She circled the room again, investigating every little luxury and convenience. Her opinion of hotels was vastly improved when she finished, but her husband still had not returned. The clock on the mantel indicated she’d been waiting an hour. What was he doing? she wondered in some irritation. It was his bloody wedding night.
That thought led to another, and Penelope realized she was a married woman. Married women could read whatever they wanted, and no mother would take it away or punish her. She all but ran into the bedroom and dug through her valise until she uncovered an issue of Ackermann’s Repository, which held between its pages not one but two issues of 50 Ways to Sin. Abigail had given her the missing thirty-third issue with a whispered assurance that it was a particularly delicious one. Penelope devoutly hoped so; the one with red silk ribbons had been mesmerizing. Perhaps she should leave it out where Atherton could find it . . . But before she could sit down to enjoy it, she heard the creak of the door in the sitting room. On instinct she stuffed the pamphlets back into her valise and crossed the room in time to see Atherton close the door by stumbling backward against it. His jacket was askew and his hair rumpled, and when he saw her, his mouth curved in a sly, predatory grin unlike his usual polished charm. “Good eve, lady wife,” he said, his voice rough with laughter.
She looked him up and down. “It seems as though you’ve enjoyed it thoroughly.”
“So far,” he agreed, shoving himself away from the door and ambling into the room. “Have you?”
Her brows lowered in pique. She’d been sitting here waiting for him while he was out drinking with his mates. The closer he came, the more she could smell the spirits. “Not as much as you, it appears.”
He laughed. “There were a few rounds of toasts. How was I to say no?” He pulled out a chair at the table and dropped heavily into it before taking a flask from his pocket. “Are you jealous?”
“Of drinking until I can’t walk a straight line?” Penelope sniffed. “No.”
He cocked his head and studied her. That roguish smile still lingered on his lips. “So what noble activity were you engaged in whilst waiting for me?”
“I was contemplating how on earth we’re going to make each other happy for the next several decades.” She looked pointedly at the flask hanging from his fingers. “Strong spirits will be required, obviously.”
“You think so?” With one booted foot he kicked another chair out from under the table. “Let’s have a drink, then.”
“Ladies don’t drink.”
He leaned back and picked up two glasses from the tray on the table behind him. He tipped his flask and poured a small amount in each glass. “Ladies don’t drink because they aren’t allowed by their proper and respectable mamas. You’re a married woman now. Have a drink with me.”
“Is it whiskey?” Penelope eyed the glasses in unwilling interest. Whatever he wanted her to do must be a bad idea, and yet . . .
“It’s an excellent French brandy.” His faint grin seemed to simmer with wicked intentions and hint that he wasn’t such a shallow prig. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
She hesitated a moment longer, then defiantly seated herself. “Not at all. I simply hate the smell of whiskey and wouldn’t drink it if you forced me to.”
He caught up his glass and raised it in the air with a grand sweeping motion. All his movements were loose and sweeping. “To our marriage,” he said, watching her with glittering eyes.
Penelope raised her glass. “If you insist.” She took a dainty sip. It was strong but smooth, and although it made her gasp and blink a few times, it felt warm and soft once it reached her belly.
The corner of her husband’s mouth crooked. He tossed back the entirety of his drink with one flick of his wrist, and poured more. He reached across the table and refilled her glass. “To our future.”
Better endured when foxed, she thought, but obediently took another sip. “Are you drunk?”
“A little,” he said without guilt. “Are you?”
She licked her lip for a stray drop of brandy. “Of course not.”
“Drink up, then.” He raised his glass and tossed down his liquor as before.
“Why should I get drunk?”
Atherton shrugged and tugged at his cravat. His jacket was hanging off one shoulder, and his waistcoat was already half undone. Penelope watched from under her eyelashes as he pulled the cravat free and threw it on the floor. His shirt flopped open at his neck, giving her a view of skin all the way down his throat. He looked rakish and dangerous, unlike his usual buttoned-up self. “You don’t have to get drunk. I thought you would relish the chance to live a little dangerously.”
Penelope took another sip. It went down very easily this time, silky smooth. She took another longer drink, until the glass was almost empty. “I had hoped for something more exciting than sitting in a hotel room drinking brandy.”
He draped one arm over the back of his chair and slouched elegantly. His eyes slid over her in blatant appraisal—and hunger. “What else have you got in mind?”
When her brother, James, got drunk, he would say anything. He often wouldn’t remember half of what he’d said the next day, but Penelope had learned a variety of very interesting and useful things when he was three sheets to the wind, things she was sure even her parents never knew. She’d learned that Millie the upstairs maid had been sent away to the country not for her lungs but because she’d been carrying George the stable hand’s baby, and that George had taken a beating from the head groom before being given a wage increase and allowed to marry Millie. She’d learned that James’s mate at university, Edward, had been sent down for lewd behavior—with a male porter. She’d learned that Mr. Wilford had been a suicide and not the victim of a housebreaker as publicly believed, and that Lady Barlow’s child, born after years of barren wedlock, was really the offspring of her husband’s valet.
