Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “How surprising!” he said. “You must be a man of very great humility, to wed the sister of the woman who spurned you. But perhaps I underestimated Thomas Weston. He was determined to have a viscount for a son-in-law, and now he’s got one.”

  “I like to think I was accepted for my own charm as well,” said Benedict, keeping his confident expression fixed in place. Any sign of uncertainty and the earl would tear him to shreds. “By the lady as well as by her father.”

  Stratford harrumphed. “Is she breeding?”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, refusing to let himself think about that. “But she was innocent when I married her.”

  The earl’s lips thinned. Benedict knew he’d been about to suggest Penelope had coerced him into marrying her. The thought almost made Benedict laugh. How furious would his father be if he knew that if anything, it had been more the other way around? “A rare feat in girls of that class.”

  “She is a rare girl,” he agreed. “In the best way.”

  “Take care you don’t get coal dust under your fingernails when you take her to bed.”

  He knew his father was trying to provoke him. Insulting his bride was just another way of insulting his own judgment and taste, but it offered Benedict the first real opportunity to show the earl that things were different now. Everything had changed, and he wasn’t ceding an inch back to his father. “Her father was never a collier. He was an attorney who made a considerable fortune through shrewd investment. I hope my children have as much acumen.”

  “So you can spawn a future earl who deals in trade?” sneered Stratford. His temper was beginning to fray, and his face was dull red. “Stratford Court will become a counting house! The bookkeepers and lawyers will overrun everything of grace and nobility your ancestors built over three hundred years.”

  “You gave your blessing when I wished to marry Abigail Weston.” Benedict had long suspected that had happened because his father sensed Sebastian Vane wanted Abigail, too, and not because of anything Benedict had said to persuade him. Why the earl hated Sebastian that much, Benedict didn’t know, but his hunch seemed confirmed when Stratford’s eyes blazed with fury.

  “And instead of recovering from your peculiar desire to wed a girl of common stock with nothing but her dowry to recommend her, you simply took her sister instead. Well, why not, I suppose; neither one is much of a beauty, but the fortune is worth as much either way.”

  Benedict opened his mouth to defend his wife—to defend himself. But then he realized it was pointless, and so he just raised his chin, savoring every tiny bit of height he had over his father. “Yes. It’s good for a man to have an independent fortune.”

  Stratford made a motion, quickly restrained, as if he meant to strike Benedict. Somehow Benedict didn’t flinch away. In fact, he almost wanted the earl to do it, to raise his hand and hit him. For the first time in his life, he felt able and ready to hit back. No, it was more than that—he wanted to strike his father, to pay him back for all the whippings and thrashings he’d endured in his life, for offenses as trivial as being late to dinner or not reciting his Latin lessons enough times. Benedict wanted to repay the earl for all the punishments he’d taken for his sisters and mother, for the belittling remarks and impossible demands and random acts of petty cruelty they had all suffered over the years.

  But the reason he dared not do it—his mother—rose from her seat. She wore the distant, composed expression that hid her thoughts and feelings, which Samantha had once called “her ladyship’s countenance.” “What God hath joined together, no man may put apart. I would not wish anyone to suspect a rift in our family; Benedict, if you bring your bride to visit, I will receive her. It would be unbecoming to snub the next Countess of Stratford. My dear, will you join me in wishing our son well in his marriage?”

  Her words gave the earl time to master his temper. He still glowered at Benedict, but he drew himself rigidly erect and bowed. “Of course. I trust he knows his duty to Stratford by now.”

  Benedict met his father’s freezing stare. “Perfectly, sir.”

  “Time will tell. You would do well to keep from my sight until sent for. Remember it this time, and don’t come slinking back under pretense of visiting your mother.” With that contemptuous dismissal, the earl turned and left.

  Neither Benedict nor his mother moved until the sound of his footsteps had faded away. Then the countess sank onto the sofa once more. “I wish you every happiness,” she said softly. “Truly I do. No matter what impelled you to marriage, I hope she makes you very happy.”

