Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  Penelope was flabbergasted. They had been arguing, heatedly, just a few minutes ago. He’d raised his voice and told her off. Now it was as if the conversation never happened.

  “Is Lady George in?” he asked the servant who opened the door.

  “Yes, my lord.” The man held the door wide.

  He left them waiting in a small parlor. Benedict strolled to the window and appeared fascinated by whatever was outside. Penelope fidgeted with a button on her glove, not sure what to say. Perhaps it was for the best that she keep quiet; everything she said today seemed to be wrong. Hadn’t Mama warned her that she must overcome her tendency to speak her mind, and become more sensitive to those around her? Abigail had told her Benedict’s father whipped him. Penelope had seen with her own eyes how cold and uncaring the earl was. It was hard to think of anyone choosing Lord Stratford over Sebastian, who was as decent and kind as the earl was not, but Lord Stratford was Benedict’s father. It was very easy for her to choose, but perhaps not for him—and she’d only thought of that too late. She slipped the button through its silk loop, then back again. She ought to join a convent, one with a vow of silence.

  After a few minutes the footman returned. “My lady asks you to join her in the dining room, my lord.”

  “Ah, the mural,” murmured Benedict as they followed the footman. He once again offered his arm, and Penelope, feeling like a very poor wife, took it. If he wanted to present a facade of marital contentment, so be it. “Samantha said Gray was threatening to paint one.”

  “Paint?”

  “He’s an artist; quite a good one, I understand.”

  And so he was. When they reached the dining room, an incredible sight greeted them. One wall had been whitewashed, in jarring contrast to the rich red surrounding walls. A tall man with untidy dark hair was on a ladder, painting a goddess whose face bore a striking resemblance to Samantha’s. That lady herself came hurrying toward them.

  “You’ve come to me, when I should have come to you!” She threw her arms around Benedict, who returned her embrace, before turning to Penelope. “I do hope you can forgive me. I shall never let Benedict forget that he didn’t tell me of his own wedding!”

  Penelope smiled uneasily. “He didn’t tell you?” This was not the way she remembered Samantha. Three months ago, when they last met, Samantha had been quiet and sad, relating her terrible part in the disappearance of Stratford’s money and Sebastian’s father. Now she was like a new woman, her face flushed with happiness, her eyes bright, and there was no trace of fear or stiffness in her motions.

  “Not in time!” Samantha cried, swatting Benedict’s arm. “Gray, did you know Benedict was to marry?”

  “No,” said the man on the ladder without turning around.

  “It was a very small affair, and you were away from town.” Benedict spread his hands. “What was I to do?”

  Samantha gave him a reproving look. “You could have waited.” She turned back to Penelope. “I wish you great happiness. My brother needs a woman of firm mind, and I think you’ll be very good for him.”

  “Thank you,” said Penelope. “I hope to be.” That caught her husband’s attention; he raised his brows at her. Penelope ignored him. Did he think one argument would change her mind about such a fundamental thing?

  “Gray, do come down now and meet your new sister-in-law,” called Samantha. Her husband waved one hand, a paintbrush between his teeth, and she sighed. “He’ll stay up there all day. Shall we go to the salon?” She linked her arm with Penelope’s and led them to a private parlor. “Tell me about the wedding. Was it beautiful?”

  “Yes, lovely,” said Penelope.

  “I’m so glad.” Samantha beamed. “And have you taken a house yet? It’s time Ben left the officers’ barracks.”

  “Only this morning,” Benedict told her. “We were there just now, in Margaret Street.”

  “So near! We must have a dinner party. Elizabeth will want to come with Turley, of course. Would your sister wish to come?” she asked Penelope. “I do hope she is well, and Mr. Vane also.”

  Penelope, who had expected all of Benedict’s family to avoid any mention of the Vanes, was startled. She looked at her husband in mute appeal, but he said nothing, his expression politely pleasant and utterly opaque. “They’re both well, thank you,” she murmured.

