Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  No. He was not going to think of that frustrating female again. The dance brought him back to Miss Lockwood and he smiled anew.

  “Have you known Miss Weston for a very long time?” she asked.

  Silently Benedict cursed. “Not at all.”

  “I’ve only known her a few weeks, but I find her very amusing and clever.” She glanced up at him curiously. “What do you think of her?”

  I try not to, he thought. “She’s all you say, as well as loyal and devoted to her family.”

  Miss Lockwood nodded as though relieved. “She is, isn’t she? I had no idea what to do or how to act at balls, but she was so kind to me. Why, I would have made a silly fool of myself if not for her!”

  Benedict took a deep breath to calm the spike of apprehension this inspired. In his experience, Penelope Weston’s interference was not a good thing. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have. You’re a very sensible young lady.”

  She glowed at his words. “You’re so kind to say so.” She lowered her voice. “One gentleman who called on me was not as gallant; he implied Miss Weston would be a bad influence on me. But I learned later that he was desperately in debt and had a mistress as well, so his motives were far from honorable.”

  “How did you learn such a thing?” Benedict asked, although he had an idea.

  Miss Lockwood gave the answer he expected. “Miss Weston told me! And when I asked Miss Drummond, she confirmed it was true.”

  The dance parted them again, and Benedict went through the steps while his thoughts ran down some grim lines.

  Obviously Penelope Weston had significant influence over Miss Lockwood. That was unfortunate for a number of reasons, the foremost being that Penelope despised him. He could tolerate that—she had a knack for getting under his skin, too—but he couldn’t let her spoil his budding courtship of Frances Lockwood. What business was it of hers whom Miss Lockwood married? The girl deserved to make up her own mind without being swayed by Penelope’s sharp tongue.

  This called for a preemptive strike. He escorted Miss Lockwood to her mother’s side when the dance ended and exchanged more pleasantries with Mrs. Lockwood. With any luck, Miss Lockwood would pay more heed to her mother than to her friend, for it was clear to see Mrs. Lockwood approved mightily of him. After securing an invitation to call on them the following day, Benedict drew Miss Lockwood aside.

  “Would you be distressed if I asked your friend to dance?”

  She blinked, a trace of alarm returning to her expression. “You wish to dance with Miss Weston?”

  “Only because she’s your friend,” he replied, stressing the last two words and giving her a small, private smile. “I wish to be on good terms with your friends, my dear.”

  Miss Lockwood almost trembled with delight. “Oh,” she breathed. “Yes, of course. Miss Weston did say it was important for—”

  “Yes?” he prompted when she gasped and fell silent.

  The girl wet her lips as if confiding a secret. “She advised me to look askance on any gentleman who didn’t care for my friends, or of whom my friends disapproved. Her opinion is that no one man is worth giving up my friends. Do—do you disagree, my lord?”

  “Not at all.” It was sound advice. He just had to make certain it worked to his benefit in this instance. “But I wouldn’t wish you to wonder at my asking her.”

  She gave him a look of devotion, and some of Benedict’s tension eased. “You are a true gentleman, sir.”

  He brought her hand to his lips and took his leave, telling himself he was, and would be, a gentleman. He bore Penelope no ill will. Once upon a time, they’d even seemed to share a joie de vivre, when she dared him to prove Hampton Court was haunted and they laughed together in dusty corridors about ghostly legends. The memory quickened his step; when Penelope was in a good humor, she had a sly wit and a laugh that made men stop and listen. All he had to do was rekindle enough of that good feeling between them so she wouldn’t try to turn Miss Lockwood against him.

  It took him a few moments to locate her. Unlike Miss Lockwood, who was always watching the dancers as if she couldn’t wait to be one of their number, Penelope had retreated to a corner. Benedict made his way through the crowd without hurrying, giving her plenty of time to note his approach. He could tell the exact moment she did. She raised her chin, leveled a cool glare at him, and deliberately turned her shoulder to him.

  Damn. This would take some effort—and for some reason he felt an unwonted thrill at the prospect.

  He summoned his most charming smile as he drew near. “Miss Weston.”

  She faced him the way Queen Elizabeth must have faced the Earl of Essex before sending him to the block. “Lord Atherton. What an unexpected pleasure.” She glanced at the woman beside her. “May I present to you my friend Mrs. Townsend? Mrs. Townsend, this is Lord Atherton, whose father has a very beautiful property in Richmond near ours.”

  “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Townsend.” He bowed.

  “How do you do, sir?” Mrs. Townsend curtsied, shooting a fleeting, curious glance at Penelope.

  For some reason he suspected that they had been speaking of him, and he had the sudden desire to charm Mrs. Townsend mercilessly, just to see what Penelope would do. He checked the impulse—he wanted to win her over, not antagonize her further—and kept his easy smile in place. “We didn’t have a chance to speak earlier. Would you honor me with a dance, Miss Weston?”

