by Cheryl Holt
He dawdled as long as he could, but he was in a frantic state. He began with deliberate penetrations, but rapidly, he increased the pace until he was rutting into her like a madman. With no consideration for her untried condition, he simply took and took some more, and much before he was ready, a huge orgasm commenced.
He spilled himself in her womb, his seed spewing precisely where he'd had no intention of it going. He'd meant to retreat, to do the appropriate and sane thing, but the brute within had guided his actions.
Was he deranged? Was he eager to leave her pregnant? What if he had? What if she was?
He pushed away the troubling rumination, focusing on the joyous interlude and naught else. In the morning, he'd be sorry. But not now. Not when he was still trembling with ecstasy.
His erection waned, and he pulled out and slid to the side, snuggling himself to her as she studied him curiously.
"Are you all right?" he eventually asked.
"You can't tell me I'm still a virgin."
He chuckled. "No, you're not."
She reflected, then nodded. "I'm glad it was you."
"So am I." He rubbed her stomach. "You'll be sore for a day or two, but it will fade."
"I'm fine now." She stretched and smiled. "Can we do it again?"
"Again?"
"Can't you ... ah ..."
T can do it again," he hastily declared, "but you should rest." "I'm not tired."
"Minx." He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close. "Give me a minute."
She cuddled with him, her soft hands stroking and soothing.
"Am I pregnant?" she inquired.
Obviously, a woman could become pregnant from her first sexual encounter, but he wasn't about to frighten her by admitting it. The prospect would cause needless worry and would most likely turn out to be nothing.
"No, you're not."
"How can you be certain?"
"You're just not."
She didn't believe him, but she didn't argue, and he was relieved. If she'd questioned him as to why he'd risked so much, he couldn't have explained in a thousand years.
He pictured her belly swollen with his child, her skin healthy, her eyes aglow with pending motherhood. The sweet image rattled him, and he yearned and regretted as he'd sworn he wouldn't.
"I wish things were different for me," he said. "I wish I could make a different choice."
"Hush!" she scolded. "Don't say that to me. Not when we're here like this."
"Why not? It's true."
"But you have me hoping we could change the ending, when we both know it's not possible."
"If I... if I could have altered my path, would you have had me? If I could have married you rather than—"
She pressed a finger to his lips, cutting him off. "Don't ask me."
"But I need to hear your answer."
She glanced away, staring at a spot over his shoulder. "No, I would never have married you. We wouldn't have suited."
For a long while, they were frozen, as he pondered whether she was sincere, thinking that she couldn't have been, but he was surprised by how the rebuff wounded.
He mumbled, "I'm sure you're correct."
"Of course, I am." A strained quiet ensued; then she added, "Don't be sad, Jordan."
"I'm not."
"Let's be happy for what is, for this precious period that we've managed to steal for ourselves."
He hated that she could be so blasé, that she could exhibit such aplomb, but if she could act nonchalant, he could, too.
"I want you again," he told her, and he flexed against her leg, letting her feel the sudden state of his arousal, and she laughed.
"I guess you can do it again."
"I can do it all night if you can keep up with me."
"Oh, I can, my dear Jordan. I definitely can."
He rolled her onto her back and started in again. Dawn would bring plenty of opportunity for lamentation, but for now, there was only delight to be had, and he would take all she could give—and more than that. Much more than that.
Chapter Fourteen
Margaret huddled in the window seat of her room, her robe cinched tightly, a knitted throw draped across her shoulders to ward off the chill. She gazed at Jordan as he slept in her bed. He was exhausted from their night of passion, resting on his stomach, the covers pushed down to his bare bottom.
Before meeting him, she hadn't known that a man's body was so beautiful, hadn't realized that the sight of him, nude and reposed, could be so thrilling. Oh, how she wished she could keep him there forever. How she wished the glorious interlude would never end.
Outside, dawn was breaking, the morning commencing much too quickly. He'd have to leave soon, and should have left long ago, but she hadn't had the fortitude to insist. With each passing minute, they were courting disaster, but she didn't care.
She could be branded a harlot, assaulted by Lavinia, kicked out onto the road, tarred and feathered in the village square, and it would all have been worth every joyous second.
She hadn't understood how it could be between a man and a woman, hadn't grasped how effortlessly a woman could plunge to the spot where she'd tumbled. Her heart ached with the knowledge of how much he meant to her. How would she let him go? How could she watch in misery as he married Penelope?
He kept saying he had to have an heiress, but what if he chose another path? What if he wed for happiness?
They were smart people; they could figure out how to be together. She just knew they could!
Over on the bed, his eyes fluttered open. He held out his hand, and she walked over and took it, easing a hip onto the mattress.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"Very late. After five already. The sun's nearly up."
He yawned. "I should be going."
"Yes, you should," she agreed, but she was relieved when he didn't move.
"Are you all right?" he inquired.
"Just sad," she replied.
"Sad? Why?"
She wouldn't feign indifference. Finally, she'd found something that mattered, something she wanted more than anything. If she didn't make an attempt to keep him, she'd always regret her silence. He might refuse her, but at least she'd learn where she stood, and she wouldn't be left wondering.
