Page 41 of Love in the Time of Scandal
His expression was fierce—and satisfied. “As you wish, madam wife.” He ran one fingertip over her breast. A dark smile crossed his lips as she quivered when he gave her nipple a light pinch. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”
Some of her haze of good humor dissipated. “There’s more to a happy marriage than one successful bout of lovemaking.”
He seemed amused. “The devil you say.”
“You might as well know now.” She brushed his marauding hand away and tried to scramble away. “I shall be a demanding wife.”
“Is that so?” Before she could protest, he freed himself from her splayed legs and rolled her over, so she was fully on the mattress. “Perhaps I shall be a demanding husband.”
I wish you would be, she thought on a sudden moment of yearning.I wish you would fall desperately in love with me and never want to be apart from me.There was no reason not to admit it—to herself only—now that she was married to him, had just made love to him, and wanted him more than ever. If only he would wanther, passionately, physically, emotionally... For a moment he looked down at her, desire etched on his face. The lone lamp in the room was turned down low, and the shadows in the bed made him look almost savage. It was nothing like the polished, urbane image he usually presented, and she found it inexplicably, unbearably, exciting. “You once accused me of watching you like a cat stalking a mouse.”
Penelope scoffed. “I don’t remember that...”
“You do,” he said, all arrogant assurance. “You said I looked like a cat watching a mouse, contemplating breaking its neck. Do you recall my reply?”
“No.” She did, but denial sprang automatically to her lips.
“I said a cat would eat the mouse if he caught it.” He untied the ribbon on her garter and began rolling off her stocking. “And now it seems I’ve caught you.”
“Just as much as I’ve caught you,” she retorted.
He laughed softly. “Absolutely. And I think we’re going to enjoy each other a great deal.”
That treacherous longing spiked again. Penelope tried to ignore it. If he could be satisfied with the purely physical pleasure of lovemaking, she could be, too. She would have to be, for it might be all she got. She lifted her knee for him to remove her other garter and stocking. “You mean we might as well make the best of things.”
“Yes,” he agreed, sliding over her and easing between her legs. “The very best.” He pressed into her again. Penelope caught her breath in apprehension, but the sting was only a muted memory. Her flesh still felt hot and swollen, but now it easily parted for him. “What does my demanding wife want this time?” he whispered against her lips.
Penelope sucked in a shaky breath and closed her eyes as he kissed her more deeply, his tongue mimicking the slide of his hips between her legs. Yes, she wanted him—oh how she wanted him, here, hard and ravenously hungry for her. She wanted that, but also so much more, so she told him the truth, though she doubted he realized it. “Everything.”
Chapter 14
Benedict had always been an early riser, and the morning after his wedding was no exception. He slipped from bed when the light outside the windows was just beginning to turn from gray to pale pink. There was a pounding in his head, but it was mild; all the more reason to rise before the sun became blinding. Penelope still slept, stretched out half on her side, half on her stomach. Her golden hair was a glorious mess, spilling over her pillow and one arm, although her shoulder peeked out, soft and bare. He reached out, then stopped himself before his fingers brushed her skin; better to let her sleep. God knew she needed it, after he’d kept her awake until the small hours of the morning.
What a brilliant decision pursuing this marriage had been. Not only the fortune he needed but a wife he couldn’t seem to get enough of—and better yet, she had none of the virginal hesitation he’d expected, even though she had most certainly been one. No tears, no alarm, no complaints, no matter what decadent desire he whispered in her ear. She’d blushed scarlet but denied him nothing. His eyes tracked down the curve of her hip and the line of her leg. She must read the notorious Lady Constance’s stories. That woman was a bloody genius. Half the women in London were so aroused by her naughty adventures, they could be tumbled by any man bold enough to ask. Benedict, searching for a respectable bride, hadn’t availed himself of any coy invitations, but the men of the King’s Life Guard would probably vote Lady Constance an annuity if she asked them. It went without saying that she could have had nearly any man in the regiment for the asking. Sir Perry Cole, a retired captain of the Guard, had had her, despite losing his left hand in Spain. He denied it in public, but in the officers’ mess, he would give a wink and say that a man needed only one hand, if he knew how to use it.
