Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “I presume you were successful.” Olivia eyed the package in her hand.

  Penelope laughed. “More than successful! I’ve read through issue thirty-two, but this is thirty-four. There’s another one out there.” It was at once thrilling and disappointing. Finding it would be a challenge, but on the other hand, she knew there was an issue to search for. It was surely a sign of how mundane her life was that she was this delighted at the prospect.

  Olivia gaped at her. “You’ve read through—? Goodness, Penelope, where are you getting them?”

  “Never mind that. What did you choose?”

  “I ought not to have let you buy it,” her friend said. “It was unnecessary.”

  Penelope waved it off. “In thanks for overlooking my scandalous behavior. What is the book?”

  Real gratitude warmed Olivia’s eyes. Often she resisted Penelope’s and Abigail’s efforts to treat her to small indulgences, no matter how hard they argued that her company was worth far more to them. “A travel book about Italy. Very decent and apt to improve my mind.”

  She grinned. “One can hope.”

  “It can hardly hurt.” The other woman regarded her package almost wistfully. “I’m not likely ever to see Italy, so I hope it’s an engaging account.”

  “Nonsense! Someday a handsome man will sweep you off your feet and carry you away to Italy, and France, and even India for all you know.”

  Olivia sighed. “It’s a lovely dream.”

  “Well, why can’t it come true?” Penelope raised one hand in question.

  Her companion gave a rueful laugh. “That’s what I adore about you, Pen; your constant quest for adventure and your certainty that something exciting will happen to you.”

  “You mean like this outing?” She made a face. “That’s quite a small adventure. It’s a bit sad, really. Nothing like Lady Constance’s adventures, and she never even leaves London.”

  “What do you find so appealing about . . . her?”

  Penelope glanced over in surprise. “What do you mean? You’ve read her stories, haven’t you?”

  A deep scarlet suffused her friend’s face. “One or two.”

  They turned back into Bond Street. The wicked pamphlet was wrapped in plain paper, concealing the title, but it still felt daring to carry it right through the heart of fashionable London. Penelope fixed a pleasant look on her face and lowered her voice. “Then you know why. They’re shocking. They’re delicious. They’re so wicked and yet so intriguing—is that really the way of it, between a man and a woman? No one wants an unmarried girl to know, which only makes us wild to discover the truth. And besides . . .” She gave a guilty little shrug. “Everyone else is reading it, why shouldn’t I?”

  “I doubt everyone is reading it,” murmured Olivia, still red-faced. “Doesn’t it seem a bit far-fetched to you?”

  Penelope lowered her voice even more. “Joan told me they’re accurate. Even Abigail admitted it. They would tell me the truth, now that they’re married and in a position to know. And that means—”

  “What?” Olivia asked when she stopped.

  Penelope cleared her throat. “That means I ought to read them. They’re instructional.”

  “Instructional?” Olivia gaped at her, then choked on a laugh. “You’re incorrigible, Penelope.”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed, although her own smile was forced. Yes, 50 Ways to Sin was even more intriguing for being accurate, but Penelope would have wanted to read them anyway. Right or wrong, they were the closest she’d come to actual passion. Combined with her growing feeling that there wasn’t a man in London she wanted to marry, Penelope thought it would be wise to learn a little something before she broke her mother’s heart and embarked on a life of sin. She might well be a spinster forever, but she needn’t be a virginal lady that long. Lady Constance seemed to have worked it all out; she managed to live among the ton in London, enjoy a talented new lover whenever she chose, and make a fortune on the retellings of her erotic adventures. If even half the people who whispered about 50 Ways to Sin behind their fans at balls were buying issues, Constance must be making more money than she could count. It all sounded thrilling to Penelope, an intoxicating mixture of freedom and indulgence.

