The Lady Who Came in from the Cold

by Grace Callaway

  Shock percolated through Marcus. Of all the explanations he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. He stared at his wife—the very image of a fashionable lady—and couldn’t reconcile it with the past she’d just revealed. She was illegitimate… had been abandoned to an orphanage? Before he could recover, she went on.

  “By the time I was ten, I was making my living as a flower girl in Covent Garden. No, that’s not precisely true.” Her lips pressed together before she said, “I sold flowers, but most of my earnings came from being a pickpocket.”

  Witnessing what he had as an officer, Marcus didn’t think he could be struck speechless. Yet there he was. All capacity for speech… gone.

  “I was rather good at it. Small hands, quick reflexes.” Her lips tipped up, but it wasn’t a smile. “Stealing kept my belly full, gave me a roof over my head at night. It wasn’t the easiest life, but it wasn’t the worst. Then I met Octavian.”

  Marcus’ hands clenched the edge of the desk. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear what was coming next. Didn’t like the quiver she was clearly trying to hide in her voice, the shadows gathering in her eyes.

  “He was a spymaster for the Crown. He’d chanced to see me at work, and apparently I impressed him with my skills, my ability,”—her voice caught ever so slightly—“to survive. He offered me a way out of the gutter: a position on his team.”

  “You were ten,” Marcus bit out.

  “Close to eleven. And definitely,” she said, her tone flat, “wise beyond my years.”

  “What business did this Octavian bounder have for a young girl?”

  “At first, I mostly observed and ran errands. But Octavian was grooming me for bigger things. Given that he was a spymaster and bachelor, he couldn’t look after me. So he put me under the care of a couple named Harry and Flora Hudson.”

  Her supposed parents, the in-laws Marcus had never met. The ones who’d apparently died and left her in a boarding school abroad.

  Grimly, Marcus said, “The Hudsons were spies as well?”

  She nodded. “Harry was an agent—and since Flora was devoted to her husband and refused to leave his side, she became one, too. Their good blood and Harry’s interest in archaeology provided the perfect cover for their espionage work. I traveled with them, and they trained me, raised me as their own. I owe them everything.” Her ivory throat rippled, her voice emerging in a whisper. “Harry was killed not long after Waterloo. A carriage accident. He’d fought so hard for peace and didn’t live long enough to enjoy it. After that, Flora lost the will to go on.”

  Marcus’ chest clenched at the sheen in Pandora’s eyes. He couldn’t deny that she had been through much—so much that he could scarcely fathom it. At the same time, fury surged that she’d kept this—all of it—from him. That she hadn’t trusted him… that she’d betrayed the trust that he, like a great bloody fool, had given to her without reservation.

  The galling truth was that he was weak where she was concerned. Even now, as she laid out the ignominious facts, the countless lies she’d told him, he had the inconceivable desire to take her into his arms. To tell her everything would be all right. To protect the vulnerability he’d sensed in her from the start.

  He quelled the instinct and went to the window, putting distance between them. Staring out into the autumn garden, he tried to absorb some of its calm. The gilded serenity that was a universe away from his own seething turmoil.

  “How long were you a spy?” he said.

  “When I turned thirteen, Octavian judged me ready for missions. He gave me the code name Pompeia. I worked for him until just before I met you at the Pilkington Ball.” A hesitation. “Do you remember it?”

  Of course he bloody did.

  “Did you engineer that meeting?” he said curtly. “Was our marriage a part of your new disguise? A way to get out of the spy business?”

  “No. Marcus,” she said, her syllables quivering, “please believe this, if nothing else: I fell in love with you from the first moment we met. I gave up espionage because of you. Everything I did was because I loved you so much and knew that you’d never love me back as Pandora Smith. I had to make myself a better woman for you—”

  “So you lied to me because you love me?” His eyes sliced to hers. “Pretended to be a debutante—a pure and untouched lady to win my heart?”

