by Cheryl Holt
They often quarreled, and tensions only eased because he came crawling back and apologized. As he was rarely the one in the wrong, his willingness to pacify her was galling, but it was too late to alter the tenor of their association. If he didn't grovel, how would they carry on?
He still wanted to marry her. Didn't he?
It had been so long since he'd wished for anything else that he couldn't fathom another ending.
The pile started to wobble, then fall, and he jumped to brace it as numerous items toppled to the floor. Lavinia watched, bored, as he scrambled about like a servant, scooping up ledgers and stuffing them in what he hoped were the appropriate spots.
A piece of paper—one he hadn't noticed prior— fluttered to the floor, and he frowned. It was a note, in Lavinia's handwriting, and across the top, she'd jotted three columns, labeled, My Trust, Penelope's Trust, and Margaret's Trust. There was a large sum of money indicated beneath each heading, followed by arrows, additions, and subtractions.
"What's this?" He held it out to her.
She studied it, blanched; then she leapt over and snatched it away.
"It's nothing. Just some scribbling."
"But it says Margaret's Trust, and it shows an amount equal to yours and Penelope's."
Hastily, she crammed the odd document into the drawer of her dressing table. "I told you: It's nothing."
From her frantic reaction, it was apparent she was lying, and he was forced to ask the unthinkable. "Did Horatio leave Margaret an inheritance?"
"Don't be absurd. Why would he? He couldn't abide her."
Although he hadn't spent much time with Horatio and Margaret, he recalled that they'd had a cordial and affectionate relationship and Horatio had seemed fond of his niece. Could he have provided for her?
He shook away the disloyal notion. With how Margaret had been abused by Lavinia over the years, the prospect didn't bear contemplating, yet Lavinia had too much money. Had she stolen it from Margaret? Could she have done something that despicable?
If Lavinia had perpetrated such a terrible deed and Robert still loved her, what did that say about his judgment and character? How could they go on?
What he'd conjectured couldn't be true. He wouldn't let it be.
"Are you going out?" he inquired, desperate to change the subject. "No, why?"
Robert dawdled behind her as she primped in the mirror. It seemed all he did anymore was observe her from the fringes of a world that no longer included him.
"You're being awfully meticulous with your preparations."
"Can't a woman be beautiful at her own supper table?"
"Has the footman arrived with the Special License?" "No, so we have something to anticipate on the morrow."
"How did you convince Lord Romsey to propose?"
"I simply told him to make up his bloody mind or I'd find someone else who wanted her money more than he obviously did."
"Have you signed over the dowry to him? All of it—■ as I instructed you?"
"Of course, I did. I couldn't lie. When I initially dangled it in front of him, I apprised him of the full amount. If I'd suddenly declared the sum to be less, he'd have been suspicious."
"Yes, I imagine he would have been." Robert tamped down a sigh of relief. He'd always hoped that some of the pot might end up in their hands, but with it transferred to Romsey, the strife it had caused would vanish.
"So ... it's all gone."
"Yes."
"Penelope will be wed shortly." "I can't wait." "What about Margaret?" "What about her?" Lavinia sneered. "I haven't seen her lately. I was just curious." "I informed her that she wasn't welcome here any longer, and she left."
At the news, he was aghast. "Where is she?" "I haven't the foggiest."
His level of outrage was further evidence that the spell Lavinia had woven around him was unraveling. She had a toxic side to her personality that had previously amused and intrigued him, and he couldn't figure out why he'd ever tolerated it.
"I've always felt badly about how you treated her," he admitted.
"Why?"
"She was nice to me." "So? She wasn't nice to me." "She was too," he insisted, "and now, you've sent her away."
She glared over her shoulder. "You don't know all the facts, darling, so don't criticize." "I'm worried about her."
"Why would you be? She leeched off me for decades, and I've merely plugged the hemorrhage her presence created. She can take care of herself for a change."
