Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  "Lavinia!" he scolded.

  "You're hardly a virgin. Don't pretend otherwise. There's scarcely a female in the kingdom who hasn't copulated with you."

  "I won't discuss this in front of her," he said, the two of them talking about Margaret as if she weren't there.

  "You won't?" Lavinia hissed. "And why not? She assumes she was special to you! She assumes she mattered."

  "She did," he tepidly insisted.

  "Did she? Tell her how many paramours there have been over the years. Tell her how you will fuck anything in a gown. Tell her about the weekend orgies, and the soldiers' whores, and the three London mistresses, and the numerous opera dancers, and the—"

  "Stop it!" Margaret cried. "Stop it, I say!"

  They whipped around to gawk at her, and she detested how tears flooded her eyes, but she couldn't hold them back.

  She'd never reflected on Jordan's life outside the confines of her small bedchamber, had never imagined the other women whom he'd sought for companionship. Though it was torture to learn of it, she was glad she had.

  She'd been so foolishly in love that she'd been too afraid to see the stark reality of her situation. From the start, she'd understood that he could never be hers, yet she'd sacrificed everything she cherished in the entire world. For him.

  Why had she succumbed to his advances? How could she have given herself to him without asking anything in exchange? Had she no self-respect remaining?

  Struggling for control, she drew in a deep breath, her shaky voice belying her attempt at composure. "I've heard enough."

  Lavinia nodded and glared at Jordan. "Is there any closing remark you'd like to make?"

  "I'm sorry, Margaret," he contended. "I never meant to hurt you."

  "I disagree. I think you meant to hurt me as much as you could. Don't try to assuage your conscience." She gazed at him for the very last time, and in a thrice, her enormous affection evaporated as if it had never been. The void was filled with a burning, strident hatred.

  He appeared as if he might plead his case, or defend his bad behavior, but Lavinia saved her by butting in again, and for once, Margaret was relieved by her interruption.

  "That will be all," Lavinia advised Jordan. "Now, I'd like some privacy while I finish speaking with my niece. If you'll excuse us .. . ?"

  "There are some other things I'd like to tell her."

  "She's listened to plenty of your drivel." She scowled at Margaret. "What say you, Margaret? Could you bear to have him continue?"

  "No. I'd like it if he would go."

  "There you have it." Lavinia stared him down, daring him to defy her.

  He turned to Margaret, silently begging her to look at him. His concentration was like a silky caress, but she held firm, her eyes locked on Lavinia's.

  Ultimately, he shrugged and left, shutting the door behind, and as his strides faded, Lavinia taunted, "Do you believe me, Margaret?"

  "Yes, I believe you."

  "He wanted to lift your skirt, and he did. You seem like such a smart individual. How could you have been so stupid?"

  There were a thousand responses Margaret could have uttered to explain why she'd fallen for Romsey's flattery. She could have told Lavinia how lonely she was, how Romsey had paid attention to her, how he'd treated her as if she was pretty and interesting.

  Instead, she inquired, "Why do you hate me?"

  "Me? Hate you? I'd have to care about you to hate you. Now head to your room and pack your belongings. I'll have the carriage outside in fifteen minutes. The driver will take you into the village."

  The prospect of being deposited in the village, with her portmanteau in her hand, was too humiliating to contemplate. She'd have to go somewhere else, somewhere far away, where no one knew her, where no one would ever guess how she'd disgraced herself.

  "Where should I go from there?"

  "Wherever you want. You destination is no concern of mine. Good-bye."

  The entire episode was like a dream. Margaret couldn't move, and Lavinia grew impatient. She went to the servants' bell and yanked on the cord. Shortly, the housekeeper arrived.

  "Escort Miss Gray upstairs." At Lavinia's odd instruction, the housekeeper frowned, so Lavinia clarified, "She's decided to permanently leave Gray's Manor. I need you to help her with her bags so she can depart immediately."

  Without another word, Margaret spun and walked out.

  Come with me.”

  “To where?”

