Love in the Time of Scandal (15 page)

“Impressed?” he rasped, stroking himself yet again with their combined grip.

She barely heard him, but managed to nod. Her skin seemed to burn where he touched her and shiver like frost where he didn’t. There was a relentless, maddening throbbing between her legs, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his erection.

“Good,” he muttered. He released her hand and pushed her shoulders. Startled, Penelope lost her balance and sprawled on the bed. Her knees came up as she tried to catch herself, but Benedict didn’t seem to mind. He pushed her thighs apart, hiking one of her knees a little higher around his waist as he did so, and then he settled the head of his cock against her and pushed.

She flinched at the invasion. Now he felt very thick and very hard, and some of the restless throbbing inside her faded. She tried to lever herself up but he put his hand, fingers spread, on the middle of her chest and held her down. “It will be easier this way,” he said, his voice ragged. Dark hair fell over his face as he loomed over her, holding her in place, forcing himself into her. Penelope gasped and wriggled as the stinging stretch grew uncomfortable. He paused for a moment, even pulled back a bit to her relief, but then he pushed forward harder than ever. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, furious with herself for being disappointed and furious at him for hurting her. He noticed; his jaw clenched and his grip on her thigh grew almost painful. He pulled back again, then drove forward so fiercely she did let out a little cry.

“That’s it,” he said, sounding as if he was holding his breath. His head sank and for a moment he just held her hips, refusing to let her wriggle away. “That’s the end of the pain.” He opened his eyes, and they seemed to blaze like blue fire. “Now it’s only pleasure, from here on.” And he laid his hand on her heaving belly and dipped his thumb into the blond curls below.

If she had thought it felt intense before when he touched her, it was nothing to this. Her body, smarting from being stretched to accommodate his, was raw and defenseless. He touched her and she shivered; he stroked her and her limbs spasmed. She writhed without thought, exquisitely conscious of him inside her, slipping in and out just a little with every movement she made. After a moment she realized he was also rocking back and forth, magnifying the advance and withdrawal. And a moment after that, she realized each thrust seemed to feed something inside her, like a clock spring being wound tighter and tighter. She focused on his face, and discovered with a mild shock that he was watching her, his attention unwavering.

“You like this,” he said, his voice a rough rumble.

She could only nod once. A dark, dangerous smile crossed his lips, and the strokes of his hips grew longer, slower, harder. His thumb still played lightly over the aching nub of flesh. He bent over her and cupped one breast, teasing her nipple with his tongue. Penelope gripped his shoulders, trying to anchor herself as the bed ropes creaked beneath their coupling. He overwhelmed her, above her, inside her, across every inch of her skin. The delicate strokes of his thumb grew firmer and more demanding. Heat seemed to be rolling through her in waves, each one stronger than the last—

And then they broke. She shook and let out a gasping moan as her body convulsed, far more powerfully than it ever had alone in her spinster’s bed. Benedict said something under his breath—it almost sounded like a curse—and pushed himself impossibly deep inside her before dropping his head right onto her bosom and shuddering.

The first thing she became aware of was the sound of her own breathing. It was harsh and labored, and sounded as if she’d run a mile. The second thing she heard was her husband’s breathing, which was even rougher than hers. She opened her eyes—which took some effort—and gazed up at the ceiling, somewhat overwhelmed. So that was making love. No wonder Constance felt ill and out of sorts when she went a fortnight between lovers.

Slowly her husband raised his head, and for a moment their eyes met. He was still inside her, still gripping her hip with one hand and her shoulder with the other. Penelope realized that one of her legs was looped over his back, and she was clutching his arm. She had never been so exposed, so uninhibited with another person, and yet felt only a vague amazement that it was with him. It must have been the brandy.

“Is that how it is in your stories?” he asked quietly. “Was that what you crave?”

A tiny tremor went through her; she could feel the vibration of his voice all the way inside her. “All that and more,” she said, feeling reckless and wild.

His expression was fierce—and satisfied. “As you wish, madam wife.” He ran one fingertip over her breast. A dark smile crossed his lips as she quivered when he gave her nipple a light pinch. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

Some of her haze of good humor dissipated. “There’s more to a happy marriage than one successful bout of lovemaking.”

He seemed amused. “The devil you say.”

“You might as well know now.” She brushed his marauding hand away and tried to scramble away. “I shall be a demanding wife.”

“Is that so?” Before she could protest, he freed himself from her splayed legs and rolled her over, so she was fully on the mattress. “Perhaps I shall be a demanding husband.”

