Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  At fifty-two, Margaret was twice widowed, a prideful countess who had not aged well. Her hair, which was regularly pulled into a taut chignon, was gray and dull, her tall, thin figure so gaunt that she appeared to have been afflicted with a vile disease. The creases on her face indicated that she wasn't prone to smiling, and her blue eyes were icy with disdain and hauteur.

  "I apologize again," Olivia murmured, knowing it was best to avoid an argument.

  "As well you should," Margaret fumed. "Winnie has been keeping him occupied, but she can only do so much."

  "Oh, dear."

  Thank goodness Winnie had been available to entertain him! Winnie was Margaret's thirty-five-year-old cousin, a confirmed spinster who had lived with them for years. She was friendly and charming, but as Margaret had snidely implied, she was a commoner and therefore possessed none of the traits that Edward was searching for in a bride.

  He held one of the most ancient titles in the realm, his fortune was vast and secure, and according to Margaret's gossip sources, impeccable lineage mattered to him above all else.

  "He's noticed your absence," Margaret accused, "and he probably suspects you're still abed! Is that the perception you want him to have?"

  "No, no," Olivia fretted.

  "Our fates are riding on you," Margaret reminded her. "If you have no concern for Penny and myself, at least have the decency to consider Helen. What will

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  happen to her if we're tossed into the streets? How will you care for her?"

  Olivia hung her head, ashamed that she'd been dawdling in her room, doodling and swooning over the enigmatic Phillip, while fantasizing over potentialities that could never be.

  How could she have been so selfish?

  From her encounters with Lord Salisbury, it was obvious that he wasn't enamored of her, that she hadn't made much of an impression, so she would have to struggle to win his approval. Now, he likely deemed her a laggard or a slugabed, when neither portrayal fit her in the slightest.

  "I'll go down immediately." And she scurried out before Margaret could hurl another remark.

  ******************

  Winnie Stewart leaned against the balustrade of the verandah and stared across the rolling lawns of the estate. There were horses grazing in a pasture, a colt kicking up its heels and chasing after its mother, and she smiled at the sight. It was so bucolic and peaceful, like a fairy tale.

  How she loved the country! How she hated knowing that she'd have to return to the city in a few weeks. She wished she could tarry in this enchanting location forever-more. There was nothing for her in London, and with their finances in such disarray, her situation was even more precarious.

  Margaret had explained their plight ad nauseum, and the necessity for journeying to Salisbury so that Olivia could investigate the possibility of a marriage.

  But what if the match wasn't brought to fruition?

  From the dirty looks Margaret occasionally flashed, Winnie wondered if she shouldn't be seeking employment, though at age thirty-five, she couldn't guess what

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  she could do to earn a salary. She hadn't worked a day in her life, had no idea how one found a job. Plus, she had no skills or aptitude.

  If only she could remain where she was! Perhaps she could convince Lord Salisbury that she was indispensable in some capacity. Maybe she could dredge up one of his decrepit old aunties who needed a companion!

  Ruefully, she grinned. To what a pathetic state she'd descended! As a child, she'd supposed she'd follow the course of other women, that she would marry, have a home of her own, and a gaggle of children to keep her busy. How sad that none of it had occurred. With each passing year, it was more clear that she was destined to subsist through the benevolence of others, an amiable spinster with no one and nothing to call her own.

  She couldn't recollect when she'd last taken a trip outside London, and she wasn't sure why Margaret had let her come this time. When the Hopkins family had been financially solvent, the earl active and healthy, they'd often traveled to their ancestral seat, but Winnie rarely went with them. Though Margaret had never said so directly, Winnie had been made to feel that she'd be overstepping her bounds by tagging along.

  Haven't we done enough for you? Margaret's eyes would seem to inquire. Must you impose further?