  Jordan studied Lavinia over the rim of his brandy. Since he'd fled the despicable encounter with Margaret in the library, he'd had several, though he expected it would take many more before he was numb. Oblivion was his goal.

  "We're off to Penelope's bedchamber," Lavinia informed him.

  "Why? Are you hoping I'll finally rape her for you?" "You've had your chance, so you'll just have to wait for your wedding night." "Then why are we going?"

  "You're about to propose—as any decent fiancé would do."

  "Oh, God, isn't it enough that you've agreed to the match? Must I speak with her, too?"

  "I'm sure you'll find this hard to fathom, but she's not overly keen on having you as a husband."

  "You assume this is news to me?"

  "I want her to view us as a united front. I want her to realize she can't fight both of us."

  He sighed. The meeting with Margaret had been too distressing. She'd looked so young and defenseless. He'd felt as if he'd been kicking a puppy, and he couldn't tolerate more discord. He was too raw, too overwrought.

  He filled his glass and drank it down. Filled it again and gulped it, too. "Where is Margaret?"

  "She's left."

  "For where?"

  "After your contemptible behavior, it's really none of your business. She has no wish to see you ever again, and even if she did, I wouldn't allow it."

  A sudden rage washed over him, one he hadn't experienced since he was in the army, and it was so powerful that he could murder her without hesitating. He reached out and clutched her by the neck, his broad palm circling her narrow throat tightly enough to frighten, to cut off her air.

  "What have you done to her?"

  "You lunatic! She's staying with an aunt of mine"—

  Lavinia clawed at his fingers—"while we learn if there's a babe."

  At the reminder of how he'd dishonored Margaret, he dropped his hand and stepped away.

  'There is no babe," he insisted as if his declaring it could make it so.

  "How can you be positive? Can you peek into her belly?" She snorted with derision. "Can you actually suppose that she'd remain here, gadding about pregnant and unwed, while the rumors crucify us? You're marrying her cousin today! Have you no shame?"

  He had a great deal of shame, as well as remorse and regret and no small amount of sorrow. Events had brought their affair to such an abrupt end that he couldn't absorb all that had transpired.

  The notion—that he'd never see Margaret again— was starting to sink in, and he couldn't bear how swiftly they'd been separated. One minute, he'd been holding her in his arms, and the next, there'd been only rancor and accusation.

  Lavinia was correct that he shouldn't be permitted to converse with Margaret. Still, there'd been so many things he should have said to her, so many apologies he'd needed to render, when none would have been appropriate or sufficient.

  He swilled another brandy. "Swear to me that she's safe, that you've provided for her welfare."

  "I realize I can be a bitch," Lavinia admitted, "but she is my niece. Of course, I've provided for her. She'll be in seclusion till we know whether she's pregnant; then I'll make permanent arrangements for her. She can't return here. The possibility is too real that the scandal would leak out and wreck her future."

  As if he hadn't felt low enough, he now felt even lower. How could he have done this to Margaret? She had no father or brother to demand reparation for his atrocious trespass. There was only Lavinia, who was focused on Penelope and who—despite her protestation
s to the contrary—couldn't care less about Margaret.

  "You can't be certain that there'd be a scandal," he tried to maintain.

  "Where have you been living? On the moon?"

  "If... if there's a child, will you let me know?"

  "Let you know? Are you mad? You're about to wed my daughter! I suggest you develop some respect for her and your new situation!"

  "But if there's a child, I'll need to support it. I can at least do that much for her."

  "Support it with what?" Lavinia chided. "Penelope's money? I think not." She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. "Come. Let's get this over with."

  "I have no desire to chat with Penelope."

  "Have I asked what you wanted?"

  She was practically dragging him down the hall, and he wondered why he was letting her. Why had he meekly consented to marry Penelope? He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to do. Why didn't he call a halt?

  He could cry off, could forsake Penelope's fortune, and go to Margaret. He could beg her forgiveness and spend the rest of his life in poverty, repairing the damage he'd done.

