The Lady Who Came in from the Cold Read online

  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…

  Oh my goodness.

  Her heart shot into her throat. At the same time, molten heat flooded her sex, her nipples prickling against her satin negligee. Because she’d caught her proper husband in the act of doing something unexpected.

  Unexpectedly naughty, that was.

  Was he thinking of her… or someone else? At the latter thought, fire leapt inside her, possessiveness feeding into her arousal. Because Marcus was hers—and if he didn’t know that, then she would have to prove it to him.

  Chapter Nine

  “Ride me, love,” he growled.

  With his back against the headboard and his hands clamped on his wife’s sweet arse, he urged her on—not that she needed much encouragement. Goddamn, he’d married a hot little vixen. She wriggled her hips, grounding down, and the feel of her tight sheath taking his cock to the root nearly drew his fire. But he held on, wanting to prolong the pleasure, the joy of introducing his beloved to her first good fucking.

  For the first three months of their marriage, he’d made gentle love to his new bride, not wanting to scare her or offend her delicate sensibilities. He’d planned to introduce her slowly to the more adventurous delights of the marital bed. But his marchioness turned out to be an eager pupil, and each time he bedded her, the passion between them flared ever hotter. Tonight he’d judged her ready to try a new position… one that would become as necessary as it was pleasurable as the months went on.

  One of his hands moved forward to rest possessively on the slight swell of her belly. She was hardly showing, yet the idea of her ripening with his child filled him with a potent combination of tenderness and lust. He didn’t know why, but the sight of his pregnant wife made him randier than hell.

  As luck would have it, being with child seemed to affect Penny in the same way.

  “Marcus.” His name had never sounded better than at this moment, her voice breathless as she bounced on his erection, her hair a wild and glorious tangle over her shoulders. “Oh, I’m so close…”

  Hell, he should have had her astride him weeks ago.

  “Lean over, there’s a love.” He slid his palms up her smooth shoulder blades, pulling her closer to his chest. “Take me like this.”

  He saw and felt the moment that the new angle hit her: flames leapt in her gorgeous eyes, her cheeks flushing as she sank down on his shaft, her lips forming a soundless O as her pussy gripped his rod like a velvet fist. Lungs straining, he guided her hips, grinding her against him, rubbing her little love knot against his cock with each plunging stroke.

  “Marcus... I can’t… it’s too… oh my God.”

  She came, her sex milking him, bringing him to the edge.

  ~~~

  Marcus’ eyes snapped open.

  He became aware of several things at once. His lungs were pulling harshly, his burgeoned cock throbbing in the wet fist of his own hand. He was a hairsbreadth from shooting his seed… but something had jolted him from his fantasy.

  A sound, a furtive movement.

  He hastily released himself, water sloshing as he sat up. He’d told Gibson, his valet, to give him privacy. The man had been with him through the wars and usually followed orders as well as any soldier.

  “That you, Gibson?” he called out. “I’m not finished yet. Come back in a half hour.”

  No reply. Had he imagined the noise?

  After another minute, Marcus relaxed and sank back into the hot, sudsy water. Absently, he stroked his still rigid shaft… but the mood had been broken. Anger now simmered along with arousal, a frustrating and potent mix.

  Why in the devil was he fantasizing about Pandora? After her betrayal—the lies that had destroyed everything he held dear—he should want nothing to do with her. She’d manipulated him for the entire length of their marriage, and he probably didn’t even know the full extent of it. Hell, he didn’t want to know. What man wanted to discover just how much of a lovesick dupe he’d been?

  At the same time, he couldn’t shake the image of her on her knees, begging for his forgiveness. What she’d shared of her past made his chest clench. If she could be believed—the operative word being if—then the suffering she’d known… He rubbed his hands over his steam-slicked face, swamped by a feeling of protectiveness that he couldn’t control.

  He wanted to kill that bastard Octavian for coercing Penny, a bleeding ten-year-old orphan for Christ’s sake, into the dirty business of espionage. She might not have called it coercion, but to Marcus it was. She’d had no other choice—besides stealing or starving, that was, and he didn’t count those as real choices. Octavian had taken advantage of her, trained her to do his filthy bidding. Marcus wanted to tear out the man’s bloody throat for treating his Penny that way.

  Back then, I thought of it as completing a mission. Her words were a haunting echo in his head. It was the only life I knew. I didn’t think I deserved any better.

  His fury reared again, along with a pain that sliced through him as excruciatingly as a surgeon’s scalpel. And he would know as he’d once had a bullet removed from his shoulder. The only thing that had made the agony bearable had been the alternative: had the assassin shot him three inches over, he’d have been dead on the spot.

  Even so, he’d take a dozen bullets over knowing that Pandora had been with other men. That she’d not thought herself worthy of a better life. That she’d bartered her beautiful body as if it were naught but a cheap commodity.

  Jealousy and rage scalded his insides. For so long, he’d thought of her as exclusively his. His virgin bride, his precious wife, his one and only love. To accept that she’d lain with others and that she’d lied to him about it…

  Everything I did was because I loved you so much and knew that you’d never love me back as Pandora Smith.

  Bloody hell, would he have married her had he known the truth of her origins and all that she’d done? His gut knotted; he didn’t know the answer. Yet the thought of never havin
g been wed to her, never knowing the love and laughter and passion they’d shared, never having the boys…

  His eyes shut, his head falling back against the tub. It was too bloody much to contend with. Pressure roiled in his head, his groin. God, he just needed to release some of his pent-up frustration…

  He fisted himself again. He tried to summon up a fantasy that didn’t involve Penny… but it was impossible. From the moment they’d met, she’d been his every desire. His one and only. Cursing himself a fool, he couldn’t deny that the past month hadn’t changed that fact for him one whit. He still lusted after his damned wife. A woman who’d made a fool of him. He frigged himself harder, the water slapping against the tub. Her name wrenched from him in a tortured groan as his pleasure spiked, his balls tautening.

  “Marcus?”

  His eyes snapped open; his gaze locked with Penny’s through the haze of steam. Heart pounding, his blood rushing hot in his veins, for one disorienting moment, he didn’t know whether this was part of his fantasy or reality. The distinction didn’t become any clearer when she shrugged off her robe, revealing a sensual slip of creamy satin and lace. She untied the bow on her left shoulder, his mouth watering as the bodice fell, revealing one perfect round breast crowned with a ripe cherry nipple. She untied the bow on her other shoulder, and the negligee fell completely to join her robe on the floor.

  “I miss you so much,” she whispered.

  Hell. Bloody fucking hell.

  His vision darkened, and the next instant, he was out of the tub. He didn’t have time to think, didn’t want to. His primal instinct took over, and he reached for what was his.

