Love in the Time of Scandal (11 page)

“But I don’t . . .”

“You could.” His fingers ran down her arms.

Penelope jumped forward as if he’d prodded her with a fork and whirled around. “
You?
”

He smiled, the intimate, seductive expression that he’d never directed at her before. “I’d be delighted, my dear Miss Weston.”

“I wasn’t asking!”

“But I am offering.” Penelope just gaped at him in horror. Slowly Atherton started toward her, his eyes never leaving hers. “Think for a moment. What sort of attention will you attract from now on in London if you don’t have an apparent suitor at your side? There are any number of disreputable rogues who would be very interested in testing your willingness—and a few who wouldn’t be much bothered by unwillingness, either.”

Her skin crawled at the thought. “I could leave town. I’ll go stay with my sister in Richmond. If I’m not here, no one will have any joy in destroying my name.”

“Fleeing town will imply that every word is true.”

“I won’t flee. I’ll tell everyone I miss my sister and wait a few days before leaving.”

“And in those few days you’ll face a frenzy of whispers at every turn.”

Curse him, he was right. And it wouldn’t solve the problem of her parents hearing it all. Her face felt damp with perspiration. How could she possibly explain this? Mama would never believe her story about slipping on the stairs if they heard this hideous rumor. And once Mama knew she had lied, Penelope would have to confess what had really happened. Unfortunately, she feared that would only drag Olivia down and do nothing to save her.

“It would be a storm of gossip,” Atherton went on. “Clary’s tale is so salacious, some might have trouble believing it, but if a lady like Mrs. Lockwood confirmed that she’d seen you disheveled at a ball, just as the rumor described . . .” He didn’t finish, but he didn’t need to. On her own, Mrs. Lockwood might be able to hold her tongue, but if she was offered a chance to ruin Penelope with just a few words, with no real danger to her daughter, it might prove irresistible.

Her mouth thinned. “So! Through no fault of my own, people will think terrible things about me, but the moment
you
stand up beside me, all will be forgotten. What is the world coming to, when a woman can be accused of—of—
that
, and her reputation can only be redeemed by the approval of a man? And of course people will believe the most terrible things about any woman if a
man
says them! Lord Clary deserves to be run down by a poultry wagon! I wish—” She stopped, her bosom heaving as she seethed. With an effort she recovered herself. “It is a very kind offer, my lord, but I must refuse.”

He cocked his head. “What better plan do you have?”

None. She pushed that thought aside. “I simply don’t think a false courtship between us would stop the rumormongers. If anything, it will make people suspect you were . . .”
The man making love to me
. Her face grew hotter than the Yule log blaze at Christmas. That was the last thing she needed to think about. “Involved,” she finished lamely.

“I disagree. There isn’t a breath of scandal attached to my name.”

Penelope blinked. “No? Then Clary didn’t . . . ?”

Slowly Atherton shook his head. “Not one story includes my name.”

“But you punched him!” she exclaimed. “Why is he angry at me and not you?”

“I only punched him because he was mauling you.”

She wet her lips. “That was extremely gallant of you, and I heartily approved. But that makes it even clearer that we should stay far away from each other. We might even go on as if we violently disliked each other, to negate anything Mrs. Lockwood might say! There’s no reason at all for you to make such a sacrifice for me.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Penelope unconsciously took a step backward under his unwavering scrutiny. “Was Frances Lockwood right? Do you truly hate me?”

She wanted to say yes. She hated so many things about him: the way he had turned his back on Sebastian and allowed rumors of murder and thievery to persist for years; his cold-blooded approach to marriage; the effect he had on her despite all her wishes to the contrary; the fact that he had never once noticed her attraction to him or felt any similar pull. But he had saved her from Clary, and even after the appalling scene with Frances and Mrs. Lockwood, he was offering to help save her again. The lie wouldn’t even come to her lips. “Of course not, my lord,” she muttered.

“Then don’t trouble yourself about any sacrifice on my part. I offer freely and unreservedly. Don’t underestimate Clary; he’s a cold and vindictive man. He already tried to force himself on you. If I’m by your side, you’ll be safe.”

Another shudder went through her. “My father and brother can protect me, thank you.”

“Indeed,” he replied dryly. “And yet they were nowhere to be seen when you most needed them, and it doesn’t appear you’ve even told them about the encounter.”

That was true. Penelope groped for another reason. “Why would you do this? If you’re dancing attendance on me, it will spoil your chances with any other lady you might wish to court in truth.”

He leaned toward her, very slightly, but enough for her to see the different striations of blue in his eyes. His lips curved in that mesmerizing smile that generally reduced women to sighs and blushes. “What if that lady is you?”

She snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous! You tried to marry my sister.” Saying the words aloud restored her sense. Atherton’s proposal—as mad as it was—had an insidious appeal that had begun to weaken her resistance.

