Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “I have no idea,” said her husband, still laughing. “It seemed like a fine idea at the time.”

  “We’re both going to regret it in the morning,” she gasped, wiping at her eyes. “Brandy gives people terrible headaches . . .”

  “I’m sure it will,” he agreed, his voice low and amused, and then he kissed her.

  Chapter 13

  There was still a smile on her lips, and her brain seemed to have been scrambled—by the brandy, no doubt—and that was surely why Penelope kissed him back. This time his kiss was neither gentle nor soft; this time it was insistent and compelling, and somehow the feel of his tongue stroking hers sheared away all her inhibition. She pressed against him, clinging to his shoulders. His arm was around her waist, dragging her off her toes and into his kiss. Before she knew it her back was against the wall, her arms were around his neck, and he was kissing the side of her jaw as his hands roamed over her body with shocking assurance.

  “Don’t kiss me,” she whispered even as she tipped her head to let him do just that.

  “Only if you don’t kiss me.” His breath was hot on her skin.

  Penelope threaded her fingers through his hair, ostensibly to pull his head away, but she got distracted by the feel of his hair around her fingers. How many times had she wondered what it felt like, and now here she was, plowing both hands into the silky, coal-black strands as he sank to his knees, his head bent over her bosom. His hands slid around her ribs, right beneath her arms, arching her back while his thumbs stroked the sides of her breasts and his mouth whispered wicked things over the low-cut neckline of her gown. “You should stop,” she said weakly.

  He glanced up, eyes gleaming like lightning. “If you want that, you’ll have to say so with more conviction.” His thumbs traced maddening whorls over her skin. His hands slid, until he was nearly cupping both her breasts in his palms. As she stared at him, speechless from the brandy and the intense craving of her body finally slipping its leash, he hooked one thumb inside the neckline of her dress and tugged, just until her nipple popped free. Penelope’s whole body went rigid as he languidly touched his tongue to the pink pearl of flesh and then took it between his lips. Just the sight of his mouth on her breast was arousing, and when he began to suckle—

  She would have fallen over if not for his weight bearing her against the wall. She turned her head away and closed her eyes, unable to meet his glittering, knowing gaze as he made short work of her resistance. Not that anyone would suspect she was resisting; her hands were still tangled in his hair, and the word “no” had never crossed her lips. And really, what reason did she have to resist? She’d dreamt of a man—of this man—looking at her as if he would go mad without her. She’d wished he would kiss her. She’d wondered, with equal parts fascination and disgust, what it would be like to make love to him. Now it looked like she was about to get all three wishes at once, and really, what motivation was that to protest anything?

  Her gown loosened even more under the inexorable tugging of his thumb. Dimly she realized his other hand had gone behind her back and worked free the buttons. He released her nipple after one last strong pull, leaving it glistening and engorged, and Penelope seized the momentary respite. “Stop,” she gasped, shocked to realize that she was panting and her heart was racing. “For a moment. Benedict.”

  He raised his eyes, although his thumb continued rolling idly over her breast, sending little shocks through her nerves. “Yes?”

  What had she meant to say? It took her a moment to remember. Oh yes. “If you mean to make love to me, there are a few things you should know.”

  His lips quirked. “Such as?”

  Penelope forced her eyes up and away. She stared fiercely at the vase on the mantel, trying to keep her composure. “I don’t intend to sit quietly by while you take a mistress,” she announced. “If you didn’t want to be married to me and keep your vows, you should have taken advantage of my suggestion to avoid each other. Now you’ve lost your chance.”

  “So I have,” he murmured, not sounding at all upset. Penelope shuddered at the gust of his breath on her breast. “As long as your next decree isn’t that we shall sleep apart, I see no cause for concern.”

  “No?” Without thinking she met his gaze. There was something unsettling about the way he was watching her, without a smile or a grin, just a focused intensity that scrambled her thoughts. What had she been saying? “Well—good. I always expected to share a bed with my husband. I hope you know what you’re doing there.”

