Penelope clamped her mouth shut and stared down at her hands. She couldn’t very well tell her sister that it was for her own peace of mind that she clung to her dislike. Abigail might decide that constituted permission to meddle.
As she was searching for a reply, the door opened to admit their mother. She was pale and held herself stiffly erect as she closed the door, very carefully, behind her. “Penelope,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “I have heard the most dreadful thing—your father just told me—did you . . . ?” She paused, visibly fighting for composure. “Did you behave as people are suggesting?”
It was all there in her mother’s face; Mama knew, and apparently Papa did, too. She was doomed. “No, ma’am,” she whispered anyway, shrinking into her chair.
Mama gave her a look of pure disbelief, although that faded quickly. With jerky steps she crossed the room and sank into a chair. “I am completely at a loss. I can tell by your face that you know exactly what I’m referring to.” Cowed, Penelope gave a tiny nod. Mama’s throat worked. “And yet you chose not to tell me.”
Never had Penelope felt such searing shame, or such regret that she’d put something off. She’d had no idea how to bring it up; she’d had no idea how to respond.
Abigail stepped into the charged silence. “We were just discussing how to deal with it, Mama—”
“When I want your advice, I will ask for it, Abigail,” said her mother icily. “This is about Penelope, and why she did nothing even though she knew there were rumors out there calling her the very loosest and immoral of women!”
“I didn’t know how to tell you, Mama,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“And so you said nothing?” Mama’s eyes flashed with wrath, and her voice rose with each word. “Not even a hint? Not even in confidence? How could you?” She shook her head. “You lied to me. A slip on the stair at the Gosnolds’ party. A turned ankle. I trusted you, Penelope, and I believed you. What a foolish thing!”
Her mouth was dry. “I didn’t want you to worry . . . I didn’t think anything would come of it . . .”
“And what do you think now?” snapped Mrs. Weston. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, raising her clasped hands to her chin. Penelope knew that look; it was the Praying for Patience look, and her mother was only driven to it in dire situations. A frisson of alarm went through her. That look meant the worst was yet to come.
And then it did. The door opened and her father stepped into the room, followed a moment later by Lord Atherton.
“Abigail,” said Papa. “I need to speak with your mother and sister.”
His tone brooked no argument, nor any reply at all. Her sister all but ran from the room, with only a brief sympathetic glance at her. Penelope got to her feet, feeling like Joan of Arc must have felt when she saw the bonfire prepared for her. Atherton was watching her far too closely for comfort. The fact that he was here at all was very bad.
Papa turned to her. “What were you thinking, child?”
Her father’s disappointment crushed whatever defiance she had left. Penelope adored her father, and the expression on his face was utterly disillusioned. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t know what would happen . . . I was going to tell you . . .”
“You might have guessed that it warranted telling me or your mother, in warning if nothing else!” He ran one hand over his face. “Not that it matters. The only question now is how to mitigate the disaster.”
Penelope avoided looking at Lord Atherton, though facing her parents was no better. “I’m thinking of running away to the West Indies.” At this moment, any far-off colony, even with tropical insects and cannibalistic natives, sounded inviting.
“Do not be smart with me!” warned her father. “Who started those malicious rumors?”
She couldn’t resist a shocked peek at the viscount. He hadn’t told. At her glance, he raised one brow slightly and cocked his head toward Papa, as if in invitation for her to denounce Clary. She hovered in horrible indecision; if she told Papa, it might save her. But then again, it might not. Clary had disdained her father. What if Papa called him out and they fought a duel and Clary killed him? Penelope pictured her mother, weeping brokenheartedly over her father’s body lying dead in the grass on Hampstead Heath, and bit down on her lip. Oh God. She’d made a thorough mess of this, and she couldn’t let her father suffer for it. “I can’t, Papa.”
“Yes, you can, and you will.”
Her mind was running feverishly. Maybe she could say something, if not quite the truth, that would let her slip free of the noose. She could say Clary had been drunk and accosted her in the hallway, and was now lying to cover his own rude behavior. She could say it was some other man whose face she never saw. She could even blame Frances and suggest it was done out of pique, just a fit of female jealousy—she gave her head a shake to dislodge that idea. Too late she realized there was no good explanation, and if Papa had brought Lord Atherton here, he knew it, too. “I don’t think it would do any good to tell you, Papa,” she said softly. “Even if he would retract it, the damage has been done.”
Her father exhaled and then slowly lowered himself into a chair next to her mother. He hung his head, and when Mama reached out her hand, he clasped it as if it would save him from drowning. Penelope looked away, painfully aware of how deeply she had disappointed both her parents, and caught sight of Atherton. He was watching Mama and Papa with an odd expression, but he must have felt her gaze on him; with a jerk he turned his head and met her eyes. She had the strangest sense that he was looking at her in a completely different light, almost as if he’d never seen her before.
“Mr. Weston,” he said. “May I have a word with Penelope?”
It was the first time he’d said her name. Penelope gulped and concentrated on her hands, wishing she hadn’t heard it. Then he made it worse by adding, “After all, this involves us most intimately.”
