Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  When he returned to her, he was naked, and he crawled onto the bed.

  "I'm constantly in such a rush with you," he said, "that I can't seem to shed my clothing before we start."

  "I've noticed."

  "I ought to at least attempt disrobing before I pounce on you."

  She sighed. "I wish we had more time."

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  To what end? he almost inquired, but didn't.

  "So do I." He wiggled his brows. "I can think of numerous wicked antics by which we could entertain ourselves."

  "I'll bet you can." Chuckling, she stroked his chest, rubbing in circles over the spot where his pulse had lagged to a stable rhythm. "You pulled out at the end."

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "We can't risk making a babe."

  "Could we have? From doing it once?"

  "Many people claim it's not possible, but I don't suppose we should take the chance."

  "A wise precaution."

  But oh, how he'd wanted to! Absurd as the notion was, he'd been eager, had coveted that outcome with such an ominous intensity that he couldn't say from where he'd mustered the fortitude to keep it from happening.

  If there was a child, she couldn't walk away. She'd be in dire trouble, and their disparate stations couldn't separate them. She'd have to relent and wed him, despite their differences.

  While he knew she was correct—that he couldn't provide for her large family—he was selfish enough to want to have the opportunity. He was a vain man, and it wounded him that his father was appropriate, merely due to birth and wealth, while he, himself, was not and could never be.

  If she stayed with him, they would be poor—by her standards—but they would be happy. Why couldn't that be enough?

  He should have been angry with her for making him feel unworthy, but he wasn't. The members of the Quality were indoctrinated to view themselves as exceptional and unique, and the somber fact was that she couldn't

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  envision them succeeding. Societal prohibitions had been drilled into her, so she couldn't conceive of a contrary conclusion.

  Her prejudices made him want to rail at her, but protesting couldn't change who she was, or alter her perspective of the world.

  Saddened, despondent, he lamented over what could never be. Already, he could sense her slipping away. She appeared less distinct, as if her shape were fading, the contour lines wavering. Soon, she'd be but a distressing memory, the agony of which would dwindle until he'd wonder if he'd actually known her, if she'd been real.

  What he needed was a token to remember her by, a tangible and unusual object that would reflect her character and disposition. What did she cherish? What did she have with which she could afford to part? What could he seek?

  When the answer occurred to him, it was amusing, whimsical, but perfect. Considering that he'd just deflowered her, it was dratted timing to request it, but if events unfolded as he suspected they would, he wouldn't be able subsequently to solicit a gift.

  "Would you do me a favor?"

  "Of course."

  "I want to have something of yours after you go. Something personal. Would you draw me a picture?"

  "A picture? Now?"

  "Yes."

  "Of what?"

  "Whatever you choose. You love art. I'll invariably recall that about you." He thought for a moment. "I have some rather heavy pieces of paper. And some sharpened pencils at my desk. Would you?"

  She shrugged. "Why not?"

  He hastened to the main room and brought her the

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  supplies. As he approached the bed, she was cross-legged, assessing him with heightened interest.

  "Seat yourself against the headboard," she commanded.

  "Me?"

  Giggling, she nodded, an impish gleam in her eye. "You've asked for a sketch, and you said I could pick my subject. I've decided on you."

  He hadn't calculated that he might be her model, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be. When he'd haggled for a sketch, he'd anticipated something a bit more mundane: a vase of flowers, his cottage. Hesitant, he blushed to the tips of his toes.

  "Come on," she coaxed. "It'll be fun."

  He couldn't tell her no, and grudgingly, he climbed onto the mattress, arranging the pillows, the carved wood cool on his heated back. She crawled to him, naked and sexy as a forest nymph, and the sight of her made his phallus stir and begin to grow.

  "Down, boy." She patted the enlarging rod, causing him to bark with mirth.

  "I've created a monster."

  "I believe you have."

  Arraying him, she lifted a knee, resting his elbow on it, a sheet concealing his lap.