  Her eyes glimmered. She pressed her trembling lips together… but she didn’t deny it.

  For him, that was the most painful truth in all of this. He wished she might have just stabbed or shot him instead. Because the thought of any other man touching her…

  “How many?” He forced out the words.

  A pulse leapt in her throat. “Marcus—”

  “How many?”

  “Three,” she whispered. “The ones named in the letter.”

  Pierre Chenet. Jean-Philippe Martin. Vincent Barone.

  The names, branded on his brain, blazed red-hot. Those bastards had made love to his wife, the woman he’d believed to be exclusively his. They’d known the sweetness of Penny’s kiss, the unspeakable pleasure of being inside her—

  “It wasn’t lovemaking.” Her plea broke through his swirling vortex of agony. “It was… one time, with each of them. There was no pleasure involved—it was the opposite. Back then, I thought of it as completing a mission. It was the only life I knew. I didn’t think I…”—her voice broke—“deserved any better.”

  He didn’t want to feel empathy for her. Didn’t want the maelstrom of emotion that accompanied the destruction of his world as he knew it. His much-vaunted self-control was already pushed to its very limit.

  “That’s enough,” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear another word about your sordid past.”

  She bit her lip but kept on talking. “The note you received was, as I said, from an old nemesis. He’s dead now. My past… it can die with him.” She came to him, and, stunned, he watched his urbane and glamorous wife go down on her knees in front of him. She took one of his hands in both of hers, her beautiful face turned up to his, her eyes glimmering. “I know lying about my past is unforgiveable, but since our marriage, I’ve been a good and true wife to you. All I’ve wanted is to make you happy. And we’ve been happy, haven’t we? If you could somehow find it in your heart to give me another chance, I’ll make you even happier. I’ll make amends, do whatever you ask…”

  “Can you change the past?” he said hoarsely.

  Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, sliding down her cheeks.

  Can’t think. Don’t want to feel. He pulled away, rubbed his hands over his face. “I need time.”

  “Please, Marcus—”

  “Do not push me, Pandora,” he warned. “I will think on our future and decide what to do next. In the meantime, we will keep up appearances in front of the children. In public, you will play the part of mama and wife as if nothing has happened. And if you step one foot out of line, I will divorce you and to hell with the consequences. Am I understood?”

  “Yes,” she said in a suffocated voice. “Marcus, I love you—”

  “Do not say those words to me again,” he bit out. “Do I make myself clear?”

  She flinched as if he’d physically struck her.

  “Answer me.” Goddamnit, he hated himself for being a bastard. Hated her for pushing him into acting like one.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Very clear.”

  Furious at her—at himself—he stalked out.

  Chapter Seven

  1817

  Penny had always had a temper. Octavian had cautioned her about it; Harry and Flora had taught her to control it. From the latter two—Flora especially—she’d learned to channel her hotheaded tendencies and use them to her advantage as a spy. Consequently, as Pompeia, her trademarks had been boldness and derring-do, even in the face of great odds.

  As a wife, however, Penny was learning that controlling one’s pique was a different matter altogether. Especially when one was married to a man as stubborn as her h
usband. After spending a glorious wedding trip at his cozy property in the Cotswolds, they’d returned to London. Which was when she realized that the honeymoon was over—both literally and figuratively.

  Marcus returned to his routine. While he visited her bed every night and they breakfasted together, he was gone on business during the day, then off to his club after that. Occasionally, he escorted her to a social affair. Other than that, she found herself alone… a lot. She knew she needed her own routine, but it proved difficult to find one that didn’t drive her out of her skull with boredom or irritation. Two weeks of this and she was ready to burst out of her skin.

  After a lifetime of poverty and danger, one would think that having idle time and too much money to spend would be a welcome change. It wasn’t. She’d rather be chased by enemy agents through the warren-like streets of the Marais than endure another visit with two-faced bitches who smiled at her politely and then wagged their forked tongues behind her back. Yet social torture and endless visits to the dressmaker seemed to be the cornerstones of the genteel female existence. Since Penny was determined to be a proper marchioness for Marcus, this would have to be her life, too.