I wish you would be
, she thought on a sudden moment of yearning.
I wish you would fall desperately in love with me and never want to be apart from me.
There was no reason not to admit it—to herself only—now that she was married to him, had just made love to him, and wanted him more than ever. If only he would want
her
, passionately, physically, emotionally . . . For a moment he looked down at her, desire etched on his face. The lone lamp in the room was turned down low, and the shadows in the bed made him look almost savage. It was nothing like the polished, urbane image he usually presented, and she found it inexplicably, unbearably, exciting. “You once accused me of watching you like a cat stalking a mouse.”

Penelope scoffed. “I don’t remember that . . .”

“You do,” he said, all arrogant assurance. “You said I looked like a cat watching a mouse, contemplating breaking its neck. Do you recall my reply?”

“No.” She did, but denial sprang automatically to her lips.

“I said a cat would eat the mouse if he caught it.” He untied the ribbon on her garter and began rolling off her stocking. “And now it seems I’ve caught you.”

“Just as much as I’ve caught you,” she retorted.

He laughed softly. “Absolutely. And I think we’re going to enjoy each other a great deal.”

That treacherous longing spiked again. Penelope tried to ignore it. If he could be satisfied with the purely physical pleasure of lovemaking, she could be, too. She would have to be, for it might be all she got. She lifted her knee for him to remove her other garter and stocking. “You mean we might as well make the best of things.”

“Yes,” he agreed, sliding over her and easing between her legs. “The very best.” He pressed into her again. Penelope caught her breath in apprehension, but the sting was only a muted memory. Her flesh still felt hot and swollen, but now it easily parted for him. “What does my demanding wife want this time?” he whispered against her lips.

Penelope sucked in a shaky breath and closed her eyes as he kissed her more deeply, his tongue mimicking the slide of his hips between her legs. Yes, she wanted him—oh how she wanted him, here, hard and ravenously hungry for her. She wanted that, but also so much more, so she told him the truth, though she doubted he realized it. “Everything.”

Chapter 14

B
enedict had always been an early riser, and the morning after his wedding was no exception. He slipped from bed when the light outside the windows was just beginning to turn from gray to pale pink. There was a pounding in his head, but it was mild; all the more reason to rise before the sun became blinding. Penelope still slept, stretched out half on her side, half on her stomach. Her golden hair was a glorious mess, spilling over her pillow and one arm, although her shoulder peeked out, soft and bare. He reached out, then stopped himself before his fingers brushed her skin; better to let her sleep. God knew she needed it, after he’d kept her awake until the small hours of the morning.

What a brilliant decision pursuing this marriage had been. Not only the fortune he needed but a wife he couldn’t seem to get enough of—and better yet, she had none of the virginal hesitation he’d expected, even though she had most certainly been one. No tears, no alarm, no complaints, no matter what decadent desire he whispered in her ear. She’d blushed scarlet but denied him nothing. His eyes tracked down the curve of her hip and the line of her leg. She must read the notorious Lady Constance’s stories. That woman was a bloody genius. Half the women in London were so aroused by her naughty adventures, they could be tumbled by any man bold enough to ask. Benedict, searching for a respectable bride, hadn’t availed himself of any coy invitations, but the men of the King’s Life Guard would probably vote Lady Constance an annuity if she asked them. It went without saying that she could have had nearly any man in the regiment for the asking. Sir Perry Cole, a retired captain of the Guard, had had her, despite losing his left hand in Spain. He denied it in public, but in the officers’ mess, he would give a wink and say that a man needed only one hand, if he knew how to use it.

But as Penelope said last night, there was more to marriage than making love, even if that proved an exceptionally pleasing aspect. He’d been drunk last night, but not too drunk. He hadn’t really expected an inquisition on his actions toward Sebastian Vane—or rather, he hadn’t expected it on his wedding night. The questions were inevitable, since her sister was married to Vane and must have told her some of the ancient history between his family and the Vanes, and also since Penelope seemed incapable of keeping her curiosity to herself. It would have been better to have that conversation in a more sober state, but he wanted to win his bride over; brushing aside her query would have been a wasted opportunity. No doubt she would hear it all eventually. Stratford family affairs were private, always, from everyone, but now she was part of the family.

That thought flattened his mood for a moment. Her family was so very different from his. He’d been struck, more than once, by the way Mr. Weston relied on and trusted—even valued—his wife. The earl, on the other hand, didn’t care a whit what his countess thought. Her purpose was to obey his dictates and to look lovely doing it. Mr. Weston knew his daughter lied to him but he didn’t whip her, as Lord Stratford had whipped Benedict many times as a boy. Just the memory of that willow cane on his back made Benedict’s shoulders tense. Penelope obviously didn’t have that reaction, not even to her father’s anger. He gently lifted a stray lock of her hair away from her face, and silently vowed to be the sort of father whose children slept the way she did, knowing they were loved and protected.

