Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  When he felt the first convulsions of her release, he pulled her close, holding her to his chest as she shuddered and cried, and the storm gathering along the length of his spine broke at last. It felt as though part of his soul poured into her, and for a moment he could only cling to her, robbed of speech and thought.

  And then . . . This is what she wants, came the insidious thought. This was passion and excitement, which he knew she craved. His arms tightened around her. God, she’d been right. He couldn’t imagine almost passing out in any other woman’s arms. And silently Benedict said a fervent prayer of thanks to every busybody in London who had helped precipitate his marriage. He’d promised Mr. Weston he would do his damned best to make Penelope happy, and if this was part of that, it would be the truest vow he’d ever made.

  “I guess it works,” she said faintly, “on a settee.”

  He laughed, making his chest hurt. “Better than I expected, even.”

  She raised her head. He thought she’d never looked more lushly beautiful than she did now, with her color high and her eyes glowing and a pleased smile curving her lips. “Really?”

  “Didn’t you think so?” There seemed to be a permanent grin on his face. “Perhaps we’d better try it again, if you’re not sure.”

  “Hmm.” She arched one brow speculatively. “But I have other ideas.”

  God bless Lady Constance, Benedict thought. “I am all attentiveness.” But then he ruined it by yawning. It was nearly midnight; he’d been awake since dawn and ridden almost twenty miles, with the last heady gallop the most thrilling—and exhausting.

  His bride only smiled. She ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it over his temple, and his eyes almost closed in pleasure at the caress. “Perhaps tomorrow. Shall we go to bed?”

  Benedict could barely raise his head. The servants would be aghast at the state of the rooms in the morning, with clothing everywhere, but at the moment he couldn’t be moved to care. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to get off the settee, make his way to the bedroom, remove the rest of his clothes and boots, and wash up before finally—blessedly—falling into bed. Penelope was already there, since she’d been ready for bed. Benedict snuffed the lamp and stuffed the pillow under his head, pleased and mildly surprised when she snuggled against him.

  “Benedict,” she whispered.

  He brushed his lips across her forehead. Marriage was turning out to be better than he’d ever hoped. By God, if he came home to Penelope like this every night . . . “Hmm?”

  “I have something to ask you.” Her voice was silky and low. She sounded as relaxed as he felt, and the feeling of easy companionship made him draw her just a little closer. Her hand flattened on his chest, and her fingers began a lazy stroking motion that was shockingly soothing. “I know it’s very early in our marriage, but you did say you want us to be happy together, and that means we must come to trust each other and try to help each other, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed.” Another yawn cracked his jaw, and he felt himself slipping into sleep.

  “Then if there is something I need, I should be able to ask for it without hesitation, shouldn’t I?”

  He smiled faintly, wondering what she wanted. Most likely a new bonnet. Women and their fashions. “What is it?”

  “I need two hundred pounds, and I need it tomorrow morning.”

  Benedict opened his eyes. “What?”

  “Two hundred pounds,” she repeated in the same careless way. “Can you get it for me in the morning?”

  He pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Why the devil do you need two hundred pounds?”

  “I just do.”

  He stared at her incredulously, unable to see her expression in the weak moonlight. “And you expect me to hand it over for the asking?”

  “Well, why not?” She sat up, too. “You wouldn’t have that money if not for marrying me, so I see no reason why I shouldn’t have a little bit if I need it.”

  It was true, and yet stabbed his temper to life. “What are you going to do with it?” A thought struck him. “Are you in debt to someone?”

  “No.”

  “Are you being blackmailed?” he demanded. The Earl of Clary lingered at the back of his mind; the man carried a grudge and he hated Penelope, for reasons Benedict still hadn’t discovered.

  “No!”

  “Then why do you need two hundred pounds?”

  “Does it matter?” she exclaimed. “I daresay you won’t be asking my permission every time you want to withdraw some funds.”

  Of course he wouldn’t. A deep scowl settled over his face.

  She was quiet for a moment, though he could hear her breathing heavily. “You promised my father you would be a good husband,” she said in a low voice. “You said you wanted us to have a happy marriage. I’m only asking this small favor, and it is important to me. Why can you not trust me?”

  “It’s quite a large favor,” he shot back. “Tell me why you need it.” Before she could answer, another thought struck him. “Did you just seduce me on the settee so I would give you money?”

  “Seduce?” She leapt out of bed. “Who seduced whom? You kissed me! You untied my dressing gown! You started it!”

  “And you were bloody eager to carry on, weren’t you?”

  He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. By now his eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see her mouth drop open. Without a word she turned and marched to the dressing room, closing the door behind her with a firm bang.

  He stared after her in disbelief. What the devil? Two hundred pounds! Why could she possibly want that much money? And without a word of explanation or justification. The thought of her sneaking around behind his back caused an instinctive snarl of denial in his throat. Why wouldn’t she tell him?

  Ah. Right. Can’t or won’t tell? echoed his own question in his memory, along with her response: Won’t.