“But I didn’t,” he replied, unruffled. “Once we got on quite well together, you and I. I would like to see if we might be able to rediscover that . . .” His gaze flickered down for a moment. “Affinity.”

She took a step back, feeling a little saner as the distance between them increased. “I wouldn’t.”

He took a step forward, closing the distance again. “Why not? What are you afraid of?”

“The apoplexy I might suffer if exposed to much more of your company, my lord.”

He raised one brow. “Apoplexy! I’ve never brought a lady to one of those.”

“How can you know?” She widened her eyes. “Perhaps that’s why they all refuse your marriage proposals.”

That barb struck home, she could see it in his face. His eyes flashed, and his sensual smile faded. “I think the next one will be accepted,” he said evenly.

Penelope felt at once better and worse. Better, in that she was accustomed to dealing with Atherton this way; he probably thought her shrewish, but it kept her from succumbing to his charm. Penelope was not about to be the next young lady he set his sights on, the next female who swooned under the influence of his charm and handsome face and knowing smile. She didn’t trust Lord Atherton, even when he was ostensibly coming to her aid.

But at the same time . . . a small part of her twinged in regret. What if he did want to court her? What if he did want her? What if he’d been attracted to her all along but tried to deny it and now no longer could? What if those were the real reasons behind his gallant offer?

Ruthlessly Penelope squashed that wistful little voice. Only a fool would give in to it. That little voice knew nothing at all of what Lord Atherton might actually think and feel, and she would not give in to its pathetic longings. “I wish you the very best of luck,” she told the viscount. “I’m ready to return to my mother now.”

Without another word of protest he escorted her out of the park to the upholsterer’s shop where Mama was still choosing fabric. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I do appreciate your kindness in warning me.”

Atherton studied her for a moment, no longer radiating charm or tense with irritation. It was the most considering look he’d ever given her. “If you should change your mind . . .”

“I won’t.” Penelope curtsied to avoid his probing gaze. “Good-bye, my lord.”

To her surprise he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “For now,” he murmured. He turned on his heel and strode away. Penelope watched until he disappeared around the corner, and told herself she’d done the right thing.

If only it felt more rewarding.

Chapter 11

B
enedict returned to the officers’ barracks in a turbulent mood.

He hadn’t expected Penelope to seize on his proposal with protestations of relief and gratitude. He knew her better than that.

However, things still hadn’t gone the way he anticipated, or hoped. He’d meant to charm her, persuade her, even woo her, just a little. For a moment it had seemed he was making progress. When he’d asked if she really hated him, she couldn’t bring herself to say yes. When she said Clary ought to be run down by a poultry wagon, he’d almost laughed aloud. Whatever her other faults, Penelope had a quick wit.

Of course, in the end she exercised it on him, and then she turned him down flat.

Was he mad to pursue this? Yes, they had once got on well together, but perhaps that had been merely a mood of hers. He thought of the summer day when they had gone with a group to Hampton Court. Benedict had remarked that the palace supposedly had ghosts, and Penelope immediately wanted to see the haunted corridors. It was exactly the sort of lark he’d loved as a boy, so together they set off while the rest of the party strolled in the gardens. For a moment it was crystal clear in his memory: the hazy warmth of the day, the hushed quiet inside the corridors, the gleeful look on her face when he’d put a finger to his lips, taken her by the hand, and led her down a corridor not open to visitors. For an hour, he and Penelope had trespassed and whispered and laughed together, sometimes hand in hand, as they sought out quieter and dimmer corridors to investigate for possible specters. That day there had been no trace of dislike or even disinterest in her manner. That day she had made him not just smile, but laugh out loud. That day she hadn’t wished openly for his absence, she’d gone off alone with him, happily and willingly. And for the first time he wondered what would have happened had he fixed his attention on her, and not on her sister . . .

Well. Perhaps he ought to give her some time to think about it. Whether she liked him or not, Benedict suspected her resolve to brave it out would waver once the gossip hit full stride.

It was just after dinner when that moment arrived, symbolized by a note from Thomas Weston. Benedict unfolded it, raising his eyebrows when he saw the signature at the bottom. It was short and terse, requesting a meeting the next morning in Green Park but giving no hint of what he wanted to discuss.

Benedict regarded it for a few minutes. It was possible Penelope had regretted her answer to him and told her father, who wanted to discuss the offer he’d made today. But in that event, he would expect a more solicitous and tempered query. This peremptory summons hinted at something else.

He might well end up married to Penelope after all, and sooner rather than later.

He reached the park early, but Thomas Weston was already pacing along the Queen’s Walk, head down and hands clasped behind his back. Benedict dismounted and gave his horse a long rein. “Good morning, sir.”

Weston looked up. “Atherton.” He made a sweeping motion with one hand. “I felt the need to walk.” Benedict fell in step beside him and waited.