  It was so dreadfully humiliating to be the poor relative, and she strove to never be a burden or a bother, to never be seen as wanting more, or hoping that her lot would improve. When she'd been invited to move in with the wealthy Hopkinses, the opportunity had been a godsend, a boon she hadn't taken for granted, and she never said or did anything that might give someone cause to believe otherwise.

  Some thirteen years earlier, she'd been in a dismal quandary, and Margaret—with strong urging from

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  Olivia's father—had helped her through it, then the earl had insisted she stay on. With her parents deceased and no other kin to speak of, save Margaret, she hadn't had many choices. She'd embraced his offer and had never left.

  A wave of melancholy swamped her, and she tamped it down. More and more, she was despondent and glum, and praying she could leap out of the rut into which fate and circumstance had landed her.

  How was it that she—who had perpetually been a vibrant, energetic, and unflagging individual—had descended to this disappointing juncture? How had she come to be thirty-five and so alone? Why had she ended up settling for so little?

  For an instant, she unlocked the door to reminiscence, to Gerald, the lord's son who had swept over her like a gale, who had tantalized her with a taste of elegance and passion, but who'd also broken her heart, shattered her world, and left her with the tiny baby girl she'd birthed and Margaret had put up for adoption.

  Rebecca . . .

  The forbidden name whispered through her head, but she shuttered it away, declining to wallow in the desolate trough where her grief deposited her. She would not be maudlin on such a glorious morning!

  Behind her, a door opened, and she presumed it was a maid carrying more food for the buffet that had been laid out. A feast awaited—should anyone show up to eat it. Or it might be Margaret, having completed her search for Olivia.

  No doubt, she'd want to complain about Olivia, and Winnie hoped not. She wasn't in the mood for Margaret's petulance or criticisms. Margaret found fault with everyone, most notably Olivia, when Winnie considered Olivia to be very fine. Winnie abhorred her untenable role of con-

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  fidante, specifically when she'd like nothing more than to give Margaret a brisk shaking and tell her to shut up.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and much to her surprise, there was the earl, Edward Paxton. When she'd initially arrived, she'd been presented to him, but since then, she'd elected her customary route of being accommodating and inconspicuous, and she'd kept to herself, even taking her meals in her room, so she hadn't seen him again.

  After the scramble of introductions, she'd had a fleeting recollection of a pleasant, dark-haired gentleman, but not much else, so she was astonished that she hadn't noticed how handsome he was.

  At six feet tall, he was wide at the shoulders, thin at the waist, with long, lanky legs. He was in commendable physical condition, probably through fencing or some other activity, and though his hair was peppered with gray, he didn't appear to be anywhere near forty-five.

  He was striking, the sort who grew more distinguished with age, who turned heads when he entered a room. Raised in affluence and privilege, he'd effortlessly donned the mantle that birth and title had provided. He was satisfied, comfortable with who and what he was.

  He was peering across the verandah, evaluating her as though he couldn't recall who she was or why she was on his patio. His gaze was astute, keen, and pathetically, she wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

  While she wished he would perceive her as vibrant, interesting, and fetching, she was sure he beheld her as she truly was: a stodgy, short, rather plump woman who wa
s past her prime, whose once-bright brunette hair was sporting a few strands of gray, too.

  He was advancing on her, and she watched his lengthy strides. He moved with a lithe grace, much like the enormous African cats she'd seen once in London.

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  As he neared, she suffered the strangest sensation, that her destiny was approaching, that her future had finally unfolded, and a ripple of gladness surged through her. Her pulse was pounding, her ears ringing, and she shook off the peculiar impression.

  With her increasing age, her sentiments often gushed out of control. She jumped to outlandish conclusions, wept over the most minor developments, raged over the smallest injustices. Now, she was fantasizing in an almost hallucinatory fashion!

  Spinsterhood was driving her mad!

  She dropped into a curtsy. "Lord Salisbury."

  Like a benevolent king, he took her hand, lifting her to her feet.

  "We don't stand on ceremony here in the country." His voice was low, charming, gallant, and it swept over her, causing butterflies to rumble through her stomach.

