Love in the Time of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Shh,” crooned Abigail. She’d cut off both boots during Penelope’s increasingly hysterical outburst. “You can walk, just a few more steps. Fortunately Mrs. Jones had already prepared a hot bath, and we’re going to soak you in it until you look like a poached egg.” She helped Penelope sit up, now wearing only her shift, and with her housekeeper’s help they got Penelope into the bath. The water felt scalding, and she wept even harder as her feet and legs prickled painfully. Abigail folded a warm towel around her shoulders and pushed her down until her chest and arms were submerged.

  Gradually her shivers began to ease, and with them her racking sobs. She rested her head against her sister’s shoulder, weary beyond words.

  “Tell me again,” whispered Abigail, stroking her hair. “Who pushed you?”

  “Lord Clary.” Olivia would have to understand. Penelope was never keeping another secret again. “He’s been threatening Olivia. She told me she had a plan to escape whatever hold he has over her, but then she left London and Clary wants to find her. And—and he told me Lord Stratford also wants to know.” Her voice shook. “I don’t know what they want from her, but I fear she’s in danger—”

  Abigail shushed her. “Don’t worry about Olivia now. So Clary pushed you off the boat—are you sure it was deliberate?”

  She nodded. He’d looked her right in the face as he did it, and she would never forget his expression.

  “Did he also push Benedict? I cannot believe Lord Stratford would permit such a thing.”

  “I don’t know.” She blinked back a few more tears. “But he saved my life, Abigail. I never would have made it without him.”

  Her sister smiled. “I told you he was a better man than you credited him.”

  She stared at the flickering flames. He was. Yet another thing she’d been very wrong about. “I know. I . . . I love him, Abby. And I’ve wished he would fall in love with me almost since the first moment I saw him. I wanted to hate him for what he did to Sebastian, but even then I wanted him. And now—now I understand why he acted as he did. With that monster for a father, how could he have done anything else? And that makes me a terrible person for assuming I knew better than he did how he should have behaved, and how could he ever love me after the things I said to him?”

  Abigail handed her a handkerchief as Penelope began sniffling. “I think you’re too hard on yourself.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps.” But she feared she had finally been truly honest.

  After a long soak and two cups of hot tea, Abigail helped her out of the tub and into a thick nightgown. She combed Penelope’s hair and put her to bed, waving aside Penelope’s protest upon realizing it was Abigail’s own bed.

  “Mama gave me the furniture from my room at Hart House so we have plenty of beds now.” She tucked the blankets securely around Penelope. “Sebastian and I will be down the hall.” She banked the fire and tidied the room, pausing at the door. “Shall I make up another bed for Benedict?”

  “No,” she said at once. She could only hope he would want to come to her, once he’d recovered from being nearly drowned, thanks to her.

  The door opened sometime later, startling her from a restless sleep. She’d been fighting to keep her eyes open, hoping he would come. “Ben,” she mumbled, trying to push herself up even though her body felt like it had been turned to lead.

  “Yes.” He eased beneath the covers, curling himself around her body. His lips brushed her neck. “I’m here.”

  She went limp again. “Thank goodness. I was so afraid . . .”

  “I had a moment or two of alarm myself.” He kissed her again before drawing her snugly into his arms. “Who would have thought sneaking out to swim the river as a lad would prove so useful?”

  She gave a wheezy laugh, which somehow turned into a sob. “I’m sorry, so sorry. It was my fault . . .”

  “No.” His voice was fierce. “Don’t say that. It was Clary’s fault alone . . .”

  Not quite. Benedict’s voice trailed off, and Penelope knew what he was thinking. It was also his father’s fault, even if Stratford had had no part in shoving her over the side. She swallowed hard. “But I urged you to go on the boat. You were right, we should have refused—”

  “I wish we had,” he said with feeling, “but neither of us knew. Your arguments were logical; I agreed with them. If you’re at fault for innocently suggesting a false course, I am even more at fault for consenting, for I knew all along what my father is.”

  “He wants to find Olivia,” she murmured. “Olivia Townsend is the woman Clary was abusing the night you saved me from him, and she’s the one who needed two hundred pounds so she could leave London. Clary demanded I tell him where she is, and he said your father wants to know as well.”

  “Both of them may go to perdition, with my compliments.”

  “He pushed me over because I wouldn’t tell him . . .” She turned her head, trying to meet his eye. “Clary was waiting in the cabin.”

  “I know. Penelope, if I’d had any idea he was on board, we would never have set foot on that yacht, no matter what my father threatened.”

  She shivered. “What will they do now?”

  Benedict’s face hardened. “I don’t know, but neither will ever have another chance to hurt you.”

  “What about your mother?”

  He touched one finger to her lips. “Not even if it means I never see her again, either.”

  “You saved my life,” she whispered.

  “So surprised!” He smiled. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  She closed her eyes. “I didn’t know.”

  “I jumped over the side as soon as I realized you were in the water, praying it wasn’t too late. Thank heavens you can swim.”

