Love in the Time of Scandal (8 page)

Penelope stared after them, numb. She was doomed. The Lockwoods would ruin her out of spite—oh, why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut the other day? Frances had broken off with Lord Atherton, and her mother blamed Penelope as the cause. As if
she
had compelled Frances to tell him to go to the devil. Good heavens, had Frances really said that? She shook her head, her thoughts still tangled and jagged.

Slowly she turned toward Atherton. He, too, was staring out the door, although with a more distant expression, as if he was lost in his own thoughts. What remained of Penelope’s goodwill toward him bled away. So much for a heroic rescue. All it would have taken was a few soothing words to Frances, or some exaggerated exclamation over Penelope’s turned ankle, and Mrs. Lockwood would have been distracted. Instead he just stood there looking rumpled and beautiful and guilty—all of which made Penelope hate him all over again. Even worse, he turned toward the mirror on the wall behind them and began buttoning his coat, just like a man might do after an illicit, scandalous rendezvous.

“Why didn’t you stop that?”

He cocked one brow without looking away from his reflection. “How?”

“By snatching Frances into your arms and making love to
her!”

“Is that what I ought to have done?”

Penelope flushed at his dry tone. “It couldn’t have hurt!”

“No?” He pivoted on his heel and strode toward her until she stepped back in alarm. “Speak for yourself. If I had ‘snatched Frances into my arms and made love to her,’ as you so delicately suggest, her mother might have insisted I marry her. And as you know by now”—his tone grew harder—“she turned my proposal down flat.”

She had guessed as much. “But if you proposed, that means you want to marry her,” she tried to argue.

“Not any longer.” He pulled loose the end of his cravat and began retying
it.

That was understandable. Penelope switched to the next most pressing problem. She planned to pretend Frances had never said anything at all about Atherton being in love with her, which was just unthinkably stupid. “But now Mrs. Lockwood thinks we had an—an—assignation!”

His gaze ran down her figure, just once, but it was enough to make her skin prickle and burn. “Would you rather she have seen you with Lord Clary?”

She shuddered at the name, and wrapped her arms around herself as a chill shot up her spine.
“
No.
”

He finished with the cravat and did the last buttons on his coat as he faced her. “Then I suggest you repair your appearance and carry on with your evening, as I intend to do.” Again his eyes flickered downward. “Are you certain you don’t want me to send for your mother?”

Penelope gaped at him. He was going to go back to the rout and smile and dance as if nothing had happened? “Are you mad?” she demanded in a constricted voice. “She’s going to gossip—tell tales—”

“I doubt
it.”

Her temper snapped. He had rescued her from one terrible fate, true, but then done nothing to save her from the other, possibly worse, scandal. Before she could stop it, her hand was swinging toward his
face.

He caught her wrist just before the slap landed. Jerked to a halt, she stumbled toward him, then into him as her injured ankle gave way. His arm went around her waist to steady her, and Penelope froze. For a moment they both seemed frozen, in fact, her wide-eyed gaze locked with his steely
one.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, giving her upraised hand a slight squeeze. “We might well need each other.”

Her stomach twisted into a hard knot. His body was tall and hard and so strong against hers. The scent of his shaving soap made her light-headed, because his clean-shaven jaw was so close she could see every line of his firm, sensual mouth. Penelope fought down the heat spreading through her veins; her attraction to him was a fatal weakness, but she refused to succumb to
it.

She pushed against his chest and backed away, no longer caring what her hair or dress looked like. “We should stay far away from each other,” she said, hating her voice for being shaky and breathless. “Give her time to reconsider—to realize it was all a misunderstanding—or perhaps simply to find another suitor and cease caring about either of
us—”

“Do you really hate me?” he interrupted.

She flushed again. “Have you really been in love with me all along?”

Neither said a
word.

