by Cheryl Holt
"Think what you will." He shrugged, declining to talk about Margaret or his unrelenting desire for her. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've been up all night, and I intend to take a nap."
He tried to walk away, but she clutched his arm and yanked him to a halt.
"You're through trifling with Margaret. Do you hear me?"
"Don't order me about."
"You forget that / am the trustee of Penelope's fortune. / shall decide upon whom it is bestowed. How badly do you want it?"
He shook her away. "Not as badly as you seem to suppose."
"Fine, then. Leave my house. This instant!"
He felt like a rabbit snared in a trap. As Lavinia was aware, when he had such a contemptible history, it was impossible to find an heiress. There were so few rich girls, and typically, they quailed at the sight of him. While he didn't expect much in a spouse, he would not have one who wept with terror when he was near.
"What do you want, Lavinia?"
He'd capitulated—they both recognized it—and she preened, knowing she'd won. He would never see Margaret again, would never have the chance to apologize or say farewell, and at the notion he was so bereft that he could barely keep from falling to the floor and blubbering like a babe.
"Your father is scheming to wed Penelope!"
"Of course, he is. It's been his ploy all along."
"Aren't you going to fight for her?"
"Fight for her? Good God, Lavinia, why would I? It's just about money."
"A lot of money!"
"Yes, a lot of money."
"But you can't let him have her!"
Jordan scowled. She was so upset, when he couldn't imagine why. Perhaps she wanted Charles for herself. Poor woman! He thought to warn her, but didn't.
She'd be perfect for Charles. She'd make him miserable each and every day for the rest of his life. If Jordan was lucky, she'd drive him to an early grave.
"You're her mother," he calmly rationalized. "You want her to marry me. If he asks for her hand, say no."
She scoffed. "I doubt he'll inquire politely. In fact, I believe he plans to ruin her and force a union."
He could only nod. "I'm certain you're correct. He's not known for his scruples."
"You have to stop him."
"What can I do?" He'd never been successful at thwarting Charles. If he was, he wouldn't be in the predicament where he currently found himself. "If you're begging me to speak with him, it would be a waste of breath. He'll act however he pleases and damn the consequences."
"He can't have her!" she vehemently insisted.
"So kick him out of your home. Send him away. You're very clever. Make up some pretext to get rid of him. Tell him ... tell him ... you have other guests coming and not enough space to accommodate everybody."
"But I don't want him to leave," she muttered.
She blushed, ashamed at having divulged a weakness, and he rolled his eyes. How could she fancy Charles? How could she fail to see the snake slithering under the smooth exterior?
"So it's like that, is it?"
"Yes, it's just like that. I want him to stay and Penelope to go." She poured her own drink and gulped it down. "I'm tired of your petty delays. You traveled to Gray's Manor—at my invitation—to pursue a match with my daughter, but you've been so busy fucking my niece that you've scarcely noticed her."
'That's because Penelope has made her feelings very plain. She thinks I'm old and boring and that I have a violent past. She loathes me."
"Her opinion is irrelevant. She'll do as I command. So what's it to be: Will you have Penelope or won't you?"
Her question sucked all the air out of the sky. The earth seemed to stop spinning. His heart ceased to beat.
He couldn't give her an answer! Not now! Not yet!
She tarried, waiting, waiting, and when he didn't respond, she continued.
"This is a one time offer. You have the next sixty seconds to snatch her up, and I'll dispatch a messenger to London to retrieve a Special License. We can have the entire affair finished by tomorrow afternoon. If not by tomorrow, then by Saturday for sure."
His knees were shaky, his tongue tied. What was best?
He had to have that money! He had to have it! Yet, an affirmative reply would kill Margaret. She'd never forgive him. He'd never forgive himself. Not after the night he'd spent with her. Not after his tepid vow that he'd devise a way for them to be together.
He couldn't behave so callously toward her. He couldn't! But what alternative did he have?
"You're in a blasted hurry all of a sudden."