She fussed with her dress, lowering the bodice, her nipples nearly visible. Once, he would have considered it a breathtaking sight, but with her lips reddened by cosmetics, and with so much bare skin exposed, he thought she looked like a trollop.
"When will Lord Kettering be leaving?" he asked. "He's not. Not yet anyway." "Why would he remain after the wedding?" She wrinkled her nose and giggled. "He's having too much fun to go."
"What kind of .. fun?”
A deadly silence descended, and she froze; then she laughed gaily, as if she'd intimated nothing untoward. "He likes it here, because it's so quiet and rural. He claims he's had enough of the city, and he's fond of the solitude."
"Is that right?"
"Yes."
He scrutinized her, trying to garner some hint of what was going on in her devious head. What was her game? Was she planning to seduce Kettering? Had she already?
If Kettering was her paramour, what was Robert prepared to do about it? In the past, he'd loved her beyond folly or sanity. Did he still?
He didn't know, but after everything he'd been through with her, the prospect—that she might have changed her mind and decided on Kettering—was more than he could abide.
A wave of ire swept over him, and he crudely growled, "I want to fuck you."
"What?" She whirled on her stool and scowled up at him.
"You heard me: I want to fuck you—this very second—and I won't listen to any complaints."
"Honestly, Robert, it's time to go down to supper. I'll muss my hair."
"I don't give a rat's ass about your hair. You're supposed to be my mistress, and you'd better start acting like it. Unless you're supplying to someone else what is mine, and if that's the case, I swear I'll kill you." He paused and leaned in, eager to do violence. "Is Kettering worth the price? You tell me."
The threat hung in the air, and for a moment, alarm flickered in her eyes; then she calmed and scoffed.
"How on earth did Lord Kettering fall into the middle of this discussion? And why are we quarreling?"
"Fuck me! Show me that I still mean something to you."
"You're being a boor." "I don't give a shit."
"I won't lie down on the bed and wrinkle my clothes, but if you're determined, I'll suck you off." "Be my guest."
He stood before her, observing indifferently, as she unbuttoned his trousers. She was in a hurry, so there was no dawdling. She licked him, then took him in her mouth. Since she hated performing fellatio, he kept on and on, but with all he'd endured, he would damn well enjoy himself.
Eventually, she grew impatient with his restraint, and she cupped his balls. The extra sensation pushed him over the edge, and his seed spewed down her throat, but there was no satisfaction in the release.
He was weary of her and disgusted with himself. He pulled away and fastened his trousers and, as if nothing had happened, she returned to admiring herself in the mirror.
"Are you staying for supper?" she blandly inquired. "No."
"Pity," she cooed, her relief impossible to hide. "We'll miss you."
"I'll be round in the morning."
"Marvelous," she said, but she looked as if she'd swallowed a toad.
"I'm tired of your treating me like a leper. I'll expect fellatio from you more often. I'll expect it every day."
Her temper flared. "You can't be serious! I'm not about to become your sexual slave."
"Do you know what I think, Lavinia? I think you stole money from Margaret, and if you did, then I've uncover
ed your secret." He rested his palms on her shoulders, squeezing tightly enough to bruise. "Isn't my continued discretion worth a few blow jobs now and again?"
He was so close to beating her, to simply grabbing a belt and lashing at her till she was a bloody pulp on the floor, so he spun away and stomped out without another word. He stormed down the hall, ready to commit mayhem, feeling as if a stranger had taken over his body.
At the landing, he faltered, Mrs. Smythe's door beckoning to him. He had no doubt that she could soothe the beast rampaging within, but instead, he raced for the stairs and proceeded down to Lavinia's library, where he searched every drawer, every nook and cranny. Finally, stuffed behind some books on the highest shelf, he found for what he was hunting, and he traced a trembling finger across the heading, Last Will and Testament of Horatio Gray.
His heart pounding with apprehension, he slid the thick document into his jacket and left for home, certain that whatever the terms contained inside, his life would never be the same once he learned what they were.
