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 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.”
Penelope 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?”
She shuddered. “They’re terrible; every sort of wicked lasciviousness you can imagine. Worse than Lady Constance’s stories. But he said his name wasn’t part of them,” she added, with a silent sigh of relief that she’d been spared that.
Abigail’s brow wrinkled. “But you said Frances Lockwood accused you of stealing him. How long do you think before she repeats that, especially when the other rumor spreads?”
Penelope’s throat felt tight. It still hurt, deeply, that Frances would think that of her. She pleated a fold of her skirt and stared out the window until she could speak. “May I come live with you? For the rest of this year, and perhaps next as well?”
Abigail snorted. “I remember how well you liked Richmond when we spent the summer there. Now you want to spend the winter there as well? But this time at Montrose Hill House, where workmen are busy repairing everything from the roof to the stables.”
“I could endure,” Penelope assured her, although privately she wasn’t so certain, now that Abigail reminded her about Richmond. When their father had bought a country estate there, it had seemed like the end of the earth to Penelope, a good ten miles distant from London and as quiet as a country village. The only excitement had been Abigail’s romance with Sebastian Vane, which had involved clandestine meetings in the woods, a public argument in the middle of Richmond, a daring jaunt through the woods to solve an old mystery and recover lost treasure, and, best of all, a romantically thrilling night when Abigail fled the odious Lord Atherton’s advances and spent a night of passion in Sebastian’s arms.
Penelope was imagining that last part, as her sister had refused to tell her anything about it, but from Papa’s furious reaction both before and after Abigail returned home, she thought it must be reasonably close to the truth.
Her sister only smiled. “What’s wrong with Lord Atherton’s suggestion?”
The part about his presence. Penelope managed not to say it aloud. “Don’t you think it unlikely that people who are calling me all kinds of vile names today will welcome me with approval and respect tomorrow if only Viscount Atherton is standing beside me?”
“I doubt the gossip would reverse course that quickly, but we both know it would eventually. Especially if people thought you would marry him. He’ll be an earl one day, and not some penniless, indebted one.”
A red flush blazed up her face. “I’m not going to marry him!”
“I didn’t say that. I said people would regard you differently if they thought you would marry him.” Abigail tilted her head and studied her shrewdly. “But that was quite an adamant exclamation.”
“I just don’t want you to get any ridiculous ideas,” she retorted. “Atherton is the last man on earth I would ever marry.”
“The last man?” Now Abigail gave her a look of such skepticism, Penelope flushed even hotter. “A handsome, wealthy, charming viscount. Really, Penelope? You’d rather have a bricklayer or a chimney sweep?”
She scowled and fiddled with her cup. “You know what I mean.”
Abigail was quiet for a moment. “I know that when he first came to call at Hart House, you were much more approving.”
Penelope rued the day she had ever admitted that to her sister. “That was before I knew his true character. And I only admitted then that he’s very handsome, which I have never denied.”
Her sister raised her brows. “His true character. Which facet do you mean: the bit of him that came with us to search the woods for the money Sebastian was accused of stealing, quite probably defying his father’s orders? Or perhaps you mean the bit where he let his sister confess that she actually had taken the money? That was horrible of him, I grant you. No, I know: you must mean the impulse that drove him to get a letter from Lord Stratford exonerating Sebastian, so Papa would let me marry him.” She shrugged as Penelope glared at her. “You’re not making a good argument so far.”
“He didn’t protest when his father started those evil rumors about Sebastian,” she pointed out. “And he kept the secret for years. He turned his back on a friend.”
Abigail hesitated. “It’s not as simple as all that. Sebastian has told me a great deal more about him, and I think you judge him too harshly.”
“Oh? What would pardon letting everyone think his dearest childhood friend was a thief and a murderer?” Penelope widened her eyes. “To say nothing of leaving Sebastian to crawl home after falling on his wounded knee—when Sebastian was an invited guest in his home?”
