Page 42 of Love in the Time of Scandal
She laughed. “Never! Come, sit. It has been so quiet lately. Tell me all the news of London. Have you seen your sister?”
He grinned. An indisputably joyful topic. His youngest sister had recently married Lord George Churchill-Gray, son of the Duke of Rowland, a talented artist and an excellent fellow. Even though it was a brilliant match, Stratford had had other plans for Samantha and initially refused to allow the marriage. Benedict was fiendishly glad Rowland had intervened and changed Stratford’s mind. Samantha deserved to choose her own husband, and Benedict had never seen her happier. “A fortnight ago. Gray bought a house near Green Park, and Samantha has been refurbishing it. She had dust on her nose and a cap on her head when I was there, and all she could speak of was the mural Gray had threatened . . . that is, offered to paint on the dining room wall.”
His mother sighed, a faint smile softening her lips. “Is she happy?”
“Blissful,” he said, remembering his sister’s glowing face.
Lady Stratford’s shoulders eased. “I’m so pleased. The young man must be very fond of her.”
Benedict hesitated only a moment. “Yes, he is.”
“And you?” His mother touched his hand where it had clenched into a fist on his knee. “What brings you to Stratford Court again?”
She didn’t need to say the rest.What brings you here after your father threatened to whip you off the property the last time you came?Benedict took his mother’s hand. He sincerely hoped he wasn’t about to add to her worries. “I have news,” he said, summoning a determined smile. “Rather happy news. I am married.”
Her blue eyes went wide, and her lips parted in astonishment. “To whom?”
“To someone you’ve already met. Penelope Weston.”
He spoke confidently, hoping to convey that all was well, that she should be happy for him. The last thing he wanted was to cause his mother more anxiety. But as feared, the color drained from her already pale face, and she glanced worriedly at the door. “Why, Benedict?” she asked in a whisper.
“I met her in London,” he said, choosing his words carefully to avoid lying. “I came to her rescue one night, actually, and it threw us together a bit. She’s a beautiful girl, Mother, and as clever as anything. I admit, I find her... entrancing.”
The countess was already shaking her head, though. “But why? You must know it will infuriate him...” Her voice trailed off as awareness dawned on her expression. “But she’s just as much an heiress as her sister was, isn’t she?”
To say nothing of twice as impertinent, four times as maddening, and a thousand times more alluring. He veered between wanting to snarl at Penelope’s provocations one moment, and wanting to carry her off to bed the next. And to think, all he’d wanted was a friendly, kindhearted wife. Instead he’d got a fiery temptress who might well drive him mad in more ways than one.
“I married her because I want to make a life with her,” he said, not untruthfully. “I hope you are happy for me—for us.”
She still looked upset. “If you are happy, you know I am happy for you. And I suppose now it’s too late, but Benedict, are you certain? Her family didn’t maneuver you into it, did they?”
“No,” he said, not adding that Mr. Weston would never have agreed to the match if not for the brewing scandal.
“And the young lady admires you for yourself?” his mother pressed. “Forgive me for impugning her, but it was clear to see her father was very moved by Stratford Court—”
“It was not her father’s idea,” he said. “I was not tricked. I asked her to marry me, and she accepted. If anything, I suspect it was a bit of a surprise to her family, after last summer.”
Lady Stratford gave him a disbelieving glance. “And no less to me! You convinced me you truly admired Abigail Weston. I believed you offered for her hand out of an honest desire for the lady herself.”
“I did,” he said thinly.
“But when she turned you down...” She threw up her hands. “Did I imagine you saying you were done with the Westons?”
Benedict realized his hand had balled into a fist again. Carefully he relaxed his fingers. “No. But I spoke in a moment of disappointed pique. Now I have changed my mind, I have married Penelope, and I would like your blessing, even if not your approval.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “It’s not that I don’t approve,” she said at last, very softly. “I recognize it’s a good marriage for you in some ways. She’s a very pretty girl, and while her family is ordinary, they obviously have one great advantage. But you must know it’s going to enrage his lordship, and it worries me that you went ahead anyway.”
For the first time in years, the knowledge that he had done something that would enrage his father didn’t make Benedict’s stomach sink and his shoulders tense. He didn’t have to dance around the earl’s temper anymore. If he had to choose between enduring his father’s rages and deciphering Penelope’s actions, he’d take his lovely young wife any day. At least there was the prospect of pleasure with her, whereas he knew the earl would never change, never admit fault, never soften his attitude. Just knowing that he was free of his father inspired a small burst of affection for Penelope in Benedict’s heart, because she had made it possible.
There was only one blot on his freedom. This marriage would enrage his father, and with Benedict out of his grasp, the earl would have just one person to vent his displeasure on: Lady Stratford. Even if he never raised a hand to his wife, the earl could make her life misery. He had probably done so for the last thirty years, in all honesty.
“I hope he would wish his only son joy,” he said to his mother, “but if he cannot, so be it.” He reached for her hand. “Mother, I’ve spoken to Samantha and Elizabeth. You are always welcome—warmly—in our homes. For as long as you might ever wish to visit us.”
She appeared frozen for a moment, her lips parted—in hope? shock? He didn’t know. But then she straightened her spine and smiled her remote, formal smile. “You are very kind. No mother could be prouder of her children, for their loving generosity. But my place is here with my husband, of course.”
“Of course it is,” said the earl’s chilly voice from the other side of the room. He stood in the doorway, where he must have been listening. Benedict wondered how long he’d been there. “Where else would you go, my dear?”
Benedict rose and bowed. “Only to visit her children, sir.”
