by Cheryl Holt
When she'd been in love with him, she'd felt so alive, brimming with joy and hope, and since she'd left Gray's Manor, everything seemed so tepid and dreary. She yearned for those heady days of lust and ardor, when she'd been so eager to cast caution to the wind.
Did he ever fondly recollect that period? Did he ever miss her?
She studied Mr. Thumberton's blunt account, committing the words to memory: Lord Romsey has intensified his search for a bride. .. due to family history, having no success. .. residing in London with younger siblings ... quite destitute ...
As she reached the final paragraph, she frowned and sat up in her chair. Jordan had an appointment with a sixteen-year-old American whose parents were keen to buy her a British title. Thumberton described her as pretty, sweet, and biddable, and with her parents being foreigners, they hadn't been privy to many of the rumors, so they were more inclined toward Jordan than others had been.
Margaret struggled to picture Jordan with a fetching, docile bride, but she couldn't get the vision to gel. Whenever she dared to ponder, it was always herself she saw standing next to him. How could an impressionable debutante presume to be his partner? When he was so virile and exceptional, how could a child be a viable match for him?
Disturbed by the tidings, she stood and paced, but she couldn't find any comfort on the terrace. She entered the quiet mansion and glanced toward the grand staircase that led up to so many empty bedrooms. Jordan had never confided how many half siblings he had, and she speculated about them. Where were they? Who were they? How old were they?
She visualized rowdy boys running and shouting down the corridors, and cute girls twirling through the parlors in frilly party dresses. Their presence would create noise and commotion, chaos and bustle.
She walked out to the verandah and penned a note to Mr. Thumberton, explaining her plan; then she went in to speak with the housekeeper.
"Would you have a footman deliver this letter right away?" she inquired, handing over the sealed missive. "Then instruct the maids to pack my bags. I'm going to town for a while." For the first time in ages, she smiled. "If I'm very lucky, I'll be bringing someone home with me."
Chapter Twenty-four
In here, sir." A courteous butler escorted Jordan into a frilly salon decorated in feminine shades of pink and gold that made him uncomfortable.
"I was told," the butler confided, "that you enjoy a brandy now and again, so I fetched several varieties. Would you like me to pour you one?" "Yes, thank you."
The casual remark was disconcerting. Who was his hostess, and how did she know that he preferred a brandy in the afternoon?
He didn't suppose he should have a drink, but he was suffering from the worst case of nerves. Mr. Thumberton's note regarding an heiress's sudden request for a meeting had been enigmatic and brief, but too tempting to ignore. Jordan had washed, dressed, and rushed over.
The butler gestured to a table in the corner, where there were numerous decanters of liquor.
"Have you a preference?" he asked.
"Any of them is fine."
The man filled a glass and handed it to him. "May I get you anything else?" "No."
"Then my mistress bids you make yourself at home. She'll be with you shortly."
He bowed and exited, closing the drawing room doors, and Jordan sat in a chair by the window, sipping his beverage as the silence settled around him.
On a second table, there were trays of cheeses, meats, and pastries—enough to feed an army. He enviously studied the victuals, ashamed to realize that he'd steal some of the food when he left. He had several boys living with him, and they were always hungry, so pride and scandal be damned. He'd take it for his siblings and to hell with what others thought of the deed.
He sighed, reflecting miserably on his low circumstances—he'd been reduced to thievery from a rich stranger!—but his ruminations were too perturbing. He rose and wandered about, snooping at the books on the shelves, the paintings on the walls, trying to form an impression of the affluent owner.
Across the room, a door opened to an inner chamber, and it was slightly ajar. He peeked through the crack, when he noticed that someone was inside. It was a woman, humming to herself and ... and ... bathing!
He paused, aware that he should shift away, but something masculine and ferocious kept him locked in place.
Was it the heiress who had summoned him? It had to be, and she had to know he was in the adjoining chamber. Did she want him to see her? Discovery had to be her intent, but why?
He leaned in, and he could make out the large silver tub in which she reclined, naked, her back to him. Her hair was a rich auburn—very much like Margaret Gray's had been—and it was piled high on her head, a few delectable strands tumbling down in an adorable way that tantalized him.
Without warning, she stood, the water sluicing down her rump and thighs. She let him look his fill—on purpose, it seemed—then she bent over and grabbed for a towel that was just out of reach. He was afforded a shocking and erotic view of her bottom and privates, and he was jolted with a stab of desire that was so painful it almost doubled him over.
Clearly, she was displaying her numerous charms, and there were many. She had broad shoulders, a tiny waist, curved hips, and long, slender legs. He felt as if he were at a fair and had stumbled into a strange bazaar of fleshly delights. She was obviously schooled in the sexual arts and wanted to demonstrate that she was. To what end? Was she hunting for some sort of male stud? Was he to be groomed and trotted out to show what she'd been able to purchase with all her money?
Very slowly, very deliberately, she glanced around, and he nearly fainted with astonishment. If the Queen, herself, had been there, he couldn't have been more surprised.
"Hello, Jordan," Margaret said.
With no hint of modesty, she turned to face him. Her fabulous body was fully exhibited, and though it was wrong to stare, he couldn't stop.
