by Cheryl Holt
She whirled away and strutted out, and Lavinia's anger surged. She'd informed Jordan that he could ruin Penelope whenever he was ready, and the prospect was increasingly satisfying to ponder. A bit of rape might be just the ticket to shove the arrogant girl off her pedestal.
Would Jordan dare? Could he be that ruthless? She'd heard so many terrible rumors about him. How badly did he desire Penelope's fortune?
Lavinia would have her way. Whether Penelope consented or not, she would end up married to Jordan Prescott.
*
Robert Mason was prepared to knock on the door to Lavinia's boudoir when it was flung open and Penelope sauntered out. He jumped to the side. He didn't like Penelope, had never trusted her, and often thought he might be downright afraid of her.
Lavinia claimed that she would wed him, but if it entailed playing father to Penelope, he was glad for the delay. He hoped Penelope would be wed herself before too long, so she wouldn't continue to be the wedge that had separated him from Lavinia.
"Hello, Robert." Penelope's voice was laced with sarcasm.
"Hello, Penelope. How are you?" "I'm fine. What brings you upstairs?" He patted his satchel. "I have some business to discuss with your mother."
"Business? Is that what they call it these days?" She chuckled slyly, indicating that he had no secrets regarding his relationship with Lavinia, and she totted off. He observed her till she reached the stairs; then he entered Lavinia's room.
"Darling," Lavinia welcomed, "how sweet of you to visit. But it's really an awful time. I asked you not to stop by this week."
"Or next," he griped. "I know, but I missed you. Besides, you were adamant that we review your financial situation as soon as possible."
Recently, with her fiscal quandary at crisis levels, she'd confided in him and pleaded for his advice. He was proud that she'd sought his assistance, but the papers she'd provided were extremely convoluted. Her income didn't match expenses, and he couldn't reconcile the two, so he couldn't make sense of her circumstances—other than to fear that she was facing bankruptcy.
"Have you studied my records?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"There are many discrepancies with the numbers."
"I told you that I'm not a mathematician," she snapped.
"I realize you're not."
"That's why I need your help."
"It's a tad beyond my ability to decipher. Perhaps if we hired an accountant, he could—"
"No!" she declared much too vehemently. "I won't have strangers pawing through my private calamity."
She was seated at her dressing table, preening in the mirror, and he stood behind her, his palms on her shoulders. They were such a striking couple, her with her blond hair and blue eyes, him with his brown hair and brown eyes. His dark features were a startling contrast to her pale, iridescent splendor.
He'd loved her since he was ten years old, and she was eight, and he'd remained captivated through her horrid marriage to Horatio, as well as his own to a kindly woman whom he'd never appreciated. He wasn't able to sever his fascination to Lavinia, and he couldn't say why. He simply adored her in an insane, inexplicable fashion that never faded.
She could definitely be domineering and exasperating, but in spite of her flaws, he'd do anything for her. He'd proven over and over that he was willing to demean and debase and humiliate himself, but when the reward for his devotion was their eventual marriage, he couldn't desist. He'd been waiting his entire life to be her husband, and he was ecstatic to note that the outcome was closer than ever to becoming reality.
"You're very beautiful this afternoon," he advised. He was desperate to change the tenor of the conversation, to avoid the details of her doomed pecuniary plight.
"Do you think so?"
"Oh, yes."
"You're so good to me," she said as he bent down and nipped at her nape.
"I know what you want, Lavinia. I know what you need."
He slid down the straps of her negligee till he'd bared her breasts. She arched and stared at her reflection.
"Am I looking older?" she queried.
He was no fool. "Absolutely not. You get prettier every second."
She shifted around and grinned. "I do, don't I?"
"Yes, you do."
He was fibbing, not inclined to point out that her age was beginning to show. Her hair was sporting a few strands of silver, her waist was thicker, her breasts sagging, but he would never mention the differences. To his besotted eye, she was still as fetching as she'd been as a young girl.
He linked their fingers, determined to lead her over to the bed, but she pulled away, dashing his plan for a quick romp.
"Oh, Robert, not now. I couldn't possibly."
"Why not?" He was more surly than he'd intended to be, but it had been weeks since she'd deigned to fornicate with him.
"I have the worst headache. I'm utterly sick about Penelope and Lord Romsey."
"Has he arrived?"
"Yes, but she claims she's going to London to make a better match."
"Better than a viscount? Why ... that's ludicrous."
'That's exactly what I told her."
"We can't afford a trip to London."
"No, we can't," Lavinia agreed.
With marriage to Lavinia imminent, he considered any funds his own as much as hers, and he'd never permit Penelope to squander so much.
"You have to reason with her," he declared. "I'll help you."
"I knew I could count on you!"
She bounded to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. Her lush body was pressed to his, and his cock leapt to attention.
He drew her nearer, his hips grinding into hers, as he dipped down and sucked on her nipple. She let him briefly indulge, then she eased away, and he sighed with resignation. It was such a chore, luring her into the physical intimacy he enjoyed so much.
"Let's talk about my finances," she urged. "Have you any positive information to share?"
He hated to constantly be the bearer of bad news, but her circumstances were more grave than she fathomed. She had dug a terribly deep hole, and he could supply no shovel to rescue her.
