Page 35 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Marry me, Penelope,” he whispered, his mouth still brushing hers.
Her resistance was rapidly waning. “I don’t think I should,” she whispered back in honest apprehension.
“Nonsense. Trust how you feel,” he breathed, and his lips settled on hers. Penelope inhaled in surprise, and he touched her chin, nudging her lips apart and proving beyond all doubt that there was far more to kissing than she’d thought.
“Do you want me?” It was a weak basis for marriage, but she was trapped and she knew it. Any little comfort would be very welcome.
“I do.” He glanced at the door. “Enough to commit every last wickedly pleasurable act we’re accused of, right here on this sofa, if only your parents weren’t outside the door.”
Heat flooded her face, and not at the thought of her parents. If she married him, he’d make love to her. “What acts?”
His eyes glittered and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “Marry me and find out.”
She wavered and then gave in. It wasn’t as though she had much choice anyway. She nodded once.
A fierce grin crossed his face, and he leaned in and kissed her again, harder this time. “We’ll be good together.”
Penelope wasn’t so sure, but it was too late. Atherton was heading for the door to tell her parents. Even as she covertly—and unwillingly—admired the way his trousers fit as he walked, she worried that she’d made a terrible mistake. If he hadn’t kissed her—if he hadn’t managed to hit on her one great, inexplicable weakness, her attraction to him—would she still have given in? She smoothed her shaking hands on her skirt and tried to hide her anxiety. Once upon a time she had daydreamed of him kissing her and telling her he wanted her. And deep in her heart, she admitted it had been a lovely kiss, soft and seductive and far too short. She wanted him to kiss her again.
But now something her mother used to say echoed around her brain, with a particular sharpness this time:Be careful what you wish for, Penelope. You may getit.
Chapter 12
Within a few days the deed was done.
Mrs. Weston decreed it would be a small but exquisite ceremony. Abigail was still in London, but otherwise it was just Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Atherton, and her.
Not Atherton, Benedict. She was entitled to call him by name now.
Because he had been living in the officers’ quarters, Atherton had taken a suite of rooms in Mivart’s Hotel until they could locate a house. It was very near Grosvenor Square, but Penelope still found herself hesitating as the day wore on and her trunks were brought down, ready to go. Lizzie, her maid since she was twelve, would be going with her, and she left with the trunks to make everything ready at the hotel. That left nothing for it but to bid her parents and sister farewell, and let Atherton hand her into the carriage for the short ride to Mivart’s, which was accomplished in complete silence.
She was almost relieved when a few Guardsmen were on hand to greet them. Almost, because it was apparent they had already been drinking and were intent on bearing Atherton away for a few more rounds at the nearby tavern. With hardly a glance at her, he left with them as the porter showed her up to the suite.
The hotel was blessedly quiet. Penelope had never stayed in a hotel, so she walked through the rooms curiously. Lizzie had already unpacked her things and retired, so she had the suite to herself. There was a sitting room, with windows overlooking Brook Street. She peeked out, marveling at the view, so different from the elegant expanse of Grosvenor Square she’d seen from her bedchamber at home. Even at this late hour carriages were coming and going, and if she listened very carefully, she imagined she could hear the Guardsmen carrying on at the pub. That was certainly not like home.
Well. Home was not home now. She was no longer Miss Weston but Lady Atherton. The mere name made her cross her arms protectively over her chest. How the devil had she got herself into this mess? She didn’t look, but she knew the door to her right led to a bedroom. As hard as she tried not to, she couldn’t stop thinking of the myriad pleasures Lady Constance had written of. Would Atherton do any of that to her? Would he want to? And even more importantly, would he do it as well as Constance’s lovers?
Whatever her other failings, Penelope was a realist. She saw nothing wrong with trying to direct her own fate, but she didn’t see the point in crying over unhappy circumstances; time spent crying would only be time spent not plotting how to improve her situation. And if any situation needed improvement, it was this one: married, till death parted them, to a man she didn’t much know, let alone love. A man, no less, who had wanted to marry first her sister and then her friend. A man who’d visibly lost his patience with her on more than one occasion. A man who’d nevertheless kissed her so persuasively, her sense had flown out the window and she’d somehow agreed to marry him, meaning she had no one to blame for this but herself.
For a moment she wondered why he’d been so determined to marry her. No mistake about it, he had wanted this marriage. She knew from eavesdropping on her parents that Papa had been reluctant to agree, because he didn’t think Atherton was a good match for her. Mama had disagreed, but Penelope had been more interested in her father’s words. He’d told Atherton there would be no wedding if Penelope didn’t agree to it. He’d told Atherton he would be watching carefully to see that Penelope was happy. It warmed her heart to know her father wanted her to be happy, but it also made her feel very small and selfish that she hadn’t gone to him earlier, before things went so terribly wrong.
No one to blame but herself.
Penelope took a deep breath, telling herself she also had no one to look to but herself for making her marriage happy. Atherton had wanted to marry her, for some as-yet undetermined reason, so he should be amenable. He’d looked at her bosom the night of theincidentwith undisguised interest. He wanted her. Despite valiant efforts not to, she wanted him—and now there was no reason to fight it. That was a start.
She circled the room again, investigating every little luxury and convenience. Her opinion of hotels was vastly improved when she finished, but her husband still had not returned. The clock on the mantel indicated she’d been waiting an hour.What was he doing?she wondered in some irritation. It was his bloody wedding night.
That thought led to another, and Penelope realized she was a married woman. Married women could read whatever they wanted, and no mother would take it away or punish her. She all but ran into the bedroom and dug through her valise until she uncovered an issue ofAckermann’s Repository, which held between its pages not one but two issues of50 Ways to Sin. Abigail had given her the missing thirty-third issue with a whispered assurance that it was a particularly delicious one. Penelope devoutly hoped so; the one with red silk ribbons had been mesmerizing. Perhaps she should leave it out where Atherton could find it... But before she could sit down to enjoy it, she heard the creak of the door in the sitting room. On instinct she stuffed the pamphlets back into her valise and crossed the room in time to see Atherton close the door by stumbling backward against it. His jacket was askew and his hair rumpled, and when he saw her, his mouth curved in a sly, predatory grin unlike his usual polished charm. “Good eve, lady wife,” he said, his voice rough with laughter.
She looked him up and down. “It seems as though you’ve enjoyed it thoroughly.”
“So far,” he agreed, shoving himself away from the door and ambling into the room. “Have you?”
Her brows lowered in pique. She’d been sitting here waiting for him while he was out drinking with his mates. The closer he came, the more she could smell the spirits. “Not as much as you, it appears.”
He laughed. “There were a few rounds of toasts. How was I to say no?” He pulled out a chair at the table and dropped heavily into it before taking a flask from his pocket. “Are you jealous?”
“Of drinking until I can’t walk a straight line?” Penelope sniffed. “No.”