  Needless to say, this did not put her in the best of moods.

  Now she turned on her bench at her vanity to face her husband. Standing in the doorway of her dressing room, he was austere perfection in his black silk dressing robe, his hair still wet and curling from his bath. Even casually dressed, he looked handsome and dignified… but that didn’t make his request—or more accurately, his decree—any more reasonable.

  “I told you before,” she retorted. “I am not having supper with your mama again.”

  “You are. We can’t avoid her forever, darling,” he said.

  “You don’t have to avoid her. You can go.” She crossed her arms. “And you can make excuses for me—tell her I have a megrim or that I’ve come down with the Plague.”

  Marcus’ lips tipped up slightly, but he didn’t relent. “I’m not going to lie for you.”

  “Fine. Then tell her the truth.” Penny rose, her primrose satin dressing robe swirling around her. “Tell her I don’t want to go to her supper party because she is condescending and rude. She makes no bones about disliking me, Marcus, and how much she wishes you’d wed someone else. If I have to hear one more word about the Perfect Miss Pilkington, I swear to God I shall scream.”

  “You’re overreacting,” he said—the absolutely wrong thing to say as far as she was concerned. “Mama is merely surprised at our marriage, as she has every right to be. It did take place with some haste.”

  “Marry in haste, repent in leisure?” she said bitterly. “I’m sure your mother wishes you were repenting. I hear Cora Pilkington is still free.”

  “There’s no need to be flippant. Mama will come to accept our marriage in time. As for Miss Pilkington, she has nothing to do with this.”

  “She has plenty to do with it,” Penny said hotly. “She’s leading a dashed campaign against me.”

  “A campaign? How do you mean?”

  The fact that Marcus looked puzzled elevated her temperature another dangerous notch. “I mean she’s using her influence against me. She’s making it difficult for me to enter certain circles.”

  “Has she been rude to you?” he said, frowning.

  “Not directly.” She waved a frustrated hand. “That’s not the way her sort does it.”

  Society, Penny was learning, carried on its own version of espionage. Debutantes wielded words like stilettos, used gossip and innuendo to poison, and hid behind shining shields of virtue and politesse. To Penny, the world of the ton was every bit as treacherous as the world she’d inhabited before, and Cora Pilkington, the coy blond bitch, was the worst of the lot.

  “How, precisely, does her sort do it?” her husband inquired.

  It frustrated Penny to no end that she had to explain such obvious facts to his lordship. “Cora Pilkington whispers behind her fan to her cronies when I’m around. Her compliments are more false than her eyelashes. And she… she looks smug.”

  “If looking smug were a crime, the entire ton would be behind bars. Have you any real evidence of Miss Pilkington’s plot against you?”

  Fuming at his reasonable tone, Penny said, “You want an example? Fine. At Lady Ippleby’s luncheon last week, I was standing with Miss Pilkington and her friends when a spider crawled past, and Miss Pilkington screeched. Since she looked ready to faint, I stomped on the blasted thing.”

  “And?”

  “She thanked me,” Penny said darkly.

  “Ah. Clearly, she has it in for you.”

  “Do not mock me. It was how she thanked me that showed her true character.” Anger heated Penny’s chest at the memory of Cora’s snide, breathy tones, which she now mimicked. “You’re so hardy, Lady Blackwood, compared to the rest of us fragile blooms. I declare, I’d faint dead away if the remnants of that dreadful creature were clinging to the bottom of my slipper.”

  Following Cora’s lead, the other hens had shivered and taken a step back from Penny as if she’d caught some miserable disease.

  “That’s it?” Looking exasperated, Marcus said, “Perhaps being afraid of spiders, Miss Pilkington merely admires your lack of squeamishness. Whatever the case, I’m sure she didn’t mean to offend. In fact, when I saw her last, she had nothing but kind words to say about you.”