“I expect you know why I wanted to see you,” said the older man after a minute.

Benedict murmured that he had some idea.

“I’ve thought of a dozen or more things I’d like to say,” said Weston, his gaze fixed ahead of him. “Most of them aren’t fit for female ears, and in my house there’s always a female listening, somewhere, somehow. The park seemed safer.” He shot a dark look at Benedict. “Frankly I never thought I’d have to have this sort of conversation with a gentleman of your caliber, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned as the father of two daughters, it’s that I shouldn’t expect anything to go as I think it ought to go. Our conversation some months ago, when you asked for Abigail, was exactly as I had anticipated such a conversation would be.” He threw up one hand. “That ought to have been my first warning. Abby’s a sensible, intelligent girl but even she has a way of setting her heart on something and doing whatever it takes to get it. I completely overlooked her determination.” He gave Benedict another look. “I won’t make the same mistaken presumption about Penelope.”

Perhaps it was best to clear the air. “Sir, when I asked for your daughter Abigail’s hand, I did so with the noblest intentions.”

“I always thought so.” Weston stopped and turned to face him, and for a moment Benedict wondered if he’d been summoned to Green Park so Weston could shoot him and dispose of his body in some remote corner. The man certainly looked capable of it at the moment. “But here we are, because of the decidedly
less
noble intentions you seem to have toward Penelope.”

“I beg your pardon?” Bloody hell. Had Clary decided to draw him into the mud as well? That would be the surest way to attract his father’s notice—and wrath. Benedict had hoped to avoid it.

“I heard what’s going around London.” There was a tic in Weston’s jaw as he spoke. “I know what people are saying about her. And I heard from my wife that you were with Penelope the night of—” He broke off. “I am not a fool, Atherton.”

“Of course not, sir.” He met Weston’s black glare evenly. “I heard the rumors, too. I warned her what might happen.”

“Tell me truly,” said the other man in a voice that trembled ever-so-slightly with anger. “Are they even remotely true? Did you seduce my daughter and expose her to the grossest humiliation?”

It was on the tip of Benedict’s tongue to tell Weston about Lord Clary, right now;
he
hadn’t assaulted her and saw no reason why he should take the blame for it. But he bit it back. Breaking her confidence was the wrong way to win her over. “No. I give you my word that I did not.”

“And yet that is the tale sweeping London,” retorted Weston. “That she was caught in the most compromising of positions. Your name is not publicly linked with the episode—yet—but I doubt it will take long.”

Benedict hesitated. It was unthinkable not to defend himself at all, but the wrong word now could spoil his chances. A different sort of father would have summoned him here to face him over pistols at dawn. Weston wasn’t that sort of father, apparently. “The person who started the rumor did so out of pique. Miss Weston was in some disarray, after her . . . fall when I came upon her and offered to help.”

“Her fall,” repeated Weston dourly. “I saw her. That disarray, as you so politely name it, was not from any slip on the stairs.” He saw Benedict’s quickly suppressed flicker of surprise, and jerked his head in a nod. “Yes, I know she lied to us. Penelope does that. Most of the time her little lies are harmless, and the Lord above knows I told my father enough of them as a young man that I deserve to hear a few from my children. And I admit, I allow it; she’s my youngest, and I’ve always had an extra weakness when it comes to her. But I would do anything to protect her, Atherton, and hang the consequences.”

Benedict heard that warning loud and clear. Thanks to his own father he was well attuned to veiled threats, and it was very easy to slip into the deferential mode that usually worked on the earl. “I completely understand, sir, and admire you all the more for it. But I fear . . .” This time he hesitated for effect. “Miss Weston didn’t wish to alarm you, but I fear in this instance she was mistaken in keeping the truth from you.”

“She usually is,” grumbled Weston. “What really happened?”

“I would tell you if I hadn’t given her my word that I wouldn’t,” he replied. “But—gentleman to gentleman—the culprit is not someone to cross lightly.”

Weston glared at him for a minute. For once Benedict was grateful to his father; the scrutiny of this man was nothing to that of the earl’s, who would ruthlessly pry any crack in his composure into a gaping wound. Weston loved his daughter; he tolerated her foibles and wanted to protect her, even though she’d lied to him, and that explained his glowering demeanor today. Benedict found he admired the man for it. It was nothing to face him calmly and patiently. For a moment he wondered if Penelope truly appreciated her father. She must not, if she’d not trusted him enough to tell him how Clary threatened her.

“I feared as much,” said Weston at last. “The story I heard wasn’t the usual tattle of idle ladies. My wife tells me the amusing rumors; how some forward wench tried to cozen a man into marrying her by letting the poor fool steal a kiss or put his hands on her, and the fortune hunters who try to trick silly girls into thinking they’re in love, just long enough to get them to Gretna Green. Penelope’s not that sort, nor would I be so quick to hand over my daughter to anyone who tried such nonsense. But this story . . . Atherton, I can’t let it go. It accuses my daughter of debauchery that would make a sailor blush. She’ll be the target of every rake and scoundrel in London. No respectable man will have her.”

