The Lady Who Came in from the Cold (8 page)

Heart pounding, she opened her mouth to somehow take it back… but Marcus’ lips claimed hers with primal force. His tongue thrust into her mouth, a hot, fierce parry that mimicked the pounding of his hips. His rhythm went from demanding to savage. Lost in the maelstrom, she clung to him, her pelvis lifting to take what he gave her, deeper and deeper, and when he groaned her name, shuddering, she felt him touch the end of her, his heat flooding her womb. Then the storm broke inside her, the tumultuous bliss almost too much to bear.

Eventually, Marcus rolled onto his back, tucking her against his side. With her cheek nestled against his chest, she lay dazed, listening to his heart which thudded as furiously as her own. For long moments only the sound of their ragged breaths filled the room. Then her mind began to work again, and anxiety whirled.
Did I reveal too much? Shock him with my behavior? Does he suspect…?

A rumbling chuckle interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Lifting her head, she saw her husband’s smiling expression.

“What is so amusing?” she said.

He threaded his fingers through the hair at her temple, tucking a long strand behind her ear. His touch was intimate, loving, and God help her but her insides melted just a little bit more.

“Us,” he said. “I never thought I’d want a bickering sort of marriage, but if the way we just concluded our first row is any indication, I think we should have more of them.”

“We don’t have to fight to make love,” she pointed out.

“True. But you must admit that was rather vigorous,”—he waggled his brows—“even for us.”

Biting her lip, she ventured, “It wasn’t… too vigorous?”

“You can’t be serious.”

She didn’t know how to reply in a way that wouldn’t betray her true fears. In the next instant, she found herself on her back, caged by Marcus’ lean strength.

His eyes searched her face. “Pandora, you truly don’t know how good we are together?”

“I do. It’s just that…”
I’m not who you think I am. I’m not good enough for you. I live in constant fear that you’ll discover the truth and hate me...
She swallowed and settled for a part of the truth. “I don’t know if other wives get as, um, carried away as I do.”

“Probably not.”

Her stomach plummeted at his words.

“Which is why I pity their husbands and thank God in my prayers for bringing you to my balcony that night.” The tenderness in Marcus’ eyes, in his hands as they cupped her face, stole her breath. “In our bed, in our lives, I want us to be honest with one another. Always. No rule but love between us. You’re special, my own lucky Penny, and I want you exactly the way you are.”

“I don’t deserve you.” Her voice hitched.
But I love you too much to ever let you go.

“Even if I’m a bacon-brained lummox?” He grinned at her.

“You’re the best of husbands, I adore you, and we’ll never fight again,” she declared.

He laughed outright. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, love. Why don’t we make a different pact? Even if we fight, we’ll never go to sleep angry with each other, nor will we sleep apart. No matter how bad it is, we’ll hash out our differences before we go to bed.”

She loved the idea. “And once we’re there—in bed, I mean—we’ll make up?”

His smile turned wicked. “Thoroughly, my love. You can count on that.”

Chapter Eight

October 1829

Penny tore her gaze from the flames in the hearth back to the half-written letter on the escritoire in front of her. The loops of ink swam, and she blinked away tears to focus on the words she was composing to her closest friend and confidante. A woman she hadn’t seen in over twelve years but who knew all her secrets, her dark corners, and who had, in truth, helped lead her into the light.

Dipping her pen into the inkwell, she continued writing. She used the old code that Flora—now known as Sister Agatha—had taught her all those years ago. To outsiders, the letter read as polite correspondence concerning a charity of which Pandora was a patron. Deciphering the code, Sister Agatha would find the following:

… I’ve done everything I can to please him. His favorite foods, tranquility at home, apologies… nothing is working. Despair fills me, and I wish you were here to tell me what to do, my wisest friend. How do I win back the heart of the man I love…?

A droplet fell onto the paper, splotching the ink.

