Love in the Time of Scandal (4 page)

Damn. This was not going as planned.

“Miss Weston,” he said as they made their way through the crowd, “I asked you to dance in the hope of rediscovering the easy companionship we felt at Hampton Court last summer. I would very much like for us to be friendly once more.” In spite of himself a note of warning crept into his tone. “I’ve grown very fond of your friend. If I manage to secure her regard, I hope you would wish us both well.”

She stopped and faced him. For a moment she simply studied him, all coyness gone. “You say you’re very fond of her, but is it merely fondness? Is fondness enough for marriage?” She noticed his faint start at the last word. “Miss Lockwood anticipates a proposal any day now. Is that what you intend? Do you really love her enough to pledge your troth to her from now until death?”

“That must be between me and Miss Lockwood,” he replied coolly.

“So you say,” she retorted. “But she’s my friend. Do you think I won’t hear of it if she’s unhappy?”

Benedict’s jaw tightened. He could hardly swear to make Miss Lockwood happy at all times; it wasn’t possible. Marriage wasn’t designed for happiness but for security, status, and money. If one was fortunate, it also provided contented companionship, which he supposed led to happiness. On the other hand, if he admitted the possibility of unhappiness, it would hand Penelope a weapon to skewer him, and he had already seen how quickly she would do it.

“I don’t want to make her unhappy,” he said.

“Yet what you love about her is her tendency to think too well of people—including, perhaps, gentlemen who call on her. A man truly in love would surely be able to declare it openly, with no need for prevarication. One doesn’t even need to ask Sebastian if he loves my sister; it’s written on his face when he looks at her—something he does all the time.” She made a dismissive motion with one hand as Benedict’s expression hardened into stone. “I haven’t seen you glance once toward Miss Lockwood. Instead you’ve been watching me like a cat watches a mouse, as if you’d like nothing more than a chance to wring my neck.”

“A cat,” he bit out, “does not wring a mouse’s neck. He eats the mouse. Do you seriously convict me of not caring for Miss Lockwood because I’m not consumed with jealousy over her every move? Quite aside from the fact that I have been paying attention to you, my partner in the quadrille, what sort of marriage would it be if I never allowed my wife to dance with another man or do anything at all out of my sight? You advocate something more like possession than marriage.” He didn’t care that he had all but admitted he was planning to propose to Frances Lockwood. Something about Penelope Weston made his blood run hot and reckless.

“You needn’t be consumed with jealousy,” she scoffed. “But consumed with passion for her . . . That is something every woman wants from the man she marries.”

He almost lost his temper.
Every
woman? Not even half, by his accounting. Just in this ballroom alone, Benedict could see more than a dozen women who had married for money, for rank, for power. If they wanted passion, they must have found it outside their marital beds, because he knew a great many married couples in London who could hardly stand the sight of each other.

“Such charming idealism,” he said in a stony voice. “What a romantic haven you must inhabit. Either that, or you’re too naïve to understand marriage among the upper classes.”

Her eyes widened. “It is not idealism!”

He gave her a cynical look. “Then you’ve not seen enough
ton
marriages.”

“Perhaps not,” she retorted. “Perhaps I’ve seen too many
happy
marriages, like my sister’s.” She gave him a scathing look up and down. “Perhaps that’s the difference between us, Lord Atherton. I believe a man should love the woman he marries, and she should love him. I don’t believe it’s enough to simply ‘get on well together’ and enjoy each other’s company.”

The edges of his vision burned red. Even if he hadn’t remembered speaking those words, the scornful lilt Penelope gave them would have reminded him of the occasion. He hadn’t been desperately in love with Abigail Weston when he proposed to her, but neither had he lied and claimed he was. He’d been honest with her, and now Penelope was flinging it in his face as if it were some sordid insult. Someday, someone would give her a well-deserved comeuppance, and he hoped he was there to see it.

“I expect it’s but one of many differences between us.” He bowed. “Good evening, Miss Weston.” He walked away, and felt her gaze boring into his back with every step he took.

His fellow Guardsmen had congregated at the far end of the room, closer to the card room and the wine punch. Sick of female companionship for the moment, he rejoined them, still thinking how he could have charmed his way back into Penelope Weston’s good graces—assuming she had any, which he was beginning to doubt. Those flashes of affinity between them must have been figments of his imagination.