“I’m not saying he’s been above reproach in everything,” her sister countered. “But I suspect his lot hasn’t been as easy as it appears. Lord Stratford is neither a kind nor a loving father. Sebastian says he used to beat Atherton regularly.”
Penelope pressed her lips together, unwilling to feel sorry for the viscount. It was not difficult to believe Lord Stratford was a cruel father, but Atherton was a grown man; if he couldn’t stand up to his father now, what did that say about him? “He schemed to marry Frances, just a few weeks after he was courting you.”
“Thank goodness,” said Abigail, to Penelope’s astonishment. “I would have felt terrible if he’d been truly hurt.”
“Schemed,” she tried again, emphasizing the word and making it sound as noxious as possible. “He wasn’t in love with her any more than he was in love with you! What do you make of a man who would do that?”
“I would guess he’s trying to find a wife,” her sister calmly replied. “You said she was a very sweet girl; did she have other admirers?”
“Yes,” Penelope muttered after a moment.
“Does she have some connections? A dowry?”
“Yes,” she growled.
“It sounds very ordinary to me. A handsome gentleman of his age and rank will want a bride, and she sounds just the type a gentleman would prefer. What did you do to disrupt it?”
Penelope, already sulking, did not see that question coming. She gaped, then blushed, and mulishly set her chin. “Nothing.”
“Really?” said Abigail so dryly, Penelope flushed deeper red. Her face would be permanently scarlet after this conversation.
“She asked what sort of man I wanted to marry and I told her. I encouraged her to be sure Atherton cared for her before she accepted him. That’s all,” she insisted.
“And what happened?”
She cleared her throat. “I don’t precisely know. I saw them dancing, looking in good charity with each other, and then I left the room. After the—the incident, when Mrs. Lockwood was glaring down her nose at me, Atherton said Frances had declared she never wanted to see him again. But I swear, Abby, I have no idea what happened. He didn’t tell me, and Frances . . . I don’t think Frances will ever speak to me again.” And that hurt. Penelope was aware of her own faults, but disloyalty was not one of them. Frances was—had been—her friend, and she never ever would have tried to attract any man who was courting her friend. The unvarnished betrayal in Frances’s eyes when she accused Penelope of lying about that cut very deeply.
“Not to be harsh, Pen, but that seems like the least of your worries at the moment.”
She knew it. Unfortunately she had no idea what to do about Clary. Hopefully he would tire of telling lies about her quickly. Hopefully a duke’s daughter would elope with a footman, or two peers would come to blows in Parliament. Any of those things would give people something far more interesting to talk about. “I know, although I miss having her friendship. But what am I to do about the rest?”
“Short of following Lord Atherton’s suggestion?” Penelope made an impatient gesture, and Abigail sighed. “You could marry someone else. You could persuade Jamie to take you to Italy for a few years. Or you could cut off your hair and live as a man for the rest of your life.”
Penelope’s jaw sagged open. “I meant within reason!”
“It would be very reasonable to marry someone else.”
“But who?” Real alarm stirred in her breast. Somehow she had been sure her sister would have a sensible yet acceptable alternative, because Abigail always did. Penelope would have spent her entire childhood being punished if not for her sister talking her into schemes which were just as exciting, yet somehow less dangerous, than her own ideas. Spend a few years in Italy with her brother? She’d rather live as a man, if it came down to that.
“Penelope, I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Since you haven’t got a more appealing suitor at the ready, I think your best choice is to graciously accept Lord Atherton’s proposal and make the best of it. You might come to revise your low opinion of him. Try to remember how you liked him when he first came to Hart House. Remember how entertaining he was when he took us to Hampton Court and tried to find a ghost for your amusement.” Penelope opened her mouth to protest, and Abigail held up one hand to stop her. “Sebastian doesn’t hold his behavior against him, and Sebastian was the wronged party. How can you be less willing to forgive? Not only has he done you no wrong, he’s offering to do you a very great favor.”
