Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Please do.”

  He tipped up her chin. Her eyes shone like aquamarines under her half-lowered eyelids. Benedict felt a burst of intense gratitude to Abigail Weston and Frances Lockwood. If either of them had accepted him, he wouldn’t have Penelope. Who else would have pushed him to confront his family’s facade of civility? She wasn’t cowed by the earl and didn’t buckle under his glare. Unburdened by a lifetime of his punishments, she called him a bully and highlighted his veiled insults. Benedict watched her fend off the earl’s sharp words as if they had no power over her—as in fact they didn’t—with some awe. No matter how many times he’d told himself his father had no sway over him anymore, he knew it wasn’t completely true. Stratford would always know his weaknesses, his points of pride, his vulnerabilities, and would never hesitate to exploit them.

  Benedict still didn’t want to go to Richmond tomorrow, but perhaps it was the better choice. Let Stratford—and his mother—see what kind of woman he’d married. Penelope’s indomitable spirit seemed to wear off a little on everyone who knew her; perhaps her example would be just the thing to embolden his mother and set his father back on his heels. If it went badly, they need never see his lordship again. Stratford knew that. His parting speech had touched on every point of independence. Benedict was a married man with an independent fortune and a wife who cared little for the aloof pride that Stratford prized. Together he and Penelope could chart their own course, and nothing the earl did could touch them.

  Or so he thought.

  Chapter 22

  In response to Benedict’s note accepting his invitation, the earl sent a terse reply with the dock and time of departure. Depending on the winds, they should arrive in time for dinner, which was served fashionably late at Stratford Court.

  Benedict advised Penelope to pack only enough for a few days’ stay and to dress warmly for the sail. It was a rather raw fall day, and as he stepped out of the carriage at the dock, he squinted up at the steely sky. It looked like rain. The stiff breeze would be good for the sails, not as pleasant for the passengers. There was a cabin aboard the yacht, handsomely appointed, but Stratford considered it a sign of weakness to go belowdecks. Benedict resigned himself to being cold and probably wet for the next few hours.

  That didn’t mean his wife had to be, though. He tucked her hand around his arm and dismissed the carriage. The servants were already en route to Richmond with the baggage. “Don’t let my father persuade you to stay on deck,” he told her. “It looks to be an unpleasant journey.”

  She was studying the yacht as they drew near it. It was a small craft, relatively speaking, but everything was of the finest quality. Diana gleamed in golden paint along the hull. “Does he always sail in such abominable weather?”

  “No, but once he makes his plans, he doesn’t like to change them.” He caught her looking at a nearby boat, lurching fore and aft on a gust of wind, and realized he’d made it sound dangerous. “This weather isn’t too rough to sail in. It just won’t be as agreeable as it would be on a fine sunny day.”

  “No doubt,” she murmured.

  Stratford appeared on the deck. Benedict raised one hand in acknowledgment. His father nodded once, then turned on his heel and walked toward the stern. Already regretting it, Benedict took Penelope’s hand in his and led her down the dock.

  “Punctual for a change” was the earl’s greeting when they had stepped aboard.

  “Atherton is always punctual,” said Penelope brightly. “How fortunate my father shares that virtue and raised his children to be prompt as well. It has made married life so much smoother.”

  Stratford’s sour gaze slewed toward him. Benedict just bowed his head, trying not to laugh at how his father must feel to be compared to Penelope’s father in any way.

  “I’ve not been on many yachts,” Penelope went on. “And none so fine as this one. Will you show me the finer points, my lord?”

  He wasn’t sure if his father would agree, but the earl must be in an exceptionally accommodating mood today. He offered his arm and gave her a frosty smile. “Of course.”

