Love in the Time of Scandal Read online

  “You can’t guess, after what happened the other night?”

  “Oh, that.” She flipped one hand and pretended a great interest in the shrubbery they were passing, to hide the sudden thudding of her heart. She had hoped for more time . . . but perhaps it was best to hear it now and absorb the blow in private. “What is Mrs. Lockwood saying?”

  “How interesting you would think of her. What have you got to fear from Mrs. Lockwood?”

  Penelope gave him a guarded look. Why did he sound amused? “You know what. She saw—”

  “Us?” he finished when she didn’t. “Alone together, in extremely suggestive disarray—what some might even call a compromising position? Certainly. But I suspect she also saw the young lady who’s been keeping company with her own daughter for several weeks. What, pray, does it gain her to go about accusing that young lady of impropriety? It might make some people wonder how much of it rubbed off on Miss Lockwood.”

  That made sense and yet . . . If Mrs. Lockwood hadn’t been causing trouble, what did he want to warn her about? Suddenly she wished wholeheartedly that Atherton was teasing her, that Mrs. Lockwood or Frances was the problem, because if his warning about that night didn’t involve either of them, it would have to be about . . . Lord Clary. “She could say she was deceived! She could say she regretted allowing me to speak to her daughter, and . . . and . . .”

  Atherton nodded once. “She could. But I somehow doubt she’s behind the rumors I heard.”

  Oh Lord. Penelope steeled herself. “Why is that?”

  “Because they are rather vile—far worse than anything I would expect Mrs. Lockwood to say.”

  “What?” she demanded at once. He wanted to tell her, so he ought to tell her, not draw it out and make her want to shake him.

  He turned them into the Birdcage Walk. The trees were losing their leaves, which crunched and rustled underfoot. The sun was warm but the breeze was brisker here, and Penelope had to fight off the urge to press closer to her companion. Her arm, tucked against his side, was deliciously warm, while the rest of her was acutely aware of the chill in the air.

  “I believe there’s no question that Lord Clary is responsible.” He glanced down at her. “Why were you in that room with him?”

  Penelope flushed. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t?” repeated the viscount. “Or won’t?”

  “Very well, I won’t.” Her face still burned, but she met his eyes without flinching. “I swore not to.”

  “Ah,” he murmured. “Swore to whom?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either.” She shot a defiant glance his way and added, “Nor will I.”

  He shrugged. “As you like. I recommend you avoid him from now on.”

  “Huh!” She snorted. “As if I ever wanted to speak to that vile pig.”

  “And yet you were alone with him, in a room far from the other guests. Why?” he asked again. “Did someone send you?”

  “I already told you, I didn’t mean to be alone with him,” she snapped. “I won’t tell you more, so please stop asking.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, but only for a moment. “Whatever led you there was a foolish instinct. I hope you won’t give in to it again.”

  She shuddered at the thought. “I don’t plan to.” She took a deep breath. “You said you wanted to warn me. Please just tell me what he’s saying. I promise I shan’t faint or weep or have a hysterical fit.”

  Atherton took his time replying. “I thought you might like to know before it reaches your family’s ears. Your reputation is about to take a public flogging. The rumor I heard is that you’ve been little more than a whore, slipping away for liaisons during every ball and soiree this year.”

  It took a moment for the awful words to sink in. The blood roared in her ears; her stomach dropped, and then heaved. “That no-account, lying, disgusting villain,” she managed to gasp. “That’s—that’s a slanderous lie!”

  “Indeed.”

  She wrenched loose of his arm and paced away. She pressed her hands to her stomach, both to still them and to keep from casting up her accounts. And she had been worried Frances would call her a sly schemer—nothing pleasant, but not on this scale. If people believed this about her—tears prickled in her eyes—if her parents heard this—

  Atherton followed her. “I suppose Clary means to ruin your chances of a decent marriage.”

  Her lungs felt tight. Whether Clary intended that or not, he had achieved it. “Surely—surely people won’t believe it,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps not,” he said after a moment.

  Of course they would. Not everyone, but enough to stain her name forever.

  “I do have a suggestion for how you can preserve your reputation.” Penelope started as the viscount’s voice came again, softer and closer than before. Gently he eased her shawl up around her shoulders again. “You could spike Clary’s guns before the gossip takes root, if you already had a suitor.”

  “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 hot
ter 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

  Benedict 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 wel
l 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.