Love in the Time of Scandal (9 page)

“Olivia . . .” Penelope gazed at her in worry, at a loss for words. “How did you get tangled up with him in the first place?”

The other woman didn’t answer for a long minute, then simply said, “Henry.”

Oh Lord. Henry Townsend, Olivia’s late husband, had been the sort of man who couldn’t avoid trouble if he sat alone in a locked room. Penelope bit back some very rude words about Henry. “Then I give you my word I won’t say anything. But I won’t stop thinking about it. If I had known he was hounding you so horribly, I would have told Lord Atherton to punch him a few more times.”

“Lord Atherton punched him?” Olivia blinked in confusion.

Penelope cleared her throat. She hadn’t really meant to mention him again. “Yes. When he saved me from Clary, he might have punched the earl in the stomach once or twice.”

Instead of looking pleased, Olivia paled. “Once or twice?”

“I wish he’d done it a dozen more times,” Penelope added, repressing the primal thrill that went through her at the memory of Atherton standing over Clary, fists at the ready to defend her. “Clary deserved
it.”

Her friend swallowed hard. “But it means he’ll remember you—both of
you.”

“That can’t be helped now, so I choose to relish the fact that he did punch Clary, and not lightly, either.” Penelope relented at the worry in Olivia’s expression. She reached for her friend’s hand. “Don’t fret. I’m sure Atherton won’t tell anyone; do you know, I think he rather enjoyed it. And he never saw you there at all, so he knows nothing of your involvement.”
Which is about how much I know
, thought Penelope, wondering what Henry Townsend could have done that was so vile, Clary would expect to violate his widow—and that Olivia would feel she had no choice but to allow
it.

Olivia grasped her hand and squeezed. “I’m very grateful he happened by when he did,” she said with a trace of her usual smile. “You must have been so happy to see
him.”

“Er . . . yes.” Penelope smiled uncomfortably and eased her hand free. “That once.” If only he’d left immediately after sending off Clary.

“It sounds quite heroic, Pen. Surely this will help you think better of him, should he marry Miss Lockwood.”

Penelope was quite certain that wouldn’t happen now, but she didn’t feel like volunteering the information. The less said about the Lockwoods, the better. She was still praying Mrs. Lockwood might suffer a feverish delirium that would erase her memory of the Gosnold rout entirely, or that Lord Atherton’s regiment would be posted suddenly and immediately to northern Scotland. “Surely,” she mumbled in agreement.

Olivia sighed, with a sympathetic smile. “Well, I for one am very grateful to him.” She hesitated. “Just as I am very grateful to you. I wish Clary had never set eyes on you, but I must confess I was very happy when you opened the door.”

Penelope smiled cautiously in reply. “Then I’m not sorry I did it. I—I do know how you feel. When Atherton appeared I almost thought I could kiss him.” Olivia blinked, then snorted with laughter at her exaggerated grimace. Penelope grinned, immensely relieved to see her friend happy again. “You are sure you’re all right, Olivia?”

Still smiling—although a little bittersweetly—Olivia nodded. “I’m sure.” She rose. “Be careful of Clary,” she said again. “For me, if not for your own sake.”

“He’s the very last person I ever want to see again,” Penelope assured her with complete honesty. “Just remember you can count on me for any help you need.”

“I will.” Olivia gave her a quick embrace. “Thank you, Penelope.”

Chapter 9

B
enedict’s sense that his encounter with Penelope would yield an unexpected opportunity was confirmed within a day.

It was not, however, the one he had expected.

“Atherton, you sly dog.” Hollander sidled up to him in the officers’ common room the next night. “Very cleverly done.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” he replied, pouring a glass of port.

Hollander snorted. “No idea! You were so indignant:
I refuse to discuss a lady!
” He chuckled. “Now I see why—but good Lord, you might have let some of us in on the secret.”

“Is it secret?” Benedict sipped his port, pretending not to care even as his attention sharpened.