“What were you up to?”

He started at Lieutenant Cabot’s question. “Dancing.”

Cabot snorted with laughter. “We saw! How did you make out?”

Benedict lifted a glass of wine from a nearby footman’s tray. “What do you mean?”

“The Weston girl,” said Cabot, lowering his voice. “The cit’s daughter.”

“Ah.” Benedict took a drink.
Her.
“I’m not pursuing her.”

Corporal Hollander eyed him closely, a teasing grin lurking about his mouth. “No? You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”

Benedict shot an annoyed look at him. “How dull it must be, standing here watching other people dance. Couldn’t find a partner of your own?”

“Not one with that kind of dowry,” returned Hollander. “Nor that pretty a face. And you act like a man hell-bent on finding a wife. If you’re determined to get yourself leg-shackled, why not pursue an heiress?”

“I’m not determined to get married.” Not to the wrong girl, at any rate.

Cabot rested his elbow on Benedict’s shoulder, probably for balance as much as to lean closer. There was wine on his breath, and he swayed a bit on his feet. “I don’t blame you. She’s quite fetching. I hear she’s got a tongue like a dagger, but the rest of her is quite fine.”

Against his will, his mind conjured up the image of her breasts, pale and perfect above the bodice of her gown. He felt again the charge that seemed to leap between them when she glanced at him in that coy way. Penelope Weston was very fine, indeed. God help him. He drank more wine and shrugged off Cabot’s elbow.

“She’s pretty enough,” he said.

Hollander snorted. “Pretty enough! She’s a dashed beauty. I’d like to have my way with her. The spirited ones are always the most invigorating to bed.”

Oh Lord. Such a thought did nothing for Benedict’s peace of mind. He waved one hand at the footman to bring more wine. “You’d better keep your wits about you if you mean to try.” The accommodating servant put another full glass into his hand, which he promptly raised to his mouth, trying to wash away the thought of taking Penelope to bed, all her crackling energy and spirit channeled into more passionate outlets . . . A man would need to hold her down . . . or tie her down . . . or lie back and let her ride him hard . . .

“For twenty thousand pounds I certainly could,” said Cabot with a laugh.

“For twenty thousand pounds you could buy some wit to keep about you, too,” added Hollander.

“Who are you setting your sights on, Cabot? The Weston girl?” Bannister, a strapping subaltern new to the regiment, joined the conversation. “I’d advise against it.”

“I never asked for your bloody advice,” said Cabot petulantly. He hiccupped in the middle, though, slurring his words, and no one paid him much mind.

“Atherton’s eyeing her.” Hollander gave Benedict a sly look.

“I am not,” he said through his teeth. The wine was not, as hoped, mellowing his temper.

“Oh! He might have a chance, but the rest of you lot . . .” Bannister grimaced. “Her father’s ambitious and wants an earl at least.”

“The devil you say!” Cabot blinked, steadying himself on Benedict’s shoulder again. “An earl! On what grounds?”

“Forty thousand pounds, that’s what grounds.” Bannister nodded at Hollander’s quiet whistle of astonishment. “Had it from Mrs. Harrow herself.”

“What’s her interest?”

“Well.” Bannister smiled slightly. “I might have admitted a wealthy wife would enable me to maintain certain pleasures that would otherwise strain my purse.”

Hollander chuckled. “Bannister, you scoundrel. Asking your mistress to help you find a wife so you can keep supporting her? What brass, man.”

Bannister ignored him. “But you’ve set your cap at her, Atherton? I thought you were after the Lockwood girl, but if you’ve moved on, I don’t like to trespass on a fellow officer’s interest . . .”

Benedict silently said a very colorful curse. The Guardsmen had apparently turned into a group of gossiping old women tonight. “As a gentleman, I refuse to discuss any lady in such vulgar terms. I had the pleasure of making Miss Weston’s acquaintance last summer, and I assure you all she despises nothing as much as she despises insincerity.”

“Oh, I intend to be sincere,” murmured Bannister, his eyes roving the room like a hunter’s. “My father’s a marquess, after all, even if I’m not the heir. Is she here?”

“She danced with Atherton just a few moments ago.”

Someone really needed to draw Cabot’s cork. The man chattered worse than a little girl when he was drunk. “It was only a quadrille,” said Benedict coldly. “And this entire conversation has grown rather tedious. Good evening.” Ignoring the chuckles and teasing, he walked away.