  "You're going to depict me in the buff?"

  "That's how I fancy you."

  "I won't be able to frame it and hang it on my wall."

  "But it will remind you of this night. You insisted that you never wanted to forget."

  "No, I don't."

  "Later on, I'll duplicate the same pose for myself. So we'll both have a copy."

  The idea made him smile, contemplating her in

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  London, in her elegant bedchamber, in her elaborate town house, a nude likeness of himself tucked into a secret hiding place.

  The enterprise was curiously intimate, and as her pencil flew over the page, he observed her every move. It took only twenty minutes to complete the work, and shyly, she held it out, skeptical of her talent, and nervous about his opinion, just as he was apprehensive as to how she'd portray him.

  The representation was uncanny, exactly like him, and anyone who saw it would know it was he. He was muscled, fit, his hair tousled, his beard darkening his cheeks, but his mouth was pursed in an arrogant smirk, and he seemed more cocky than he visualized himself to be, more self-assured and conceited.

  It was a disturbing display, which hinted at carnality and masculinity, and he had a smugness about him that left no doubt he'd recently been satisfied in a sexual fashion.

  "I look like a damned corsair."

  "Do you recollect the erotic book in your father's library? You're the spitting image of the sheik, surrounded by his harem."

  "You noticed, did you?"

  "Yes, you bounder. The first time you sneaked up on me, and I glanced up, I assumed that you'd jumped to life out of my fantasies. You scared me witless."

  He laughed as she snatched up the drawing and, with a grand flourish, signed the corner: "My pirate, my sultan. Love always, Livvie."

  She stared at what she'd written, as if confused by how the inscription had sprung from her hand, and she flushed, quietly stating, "You're the sole person, besides my father, who's ever called me Livvie."

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  "It suits you."

  He accepted the portrait from her, reading the salutation, tracing it with his finger.

  "Love always," he murmured, liking the sound.

  "Love always," she whispered in reply, embarrassed, and gazing at the mattress.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  "I'll treasure it forever."

  He put it on the table, then tugged her across the distance that divided them, stretching her out so that she was pressed to his chest, her torso draped between his legs.

  There were so many things he longed to confide: how much he cared for her, how much he appreciated having met her, and how much he would miss her when she was gone. The undeclared regret was so poignant and so prevalent that he felt as if it were choking him.

  He'd never deemed himself to be a coward, but he was, because he couldn't give voice to any of his emotions.

  What good would a profession of strong sentiment do anyway?

  She had a path to follow that didn't include him, and a confession would make their parting more unbearable. During this last assignation, he didn't want them to be maudlin. He hoped they would reminisce about it as a magical episode they'd stolen for themselves before reality had intervened.

  Dipping
down, he found her mouth and kissed her, tenderly, gently, wanting to demonstrate with his body what he couldn't convey with words.

  Eagerly, she joined in, as if she too needed to physically impart the affection she dared not reveal aloud.

  He laid her on the pillows and came over her.

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  "May I love you again?"

  "Yes, please."

  "Are you too sore?"

  "No." Smiling at him, her admiration and regard shone through.

  /'// remember her just like this, he told himself. So beautiful, so fresh and vibrant. So rare and fine. And his. His till dawn.

  He kissed her, once more, and let passion take them awav.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Margaret sat at the table in her bedchamber. The portfolio of Olivia's drawings lay before her, though the flap was closed. There was no need to look at the foul, disgusting pictures again.

  She couldn't identify the knave who was with Olivia. At first glance, she'd thought it was Edward, but there were too many differences, namely that the individual was much younger. The blackguard might be the stable-master, though she hadn't paid enough attention to the servant to say for sure.

  How pathetic that Olivia would succumb to such a common ruffian, that she would risk so much on someone who was so unworthy of her. Had the girl lost all her sense?

  Penny had discovered Olivia's shame, and had tattled on her, just as she'd divulged Winnie's offensive lusting with the earl, but Margaret couldn't deduce why Penny would want to cause so much tribulation for the two women.