  “I’m so glad to hear it!” Samantha gave them a sparkling smile, which died away after a moment. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong! Nothing,” scoffed her brother. “Do you accuse all visitors this way?”

  “Ben.” She sighed. “What have you done?”

  He looked at Penelope for a long, fraught moment. “I told her about Father.”

  “Oh dear.” Samantha’s voice dropped to a whisper and for a moment she went pale. “Is he— Has he—?”

  “He banned me from the house, so there’s no worry of that.” He summoned a smile again, bright and confident. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any refreshment, do you, Samantha?”

  “Of course.” With a worried expression she rang the bell and asked the servant to bring a tray. “Are you terribly shocked?”

  That was addressed, very hesitantly, to Penelope. “He sounds very exacting,” she replied cautiously.

  A fine shudder went through her hostess. “Yes.” There was a moment of awkward silence.

  Penelope began to resent her husband a little. Why did he only tell her about his father as they were walking up to his sister’s house? Didn’t he suspect she might need a chance to absorb what he’d said? Now she felt out of place and tongue-tied, and still smarted from the feeling that she had been callous and unthinking. On no account was she going to say anything that would upset Samantha, but then what did that leave for conversation?

  “I gather your parents are very different from mine,” she began, praying she wouldn’t make things worse. “In many, many ways. It’s one of my great failings to presume others might share my own feelings and perceptions, and I had made assumptions . . . But I shall endeavor not to act or speak thoughtlessly when I meet Lord and Lady Stratford again.”

  The siblings exchanged a glance Penelope couldn’t interpret. Samantha mustered a smile. “Yes, I believe our parents are very different from Mr. and Mrs. Weston. Still, I imagine our mother was delighted to hear Benedict has settled down at last.”

  Benedict relaxed. “Indeed she was! She wished us both great happiness, and begged me to bring you to call on her, my dear.”

  Since Penelope remembered the countess as a cool and distant woman, she was in no hurry.

  “Well.” Samantha visibly shook off her tension. “I must plan my dinner party for you. Not a large one, only dear friends and family, to celebrate your marriage. Do say you’ll allow it. I promise Gray will have completed his work on the wall by then and we won’t have to dine amid the paint pots.”

  “What do you say, Penelope?” asked Benedict. “Shall we indulge her?”

  “Indulge! Oh, you terrible man,” cried his sister. “You owe me this, Benedict!”

  Penelope met her husband’s eyes. He wore a teasing grin as he bantered with Samantha, but there was something more tentative in his gaze. What had he said when they arrived? Let’s go in and see one decent member of my family. Perhaps he’d told her about the earl deliberately, as if to temper the recounting of his father’s cruelty with the evidence of his sister’s kindness. “That’s very generous of you,” she said to Samantha.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Samantha assured her eagerly. “It will be our first party. Oh, what fun—I’ve long looked forward to having another sister!”

  “It must have been quite a surprise to learn of it,” said Penelope wryly.

  Her hostess laughed. “Of the best sort! I wish you every happiness, Penelope—I always thought Ben would make some girl a wonderful husband, and I’m so happy he chose someone I’m alrea
dy fond of.”

  Penelope smiled uneasily and murmured a vague thanks. She was burning to know more about Samantha and all the Lennoxes. What had Benedict been trying to say as they walked over here? Was his father truly a monster? She didn’t want to think her husband was a liar, but it was hard to reconcile the various aspects of his personality. He abandoned his friend out of loyalty to his father, but warned her the earl had no pity or kindness in him—not the sort of man to inspire blind loyalty. He claimed he’d acted to protect Samantha, but his sister hadn’t been beaten, and had even ended up married to a handsome man who clearly adored her—what had Benedict feared would happen to her? There had been a moment when Samantha had seemed genuinely alarmed at the mention of Lord Stratford, but then both she and Benedict went on as if nothing was wrong. Even now Samantha was chattering about the dinner party she planned to throw, when all Penelope could think was: What sort of family have I yoked myself to?