It didn’t occur to him until much later that he could have ended the matter simply by admitting he was courting Frances Lockwood. He was growing certain that she would be a suitable wife. In fact, his mates had seen him dance with her before; they just hadn’t teased him about her. He told himself that was because Miss Lockwood hadn’t exercised her wit on as many gentlemen as Penelope had done, shaping society’s view of her. Or perhaps it was because Penelope’s dowry dwarfed Miss Lockwood’s, while her pedigree did not. He told himself it was not because Miss Lockwood looked quiet and ordinary next to Penelope, and that all Hollander’s enthusiasm for a spirited girl was just the ramblings of a man with too much wine in his belly. Because a spirited girl of fiery beauty was not what Benedict wanted.

Not at all.

Chapter 3

“T
here’s simply got to be a way to stop him!”

“I don’t see one that won’t land you in trouble,” Olivia remarked.

Penelope fumed. She’d been fuming ever since the previous evening’s infuriating dance with Lord Atherton, when he baldly admitted he wasn’t in love with Frances Lockwood but meant to marry her anyway. She wished he’d never asked her to dance. Then she could have listened to Frances’s raptures about him and told herself they might be true. She could have held her tongue and simply agreed that he was handsome and danced well and was a very eligible match. That was all true, and she could tell herself that Frances had a mother and a father who were very capable of advising her on which suitor to choose.

But now, curse him, all she could think about was that he appeared to be intent on dazzling Frances into a hasty marriage without much care for how happy they would be after the wedding. Unfortunately for Atherton, Penelope had seen him do that before. Last summer she’d watched him focus that same charming smile on her sister, Abigail. She’d watched him ignore any hint that Abigail didn’t return his interest. Penelope had reached the unpleasant conclusion that Lord Atherton was either not very bright or not very honest. Since no one else seemed to think him dim-witted, it must be that Atherton had pursued Abigail for his own mysterious—and therefore vaguely nefarious—reasons. Fortunately Abby had already lost her heart to another, better man, and Atherton’s charm had bounced off her.

Poor, sweet Frances would never see through him, though. Much like Penelope’s own parents had been, the Lockwoods were plainly delighted by his courtship of their daughter. They would give her to him without a moment’s hesitation. It would only be later, when Atherton’s lack of real affection became apparent, that Frances would realize her mistake.

Unless someone . . . like Penelope . . . told her sooner.

As if she could read Penelope’s thoughts, Olivia nudged her. “It’s not your place to save her,” she admonished. “Indeed, there may be nothing terrible to save her from! Just because you don’t care for him doesn’t mean she can’t.”

She scowled and swung away from the window display Olivia had been studying. Penelope had been so caught up in her grim thoughts she hadn’t even seen the bonnets within. “I don’t want to interfere! I wish she would notice how insincere he is on her own, and I wouldn’t need to say a word. But Olivia, what if she doesn’t?”

Her friend linked her arm through Penelope’s, prodding her to resume their stroll down Bond Street. “Sometimes there’s no saving someone from what they want to do. If she wants to marry him and he wants to marry her, what can you say? You’re not her mother, nor even her sister. Your approval isn’t required.”

“I know,” she admitted on a sigh. “I don’t want to spoil her happiness! But it can’t make me pleased to see her so easily convinced.”

“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t discuss him with her.”

“That would definitely be best, but it may not be possible.”

Olivia smiled in sympathy. “Try.”

“Believe me, I will,” said Penelope fervently. “He’s the very last person I want to talk about.” They were passing Madox Street, and on a whim she paused. “May we stop in a shop down there?”

“Of course.” Olivia turned with her. “Which one?”

The bookshop was only a few doors down. It was small and had a slightly dingy air about it. If Mrs. Weston discovered Penelope had come here in search of a certain banned pamphlet, she’d be furious—but since Olivia was with her, her mother wouldn’t be suspicious at all. Olivia was so respectable and trustworthy, Mrs. Weston hadn’t even sent a maid with them.

Of course, that didn’t make this any less daring. If Mrs. Weston did find out, not only would Penelope be exiled from London for months, Olivia would no longer be trusted, either. Penelope knew all this, but recklessly set any worries aside. She needed something to distract her mind from seething over Lord Atherton’s latest attempt to dupe a kindhearted girl into marrying him, and there was nothing more distracting than
50 Ways to
Sin
.