  Leisurely he peeled down her gaping gown and shift, exposing her other breast. “Indeed. I’ll do my best.”

  “I expect it to be pleasurable, you know,” she went on, her voice rising as his lips hovered tantalizingly close to that untouched nipple. “Wildly, passionately pleasurable.”

  “Based on what?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

  Penelope quaked at the first lazy stroke of his tongue. “I’ve read stories.”

  That seemed to amuse him. She felt him chuckle silently. “What every man longs to hear. But in that case, what are we waiting for?”

  She didn’t know. Her body was a writhing mass of taut nerves, all hungry for him. The prospect of the pleasures Lady Constance recounted—and the considerable amount of brandy she’d drunk—had dulled her worries about love for the moment. He was her husband. He didn’t love her, but Penelope could no longer deny that she wanted him. She wanted him to seize her in his arms and take her to bed and ravish her senseless. Hadn’t their marriage vows included something hinting at that? Perhaps it would be so good, so blissfully satisfying, she could forget about the rest, at least for a while.

  He rose to his feet, looming over her. “Tell me about these stories,” he said, turning her away from him and setting to work in earnest at her dress’s fastenings.

  A furious blush warmed her face, even though he couldn’t see it. “They’re about men of astonishing prowess.”

  “Oh?” He was amused again, she could tell. “And innocent maidens?” There was a swish of fabric as he untied the long sash around her bodice.

  “No, there’s no innocent maiden.” She let him push the sleeves down her arms. “One brazen lady.”

  “Intriguing. How brazen?” Her gown slid down to puddle at her feet, followed by her petticoats.

  Penelope thought of the issue where Constance had allowed her lover to bind her to the bed with ribbons. And the one where she’d tested the limits of a closed carriage. And the one where she’d brought two men to her bed at once, and the one where she’d given herself—blindfolded—to a stranger. Just thinking about them made her pulse pick up and her blood surge. Would Benedict do any of that? She imagined him tying her to the bed with silk ribbons and had to press her knees together to stay on her feet. “Very brazen,” she choked out.

  “Really,” he said in a speculative murmur. He was plucking at her stays’ lacing with both hands. Penelope shivered as it came loose. “What do you particularly like about these stories?”

  The fact that there was no shame. No blushing embarrassment or tears. Even though Constance took a different lover in each story, she was completely free with them. She had no horrible secret lodged in her breast, like Penelope did; she had no hidden longing for more from her companions. She never feared she would fall in love with any of them.

  But Penelope couldn’t say that to Benedict, who had married her without one word of love. He had wanted Abigail, who was kind and sensible—not like her. He had wanted Frances, who was sweet and anxious to please—not like her. He hadn’t wanted passionate love in his life. He was probably like the men Constance found, able to take any willing woman to bed and then walk away without a backward glance, while Penelope was realizing she might not be much like Constance at all. She wanted passion and excitement, certainly—but not without love.

  Still, there was no doubt that her body was responding to
his touch and the talk of all the ways Constance found pleasure in 50 Ways to Sin. She felt hot and restless and desperate to discover the truth of lovemaking.

  “The passion,” she whispered in belated answer to his query.

  He began pulling pins from her hair. She heard each one plink as it hit the polished wooden floor beside her. It had taken Lizzie an hour to perfect the arrangement of braids and curls, and it was coming down in a matter of minutes at his hands. “What do you mean?”

  She had no idea. “Desire,” she managed to reply. Now he was running his fingers through her hair, undoing all the plaits, and it made her want to arch her back in wordless pleasure. “A wild, desperate desire to throw off restraint and . . . and . . .”

  “I see,” he said when her voice failed her before she could name the wicked act. He coiled her unbound hair around one hand and tugged her head to one side. “I can do that.” And he pressed his mouth against the curve of her neck.