  That didn’t mean she wouldn’t welcome something more. Every time she saw her sister exchange a glance with her new husband, Penelope felt a stab of envy. As shocking and delicious as Lady Constance’s adventures were, Abigail had done one better: she’d found a man who offered her not only passion but also companionship and love. Constance herself admitted her heart was untouched by any of her lovers, which seemed a little sad to Penelope—wild and wicked and thrilling, but in the end, more lonely than not.

  She gave herself a shake. Wanting more didn’t change the fact that she currently had none of those things. She wasn’t completely out of hope, but Penelope had never been good at waiting patiently. It would probably take another year or two before her mother accepted defeat and stopped making her brother, James, introduce her to gentlemen. She felt sorry for those men, who were always polite but also uninterested in her. She wished her brother would grow a spine and tell Mama that no one he knew wanted to court her, but failing that, she’d just have to wait it out. If Lady Constance kept writing, and Frances miraculously decided to reject Lord Atherton, she would probably be able to endure it.

  Chapter 4

  Of course, fate must have overheard her silent wish and set out to thwart it at the first opportunity. Not two days later, Frances Lockwood drew her aside at a Venetian breakfast.

  “I have tremendous news,” she began, her face glowing.

  Please don’t say Atherton, Penelope thought. “Indeed?”

  “It is the best sort!” She gripped Penelope’s hand. “Lord Atherton has spoken to my father!”

  Of course he had. Penelope kept smiling and said nothing.

  “He hasn’t proposed to me yet, but oh, Miss Weston—I can scarcely breathe, thinking of it! What shall I say to him? How shall I respond? Please tell me, I am in terrible fear of making a fool of myself!”

  She took her time replying. Olivia’s advice echoed in her mind: Just because you don’t care for him doesn’t mean she can’t. It was possible, she supposed, that Lord Atherton would fall deeply in love with Frances as he got to know her, as they lived together and spent time together and had a family together. She had to take a deep breath at the thought of him taking Frances to bed and making passionate love to her. “You must respond as your heart directs,” she settled for saying. “Do you care for the gentleman enough to spend the rest of your life with him?”

  Frances blinked, her perfect little mouth dropping open as if she’d never thought of anything past the wedding. “Oh. Oh my. Goodness, that does sound a bit daunting.”

  “That’s why you should be absolutely certain of your regard for him, and his for you, before you accept.”

  “Well, yes,” said Frances slowly, then more firmly. “Yes! I’ve never met a handsomer, more charming gentleman, I’m certain of it.”

  That wasn’t what I asked. Penelope bit it back. “If you’re sure of his love, too, then you should say yes.”

  Her friend’s forehead creased. “Why . . . I—I don’t quite know if he loves me.” She hesitated, then added as if to assure both of them, “But my mother says love is not paramount in such matches, and I should choose a man who is amiable and polite. Is that not sound advice, too?”

  Penelope racked her brain for a plausible reason to excuse herself and bolt from the room. She was having an increasingly difficult time holding her tongue. “Those are indeed very admirable qualities.”

  “But not the most important?” asked Frances anxiously. “Oh, I want to make the right decision!”

  Ask him why he wants to marry you. “I’m sure you will.”

  Frances was quiet for a moment, which was rare. “Yo
u don’t like him, do you?”

  She started. Why oh why couldn’t Frances have attracted any suitor other than Lord Arrogant Atherton? “What? Er . . . Whatever gives you that idea?”

  Frances bit her lip. “My other friends gasped with delight when I told them he’d spoken to Papa. None of them urged me to consider his affection for me. They assume it, if he intends to propose marriage.”

  “Never assume anything about Lord Atherton.” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Frances’s eyes rounded in shock, and Penelope could have smacked her own face. She rushed to repair the damage. “I mean, a lady should never assume anything about any man. Choosing a husband is the most important decision she can make . . .” Her voice trailed off and she wished she hadn’t spoken.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing,” muttered Penelope. She tried to smile. “Don’t pay me any attention, I might have a headache coming on . . .”

  “No! Please tell me.” Frances stared at her in worry. “This is the rest of my life at stake!”

