“Miss Weston! Oh, Miss Weston, what a pleasure to see you tonight!”
Penelope roused herself from her brooding thoughts and smiled. Frances Lockwood beamed back, cheeks pink from dancing. Frances was on the brink of her first season, still starry-eyed at the social whirl of London. “And you, Miss Lockwood. I hope you are well.”
The younger girl nodded. “Very well! I think this is the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen!”
Penelope kept smiling. Just three years ago she’d been every bit as wide-eyed and delighted as Miss Lockwood. It was both amusing and disconcerting to see how she must have looked to everyone back then. “It is a very fine room. Lady Hunsford has quite an eye for floral arrangements.”
“Indeed!” Miss Lockwood agreed eagerly. “And the musicians are very talented.”
“They are.” Penelope felt much older than her twenty-one years, discussing flower arrangements and musicians. Her mother was probably making the very same comments to her friends.
Miss Lockwood sidled a step closer. “And the gentlemen are so very handsome, don’t you think?”
Now Penelope’s smile grew a bit rigid. Frances Lockwood was the granddaughter of a viscount. Her father was a mere gentleman, and her mother was a banker’s daughter, but that noble connection made all the difference. Penelope’s father had been an attorney before he made his fortune investing in coal canals, and the grime of that origin had never fully washed away. The Lockwoods were received everywhere; Frances, with her dowry less than half the size of Penelope’s, was considered a very eligible heiress. Not that Penelope wanted Frances’s suitors—who were silly young men with empty pockets, for the most part—but it set something inside her roiling when she saw the way they fawned over her friend.
“There are many handsome gentlemen in London,” Penelope said aloud. There were, although none near this part of the ballroom, where the unmarried ladies congregated. If Joan were here, they could discuss the scandalous rakes lounging elegantly at the far end of the room, closer to the wine. But Frances was only seventeen and would fall into a blushing stammer if Penelope openly admired the way Lord Fenton’s trousers fit his thighs.
Frances nodded, a beatific smile on her face. She edged a little closer to Penelope’s side and dropped her voice. “Miss Weston . . . may I confide in you? You’ve been very kind to me, and I do so look up to you for advice—well, you know, on how to deal with gentlemen who are only interested in One Thing.”
Oh dear. Frances meant the fortune hunters who clustered around her. Penelope tried not to heave a sigh. Unfortunately she had too much experience of those men, and too little experience of real suitors. She was probably the least suited person to be giving advice, but Frances persisted in asking her. “Is another one bothering you? If so, you must send him on his way at once. Such a man will never make you happy if all he cares for is your fortune or your connections.”
“Oh no, I know that very well,” replied Frances earnestly. “I’ve turned away Mr. Whittington and Sir Thomas Philpot and even Lord Dartmond, although my mama was not very pleased by the last one. Only when I explained to her that you had turned him down as the very lowest of fortune hunters did she relent.”
The Earl of Dartmond was at least forty, with a pernicious gambling habit. Mrs. Lockwood was a fool if she even considered him for her daughter, earl or not. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy you did, when you meet a kinder gentleman who cares for you.”
The younger girl nodded, her face brightening again. “I know! I know, because I have met him! Oh, Miss Weston, he’s the handsomest man you ever saw. Always so smartly attired, and the very best horseman I’ve ever seen, and a music lover—he listened to me play for almost an hour the last time he called, and said I was a marvel on the pianoforte.” Frances looked quite rapturous; she was very fond of the pianoforte and practiced for an hour each day, something Penelope couldn’t fathom surviving, let alone enjoying. “And what’s more, he’s heir to an earl and has no need of my fortune. Mama is so pleased, and Papa, too. He’s been calling on me for at least a fortnight now, always with a small gift or posy, and he’s the most charming, delightful gentleman I could imagine!”
Penelope nodded, hoping it was all true. “How wonderful. I told you there were true gentlemen out there. They just require some hunting.”
Frances laughed almost giddily. “There are! My other friends were so very scandalized when I refused to receive Mr. Whittington, because he’s the most graceful dancer even if he is horribly in debt, but you were entirely correct. I credit your wise advice for the happiness I now feel—indeed, for the very great match I’m about to make! May I present you to him? He’s to attend tonight.”
