“Who? Mrs. Townsend?” Penelope forced herself to stay calm, when she really wanted to poke him in the eye and run for it. “Of course not.”
“Hmm.” He leaned closer. “Your arrival was quite . . . inconvenient.”
“Was it?” She blinked innocently. “It did look as though Mrs. Townsend had a prior engagement, though, so your conversation would have soon ended anyway, don’t you think?”
He leaned closer yet, until his face was very near hers. Up close she could see the veins beneath the pale skin of his temple. He lowered his head and inhaled a long breath. “You smell delicious,” he whispered.
For the first time a frisson of alarm went down her spine. “How kind of you to say so. The perfume was a gift from my father. My mother is very fond of it, too.” Somehow, frequent and repeated mentions of her parents seemed necessary, so he would know she wasn’t without protection. Unlike Olivia.
“You don’t smell like a virginal little girl.” He traced one finger down the ribbon edging her bodice. “Nor act like one.”
“Take your hands off me,” she said, firmly but quietly. “I am not a little girl, but a young lady capable of screaming very loudly if assaulted.”
“Assaulted?” A smile slowly curved his lips, making him look almost demonic. “I haven’t touched you.” Giving the lie to his words, his finger bumped over the ribbon, brushing her skin more than once.
“And you’d better not,” she replied. “Let me pass, sir.”
“Not yet.” He lightly touched the brooch pinned at her bosom, right between her breasts. “You’ve got a bit of a reputation already, Miss Weston. A bit daring, a bit scandalous, far too adventuresome for a proper young lady . . . But perhaps that’s to be expected of an upstart schemer.”
She struggled to contain her temper. “I shall overlook your general ignorance of my reputation, to say nothing of your repulsive true nature, if you stand aside and let me go at once.”
“Who would believe you over me, anyway?” he went on. “I have connections your father can only dream of. If you—or he—were to accuse me of anything, well . . .” He shrugged. “But your friend Mrs. Townsend promised me something this evening, and you prevented her from giving it to me. Perhaps I ought to collect it from you instead.”
Penelope didn’t move, but she glared at him with icy hatred. “You don’t deserve the slightest thing from her, or from me.”
He raised one brow. “Deserve? Who said anything about deserving it? But now that you have, perhaps you should learn what happens to curious little girls who interrupt assignations.”
Her shock upon learning that Olivia had, in fact, made an assignation with this disgusting man was quickly put aside when Lord Clary suddenly ripped the brooch from her gown. The lace at her neckline tore off with it, to her outrage. “Let’s just have a touch,” he said, and grabbed her breast in a rough squeeze.
Acting on advice from her brother, Penelope brought up her knee, right between Lord Clary’s legs. She didn’t manage to do it as hard as Jamie had suggested, but apparently it was enough. Clary cursed and rocked back, just enough for her to get her other foot against his chest and kick for all she was worth. He tumbled over backward and she scrambled out of the chair. Her voice seemed to have fled; her heart was racing so hard her hands shook. Outraged, appalled, and furiously frightened, she tried to run for the door, only to feel his hand clamp around her ankle.
“The bitch likes a bit of a scratch and tumble, eh?” He yanked, sending her crashing to the floor so hard she saw stars. “I can play at that.”
“You disgusting pig!” Penelope kicked again, but her dancing slippers didn’t have the impact she wanted.
Lord Clary thrust his other hand up her skirts, seizing her knee in a painful grip. “Disgusting? I just want what any man wants. If you’re the only female around to provide it—”
“My father will kill you!” Penelope twisted, but he had her. All her wriggling had thrown up her skirts, and as Lord Clary plowed his hand farther upward, her petticoats were being tossed aside as well, baring her legs.
“I don’t give a damn about your father,” muttered her assailant—for that’s what Penelope was rapidly realizing he was. “Nor your bloody brother nor cousins.”