Benedict just waited.

“Who started this tale?” demanded Weston after a moment. “You know who it is—tell me and I’ll deal with him until he publicly retracts this slander.”

“I don’t think he would.” He had a feeling Clary would never retract the story, no matter what Weston did to him. “I fear any attempt to get him to retract would only make people talk about it more.”

Weston growled under his breath, striding along with barely contained fury. “I don’t like my other options.”

There were most likely only two. One was for Penelope to leave town for an extended time. That had the disadvantage of making the rumors appear true, or close enough to true that it wouldn’t matter. Even though Penelope had suggested fleeing London herself, he doubted she would really do it. He had an easier time picturing her attacking Lord Clary with a fireplace poker than slinking off to the country in shame.

The other option was marriage. Since Benedict had never been Thomas Weston’s confidant before today, he guessed the man was leaning toward that second option, with Benedict doing the honorable thing. Given that this aligned perfectly with his own desires, he had no real objection. It wasn’t how he’d hoped to achieve his goal, but perhaps the end justified the means . . .

“The trouble is, Penelope doesn’t care much for you.” Weston stopped and faced him again. “Or so she says. I can’t bear to give my child to a man she doesn’t want, but neither can I sit idly by and let her sink into ruin and shame. You, sir, are the solution to my quandary, one way or another. Either give me the name of the blighter who’s telling lies about my daughter, or persuade me that you can make her happy.”

“I cannot do either before I speak to Penelope.” But Benedict’s heart skipped a beat. He remembered Penelope’s laughter as he whispered to her about the naughty Tudor ghosts. He remembered the way she’d blushed bright red when Frances Lockwood accused her of wanting him for herself. Somehow he didn’t think her antipathy ran as deep as she claimed.

Not that it mattered much. She was in a desperate spot, and he was her only ally.

Weston gave a curt nod. “Very well. But you’d best come out of that conversation prepared to do one or the other. I promise you won’t like the consequences otherwise.” He waved one hand. “No time to waste.”

P
enelope would not willingly have admitted it, but she was immensely grateful to Lord Atherton for one thing. He’d warned her, privately, about the nightmare that was about to destroy her life, and given her time to brace herself.

She’d dashed off a frantic letter to her sister as soon as she and Mama returned from the shopping expedition, with the result that Abigail reached Grosvenor Square almost at the same time the horrid rumors did. When she heard Abigail’s voice in the hall, Penelope lurched off the sofa and ran from the room as fast as she could on her still-tender ankle. “Abby!”

“Oh, Penelope.” Abigail opened her arms and let Penelope fling herself into them. For a moment she just wallowed in the relief. Abigail was only a year older than she, and they had been the closest of friends before Abigail’s marriage. Only when her sister was gone did Penelope realize how much she depended on her.

“Thank you,” she said, finally releasing her sister and stepping back. “I’m so glad you came!”

Abigail smiled. “As if I wouldn’t! I’ve never received a letter with more exclamation points and underscored words.”

“I’ve never written a more desperate one,” Penelope replied. “If I could have made it burst into flames when you finished reading it, I would have done so.”

Her sister laughed. “Then let’s have a cup of tea and you can explain it better. Some parts were indecipherable.”

Penelope grimaced as they went back into the small parlor. Given her state of mind when she wrote that letter, it was a small miracle Abigail could read any of it. “I don’t know that I can explain it any better now.”

“Try,” said her sister with a patient smile. “What have you got yourself into, Pen?”

“A great lot of trouble,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to!”

“You never do. What happened?”

Penelope made a face, but she let it go. The whole wretched story, from Frances Lockwood’s infatuation to Lord Atherton’s actions and warning, came rushing out. The only part she withheld was how Viscount Clary had been mistreating Olivia, and that only because Olivia had explicitly begged her not to tell Abigail. Her sister listened intently, with only an occasional question. By the time she finished, Penelope felt as if a great weight had lifted off her—probably only for a few moments, but it felt so wonderful to unburden herself, she didn’t care.

“My,” murmured Abigail at the end. “That is quite a tangle. And Mama doesn’t know?”

Penelope shook her head.

Her sister sighed. “You’d better tell her. You know she’ll hear it eventually.”

“Agreed—but I would rather have a response in mind when I tell her, to spare me from being murdered on the spot.” Abigail gave her a doubtful look, and Penelope flushed. “And I also kept hoping I wouldn’t need to tell her.”

“Not a good gamble, Pen.”

She groaned. “So what should I do?”

Abigail took her time fussing over another cup of tea. That alone warned Penelope that she wouldn’t like her sister’s response. “Did Lord Atherton tell you precisely what the rumors are?”