  It took him a minute to reply. He hated to leave her here, uncertain of when he would see her again, but for himself . . . for himself he felt fully free of Stratford for the first time in his life. “Thank you, Mother.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “So do I.”

  Chapter 15

  It was an immense relief that Benedict was not in bed when she woke.

  Penelope lay quietly for several minutes, trying to untangle her new circumstances. She could still smell him, and if she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands on her skin and hear the murmur of his voice in her ear. He’d made love to her three times, including waking her once in the middle of the night. Thinking about what he’d done that time brought a fiery blush to her face. Whatever other faults she laid at his feet, he was a very adept lover.

  She supposed that was a good thing, since she was well and truly married to him. All her threats to leave last night were hollow, even before he’d made love to her. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, part of her thrilled at the idea that he was hers. Part of her exulted in his attraction to her, and all of her was bowled over by his lovemaking. That had been every bit as exciting and powerful as Lady Constance had led her to believe it would be.

  As for the rest . . . there was still hope. She now had a lifetime to loosen him up and make him fall in love with her. Penelope didn’t really see any other option; they were married, and she wanted her husband to be madly in love with her. It seemed only fair, after all, since he obviously wanted her and she was already helplessly attracted to him. Just thinking about it made her pulse speed up. He’d taken her to bed and done wicked, wonderful things to her, and probably would again. She thought of all the acts described in 50 Ways to Sin and wondered if Benedict would be amenable to trying any of them. Or perhaps he had other, equally thrilling, ideas of his own. She blushed all over her body at that possibility. Who could do those things and not develop tender feelings?

  Oh—Lady Constance, that’s who. She found pleasure with her lovers but never anything more, no matter how arousing or wicked their amorous encounter. Penelope had always dreamt of sharing a great passion with her husband, not just in bed but in everything. Instead she found herself married to a man who was a mystery to her, who admitted he’d wanted to marry a completely different sort of girl—her own sister!—who freely admitted that she bedeviled and tormented him. Unlike Constance, who sent her lovers away and rarely saw them again, though, Benedict would still be her husband tomorrow and the day after and the day after. How could she endure decades of a marriage with no love? How could she bear it if there was no passion between them—or worse, if there was a great deal of passion but nothing deeper? Could she be like Constance and simply enjoy making love with her husband, without caring that he didn’t love her?

  No. She was sure she couldn’t. Sooner or later it would drive her mad; she’d run off with a lover, or maybe just run off.

  With a shake of her head she flung back the covers and got up. Benedict was already gone from the suite. She could tell even before a peek into the sitting and dressing rooms revealed his absence. For a moment she hovered between disappointment that he’d left so early, and relief that she had time to compose herself before facing him again, and finally decided on relief. Perhaps he’d gone out early in search of a house to take. They obviously couldn’t live in the officers’ quarters. Or
perhaps he’d just gone for a ride.

  When Lizzie brought breakfast, the tray held a note from Benedict, left with the porter. Penelope tore it open with interest and even some delight, although that was dashed when she read it. He’d gone to Richmond to see his parents.

  It sent a chill down her spine, and she threw the note onto the table with a slight shudder. She’d completely forgotten about the Earl and Countess of Stratford, her new father- and mother-in-law. The countess, she supposed, was merely cool and remote, able to look right through people with her pale blue eyes and distant smile, but the earl was another story. Tall and austere, he was the most forbidding man she’d ever met, and if she never saw him again she would be exceedingly grateful. And now she’d gone and married his son.

  A nightmarish montage of future dinners and events streamed through her mind, with the earl staring down his hawkish nose at her in barely veiled distaste. The Westons had been invited to Stratford Court once, when Benedict was trying to impress Abigail by showing off his family home. Sebastian had been invited as well, and that was the night Penelope had known for certain he was going to marry her sister. Abigail had fairly glowed with happiness when Sebastian asked her to dance, despite his crippled knee. But shortly after that dance, Sebastian and Benedict had disappeared, along with Lord Stratford. The next time Penelope saw the gentlemen, Sebastian had been on the verge of fainting, barely able to walk, while Lord Stratford—and Benedict—had watched him hobble painfully along, and done nothing to help. The earl had even looked pleased.