For a moment Penelope felt like saying no. It was bad enough that she had to feel old and unwanted next to Frances. Her friend was sweet and kind, but also somewhat silly and naïve. It was bad enough to see Joan and Abigail marry deliciously handsome men; Penelope loved them and wanted them to be happy. She also wanted Frances to be happy, but tonight it just felt a bit hard to see Frances find her ideal man and be swept off her feet in her very first year in London, while Penelope had been overlooked for three years now by all but the most calculating fortune hunters.
But that was petty. She mustered another smile. “Of course. You know I always like to meet handsome men.” Frances’s eyes widened at the last, and Penelope hastily added, “I’m especially pleased to meet one who adores you.”
Frances’s smile returned. “He does, Miss Weston, I really believe he does! He’s even hinted that he means to speak to my papa soon.” A very pretty blush colored her cheeks. “How should I respond, if he asks me about that?”
“If you want to marry him, you should tell your father that he’s the man for you. And stand by your conviction,” she added. “Parents may not always understand your heart, so you must be sure to tell them emphatically.”
“Yes, of course.” Frances nodded. “I hope you approve of him, Miss Weston.”
“Your approval is what matters.” Penelope wondered if she had ever been so anxious for someone else’s validation of her opinion. She would have to ask Abigail, the next time she saw her sister.
“I see him,” said Frances with a little cry of nervous delight. “Oh my, he’s so handsome! And his uniform is very dashing! Don’t you think so?”
Penelope followed her companion’s gaze and saw a group of the King’s Life Guards, making their entrance with some swagger. Instinctively her mouth flattened. She’d met a few of them last summer, when one of their number, Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, had courted her sister. Penelope was sure he’d never been in love with Abigail, and when Abigail confessed her love for another man, Lord Atherton reacted like a thwarted child. Penelope hoped he wasn’t in the crowd, but then she caught sight of his dark head.
She repressed the urge to walk the other way. She hadn’t seen him since they last parted, when he’d reluctantly helped solve a years-old mystery that had tarred the name of the man Abigail loved. Sebastian Vane had stood accused of stealing a large sum of money from Lord Atherton’s father, and Atherton himself had done nothing to disprove it—even though he’d once been Sebastian’s dearest friend. Penelope grudgingly admitted that Atherton had been fairly decent after that, but she still thought he was insincere and always had an eye out for his own interest, whatever truth or justice demanded.
It wasn’t until Atherton turned and looked toward them that Penelope realized she was staring at him. She quickly averted her gaze and turned her body slightly, hoping he hadn’t actually noticed her. However, that only gave her a good view of Frances’s face, which was glowing with joy.
Because . . . Penelope closed her eyes, praying she was wrong. Because her brain was fitting together details, just moments too late, and they were adding up to one dreadful conclusion. Atherton was heir to the Earl of Stratford, who was a very wealthy man. He was appallingly h
andsome, which Penelope only acknowledged with deep disgust. And when she stole a quick glance under her eyelashes, she saw that he was heading directly for the pair of them.
Oh Lord. What could she say now?
“Miss Lockwood.” Penelope gritted her teeth as he bowed. His voice was smooth and rich, the sort of voice a woman wanted to hear whispering naughty things in her ear. “How delightful to see you this evening.”
“I am the one delighted, my lord.” Blushing and beaming, Frances dipped a curtsy. “May I present to you my good friend, Miss Penelope Weston?”
His gaze moved to her without a flicker of surprise. He’d seen her, and was obviously more prepared for the meeting than she was. “Of course. But Miss Weston and I are already acquainted.”
Penelope curtsied as Frances gaped. “Indeed, my lord.”
“I—I didn’t know that,” stammered Frances, looking anxious again. “Are you very good friends? Oh dear, I wish I had known!”
“No, we hardly know each other,” said Penelope before he could answer. “It was a passing acquaintance, really.”
