Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

"You're a gently bred female. It isn't seemly for you to be working."

  "I don't consider it to be work."

  "What do you consider it to be?"

  "I'm merely being helpful to those in need."

  "You get paid! It's just not right."

  He uttered the comment as if she were prostituting herself, and she wanted to shake him. Who was he to chastise and condemn?

  He was in Sussex to marry Penelope for her money. At least Margaret had the satisfaction of laboring for the few pennies she was given. How would he describe what he was prepared to do? How could he live with himself?

  "Would it be better if I did it for free?"

  "It would be better if you didn't do it, at all."

  "I'll keep that in mind." She picked up her bonnet and tied the bow; then she started out. "Good-bye, Lord Romsey."

  "Where are you off to now?" he had the audacity to inquire.

  "I'm sick of your boorish attitudes and your stuffy opinions, and I have no desire to linger while you spew more of them. I'm returning to the house, where I promise to be idle for the rest of the day. Will that make you happy?"

  She tried to stomp past him, but he blocked her exit.

  "Move!" she demanded.

  "No."

  "I won't stay here with you. Not when you're being so critical." She was so proud of how much she'd built, with what little she'd had, and she hated his scorn.

  "What is the real reason?"

  "The real reason for what?"

  His scathing regard swept the decrepit area. "You can't convince me that you enjoy this."

  "Actually, I do, and you're an incredible snob." "Me?" '

  "Yes, you. I've been given so much. Why is it so difficult for you to accept that I'd like to give something back?"

  "You assume you've been given much?" He studied her tattered cloak, her frayed bonnet, and his disdain was cruel. "Pray tell, what—precisely—have you received?"

  "My uncle, Horatio, took me in when I was a girl. He offered me a home, clothes to wear, food to eat."

  "As any guardian should."

  "He provided for me, when he could have declined. And I love children. I won't ever have any of my own, so—"

  "Why would you say that?"

  "Not everyone is born rich—as you well know. I can't snap my fingers and produce a dowry."

  "Maybe someone will marry you anyway. Maybe some lucky fellow will decide he likes you no matter what, and money—or the lack of it—won't be an issue."

  "And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly."

  "Maybe."

  He stepped in, the tips of his boots slipping under the hem of her skirt, and he rested a hand on her waist. He looked angry and exasperated with her, and she couldn't imagine why he would be. Why would he care what she did?

  "Stop carping at me," she murmured.

  "I'm not."

  "I'm doing something worthwhile." "I understand that."

  "No, you don't." She glanced away, amazed when she added, "I can't bear my life. I have to occupy my time, or I'll go mad."

  There was a long, charged interval, where he assessed her in a thrilling fashion, then he muttered, "I want to kiss you again."

  Her heart pounded. "You do not."

  "Don't tell me what I want or don't."

  "You never even think about me."

  "Now that, my darling Margaret, is where you're wrong."

  He dipped under her bonnet, the rim in his way, and, growling in frustration, he tugged it off, and threw it on the floor. His mouth connected with hers, sweetly, tenderly. He held her as if she was precious and cherished, and the silence settled around them, so that there was just him, and her, and the quiet summer afternoon in the woods.

  He pulled away, and it dawned on her that she could never have enough of him, not if he stayed a hundred years, and the realization made her terribly sad.

  Deep in thought, he traced a thumb across her lip and asked, "Would you be my mistress?"

  Had she heard him correctly? "What?"

  "You know what I said. I won't embarrass the both of us by repeating it."

  She gaped at him, stunned and impossibly hurt.

  "When would this occur? Would it be before or after you have my cousin's fortune in your bank account?"

  It was his turn to glance away. "Well.. . after."

  "So you'd marry her, then your first act would be to set me up as your paramour. Would I have a fine house in town?"

  "If that's what you wanted."

  "And a beautiful wardrobe?"

  "That goes without saying."

  "My own carriage, and a box at the theater?"

  "Of course."

