“Pandora, dearest, how are things?” Thea said softly.
Don’t be a blasted watering pot. Pull it together.
“Well, there’s more to do, of course,” she said with false cheer. “Fortunately, there are three weeks left to prepare. I’m thinking of hiring the most splendid orchestra—”
“We don’t mean the ball. We mean between you and Blackwood.” Although Marianne’s words were blunt, her green eyes held empathy.
Given the three’s involvement in her case, they knew about the Spectre and his final act of destruction: the letter that had revealed her secrets, smashing her world to smithereens. And even if they hadn’t known about her clandestine past, they couldn’t have missed the rumors buzzing through theton. Everyone was talking about the Blackwood Estrangement.
Before the disaster had happened, Society had labelled them a love match. Marcus had accompanied her most everywhere; at balls, he’d even danced with her—something husbands rarely did with their own wives. Yet in the past week and a half, she’d showed up on her own at a few functions, which she’d attended to keep up appearances. Her solo status had started the tittering behind fans. What fueled the gossip further was that when Marcus did show, he’d paid perfunctory attention to her. He’d greeted her coolly and then went off to socialize with others.
It was bad enough that those others had included women. Being a war hero and a devastatingly virile man, Marcus had always attracted female attention. In the past, his behavior as an obviously devoted husband had discouraged interested ladies from trying to pursue an affair. Now, however, the high-kick harlots sensed blood in the water, and they’d wasted no time in circling him with hunger in their eyes.
The most persistent amongst them was the Countess of Ashley, the former Miss Cora Pilkington. The milk-fed trollop was more devious than the rest. Whilst Marcus was too upstanding a gentleman to flirt with other ladies even now—thank God—Lady Cora hid her salacious intentions behind a demure and winsome manner. Everyone knew her marriage to Ashley was an unhappy one, and she wasted no time in garnering Marcus’ sympathy. Her damsel-in-distress act set Penny’s teeth on edge.
On two recent occasions, Penny had seen the other clinging to Marcus’ every word, wearing a doleful, worshipping expression, and she’d wanted to scratch the bitch’s eyes out.
But that was neither here nor there.
“Things haven’t improved between Blackwood and me.” The admission made her voice rusty. “I don’t know that they ever will. I’ve been trying… but Blackwood hasn’t thawed. I don’t think he can ever forgive me.”
“You mustn’t give up hope.” Thea reached out and squeezed Penny’s hand. “Your husband loves you. I’m sure he just needs time to adjust.”
Leave it to Thea to think the best of every situation.
“Do you think it would help if Tremont spoke with your husband?” Thea went on. “Because he would be happy to—”
“It won’t help. Blackwood doesn’t want to hear about my past—least of all from my former colleague.” Penny forced a smile. “And while I sincerely doubt that Tremont would behappyto play any part in my imbroglio, I have no doubt that he would do so at your behest, my dear.”
Thea blushed. She said nothing, but then she didn’t have to. It was clear to all and sundry that Tremont adored his new bride, would take the stars down from the sky if she asked. Having been acquainted with the cold and ruthless spy that Tremont had once been, Penny thought the change in her old comrade nothing short of a miracle. Then again, a sweet and innocent lady like Thea deserved no less.
“So what is your plan?”
Penny looked to Marianne. “Plan?”
“For winning Blackwood back,” the blond beauty clarified.
“What I’ve been doing, I suppose.” She shrugged to hide her frustration. “Having his favorite foods prepared, making our home an oasis of domestic tranquility. Doing my part as the perfect marchioness, which includes planning the Winter Ball to end all Winter Balls.” She paused, adding wryly, “And then there’s the groveling.”
“Food is an excellent idea,” the duchess put in. “Whenever His Grace and I have a disagreement, I find Scotch pie an excellent way to make peace.”
“She makes Scotch pie at least once a week,” Thea said, her hazel eyes sparkling.
“Twice,” Emma said.
“Food and being the consummate hostess are all well and good,” Marianne said, “but in my opinion there ought to be a limit to the groveling.”
“Obviously I haven’t reached it yet.” Penny allowed herself a sigh. “Blackwood shows no signs of forgiving me.”
“Perhaps it isn’t his forgiveness you most need.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Marianne smoothed the skirts of her fawn silk carriage dress. Having learned to read others as a necessary part of survival, Penny interpreted the other’s gesture as preparation for saying something difficult. Marianne’s next words proved her intuition right.
“I’ve done things that I’ve regretted—that many consider beyond the pale,” the blonde said steadily. “One could say that, in some ways, I’ve been where you are now. Given the wrong that I’d done, I didn’t believe I could win over a man as good and honorable as my husband.”
She didn’t need to say more. It was a well-known fact amongst thetonthat her daughter, Primrose, had been born out of wedlock, the product of a youthful indiscretion. When Ambrose Kent had wed Marianne, he’d also adopted Primrose, and the Kent family had taken the girl under their collective wing, making it clear that she was one of their own.
