Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Is it working?” The woman’s voice had grown soft and almost gentle. “If it is, you ought to take her home and make wild, desperate love to her. That will show her you don’t really care for your mistress, and that you don’t care how much she spent on that gown because it makes you want to tear it off her. That’s what every woman craves, you know, at least every now and then. A man driven out of his mind with passion for her.”

  The thought set his blood simmering. “I haven’t got a mistress,” he bit out, “and I’ve no idea how much the gown cost.”

  “All the better.” She edged slightly closer, and without thinking he dipped his head. “She looks like a passionate one . . . I hope you’re able to fulfill her fancies. Ravish her, my good man.”

  “Madam.” He recoiled. “What cheek!”

  Her smile was a little caustic. “Because I can see what a woman craves? Very well. Go on with your brooding. Ride home with her in toplofty silence and stare at the ceiling all night in frustration, all because I spoke the indelicate truth.” She shrugged. “Be like every other stuffy man in England, and don’t be surprised when she does take a lover.”

  Benedict felt his very bones seethe with frustration and longing as she spoke, each word like the pricking of a dagger. Damn it, he didn’t want Penelope to take a lover. None of his visions of marriage had included that, even before he married a spirited, vivacious minx who seemed to be roasting him on a spit in the heat of his own desire. “My private life is none of your concern,” he said coldly. There was no response. When he turned his head and looked, the lady in brown velvet had disappeared. He frowned and scanned the room for her, but saw no trace. Who the devil was she, and why in God’s name was she wandering a public ballroom offering unwanted and unsettling advice? Who did she think she was?

  A thought struck him then. Could it be . . . ? This time he searched for her in earnest. He scraped his memory, trying to recall her exact appearance. Dark hair, though not too dark. Nondescript features, so ordinary he would be hard-pressed to describe them. Her dress was simple, neither luxurious nor shabby. But there was only one woman in London that audacious, and if she’d just advised him on his marriage . . . He strode across the floor almost before the music ended. Penelope was still thanking her partner when he took her hand. “Say farewell,” he murmured in her ear. “We’re going home.”

  She gaped in astonishment. “It’s not late at all!”

  He leaned close, pressing his cheek to her temple. “I never said we were going home to sleep.” And he flicked his tongue over her earlobe.

  Penelope jumped. Color flooded her face. She turned to her partner and gave him a dazzling smile. “It was a great pleasure dancing with you, Mr. Greene, but my husband and I must return home. Good night.”

  In the carriage he took the backward-facing seat, all the better to feast his eyes on her. Penelope flung the edges of her cloak open and crossed her legs, letting her slipper slide along the curve of his calf. “Why must we leave in such a hurry, Lord Atherton?”

  Curse that mysterious woman. Or maybe bless her. Benedict was so twisted up with wanting his wife, wanting her to want him, wanting her to like him, he couldn’t think of any elegant or polite way to put it. “I need to make love to you.”

  Penelope’s eyes widened. “Now?”

  “Yes, but I’m going to wait until we reach home.”

  Her eyes flitted from side to side, measuring the carriage. “Why?”

  His smile felt feral and hungry. “Because it will take much longer than the short journey home.”

  And Penelope only raised her brows and smiled her familiar, coy smile that only dug those little needles of lust deeper.

  When they reached home, he undressed to his shirt and trousers, then dismissed his valet. Through the door he could hear the murmur of Penelope’s voice talking to her maid. Benedict prowled the room restlessly. He felt vital and alert, as tense as a soldier on patrol at the front lines. Ravish her, whispered the unknown woman’s voice in his ear. He paused at the writing desk by the window and opened the top on impulse. Sure enough, there lay a copy of that wicked, wonderful pamphlet. He flipped it open and began to read. Penelope must favor this one, for she’d left it close at hand.

  And no wonder. God Almighty.

  Lady Constance—if that’s who the lady in brown velvet had been—was right. He really needed to ravish his wife.