  Penelope took one last agonizing look around for anyone who could save her. But this breakfast was filled with drawling lords and proud ladies who would never have invited her if not for Papa’s fortune, and even that couldn’t make them speak to her. Olivia wasn’t here, her mother was off sharing a gossip with some of the less snobbish matrons, and that left Penelope to her own devices—a situation that had rarely led to anything good, even when she was really trying to behave, as she was now.

  She said a quick prayer for tact. “If you don’t know his feelings for you, perhaps you should ask him. A man in love will have no hesitation in declaring himself.”

  “Declaring himself?”

  “Yes. You know, going down on one knee and swearing he couldn’t live without you, or some such thing.”

  Frances blinked. “Oh yes, I—I see. That would be very flattering and romantic . . . Is that what you expect?”

  “Absolutely,” said Penelope with relish. This was much safer conversational territory. She had never hidden her preference for romance and drama and grand gestures. “I want nothing less.” A faint smile crossed her face as she pictured her imaginary lover, passionate and devoted. “A man who would fight a duel for me. A man who would die for me. A man who has no hesitation telling me he loves me, desperately and passionately, every day of our marriage.”

  “That—that doesn’t sound like something most Englishmen would do,” protested Frances, her brow knit in worry.

  “Then they aren’t for me,” declared Penelope. “I shall have to wait for a foreign cavalier, or a dashing privateer. No milk-and-water man for me, I want a man of passion and action. A man who won’t leave me in doubt of his feelings, but who would sweep me away for an ardent kiss, and damn the consequences.”

  Frances seemed dazed. “Goodness . . .”

  Penelope calmed down from her fervent speech, and smiled at her friend. “Now you must see why I’m relegated to the spinsters. None of these English gentlemen have the dash and passion I prefer.”

  Her companion was quiet for a moment. “But how would you know such a man? Why, if a gentleman tried to sweep me away for a kiss, my mama would intervene. How can one find a passionate suitor when one always has a chaperone?”

  “I don’t know,” said Penelope, uninterested in such logical details, “but a determined man would find a way.”

  “Yes,” said her friend slowly, “yes, of course he would. A man in love would not be deterred.”

  “Nothing would stand in his way,” Penelope agreed.

  “A man in love would be overcome with passion at least once, wouldn’t he?”

  “I hope so,” she replied with a laugh. “Or it’s not a very exciting sort of love.”

  “Of course.” Frances’s face grew serious. For a moment she appeared deep in thought, then her expression cleared. “If Lord Atherton wants to marry me, he must love me, mustn’t he?”

  “Ah . . .” Too late Penelope realized she ought to have held her tongue. Still, she was only speaking the truth as she saw it. “He certainly should.”

  “And if he loves me, he should prove it,” went on Frances, more eagerly.

  Since Penelope thought it highly unlikely that Lord Atherton was in love with anyone except possibly himself, she didn’t say anything.

  “But he hasn’t.” The younger girl looked at her and demanded, “Should I tell him he must?”

  She coughed. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know . . . If you have to tell him to do it, how will you know it sprang from his true desires and not merely from the urge to please you?”

  For a moment Frances’s gaze grew sharp and probing. “Do you think he won’t want to?”

  Oh Lord. “I have no idea what Lord Atherton wants.”

  “But you are acquainted with him.”

  “Slightly,” Penelope stressed. “Very, very slightly, for a brief time. It was hardly a month! It’s somewhat shocking to me that he remembers me at all.” It was also somewhat annoying. Penelope certainly wished she could forget him. But Frances still looked troubled, and she didn’t want that. She could easily picture Mrs. Lockwood calling on her own mother to accuse Penelope of stirring up trouble in Frances’s betrothal, and there would be another friend lost.

  She took a deep breath and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Don’t let me divert you from what you feel in your heart. If he loves you, and you love him, that is what matters. If he loves you, he’ll have no difficulty confessing it. I expect that will lead to other proof of his love, and then you’ll know how you should answer his question.”