But today he had business to attend to. Silently he made his way into the dressing room and selected his clothes for the day. It would be a long day in the saddle, ten miles to Richmond and ten miles back. Penelope’s valise was in the dressing room as well, standing open where the maid must have left it last night. Mildly curious, he peered inside and saw a familiar pamphlet, crumpled up. A slow smile curved his mouth. Not every man would be pleased to find
50 Ways to Sin
in his wife’s possession, but Benedict only found himself wondering which issues were her particular favorites.

He washed and dressed, then let himself out after one more brief look at Penelope. He went downstairs and sent a man for his horse, leaving instructions with the staff and dashing off a quick note to be delivered to his bride when she woke. Then he headed out to face his father.

The miles passed quicker than they ever had before. Before he knew it he was boarding the ferry at Richmond, a crossing he had made a hundred times at least but never more easily than today. Another mile, and then the familiar gates came into view. The gravel drive leading to Stratford Court was just as he remembered it, and yet somehow everything looked different. Benedict let his eyes roam over the aged red brick, the precisely clipped hedges and shrubberies, the carved statues that lined the path like sentinels. His horse slowed to a walk and he did nothing to spur it on. He was in no hurry; time seemed to have stopped today. For all he knew, this might be the last time he came here.

Well—the last time before his father died. When the earl finally breathed his last, Benedict would inherit everything that came with the Stratford title, including this prison of a house. He watched dispassionately as he passed through the wrought-iron gate in the brick wall, and the whole of the building loomed before him in all its Jacobean glory. Perhaps someday he wouldn’t hate it. Perhaps one day it would be a real home, no longer a monument to his father’s pride and arrogance. For a moment an image of children playing hide-and-seek among the topiary flashed through his mind. A towheaded boy, with stains on his knees and grass in his hair. A girl with long black curls and dancing blue eyes, leading him on a merry chase through the garden, unabashedly shrieking when he found her.

He drew an unsteady breath. His children by Penelope. It shocked him how much he wanted to see them.

A groom ran out to take his horse when he reached the stables. “Welcome home, my lord,” he said, taking Achilles’ reins.

“Geoffrey.” Benedict swung down and gave the man a nod. They were of an age, but he barely knew the man’s name. Benedict had been ordered to remember his dignity at all times, even as a child, on pain of a whipping. He was very sure even the stable boys had pitied him those thrashings.

The groom bowed and stood at attention as he walked away. Benedict followed his routine at Stratford Court and counted the steps. It took twenty-six measured strides to cross the courtyard to the main door. There a footman swept open the door and took his hat and coat. Eleven steps through the hall. Forty-four stairs up. Eighteen strides to the north, then thirty-one to the east, where he reached his mother’s suite. He knocked, feeling the first bit of pleasure. His mother, at least, would be pleased with his news.

“Benedict!” The countess rose from the sofa at his entrance and came to him, her face alight. “I didn’t expect you!”

“A surprise, but not unpleasant, I hope.” He kissed her cheek.

She laughed. “Never! Come, sit. It has been so quiet lately. Tell me all the news of London. Have you seen your sister?”

He grinned. An indisputably joyful topic. His youngest sister had recently married Lord George Churchill-Gray, son of the Duke of Rowland, a talented artist and an excellent fellow. Even though it was a brilliant match, Stratford had had other plans for Samantha and initially refused to allow the marriage. Benedict was fiendishly glad Rowland had intervened and changed Stratford’s mind. Samantha deserved to choose her own husband, and Benedict had never seen her happier. “A fortnight ago. Gray bought a house near Green Park, and Samantha has been refurbishing it. She had dust on her nose and a cap on her head when I was there, and all she could speak of was the mural Gray had threatened . . . that is, offered to paint on the dining room wall.”

His mother sighed, a faint smile softening her lips. “Is she happy?”

“Blissful,” he said, remembering his sister’s glowing face.

Lady Stratford’s shoulders eased. “I’m so pleased. The young man must be very fond of her.”

Benedict hesitated only a moment. “Yes, he is.”

“And you?” His mother touched his hand where it had clenched into a fist on his knee. “What brings you to Stratford Court again?”

She didn’t need to say the rest.
What brings you here after your father threatened to whip you off the property the last time you came?
Benedict took his mother’s hand. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to add to her worries. “I have news,” he said, summoning a determined smile. “Rather happy news. I am married.”

Her blue eyes went wide, and her lips parted in astonishment. “To whom?”

“To someone you’ve already met. Penelope Weston.”