Sighing, Penny completed and sealed the letter, addressing it to the humble manor in Oxfordshire where Sister Agatha, along with other godly women, carried out their good works. Once a convent, the site had lost its official title when King Henry VIII banned religious communities altogether. Yet the Society of St. Margery had continued to discreetly administer to the poor and needy under the guise of running a school; the place had been affectionately dubbed the Abbey by the locals. Now, with successive relief acts loosening the strictures on religious practice, the sisters were able to practice their faith and charity more openly.

Flora had joined the Abbey over a decade ago. After the death of Harry, she’d wanted nothing more to do with espionage, which she’d participated in purely for her husband’s sake. She’d longed to dedicate the rest of her life to doing good works and had her eye on the Society of St. Margery for some time. But she’d waited until Pandora’s future was settled before she made her announcement that she meant to end her old life in order to start a new one.

Pandora could still recall their last parting in Brussels. She’d gripped her friend’s hands, looked into the warm brown eyes that had been a source of comfort and wisdom since she was a ten-year-old girl and couldn’t help but plead for the other to change her mind.

“But you can’t join a religious society! You must come to London with me, Flora. You could play the part of my mama, which you are in every way but blood. You could chaperone me, help me win Marcus’ heart—”

“My darling girl, you don’t need my help for that.” Giving her a squeeze in return, Flora pulled free, walking to the window that overlooked the apartment’s small garden. Sunshine slanted over her handsome, weathered features. “If this Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington is half the man you say he is, he will be entirely smitten with you at first glance. He’ll have the good sense to snatch you off the marriage mart before any other gentleman has the chance.”

Pandora flushed. “I wish I had your confidence. But I don’t know how to be a lady—which I’ll have to be to woo a gentleman like Marcus. You come from the
ton,
Flora. You could help me, be with me…” Her chest clutched at the thought of losing her only friend. “I need you.”

“What you need, dearest, is a husband. And seeing as you’ve already met the man of your dreams—although he doesn’t know it­,”—Flora’s eyes had a mischievous sparkle—“you will soon have the fulfilment that you deserve. The kind that I had with Harry.”

Seeing that sparkle die, snuffed out by sorrow that two years hadn’t dulled, Pandora said softly, “I miss Harry, too. Every day.”

“I know, dear.” Flora’s hand went to the plain silver locket that hung in the starched folds of her chemisette. Pandora knew it contained a portrait of Harry as a young man, his face unlined and eyes bright with the promise of the future. “But he’s gone, and I must find a way to go on. And I can’t—not as Flora Hudson, who belongs too entirely to her Harry.”

“Flora,” Pandora whispered.

Steady brown eyes held hers. “Now that I know you will be settled, I can let Flora go. She will accompany her husband with a free heart, knowing that their daughter has found the love she so greatly deserves. And when the world believes that Flora Hudson is gone, I will be free to start over. To pursue a new life, one of peace and contemplation, one where I can administer to those in need.”

I need you
, she thought but didn’t say because she loved Flora too much to want anything but happiness for the other. Managing to keep most of the quiver out of her voice, Pandora said, “I’m going to miss you.”

Flora’s arms circled her in a hug. “As I shall miss you, my dearest girl.”

As the years passed, they’d kept in touch by letter, though by necessity their communications had to be guarded and infrequent. To the world, Flora Hudson was dead. Only Pandora knew that Flora’s bright flame still lived on within Sister Agatha, the Abbey’s guiding light.

She tried to imagine what her friend would recommend for her present situation. Knowing Agatha, the advice would likely involve being honest, repenting for one’s sins, maybe even groveling… but Penny had done plenty of all three in the past fortnight, and her husband hadn’t softened one iota toward her. Sighing, she set about completing her evening ablutions when she heard footsteps in the hallway outside. The familiar, precise cadence spurred her heartbeat.

Marcus. He’d come home.

Since his decree that she would give him time to decide their futures, she’d not been alone with him. They were together during the time spent with the children, but after the boys went off to their lessons, Marcus left too. He returned to sup with the family and left again after the boys retired to bed. She guessed that he was spending time at his club—at least, that was where she hoped he was going. Her insides knotted at the possibility of Marcus indulging in any other sort of nightly pleasures.

He’s a good man. A loyal one. He’d never break his vows.

