Love in the Time of Scandal (19 page)

“No doubt.” He kissed her again, lightly this time. “And for the future . . . If you ever wanted something like a new bonnet or gown, seducing me on the sofa would be an excellent way to ask.”

Slowly Penelope smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do that.” Her husband grinned. “Shall we take the house?”

“I think we must.” She smoothed his cravat where it had gone awry. “So you can show me about the wall.”

B
enedict’s mood was irrationally buoyed by Penelope’s confession, to say nothing of the kiss that followed. For a woman who was remarkably open and free about expressing her thoughts and feelings, she’d kept a friend’s secret even when it damaged her own reputation. He had a guess who the friend was. Penelope had introduced him to someone once. Little about the woman herself remained in his brain, because he’d been so focused on Penelope, but after a while he decided her name might be Townsend, or Thompson, or something that began with T.

Still, it sounded like a significant entanglement this woman had with Lord Clary, and for a few minutes Benedict debated calling on Clary to remind him to stay far away from his wife. He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. She was sitting next to him in the carriage, her brow clear, watching out the window with idle interest.
I almost gave a huzzah when you punched him
, she’d said. He wished he’d known that at the time. Not only would he have relished punching Clary a few more times, apparently it would have won Penelope’s esteem earlier.

On impulse he laid his hand over hers and entwined their fingers. She went abruptly still, then relaxed. A hesitant smile curved her mouth, and she gave his fingers a little squeeze. He leaned forward and thumped on the carriage roof. “Stop here,” he told the driver.

“Is there another house to view?” Penelope asked as he helped her out.

“Of a sort. My sister’s house is there.”

She shielded her eyes with one hand and peered in the direction he indicated. “Where?”

“On the other side of Green Park.” He took her hand in his. “Care for a stroll?”

“Will she be expecting us?” She hung back.

“I think I can visit my own sister without advance warning.” He grinned. “If we’re not welcome, she’ll have no trouble closing the door in my face.” Still Penelope looked doubtful, and he remembered her muttered remark about his family from the previous night. “She’ll be delighted to see you, even if not me. Samantha will be so pleased to be your sister. She didn’t come to the wedding because she and Gray—her husband—were out of town for a few days. It will be years before she forgives me for marrying while she was away.”

Finally she began walking, though slowly. “I hope you’re right.”

“I know Samantha. I’m right.” He tugged her hand around his arm. Penelope walked beside him in silence, but he could tell from her expression that she was thinking hard about something. Not only did she grow quiet when she did that, but her gaze grew focused and dark. He wondered what it was, and prayed she would wait to ask what he didn’t want to discuss: his family.

“Did your father really beat her for her part in stealing the money?” she asked abruptly.

Benedict stiffened. “No.”

“You said he would.”

He thought back to that night when Penelope had sent him an almost taunting note, daring him to come look for four thousand guineas that Sebastian Vane had been accused of stealing from Stratford Court some seven years previously. By then they both knew that Samantha had actually stolen the money in a foolish attempt to help Sebastian, but Penelope wasn’t content with the truth; she wanted to find the money, and she’d offered him a bribe to come help search for it. Benedict had told himself he went to help because he really wanted the bribe, namely the location of the long-lost grotto of Hart House, which he had spent his childhood seeking. It allowed him to pretend it wasn’t guilt that sent him out into the woods, just as he told himself he helped break into a mausoleum as part of the search because Samantha was determined to confess to their father, and Benedict hoped that recovering the money would temper the earl’s fury. Instead . . . He sighed. “I feared he might. He was furiously angry when she told him.”

“Did he beat you?”

“No.”

She glanced at him. “Your father’s not a very kind man, is he?”

“No,” he agreed shortly.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice very carefully neutral. He could tell now when she wasn’t being completely herself. “You tried to prevent Samantha from telling me and Abby the truth. You said you expected to be horsewhipped for helping us. You—”

“I didn’t know exactly what Samantha would confess,” he interrupted. “I didn’t know it was about the money. I thought—I feared she had planned to elope with Sebastian. If our father had heard that confession, I shudder to think what he would have done to her.” Penelope gave him a sideways look, as if wondering whether he was exaggerating or not, and Benedict said a silent curse. There was no way to put it off. “You suspect me of being a terrible friend, not without cause. You believe I turned my back on Sebastian for years, and you’re right. But the more complete truth is that my father—” He stopped, at a loss to explain something he’d never before put into words.

