Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  Bannister twisted to watch him go, then glanced at Benedict. “Defending a lady’s honor, are you?”

  Benedict gave him a hard look. “How bad are the rumors? I assume you’ve heard them.”

  “You haven’t?” Bannister studied him thoughtfully when Benedict shook his head. “I’d call them scandalous—or even worse. The tale I heard was rather detailed as to the young woman’s depravities.”

  He hesitated, then just asked. “With whom was she supposed to have been so wicked?”

  Bannister shrugged. “No one in particular—or rather, everyone in particular. I heard she wasn’t discriminating. Poor Hollander must have felt left out and wanted under her skirts as well.”

  Benedict bit back the urge to growl at that. Hollander was the least of his concerns. He muttered a farewell to Bannister and turned toward the stables, wanting some space to think.

  These did not sound like the sort of rumors Mrs. Lockwood or Frances would start. Benedict had fully expected some little tattle to emerge from that, women’s gossip about a shameless attempt to steal poor Frances’s suitor or something similar. If Hollander had given him an amused, pitying look and asked which girl he was really courting, he would have been prepared to wave it aside with a weary sigh about female theatrics, and hope that ended it.

  But tales of wicked depravities meant the rumors had to be from Clary, although it was very curious that Benedict’s name didn’t seem to be part of them. As Penelope had pointed out, Benedict was the one who had punched him—and yet she alone was about to be raked over the coals in every drawing room in London.

  Why the devil would Clary want to do that? He’d obviously been angry at Penelope, but he’d already put a terrible fright into her, and there would be consequences to spreading lies about her. Thomas Weston might not be a gentleman, but he also wasn’t a foolish or weak man. If Clary ruined Penelope’s reputation, Weston had the funds and the drive to hound the man forever. Only an idiot would invite that sort of vengeance, and Clary wasn’t stupid. Benedict’s father had once called Clary a worthy adversary, which was the highest show of respect the Earl of Stratford could give.

  He let himself into the stable, waving aside a groom who stepped out of the tack room in inquiry, and went down the dim block until he reached the next to last stall. His horse nickered quietly at his approach, and he ran one hand absently along Achilles’ neck.

  He wondered why Penelope had been alone with Clary in the first place. She’d been quite adamant about not telling him, and perhaps it was none of his concern. No matter her reason, he hoped she’d learned a lesson from the experience. Whatever had happened before he arrived, Clary’s intentions had been quite obvious when he pushed open the door to see the man pinning her to the floor. For a moment his mind lingered on that image: Penelope sprawled on her back, her hair tumbling down, her skirts tossed up above her knees, her bosom heaving, her blue eyes glowing with passion . . . Benedict gave himself a mental shake; her eyes hadn’t been glowing with passion but with fury—first at Clary and then at him, when he was apparently to blame for Frances and her mother drawing fairly logical conclusions.

  But now . . . Now Penelope was in no position to be furious at him. If Bannister’s report was true, everyone in town would be watching her to see if the rumors were accurate. Even this late in the year London was filled with gossip-hungry people eager for the next delicious scandal. If they got their teeth into a beautiful girl known for her adventurous nature and sharp wit, they would devour her. The fact that she was a nouveau riche heiress would only add to their pleasure. Mr. Weston’s ambitions were widely known, and frequently mocked in private. Some people would be only too eager to believe his daughter was shameless and immoral.

  Which meant the competition for the hand of one heiress would be greatly lessened, just at a moment she would find herself most in want of marriage.

  Benedict’s hand slowed to a stop on Achilles’ nose as that thought sank deep into his brain. “That’s madness,” he said softly. The horse whickered back at him as if in agreement. It was madness, and yet . . . The feel of her hair sliding through his fingers. The way the color came up in her face. The mesmerizing swell of her breasts straining at her bodice. And the fierce flash of joy in her face when he stepped into the room and stopped Clary from assaulting her. Penelope was a beauty. When she laughed, it made a man stop and listen. And once upon a time, he and she had got on quite well together—splendidly, in fact.

