“I’m dying to hear what you’ve come up with,” Penny said.
“You shan’t have to expire, my dear.” The dowager gave her a sardonic look. “I shall simply tell you.”
~~~
“Your mama has bats in her belfry,” Penny announced.
As this was not the first time his wife had made such a statement during the years of their marriage and likely not the last, Marcus said mildly, “Oh?”
Penny set her brush down on the vanity with a click and stalked over to where he was lounging on the bed. He noted with interest that she didn’t appear to be wearing anything beneath her emerald satin robe.
She braced her hands on her hips. “Apparently the Ashleys are giving a Christmas Ball, and your mother thinks we ought to go.”
“Oh?” He was right—she wasn’t wearing anything. He could see her tight, hard nipples poking against the delicate fabric. He felt himself getting hard under his own dressing gown.
“Oh—is that all you have to say?”
Other possibilities leapt into his mind. Come closer so I can suckle your breasts. Would you prefer to ride me tonight, or shall we try another position? He tried to focus on his wife’s words. “What is the problem, precisely?”
“The problem, Marcus,”—never a good thing when she said his name in that tone—“is that I have no intention of gracing that trollop’s house with my presence.”
Understanding pierced his playful mood. With remorse, he said quietly, “I acted like a fool, but you do know that I have no interest whatsoever in Cora Ashley, don’t you, love?”
“Of course I know that.” The indignant fire in Penny’s eyes eased the knot in his chest. Pacing back and forth alongside the bed, she said, “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“No bitch in heat is going to wriggle her rump at you and try to take what is mine.”
He choked back a laugh. “Er, pardon me?”
“You heard me. She’s like a farmyard beast after you to rut her.” Penny narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you laughing at me?”
He was trying not to. Ever since the revelations at the cottage, Penny seemed freer, more confident, more… herself. Previously hidden facets of her caught the light, sparkling brilliantly. Although he didn’t want his wife to suffer unnecessarily, he couldn’t help but find her feminine jealousy rather delightful—especially since it made her breasts surge against her neckline and her eyes blaze with violet flames. An intriguing image flitted through his head, one evoked by Penny’s discussion of farmyard mating rituals.
As a result, he was no longer getting hard—he was fully there.
“No,” he said contritely. “But your description was rather… colorful.”
Penny sniffed. “It’s the truth.”
“Be that as it may, you may want to consider Mama’s advice.”
“What?” his wife said in outrage.
“You and I both know nothing happened, but if we don’t go to the Ashleys’ party, it will only fuel the gossip. The best way to deal with this is head on. We put in an appearance, and we leave. Once everyone sees that there’s no friction between us and the Ashleys and thus no cause for drama, the rumors will die. End of story.”
He could see that his reasoning hit home… even if she didn’t like it. Huffing out a breath, she said, “You’re assuming a lot.”
He raised a brow. “In what regard?”
“In the regard that I’ll be able to hold myself back from using my garotte on bloody Cora Ashley,” Penny groused. “We’ll see about friction then.”
Chuckling, he snagged her hand and pulled her onto the bed so that she was sprawled atop him. “Don’t pack your garotte in your reticule that night,” he advised, “and you’ll do fine.”
“Oh, all right.” Just as it always did, her storm passed. The fire in her eyes was replaced by a different sort altogether. A wicked, sensual spark that made his blood run hot. “Darling, do you have something in your pocket,” she purred, “or are you just very happy to see me?”
“All that talk of rutting may have put ideas in my mind,” he murmured, running his hands through the wild raven silk of her hair.
“Oh? Any ideas you’d care to share?”
“Why don’t I show you instead?” he said.
Crushing her mouth to his, he set about doing just that.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was small of her, Penny knew, but as she and Marcus waited in the long receiving line, she took in the ballroom with a touch of smugness. Cora Ashley’s blood might be bluer than Penny’s, but the former wouldn’t know taste if it knocked her over and dragged her down the street. Penny could tell the countess had poured a small fortune into the night’s endeavor and, with all that blunt, managed to create an ambience that was both overblown and unwelcoming.