  Just thinking of it revived some of her antipathy for Benedict. He’d done nothing, although he had looked troubled. What sort of man could walk away from any guest in obvious pain? It took a few deep breaths to restore her determination that she was going to make a happy life with him, curse him. And in her house, no guest would ever be mistreated that way.

  Her mood considerably darker, she dropped into the chair nearest the window and glared blindly out at the street below. What was Benedict telling his parents? I’ve gone and married the coal heiress, she imagined him saying. That was what he’d wanted, after all: a sweet, pretty girl with money. Penelope studied her reflection in the glass. She was passably pretty, she supposed. Was that enough to overcome her other characteristics, which were—if she remembered correctly—bedeviling, tormenting, and turning him inside out? Those weren’t necessarily bad qualities, but he hadn’t looked very enchanted when he listed them.

  A thought struck her, and she sat upright in relief. Samantha would know. If his sister had written to him in the first place about the Westons, she would know what he wanted in a wife. Penelope had always liked Samantha, even admired her, and now they were sisters. Surely a sister would give her good advice, as Abigail had always done. Penelope wasn’t quite sure how she would react if Samantha confirmed that Benedict really did want a quiet, sensible wife, but it was a start, and it might give her greater insight into the family she’d somehow joined.

  Before she could dress to go out, the porter came to say she had a caller. The card he presented made her gasp aloud. “Yes, I’ll go to her at once,” she told him, then called her maid to hurry through her toilette. As soon as the last hairpin went in, she rushed downstairs to the private parlor the porter had mentioned.

  Olivia Townsend almost pounced on her. “Penelope!” She seized Penelope’s arms and scrutinized her face worriedly. “You look well. Thank goodness.”

  For some reason Penelope’s mind summoned up the feeling of her new husband’s hands on her skin and his voice in her ear. “I’m perfectly fine,” she said, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “Why do you sound so worried?”

  Olivia released her, raising her eyebrows in disbelief. “Worried! Of course I was worried! I returned home last night to a note mentioning, in a very casual and almost careless way, that you had married Lord Atherton.” She threw her hands out wide in entreaty. “Would you kindly explain how that came about?”

  “I wasn’t prodded to the altar at knifepoint, if that’s what you mean.” Penelope winced at Olivia’s air of horror. “It was strongly urged upon me, but I did consent of my own free will.”

  Her friend gave a muffled gasp and whirled away, pacing to the sofa. Penelope followed her. Olivia yanked open her reticule and rummaged inside. “It was Clary, wasn’t it? It’s too much coincidence that you and Lord Atherton would be forced to marry after your encounter with him.” She sniffed, still searching almost angrily in her reticule. “That evil man. I should have shot him—then he wouldn’t have assaulted you, and Atherton wouldn’t have had to save you, and you wouldn’t have ended up married to a man you hate.” She looked up. “What did he say about you?” she demanded. “Tell me, Pen!”

  Penelope had never seen her friend so angry. Olivia’s face was pale except for the spots of red in her cheeks, and her eyes flashed with fury. “What does Clary want from you?” she asked softly instead.

  For a moment Olivia didn’t seem to hear her. Then with a start she looked away. “Never mind about me. Is—?”

  “I will not ‘never mind,’” said Penelope indignantly. “What’s wrong, Olivia? Is Clary hounding you again?”

  “Again.” The other woman gave a despairing laugh. “I fear he’ll never stop.”

  “How?”

  Olivia’s expression closed. “I refuse to put you in any more danger from him. I—I cannot tell you, Pen. Partly because I don’t know everything myself, but I know you are too loyal a friend to stay out of it unless I don’t tell you. So you must trust me: I won’t tell, for your own good.” She forced a thin smile. “And for mine, because I cannot bear to worry about you anymore. Is—is he kind to you? Lord Atherton.”