  Penelope sucked in her breath. Her skin seemed to come alive at his kiss; tendrils of sensation coursed, lightning-quick, through her nerves as his lips moved over her nape. His hands teased her waist before gliding up her ribs and shaping themselves to her breasts. Her shift felt coarse and thick now, a barrier between her skin and his, and her hands, braced against the wall, balled into fists as he kissed his way down her shoulder and played with her already swollen nipples until she found herself swaying in time with the strokes of his hands.

  “I am agog to know more about these stories,” he murmured. His tall, strong body pressed against her, his boots bracketed her feet. She was hemmed in, trapped in an infernally hot cocoon of sensation, and she only wanted more.

  “They’re wicked,” she whispered back.

  “Tell me,” he growled. His teeth nipped her earlobe, and Penelope shuddered. “What does this brazen lady do?”

  “It varies.” She gulped as his fingers ranged lower, over her belly. He was handling her body with a bold assurance that she thought she ought to protest, if only it hadn’t been setting her every nerve ablaze.

  “Does she ever touch herself?”

  Oh heavens yes. In one issue, a mystery man had blindfolded Constance and bade her touch herself all over while he watched. Penelope gave a weak nod.

  “Have you ever touched yourself?” Benedict whispered, his lips brushing the skin below her ear.

  She blushed scarlet. “What?”

  “Intimately.” His wayward hand nudged between her thighs. “Here.”

  There was no question about it: she was drunk. That was the only explanation for her response, which was a soft moan just before her knees—and the last of her resistance—gave out. He held her up easily, and his hand slid fully between her thighs and cupped her sex.

  He inhaled sharply, still nuzzling her ear. “Have you?” he asked again. “Have you brought yourself to climax?”

  “A—a few times . . .” She ought to be mortified that she’d just admitted that to him; she tensed a little in anticipation of him being shocked or displeased. But his fingers were circling, stroking between her legs, sparking feelings that were very different from the little shocks of pleasure her own fingers had wrought. She would be on the floor right now if he weren’t holding her against him. Her breasts felt swollen and sensitive, and the brandy must have vanquished her power of speech along with her legitimate worries that this was a bad idea.

  Instead he gave a low growl of satisfaction. “Excellent. I like a woman unafraid of pleasure.”

  A riot of images streamed through her mind. Of herself, naked as the day she was born; of him, also naked. Of his face, taut with hunger—for her. Of him touching her, everywhere—with his hands, with his mouth, with his naked body. Of him driving himself inside her until they both expired in ecstasy.

  No, she wasn’t afraid—at least not of pleasure. She forced all her other fears into a dark corner of her mind and closed a door on them. Tomorrow she would sort through her tangled new circumstances; tonight she wanted euphoria, bliss, mindless desire. She threw back her head, arching her spine to press against the marvelous feel of his fingers on her breast, and gave herself over to the sensations surging through her.

  Her shift loosened; he had pulled loose the ribbon at the neckline. Penelope blushed again as he tugged it down until it puddled on the floor around her feet. “That’s better,” he murmured, running his hands over her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, her hips. Two more quick tugs and her pantalets came off as well. She was naked except for her stockings. “Come here, wife,” he said once more, swinging her into his arms in one quick motion.

  Disoriented, she curled her arms over her chest. The facings on his regimental coat scraped her, and she squirmed. “Aren’t you going to take off your clothes?”

  “As quickly as possible,” he assured her as he dropped her on the bed. Penelope pushed herself up and watched in avid interest as he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. His shirt came over his head and her eyes grew round. No wonder Mama had never wanted her to see the statues at the museum. Without taking his eyes from her face, her new husband yanked off his boots and unbuttoned his trousers, shoved everything down and kicked it away.

  And then she stared. She had read so many descriptions of a man’s privy parts, but nothing compared to seeing them. And even though Constance wrote approvingly of men who were amply equipped, Penelope suddenly wasn’t sure she agreed. His erection was quite a bit larger than she’d expected, and when one thought about where it was meant to fit—

  “Alarmed?”

