Love in the Time of Scandal (14 page)

Penelope’s face burned. “You didn’t love either of them.”

“No,” he readily agreed. “There are many reasons a man asks a woman to marry him. Love is only one possibility.”

She scowled, then quickly wiped it away. Her glass sat in front of her, untouched for some time, so she snatched it up and took a quick gulp, barely noticing the heat of the liquor this time. “But it’s a vital one. And you couldn’t even muster up a pretense of affection. That’s why my sister sent you packing, and that’s why Frances declared she never wanted to see you again, isn’t it?”

This time he looked irked. “Are we going to revisit every humiliation I’ve ever suffered at the hands of a woman? There was a tavern wench when I was at university who never would grant me a kiss . . .”

“Huh! I’m not surprised,” she muttered.

“And then there was a woman who bedeviled me for months,” he went on. “When we first met, she was charming and delightful, but she soon grew fickle. She’d dance with me one night, and then the next day look as though she’d like to skewer me with my own sword. Even though I tried to make amends—often for sins I hadn’t even committed—she said she’d rather I kept far, far away from her and told everyone I violently disliked her.” Penelope jerked up her head in shock. “I suppose I put paid to that suggestion this morning, though, eh?” he added with a suggestive wink.

She pressed her lips together. This had been a bad idea. He wasn’t as voluble a drunk as Jamie was, and his answers were only stoking her temper in spite of her efforts not to allow that. “You ought to have given it a try,” she said coolly. “It would have benefited us both.”

“But then we wouldn’t be here, savoring our wedding night together.”

“No, we could each be doing something far more pleasurable,” she snapped back. “Perhaps mucking out the stable stalls, or blacking grates. It would have spared us this pointless conversation at least.”

“Mucking out stables! Perish the thought.” With surprising speed he went from sprawled in his chair to leaning over the table toward her. “Very well.” He glared at her, rakishly dangerous with his dark hair falling over his brow and his blue eyes searing with intensity. “You ask why I courted your sister and Miss Lockwood. You really want to know why I paid them attention.”

Dimly Penelope thought there was a more strident warning there, but her blood was running. Her nerves were tingling, and she felt reckless and uncaring of what might come. “Yes, if you’re not too cowardly to admit it.”

“Cowardly?” He arched one brow. “Someday I’d like to know how your mind works. But if you want to know, you shall know. My sister recommended Abigail.”

That was utterly unexpected—and just as unsatisfying. “Your sister?” she repeated incredulously. “Samantha? You courted
my
sister because
your
sister took a fancy to her?”

Atherton poured more brandy, watching it slosh into the glasses. Some spilled on the table, but neither of them paid it any mind. “No, although Samantha’s good opinion means a great deal to me. She met your family and immediately wrote to me, saying she’d met the most delightful girl: sensible, kindhearted, independent without being wild, and lovely to look at.” He tilted the glass to his lips again as Penelope gaped at him in outraged shock. “Oh yes—the young lady had one more appealing attribute,” he added with a cynical twist to his lips. “An immense dowry.”

Penelope found her tongue. “The money? It was all about the money, not my sister or what she wanted, or even what you wanted? I could have forgiven it, you know, if you’d been bowled away with love for her, but I knew all along that had nothing to do with it—”

“Forgiven it?” His laugh was harsh. “You’ve never forgiven a single thing I’ve ever done.”

“Some of them don’t deserve to be forgiven,” she retorted, lurching to her feet. The room swayed dangerously around her, and she clutched the edge of the table to keep her balance. “I’m leaving, and I intend to tell my father to sue for repayment of my dowry—which was every bit as immense as Abby’s, as you would have known had you cared to ask.”

“I knew,” he said, watching her with glowing eyes. “Sit down.”

It struck Penelope like an arrow between the ribs. Her hands shook and her lungs seemed to have frozen. He knew. He knew it was just as profitable to marry her as it was to marry Abigail, and he’d still chosen Abigail. She was sure it wasn’t possible for one person to feel more humiliated and stupid than she did right now. “It makes me wonder what Samantha said about me,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady.

Slowly her husband raised his eyes to hers. His head tipped to one side, casting his chiseled face into sharp relief in the firelight, and for a moment she thought he would roll right out of the chair, drunk as a lord. If he did, she intended to leave him in a heap on the floor.

“Vivacious,” he said softly. “She said you were spirited, intelligent, strong-willed, and beautiful.”

Penelope blinked, her slipping opinion of Samantha arrested. That didn’t sound terrible. “So why didn’t you want me?” The wretched words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.

He shrugged. “Because I wanted a peaceful marriage. Because I didn’t want a wife who would bedevil me and torment me and turn me inside out. A sensible, pleasant, pretty girl with a dowry: those were my hopes.”

