Page 65 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Please do.”
He tipped up her chin. Her eyes shone like aquamarines under her half-lowered eyelids. Benedict felt a burst of intense gratitude to Abigail Weston and Frances Lockwood. If either of them had accepted him, he wouldn’t have Penelope. Who else would have pushed him to confront his family’s facade of civility? She wasn’t cowed by the earl and didn’t buckle under his glare. Unburdened by a lifetime of his punishments, she called him a bully and highlighted his veiled insults. Benedict watched her fend off the earl’s sharp words as if they had no power over her—as in fact they didn’t—with some awe. No matter how many times he’d told himself his father had no sway over him anymore, he knew it wasn’t completely true. Stratford would always know his weaknesses, his points of pride, his vulnerabilities, and would never hesitate to exploit them.
Benedict still didn’t want to go to Richmond tomorrow, but perhaps it was the better choice. Let Stratford—and his mother—see what kind of woman he’d married. Penelope’s indomitable spirit seemed to wear off a little on everyone who knew her; perhaps her example would be just the thing to embolden his mother and set his father back on his heels. If it went badly, they need never see his lordship again. Stratford knew that. His parting speech had touched on every point of independence. Benedict was a married man with an independent fortune and a wife who cared little for the aloof pride that Stratford prized. Together he and Penelope could chart their own course, and nothing the earl did could touch them.
Or so he thought.
Chapter 22
In response to Benedict’s note accepting his invitation, the earl sent a terse reply with the dock and time of departure. Depending on the winds, they should arrive in time for dinner, which was served fashionably late at Stratford Court.
Benedict advised Penelope to pack only enough for a few days’ stay and to dress warmly for the sail. It was a rather raw fall day, and as he stepped out of the carriage at the dock, he squinted up at the steely sky. It looked like rain. The stiff breeze would be good for the sails, not as pleasant for the passengers. There was a cabin aboard the yacht, handsomely appointed, but Stratford considered it a sign of weakness to go belowdecks. Benedict resigned himself to being cold and probably wet for the next few hours.
That didn’t mean his wife had to be, though. He tucked her hand around his arm and dismissed the carriage. The servants were already en route to Richmond with the baggage. “Don’t let my father persuade you to stay on deck,” he told her. “It looks to be an unpleasant journey.”
She was studying the yacht as they drew near it. It was a small craft, relatively speaking, but everything was of the finest quality.Dianagleamed in golden paint along the hull. “Does he always sail in such abominable weather?”
“No, but once he makes his plans, he doesn’t like to change them.” He caught her looking at a nearby boat, lurching fore and aft on a gust of wind, and realized he’d made it sound dangerous. “This weather isn’t too rough to sail in. It just won’t be as agreeable as it would be on a fine sunny day.”
“No doubt,” she murmured.
Stratford appeared on the deck. Benedict raised one hand in acknowledgment. His father nodded once, then turned on his heel and walked toward the stern. Already regretting it, Benedict took Penelope’s hand in his and led her down the dock.
“Punctual for a change” was the earl’s greeting when they had stepped aboard.
“Atherton is always punctual,” said Penelope brightly. “How fortunate my father shares that virtue and raised his children to be prompt as well. It has made married life so much smoother.”
Stratford’s sour gaze slewed toward him. Benedict just bowed his head, trying not to laugh at how his father must feel to be compared to Penelope’s father in any way.
“I’ve not been on many yachts,” Penelope went on. “And none so fine as this one. Will you show me the finer points, my lord?”
He wasn’t sure if his father would agree, but the earl must be in an exceptionally accommodating mood today. He offered his arm and gave her a frosty smile. “Of course.”
Benedict fell in behind as Stratford led Penelope away, her gloved hand pale on his dark sleeve. No explanation for the earl’s sudden interest had presented itself, and slowly he began to imagine it might be nothing but raw curiosity. Perhaps Stratford had repented of banishing him, or perhaps he’d heard gossip from London. Perhaps pride had undercut his fury, and his interest was primarily in assuring himself that Penelope would be a fit countess. Not that Benedict much agreed with his father about what a countess should be, and he certainly didn’t intend to allow his father to impose his rigid ideas on Penelope, but if Stratford cared for anything, he cared for his name and title. Penelope was nothing like his mother—she wasn’t demure and retiring, or aloof and reserved, but undaunted. Adventurous. Valiant and bold. When the wind caught her bonnet and almost pulled it off, she merely put up one hand to hold it in place without a word of complaint. Stratford led them to a spot where they could watch the three-man crew work, raising the sails and maneuvering the yacht into the current. Penelope watched everything with undisguised interest, asking a few questions that demonstrated she had a little familiarity with racing. Once Benedict even caught a glimmer of respect in his father’s face as he answered her.
When they were under way, Stratford left to supervise his helmsman. Benedict joined his wife at the rail near the prow, watching the city drift past. “I believe he likes you,” he said with some surprise.
Her lips curved. “Because he hasn’t pitched me overboard yet?”
“Because he answered your questions.”
She caught a strand of hair the wind had whipped across her face and tucked it back into her bonnet. “I’ve been thinking about your father and why he’s so commanding. Perhaps what he most respects is strength. His children could not oppose him, but I’m not his child and he has no sway over me. By standing up to him—politely, of course—perhaps I’ve set him back enough to convince him to give up trying to browbeat me.”
Benedict privately thought not; the earl still held Gray, the son of a wealthy, influential duke, in very low esteem, and he’d never forgiven Samantha for marrying him. But Penelope’s theory was more appealing, and for all he knew she was right. He never had truly understood his father. “If anyone could set him back, it would be you.”
She gave him a rueful look. “Did you just call me a shrew, Lord Atherton?”
“On the contrary, darling. I called you a woman of uncommon determination and self-possession.”
“Hardheaded,” she said with a laugh.
“In the best way,” he agreed.
“Hmph.” She refused to look at him, but her eyes were shining and he was sure the pink in her cheeks wasn’t strictly due to the wind.
Benedict glanced over his shoulder. His father stood behind the helm, watching with a critical eye. He edged a little closer to his wife. “There is one significant drawback to traveling on my father’s yacht instead of in our own carriage.”
She must have heard the note in his voice. Her head tilted and she gave him one of her secretive little smiles, as if she were contemplating something very naughty. “What would that be?”
