by Cheryl Holt
He'd inquired after Margaret Gray, and a footman had advised that she was out for the afternoon, but would be returning shortly, and he was determined to speak with her. He had to ascertain that she was all right, that there were no lingering effects from Lavinia's vile conduct.
If he had another, more personal reason for wanting to see her, he wouldn't mull his motives. He was a man on a mission—that being his need to immediately wed an heiress—so he had no business seeking her out. Still, he couldn't be dissuaded. The unusual female had gotten under his skin, and he couldn't be easily shed of her.
Supposedly, she ran a school for the neighborhood children, and she earned an income by instructing them to read and write. He was bothered and fascinated by the peculiar report.
A working woman! A schoolteacher! Gad, to what was the world coming? When a gently bred female such as Miss Gray had to work for a living, it seemed as if the very fabric of British society was beginning to unravel.
He'd just rounded a bend when she approached. She was wearing a modest green dress, and a fetching straw bonnet with a matching ribbon. Her auburn hair was tucked into a tidy chignon, though several strands had escaped, giving her a rumpled air that he found much too appealing.
On his observing her, his heart did a little flip-flop, which was disturbing. He didn't want to like her, but apparently, he did, and he was sufficiently experienced in male and female relations to grasp how attractions could arise in the strangest places.
He stopped and waited for her to notice him, and when she finally did, she frowned so viciously that he almost felt sorry he'd forced the encounter. Almost.
She studied the surrounding forest, clearly pondering whether she should abandon the path and tromp through the briars rather than talk to him. The realization pricked at his pride, and he marched toward her, coming closer and closer, eager to learn precisely how near he could get before she panicked.
She didn't move, though, not a muscle. She wasn't afraid of him, and after so many years of nervous paramours and quaking debutantes, her brave disdain was a welcomed relief.
They were toe-to-toe, and sparks erupted, the very atmosphere charged with energy due to-her proximity. The oddest sensation of . . . of ... joy rushed through him. There was no other way to describe his delight.
"Hello, Margaret," he said.
"It's Miss Gray to you."
"I don't think I ought to call you Miss Gray. I'm apt to confuse you with the other Miss Gray in residence."
"It's Miss Gray to you," she repeated.
He reached out and toyed with a lock of her hair, but she batted his hand away.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I had to see you."
"Well, now you have. Good-bye."
She tried to shift around him, but he shifted, too, so that she couldn't. She went in the other direction, and he followed. They kept at it, going side to side on the narrow trail, until she growled in frustration.
"Let me pass."
"No."
"You are either the most discourteous person I've ever met or the biggest ass. Which is it?" "I am both."
"So we're in complete accord. Farewell. If I'm very lucky—which I haven't been so far—I won't bump into you ever again."
"Is that really what you're hoping?"
"Absolutely."
"Women generally love me," he said. "Aren't you the least bit smitten?"
"I'm adding vanity to your list of foul traits."
"Did you know I'm scheduled to visit Gray's Manor for a full month?"
"No, and I must tell you that it's the worst news I've heard in my entire life."
"Do you hate all men? Or is it just me?"
"It's just you."
He laughed, and he couldn't recollect when he'd last had so much fun. After such a lengthy and miserable marital search, her pithy, insulting banter was so refreshing.
"You're very pretty," he declared.
"And you are deranged."
"But I like you better without any clothes on."
"I can't believe you have the temerity to mention such an appalling incident."
"I was particularly thrilled when you dabbed that washcloth between your breasts."
"Each time you open your mouth," she scolded, "you say something more outrageous."
"And I don't even care."
"Were you raised in a cave?"
"No, I was raised by my father, which is about the same thing."
"Is he a beast, too?"
"Yes. Are you acquainted with him?"
"No, thank goodness."
"If you ever meet him, you'll understand why I'm so unpleasant."
"Are you blaming your base character on heredity?" "It's easier than claiming I prefer to be a boor on purpose."
"Yes, it is." She stepped away. "It's been most enlightening to chat with you. Now if you'll excuse me ..." "I don't."
She scowled. "What?" "I don't excuse you."
He clasped her wrist and pushed back the sleeve of her dress. Lavinia had pinched her very hard, had dug in with her nails before he'd been speedy enough to intervene, and he'd been wondering if there'd be marks.
There were.
"I'm sorry," he murmured as he traced a finger over the raw spot.
"Why would you be sorry?"
"It was my fault. I was teasing you, when I know Lavinia's temper, but I never expected that she'd assault you." He tried for a smile, but couldn't quite manage it. "I apologize."
"Accepted."
Suddenly, the encounter grew intimate, and he was on the verge of spilling his pitiful saga so that she would comprehend why he was such a dreadful lout. He yearned to speak of his widowed father, Charles, how Charles lied and cheated and ruined everything he touched. Jordan's boyhood had been one awful drama after the next, and he'd attempted to escape by purchasing a commission in the army, but he'd survived only to face penury and bankruptcy.
He didn't care if his father starved in the poorhouse, and he didn't want to care if the properties were lost, the farms idle, the fields fallow. He didn't want to worry about the hundreds of employees who'd worked for his family for generations. Most of all, he didn't want to fret over the plight of his numerous and much younger half siblings, sired during his father's many marriages and peccadilloes.