She swallowed. Why did it hurt so much that he didn’t think she was any of those things? She ought to be enraged that he’d labeled her sister so slightly, but instead she felt as though he’d slapped her. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what you wanted.”

He looked up at her without moving. “Don’t be so sure of that. Come here.”

She recoiled. “Of course I won’t, Atherton.”

His moody gaze dropped to her mouth. “My name is Benedict. You should use it, Penelope. Now, come here.”

Again the sound of her name in his voice sent a little shiver of delight through her. “Don’t be ridiculous. We hardly know each other, marriage notwithstanding, and we both know you don’t care for me, nor I for you.”

“We have a lifetime for that to develop.” Without warning he turned his dazzling smile on her, the one that always made her feel weak in the knees. Although perhaps that was the brandy this time; she had drunk an awful lot of it, now that she looked at the bottle and saw how low the level of amber liquid was.

Penelope took a step backward, until she almost tripped on her chair and had to steady herself on it. The floor seemed to be tilted. “You must be very drunk if you think that. Good night, sir. I’m going to bed.” She turned toward the bedroom door, but the damned chair was in her way and she had some trouble getting around it.

“Come here, Penelope,” said her husband. She started when she realized he was right beside her; how had he done that? “You can barely walk.” He caught her as she wobbled precariously.

“I can walk!” She pushed at him, but that only sent her staggering away. He was much bigger and heavier and immovable, and she had to put one hand on the wall to brace herself.

“So I see.” He strolled after her, propping one hand above her head. “Not much used to brandy, are you?”

“Did you think I was?”

“No. I was astonished when you sat down and took a drink.”

She gaped at him. “Then why did you offer it, you rotten blighter?”

He burst out laughing. For some reason, so did she. That upset her equilibrium even more, and she ended up leaning against the wall, holding her sides as the laughter wouldn’t stop.

“I have no idea,” said her husband, still laughing. “It seemed like a fine idea at the time.”

“We’re both going to regret it in the morning,” she gasped, wiping at her eyes. “Brandy gives people terrible headaches . . .”

“I’m sure it will,” he agreed, his voice low and amused, and then he kissed her.

Chapter 13

T
here was still a smile on her lips, and her brain seemed to have been scrambled—by the brandy, no doubt—and that was surely why Penelope kissed him back. This time his kiss was neither gentle nor soft; this time it was insistent and compelling, and somehow the feel of his tongue stroking hers sheared away all her inhibition. She pressed against him, clinging to his shoulders. His arm was around her waist, dragging her off her toes and into his kiss. Before she knew it her back was against the wall, her arms were around his neck, and he was kissing the side of her jaw as his hands roamed over her body with shocking assurance.

“Don’t kiss me,” she whispered even as she tipped her head to let him do just that.

“Only if you don’t kiss me.” His breath was hot on her skin.

Penelope threaded her fingers through his hair, ostensibly to pull his head away, but she got distracted by the feel of his hair around her fingers. How many times had she wondered what it felt like, and now here she was, plowing both hands into the silky, coal-black strands as he sank to his knees, his head bent over her bosom. His hands slid around her ribs, right beneath her arms, arching her back while his thumbs stroked the sides of her breasts and his mouth whispered wicked things over the low-cut neckline of her gown. “You should stop,” she said weakly.

He glanced up, eyes gleaming like lightning. “If you want that, you’ll have to say so with more conviction.” His thumbs traced maddening whorls over her skin. His hands slid, until he was nearly cupping both her breasts in his palms. As she stared at him, speechless from the brandy and the intense craving of her body finally slipping its leash, he hooked one thumb inside the neckline of her dress and tugged, just until her nipple popped free. Penelope’s whole body went rigid as he languidly touched his tongue to the pink pearl of flesh and then took it between his lips. Just the sight of his mouth on her breast was arousing, and when he began to suckle—

She would have fallen over if not for his weight bearing her against the wall. She turned her head away and closed her eyes, unable to meet his glittering, knowing gaze as he made short work of her resistance. Not that anyone would suspect she was resisting; her hands were still tangled in his hair, and the word “no” had never crossed her lips. And really, what reason did she have to resist? She’d dreamt of a man—of
this
man—looking at her as if he would go mad without her. She’d wished he would kiss her. She’d wondered, with equal parts fascination and disgust, what it would be like to make love to him. Now it looked like she was about to get all three wishes at once, and really, what motivation was that to protest anything?

Her gown loosened even more under the inexorable tugging of his thumb. Dimly she realized his other hand had gone behind her back and worked free the buttons. He released her nipple after one last strong pull, leaving it glistening and engorged, and Penelope seized the momentary respite. “Stop,” she gasped, shocked to realize that she was panting and her heart was racing. “For a moment.
Benedict
.”