Atherton’s brilliant blue eyes lingered on her a moment before returning to Frances. “The Westons own property near Stratford Court.”
“Then you’re merely neighbors?” asked Frances hopefully. “In Richmond?”
“A river divides us,” Penelope assured her. “A very wide river.”
Atherton glanced at her sharply, but thankfully didn’t argue. “Yes, in Richmond. Unfortunately I’m kept here in London most of the year. I believe my sister Samantha is better acquainted with Miss Weston.”
“Indeed,” said Penelope with a pointed smile. “I hope Lady Samantha is well.”
“Yes,” said Lord Atherton after a moment’s pause. “She is.”
Too late Penelope remembered about Samantha. In their zeal to clear Sebastian Vane’s name so Abigail could marry him, the Weston girls had inadvertently resurrected a dark secret of Samantha’s, one her brother had claimed would lead to dire consequences for her. Penelope hadn’t wanted to cause trouble for Samantha, but Sebastian had been accused of murder and thievery; Abigail’s happiness depended on exonerating him, and Samantha was the only person who could help. Penelope cringed to have brought it up, but Atherton did say she was well, so the consequences must not have been as bad as he’d predicted. Still, she did truly like Samantha—far more than the lady’s brother—and she was sorry to have been so cavalier with her name.
For a tense moment they seemed frozen there, Penelope biting her tongue, Frances looking troubled, and Atherton staring at her with a strange intensity. He shook it off first. “Miss Lockwood, I hope you’ve saved me a dance.”
Frances’s smile returned, although a little less brilliantly than before. “Of course, my lord. I am free the next two.”
“Excellent.” He gazed warmly at her, and Frances seemed to sway on her feet.
Penelope had to work hard to keep from rolling her eyes. How could she escape this? Thankfully she caught sight of a familiar face across the room, causing her to smile widely in relief. “You must excuse me, I see a dear friend just arriving. Miss Lockwood, Lord Atherton.” She bobbed a quick farewell and all but ran across the room.
Olivia Townsend was one of Penelope’s favorite people in the world. She was only a few years older than Abigail, and had been like an older sister to the two Weston girls for as long as Penelope could remember. Olivia’s family had lived near the Westons and all four children had been fast friends. But while Penelope’s family had prospered—greatly—since then, Olivia's had not. At a fairly young age, she’d made a hasty marriage of dubious happiness to a charming but feckless fellow, Henry Townsend, who managed to run through his modest fortune with shocking speed before his death a few years ago. Since then, Olivia had lived very modestly. It was a surprise to see her here tonight, in fact, as she didn’t often attend balls.
“Olivia!”
Her friend was scanning the room and didn’t seem to have noticed her approach; she jumped at Penelope’s exclamation. “Oh,” she said in a constricted voice. “You startled me.”
She blinked. “I can see that. Whom were you expecting, an ogre?”
For a moment Olivia’s face froze, as if she had in fact been on guard, but then she smiled ruefully. With a shake of her head, she turned her back to the room and squeezed Penelope’s hand. “Forgive me; I was woolgathering. Are you enjoying the ball?”
“Well enough.” Penelope peered closely at her. “What’s wrong? You looked worried.”
Olivia waved one hand. “It was nothing. How kind of you to leave your friends and join me.”
Penelope barely kept back her snort. “I don’t know how I could have stayed. You’ll never guess who Miss Lockwood’s new suitor is.”
“Who?”
“Lord Atherton,” whispered Penelope, after a cautious glance backward. She’d already let her temper get the better of her once tonight, and wouldn’t put it past him to overhear every slighting word she spoke about him.
Olivia looked surprised. “Atherton? The gentleman who courted—?”
“The same,” said Penelope grimly. “And my sister felt so cruel to turn him down! I shall have to write to her at once and assure her that, far from suffering a malaise, he’s found a younger, sillier girl to marry.”
“Now, Pen, you don’t know that. He may be deeply attached to her.”
She couldn’t stop the snort this time. “She is certainly attached to him. He’s the perfect man, in her telling. I don’t know how I could have held my composure if I’d known who she was talking about. He sits and listens to her practice the pianoforte—can you imagine?”