  His mouth thinned. He’d suspected for a while that she was protecting someone who was involved with Lord Clary. Penelope hadn’t gone to meet him on her own; she either went with someone, or at someone’s behest, and it had almost ended in her being violated and abused. Everything he’d warned her about Clary rang through his mind, and his hand curled into a fist at the thought that she was ignoring him—still. Perhaps this other person was being blackmailed by Clary, or owed him money. For all Benedict knew, the money was to hire an assassin to kill Clary. That last seemed unlikely but he would wager her request was connected to Clary in some way. And he had warned her and warned her to stay away from that man.

  With a muttered curse he went to the dressing room door. “Come back to bed, Penelope.”

  “Not if you’re in it” was her cool retort.

  Benedict braced his arms against the door frame. There was no lock on the door. He could open it and drag her back to bed if he so desired. Not that he did desire that—he much preferred Penelope as she’d been earlier, soft and welcoming and willing—eager—to let him make love to her on the settee. “I don’t want to argue with you about this.”

  “I don’t want you to, either.”

  His fingers curled into fists. “I am responsible for your safety,” he said evenly, trying to check his temper. “I refuse to allow you to involve yourself in something that may cause you harm. If you won’t tell me who or what the money is truly for, I cannot make you. But neither will I give it to you without being satisfied that you won’t be endangered by whatever you’re plotting.”

  There was a pause. “I’m not plotting anything, let alone anything dangerous. If I could have asked anyone else for it, I would have.”

  Benedict scowled at that. “Really. Yet you won’t offer me even a token explanation. I am your husband, Penelope.”

  “And you think so little of me, you accuse me of seducing you for money!”

  Benedict rubbed his e
yes. God, he was tired; that must be why he’d accused his bride of something dangerously close to whoring. “I should not have said that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. But you don’t trust me, so perhaps it’s no surprise.” Her voice was muffled by the door, but he could still make out the angry hurt. “Stupid of me, really, to think you’d believe I must have a good reason for needing money, and an equally good reason for not telling you every thought in my head.”

  Benedict’s jaw tightened. Part of him wanted to take a stand, put down his foot, and exert his will. His wife would not make a fool of him. If he gave in to this demand, who knew what she would ask next? Better to establish his marital authority now before she ran roughshod over him. His father would never have countenanced such a thing.

  Slowly he let out his breath. Christ. The last person he wanted to emulate was his father. He made himself soften his tone. “Can you give me your word that this money won’t cause trouble for you?”

  After a brief pause, the door creaked open. Tell me, he silently urged her as she regarded him somberly. Tell me who you’re protecting from Clary.

  “I give you my word,” she said, and nothing more.

  He let out his breath and went back to bed. Exhaustion was making him short-tempered and stupid. It was better to go to sleep before he made things worse. “You should trust me. I have a duty to you now.”

  “I might say the same,” she muttered. “You hardly tell me all your secrets.”

  “What secrets?” He rolled under the covers, his muscles aching with relief at the prospect of sleep. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Huh,” he thought she said under her breath. “‘How did your family take the news of our wedding, which none of them attended?’ Who would wonder about that?”

  She climbed back into bed a moment later. He listened to her yank the covers into place before she went still. It was peace, though a fragile one. But she never rolled back across the bed into his arms, as he privately wished she might do. And he fell asleep before he could work out any words of conciliation.

  Chapter 17

  Penelope stared out the carriage window as they drove through the busy streets of Mayfair. Benedict sat beside her, inches away and a vast gulf apart. Scarcely a dozen words had been exchanged so far today, all of them cool and polite. She’d woken to a bundle of banknotes on his pillow beside her. He had been gone. Even though he’d given her the money she wanted, Penelope felt no triumph or delight. She sent Lizzie to deliver the money to Olivia, and then sat brooding over her cooling tea for an hour.

  Had she just spoiled everything? His charge that she seduced him only for money bit into her like a burr under her clothes. That wasn’t the only reason, she argued fiercely in her own mind . . . although it wasn’t unreasonable for him to draw that conclusion. She’d waited up for him and poured his wine, determined to be sweet and engaging. When he began kissing her and teased her about Lady Constance, it had only seemed like she was succeeding beyond expectations. And then he invited her to make love to him, which had been thrilling and daring and so arousing, there weren’t even words to describe it. For the first time it had seemed possible her marriage would become what she’d always dreamt of: Benedict, wild with desire for her, daring her to be wicked and brazen, the pair of them finally forging a bond that would spawn a deep, abiding love.

  Naturally that had been wrong.

  Still, how could he demand that she trust him when he told her nothing? He went all the way to Richmond to tell his parents, the day after the wedding, then wouldn’t tell her how they received the news. Penelope hardly wanted to face the Earl of Stratford personally, but she was still warily curious to know his response. Would he bring himself to be gracious, now that she was Benedict’s wife, or would she be the shame of the family, the nouveau riche coal heiress who’d only caught a husband because she couldn’t keep out of scandal? Unfortunately she had a feeling it was closer to the latter, by the way Benedict dodged her question. And if the earl disdained her, she would probably lose whatever affection Lady Samantha felt for her as well. Benedict’s other sister, Lady Turley, and his mother the countess had only ever been polite to her, so she probably hadn’t lost much there, but . . . She heaved a soundless sigh. It would have been lovely to feel welcomed by someone.

