Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (26 page)

"Yes, she has." Suddenly, she abhorred Lavinia's attempts at enlightenment. Penelope would much rather have been completely in the dark.

"I like to have sex several times a day," he bragged, "and I take my pleasure any way it suits me. Some men are more polite with their spouses and have their mistresses do all the dirty work, but not me. I make every lover—be she wife or whore—perform the same deeds."

He stroked the filthy appendage across her lips. "Lick the end, Penelope."

She was in matrimonial hell, and the vows hadn't even been spoken yet! "I can't; I can't."

"You can and you will. You'll do as I've requested— at once—or I shall beat you, and then you'll have to do it anyway. Isn't it better to simply comply?"

He would beat her? With her being trussed like a Christmas goose, how could she prevent him?

She relented and dabbed at the tip with her tongue.

"There now," he soothed, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I feel like I'm going to retch!"

"No retching will ever be permitted. Any display of repugnance will result in the whipping I promised."

"I can't help it if I'm disgusted by you."

"I don't mind if you're disgusted. I only demand that you learn to hide it." He touched her with his phallus again. "Lick me again, and keep at it until I tell you to stop."

She heaved a frustrated sigh, but did as he'd ordered, continuing on as moisture oozed from the end, which she couldn't abide.

"Enough!" she declared. "Do something else. Put me out of my misery."

He drew away and slid down her body, and after widening her thighs, he centered himself at her sheath, then wedged into the folds. He started pushing in, and he wasn't even looking at her. He couldn't care less that it was she. His partner could have been any anonymous female, and it dawned on her that, deep down, she'd wanted a husband who adored her, but the insight came much too late.

"You're hurting me," she complained.

"I couldn't possibly be. I haven't done anything."

"It will never fit."

"It'll fit fine, but it will be very tight, which is just how I like it."

He increased the pressure, cramming in another inch, and another.

"Jesus," he nagged, "you're dry as an old hag."

"I am not!"

"You are, but it's all right. It extends the moment for me."

Sweat popped out on his brow, his shoulders and arms quaking with the effort, when abruptly, he burst through the barrier. She arched up and cried out, but he clapped a hand over her mouth, stifling her distress.

He thrust into her as if she'd had sex a thousand times prior, and as she endured the deluge, she could almost see the money from her dowry flowing into his bank account—until he had everything and she had nothing.

After an eternity, he concluded the indecent business. With a loud grunt of satisfaction, his seed flooded her womb, and she imagined it taking root, planting a babe that would make her grow ugly and fat. She shivered with dread, praying that it would never happen— or if it did that she could find a competent, ruthless barber.

Eventually, the torture ceased, and he rolled off her and smugly gazed at the ceiling. When he finally glanced over at her, he seemed surprised, as if he'd forgotten she was present.

"Untie me," she commanded.

"Certainly."

He reached over and tugged at the knots. The belt fell away, and she curled into a ball, rubbing her abused wrists.

She was stunned and revolted. Was this to be her future? Was she to spend the rest of her days trapped in a bedchamber with this selfish, cruel oaf?

The prospect didn't bear contemplating.

"I love fucking virgins," he crudely said.

"Shut up."

"Your mother won't be able to keep us apart."

"No, she won't," she glumly concurred. Belatedly, she wished Lavinia had been a tad more strict, that she had heeded her mother's admonitions.

He slapped her on the bottom. "Get up, and fetch a towel."

"Why?"

"Because I'm covered with your maiden's blood, and I want you to clean it up."

"I'm not your servant. Get it yourself."

He slapped her bottom again, more forcefully. "Do as you're told—or I'll be very angry."

She climbed out of bed and teetered over to the dressing room. As she peered at herself in the mirror, a huge wave of disappointment swamped her, and she was crushed by the recognition that she'd made a hideous error in judgment, that none of her dreams would ever come true.

"What's taking you so long?" he barked.

She hurried to the washbasin, dipped a cloth, and scampered back to him.

Her nose wrinkled in revulsion; she wiped him down, not touching him more than she had to. When she was finished, she dropped the cloth on the floor and glared.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Now you get back into bed with me."

"I don't want to."

"So?" He patted the mattress, indicating that she didn't have a choice. "I'm too sore." "I don't care."

He dragged her to him, refusing to let her disobey, and she conceded the fight. He was so much older, so much more confident and assured, and she had no idea how to best him. But she'd learn how—and soon!

She lay there, stiff as a board, and as he snuggled himself on top of her, tears leaked from her eyes.

"Why are you bawling?"

"Because I'm sad."

"Why would you be sad? You're about to receive your heart's desire—which is marriage to me!" "But you don't love me."

"Of course, I don't love you," he bluntly replied. "This is a business transaction. Nothing more."

"I thought it would be different," she sniffed.

"Well, it's not. This isn't some juvenile fantasy. This is real life."

He yanked at her legs, his cock hard and eager. "I can't possibly do it again," she protested. "Yes, you can. You have to. In fact, we're going to do it over and over, until you start to get the hang of it." He entered her and began to flex.

Chapter Nineteen

Mrs. Prescott, you say?" "Yes." Margaret kept her face carefully blank, not reacting to the fake surname she'd adopted as her own. In the period since she'd left Gray's Manor, it had occurred to her that she'd get on much better as a widow than she would as a single woman.

When she'd initially been asked, she could have assumed any identity in the kingdom, but for some perverse reason she'd selected Prescott without hesitation. She couldn't figure out why she'd chosen Lord Romsey's family name, but Mrs. Prescott she'd picked, and Mrs. Prescott it would be from this moment on.