  Benedict fell in behind as Stratford led Penelope away, her gloved hand pale on his dark sleeve. No explanation for the earl’s sudden interest had presented itself, and slowly he began to imagine it might be nothing but raw curiosity. Perhaps Stratford had repented of banishing him, or perhaps he’d heard gossip from London. Perhaps pride had undercut his fury, and his interest was primarily in assuring himself that Penelope would be a fit countess. Not that Benedict much agreed with his father about what a countess should be, and he certainly didn’t intend to allow his father to impose his rigid ideas on Penelope, but if Stratford cared for anything, he cared for his name and title. Penelope was nothing like his mother—she wasn’t demure and retiring, or aloof and reserved, but undaunted. Adventurous. Valiant and bold. When the wind caught her bonnet and almost pulled it off, she merely put up one hand to hold it in place without a word of complaint. Stratford led them to a spot where they could watch the three-man crew work, raising the sails and maneuvering the yacht into the current. Penelope watched everything with undisguised interest, asking a few questions that demonstrated she had a little familiarity with racing. Once Benedict even caught a glimmer of respect in his father’s face as he answered her.

  When they were under way, Stratford left to supervise his helmsman. Benedict joined his wife at the rail near the prow, watching the city drift past. “I believe he likes you,” he said with some surprise.

  Her lips curved. “Because he hasn’t pitched me overboard yet?”

  “Because he answered your questions.”

  She caught a strand of hair the wind had whipped across her face and tucked it back into her bonnet. “I’ve been thinking about your father and why he’s so commanding. Perhaps what he most respects is strength. His children could not oppose him, but I’m not his child and he has no sway over me. By standing up to him—politely, of course—perhaps I’ve set him back enough to convince him to give up trying to browbeat me.”

  Benedict privately thought not; the earl still held Gray, the son of a wealthy, influential duke, in very low esteem, and he’d never forgiven Samantha for marrying him. But Penelope’s theory was more appealing, and for all he knew she was right. He never had truly understood his father. “If anyone could set him back, it would be you.”

  She gave him a rueful look. “Did you just call me a shrew, Lord Atherton?”

  “On the contrary, darling. I called you a woman of uncommon determination and self-possession.”

  “Hardheaded,” she said with a laugh.

  “In the best way,” he agreed.

  “Hmph.” She refused to look at him, but her eyes were shining and he was sure the pink in her cheeks wasn’t strictly due to the wind.

  Benedict glanced over his shoulder. His father stood behind the helm, watching with a critical eye. He edged a little closer to his wife. “There is one significant drawback to traveling on my father’s yacht instead of in our own carriage.”

  She must have heard the note in his voice. Her head tilted and she gave him one of her secretive little smiles, as if she were contemplating something very naughty. “What would that be?”

  “The lack of privacy.” He traced the stitching on her glove where she held the rail. “I read the most intriguing account of a carriage journey the other day . . .”

  Her lips parted. “Where did you read it?”

  “In my lady’s dressing room.” He let his fingers slide between hers for a moment. “I’ve no idea where that coach was going, but I daresay most of the trip’s pleasure was had en route.”

  “And you didn’t find it . . . alarming? Or shocking?”

  “Very shocking, but in the best way.” He lifted her hand to his lips, watching her blush deepen as she stared at him in fascination. “Did you find it shocking?”

  She ran her
tongue over her bottom lip. “No. In fact . . . I believe that was one of my favorite stories by the author.” Her pulse was rapid. “Have you any other knowledge of such a feat?”

  “Not direct knowledge.” He laid her hand back on the rail. “Yet.”

  “We’re not returning to London by yacht, are we?”

  “No,” he said before she even finished the question. It was too cold and wet for sailing, in his opinion. One journey would satisfy his father; he doubted they would even be invited for a second.

  “Well.” She tapped her foot against his, still smiling coyly. “Perhaps we shall test the author’s veracity.”

  If the earl hadn’t been only a few yards away, he would have kissed her. As it was, he felt a fiendish eagerness to reach Stratford Court. After the journey, they would need to retire, to change for dinner and repair their appearances. Benedict thought an extra hour or so to restore their good humor as well was more than justified. And if his father made any snide remarks about the future Earls of Stratford, Benedict would simply smile and think of another pleasurable way they might try to conceive those heirs.