  “You really think so?”

  Penelope beamed, pleased that the other girl sounded relieved. All Frances needed to hear was a word or two of affection from Atherton, true or not, and she would be satisfied. Surely even he wasn’t such an idiot as to omit that entirely. “Of course! Oh—you must excuse me, my mother is looking for me.”

  “Thank you, Miss Weston,” said Frances fervently. “I’m ever so grateful.”

  “Just remember to trust your own heart,” Penelope said, “and never mind what other people say.”

  “I won’t,” Frances assured her. Penelope smiled once more and hurried away, never so glad in all her life to see her mother waiting for her.

  Chapter 5

  Every time he thought about her, Benedict Lennox reached the same conclusions: Frances Lockwood was sweet, pretty, and honest. She was young, granted—ten years younger than himself at least—but that was hardly a fault. They got on well together, and he doubted there would be much discord between them. She had good connections as well. In short, she met every criterion he had set for a bride.

  Furthermore, to his relief, she hadn’t mentioned Penelope again. Perhaps that was yet another sign that this courtship would be smoother than his last. He’d spoken to Mr. Lockwood and received a very gracious blessing. Mrs. Lockwood beamed every time she saw him, as did Frances herself. All the signs were encouraging.

  The only thing he didn’t know was why he was still hesitating. If anything, he ought to move quickly to settle the matter, but instead . . . He scanned the drawing room at yet another party, irate at himself. Instead of taking swift action to secure the bride he’d chosen, he was still stewing over Penelope Weston’s last words to him. A man should be consumed with passion for his wife! In what society? he quietly fumed. Certainly not this one. He watched Lord and Lady Rotherham enter the drawing room and immediately part ways, the viscount heading for the card room and his wife joining the Earl of Wilbur, who was widely known to be her lover. Both Rotherhams would enjoy their evening, even though they likely wouldn’t see each other again before morning. That was normal marriage, not some dramatic passion Penelope had read about in women’s novels.

  Not that he intended to be like Rotherham. Benedict wanted a wife he could respect
and like, and he didn’t want to be a cuckold. That was why Frances was perfect for him. There was enough affection between them to rule out troublesome complications like lovers and mistresses, but not enough to cause strife within their marriage. Passion was far from vital. It was all well and good for Penelope to talk of it with approval, she of the high spirits and exuberant temperament and daring sense of adventure; of course she would want passionate encounters and dramatic declarations. She would be the sort of wife who drove a man wild, who made love in carriages and on picnic blankets and on the dining room table and—

  He reined in his thoughts. It didn’t matter to him where Penelope would make love to her husband, who was likely to be a broken, if sated, man after a few years with her. That was none of his concern. Benedict forced himself to survey the room again. This time he saw Miss Lockwood, so he headed toward her.

  She was as pleased as ever to see him, and after a few minutes’ conversation he led her out on his arm. Their conversation was limited during the country dance, but when it was over and he asked if she would take a turn with him in the quieter corridor outside the drawing room, she eagerly agreed.

  “Thank you for walking out with me,” he said as they strolled, her hand nestled in the crook of his arm.

  The smile she flashed him was different than usual—more flirtatious, even coy. “I’m sure you had good reason for asking me.”

  “I did,” he agreed. It was time to cross the Rubicon. “A very special one.”

  Miss Lockwood seemed to lean a little closer on his arm. “Perhaps we should find a quieter place?”

  “Very well,” he said after a startled pause. It wasn’t like her to suggest that; usually she was very conscious of propriety and decorum. But then he had spoken to her father already, so perhaps her parents had given her permission to bend those rules. After all, he meant to propose, and although a quiet alcove would suffice, more privacy was always welcome. At the turn of the hall he tried a doorknob and showed her into a small music room, bathed in silvery light by the full moon hanging low over the neighboring rooftops. He left the door open, but she reached behind her and nudged it almost closed.