"Yes, I am. I admit it. If you agree to have her, I'll sign a letter that immediately places half the dowry in your bank account. The other half will be transferred after the ceremony."
He could practically smell those piles and piles of pound notes. 'That's fast."
"All I ask in return is that you take her away as soon as the last / do is uttered. You'll get in a carriage with her and go—and you won't ever bring her back."
"Your motherly affection leaves much to be desired."
"I don't care how you view my relationship with my daughter. I merely seek to have her married and out of my hair as rapidly as the deed can be accomplished. Are you the man to handle it for me or aren't you?"
"And if I refuse?"
"I'll put her in a carriage myself—today—and escort her to London, where I'll find someone else who's smart enough to grab her fortune." She glanced over at the clock. "Your sixty seconds start now."
He studied her, the clock, her again. The ticking was inordinately loud as he tried to work out a solution. He could have Penelope, or he could have Margaret. He could have the money and Penelope, or he could have Margaret and nothing.
Did he really want Margaret? If he chose a path of poverty with her, over the enormous obligation he owed to so many, how could he ever convince himself that it was the proper conclusion? If he took the cash, he could rectify so many ills. If he declined it, he could do nothing at all for anyone.
Could he selfishly pick Margaret?
He was a man of the world and had no illusions. At present, he lusted after her, yet his infatuation wouldn't persist. He knew how swiftly passion could burn, how promptly it could fizzle out. His carnal peccadilloes were always fleeting, and though he'd liked Margaret more than most females, his interest in her would wane. Then where would he be?
He would be poor and unable to discharge any of his responsibilities. He'd hate her for luring him away from his duty, and he'd hate himself for having let her.
"Your minute is up," Lavinia snapped. "What's it to be? Will you marry Penelope or won't you?"
Steadying himself, he filled his glass and swigged the contents.
"Yes, I'll marry her."
"A wise decision."
"Yes, it is," he concurred without a hint of mockery or regret.
"I'll have a footman depart for London at once. I'll notify you the moment he arrives with the license. Maybe we could still hold the ceremony later tonight. You could consummate and ride off with her in the morning."
"Whatever you wish is fine with me. Keep me posted." "I will."
Smiling in triumph, she sauntered out, and he went to the window and gazed outside. The sun hadn't peeked over the horizon, but he felt as if he'd lived a lifetime since he'd awakened in Margaret's bed.
When she learned what he'd done, how would she react?
"I'm sorry, Margaret," he murmured. "I'm so sorry." He sank into a chair and blindly stared at the wall.
Chapter Fifteen
“I won’t do it." "You will." "I won't. You can't make me." Lavinia glared at her lazy, recalcitrant daughter, who was still abed and too indolent to rise and show her mother any deference. If Penelope persisted with her rebelliousness, Lavinia's rage was so intense that she couldn't predict what she might do.
"I don't know where you acquired the notion that you can defy me, but I suggest you tamp it down." "I'm not afraid of you," Penelope claimed. ,
"Aren't you?"
"No. You're jealous because Lord Kettering likes me best, so you're forcing me to marry Lord Romsey to get me out of the way."
"Let me be very clear: You will wed Romsey—or your precious fortune will vanish. You'll no longer be a snooty heiress. You'll be poor like everybody else. You'll be nothing, at all."
"That money is mine!"
"No, it isn't. It's held in trust, and I am the trustee, with full rights to disburse of it in any fashion I choose. So far, I've chosen to utilize it as your dowry, but if you continue with your insolence, I'll change my mind."
"You have to use it for my benefit!"
"Who's to say I haven't? I can fill my files with hundreds of false invoices, proving that I've spent every penny seeing to your welfare and that it's all gone. Robert will lie for me and swear the expenditures are genuine."
"No one will believe you!" Penelope insisted, though not as vehemently. The first inklings of alarm were sinking in.
"Why wouldn't they? It will be your word against ours. Who will people find more credible? A respectable widow and her reputable companion? Or an impudent, hysterical child?"