"I fibbed to you last night," she said.
"About what?"
"I told you that we wouldn't suit, but I was lying. We'd get on fine." "Yes, we would."
At the small concession, her pulse raced. "I don't want you to marry Penelope." T don't want to, either." "Marry me instead."
There! She'd blurted it out! Yet to her dismay, he didn't seize on the opening she'd supplied.
He didn't smile; he didn't speak. He merely stared, appearing dumbfounded.
"Oh, Margaret..." he breathed.
"We could be so happy!"
"Perhaps," he equivocated.
"We're friends, and you seem to have a genuine fondness for me. We could build on that."
"But you don't have a dowry," he gently reminded her.
'To hell with a dowry!" she blithely declared. "Don't you crave more for yourself than the ... the ... chattels a pile of cash can purchase?"
"You know that I don't seek it for myself. There are so many people counting on me. They should be able to count on my father, but you've met him. His life is in shambles, and he's not concerned about how it's affected anyone but himself."
"So you have to save everybody for him?" Though she didn't mean to be curt, she'd hurled it as an accusation.
"Yes. It's his tenants and employees who've worked for our family for generations."
"I don't care about any of them!" she selfishly claimed.
"It's my siblings, too. There are no funds to buy them clothes, or feed them, or send them to school. Someone has to help them, and it won't be the Earl of Kettering."
"So? What is it to me?"
"The other day, I received a letter from two of his young sons. They're about to be tossed ou
t of their home, and they have nowhere to go. Should I shrug my shoulders and permit it to occur? Should I ignore their plight?"
Growing desperate, she shamed herself by confessing, "I love you." "You don't." "I do."
"Margaret, sex is an extremely emotional experience, and afterward, some women become overwrought. It happens frequently."
"Are you saying I'm suffering from some sort of carnal hysteria?"
"Well... yes."
"My feelings have naught to do with the sex we had!"
"They do, too!" he insisted. "It can't be anything else. I won't let it be anything else."
"Are you afraid to hear that I love you?"
"No, but what good does it do?"
"I want you to know how important you are to me."
She felt as if she was begging for crumbs of his affection, and she braced, waiting for a reply that would indicate a similar sentiment. To her undying mortification, he was stonily silent, assessing her as if she'd gone mad.
"Have you any feelings for me in return?" she pressed. "Yes."
"Then, please apprise me of your opinion, because it's suddenly dawned on me that I haven't a clue as to what it might be."
He was quiet, weighing his responses, but why would he need to? She'd been very candid. Why couldn't he be the same? Why was it so hard to tell the truth—unless there was nothing to tell?
"Don't do this, Margaret," he ultimately pleaded.
"Don't do what?"
"This entire evening was so grand, and we'll never have another like it. Don't ruin the moment by demanding more than I can give you."
"You could find a way to be with me—if you really wanted me."
"Spoken like a true romantic, but it won't pay the bills. And I have so many."
Slumping with defeat, she eased away from him. She considered stomping off, but she couldn't make herself go. She doubted they would be able to sneak away for another rendezvous, and during these last, painful minutes, she couldn't bear to be separate.
She stared out at the brightening sky and had never felt so alone, had never been so lonely.
"What if I'm pregnant?"
"You're not."
"What if you're wrong? What if I am?" "I don't know."
She supposed it was as much of an answer as he could convey, and the fact that it was so disappointing and so unsatisfactory only underscored how foolish she'd been to assume she could sway him or alter his course.
He stroked her back, and she let him, needing his warmth, his touch.
"Why don't you go?" she suggested.
"I can't—not when you're so angry."
"I'm not angry."
"I can't change who I am."
"I understand."
"If there was any other way ..."
She leapt at his words, pitifully brimming with anticipation over what he'd implied. "Now that I've humiliated myself, can you at least throw me a bone? Humor me and confess that you'd have had me if circumstances had been different."
"You know I would have."
"I don't know that, at all."
He drew her into his arms, and she didn't put up a fight. There was such an air of finality that she could almost taste it. Time was growing short, his window of opportunity closing. He had to reach a decision about Penelope, had to marry her or depart. He couldn't continue to linger, day after day, with no proposal tendered and no wedding planned.
"Let me ponder this," he mused.
"All right."
"There has to be a viable solution for us. Maybe I can think of something." "Maybe."
She shut her eyes and offered up a prayer, not asking for much but a small miracle.
The cock crowed out by the barn, heralding the morn, and he pulled her onto the bed and rolled them, so that she was beneath him.
"I want to have you again before I go," he said.
"I'd like that."
She'd hoped that he'd dawdle and seduce, but it was so late, and she could sense his urgency, though he did his best to hide it. With no wooing or preparation, he slipped off her robe and entered her, and she couldn't keep from wincing. Several hours earlier, she'd been a virgin, so she was sore and raw.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Don't be."
He smiled, though it was tremulous and strained. "I can't ever get enough of you." "I'm glad."
Very rapidly, it was over. A few thrusts, a few kisses, and he was finished.
