“I was bringing her to apologize for that, but now I see that I was wrong to make her reconsider.” Her gaze raked scornfully over Penelope. “I understand perfectly now why she gave you the answer she did. She must have seen what I did not: how very faithless you are!”
“That wasn’t the reason she gave earlier.” He turned a hard look on Frances, who blanched.
“Nevertheless . . .” Mrs. Lockwood gave her daughter a shake. “She did not suspect such scheming interference and betrayal from Miss Weston, who pretended to be her friend.”
Penelope wanted to strike the woman. She shook her head at Frances, pleading for understanding—surely Frances knew that wasn’t true—but it was too late. Frances pulled loose of her mother’s grasp as betrayal settled over her expression.
“No, Mama.” She glanced at Penelope. “I don’t believe Miss Weston schemed to get Lord Atherton for herself. She hates him.”
Oh Lord. The viscount turned to her, one brow slightly raised. Penelope blushed scarlet. Even if it helped her case, she would rather Frances hadn’t said that, not so soon after Atherton had been so unquestionably heroic to her. She wet her lips and avoided his eyes, praying she could talk her way out of this as skillfully as Abigail would. “This is all a terrible misunderstanding. I fell down the stairs, you see, and was quite disheveled as a result and Lord Atherton happened to discover me and he so kindly helped me to this room to repair myself. There’s really nothing else at all in it . . .”
Her voice trailed off as Frances pointedly looked from her tumbledown hair to her ripped gown to her bare foot. Penelope closed her mouth in humiliation. Combined with Atherton’s similar state—his hair rumpled and falling over his brow, his jacket unbuttoned—the appearances were very, very damning.
“No.” Now Frances sounded hurt and accusatory. “I don’t think I misunderstand, not anymore. All the time he was only pretending to court me but really he never wanted me at all—he wanted you.”
Mrs. Lockwood gasped loudly. Penelope’s eyes nearly popped from her head. “Atherton?” It was ludicrous—so ludicrous she gave a hysterical little laugh. “That’s absurd!”
“He always talks about you,” Frances went on bitterly. “‘Did Miss Weston tell you that?’ ‘What did Miss Weston say?’ ‘May I dance with Miss Weston?’”
“Is this true, sir?” demanded Mrs. Lockwood, her face almost purple.
“Of course it isn’t! It can’t be!” Penelope turned to the viscount in panic. “Tell them! For goodness’ sakes, you proposed marriage to Frances—”
“And was promptly told to go to the devil,” he replied. He hadn’t looked away from her since Frances blurted out that Penelope hated him—curse it, she knew she ought to have held her tongue around Frances—and it was starting to unnerve her. Why wasn’t he protesting? He most certainly did not want to marry her! He wanted to marry Frances, yet was just standing there watching the nightmare unfold with a curious, almost speculative expression.
And then it got worse. With two spots of color burning in her cheeks, Frances Lockwood drew herself up. “I refused you because you aren’t in love with me. You didn’t do anything a man in love would do.” She thrust an accusing finger at Penelope. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” retorted Penelope before she could think better of it.
Frances paled, then flushed a deep, sullen red. “That must be what you think I am. Telling me you hated Lord Atherton and then sneaking off with him the first moment you can!”
Mrs. Lockwood swept her daughter into her arms and turned a venomous look on Lord Atherton. “Well! I must say, I quite understand my daughter’s actions now!” Her glare moved to Penelope. “And as for you, miss, I knew all along you were a bad influence. Low breeding always shows itself in the end, I say, and it certainly has in this case.”
“You’re wrong,” Penelope said once more, uselessly. “It’s not what it looks like . . .” She glanced at Lord Atherton, wishing he would do something to stop this, but he just raised his shoulder in a faint shrug, as if he had no idea what to say, either.
This time Mrs. Lockwood’s glance held some pity. “You never think the rules apply to you, do you, miss? Well, I assure you, they most certainly do.” She took her daughter’s arm in hers. “Come, Frances. Let us find more worthy companions.”
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. Hi
s 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.
Benedict 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
Penelope’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. Lockw
ood 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.
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