The Lady Who Came in from the Cold (22 page)

“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.

Buffle-headed and panicked, she started to struggle, but the arm kept her trapped.

A second later, the door opened.

“I do believe I saw her go in here…
oh dear
.”

Penny’s heart stopped as she saw Marcus standing there, Cora Ashley clinging to his arm.

“I think we’ve interrupted a rendezvous,” Cora said
sotto voce
.

“Marcus,” Penny said hoarsely.

The reality of her situation blazed through her, and despite her woozy state, she renewed her struggle. This time, the arm let her go, and she stumbled to her feet, her bare knee bumping painfully against the coffee table. She stared in shock at the man who’d been keeping her captive on the couch: the footman, his hair disorderly, chest bare, the fall of his trousers hanging open.

He looked like a lover caught in the act of a sexual escapade.

And she looked no better.

The situation was damning; her history made it more so.

Her gaze flew to Marcus, and the fury and disgust on his face made her throat close. Her stomach churned sickly. She couldn’t get words out, incoherent pleas dashing against her skull like waves against a rocky shore.

You must believe me… it’s not how it looks… no, no, no…

“Come, Blackwood, let’s leave them. It’s as I said.” Cora Ashley placed a hand on Marcus’ sleeve, her smile victorious. “She’s not worth the scandal to your name.”

Marcus shoved her off. The next instant, he was prowling over to Penny. Yanking off his jacket, he placed it gently on her shoulders.

He cupped her jaw. “What happened, darling?”

Flames smoldered in his eyes, but his touch and voice were gentle. His rage wasn’t at her.
It wasn’t at her.
Relief dissolved the starch in her knees, and she would have fallen had he not caught her around the waist, steadying her against his solid strength.

“The punch,” she managed. “I think… it was drugged. The next thing I knew, I woke up here.”

Hell-fire leapt in his eyes. “Can you stand on your own?” he bit out.

She nodded.

He spun to face the footman, who, obviously sensing the direction the wind was blowing, had scrambled to his feet. He held his hands out in front of him as he backed away.

“Now look here, my lord. It wasn’t my fault. Your wife wanted it—”

Marcus’ fist flew out, connecting with a loud crack.

“My nose! You’ve broken my bleeding nose—” The footman groaned, doubling over from the punch to his ribs.

“I’m going to kill you, you bastard,” Marcus snarled.

The footman tried to fight back. His attempts were as ineffectual as a cat batting its paws at a lion—and an enraged king of the jungle at that. Stumbling back from another of Marcus’ powerful blows, he gasped, “It wasn’t my fault. It was Lady Ashley’s. Promised me a hundred quid, she did, to drug the punch. To set this all up.”

Anger swept through Penny, clearing away some of her wooziness. She’d guessed as much, but hearing confirmation of Cora’s vile plot made her hands curl at her sides. Cora’s cheeks were as pallid as her dress, her eyes darting, and, without a word, she dashed out of the gallery.

Marcus had the servant by the neck, pinning him to the wall. “What drug was used?”

“Just a sleeping draught,” the bastard gasped. “The mistress uses it herself, said it wouldn’t harm the lady. Just put double the dose, she said, and bring her up to the gallery and make it look like a tryst. Nothing happened, I swear. I was just following orders—”

Marcus’ fist plowed into the footman’s jaw, and, with a feeble moan, the latter slid down the wall, crumpled and unconscious.

Marcus strode over to Penny. The battle light hadn’t left his eyes, and she knew the effort it cost him to gentle his voice as he said, “Let’s get you dressed and out of here.”

She nodded, and he helped her into her gown, straightening her coiffure.

“Ready?” he said.

“Yes. Marcus?”

“Yes, love?”