Page 49 of Love in the Time of Scandal
He pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Why the devil do you need two hundred pounds?”
“I just do.”
He stared at her incredulously, unable to see her expression in the weak moonlight. “And you expect me to hand it over for the asking?”
“Well, why not?” She sat up, too. “You wouldn’t have that money if not for marrying me, so I see no reason why I shouldn’t have a little bit if I need it.”
It was true, and yet stabbed his temper to life. “What are you going to do with it?” A thought struck him. “Are you in debt to someone?”
“No.”
“Are you being blackmailed?” he demanded. The Earl of Clary lingered at the back of his mind; the man carried a grudge and he hated Penelope, for reasons Benedict still hadn’t discovered.
“No!”
“Then why do you need two hundred pounds?”
“Does it matter?” she exclaimed. “I daresay you won’t be askingmypermission every time you want to withdraw some funds.”
Of course he wouldn’t. A deep scowl settled over his face.
She was quiet for a moment, though he could hear her breathing heavily. “You promised my father you would be a good husband,” she said in a low voice. “You said you wanted us to have a happy marriage. I’m only asking this small favor, and it is important to me. Why can you not trust me?”
“It’s quite a large favor,” he shot back. “Tell me why you need it.” Before she could answer, another thought struck him. “Did you just seduce me on the settee so I would give you money?”
“Seduce?” She leapt out of bed. “Who seduced whom? You kissed me! You untied my dressing gown! You started it!”
“And you were bloody eager to carry on, weren’t you?”
He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth. By now his eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to see her mouth drop open. Without a word she turned and marched to the dressing room, closing the door behind her with a firm bang.
He stared after her in disbelief. What the devil? Two hundred pounds! Why could she possibly want that much money? And without a word of explanation or justification. The thought of her sneaking around behind his back caused an instinctive snarl of denial in his throat. Why wouldn’t she tell him?
Ah. Right.Can’t or won’t tell?echoed his own question in his memory, along with her response:Won’t.
His mouth thinned. He’d suspected for a while that she was protecting someone who was involved with Lord Clary. Penelope hadn’t gone to meet him on her own; she either went with someone, or at someone’s behest, and it had almost ended in her being violated and abused. Everything he’d warned her about Clary rang through his mind, and his hand curled into a fist at the thought that she was ignoring him—still. Perhaps this other person was being blackmailed by Clary, or owed him money. For all Benedict knew, the money was to hire an assassin to kill Clary. That last seemed unlikely but he would wager her request was connected to Clary in some way. And he had warned her and warned her to stay away from that man.
With a muttered curse he went to the dressing room door. “Come back to bed, Penelope.”
“Not if you’re in it” was her cool retort.
Benedict braced his arms against the door frame. There was no lock on the door. He could open it and drag her back to bed if he so desired. Not that he did desire that—he much preferred Penelope as she’d been earlier, soft and welcoming and willing—eager—to let him make love to her on the settee. “I don’t want to argue with you about this.”
“I don’t want you to, either.”
His fingers curled into fists. “I am responsible for your safety,” he said evenly, trying to check his temper. “I refuse to allow you to involve yourself in something that may cause you harm. If you won’t tell me who or what the money is truly for, I cannot make you. But neither will I give it to you without being satisfied that you won’t be endangered by whatever you’re plotting.”
There was a pause. “I’m not plotting anything, let alone anything dangerous. If I could have asked anyone else for it, I would have.”
Benedict scowled at that. “Really. Yet you won’t offer me even a token explanation. I am your husband, Penelope.”
“And you think so little of me, you accuse me of seducing you for money!”
Benedict rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired; that must be why he’d accused his bride of something dangerously close to whoring. “I should not have said that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But you don’t trust me, so perhaps it’s no surprise.” Her voice was muffled by the door, but he could still make out the angry hurt. “Stupid of me, really, to think you’d believe I must have a good reason for needing money, and an equally good reason for not telling you every thought in my head.”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. Part of him wanted to take a stand, put down his foot, and exert his will. His wife would not make a fool of him. If he gave in to this demand, who knew what she would ask next? Better to establish his marital authority now before she ran roughshod over him. His father would never have countenanced such a thing.