  Penelope thought of all the times she had thought badly of him, all the slights she had cast on his character. Things had improved between them, but he’d risked his life for her. Her throat closed up at how close they had both come to dying. Wordlessly she gripped a fold of his nightshirt.

  He must have sensed what she couldn’t say. “I love you, Penelope.” His arms tightened around her, as warm and strong as ever. “Enough to die for you.”

  She was motionless for a moment, then twisted to face him. “What?”

  “I love you.” He rested his forehead against hers. “You once told me it was the most important thing in marriage, after all . . .”

  “But you don’t believe in it.”

  Slowly he shook his head. “I had never seen a marriage based on love and respect. Nor did I expect to.”

  She avoided his gaze, and her hands braced against his chest as he tried to gather her closer. “You didn’t even want to. I’m not the sort of girl you wanted to marry at all.”

  “No, but I didn’t expect to love my wife, either. Don’t you remember all of what I asked for? A pleasant, good-natured companion. Someone pretty enough to look at, sweet enough not to drive me mad, and gentle enough never to argue or oppose me.” He gave a soft tsk. “What sort of idiot wants that?”

  “One who doesn’t want to be tormented and bedeviled,” she reminded him.

  “Ah yes,” he murmured, a hint of smile curving his mouth. “Tormented by wicked, lascivious thoughts about you in my bed. Bedeviled by your forthright nature and spirit of adventure. But also charmed by your exuberance. Impressed—and humbled—by your devotion to your friends. And deeply moved by your ability to put aside your dislike of me and try to make a happy marriage, even after the terrible beginning we had.”

  Her face burned. “Oh—yes, that was quite a magnificent feat . . .” She stopped. “No,” she said in a low voice. “I cannot tease about that. Did you really never know? I fell partly in love with you the first day you came to Hart House.”

  “Did you?” His voice warmed with interest. “Tell me more.”

  “You were the handsomest man
I’d ever seen—”

  “And now?”

  She blushed. “You still are—even more so than then. I’d never seen you naked then.” He growled in appreciation. “But you didn’t notice me, even when I tried to flirt with you by badgering you to go hunting for ghosts at Hampton Court.”

  Benedict’s eyebrows shot up, and then he gave a soft laugh. “And here I thought I’d have my head handed to me if I dared try anything!”

  “Well, you didn’t want me then.”

  He rolled on top of her. “After a logical, calculated analysis, I decided your sister would be a safer choice. I knew if I married you, I’d never have a moment’s peace. I’d spend the rest of my life reading scandalous pamphlets”—he burrowed one hand under the blankets and began tugging at the hem of her nightgown—“and wondering how daring you were willing to be when making love”—she arched her back and wrapped her arms around his neck as he moved between her legs—“and going out of my mind wanting you . . . kissing you . . . even savoring the sound of you laughing at me.” He kissed her.

  Penelope inhaled sharply as his hand trailed down her belly. She should be sound asleep by now, worn out from the ordeal of the last few hours. Instead her skin seemed to sizzle where he touched her, and she wanted him inside her more than ever before. She wanted him to hold her down and make love to her until every other memory of this night was scoured from her mind and her body was exhausted with pleasure, rather than from life-threatening danger. She clasped her hands around his arse and tugged. “As long as you love me back, there is no reason to deny yourself any of those things.”

  He laughed and pushed forward, making them one. “And as long as you love me, I won’t.”

  Chapter 26

  Benedict woke early the next morning. Penelope barely made a murmur as he extricated his arm from under her and slid from the bed. His clothes lay folded on a chair near the hearth. He dressed, gratefully pulling on a coat that wasn’t his. It was probably Sebastian’s; the shoulders were a little tight and the sleeves were too long. The boots were also too big, but only a bit, and the very fact that they were there, freely given before he even asked, touched him deeply. After folding the blanket more securely around his sleeping wife, he went in search of his host.

  A sonorous bark stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. Sebastian’s enormous black boar hound clattered out of the sitting room, his ears pricked and a faint growl rumbling in his throat. Benedict stood motionless.

  “Boris.” Sebastian Vane appeared in the doorway and put one hand on the dog’s head. “Sit.” The dog’s haunches dropped instantly. Sebastian glanced at him. “How did you sleep?”

  “A good deal better than I would have at the bottom of the river.”

  Sebastian nodded. “And Penelope?”

  His throat closed. “She’s well—thanks to you.”

  His onetime friend tilted his head. “I didn’t jump off a boat and save her life, then carry her more than a mile up the hill.”

  If only that could atone for the fact that he’d allowed her to be on the yacht in the first place. Benedict hesitated. “Would you take a walk with me? We’ll want a lantern.”

  If Sebastian was surprised, he didn’t show it. He fetched two greatcoats, handing over one without comment. Benedict shrugged into it, feeling very keenly every time he had failed Sebastian, every time he had retreated behind his father’s domination and expectations and protested, What could I have done? He had been a coward not to try. Penelope had been right about that. From now on, he meant to act as he knew he should, without fear of anyone’s anger.

  “They’ll be looking for you, no doubt,” said Sebastian as they walked down the hill, Boris bounding ahead of them.

