhappy marriage, he ought to have told her to find another shoulder to cry on. But he hadn’t. Why not?

  Because he’d been so twisted up with jealousy and anger over Penny’s past that he’d abandoned all good sense. Wallowing in righteous self-pity, he’d actually thought misery might make good company, and, as a result, he’d walked straight into an ambush. He hadn’t set foot onto the balcony two minutes before Cora threw herself at him. The memory made his gut recoil. He’d shoved her away immediately—but not soon enough.