  Over the next fortnight, they settled into something resembling peace. Penelope didn’t argue with him anymore; she didn’t roll her eyes at anything he said. If anything, she became more reserved and compliant—just like the wife Benedict once thought he wanted—and instead of reassuring him that this marriage had been the right choice, it unnerved him. Why had he ever thought a sweet, pleasant companion would be enough? Instead he wanted the girl with the sharp wit who seduced him on the sofa, but that girl seemed to have closed herself away from him. It put him on guard, and as a result he and Penelope became almost two strangers, orbiting each other with uncertain watchfulness.

  Benedict felt a certain injustice in that. He had hoped it would improve things between them if she finally heard the whole story behind his history with Sebastian Vane. Penelope had clearly decided that he’d been callous and spiteful to Sebastian, who was Abigail’s husband now and must have told the Westons his version of the tale—a version which understandably did not reflect well on Benedict. He’d shrugged it off as none of her concern before, but now she was his wife and deserved to know his side. He had even imagined Penelope’s reaction when he told her: astonished, contrite, deeply sorry for the way she had blamed him for every travail in Sebastian’s life. He had probably spent a little too much time imagining her making amends for her previous scathing remarks. Instead she seemed skeptical at first, and then almost distant.

  He could guess why. Penelope didn’t believe him, or didn’t understand. Most boys were whipped for bad behavior from time to time; most fathers expected their sons’ loyalty. To the outside world, Lord Stratford presented an intelligent, urbane, and precisely controlled persona. He was renowned for his art collection and his impeccable eye for statuary, and publicly acclaimed for his patronage of rising artists. He could be ruthless in business, but that was generally admired as well. In public, he expected his wife and children to be the epitome of grace and charm, worthy of the illustrious Stratford name—and they didn’t dare act otherwise. Benedict doubted one person in one hundred would believe the truth. He was probably a fool to have hoped that his wife would be that one person.

  Still, he told himself it was not insurmountable. Very rightly, Penelope had no interest in meeting the earl, just as the earl had little interest in her. He ought to take that as a blessing from heaven and be content never to bring them together. Trying to explain his family only made her doubt him more, so the less said about Stratford, the better. It certainly wasn’t a subject that gave him any joy.

  They took up residence in their new house in Margaret Street. For a while he hoped it would revive the spirit of honesty that had surfaced during their viewing of the house. He recalled quite clearly a promise to show her how to make love against the wall, and he wanted to keep that promise, but once there was a large bed in the room, it seemed contrived, and Penelope never mentioned it. As long as they continued making love in the bed, he reasoned, he had nothing to complain about. In bed she never denied him, but she didn’t curl into his arms afterward. He began to wish she had never asked to ride him on the sofa, because now he knew what he was missing.

  As the days passed in this perfectly dull and respectable way, it began to gnaw at him. Every time she politely agreed to accompany him on a walk or a drive, he wondered what had happened to her spirit of adventure. What was the matter with her? He never struck her; he treated her with the utmost courtesy. He’d been initially relieved when she stopped asking uncomfortable questions, but then he began to miss the arguments . . . and the reconciliations . . . that ensued.

  When he caught her watching him one evening in the carriage, her expression somber and contemplative, his frustration boiled over. “What is it?”

  She blinked. Benedict realized he had spoken rather tersely, and tried to ameliorate his words. “What are you thinking, my dear?”

  She turned to look out the window. “Nothing much. I was attempting to puzzle you out.”

  He tensed. “What a poor use of your time! I’m not so great an enigma to cause you such consternation.”

  “Consternation!” She whipped around, the old fire sparkling in her eyes, and Benedict was shocked by the surge of anticipation in his chest. But then her ire faded. She turned her face back to the window. “If you insist, my lord.”

  He felt like an ass. Without thinking he covered her hand with his. “I spoke hastily. You looked quite grave, and I hope I don’t inspire such feelings.”