“I know he despises Sebastian,” Penelope said. “That much was clear.”

He smiled grimly. “He does. He ignored our friendship when we were young—I suppose it was too trivial for him to worry about—but when Mr. Vane went mad, my father lost all tolerance for the Vanes. Madness taints the blood, therefore the son must be avoided as well. Sebastian had gone into the army by then. When old Mr. Vane came around begging to sell his lands, my father was only too happy to relieve him of the property.”

“Begging?” she repeated, her voice rising.

He gave a brusque nod. “For a pittance. Mr. Vane was mad, Penelope. He looked like a wild man and spoke to people who weren’t there. He pleaded with my father to take the land.”

“Who could take advantage of a man in such a state?”

“A man who has no pity for others.” He gave her a very serious look of warning. “I mean that. Stratford has none.”

She frowned. “But why did you defend him when Sebastian appealed to you for help?”

This, he realized, was the real sticking point for her. A woman who went to a friend’s aid and kept her secret, even when it rebounded disastrously on her, would not understand why he’d acted that way. “If I had taken Sebastian’s side, what could I have achieved? Protesting to my father would not have changed his mind, and would only have made him angry with me. On the other hand, agreeing with Sebastian would only have encouraged
him
to continue asking, which I knew would be pointless. You have to understand,” he said, seeing her frown deepen, “Sebastian didn’t make the most diplomatic approach. He arrived in a state of outrage, and it only got worse. There is one way to handle my father, and arguing
anything
isn’t part of it.”

“But you could have let Sebastian know you disagreed!” she exclaimed. “You could have explained to him that you knew he was right, but his cause was hopeless . . .”

Benedict tried not to feel a surge of resentment. Why did she ask if she didn’t want to know the truth? But perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised; how could Penelope understand what Stratford was like? Her father was of a far different breed. Thomas Weston had given in when Abigail wanted to marry the penniless son of a madman. Neither of Benedict’s sisters would have dared broach such an unthinkable request with the earl. Indeed, Elizabeth’s first choice of husband had been summarily rejected because he was merely a gentleman, even though one of excellent family and handsome fortune. She’d pleaded with Stratford to reconsider, gently, nervously, and been confined to her room with only bread and water for a week. Benedict remembered it well, for he’d been whipped for sneaking her a pair of oranges.

This was why he never told anyone about his family. No one else quite understood, or even knew, the firmness of the earl’s resolve or the quickness of his temper. And really, what did it matter to Penelope? Stratford had banished him for marrying a woman of common origins; there was no reason to bring the two of them together. It wouldn’t change Stratford’s mind—nothing did—and Benedict’s lot was cast with his wife. To his mind, it was better for everyone if Penelope and Stratford never met.

“Perhaps I could have,” he said at last, answering her demand about Sebastian. “Perhaps I should have. But I didn’t, and I can’t change it now.”

“Weren’t you sorry at the time? He was your friend,” she went on in growing agitation. “When he needed you to support him, you told him his father was a madman and deserved what he got. You abandoned him!”

For some reason that snapped his temper. Sebastian Vane has his own wife to stand up for him; why must Benedict’s wife do the same? “I? He abandoned me first,” he retorted. “He bought a commission and rode off with his regiment. What was I to do? Does nothing change in three years? He was not the same when he returned home, and neither was I. He never asked for my help, before he came to Stratford Court. I would have told him not to come, but once he had done it and enraged my father, yes, I knew he had wrought his own fate. It might—
might
—have been possible to wrest the land back from my father, over time, with the right persuasion, but after the blazing row they had . . .” He shook his head. “My father wouldn’t sell it back to him now for all the paintings in Rome. Yes, I thought it was kinder not to leave Sebastian any hope of regaining that land, because he has none.”

“But he told people Sebastian was a thief,” she said, although with less indignation than before. “And you didn’t say a word of protest . . .”

“Who would have believed me?” She had let go of his arm some time ago. Now Benedict backed away from her and threw out his arms wide. “If I had gone around Richmond telling people Sebastian was innocent, it would have been the same as calling my father a liar—and I had no proof of anything, mind. I would have been caned within an inch of my life for such disrespect. Until a few weeks ago, I had no idea where the money was. For all I knew, Sebastian did take it. He threatened something very like that, you know; I heard with my own ears. He shouted that ‘Stratford would pay’ for swindling his father out of that land. He might as well have slapped a glove in my father’s face and called him out, Penelope.”