He'd always considered her to be the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, and nothing had occurred to change that fact. If anything, she now had an air of elegance and sophistication that made her even more alluring.
"Hello, Miss Gray. Or is it still Mrs. Prescott?"
When he'd found her in Cornwall after so much frantic searching, he'd been apprised that she'd adopted the false name, but he'd never learned why she had.
"It's Miss Gray"—she flashed a sly smile—"for now."
"Was it you who sent for me?"
"Yes."
"Why would you?"
"Don't you know?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea."
"Really?"
"No."
Her gaze meandered down his torso, evaluating him in what could only be a carnal fashion, and he was startled by her blatant assessment. When he'd first met her, she'd been a sheltered virgin and spinster. From where had this aggressive, assertive female sprung?
Her lusty confidence fascinated him, but it suggested a passionate history that he couldn't bear to ponder. In those fleeting, forlorn moments when he allowed himself to reminisce, he liked to remember her as the enticing, frank, and lonely woman she'd been, and he never permitted his memories to age or alter her.
Evidently, there were many things about her that were different. He'd seen her once in an entire year, and he hadn't a clue how she'd spent the intervening months. Since they'd last spoken, perhaps she'd had a dozen lovers.
"Would you fetch my towel for me?" she asked. "I can't seem to reach it"
"I don't think I ought." He wrenched his eyes away and forced himself toward the door. "If you'll excuse me..."
"Actually, I don't excuse you, and I desperately need that towel."
He whipped around, feeling like an insect trapped under a glass. "I don't understand this, and I can't assist you."
"What's to understand?" "You're naked." "Yes, I am." "Why?"
"Because I'm bathing."
"But you knew I was coming! You knew I'd look in and see you!"
"I
admit it." She laughed a sultry laugh. "I'm trying to seduce you, but if you can't tell, I guess I'm doing a lousy job."
She climbed out of the tub, all that wet, slippery skin just a few feet away, and his anatomy responded as he might have expected. Instantly, he was hard as stone.
She approached until they were toe-to-toe. Brazenly, she snuggled herself to him, and she couldn't help but bump into his erection.
Arrogant as sin, she cocked a brow. "Maybe I'm having more success than I realized."
He enjoyed a touch of boldness in a female, but from her, when he recollected her as being so sweet and innocent, it was too much. If she'd suddenly sprouted another head, he couldn't have been more disoriented.
He physically lifted her and set her away so that she wasn't pressed to him.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I told you: I'm trying to seduce you."
"But... why?"
It had been so long since a woman had gazed at him with ardor and affection that he could scarcely recall what he was supposed to do. After his prior transgressions toward her, he'd sworn to improve his conduct, and he'd made good on his vow.
His life was so boring, and so celibate, that he could have joined a monastery and fit right in with the other monks.
"I haven't seen you in ages," she said. "No, you haven't." "Have you missed me?"
Every minute of every day, he thought, but he was too proud to confess how wretched he'd been. He was haunted by visions of how he'd stumbled on her in that hovel, so he never let her slither into his consciousness.
He would not remember! He would not pine away over what was never meant to be! A man could drive himself crazy with that type of spurious hunger.
"No, I haven't missed you," he lied. "Not at all. Is that why you brought me here? Is that what you needed to know?"
"May I share a little secret?"
"If you feel you must."
"I've missed you every second."
"You couldn't possibly have."
In his quest for her cousin's money, he'd hurt and shamed her, had ruined and forsaken her, and in the end, he didn't even receive the blasted cash. It had all been for naught, another one of the universe's cruel jests. He'd lost her, he'd lost the money, and he'd lost what minimal self-respect he'd harbored.
Though he'd constantly tried to deny it, he was an exact replica of his father, an ass, a cad, an untrustworthy manipulator, and he didn't deserve any continuing fondness from her. He didn't even deserve common civility, and he couldn't fathom why she was offering it.
"From the moment I left Gray's Manor," she claimed, "I kept waiting for you to find me. I was positive you'd come to your senses and track me down."
"In light of the trouble I caused you, it's fairly clear how much sense I have, which I'd say is close to none, at all."
"I agree, so I decided I had to take matters into my own hands."
With each word, she was sidling nearer until she was pressed to him, once more. She was determined to torment him with her nudity, and his body reacted violently, his phallus throbbing with need, his heart pounding with excitement. He didn't think he could set her away again.
He'd always lusted after her, and apparently, neither time nor distance had quelled his desire.
She started unbuttoning his trousers, and though he realized it was wrong and he shouldn't participate, the male animal within insisted that there was no reason to stop her.
"Are you mad?" he snapped.
"Perhaps."
"If you keep on, you know what will happen." "Here's hoping."
The last button fell away, the placard loose, and she slipped her fingers inside, gliding them around his cock and caressing the proof of how easily she could still titillate him.
She smirked. "Quit pretending you haven't missed me."
"What if I have? What of it?"
"You used to be such a randy fellow. What must I do to ignite a fire under you?"
She dropped to her knees and tugged him free, and she licked him over and over, then sucked him into her mouth. He watched her, his conscience at war with his beastly capabilities, and his base nature won the argument.