When she indicated the bookshop, though, Olivia gave her a wary glance. “What do you want in there?”

“Nothing much.” Penelope tugged her onward as Olivia’s steps noticeably slowed.

“Penelope,” warned Olivia. “Don’t be foolish!” Penelope gave her a look, and Olivia bit her lip. “Then let me ask for it. You’ll be in such dreadful trouble if your mother discovers this . . .”

“I don’t care,” said Penelope, pushing open the door. At that moment, she really didn’t. London had grown dull and monotonous. Abigail was rusticating in Richmond. Joan was enjoying the beauties of Italy. Penelope was going mad with boredom; witness how upset Atherton’s courtship of Frances had made her. As much as she didn’t want to care about anything he did, she couldn’t stop herself, and it irritated her to no end. Hopefully something else, of a deliciously scandalous nature, would help her forget about him.

A bell tinkled as they went in. The bookshop was small and dim, and it smelled musty and dry. She looked around with interest, but Olivia pulled her behind a bookcase before she could see much of anything.

“Look for something else. I’ll ask for
it
.”

“It doesn’t much matter who asks for
it
,” Penelope whispered back.

“No, but if you buy something else, you can honestly tell your mother you came in search of that, and had nothing to do with the other.”

Penelope felt like cursing. If she were married or widowed, she wouldn’t have to worry about her mother’s approval, and could buy as many naughty pamphlets as she wanted. Of course, she didn’t seem in danger of being married, let alone widowed, any time soon. Before long, seventeen-year-old Frances Lockwood would probably be married, too, leaving her marooned once more at the side of every ballroom, bored and alone. Other ladies were either scandalized by Penelope’s adventurous tastes or too snobbish to associate with someone of her low birth. Gentlemen often stared at her, but the only ones who asked her to dance were friends of her brother taking pity on her, or conniving rogues who only had their eyes on her father’s money or, occasionally, down her bodice. All her mother’s instructions in propriety and decorum felt fussy and constricting, and following them hadn’t won her anything anyway. It felt like life was passing her by.

“Olivia, if my mother thinks to ask me about this, it means she’s already suspicious and I’m done for.” She raised one brow at her friend’s expression. “If she discovers you bought it for me, she’ll ban me from seeing you. It was hard enough to lose Abigail and Joan; if I can’t see you, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“How would she ever discover I bought it for you?” asked Olivia in a harsh whisper.

Penelope rolled her eyes. “How will she ever discover I bought it myself?” Her companion didn’t look reassured. “If you want to keep us both from getting in trouble, find a book of your own and distract one of the clerks. If anyone saw us come in here, by a most unfortunate chance, I can say you were looking for that book.”

Her friend sighed. “I feel like a wicked woman, contributing to the misbehavior of a young lady.”

“You’re not contributing. You’re merely failing to stop me from misbehaving, something both Abigail and Joan also failed to do.”

“And I feel worthy of any lawyer in London, drawing that distinction,” retorted Olivia. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”

“Because you’re the best sort of friend.” She grinned and squeezed Olivia’s hand. “And because you always want to save me from myself, even though it’s hopeless.”

“I certainly hope not,” murmured the other woman. “Well, get on with it before my conscience gets the better of me.”

“Do you require assistance, ma’am?”

They both jumped at the question. A thin young man, almost a boy, was beaming at them. “Oh! Er . . .”

“We have some novels over here,” he said, holding out one hand. “Poetry as well.”

“Have you anything for travelers?” Olivia asked, recovering first. “Perhaps Italy?”

The young man nodded, bobbing on his feet once more. “We do, we do indeed have a selection of books about Italy. Would you care to come this way?” He headed toward a back corner of the shop.

“Try to be quick,” Olivia breathed before following him.

Penelope took a quick peek around the bookcase. The shopkeeper, a rotund, pink-faced man, was attending to a tall man in a greatcoat. She remembered from Joan’s report that one had to ask specifically for the pamphlet, which meant she had to wait. Keeping her ears attuned to the murmur of conversation, she turned to the shelves in front of her. The books here were old and well-worn. In some cases the titles were rubbed off the spines entirely. She took down one, only to find it was a medical text, with horrifying engravings of bones. The next one she opened released a puff of dust that made her sneeze. She put it back with a grimace. What did her sister see in bookshops? Abigail could happily visit one every day, for some utterly unknown reason.

