Read All's Fair in Love and Scandal Online
Authors: Caroline Linden
“Oh?” She braced her hands on his chest. “You would prefer to read than do?”
“No.” He dragged her against him in spite of her hands—not that she put much effort into her resistance. “We can do both. Every author needs a muse, after all . . .”
“I don’t think much about writing when you do that,” she said on a sigh, letting him kiss his way down her neck. Her hands had gone from holding him away to clinging.
“What
do
you think about?” he murmured with interest.
“It’s hard to think at all.” She waited until he raised his head. “But mostly . . . I think of how much I love you.”
He was the luckiest bloke in Britain. “That’s all I want.”
Don’t miss the other romances
in Caroline Linden’s deliciously sexy
Tristan, Lord Burke, has no intention of ever marrying, especially not a droll, sharp-witted spinster like Joan Bennet. If only their clashes didn’t lead to kissing . . . and embraces . . . and a passion neither can resist.
Mysterious and reclusive, Sebastian Vane is rumored to be a thief and a murderer—not the sort of man an heiress like Abigail Weston would marry. But even the fiercest scandal is no match for love . . .
Coming Soon!
Penelope Weston has her heart set on finding passion and adventure along with true love. Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, wants just the opposite, no matter how tempting he finds Penelope. But Fate seems to be throwing them together, until scandal leads to marriage—and that could lead to so much more than either of them ever imagined.
Want more
scandalous
romance?
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USA Today
best-selling and RITA® Award–winning author
Caroline Linden’s next novel,
Coming June 2015
from Avon Romance
1822
London
S
ome people were born with an acute appreciation of the little things in life: a good book, a beautiful garden, a quiet peaceful home. Nothing pleased them more than improving their minds through reading, or practicing an art such as painting or playing an instrument, or helping the sick and infirm. Such people were truly noble and inspiring.
Penelope Weston was not one of those people.
In fact, she felt very much the opposite of noble or inspiring as she stood at the side of Lady Hunsford’s ballroom and glumly watched the beautiful couples whirling around the floor. She wasn’t envious . . . much . . . but she was decidedly bored. This was a new feeling for her. Once balls and parties had been the most exciting thing in the world. She had thrilled at sharing the latest gossip and discussing the season’s fashions with her older sister, Abigail, and their friend Joan Bennet. None of the three of them had been popular young ladies, so they always had plenty of time to talk at balls, interrupted only occasionally by a gentleman asking one of them to dance.
At the time, they had all openly wished for more gentlemen to ask them to dance, and to call on them, flowers in hand, and beg for their company on a drive in the park. No one wanted to be a spinster all her life, after all. Whenever Joan fell into despair over her height, or Abigail fretted that only fortune hunters would want her, Penelope loyally maintained that there existed a man who would find Joan’s tall, statuesque figure appealing, and a man who would want Abigail for more than her dowry.
Well, now she’d been proven right. Joan had married the very rakish Viscount Burke, and Abigail was absolutely moonstruck in love with her new husband, Sebastian. Penelope was very happy for both of them, she really was . . . but she was also feeling left out for the first time in her life. Her sister was only a year older than she, and they had been the best of friends her entire life—and now Abigail was happily rusticating in Richmond, cultivating the quieter society that made Penelope want to run screaming from the room. Joan’s bridegroom had swept her off on a very exciting and exotic wedding trip to Italy, which Penelope envied fiercely but obviously could not share. And that left her alone, standing at the side of ballrooms once more, but this time without her dearest friends to pass the time.
“Miss Weston! Oh, Miss Weston, what a pleasure to see you tonight!”
Penelope roused herself from her brooding thoughts and smiled. Frances Lockwood beamed back, cheeks pink from dancing. Frances was on the brink of her first season, still starry-eyed at the social whirl of London. “And you, Miss Lockwood. I hope you are well.”
The younger girl nodded. “Very well! I think this is the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen!”
Penelope kept smiling. Just three years ago she’d been every bit as wide-eyed and delighted as Miss Lockwood. It was both amusing and disconcerting to see how she must have looked to everyone back then. “It is a very fine room. Lady Hunsford has quite an eye for floral arrangements.”
“Indeed!” Miss Lockwood agreed eagerly. “And the musicians are very talented.”
“They are.” Penelope felt much older than her twenty-one years, discussing flower arrangements and musicians. Her mother was probably making the very same comments to her friends.
Miss Lockwood sidled a step closer. “And the gentlemen are so very handsome, don’t you think?”