“How about me?” The voice rang through the room, deadly calm and icy cold. Penelope looked up through the locks of hair that had fallen over her face, and her heart leapt. Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, stood in the doorway, very tall and dark and angry. Or so it appeared from her position sprawled on the floor.
“I said, do you give a damn about me?” he repeated when no one spoke. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him with an audible click. “On your feet, Clary.”
Lord Clary gave Penelope one last malevolent look before shoving her away and rising to his feet. Penelope scrambled to safety behind the armchair, and watched with speechless gratitude as Atherton, one of her least favorite people in the world, advanced on Lord Clary. For a second his gaze flickered her way. “Are you hurt, Miss Weston?”
Wordlessly she shook her head. It wasn’t true. There would be bruises on her knee, and she probably wouldn’t be able to sleep for days, with the memory of Clary’s repellent touch and intentions fresh in her mind. But the thought of what hurt she would have suffered in a few minutes left her mute with relief.
“Good.” Atherton turned back to Clary, who was straightening his jacket and looking furious. “Get out of this house.”
Clary’s lip curled. “Mind your manners, young man.”
Atherton began unbuttoning his regimental coat. “You may address me as Atherton, although I’d rather you didn’t speak to me at all. Get out of this house, or I’ll ruin you.”
Clary laughed. “How? By insinuating I had a liaison with her? Try it. I’ll not hesitate to tell everyone she met me here, eager for a little adventure. No one else in town will have her, even with her father’s coal-tainted millions.”
A hot ball of rage burned in Penelope’s chest. What the devil had Olivia been thinking to meet such a man? If Penelope hadn’t followed her, it would be Olivia here, with bruises and most likely worse. Clary was angry to have been interrupted, but he hadn’t been treating Olivia much more gently, in the glimpse Penelope had seen.
“Try it.” Atherton straightened his shoulders. “But I wouldn’t recommend it. I’ll tell them you had something more like rape on your mind.”
“I didn’t rape her.” Clary’s eyes glinted as he faced Penelope again. “No one will believe you.”
“But if I say that you tried to force yourself on me . . .” Atherton paused as Clary’s face blanked in shock. “It will explain why I did this.” And before Clary could react, Lord Atherton punched him in the gut, not once but twice.
The viscount must have had considerably more power in his punch than Penelope had in her kick. Lord Clary went down on his knees, turning green and gasping for air. Atherton grabbed the man’s cravat and yanked, forcing Clary’s head upward until he looked as though he was being hanged. “Take your leave or take your chances,” Atherton said in the same even tone.
From where Penelope huddled behind the armchair, Clary’s chances didn’t look good. Lord Atherton loomed over him like the Angel of Death, his free hand still in a fist. She gazed up at him with a little bit of awe. It was mildly astonishing that he had come to her rescue, particularly in such a gallant and primal fashion. It was almost enough to make her forget that she disliked him, and instead notice how strong and tall and spectacularly handsome he was . . .
She closed her eyes and turned away, whispering a bad word very softly. She did not want to notice how tall and strong and handsome he was. He’d been that way since she met him, and had quickly proved himself undeserving of admiration. She still felt like a fool for being so taken in by his appearance and charm. Thank God her sister hadn’t married him. Thank God no one k
new that her first feelings toward him had been so decidedly opposite the intense dislike she now felt for him . . . most of the time.
She kept her eyes averted as Lord Clary hissed something profane before rising to his feet. From the scuffling sounds, Atherton didn’t make it easy for him, but then footsteps crossed the room. Penelope looked up just in time to receive one last poisonous glare from Clary before he left the room, leaving her alone with Atherton.
Chapter 7
For a moment the silence was deafening.
“Are you positive he didn’t hurt you?” asked the viscount again.
Penelope flinched. “I’m not lying!”
He gave her a curious look, no doubt wondering why she was snapping at him when he had just saved her from being mauled. “I didn’t say so.” He put out his hand.
This time she blushed, ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled as she pulled herself up, using the chair for support instead of his hand. “I can’t believe he—” An unexpected swell of tears caught her by surprise. She swiped at her eyes in horror.