Penelope clamped her mouth shut and stared down at her hands. She couldn’t very well tell her sister that it was for her own peace of mind that she clung to her dislike. Abigail might decide that constituted permission to meddle.
As she was searching for a reply, the door opened to admit their mother. She was pale and held herself stiffly erect as she closed the door, very carefully, behind her. “Penelope,” she said, her voice low and shaky. “I have heard the most dreadful thing—your father just told me—did you . . . ?” She paused, visibly fighting for composure. “Did you behave as people are suggesting?”
It was all there in her mother’s face; Mama knew, and apparently Papa did, too. She was doomed. “No, ma’am,” she whispered anyway, shrinking into her chair.
Mama gave her a look of pure disbelief, although that faded quickly. With jerky steps she crossed the room and sank into a chair. “I am completely at a loss. I can tell by your face that you know exactly what I’m referring to.” Cowed, Penelope gave a tiny nod. Mama’s throat worked. “And yet you chose not to tell me.”
Never had Penelope felt such searing shame, or such regret that she’d put something off. She’d had no idea how to bring it up; she’d had no idea how to respond.
Abigail stepped into the charged silence. “We were just discussing how to deal with it, Mama—”
“When I want your advice, I will ask for it, Abigail,” said her mother icily. “This is about Penelope, and why she did nothing even though she knew there were rumors out there calling her the very loosest and immoral of women!”
“I didn’t know how to tell you, Mama,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”
“And so you said nothing?” Mama’s eyes flashed with wrath, and her voice rose with each word. “Not even a hint? Not even in confidence? How could you?” She shook her head. “You lied to me. A slip on the stair at the Gosnolds’ party. A turned ankle. I trusted you, Penelope, and I believed you. What a foolish thing!”
Her mouth was dry. “I didn’t want you to worry . . . I didn’t think anything would come of it . . .”
“And what do you think now?” snapped Mrs. Weston. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, raising her clasped hands to her chin. Penelope knew that look; it was the Praying for Patience look, and her mother was only driven to it in dire situations. A frisson of alarm went through her. That look meant the worst was yet to come.
And then it did. The door opened and her father stepped into the room, followed a moment later by Lord Atherton.
“Abigail,” said Papa. “I need to speak with your mother and sister.”
His tone brooked no argument, nor any reply at all. Her sister all but ran from the room, with only a brief sympathetic glance at her. Penelope got to her feet, feeling like Joan of Arc must have felt when she saw the bonfire prepared for her. Atherton was watching her far too closely for comfort. The fact that he was here at all was very bad.
Papa turned to her. “What were you thinking, child?”
Her father’s disappointment crushed whatever defiance she had left. Penelope adored her father, and the expression on his face was utterly disillusioned. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t know what would happen . . . I was going to tell you . . .”
“You might have guessed that it warranted telling me or your mother, in warning if nothing else!” He ran one hand over his face. “Not that it matters. The only question now is how to mitigate the disaster.”
Penelope avoided looking at Lord Atherton, though facing her parents was no better. “I’m thinking of running away to the West Indies.” At this moment, any far-off colony, even with tropical insects and cannibalistic natives, sounded inviting.
“Do not be smart with me!” warned her father. “Who started those malicious rumors?”
She couldn’t resist a shocked peek at the viscount. He hadn’t told. At her glance, he raised one brow slightly and cocked his head toward Papa, as if in invitation for her to denounce Clary. She hovered in horrible indecision; if she told Papa, it might save her. But then again, it might not. Clary had disdained her father. What if Papa called him out and they fought a duel and Clary killed him? Penelope pictured her mother, weeping brokenheartedly over her father’s body lying dead in the grass on Hampstead Heath, and bit down on her lip. Oh God. She’d made a thorough mess of this, and she couldn’t let her father suffer for it. “I can’t, Papa.”
“Yes, you can, and you will.”
