Page 25 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Trying to strangle a man who suggests you want her makes it appear you want her.”
“Hollander suggested I knew she was a whore and kept it secret so no one else would have a chance to ride her.” Benedict glared at his mate. “If he accused you of murdering your father, would you look guilty if you tried to close his mouth?”
Cabot inclined his head, acknowledging the point. “I still say it’s better not to fly at his throat. Hollander loves a good fight; it will only encourage him.”
Benedict gave a nod of grudging assent. The door behind them opened again, and this time it was Bannister.
“I hear I missed the bare-knuckle brawl,” he said with a faint smile. “Do relate it blow by blow!”
Cabot sighed and squared his shoulders. “There was no brawl. I’ll go tell Hollander to hold his tongue.” He went into the barracks.
Bannister twisted to watch him go, then glanced at Benedict. “Defending a lady’s honor, are you?”
Benedict gave him a hard look. “How bad are the rumors? I assume you’ve heard them.”
“You haven’t?” Bannister studied him thoughtfully when Benedict shook his head. “I’d call them scandalous—or even worse. The tale I heard was rather detailed as to the young woman’s depravities.”
He hesitated, then just asked. “With whom was she supposed to have been so wicked?”
Bannister shrugged. “No one in particular—or rather, everyone in particular. I heard she wasn’t discriminating. Poor Hollander must have felt left out and wanted under her skirts as well.”
Benedict bit back the urge to growl at that. Hollander was the least of his concerns. He muttered a farewell to Bannister and turned toward the stables, wanting some space to think.
These did not sound like the sort of rumors Mrs. Lockwood or Frances would start. Benedict had fully expected some little tattle to emerge from that, women’s gossip about a shameless attempt to steal poor Frances’s suitor or something similar. If Hollander had given him an amused, pitying look and asked which girl he was really courting, he would have been prepared to wave it aside with a weary sigh about female theatrics, and hope that ended it.
But tales of wicked depravities meant the rumors had to be from Clary, although it was very curious that Benedict’s name didn’t seem to be part of them. As Penelope had pointed out, Benedict was the one who had punched him—and yet she alone was about to be raked over the coals in every drawing room in London.
Why the devil would Clary want to do that? He’d obviously been angry at Penelope, but he’d already put a terrible fright into her, and there would be consequences to spreading lies about her. Thomas Weston might not be a gentleman, but he also wasn’t a foolish or weak man. If Clary ruined Penelope’s reputation, Weston had the funds and the drive to hound the man forever. Only an idiot would invite that sort of vengeance, and Clary wasn’t stupid. Benedict’s father had once called Clary a worthy adversary, which was the highest show of respect the Earl of Stratford could give.
He let himself into the stable, waving aside a groom who stepped out of the tack room in inquiry, and went down the dim block until he reached the next to last stall. His horse nickered quietly at his approach, and he ran one hand absently along Achilles’ neck.
He wondered why Penelope had been alone with Clary in the first place. She’d been quite adamant about not telling him, and perhaps it was none of his concern. No matter her reason, he hoped she’d learned a lesson from the experience. Whatever had happened before he arrived, Clary’s intentions had been quite obvious when he pushed open the door to see the man pinning her to the floor. For a moment his mind lingered on that image: Penelope sprawled on her back, her hair tumbling down, her skirts tossed up above her knees, her bosom heaving, her blue eyes glowing with passion... Benedict gave himself a mental shake; her eyes hadn’t been glowing with passion but with fury—first at Clary and then at him, when he was apparently to blame for Frances and her mother drawing fairly logical conclusions.
But now... Now Penelope was in no position to be furious at him. If Bannister’s report was true, everyone in town would be watching her to see if the rumors were accurate. Even this late in the year London was filled with gossip-hungry people eager for the next delicious scandal. If they got their teeth into a beautiful girl known for her adventurous nature and sharp wit, they would devour her. The fact that she was a nouveau riche heiress would only add to their pleasure. Mr. Weston’s ambitions were widely known, and frequently mocked in private. Some people would be only too eager to believe his daughter was shameless and immoral.
Which meant the competition for the hand of one heiress would be greatly lessened, just at a moment she would find herself most in want of marriage.
Benedict’s hand slowed to a stop on Achilles’ nose as that thought sank deep into his brain. “That’s madness,” he said softly. The horse whickered back at him as if in agreement. Itwasmadness, and yet... The feel of her hair sliding through his fingers. The way the color came up in her face. The mesmerizing swell of her breasts straining at her bodice. And the fierce flash of joy in her face when he stepped into the room and stopped Clary from assaulting her. Penelope was a beauty. When she laughed, it made a man stop and listen. And once upon a time, he and she had got on quite well together—splendidly, in fact.
He inhaled unevenly. He did not want to want Penelope. From the beginning he’d seen that she was not the sort of girl he wanted to marry; she was passionate and tempestuous and liable to drive him mad. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of her legs in silk stockings, or the scent of her perfume, wild and sweet and perfectly Penelope. He tried to force his mind back to all the times they argued, and only managed to imagine all that blazing temper transformed into passion as the argument ended in a rough coupling against the nearest wall. And even though Benedict told himself that was not what he wanted, the mere thought of her arms and legs wrapped around him as he drove himself inside her made his skin turn hot.
“Damn it,” he muttered, trying to repress the instinctive reaction of his body. “Think, man.” Think of all the reasons he needed a bride, not all the wicked things he wanted to do to Penelope Weston. Marriage was far too important to be based on anything as common or fleeting as desire and passion. Marriage was meant to be based on a practical evaluation of multiple factors that would ensure a secure, companionable alliance.
First, he needed a bride with money.
Penelope Weston had a dowry of forty thousand pounds.
Second, he didn’t want to become a laughingstock. He wanted a wife of sense and discretion, not a wild hoyden who would constantly be the subject of gossip and innuendo.
Of course, to his knowledge Penelope had never been involved in a scandal until now, and he had already seen how deep and unwavering her loyalty could be, once engaged.
Third, he wanted a wife soon. Two humiliating rejections were quite enough, and he had hoped to be married by now in any event. His moment of opportunity to find a bride on his own terms was quickly passing, and he never knew if or when he’d get another one. When Abigail Weston had asked for his help in clearing Sebastian’s name, it had led his sister Samantha to confess that she, and not Sebastian Vane, had once stolen four thousand guineas from the Earl of Stratford. Their father’s rage had been implacable. Stratford blamed Benedict for trying to hide his sister’s deception, and banned him from the estate in addition to cutting off all communication and funds. Benedict could withstand the financial pinch this time, but banishment was a golden chance he could not ignore. As long as his father remained furious at him, he was somewhat free—but sooner or later, Stratford would set about bringing him back to heel. And then only a wealthy bride would render him immune to the earl’s demands.
And Penelope Weston—wealthy and beautiful—was about to find herself in desperate want of salvation... such as a respectable marriage.
“Tell me it’s a bloody stupid idea,” Benedict said to his horse. “Tell me I’m an idiot.” Achilles huffed out a breath and shook his head before pushing his nose against Benedict’s shoulder.
“No, I didn’t think so,” he murmured, taking a carrot from the bucket behind him and snapping it into pieces for the horse.