“Sit down.” Without waiting for a reply, Atherton pushed her back into the armchair and went down on his knee. “What did he do to you?” His gaze dipped, taking in her ripped bodice and tumbledown hair.
“He grabbed me and tore off my brooch. He trapped me in this chair and wouldn’t let me leave.” She tried to shove her hair away from her face, but it flopped back every time. Her hands had begun shaking so hard she could barely feel them. “I started to run, but he grabbed my foot and then—then—” Her throat closed as she remembered the brutal grip of Clary’s fingers on her knee.
Atherton’s eyes darkened. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it without comment. “Why were you here with him?”
She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, using it as a shield against his scrutiny. “Chance. I didn’t intend to meet him, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I certainly thought you were cleverer than that.” He glanced down as Penelope gaped in astonishment. “Is your foot harmed?” She tried to wiggle her foot, stopping at the sharp pain that ensued. The viscount heard her intake of breath. “May I feel the bone, to see if it’s broken?”
Penelope wanted to say no, but now her ankle throbbed hard enough to bring renewed tears to her eyes. She nodded.
He didn’t look at her as he took her foot in his hands. She felt a bit light-headed as he pushed aside the flounce of her skirt and ran one warm palm up her shin. For a fraught moment she imagined his hand would keep sliding upward, not cruelly like Clary’s but tenderly—seductively. She jerked her gaze away from his dark head, telling herself she was vastly relieved when his fingers slid back down to her ankle, where he gently pressed and prodded the bone. His touch eased when she whimpered. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you’d better rest it a few days.”
“Thank you.” She ought to take her foot out of his hand, but somehow she didn’t.
“Your stocking is ripped, too.” He raised his eyes. They were the deepest blue she’d ever seen. “What set Lord Clary off?”
“His evil nature,” she whispered.
“No doubt. But I’ve never heard a breath of reproach about him; I find it hard to believe he makes a habit of attacking young ladies at balls, especially not when they struggle and try to flee.” Penelope bit her lip as he studied her, his brilliant gaze far too keen and watchful. “What did you say to him? He looked rather vengeful when he left.”
“You punched him.”
“In your defense.”
Penelope looked away from the pointed truth of that. “I can’t say.” He released her foot and sat back. “Please don’t think I’m not grateful,” she added in a rush. “I am—enormously. But I can’t tell you why Clary was angry at me.” She refused to mention Olivia’s name in connection with Clary, and to be honest, she hardly knew anything anyway. Yet.
“I suggest you take care to avoid him, then.” Atherton sighed. “Should I fetch your mother?”
“No!” she exclaimed. “No, I—I’m perfectly fine.” Penelope wouldn’t be sorry for her mother’s company, but she did not want to explain how she’d become such a mess.
“You look like you’ve been riding to hounds in a hurricane,” he said bluntly. “Your hair is all falling down.”
For some reason a flush warmed her skin. She hoped he didn’t notice. “How gallant of you to remark on it.” She reached up and began feeling for pins, irrationally wishing he would go even as she didn’t want to be alone. It was just so strange, so unsettling for Lord Atherton to be on bended knee before her, gazing at her with such intent concern.
Atherton watched her for a moment. Penelope could feel it even though she kept her face averted as she wrestled with her hair. Half of it had fallen from the pins, while the other half felt like one large knot. Her fingers were still trembling and his nearness wasn’t helping. “Here,” he said at last. “You’re making it worse.” And without asking for permission, he combed his fingers through her hair, brushing aside her hands.
Penelope held very still. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap and stared fiercely at them, as if that could help her ignore the feel of his hands running through her hair, extracting one pin after another, almost like a husband or a lover would do. Inside her mind she called herself every sort of fool for not standing up and regally thanking him before sweeping from the room like a confident, sophisticated woman who had no reaction to his touch. Instead she resolved to avoid him for the rest of her life and muttered again, “Thank you for coming to my aid.”
One corner of his mouth curled. “You sound surprised that I did so.”
