The Lady Who Came in from the Cold Page 2

  Leaning up on his elbow, he admired her sleeping profile. Her lashes were lush black fans against her alabaster cheeks, her sultry features soft and sweetly relaxed. A sound escaped from her rosy lips: half-sigh, half-moan, it was as adorable as it was tempting. When she shifted in her sleep, her plush backside nudging his cockstand, he could resist no longer.

  Gently pulling the heavy raven tresses off her neck, he nuzzled the curve of her shoulder. He inhaled the fragrance of her sleep-warmed skin: jasmine and neroli, her signature scent and a potent aphrodisiac to his senses. His lips skimmed along her smooth white shoulder, his hand roving under the covers. Blood pumped through his veins as he palmed one rounded breast, savoring its firmness and silken heft.

  Gently, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She was still asleep, but her breathing changed, the cadence quickening, the surges more shallow. Smiling to himself, he played some more, drawing the covers down so that he could see what he was doing. The sight of those luscious tits, their blushing tips hard and saucy against his fingers, threw kindling onto his fire.

  His hand followed the sweet dip of her waist to the even sweeter flare of her hip. God love his wife’s curvaceous figure. And the fact that, over the years, he’d won her over to the habit of sleeping in the buff… although he had a hunch that she was no longer sleeping. As he kissed her ear, his caress slid farther down to one of his favorite places of all.

  Satisfaction poured through him. Just as he’d suspected.

  She was wet, hot, and ready for him.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  Her throaty words, uttered with her eyes still closed, made him grin.

  “And it’s about to get better,” he murmured.

  “Confident, are you, Lord Blackwood?”

  “Let’s just say you’re rather a sure thing, Lady Blackwood.”

  “Someone has a big head.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” He slid his erection against the cleft of her bottom, the blunt tip prodding the soft base of her spine. “Very big, as it were.”

  “Marcus.”

  But since she was giggling and her pussy, which he’d been petting all the while, had gotten wetter and hotter, he didn’t take her admonition to heart. He knew his Penny, and she liked her games. He liked them, too.

  He ran a possessive hand down her silky leg, pulling it back over his. With both of them laying on their sides, this position presented rather intriguing prospects. Never a man to waste a good opportunity, he positioned his shaft and thrust home.

  Ah, Christ. So good. Always so good.

  “Penny,” he groaned.

  Her reply was a breathy mangling of his name. He didn’t need further encouragement. Holding her steady by the hip, he drove himself into her lush passage, deep and deeper, the fit snug and bloody perfect. He played with her pearl, circling and rubbing, pressing that sensitive little knot against his stroking cock in a way guaranteed to drive his lady wild. Moaning, she bucked wantonly against him, and he held on, not wanting this pleasure to end, not just yet.

  Gritting his teeth, he kept his pace measured. Waited for her crescendo, her hitched breaths and the flush on her jiggling breasts betraying that she was nearly at her peak. Thank God. Gasping, she threw her head back to look at him, her stunning violet eyes bright with love and passion, and in that moment the truth reverberated within him.

  I have everything. Everything I’ve ever wanted.

  His thoughts vaporized in the blaze of their kiss. In the love and lust of their tangling tongues, their joining bodies. Only when he felt her climax did he let go. He hilted himself and held, burying his groans in his wife’s hair as her rippling sheath pulled joy from him, their shared heat melding them as one.

  Chapter Three

  Sipping chocolate, Lady Pandora Blackwood—Penny to her husband—was sorting through a pile of invitations at the breakfast table. It was an ordinary event, but she had a newfound appreciation for routine. This moment marked the passing of an all too recent danger: four months ago, an enemy had risen from her past. The once notorious spy who called himself the Spectre had reemerged to threaten her and her former colleagues. After months of blackmail and threats, the bastard had attacked her ex-comrade, Gabriel Ridgley, the Marquess of Tremont.

  Tremont had dispatched the villain.

