Cora Ashley was amongst them. Dressed in a delicate shade of pink, the blonde stood across from Marcus, batting her false eyelashes at him. As usual, her husband, the Earl of Ashley, was nowhere to be seen.
“What is going on between you and my son?”
The blunt words jerked Penny’s attention back to the dowager, who was studying her with narrowed blue eyes that were a faded version of Marcus’.
“Nothing.” Penny refused to give her mama-in-law the satisfaction.
“Utter claptrap. I may be old, but I am not stupid. In the past, Marcus never left your side for more than a half-hour at most, yet tonight he’s acting as if he doesn’t notice your existence.” Before Penny could recover from the humiliating knowledge that Marcus’ contempt of her was visible to all, Lady Aileen swept a glance over her from head to toe and announced, “It’s the gown. Dear heavens, did you forget half of it upstairs? No man wishes his wife to be dressed like a strumpet, my dear.”
Even as Penny’s blood boiled, she kept a polite expression pasted on her face. Her marriage with Marcus was none of the other’s business. And thelastthing she was going to do was take fashion advice from the dowager; the old mort wore her trademark black from head to toe, and if she traded her walking stick for a scythe, then the look would be complete.
Furthermore, not being an idiot, Penny didn’t need her mama-in-law to point out that Marcus’ behavior was due to her dress; his expression had grown as dark as thunderclouds when he saw the back of it. Or the lack of the back of it. But it had been too late for her to don another frock, and, moreover, it would fuel gossip amongst the guests if she ran off to change the very garment they were complimenting.
Thus, while Penny could admit that she’d made a miscalculation on her wardrobe choice, she couldn’t stem her billowing anger. In the past, Marcus had liked her chic gowns, even if they were a bit daring. How was she supposed to know that his entire bleeding personality had changed? She couldn’t read his mind, and instead of talking to her, he’d absented himself from her side all evening.
“Madame Rousseau assures me the gown is all the rage in Paris,” Penny said.
Lady Aileen sniffed. “Yes, well, that says something about the French, doesn’t it?”
“It says they have an excellent eye for fashion,” Penny said through clenched teeth.
“And I have an excellent eye for my son’s mood. If I were you, I’d go straight upstairs, my girl, and change into something more suitable.”
If Penny had harbored even a spark of an inclination to change her dress, it was snuffed out by the fact that her mama-in-law had suggested it.
“I’m fine as I am.” She drew her shoulders back.
“You shall reap what you sow. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The vultures,”—the dowager pointed her cane at the horde around Marcus—“are circling as we speak.”
With that, she hobbled off to greet a circle of her cronies.
Penny’s gaze went back to Marcus, still surrounded by ladies. The loathsome Lady Ashley was now not only batting her lashes at Marcus, she was also giving that annoyingly tinkling laugh at everything he said. Penny wanted to go over and tackle the trollop; good sense and her pride held her back.
“What a marvelous crush, Lady Blackwood!”
Tearing her attention away from Marcus and his harem, Penny focused on greeting the newcomers. The group consisted of four couples, all of whom she liked, so for the first time that evening, her smile felt genuine.
She first exchanged air kisses with Lady Helena Harteford. As usual, the beautiful, curvaceous brunette was accompanied by her tall, austere marquess, who bowed politely over Penny’s hand. They were followed by Marianne and Ambrose Kent; the former’s moon-kissed glamour was a direct contrast to her husband’s lanky, salt-of-the-earth handsomeness, yet the pair went together like a fork and knife. The Duke and Duchess of Strathaven, a dark-haired and lively couple, said their hellos next, and then came Thea and her new husband Gabriel, the Marquess of Tremont.
Tremont inclined his tawny head. “Good evening, Lady Blackwood,” he said.
Not long ago, mutual mistrust would have colored any exchange between Penny and her former colleague. First rule of espionage: trust no one—particularly another spy. But Tremont’s recent marriage had changed him; the love of his marchioness had made him a different man, one whom Penny had trusted enough to join forces with. With the help of the Kents, Tremont and Penny had put an end to the affair of the Spectre and, in doing so, laid their past animosity to rest.
“I’m so glad to see you all here,” Penny said and meant it.
“We’ve been here for a while,” Thea confided, “but we didn’t want to interfere with your hostess duties.”
“What she means is that you were positively swarmed with admirers. We couldn’t beat a path through to you,” Marianne drawled.
“A problem I’m all too familiar with,” Ambrose Kent muttered.
Being gorgeous and witty, Marianne Kent received her fair share of male attention. She winked at her husband. “You know I save all my waltzes for you, darling.”
“Speaking of waltzes, has anyone seen Violet?” This came from Emma, who was craning her neck to get a view of the dance floor. “The minute she arrives at a ball, she’s like a fish let loose in the ocean. I keep losing track of her.”
“I don’t see her, pet.” Having the advantage of height, the Duke of Strathaven towered over his petite duchess, his pale green eyes alertly scanning the ballroom. “Could she be out in the garden?”
“Knowing Violet, she could be anywhere doing anything—which is precisely what I’m afraid of,” Emma said, her brows knitting.
