Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  He gave her a curious glance, but she just tipped her head to one side and waited, beaming back at him. Benedict shook off his hesitation; if she meant to refuse him, she wouldn’t have closeted them. It was a good sign. He reached for her hand. “Miss Lockwood, it’s been a very great pleasure becoming acquainted with you.”

  “I have also enjoyed your company, my lord.”

  “We get on well together, don’t we?” He eased a step nearer. “And share so many interests.”

  She leaned toward him almost playfully. “Are you mad for me?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Benedict frowned in bemusement. “I am deeply fond of you and expect we will only grow closer as time goes on. I believe we would be happy together, and I very much hope you agree.”

  “But now,” she said, a little insistently. “At this moment, are you madly in love with me? Would you fight a duel over me? Would you die for me?”

  “Die for you,” he repeated in disbelief. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I want to marry a man who adores me,” she exclaimed, clasping both hands to her heart. “A man who declares his undying love for me every day!”

  Suddenly he knew what had happened. “Did Miss Weston tell you to say that?” he asked, thin-lipped.

  “Do you love me?” she boldly demanded. “If you do, you should have no trouble saying so!”

  “That interfering little baggage,” he said under his breath. “Miss Lockwood, this is not what I expected from you—”

  “Perhaps this is how I really am.” She put her hands on his chest and stepped closer, thrusting her face up almost accusingly. “You’ve never even tried to kiss me. Don’t you want to?”

  He wanted to wring Penelope’s lovely neck. Benedict’s temper strained at the seams. How dare she instill her extravagant romantic notions into a proper young lady’s head? Where was the sweet, anxious-to-please Frances Lockwood he’d decided to marry? If he wanted this bold, demanding sort of woman, why, he might as well marry Penelope herself.

  With jerky motions he took her hands in his and removed them from his chest. “Forgive me,” he said, controlling his voice with great effort. “Something seems to have come over you—”

  “I just want to know if you love me.” She pulled free and raised her chin. “I thought you must, because you spoke to my father. You led him to believe you want to marry me. If you want to marry me, you must care for me, and yet you won’t say it.”

  “What am I supposed to say?” he snapped. “What reply did Miss Weston tell you to demand?”

  Her expression became almost mulish. “This has nothing to do with her. Why are you always asking about her?”

  He shoved his hands through his hair. “Christ! She’s the last person I want to speak of!”

  “Your language, sir,” she gasped, but Benedict had had enough.

  “I cannot guess if this is your true self or if you’re just acting some part you think would amuse Penelope Weston, but I must tell you, it’s not very appealing. You want me to fight a duel over you? Over what? Do you expect to carry on with all sorts of men without even bothering to be discreet about it? Because that’s what drives men to duel, my dear—a faithless woman who doesn’t give a damn about the consequences of her actions. And if you intend to be that sort of woman, I most certainly will not be swearing my undying love to you, let alone risking my life for you.”

  Her blue eyes were perfectly round, glistening with shocked tears, and the plume in her hair quivered with her every breath. “You—you—you heartless monster. I don’t want to see you ever again!” She turned on her heel and stomped across the room with her hands in fists at her sides. The door crashed against the wall when she flung it open, and he listened to her footsteps patter rapidly down the hall.

  “Damn it!” Benedict stalked back and forth across the room. “God bloody damn it!” He slammed his fist into the wall, cursing again as pain jolted up his arm. He shook out his fingers and seethed.

  She was the devil. That was the only explanation. A golden-haired, blue-eyed devil with a siren’s smile, whose sole mission in life was to undermine his plans and then gloat over the smoking ruins of his hopes. He could just imagine her satisfied little smile when Frances Lockwood told her the news: he’d been rejected once more and lost yet another prospective bride. In honesty, he didn’t think Abigail Weston’s refusal had been Penelope’s doing, but there was no question that she had instigated Miss Lockwood’s little drama tonight. Would you die for me? Was that what women wanted these days? What the bloody blazes was the world coming to?