  With the Spectre gone, the world was made safer—and Penny’s secrets would remain where they belonged. In the past. Locked away where they couldn’t harm the ones she loved.

  She breathed a silent sigh of gratitude and relief before sliding a glance at her husband.

  Seated to her right, Marcus was reviewing his business correspondence while he drank his coffee. One of the things she adored about him—and there were admittedly many—was the fact that he was so proper on the outside. A perfect gentleman whose style was marked by restraint. Sometimes, he erred too much in that direction, and it took plotting between her and his valet Gibson to ensure that he didn’t wind up looking downright funereal.

  Under Gibson’s tutelage, she’d learned that the art of men’s dressing lay in the details. Thus, she made sure that fine cufflinks, cravat pins, and other stylish accoutrements found their way into her husband’s wardrobe on a regular basis. Gibson, for his part, employed those items to stark yet superb effect when grooming Marcus.

  One of Penny’s secret pleasures was knowing that beneath the plain, crisp linen and somber waistcoat lay a virile and hot-blooded man, a husband who, after a dozen years of marriage, still liked to awaken her in the manner of a randy newlywed…

  Marcus set down his cup, the slight furrow between his dark brows conveying his concentration on the task at hand. Her heart fluttered as she watched him. From the moment they’d met, her soul had recognized him as hers, and the intervening years had only heightened her attraction to him.

  At forty-one, Marcus was even more compelling to her senses than he’d been at five-and-twenty. He’d grown leaner, harder, the threading of grey in his thick, dark bronze hair adding to his distinguished air. His hawkish features might not be classically handsome, but their fierceness spoke of integrity and authority. The strength of moral character that had made him a military hero. In fact, his visage might have been described as overly harsh were it not for the subtle laugh lines around his eyes and mouth—lines, she liked to think, that she and their three sons had contributed to.

  Marcus’ gaze suddenly shifted to her; the smile in those steel blue depths made her sex quiver. He reached over and gave her hand a husbandly squeeze. He returned to opening his letters while her heart continued to pound like that of a silly debutante.

  As Lady Pandora Blackwood, she’d worked diligently to build her reputation. Invitations to her soirees and balls were the most sought-after in all the ton. Society wags had decreed her one of the most sophisticated and glamorous hostesses in the Top Ten Thousand. Everyone knew she and Marcus had a love match, but what would they say if they knew how intemperate her feelings for him were beneath her urbane surface? How madly she loved him? How one touch from him made her want to climb astride him at the breakfast table, never mind the servants who could come in at any moment, and beg him to take her then and there?

  He made love to you just an hour ago, you greedy wanton.

  Her cheeks warmed. Other parts, too.

  She went back to the invitations even as naughty images danced through her head. She and Marcus shared a passionate marriage bed—this morning being a case in point—but certain lines should not be crossed. She’d dedicated the last dozen years to making herself into the kind of wife that Marcus wanted. To becoming his ideal, his every fantasy. While ardor was all well and good, a man like Marcus also needed a wife who was a lady.

  It was Miss Pandora Hudson, only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Harry Hudson, of the Devonshire Hudsons, that he’d fallen in love with, after all. That was who he’d proposed to and married. Not Pandora Smith, former secret agent and bastard daughter of a whore.

  A
s Lady Pandora, she’d made her husband happy. She would continue to make him happy. To do that, she would act like the lady she’d become… or at least save her carnal impulses for bedtime.

  “What the devil?”

  Marcus’ oath startled her as did the clattering of his letter opener against his breakfast plate. Her gaze flew to him; never before had she seen such an expression on his face. Typically, he was a man of composure, yet now his eyes blazed with rage. A letter was clenched in his fist; throwing it down, he shoved away from the table and rose abruptly to his feet. He stood, glowering at the offending piece of paper.

  “What is it?” she said in surprise.

