“Are you mad?” she demanded in a constricted voice. “She’s going to gossip—tell tales—”
“I doubt it.”
Her temper snapped. He had rescued her from one terrible fate, true, but then done nothing to save her from the other, possibly worse, scandal. Before she could stop it, her hand was swinging toward his face.
He caught her wrist just before the slap landed. Jerked to a halt, she stumbled toward him, then into him as her injured ankle gave way. His arm went around her waist to steady her, and Penelope froze. For a moment they both seemed frozen, in fact, her wide-eyed gaze locked with his steely one.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, giving her upraised hand a slight squeeze. “We might well need each other.”
Her stomach twisted into a hard knot. His body was tall and hard and so strong against hers. The scent of his shaving soap made her light-headed, because his clean-shaven jaw was so close she could see every line of his firm, sensual mouth. Penelope fought down the heat spreading through her veins; her attraction to him was a fatal weakness, but she refused to succumb to it.
She pushed against his chest and backed away, no longer caring what her hair or dress looked like. “We should stay far away from each other,” she said, hating her voice for being shaky and breathless. “Give her time to reconsider—to realize it was all a misunderstanding—or perhaps simply to find another suitor and cease caring about either of us—”
“Do you really hate me?” he interrupted.
She flushed again. “Have you really been in love with me all along?”
Neither said a word.
“See?” she said grimly. “We’ve both been horribly misrepresented. Thank you for saving me from Lord Clary, but I beg you: Do not speak to me again, do not seek me out, do not do anything that might turn any of my other friends against me—” Her voice broke on the last words. “I hope you won’t say a word about this to anyone.” She waited, and after a moment he gave a slight nod. “Good-bye, sir.” Head held high, she retrieved her lost slipper and limped out the door, hoping desperately that an injured ankle was the worst that happened to her tonight.
B enedict watched her go. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d just done, but he damned sure wasn’t going back to the rout now. When Penelope had had sufficient time to escape, he went into the hall and sent a servant for his things.
On one hand, his actions were perfectly defensible. It wasn’t exactly admirable to follow Penelope because he wanted to argue with her about the way she’d incited Frances to lunacy, but finding her struggling on the floor with Clary had superseded that intention and prompted him to intervene; what gentleman wouldn’t? And he stayed to make certain she was unhurt because she was a young lady, very near the age of his youngest sister, and if Samantha ever were in such a position, he hoped someone would do the same for her.
But then . . . He ought to have fetched her mother at once, no matter what she said. He ought not to have touched her hair, even though that, too, was done in the spirit of trying to help her. Her trembling hands had disproved her protest that she was perfectly fine; he admired her fortitude if not her ability to lie. But it had been a mistake because it put him much too close to her. With his hands tangled in her silky hair he had an all-too-intimate view of the flush on her cheeks, the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, and the ripe swells of her breasts above her ripped bodice. And just like the other night, he’d been jolted by the reminder that Penelope Weston was a beautiful young woman.
For a moment he thought of her wild suggestion that he ought to have seized Frances and kissed her to distract both Lockwood ladies. It might have worked . . . except he no longer wanted to marry Frances. Somewhere between her impassioned outburst and that strangely fraught moment when Penelope
“I doubt it.”
Her temper snapped. He had rescued her from one terrible fate, true, but then done nothing to save her from the other, possibly worse, scandal. Before she could stop it, her hand was swinging toward his face.
He caught her wrist just before the slap landed. Jerked to a halt, she stumbled toward him, then into him as her injured ankle gave way. His arm went around her waist to steady her, and Penelope froze. For a moment they both seemed frozen, in fact, her wide-eyed gaze locked with his steely one.
“Don’t,” he said quietly, giving her upraised hand a slight squeeze. “We might well need each other.”
Her stomach twisted into a hard knot. His body was tall and hard and so strong against hers. The scent of his shaving soap made her light-headed, because his clean-shaven jaw was so close she could see every line of his firm, sensual mouth. Penelope fought down the heat spreading through her veins; her attraction to him was a fatal weakness, but she refused to succumb to it.
She pushed against his chest and backed away, no longer caring what her hair or dress looked like. “We should stay far away from each other,” she said, hating her voice for being shaky and breathless. “Give her time to reconsider—to realize it was all a misunderstanding—or perhaps simply to find another suitor and cease caring about either of us—”
“Do you really hate me?” he interrupted.
She flushed again. “Have you really been in love with me all along?”
Neither said a word.
“See?” she said grimly. “We’ve both been horribly misrepresented. Thank you for saving me from Lord Clary, but I beg you: Do not speak to me again, do not seek me out, do not do anything that might turn any of my other friends against me—” Her voice broke on the last words. “I hope you won’t say a word about this to anyone.” She waited, and after a moment he gave a slight nod. “Good-bye, sir.” Head held high, she retrieved her lost slipper and limped out the door, hoping desperately that an injured ankle was the worst that happened to her tonight.
B enedict watched her go. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d just done, but he damned sure wasn’t going back to the rout now. When Penelope had had sufficient time to escape, he went into the hall and sent a servant for his things.
On one hand, his actions were perfectly defensible. It wasn’t exactly admirable to follow Penelope because he wanted to argue with her about the way she’d incited Frances to lunacy, but finding her struggling on the floor with Clary had superseded that intention and prompted him to intervene; what gentleman wouldn’t? And he stayed to make certain she was unhurt because she was a young lady, very near the age of his youngest sister, and if Samantha ever were in such a position, he hoped someone would do the same for her.
But then . . . He ought to have fetched her mother at once, no matter what she said. He ought not to have touched her hair, even though that, too, was done in the spirit of trying to help her. Her trembling hands had disproved her protest that she was perfectly fine; he admired her fortitude if not her ability to lie. But it had been a mistake because it put him much too close to her. With his hands tangled in her silky hair he had an all-too-intimate view of the flush on her cheeks, the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, and the ripe swells of her breasts above her ripped bodice. And just like the other night, he’d been jolted by the reminder that Penelope Weston was a beautiful young woman.
For a moment he thought of her wild suggestion that he ought to have seized Frances and kissed her to distract both Lockwood ladies. It might have worked . . . except he no longer wanted to marry Frances. Somewhere between her impassioned outburst and that strangely fraught moment when Penelope
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