But as Penelope said last night, there was more to marriage than making love, even if that proved an exceptionally pleasing aspect. He’d been drunk last night, but not too drunk. He hadn’t really expected an inquisition on his actions toward Sebastian Vane—or rather, he hadn’t expected it on his wedding night. The questions were inevitable, since her sister was married to Vane and must have told her some of the ancient history between his family and the Vanes, and also since Penelope seemed incapable of keeping her curiosity to herself. It would have been better to have that conversation in a more sober state, but he wanted to win his bride over; brushing aside her query would have been a wasted opportunity. No doubt she would hear it all eventually. Stratford family affairs were private, always, from everyone, but now she was part of the family.
That thought flattened his mood for a moment. Her family was so very different from his. He’d been struck, more than once, by the way Mr. Weston relied on and trusted—even valued—his wife. The earl, on the other hand, didn’t care a whit what his countess thought. Her purpose was to obey his dictates and to look lovely doing it. Mr. Weston knew his daughter lied to him but he didn’t whip her, as Lord Stratford had whipped Benedict many times as a boy. Just the memory of that willow cane on his back made Benedict’s shoulders tense. Penelope obviously didn’t have that reaction, not even to her father’s anger. He gently lifted a stray lock of her hair away from her face, and silently vowed to be the sort of father whose children slept the way she did, knowing they were loved and protected.
But today he had business to attend to. Silently he made his way into the dressing room and selected his clothes for the day. It would be a long day in the saddle, ten miles to Richmond and ten miles back. Penelope’s valise was in the dressing room as well, standing open where the maid must have left it last night. Mildly curious, he peered inside and saw a familiar pamphlet, crumpled up. A slow smile curved his mouth. Not every man would be pleased to find50 Ways to Sinin his wife’s possession, but Benedict only found himself wondering which issues were her particular favorites.
He washed and dressed, then let himself out after one more brief look at Penelope. He went downstairs and sent a man for his horse, leaving instructions with the staff and dashing off a quick note to be delivered to his bride when she woke. Then he headed out to face his father.
The miles passed quicker than they ever had before. Before he knew it he was boarding the ferry at Richmond, a crossing he had made a hundred times at least but never more easily than today. Another mile, and then the familiar gates came into view. The gravel drive leading to Stratford Court was just as he remembered it, and yet somehow everything looked different. Benedict let his eyes roam over the aged red brick, the precisely clipped hedges and shrubberies, the carved statues that lined the path like sentinels. His horse slowed to a walk and he did nothing to spur it on. He was in no hurry; time seemed to have stopped today. For all he knew, this might be the last time he came here.
Well—the last time before his father died. When the earl finally breathed his last, Benedict would inherit everything that came with the Stratford title, including this prison of a house. He watched dispassionately as he passed through the wrought-iron gate in the brick wall, and the whole of the building loomed before him in all its Jacobean glory. Perhaps someday he wouldn’t hate it. Perhaps one day it would be a real home, no longer a monument to his father’s pride and arrogance. For a moment an image of children playing hide-and-seek among the topiary flashed through his mind. A towheaded boy, with stains on his knees and grass in his hair. A girl with long black curls and dancing blue eyes, leading him on a merry chase through the garden, unabashedly shrieking when he found her.
He drew an unsteady breath. His children by Penelope. It shocked him how much he wanted to see them.
A groom ran out to take his horse when he reached the stables. “Welcome home, my lord,” he said, taking Achilles’ reins.
“Geoffrey.” Benedict swung down and gave the man a nod. They were of an age, but he barely knew the man’s name. Benedict had been ordered to remember his dignity at all times, even as a child, on pain of a whipping. He was very sure even the stable boys had pitied him those thrashings.
The groom bowed and stood at attention as he walked away. Benedict followed his routine at Stratford Court and counted the steps. It took twenty-six measured strides to cross the courtyard to the main door. There a footman swept open the door and took his hat and coat. Eleven steps through the hall. Forty-four stairs up. Eighteen strides to the north, then thirty-one to the east, where he reached his mother’s suite. He knocked, feeling the first bit of pleasure. His mother, at least, would be pleased with his news.
“Benedict!” The countess rose from the sofa at his entrance and came to him, her face alight. “I didn’t expect you!”
“A surprise, but not unpleasant, I hope.” He kissed her cheek.