  "Thank you." She stared at his chest, afraid to look at him. She was so nervous that she was positive he would detect her confusion and yearning.

  He was studying her; she could sense his appreciative regard. After a protracted pause, he admitted, "I'm embarrassed to say that we were introduced the other day, but for the life of me, I can't remember your name."

  "Winifred Stewart," she said. "My friends call me Winnie."

  "Winnie ..." He rolled the word on his tongue. "How unusual. It suits you."

  The compliment gave her the courage to meet his gaze, but she hadn't been prepared for how dazzling he would be up close.

  He was smiling at her, his brown eyes sparkling with masculine curiosity.

  Her heart literally skipped a beat.

  "I would be honored if you would call me Winnie."

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  "If you will call me Edward."

  "I will."

  He hadn't released her hand, and like a pair of enamored half-wits, they gawked. She felt a powerful connection to him, their bodies seeming to tilt toward one another, and Winnie sustained an insane impulse to lean into him, to snuggle herself against his chest, comprehending that she would fit perfectly.

  He felt their potent link, and he scowled, trying to deduce the reason. Stepping away, he freed her hand, severing their attachment as though she'd suddenly gotten too hot to handle.

  At a loss, he grappled to reassert the smooth, urbane façade that had temporarily vanished. He cleared his throat and straightened his cravat, so disconcerted that she would have been sorry for him had she not been appalled and frightened by her own reaction.

  "Would you care to join me at the table?" he asked, nimbly covering over the awkwardness.

  She couldn't think of anything more dangerous, or more enticing, than to sit down and converse with him through a leisurely meal. She endeavored to find an excuse so that she might cordially refuse, when Olivia emerged through the French doors.

  Attired in a stylish blue daydress that accented her winsome features, she was pretty and fresh, graphically and painfully reminding Winnie of the divisions between them, of the fact that Edward wanted to wed a sweet, innocent, biddable girl. A nobleman's daughter. All that Winnie was not and never would be.

  What was she doing, loitering where anyone could see, and mooning over him like an infatuated ninny? Chagrined, she pulled herself together, masking further response, a knack she'd acquired through years of practice.

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  "I really can't, Lord Salisbury." Rudely, she used his title, and he frowned that she'd so quickly decided not to refer to him as Edward. "But thank you for the invitation."

  Before he could reply, she stumbled over to Olivia, made a few inane, prattling comments—that she later wouldn't be able to recall—then she rushed into the manor, running till she located an empty salon.

  In abject misery, she balanced herself against the wall, needing the support to stay upright.

  She was sexually attracted to Lord Salisbury! Olivia's potential husband!

  When she'd been dawdling on the verandah, she'd been scared to classify what she'd felt.

  But it was blatant, heady sexual desire. She was no simpering miss, no naïve child, so she was well aware of what had sizzled between them. Disgustingly, she'd enjoyed every second of the encounter, and if they'd had the privacy and the time, she'd have gaily acceded in pushing the rendezvous to another level.

  Women such as herself had names, and she knew them all: hussy, slattern, trollop. She'd assumed that she'd ventured beyond this stage, that her degraded constitution was an aberration, a delirium of youth and immaturity, but apparently not.

  Better than anyone, she understood how easy, how perilous, it was to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh. The results could be deadly. For years, she'd labored to restrain her base nature, fighting the insistent urges, and living so soberly and so sedately that she might as well have taken vows and become a nun.

  Yet Edward Paxton had but smiled at her, and she was ready to fling her principles and virtue to the four winds. She felt as if the lid had been torn off a Pandora's box where she'd hidden her sordid traits, and she was terrified that she'd never be able to put it back on.

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  Previously, she'd proven that she couldn't trust herself, that given the slightest provocation, she could and would commit any licentious act. Hadn't she learned any lessons from the past?

  With a groan of dismay, she peeked into the hallway. There were no servants about, so she sneaked out and made for the stairs and the safety of her room.