At the same time, she knew what a hot-blooded man he was, and he hadn’t been to her bed for over a month. During the entire length of their marriage that had never happened before. Even when she had her monthly flux, he slept with her, cuddling and tucking her in close. And the fact that they couldn’t make love in the usual fashion during those times didn’t stop them from pleasuring one another. Her nipples tingled beneath her flannel robe as she recalled the last time she’d awakened Marcus with a kiss, his sleepy growl as she’d taken his morning cockstand deep into her mouth…

God, she missed him. And he was just next door.

True, he’d told her to stay away, to give him space until such time as he was ready… but it’d been two weeks already, and he showed no signs of thawing toward her. Perhaps he needed a nudge, a reminder of the love they shared? If this frosty state of affairs between them was allowed to continue, he might freeze her out completely… and then where would she be?

No, she thought, chewing on her lip, she had to nip things in the bud before they worsened. But how? What was the best approach to take with a husband who was furious and had every right to be?

What she needed was… an excuse. A reason to go to him that wouldn’t seem like a willful infringement of the boundaries he’d set between them. Something that wouldn’t anger him further. Standing before her vanity, she flipped through the possibilities. He’d wanted her to carry on with her roles as mother and marchioness… so some household problem she needed assistance with then. She drummed her fingers against the vanity’s smooth surface, her perfume bottles rattling in their silver tray. A domestic quandary that her poor little female brain couldn’t handle without his help…

The annual winter ball. Perfect.

Why the blooming hell didn’t I think of this earlier?

Hurriedly, she checked her appearance in the looking glass. Her hair was still drying from her bath, tumbling in loose waves down her back—just the way Marcus liked it. Knowing his preference for natural beauty, she pinched her cheeks to add color rather than applying paint. Her eyes were already bright with nervous anticipation, so there was no need to do anything there. She spent another ten minutes going through her wardrobe before changing into a peignoir and slip made of ivory satin. Although demure in color, the matching set had a sophisticated cut and was edged with sensual lace, providing a dramatic foil to her dark coloring.

She paused at the door between their adjoining bedchambers. Given the state of their relationship, it seemed too bold to enter that way, and if he’d locked that private door against her, she didn’t want to discover that painful knowledge. Blowing out a breath, she headed out toward the proper entrance to Marcus’ room.

She found his door slightly ajar. She rapped quietly, and when there was no response, she exhaled, pushed through, and entered. The chamber was empty.

“Marcus?” she called.

No reply. Had he come home­—only to go out again? Had she missed him because she’d taken too long choosing her blasted outfit?

Swallowing her disappointment, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Not just yet. The familiarity of his bedchamber wrapped around her like a blanket. She loved this room because she’d spent considerable effort decorating it, searching for and finding the exact right pieces to create a refuge both masculine and comfortable for her husband. She’d chosen a subtle pale grey-on-grey damask for the walls, a rich navy Aubusson rug to grace the floor. The handsome mahogany furnishings suited Marcus’ preference for clean, classical lines.

She trailed her fingertips down a poster of the heavy tester bed and over the crisp linen sheets. She leaned over to smell his pillow, the scent of musk and sandalwood pressing on her bruised heart… and that was when she heard the noise. A faint splash.

From the bathing room.

You should go. Leave him to his privacy.

Her feet showed no intention of following her head’s advice, instead taking her toward the dressing room. She passed orderly rows of jackets and waistcoats, shelves of shirts and cravats that Gibson, Marcus’ valet, kept in meticulous order. She neared the door of the bathing chamber, which was partially closed, wisps of citrus-scented steam drifting out. The gentle lap of water drew her closer. She peered through the crack.

Marcus.

Blooming hell, he was gorgeous.

He was lying in the large copper tub at the center of the room, which was tiled in black and white. A fire crackled in the hearth behind him. From her vantage point, she could see his side profile, his dark, wet hair pushed back from his chiseled face. His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back lip of the tub, one sinewy arm draped along its edge. His splayed knees were visible, and the muscles of his other arm were bunching, flexing as…