“See?” she said grimly. “We’ve both been horribly misrepresented. Thank you for saving me from Lord Clary, but I beg you: Do not speak to me again, do not seek me out, do not do anything that might turn any of my other friends against me—” Her voice broke on the last words. “I hope you won’t say a word about this to anyone.” She waited, and after a moment he gave a slight nod. “Good-bye, sir.” Head held high, she retrieved her lost slipper and limped out the door, hoping desperately that an injured ankle was the worst that happened to her tonight.

B
enedict watched her go. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d just done, but he damned sure wasn’t going back to the rout now. When Penelope had had sufficient time to escape, he went into the hall and sent a servant for his things.

On one hand, his actions were perfectly defensible. It wasn’t exactly admirable to follow Penelope because he wanted to argue with her about the way she’d incited Frances to lunacy, but finding her struggling on the floor with Clary had superseded that intention and prompted him to intervene; what gentleman wouldn’t? And he stayed to make certain she was unhurt because she was a young lady, very near the age of his youngest sister, and if Samantha ever were in such a position, he hoped someone would do the same for
her.

But then . . . He ought to have fetched her mother at once, no matter what she said. He ought not to have touched her hair, even though that, too, was done in the spirit of trying to help her. Her trembling hands had disproved her protest that she was perfectly fine; he admired her fortitude if not her ability to lie. But it had been a mistake because it put him much too close to her. With his hands tangled in her silky hair he had an all-too-intimate view of the flush on her cheeks, the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, and the ripe swells of her breasts above her ripped bodice. And just like the other night, he’d been jolted by the reminder that Penelope Weston was a beautiful young woman.

For a moment he thought of her wild suggestion that he ought to have seized Frances and kissed her to distract both Lockwood ladies. It might have worked . . . except he no longer wanted to marry Frances. Somewhere between her impassioned outburst and that strangely fraught moment when Penelope looked up at him, her face shining with joy and gratitude, from where Clary held her down on the floor, Benedict’s interest in wedding Frances Lockwood had withered away. Otherwise he might have explained to Mrs. Lockwood immediately that
he
hadn’t been the cause of Penelope’s ripped dress, disheveled hair, and missing shoe. He could have supported her far-fetched tale of falling on the stairs that portrayed him as nothing more than someone of good manners who happened
by.

Instead he’d said nothing of the
sort.

Benedict reached into his pocket. The brooch was an oval agate surrounded by pearls, pale and perfect in the dim light. The clasp still had a bit of lace stuck in it—fine, expensive lace. From Bannister’s report the other night, he knew each Weston daughter had a dowry approaching forty thousand pounds. It was more than any other heiress he’d met in two Seasons, and more than twice Frances Lockwood’s. That dowry, paired with Penelope’s brilliant looks and keen intelligence, was a considerable temptation. At her best, Penelope was exuberant and amusing, with a sparkling wit; she was loyal and fearless in her devotion to those dear to her. With her hair tousled and her color high, she was a smoldering temptress, and all her words in praise of passion ran through his mind in sinful suggestion.

On the other hand, she hated him. There was no mistaking the guilty blush that stained her face when Frances blurted that
out.

He tucked the brooch back into his pocket as the servant returned with his hat and gloves. His father was fond of saying that it was often to one’s advantage to sit back and see what opportunities emerged from a scandal. Much as Benedict hated to admit it, perhaps this time his father was correct.

Chapter 8

P
enelope’s ankle was red and sore the next morning, and instead of protesting that it was fine, she let her mother fuss over her. The encounter with Lord Clary had given her a real fright, and the subsequent scene with Frances and Lord Atherton hadn’t helped.

She told her mother none of it. If she confided in Mama about Lord Clary, she would have to explain why she’d been alone with him. If she did that, Mama would send for Olivia at once and interrogate her, and if Olivia admitted having an affair with him, there was a real chance Mama would forbid Penelope from seeing Olivia again. Not only was Penelope determined to protect her friend—who had obviously been in great distress about the assignation, if that’s even what it was—she was wild to know why Olivia would speak to such a man, let alone slip off to meet him. And if she tried to warn her mother about what Mrs. Lockwood or Frances might say, she would have to explain what had led to that, which would mean explaining about Clary. On the whole, Penelope didn’t see how she
could
tell her mother.