  ~~~

  Relief. Desire. Excitement.

  The emotions hit her simultaneously, a barrage that left her breathless.

  Her pulse leapt as Marcus stalked toward her, water sluicing off his lean, hard form—and by all that was holy, he was hard everywhere. Her gaze dipped to his groin, and her knees quivered. His cock was huge and thick, boldly erect, his bollocks swinging heavily between his muscled thighs as he prowled towards her. Jerking her gaze back up, she saw his eyes were smoldering and heavy-lidded.

  All man, her husband.

  Everything she’d ever wanted.

  He reached for her at the same time that she reached for him. Their bodies collided, the impact of hard and soft sending a shock of pleasure through her system. His kiss was crushing, equal parts hunger and anger, and she didn’t care. Having him back was more than she deserved. More than she’d hoped for when she made her daring play a moment ago. Moaning, she reached up, winding her arms around his neck, closing the distance between them in the only way she knew how.

  An instant later, she was driven backward, her back meeting with hard smooth tile. Her neck arched against the wall as his lips closed around her nipple—not gently as he’d done in the past but with a ferocity that made her gasp aloud. The edge of his teeth grazed her, and her pussy clenched. When he suckled hard, wetness gushed between her legs.

  Then his mouth was back on hers, claiming and savage, and the glory of it made her wild. Her fingers tangling in his wet hair, she rubbed herself shamelessly against him, whimpering as her budded nipples dragged against the taut planes of his chest, the wiry hair an exquisite friction. Lower, she felt his poker-hard staff prodding her belly, so she pressed even closer, wanting it, wanting him with every fiber of who she was.

  All of a sudden, she was lifted off the ground, her back against the wall, Marcus between her spread legs. His eyes glittering, he notched his cock to her and brought her down on the rearing shaft. All the way. So deep his head nudged her womb. No sooner had the pleasured whimper left her then he did it again, lifting her and slamming her down on his rod.

  On the third rise and fall, she flew apart. Her entire being convulsed around the thickness holding her aloft, piercing her very core, the heart of who she was. Through the misty bliss, she heard him grunt, the slapping of flesh as he drove into her again and again. She held onto him, her hands clutching his bunching biceps, her legs circling his flexing hips, so she felt and heard his fulfillment. His powerful body quaked against her, his groan reverberating against the tiles.

  Dazed, happy, she inhaled the scent of him, stroked the slick muscles of his back. It was heaven to be with him this way again. Words tumbled through her head.

  I love you. I’ve missed you. Forgive me, and I swear I won’t lie to you again.

  She searched for the right thing to say.

  He pulled out so abruptly that she gasped. Her feet landed on the slippery tiles, and the moment she gained her balance, he let her go. Leaning over, he retrieved her clothes from the ground.

  “Get dressed.” He tossed the items at her.