The cock crowed again, and he peered outside, gauging the increasing light. Mentally, he'd already left her, his thoughts a thousand miles away.
"I have to go."
"And be quick about it." She hugged him tight and whispered, "I love you."
She'd been certain that, here at the end, he'd echo the sentiment. But he didn't. He frowned and moved away. Hurriedly, he tugged on his trousers, and she lay in the awful quiet, observing him.
Soon, he was dressed. He bent down for a parting kiss; then just as he stood, the door burst open. The interruption was so unexpected that all Margaret could do was blink and blink, her mind struggling to grasp what her eyes could plainly see.
Lavinia loomed in the threshold, an irate, hulking menace that was no apparition. She was absorbing every detail of the sordid tableau, with Margaret and Jordan frozen like a scene in a scandalous painting. Margaret broke the moment as she grabbed for the quilt and covered herself.
Lavinia smirked, her furious gaze locking with Jordan's.
"I've been waiting in your room for an eternity," she explained, "so we could discuss Penelope. When you didn't return, I did some investigating. It didn't take me long to figure out where you were."
"If you believe my whereabouts are any of your business," he insolently remarked, "you're absolutely deranged."
"Margaret is my niece, and you are a guest in my home. If those two facts don't make it my business, I don't know what does." She pointed toward the hall. "Get out of here! At once!"
Jordan's cheeks reddened, but like a chastened child, he slinked out without argument or backward glance. Margaret was abandoned to face the consequences on her own, yet she couldn't blame him. She only wished that she could have scurried away, too.
They listened to his strides fading, and as the silence descended, she wondered if she'd ever see him again.
Lavinia hissed, "I will speak with you in the library in one hour. I suggest you have your bags packed."
She spun and marched out, and Margaret fell onto the pillows, exhaling a heavy breath.
What would happen now? She wouldn't hazard a guess. It seemed her worst fear had been realized, and she was about to be tossed out. Would Lavinia follow through with her threat? Did Margaret have any right to refuse to go? Who might help her?
Depressingly, she couldn't conjure the name of a single person.
Ready for any catastrophe, she climbed out of bed and began to dress.
Robert sprawled in his chair, cursing his offer to aid Lavinia in unraveling her convoluted finances. Try as he might, he simply couldn't get the numbers to match up.
Grumbling about ungrateful females—and idiotic, long-suffering males—he recommenced adding the lengthy rows of sums. He checked the totals, then checked them again, and again, but no matter how many times he tabulated, they made no sense.
Her enormous expenditures were easy to calculate, but it appeared as if she'd had an income that was triple any amount she should have had. Yet there was no indication as to where the extra cash had originated.
So ... either she had a secret and vast stash of money she'd never mentioned, or he should have paid closer attention to his mathematical instructors when he was in school.
He'd had the best education England could provide, so he didn't think his problem was the result of poor teaching by his professors. Though it irked him to admit it, Lavinia was probably involved in some scheme that would land him—as her future husband—in an impossible jam.
Why, oh why, had he agreed to assist her?
Though he
loved her desperately and beyond reason, he couldn't deny how devious and cunning she could be. On occasion, she exhibited a vicious nature, one that she hid well and was rarely displayed, but he'd known her since he was a boy, and she couldn't fool him. She likely had a nefarious plan in the works, and he'd thrust himself directly in the middle of it.
They'd both need rescuing.
He'd have to pester her for details, would have to sit her down and press until she spilled all, but the notion of confronting her, of bickering and nagging till she confessed her mischief, was so distasteful that he couldn't bear to consider it.
He wanted to marry her and live happily ever after— as he'd always dreamed. What he didn't want was to learn that she'd done something horrid, and he refused to dig for evidence of fiscal misconduct.
He had to be wrong. There was no other option.
With a groan of annoyance, he dipped his quill in the jar of ink and began adding yet again.
As Jordan entered his room, Lavinia had arrived before him and was lounged in a chair, watching the minutes tick by on the clock. He peeked over; it was after six.
"How dare you do this to me!" she growled as she rose to her feet.
"To you? When I started my affair with her, you never crossed my mind."
The flip statement enraged her further—as did his condition. He was a mess, his clothes askew, his shirt torn by Margaret during their frantic coupling. He hadn't bothered to put on his shoes, and they dangled from his fingertips.
He deposited them in the armoire, then proceeded to the cupboard and poured himself a stiff whiskey. He leaned against the wall, sipping it as if he hadn't a care in the world, but on the inside, he was livid.
What should he say? What should he do? How could he defend the indefensible?
"I demand an answer from you," she badgered. "Where would you come by the temerity to seduce her?"
"What are you? My mother?"
"Shut your rude mouth."
Keen to quarrel, she stomped over till they were toe-to-toe, but he was too rattled to reason clearly, and too confused to make sound decisions.
"So I've been off fucking," he crudely admitted. "I still don't understand why you'd have the gall to comment."
"You've dallied with me on exactly one occasion, and you've hardly looked at Penelope—even though I specifically gave you permission to ravage her. It's enough to have me suspect that you prefer boys. But lo and behold! It's not boys you favor. It's my mousy, indigent little niece."