He spoke confidently, hoping to convey that all was well, that she should be happy for him. The last thing he wanted was to cause his mother more anxiety. But as feared, the color drained from her already pale face, and she glanced worriedly at the door. “Why, Benedict?” she asked in a whisper.

“I met her in London,” he said, choosing his words carefully to avoid lying. “I came to her rescue one night, actually, and it threw us together a bit. She’s a beautiful girl, Mother, and as clever as anything. I admit, I find her . . . entrancing.”

The countess was already shaking her head, though. “But why? You must know it will infuriate him . . .” Her voice trailed off as awareness dawned on her expression. “But she’s just as much an heiress as her sister was, isn’t she?”

To say nothing of twice as impertinent, four times as maddening, and a thousand times more alluring. He veered between wanting to snarl at Penelope’s provocations one moment, and wanting to carry her off to bed the next. And to think, all he’d wanted was a friendly, kindhearted wife. Instead he’d got a fiery temptress who might well drive him mad in more ways than one.

“I married her because I want to make a life with her,” he said, not untruthfully. “I hope you are happy for me—for us.”

She still looked upset. “If you are happy, you know I am happy for you. And I suppose now it’s too late, but Benedict, are you certain? Her family didn’t maneuver you into it, did they?”

“No,” he said, not adding that Mr. Weston would never have agreed to the match if not for the brewing scandal.

“And the young lady admires you for yourself?” his mother pressed. “Forgive me for impugning her, but it was clear to see her father was very moved by Stratford Court—”

“It was not her father’s idea,” he said. “I was not tricked. I asked her to marry me, and she accepted. If anything, I suspect it was a bit of a surprise to her family, after last summer.”

Lady Stratford gave him a disbelieving glance. “And no less to me! You convinced me you truly admired Abigail Weston. I believed you offered for her hand out of an honest desire for the lady herself.”

“I did,” he said thinly.

“But when she turned you down . . .” She threw up her hands. “Did I imagine you saying you were done with the Westons?”

Benedict realized his hand had balled into a fist again. Carefully he relaxed his fingers. “No. But I spoke in a moment of disappointed pique. Now I have changed my mind, I have married Penelope, and I would like your blessing, even if not your approval.”

She was quiet for a long moment. “It’s not that I don’t approve,” she said at last, very softly. “I recognize it’s a good marriage for you in some ways. She’s a very pretty girl, and while her family is ordinary, they obviously have one great advantage. But you must know it’s going to enrage his lordship, and it worries me that you went ahead anyway.”

For the first time in years, the knowledge that he had done something that would enrage his father didn’t make Benedict’s stomach sink and his shoulders tense. He didn’t have to dance around the earl’s temper anymore. If he had to choose between enduring his father’s rages and deciphering Penelope’s actions, he’d take his lovely young wife any day. At least there was the prospect of pleasure with her, whereas he knew the earl would never change, never admit fault, never soften his attitude. Just knowing that he was free of his father inspired a small burst of affection for Penelope in Benedict’s heart, because she had made it possible.

There was only one blot on his freedom. This marriage would enrage his father, and with Benedict out of his grasp, the earl would have just one person to vent his displeasure on: Lady Stratford. Even if he never raised a hand to his wife, the earl could make her life misery. He had probably done so for the last thirty years, in all honesty.

“I hope he would wish his only son joy,” he said to his mother, “but if he cannot, so be it.” He reached for her hand. “Mother, I’ve spoken to Samantha and Elizabeth. You are always welcome—warmly—in our homes. For as long as you might ever wish to visit us.”

She appeared frozen for a moment, her lips parted—in hope? shock? He didn’t know. But then she straightened her spine and smiled her remote, formal smile. “You are very kind. No mother could be prouder of her children, for their loving generosity. But my place is here with my husband, of course.”

“Of course it is,” said the earl’s chilly voice from the other side of the room. He stood in the doorway, where he must have been listening. Benedict wondered how long he’d been there. “Where else would you go, my dear?”

Benedict rose and bowed. “Only to visit her children, sir.”

“She has no need to visit you, you have come to her.” He gave Benedict a piercing look. “Against my wishes, no less.”

Benedict nodded once. His heart had begun to thump a little harder now that the moment was at hand. It was ridiculous; he was nearly thirty years old, a soldier, and a married man—yet he still felt like a boy, small and scared, even though he was a few inches taller than his father now. “I have momentous news and wished to bring it myself. I am married, sir.”

The earl’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“To Miss Penelope Weston.”

The earl said nothing. His expression conveyed it all. Benedict almost enjoyed seeing the contained fury in his father’s face. Stratford knew exactly what the marriage meant. For a moment Benedict thought he might just walk away in silence, but then Stratford closed the door and came into the room.

“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.”