Her mind was running feverishly. Maybe she could say something, if not quite the truth, that would let her slip free of the noose. She could say Clary had been drunk and accosted her in the hallway, and was now lying to cover his own rude behavior. She could say it was some other man whose face she never saw. She could even blame Frances and suggest it was done out of pique, just a fit of female jealousy—she gave her head a shake to dislodge that idea. Too late she realized there was no good explanation, and if Papa had brought Lord Atherton here, he knew it, too. “I don’t think it would do any good to tell you, Papa,” she said softly. “Even if he would retract it, the damage has been done.”
Her father exhaled and then slowly lowered himself into a chair next to her mother. He hung his head, and when Mama reached out her hand, he clasped it as if it would save him from drowning. Penelope looked away, painfully aware of how deeply she had disappointed both her parents, and caught sight of Atherton. He was watching Mama and Papa with an odd expression, but he must have felt her gaze on him; with a jerk he turned his head and met her eyes. She had the strangest sense that he was looking at her in a completely different light, almost as if he’d never seen her before.
“Mr. Weston,” he said. “May I have a word with Penelope?”
It was the first time he’d said her name. Penelope gulped and concentrated on her hands, wishing she hadn’t heard it. Then he made it worse by adding, “After all, this involves us most intimately.”
Papa nodded, and he and Mama left. The room seemed very small when it held just her and Lord Atherton. She wet her lips. “Yes, my lord?”
He sat down in the chair next to hers. “I’ve just had a very pointed conversation with your father. At the end of it, he offered me a choice, which really depends on you.”
“Which is?” Her heart lifted; a choice?
“He wants the name of the man who started the rumors.”
She bit her lip wretchedly. “I can’t tell him.” She couldn’t drag Olivia into it; whatever trouble her friend was in, drawing Papa’s fury onto her wouldn’t help. As it was, she was growing very alarmed for Olivia; if Clary would ruin Penelope this way, what would he do to Olivia? And then there was that horrible image of her father lying on Hampstead Heath, covered in blood, while Clary stood gloating over him, a smoking pistol in hand.
Atherton let out his breath as if he’d been expecting that. “Why not? Who are you protecting?”
She flinched. “No one.”
“Is it another man?” he pressed.
Penelope blushed. “No!”
His shoulders eased. “Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t marry me.”
“Except that I don’t want to!”
“My tender feelings are crushed,” he said dryly.
“Huh! We don’t even like each other,” she muttered.
“Not true, and you know it.” He held out his hand. “Come here.”
Her heart tried to jump into her throat for a moment. “Why?”
“Trust me a moment.” When she still didn’t move, he took hold of the arms of her chair and tugged, dragging it toward him until their knees touched. Penelope sat frozen in her seat as he leaned forward. “I don’t dislike you,” he said in that buttery-smooth voice. “On the contrary. From the moment we first met I thought you were enchanting.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, trying not to stare at the way his hair fell in dark waves over his brow. It was romantic and poetic and rakish. Damn him for being so attractive, especially close up.
“And we got on splendidly,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “At first.”
“First impressions are very unreliable.” One lock fell in a perfect curl right above his left eye. She wondered what it felt like, and then she squeezed her fingers into fists to punish them for wanting to know.
“Penelope,” he murmured, “we’re both in a very bad spot.” He lifted her hand, handling it as if it were fragile, and smoothed her fingers straight. He bent his head and brushed his lips over the pounding pulse in her wrist. “Fortunately we can save each other.”
She felt the room sway around her. Her heart seemed to be choking her. His breath was warm on her skin, and he kept her hand cradled against his cheek, where she could feel the faint scratch of stubble. Heaven help her, but something inside her thrilled at the contact. Her dislike of him had been the bulwark protecting her from her own wicked urges to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do scandalous things to her, and now he was dismantling that disapprobation, brick by brick. Soon she would be defenseless.