  “Perhaps.” Benedict squinted in the sunlight, dazzling today. “Perhaps not.” He felt his companion’s swift glance. “It’s quite possible we’re both presumed dead, if not outright desired dead.”

  “That sounds harsh even for his lordship.”

  Benedict heard the rest of Sebastian’s mildly spoken comment. The earl would never want his son and heir dead. Without Benedict, the earldom would go to a distant cousin, a rather hedonistic fellow who cared only for horse racing. All of Stratford’s carefully collected artworks would be sold to finance a stud farm, or lost outright at the races. To a man who couldn’t countenance a nouveau riche heiress as the next countess, the idea would be unthinkable. All Stratford’s punishment and cruelty had come with the explicit admonition that it would mold him into a proper earl, fit to take his father’s place.

  But he’d learned more from his father’s lessons than the earl intended—some of it later than he should have, but with a depth of meaning Stratford could never have imparted.

  “After our last words, I daresay my father and I won’t be on speaking terms again soon. I have finally seen, with absolute clarity and certainty, how devoid of feeling he is. Any concern he ever had for my health and safety was solely for my position as the heir to Stratford.” He hesitated. “And I am ashamed of what I did in the hopes of retaining his regard. I should have told you that I never believed you stole from him, or had any hand in your father’s disappearance.”

  This time Sebastian couldn’t hide his astonishment.

  Benedict forced himself to go on. “I told myself I didn’t know for certain, but the truth is that I didn’t want to risk angering my father. And—and partly because I hated you then.”

  Sebastian stopped in his tracks. “Ben . . .”

  “I hated you for being able to do what I could not,” he went on, feeling the lash of guilt, and the insidious ache of envy, all over again. “God, how I wanted to ride off with you to fight the French! I’d even have taken a crippling bullet in the leg. Instead I was stuck at home, where my father knew I didn’t want to be, and he made me writhe for longing to be somewhere else. Three days after you left he sent me to sack Mr. Samwell.”

  Sebastian would remember Mr. Samwell, who had been steward at Stratford Court for years. Samwell had scolded them both many times for various pranks and transgressions. What neither of them realized—what Benedict didn’t admit—was that Samwell had been trying to spare them the earl’s wrath. The steward must have recognized the earl’s controlling, abusive nature long before Benedict knew what to call it, and he’d tried to keep both boys out of trouble. When Benedict had gone to tell him he’d lost his place, the old man had only sighed wearily and said he’d expected it for some time. And even though Benedict had delivered the earl’s message in full, that Samwell must be off the property by the next day or be chased off with a horsewhip, the steward didn’t turn on him.

  “Why?”

  Benedict only raised his hand uselessly in response to his companion’s incredulous question. “I don’t even know. His lordship never explains. But it was only the beginning of what he demanded. By the time you returned I had learned very well what would happen if I defied him.”

  Sebastian’s probing gaze grew more compassionate.

  “Penelope was right about me,” Benedict added in a low voice. “I was a coward for not standing by you. The sad truth is that I didn’t know how to defy him.” Until now.

  “I suspect we both have much to regret,” said Sebastian. “Fortunately it is in the past.” He hesitated, then went on, “I never thanked you for your part in . . . everything.”

  Benedict dared a quick glance at his former friend and saw nothing but calm assurance. But then, Sebastian must feel much the same way he did. Penelope had taken great delight in telling him how much Sebastian adored Abigail, and for the first time he truly appreciated how much love could improve a man’s outlook on life. “Thank you for taking us in last night.”

  “Did you think we wouldn’t?”

  Benedict shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well.” Sebastian cleared his throat. “We are nearly brothers now.”

&n
bsp; Benedict’s head jerked up. “I suppose we are.”

  “Feels a bit like the wheel has turned full circle, doesn’t it?”

  Slowly Benedict grinned. “It does. Happily.”

  They walked on for a while. “Where are we going?” Sebastian asked as they drew near the water.

  Benedict stepped down over a rocky ledge onto the narrow shore and held aside some saplings so Sebastian could negotiate the step. He shielded his eyes and looked left, then right. The sun sparkled off the river, and all the clouds had blown away. “When we made it to shore, I found a small cave. In all the years we explored these woods, did you ever know of one?”

  “Never.”

  Benedict nodded. “It’s not large—more of a gash in an outcropping of rock—but someone’s been using it. I found that bit of canvas there, and just wanted to have another look in daylight.”

  Together they walked along the water’s edge for about a hundred yards. Finally the hulking shape of the boulder appeared. From this vantage point it just looked like part of the woods, covered with creeping vines and more green than rock. Even when he walked right up to it, the crevice didn’t become obvious until he could almost touch the stone. Exchanging a glance with Sebastian, who was a few steps behind, he carefully stepped into it.

  There lay Penelope’s discarded dress, still wet. He kicked it aside to clear the path and lit the lantern, opening the shutter all the way to illuminate the space. Boris, who had been sniffing along the edge of the water, barked from the bank behind them, but quieted at a word from his master. Benedict followed the narrow passage; it seemed far shorter this morning. He handed Sebastian the lantern and bent down to examine the crates in the small chamber.