Now Penelope’s smile grew a bit rigid. Frances Lockwood was the granddaughter of a viscount. Her father was a mere gentleman, and her mother was a banker’s daughter, but that noble connection made all the difference. Penelope’s father had been an attorney before he made his fortune investing in coal canals, and the grime of that origin had never fully washed away. The Lockwoods were received everywhere; Frances, with her dowry less than half the size of Penelope’s, was considered a very eligible heiress. Not that Penelope wanted Frances’s suitors—who were silly young men with empty pockets, for the most part—but it set something inside her roiling when she saw the way they fawned over her friend.
“There are many handsome gentlemen in London,” Penelope said aloud. There were, although none near this part of the ballroom, where the unmarried ladies congregated. If Joan were here, they could discuss the scandalous rakes lounging elegantly at the far end of the room, closer to the wine. But Frances was only seventeen and would fall into a blushing stammer if Penelope openly admired the way Lord Fenton’s trousers fit his thighs.
Frances nodded, a beatific smile on her face. She edged a little closer to Penelope’s side and dropped her voice. “Miss Weston . . . may I confide in you? You’ve been very kind to me, and I do so look up to you for advice—well, you know, on how to deal with gentlemen who are only interested in One Thing.”
Oh dear. Frances meant the fortune hunters who clustered around her. Penelope tried not to heave a sigh. Unfortunately she had too much experience of those men, and too little experience of real suitors. She was probably the least suited person to be giving advice, but Frances persisted in asking her. “Is another one bothering you? If so, you must send him on his way at once. Such a man will never make you happy if all he cares for is your fortune or your connections.”
“Oh no, I know that very well,” replied Frances earnestly. “I’ve turned away Mr. Whittington and Sir Thomas Philpot and even Lord Dartmond, although my mama was not very pleased by the last one. Only when I explained to her that you had turned him down as the very lowest of fortune hunters did she relent.”
The Earl of Dartmond was at least forty, with a pernicious gambling habit. Mrs. Lockwood was a fool if she even considered him for her daughter, earl or not. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy you did, when you meet a kinder gentleman who cares for you.”
The younger girl nodded, her face brightening again. “I know! I know, because I have met him! Oh, Miss Weston, he’s the handsomest man you ever saw. Always so smartly attired, and the very best horseman I’ve ever seen, and a music lover—he listened to me play for almost an hour the last time he called, and said I was a marvel on the pianoforte.” Frances looked quite rapturous; she was very fond of the pianoforte and practiced for an hour each day, something Penelope couldn’t fathom surviving, let alone enjoying. “And what’s more, he’s heir to an earl and has no need of my fortune. Mama is so pleased, and Papa, too. He’s been calling on me for at least a fortnight now, always with a small gift or posy, and he’s the most charming, delightful gentleman I could imagine!”
Penelope nodded, hoping it was all true. “How wonderful. I told you there were true gentlemen out there. They just require some hunting.”
Frances laughed almost giddily. “There are! My other friends were so very scandalized when I refused to receive Mr. Whittington, because he’s the most graceful dancer even if he is horribly in debt, but you were entirely correct. I credit your wise advice for the happiness I now feel—indeed, for the very great match I’m about to make! May I present you to him? He’s to attend tonight.”
For a moment Penelope felt like saying no. It was bad enough that she had to feel old and unwanted next to Frances. Her friend was sweet and kind, but also somewhat silly and naïve. It was bad enough to see Joan and Abigail marry deliciously handsome men; Penelope loved them and wanted them to be happy. She also wanted Frances to be happy, but tonight it just felt a bit hard to see Frances find her ideal man and be swept off her feet in her very first year in London, while Penelope had been overlooked for three years now by all but the most calculating fortune hunters.
But that was petty. She mustered another smile. “Of course. You know I always like to meet handsome men.” Frances’s eyes widened at the last, and Penelope hastily added, “I’m especially pleased to meet one who adores you.”
Frances’s smile returned. “He does, Miss Weston, I really believe he does! He’s even hinted that he means to speak to my papa soon.” A very pretty blush colored her cheeks. “How should I respond, if he asks me about that?”
“If you want to marry him, you should tell your father that he’s the man for you. And stand by your conviction,” she added. “Parents may not always understand your heart, so you must be sure to tell them emphatically.”
“Yes, of course.” Frances nodded. “I hope you approve of him, Miss Weston.”
“Your approval is what matters.” Penelope wondered if she had ever been so anxious for someone else’s validation of her opinion. She would have to ask Abigail, the next time she saw her sister.
“I see him,” said Frances with a little cry of nervous delight. “Oh my, he’s
so
handsome! And his uniform is very dashing! Don’t you think so?”
Penelope followed her companion’s gaze and saw a group of the King’s Life Guards, making their entrance with some swagger. Instinctively her mouth flattened. She’d met a few of them last summer, when one of their number, Benedict Lennox, Lord Atherton, had courted her sister. Penelope was sure he’d never been in love with Abigail, and when Abigail confessed her love for another man, Lord Atherton reacted like a thwarted child. Penelope hoped he wasn’t in the crowd, but then she caught sight of his dark head.