“Not any longer.” Hollander glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “The rumors are true, aren’t they? You certainly seemed eager to squash Cabot’s interest in her the other night.”

Benedict lifted one shoulder. His mind raced; what were these rumors about Penelope? He’d expected there would be some—it was too much to hope that both Mrs. Lockwood and Frances would be completely discreet—but from Hollander’s avid expression, they were more salacious than expected.

As expected, his disinterest provoked his fellow officer. “You won’t say?” Hollander’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, I see. You’ve enjoyed her and don’t want any competition, do you?”

“Competition at what?” Cabot dropped into the chair opposite Benedict. He looked between the two of them. “What are you whispering about, Hollander?”

“Atherton put one over on all of us, it seems,” the man replied, never taking his eyes from Benedict’s face. “Not very sporting of him. I daresay he’s been having the Weston girl all this time, and warning the rest of us off to preserve his place between her—”

Benedict was out of his chair and had the man by his collar. “Not one more word,” he said through his teeth.

Cabot seized his arm and hauled him back. “Bloody hell, Atherton! You can’t attack a Guardsman!”

Benedict released his fellow officer with a small shove and glanced around the room. Hollander’s eyes were wide, but his mouth curved in a slow, delighted smile. Everyone had gone silent, staring at them in a mixture of astonishment and anticipation. He straightened his shoulders and kept his voice low. “That’s arrant nonsense, Hollander, and I’ll thank you not to repeat it.”

Hollander smirked as he got to his feet. “That you’ve been having her, or that you’re warning us lot off?”

“Having who?” asked Cabot. His face blanked. “You don’t mean—?”

“The Weston girl. It turns out she’s even less a lady than she pretends.”

Cabot gaped a moment before recovering himself. He waved them toward the door. “Step outside, gentlemen. This is a private conversation,” he barked as men started to follow them. “Are you brawling over a woman?” he demanded once they reached the courtyard.

“Not brawling at all,” said Benedict in a flat tone. “Hollander’s gossiping like an old woman.”

“Oh?” The corporal leaned forward, arms folded over his chest. “Have you heard that gossip? Every woman and man, young or old, will be repeating it soon.”

“No, what is it?” asked Cabot, to Benedict’s private relief. He was dying to know but did not want to ask.

“That Penelope Weston is little more than a whore,” replied Hollander. “They say she can be tumbled for the asking, at any ball or rout. They say she left a rout early the other night, in significant dishabille, after a particularly vigorous rendezvous.” He stared defiantly at Benedict, who somehow managed to keep his own expression fixed and unresponsive.

Cabot frowned. “Are you sure? That sounds unlikely. She’s an heiress, and a pretty one at that.”

Hollander shrugged. “She’s no lady.”

“And the only two things a female can be are a lady or a whore?” Benedict asked coldly. It took some doing to keep his fists at his sides, even though he doubted Hollander was really the one to blame for this.

“Just reporting what I was told,” retorted Hollander.

“Peace!” Lieutenant Cabot threw up his hands. “Hollander, that’s a vile thing to say about any woman without hard proof. Atherton . . .” He hesitated. “Don’t strike him for repeating gossip, no matter how unbecoming it may be for an officer of the Guards to repeat such sensational and defaming whispers.” He glared at Hollander. “Good night, sir.”

Hollander snorted and walked away. When the door of the barracks had closed behind him, Cabot turned to Benedict. “Not after the girl, eh?”

He flexed his hands. They were stiff from being clenched into fists. “Not willing to be labeled a despoiler of young women, no.”

“Trying to strangle a man who suggests you want her makes it appear you want her.”

“Hollander suggested I knew she was a whore and kept it secret so no one else would have a chance to ride her.” Benedict glared at his mate. “If he accused you of murdering your father, would you look guilty if you tried to close his mouth?”

Cabot inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “I still say it’s better not to fly at his throat. Hollander loves a good fight; it will only encourage him.”