  Benedict flexed his aching fingers and told himself to think. So Frances Lockwood didn’t want to see him ever again. Perhaps that was a mercy. Even if she changed her mind, the damage was done; there was a side of her he’d never seen before, and he could only be glad she had revealed herself before it was too late. But it was incontrovertible that Penelope Weston had wrought some mischief, and he positively burned to confront her about it. If he didn’t, she might take it as a sign of cowardice or weakness. It was all too easy to imagine Penelope blithely telling every young lady of the ton that he was a coldhearted scoundrel whom everyone else had already refused to marry.

  “Damn,” he muttered once more. It wasn’t remotely true, but two rejected marriage proposals were bad enough, and rumors like that could dog a fellow for years—and he didn’t have years to spend on finding a bride. He really hadn’t thought it would take this long. England was full of ladies in search of a handsome nobleman to marry, and at least a few had plump dowries. It just appeared none of them wanted him.

  Unlike many of his mates, Benedict felt more than ready to marry. Not out of any poetical yearning for love or because he was eager to settle down, but because he was tired of being jerked back and forth by his father’s whimsy like a puppet on a string. The Earl of Stratford kept a tight rein on his family, controlling his wife and children through every means at his disposal. Benedict had managed some level of escape, but he was still tied to his father by the purse strings. More than once the earl had cut off his funds with no warning. More than once Benedict had had to go crawling back to beg for money, which was given only after a period of penance and some act of contrition. For years he’d endured it, but his father’s demands grew too punishing. Stratford had set him every objectionable task possible: sacking loyal servants of long standing, making unreasonable demands of solicitors and tradesmen, snubbing acquaintances who displeased the earl, bullying art dealers who didn’t meet the earl’s standards. Enough was enough.

  For a gentleman in Benedict’s position, though, independence wasn’t easy. He had no profession except soldiering, and that hardly paid well—if anything, it cost a great deal. He had no capital to invest, not even a small sum he could have used to take himself to America or the West Indies, where a man might start from nothing. He had no head for politics, no exceptional talent, nothing except his name and his face . . . which were both, to be blunt, very appealing to ladies. Obviously the answer was a wealthy bride.

  Unfortunately heiresses seemed to be in short supply this year. Even including scandalous widows and the daughters of merchants, he’d met only a few women who seemed tolerable. Benedict didn’t really want to exchange his father’s tyranny for a wife’s, but every woman of reason and property had half a dozen suitors already. When his sister wrote to him last spring that a wealthy man with two beautiful daughters had bought an estate near Stratford Court in Richmond, it seemed like a gift from heaven. A quick journey home proved him right. Abigail Weston was beautiful, kind, modest, and sensible. To his delight, they got on well together. He could envision a companionable life with her. For a few short weeks last summer, everything had seemed within his grasp.

  If only he had known that courting Abigail Weston would wind up being a colossal mistake. It certainly hadn’t appeared to be one at the time. No one had told him she wa
s secretly in love with another man. No one had warned him he’d lose her to Sebastian Vane, who had once been his dearest friend before his father had managed to ruin that, too.

  Losing Abigail’s hand hurt, and not merely for the sting of being found wanting next to Sebastian. In her, he thought he’d found the perfect solution: a wife he could care for and respect, with a fortune that would render him, finally and for all time, independent of his father. Instead he had been rejected, rather strongly, and then he’d had to endure his father’s contempt over his failure, because he must have cocked it up very badly if the lady preferred a man with a bad leg and a deranged parent.

  And to top it all off, it seemed he’d somehow earned Penelope Weston’s animosity, which apparently hadn’t faded in the slightest.

  The thought of Penelope revived his temper. That minx. Did she plan to bedevil him forever? No, he vowed at once; he couldn’t let her. He ignored the fact that his attempt at cordial reconciliation hadn’t gone well. This time she wouldn’t be left to gloat at his predicament without consequence. And so even though he knew he shouldn’t—even though he suspected no earthly good could possibly come of confronting her about her actions—he set off to find her.

