Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (22 page)

"I must speak with him," Margaret insisted.

"Fine."

Lavinia bellowed for a servant, and momentarily a maid was dispatched to locate Jordan and fetch him to the library. Lavinia sat behind the desk, and they glared in silence until he marched down the hall. He entered without being announced, and as he walked in, he distanced himself from Margaret, several feet separating them.

He could have positioned himself right next to her— in a show of support—so she couldn't help but notice the slight, and she recognized what it indicated.

"You wanted to see me, Lavinia?" he inquired.

"Yes. Thank you for joining us. Have a seat."

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish."

Since he chose to stand, she and Lavinia had to, too, but Margaret's knees were so rubbery that she worried her legs wouldn't hold her. She rose, white-knuckled and gripping her chair for balance.

He greeted her indifferently. "Hello, Margaret."

"Lord Romsey."

"I've been searching everywhere for you," he alleged.

"Really?" Not bothering to glance at him, Margaret imbued her tone with as much boredom as she could muster.

"I thought we should discuss what transpired and ... maybe ... we could ..."

He stumbled to a halt. There was nothing he could say that would be appropriate, nothing he could share that ought to be voiced with Lavinia listening.

He scowled at Lavinia. "What is it you wanted?"

"I've informed Margaret of your pending nuptials with Penelope, but she refuses to believe me. Would you please apprise her of what has occurred?"

A painful interval ensued, as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, then mumbled, "It's true, Margaret."

She found the courage necessary to peer directly at him. In the past hour, he'd bathed and shaved. He was impeccably attired in a dark blue coat, a dazzling white shirt and cravat, and why shouldn't he be dressed to the nines?

Apparently, it was his wedding day. What man wouldn't like to be at his best?

He was too cowardly to return her gaze, but instead, stared at a point somewhere over Lavinia's shoulder, and Margaret snapped, "At least have the decency to look at me as you break my heart."

His cheeks reddened, and slowly, he spun toward her. The aloof aristocrat he'd initially been had reappeared with a vengeance. His expression mocked her, and there was no sign of the funny, wild, and charming man whom she'd adored beyond reason.

"How could I break your heart?" he coldly replied. "I made you no promises—as you made none to me."

"You said we could try to be together."

A hint of regret swept across his beautiful face. "When in the throes of passion, emotions can become jumbled."

"So you're claiming it was all lies? All of it? Did you ever care for me? Or was it just the sex?"

"Honestly, Margaret, I can't—"

"Answer me!" she demanded in a near shout.

He was unable to respond, and Lavinia interjected herself into the humiliating conversation.

"I merely explained to her," Lavinia said, "that a man will say many things when he's in the pursuit of— shall we call it—amusement? Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, I would," Jordan concurred.

"A man might even mean what he says at the time, while having no intention of acting on it later."

"Yes," he repeated.

"Why did you visit Gray's Manor?" Lavinia queried. "You invited me to meet Penelope." "When you consented, was it due to the size of her dowry?" "Yes."

"As you leave, will you be taking the money with you?" "

"A good portion of it has already been transferred into my name."

"Margaret isn't the first woman you've had sex with, is she?"

"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 protestations 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.