She repressed the urge to walk the other way. She hadn’t seen him since they last parted, when he’d reluctantly helped solve a years-old mystery that had tarred the name of the man Abigail loved. Sebastian Vane had stood accused of stealing a large sum of money from Lord Atherton’s father, and Atherton himself had done nothing to disprove it—even though he’d once been Sebastian’s dearest friend. Penelope grudgingly admitted that Atherton had been fairly decent after that, but she still thought he was insincere and always had an eye out for his own interest, whatever truth or justice demanded.
It wasn’t until Atherton turned and looked toward them that Penelope realized she was staring at him. She quickly averted her gaze and turned her body slightly, hoping he hadn’t actually noticed her. However, that only gave her a good view of Frances’s face, which was glowing with joy.
Because . . . Penelope closed her eyes, praying she was wrong. Because her brain was fitting together details, just moments too late, and they were adding up to one dreadful conclusion. Atherton was heir to the Earl of Stratford, who was a very wealthy man. He was appallingly handsome, which Penelope only acknowledged with deep disgust. And when she stole a quick glance under her eyelashes, she saw that he was heading directly for the pair of them.
Oh Lord. What could she say now?
“Miss Lockwood.” Penelope gritted her teeth as he bowed. His voice was smooth and rich, the sort of voice a woman wanted to hear whispering naughty things in her ear. “How delightful to see you this evening.”
“I am the one delighted, my lord.” Blushing and beaming, Frances dipped a curtsy. “May I present to you my good friend, Miss Penelope Weston?”
His gaze moved to her without a flicker of surprise. He’d seen her, and was obviously more prepared for the meeting than she was. “Of course. But Miss Weston and I are already acquainted.”
Penelope curtsied as Frances gaped. “Indeed, my lord.”
“I—I didn’t know that,” stammered Frances, looking anxious again. “Are you very good friends? Oh dear, I wish I had known!”
“No, we hardly know each other,” said Penelope before he could answer. “It was a passing acquaintance, really.”
Atherton’s brilliant blue eyes lingered on her a moment before returning to Frances. “The Westons own property near Stratford Court.”
“Then you’re merely neighbors?” asked Frances hopefully. “In Richmond?”
“A river divides us,” Penelope assured her. “A very wide river.”
Atherton glanced at her sharply, but thankfully didn’t argue. “Yes, in Richmond. Unfortunately I’m kept here in London most of the year. I believe my sister Samantha is better acquainted with Miss Weston.”
“Indeed,” said Penelope with a pointed smile. “I hope Lady Samantha is well.”
“Yes,” said Lord Atherton after a moment’s pause. “She is.”
Too late Penelope remembered about Sam-
antha. In their zeal to clear Sebastian Vane’s name so Abigail could marry him, the Weston girls had inadvertently resurrected a dark secret of Samantha’s, one her brother had claimed would lead to dire consequences for her. Penelope hadn’t wanted to cause trouble for Samantha, but Sebastian had been accused of murder and thievery; Abigail’s happiness depended on exonerating him, and Samantha was the only person who could help. Penelope cringed to have brought it up, but Atherton did say she was well, so the consequences must not have been as bad as he’d predicted. Still, she did truly like Samantha—far more than the lady’s brother—and she was sorry to have been so cavalier with her name.
For a tense moment they seemed frozen there, Penelope biting her tongue, Frances looking troubled, and Atherton staring at her with a strange intensity. He shook it off first. “Miss Lockwood, I hope you’ve saved me a dance.”
Frances’s smile returned, although a little less brilliantly than before. “Of course, my lord. I am free the next two.”
“Excellent.” He gazed warmly at her, and Frances seemed to sway on her feet.
Penelope had to work hard to keep from rolling her eyes. How could she escape this? Thankfully she caught sight of a familiar face across the room, causing her to smile widely in relief. “You must excuse me, I see a dear friend just arriving. Miss Lockwood, Lord Atherton.” She bobbed a quick farewell and all but ran across the room.
Olivia Townsend was one of Penelope’s favorite people in the world. She was only a few years older than Abigail, and had been like an older sister to the two Weston girls for as long as Penelope could remember. Olivia’s family had lived near the Westons and all four children had been fast friends. But while Penelope’s family had prospered—greatly—since then, Olivia’s had not. At a fairly young age, she’d made a hasty marriage of dubious happiness to a charming but feckless fellow, Henry Townsend, who managed to run through his modest fortune with shocking speed before his death a few years ago. Since then, Olivia had lived very modestly. It was a surprise to see her here tonight, in fact, as she didn’t often attend balls.