The Lady Who Came in from the Cold (5 page)

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?”

“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.”