"If you don't allow me to have my dowry, I'll never forgive you!"
"Are you supposing I care?" Lavinia chuckled. "Actually, I'd be perfectly happy to keep it for myself, and I don't know why I didn't consider it before. Perhaps I shall become the heiress in the family."
"You wouldn't dare," Penelope seethed.
"Wouldn't I? Gad, but you're so naive."
Lavinia had no doubt she would win the argument. Penelope's entire fife revolved around the fact that she was affluent. Her wealth defined her, gave her substance, and if it was suddenly snatched away, she'd be all but invisible.
Ultimately, she would yield, for she had no other option. She would marry Jordan, he would take her away, and Lavinia would be free to pursue Charles without interference.
Penelope's temper got the better of her. She leapt off the bed to attack, but Lavinia was ready for her, a leather belt hidden in the fold of her skirt. As Penelope stormed over, Lavinia lashed out, smacking Penelope across the face. The blow stunned her, and she lurched away and fell to her knees, clutching her cheek.
"You hit me! You hit me!" she wailed over and over.
"Yes, I did, and if you sass me a second time, I'll strike you again, and I'll keep on striking you until I've beaten some sense into you."
"I hate Lord Romsey!"
"So what? No woman has ever been permitted to marry for love. Why should you be any different?"
Lavinia leaned down and gripped Penelope by the back of the neck, her nails digging in, so that Penelope cried out and squirmed in agony, and Lavinia reveled in the petty torment. She'd been too lenient, so Penelope had never learned how little her own wants or needs mattered when compared to Lavinia's.
"What is it to be?" Lavinia demanded. "Will you have Romsey? Will you seize the chance to instantly be a viscountess and subsequently a countess? Or will you refuse and be an impoverished nobody?"
"Let go!"
"Not until I hear your answer."
Lavinia squeezed, deeply enough to draw blood, and Penelope collapsed onto the rug, a quivering, complaining ball of fury, but her ire was no match for Lavinia's. With Charles as the prize, Lavinia felt insane, so desperate to win him that she could murder Penelope without a twinge of conscience.
"Well?" she hissed. "I'm waiting!"
"Yes, yes, I'll marry him."
Grinning with triumph and malice, Lavinia shoved her away. "I'll send your maid to help you dress for the ceremony. We will proceed the moment my footman returns from London with the Special License."
"You can't expect me to go through with it today!"
"I can, and you will." Lavinia bent down again, which caused Penelope to recoil in terror, and Lavinia relished the girl's fear. "I can see how your mind is working. You're plotting to foil me, but you won't be able to."
"I will! I'll get out of this horrid betrothal if it's the last thing I do."
Penelope glared, her loathing unveiled, and a frisson of apprehension slithered down Lavinia's spine, but she shook it away. Penelope was a child, Lavinia her lawful and sole parent, and she would behave as Lavinia commanded.
She strutted to the door, stopping for a final glance, thrilled by the sight of Penelope on the floor, disheveled and beaten down.
"By the way," she taunted, "you won't be going anywhere."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm locking you in. You'll stay here in your room until the vicar arrives; then I'll escort you down to the ceremony."
"Bitch!" Penelope hurled.
"Aren't I though?"
Lavinia stepped into the hall, spun the key, and sauntered off..
“I’ve been thinking." "About what, darling?" Charles smiled at Lavinia. She really was a gorgeous woman, but she was too old for him to take seriously, and she was broke. She concealed it, but he could sniff out penury like a dog tracking a wounded fox.
She was in dire straits, and he had no idea why she was giving away Penelope's dowry. If the girl had been his daughter, he'd have kept the funds for himself. "We'd talked about my ravaging Penelope," he said. "Yes, we did."
"I've been on pins and needles ever since we discussed it." "Have you?"
He pulled her to him, his regard washing over her, and it wasn't feigned. He truly did find her attractive, and he was always partial to a female who performed fellatio without his having to request it. "I'm so hard—just from pondering it—that I can barely stand up straight."