  The carriage stopped, jolting her out of her thoughts. Benedict pushed open the door and jumped down before holding out his hand for her to follow.

  She stepped out of the carriage, covertly surveying the surroundings. It was a pretty little street, lined with attractive homes, though none was large. He hadn’t told her a thing about where they were going, and she hadn’t paid attention during the drive, so she had no idea where they were.

  A gentleman waiting on the steps of the house in front of them hurried forward. “Good day, m’lord,” he said, bowing. “My lady. Thomas Grace.”

  Benedict shook the fellow’s hand as he peered up at the house. “Good day. Shall we go in?”

  “Indeed, sir, I was just examining the house, and the front rooms get very good light. I think you’ll be pleased.” He went up the steps into the open front door.

  “I thought we should find a house.” Benedict offered her his arm. “A lady deserves a proper home.”

  “As does a lord,” she said, gingerly setting her hand on his arm.

  “A married lord, at any rate. But if this one doesn’t suit you, we’ll find another.” He led her after Mr. Grace.

  As the man had said, the front rooms were wonderfully bright. The dining room was elegant and spacious, with columns at both ends. The back parlor was charming and cozy. The drawing room on the first floor was nearly as large as the one in the Westons’ Grosvenor Square house, and Penelope instantly liked it. It was a handsome house, suitable for entertaining. Mr. Grace escorted them through the first few rooms, extolling the virtues of the house, its craftsmanship, and its setting, but then he excused himself and let them explore in privacy.

  “What do you think?” Her husband had barely said a word to her during the tour of the other rooms, but now his attention was fixed on her.

  Penelope ran her fingers along the windowsill. They were in the master’s bedchamber, another large room overlooking the street. Thus far they had shared a bed, meaning this would be their bedroom if they took the house. Or perhaps only his, or only hers. There was another bedroom, though not as spacious or as bright, and there was a dressing room between it and this room. After last night, it seemed far more likely they would do better apart.

  Her glove came away gray with dust. She tried to brush it off, then just folded her hands. “It’s very comfortable.”

  “Do you like it?” He had propped one shoulder against the wall beside the window and folded his arms. The sunlight gleamed on his dark hair and caught his eyes, making them seem brighter than ever. But his expression was carefully neutral, as if he didn’t want to discuss what had happened the previous night.

  “It will do.”

  “So you like it?” he prodded. “There are hundreds of houses in London; I want you to be pleased.”

  As if a house could make up for everything lacking in their marriage. “Yes, I like it.” She turned away from the window and headed for the door.

  “Penelope.” His voice was low. “Stay a moment.” She stopped but didn’t face him. “Last night . . . I didn’t want it to end that way.”

  She hadn’t, either. It had begun so splendidly, and then suddenly burst into flames and exploded. That was partly because she hadn’t thought it through well enough; she hadn’t considered how manipulative her actions might look to him. She was new to this, and marriage was turning out to be more complicated than expected. Or perhaps the problem was that she didn’t really know him, and he was far more reserved. Hadn’t she called him coldhearted and arrogant? For a while, on the settee, he hadn’t seemed so at all, but as soon as she asked fo
r the money, his demeanor became chilly and imperious. “I made a mistake,” she said quietly. “My only hope was to be warm and welcoming, and not start an argument as so often happens with us. It was not my intention at all to—to seduce you in order to get money—”

  “I should not have said that.” He exhaled loudly. “I was tired and caught off guard, and I spoke without thinking. Forgive me.”

  After a moment she gave a nod. It was the sort of thing one said without thinking, in a temper. Lord knew she was prone to the same misjudgments from time to time. As for whether or not he was only sorry for saying it aloud . . . she preferred not to know. “Thank you for giving me the money.”

  “You made a reasonable point; you should have some claim on the funds that came from your family. It was the amount, in banknotes, that startled me, and that made me fearful of your reason for wanting it.” He paused. “I hope that someday we can trust each other more. Our marriage didn’t begin under the best of circumstances, but we have equal roles in making it a pleasant one.”

  Penelope thought about that last bit. In the happy marriages she knew, there was trust between husband and wife. She had told herself that Benedict was shallow and arrogant, but he’d been chipping away at that image for some time. Abigail had hinted there was more to his story than met the eye, and that she should give him a chance; while her sister might be more trusting, she was also usually right. And no one could question Abigail’s loyalty or motives. Moreover, Olivia wanted her to be happy with Benedict, and keeping Olivia’s secret was becoming a serious obstacle to that.

  “I gave my word not to tell a soul,” she began. “You must give me the same promise, or I cannot tell you why I needed the money.”