  He inhaled unevenly. He did not want to want Penelope. From the beginning he’d seen that she was not the sort of girl he wanted to marry; she was passionate and tempestuous and liable to drive him mad. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her legs in silk stockings, or the scent of her perfume, wild and sweet and perfectly Penelope. He tried to force his mind back to all the times they argued, and only managed to imagine all that blazing temper transformed into passion as the argument ended in a rough coupling against the nearest wall. And even though Benedict told himself that was not what he wanted, the mere thought of her arms and legs wrapped around him as he drove himself inside her made his skin turn hot.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, trying to repress the instinctive reaction of his body. “Think, man.” Think of all the reasons he needed a bride, not all the wicked things he wanted to do to Penelope Weston. Marriage was far too important to be based on anything as common or fleeting as desire and passion. Marriage was meant to be based on a practical evaluation of multiple factors that would ensure a secure, companionable alliance.

  First, he needed a bride with money.

  Penelope Weston had a dowry of forty thousand pounds.

  Second, he didn’t want to become a laughingstock. He wanted a wife of sense and discretion, not a wild hoyden who would constantly be the subject of gossip and innuendo.

  Of course, to his knowledge Penelope had never been involved in a scandal until now, and he had already seen how deep and unwavering her loyalty could be, once engaged.

  Third, he wanted a wife soon. Two humiliating rejections were quite enough, and he had hoped to be married by now in any event. His moment of opportunity to find a bride on his own terms was quickly passing, and he never knew if or when he’d get another one. When Abigail Weston had asked for his help in clearing Sebastian’s name, it had led his sister Samantha to confess that she, and not Sebastian Vane, had once stolen four thousand guineas from the Earl of Stratford. Their father’s rage had been implacable. Stratford blamed Benedict for trying to hide his sister’s deception, and banned him from the estate in addition to cutting off all communication and funds. Benedict could withstand the financial pinch this time, but banishment was a golden chance he could not ignore. As long as his father remained furious at him, he was somewhat free—but sooner or later, Stratford would set about bringing him back to heel. And then only a wealthy bride would render him immune to the earl’s demands.

  And Penelope Weston—wealthy and beautiful—was about to find herself in desperate want of salvation . . . such as a respectable marriage.

  “Tell me it’s a bloody stupid idea,” Benedict said to his horse. “Tell me I’m an idiot.” Achilles huffed out a breath and shook his head before pushing his nose against Benedict’s shoulder.

  “No, I didn’t think so,” he murmured, taking a carrot from the bucket behind him and snapping it into pieces for the horse.

  It was like fate was throwing her at him. And even if it was a mad idea, reason and logic hadn’t won him a bride, either. Penelope might claim to hate him—might think she hated him—but if that fervor could be turned into a different sort of passion . . . It wouldn’t be the sort of marriage he had wanted, but there could be other compensations. Without meaning to, he imagined making love to her, and a bolt of pure lust shot through his veins, straight to his groin. Benedict closed his eyes and inhaled raggedly. He was no better than Hollander, it seemed—except that he was willing
to marry her.

  But he would have to play his cards just right. Logic and sense might win over her parents, but Penelope herself would require more dramatic suasion. What had she said the other night? A woman wanted a man to be half mad with passion for her. Benedict’s mouth crooked wryly. Half mad was a fair description of how he felt around her. It wasn’t strictly desire, though desire was unquestionably part of it. And if he could make her want him, too, there was a chance that theirs might be an incomparable union.

  Not to mention one that would save them both from ignominy.

  Chapter 10

  For once Penelope was not at all sorry to be unwell. She kept to the house that night, thinking it best to give Frances and Mrs. Lockwood time to cool their tempers, and to give herself time to think of an appropriate response. Sooner or later she would see them again, and she hoped to have something conciliatory to say when they did meet. Even if Frances’s friendship was lost forever, Penelope did not want anyone to think she had schemed to steal the other girl’s suitor. No good explanation had come to her yet, but surely something would.

