Love in the Time of Scandal (17 page)

“I will repay it,” Olivia began, her voice breaking, but Penelope waved one hand.

“I don’t care about that. Just swear to me—swear it—that you won’t let that toad Clary harangue you anymore. Promise me you won’t endanger yourself to protect Henry’s good name. And promise me that if anything goes wrong with your plan, you’ll ask for help immediately,” she said, adding once more for emphasis, “
immediately
.”

Olivia was still for a moment, her eyes soft with gratitude. “You’re the most loyal friend I have, Penelope.”

“Huh! You mean the most devil-may-care,” she said, trying to tease, but her friend didn’t smile.

“Perhaps that, too. I don’t know who else I could turn to.”

Any glib reply about Abigail being as trustworthy died in her throat. Olivia meant it, which gave Penelope an odd feeling. All her life she’d been Abigail’s younger sister, the wilder, less polite Weston sister. No one considered her more reliable than Abby. But instead of saying any of that, she just nodded. “You can always count on me.”

Olivia’s smile was wistful. “I know.” She threw her arms around Penelope. “Thank you. I hope I can be as helpful to you one day.”

“You could shoot Lord Clary,” Penelope suggested. “That would please me immensely.”

“I wouldn’t mind doing it, either,” said her friend wryly. “But neither of us deserves to go to prison for shooting a viscount, so I fear we’ll have to settle for something less.”

“When—when are you leaving?”

Olivia paused, hand on the doorknob. “As soon as I can.”

Penelope nodded. She’d have to get the money quickly.

After her friend had left, once Penelope promised not to call on her but to send the funds by a reliable messenger, she went back up to her room, considerably less eagerly than she’d gone down.

What was Clary holding over Olivia’s head? And what had Henry done? Henry had been a scoundrel, and not terribly clever, but surely even he knew better than to tangle with that horrid man. For the first time she felt real fear for Olivia’s safety. Before she could think better of it, she sat down at the desk and dashed off a note to her brother, James, asking him to call on her the moment he returned to London. Papa would know where he was. Penelope sealed the note and set it aside, feeling a bit better already.

It was odd that Olivia hadn’t turned to Jamie at the start; they were nearly the same age, and had been playmates as children. Penelope’s first memory of Olivia was of Jamie bringing her home and announcing that he’d found someone to play at dolls with them, sparing him the indignity. Once upon a time, she’d even thought Olivia would marry Jamie, mostly because she couldn’t imagine any other girl wanting her staid, unimaginative brother, but Olivia had married Henry instead.

Still, things would be so much simpler if Jamie were in town. She was confident he would give Olivia the money she needed, or failing that, he’d give it to Penelope for her. He might be dull and obstinate, but his heart was as loyal as Penelope’s. All she would have to say was that someone deserving needed it and that he must trust her. Jamie might tease her, but he would help her.

Atherton, on the other hand . . . She worried at a loose ribbon on her dress, trying to plot how she should approach him. Asking him to trust her might not go over well. Demanding the money was probably not the best choice, either. How did Mama get something from Papa? She probably just asked, Penelope thought sourly. Papa was so easygoing and indulgent, and he’d adored Mama from the moment he saw her, at least in his telling. If he’d ever denied her anything, Penelope had no memory of it.

Very well; how would Abigail persuade Sebastian to give her money if she needed it? Penelope thought of her sister and her brother-in-law, and concluded that Abby would likely explain everything simply and honestly, and then Sebastian would move heaven and earth to give her whatever she wanted. Because he adored her.

This was not helping. She prowled about the room, straining for any other inspiration. She needed an idea that did not rely on a husband who adored her, because Benedict did not. She needed a plan that also didn’t require complete disclosure, because she’d given her word to keep Olivia’s secret. Perhaps if she could get him drunk . . . and in a good mood . . . and distracted . . . Slowly her restless feet came to a stop. That might not be such a bad idea. It had worked out rather well the previous night, and if she had time to plan and scheme . . . Once again she thought of the red ribbon issue. Yes, that might suit her very well indeed.

Chapter 16

I
t was late when Benedict reached Mivart’s. He took his weary horse to the stables and trudged up the stairs, hoping Penelope was still awake. He hadn’t meant to be this late, although he also hadn’t rushed back. It had proven harder than expected to leave his mother and Stratford Court, knowing explicitly that he was no longer welcome to return. For all the bad memories he had of the place, it was still his childhood home, where he’d been born and raised. And he could only hope he hadn’t caused a dangerous rift between his parents. His mother didn’t deserve to suffer for his actions.

He let himself into the suite and unbuttoned his coat, wondering how long it would take to have some supper sent up and if he could stay awake that long. A shower of dust drifted out of the folds of his coat; his valet would have a real job, cleaning his clothing and boots. He had shrugged off his jacket and begun untying his cravat when he realized he was not alone.