  As far as Margaret was aware, Penny had never exchanged a harsh word with either female. Olivia and Winnie regularly placated Penny, when she often didn't deserve their kindnesses. They were consistently pleasant and cordial, despite Penny's antics, which could be quite horrid and try even a saint's patience.

  Yet Penny was suffering from an excessive amount of malice, and Margaret couldn't begin to guess what

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  they'd done to incur her wrath. With Penny, one could never be confident of the motives that were driving her, so it could have been any minor slight.

  She'd had a perfectly good explanation for being in Olivia's room, for finding the lascivious artwork. So too she'd justified how she'd seen Winnie and Edward. Margaret had asked pointed questions about both incidents, but Penny's answers had seemed too pat, as if she'd rehearsed them for maximum effect.

  Obviously, Penny wanted Margaret to be incensed, to take drastic action, and of course, the revelations guaranteed that Penny would get her wish. But why was she so bent on revenge?

  Margaret had been pondering the puzzle for the better part of an hour, when it occurred to her that the reason scarcely mattered.

  The pair needed to be brought to heel. It was essential that they comprehend—in no uncertain terms—how desperate Margaret was for Olivia to marry Edward. No other alternative was possible, no other option viable, and she would be ruthless in achieving her goal.

  Winnie couldn't be allowed to loiter about the property, flaunting herself at Edward, and distracting him, so that he could avoid making a decision about Olivia.

  Previously, Winnie had philandered with a nobleman, had led him to folly and ruin. Her outrageous conduct should have taught her a lesson, but it hadn't.

  What was she hoping to gain by dallying with Edward? A few trinkets as a reward for her sexual favors? Or perhaps she was simply a bitch in heat, who savored the vulgar experience of a man sawing away between her thighs. Well, whatever her incentives, the liaison had to be ended before it could develop into something more dire.

  Heaven forbid that Edward would opt to marry the unrestrained slattern! There was no way on God's green

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  earth that Margaret would stand by and watch Winnie become Edward's countess. Winnie couldn't be permitted to sink her claws into Edward's fortune—the fortune that was going to come to Olivia, and thus, to Margaret Winnie was a nobody, a promiscuous, immoral whore, who had imposed on Margaret's charity and patience for over a decade. Margaret wasn't about to accept betrayal as her final reward.

  She trekked to the fireplace, Olivia's satchel in hand. Even though it was the middle of summer, she'd had a maid light the fire, and it had grown to a cheery blaze. Pulling up a chair, she fed the pages into the flames. One by one, the lewd sketches dwindled to ash. She observed the process dispassionately, once in a while using a poker to stir the pile so that every hint of Olivia's diabolical behavior was devoured.

  As the last fragment disappeared, she stood and went to her luggage, tossing the empty portfolio into it, satisfied that all evidence of the girl's stupidity had been erased.

  Down the hall, footsteps sounded, and Margaret recognized that Winnie was winging in her direction. Within moments, she'd glided in, evincing the serene, vapid smile Margaret despised. With her curvaceous figure and lush hair, men found Winnie attractive, but considering the conversation that was about to ensue, Margaret was revolted at being reminded of Winnie's power to bewitch.

  "You wanted to speak with me, Margaret?"

  "Yes." Margaret's fury was leashed with a slender thread, and she was ready to explode. "Close the door."

  Winnie complied, then moved to her side. "What is it?"

  "I know about you and the earl," Margaret hissed. "How could you do this to me? To us?"

  Before Winnie could think or reply, Margaret slapped

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  her across the face. She reeled, and crumpled to her knees, though Margaret suspected she fell from the shock of being struck, rather than the impetus of the blow.

  Dazed, gripping her cheek, she didn't try to rise.

  "Margaret... stop ..." she whined.

  "You harlot!" Margaret loomed over her and slapped her again, harder. "After all I've done for you! Who helped you, Winifred? All these years! Who?"

