The crowning achievement of the frock, in her opinion, was its element of surprise. From the front, the gown appeared quite modest; the décolletage, trimmed with a wide band of cerise ribbon, showed only the barest hint of her cleavage (no small feat given that she was rather generously endowed in this area). The other side of the garment, however, took a plunge, both literally and figuratively: it bared the smooth line of her spine, the bright red ribbon coming together in a perfect, elegant bow a hairsbreadth above the small of her back.
The dress was delicious… if a tad daring.
Penny straightened her shoulders. With Jenny’s help, she’d cultivated a style of her own. As the Marchioness of Blackwood, she was known for taking risks when it came to fashion, and her bold style had always borne fruit. Marcus, for one, seemed to take special note of her more seductive gowns. Shivering, she couldn’t count the times they had returned from an evening on the Town and barely made it to one of their bedchambers before he had her bodice pushed down to her waist, her skirts tossed up, his touch scorching and possessive…
You’ve tempted me all night, Penny, and now I get my just reward, he’d growl.
Blooming hell, there’d been times when they hadn’t even made it back to the house. It was a private joke between them that Owen’s lively temperament might be attributed to the fact that he’d been conceived during a rather bouncy carriage ride home from the Opera.
The memory of their prior after-party activities raised her hopes and bolstered her resolve. If everything went as planned tonight, she would have a smashing social success on her hands. Surely Marcus would be impressed by that. And maybe, just maybe, he might be inclined to extend the celebration to a private one of their own afterward…
One could always hope.
“The ruby necklace, milady?” Jenny asked.
She nodded, and the maid secured the heavy spangle of jewels around her neck. The collar of large blood-red rubies connected by cool, glittering diamonds had been a present from Marcus. He’d given it to her on the occasion of their tenth wedding anniversary.
For my wife, whose price is above rubies,he’d murmured in her ear.
Her throat thickened, her fingers brushing against the symbol of his esteem. The esteem she would win back, no matter what. She glanced in the mirror one last time and saw the battle light in her eyes.
“I’m ready,” she said, lifting her chin.
If everything went as planned, tonight’s ball would be the beginning of a fresh start.
~~~
Tossing back another glass of champagne, Marcus wished the bloody ball would end.
His gut tightened as he caught sight of Penny surrounded by a circle of admirers, four-fifths of them male. She was laughing, wearing a gown so indecent that it was all he could do not to stalk over and demand that she march upstairs to change. When he’d first watched her descending down the staircase to greet their arriving guests, he’d been struck anew by her loveliness, the juxtaposition of her cool beauty and passionate violet eyes causing his blood to rush.
Then she’d turned around, and his blood had plummeted to one part of his anatomy in particular. Lust bled into fury. Bloody hell, her entire backside was exposed.
By then, he couldn’t do anything about it—at least, not without appearing like a jealous, lovesick husband. The very notion made him want to snarl. He wasn’t going to give their damned guests a show, nor was he going to give Pandora the satisfaction of knowing that she could provoke him into acting like a fool.
If she wanted to display her charms in a manner worthy of a harlot, he thought grimly, then so be it. He would have words with her after the party. But if she made one untoward move tonight, if her behavior even edged toward impropriety… His hands balled at his sides.
“That’s twice.”
Carlisle’s grim tones yanked him from his brooding. The viscount was standing next to him, watching dancers whirl by to a Scottish air, looking even less happy than Marcus felt.
“Twice?” Marcus said.
“Wick has danced with that damned chit two times,” Carlisle clarified.
Marcus followed the direction of his friend’s gaze.
Sure enough, Carlisle’s younger brother, Wickham Murray, was cutting a swath through the dance floor. A great favorite of the ladies, Murray was a dashing Adonis type, his tall, muscular form clad in the latest fashion. Marcus recognized his present partner as Miss Violet Kent, younger sister to the Duchess of Strathaven. Murray and Miss Kent made a dashing pair. As Marcus watched, Murray led the dark-haired miss into a particularly energetic spin, their shared laughter eliciting looks from the others around them.
“Is there a problem with him dancing with Miss Kent?” Marcus said.
“Ten thousand of them, to be precise.” Carlisle’s features were set in foreboding lines. “My brother is in debt, and as I’m in no position to get him out of it, for once he’ll have to take care of his own affairs. Which means he ought to be courting an heiress and not some middling class hoyden with aspirations to respectability.”
Marcus noticed the whispers emanating from a gaggle of ladies posted by a nearby potted palm. Their fans beating the air in titillated synchrony, they were clearly taking note of and delighting in Carlisle’s every word.
Lowering his voice—and hoping his friend would take the cue—Marcus said, “Miss Kent is quite respectable: she is the sister-in-law of a duke and a marquess.”
“Unless her dowry exceeds twenty thousand—trust me, Wickham will need at least that much of a cushion—I don’t care if she’s related to the King himself.” The viscount’s lips curled in disdain. “Moreover, my brother needs a suitable wife to keep him in line, and I’m quite certain that chit,”—he cast a pointed glance at Miss Kent, who was flushed and laughing from yet another risqué spin—“can’t evenspellpropriety, let alone put it into practice.”