How James knew some of that, Penelope couldn’t imagine, but it was all fascinating. Sadly her brother had given up most heavy drinking, at least when she was around, but it struck her that Atherton might be similar. This could be her chance to get truthful answers from him on questions that had tormented her for months.
“We could talk,” she suggested, pushing her glass back across the table. “Get to know each other.”
“We could get to know each other in other ways,” he replied with another searing glance at her bosom, but he tipped the flask over her glass again. “What should I know of my wife?”
She thought for a moment, sipping her brandy slowly. Lord Almighty, no wonder men drank it by the cask. Bloody lovely stuff. She felt bold and clever and fairly invincible. “You asked me once what you’d done to earn my dislike. I denied it but I doubt you believed me, particularly since I was lying.” That got his attention. His eyebrows went up, and the hand holding his glass paused in midair. Penelope shrugged. “I haven’t been able to work out in my mind how an honorable man would turn his back on a friend of many years’ standing and allow him to be condemned—even shunned—by everyone in town.” She cocked her head and kept her expression artless. “Why did you?”
Atherton finished his drink in one swallow. “I never intended that to happen. I never wished Sebastian ill.”
“But you accused him of scheming to run off with your sister,” she pointed out.
He let his head fall back, as if he’d faced this question a hundred times and was weary to death of it. “She disappeared in the middle of the night. She was deeply infatuated with him, and I knew he was very fond of her. There were few other places she could have gone in Richmond. It wasn’t unreasonable to think she had gone to Bastian.”
Bastian. Penelope had never heard that, not even from Abby; it must have been Sebastian’s childhood nickname, and it hinted at the depth of the friendship he’d betrayed. “So you went looking for her at his house. But why did you assume he’d seduced her into a
n elopement?”
He gave his flask a shake, and then held it out and closed one eye, squinting into its depths. “I was fairly crazed with fear when I went after her, and said things I didn’t really believe.”
“Crazed with fear?” she exclaimed in surprise. “Why?”
His eyes flashed at her, and she got the sudden sense that he wasn’t anywhere near as foxed as he seemed. Then his face eased and he thumped the flask down on the table before reaching behind him for the bottle on the sideboard. “She might have fallen into the river. She might have been set upon by highwaymen or kidnappers. She was only sixteen. I already admitted I was wrong, didn’t I?”
Penelope watched him pour a generous amount of brandy into his glass, then into hers. He was crazed with fear for Samantha, but he hadn’t gone to the river with a hook, he’d gone to Sebastian’s house. There was more to that than he was telling, but she let it go. “Then why didn’t you say anything to dissuade people from believing he murdered his father?”
He made a face. “What could I have said? I didn’t know where old Mr. Vane was. I never repeated the rumor and I never agreed with anyone who did.”
“But you never came to his defense, either, did you?” she couldn’t stop herself from replying.
Atherton’s eyes darkened, and his fingers tightened around his glass. Penelope tensed as well. “I was a young man,” he said after a moment. “Neither as sensible nor as noble as I ought to have been. I asked Sebastian’s pardon and he gave it. I never wanted him to be miserable or shunned, and I’m delighted he’s found happiness.” There was a definite note of warning in his voice.
Penelope heeded it—somewhat. There was still much more she wanted to know. She tilted her head and arched one brow. “Even though he got the girl you wanted to marry?”
He stared at her a moment, then gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Even though.”
“Were you very miserable when Abby rejected you?”
He sat back and shook his head, still wearing a humorless smile. “Must everything be a storm of passion and emotion with you?” He reached for his glass again. “I wouldn’t have asked her if I didn’t hope to be accepted.” He paused thoughtfully, glass raised, then added, “And the same went for Miss Lockwood, if that was your next query.” He tossed down the brandy.
Penelope’s face burned. “You didn’t love either of them.”
“No,” he readily agreed. “There are many reasons a man asks a woman to marry him. Love is only one possibility.”
She scowled, then quickly wiped it away. Her glass sat in front of her, untouched for some time, so she snatched it up and took a quick gulp, barely noticing the heat of the liquor this time. “But it’s a vital one. And you couldn’t even muster up a pretense of affection. That’s why my sister sent you packing, and that’s why Frances declared she never wanted to see you again, isn’t it?”
This time he looked irked. “Are we going to revisit every humiliation I’ve ever suffered at the hands of a woman? There was a tavern wench when I was at university who never would grant me a kiss . . .”
“Huh! I’m not surprised,” she muttered.
“And then there was a woman who bedeviled me for months,” he went on. “When we first met, she was charming and delightful, but she soon grew fickle. She’d dance with me one night, and then the next day look as though she’d like to skewer me with my own sword. Even though I tried to make amends—often for sins I hadn’t even committed—she said she’d rather I kept far, far away from her and told everyone I violently disliked her.” Penelope jerked up her head in shock. “I suppose I put paid to that suggestion this morning, though, eh?” he added with a suggestive wink.
She pressed her lips together. This had been a bad idea. He wasn’t as voluble a drunk as Jamie was, and his answers were only stoking her temper in spite of her efforts not to allow that. “You ought to have given it a try,” she said coolly. “It would have benefited us both.”
“But then we wouldn’t be here, savoring our wedding night together.”