Papa nodded, and he and Mama left. The room seemed very small when it held just her and Lord Atherton. She wet her lips. “Yes, my lord?”
He sat down in the chair next to hers. “I’ve just had a very pointed conversation with your father. At the end of it, he offered me a choice, which really depends on you.”
“Which is?” Her heart lifted; a choice?
“He wants the name of the man who started the rumors.”
She bit her lip wretchedly. “I can’t tell him.” She couldn’t drag Olivia into it; whatever trouble her friend was in, drawing Papa’s fury onto her wouldn’t help. As it was, she was growing very alarmed for Olivia; if Clary would ruin Penelope this way, what would he do to Olivia? And then there was that horrible image of her father lying on Hampstead Heath, covered in blood, while Clary stood gloating over him, a smoking pistol in hand.
Atherton let out his breath as if he’d been expecting that. “Why not? Who are you protecting?”
She flinched. “No one.”
“Is it another man?” he pressed.
Penelope blushed. “No!”
His shoulders eased. “Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t marry me.”
“Except that I don’t want to!”
“My tender feelings are crushed,” he said dryly.
“Huh! We don’t even like each other,” she muttered.
“Not true, and you know it.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”
Her heart tried to jump into her throat for a moment. “Why?”
“Trust me a moment.” When she still didn’t move, he took hold of the arms of her chair and tugged, dragging it toward him until their knees touched. Penelope sat frozen in her seat as he leaned forward. “I don’t dislike you,” he said in that buttery-smooth voice. “On the contrary. From the moment we first met I thought you were enchanting.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, trying not to stare at the way his hair fell in dark waves over his brow. It was roman
tic and poetic and rakish. Damn him for being so attractive, especially close up.
“And we got on splendidly,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “At first.”
“First impressions are very unreliable.” One lock fell in a perfect curl right above his left eye. She wondered what it felt like, and then she squeezed her fingers into fists to punish them for wanting to know.
“Penelope,” he murmured, “we’re both in a very bad spot.” He lifted her hand, handling it as if it were fragile, and smoothed her fingers straight. He bent his head and brushed his lips over the pounding pulse in her wrist. “Fortunately we can save each other.”
She felt the room sway around her. Her heart seemed to be choking her. His breath was warm on her skin, and he kept her hand cradled against his cheek, where she could feel the faint scratch of stubble. Heaven help her, but something inside her thrilled at the contact. Her dislike of him had been the bulwark protecting her from her own wicked urges to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do scandalous things to her, and now he was dismantling that disapprobation, brick by brick. Soon she would be defenseless.
“I don’t think we should,” she said by way of one last effort, but her voice had lost its vigor and defiance, and become soft and almost regretful instead.
He tilted his head, peering up at her with those vivid blue eyes from beneath the rumpled waves of his hair. “I do.”
Penelope swallowed. He was still holding her hand, but barely; if she pulled, she would be free. Unfortunately she seemed unable to do anything remotely sensible when he touched her. She had never seen this side of him . . . because of course he’d never wanted to marry her before. The thought gave her a small burst of courage. “Is this how you proposed to all the other girls?”
“No,” he said. “But I think I did it all wrong before. There was something missing . . .” He eased his weight forward, sliding off the chair and onto one knee. Penelope knew what he was going to do—she even caught her breath as he leaned ever closer—and there wasn’t a single thing she could do to stop him. Indeed, some treacherous part of her seemed to burst into life at the prospect, until she had to grip the chair arm with her free hand to keep from reaching for him. His mesmerizing gaze never wavered from her; Penelope could only assume she was staring at him like a simpleton, unable to move or think or even breathe as his lips dipped toward hers.
She quaked at the first brush of his mouth. Like evil pixies unleashed from captivity, her thoughts spilled out in a tortured mess. How she’d imagined him falling in love with her the first time he sat in Mama’s drawing room and turned his dazzling smile on her. How she’d been so stupidly silly trying to get his attention during a barge expedition by tossing her hat overboard, and how he’d gallantly rescued it. How she’d dared him into taking her off to look for ghosts at Hampton Court, all the time hoping he might steal a kiss. How ecstatic she’d been when he sent her flowers . . . until she realized he’d also sent flowers to her mother and her sister. And even how jealous she’d been when he focused his attention on Abigail and gave everyone to understand that it was the kind, sensible Weston girl he wanted, not her.
Except . . . he wasn’t kissing Abigail now, or Frances Lockwood, or any other young lady. He was kissing her, his lips moving over hers lightly yet teasingly, until she barely realized that her own mouth had softened and responded. Apart from her hand, which he still held clasped in his own, he wasn’t touching her anywhere else, but Penelope felt nailed to her chair. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to move, to interrupt this breathtaking moment of unexpected tenderness.
“Marry me, Penelope,” he whispered, his mouth still brushing hers.
Her resistance was rapidly waning. “I don’t think I should,” she whispered back in honest apprehension.