Benedict gave a nod of grudging assent. The door behind them opened again, and this time it was Bannister.

“I hear I missed the bare-knuckle brawl,” he said with a faint smile. “Do relate it blow by blow!”

Cabot sighed and squared his shoulders. “There was no brawl. I’ll go tell Hollander to hold his tongue.” He went into the barracks.

Bannister twisted to watch him go, then glanced at Benedict. “Defending a lady’s honor, are you?”

Benedict gave him a hard look. “How bad are the rumors? I assume you’ve heard them.”

“You haven’t?” Bannister studied him thoughtfully when Benedict shook his head. “I’d call them scandalous—or even worse. The tale I heard was rather detailed as to the young woman’s depravities.”

He hesitated, then just asked. “With whom was she supposed to have been so wicked?”

Bannister shrugged. “No one in particular—or rather, everyone in particular. I heard she wasn’t discriminating. Poor Hollander must have felt left out and wanted under her skirts as well.”

Benedict bit back the urge to growl at that. Hollander was the least of his concerns. He muttered a farewell to Bannister and turned toward the stables, wanting some space to think.

These did not sound like the sort of rumors Mrs. Lockwood or Frances would start. Benedict had fully expected some little tattle to emerge from that, women’s gossip about a shameless attempt to steal poor Frances’s suitor or something similar. If Hollander had given him an amused, pitying look and asked which girl he was really courting, he would have been prepared to wave it aside with a weary sigh about female theatrics, and hope that ended it.

But tales of wicked depravities meant the rumors had to be from Clary, although it was very curious that Benedict’s name didn’t seem to be part of them. As Penelope had pointed out, Benedict was the one who had punched him—and yet she alone was about to be raked over the coals in every drawing room in London.

Why the devil would Clary want to do that? He’d obviously been angry at Penelope, but he’d already put a terrible fright into her, and there would be consequences to spreading lies about her. Thomas Weston might not be a gentleman, but he also wasn’t a foolish or weak man. If Clary ruined Penelope’s reputation, Weston had the funds and the drive to hound the man forever. Only an idiot would invite that sort of vengeance, and Clary wasn’t stupid. Benedict’s father had once called Clary a worthy adversary, which was the highest show of respect the Earl of Stratford could give.

He let himself into the stable, waving aside a groom who stepped out of the tack room in inquiry, and went down the dim block until he reached the next to last stall. His horse nickered quietly at his approach, and he ran one hand absently along Achilles’ neck.

He wondered why Penelope had been alone with Clary in the first place. She’d been quite adamant about not telling him, and perhaps it was none of his concern. No matter her reason, he hoped she’d learned a lesson from the experience. Whatever had happened before he arrived, Clary’s intentions had been quite obvious when he pushed open the door to see the man pinning her to the floor. For a moment his mind lingered on that image: Penelope sprawled on her back, her hair tumbling down, her skirts tossed up above her knees, her bosom heaving, her blue eyes glowing with passion . . . Benedict gave himself a mental shake; her eyes hadn’t been glowing with passion but with fury—first at Clary and then at him, when he was apparently to blame for Frances and her mother drawing fairly logical conclusions.

But now . . . Now Penelope was in no position to be furious at him. If Bannister’s report was true, everyone in town would be watching her to see if the rumors were accurate. Even this late in the year London was filled with gossip-hungry people eager for the next delicious scandal. If they got their teeth into a beautiful girl known for her adventurous nature and sharp wit, they would devour her. The fact that she was a nouveau riche heiress would only add to their pleasure. Mr. Weston’s ambitions were widely known, and frequently mocked in private. Some people would be only too eager to believe his daughter was shameless and immoral.

Which meant the competition for the hand of one heiress would be greatly lessened, just at a moment she would find herself most in want of marriage.