  "You did, Margaret."

  "Precisely." She was trembling with rage. 'It was / who hid your sin so that you could continue to go about in polite society. It was / who concealed the disgrace of your illegitimate brat. You've dined at my table! Slept in my home! And this is how you repay me?"

  "I'm sorry," she murmured. "So sorry."

  "At least you don't deny it."

  "No, I don't."

  Winnie was distraught, sniveling, the tears flowing, and Margaret was tempted to inquire why, why she would hazard so much, but Margaret had no interest in Winnie's excuses.

  She merely wanted the loathsome business terminated. Immediately.

  "You're traveling to London today. I've made the arrangements."

  "Thank you."

  "I'm wasting my limited coin. To rescue you once more."

  "I'm sorry," she repeated.

  "You're the most ungrateful person I've ever known."

  "I didn't mean for it to happen, Margaret. I swear... I—"

  "Shut up!" Margaret was so agitated that she could barely constrain herself from lashing out a third time. "Until your departure, you will stay in this room. You'll

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  not talk to the earl, you'll not try to see him, or slip him a note telling him where you've gone. Do you hear me?"

  Defeated, she gazed at the floor. "Yes, I hear you."

  "I've never been more serious, Winifred. You've perpetrated such damage, and we'll be lucky if I can rectify your sabotage. If I ascertain that you've endeavored to contact him, I'll put you out on the streets. With only the gown on your back."

  "I understand."

  "You suppose your life has been so terrible, so difficult? I've assured that you had a roof over your head, clothes to wear, and food to eat. Just picture how it will be if you have nothing." She made a slashing motion with her fingers. "Nothing! That's what you deserve."

  She marched to the door, leaving Winnie huddled on the rug. "A gig is being readied, and I will drive you into the village myself, where you will catch the public coach later this afternoon. If we encounter anyone, if anyone asks, we're off on
a short jaunt, to take the air."

  "Whatever you wish."

  "I'm off to check on the preparations. I suggest you use the solitude to reflect upon what you've done, and how you will atone to me and the rest of the family."

  "I will."

  Margaret stormed out, grabbing the key and locking her in, then, forcing calm into her demeanor, she traipsed downstairs.

  She couldn't remember when she'd ever been so angry. Probably the occasion she'd walked into the stable, and Penny had been with that boy, her hair down, her dress loosened.

  The foolhardy lad had quickly discovered how dangerous it was to cross Margaret. Her temper could be formidable, but she was rarely placed in a position where

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  she had to reveal it, and when she was, people were surprised at how much vengeance she was prone to wield.

  Winnie was not going to ruin this opportunity, wasn't going to demolish what Margaret had worked to effect.

  The earl's stable was efficient, and a sporty carriage was parked by the side door, equipped for their use, a youngster patiently tending the horse. It was the ideal vehicle for two ladies to enjoy a brisk ride.

  She ascended to fetch Winnie, their bonnets and cloaks, and she ushered them down a rear stairwell, meeting no one. In silence, they journeyed to the village, and Margaret located the coaching inn where Winnie would wait. Though Winnie had the audacity to beg for a few precious coins so that she could hire a hackney in London, Margaret refused, unconcerned whether Winnie made it safely to the town house or not. Without so much as a good-bye, she paid the fare for the coach, and left Winnie to her own devices.

  The entire excursion went off without a hitch, with no witnesses. Winnie's exit had been inconspicuous, nondescript. As Margaret had planned, no one could say that she was no longer on the premises.

  When Margaret arrived back at Salisbury, she deposited the gig at the stable, not having to dicker with any of the employees. Undetected, she sneaked to her bedchamber, shed her outer garments, and freshened up. Then, she went downstairs to survey several of the salons, assessing the feasibility of each, and settling on the earl's library. She knew his schedule, had marked his routine, so if he maintained his regular pattern, he would be there in the next hour to review his morning post.