Her eyes were perfectly round. For once it seemed she had nothing to say. He sighed and dropped his arms. “I don’t mean to shout at you,” he said wearily. “You don’t know my father. And to be honest, I hope you never do.” Still she stared at him, not cowed but decidedly taken aback. He looked over his shoulder. The handsome little house Gray had bought for his sister was visible across the street. “Here is Samantha’s house. Let’s go in and see one decent member of my family.”

Chapter 18

P
enelope really didn’t want to pay a call after that conversation, but Benedict seemed determined. He rapped the knocker and stepped back to her side. As he did so, everything about him changed. She noticed it because she was still staring at him in confused anger and hurt. His shoulders went back, and his spine straightened. All hint of tension and displeasure dropped away, and he looked as serene and composed as the King out taking a walk.

Penelope was flabbergasted. They had been arguing, heatedly, just a few minutes ago. He’d raised his voice and told her off. Now it was as if the conversation never happened.

“Is Lady George in?” he asked the servant who opened the door.

“Yes, my lord.” The man held the door wide.

He left them waiting in a small parlor. Benedict strolled to the window and appeared fascinated by whatever was outside. Penelope fidgeted with a button on her glove, not sure what to say. Perhaps it was for the best that she keep quiet; everything she said today seemed to be wrong. Hadn’t Mama warned her that she must overcome her tendency to speak her mind, and become more sensitive to those around her? Abigail had told her Benedict’s father whipped him. Penelope had seen with her own eyes how cold and uncaring the earl was. It was hard to think of anyone choosing Lord Stratford over Sebastian, who was as decent and kind as the earl was not, but Lord Stratford was Benedict’s father. It was very easy for her to choose, but perhaps not for him—and she’d only thought of that too late. She slipped the button through its silk loop, then back again. She ought to join a convent, one with a vow of silence.

After a few minutes the footman returned. “My lady asks you to join her in the dining room, my lord.”

“Ah, the mural,” murmured Benedict as they followed the footman. He once again offered his arm, and Penelope, feeling like a very poor wife, took it. If he wanted to present a facade of marital contentment, so be it. “Samantha said Gray was threatening to paint one.”

“Paint?”

“He’s an artist; quite a good one, I understand.”

And so he was. When they reached the dining room, an incredible sight greeted them. One wall had been whitewashed, in jarring contrast to the rich red surrounding walls. A tall man with untidy dark hair was on a ladder, painting a goddess whose face bore a striking resemblance to Samantha’s. That lady herself came hurrying toward them.

“You’ve come to me, when I should have come to you!” She threw her arms around Benedict, who returned her embrace, before turning to Penelope. “I do hope you can forgive me. I shall never let Benedict forget that he didn’t tell me of his own wedding!”

Penelope smiled uneasily. “He didn’t tell you?” This was not the way she remembered Samantha. Three months ago, when they last met, Samantha had been quiet and sad, relating her terrible part in the disappearance of Stratford’s money and Sebastian’s father. Now she was like a new woman, her face flushed with happiness, her eyes bright, and there was no trace of fear or stiffness in her motions.

“Not in time!” Samantha cried, swatting Benedict’s arm. “Gray, did you know Benedict was to marry?”

“No,” said the man on the ladder without turning around.

“It was a very small affair, and you were away from town.” Benedict spread his hands. “What was I to do?”

Samantha gave him a reproving look. “You could have waited.” She turned back to Penelope. “I wish you great happiness. My brother needs a woman of firm mind, and I think you’ll be very good for him.”

“Thank you,” said Penelope. “I hope to be.” That caught her husband’s attention; he raised his brows at her. Penelope ignored him. Did he think one argument would change her mind about such a fundamental thing?

“Gray, do come down now and meet your new sister-in-law,” called Samantha. Her husband waved one hand, a paintbrush between his teeth, and she sighed. “He’ll stay up there all day. Shall we go to the salon?” She linked her arm with Penelope’s and led them to a private parlor. “Tell me about the wedding. Was it beautiful?”

“Yes, lovely,” said Penelope.

“I’m so glad.” Samantha beamed. “And have you taken a house yet? It’s time Ben left the officers’ barracks.”