  “I’ll have the hide of the bounder who wrote this,” Marcus vowed grimly. “I’ll hunt him down, and, by Jove, he’ll answer for this slander. By the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish he’d never been born—”

  “What are you talking about, my love?” She reached over and plucked up the crumpled missive. She smoothed it out—and her throat closed.

  Handwriting she’d never forget. Words that ripped the veil from her world.

  The Spectre, she thought numbly. Getting his revenge from the grave.

  “Penny?”

  She turned her dazed eyes up to her husband.

  “Do you know who is responsible for this defamation?” he demanded.

  “I… I…” Ugly heat scalded her insides. For some reason, she couldn’t get her brain to work. ’Twas as if her mental cogs were rusted into place.

  “It matters not, my love. I’ll find out.” The muscles of his jaw were tight, his eyes slits of steel. “Whoever the bastard is, he’ll pay for this insult.”

  She knew that look on her husband’s face: that of a crusader out for justice. Panic tumbled through her. Once Marcus set upon a course, there was no stopping him. A determination to do right was woven into the fabric of his nature. He would not relent until he found his answers. The Spectre might be dead, but if Marcus went searching into the dark alleys of her past, who knew what deadly skeletons he might dig up? What dangers might befall him?

  “No,” she blurted. “You can’t.”

  “Of course I can. And I will,” he said curtly. “No one slanders my wife and gets away with it.”

  Think of something. Amongst espionage circles, she’d once been infamous for her skill at disguise and deception, yet as her husband’s gaze held hers, her mind churned in desperate confusion. It refused to come up with more lies, ways to bluff her way out of disaster. For the first time, her survival instincts abandoned her.

  Icy perspiration trickled beneath her bodice. As she wetted her lips, telltale heat spread over her cheeks.

  “What is the matter, love? Do you know who wrote this slander…” As Marcus watched her, something shifted in his expression. Disbelief strained his voice as he said, “It is slander, isn’t it?”

  Still, she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t force her lips to shape the word, just one more lie, to save herself from certain destruction. Here, she was facing the deadliest opponent of them all—the truth—and she was suddenly, inexplicably out of bullets. She couldn’t hold his gaze, so intense and piercing.

  Familiar callused fingers tipped her chin up. “Look at me.”

  She did, staring into her beloved’s eyes, and, to her horror, her vision began to swim. She could count on two hands the times that she’d cried in front of her husband. Being rather hotheaded by nature, she was more apt to instigate an out-and-out row than succumb to tears. He liked to tease her that, with her temperament, she would have been one of the rowdy troublemakers in his battalion. He never knew how close he’d come to the truth. Perhaps she ought to have hidden her natural tendencies, but it had been too much trouble to cultivate the art of being a watering pot, even for him.

  Now, however, she couldn’t stop the moisture leaking from her eyes.

  “What the devil?” Marcus’ tone permeated her shock.

  “You mustn’t pursue this. The writer of the note—he’s dead,” she said in a rush. “He was a spy, working for the French, and he’s no longer a threat. All of this is in the past. Please I can explain—”

  “The letter says you were a spy, Pandora.” Her husband stared at her. “Is this true?”

  Blooming hell. She fumbled for a response. “There’s a good explanation—”

  “It’s a yes or no question,” he said incredulously.

  Say no. Say no. Say no.

  She seemed to have lost any ability to control herself. ’Twas as if she’d let go of tightly held reins all at once, and she was flying, flying into an abyss. Terrified, she couldn’t stop more tears from spilling over. Nor her chin from dipping in an infinitesimally small nod.

  The silence was punctuated by sounds of domesticity beyond the room. Maids cleaning, silverware rattling on a tray. Everyday noises that seemed to come from a world away.

  “And the rest of the letter?” The pain in her husband’s voice serrated her insides. “It claims that you… you seduced these three men. Pierre Chenet. Jean-Philippe Martin. Vincent Barone.”