"It's very dire, Lavinia. You'll probably lose the house."
"How soon?"
"Six months, maybe less."
"Gad! So fast!" She shoved him away and paced. "And the banker. Have you spoken with him?"
"Yes, but there's nothing he can do, Lavinia. You simply owe more than you can ever pay, and people are demanding their money. I warned you this would be the consequence of your borrowing so much."
"Don't nag!"
"I'm not."
When he was aware of how affluent she'd been after Horatio's death, it galled him to be silent. How could one single woman spend so much? It was a staggering amount, and she was mad to have frittered it away.
He hugged her. "Forget about your debts. Forget about this mansion and this beastly property. Marry me, and we'll be happy with what's left. All we really need is each other."
"Oh, Robert, I can't discuss this, not while Romsey is here, and Penelope's future is up in the air."
"You can't leave me hanging forever. I have to have some answers in my own life."
"Of course, you do."
"It's unfair of you to keep delaying. When you persist with your dithering, I wonder if you're serious in your affection."
"Don't be silly. We'll set the date. I promise!"
"Will we? Or should I move on? Your procrastination has me doubting your interest in a union."
While she strove to be tough and independent, the prospect of his abandoning her always garnered a reaction. Instantly, she took his hand and escorted him to the bedroom.
Hope sparked eternal!
"I've been so awful to you," she cooed. "Why do you put up with me?"
"Because I can't resist."
"No, you can't," she said. "All this talk of bankruptcy has me so tense. Would you rub my back?"
"Yes, darling.
Lie down. I'll have you feeling better in no time."
As she shimmied out of her negligee and snuggled down on the bed, he tamped down a victorious grin. They would begin with a massage, but it would progress to other raucous and rough games. It would be a leisurely and satisfying afternoon—just as he'd intended.
“What the hell are you doing here?" Charles Prescott, Earl of Kettering, sipped on a brandy and smiled at Jordan, pretending to be glad to see his son.
"Hello to you, too." He jiggled his drink, indicating the liquor. He hadn't been in Lavinia's residence fifteen minutes, and he'd already made himself at home. Before a full day had passed, the servants would think he owned the place. "The brandy is excellent. French, I'd guess. Would you like one?"
"I hadn't planned on it," Jordan snidely said, "but now that you've arrived, I'll have several."
He huffed to the sideboard, reached for a glass, then changed his mind and swigged straight from the decanter.
"Honestly, Jordan, you get more discourteous by the moment."
Jordan glared, his expression aggressive and hostile. "I repeat: What are you doing here?"
"Can't a father offer support when his son is about to tie the knot?"
"Since when are you concerned about my welfare?"
"I've always had your best interests at heart."
"We're all alone, Charles, so you can drop the paternal pretense."
Charles considered carrying on the charade, but it was such a waste of energy. He and Jordan knew each other well. They had few secrets.
He shrugged. "Light me a cigar, would you?"
"Light it yourself. Now tell me what you want."
"I was in the neighborhood."
"And . . . ?"
"I stopped by."
"And ... ?"
"I wanted to see how you are."
"And could it also be—just perhaps—that you didn't have anywhere else to go? Admit it: You're here to sponge off Lavinia Gray for as long as she'll allow it."
Charles made a mock toast. "She's quite the hostess, and she adores having an earl as her guest. Why would I spurn her hospitality?"
"You're like a leech on a thigh. Why impose on the Grays? Why not simply travel to the family seat? There are plenty of caves in which to hide."
"My creditors are all searching there."
Charles sighed. It was a fine state of affairs when a peer of the realm, one of the premier citizens in the land, a man who regularly dined with kings, couldn't show his face on his own property.
The bill collectors were circling, eager to pounce like wolves on carrion. His debt was so vast that not even his title could protect him. There were too many people, wanting too much that he didn't have. They were going for the throat!
T imagine if you went home," Jordan taunted, "the crofters would turn you in for the reward. I hear it's grown extremely large."
"There's no such thing as loyalty anymore," Charles complained.
"Not for the likes of you," Jordan said, and abruptly switched subjects. "I'm not about to marry." "Really?" "Really."
Jordan was unflappable, not giving a hint of the truth, but Charles knew what it was: Jordan was contemplating marriage to a rich girl—the definitive word being rich—and Charles was intrigued by the news.
A bit of cash always made a female more attractive, and as soon as he'd learned what Jordan was about, he'd resolved that he should see the child for himself. Jordan might be broke, but that didn't mean that he should have first chance at an heiress.
Age before beauty, Charles had decided, and he'd headed for Sussex.
"Are you—or are you not—here to investigate a marriage to Miss Penelope Gray?"
Jordan cursed. "How did you find out?"
"I was gambling at White's and was informed over a roll of the dice."
"You were gambling? Who is still stupid enough to take your markers?"
"I'm an earl. They wouldn't dare refuse me."
"They're fools."
"Yes, they are, but they owe me for my patronage, and if I hadn't been wagering, I'd never have delved to the bottom of your intentions. I have to tell you, Jordan, it's a hell of a way for a father to keep track of his son and heir. I shouldn't have to have strangers apprising me of your business."