“Only this morning,” Benedict told her. “We were there just now, in Margaret Street.”

“So near! We must have a dinner party. Elizabeth will want to come with Turley, of course. Would your sister wish to come?” she asked Penelope. “I do hope she is well, and Mr. Vane also.”

Penelope, who had expected all of Benedict’s family to avoid any mention of the Vanes, was startled. She looked at her husband in mute appeal, but he said nothing, his expression politely pleasant and utterly opaque. “They’re both well, thank you,” she murmured.

“I’m so glad to hear it!” Samantha gave them a sparkling smile, which died away after a moment. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong! Nothing,” scoffed her brother. “Do you accuse all visitors this way?”

“Ben.” She sighed. “What have you done?”

He looked at Penelope for a long, fraught moment. “I told her about Father.”

“Oh dear.” Samantha’s voice dropped to a whisper and for a moment she went pale. “Is he— Has he—?”

“He banned me from the house, so there’s no worry of that.” He summoned a smile again, bright and confident. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any refreshment, do you, Samantha?”

“Of course.” With a worried expression she rang the bell and asked the servant to bring a tray. “Are you terribly shocked?”

That was addressed, very hesitantly, to Penelope. “He sounds very exacting,” she replied cautiously.

A fine shudder went through her hostess. “Yes.” There was a moment of awkward silence.

Penelope began to resent her husband a little. Why did he only tell her about his father as they were walking up to his sister’s house? Didn’t he suspect she might need a chance to absorb what he’d said? Now she felt out of place and tongue-tied, and still smarted from the feeling that she had been callous and unthinking. On no account was she going to say anything that would upset Samantha, but then what did that leave for conversation?

“I gather your parents are very different from mine,” she began, praying she wouldn’t make things worse. “In many, many ways. It’s one of my great failings to presume others might share my own feelings and perceptions, and I had made assumptions . . . But I shall endeavor not to act or speak thoughtlessly when I meet Lord and Lady Stratford again.”

The siblings exchanged a glance Penelope couldn’t interpret. Samantha mustered a smile. “Yes, I believe our parents are very different from Mr. and Mrs. Weston. Still, I imagine our mother was delighted to hear Benedict has settled down at last.”

Benedict relaxed. “Indeed she was! She wished us both great happiness, and begged me to bring you to call on her, my dear.”

Since Penelope remembered the countess as a cool and distant woman, she was in no hurry.

“Well.” Samantha visibly shook off her tension. “I must plan my dinner party for you. Not a large one, only dear friends and family, to celebrate your marriage. Do say you’ll allow it. I promise Gray will have completed his work on the wall by then and we won’t have to dine amid the paint pots.”

“What do you say, Penelope?” asked Benedict. “Shall we indulge her?”

“Indulge! Oh, you terrible man,” cried his sister. “You owe me this, Benedict!”

Penelope met her husband’s eyes. He wore a teasing grin as he bantered with Samantha, but there was something more tentative in his gaze. What had he said when they arrived?
Let’s go in and see one decent member of my family.
Perhaps he’d told her about the earl deliberately, as if to temper the recounting of his father’s cruelty with the evidence of his sister’s kindness. “That’s very generous of you,” she said to Samantha.

“It would be my pleasure,” Samantha assured her eagerly. “It will be our first party. Oh, what fun—I’ve long looked forward to having another sister!”

“It must have been quite a surprise to learn of it,” said Penelope wryly.

Her hostess laughed. “Of the best sort! I wish you every happiness, Penelope—I always thought Ben would make some girl a wonderful husband, and I’m so happy he chose someone I’m already fond of.”

Penelope smiled uneasily and murmured a vague thanks. She was burning to know more about Samantha and all the Lennoxes. What had Benedict been trying to say as they walked over here? Was his father truly a monster? She didn’t want to think her husband was a liar, but it was hard to reconcile the various aspects of his personality. He abandoned his friend out of loyalty to his father, but warned her the earl had no pity or kindness in him—not the sort of man to inspire blind loyalty. He claimed he’d acted to protect Samantha, but his sister hadn’t been beaten, and had even ended up married to a handsome man who clearly adored her—what had Benedict feared would happen to her? There had been a moment when Samantha had seemed genuinely alarmed at the mention of Lord Stratford, but then both she and Benedict went on as if nothing was wrong. Even now Samantha was chattering about the dinner party she planned to throw, when all Penelope could think was:
What sort of family have I yoked myself
to?