A thick lock of hair came free, drooping over her face. Penelope hoped it hid her guilty blush. “I hardly expected you to.”
“Oh? Why?” Startled, she jerked her head up, meeting his gaze as the rest of her hair tumbled down her back. He withdrew his hands and held out the pins he’d removed. “You don’t like me, do you?”
It was as bracing as a slap. Penelope straightened in the chair and took the pins. “Don’t be ridiculous, my lord.” She swept up her hair and twisted it into a simple knot. “Whatever made you think that?” With each pin that went in, her poise began to return, at long last. “Thank you again for your invaluable assistance.” He’d done her this service—a rather enormous one, she fully admitted—which proved he had some basic decency and chivalry, but nothing more. She would be grateful to him, especially for punching Lord Clary, then return to keeping her distance from him.
“It was entirely my honor,” he said wryly. “I suppose this is yours?” He picked up the brooch Clary had ripped from her dress, a bit of lace still snagged in the clasp.
“Yes.” Penelope looked down at her damaged gown, shuddering again at the memory of Clary’s repulsive touch on her breast. She pressed one hand against the spot as if to rub it out. “He tore my gown.”
“Indeed.” There was an odd hitch in Atherton’s voice. Penelope glanced up. Clary hadn’t torn the bodice itself, only the lace flounce at the neckline, and yet . . . Lord Atherton was staring at her bosom. And there wasn’t a trace of disgust in his face. It was very like the way he’d looked at her the other night, when he was trying to put her in her place by saying a man must consider all a woman’s charms . . .
There was a sound from the other side of the room. Still somewhat disconcerted by the focused interest on Atherton’s face, Penelope didn’t identify it at first. The viscount, though, spun around, coming to his feet in an instant. “Yes?” he snapped.
“There you are, sir!” cried Mrs. Lockwood. “I’ve been looking everywhere—” She stopped abruptly.
Penelope sat frozen in the armchair, afraid to move. All too clearly, she could picture what Mrs. Lockwood saw: the man who was courting her daughter leaning solicitously near a wildly disheveled woman. She said a quick frantic pra
yer that it was too dim in the room for anyone to recognize her.
“What did you want with me?” Atherton seemed to be the only one with any wits about him. He had stepped squarely in front of Penelope, impeding Mrs. Lockwood’s view.
But not, it turned out, enough. “You,” breathed Mrs. Lockwood. “You—you scheming, brazen trollop!” Each word grew louder and more indignant.
Penelope cringed. Hoping desperately this was all a nightmare, she peeked around Lord Atherton, who still stood protectively in front of her. Frances’s mother was in the doorway, silhouetted by the light of the corridor. Shock and fury were written in every line of her taut posture and expression.
“Why were you looking for me, Mrs. Lockwood?” asked Atherton again, his voice a little colder.
That seemed to jar the woman out of her speechlessness. She yanked someone next to her and thrust out an accusing finger in Penelope’s direction. “See, Frances,” she exclaimed, “see how silly you were? I told you that girl was up to no good, filling your ears with nonsense. Do you see now that I was right?”
With deep mortification Penelope met Frances’s stunned gaze. The younger girl looked like she’d been crying; tears still glistened on her cheeks. Now she stood staring in openmouthed shock, and whispered, “Miss Weston?” as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Penelope burst out. Finally jolted into action, she scrambled out of the chair and across the room, putting as much space as possible between herself and the viscount. “Frances, please don’t be hasty—”
“Hasty!” Mrs. Lockwood seemed to quiver with outrage. “Frances, don’t be a fool! Do you see now that she schemed to disrupt your engagement to Lord Atherton because she wanted him for herself?”
“No,” gasped Penelope. Good Lord—of all the things to be accused of! “That’s a lie! I would never!”
Atherton crossed the room in two strides. “What do you want, madam?” he bit out. “Just this evening, your daughter told me she never wanted to see me again, so I expect it was something terribly urgent that made you seek me out.”
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