Page 21 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Her stomach twisted into a hard knot. His body was tall and hard and so strong against hers. The scent of his shaving soap made her light-headed, because his clean-shaven jaw was so close she could see every line of his firm, sensual mouth. Penelope fought down the heat spreading through her veins; her attraction to him was a fatal weakness, but she refused to succumb toit.
She pushed against his chest and backed away, no longer caring what her hair or dress looked like. “We should stay far away from each other,” she said, hating her voice for being shaky and breathless. “Give her time to reconsider—to realize it was all a misunderstanding—or perhaps simply to find another suitor and cease caring about either ofus—”
“Do you really hate me?” he interrupted.
She flushed again. “Have you really been in love with me all along?”
Neither said aword.
“See?” she said grimly. “We’ve both been horribly misrepresented. Thank you for saving me from Lord Clary, but I beg you: Do not speak to me again, do not seek me out, do not do anything that might turn any of my other friends against me—” Her voice broke on the last words. “I hope you won’t say a word about this to anyone.” She waited, and after a moment he gave a slight nod. “Good-bye, sir.” Head held high, she retrieved her lost slipper and limped out the door, hoping desperately that an injured ankle was the worst that happened to her tonight.
Benedict watched her go. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d just done, but he damned sure wasn’t going back to the rout now. When Penelope had had sufficient time to escape, he went into the hall and sent a servant for his things.
On one hand, his actions were perfectly defensible. It wasn’t exactly admirable to follow Penelope because he wanted to argue with her about the way she’d incited Frances to lunacy, but finding her struggling on the floor with Clary had superseded that intention and prompted him to intervene; what gentleman wouldn’t? And he stayed to make certain she was unhurt because she was a young lady, very near the age of his youngest sister, and if Samantha ever were in such a position, he hoped someone would do the same forher.
But then... He ought to have fetched her mother at once, no matter what she said. He ought not to have touched her hair, even though that, too, was done in the spirit of trying to help her. Her trembling hands had disproved her protest that she was perfectly fine; he admired her fortitude if not her ability to lie. But it had been a mistake because it put him much too close to her. With his hands tangled in her silky hair he had an all-too-intimate view of the flush on her cheeks, the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, and the ripe swells of her breasts above her ripped bodice. And just like the other night, he’d been jolted by the reminder that Penelope Weston was a beautiful young woman.
For a moment he thought of her wild suggestion that he ought to have seized Frances and kissed her to distract both Lockwood ladies. It might have worked... except he no longer wanted to marry Frances. Somewhere between her impassioned outburst and that strangely fraught moment when Penelope looked up at him, her face shining with joy and gratitude, from where Clary held her down on the floor, Benedict’s interest in wedding Frances Lockwood had withered away. Otherwise he might have explained to Mrs. Lockwood immediately thathehadn’t been the cause of Penelope’s ripped dress, disheveled hair, and missing shoe. He could have supported her far-fetched tale of falling on the stairs that portrayed him as nothing more than someone of good manners who happenedby.
Instead he’d said nothing of thesort.
Benedict reached into his pocket. The brooch was an oval agate surrounded by pearls, pale and perfect in the dim light. The clasp still had a bit of lace stuck in it—fine, expensive lace. From Bannister’s report the other night, he knew each Weston daughter had a dowry approaching forty thousand pounds. It was more than any other heiress he’d met in two Seasons, and more than twice Frances Lockwood’s. That dowry, paired with Penelope’s brilliant looks and keen intelligence, was a considerable temptation. At her best, Penelope was exuberant and amusing, with a sparkling wit; she was loyal and fearless in her devotion to those dear to her. With her hair tousled and her color high, she was a smoldering temptress, and all her words in praise of passion ran through his mind in sinful suggestion.
On the other hand, she hated him. There was no mistaking the guilty blush that stained her face when Frances blurted thatout.
He tucked the brooch back into his pocket as the servant returned with his hat and gloves. His father was fond of saying that it was often to one’s advantage to sit back and see what opportunities emerged from a scandal. Much as Benedict hated to admit it, perhaps this time his father was correct.
Chapter 8
Penelope’s ankle was red and sore the next morning, and instead of protesting that it was fine, she let her mother fuss over her. The encounter with Lord Clary had given her a real fright, and the subsequent scene with Frances and Lord Atherton hadn’t helped.
She told her mother none of it. If she confided in Mama about Lord Clary, she would have to explain why she’d been alone with him. If she did that, Mama would send for Olivia at once and interrogate her, and if Olivia admitted having an affair with him, there was a real chance Mama would forbid Penelope from seeing Olivia again. Not only was Penelope determined to protect her friend—who had obviously been in great distress about the assignation, if that’s even what it was—she was wild to know why Olivia would speak to such a man, let alone slip off to meet him. And if she tried to warn her mother about what Mrs. Lockwood or Frances might say, she would have to explain what had led to that, which would mean explaining about Clary. On the whole, Penelope didn’t see how shecouldtell her mother.
So she let the physician examine her ankle, nodding meekly when he pronounced it slightly turned and in need of rest. As Lord Atherton had said, it wasn’t broken, even though it hurt like the devil. Mama showed the doctor out after getting his instructions for poultices and wraps, and then came to sit on the edge of Penelope’sbed.
“Quite an evening,” she remarked.
“Not my finest,” Penelope murmured.
Mama studied her. “Merely because of a slip on the stairs?”
Penelope creased her skirt. She’d told her parents she fell on the stairs to account for her disheveled state, but suspected her mother wasn’t completely fooled. “I wasn’t enjoying it before that, either.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Things haven’t been the same since Abby wed, have they?”
“Not at all,” Penelope muttered. If Abigail had been there last night, Penelope would have stayed in the ballroom gossiping with her, and none of the nightmare would have happened.
“I knew it would be hardest on you,” Mama went on. “The two of you have been so close, ever since she peeped into your cradle and demanded to play withyou.”
She gave a halfhearted smile. “I’m very happy forher.”
Mama smiled. “As am I. But I miss her, too.” She leaned over to press a kiss on Penelope’s forehead. “As I’ll miss you, when you decide to settle down like Abigaildid.”
“She met the right man,” Penelope protested. “The man of her dreams! You make it sound like she decided it was time and the perfect husband was just standing there, waiting forher.”
“I know very well it wasn’t like that,” said Mama wryly. “Your papa still grumbles about it from time to time. Do try to make things easier for him when you fall in love, Penelope.”
“I never try to make things difficult.”