  Chapter 19

  It was only through an act of great patience that Penelope didn’t tear off her dress and run naked into the bedroom.

  Lizzie chatted idly as she took away the lovely gilded gown, the one that cost the earth and which Penelope had worn in frustration tonight. She didn’t think the embroidery would dazzle Benedict, but she hoped the low, wide neckline would give him pause. For weeks now he’d retreated into an enigmatic manner that drove her mad. There was no complaint she could make about his behavior; he took her to parties, he danced with her, he made love to her, he dined with her. They even talked, about any topic but the thing that seemed to hang like a dark cloud over them. It was a small cloud, as these things went, but it was there and Penelope could never forget it. She’d called on Samantha twice now, and each time her sister-in-law had kept things determinedly cheery, as if she felt the same compunction as Benedict not to discuss their family.

  For a while Penelope had tried to convince herself that it didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business if the Earl of Stratford was a terrible father, or if he never wanted to see her. She didn’t want to rip open old wounds by asking. But it remained at the back of her mind that Benedict had something he wasn’t telling her, something that had played a vital role in his upbringing, and she couldn’t ignore the hurt that he wouldn’t tell her. It didn’t help that she had an active imagination, capable of filling in a multitude of terrors and horrors that might have beset him as a boy. She was sure the truth couldn’t possibly be that bad . . . and yet he wouldn’t tell her and acted as if she had no need to know. Perhaps it wasn’t an actual need, but she was dying of fearful curiosity. Sooner or later it would come out, as terrible secrets always did, and she would rather know and be prepared for it.

  But by far the saddest thing was that it threw up a wall between the two of them. She sensed a watchfulness in him, a wariness, even when they were alone in bed. There was none of that warmth and closeness that had enveloped them the night after their wedding, when he held her in his arms and kissed her so affectionately. That had ended when he accused her of seducing him on the sofa for money, but for those few precious moments, she’d thought she had the true Benedict, without his guard up or any scheme in mind.

  But perhaps tonight would change that. As soon as she was in her nightgown, Penelope sent Lizzie away and slipped into the bedroom.

  Her husband was standing at her writing desk, something in his hand. He looked up at her entrance, and her stomach leapt at the fire in his gaze. Then she registered what he held, and a tide of heat rolled through her.

  “You like this one, don’t you?”

  Penelope pressed her knees together as she remembered the wicked story in sharp detail. “Yes.”

  Benedict fingered the pages, then dropped it on the desk. “Take off your nightgown.”

  She blinked, but raised her hands and began pushing one button after another through its hole until the garment gaped open to her belly. His eyes followed every movement of her hands; even in the dim room she could see his face was taut with want. Boldly Penelope ran her fingertips along her collarbones, flicking the nightgown from her shoulders and letting it slide to the floor. He made a choked sound, but didn’t move. “And now?” she asked when he didn’t speak.

  He inhaled roughly. “Now undress me.”

  She had never walked around naked before, but she sauntered across the room as wantonly as Lady Constance might have done. Her husband’s gaze was fixed on her in hungry fascination, and sh
e’d never felt more beautiful, more powerful. Whatever had been wrong or missing in her marriage seemed to have receded from view. This was the way he’d looked when she settled herself astride him and caressed his cock with her hands before he taught her how to ride him. Penelope was ready for all that to happen again—only this time, she meant for things to end better.

  He had already shed his cravat, but she took her time undoing the buttons at the neck of his shirt. His skin felt scorching hot beneath the shirt as she pushed the braces off his shoulders. When she pulled the shirt free of his trousers, she could feel the thudding of his heart. But he didn’t move, except to duck his head when she tugged the shirt over his shoulders.

  She touched the fall of his trousers, strained by his obvious arousal. “All the way, my lord?” she whispered. His jaw flexed as he gave a single nod. A thrill of excitement ran through her, all the harder when he cupped one hand around her breast as she worked at the buttons.