He raised his eyes, although his thumb continued rolling idly over her breast, sending little shocks through her nerves. “Yes?”

What had she meant to say? It took her a moment to remember. Oh yes. “If you mean to make love to me, there are a few things you should know.”

His lips quirked. “Such as?”

Penelope forced her eyes up and away. She stared fiercely at the vase on the mantel, trying to keep her composure. “I don’t intend to sit quietly by while you take a mistress,” she announced. “If you didn’t want to be married to me and keep your vows, you should have taken advantage of my suggestion to avoid each other. Now you’ve lost your chance.”

“So I have,” he murmured, not sounding at all upset. Penelope shuddered at the gust of his breath on her breast. “As long as your next decree isn’t that we shall sleep apart, I see no cause for concern.”

“No?” Without thinking she met his gaze. There was something unsettling about the way he was watching her, without a smile or a grin, just a focused intensity that scrambled her thoughts. What had she been saying? “Well—good. I always expected to share a bed with my husband. I hope you know what you’re doing there.”

Leisurely he peeled down her gaping gown and shift, exposing her other breast. “Indeed. I’ll do my best.”

“I expect it to be pleasurable, you know,” she went on, her voice rising as his lips hovered tantalizingly close to that untouched nipple. “Wildly, passionately pleasurable.”

“Based on what?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

Penelope quaked at the first lazy stroke of his tongue. “I’ve read stories.”

That seemed to amuse him. She felt him chuckle silently. “What every man longs to hear. But in that case, what are we waiting for?”

She didn’t know. Her body was a writhing mass of taut nerves, all hungry for him. The prospect of the pleasures Lady Constance recounted—and the considerable amount of brandy she’d drunk—had dulled her worries about love for the moment. He was her husband. He didn’t love her, but Penelope could no longer deny that she wanted him. She wanted him to seize her in his arms and take her to bed and ravish her senseless. Hadn’t their marriage vows included something hinting at that? Perhaps it would be so good, so blissfully satisfying, she could forget about the rest, at least for a while.

He rose to his feet, looming over her. “Tell me about these stories,” he said, turning her away from him and setting to work in earnest at her dress’s fastenings.

A furious blush warmed her face, even though he couldn’t see it. “They’re about men of astonishing prowess.”

“Oh?” He was amused again, she could tell. “And innocent maidens?” There was a swish of fabric as he untied the long sash around her bodice.

“No, there’s no innocent maiden.” She let him push the sleeves down her arms. “One brazen lady.”

“Intriguing. How brazen?” Her gown slid down to puddle at her feet, followed by her petticoats.

Penelope thought of the issue where Constance had allowed her lover to bind her to the bed with ribbons. And the one where she’d tested the limits of a closed carriage. And the one where she’d brought two men to her bed at once, and the one where she’d given herself—blindfolded—to a stranger. Just thinking about them made her pulse pick up and her blood surge. Would Benedict do any of that? She imagined him tying her to the bed with silk ribbons and had to press her knees together to stay on her feet. “Very brazen,” she choked out.

“Really,” he said in a speculative murmur. He was plucking at her stays’ lacing with both hands. Penelope shivered as it came loose. “What do you particularly like about these stories?”

The fact that there was no shame. No blushing embarrassment or tears. Even though Constance took a different lover in each story, she was completely free with them. She had no horrible secret lodged in her breast, like Penelope did; she had no hidden longing for more from her companions. She never feared she would fall in love with any of them.

But Penelope couldn’t say that to Benedict, who had married her without one word of love. He had wanted Abigail, who was kind and sensible—not like her. He had wanted Frances, who was sweet and anxious to please—not like her. He hadn’t wanted passionate love in his life. He was probably like the men Constance found, able to take any willing woman to bed and then walk away without a backward glance, while Penelope was realizing she might not be much like Constance at all. She wanted passion and excitement, certainly—but not without love.

Still, there was no doubt that her body was responding to his touch and the talk of all the ways Constance found pleasure in
50 Ways to Sin
. She felt hot and restless and desperate to discover the truth of lovemaking.

“The passion,” she whispered in belated answer to his query.

He began pulling pins from her hair. She heard each one plink as it hit the polished wooden floor beside her. It had taken Lizzie an hour to perfect the arrangement of braids and curls, and it was coming down in a matter of minutes at his hands. “What do you mean?”

She had no idea. “Desire,” she managed to reply. Now he was running his fingers through her hair, undoing all the plaits, and it made her want to arch her back in wordless pleasure. “A wild, desperate desire to throw off restraint and . . . and . . .”

“I see,” he said when her voice failed her before she could name the wicked act. He coiled her unbound hair around one hand and tugged her head to one side. “I can do that.” And he pressed his mouth against the curve of her neck.