“No, we could each be doing something far more pleasurable,” she snapped back. “Perhaps mucking out the stable stalls, or blacking grates. It would have spared us this pointless conversation at least.”
“Mucking out stables! Perish the thought.” With surprising speed he went from sprawled in his chair to leaning over the table toward her. “Very well.” He glared at her, rakishly dangerous with his dark hair falling over his brow and his blue eyes searing with intensity. “You ask why I courted your sister and Miss Lockwood. You really want to know why I paid them attention.”
Dimly Penelope thought there was a more strident warning there, but her blood was running. Her nerves were tingling, and she felt reckless and uncaring of what might come. “Yes, if you’re not too cowardly to admit it.”
“Cowardly?” He arched one brow. “Someday I’d like to know how your mind works. But if you want to know, you shall know. My sister recommended Abigail.”
That was utterly unexpected—and just as unsatisfying. “Your sister?” she repeated incredulously. “Samantha? You courted my sister because your sister took a fancy to her?”
Atherton poured more brandy, watching it slosh into the glasses. Some spilled on the table, but neither of them paid it any mind. “No, although Samantha’s good opinion means a great deal to me. She met your family and immediately wrote to me, saying she’d met the most delightful girl: sensible, kindhearted, independent without being wild, and lovely to look at.” He tilted the glass to his lips again as Penelope gaped at him in outraged shock. “Oh yes—the young lady had one more appealing attribute,” he added with a cynical twist to his lips. “An immense dowry.”
Penelope found her tongue. “The money? It was all about the money, not my sister or what she wanted, or even what you wanted? I could have forgiven it, you know, if you’d been bowled away with love for her, but I knew all along that had nothing to do with it—”
“Forgiven it?” His laugh was harsh. “You’ve never forgiven a single thing I’ve ever done.”
“Some of them don’t deserve to be forgiven,” she retorted, lurching to her feet. The room swayed dangerously around her, and she clutched the edge of the table to keep her balance. “I’m leaving, and I intend to tell my father to sue for repayment of my dowry—which was every bit as immense as Abby’s, as you would have known had you cared to ask.”
“I knew,” he said, watching her with glowing eyes. “Sit down.”
It struck Penelope like an arrow between the ribs. Her hands shook and her lungs seemed to have frozen. He knew. He knew it was just as profitable to marry her as it was to marry Abigail, and he’d still chosen Abigail. She was sure it wasn’t possible for one person to feel more humiliated and stupid than she did right now. “It makes me wonder what Samantha said about me,” she said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady.
Slowly her husband raised his eyes to hers. His head tipped to one side, casting his chiseled face into sharp relief in the firelight, and for a moment she thought he would roll right out of the chair, drunk as a lord. If he did, she intended to leave him in a heap on the floor.
“Vivacious,” he said softly. “She said you were spirited, intelligent, strong-willed, and beautiful.”
Penelope blinked, her slipping opinion of Samantha arrested. That didn’t sound terrible. “So why didn’t you want me?” The wretched words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them.
He shrugged. “Because I wanted a peaceful marriage. Because I didn’t want a wife who would bedevil me and torment me and turn me inside out. A sensible, pleasant, pretty girl with a dowry: those were my hopes.”
She swallowed. Why did it hurt so much that he didn’t think she was any of those things? She ought to be enraged that he’d labeled her sister so slightly, but instead she felt as though he’d slapped her. “I’m sorry you didn’t get what
you wanted.”
He looked up at her without moving. “Don’t be so sure of that. Come here.”
She recoiled. “Of course I won’t, Atherton.”
His moody gaze dropped to her mouth. “My name is Benedict. You should use it, Penelope. Now, come here.”
Again the sound of her name in his voice sent a little shiver of delight through her. “Don’t be ridiculous. We hardly know each other, marriage notwithstanding, and we both know you don’t care for me, nor I for you.”
“We have a lifetime for that to develop.” Without warning he turned his dazzling smile on her, the one that always made her feel weak in the knees. Although perhaps that was the brandy this time; she had drunk an awful lot of it, now that she looked at the bottle and saw how low the level of amber liquid was.
Penelope took a step backward, until she almost tripped on her chair and had to steady herself on it. The floor seemed to be tilted. “You must be very drunk if you think that. Good night, sir. I’m going to bed.” She turned toward the bedroom door, but the damned chair was in her way and she had some trouble getting around it.
“Come here, Penelope,” said her husband. She started when she realized he was right beside her; how had he done that? “You can barely walk.” He caught her as she wobbled precariously.
“I can walk!” She pushed at him, but that only sent her staggering away. He was much bigger and heavier and immovable, and she had to put one hand on the wall to brace herself.
“So I see.” He strolled after her, propping one hand above her head. “Not much used to brandy, are you?”
“Did you think I was?”
“No. I was astonished when you sat down and took a drink.”
She gaped at him. “Then why did you offer it, you rotten blighter?”
He burst out laughing. For some reason, so did she. That upset her equilibrium even more, and she ended up leaning against the wall, holding her sides as the laughter wouldn’t stop.
Love in the Time of Scandal Page 14