Page 56 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Yes.”
She tilted her head closer. “She’s been watching you as well, although I suppose you know that. Is she your lover?”
Benedict would have walked away except for the intriguing remark that Penelope had been watching him. Against his will he wanted to hear more. “She is my wife.”
The lady gave him a sly smile. “Even better!” She turned back to the dancers. “Have you had a dreadful row, to avoid each other as you’re doing?”
“No,” he said stiffly.
“No?” She looked deeply disappointed. “What a pity. I was imagining all the ways a man and his lover—or even his wife—could mend a quarrel. Perhaps she spends too much; perhaps he has a mistress she’s just discovered. Perhaps—”
“There was no quarrel,” he repeated testily. “And I don’t believe she’s looked twice at me all evening.”
“Oh, but she has,” the woman almost purred, giving him a quick appraising glance, from the toes of his shoes to the top of his head. “No wonder, too. You’re a handsome one, sir.”
He stared at her in affront and shock, but curiosity won out. “When has she been looking at me?”
“Every time her partner turns the other way. A quick glance from under her eyelashes, nothing more. But I daresay she knows you’re speaking to me this moment.”
Benedict turned his head to watch Penelope. Her attention seemed fixed on her partner; they joined hands once more and skipped lightly down the set as the other dancers clapped. Her cheeks were pink and her face was alive with excitement.
“You’ll think it impertinent of me, but I believe she’s waiting for you,” murmured the woman beside him. “She’s trying to make you jealous.”
“Jealous!” He was so astonished, he forgot to take umbrage. He glared at the back of Penelope’s partner’s head. The fellow was tall and fit, and he seemed very taken with Penelope. The conniving, seducing rogue.
“Is it working?” The woman’s voice had grown soft and almost gentle. “If it is, you ought to take her home and make wild, desperate love to her. That will show her you don’t really care for your mistress, and that you don’t care how much she spent on that gown because it makes you want to tear it off her. That’s what every woman craves, you know, at least every now and then. A man driven out of his mind with passion for her.”
The thought set his blood simmering. “I haven’t got a mistress,” he bit out, “and I’ve no idea how much the gown cost.”
“All the better.” She edged slightly closer, and without thinking he dipped his head. “She looks like a passionate one... I hope you’re able to fulfill her fancies. Ravish her, my good man.”
“Madam.” He recoiled. “What cheek!”
Her smile was a little caustic. “Because I can see what a woman craves? Very well. Go on with your brooding. Ride home with her in toplofty silence and stare at the ceiling all night in frustration, all because I spoke the indelicate truth.” She shrugged. “Be like every other stuffy man in England, and don’t be surprised when she does take a lover.”
Benedict felt his very bones seethe with frustration and longing as she spoke, each word like the pricking of a dagger. Damn it, he didn’t want Penelope to take a lover. None of his visions of marriage had included that, even before he married a spirited, vivacious minx who seemed to be roasting him on a spit in the heat of his own desire. “My private life is none of your concern,” he said coldly. There was no response. When he turned his head and looked, the lady in brown velvet had disappeared. He frowned and scanned the room for her, but saw no trace. Who the devil was she, and why in God’s name was she wandering a public ballroom offering unwanted and unsettling advice? Who did she think she was?
A thought struck him then. Could it be...? This time he searched for her in earnest. He scraped his memory, trying to recall her exact appearance. Dark hair, though not too dark. Nondescript features, so ordinary he would be hard-pressed to describe them. Her dress was simple, neither luxurious nor shabby. But there was only one woman in London that audacious, and if she’d just advised him on his marriage... He strode across the floor almost before the music ended. Penelope was still thanking her partner when he took her hand. “Say farewell,” he murmured in her ear. “We’re going home.”
She gaped in astonishment. “It’s not late at all!”
He leaned close, pressing his cheek to her temple. “I never said we were going home to sleep.” And he flicked his tongue over her earlobe.
Penelope jumped. Color flooded her face. She turned to her partner and gave him a dazzling smile. “It was a great pleasure dancing with you, Mr. Greene, but my husband and I must return home. Good night.”
In the carriage he took the backward-facing seat, all the better to feast his eyes on her. Penelope flung the edges of her cloak open and crossed her legs, letting her slipper slide along the curve of his calf. “Why must we leave in such a hurry, Lord Atherton?”
Curse that mysterious woman. Or maybe bless her. Benedict was so twisted up with wanting his wife, wanting her to want him, wanting her tolikehim, he couldn’t think of any elegant or polite way to put it. “I need to make love to you.”
Penelope’s eyes widened. “Now?”
“Yes, but I’m going to wait until we reach home.”
Her eyes flitted from side to side, measuring the carriage. “Why?”
His smile felt feral and hungry. “Because it will take much longer than the short journey home.”
And Penelope only raised her brows and smiled her familiar, coy smile that only dug those little needles of lust deeper.
