Page 34 of Love in the Time of Scandal
Her father exhaled and then slowly lowered himself into a chair next to her mother. He hung his head, and when Mama reached out her hand, he clasped it as if it would save him from drowning. Penelope looked away, painfully aware of how deeply she had disappointed both her parents, and caught sight of Atherton. He was watching Mama and Papa with an odd expression, but he must have felt her gaze on him; with a jerk he turned his head and met her eyes. She had the strangest sense that he was looking at her in a completely different light, almost as if he’d never seen her before.
“Mr. Weston,” he said. “May I have a word with Penelope?”
It was the first time he’d said her name. Penelope gulped and concentrated on her hands, wishing she hadn’t heard it. Then he made it worse by adding, “After all, this involves us most intimately.”
Papa nodded, and he and Mama left. The room seemed very small when it held just her and Lord Atherton. She wet her lips. “Yes, my lord?”
He sat down in the chair next to hers. “I’ve just had a very pointed conversation with your father. At the end of it, he offered me a choice, which really depends on you.”
“Which is?” Her heart lifted; a choice?
“He wants the name of the man who started the rumors.”
She bit her lip wretchedly. “I can’t tell him.” She couldn’t drag Olivia into it; whatever trouble her friend was in, drawing Papa’s fury onto her wouldn’t help. As it was, she was growing very alarmed for Olivia; if Clary would ruin Penelope this way, what would he do to Olivia? And then there was that horrible image of her father lying on Hampstead Heath, covered in blood, while Clary stood gloating over him, a smoking pistol in hand.
Atherton let out his breath as if he’d been expecting that. “Why not? Who are you protecting?”
She flinched. “No one.”
“Is it another man?” he pressed.
Penelope blushed. “No!”
His shoulders eased. “Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t marry me.”
“Except that I don’t want to!”
“My tender feelings are crushed,” he said dryly.
“Huh! We don’t even like each other,” she muttered.
“Not true, and you know it.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”
Her heart tried to jump into her throat for a moment. “Why?”
“Trust me a moment.” When she still didn’t move, he took hold of the arms of her chair and tugged, dragging it toward him until their knees touched. Penelope sat frozen in her seat as he leaned forward. “I don’t dislike you,” he said in that buttery-smooth voice. “On the contrary. From the moment we first met I thought you were enchanting.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, trying not to stare at the way his hair fell in dark waves over his brow. It was romantic and poetic and rakish. Damn him for being so attractive, especially close up.
“And we got on splendidly,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “At first.”
“First impressions are very unreliable.” One lock fell in a perfect curl right above his left eye. She wondered what it felt like, and then she squeezed her fingers into fists to punish them for wanting to know.
“Penelope,” he murmured, “we’re both in a very bad spot.” He lifted her hand, handling it as if it were fragile, and smoothed her fingers straight. He bent his head and brushed his lips over the pounding pulse in her wrist. “Fortunately we can save each other.”
She felt the room sway around her. Her heart seemed to be choking her. His breath was warm on her skin, and he kept her hand cradled against his cheek, where she could feel the faint scratch of stubble. Heaven help her, but something inside her thrilled at the contact. Her dislike of him had been the bulwark protecting her from her own wicked urges to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do scandalous things to her, and now he was dismantling that disapprobation, brick by brick. Soon she would be defenseless.
“I don’t think we should,” she said by way of one last effort, but her voice had lost its vigor and defiance, and become soft and almost regretful instead.
He tilted his head, peering up at her with those vivid blue eyes from beneath the rumpled waves of his hair. “I do.”
Penelope swallowed. He was still holding her hand, but barely; if she pulled, she would be free. Unfortunately she seemed unable to do anything remotely sensible when he touched her. She had never seen this side of him... because of course he’d never wanted to marry her before. The thought gave her a small burst of courage. “Is this how you proposed to all the other girls?”
“No,” he said. “But I think I did it all wrong before. There was something missing...” He eased his weight forward, sliding off the chair and onto one knee. Penelope knew what he was going to do—she even caught her breath as he leaned ever closer—and there wasn’t a single thing she could do to stop him. Indeed, some treacherous part of her seemed to burst into life at the prospect, until she had to grip the chair arm with her free hand to keep from reaching for him. His mesmerizing gaze never wavered from her; Penelope could only assume she was staring at him like a simpleton, unable to move or think or even breathe as his lips dipped toward hers.
She quaked at the first brush of his mouth. Like evil pixies unleashed from captivity, her thoughts spilled out in a tortured mess. How she’d imagined him falling in love with her the first time he sat in Mama’s drawing room and turned his dazzling smile on her. How she’d been so stupidly silly trying to get his attention during a barge expedition by tossing her hat overboard, and how he’d gallantly rescued it. How she’d dared him into taking her off to look for ghosts at Hampton Court, all the time hoping he might steal a kiss. How ecstatic she’d been when he sent her flowers... until she realized he’d also sent flowers to her mother and her sister. And even how jealous she’d been when he focused his attention on Abigail and gave everyone to understand that it was the kind, sensible Weston girl he wanted, not her.
Except... he wasn’t kissing Abigail now, or Frances Lockwood, or any other young lady. He was kissingher, his lips moving over hers lightly yet teasingly, until she barely realized that her own mouth had softened and responded. Apart from her hand, which he still held clasped in his own, he wasn’t touching her anywhere else, but Penelope felt nailed to her chair. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to move, to interrupt this breathtaking moment of unexpected tenderness.
