Page 14 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“A man in love would be overcome with passion at least once, wouldn’t he?”
“I hope so,” she replied with a laugh. “Or it’s not a very exciting sort of love.”
“Of course.” Frances’s face grew serious. For a moment she appeared deep in thought, then her expression cleared. “If Lord Atherton wants to marry me, he must love me, mustn’t he?”
“Ah...” Too late Penelope realized she ought to have held her tongue. Still, she was only speaking the truth as she saw it. “He certainly should.”
“And if he loves me, he should prove it,” went on Frances, more eagerly.
Since Penelope thought it highly unlikely that Lord Atherton was in love with anyone except possibly himself, she didn’t say anything.
“But he hasn’t.” The younger girl looked at her and demanded, “Should I tell him he must?”
She coughed. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know... If you have to tell him to do it, how will you know it sprang from his true desires and not merely from the urge to please you?”
For a moment Frances’s gaze grew sharp and probing. “Do you think he won’t want to?”
Oh Lord. “I have no idea what Lord Atherton wants.”
“But you are acquainted with him.”
“Slightly,” Penelope stressed. “Very,veryslightly, for a brief time. It was hardly a month! It’s somewhat shocking to me that he remembers me at all.” It was also somewhat annoying. Penelope certainly wished she could forget him. But Frances still looked troubled, and she didn’t want that. She could easily picture Mrs. Lockwood calling on her own mother to accuse Penelope of stirring up trouble in Frances’s betrothal, and there would be another friend lost.
She took a deep breath and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Don’t let me divert you from what you feel in your heart. If he loves you, and you love him, that is what matters. If he loves you, he’ll have no difficulty confessing it. I expect that will lead to other proof of his love, and then you’ll know how you should answer his question.”
“You really think so?”
Penelope beamed, pleased that the other girl sounded relieved. All Frances needed to hear was a word or two of affection from Atherton, true or not, and she would be satisfied. Surely even he wasn’t such an idiot as to omit that entirely. “Of course! Oh—you must excuse me, my mother is looking for me.”
“Thank you, Miss Weston,” said Frances fervently. “I’m ever so grateful.”
“Just remember to trust your own heart,” Penelope said, “and never mind what other people say.”
“I won’t,” Frances assured her. Penelope smiled once more and hurried away, never so glad in all her life to see her mother waiting for her.
Chapter 5
Every time he thought about her, Benedict Lennox reached the same conclusions: Frances Lockwood was sweet, pretty, and honest. She was young, granted—ten years younger than himself at least—but that was hardly a fault. They got on well together, and he doubted there would be much discord between them. She had good connections as well. In short, she met every criterion he had set for a bride.
Furthermore, to his relief, she hadn’t mentioned Penelope again. Perhaps that was yet another sign that this courtship would be smoother than his last. He’d spoken to Mr. Lockwood and received a very gracious blessing. Mrs. Lockwood beamed every time she saw him, as did Frances herself. All the signs were encouraging.
The only thing he didn’t know was why he was still hesitating. If anything, he ought to move quickly to settle the matter, but instead... He scanned the drawing room at yet another party, irate at himself. Instead of taking swift action to secure the bride he’d chosen, he was still stewing over Penelope Weston’s last words to him. A man should be consumed with passion for his wife!In what society?he quietly fumed. Certainly not this one. He watched Lord and Lady Rotherham enter the drawing room and immediately part ways, the viscount heading for the card room and his wife joining the Earl of Wilbur, who was widely known to be her lover. Both Rotherhams would enjoy their evening, even though they likely wouldn’t see each other again before morning. That was normal marriage, not some dramatic passion Penelope had read about in women’s novels.
Not that he intended to be like Rotherham. Benedict wanted a wife he could respect and like, and he didn’t want to be a cuckold. That was why Frances was perfect for him. There was enough affection between them to rule out troublesome complications like lovers and mistresses, but not enough to cause strife within their marriage. Passion was far from vital. It was all well and good for Penelope to talk of it with approval, she of the high spirits and exuberant temperament and daring sense of adventure; of course she would want passionate encounters and dramatic declarations. She would be the sort of wife who drove a man wild, who made love in carriages and on picnic blankets and on the dining room table and—
He reined in his thoughts. It didn’t matter to him where Penelope would make love to her husband, who was likely to be a broken, if sated, man after a few years with her. That was none of his concern. Benedict forced himself to survey the room again. This time he saw Miss Lockwood, so he headed toward her.
She was as pleased as ever to see him, and after a few minutes’ conversation he led her out on his arm. Their conversation was limited during the country dance, but when it was over and he asked if she would take a turn with him in the quieter corridor outside the drawing room, she eagerly agreed.
“Thank you for walking out with me,” he said as they strolled, her hand nestled in the crook of his arm.
The smile she flashed him was different than usual—more flirtatious, even coy. “I’m sure you had good reason for asking me.”
“I did,” he agreed. It was time to cross the Rubicon. “A very special one.”
Miss Lockwood seemed to lean a little closer on his arm. “Perhaps we should find a quieter place?”
“Very well,” he said after a startled pause. It wasn’t like her to suggest that; usually she was very conscious of propriety and decorum. But then he had spoken to her father already, so perhaps her parents had given her permission to bend those rules. After all, he meant to propose, and although a quiet alcove would suffice, more privacy was always welcome. At the turn of the hall he tried a doorknob and showed her into a small music room, bathed in silvery light by the full moon hanging low over the neighboring rooftops. He left the door open, but she reached behind her and nudged it almost closed.