  Chapter 6

  After some thought, Penelope decided it was better if she avoided Frances Lockwood’s company for a few days.

  Partly it was cowardice. She didn’t want to listen to raptures about Frances’s engagement to Lord Atherton, or her excited wedding plans, or long, dreamy odes on how very handsome he was. As much as she wanted Frances to be happy, she didn’t think she could bear to listen to her friend go on and on about how Atherton adored her or the way he kissed her. Just the thought made her feel like flinging herself off a balcony.

  But it was also partly discretion. She had a bad feeling she’d spoken too rashly, too recklessly at the Venetian breakfast. Penelope knew she was very fortunate to have parents who indulged—or at least tolerated—her dramatic tendencies and natural cheekiness. Frances was not as lucky, and if she followed Penelope’s lead, she could find herself in terrible trouble. Therefore, avoiding Frances wasn’t merely for her own sake, to avoid hearing Atherton’s name, but for Frances’s sake as well.

  When they reached the Gosnold rout, she stuck by her mother instead of seizing the relative freedom she was afforded at parties to mingle with other young ladies. Her mother gave her a mildly surprised look, but took it in stride. Penelope stood at her mother’s side, a polite smile fixed on her face and feeling absolutely certain that her brain was slowly softening like butter left in the sun. Married ladies talked about nothing: Mrs. Archer shared a long anecdote about a vexing situation with a maid; Mrs. Heathcomb described, in minute detail, her new set of china; and Lady Danford couldn’t resist any opportunity to mention her daughter’s recent engagement to Baron Redmaine.

  She knew they talked about more exciting things when they were alone. After all, she’d started reading 50 Ways to Sin after overhearing a tantalizing bit of conversation among these same ladies. It had taken her a whole week of surreptitious searching to find her mother’s copy of the wicked story, which was even more risqué than she’d expected. For a few minutes she indulged in imagining what would happen if she asked them all what they’d thought of issue thirty-four, where Constance found her pleasure in a carriage.

  Thankfully, a familiar face caught her eye before she could give in to the dangerous urge. She leaned toward her mother. “Mama, I see Olivia over there. May I join her?” At her parent’s nod, she slipped through the crowd, keeping a careful distance from the dancers, who had recently included Lord Atherton with Frances Lockwood. Resolutely she kept her gaze away, focused on Olivia. It was a surprise to see her here, although a welcome one. Olivia wasn’t always invited to routs and balls, and Penelope suspected she didn’t even attend all the ones she was invited to. Abigail had once told her Olivia couldn’t afford the wardrobe for it, which was partly why the sisters made a point of buying small gifts for her. Mr. Weston could well afford the purchase of another bonnet or pair of gloves, and it enabled his daughters to see their friend more often.

  But there was something off about Olivia tonight. She stood alone near the doorway, and instead of wearing her usual warm smile and air of enjoyment, her face was pale and almost grim. Now that Penelope thought about it, she’d seen that look on Olivia’s face before, especially when she thought no one was watching her. Penelope frowned; what was wrong? Tonight Olivia seemed to be searching for someone. Her gaze was roving over the room, but then stopped. She gave a tiny nod before turning and slipping out of the room.

  Penelope craned her neck, trying to deduce at whom Olivia had nodded. There was a cluster of gentlemen in the general area, some of them frightfully handsome and rakish. Questions blossomed in her mind: Was Olivia having an affair? She started to smile in astonishment at this possibility, but then remembered her friend’s expression. That made her frown. Surely Olivia would have looked more pleased—even eager—if she was meeting one of those handsome rogues for a tryst. Still frowning, she followed her friend out of the drawing room.

  The Gosnold house was spacious and grand, with the staircase in a sweeping central hall. Penelope just caught sight of Olivia as she vanished down it. It took forever to descend against the flow of guests still arriving and going up. At the bottom Penelope turned left, but that only led toward the servants’ stair, so she went through the hall and down the opposite corridor.