  A package arrived from Olivia the next morning. Penelope opened it to find the travel journal of Italy she’d bought in Madox Street. “I expect you are imagining yourself anywhere but home by now,” read the enclosed note, “and I enclose this to aid in your imaginary wanderings. I am feeling much better about the vexing matter we discussed yesterday, and have every expectation of a solution soon.”

  The gift made her smile and breathe a sigh of relief. Olivia was no fool, and even though it had looked very bad with Clary, Penelope was hardly in a position to judge by appearances.

  But she was not made to be an invalid. The day was bright and sunny and it seemed the walls of the house were closing in on her. When her mother mentioned after breakfast that she was going shopping, Penelope asked if she could go as well. It took multiple assurances that her ankle was strong enough, that the swelling had entirely subsided, and that she would be very careful when she walked, but finally Mrs. Weston consented.

  Shopping with her mother was not the same as shopping with Olivia or her sister, but on this day Penelope didn’t care. It was bliss to be outside, with the sunshine on her shoulders. She followed her mother into various shops and amused herself by trying on fur tippets and admiring the latest style of bonnets. For the first time in two days she was able to forget about Frances Lockwood and Lord Clary, and apparently it was obvious.

  “You seem restored,” remarked her mother.

  “Restored? What do you mean?”

  Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. “You seem your happy self again, as if you’ve shaken off some great worry.”

  Oh heavens. Had her mother noticed? Penelope ducked her head, uncomfortably aware that she had not shaken off anything; she had merely forgotten it for a little while, until now. She picked up a carved fan and fluttered it in front of her face. “It’s just lovely to be out of the house again.”

  “I imagine.” Mama sent the shopkeeper to wrap up the gloves she was purchasing, and then she and Penelope left the shop. “Shall you feel well enough to attend the Crawfords’ soiree tomorrow?”

  Oh dear. That was a conundrum. Mrs. Lockwood was nearly as close friends with Mrs. Crawford as Mama was. There was a strong chance Frances would be there. For a moment the word “no” hovered on her lips, but then Penelope swallowed it. Be brave, she told herself. “I believe so, Mama.”

  “Very good.” Her mother’s eyes flickered, then widened. “Good heavens. Is that—?”

  Penelope tensed. Oh no; she said a quick prayer it wasn’t Mrs. Lockwood, descending on them with vengeance in her heart. “Who, Mama?” She didn’t even dare look but kept her bonnet brim tilted to hide her face.

  “I believe it’s Lord Atherton,” murmured her mother in wonder. She was almost staring, which meant she missed Penelope’s cringe of horror. Hastily Penelope revised her prayer. She would much rather see Mrs. Lockwood than him, especially in view of her mother. “And he is coming directly toward us.”

  Grimly Penelope eyed a nearby shop. Could she plausibly pretend a sudden desire to dash inside? Unfortunately it was a tobacconist. Her mother would never believe she wanted to go in there. She dared a peek around her bonnet brim.

  It was indeed Atherton, his gaze focused and intent on her. It was eerily reminiscent of the look he’d given her the other night, the mesmerized expression that hinted at real interest. That was dangerous; it tempted her mind to wander off and wonder what might happen if he really did look at her, long enough to truly see her for the first time, and realize . . . And realize that she saw through him, and that she wasn’t fooled by his charming facade and perfect face. Penelope squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and reminded herself that she’d seen Atherton’s true colors last summer, when he allowed Sebastian Vane—a guest in his family home who had once been his dearest friend—to crawl home unaided after his own father had caused Sebastian to fall on his crippled knee. She’d seen Atherton’s real measure when he persisted in pursuing her sister, Abigail, even when it was clear Abigail was in love with someone else. She’d known what the viscount really was when she learned he had allowed accusations of murder and theft to endure for years against Sebastian, without speaking a word of support or protest. Atherton might be the handsomest man in all of England, and he had saved her from Clary, but Penelope really didn’t want to see him.