He could no more have called a halt than he could have kept the sun from rising.
A year of suppressed rage and disgrace bubbled to the surface, and in a single motion, he lifted her and propelled her back against the wall. Her legs circled his waist as he initiated a stormy kiss, pouring out all of the anger and regret he couldn't speak of aloud.
She joined in the tempestuous embrace, meeting him with equal passion, with equal remorse for what had been forfeit due to his stupid obsession with finding a wealthy bride.
His fixation had cost him Margaret, and since he'd never loved anyone before her, he hadn't grasped how terrible it would be after she had gone. The world without her was lonely and unbearable, and he truly had no idea how he'd carried on.
He needed her as he needed air to breathe, or water to drink, yet as he ripped at his trousers, as he centered himself and plunged into her, he knew she could never be his. Despite how fervently he wished it were otherwise, his bad behavior cursed them both, and they could never move beyond it.
He thrust, again, again, his phallus demanding satiation, but he couldn't do it to her. If he spilled himself, she'd be bound to him, and he wouldn't force her into such an untenable quandary.
Plunging deep, he relished the final sensation; then he pulled away and her feet slid to the floor. He hovered next to her, his face buried at her nape, his respiration ragged, his pulse hammering in his chest, when she did the worst thing of all. She hugged him, cradling him close, her fingers riffling through his hair and stroking up and down his back.
He yearned to stay just there, to stay forever in the comfort of her arms.
"What is it, Jordan?" she quietly inquired.
"I can't do this with you."
He drew away and gazed down at her, for once letting his love shine through, letting her see it without pretense, without masks.
"I have to go." He whirled away, buttoned his trousers, and walked out.
In the fussy salon, he tarried, straightening his clothes and calming his arousal, when she came up behind him. He spun around, relieved to note that she'd covered herself with a robe, that temptation was veiled, though the wrapper did little good. He desired her more than ever.
"Why can't you do this with me?" she queried.
"You should have a husband and a family and .. . and..."
"Yes, I should." She smiled. "Don't you know why I summoned you?" "No."
"You had to have received my invitation from Mr. Thumberton."
"Yes, but he claimed there was an heiress who wanted to discuss marriage."
"There is, you silly man. / want to discuss marriage with you."
"With me? Why would you?" She chuckled. "Sometimes I think you are the thickest creature who ever lived."
"I'm not thick; I'm just so confused." "By what?"
"Why would you ask me here?" He peered around at the ostentatious surroundings, where she now seemed so at ease and he felt so out of place. "Why would you want me?"
"Because I love you."
He snorted in disbelief. "You don't."
"I do, and I'm weary of waiting for you to figure out that we should be together."
"But I abandoned you. I renounced you. My folly nearly got you killed. How could you possibly still care about me?"
"It's simple really." She led him out into the hall, urging him to look around. "Do you see anyone out there?" "No."
"Well, this is how I pass my days. I wander through these huge houses that I own, wishing I had someone to talk to."
"You imagine that it could be me?"
"I know it could be you." She hesitated. "You used to care for me, too. I was sure of it, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe, all these months, I was remembering how I'd wanted it to be, rather than how it was."
"Oh, Margaret..."
He went to the
window to stare out at the garden. He'd convinced himself that he'd wrecked any chance with her, that he'd made a mistake he could never fix, and he didn't know how to view their relationship any other way.
The moment grew awkward, and finally, she sighed with resignation. "If you don't love me, if you never did, just tell me. I'll never bother you again."
He pictured himself as such a brave man. Why then was it so difficult to verbalize what she needed to hear? He turned to her.
"I do love you." The confession was wrenched from the pit of his soul. "I've always loved you."
"Then what is the matter?" His stubbornness had sparked her temper, and she glared, developing a fine fury. "I'm presenting you with everything you've ever wanted—practically on a silver platter!—yet you're gaping at me as if I'm speaking in a foreign language."
"I have to marry for money!" he seethed, embarrassed at having to remind her.
"And I have so much, more than I could ever want, more than I could ever spend."
"You're offering it to me?"
"Yes! Yes! Must I spell it out for you? Marry me, and it's yours. Please take it! I'm begging you! Rescue me from this prison of silence and solitude. Give me laughter. Give me friendship. Give me a family. I'm tired of being so alone."
"There must be strings attached. What are they?"
"Oh, for pity's sake." She tossed up her hands. "You were prepared to wed Penelope—the most awful, unpleasant person I've ever known—without question or thought. Yet you dicker over details with me? You were set to marry someone you loathed, for her fortune. Why is it so hard for you to consider marrying me for love?"
Marrying for love . . .
The phrase hung in the air between them, a tangible concept that dangled, eager to be seized. Did he dare?
The prospect was so outlandish, and so unexpected, that he couldn't quite grasp the ramifications. He'd never believed that love was real. Love was the stuff of storybooks, of poetry and fairy tales. Yet he was so tempted to fall headlong into the beguiling, bewildering mire.
Why shouldn't he be happy? Why shouldn't he reach out and grab for what he craved? To love her, to marry her, to be with her always, would be his secret fantasy come true.