  "As you crept between my bed and Penelope's, we'd have to devise a schedule so she didn't suspect where you were on the evenings you were away. Don't you find the notion a tad disconcerting?"

  "Margaret..."

  "Obviously, she'd have your children. Your legitimate children. Would I have some, too? Would I be graced with a gaggle of little Prescott bastards?"

  A muscle ticked in his cheek. "You make it sound so tawdry."

  "That's because it would be." She scooped up her hat and pushed by him. "Don't raise the subject again. It insults me when you do."

  She walked into the bright sunshine, and she blinked against the glare. To her surprise, there were tears in her eyes, but she'd die before she'd let him see them. She started toward the manor, her heart heavy, her musings morose.

  Was this all there was for her? A brief fling with a handsome man whom she didn't even particularly like? Would there never be more?

  He was advancing on her from behind, and she increased her pace, but he easily caught her. He slipped his arm into hers so that it appeared as if they were taking a stroll.

  He shrugged. "I'm sorry. I had to learn your response." "I can't believe your gall."

  "Why shouldn't I have suggested it? Such an arrangement is common, and we'd both benefit."

  "I'm not positive how females behave in the city, but I'm not some London doxy. I'm just a very private gentlewoman, from a small, rural estate, who's getting by as best she can. I have no idea why your roving eye has fallen on me, and I take no pleasure in our acquaintance."

  "Don't you?"

  At his pointing out the carnal implication of her statement she blushed. "You know very well what I'm saying."

  "Yes, I do." He sighed as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Would you at least agree to be my lover while I'm here?"

  She chuckled. "You grow more outrageous by the second."

  "Does that mean your answer is no?"

  "My answer is no." She was very firm, but as she peeked up into his magnetic blue eyes, her resolve wavered.

  She'd never meet another like him, and her life was all drudgery and monotony. What if she dared to reach out and grab for some excitement? What if she dared to take what she wanted? Had she the courage?

  "It would be so wrong," she insisted.

  "Probably, but let's do it anyway."

  "You're a man, so I suppose it's only natural you'd think that way."

  "At night, when you're all alone, don't you ever wish I'd join you?"

  "I admit it: I do, but that's in the night, in the dark. When I awake to the full light of day, I'm glad you stayed away."

  Looking young and hesitant, he stared down the path and kicked at a rock. "It's hard not to come to you. I contemplate it all the time. After the other morning, when we—"

  She placed her fingers on his lips, stopping whatever he might have confessed. She was thrilled by the news that he was pining for her, but she'd already discovered that, where he was concerned, she had no self-control.

  If he declared a heightened affection, she'd never be able to maintain her moral stance. She'd leap to iniquity, and when he wed and left her, where would she be?

  "We're adults, Lord Romsey. We might have sinful impulses, but we don't have to act on them."

  "When you're in the thr
oes of passion, you call me Jordan."

  "And you are a beast to remind me of it."

  "If I sneak in some evening, will you send me away?"

  "Yes, I will."

  It was a bald-faced lie, but she hoped he didn't recognize it as one. When she was so desperate to be with him, the prospect of her exercising any willpower and fending him off was laughable. If he was determined to enter, she'd be happy to let him.

  Oh, she was so weak! So lacking in principle! She'd always pictured herself as a strong woman, a decent woman, but a few stolen kisses had altered her completely.

  "How is Penelope?" she inquired. She was anxious to switch the topic and interject some sanity so he remembered why he was at Gray's Manor. "Any progress on the marital front?"

  "I'm fairly sure that she hates me"—he grinned— "but I'm wearing her down."

  Margaret chuckled and they walked on, ambling arm-and-arm, as if they were close friends. She allowed him to escort her all the way to the house and in the rear door, and she reveled in his elegant manners and gallant charm. When they parted, she was proud of how well she managed to hide her sorrow that he could never be anything more to her than he was at that very moment.