Benedict’s hand slowed to a stop on Achilles’ nose as that thought sank deep into his brain. “That’s madness,” he said softly. The horse whickered back at him as if in agreement. It
was
madness, and yet . . . The feel of her hair sliding through his fingers. The way the color came up in her face. The mesmerizing swell of her breasts straining at her bodice. And the fierce flash of joy in her face when he stepped into the room and stopped Clary from assaulting her. Penelope was a beauty. When she laughed, it made a man stop and listen. And once upon a time, he and she had got on quite well together—splendidly, in fact.

He inhaled unevenly. He did not want to want Penelope. From the beginning he’d seen that she was not the sort of girl he wanted to marry; she was passionate and tempestuous and liable to drive him mad. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her legs in silk stockings, or the scent of her perfume, wild and sweet and perfectly Penelope. He tried to force his mind back to all the times they argued, and only managed to imagine all that blazing temper transformed into passion as the argument ended in a rough coupling against the nearest wall. And even though Benedict told himself that was not what he wanted, the mere thought of her arms and legs wrapped around him as he drove himself inside her made his skin turn hot.

“Damn it,” he muttered, trying to repress the instinctive reaction of his body. “
Think
, man.” Think of all the reasons he needed a bride, not all the wicked things he wanted to do to Penelope Weston. Marriage was far too important to be based on anything as common or fleeting as desire and passion. Marriage was meant to be based on a practical evaluation of multiple factors that would ensure a secure, companionable alliance.

First, he needed a bride with money.

Penelope Weston had a dowry of forty thousand pounds.

Second, he didn’t want to become a laughingstock. He wanted a wife of sense and discretion, not a wild hoyden who would constantly be the subject of gossip and innuendo.

Of course, to his knowledge Penelope had never been involved in a scandal until now, and he had already seen how deep and unwavering her loyalty could be, once engaged.

Third, he wanted a wife soon. Two humiliating rejections were quite enough, and he had hoped to be married by now in any event. His moment of opportunity to find a bride on his own terms was quickly passing, and he never knew if or when he’d get another one. When Abigail Weston had asked for his help in clearing Sebastian’s name, it had led his sister Samantha to confess that she, and not Sebastian Vane, had once stolen four thousand guineas from the Earl of Stratford. Their father’s rage had been implacable. Stratford blamed Benedict for trying to hide his sister’s deception, and banned him from the estate in addition to cutting off all communication and funds. Benedict could withstand the financial pinch this time, but banishment was a golden chance he could not ignore. As long as his father remained furious at him, he was somewhat free—but sooner or later, Stratford would set about bringing him back to heel. And then only a wealthy bride would render him immune to the earl’s demands.

And Penelope Weston—wealthy and beautiful—was about to find herself in desperate want of salvation . . . such as a respectable marriage.

“Tell me it’s a bloody stupid idea,” Benedict said to his horse. “Tell me I’m an idiot.” Achilles huffed out a breath and shook his head before pushing his nose against Benedict’s shoulder.

“No, I didn’t think so,” he murmured, taking a carrot from the bucket behind him and snapping it into pieces for the horse.

It was like fate was throwing her at him. And even if it was a mad idea, reason and logic hadn’t won him a bride, either. Penelope might claim to hate him—might think she hated him—but if that fervor could be turned into a different sort of passion . . . It wouldn’t be the sort of marriage he had wanted, but there could be other compensations. Without meaning to, he imagined making love to her, and a bolt of pure lust shot through his veins, straight to his groin. Benedict closed his eyes and inhaled raggedly. He was no better than Hollander, it seemed—except that he was willing to marry her.

But he would have to play his cards just right. Logic and sense might win over her parents, but Penelope herself would require more dramatic suasion. What had she said the other night? A woman wanted a man to be half mad with passion for her. Benedict’s mouth crooked wryly. Half mad was a fair description of how he felt around her. It wasn’t strictly desire, though desire was unquestionably part of it. And if he could make her want him, too, there was a chance that theirs might be an incomparable union.

Not to mention one that would save them both from ignominy.