“Perhaps he enjoys it.” Penelope widened her eyes in patent disbelief. “Perhaps he’s so smitten with her, he would be content just to sit and gaze at her,” Olivia added. “It could happen.”
“Huh.” Penelope made a face. Just the thought of Lord Atherton sitting and staring at her was enough to make her skin prickle.
“Well, it’s Miss Lockwood’s cross to bear,” said Olivia practically.
“But if he marries her, I’ll have to see him from time to time.” Frances might be young and naïve, but she was endearing all the same, and Penelope did like her.
Olivia laughed and tucked Penelope’s arm through hers. “Perhaps she’ll become disenchanted and change her mind about him.”
She caught sight of Lord Atherton, leading Frances about the floor in a quadrille. Frances was fairly radiating adoration as she gazed up at him. It took Penelope some effort to quell the urge to run over and warn Frances not to fall for his very handsome smile, or athletic figure, or disgustingly perfect face. “For her sake as well as mine,” she grumbled, “I hope so.”
Chapter 2
Benedict Lennox had never thought he was one to take things for granted, but he was quickly revising that opinion.
It was a very rude surprise that Frances Lockwood was friends with Penelope Weston. Partly that was because he didn’t know much about Miss Lockwood yet, but partly because what he did know indicated that she was utterly unlike Penelope. Miss Lockwood was anxious to please, listening to his every word as if it had the gravity of Scripture. Miss Weston also seemed to regard his words as biblical, but rather more as she might view the hissings of the serpent in Eden. Miss Lockwood liked the simpler pleasures of life, such as playing her pianoforte and dancing. Miss Weston craved excitement and adventure, and nothing daunted her, as Benedict had seen all too well; there was something wild and unconventional about her. Seeing them together was like seeing Hestia stand shoulder to shoulder with Aphrodite.
He tried not to think of another way they were different. Miss Lockwood was round-faced and pretty in a girlish way, while Miss Weston seemed to blaze with an internal heat that rendered her mesmerizing. Miss Lockwood’s looks were perfect for a wife: pleasant to look at bu
t not distracting. Miss Weston’s future husband, whoever the poor blighter was, would need a strong stomach to be able to endure the way other men watched her.
Benedict banished all those thoughts. He needed to keep his wits about him tonight as he struggled to decide how seriously he wished to pursue Miss Lockwood. After two weeks of companionship, he ought to have a sense of the girl and how she felt about him. He’d already had one marriage proposal rejected—by Miss Weston’s sister, of all people—and he didn’t plan to suffer that humiliation again.
“You look lovely this evening,” he told Miss Lockwood, leading her out for a quadrille. Miss Weston had disappeared into the crowd, although if pressed, Benedict would have wagered a large sum that she was still watching. His skin seemed to prickle, as if he could feel her searing blue gaze on him.
“Thank you, sir.” Miss Lockwood blushed, although her smile was delighted.
Benedict started to relax. This was a girl with no artifice or vendetta. He needed to stop thinking of Penelope Weston and direct his attention to the girl he was considering marrying. “Are you enjoying the ball?”
“Oh yes, especially now that you’re here.” She modestly averted her eyes, but he could hear the eager happiness in her voice.
He leaned his head down to hers as the musicians began to play. “Then I apologize for not arriving sooner, if my presence has added to your pleasure.”
She looked up at him with her heart in her eyes as they made their opening courtesies. It gave him a twinge of something that was half satisfaction, half unease, as if he’d won something without even trying for it. Which was absurd. Miss Lockwood was an heiress; she had her pick of gentlemen, and he was not her only suitor. If she chose him, it would be because she wanted him. And he was hardly some worthless scoundrel with nothing to offer a woman. Unfortunately many of his advantages were related to his father—the wealth, the title, the estates he would someday hold—but Benedict knew he was a handsome fellow with a pleasing manner. He’d never had any trouble winning a woman when he set his mind on her . . . with the notable exception of Abigail Weston, much to her sister Penelope’s fiendish delight.
Love in the Time of Scandal Page 2