O
ver the next fortnight, they settled into something resembling peace. Penelope didn’t argue with him anymore; she didn’t roll her eyes at anything he said. If anything, she became more reserved and compliant—just like the wife Benedict once thought he wanted—and instead of reassuring him that this marriage had been the right choice, it unnerved him. Why had he ever thought a sweet, pleasant companion would be enough? Instead he wanted the girl with the sharp wit who seduced him on the sofa, but that girl seemed to have closed herself away from him. It put him on guard, and as a result he and Penelope became almost two strangers, orbiting each other with uncertain watchfulness.

Benedict felt a certain injustice in that. He had hoped it would improve things between them if she finally heard the whole story behind his history with Sebastian Vane. Penelope had clearly decided that he’d been callous and spiteful to Sebastian, who was Abigail’s husband now and must have told the Westons his version of the tale—a version which understandably did not reflect well on Benedict. He’d shrugged it off as none of her concern before, but now she was his wife and deserved to know his side. He had even imagined Penelope’s reaction when he told her: astonished, contrite, deeply sorry for the way she had blamed him for every travail in Sebastian’s life. He had probably spent a little too much time imagining her making amends for her previous scathing remarks. Instead she seemed skeptical at first, and then almost distant.

He could guess why. Penelope didn’t believe him, or didn’t understand. Most boys were whipped for bad behavior from time to time; most fathers expected their sons’ loyalty. To the outside world, Lord Stratford presented an intelligent, urbane, and precisely controlled persona. He was renowned for his art collection and his impeccable eye for statuary, and publicly acclaimed for his patronage of rising artists. He could be ruthless in business, but that was generally admired as well. In public, he expected his wife and children to be the epitome of grace and charm, worthy of the illustrious Stratford name—and they didn’t dare act otherwise. Benedict doubted one person in one hundred would believe the truth. He was probably a fool to have hoped that his wife would be that one person.

Still, he told himself it was not insurmountable. Very rightly, Penelope had no interest in meeting the earl, just as the earl had little interest in her. He ought to take that as a blessing from heaven and be content never to bring them together. Trying to explain his family only made her doubt him more, so the less said about Stratford, the better. It certainly wasn’t a subject that gave him any joy.

They took up residence in their new house in Margaret Street. For a while he hoped it would revive the spirit of honesty that had surfaced during their viewing of the house. He recalled quite clearly a promise to show her how to make love against the wall, and he wanted to keep that promise, but once there was a large bed in the room, it seemed contrived, and Penelope never mentioned it. As long as they continued making love in the bed, he reasoned, he had nothing to complain about. In bed she never denied him, but she didn’t curl into his arms afterward. He began to wish she had never asked to ride him on the sofa, because now he knew what he was missing.

As the days passed in this perfectly dull and respectable way, it began to gnaw at him. Every time she politely agreed to accompany him on a walk or a drive, he wondered what had happened to her spirit of adventure. What was the matter with her? He never struck her; he treated her with the utmost courtesy. He’d been initially relieved when she stopped asking uncomfortable questions, but then he began to miss the arguments . . . and the reconciliations . . . that ensued.

When he caught her watching him one evening in the carriage, her expression somber and contemplative, his frustration boiled over. “What is it?”

She blinked. Benedict realized he had spoken rather tersely, and tried to ameliorate his words. “What are you thinking, my dear?”

She turned to look out the window. “Nothing much. I was attempting to puzzle you out.”

He tensed. “What a poor use of your time! I’m not so great an enigma to cause you such consternation.”

“Consternation!” She whipped around, the old fire sparkling in her eyes, and Benedict was shocked by the surge of anticipation in his chest. But then her ire faded. She turned her face back to the window. “If you insist, my lord.”

He felt like an ass. Without thinking he covered her hand with his. “I spoke hastily. You looked quite grave, and I hope I don’t inspire such feelings.”

His wife watched him from the corner of her eye, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Benedict,” she began, just as the carriage halted and a footman swept open the door.

“Yes?” He held up a hand to stay the servant, his gaze fixed on his wife.

“We’ve arrived,” she said, and he had no choice but to step down and lead her into the assembly rooms.