  God’s teeth, how could he be so obtuse? How could the brilliant Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington, hero of the battlefield, be so bloody stupid when it came to females? Of course, that had worked to her advantage in the past… but still.

  “It’s no surprise that she’d say that to you. She wants you to believe that she’s virtuous. All the while, she’s a snake in the grass, waiting to slither into your bed,” Penny said indignantly.

  “That is both ridiculous and offensive.” Marcus’ features tightened with distaste. “Moreover, you are veering wildly off topic. We were discussing your requested presence at my mama’s supper party, which has naught to do with Miss Pilkington. This is about you doing your duty as my wife—as the Marchioness of Blackwood.”

  “Do not lecture me about duty.”

  “Don’t act like a spoiled child, and I won’t have to.”

  At his calm superiority, her irritation boiled over. “If I’m acting like a child, then it’s because you’ve assigned me to that role!”

  “What the devil does that mean?”

  “It means, Marcus, that when you go gallivanting off to your meetings or your club, you leave me here, alone in the house, with nothing to do,” she said acidly.

  “First of all, I’m not gallivanting—I’m attending to business interests.” His jaw clenched. “Secondly, there’s plenty for you to do.”

  “Such as?”

  His brows lowered, his impatience now palpable. “Run the household. Receive callers. Go to the bloody dressmaker, I don’t know. Whatever it is ladies do.”

  “For your information, it takes one hour of my day to meet with the housekeeper and the butler to ensure that the house is running smoothly. And I’ve been shopping.” Her temper taking over, she stormed over to her three enormous wardrobes, flinging their doors open one by one, exposing guts of satin, silk, and chiffon. “I can’t fit anything more in there.”

  “So buy another wardrobe,” he growled.

  “Excellent. So deduct an additional hour spent on Bond Street, which leaves,”—she tapped a finger against her chin—“ten hours a day to contend with. I repeat, what am I to do with myself?”

  “Devil and damn, woman, what has gotten into you?” Marcus planted his hands on his lean hips, finally looking angry. “You’d think you didn’t have the first inkling of how to be a lady.”

  She didn’t—but she couldn’t tell him that. The knot of frustration in her chest tightened.

  “I’m doing my best.” For you, you ungrateful nodcock.

  “If you’d care to do better,” he said in icy tones, “I’m sure Mama wou
ld be perfectly happy to introduce you to new acquaintances and—”

  “I don’t want your mother’s help, I want you, you bacon-brained lummox!” she exploded. Provoked beyond words, she paced before the gaping cabinets, in her agitation barely holding onto her polished accent. “I don’t want to make acquaintances who gossip behind my back. Who say you married beneath you and wait for me to make a mistake—any mistake—so they can pounce on it and tear me to shreds over tea and sandwiches. Who all secretly agree that I stole you from Perfect Miss Pilkington, who would have made you a much better marchioness and who still casts blooming calf eyes at you—”

  Strong arms caught her at the waist, cutting off her tirade. She struggled furiously, but it was of no use. He held her against his unyielding frame.

  “Penny. Look at me.”

  Chest heaving, she glared up at him… and despite her tumult, the warmth in his steel blue eyes sent a quiver through her belly. A melting sensation that went all the way down her spine. All at once, she was acutely aware of his hard muscle surrounding her, his scent and heat.

  “I don’t want Miss Pilkington. I want you,” he said.

  Suddenly, Penny realized how she sounded—like a jealous harpy. She felt small, stupid.

  “I know that,” she muttered to his chest.

  “The reason I’ve been out so much is because I wanted to give you space to settle into your new life. To make our home how you wish without tripping over your husband at every step. In leaving you to your own devices, my intention was to be considerate.”

  Her gaze shot up.

  His smile was rueful. “By the by, you’re not the only one who thinks I’ve got bacon for brains. My man of business has grown quite exasperated with me.”