  Penelope stirred uneasily. She’d been in some vile moods when she discussed Benedict with Olivia, now that she thought back on it. “Yes.”

  Olivia seemed to wilt a bit. “Thank God. Everyone I spoke to said he’s a gentleman, but I know how much you dislike him, and when I think that I might have cost you your chance at love and passion and all the things you want in marriage—”

  Thus far Penelope didn’t feel deprived of passion. She cleared her throat. “You mustn’t blame yourself. Papa didn’t force me to marry him. I hope to make a success of our marriage.” Olivia’s mouth trembled, and Penelope realized she sounded rather tragic and martyred. She reached for Olivia’s hands. “Truly. I have mostly myself to blame, and I hold myself responsible for making it turn out well. Atherton . . . he encouraged me to behave sensibly and I shied away from it. But he stood by me when he could have walked away, and I hope we’ll be content.” She really hoped for much more, but there was no reason to go telling everyone that so early.

  “All right,” murmured Olivia. She reached out and squeezed Penelope’s hand. “I wish you much happiness—and Lord Atherton as well. How could he not love you? After a few weeks, he’ll be madly smitten, I’m sure.”

  Penelope summoned a limp smile. She wished, rather than anticipated, that Olivia was right about that. “Where were you?” she asked, changing the subject. “The wedding was very small but Mama did say I could invite you. I was sorry you were out of town.”

  The smile faded from Olivia’s face. She seemed to hesitate, then drew herself up as though embarking on something unpleasant. “Yes, I was away. It’s not important where I went, but I was working on the solution to my . . .” She grimaced. “My problem with Lord Clary.”

  Penelope sprang to alertness. “What is it?”

  “It’s not fully formed,” Olivia warned. “And I won’t countenance your involvement in any way—I’ve learned my lesson on that score.” Her chin wobbled. “Oh, Pen, I shall forever blame myself if you are not happy. Clary never would have noticed you if you hadn’t come to my aid. No such act of decency should be repaid as I’ve repaid you, with evasions and lies.” Penelope frowned in surprise; lies? But Olivia went on. “I know you deserve better from me, but unfor
tunately I’ve only come to take advantage of your friendship once more.”

  “You are not taking advantage! I want to help you, Olivia, if you’ll only tell me how I can.”

  Her friend gave a firm nod. “Henry . . .” A flicker of pain crossed her face. “Henry was involved in things he ought not to have been. You’ve already guessed Clary plays some part, I’m sure.” She darted a wary glance at Penelope, who nodded in encouragement. “I knew nothing of it before Henry died, but the people he was involved with refuse to believe that. Even worse, Henry left very few clues, and deliberately obscured what he did leave. I have to see if I can discover more, and I must leave London to do it. I don’t want anyone to know where,” she added at Penelope’s expression. “There’s a chance it will lead to nothing. But this is my best hope of putting Clary off forever.”

  “Olivia, that’s lunacy,” she protested. “Run off with Clary nipping at your heels, and refuse to tell anyone where?”

  “I don’t intend for him to follow me,” she said bitterly. “Not him, nor any one of his—” She stopped, to Penelope’s frustration. “I would prefer no one know; the truth about Henry, if my suspicions are correct, is shameful, and I would rather not brave the scandal if it became well-known.” She took a deep breath. “But first I need two hundred pounds.”

  Penelope blinked. “For what?”

  Olivia flushed. “I would ask anyone else if I could.”

  “I don’t have two hundred pounds,” Penelope told her. “I would give it to you if I did . . .” She frowned. “Did Henry owe Lord Clary some debt you have to pay back?”

  That seemed to fluster Olivia. “Oh no, no, it’s not that, not precisely . . .” She got to her feet. “Forget I asked. It was a mad idea.”