“I realize it's very late, but might I speak with Mr. Mason?" "And you are .. . ?" the butler asked. "Tell him it's Mrs. Smythe, and that I apologize for stopping by at such a discourteous hour, but it's terribly important."
"Please wait here," the butler intoned. He studied her bedraggled condition, her wet hair and muddy clothes. After her frantic trip through the woods, she was a sight, and he was kind enough to take pity on a scared and desperate woman. He escorted her into the vestibule and gestured to a chair, then he went to find Mr. Mason, and she was grateful that he hadn't had her stand outside in the dark and the rain.
Though only minutes passed, it seemed an eternity before footsteps sounded. She glanced up to see Mr. Mason coming alone, no servant in attendance, and she was grateful again. She didn't want his staff eavesdropping, didn't want rumors wafting over to Gray's Manor.
She rose as he approached, but he assessed her wearily. There were fatigue lines clearly discernable around his eyes and mouth, and she suffered a wave of panic. Obviously, he was distraught and carrying a weighty burden, so she'd come at a bad time.
What if he sent her away? What if he refused her request for a brief sanctuary?
He'd previously invited her to visit, but she hadn't dared till now. With her having resolved to cut her ties to Charles, she was sailing into uncharted waters and careening between dread and joy. For reasons she couldn't comprehend, Mr. Mason had seemed like an anchor in the storm.
"Are your children at home?" she queried. "No, they're still with their grandparents." "May I stay for a bit?" "Are you all right?" "No. Are you?"
"No." He slipped his hand into hers. "You're freezing! Come with me."
He led her up two flights of stairs and down a lengthy hall to the master suite. It was a masculine room, with maroon drapes, and heavy mahogany furniture. A fire blazed in the hearth, and she tarried as he tossed several logs onto the flames.
When he finished with the chore, he stared at her, confused and somewhat alarmed by her arrival.
"I'm leaving Lord Kettering in the morning," she explained. "I just decided."
"Is he having an affair with Mrs. Gray?"
"Yes, but... but... he promised me that he was ... was ..."
She couldn't confide how hurt she was. Nor could she confess that she had nowhere to go, and she was petrified that she was about to become invisible, that soon, no one would be able to see her or hear her.
He urged her closer to the fire so the heat would warm her.
"You're soaked through," he scolded. "You didn't even wear a shawl."
"I was suffocating, and I had to get out of that house. I didn't remember ..."
She drifted off again, content to dawdle as he unbuttoned her dress. He must have assumed she was there to have sex, and she had to admit that a mindless bout of intercourse would suit her fine. For the period they were together, she wouldn't have to think or plan; she could just be.
He tugged off her gown so that it pooled around her ankles. Then, he made swift work of her undergarments, and she was naked. He yanked the combs from her hair, then he snuggled himself to her backside, and she could feel that he'd removed his shirt.
Their prior encounters had been so anonymous and so detached that she hadn't viewed his chest yet, and she was delighted to note that it was coated with a thick matting of hair. She nestled herself to him, and the sensation was so electrifying that her knees nearly buckled.
"Is this what you wanted?" he whispered in her ear. "Is this what you needed?"
"Yes ... yes ..."
"As do I. You couldn't have picked a more opportune time to interrupt me."
"I can see that you're troubled. What's the matter?"
He was silent, pensive; then he asked, "If you'd suddenly discovered that someone you loved—someone you'd always loved—had committed a terrible wrong that needed to be righted, what would you do?"
"I suppose it would depend on how terrible the wrong."
"It's a crime," he said very quietly, "a contemptible felony. The person ought to go to prison and never be let out."
"I don't know what I'd do."
"Neither do I, and at the moment, I don't care to discuss it. I want to focus on something else. You, for instance." He reached around and pinched her nipples. "You have the most magnificent breasts."
"Harder," she begged. "Do it harder."
"I love fucking you." "Show me how much."
She was numb, and she wanted him to be very rough. If he wasn't, she was afraid she would not feel anything, at all.
His fingers drifted down, sliding into her sheath to probe and play. She moaned, arching against him, seeking more of what he was offering.
