He cupped her jaw, and she leaned into the caress, desperate for the connection. She soaked in the strength and warm solidity of her husband’s touch before his hand dropped away, and he took a step back.
“I’ll send the boys up,” he said. “They’re eager to see you.”
“They’ll worry if they see me still in bed. I’ll get dressed and go down to see them—”
“For God’s sake, you just had a fall. Stay in bed for the day and rest, Penny.”
Any further protests died on her lips. Her chest constricted, and she fought back the heat pushing behind her eyes. She was Penny again. His Penny.
She had that much back at least.
“All right, Marcus,” she whispered.
He hesitated as if he was about to say something more… but instead he gave a curt nod and left the room. She sank back against the pillows and tried not to feel alone. To take comfort in the company of hope.
Chapter Fourteen
The next two weeks passed by in a blur for Penny. She had all the remaining details for the ball to take care of as well as a marriage to get back on track. With the former, she was confident of her progress; with the latter… not so much.
It wasn’t that Marcus hadn’t kept to his word. He didn’t mention her past, and his manner toward her had noticeably thawed. Several nights ago, he’d even teased her at the supper table, asking her if she was trying to fatten him up by having all his favorite foods prepared. She’d wanted to roll her eyes because, unlike her, the man could eat like a bloody horse and not gain a single ounce. But, more to the point, he’d noticed her efforts to please him. This was progress, and it was good.
Yet all had not been smooth sailing. In the past, Marcus had been the even-tempered one in their marriage, the anchor to her occasional (or, more accurately,not infrequent) storms. He’d been her safe harbor, and he’d never been prone to moodiness or irritability. This new Marcus didhave moods, however, and they were as changeable as the weather.
Whilst he kept his promise to not lash out at her, he would suddenly grow quiet, distant, his thoughts clearly occupying a dark and gloomy space. She hated his brooding, would prefer a full-fledged row over the tension that could set in at any moment like a deadly frost and wipe out their budding reconciliation. She felt as though she were a performer at Astley’s, walking a tightrope no less treacherous than that of Madame Monique le Magnifique.
At the same time, she didn’t dare to confront him. She’d given her word that she wouldn’t push, and with their truce so new, she didn’t want to drive them into conflict once more. Thus, she forced herself to bide her time and to let him dictate the pace of their rapprochement.
Yet a dangerous feeling was taking root inside her: impatience.
Just this morning, she’d received a note from Sister Agatha, a reply to her plea for counsel. Her old friend’s advice had consisted of two words:Be yourself.But surely Agatha didn’t mean Penny’strueself.
Back when Penny had been Pompeia, the ruthless spy, she’d channeled her innate hotheadedness to her advantage. She’d been bold and daring, taking on perilous missions that others had declined. Since she hadn’t had much to lose, she’d had little to fear. She’d thrown herself fully into any character that she was playing, nothing held back, and she’d played to win. Always.
Twelve years of marriage had tempered this part of her. She’d gotten accustomed to being Marcus’ devoted marchioness, a role she’d chosen and, in truth, delighted in. So much so that it hadn’t bothered her to suppress certain aspects of her old self because having Marcus’ love—the love of the best man she’d ever known—was worth any price.
The fact was that she’d gotten so used to being Lady Blackwood that Pompeia had receded to a figure in the background. A dab of paint on a landscape. This had seemed a blessing since, in all honesty, she’d never liked Pompeia all that much anyway.
Yet now, for some inexplicable reason, that shadow of her former self was back and growing more prominent by the moment. ’Twas as if the spilling of her secrets had resurrected the Pompeia of old: a woman who would not be welcomed in any of theton’s ballrooms. Who would not have the love of a man as decent and honorable as the Marquess of Blackwood.
But you don’t have his blooming love now anyway, do you?
She blocked out the insidious inner voice, the one that had made itself more and more at home in her head. She didn’t understand why now, after all this time, this unwelcome part of herself had come back. Perhaps the Spectre’s reemergence had stirred up this hornet’s nest. Whatever the cause, she vowed not to give into the hot, reckless impulses that Pompeia inevitably brought in her wake.
Pompeia, for instance, didn’t want to abide by Marcus’ dictate that they must take things slowly. That he should take the lead. No, Pompeia wanted to live by the adage, “Let bygones be bygones.” And she wanted to do so by throwing open the door between their adjoining bedchambers, climbing into her lord’s bed, and claiming what was rightfully hers.
So giving Pompeia free rein? Not an option.
To do so would destroy any chance of finding happiness with Marcus again.
Thus, Penny resolved to stick to her original plan. For two full weeks, she continued to behave as the good, properly contrite wife. And whilst Marcus did not visit her bed, he did at least stay home at nights. Pleasant bantering increased between them, some of their former camaraderie returning. They even passed an evening playing chess (in keeping with her penitent role, she let him win).
Now it was the evening of her much anticipated Winter Ball. ’Twas her chance to show Marcus that she was the perfect marchioness for him. And to show the world that the Blackwood Estrangement was over.
Inspecting herself in the cheval glass, she said, “You don’t think the gown is too much, Jenny?”
“It’s perfect,” the maid declared. “Always said Madame Rousseau was the best modiste in all o’ London, and she outdid ’erself this time. You’re a masterpiece, milady: I han’t seen anything ’alf so beautiful in all my life.”
In commissioning her gown for the ball, Penny had told the modiste to spare no expense, and Madame Rousseau, being both an astute businesswoman and an artiste, had taken her at her word. The dress was constructed of pale ice blue silk, the fabric embellished with hand-sewn seed pearls to create the subtle, swirling effect of snow drifts. The bodice left Penny’s shoulders bare, clinging to her bosom and waist, while the fashionably full skirts cascaded to her matching ice blue slippers.
