Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (19 page)

"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."

"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?"