Page 43 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“She has no need to visit you, you have come to her.” He gave Benedict a piercing look. “Against my wishes, no less.”
Benedict nodded once. His heart had begun to thump a little harder now that the moment was at hand. It was ridiculous; he was nearly thirty years old, a soldier, and a married man—yet he still felt like a boy, small and scared, even though he was a few inches taller than his father now. “I have momentous news and wished to bring it myself. I am married, sir.”
The earl’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”
“To Miss Penelope Weston.”
The earl said nothing. His expression conveyed it all. Benedict almost enjoyed seeing the contained fury in his father’s face. Stratford knew exactly what the marriage meant. For a moment Benedict thought he might just walk away in silence, but then Stratford closed the door and came into the room.
“How surprising!” he said. “You must be a man of very great humility, to wed the sister of the woman who spurned you. But perhaps I underestimated Thomas Weston. He was determined to have a viscount for a son-in-law, and now he’s got one.”
“I like to think I was accepted for my own charm as well,” said Benedict, keeping his confident expression fixed in place. Any sign of uncertainty and the earl would tear him to shreds. “By the lady as well as by her father.”
Stratford harrumphed. “Is she breeding?”
“Perhaps,” he replied, refusing to let himself think about that. “But she was innocent when I married her.”
The earl’s lips thinned. Benedict knew he’d been about to suggest Penelope had coerced him into marrying her. The thought almost made Benedict laugh. How furious would his father be if he knew that if anything, it had been more the other way around? “A rare feat in girls of that class.”
“She is a rare girl,” he agreed. “In the best way.”
“Take care you don’t get coal dust under your fingernails when you take her to bed.”
He knew his father was trying to provoke him. Insulting his bride was just another way of insulting his own judgment and taste, but it offered Benedict the first real opportunity to show the earl that things were different now. Everything had changed, and he wasn’t ceding an inch back to his father. “Her father was never a collier. He was an attorney who made a considerable fortune through shrewd investment. I hope my children have as much acumen.”
“So you can spawn a future earl who deals in trade?” sneered Stratford. His temper was beginning to fray, and his face was dull red. “Stratford Court will become a counting house! The bookkeepers and lawyers will overrun everything of grace and nobility your ancestors built over three hundred years.”
“You gave your blessing when I wished to marry Abigail Weston.” Benedict had long suspected that had happened because his father sensed Sebastian Vane wanted Abigail, too, and not because of anything Benedict had said to persuade him. Why the earl hated Sebastian that much, Benedict didn’t know, but his hunch seemed confirmed when Stratford’s eyes blazed with fury.
“And instead of recovering from your peculiar desire to wed a girl of common stock with nothing but her dowry to recommend her, you simply took her sister instead. Well, why not, I suppose; neither one is much of a beauty, but the fortune is worth as much either way.”
Benedict opened his mouth to defend his wife—to defend himself. But then he realized it was pointless, and so he just raised his chin, savoring every tiny bit of height he had over his father. “Yes. It’s good for a man to have an independent fortune.”
Stratford made a motion, quickly restrained, as if he meant to strike Benedict. Somehow Benedict didn’t flinch away. In fact, he almost wanted the earl to do it, to raise his hand and hit him. For the first time in his life, he felt able and ready to hit back. No, it was more than that—hewantedto strike his father, to pay him back for all the whippings and thrashings he’d endured in his life, for offenses as trivial as being late to dinner or not reciting his Latin lessons enough times. Benedict wanted to repay the earl for all the punishments he’d taken for his sisters and mother, for the belittling remarks and impossible demands and random acts of petty cruelty they had all suffered over the years.
But the reason he dared not do it—his mother—rose from her seat. She wore the distant, composed expression that hid her thoughts and feelings, which Samantha had once called “her ladyship’s countenance.” “What God hath joined together, no man may put apart. I would not wish anyone to suspect a rift in our family; Benedict, if you bring your bride to visit, I will receive her. It would be unbecoming to snub the next Countess of Stratford. My dear, will you join me in wishing our son well in his marriage?”
Her words gave the earl time to master his temper. He still glowered at Benedict, but he drew himself rigidly erect and bowed. “Of course. I trust he knows his duty to Stratford by now.”
Benedict met his father’s freezing stare. “Perfectly, sir.”
“Time will tell. You would do well to keep from my sight until sent for. Remember it this time, and don’t come slinking back under pretense of visiting your mother.” With that contemptuous dismissal, the earl turned and left.
Neither Benedict nor his mother moved until the sound of his footsteps had faded away. Then the countess sank onto the sofa once more. “I wish you every happiness,” she said softly. “Truly I do. No matter what impelled you to marriage, I hope she makes you very happy.”
It took him a minute to reply. He hated to leave her here, uncertain of when he would see her again, but for himself... for himself he felt fully free of Stratford for the first time in his life. “Thank you, Mother.” He bent and kissed her cheek. “So do I.”
Chapter 15
It was an immense relief that Benedict was not in bed when she woke.
Penelope lay quietly for several minutes, trying to untangle her new circumstances. She could still smell him, and if she closed her eyes she could still feel his hands on her skin and hear the murmur of his voice in her ear. He’d made love to her three times, including waking her once in the middle of the night. Thinking about what he’d done that time brought a fiery blush to her face. Whatever other faults she laid at his feet, he was a very adept lover.
She supposed that was a good thing, since she was well and truly married to him. All her threats to leave last night were hollow, even before he’d made love to her. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, part of her thrilled at the idea that he was hers. Part of her exulted in his attraction to her, and all of her was bowled over by his lovemaking. That had been every bit as exciting and powerful as Lady Constance had led her to believe it would be.
As for the rest... there was still hope. She now had a lifetime to loosen him up and make him fall in love with her. Penelope didn’t really see any other option; they were married, and she wanted her husband to be madly in love with her. It seemed only fair, after all, since he obviously wanted her and she was already helplessly attracted to him. Just thinking about it made her pulse speed up. He’d taken her to bed and done wicked, wonderful things to her, and probably would again. She thought of all the acts described in50 Ways to Sinand wondered if Benedict would be amenable to trying any of them. Or perhaps he had other, equally thrilling, ideas of his own. She blushed all over her body at that possibility. Who could do those things and not develop tender feelings?
Oh—Lady Constance, that’s who. She found pleasure with her lovers but never anything more, no matter how arousing or wicked their amorous encounter. Penelope had always dreamt of sharing a great passion with her husband, not just in bed but in everything. Instead she found herself married to a man who was a mystery to her, who admitted he’d wanted to marry a completely different sort of girl—her own sister!—who freely admitted that she bedeviled and tormented him. Unlike Constance, who sent her lovers away and rarely saw them again, though, Benedict would still be her husband tomorrow and the day after and the day after. How could she endure decades of a marriage with no love? How could she bear it if there was no passion between them—or worse, if there was a great deal of passion but nothing deeper? Could she be like Constance and simply enjoy making love with her husband, without caring that he didn’t love her?