  She caught them out of reflex, clutching the satin to her chest. Happiness evaporated the instant she saw Marcus’ face. Hard jaw, harder eyes. He turned from her, and wrapping a towel around his waist, headed for the doorway.

  Stunned, she said, “Where are you going?”

  “Out,” he said curtly.

  “But after we… I mean, we just…” she stammered, “we ought to talk…”

  “We fucked, Pandora.” His harsh words cut short her breath. “If you think to manipulate me with your sexual charms, think again. Your wiles no longer work on me. I will take as much time as I want to decide upon our future, and you have no say about it. Now I’m going out. When I return, I’ll expect you back in your own room.”

  Silent, her lungs straining for air, she tried to summon a reply.

  Brushing past her as if she were invisible, he stalked out.

  Chapter Ten

  1819

  “Milady, it isn’t safe for you—”

  “I’ll be quite alright.” Penny cut the footman off in tones that brooked no argument. “Wait here at the carriage. I shall return shortly.”

  She headed down the narrow lane framed on both sides by leaning, ramshackle tenements. The air was choked with smoke from cooking fires, and lines of wash crisscrossed overhead, the garments swaying like limp flags of surrender. Poverty was an invincible enemy, but to Penny’s mind, the inhabitants of this small street on the fringes of St. Giles were still fighting the good fight. At least the folk here still bothered to cook and do laundry—which was more than she could say for some of the places she’d lived growing up.

  Poor but not yet beaten, she thought, tucking away the information.

  As an agent, she’d learned that information was power. A spy was only as good as her informants and the knowledge they passed her way. In the nearly two years that Penny had lived amongst the ton, she’d come to understand that the Upper Crust operated by similar principles and thus her visit today. She found the address she was looking for and, gathering up her pale blue skirts, climbed up the creaky steps.

  Arriving at her destination, she rapped her kidskin-covered knuckles against the peeling wood. She heard shuffling from inside, a high-pitched voice quickly shushed. The flat had no windows, not even a peephole on the door.

  A voice emerged from the other side of the barrier. “Who is it?”

  “The Marchioness of Blackwood,” Penny said.

  Silence. The door cracked open. A thin, ginger-haired woman in her twenties peered out, her light brown eyes widening beneath her cap at the sight of Penny.

  “Milady,” she stammered and bobbed an uncertain curtsy.

  “Miss Randall,” Penny said pleasantly. “I have a proposition to discuss. I’d rather do it indoors, if I may?”

  Blinking, the woman stepped aside, and Penny entered, taking in her surroundings at a glance. Seeing as the place consisted of a single cramped room, there wasn’t much to see, and, in truth, the space was much like Miss Randall: destitute and tidy. What drew Penny’s attention was the small table at the center of the room.

  Sitting there upon a rickety chair was a young red-haired girl—four or five, by Penny’s guess—working stitches into a piece of cloth. She was a pretty little moppet, her hair ta
med into two pristine and elegant braids. She was dressed similarly to her mama in a plain, worn frock that was meticulously patched, pressed, and free of stains. The work of someone who had perfected their craft and would practice it regardless of circumstance.

  “Who are you?” the girl said, her eyes rounding.

  “Molly, mind your manners.” Miss Randall went over to her child, her stance protective. “This is ’er ladyship, the Marchioness of Blackwood. Do your curtsy now.”

  The girl scrambled to her feet and followed her mama’s instruction.

  “Very pretty, Miss Molly,” Penny said, smiling.

  “Thank you, milady.” The child’s dimples peeped out.

  “Molly, you may see if Mary is free to play,” her mama said. “’Alf hour only, mind you. Then back to sewing.”

  Molly’s eyes lit up, and she skipped out the door. The instant the girl was gone, her mother said curtly, “How may I help you, milady?”

  Yes, everything Penny observed today matched with what she’d learned about Jenny Randall and strengthened her confidence in her plan.

  “I’ve come to hire you,” she said.

  Miss Randall’s lips trembled. “Is this some sort o’ jest?”

  Penny could see why the other might think so. After all, Jenny Randall had been publicly dismissed and humiliated last week by her former employer, Lady Auberville, one of the ton’s reigning hostesses. Being a nasty sort, Lady Auberville had fired Miss Randall in front of her entire staff. Then she’d spewed vitriol concerning her maid’s sordid secret far and wide in Society. Everyone who was anyone now knew that Jenny Randall, a once respectable and sought-after ladies maid, had borne a child out of wedlock. Her prospects for a good position were forever ruined by her ex-mistress’ malicious tongue and love of hysterics.

  Imagine, the wages I’ve paid the ungrateful trollop have been going toward her bastard’s upkeep, Lady Auberville had shrilled to all and sundry. I dismissed her right away, of course; I had to set an example. One cannot allow such immortality to taint one’s household.