  This part of the house wasn’t open for guests. It was quiet and rather dim away from the rout. Penelope hesitated, then heard a door open and close ahead somewhere. Curiosity and a trace of concern propelled her forward. She’d be careful; the last thing she wanted to do was interrupt something amorous, but her imagination was capable of supplying many more unpleasant possibilities. Someone could be blackmailing Olivia, or threatening her, or simply harassing her.

  At the door Penelope stopped to listen. A faint murmur of voices came through the wood, a man’s deeper voice and after a long pause a female voice. Penelope strained her ears. There was another silence, then a gasp . . . and then a sob. Her eyes grew round and she listened even harder, pressing her ear to the wood. “Please,” she made out Olivia saying. “Don’t make me do this . . .”

  Without hesitation Penelope grasped the doorknob and turned it.

  Olivia stood facing the door. The man behind her had one arm around her waist, and his other hand around her throat as he pressed his face to the side of her neck. When Penelope opened the door, the sudden burst of light made her friend turn away, but not before Penelope saw the anguish on her face. Any worry that she’d interrupted a romantic rendezvous vanished from her mind. She stepped boldly into the room.

  “Olivia,” she said brightly. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Olivia wrenched free and stumbled several steps forward. For a moment she just stood, visibly trembling, her hands pressed flat to her skirt. She kept her chin down, but not far enough to hide the red imprint of fingers on her neck. “Yes. Here I am.”

  The man who’d been holding Olivia slowly raised his head and glared at Penelope. With a shock of disgust, she recognized Simon, Lord Clary. He was only a viscount, but had excellent connections. His wife was a duke’s daughter, and his mother came from an illustrious naval family. He was widely regarded as a handsome man: black hair, expertly brushed around his high, pale forehead. Deep, dark eyes. A long, aristocratic nose. A mouth that looked carved from stone. He was aloof, mysterious, and always wore an expression that suggested he was faintly bored by everyone nearby. Some thought he was madly attractive. Privately, Penelope thought he looked like the devil. That was not the dark and dangerous air she found appealing. In fact, it was more like menace.

  “Mrs. Jennings was looking for you,” Penelope went on in the same obliviously cheery tone. “She was admiring the bonnet you wore the other day and I believe she meant
to ask where you got your trimmings.” It was all a lie, and Olivia would know that; neither of them knew anyone called Mrs. Jennings.

  Olivia glanced at Clary. Her face was dead white. “Thank you,” she said, very softly. Clary made a noise like a growl, and she leapt backward. Her eyes glittered, and Penelope realized it wasn’t anger or fear driving her friend, but hatred. Without another word Olivia whipped around and all but ran out the door, clutching her skirts.

  Penelope stared after her in amazement. What in blazes? She took a step after Olivia, but was brought up short when Lord Clary seized her arm.

  “You’re a forward wench,” he said quietly.

  “I’m not a wench, I’m a young lady,” she returned. “And I didn’t think it was forward to speak to one of my dearest friends, which Mrs. Townsend is.”

  “Mrs. Townsend was engaged in a private conversation—which you interrupted.”

  “Did I?” Penelope made her eyes very round and wide like a ninny. “Good heavens, sir, I had no idea! I’m dreadfully sorry.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Are you?” he murmured at last. “How sorry?”

  Not as sorry as I am to be still talking to you, she thought. “Profoundly sorry. In fact, I’m quite prostrate with shame and regret. I feel faint from it, in fact—oh dear, I may swoon! I’d better find my mother at once!” She tried to pull out of his grip, thinking it was time to retreat.

  “We wouldn’t want that.” Lord Clary reached past her to push the door closed. “You must sit down.” With an iron grip on her arm, he yanked her across the room to an armchair, spun her around, and shoved her into it. And as Penelope tried to catch her breath, he went down on one knee in front of her and braced his hands on the arms of the chair. “Did she bid you follow her into this room?”