So she let the physician examine her ankle, nodding meekly when he pronounced it slightly turned and in need of rest. As Lord Atherton had said, it wasn’t broken, even though it hurt like the devil. Mama showed the doctor out after getting his instructions for poultices and wraps, and then came to sit on the edge of Penelope’s
bed.

“Quite an evening,” she remarked.

“Not my finest,” Penelope murmured.

Mama studied her. “Merely because of a slip on the stairs?”

Penelope creased her skirt. She’d told her parents she fell on the stairs to account for her disheveled state, but suspected her mother wasn’t completely fooled. “I wasn’t enjoying it before that, either.”

Her mother squeezed her hand. “Things haven’t been the same since Abby wed, have they?”

“Not at all,” Penelope muttered. If Abigail had been there last night, Penelope would have stayed in the ballroom gossiping with her, and none of the nightmare would have happened.

“I knew it would be hardest on you,” Mama went on. “The two of you have been so close, ever since she peeped into your cradle and demanded to play with
you.”

She gave a halfhearted smile. “I’m very happy for
her.”

Mama smiled. “As am I. But I miss her, too.” She leaned over to press a kiss on Penelope’s forehead. “As I’ll miss you, when you decide to settle down like Abigail
did.”

“She met the right man,” Penelope protested. “The man of her dreams! You make it sound like she decided it was time and the perfect husband was just standing there, waiting for
her.”

“I know very well it wasn’t like that,” said Mama wryly. “Your papa still grumbles about it from time to time. Do try to make things easier for him when you fall in love, Penelope.”

“I never try to make things difficult.”

“It just happens naturally?” Mama rose. “I’m sure he’ll come to tease you about being an invalid. Can I fetch you anything to pass the time?”

Penelope shook her head, and her mother left. She lay back on her pillows, staring at the ceiling for a few moments. Did she make things difficult? Certainly not on purpose. The debacle last night had been a pure accident.

Still, there would be nothing to worry about if Mrs. Lockwood could keep her mouth closed. Hopefully she would reconsider, once the heat of her shock and outrage passed, and decide it was better to say nothing. No matter how overwrought Frances was, she would be a complete ninny to tell everyone Lord Atherton had courted her while he really wanted someone else. Best of all would be if Atherton and Frances somehow made up their quarrel and became engaged, but that seemed highly unlikely. She wondered what, exactly, the viscount had done; it must have been something terrible if Frances had said she never wanted to see him again. Frances had been eager to accept him when Penelope saw her at the Venetian breakfast. Perhaps he’d been rude or somehow revealed his coldhearted self, and Frances slapped his face before storming out on him. The thought cheered Penelope immensely.

Unfortunately that did nothing to ameliorate the horrible scene after. Frances couldn’t really think that Atherton was in love with
her
. Why, if he had been, he could have pursued her last summer in Richmond, or more recently in London. Instead he’d never given her a second glance and spent his time courting other young ladies, dancing with them and calling on them and listening to them play the pianoforte.

Penelope lurched out of bed. Wincing and swearing under her breath, she hobbled to her desk, where she took out some paper and opened her ink. Enough of Atherton; the man had caused her almost nothing but misery. Meanwhile, Olivia was in trouble and Penelope was dying to know what it really was. Why had Olivia met Lord Clary? Why had she let him hold her even as it made her cry? Penelope dashed off a note to her friend and rang for a servant to deliver it right
away.