  Lavinia gazed out the window, watching as Margaret and Lord Romsey promenaded through the garden. They were a handsome couple, and it was enjoyable to observe them as they passed under her perch, unaware of her elevated scrutiny.

  They were entirely too cordial, as if they knew each other well, as if they'd established a relationship of which Lavinia was totally ignorant.

  When would Margaret have had the chance to become so familiar with him? And she was extremely familiar. Lavinia had no doubt. She studied how Margaret leaned toward him, how she smiled whenever he spoke, and Lavinia rippled with unease.

  What was Margaret's game? Was she making a play for Romsey? Was she planning to snatch him right from under Penelope's nose?

  The little tart! If that was her ploy, Lavinia would kill her.

  She went to the mirror and dabbed powder on the scratches Penelope had inflicted during their physical altercation. When she witnessed them, her rage bubbled up, but she refused to be distracted.

  She and Margaret had to have a chat, and she proceeded to the other wing of the mansion, to Margaret's bedchamber, certain that was where Margaret was headed. She was climbing the stairs as she heard Margaret and Romsey approaching from the other direction.

  She halted and peeked around the corner, blatantly spying, listening to them joke and carry on like bosom companions. Romsey deposited Margaret at her door, then continued on to the adjacent room as if it was his own.

  Lavinia scowled, waiting. Shortly, Romsey exited, having changed his coat, and he left the way he'd come.

  As his strides faded, she stomped over and peered inside, and she was stunned to see his clothes. He .. . he ... was in the room next to Margaret's!

  Lavinia quivered with fury. When she'd told the housekeeper to lodge him by Miss Gray, she shouldn't have had to specify to which Miss Gray she was referring. How could the competent servant have made such a ghastly error?

  She marched to Margaret's door, knocked once, then entered without being invited. Margaret was seated at a small writing desk by the window.

  "Hello, Lavinia," she welcomed, but she couldn't conceal her annoyance at Lavinia's unannounced appearance.

  Lavinia scanned the space, searching for anything out of the ordinary, for any sign of trouble, but everything seemed satisfactory. "How long has Lord Romsey been in the bedchamber next to yours?"

  "Since the day he arrived."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Margaret's expression was all innocence. "I thought you meant to put him there. Why would I comment?"

  Lavinia went into the dressing room that was conveniently and dangerously situated between the two bedchambers, but it revealed no mischief, either.

  When she stormed back, Margaret had risen from her chair and was assessing Lavinia as if she'd gone mad.

  "I saw the two of you sauntering in the yard," Lavinia accused.

  "Yes, we were."

  "Why were you together?"

  "I'd visited my school, and I ran into him in the woods as I was returning. He escorted me home." "That's all?"

  "Yes, that's all." Margaret frowned. "Honestly, Lavinia, what's come over you?"

  Lavinia advanced on her, and though she wasn't much bigger than Margaret, her wrath made her seem much larger. Margaret had always been too confident, too sure of herself. She paraded around like a bloody queen, acting as if she were lady of the manor, instead of a penniless orphan who was tolerated because of Lavinia's benevolence.

  "Swear to me that there's nothing between you."

  "Between whom?"

  "Don't play dumb with me, Margaret. It doesn't become you."

  "Between me and Lord Romsey?" She was aghast at the suggestion. "Yes." "I swear."

  "He's going to marry Penelope."

  "I know that. Everybody knows it."

  "No matter what you hope, no matter how hard you pray, he'll never pick you. If you assume so, you're a fool."

  "I can't imagine why you're saying these things to me. You're speaking as if I... I... have designs on him."

  "Let me be very clear: His debts are so vast, his responsibilities so enormous. He has to choose Penelope— or another girl just like her."

  "I realize that."

  Lavinia scrutinized her, then nodded. "Good. Don't forget it, for if you betray me, if you try to snag him for your own, I'll kill you. Do we understand one another?"

  "Kill me! You're being entirely too melodramatic, and I have no idea why you're behaving this way. I don't even like him. Penelope can have him—with my blessing."