His bride was curled up on the small settee, her hair down around her shoulders and her bare feet peeking from the folds of her white dressing gown. One arm was draped over the side of the settee as she watched him.

“You’re awake,” he said in surprise. Almost at once he shook his head. “Obviously. It was a long ride, forgive me.”

“I waited up.” She shifted, and some of her dressing gown slid off the cushions to pool on the floor, baring her ankles.

Benedict tried, and failed, to look away. She had very finely shaped ankles, and legs, and breasts, all of which he’d seen the previous night. He undid his waistcoat and pulled off the cravat, feeling much less tired all of a sudden. “I’m glad.”

“Really?” She put her head to one side. “Why?”

“It’s a pleasure to come home to a beautiful woman.”

Her lips pursed up in that tempting, kissable way. “Flattery, sir.”

“But true,” he countered.

She lowered her eyelashes, though not before he saw her roll her eyes, and a small smile curved her lips. “Thank you.” He almost blinked in astonishment at the peaceful exchange, and then she added, “May I pour you a drink? You must want one after your journey.”

Wordlessly he waved one hand in assent. She got up and went to the sideboard, where she poured a generous glass of wine. “How was your ride?” she asked as he took a long sip.

“Long.”

“And how did your parents take the news?”

Benedict took another drink. It was hardly fair to tell her his father’s reaction. Someday he would have to explain about his family, but tonight . . . It was too long and grim a story, especially when there were much more promising possibilities at hand. “With some surprise.” Penelope waited expectantly, but he led her back to the settee. “It’s not an interesting tale. I hope I didn’t wake you when I left.”

She laughed, sitting on the settee like a child, with her feet tucked under her legs. “Oh no. My ability to sleep in the morning is unrivaled. Abigail used to swear it would take a cannon shot outside the window to wake me.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He was still holding her hand. She had lovely hands, exactly how a lady’s hands should be. He stroked his thumb over the gold ring on her third finger. His ring; his bride. His beautiful, wealthy, suddenly friendly bride. “You deserved to sleep.”

Her glance was sly. “After all that brandy, who would not?”

Benedict shifted, turning more to face her. “Yes, after all that brandy . . . among other things.”

She widened her eyes. “Other things? I don’t remember aught after the brandy.”

“Truly?” He leaned forward until their noses almost bumped. “You don’t remember this?” He touched his lips to hers.

“Why, no!” she said in affected surprise. “Did you kiss me last night?”

“More than once.”

“Oh my.” She tipped her head to one side. “It must not have been as bad as you expected.”

His brow wrinkled. “What?”

“You used to look at me as though you’d like to strangle me.”

His gaze drifted down to her neck. The pulse at the base of her throat was quick. He brushed one finger over that point, then let it slip down her breastbone. “If I ever thought that, it was so long ago I can’t remember it.” His finger met the edge of her dressing gown, which he nudged aside. “No, I don’t think I ever wanted to do that.”

“Then what were you thinking when you glared at me?” For all her challenging questions, Penelope wasn’t doing a thing to hinder his exploration; she even leaned back into the arm of the settee.

“Doing something like this.” He lowered his head and pressed a kiss to that pulse.

“That’s what you thought of? You wicked man,” she murmured.

He could feel her fingers in his hair. All thought of food and sleep fled. “Isn’t this what you want?” He angled his body more over hers. Penelope slid down the cushion, under him, her eyes gleaming under half-lowered lids.

“What do you mean? Are you implying I’m wicked?”

He grinned at her pretense of indignation. “Isn’t anyone who reads Lady Constance?”

She froze. “What? I mean, who?” A deep pink suffused her face. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Which was your favorite issue?” He pulled loose the peach ribbon that held her dressing gown closed and spread the gown open. Her night rail was so thin, he could see her breasts beneath the fine cotton.

“You—you know about them?”

“Doesn’t everyone in London?” He thumbed one pink nipple and nearly growled as it peaked rosy and firm. “And you left a copy in plain view in the dressing room.”

Penelope stared at him, then let her head fall back and laughed until her shoulders shook. “And you don’t disapprove?”

Benedict had taken advantage of her outburst of humor to find her ankle under the folds of her dressing gown. Now he just gave her a rakish grin as he slid his hand up her shin. “If her stories amuse you, who am I to deny?” He tugged at her knee, lifting it up and apart from its mate to rest against the back of the settee. “If they inspire you, why would I forbid?” He drew her other leg across his lap, sliding down the cushions to rest more snugly between her thighs. “And if they arouse you . . .” He shrugged, plowing his hands under the dressing gown to move her hips to a better position. “I rather approve.”

Penelope lay against the side of the settee, her lips parted and her eyes glittering. Lust flowed through him like molten steel, igniting every nerve. “Are you?” Beneath her night rail, he swirled his fingertips over her belly. “Aroused?”