With a few flicks of his thumb, she came, the agitation so potent that she had to grab onto a chair to keep from falling to the floor. While she was still in the throes of her orgasm, he eased her forward, spread her thighs, and entered her in a smooth thrust.
Clutching at her flanks, he pounded into her, but he was as aroused as she had been, and he came, too, then collapsed onto her, both of them pinned to the chair. Chests heaving, pulses slowing, he drew away and stood, and she stood, too, and as always happened when their ardor cooled, she was embarrassed.
They had nothing to say to one another, and she wished she could snap her fingers and magically be dressed, then snap them again and be gone without a farewell.
"Turn around," he commanded, and she was suddenly shy, not eager to have him observe her forty-year-old body.
She didn't budge, and he repeated, "Turn around! Let me look at you."
Grudgingly, she did, and she held her head high, determined to survive his scrutiny without worry or shame. After this tryst, she'd never see him again anyway. Why care about his opinion?
He evaluated her, his gaze keen and perceptive; then he traced down across her breasts, the tuck of her waist, the curve of her hip.
"Kneel down for me."
"Like this?"
"Yes. Remove the rest of my clothes."
She started with his shoes and stockings, then his trousers, jerking them down and off. It was the first time she'd seen him naked, and as she peered up his torso, she was thrilled with his manly form. He had strong legs, a flat stomach, wide shoulders, and muscled arms. His cock was long and thick, already swelling with lust.
She held him, stroking him, licking him; then she sucked him inside. He inhaled in a sharp breath, stunned and excited by the pleasure she generated, and he fisted his hand in her hair, guiding her, forcing her to take more, but she didn't mind.
From the minute she'd met him, riotous emotions had been driving her, and they were growing more powerful and more decadent. She couldn't ignore them or tamp them down; she could only revel and enjoy.
He flexed for an eternity, ravaging her mouth, and she was happy to let him, elated that his climax was approaching, but abruptly, he pulled away and scowled down at her.
"Why are you here?"
&nbs
p; "I couldn't stand to be alone just now," she admitted. "Why do you keep having sex with me?" "Because I'm attracted to you, and I've never previously felt anything like it." "But what do you want?" "I want to stay for the night. That's all." "That's not very much. Why don't you ask for more?"
"I doubt you'd give it." "You might be surprised." "Would I?"
He was hinting that he'd allow her to remain. Would he like an arrangement that was more permanent than a few fast and lewd tumbles?
She hadn't even left Charles yet. Not really. Dare she contemplate a relationship with Mr. Mason? She scarcely knew him, but then, she'd known Charles forever and their association was in its death throes.
Who could predict what might transpire?
He helped her to her feet.
"Get into my bed," he advised. "I want to see you lying on my pillows."
She went over and clambered up, and she reclined on her side, so she could watch him as he walked over to join her. She caressed his erection, liking the proof of how much he desired her.
"You're very handsome, Mr. Mason. I'm glad I finally stripped off your trousers."
"I want to try everything with you." He frowned at her as if braced for a refusal.
"Fine." She clasped his wrist and dragged him to her. "Just swear to me that you won't stop—even if I beg."
He rolled her onto her stomach and ordered, "Climb up on your knees."
She complied, and he centered himself and pushed in from behind, both of them gasping as he filled her.
"You make this all so easy," he said, and she chuckled.
"Do I?"
"Yes, you do, but I don't understand you." "Good. I like being a mystery."
"But it means that I can't let you go till I've figured you out." "All right."
"It may take me days or weeks or months." "I hope so."
She shut her eyes and offered a prayer that her visit wound up on the long end of his estimation.
"You can't return to Charles Prescott. I won't permit it."
"I won't. I can't."
"Promise me."
"I promise."
At her vow, he began thrusting, penetrating to the hilt, then retreating, keeping on and on with the wild abandon she craved. Eventually, he came again, and they both fell onto the mattress, his large body pleasantly crushing hers.