"You're claiming I should notify you? Why? So that you can poke your nose in and muck it up?"
"My arrival here is purely benevolent."
Jordan scoffed. "You haven't a generous bone in your body. You were born a mercenary, and you'll be one till the day you die."
"That's as may be," Charles concurred, not seeing any reason to contradict the obvious, "but I've been married five times and—"
"Six."
"What?"
"You've been married six times." "Has it been that many?"
"Have the decency to honor your many children by remembering how many wives there were!"
Charles reflected for a moment, counting. "Yes, I suppose it has been six."
"And you drove each of them to an early grave."
"I can't help it if I choose women with weak constitutions."
"They're all hale and fit till they wed you. Then they drop like flies."
"As I was saying," Charles cut in, declining to quarrel, "I've had a good deal of experience with the marital condition, and I felt you could use my advice."
"Your . .. your advice?" Jordan appeared apoplectic.
"I can guide you, and hopefully, keep you from making some of the same mistakes I made."
"That is hilarious, Charles. Absolutely hilarious." He took another swig of brandy, then started out.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm off to warn the housekeeper to hide the silver."
Charles watched him depart, wondering why Jordan had to be so nasty. He and Jordan were always at odds, and he couldn't figure out where Jordan had obtained his moral leanings. Certainly not from Charles! It had to have come from his mother's side of the family.
He heard Jordan in the hall, talking with Charles's mistress, Anne, who was referred to as Mrs. Smythe but who had never been married.
"Are you positive I'm his son?" Jordan asked her. "Is there any possibility I might have been switched at birth?" '
Anne laughed. "You look too much like him to be anybody else."
Jordan walked on, and Anne entered the parlor. On seeing her, Charles smiled. She'd been with him for nearly twenty years. At age forty, she was still slender and shapely, but her brown hair was streaked with gray, her astute brown eyes creased with lines. Yet he didn't care about the changes.
She was the only constant in his chaotic life, the last true-blue person in the entire country. She'd stayed with him through thick and thin, through marriage and heartbreak, through feast and famine, and for her loyalty he would always keep and protect her.
"Jordan is angry that I came," he pouted as she sat on the sofa with him.
T told you he would be." "He's an ingrate."
"He's a grown man. He doesn't want you here." Charles huffed with indignation. "A son needs his father when there are vital decisions to be made." "He doubts you'll be helpful." "I shall prove him wrong." "I'm sure you shall."
"A fellow has to be cautious when he weds— especially when the bride has so much money. All that cash can blind a man to what's important."
"Yes, it can.".
"I must guarantee that he's considered all the angles before he proceeds." Charles nodded, having convinced himself he was doing the right thing. "He'll be thankful in the end."
Jordan would have benefit of Charles's shrewd counsel. And if—by chance—Penelope Gray determined that she didn't like Jordan, or if she should set her cap for someone else, someone who needed her fortune more than Jordan ever could, that was hardly Charles's fault.
Yes, everything would work out fine.
Lavinia stared in the mirror, swabbing rouge across her cheek. As she rose to go down and have a brandy with Lord Kettering, she tamped down her excitement and avarice
.
Kettering was handsome and virile, with Jordan's same blue eyes and dark hair, though Kettering's was peppered with silver. He had to be fabulously rich, too.
Though older than she would have preferred, he was incredibly attractive in every way, and she was enthralled.
Why should Penelope have all the luck? Why should Penelope be the one to marry into the aristocracy?
It had been Lavinia's dream, but Fate had tricked her. Now, with Kettering's arrival, Lavinia had an opportunity to rectify the past and secure the future.
After being married to Horatio for so long, after delaying Robert with various lies, she'd become an expert at coaxing and cajoling. Before the month was out, her own wedding plans would be progressing.
Penelope dawdled on the verandah, peeking through the window into the parlor. She could see Lord Kettering on the sofa with Mrs. Smythe.
When she was through, Charles Prescott wouldn't know what had hit him.
She sauntered to the stairs and started down.
Penelope snickered. If Anne Smythe were a Mrs., Penelope would eat her bonnet!
She didn't know Mrs. Smythe's true role, but she suspected her to be a fallen woman, parading around as a respectable lady; yet her position didn't matter. Mrs. Smythe was insignificant, and would have no part in how affairs played out.
Kettering was terribly old, but he was an earl! And he was a widower! He had to be fabulously rich, too. Not penniless like his son. Why should she settle for a mere viscount when the earl, himself, was present and available? With the title of countess as the ultimate prize, she would willingly pay any price to win it.
Surely, such an ancient, horrid man would be intrigued by the attentions of a fetching, young maiden. Surely, such a man could be flattered into doing all sorts of things he oughtn't.
The prospects for immediate gain were staggering. She smiled and strolled into the house.
Chapter Five
“What are you doing in my room?" "I missed you at supper." Jordan sipped on a brandy and studied Margaret Gray. He'd suffered through an interminable meal with his father and the Gray family, though not Margaret, and her absence had eaten away at him. Obviously, she was avoiding him, and he'd wondered where she'd gone, but hadn't dared inquire as to her whereabouts.