  "He needs to spend more time with her, so that he can get to know her better. I don't want to see you with him again."

  "You won't."

  "I'm sending the maids to move his belongings over to the other part of the house, so he can be nearer to his intended."

  "Fine."

  "Fine."

  Lavinia stepped into the hall, her mind racing, her misgivings not assuaged.

  Margaret hadn't seemed distressed by the news that Jordan would be relocated, but still, one could never be too careful, so she would have to watch Margaret like a hawk. There were too many plans in the works, too many irons in the fire, and Margaret could not be allowed to interfere with any of them.

  Chapter Ten

  Jordan heard the door open, and he jerked awake and peered through the dark. Someone was sneaking in, but who? And why?

  He prayed it wasn't Charles in need of assistance, Penelope hoping to be ruined, or Lavinia wanting to tryst, but he couldn't imagine who else would dare. Not any of the housemaids, certainly. He had no desire to become involved with Lavinia's servants, so he'd maintained a polite distance.

  Through hooded lids, he focused in, concluding the intruder was female, and as she neared, he braced. She reached out to touch him, and before she could, he clasped her wrist and pulled her onto the mattress, rolling them so he had her pinned down.

  She gasped, and he froze.

  "Margaret?"

  Terrified and mute, her heart pounding, she gazed at him, her eyes glimmering in the pale moonlight. He pictured her creeping through the deserted halls, destined for his room and determined not to be discovered.

  What had happened that she would have risked so much?

  Surely, she knew what sort of response her conduct would garner from him. He wasn't a saint, so if she was willing to crawl into his bed, he was willing to let her, but where would that leave them?

  His goal of wedding an heiress was his paramount consideration. Margaret could be compromised beyond redemption, with the whole household looking on, could wind up pregnant and abandoned, but Jordan could not behave honorably and marry her.

  He was about to enter a bog, where a wrong step would suck him to the bottom. The only logical course was to refuse what s
he was offering, but his cock was full and heavy between his legs, and his entire being— down to the smallest vein and pore—was ecstatic over her appearance.

  "Margaret," he said again, "what are you doing here? What are you thinking?"

  "You know what I'm thinking."

  "But... but... why?"

  "After Lavinia had your belongings moved, it was so quiet without you, and I couldn't bear it."

  She stunned him by initiating a torrid kiss. He perceived passion and lust, but desperation and despair, too, and her level of anguish gave him pause.

  Should he do this? Could he do this?

  He broke off and drew away, and she took his hand and laid it on her breast, the erect nipple branding him with the shock of the erotic moment.

  "What is it you want from me?" he inquired.

  "You once asked me if I was ever lonely, and I am—most of the time. I want to stay with you. I want you to fill a few of my hours, so that I'm not quite so alone."

  He eased away from her, glad he'd had the foresight to don a pair of drawers before he'd slipped under the blankets. Usually, he slept in the nude, and if he'd been naked, there was no telling what he might have done to her.

  He fussed with lighting a candle, using the chore as an excuse to delay. As the flame sputtered and grew, he'd assumed it would provide increased illumination— of both his room and the best path to take—but only the bed was clearer.

  As to his choices, and what they should be, he hadn't a clue.

  "If I agree to this," he ultimately said, "I won't let you leave. It's all or nothing with me. In a few minutes, if you change your mind and wish you hadn't come, I won't permit you to skitter out like a frightened rabbit."

  "I won't want you to stop." She looked as bleak as he felt.

  "I'll insist on having you more than once. I'll insist on being with you every night—for as long as I remain at Gray's Manor."

  "I understand."

  "You couldn't possibly."

  "I ask one thing in return."

  "What is that?"

  "You must try not to hurt me."

  Rankled, he frowned. "Despite what you may have heard, I'm not the type to brutalize a woman."

  "I don't mean physically. You have to swear that you won't break my heart when you go." As if it was already aching, she rubbed the center of her chest.