Who would see to their welfare? Not Charles, that was for damned sure. And if Charles wouldn't do it, who would?
They were all depending on Jordan, and how could he refuse to assist? Especially the children. Someone had to be in charge and make the right choices, even if it meant marrying a spoiled adolescent simply to get her fortune so he could buy them all some shoes.
He bit his tongue, declining to let the humiliating remarks spill out. Usually, he was so tough, content to handle every problem alone, but for some ridiculous reason, he wanted to lean on Margaret Gray.
She sensed his distress, and their gazes locked, the intimacy stronger than ever, the interlude stretching to infinity.
"I like you," he finally admitted. "I don't know why; I just do."
"Well, I don't like you. How could you trifle with my aunt—while you're hoping to marry my cousin? And I was watching you! Have you no standard of decency?"
"It's fairly low."
"Can you truly switch from mother to daughter in the blink of an eye?"
He blushed. "What can I say?"
"You're wicked in a realm beyond my limited experience."
"I don't suppose you have any money, do you?" "Not a penny."
"That's too bad." "Why?"
"If you were rich, I'd ask you to marry me." She grinned and shook her head. "You are impossible."
He stroked his thumb across her bottom lip, relishing how warm it was, how soft. "What you saw me doing in Lavinia's bedchamber, that's not the kind of man I am."
It was a huge falsehood, but he felt compelled to utter it. He couldn't explain why, but he wanted to garner her esteem, to erase the contemptible opinion he'd generated.
He shrugged. "It was worth a shot."
"You're a viscount. Why don't you have any money of your own?"
"My father stole it and spent it—while I was away in the army."
"How terribly uncouth of him."
"I thought so."
"Will you marry Penelope?"
"Most likely."
"You'll always regret it."
"I'm certain you're correct."
"I am. I've known her a long time. She insists you're a murderer, which is a peculiar footing upon which to commence a marriage."
He frowned, hating that she'd already heard the stories. "Do you think I'm a killer?"
She scrutinized him. "No. You're a roue and a scapegrace, though."
Her response gave him an inane burst of pleasure. "People say that I killed my older brother for his title." "People are absurd."
"Is it hard for you to reside with Lavinia and Penelope?"
"It just is," she said. "It's my life."
"I'd change it for you if I could."
She was humored by the statement. "And how would you do that?"
"I'd take you away; I'd make you happy."
"No, you wouldn't. I'm positive you'd make me miserable."
"You're wrong."
He took her wrist again, and he tugged her closer. She was wary, but she didn't resist, so he slipped an arm around her waist, her body pressed to his, and he bent down and kissed her.
In the history of kisses, it was exceedingly chaste, but he reveled in the sweetness. Her lashes fluttered shut, and her warm breath coursed across his cheek. It was heaven, being with her, and he lingered until she drew away.
She studied him, her green eyes digging deep, taking his measure.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said. "Probably not."
"Why are you pestering me, Lord Romsey? What is it you want?"
What did he want? He hadn't a clue. "I don't know."
"Leave me be. Please. Propose to Penelope, marry her, then go away. Keep me out of it."
"I can't."
She sighed. "I don't care to suffer your attentions." "It's not up to you. It will never be up to you." "I won't be bullied."
"I wish you'd call me Jordan—at least when we're alone." "I can't."
"Why do you detest me so much?" Since he'd behaved like an ass from the very beginning, it was a silly question, but he needed her to answer it.
"I thought you were planning to marry me." She chuckled, though not with mirth. "Were you aware of what happened? When you first arrived, Penelope misunderstood, and she told me that's why you'd come. For a few minutes there, I actually assumed ... well..."
She was too embarrassed to finish. Her gaze was troubled and filled with hurt, and he rippled with mortification and no small amount of shame.
"I didn't realize that," he muttered. "I'm sorry."
She rested her palm on his cheek. "I recognize that it was foolish, but I was hoping Penelope's story was true, that someone finally wanted me, and I'm glad she was mistaken. But I'll always wonder what might have been, you know?"
"Yes, I know."
She walked around him and proceeded down the path, and he didn't try to stop her. He watched till the woods swallowed her up, and as she disappeared, an unnerving quiet descended. Even the birds ceased their chirping, as if they couldn't bear to see her go.
He felt as if he'd relinquished something precious, as if bliss had been within his grasp, but he'd frittered it away.
He shook off the bizarre sentiment and followed her to the house, braced to socialize with Penelope, to find some reason to enjoy her company no matter how difficult it proved to be.
Chapter Four
"I won't," Penelope had the audacity to reply. "I'll have the London debut you promised me, or I won't have anything. You and your precious Lord Romsey can go hang."
"He's the most eligible bachelor in the realm. If he settles on you, we can skip the London folderol. When your engagement is announced, the entire world will be agog."
Lavinia lounged on the daybed in her boudoir and glared at Penelope. "You'll do as I say, and you'll be glad about it."
"He's a poverty-stricken murderer and maniac," Penelope argued. "Everybody knows it, and now, you're foisting him off on me as if he's a Grand Catch, and you order me to be happy about it. Well, I won't be, I tell you. I won't pretend."