  The sky grew darker. It began to rain, very lightly, as they passed the Bishop’s Palace at Fulham. Benedict turned up the collar of his coat, glad of an excuse to leave the deck. “Do you want to go into the cabin?”

  “Not yet.” She raised her face to the rain as if in bliss. “It’s more like mist than rain.”

  “It will still get us wet,” he reminded her.

  She only grinned. “And what is that to us? We’ll soon be warm and dry.”

  “You’re saying that because you don’t want to give any ground.”

  “True,” she admitted cheerfully. “But isn’t it also an adventure? How many times can one claim to have braved a storm on deck? I feel rather like an explorer, facing dangers and terrors in pursuit of the unknown.”

  He smiled. “If only there was something more exciting at the end of this trip.”

  “I shall meet your mother.” Penelope hesitated, pulling her cloak more securely around her. “I hope to make a good impression.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You will. When you first meet her, my father will be there. Don’t presume that is her natural manner. You must see her when he’s not nearby, to see the true lady of warmth and affection she is. She wants very much to like you, Penelope, and I know she will.”

  “I hope so.” She didn’t look entirely persuaded, but her fingers curled into his, and he felt a burst of warmth for her again.

  The rain pattered on, never heavy but stinging when driven by the wind. For a while they walked up and down the deck to keep warm, but eventually it grew too slippery and they retreated behind the helm, where there was some shelter from the wind.

  Stratford looked Penelope up and down. “You must want out of the weather, Lady Atherton. My man will have tea prepared in the cabin belowdecks.”

  Again Benedict was astonished. The cabin below was as finely appointed as the rest of the ship, and when Stratford went on longer sails, he took a complement of servants to provide all the luxuries of home. Benedict had just never heard—nor thought to hear—those comforts freely offered to anyone else. But Penelope only smiled. “It’s quite brisk out, my lord, but nothing to blunt my enjoyment of the trip.”

  The earl arched one brow. “Quite a redoubtable woman, I see, unlike most ladies.”

  Benedict heard his real meaning: unlike any lady. First Stratford all but dared her to come aboard, and now he slighted her for not dissolving into a plaintive mess at the discomfort aboard. But when Benedict glanced at his wife, he noted the sheen of rain on her skin and the dampness of her cloak. It was silly for Penelope to remain out here just to show the earl how much backbone she had. He leaned closer and murmured in her ear. “We’re nearly to the dock. There will be a bit of a drive to the house, so you might want to seize this opportunity for a quiet moment alone.”

  She met his gaze, then nodded. “You are so kind, my lord,” she said to the earl. “A cup of tea would be very refreshing.”

  Stratford bowed his head and swept out one arm. “The door at the bottom of the steps.” Benedict turned to go, too. His father would think him weak and womanish and he didn’t give a damn. “A moment, Benedict,” said his father. “I want a word.”

  He hesitated. Penelope stopped beside him, her hand on his arm. A gust of wind blew the rain directly at them, and he spoke without thinking. “Can it not wait?”

  Stratford raised one brow. He didn’t say a word.

  Benedict bit back a sigh. “Go get warm,” he murmured to Penelope, releasing her hand. She gave him a sympathetic smile, and then she turned and made her way across the deck.

  Penelope ducked her head and clung to the rail as she descended the short flight of stairs. The steps were wet, and the floor had a tendency to tilt suddenly beneath her feet as the yacht tacked from side to side, sailing upriver. A narrow passage opened at the bottom of the stairs, with a brass lantern swinging on a hook just barely above her head. The wood down here was polished to a glossy sheen; Benedict was right about his father sparing no expense, she thought as she headed for the carved door that must lead to the main cabin. But what a waste, to have such a craft and never invite others aboard. She thought of the barge her father had bought solely so her mother could plan parties on the river. Surely that was a better way to use one’s fortune. The Earl of Stratford might be immensely wealthy and noble, but she was sure her parents wouldn’t change places with him for anything.

