Page 3 of Love in the Time of Scandal
He pulled himself toward the edge of the bed. From his shoulders to his hips, he ached. Awkwardly he sipped from Elizabeth’s mug.
“I don’t think it’s fair that you got a whipping and shall have only bread and water for a week.”
Benedict sighed, resting his cheek on the mattress. “It doesn’t matter what we think.”
“I know.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Ben. Samantha wanted to hold my doll Bess, but I was selfish and wouldn’t let her. She pulled on Bess and I pulled back, and we both bumped into the statue, and Nanny was calling us, and—and—”
“Don’t worry.” He reached for her hand. She scrambled nearer and leaned her head against the bed frame beside his, clasping his hand to her cheek. “Make sure Samantha knows not to tell about Bess.”
She nodded. “I will. I told her to pretend she had a nightmare and go cry in Nanny’s lap while I sneaked in here with the milk. Are—are you badly hurt?”
He made a face even though his back felt like it was on fire. “Not much.”
“Mother will come see you tomorrow, won’t she?”
He hoped. Sometimes his punishments included being sequestered from everyone else. Elizabeth was only able to come to him because his room was still in the nursery. Benedict thought he could bear this much better if his mother would come and stroke his hair and lay cold compresses on his back and read to him. She did that when the earl was away from Stratford Court. Of course, when the earl was away, he wasn’t whipped at all.
“I wish he would go to London,” whispered his sister, echoing his thoughts.
“So do I.” He wished the earl would go to London, or anywhere else, and stay there forever. “You should go back to bed before Nanny realizes you’re here.”
She held up the cup so he could finish the milk. Greedily he sucked the last of it, then gave her a little push. “Good night, Ben,” she whispered next to his ear. “Thank you.”
He closed his eyes as she slipped out of the room. If he hadn’t taken responsibility, their father would have begun to suspect the girls. Stratford never whipped his daughters—Benedict wondered if he would when they grew older—but he would punish them in other ways. If Stratford had seen Bess lying on the stair and realized the truth, he probably would have burned the doll. That would have broken Elizabeth’s heart; she loved Bess and took very gentle care of her.
In a few days his back would stop hurting. A week with only bread and water would be miserable, but he was ten, nearly eleven—almost a man—and his little sisters needed their milk and good food more than he did. With any luck, his mother would find a way to come see him and make the days pass more quickly. And on the bright side, he would be allowed to recite his lessons here, instead of standing in the schoolroom.
But he wished, deeply and intensely, that he had been born the son of anyone other than the Earl of Stratford.
Chapter 1
1822
London
Some people were born with an acute appreciation of the little things in life: a good book, a beautiful garden, a quiet peaceful home. Nothing pleased them more than improving their minds through reading, or practicing an art such as painting or playing an instrument, or helping the sick and infirm. Such people were truly noble and inspiring.
Penelope Weston was not one of those people.
In fact, she felt very much the opposite of noble or inspiring as she stood at the side of Lady Hunsford’s ballroom and glumly watched the beautiful couples whirling around the floor. She wasn’t envious... much... but she was decidedly bored. This was a new feeling for her. Once balls and parties had been the most exciting thing in the world. She had thrilled at sharing the latest gossip and discussing the season’s fashions with her older sister, Abigail, and their friend Joan Bennet. None of the three of them had been popular young ladies, so they always had plenty of time to talk at balls, interrupted only occasionally by a gentleman asking one of them to dance.
At the time, they had all openly wished for more gentlemen to ask them to dance, and to call on them, flowers in hand, and beg for their company on a drive in the park. No one wanted to be a spinster all her life, after all. Whenever Joan fell into despair over her height, or Abigail fretted that only fortune hunters would want her, Penelope loyally maintained that there existed a man who would find Joan’s tall, statuesque figure appealing, and a man who would want Abigail for more than her dowry.
Well, now she’d been proven right. Joan had married the very rakish Viscount Burke, and Abigail was absolutely moonstruck in love with her new husband, Sebastian. Penelope was very happy for both of them, she really was... but she was also feeling left out for the first time in her life. Her sister was only a year older than she, and they had been the best of friends her entire life—and now Abigail was happily rusticating in Richmond, cultivating the quieter society that made Penelope want to run screaming from the room. Joan’s bridegroom had swept her off on a very exciting and exotic wedding trip to Italy, which Penelope envied fiercely but obviously could not share. And that left her alone, standing at the side of ballrooms once more, but this time without her dearest friends to pass the time.
“Miss Weston! Oh, Miss Weston, what a pleasure to see you tonight!”
Penelope roused herself from her brooding thoughts and smiled. Frances Lockwood beamed back, cheeks pink from dancing. Frances was on the brink of her first season, still starry-eyed at the social whirl of London. “And you, Miss Lockwood. I hope you are well.”
The younger girl nodded. “Very well! I think this is the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen!”
Penelope kept smiling. Just three years ago she’d been every bit as wide-eyed and delighted as Miss Lockwood. It was both amusing and disconcerting to see how she must have looked to everyone back then. “It is a very fine room. Lady Hunsford has quite an eye for floral arrangements.”
“Indeed!” Miss Lockwood agreed eagerly. “And the musicians are very talented.”
“They are.” Penelope felt much older than her twenty-one years, discussing flower arrangements and musicians. Her mother was probably making the very same comments to her friends.
Miss Lockwood sidled a step closer. “And the gentlemen are so very handsome, don’t you think?”