  Because she'd been feeling blue and housebound, she'd let the beautiful weather lure her outside, but it wouldn't happen again. She mustn't cross paths with the earl, mustn't say or do anything that might encourage him. Her degraded spirit, and lack of morality, couldn't be allowed to taint Olivia's chances.

  She owed it to the family; she owed it to herself, and she would not relent.

  Chapter Four

  Margaret sipped her morning chocolate, mentally arranging her day. She'd been up since dawn, and she was dressed, her hair done, but she hadn't exited her room, for she didn't want others to know how early she'd risen. It wasn't fashionable, so people would have found the conduct odd, and if there was one thing she insisted upon, it was exemplary behavior.

  As the daughter of a baron, who had wed and buried cwo earls, she had an image to maintain.

  Sleep didn't come easily anymore. Too many worries plagued her, and as usual, this most recent debacle had fallen squarely on her shoulders. It was up to her to save them all, and the unwanted burden made her furious. Just once, couldn't others have carried the load? She'd had two exalted husbands, neither of whom had been worth the price of the suits in which they'd been interred, and what did she have to show for it?

  Not two pennies to rub together!

  They'd both been scalawags, prone to overindulgence in strong drink, gambling, and strumpets. She'd put up with their shenanigans, and where had it left her? With no assets, and a mound of debt she couldn't hope to pay off in ten lifetimes! That's where!

  If Olivia didn't come up to scratch in their quest to snag Lord Salisbury, Margaret couldn't predict what she might do. She wasn't about to let poverty degrade her as it had Winnie, yet Olivia had less ambition than anyone she'd

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  ever met, and she had no knack for flirtation or wooing.

  Why couldn't she buckle down and apply herself to the task?

  Well, if Olivia couldn't figure out how to beguile Edward, maybe Penelope could, though the prospect was remote. At sixteen, Penny was too young to assume the onus of being a wife, or to execute the duties of countess. Besides, Margaret didn't aim to settle for a lowly earl as her son-in-law.

  She had much grander aspirations for her daughter.

  With Penny's parentage and looks, coupled with a sufficient amount of plotting and positioning,
she could be a duchess, or a princess.

  Who knew where the road might take them? Queen, perhaps?

  There was no end to the benefits of an advantageous marriage, and Margaret was willing to do whatever was necessary to catapult Penny into the maximum union, but first things first. And that meant having their finances stabilized, their immediate futures assured, so that she could focus her energies on their subsequent destinies.

  At all costs, and before their visit was over, Olivia had to be engaged to the earl. No other conclusion was acceptable.

  Olivia had no clue as to how far their circumstances could plummet, and therefore she had no conception of the drastic decisions that frequently had to be made to guarantee one's security and that of one's family.

  Margaret could make those decisions without batting an eye. She'd done it with that horrid baby Winnie had birthed all those years ago, and she'd just done it again with Helen. Back in London, if matters had evolved according to plan, Helen had vanished without a trace.

  When Olivia married Salisbury, there would be no

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  insane niece to cloud the nuptials, no discovery later on that might lead the earl to feel he'd been duped as to the purity of the Hopkinses' blood.

  If Helen's existence was detected, what kinds of stories might circulate? What if Penny garnered a royal fiancé, and then news was disseminated that she had a crazed relative stashed away at home? Even though Penny and Helen weren't blood kin, no one would wait to hear how distant their consanguinity before the betrothal was terminated, and Margaret wasn't about to risk having Helen's lunacy reflect badly on Penny.

  A knock sounded, and Penelope pranced in before Margaret could bid her enter. Penelope was aware of how much it irked Margaret when she demonstrated such shoddy manners, and a sharp rebuke was on the tip of her tongue, but Margaret tamped it down.

  Penelope was in the worst stages of adolescence. She flourished on mischief, and when given a command or scolding, she ignored every word. If someone made a suggestion as to how she should comport herself, she did the opposite of what was advised.