Penelope sucked in her breath. Her skin seemed to come alive at his kiss; tendrils of sensation coursed, lightning-quick, through her nerves as his lips moved over her nape. His hands teased her waist before gliding up her ribs and shaping themselves to her breasts. Her shift felt coarse and thick now, a barrier between her skin and his, and her hands, braced against the wall, balled into fists as he kissed his way down her shoulder and played with her already swollen nipples until she found herself swaying in time with the strokes of his hands.

“I am agog to know more about these stories,” he murmured. His tall, strong body pressed against her, his boots bracketed her feet. She was hemmed in, trapped in an infernally hot cocoon of sensation, and she only wanted more.

“They’re wicked,” she whispered back.

“Tell me,” he growled. His teeth nipped her earlobe, and Penelope shuddered. “What does this brazen lady do?”

“It varies.” She gulped as his fingers ranged lower, over her belly. He was handling her body with a bold assurance that she thought she ought to protest, if only it hadn’t been setting her every nerve ablaze.

“Does she ever touch herself?”

Oh heavens yes. In one issue, a mystery man had blindfolded Constance and bade her touch herself all over while he watched. Penelope gave a weak nod.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” Benedict whispered, his lips brushing the skin below her ear.

She blushed scarlet. “What?”

“Intimately.” His wayward hand nudged between her thighs. “Here.”

There was no question about it: she was drunk. That was the only explanation for her response, which was a soft moan just before her knees—and the last of her resistance—gave out. He held her up easily, and his hand slid fully between her thighs and cupped her sex.

He inhaled sharply, still nuzzling her ear. “Have you?” he asked again. “Have you brought yourself to climax?”

“A—a few times . . .” She ought to be mortified that she’d just admitted that to him; she tensed a little in anticipation of him being shocked or displeased. But his fingers were circling, stroking between her legs, sparking feelings that were very different from the little shocks of pleasure her own fingers had wrought. She would be on the floor right now if he weren’t holding her against him. Her breasts felt swollen and sensitive, and the brandy must have vanquished her power of speech along with her legitimate worries that this was a bad idea.

Instead he gave a low growl of satisfaction. “Excellent. I like a woman unafraid of pleasure.”

A riot of images streamed through her mind. Of herself, naked as the day she was born; of him, also naked. Of his face, taut with hunger—for her. Of him touching her, everywhere—with his hands, with his mouth, with his naked body. Of him driving himself inside her until they both expired in ecstasy.

No, she wasn’t afraid—at least not of pleasure. She forced all her other fears into a dark corner of her mind and closed a door on them. Tomorrow she would sort through her tangled new circumstances; tonight she wanted euphoria, bliss, mindless desire. She threw back her head, arching her spine to press against the marvelous feel of his fingers on her breast, and gave herself over to the sensations surging through her.

Her shift loosened; he had pulled loose the ribbon at the neckline. Penelope blushed again as he tugged it down until it puddled on the floor around her feet. “That’s better,” he murmured, running his hands over her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her hips. Two more quick tugs and her pantalets came off as well. She was naked except for her stockings. “Come here, wife,” he said once more, swinging her into his arms in one quick motion.

Disoriented, she curled her arms over her chest. The facings on his regimental coat scraped her, and she squirmed. “Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?”

“As quickly as possible,” he assured her as he dropped her on the bed. Penelope pushed herself up and watched in avid interest as he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. His shirt came over his head and her eyes grew round. No wonder Mama had never wanted her to see the statues at the museum. Without taking his eyes from her face, her new husband yanked off his boots and unbuttoned his trousers, shoved everything down and kicked it away.

And then she stared. She had read so many descriptions of a man’s privy parts, but nothing compared to seeing them. And even though Constance wrote approvingly of men who were amply equipped, Penelope suddenly wasn’t sure she agreed. His erection was quite a bit larger than she’d expected, and when one thought about where it was meant to fit—

“Alarmed?”

She jumped at his question, and made a face. “I was merely trying to judge it objectively.”

“Were you?” He took her hand and brought it to his lips, which were shaped into a sinful half smile. To her astonishment, he licked her palm, once, twice, then each finger. It felt wicked and debauched, his tongue on her skin, and she could only stare in dazed fascination as he sucked one fingertip between his lips for a moment. Then he carried her hand lower, lower, and wrapped her fingers around his rigid member, his own hand closing over hers to keep it in place.

Penelope inhaled a strangled breath. He was thick and hot; his skin was as soft and smooth as silk. Leisurely he slid her hand down the length, right to the black hair that grew at his groin, then back up. Then he repeated the motion, his fingers tightening around hers. She felt his blood surge and his flesh quicken beneath her palm, and when a fine shudder went through his body, she instinctively smiled in female satisfaction.