The proprietress of the boardinghouse pushed open the door to a dingy room, and Margaret stepped in. Foul odors assailed her, as if the rubbish from the prior tenant hadn't been cleaned out.

She looked around, too distraught to fret over how low she'd fallen, or to wonder if her fortunes could plummet even further.

"What do you think?" the proprietress inquired.

There was a rickety cot in the corner, a dilapidated dresser along the wall, and a narrow slit of a window. It was tiny and dirty and pitiful.

"I'll take it."

The woman nodded. "Rent is due on the first."

"That's fine." Margaret handed over the appropriate amount, shielding a wince at how rapidly her cash was disappearing.

"If you don't pay on that day, I'll set your things out on the street. So don't forget."

"I won't."

"Meals are at six and six. I can't abide slackers, so don't be late or you'll go hungry." "I understand."

"I'll expect you to work, too. I won't tolerate sloth, so widow or no, you'll have to get a job straightaway." "I intend to be gainfully employed," Margaret boasted. "At what? What could you possibly know how to do?" "I'm a teacher."

"A teacher! My lands! What next?"

"I'm positive there will be students in the area."

"People are poor as church mice. Who could afford such an extravagance?"

"You'd be surprised," Margaret bravely contended. "Everyone wants to improve their children. I'm certain I won't have any trouble."

The woman departed, and Margaret put her satchel on the dresser and went to the window, rubbing at the grime till she could peer outside. Off in the distance, she could see the hills through which she'd just traveled. She'd come such a long way, had caught rides with farmers, with teamsters, had walked and walked.

She'd wanted to keep moving, to the ends of the earth and beyond, but she'd grown too weary to continue.

She'd changed directions, had gone left, then right, then left again. She was determined to vanish, to never be found by anyone who might search—not that anyone ever would.

Previously, she'd been a good person, had tried her best to be kind and helpful, to be friendly and cooperative, but where had it gotten her? She'd lost everything, so she'd decided that the spinster from Sussex, Miss Margaret Gray, would cease to exist. In her place, a new woman had emerged, a tougher, wiser woman, the very private widow, Mrs. Margaret Prescott.

She sat on the lumpy mattress and pulled out a crust of bread, a remnant from her supper the night before. As she nibbled on it, the quiet pressed down on her, and she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears, each beat reverberating his name—Jordan—through skin and bone.

"How could you leave me like this?" she murmured. "How could you do this to me?"

But it was fruitless to ponder why, pointless to question Fate.

She opened her purse and counted the last of her coins. The small pile panicked her, but she tamped down any anxiety. This was to be her life now—this silent, terrible world where there was only struggle and deprivation—and it was futile to brood over her plight.

The owner of the boardinghouse hated indolence, and so did Margaret. She had to establish herself in the village, had to find a way to make do, but the notion of expending any energy was too much to contemplate.

I'll survive this, she told herself. / will.

She lay down, her head burrowed in her hands. Her empty stomach rumbled, and she stared at the grubby wall, a single tear dripping down her cheek.

Here it is!" Lavinia crowed in triumph. "What?" Jordan moaned groggily and rolled over to glare at her through bloodshot eyes. "The Special License! The Special License!" She waved it like a flag of surrender. "My footman rode all night so I'd have it this morning. The vicar is on his way, so haul your ass out of bed. You're about to be married."

With great relish, she yanked at the drapes, sunlight flooding in, and he howled in anguish and hid under the covers.

"Lavinia!" he snarled. "Have mercy! Please!"

"Get up! Get up!" she nagged. "Time's wasting!"

"I have the worst hangover in history," he grouched. "If you don't go away—at once—you're putting yourself in mortal danger."

She marched to the dressing room and located a shirt and trousers; then she rushed back and tossed the clothes at him, which caused him to stir and sit up. His hair was standing on end, his skin pasty, his brow sweating, and he looked about to keel over.

"What will it take to get you moving?" she demanded.

"There's nothing you can do. Just drag me out to the woods and shoot me."

There was a decanter of brandy on the floor, and she poured a tall glass and gave it to him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Hair of the dog. Drink it down. You'll feel better."

He scowled at it, his pallor increasing, but ultimately, he chugged it in one gulp. Then he shuddered and collapsed onto the pillow.

"I'll expect you downstairs in thirty minutes," she warned, "to say your vows. I don't care if you bathe. I don't care if you shave. I don't care if you have to be carried in on a stretcher. Just be there."

She whirled away to hurry out.

"Where are you going?" he managed.

"I have to make sure Penelope is up." His eyes started to close, and she barked, "Don't you dare fall back to sleep, or I swear I'll bring the vicar up here, and we'll hold the ceremony with you lying there naked."

She stomped out and down to the front parlor, issuing commands about hasty flower bouquets, chairs, and food. Begrudgingly, she'd decided on a blasé attempt at having a real celebration, but it was for the minister's benefit, so that he wouldn't deem the event odd.

With preparations proceeding, she gestured for two maids to follow her to Penelope's bedchamber, and her glee was so immense that she could barely keep from skipping down the hall.

At Penelope's door, she paused and frowned, stunned to note that it wasn't locked. Had the horrid child sneaked out? Had she run away?

Lavinia spun the knob and entered, the two maids hot on her heels, when she stopped in her tracks. She blinked and blinked, her mind working furiously, but she couldn't make sense of the scene before her.

Penelope was nude and on her knees, clutching the headboard, as Charles thrust into her from behind. Lavinia tried to tell herself that she'd stumbled on a rape, that Charles had crept in and taken what couldn't be his, but they both glanced over and grinned.