  “How kind of you to ask, my lord. Are you certain Miss Lockwood can spare you?” she asked, somewhat archly.

  “Miss Lockwood encouraged me,” he replied.

  Penelope raised one brow. “Did she? Well then, how could I possibly refuse?” With a vaguely ominous smile, she gave him her hand. “Shall we?”

  They joined the dance figures forming on the floor. Unlike the other couples, many of whom spoke to each other or at least exchanged a glance, Penelope gazed straight ahead as if no one stood beside her.

  “I hope your family is well,” he said, thinking to start cordially.

  “Yes,” she said. “They are all very well.” Finally she looked at him, an almost sly glance through her eyelashes. “My sister especially.”

  Benedict absorbed the hit without a flinch. He’d expected it. “I am delighted to hear that. I always wished her well.”

  “She’s married now, you know,” she went on. “It was a lovely wedding, small and private. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so in love as my new brother-in-law.”

  He clenched his jaw but kept his expression composed. “Vane was due for some good fortune and happiness. I’m glad to hear he’s found it.”

  Penelope smiled that dangerous smile again as the music began. “He most certainly has.”

  They turned and made the courtesy to the couples on either side of them, then faced each other and did the same. The next several steps separated them, but when she took his hand and they turned, Penelope’s eyes shone in a way that put him on guard. When the dance moved on to the other couples, he discovered why.

  “Have you known Miss Lockwood long, sir?”

  “A few weeks. She’s a charming young lady.”

  “She is,” agreed Penelope warmly. “I’m very fond of her; she’s like a younger sister to me.”

  Benedict took that as a warning. “She’s fortunate to have secured your friendship.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “She considers herself more fortunate to have attracted your notice.”

  “I can hardly comment on that.”

  “No? You never seemed one to ignore your own advantages, my lord.”

  Fortunately the dance sent her away from him, before his temper could slip from his grasp and cause him to say something rash. She seemed to know it, though, for she sent him a simmering glance as she moved around the other dancers. He could barely control his impatience for her to be back at his side. Such a comm
ent could not go unanswered.

  “Are you accusing me of misrepresenting myself?” he asked as soon as she took his hand for the next turn.

  She tipped her head as if pondering it. “I don’t know. How highly do you think of yourself?” He looked at her incredulously, and she smiled, with a tiny shake of her head. “Never mind that. Tell me instead what you love best about dear Miss Lockwood.”

  For a moment he didn’t reply. He couldn’t. All thoughts of Miss Lockwood, his potential bride, had been driven out of his head by the infuriating woman at his side, with her gleaming blue eyes and secretive smile that always rattled his equilibrium. He scrambled to control his thoughts and say something sensible. “Her warm and kind spirit.”

  Penelope nodded. “Of course. She’s inclined to see the best in people, even when it’s not warranted.”

  By only the thinnest of margins did Benedict not ask if that explained her fondness for Penelope. She was trying to provoke him. He should have been prepared for that. Her delight in needling him had been amusing at first, but he was growing tired of it—and unlike before, when he had brushed it aside, there was something very real at stake this time. If she decided to poison Miss Lockwood against him, he wasn’t sure he could tolerate it with good grace.

  “That is surely the mark of a true lady,” he said softly, “to be the sort of woman everyone admires and likes.”

  The barb struck home, he could see it in her eyes. For the briefest moment they darkened as if in hurt, but then the sparkle was back—and this time they glittered like the finest sapphires. “Indeed! What a revelation, sir. I have always thought gentlemen were far more interested in a woman’s other attributes.”

  Without thinking his gaze dropped. Penelope wasn’t as slender as Miss Lockwood, and she had been skipping about in the dance. Her bosom rose and fell against her exquisitely cut bodice of blue silk in a very tempting display. Her skin was flushed a perfect pale peach, and her locket had nestled right between the swells of her breasts. Benedict had meant to set her back on her heels, and instead found himself almost mesmerized. “One must consider every part of a woman.”

  “Some parts more closely than others, I see,” she shot back furiously as she turned away in the dance.

  He cursed inside his head as they performed the next several steps. What about this woman always caught him wrong-footed? Benedict barely remembered going through the rest of the dance. It felt as though little jolts of lightning coursed along his nerves, his every sense as sharp as a razor and focused solely on Penelope Weston. From the smoldering look she gave him, he wasn’t the only one who felt the tension. Before he knew it, the music was ending and she was beside him again. He offered his arm to escort her from the floor, and she took it with a hand that trembled.

  He didn’t think it was upset. He had a feeling it was fury. To be honest, the same feeling had a strong grip on him. The temptation to pull her into a quiet room and have a proper blazing row was overwhelming. For a moment his steps strayed unconsciously toward the door before he caught himself.

  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 figm
ents 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 . . .