  He imagined kneeling before her, pleading for a second chance that she'd never give. He'd hurt her too deeply, had acted as the worst, most ignominious sort of man, and he didn't deserve her pardon.

  Lavinia had stopped and was using a key to enter Penelope's room. Was the bloody girl being locked in? Was she that opposed to having him as a husband?

  What good could evolve from such a hideous beginning?

  Lavinia strutted into the frilly chamber and yanked him in after her. Penelope was lounged on the bed. When she saw them, she climbed to the floor, her insolence and disgust evident and infuriating.

  "What is it, Mother?"

  "Lord Romsey has something to say to you." "What?"

  He stared from mother to daughter. He must have had a dozen glasses of brandy, and he was definitely feeling the effects. Had he something to say? If so, he couldn't remember what it was.

  "He's here to propose," Lavinia said. She glared at him. "Aren't you?"

  "No," he replied. "You're her parent, and you've agreed, so I can't fathom why her opinion would matter in the slightest."

  At his rudeness Penelope gasped. "You're insufferable, and you're drunk."

  "Yes, I am, but as you're about to be my wife, you will soon learn that it is not your place to comment on my personal failings."

  "And if I choose to disobey, what will you do to me? Send me to bed without my supper?"

  "No, I'm much more likely to beat you on a daily basis," he boasted, enjoying how she shrunk away. "If you really annoy me, I'll order you to a nunnery, or better yet, I'll commit you to an insane asylum. Or I'll simply divorce you—after I have your dowry—and for the remainder of your days, you will be poverty-stricken and abandoned."

  "You horrid, horrid man!" Penelope wailed.

  "Be silent!" he shouted so loudly that both women cringed. "I'm sick to death of your juvenile ways and your snotty attitude. You are sixteen years old, and your mother has decided you are to wed. She's selected me as your husband. You will be happy about it, or you will keep your obnoxious mouth shut. Do I make myself clear?"

  Brimming with hatred, she muttered, "Yes, you've made yourself very clear."

  "Then it appears we finally understand one another."

  He stormed out, Lavinia tagging along behind.

  "I'm impressed," she said once they were alone in the corridor.

  "By what?"

  "You're even more of an ass than I'd suspected." "Yes, I am."

  "She's biddable, if you seize control—which you certainly have. I believe the two of you will get on fine." "I'm so glad to hear it." He kept on down the hall. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm off to my room. Have a footman deliver several more bottles of brandy. I intend to drink myself into a stupor, then pass out. You may wake me when it's time for the ceremony to start."

  Perhaps if he was very lucky, he'd overindulge to the point of mortality and would never be roused. He walked on without glancing back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As Anne approached the parlor, she heard a man and a woman speaking, so she halted and peeked inside. It was Charles and Mrs. Gray huddled in the corner, and Charles had his hand on her bottom. Anne had suspected they were lovers, and now, she had her answer.

  She should have been outraged, but all she could think was that he was making a fool of himself, sniffing after the beautiful but lethal Mrs. Gray.

  Anne had been sure that he was focused on the daughter and the dowry, but Mrs. Gray probably had a fortune of her own. Maybe with Jordan having become affianced to Penelope, Charles had set his sights on Lavinia.

  Well, Mrs. Gray could have him, but if Charles assumed Anne would linger through another of his marriages, he was in for a surprise. She'd rather seek employment as a scullery maid.

  Mrs. Gray glanced over and espied Anne in the hall. She pulled Charles into a deep, searing kiss, which she obviously wanted Anne to witness, and Anne couldn't believe how unmoved she was. The old feelings of jealousy had fled, replaced by a cool disinterest.

  Mrs. Gray ended the embrace and flashed a saucy smile. "I'll see you later, Charles. In your room, after everyone is abed."

  "I can hardly wait," Charles said.

  She waltzed out, and Anne had stepped back to let her pass when Mrs. Gray gestured toward the next parlor. Anne followed her in and shut the door.

  "You were watching Charles and me," Mrs. Gray started without preamble.

  "I was."

  "I'll be blunt."

  "Please do."

