looked up at him, her face shining with joy and gratitude, from where Clary held her down on the floor, Benedict’s interest in wedding Frances Lockwood had withered away. Otherwise he might have explained to Mrs. Lockwood immediately that he hadn’t been the cause of Penelope’s ripped dress, disheveled hair, and missing shoe. He could have supported her far-fetched tale of falling on the stairs that portrayed him as nothing more than someone of good manners who happened by.
Instead he’d said nothing of the sort.
Benedict reached into his pocket. The brooch was an oval agate surrounded by pearls, pale and perfect in the dim light. The clasp still had a bit of lace stuck in it—fine, expensive lace. From Bannister’s report the other night, he knew each Weston daughter had a dowry approaching forty thousand pounds. It was more than any other heiress he’d met in two Seasons, and more than twice Frances Lockwood’s. That dowry, paired with Penelope’s brilliant looks and keen intelligence, was a considerable temptation. At her best, Penelope was exuberant and amusing, with a sparkling wit; she was loyal and fearless in her devotion to those dear to her. With her hair tousled and her color high, she was a smoldering temptress, and all her words in praise of passion ran through his mind in sinful suggestion.
On the other hand, she hated him. There was no mistaking the guilty blush that stained her face when Frances blurted that out.
He tucked the brooch back into his pocket as the servant returned with his hat and gloves. His father was fond of saying that it was often to one’s advantage to sit back and see what opportunities emerged from a scandal. Much as Benedict hated to admit it, perhaps this time his father was correct.
Chapter 8
P enelope’s ankle was red and sore the next morning, and instead of protesting that it was fine, she let her mother fuss over her. The encounter with Lord Clary had given her a real fright, and the subsequent scene with Frances and Lord Atherton hadn’t helped.
She told her mother none of it. If she confided in Mama about Lord Clary, she would have to explain why she’d been alone with him. If she did that, Mama would send for Olivia at once and interrogate her, and if Olivia admitted having an affair with him, there was a real chance Mama would forbid Penelope from seeing Olivia again. Not only was Penelope determined to protect her friend—who had obviously been in great distress about the assignation, if that’s even what it was—she was wild to know why Olivia would speak to such a man, let alone slip off to meet him. And if she tried to warn her mother about what Mrs. Lockwood or Frances might say, she would have to explain what had led to that, which would mean explaining about Clary. On the whole, Penelope didn’t see how she could tell her mother.
So she let the physician examine her ankle, nodding meekly when he pronounced it slightly turned and in need of rest. As Lord Atherton had said, it wasn’t broken, even though it hurt like the devil. Mama showed the doctor out after getting his instructions for poultices and wraps, and then came to sit on the edge of Penelope’s bed.
“Quite an evening,” she remarked.
“Not my finest,” Penelope murmured.
Mama studied her. “Merely because of a slip on the stairs?”
Penelope creased her skirt. She’d told her parents she fell on the stairs to account for her disheveled state, but suspected her mother wasn’t completely fooled. “I wasn’t enjoying it before that, either.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Things haven’t been the same since Abby wed, have they?”
“Not at all,” Penelope muttered. If Abigail had been there last night, Penelope would have stayed in the ballroom gossiping with her, and none of the nightmare would have happened.
“I knew it would be hardest on you,” Mama went on. “The two of you have been so close, ever since she peeped into your cradle and demanded to play
Instead he’d said nothing of the sort.
Benedict reached into his pocket. The brooch was an oval agate surrounded by pearls, pale and perfect in the dim light. The clasp still had a bit of lace stuck in it—fine, expensive lace. From Bannister’s report the other night, he knew each Weston daughter had a dowry approaching forty thousand pounds. It was more than any other heiress he’d met in two Seasons, and more than twice Frances Lockwood’s. That dowry, paired with Penelope’s brilliant looks and keen intelligence, was a considerable temptation. At her best, Penelope was exuberant and amusing, with a sparkling wit; she was loyal and fearless in her devotion to those dear to her. With her hair tousled and her color high, she was a smoldering temptress, and all her words in praise of passion ran through his mind in sinful suggestion.
On the other hand, she hated him. There was no mistaking the guilty blush that stained her face when Frances blurted that out.
He tucked the brooch back into his pocket as the servant returned with his hat and gloves. His father was fond of saying that it was often to one’s advantage to sit back and see what opportunities emerged from a scandal. Much as Benedict hated to admit it, perhaps this time his father was correct.
Chapter 8
P enelope’s ankle was red and sore the next morning, and instead of protesting that it was fine, she let her mother fuss over her. The encounter with Lord Clary had given her a real fright, and the subsequent scene with Frances and Lord Atherton hadn’t helped.
She told her mother none of it. If she confided in Mama about Lord Clary, she would have to explain why she’d been alone with him. If she did that, Mama would send for Olivia at once and interrogate her, and if Olivia admitted having an affair with him, there was a real chance Mama would forbid Penelope from seeing Olivia again. Not only was Penelope determined to protect her friend—who had obviously been in great distress about the assignation, if that’s even what it was—she was wild to know why Olivia would speak to such a man, let alone slip off to meet him. And if she tried to warn her mother about what Mrs. Lockwood or Frances might say, she would have to explain what had led to that, which would mean explaining about Clary. On the whole, Penelope didn’t see how she could tell her mother.
So she let the physician examine her ankle, nodding meekly when he pronounced it slightly turned and in need of rest. As Lord Atherton had said, it wasn’t broken, even though it hurt like the devil. Mama showed the doctor out after getting his instructions for poultices and wraps, and then came to sit on the edge of Penelope’s bed.
“Quite an evening,” she remarked.
“Not my finest,” Penelope murmured.
Mama studied her. “Merely because of a slip on the stairs?”
Penelope creased her skirt. She’d told her parents she fell on the stairs to account for her disheveled state, but suspected her mother wasn’t completely fooled. “I wasn’t enjoying it before that, either.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Things haven’t been the same since Abby wed, have they?”
“Not at all,” Penelope muttered. If Abigail had been there last night, Penelope would have stayed in the ballroom gossiping with her, and none of the nightmare would have happened.
“I knew it would be hardest on you,” Mama went on. “The two of you have been so close, ever since she peeped into your cradle and demanded to play
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