The question seemed to startle her. She swallowed, then licked her lips. Her muscles quivered beneath his fingers, drifting slowly upward. “Perhaps.”

“Oh dear,” he murmured in mock concern. “What would decide the matter?”

She licked her lips again. “Would you let me on top of you?”

He was already primed, but the thought of Penelope riding him on the settee made him so hard he could barely move. “Yes,” he managed to say.

Something sparkled in her eyes. “Then come to bed.”

“No.” He stopped her as she made to scramble off the settee. “Right here.”

She glanced at the door in shock, then at him with growing excitement. “Here?”

“Take off your dressing gown.” He shucked his waistcoat and yanked the shirt over his head. A bright blush stained her cheeks as she disrobed, but it was eagerness and not maidenly reserve. By God what a brilliant marriage this was, he thought as he unbuttoned his trousers. “Come here.”

“Will this work?” She gingerly put one knee beside his hip. He took her hands and drew her toward him, settling her astride his lap. Her breasts were right in front of his face, barely veiled by the thin cotton of her night rail, and he couldn’t resist licking one plump nipple through the cloth. She flinched and gasped, then cupped one hand behind his neck. “Do it again,” she whispered.

He’d meant to all along. He caught the little bud between his teeth and swirled his tongue over it. In response, she shuddered and surged against him, her body pressing exquisitely against his erection. Blindly he rolled up her night rail—it seemed to be composed of hundreds of ells of fabric now—until her legs were bared to the waist and he could feel the soft, damp curls between her thighs, just a few inches from where he wanted them.

“You’re on top,” he rasped, barely able to speak. “What do you desire now?”

Her gaze dropped. His erection strained between them. Penelope shifted her knees, studying it, then licked her palm and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

“Holy Father,” he choked, his back arching involuntarily even as his hands clamped down on her hips.

“Isn’t this the proper way?” She flashed a coy smile at him as she continued to glide her hand up and down.

The witch knew very well that it was damned perfect, Benedict thought, but he managed to nod.

“I like it,” she whispered, watching the motion of her hand with a fascination that nearly sent him over the edge. “I always wondered what it would feel like, and exactly how big it was . . .”

He was going to come in her hands, even before she circled the head with two fingers and pulled, applying exquisite friction. Shaking, he seized her hands. “Touch yourself. Show me how you do it.”

Again she blushed bright pink, but obediently she laid one hand over her mound, smoothing her nether curls out of the way. She closed her eyes and turned her head away as her fingers began to stroke, circling and rubbing.

There was a faint ringing in his ears. He watched her fingers raptly, mesmerized by her willingness to let him watch. He hadn’t really thought she would, but now her spine was softening—he could see a ripple of gooseflesh over her arms—her lips parted and a breathy moan escaped—

He pulled, raising her hips. “Take me,” he said, his voice a guttural rumble. Penelope’s eyes flashed at him, feverishly bright, but she did as he commanded. Benedict had to hold his breath for a moment as she positioned herself, but then she was sinking down, and he was sliding into the hot, wet grasp of her body. “Spread your knees,” he told her, and his breath escaped in a hiss as she did so and impaled herself even further.

“And now I . . . ?” She sounded as breathless as he felt.

Benedict nodded once and gripped her hips again. “Like posting a trot. Put your hands on my shoulders—” He stopped speaking then as she put together what to do, and rose up on her knees before slowly sinking down. His head fell back in a silent groan of excruciating pleasure.

“I feel quite in control of you,” she whispered in delight, repeating her motion. “As if you’re under my spell—”

He grinned, tautly, and moved to forestall her talking. Not that he minded, but he wanted her as delirious as he was. He wanted her to lose control and sense and feel the same drowning ecstasy that simmered all up and down his spine. He slipped one hand around her hip and nestled his thumb in the blond curls between her legs. Every time she fell, he could feel himself as well, and the sight and sound of his flesh plunging deep into her made it difficult to breathe.

“Oh—oh—” She went still, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, when he touched her there. “Oh, wait,” she begged, her voice wheezing. “That feels so—so—”

“Good?” he supplied, forcing his eyes open to watch her face. Her hair fell around her in shining disarray, her eyes were wide and unfocused, and her breasts quivered with every breath she sucked in.

“Yes,” she gasped. Her legs were shaking.

He urged her hips downward, tilting his own upward to drive himself deeper. “Both at the same time.”

The pace was neither as smooth nor as even as it had been before, but Benedict thought it would break his mind. Arms braced on his shoulders, she rode him roughly and eagerly, her hair swinging around her shoulders. He focused on her face, memorizing every flicker of her eyelashes, every flick of her tongue over her lips, every little sign of impending climax. He wanted to know her inside and out; he wanted to know exactly how to bring her to this brazen wantonness, so he could do it again and again.

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.