One couldn’t walk two steps without a suspended sprig of mistletoe smacking one in the forehead. The orchestra was three times as large as it needed to be, its volume so deafening that guests were shouting at each other to be heard. The buffet table was piled high with fussy, greasy bits that appealed to neither eye nor stomach. Yet in Penny’s opinion, out of all of this, it was the champagne fountain that truly took the cake.
Even from a distance, she could see the towering gold monstrosity. It stood some twelve feet high, frothing forth champagne tinted what (she guessed) was supposed to be a jolly, seasonal shade, but there was no denying what it actually looked like: blood. To Penny, the thing was as grotesque as it was impractical. Every now and again, a cry erupted from some unsuspecting guest when the fountain belched and doused them with a gory spray of red.
As Penny and Marcus approached their hostess in the receiving line, however, her eyes narrowed. Whatever one could say about Cora Ashley’s party throwing skills, she clearly had a masterful eye when it came to fashion. The demure, ruffled white creation looked simple but must have cost a pretty penny, the skirts floating elegantly around her slender figure. With her pale blond hair and blue eyes, she looked every inch an angel.
In comparison, Penny had chosen a bold gown of crimson velvet that clung lovingly to her curves. Her ruby necklace was her main accessory, and she wore it with pride as she faced her nemesis.
“How good of you both to come,” Cora said in a breathy voice, her eyes fixed on Marcus.
“Thank you, my lady. Lord Ashley.” Marcus inclined his head politely at their host and hostess, his face expressionless. “My wife didn’t want to miss it.”
The Earl of Ashley, a short, balding fellow who smelled as if he’d bathed in brandy, gave them an indifferent greeting and continued flirting with a young matron. His bloodshot eyes glued to her low-cut décolletage, he waddled off with her, abandoning his receiving duties altogether.
“Heavens!” Cora gave a little shriek.
The pressure in Penny’s veins shot up as the blonde threw herself against Marcus’ chest.
“A spider,” Cora gasped. “It just ran over my slipper.”
With clear distaste, Marcus set her aside. “I don’t see a spider.”
“If there’s an insect lurking about,” Penny said, her jaw clenching, “I’ll gladly squash it.”
Patting her skirts into place, Cora recovered herself and aimed a saccharine smile at Penny. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want you to ruin your slipper, my dear Lady Blackwood. Or your striking ensemble. May I mention how very festive you look?” The subtle emphasis on the word festive implied a far less flattering adjective. “I couldn’t pull off such a gown, and I daresay not many ladies could.”
“Well, I couldn’t pull off yours,” Penny said, just as sweetly. “White is such a virtuous shade. I fear it makes one’s true colors shine through.”
Splotches formed on Cora’s cheeks.
Marcus’ arm tightened around Penny’s waist. “Come, darling, let’s not hold up the line. I’ll get you some champagne.”
He dragged her away.
“I wasn’t finished,” Penny said under
her breath.
“You’re finished.”
“She had the gall to insult my dress—you heard that, didn’t you?”
“I heard it.”
“And there was no bleeding spider,” Penny fumed.
“I know.” His jaw tautened, and he turned a brooding gaze to her. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize what her true character was before. And even sorrier to put you through this.”
She tipped her head to one side. Grinned as the realization hit her. “Are you admitting that you were wrong about Cora Ashley and I was right?”
“Yes.” He sounded disgruntled.
“Well, then. Maybe coming tonight was worth it after all.”
A reluctant smile tugged on his lips. “You’re incorrigible, do you know that?”
“You love it about me,” she said confidently.
“Since I love everything about you, you have the right of it yet again. On that note, since we are here for the duration, would you care to dance?”
“I would.” She gave him a cheeky look. “And while we waltz, you may continue to whisper sweet nothings in my ear of how I’m always right.”