She chuckled and rubbed herself against his erection.
"I can tell."
"Can you?"
"Oh, yes."
"Why wait till Saturday?" he urged. "We should do it tonight. Wouldn't that be fun?"
"It would be"—she frowned and sighed—"but a slight problem has surfaced."
"What is it?"
"Jordan finally spoke to me, and he's settled on Penelope, after all. I was sure he wasn't interested, but he claims he's smitten. I couldn't refuse him."
At the news, Charles panicked, but he hid it well.
"Of course, he wants her! He needs her money. But why would his decision alter our plans?"
"I can't provide him with a bride who's not a virgin. He'd cry foul. Why ... he might sue me for damages! Our family would be a laughingstock. Penelope would never be able to show her face in public again." She pouted. "Neither would I."
"But I'm so eager to dally with the two of you."
"It's just not meant to be. I'm so sorry."
She patted the front of his trousers, then walked on, and he went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He sipped it as he contemplated his next move. He'd read Penelope's signals correctly. She wanted him. Not Jordan. So what had happened in the past few hours?
Perhaps Jordan had bribed Lavinia. Or perhaps he was blackmailing her. Whatever the basis, Charles had to halt any wedding. Victory was so close that he could nearly taste Penelope's fortune, and he wouldn't let it slide through his grasp.
Penelope abhorred the notion of marrying Jordan, and Charles was happy to do his part to guarantee that Penelope got exactly what she wanted.
“Is it true what I heard?" "About what?" Robert watched Lavinia as she sat at her dressing table and primped in the mirror. "Has Romsey asked for Penelope's hand?"
"Yes, isn't it grand? We'll be shed of her in no time— by tomorrow at the latest."
"Will he stay on at Gray's Manor?" "No. He's leaving immediately, and he's taking her with him."
Robert rested his palms on her shoulders. "So ... all of our dreams have come to fruition." "Yes, they have."
His fingers glided down, hesitating at her bosom, but when no complaint was raised, he covered her fabulous breasts. He caressed the soft mounds, as she moaned and arched, but he couldn't shake the impression that her response was faked.
On several occasions, he'd copulated with Anne Smythe, and she was always
so excited to be with him, so keen to try whatever he suggested. He'd been sneaking around with Lavinia for so long that he'd forgotten how wonderful it was to have a partner who enjoyed the sexual act.
"With Penelope gone," he pointed out, "we can be wed right away." "Yes, we can." "Let's set the date." "The date! Oh..."
"Yes, the date, Lavinia. What reason is there to put it off yet again?"
She eased away and peered up at him, her grin flirtatious and sly. "I have a thousand tasks to complete before I send her on her way. It isn't every day that a mother sees her only daughter married!"
Where Penelope was concerned, Lavinia didn't have a maternal bone in her body, so he understood her comment for the delaying tactic it was, and he tamped down his frustration.
"What about the Earl?" he queried.
"What about him?"
"Will he remain after the wedding?"
"I don't know why he would."
Her smile was steady, her eyes guileless and open wide, and she looked so innocent, but Robert didn't believe her. Then again, he was so jealous of Kettering that it was difficult to think clearly about the man.
Robert had invested so many years in pining for Lavinia, had embarrassed and disgraced and demeaned himself in his quest to wed her. She'd insisted they'd be together in the end, that the instant Penelope's future was secured, she would be ready to tie the knot.
If she'd changed her mind, what should he do? How much longer would he wait? Why would he wait?
"You know, Lavinia, if I were to find out that you're stalling, that you've no intention of following through— as you've repeatedly promised you would—I can't predict how I might react."
"Why ... whatever do you mean?"
"I've been poring over the ledgers you gave me."
"So?"
"You have too much money. From where did it come?"
"Too much?" She laughed, but nervously. "Are you mad? If I'm so accursedly well-off, why am I so broke?"
"Don't lie to me. I've calculated the numbers. They don't add up, and I'm extremely curious as to why not. I demand you explain yourself—or else!"
