Page 9 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“The Weston girl,” said Cabot, lowering his voice. “The cit’s daughter.”
“Ah.” Benedict took a drink.Her.“I’m not pursuing her.”
Corporal Hollander eyed him closely, a teasing grin lurking about his mouth. “No? You couldn’t take your eyes off her.”
Benedict shot an annoyed look at him. “How dull it must be, standing here watching other people dance. Couldn’t find a partner of your own?”
“Not one with that kind of dowry,” returned Hollander. “Nor that pretty a face. And you act like a man hell-bent on finding a wife. If you’re determined to get yourself leg-shackled, why not pursue an heiress?”
“I’m not determined to get married.” Not to the wrong girl, at any rate.
Cabot rested his elbow on Benedict’s shoulder, probably for balance as much as to lean closer. There was wine on his breath, and he swayed a bit on his feet. “I don’t blame you. She’s quite fetching. I hear she’s got a tongue like a dagger, but the rest of her is quite fine.”
Against his will, his mind conjured up the image of her breasts, pale and perfect above the bodice of her gown. He felt again the charge that seemed to leap between them when she glanced at him in that coy way. Penelope Weston was very fine, indeed. God help him. He drank more wine and shrugged off Cabot’s elbow.
“She’s pretty enough,” he said.
Hollander snorted. “Pretty enough! She’s a dashed beauty. I’d like to have my way with her. The spirited ones are always the most invigorating to bed.”
Oh Lord. Such a thought did nothing for Benedict’s peace of mind. He waved one hand at the footman to bring more wine. “You’d better keep your wits about you if you mean to try.” The accommodating servant put another full glass into his hand, which he promptly raised to his mouth, trying to wash away the thought of taking Penelope to bed, all her crackling energy and spirit channeled into more passionate outlets... A man would need to hold her down... or tie her down... or lie back and let her ride him hard...
“For twenty thousand pounds I certainly could,” said Cabot with a laugh.
“For twenty thousand pounds you could buy some wit to keep about you, too,” added Hollander.
“Who are you setting your sights on, Cabot? The Weston girl?” Bannister, a strapping subaltern new to the regiment, joined the conversation. “I’d advise against it.”
“I never asked for your bloody advice,” said Cabot petulantly. He hiccupped in the middle, though, slurring his words, and no one paid him much mind.
“Atherton’s eyeing her.” Hollander gave Benedict a sly look.
“I am not,” he said through his teeth. The wine was not, as hoped, mellowing his temper.
“Oh! He might have a chance, but the rest of you lot...” Bannister grimaced. “Her father’s ambitious and wants an earl at least.”
“The devil you say!” Cabot blinked, steadying himself on Benedict’s shoulder again. “An earl! On what grounds?”
“Forty thousand pounds, that’s what grounds.” Bannister nodded at Hollander’s quiet whistle of astonishment. “Had it from Mrs. Harrow herself.”
“What’s her interest?”
“Well.” Bannister smiled slightly. “I might have admitted a wealthy wife would enable me to maintain certain pleasures that would otherwise strain my purse.”
Hollander chuckled. “Bannister, you scoundrel. Asking your mistress to help you find a wife so you can keep supporting her? What brass, man.”
Bannister ignored him. “But you’ve set your cap at her, Atherton? I thought you were after the Lockwood girl, but if you’ve moved on, I don’t like to trespass on a fellow officer’s interest...”
Benedict silently said a very colorful curse. The Guardsmen had apparently turned into a group of gossiping old women tonight. “As a gentleman, I refuse to discuss any lady in such vulgar terms. I had the pleasure of making Miss Weston’s acquaintance last summer, and I assure you all she despises nothing as much as she despises insincerity.”
“Oh, I intend to be sincere,” murmured Bannister, his eyes roving the room like a hunter’s. “My father’s a marquess, after all, even if I’m not the heir. Is she here?”
“She danced with Atherton just a few moments ago.”
Someone really needed to draw Cabot’s cork. The man chattered worse than a little girl when he was drunk. “It was only a quadrille,” said Benedict coldly. “And this entire conversation has grown rather tedious. Good evening.” Ignoring the chuckles and teasing, he walked away.
It didn’t occur to him until much later that he could have ended the matter simply by admitting he was courting Frances Lockwood. He was growing certain that she would be a suitable wife. In fact, his mates had seen him dance with her before; they just hadn’t teased him about her. He told himself that was because Miss Lockwood hadn’t exercised her wit on as many gentlemen as Penelope had done, shaping society’s view of her. Or perhaps it was because Penelope’s dowry dwarfed Miss Lockwood’s, while her pedigree did not. He told himself it was not because Miss Lockwood looked quiet and ordinary next to Penelope, and that all Hollander’s enthusiasm for a spirited girl was just the ramblings of a man with too much wine in his belly. Because a spirited girl of fiery beauty was not what Benedict wanted.
Not at all.