  “Were you trying to make me jealous by dancing with other men tonight?”

  Penelope looked at him through her eyelashes. “Were you jealous?” She’d seen him watching her with a dark, stony look on his face, but until that last moment when he all but dragged her from the floor, her actions hadn’t seemed to affect him much.

  “Yes.” His thumb and forefinger curved around her breast and gave her nipple a firm pinch. “I’m always jealous when you smile at another man.”

  “Always?” The buttons were undone; she ran her hands around his hips beneath the trousers, dislodging them as she blatantly felt his arse. It brought her chest against his, and she tipped back her head to look him in the face. “What are you going to do about it?”

  His eyes darkened before a seductive smile curved his mouth. “I’m going to make love to you until my touch is branded on your skin and you never want another man’s hands on you. I want you enough for ten men.”

  “Really?” She pushed his trousers down, and fingered the tie of his smallclothes before pulling it loose. “Ten men?”

  He kicked aside his clothing, making no effort to hide his jutting arousal. “Hold out your hands.” Intrigued, Penelope did. He reached over and plucked something from the desk behind him and wrapped it around her wrists, binding them together. Her heart stuttered as she watched him wind the scarlet ribbon around and around before looping it between her hands to hold them tight. “Go to the bed.”

  The blood rushing in her ears, she went. At the bed she paused; it was a big one, and with her hands tied it would be awkward to climb up. But Benedict’s hands were at her waist. He lifted her, holding her against him for a moment before letting her down on the mattress. She started to scramble forward, but he threw the end of the ribbon over the top rail of the bed and pulled. Penelope forgot to breathe as he pulled until she was stretched up, bound hands raised to the ceiling. He let out a little slack, until her knees rested on the bed again, and then he knotted it, fixing her there.

  She held perfectly still, except for the jarring beat of her pulse. A polished silver vase stood on the table across from her, and she could see herself reflected in it. And then she saw Benedict, darker and larger, behind her.

  His hands brushed her waist. “I never wanted to want you,” he whispered next to her ear as his hands idly stroked up. “I knew you would be like a sickness I could never recover from.” At her elbows, he switched from fingertips to fingernails, and lightly scored down the tender undersides of her arms, over her shoulders, around her breast. Penelope writhed and twisted, shocked by the sensation.

  “And I was right.” His hands gentled again, flowing down over her belly and around her hips. He moved closer, and she felt his erection nudge between her thighs. Wordlessly she flexed her spine, and he pulled back, only to push forward again, his rigid flesh gliding over her feminine core. “You’re a fever in my blood, the lodestone of my madness. You dazzle me, you delight me, you infuriate me, and I only want more of you.” Leisurely, almost accidentally, his fingers drifted lower, passing through the curls that were already wet. “And I want you to want me the same way.” He swirled one finger around, and Penelope’s eyes rolled back in her head.

  “This—this is a good start,” she managed to gasp.

  “But only a start.” His hand withdrew from between her legs, leaving her throbbing with thwarted desire. “How does one enslave a woman? Shackles are worthless. The only way to keep her attention is to sate her—to fulfill her darkest desires—to leave her as fascinated, and as hungry for more, as I am.”

  She was leagues away from sated. “I do want you.”

  A low laugh made her ears burn. “I can tell.” Again his fingers slid between her legs, a light, passing stroke that made her pull against her bonds and whimper. “But this is no ordinary love affair. We are bound as one until death do us part, and there’s no reason to rush to hasty climaxes.”

  She bit back a plea for just one hasty climax. Even as it surprised her, this play enthralled her. What would he do? He was dark and almost intimidating now, running his hands over her body as if probing for her most sensitive spot. It was Benedict and yet not like himself, and Penelope could hardly see straight for the craving he inspired.