  She jumped at his question, and made a face. “I was merely trying to judge it objectively.”

  “Were you?” He took her hand and brought it to his lips, which were shaped into a sinful half smile. To her astonishment, he licked her palm, once, twice, then each finger. It felt wicked and debauched, his tongue on her skin, and she could only stare in dazed fascination as he sucked one fingertip between his lips for a moment. Then he carried her hand lower, lower, and wrapped her fingers around his rigid member, his own hand closing over hers to keep it in place.

  Penelope inhaled a strangled breath. He was thick and hot; his skin was as soft and smooth as silk. Leisurely he slid her hand down the length, right to the black hair that grew at his groin, then back up. Then he repeated the motion, his fingers tightening around hers. She felt his blood surge and his flesh quicken beneath her palm, and when a fine shudder went through his body, she instinctively smiled in female satisfaction.

  “Impressed?” he rasped, stroking himself yet again with their combined grip.

  She barely heard him, but managed to nod. Her skin seemed to burn where he touched her and shiver like frost where he didn’t. There was a relentless, maddening throbbing between her legs, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his erection.

  “Good,” he muttered. He released her hand and pushed her shoulders. Startled, Penelope lost her balance and sprawled on the bed. Her knees came up as she tried to catch herself, but Benedict didn’t seem to mind. He pushed her thighs apart, hiking one of her knees a little higher around his waist as he did so, and then he settled the head of his cock against her and pushed.

  She flinched at the invasion. Now he felt very thick and very hard, and some of the restless throbbing inside her faded. She tried to lever herself up but he put his hand, fingers spread, on the middle of her chest and held her down. “It will be easier this way,” he said, his voice ragged. Dark hair fell over his face as he loomed over her, holding her in place, forcing himself into her. Penelope gasped and wriggled as the stinging stretch grew uncomfortable. He paused for a moment, even pulled back a bit to her relief, but then he pushed forward harder than ever. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, furious with herself for being disappointed and furious at him for hurting her. He noticed; his jaw clenched and his grip on her thigh grew almost painful. He pulled back again, then drove forward so fiercely s
he did let out a little cry.

  “That’s it,” he said, sounding as if he was holding his breath. His head sank and for a moment he just held her hips, refusing to let her wriggle away. “That’s the end of the pain.” He opened his eyes, and they seemed to blaze like blue fire. “Now it’s only pleasure, from here on.” And he laid his hand on her heaving belly and dipped his thumb into the blond curls below.

  If she had thought it felt intense before when he touched her, it was nothing to this. Her body, smarting from being stretched to accommodate his, was raw and defenseless. He touched her and she shivered; he stroked her and her limbs spasmed. She writhed without thought, exquisitely conscious of him inside her, slipping in and out just a little with every movement she made. After a moment she realized he was also rocking back and forth, magnifying the advance and withdrawal. And a moment after that, she realized each thrust seemed to feed something inside her, like a clock spring being wound tighter and tighter. She focused on his face, and discovered with a mild shock that he was watching her, his attention unwavering.

  “You like this,” he said, his voice a rough rumble.

  She could only nod once. A dark, dangerous smile crossed his lips, and the strokes of his hips grew longer, slower, harder. His thumb still played lightly over the aching nub of flesh. He bent over her and cupped one breast, teasing her nipple with his tongue. Penelope gripped his shoulders, trying to anchor herself as the bed ropes creaked beneath their coupling. He overwhelmed her, above her, inside her, across every inch of her skin. The delicate strokes of his thumb grew firmer and more demanding. Heat seemed to be rolling through her in waves, each one stronger than the last—

  And then they broke. She shook and let out a gasping moan as her body convulsed, far more powerfully than it ever had alone in her spinster’s bed. Benedict said something under his breath—it almost sounded like a curse—and pushed himself impossibly deep inside her before dropping his head right onto her bosom and shuddering.