After that, the hours dragged. She reread all her magazines, and even her few issues of
50 Ways to Sin
. She had learned it was dangerous to keep them for long—her mother must have ordered the maids to look for contraband when they tidied the room—but now she had no one to pass them to. A few months ago she would have shared the issues with her sister or Joan, but they were both gone. Having no one with whom she could discuss Constance’s shocking behavior took away some of the thrill. Still, she expected to find some pleasure in the reading, and was unhappily surprised that there was
none.

Her father came to see her, as her mother had predicted. Penelope braced herself for any hint of trouble or gossip, but Papa was in good spirits. He teased her about being out of the races, and pretended to console her on the bad luck of twisting her ankle on the stairs instead of while dancing with a handsome nobleman in want of a bride. Penelope laughed with her father, although mention of being caught and saved by a handsome lord did make her face grow hot. She
had
been in the arms of a devilishly handsome man who’d saved her from disaster last night, though she could hardly tell either parent about
it.

Thankfully Olivia came that afternoon. Penelope was settled on the window seat, staring broodingly out the window at the sunlight dappling the trees in the square, when she saw her friend walking up the street. With an exclamation of relief, she hobbled downstairs as fast as she could to whisk her friend into the morning room, where she barely managed to wait until the maid had brought the tea tray and left them alone.

“What in the world were you doing, meeting that wretched man?” she burst
out.

Olivia avoided Penelope’s gaze as she took a sip of tea. “Please don’t ask me that.”

“Don’t ask?” Penelope goggled at her. “After I saved you from
him?”

“You should not have followed
me.”

Penelope frowned. Part of her agreed. If she hadn’t followed Olivia, Lord Atherton wouldn’t have followed
her
, but then Olivia would have been left alone at Clary’s mercy. Neither outcome could really be called preferable to the other. “What would have happened if I hadn’t? Lord Clary meant to do vile and immoral things to you, didn’t
he?”

Olivia’s jaw tightened. “I can’t tell
you.”

“Why not?” Penelope protested. “Why did you meet him? He said you had an assignation with him—is that true?”

“No!” Olivia grimaced. “Yes. Of a sort.”

“What sort?”

The other woman took a deep breath. “I can’t tell you that, either.”

Penelope scowled in alarm. It wasn’t like Olivia to be this mysterious. “Could you tell Abby? I can write to her today and tell her to come at once—”

Olivia raised one hand. Her face was composed, but that upheld hand trembled, betraying the intensity of her feeling. “
Don’t.
That is, I can’t tell her any more than I can tell you, so there’s no need to bring her back to town.”

“Oh.” There was something about Olivia’s implacable expression that Penelope did not like. It left her feeling shut out and helpless, and she hated feeling helpless. It was enraging and frustrating and terrifying. “You can’t tell her, or you won’t?”

Olivia curled her hand into a fist before lowering it to her lap. She stared across the room, seeming to search for the answer for a moment. The sunlight slanting through the window cast her face into harsh relief, picking out the lines around her mouth and the faint dark circles under her eyes that made her suddenly look years older. “I won’t.”

“But why not? I won’t tell a soul. I can see you’re violently distressed—as anyone would be, if Lord Clary had any influence over them. I know I’m not sensible like Abby but I want to help.”

A wry smile twisted her friend’s mouth and she reached out to squeeze Penelope’s hand. “You
are
sensible. You’re the dearest friend I could ask for, and every bit as trustworthy and clever as Abigail. But this . . .” She hesitated, then released Penelope’s hand. “This is my problem, and I won’t drag you into it. I never wanted you to know about it, and if Lord Clary did anything to you in retaliation, I would never forgive myself.”

“He already did,” Penelope told her. A dim voice—which sounded a great deal like her sister’s—sounded in her mind, protesting that she was about to be brazen and manipulative, but she ignored it, as she usually did. “He was angry I’d interrupted your—your
assignation
with
him.”

Olivia’s face went dead white. “What? I—I thought you left the room right behind me. What did he do to
you?”