  His wife watched him from the corner of her eye, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Benedict,” she began, just as the carriage halted and a footman swept open the door.

  “Yes?” He held up a hand to stay the servant, his gaze fixed on his wife.

  “We’ve arrived,” she said, and he had no choice but to step down and lead her into the assembly rooms.

  For the first time in years he felt conscious of keeping a public face at odds with his feelings. As the Earl of Stratford’s son, he had been raised never to show any upset or fear; a viscount did not lose his temper or his poise in public. A viscount—heir to an earl—must be conscious of his surroundings at all times, to give a good account of himself. No one must ever suspect him of having any weakness or uncertainty, of being unprepared or unequal to any situation. For years he had played the part almost without effort. He wasn’t a hot-tempered man by nature, and people liked a charming fellow much better than an aloof one, or one who complained all the time. Benedict rather liked being liked, even when being agreeable took some effort—as it did tonight—but this evening he felt surly and restless, and uncaring of who noticed it.

  The assembly room held a more varied mixture of society than he was accustomed to. London society had thinned considerably as the weather grew colder, but those hardy souls who lived in town all year were determined to enjoy themselves. The parties were smaller, the crowds not as intimately acquainted. This didn’t seem to dim Penelope’s interest; on the contrary, she soon abandoned him to dance almost every set.

  Benedict didn’t share her inclination toward activity. He sipped a glass of cheap wine and broodingly watched his wife clasp hands with a man he didn’t know, and flash her wicked smile at him. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. It was that he wanted her to look that openly happy in his company. What did she expect him to do?

  Penelope’s partner turned her left, then right, their raised hands drawing them almost face-to-face. She wore a gown covered with gilt embroidery, and literally sparkled in the candlelight. The neckline hugged her bosom lovingly, and the skirt swung up to reveal tantalizing glimpses of her silk-clad ankles. He drank more wine. She’d dance with him if he asked her—she never said no—but she wouldn’t look at him that way.

  “She’s very beautiful,” said a female voice beside him.

  He glanced to his left and saw a rather plain woman, dressed in brown velvet, watching the dancers. He had no idea who she was. “I beg your pardon.”

  “The lady in the silk net gown with the gold embroide
ry. You’ve been watching her all evening.”

  “Yes.”

  She tilted her head closer. “She’s been watching you as well, although I suppose you know that. Is she your lover?”

  Benedict would have walked away except for the intriguing remark that Penelope had been watching him. Against his will he wanted to hear more. “She is my wife.”

  The lady gave him a sly smile. “Even better!” She turned back to the dancers. “Have you had a dreadful row, to avoid each other as you’re doing?”

  “No,” he said stiffly.

  “No?” She looked deeply disappointed. “What a pity. I was imagining all the ways a man and his lover—or even his wife—could mend a quarrel. Perhaps she spends too much; perhaps he has a mistress she’s just discovered. Perhaps—”

  “There was no quarrel,” he repeated testily. “And I don’t believe she’s looked twice at me all evening.”

  “Oh, but she has,” the woman almost purred, giving him a quick appraising glance, from the toes of his shoes to the top of his head. “No wonder, too. You’re a handsome one, sir.”

  He stared at her in affront and shock, but curiosity won out. “When has she been looking at me?”

  “Every time her partner turns the other way. A quick glance from under her eyelashes, nothing more. But I daresay she knows you’re speaking to me this moment.”

  Benedict turned his head to watch Penelope. Her attention seemed fixed on her partner; they joined hands once more and skipped lightly down the set as the other dancers clapped. Her cheeks were pink and her face was alive with excitement.

  “You’ll think it impertinent of me, but I believe she’s waiting for you,” murmured the woman beside him. “She’s trying to make you jealous.”

  “Jealous!” He was so astonished, he forgot to take umbrage. He glared at the back of Penelope’s partner’s head. The fellow was tall and fit, and he seemed very taken with Penelope. The conniving, seducing rogue.