  "In light of your friendship with Charles, I've been very gracious in having you as a guest in my home."

  "Yes, you have been."

  "But you've overstayed your welcome."

  "If you force me to leave, Charles will come with me. Are you certain that's what you want?"

  "I wouldn't count on Charles going with you." Mrs. Gray smirked as if she had a secret she couldn't share. "Charles and I have gotten very close, and you should be aware that a wedding is imminent."

  "He's proposed to you?"

  Her simpering grin faded. "No, but we've thoroughly discussed it, and at any moment, I'm expecting to make an announcement."

  "Congratulations."

  'Thank you."

  Anne was being sarcastic, but Mrs. Gray didn't realize it. She preened and continued. "While his previous wives were accommodating of his many peccadilloes, I shan't be. I intend to supply him with all the feminine entertainment he needs, so there'll be no place for you in his life. I suggest you find a new situation—if you can, given your advanced age."

  "I'll begin looking right away."

  "You do that." She went to the door and opened it, signifying that the conversation was over. "I'd appreciate it if you'd go first thing in the morning. Don't bother to keep in touch."

  "I won't. Don't worry."

  Anne walked past her, calming her breathing, willing her temper to recede; then she proceeded into the parlor, where Charles was relaxed on a sofa by the fire.

  "Anne! There you are. I feel like I haven't talked to you in days."

  He held out an arm, indicating she should sit and snuggle under it, but she chose the chair across from him instead, and he couldn't help but recognize that something had changed between them.

  They stared and stared, and finally, she asked, "What are you doing with Mrs. Gray?"

  "What do you mean?" he replied, when he very well knew.

  "I thought you were planning to marry Penelope."

  "I can't. Jordan snatched her away from me."

  "So now what? Will it be Mrs. Gray instead?"

  He studied her, and Anne could practically see the wheels spinning in his head as he pondered how much he should reveal of his various schemes.

  "What if I have been considering her?"

  "You were going to marry me. You promised!"

  "But Anne," he said
gently, "you don't have any money. You've never had any money."

  "I've given you more important things, like loyalty and companionship."

  "Yes, you have, and you've been an absolute blessing, too."

  "Mrs. Gray has demanded that I vacate the premises."

  "What? Why ... that's preposterous. What would I do without you?"

  "She claims I'm interfering in her relationship with you."

  "She's jealous, is she?" He chuckled. "Don't fret about it. I'll speak with her."

  She tarried, the silence settling. This was where she was supposed to back down and placate him with ingratiating remarks, but she couldn't mollify him. "I don't want you to speak with her. I've decided she's correct: It's time for me to go."

  "You're being absurd." He went to the sideboard and filled a glass with whiskey, and when he turned toward her, he was all smiles, all sweet, cajoling Charles. "I'm just toying with her, Anne."

  "Are you? She thinks you're serious."

  "She's mistaken. You know how fleeting these dalliances are for me."

  "Yes, I do."

  She'd been one of them once, but for some reason, she'd kept his interest when others couldn't. She'd never understood why, had never questioned what she'd viewed as a stroke of fortune, but in reality, it was all so tawdry.

  "I believe I'll retire for the evening," she said. "You won't be needing me, will you?" "No."

  "Good night, then."

  "Good night," he echoed. "We're clear about Mrs. Gray, aren't we?" "Very clear."

  "You're staying, and I won't hear any argument." "I wouldn't dream of it."

  She strolled out, and as soon as she was far enough away, she broke into a run, feeling as if she was fleeing for her very life.

  Here are your records," Robert snapped. "Fine." Lavinia glared as if he were vermin. "Leave them on the chair. I'll have a maid put them away."

  With much loud, dramatic huffing, Robert deposited the huge, messy stack while struggling not to bellow at her. He was amazed that he'd actually returned the stupid documents, that he wouldn't keep on in his efforts to aid her with her financial quandary. It was so unlike him to remain angry, but it seemed as if they were embroiled in a permanent spat, and he had to calm himself, had to locate the equanimity required to deal with her.