  She had told herself he must be scheming at something, that he never showed his true face to the world. Whatever he was playing at now—whether he meant anything he said about being dazzled and delighted by her—she was sure of two things: first, that he was as aroused as she was, and second, that he had found her great weakness and was ruthlessly exploiting it. Tied up, stretched and exposed, helpless to escape or return his sensual touch, she had never been more excited in her life. If this was to be the new way of things between them, she would never notice another man.

  “Spread your knees,” he murmured, sliding his hands down her inner thighs and helping her do as he commanded. “Lean forward.” Her shoulders ached as she did, and he reached up and adjusted the knot, giving her a few more inches of play. She barely managed to breathe a sigh of relief—for her shoulders—when he slid his other hand back up her thigh, delved into the intimate folds there, and began to stroke her, more boldly and forcefully than ever before.

  It was as if lightning struck her. Sparks seemed to crackle over her skin. The feeling threatened to swamp her, drown her, but she dimly heard her own voice, goading him on, and his guttural answers. The rail above her head creaked as her body undulated, almost independently of thought. Benedict raked one hand down her spine and she nearly sobbed in pleasure.

  His hand settled at the small of her waist, pressing down. She arched her back, holding her breath as he took his erection in hand and rubbed the blunt head against her, where his fingers had tormented her just a moment ago. Back and forth he moved, gliding over her slick flesh until she trembled with need.

  “I want you,” she repeated, her voice shaking.

  “Do you?” He pushed deep inside her. Penelope shuddered. He pulled out.

  “Yes,” she moaned as he resumed stroking that raw, tender spot.

  “Desperately?” He slid deep again.

  “Madly,” she choked.

  He stroked her for another minute, then took hold of her hips. “Then we’re equal.” And this time when he thrust into her, it was only the beginning. His strokes were long, hard, and wickedly deep. He held her hips, controlling the pace and denying her the rapid ride she wanted.

  Tears leaked down her face; she could hardly breathe. Everything inside her bore down, hard and tight and hot, on his increasingly urgent thrusts. Then suddenly he stopped, leaving her stranded on the precipice. He gripped her hip so hard his fingers trembled. His other hand reached back between her legs and touched her, and that delicate touch sprang the trap. Penelope gasped, then shook as release roared through her. In time with the pulse of her body, Benedict thrust again and again, hard and sure, his breath a feral grunt against her shoulder, until he put his head down on her ba
ck and growled in climax.

  She thought she would never move again. Vaguely she noticed that her arms had gone numb, but she didn’t care. Would that it could always be that way with them.

  He reached up to the knot, then hesitated. Gently, reverently, his hands slid once more the length of her body. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, almost wistfully. “So open and honest.” One arm closed around her waist and his forehead touched her shoulder. “I want to make you happy.” He pulled loose the knot and caught her as she sank down.

  She turned her head and laid her cheek against his temple. “I want us both to be happy. I just . . . I just feel we don’t understand each other.”

  He gave a sad laugh. “I fear not. But I don’t know how to fix that.”

  Penelope felt like she was glowing. No doubt the pleasure still lingering in her veins made her reckless, but she ignored the little voice that had been hissing in her ear for the last few weeks, sowing insidious doubts about him and their future together. “Just talk to me,” she said softly. “I want to know you, and you to know me. Not just which carpet to lay in the drawing room, but what you really feel. Between us there need be no secrets, no shame. I warrant I have enough faults of my own to balance any of yours, and if I cannot trust you with my deepest, darkest thoughts, whom can I trust?”

  He didn’t answer for a moment. She felt his breathing on her skin and wondered if again she’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps he didn’t care for that sort of marriage; perhaps he wanted too much to keep his own secrets.

  “If you feel differently, I wish you would just tell me,” she went on. Better to get it all out now while she felt bravely rash. “I have tried to hew to the model of discretion and civility you seem to embrace, but I cannot keep it up. I don’t want to demand something you aren’t willing to give me, but—”

  He squeezed her. “Don’t say you’ll turn to someone else. I don’t want that.”

  “I don’t, either,” she whispered. “But it’s killing me to live as strangers.”