  She let herself into the cabin and untied her cloak, hanging it on a hook by the door before stripping off her gloves. Benedict had told her to dress warmly, but the cloak hadn’t kept her pelisse dry, and she removed it as well. It was dim in here, despite the lanterns, but also quiet and dry, thanks to the small round stove bolted to the floor beside her. After the whistling wind upstairs and the incessant spray from the river, it felt like paradise. Penelope removed her bonnet and set the damp, heavy thing aside with a sigh of relief. No wonder Benedict had wanted to avoid this. Why had the earl insisted they go by river? It might be faster than carriage but it was also considerably less comfortable. She’d been determined to hold her own on deck, but now that she felt the warmth of the stove and didn’t have the rain in her face, she was grateful Benedict had urged her to go below.

  “There you are.”

  The unexpected voice from the shadows made her jump and give a little shriek. Then she wanted to shriek again as she whirled around and spied the speaker.

  Three quick thoughts flew through her mind. First, that she was going back on deck, even if a hurricane broke over them. Second, she wished there was a fireplace poker handy. And third—and most unsettling—this was why Lord Stratford had contrived to get them on his yacht. Far from relenting or softening in his attitude toward his heir, the earl had had something very nearly evil in mind.

  “I thought I’d have to come fetch you down. Stratford was bloody certain you wouldn’t last half an hour on deck, and now it’s been almost two hours I’ve been cooling my heels.” A chilling smile on his face, Lord Clary managed to slam the door before she could run through it. “Won’t you sit down, Lady Atherton?”

  Chapter 23

  “What a surprise,” she said, trying to recover her poise and not show how rattled she was. “No one warned me we’d see monsters on the journey.”

  He laughed. “Still very free with your tongue, I see.” His dark gaze slid over her. “And not such a virginal young lady anymore.”

  She glared daggers at him, retreating toward the stove. Her dress was wet, and since she’d unthinkingly donned a light-colored one, it was also more revealing than it should have been. “I am sure my husband, Lord Atherton, will be just as gratified as I am by your kind felicitations on our marriage.”

  “Will he?” Clary smirked. “He damned well owes the marriage to me, so perhaps he
will be.”

  “Oh dear!” She widened her eyes innocently. “Here I thought he owed it to my acceptance of his earnest proposal.”

  “If Atherton had half a thought to marry you before that night, he’s a bigger fool than I thought.” Again his eyes moved over her figure with rude speculation. “Unless you gave him what you refused to give me.”

  No, Penelope thought furiously, she was the fool. Benedict had known Stratford’s invitation was suspect, but she had said they should go. She hadn’t believed a father could be so heartless, so uncaring; surely there must have been some kernel of affection deep in his breast. Surely he must have wanted them to visit for a reason that might, possibly, have been considered generous or concerned. Now she knew better. It was possible Stratford had no idea what Clary had done to her, or that he’d started the gossip that led Benedict to marry her. But there could be no good reason for the earl to have manipulated them onto this yacht with Clary concealed belowdecks waiting to waylay her. “What do you want?”

  His mouth curled in derision. “So direct! Very well. Where is Olivia Townsend?”

  Penelope blinked. Olivia? Not for the first time she wished she knew what he wanted with Olivia, but it didn’t really matter. Under no circumstances would she tell him even if she did know. “She’s away from town.”

  “I know that.” He came closer. “Where?”

  “Far away, I believe.”

  Clary’s face darkened. “Don’t toy with me,” he warned in a soft voice. “I want something from her, very badly. When I want something badly, I get it.”

  “But she is a person, not a thing,” she replied politely. “You cannot have a person just because you want her. And if she has something you want, you can only make an offer for it in good faith and hope to strike a bargain.”

  His laugh was ugly. “Bargain for it? No, my lady, I don’t think so. Perhaps I wasn’t clear—it already belongs to me. She knows this, and yet she won’t give it to me. What would you call that? It sounds like stealing to me.”