“So you lied to me because you love me?” His eyes sliced to hers. “Pretended to be a debutante—a pure and untouchedladyto 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 husband. 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.
