Page 19 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Atherton watched her for a moment. Penelope could feel it even though she kept her face averted as she wrestled with her hair. Half of it had fallen from the pins, while the other half felt like one large knot. Her fingers were still trembling and his nearness wasn’t helping. “Here,” he said at last. “You’re making it worse.” And without asking for permission, he combed his fingers through her hair, brushing aside her hands.
Penelope held very still. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap and stared fiercely at them, as if that could help her ignore the feel of his hands running through her hair, extracting one pin after another, almost like a husband or a lover would do. Inside her mind she called herself every sort of fool for not standing up and regally thanking him before sweeping from the room like a confident, sophisticated woman who had no reaction to his touch. Instead she resolved to avoid him for the rest of her life and muttered again, “Thank you for coming to myaid.”
One corner of his mouth curled. “You sound surprised that I didso.”
A thick lock of hair came free, drooping over her face. Penelope hoped it hid her guilty blush. “I hardly expected youto.”
“Oh? Why?” Startled, she jerked her head up, meeting his gaze as the rest of her hair tumbled down her back. He withdrew his hands and held out the pins he’d removed. “You don’t like me, doyou?”
It was as bracing as a slap. Penelope straightened in the chair and took the pins. “Don’t be ridiculous, my lord.” She swept up her hair and twisted it into a simple knot. “Whatever made you think that?” With each pin that went in, her poise began to return, at long last. “Thank you again for your invaluable assistance.” He’d done her this service—a rather enormous one, she fully admitted—which proved he had some basic decency and chivalry, but nothing more. She would be grateful to him, especially for punching Lord Clary, then return to keeping her distance fromhim.
“It was entirely my honor,” he said wryly. “I suppose this is yours?” He picked up the brooch Clary had ripped from her dress, a bit of lace still snagged in the clasp.
“Yes.” Penelope looked down at her damaged gown, shuddering again at the memory of Clary’s repulsive touch on her breast. She pressed one hand against the spot as if to rub it out. “He tore my gown.”
“Indeed.” There was an odd hitch in Atherton’s voice. Penelope glanced up. Clary hadn’t torn the bodice itself, only the lace flounce at the neckline, and yet... Lord Atherton was staring at her bosom. And there wasn’t a trace of disgust in his face. It was very like the way he’d looked at her the other night, when he was trying to put her in her place by saying a man must consider all a woman’s charms...
There was a sound from the other side of the room. Still somewhat disconcerted by the focused interest on Atherton’s face, Penelope didn’t identify it at first. The viscount, though, spun around, coming to his feet in an instant. “Yes?” he snapped.
“There you are, sir!” cried Mrs. Lockwood. “I’ve been looking everywhere—” She stopped abruptly.
Penelope sat frozen in the armchair, afraid to move. All too clearly, she could picture what Mrs. Lockwood saw: the man who was courting her daughter leaning solicitously near a wildly disheveled woman. She said a quick frantic prayer that it was too dim in the room for anyone to recognizeher.
“What did you want with me?” Atherton seemed to be the only one with any wits about him. He had stepped squarely in front of Penelope, impeding Mrs. Lockwood’sview.
But not, it turned out, enough. “You,” breathed Mrs. Lockwood. “You—you scheming, brazen trollop!” Each word grew louder and more indignant.
Penelope cringed. Hoping desperately this was all a nightmare, she peeked around Lord Atherton, who still stood protectively in front of her. Frances’s mother was in the doorway, silhouetted by the light of the corridor. Shock and fury were written in every line of her taut posture and expression.
“Why were you looking for me, Mrs. Lockwood?” asked Atherton again, his voice a little colder.
That seemed to jar the woman out of her speechlessness. She yanked someone next to her and thrust out an accusing finger in Penelope’s direction. “See, Frances,” she exclaimed, “see how silly you were? I told you that girl was up to no good, filling your ears with nonsense. Do you see now that I was right?”
With deep mortification Penelope met Frances’s stunned gaze. The younger girl looked like she’d been crying; tears still glistened on her cheeks. Now she stood staring in openmouthed shock, and whispered, “Miss Weston?” as if she couldn’t believe hereyes.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Penelope burst out. Finally jolted into action, she scrambled out of the chair and across the room, putting as much space as possible between herself and the viscount. “Frances, please don’t be hasty—”
“Hasty!” Mrs. Lockwood seemed to quiver with outrage. “Frances, don’t be a fool! Do you see now that she schemed to disrupt your engagement to Lord Atherton because she wanted him for herself?”
“No,” gasped Penelope. Good Lord—of all the things to be accused of! “That’s a lie! I would never!”
Atherton crossed the room in two strides. “What do you want, madam?” he bit out. “Just this evening, your daughter told me she never wanted to see me again, so I expect it was something terribly urgent that made you seek meout.”
“I was bringing her to apologize for that, but now I see that I was wrong to make her reconsider.” Her gaze raked scornfully over Penelope. “I understandperfectlynow why she gave you the answer she did. She must have seen what I did not: how very faithless youare!”
“That wasn’t the reason she gave earlier.” He turned a hard look on Frances, who blanched.
“Nevertheless...” Mrs. Lockwood gave her daughter a shake. “She did not suspect such scheming interference and betrayal from Miss Weston, who pretended to be her friend.”
Penelope wanted to strike the woman. She shook her head at Frances, pleading for understanding—surely Frances knew that wasn’t true—but it was too late. Frances pulled loose of her mother’s grasp as betrayal settled over her expression.
“No, Mama.” She glanced at Penelope. “I don’t believe Miss Weston schemed to get Lord Atherton for herself. She hateshim.”
Oh Lord. The viscount turned to her, one brow slightly raised. Penelope blushed scarlet. Even if it helped her case, she would rather Frances hadn’t said that, not so soon after Atherton had been so unquestionably heroic to her. She wet her lips and avoided his eyes, praying she could talk her way out of this as skillfully as Abigail would. “This is all a terrible misunderstanding. I fell down the stairs, you see, and was quite disheveled as a result and Lord Atherton happened to discover me and he so kindly helped me to this room to repair myself. There’s really nothing else at all in it...”
Her voice trailed off as Frances pointedly looked from her tumbledown hair to her ripped gown to her bare foot. Penelope closed her mouth in humiliation. Combined with Atherton’s similar state—his hair rumpled and falling over his brow, his jacket unbuttoned—the appearances were very, very damning.
“No.” Now Frances sounded hurt and accusatory. “I don’t think I misunderstand, not anymore. All the time he was only pretending to court me but really he never wanted me at all—he wantedyou.”