Lavinia unfolded from the couch, and she stalked over until they were nose-to-nose. "He's a heartbeat away from being an earl. I thought you yearned to be a countess."
"I do.”
"Then what—precisely—is your problem? And please be very clear, because you are trying my patience."
"He's not an earl—yet. His father is only fifty-four. The old codger might live another two or three decades! Then where would I be?"
"You'll be next in line to assume the proper role! Where would you think?"
"I want it to happen sooner. I want someone who's already inherited."
Lavinia threw up her hands. "Are you presuming that heirs grow on trees? If you refuse Romsey, are you imagining I can perform magic and conjure up another aristocrat for you?"
"I'm the prettiest girl in England," she boasted. "You know it, and I know it. Once we get to the city, and all the men see me, it will be easy to find the one I want. Besides, I'd hate to miss out on the fun of having them fight over me."
"What if Romsey turns out to be the best choice? If you snub him, he won't wait for you."
"He will wait. He's desperate; you said so yourself."
"Oh, to be sixteen again and so sure of everything."
"Better than being thirty-four and over-the-hill like you."
Lavinia considered slapping her, but instead, she stormed to the cupboard and poured herself a drink. She wouldn't brawl over the stupid issue. Penelope had to marry Jordan Prescott. There was no alternative.
The thick child didn't comprehend money, where it came from or how quickly it disappeared. Despite what Penelope believed, Lavinia wasn't about to pay for a London Season—not when Penelope had a perfectly good chance to wed immediately and save Lavinia a fortune.
She swilled her brandy, fuming over her plight. When she'd made her own debut years earlier, she'd been young and foolish like Penelope, and she'd coveted a titled husband, but her mother had convinced her to pick wealth over nobility.
She'd relented and rummaged to the bottom of the barrel by selecting Horatio Gray—a brewer! a tradesman!— and the fact still shamed her.
After he'd died, her initial act had been to sell the brewery and purchase the grandest mansion in the neighborhood, but how was she to know the upkeep would be so bloody expensive?
The bills piled up, the cash went out, until there was so little remaining.
Horatio had left several fat trust funds, but it was so difficult to manage such large amounts. She'd rapidly spent much more than she should have, and she'd become adept at shifting money and manipulating accounts, but she couldn't keep on forever. Something had to give—though she was positive no one would ever discover what she'd done. She'd been too proficient at hiding evidence of any fiscal ineptitude, and she'd never admit to malfeasance.
After all, desperate times called for desperate measures!
If she couldn't devise a solution, her sole option was to marry her neighbor and paramour, Robert Mason. He'd loved her so tediously* for so long, and he was constantly pestering her to proceed with the wedding, but— as she continually prayed for a reprieve—she used every machination to postpone the inevitable.
His standard of living was so meager, his assets so pathetic, that the very notion of stooping so low was too abhorrent to consider—unless, of course, she came to such a dismal fork in the road that she had no other choice. Then she'd latch onto him with nary a second's hesitation.
If only she hadn't frequently bragged about the si
ze of Penelope's dowry! With the excessive sum having been publicly bandied, she had to be cautious. If she utilized the wrong penny at the wrong moment, she could attract dangerous scrutiny. The balance had to be given—intact—to Penelope's husband. There wasn't a single farthing available for an extravagant London excursion, which meant that Penelope had to wed Jordan Prescott.
When the dowry changed hands, Lavinia would be destitute, her house likely sold to satisfy creditors, and she'd be out on the streets. But the Prescott family couldn't let Lavinia, as Penelope's mother, wallow in squalor. She would ride Penelope's coattails to financial security.
As to Margaret, Lavinia wasn't concerned about her. They were on a sinking ship, and every woman had to save herself!
"Aren't you forgetting one thing?" Lavinia asked.
"What?"
She walked over behind Penelope as Penelope primped in the mirror. Lavinia enviously assessed Penelope's marvelous, youthful figure. Her waist was so tiny, her hips so curvaceous, her breasts so firm and pert, compared to Lavinia's, which were beginning to droop.
"I apprised you of what you'll have to do to keep your husband happy in the bedchamber."
"I never will!" Penelope insisted with the annoying certainty of a child.
"He'll stray if you don't. Could you bear to have him philandering with every hussy in town?"
"I'd kill him first."
"He'll touch you in despicable ways," Lavinia warned. "He'll take off your clothes, and he'll make you do things you detest. You'll have to agree. It's the price you pay for a good marriage."
"Are you trying to scare me? Or disgust me?"
"I'm merely telling you how it is. When picking a spouse, you have to factor in the physical traits of the man. When he's as handsome as Lord Romsey, the sex is easier to tolerate. But when you have to oblige an obese man, a bald man, or a cruel and revolting man—and you have to do it night after night—it becomes insufferable."
"I don't care what he looks like."
"You will," Lavinia asserted.
"I won't! There are too many other details that are more important to me."
"I'll decide what's best for you," Lavinia threatened.
"No, you won't. You don't know anything about me. I'm going to get everything you always wanted but never had, and you can't stand it."
