Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  She'd have to depart with only a satchel of clothes and not a penny in her pocket. The notion was terrifying and had kindled the strange temper that she couldn't shake.

  Charles was preening in the mirror, dressed for bed, and planning that she join him for their regular nocturnal romp.

  "What do you think?" He glanced over at her. "Am I a handsome dog or what?" "Very handsome, Charles." "The ladies still titter over me." "Yes, they do."

  "I'd love to have all Miss Gray's money in my bank account. It would certainly solve many of our troubles." "It certainly would."

  At a prior period in her life, when she'd been younger and more naive, she might not have grasped the subtle message he was sending, might not have guessed how his mind was leaping forward to justify the conduct that he would perpetrate shortly. But she was no longer a girl, and he was no longer a mystery.

  She stared him down, refusing—for once—to pretend she didn't understand the ramifications of his scheme.

  "You're old enough to be her grandfather," she said very quietly.

  For a brief moment, he let her see the resolve behind the facade; then he masked it and chuckled as if his remark had been a joke.

  "Of course, I am. She'd never notice an elderly fellow such as myself. Not when there's a dashing buck like Jordan sniffing about."

  "Don't do it, Charles," she warned. "I'm begging you not to—for both Jordan's sake and my own."

  "Anne!" He scoffed as if she were mad. "Are you presuming I'm interested in Miss Gray? You and I will marry—as soon as I hear from my attorneys about that last lien that was filed. We can't wed till I have a home to take you to. It wouldn't be fair."

  "Swear it!" she tersely urged. "Swear to me that you mean it!"

  "How could you doubt me?"

  His expression was so sincere. If he hadn't been born an aristocrat, he could have had a brilliant career on the stage. He was so credible, and he was absolutely lying.

  She swigged her brandy and walked to the door.

  He scowled. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm tired this evening."

  "But you know I wish to fornicate."

  "I have a headache."

  It was a blatant fib, one he couldn't help but decipher. Yet he shrugged off the snub as if he couldn't care less, which was a further indicator of how set he was on Miss Gray. When he was prepared to copulate, he never let Anne decline, and she never did. If he allowed her to leave, he was already so immersed in his plot to ensnare Penelope that there could be no other outcome.

  "Good night," she murmured.

  She hurried out and shut the door with a determined click.

  Hello, Mr. Mason." "Hello, Mrs. Smythe." Robert pulled to a halt, stunned to have stumbled on her in a downstairs parlor at such a late hour.

  He'd been huddled in Lavinia's library, poring over her financial records, still trying to make sense of them but having no luck. He couldn't figure out the numbers, and in light of her inheritance from Horatio, she seemed to have had too much income at her disposal over the years, which increased his confusion over her predicament and how best to rectify it.

  His head was throbbing with questions, and he definitely welcomed the diversion Mrs. Smythe presented. She was over in the shadows by the window and sipping on a brandy. The house was silent, and he'd thought everyone was sleeping, so he couldn't imagine why she was roaming the halls. Perhaps she was an insomniac as he was himself.

  She was clad in her nightclothes, her magnificent brown hair brushed out and flowing down her back, and she was wearing a very sheer negligee and robe, evidence that she'd tried to slumber but couldn't. To his amazement, on seeing him she wasn't embarrassed over her dishabille, and she did nothing to conceal her shapely form or hide what he shouldn't be permitted to view.

  His manly instincts were stirred. He hadn't forgotten the hot look she'd flashed the first time they'd met, and he'd been dying to learn what she'd implied by it. Maybe he was about to find out!

  She approached, a saucy smile on her ruby lips, the indomitable glide of her curvaceous hips bringing her so close that her fabulous breasts were nearly touching his shirt.

  "We're all alone," she stated.

  "Yes, we are."

  "Did you know I'm not really Mrs. Smythe?" "No, I didn't."

  "I've never been married." Her speech was slurred, a sign that she was intoxicated. "I just say that I was. For Charles's sake. Actually, I'm his ... mistress."