“He grabbed me and wouldn’t let me leave the room. He said that if he couldn’t get what he wanted from you, he’d have it from me.” The protesting little voice sounded again. Penelope mentally cursed at it to be quiet; there was a greater good at stake here, and she felt it was more important to find out what trouble her friend was in. Olivia was determined to be noble and self-sacrificing, and Penelope wasn’t having that. “He shoved me into a chair, he ripped the brooch off my gown, and he seized my foot and twisted it. He’s the reason my ankle is injured.” She didn’t have to fake the shiver of revulsion that went through her at the memory.

“Oh my God.” For a moment it looked like Olivia would be ill. She set down her tea and pushed it away, so violently the cup rattled against the saucer. “
Why
did you follow me?” She pressed her hands to her temple and gave a sharp shake of her head. “No, that’s unjust—I am at fault. I should have made certain you left. I was stupid, I . . . I was just so grateful to be free of him, I ran and—” She looked up fearfully. “Did Clary— What did
he—?”

“I kicked him between the legs, as Jamie taught me to do, and then someone else came into the room and got rid of Clary.”

“You kicked . . . ?” Olivia’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. For one fleeting moment a smile of pure vengeful delight flashed across her face. Then her brow creased. “Who came in and sent Clary away?”

“Lord Atherton.” Penelope said it as if the name meant nothing to
her.

“Atherton?” Olivia’s eyebrows went up, and her face went blank with astonishment again.

Penelope stirred her tea and lifted one shoulder. “He was quite gallant, actually.”

“Viscount Atherton? The one who courted Abby last summer?” Olivia went on incredulously. “The one about to propose to Miss Lockwood?”

She gritted her teeth. “The very one.” She was growing very tired of discussing Atherton’s romantic intentions. “I’m sure Clary learned his lesson and will keep away from me, but I suspect he won’t do the same for you—and I also fear he’ll take out his fury on you.” She watched closely for any sign that this shocked Olivia and saw none; the other woman had clearly already thought of it. “You have to tell me. Or someone. Tell Jamie! He’ll be glad to put a dent in Clary’s smug face.”

Olivia had the tense look of someone thinking very hard. “No, don’t tell your brother.”

Penelope wanted to rip out her hair in frustration. Why were some people so amiable? If someone like Clary was compelling her to meet him in secluded spots for vile reasons, she wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone who might help her—or at least lend her a pistol, so she could see to Clary on her own. “Why not? Jamie won’t think badly of you,” she argued, trying to make her friend see reason. “He’s stiff and dull but he’s not an idiot, and he’s been your friend since . . . longer than I can remember! He’ll keep your confidence, I know he will.”

“I know he would, too.” For a long moment Olivia hesitated, her mouth working subtly as if struggling with what to say. “It’s not that I don’t trust him—or you or Abigail. You simply have to believe me when I say there’s nothing any of you can do to help. I don’t want you caught up in my problems. Promise me you’ll stay far away from Clary, and even from me if he’s nearby.”

“Promise me you’ll do something to save yourself from him, then.” Penelope threw up her hand when Olivia said nothing. She thrust her teacup back onto the table and leaned toward her friend. “There must be something you can do, or someone you can ask to help you. I promise I won’t tell a soul, not even Abby, if you wish,” she said in a low, fierce voice. “But you have to see that Clary is a monster! If you could handle him yourself, why haven’t you already done
it?”

“I know!” burst out Olivia, losing her composure at last. She rubbed her hands along her skirt, and bright red spots burned in her cheeks. “I know that, Penelope! But . . . he’s not easy to refuse, and I just need time. But you must promise me that you’ll stay far, far away from him.
Please
.”

“If you let me tell Jamie so he can keep close to you,” replied Penelope quickly. She had no qualms committing her brother to being a watchman.

Her friend sat back, her expression closed and hard. “Absolutely not.” She inhaled a deep breath. “I know I have to do something about—about him. I promise you that I am thinking, frantically, and when I construct a plan that will work, I will come to you at once for any help I need.”