Page 8 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Penelope nodded. “Of course. She’s inclined to see the best in people, even when it’s not warranted.”
By only the thinnest of margins did Benedict not ask if that explained her fondness for Penelope. She was trying to provoke him. He should have been prepared for that. Her delight in needling him had been amusing at first, but he was growing tired of it—and unlike before, when he had brushed it aside, there was something very real at stake this time. If she decided to poison Miss Lockwood against him, he wasn’t sure he could tolerate it with good grace.
“That is surely the mark of a true lady,” he said softly, “to be the sort of woman everyone admires and likes.”
The barb struck home, he could see it in her eyes. For the briefest moment they darkened as if in hurt, but then the sparkle was back—and this time they glittered like the finest sapphires. “Indeed! What a revelation, sir. I have always thought gentlemen were far more interested in a woman’s other attributes.”
Without thinking his gaze dropped. Penelope wasn’t as slender as Miss Lockwood, and she had been skipping about in the dance. Her bosom rose and fell against her exquisitely cut bodice of blue silk in a very tempting display. Her skin was flushed a perfect pale peach, and her locket had nestled right between the swells of her breasts. Benedict had meant to set her back on her heels, and instead found himself almost mesmerized. “One must consider every part of a woman.”
“Some parts more closely than others, I see,” she shot back furiously as she turned away in the dance.
He cursed inside his head as they performed the next several steps. What about this woman always caught him wrong-footed? Benedict barely remembered going through the rest of the dance. It felt as though little jolts of lightning coursed along his nerves, his every sense as sharp as a razor and focused solely on Penelope Weston. From the smoldering look she gave him, he wasn’t the only one who felt the tension. Before he knew it, the music was ending and she was beside him again. He offered his arm to escort her from the floor, and she took it with a hand that trembled.
He didn’t think it was upset. He had a feeling it was fury. To be honest, the same feeling had a strong grip on him. The temptation to pull her into a quiet room and have a proper blazing row was overwhelming. For a moment his steps strayed unconsciously toward the door before he caught himself.
Damn. This was not going as planned.
“Miss Weston,” he said as they made their way through the crowd, “I asked you to dance in the hope of rediscovering the easy companionship we felt at Hampton Court last summer. I would very much like for us to be friendly once more.” In spite of himself a note of warning crept into his tone. “I’ve grown very fond of your friend. If I manage to secure her regard, I hope you would wish us both well.”
She stopped and faced him. For a moment she simply studied him, all coyness gone. “You say you’re very fond of her, but is it merely fondness? Is fondness enough for marriage?” She noticed his faint start at the last word. “Miss Lockwood anticipates a proposal any day now. Is that what you intend? Do you really love her enough to pledge your troth to her from now until death?”
“That must be between me and Miss Lockwood,” he replied coolly.
“So you say,” she retorted. “But she’s my friend. Do you think I won’t hear of it if she’s unhappy?”
Benedict’s jaw tightened. He could hardly swear to make Miss Lockwood happy at all times; it wasn’t possible. Marriage wasn’t designed for happiness but for security, status, and money. If one was fortunate, it also provided contented companionship, which he supposed led to happiness. On the other hand, if he admitted the possibility of unhappiness, it would hand Penelope a weapon to skewer him, and he had already seen how quickly she would do it.
“I don’t want to make her unhappy,” he said.
“Yet what you love about her is her tendency to think too well of people—including, perhaps, gentlemen who call on her. A man truly in love would surely be able to declare it openly, with no need for prevarication. One doesn’t even need to ask Sebastian if he loves my sister; it’s written on his face when he looks at her—something he does all the time.” She made a dismissive motion with one hand as Benedict’s expression hardened into stone. “I haven’t seen you glance once toward Miss Lockwood. Instead you’ve been watching me like a cat watches a mouse, as if you’d like nothing more than a chance to wring my neck.”
“A cat,” he bit out, “does not wring a mouse’s neck. He eats the mouse. Do you seriously convict me of not caring for Miss Lockwood because I’m not consumed with jealousy over her every move? Quite aside from the fact that I have been paying attention to you, my partner in the quadrille, what sort of marriage would it be if I never allowed my wife to dance with another man or do anything at all out of my sight? You advocate something more like possession than marriage.” He didn’t care that he had all but admitted he was planning to propose to Frances Lockwood. Something about Penelope Weston made his blood run hot and reckless.
“You needn’t be consumed with jealousy,” she scoffed. “But consumed with passion for her... That is something every woman wants from the man she marries.”
He almost lost his temper.Everywoman? Not even half, by his accounting. Just in this ballroom alone, Benedict could see more than a dozen women who had married for money, for rank, for power. If they wanted passion, they must have found it outside their marital beds, because he knew a great many married couples in London who could hardly stand the sight of each other.
“Such charming idealism,” he said in a stony voice. “What a romantic haven you must inhabit. Either that, or you’re too naïve to understand marriage among the upper classes.”
Her eyes widened. “It is not idealism!”
He gave her a cynical look. “Then you’ve not seen enoughtonmarriages.”
“Perhaps not,” she retorted. “Perhaps I’ve seen too manyhappymarriages, like my sister’s.” She gave him a scathing look up and down. “Perhaps that’s the difference between us, Lord Atherton. I believe a man should love the woman he marries, and she should love him. I don’t believe it’s enough to simply ‘get on well together’ and enjoy each other’s company.”
The edges of his vision burned red. Even if he hadn’t remembered speaking those words, the scornful lilt Penelope gave them would have reminded him of the occasion. He hadn’t been desperately in love with Abigail Weston when he proposed to her, but neither had he lied and claimed he was. He’d been honest with her, and now Penelope was flinging it in his face as if it were some sordid insult. Someday, someone would give her a well-deserved comeuppance, and he hoped he was there to see it.
“I expect it’s but one of many differences between us.” He bowed. “Good evening, Miss Weston.” He walked away, and felt her gaze boring into his back with every step he took.
His fellow Guardsmen had congregated at the far end of the room, closer to the card room and the wine punch. Sick of female companionship for the moment, he rejoined them, still thinking how he could have charmed his way back into Penelope Weston’s good graces—assuming she had any, which he was beginning to doubt. Those flashes of affinity between them must have been figments of his imagination.
“What were you up to?”
He started at Lieutenant Cabot’s question. “Dancing.”
Cabot snorted with laughter. “We saw! How did you make out?”
Benedict lifted a glass of wine from a nearby footman’s tray. “What do you mean?”