  She uttered the word mistress as if she was eager to astound and offend, and he frowned, anxious as to where the encounter was leading. It seemed as if she was about to proposition him, which was such an outrageous prospect that he couldn't credit it.

  If he had any kind of manners, he'd escort her to the stairs, point her toward her bedchamber, then depart, but apparently, his chivalrous tendencies had fled.

  "Are you married, Mr. Mason?"

  "I'm a widower. I have two sons."

  "I don't have any children. Charles insisted I not."

  "I'm sorry for you," he replied, meaning it.

  "Don't be. I could have chosen another path."

  "Could you have?"

  "Oh, yes, but I assumed that Charles was the man for me."

  "But he wasn't?"

  She stepped in, her body pressed to his, her breasts, stomach, and mound of Venus setting off wildfires of sensation in various charged spots.

  "You're very handsome, Robert."

  He gulped. "Am I?"

  "I realize that you're just a country gentleman, but have you ever fantasized over what it would be like to fuck a genuine London harlot?"

  The crude remark was beyond him, and he couldn't respond as she reached out and traced a finger across the bulge in his trousers. With the gesture, there was no mistaking her intent. She wanted him.

  Why would she? Did it matter why?

  "Mrs. Smythe—" He couldn't finish the sentence. He was a moral fellow, but she was throwing herself at him. Was it wrong to catch her?

  "Since I'm about to screw you blind," she boldly pronounced, "you should probably call me Anne."

  "Anne, I think you've had a little too much to drink."

  "You're right, I have, and it's given me the most keen insight."

  "In what way?"

  "I'm curious as to what it would be like to have sex with you."

  "That's the alcohol talking." "Perhaps."

  "You'll regret it in the morning."

  "No, I won't. I'm positive I'll be delighted."

  She gripped the waistband of his pants and started to open them. Like a frozen ninny, he watched her. The interlude had an unreal quality to it, as if he were in the middle of an erotic dream. At any second, he was certain he'd awaken, but he didn't.

  The buttons on the placard were easily freed, and she slithered her naughty hand inside to circle his enthused cock. The pleasure was so severe that he was in danger of swooning like a girl.

  She cupped him, gauging weight and girth. "You're very fine, Robert. Very fine."

  At the compliment, his balls swelled, and his phallus extended even farther—if that was possible. He was close to pushing her onto the sofa and having at it, and he felt as if he were back in his dormitory at school, listening as the older boys regaled each other with their preposterous, virginal stories. They'd all pretended that the indecent, anonymous trysts had truly occurred, but Robert had always secretly regarded them to be boasting.

  Now, he wasn't so sure. This sort of raucous incident might be extremely common. How could he be thirty-six and not have known?

  He was dawdling like a statue, was stammering and gaping, but if she was bent on seduction, he was eager to have it happen.

  "Get down on your knees," he commanded to see if she would obey. 'Take me in your mouth."

  Without hesitation or complaint, she dropped down, and he almost fell over in shock. Did women really act this way? She'd mentioned she was from London. If this conduct was typical, he might have to relocate to
the city!

  She drew his rod from his trousers, and she licked the crown, lapping at it until he was oozing with sexual juice, and he was quickly spurred to the point where he was about to embarrass himself. It was the most unbelievable, carnal episode of his life. How could he be expected to muster any restraint?

  He wound his fingers into her hair, noticing how soft it was, how beautiful she looked, and he began to thrust, but he'd been goaded to insanity, and he jerked away before he spilled himself like a callow boy.

  "What do you want from me?" he demanded.

  She gazed up at him, her brown eyes poignant and weary. "Is it that difficult to understand?"

  "Yes."

  "If you're confused, I'm happy to explain it."

  "You're naught but a whore."

  He had no idea why he'd said such a terrible thing to her, but she shrugged off the uncouth taunt.

  "Yes, I am, though it's recently dawned on me that— over the years—I haven't been paid nearly enough."

  She rose slowly, gracefully, and she glared at him; then she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. He wasn't immune to the embrace, and he clutched at her with an equal fervor.