He laughed. “Anything you want, my Penny. Anything you want.”
~~~
Penny reflected that the ball wasn’t half as bad as she’d thought it would be. Cora Ashley had been unmasked at last. Penny got to waltz with Marcus twice, and if the passionate way he’d whirled her across the dance floor didn’t quell the rumors of their estrangement, then Society could go hang itself. Finally, the Kent ladies had showed up at the ball, and Penny was now enjoying a splendid chat with them.
All in all, it was turning out to be a fine evening. She snuck a glance at Marcus; he was standing across the ballroom, conversing with an inarguably masculine and virile group that included Viscount Carlisle and some other cronies. Call her biased, but she had no eyes for anyone but her husband. God, but she loved Marcus in formal evening wear. She looked forward to tearing it off him after the party, piece by tailored piece.
“You look like the cat that got the canary. Or, in this case, her husband.”
She returned her attention back to her circle, which included Emma, Thea, and Marianne Kent. The latter was giving her a knowing smile.
Penny didn’t bother to hide her satisfaction. “Yes.”
“You seem like newlyweds. It’s very romantic,” Thea said with a sigh.
“Thea would know,” Emma put in. “Since she is, in fact, an actual newlywed.”
“Didn’t you just return from dancing with Strathaven… again?” Thea raised her fair brows.
A grin tucked into the duchess’ cheeks. “Better to dance than argue, I always say. I think His Grace spins me extra quickly so that I lose my breath and he can get the last word in.”
“Where are your husbands, by the by?” Penny asked.
She was used to seeing the rather possessive gentlemen keeping a close watch on their ladies. Then again, she thought with a thrum of pleasure, Marcus was no different. He caught her eye just then and gave her a wink.
“They’ve been assigned to Violet duty, and they’re taking shifts,” Emma said matter-of-factly. “We figured that, between the three men, they might manage to keep Vi out of hot water.”
“Speaking of hot, is it just me, or is it positively sweltering in here?” Marianne said, waving her feathered fan. “Does Lady Ashley understand nothing of ventilation? I’ve been in Roman baths less steamy than this ballroom.”
Obligingly, a liveried footman approached with a tray in hand. “Refreshments, miladies?”
“Yes, please,” Thea said.
He handed them each a frosted flute in turn, saving the last for Penny. Her fingers curling around the stem, she drank some of the peach-colored beverage. It was pleasantly cold and sweet, but it had an undernote that she couldn’t place.
“What’s in the punch?” Penny said. “I don’t recognize the flavor.”
“It’s a blend of spices, I think.” In line with her practical nature, Emma had a flare for cookery—unusual for a duchess. “I taste ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg… and a hint of anise, too.” She wrinkled her nose. “Bit much, if you ask me.”
“I don’t care what’s in it as long as it’s cold,” Marianne said.
Penny couldn’t agree more. “Bottoms up,” she said and finished her glass.
Ten minutes later, she excused herself from the group to use the retiring room. Her stomach felt queasy—probably the heat and the fatty, nasty hors d’oeuvres she ought to have avoided altogether. She exited the ballroom, and, as she made her way down the empty corridor, she stumbled, barely catching herself against the wall. She shook her head, which was suddenly… woozy.
What’s the matter with me?
Another wave of dizziness swamped her, and she tripped again.
Someone gripped her arm, preventing her fall.
Her head flopped back. The face blurred in and out of focus before she recognized it.
The footman.
“Help me,” she managed.
“Come this way, my lady. I have a place for you to rest.”
Blooming hell… the punch...
That was her last thought before darkness closed in.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Have you seen my wife?” Marcus asked the trio of Kent ladies.
“About a quarter hour ago, I think,” Mrs. Kent said. “She was headed off to the retiring room, but she ought to be back by now.”
Tremont arrived and handed his marchioness a glass of lemonade.
“Did you see Lady Blackwood at the buffet tables by any chance?” the latter asked.