“I don’t think we should,” she said by way of one last effort, but her voice had lost its vigor and defiance, and become soft and almost regretful instead.
He tilted his head, peering up at her with those vivid blue eyes from beneath the rumpled waves of his hair. “I do.”
Penelope swallowed. He was still holding her hand, but barely; if she pulled, she would be free. Unfortunately she seemed unable to do anything remotely sensible when he touched her. She had never seen this side of him . . . because of course he’d never wanted to marry her before. The thought gave her a small burst of courage. “Is this how you proposed to all the other girls?”
“No,” he said. “But I think I did it all wrong before. There was something missing . . .” He eased his weight forward, sliding off the chair and onto one knee. Penelope knew what he was going to do—she even caught her breath as he leaned ever closer—and there wasn’t a single thing she could do to stop him. Indeed, some treacherous part of her seemed to burst into life at the prospect, until she had to grip the chair arm with her free hand to keep from reaching for him. His mesmerizing gaze never wavered from her; Penelope could only assume she was staring at him like a simpleton, unable to move or think or even breathe as his lips dipped toward hers.
She quaked at the first brush of his mouth. Like evil pixies unleashed from captivity, her thoughts spilled out in a tortured mess. How she’d imagined him falling in love with her the first time he sat in Mama’s drawing room and turned his dazzling smile on her. How she’d been so stupidly silly trying to get his attention during a barge expedition by tossing her hat overboard, and how he’d gallantly rescued it. How she’d dared him into taking her off to look for ghosts at Hampton Court, all the time hoping he might steal a kiss. How ecstatic she’d been when he sent her flowers . . . until she realized he’d also sent flowers to her mother and her sister. And even how jealous she’d been when he focused his attention on Abigail and gave everyone to understand that it was the kind, sensible Weston girl he wanted, not her.
Except . . . he wasn’t kissing Abigail now, or Frances Lockwood, or any other young lady. He was kissing her, his lips moving over hers lightly yet teasingly, until she barely realized that her own mouth had softened and responded. Apart from her hand, which he still held clasped in his own, he wasn’t touching her anywhere else, but Penelope felt nailed to her chair. Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to move, to interrupt this breathtaking moment of unexpected tenderness.
“Marry me, Penelope,” he whispered, his mouth still brushing hers.
Her resistance was rapidly waning. “I don’t think I should,” she whispered back in honest apprehension.
“Nonsense. Trust how you feel,” he breathed, and his lips settled on hers. Penelope inhaled in surprise, and he touched her chin, nudging her lips apart and proving beyond all doubt that there was far more to kissing than she’d thought.
“Do you want me?” It was a weak basis for marriage, but she was trapped and she knew it. Any little comfort would be very welcome.
“I do.” He glanced at the door. “Enough to commit every last wickedly pleasurable act we’re accused of, right here on this sofa, if only your parents weren’t outside the door.”
Heat flooded her face, and not at the thought of her parents. If she married him, he’d make love to her. “What acts?”
His eyes glittered and one corner of his mouth curled upward. “Marry me and find out.”
She wavered and then gave in. It wasn’t as though she had much choice anyway. She nodded once.
A fierce grin crossed his face, and he leaned in and kissed her again, harder this time. “We’ll be good together.”
Penelope wasn’t so sure, but it was too late. Atherton was heading for the door to tell her parents. Even as she covertly—and unwillingly—admired the way his trousers fit as he walked, she worried that she’d made a terrible mistake. If he hadn’t kissed her—if he hadn’t managed to hit on her one great, inexplicable weakness, her attraction to him—would she still have given in? She smoothed her shaking hands on her skirt and tried to hide her anxiety. Once upon a time she had daydreamed of him kissing her and telling her he wanted her. And deep in her heart, she admitted it had been a lovely kiss, soft and seductive and far too short. She wanted him to kiss her again.
But now something her mother used to say echoed around her brain, with a particular sharpness this time: Be careful what you wish for, Penelope. You may get it.