  There was a sofa behind her, and he shoved her down and knelt on the rug. With no finesse, he tugged at the hem of her negligee, yanked at her thighs, and impaled himself between them.

  He flexed once, twice, and he came in a hot rush, crushing himself to her, shooting his seed deeper and deeper. The moment was so decadent, his deplorable betrayal of Lavinia so satisfying, that he was more aroused than he'd ever been. The climax went on and on, and he reveled in it, barely able to keep from braying like the beast he was.

  Finally, it ebbed, and he ground to a halt. He scowled at her, conjecturing as to what she thought. Not that he cared. She was a trollop who, for reasons he couldn't fathom, had let him take her on the couch in the front parlor. Yet, a man had his pride.

  He knew how to make love to a woman, but her salacious advance had caught him off guard, so he hadn't done it very well. Rattled by his actions—and hers—he eased away, not sure of what to say.

  She straightened her nightgown and smirked. T guess I didn't have to explain it, after all. You figured it out on your own."

  Without another word being exchanged, she stood and left. He hovered in the quiet, his cock hanging out, sweat cooling on his brow, as he pondered what he'd just set in motion.

  He had to fornicate with her again. There was no other choice.

  Pull." "I'm pulling! I'm pulling!" "Well, pull harder!" Penelope gave a particularly vicious wrench on the corset laces, and Lavinia let out a whoosh of air. She was determined to have her waist cinched to the size of a twig.

  "How's that?" Penelope asked. "It will have to do."

  Lavinia assessed her profile in the mirror, wondering if she shouldn't ring for a maid's assistance, but she was in a hurry to finish dressing and get downstairs.

  There were entirely too many females in the house, and Lavinia was resolved to be the only one who held Charles's attention.

  After what she privately thought of as the fellatio disaster, he hadn't deigned to dally with her again. She was still humiliated and so desperate to rectify the situation that she'd considered practicing on Robert, seeking his advice as to what he liked and didn't, but she wouldn't grovel to learn what she needed to know.

  If it killed her, she would tempt Charles back to her boudoir.

  She selected her most stylish gown from the wardrobe, and she had Penelope help her put it on.

  "Honestly, Lavinia," Penelope chided, "what's the occasion?"

  "I'm hosting an earl. Can't I look the part?" "It won't do you any good." "What do you mean?"

  "You're obviously hoping to entice him, but it won't work."

  "Why shouldn't I try for him? He's a rich, charming aristocrat. And he's a widower. I was married to an aged man once, so I know what it takes to keep them happy."

  Penelope snorted. "Are you claiming that Father was ... was . . . happy with you? My Lord, but that's hilarious."

  "Horatio was very, very happy with me. I was his whole life!" "Right!"

  Lavinia seized Penelope's wrist and pinched with sufficient force to make her wince.

  "Shut your rude mouth before I shut it for you."

  They glared, eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe, and Lavinia insisted, "Lord Kettering could do much worse than me."

  "You're so old, Mother. You can't seriously assume that he finds you attractive."

  "I'm not old. I'm only thirty-four."

  "You're positively ancient. If he wanted an elderly—"

  "Elderly! How dare you!"

  "As I was saying, if he wanted an elderly wife, he'd have settled on Mrs. Smythe years ago." She primped her perfect blond curls, adoring her reflection in the mirror. "When he weds, he always picks a debutante."

  "Where did you hear such an idiotic rumor?"

  "The housekeeper was telling one of the maids. I guess he's been married several times, and the brides get younger with every wedding."

  Penelope had a sly grin on her face, and Lavinia froze.

  The treacherous, duplicitous monster! She thought to make a play for Charles herself!

  Lavinia clasped Penelope's arm and whirled her -around.

  "You will marry Lord Romsey as I've arranged." "Maybe. Maybe not."

  "I brought him here specifically for you. You will do as you're told."

  "And what if I don't? What if I'd rather have the Earl? Why should you get him? If you think Romsey is so grand, you can keep him for yourself."