“No, princess,” Tremont said. “Why?”
“Lord Blackwood is looking for her. She’s missing.”
“Who’s missing, Thea?” This came from Ambrose Kent, who approached his wife and settled an arm around her waist.
“My wife,” Marcus said. “None of you have seen her recently?”
Everyone shook their heads.
His nape prickled. He knew his Penny. At social events, they didn’t live in each other’s pockets, but they did check in with one another. Regularly. It was unlike her to absent herself for so long without telling him where she was going.
“I’m going to look for her,” he said.
“For who?” The Duke of Strathaven sauntered over.
“His wife,” the duchess said. Her clear brown eyes widened as she took in the newly arrived gentlemen. “One moment. Why are all three of you here… where’s Violet?”
“I thought you had her,” Strathaven said to Kent.
Kent turned to Tremont. “I thought you did.”
“Hell,” Tremont said succinctly.
Marcus didn’t stay for the rest. He strode out of the ballroom to look for his wife. He was in the hallway heading toward the foyer when a breathy voice called out from behind him. “Blackwood?”
Devil take it.
Turning, he acknowledged curtly, “Lady Ashley.”
“You’re not leaving already?”
Her voice had a tremulous quiver. In truth, it always had. He didn’t know how he’d missed how annoying it was until now.
“I’m looking for my wife,” he said. “Have you seen her?”
The countess’ lips trembled. She clasped her hands over her chest, her fingers twisting together. “I… I may have.”
Relief filled him. “Where?”
“Marcus, please, can’t we talk a moment?”
His shoulders stiffened at her overly familiar use of his name.
Her eyes shimmered. “You saw how Ashley was. He doesn’t care about me at all. I’m so alone.”
Bloody hell.
“That is something to discuss with your husband, my lady,” Marcus said coldly.
“But I want to talk to you. Please, Marcus, if we could just go somewhere private—”
“I would not dishonor my wife in such a way,” he said in cutting accents. “If you need someone to talk to, find a
friend. Now where did you see Penny?”
“Penny.” Lady Ashley’s mouth formed a thin line. “She’s all you care about?”
Finally, the woman was catching on.
“Yes,” he affirmed. “She is.”
“She’s not good enough for you, you know. She never was, even though she stole you from me.” Before he could fully digest her vain assumption that he’d ever been hers in the first place, she went on, “You don’t have to hide your pain with me, Marcus. I know something’s amiss in your marriage, and I’m here to—”
“Because this is your party, I will overlook your insult to my wife this one time. Do it again,” he said in glacial tones, “and I won’t be so forgiving. Now for the last bloody time, have you seen Penny?”
Lady Ashley’s demure mien slipped, and he had a glimpse of something hard and oddly menacing beneath. “In that case, I do believe I saw her go upstairs,” she said in a brittle voice. “She was headed for the private gallery.”
“Why the hell would she go there?” he said.
“I haven’t the faintest. Typically I close that part of the house to guests, but sometimes they take advantage,”—she let out a tinny, tinkling laugh—“of my hospitality.”
“Which way?” he said shortly.
“I’ll show you.”
He had no desire to be in his hostess’ company, but if she got him to Penny quicker, then so be it.
“Lead the way,” he said.
~~~
Penny blinked groggily. Blurred colors and shapes bobbed across her vision. She tried to sit up, but dizziness made her slump backward, her head hitting something hard and strangely warm.
“There, now,” a male voice said. “Just lie there and relax. This’ll be over soon.”
What will be over… ? Who is that… What the… blooming hell… ?
Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, but she forced them open. Held them that way until the room settled. A gallery… door at the far end. Gilt-framed portraits that she didn’t recognize. She was in the middle of the room… reclined? With dawning horror, she registered the hairy arm around her corseted waist and farther down, her bared legs, cherry silk garters cinched around her thighs and white stockings on her legs. Her velvet dress was slung over the end of the couch.
The Lady Who Came in from the Cold Page 17