  The names tore into her like shrapnel. The last, in particular, left a gaping hole out of which her nightmares oozed. The alleyway of crushed violets. Smell of garbage. The taste of fear, tinny and acid, filled her mouth.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hold Marcus’ blazing gaze. “I… I…”

  “Goddamnit, you will look at me and give me the truth.”

  She forced her eyes up. His face was now tightly controlled, wiped of expression. He wasn’t her Marcus any longer; he was Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington, a man who held those in his command to the strictest levels of moral behavior. Who was now looking at his wife as he would a soldier placed on court-martial.

  She’d fought too many battles not to know defeat when she saw it. No weapons left, no place to hide. Damn the Spectre for doing this. Damn him for destroying everything.

  “I had no choice,” she said through the constriction of her throat. “It was part of the mission. Please, I can explain—”

  “Explain? How do you explain that you were a spy? A damned whore?”

  His words sliced through her; shame bled out.

  “I did… I did what I had to do,” she whispered.

  “You had to lie to me? In twelve years, not once have you mentioned that you were involved in this filthy business. Damnation.” He dragged his hands through his hair, his expression going from angry to ravaged. “On our wedding night, you acted like you were a virgin. Was that… was that just an act?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “There was blood on the sheets. How did it get there?” he roared.

  A tremor travelled through her. In all their years together, Marcus had never raised his voice at her. But she was stripped bare now; there was nothing left to yield but the truth.

  “It was chicken blood,” she whispered.

  Blue flames leapt in his eyes, and then he was looking at her as if she were something he’d scraped off his shoe. As if he were seeing her for the first time—and what he saw disgusted him. She didn’t blame him. Even as self-revulsion made her stomach roil, she stumbled to her feet, held out a pleading hand.

  “I was wrong to deceive you, Marcus. What I did was unforgivable. But I did all of it because I loved you so much—”

  “Love?” Never had the word sounded ugly coming from his lips, but now it cracked like a whip. “Pandora—if that is even your name—you don’t know what love is. If you did, you would not have betrayed me from the moment we met.”

  She’d faced death more than once, and yet her fear now made all past experiences fade to nothingness. Terror filled her lungs, closed over her head, waves and waves of it. Frantically, she fought to stay afloat.

  “We’ve been happy. All I’ve ever wanted was to make you happy.” Tears streaming down her face, she touched his sleeve. “Please, Marcus, I can make things right—”

  He shook her off as if
her very touch disgusted him.

  “Don’t,” he clipped out. “It’s too late.”

  “T-too late?” Her voice quivered.

  “Our marriage is a lie. All of it. Nothing was real.”

  His cold, flat words punched harder than any fist. Shaking her head in denial, she said, “No, that’s not true. I love you. And the children—”

  “I will decide what to tell them—once I decide what to do with you.”

  Dread squeezed her lungs. She couldn’t breathe.

  He turned and headed toward the door.

  “Wait,” she croaked. “Where are you going?”

  “That is none of your business.” He spoke with his back to her. “From now on, nothing I do concerns you.”

  The door slammed behind him.

  Alone, her strength left her. She sank to her knees, and everything she’d held back came rushing to the fore. The torrents swept over her, and for once in her life, she was lost.

  Chapter Four

  1817

  Marcus Harrington leaned on the balcony railing and, for the first time that evening, breathed freely. The night air was cool and carried the budding scents of spring. Although lofty Mayfair rooftops crowded all around him, at least here he could see the sky, which calmed his inner restlessness. He slid a finger under his collar, loosening the life-threatening grip of his fashionable cravat. The roar of a ball in full swing seeped through the glass panes of the double doors, even though he’d closed them for privacy. He’d wanted a moment away from the mayhem. From the relentless, monotonous blur of gaiety.

  Funny how he’d spent more than a decade of his life in army camps and barracks and during those last years all he’d wanted was to be back in civilization. To be away from the horrors of the battlefield. And now, two years after Waterloo, he was back. For good. He’d sold his commission when his older brother James died, leaving him the title.