  "You spoiled child! I've done everything for you. Everything! Yet you would repay me with perfidy?"

  "Why would it be perfidy? I say—when there's a title to be had—it's every woman for herself."

  "You ... you ..."

  Lavinia slapped Penelope as hard as she could. Penelope shrieked, and in an instant, they were wrestling on the floor in an all-out brawl.

  "I'll murder you before I let you have him," Lavinia threatened.

  "Well, it won't be up to you, will it? The choice will be Charles's to make. We'll see which of us he likes best."

  Lavinia howled with rage, and she bucked and rolled till she was on top and pinning Penelope down. Her fingernails were bared like a cat's claws, ready to scratch Penelope's eyes out when, without warning, a pair of male hands grabbed her and yanked her to her feet.

  She whipped around, about to lash out at the interloper, but when she found herself confronting Robert, she blanched.

  She couldn't have him discover the reason for the fight! Robert was convinced she was about to marry him. And she might have—if Charles Kettering hadn't ridden up the drive and presented such a marvelous opportunity.

  Hastily, she smoothed her features, patted at her hair, and tugged at her twisted corset.

  "Lavinia! Penelope!" he scolded. "What's come over the two of you? They could probably hear your caterwauling all the way in the village. You have guests!"

  He helped Penelope rise, and as she stood, she flashed Lavinia a look of seething hatred; then she turned to Robert, all innocent smiles and cordiality.

  "Mother and I were just having a small disagreement."

  "About what?"

  "Ask Lavinia. She'll tell you all about it." She snickered and strutted out, stopping at the last second. "Robert, are you still planning to marry Lavinia?"

  "You know I am."

  "What fabulous news! I'm certain she can't wait."

  She laughed and waltzed out, leaving Lavinia to explain the cryptic comment, and Lavinia decided she understood why some animals ate their young.

  Chapter Nine

  Margaret heard a floorboard creak, and she spun around, stunned to note that Jordan had followed her to her dilapidated schoolroom. Despite Lavinia's protests, Margaret had used an abandoned crofter's hut at the edge of the property. The children who came for lessons, as well as their parents, were accustomed to the squalor, but Jordan Prescott was a d
ifferent kettle of fish altogether. If he teased or berated her, she'd be very hurt.

  Though it was foolish, she wanted his approval and esteem. The dislike she'd harbored for him had vanished, and it was gradually being replaced by emotions that were much more complicated. She was fascinated by him—both as a person and as a man—and her budding intrigue was dangerous.

  After their previous tryst in her bedchamber, she hadn't seen him again. He'd been markedly absent, seeming to know when she'd take supper, or arrive for afternoon tea, and he was never present.

  At night, she huddled in misery, wishing he'd relent and visit her, but ultimately being glad when he didn't.

  He was trying to behave, which was for the best, but still, she couldn't comprehend how he ignored the passion that sizzled between them. Even now, with him loitering over in the doorway, she could feel the energy sparking, her body humming with the delight she experienced whenever he was near.

  "Hello, Lord Romsey."

  "Call me Jordan, or call me nothing." He pushed away from his perch in the threshold and came toward her. "I thought your students were busy with summer chores. What are you doing here?"

  He approached, skirting the worn slab of wood that passed for her desk, until he was directly in front of her.

  "Why must I explain myself to you? I wouldn't think my whereabouts, or how I spend my time, to be any of your affair."

  "Can't a man be curious?"

  "Why are you following me?" she countered.

  "I saw you walking, and I was dying to know where you were headed."

  "So you deemed it appropriate to spy?"

  "Yes," he said without a hint of remorse.

  She braced, certain he would touch her, but he didn't. He kept his hands pinned behind his back, and she was so disappointed. She gestured around the dark, dank space. "Are you content with what you've discovered?"

  He whipped away, as if he didn't like being so close to her. He fussed with one of the children's slates, thumbed through a ragged storybook.

  His censure clear, he frowned. "Why do you do this?"

  "Do what?"

  "Teach the neighborhood urchins." "Why shouldn't I?"