Placing his hands on the cool stone, he looked out into the universe and, damn, if Miss Pandora Hudson hadn’t changed it for him. The world was no longer colorless or bleak. Surrounded by the dazzling night sky and blossoming spring garden, he saw his future in vivid, breathtaking color.
And he couldn’t wait.
Chapter Five
September 1829
When two days and nights of drinking at his club did nothing to diminish his rage, Marcus left Town. He was beginning to incur the curiosity of other club members—and God knew White’s was populated by some of the worst damned gossips in all of London. Besides, putting distance between him and the treacherous harlot to whom he’d given his name was the best course of action. He wasn’t a man quick to temper but, by Jove, he was afraid of what he might do if he saw her. All those years… all thoselies.
Nothing between them real, nothing true.
Pierre Chenet.Jean-Philippe Martin.Vincent Barone.
The names clawed at his chest, red seeping into his vision, and he spurred his horse on, riding as if he were trying to outrun Satan himself—or, more accurately, a she-devil whose vows of love had been nothing more than the most venomous deception…
Past nightfall, he found himself at his old friend’s hunting lodge near Winchester. There were few whose company Marcus would seek out at the moment; Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, was one of them. Although they hadn’t seen each other for almost a year—the viscount preferred country life over town life—Carlisle could always be counted on for a night of drinking and playing billiards with minimal conversation necessary (if they did talk, it would be about good, solid topics such as horses and business). If that didn’t prove enough of a distraction, they could always go outside and shoot things. An avid sportsman, Carlisle kept his grounds well-stocked with game.
Marcus’ hopes for the evening began to fade, however, as he was shown into the manor by a surly butler. Despite his own unsettled state, he saw with some shock the changes that had taken place since he’d been here last. He passed bare walls, their paper peeling, and an entire room stripped of furniture. When he arrived at the study, his worst suspicions were confirmed.
The cabinets were empty, stripped of Carlisle’s extensive rifle collection. The billiards table was gone. Even the paintings of classic hunting scenes had disappeared. In the dim, barren space, about the only thing that remained was a pair of battered wingchairs and side tables set next to the fire.
Carlisle rose from one of them. The Scot was a tall fellow, dark-haired with saturnine features. “Blackwood, welcome.” He raised a brow. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Yes, sorry. I ought to have sent word. If it’s a bad time—”
“Nonsense. Come sit. We’ll have a drink,” Carlisle said.
Once they were both settled in the wingchairs, whiskies in hand, Marcus addressed the situation. “How bad are things?” he said quietly.
“They’re not ideal at the moment.” Carlisle took a drink.
The Scot was the king of understatement. In fact, his sardonic wit coupled with an intensely private nature had earned him a reputation for being standoffish. Marcus, however, had known the other for the better part of a decade and, when it came down to it, couldn’t name a more honorable gentleman. It was a little known fact that Carlisle had inherited a financial disaster, and he’d taken on the Sisyphean task of reversing the family fortune. He rarely spoke of it and never complained. Just dealt with one crisis after another and carried on.
He was the kind of man you’d want at your back in battle—and that wasn’t a compliment Marcus gave easily. Still, the viscount could be hard-headed and prickly when it came to his pride, as likely to welcome assistance as he would a bullet to the brain.
Nonetheless, Marcus had to try. Leaning forward, he said, “If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“I’ve got it in hand.”
Typical Carlisle.
“Unfortunately,” the Scot went on, “our options for the evening are rather limited. This,”—he pointed at the whiskey bottle—“will be our main entertainment, I’m afraid.”
Marcus downed the contents of his glass. It didn’t drown out his demons: hell, there wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to do that. Just like that, his rage broke the surface.
It was bad enough that Pandora had been a spy. Like most Englishmen, he viewed espionage with distrust and not a little disdain. It was a dishonorable activity—a necessary evil, perhaps, but evil nonetheless. To think that the woman he’d married had been involved in such disgraceful business… he could scarcely credit it. Didn’twantto.
Even worse, he had to confront the fact that his wife—his Penny—had given herself freely before their marriage. Had used her body to play despicable games and thenpretendedto be a virgin on their wedding night. Acid scalded his gut as the memory surfaced of their wedding trip at his cottage in the Cotswolds.
The morning after their first night together, he’d just returned from washing up. Penny was puttering behind the dressing screen, and he sat on the bed, waiting for her. Marveling at the passion that had nigh set his marital bed aflame—and wondering if his new bride might be up for another tumble before breakfast. But then his gaze caught on the stains: large reddish-brown splotches amidst the rumpled sheets. Remorse struck him like a thunderbolt.
“Marcus, is that you? I was thinking that after breakfast we might take a walk…” Penny rounded the screen, stopping as her gaze met his. “Whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He went to her, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.
“Forgive me, my love,” he muttered.
“Forgive you? Whatever for?”