“Nonsense. Trust how you feel,” he breathed, and his lips settled on hers. Penelope inhaled in surprise, and he touched her chin, nudging her lips apart and proving beyond all doubt that there was far more to kissing than she’d thought.
“Do you want me?” It was a weak basis for marriage, but she was trapped and she knew it. Any little comfort would be very welcome.
“I do.” He glanced at the door. “Enough to commit every last wickedly pleasurable act we’re accused of, right here on this sofa, if only your parents weren’t outside the door.”
Heat flooded her face, and not at the thought of her parents. If she married him, he’d make love to her. “What acts?”
His eyes glittered and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “Marry me and find out.”
She wavered and then gave in. It wasn’t as though she had much choice anyway. She nodded once.
A fierce grin crossed his face, and he leaned in and kissed her again, harder this time. “We’ll be good together.”
Penelope wasn’t so sure, but it was too late. Atherton was heading for the door to tell her parents. Even as she covertly—and unwillingly—admired the way his trousers fit as he walked, she worried that she’d made a terrible mistake. If he hadn’t kissed her—if he hadn’t managed to hit on her one great, inexplicable weakness, her attraction to him—would she still have given in? She smoothed her shaking hands on her skirt and tried to hide her anxiety. Once upon a time she had daydreamed of him kissing her and telling her he wanted her. And deep in her heart, she admitted it had been a lovely kiss, soft and seductive and far too short. She wanted him to kiss her again.
But now something her mother used to say echoed around her brain, with a particular sharpness this time: Be careful what you wish for, Penelope. You may get it.
Chapter 12
Within a few days the deed was done.
Mrs. Weston decreed it would be a small but exquisite ceremony. Abigail was still in London, but otherwise it was just Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Atherton, and her.
Not Atherton, Benedict. She was entitled to call him by name now.
Because he had been living in the officers’ quarters, Atherton had taken a suite of rooms in Mivart’s Hotel until they could locate a house. It was very near Grosvenor Square, but Penelope still found herself hesitating as the day wore on and her trunks were brought down, ready to go. Lizzie, her maid since she was twelve, would be going with her, and she left with the trunks to make everything ready at the hotel. That left nothing for it but to bid her parents and sister farewell, and let Atherton hand her into the carriage for the short ride to Mivart’s, which was accomplished in complete silence.
She was almost relieved when a few Guardsmen were on hand to greet them. Almost, because it was apparent they had already been drinking and were intent on bearing Atherton away for a few more rounds at the nearby tavern. With hardly a glance at her, he left with them as the porter showed her up to the suite.
The hotel was blessedly quiet. Penelope had never stayed in a hotel, so she walked through the rooms curiously. Lizzie had already unpacked her things and retired, so she had the suite to herself. There was a sitting room, with windows overlooking Brook Street. She peeked out, marveling at the view, so different from the elegant expanse of Grosvenor Square she’d seen from her bedchamber at home. Even at this late hour carriages were coming and going, and if she listened very carefully, she imagined she could hear the Guardsmen carrying on at the pub. That was certainly not like home.
Well. Home was not home now. She was no longer Miss Weston but Lady Atherton. The mere name made her cross her arms protectively over her chest. How the devil had she got herself into this mess? She didn’t look, but she knew the door to her right led to a bedroom. As hard as she tried not to, she couldn’t stop thinking of the myriad pleasures Lady Constance had written of. Would Atherton do any of that to her? Would he want to? And even more importantly, would he do it as well as Constance’s lovers?
Whatever her other failings, Penelope was a realist. She saw nothing wrong with trying to direct her own fate, but she didn’t see the point in crying over unhap
py circumstances; time spent crying would only be time spent not plotting how to improve her situation. And if any situation needed improvement, it was this one: married, till death parted them, to a man she didn’t much know, let alone love. A man, no less, who had wanted to marry first her sister and then her friend. A man who’d visibly lost his patience with her on more than one occasion. A man who’d nevertheless kissed her so persuasively, her sense had flown out the window and she’d somehow agreed to marry him, meaning she had no one to blame for this but herself.
For a moment she wondered why he’d been so determined to marry her. No mistake about it, he had wanted this marriage. She knew from eavesdropping on her parents that Papa had been reluctant to agree, because he didn’t think Atherton was a good match for her. Mama had disagreed, but Penelope had been more interested in her father’s words. He’d told Atherton there would be no wedding if Penelope didn’t agree to it. He’d told Atherton he would be watching carefully to see that Penelope was happy. It warmed her heart to know her father wanted her to be happy, but it also made her feel very small and selfish that she hadn’t gone to him earlier, before things went so terribly wrong.
No one to blame but herself.
Penelope took a deep breath, telling herself she also had no one to look to but herself for making her marriage happy. Atherton had wanted to marry her, for some as-yet undetermined reason, so he should be amenable. He’d looked at her bosom the night of the incident with undisguised interest. He wanted her. Despite valiant efforts not to, she wanted him—and now there was no reason to fight it. That was a start.
Love in the Time of Scandal Page 13