The bell sounded; the shopkeeper was escorting the tall man out the door, bowing and scraping all the while. He must have bought a great many books, from the shopkeeper’s solicitous manner. Her heart unaccountably hammering, Penelope stepped into his path as he turned back toward the counter.

He stopped at once. “Good day, madam. May I help you find something?”

“Yes,” she said, striving to sound very cool and poised. “Have you any issues of
50 Ways to
Sin
?”

“Ah.” He rocked back on his heels and patted his ample stomach. “I’m not certain. Very popular, those are. But if you’ll pardon me a few moments, I’ll have a look in the back.”

She nodded, and he hurried off. As he disappeared through the curtain behind the counter, she exchanged a glance with Olivia, who was studying a collection of books laid out on the counter by the clerk. Her friend gave a tiny nod, and asked the clerk if he had any more recent editions.

Penelope stationed herself at the other end of the counter and affected great interest in the button on her glove, straining her ears for any exclamations of discovery from the back room. She could hear rustlings and mutterings, but nothing that sounded like success. A few feet away, Olivia kept asking for other choices of travel memoirs. Penelope knew her friend was trying to draw it out as long as possible, to provide an excuse in case anyone came in. This shop was only a few steps from Bond Street, where any number of busybodies might be strolling right now, eyes alert for improper behavior.

Penelope knew she was risking extreme punishment;
50 Ways to Sin
was the most wicked thing she’d ever read. In lush, erotic detail it recounted the many adventurous love affairs of Lady Constance, a lady of very flexible morals. Penelope’s mother had caught her reading it once before, and her wrath had been terrible to behold. First had come a long lecture on decent, modest behavior, all of which Penelope had already heard though she didn’t dare point that out. Then had come the stern reminders that even if she had no care for her own good name—which would only demonstrate what a feckless, silly girl she was—she should bear in mind her family’s reputation and how it would reflect on them. At the time Abigail had also been unwed, and it gave Penelope an honest pang to think she might tarnish her sister by association, but now Abigail was happily married, so that worry was eliminated. Even better, Abigail had married a man who endorsed her readings of
50 Ways to Sin
, contrary to her mother’s dire warnings that it would disgust gentlemen, so Penelope doubted she was hurting her chances of marriage by reading it.

Her mother had finished the lecture with an expression of deep disappointment that, after all her father had done to give her a comfortable life, Penelope had recklessly gone her own way and indulged her most prurient curiosity. To that, there was no argument. However much she might wish her life was more exciting, Penelope adored her father and didn’t want to disappoint him. She had sat in penitent silence, promising that she wouldn’t buy any more copies of the shocking story if only Mama wouldn’t tell him. To her relief, her mother had agreed, and then imposed a harsh sentence of social restriction that lasted for almost two months. Finally her penance had ended, though, and Penelope was allowed to go out without her mother or a trusted maid following her.

And here she was, breaking that promise only a few weeks later, almost tempting fate to punish her again. A part of her felt guilty, but that part wasn’t big enough to overrule the rest of her, the part that felt trapped in a box that seemed smaller every day. This visit wasn’t just about
50 Ways to Sin
, although it was the most deliciously wicked story imaginable; no, it was more about Penelope’s longing for excitement. Love and adventure seemed to be happening to everyone except her—or to Olivia, although Olivia expressed no interest in being the center of an illicit love affair or a clandestine adventure or anything exciting. As much as Penelope knew she was wrong to feel such urges, she couldn’t stop them, and sometimes they simply had to be indulged or she would burst.

Hence, here she was, doing something no decent young lady in London would dream of.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the shopkeeper came back with a flat package tied with string. “Here you are, madam. Number thirty-four.” He winked as he laid it on the counter.

She blinked, fighting to keep her voice calm. “Oh? Have you any copies of issue thirty-three as well?”

“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. These do sell quite quickly, you know.”

“Yes.” She smiled, hoping her expression was still cool and poised. “I understand they do.” At the other end of the counter, Olivia was paging through a book. Penelope knew she wouldn’t buy it; Olivia rarely had funds to spare. Today, though, Penelope felt in such good charity with the world, she impulsively told the shopkeeper to add the cost of the travel book to her own purchase, and she paid for both before her friend could protest.