  Naturally her prayers were not answered. “Mrs. Weston,” he said, his voice as rich as caramel. “How delightful to see you again.” His blue eyes settled on Penelope. “Miss Weston.”

  “The delight is entirely ours, sir,” replied Mama warmly. Penelope dipped a stiff curtsy and said nothing. What did he want? He looked magnificent today in regular clothing instead of his uniform, with a charcoal coat and dark blue trousers that outlined his form exquisitely. It was really unfair for a man to be that beautiful and yet a complete fraud as a person.

  He laughed. “I flatter myself to hope it’s even half as great as mine! I’ve worried over Miss Weston since the other night, and it gladdens my heart to see her on her feet again.”

  She jerked her head up. Mama was regarding her with surprise, and Atherton with an expression of warmth and concern and . . . determination. What the devil? “Yes, thank you, sir,” she said politely.

  “I was very fortunately close at hand when she suffered her mishap the other night,” he told Mama, still radiating charm.

  “How very kind.” Mama sent Penelope a probing look. “You didn’t tell me Lord Atherton assisted you when you slipped on the stairs.”

  She widened her eyes innocently. “Didn’t I? Oh dear, I must have forgotten. I was very shaken, you know.”

  “No doubt,” murmured the viscount.

  She flushed, reminding herself to be more polite. He could expose her as a liar with just one word. “I must thank you once again, my lord. Your help was both timely and considerate.”

  “Not at all! I was very distressed when I discovered you after your fall, and have worried ever since that you would suffer a lasting injury.”

  Penelope clenched her jaw. She’d heard his slight hesitation before the word “fall” and knew he was calling her a liar. She gave a carefree little laugh. “Not at all! A slightly sore ankle. The more I walk on it, the better it feels.”

  “Oh?” His blue eyes gleamed. “How fortunate we met. I was on my way to take a turn in the park. Perhaps you would care to accompany me?” He turned to her mother before she could utter a word. “With your permission, Mrs. Weston.”

  “Of course,” said Mama at once, pleasantly surprised. “It will be good exercise, and spare you standing around waiting in the upholsterer’s shop.”

  She could almost hear what her mother was thinking. Lord Atherton—and his parents, the Earl and Countess of Stratford—had every reason to dislike her family. It had been a thorn in her father�
��s side ever since Abigail rejected Atherton, dashing Papa’s hopes of a noble connection. But here Atherton was, smiling as charmingly as ever. A chance to restore the goodwill between the viscount and the Westons would delight both of Penelope’s parents beyond description. Even more, Atherton had fixed his attention on her in a way that implied he held no grudge over the things she had said to him. Of course, Mama couldn’t know about those things, but Penelope did, and it all left her very ill at ease. What was he plotting? A public stroll in the park was the last thing they should do together. Really, after the way they parted last, she thought he would never want to see her again. He did not like her; he had all but told her so the other night when they danced together. So why was he here watching her with an unwavering attention that made her skin feel taut and warm?

  Penelope writhed inside, but saw no way out. He’d better have a good reason for this. She forced a smile to her lips. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  She put her hand on his arm and let him lead her off, across Pall Mall and down a side street into St. James’s Park. She waited until no one was within earshot to demand, “To what do I owe this honor, my lord?”

  He smiled down at her, although now it seemed more ominous than before. “I wanted a private conversation.”

  Oh Lord. That stamped out the unwanted but unmistakable thrill that had shivered over her when he drew her to his side. A chill of apprehension went down her back. About what? Mrs. Lockwood, most likely, or even worse, Lord Clary. She wet her lips. “How very mysterious of you. I’m sure we haven’t anything private to discuss.”

  “Are you sure? Very sure?” He dipped his head closer and murmured in her ear, “Perhaps you should hear what I have to say before you answer.”

  Her heart seemed to leap into her throat—in anxiety, she told herself, not in reaction to his breath on her cheek. “Go on, then,” she said coolly.

  “I wanted to warn you.”

  She tensed. “About what?”