Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (27 page)

Charles halted, chuckling with feigned embarrassment. He drew away from Penelope and slid onto the mattress, snuggling her down with him. They lay on their sides, facing Lavinia.

Time seemed suspended as the pair froze, letting her have a good look at what they'd done; then Charles grabbed a blanket, tugging it over their privates as if they were posed in a shocking painting.

"Oh, my dear Lord," one of the maids mumbled, which prodded Lavinia to react.

She whipped around, desperate to keep them from seeing, but it was too late. Both women gawked at the spectacle.

"Get out of here!" Lavinia hissed. "And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, you'll answer to me. The least of your problems will be your immediate termination. Do I make myself clear?"

They curtsied and fled, but Lavinia was aghast to find a footman staring in, too. How would she keep the scandal quiet? How would she prevent the spread of gossip?

She'd never marry an earl, would never become a countess. She'd spend the remainder of her life as the poor relative, tagging after Penelope. Her only other choice would be to wed Robert, to live out her days in pathetic, rural obscurity.

Her dreams had crumbled to ashes, and she was insane with rage. Anger raced through her, the likes of which she'd never experienced. She slammed the door and advanced on them, fully capable of committing murder, and she wondered which one would be first.

"Lavinia, old girl"—Charles tried to appear contrite but failed—"can you believe what's happened? I've been swept away by passion."

"Passion? Is that what you call it?"

"I couldn't wait. I beg you to accept my humblest apologies."

"You think you can offer a tepid apology and make this all right? How could you do this to me?"

"To you? I didn't do anything to you."

"You've had sex with my daughter!"

"So? You've been trying to snag her a husband. Now you have—and with very little effort. You should be happy."

"Happy? Happy?" She was screeching like a banshee, but she couldn't stop.

"I informed you of how badly I desired her. Did you assume I was joking?" He patted the mattress in invitation. "Why don't you join us? We can still have the menage a trois you promised me."

Quaking with wrath, she glared at Penelope. "Get out of that bed."

"No."

"I am your mother, and I'm not going to tell you again. Get out!"

"No! I've been ruined and the whole world's witnessed it, so Lord Kettering and I have to marry. There's nothing you can do about it, and I don't have to listen to you anymore." Her triumphant gaze was cruel and hard. "I'm about to be a countess. Me! Not you! Couldn't you just die of envy?"

"I wanted him for myself!" Lavinia seethed. "You knew I did!"

"Well, he didn't want you back, did he? I told you: You're too old for him."

"Ladies, ladies," Charles chimed in, "let's not quarrel. There's plenty for everyone." He patted the mattress again. "Come, Lavinia. I was about to teach your daughter how to perform fellatio—which I'm sure she'll hate—so you can hold her down while I proceed."

Lavinia studied Penelope, and a loud buzzing rattled in her ears, and it grew and grew till it drowned out every other sound. Her vision clouded over, a red haze enveloping her.

Like an automaton, she lurched forward, her arms outstretched, a roar gurgling from her mouth. She leapt onto the bed, seized Penelope by the throat, and began to squeeze with all her might.

Jordan stood at the window, watching for the vicar to ride up the lane. His head was pounding, his hands shaking, and his stomach roiled from his hangover, but despite his physical misery, his mind was incredibly sharp. How could he have known that his night of overindulgence could lead to a morning of such clarity?

He thought about Margaret. Where was she? What was she doing? Did she miss him? Was she thinking of him and pining away—as was he?

He couldn't believe she was gone, that he couldn't march down the hall, stroll into her bedchamber, and see her waiting for him. Her absence in the house was like a tangible wound, the space she'd occupied seeming to pulsate with the dreadful reminder of how she'd been wronged.

How could he have spurned her over something as frivolous as money? How could he have let her go without a fight? She was the only person who'd ever cared about him, the only person who'd ever loved him, and he'd let her walk away.

He had to find her! At once! Had to track her down and beg her to take him back, to build the life she'd been positive they could create.

To hell with Lavinia, and Penelope, and her fat dowry, and their wedding!

If anyone had ever deserved to be left at the altar, wasn't it Penelope?

Margaret had insisted that he could choose happiness over money, that he could choose contentment over duty, and she was correct. He could. So why not do it? Why not grab for the sole thing he ever truly wanted? What was stopping him?

A frantic excitement beating in his breast, he pulled on his jacket and raced for the stairs. Someone had to know where she was, and he intended to bully and nag and sweet-talk until he learned of her location. Then he'd go to her, would plead and grovel until he was forgiven.

He ran out onto the stoop, awhirl with plans, when he noticed a teamster's delivery wagon in front of the barn. Three bedraggled children—who looked lost and frightened—were standing next to it, and he lurched to a halt, his elevated disposition dashed in an instant.

It was his twin half brothers, ten-year-old Johnny and Tim, plus a tiny girl he'd never seen before. She was sucking her thumb and clutching a ragged doll, observing him with wide, poignant eyes. Tim pointed to Jordan and whispered something to an aged, grizzled driver who leapt down from the box and stalked over.

"These young 'uns," he started without preamble, "say as how they're kin to you."

"They are," Jordan answered. Jordan knew the boys were related, but he wasn't certain about the girl, though he wasn't about to deny her to this stranger.

"I found 'em alone, on the road."

"On the road?"

"Yes, so I went four days out of my way to see 'em here safe and sound." "Thank you."

The man was extremely angry, his furious glare condemning.

"What?" Jordan asked. "What is it?"

"You may be a high-and-mighty lord," the driver accused, "but I have no tolerance for the abuse of children. You ought to be ashamed."

"What do you mean?"

"The little lassie's in an awful state. See to her."

He turned and stomped to his wagon, muttered something to the twins, patted the girl on the shoulder, then climbed up and clicked the reins. As he lumbered off, Jordan walked to the trio, and they scrutinized him warily, obviously terrified over what he might say or do.

"Hello, sir," Tim said, stepping forward.

"Hello, Tim."

"I'm sorry we've arrived like this, but we hadn't anywhere to go."

"We didn't know what to do," Johnny added.

Jordan was mortified. He'd been so busy with lusting after Margaret that he'd never responded to the housekeeper who'd written, inquiring about them, and this was the result. His brothers—children of an earl, siblings of a viscount—had been tossed out to wander

England's back roads, hoping someone would take them in.

"It's quite all right." He struggled to keep "his emotions in check. "I'm glad you came to me." He gazed down at the girl. "And who's this?"

"Our sister, Mary."

He squatted down so that they were eye-to-eye. "Hello, Mary. I'm your older brother Jordan."

She didn't reply but stared and stared in a vacant, unnerving way. He glanced up at the boys.

"She doesn't talk anymore," Tim explained.

"Why not?" Jordan asked.

"We don't know," Johnny offered. "She's never lived with us, but someone dropped her off the morning before we were sent away, so we brought her along."

Gently, Johnny lifted her wrist, pushed at the sleeve of her tattered dress, and showed Jordan her arm. There were round, festering scab marks that made it appear she'd been burned with a lit cheroot. Jordan's stomach churned, his temper flared.

"We couldn't leave her behind," Tim said.

"No, you couldn't."

"Can we stay with you, sir?" Johnny entreated. "Just for a bit till we can figure out where to go next? I promise we won't eat very much."

"And we'll watch over Mary," Tim vowed. "She won't be any trouble. I swear it."

Jordan rose and peered down the road to where Margaret had to have traveled when she'd departed Gray's Manor. Would there ever come a day when she'd understand the pressures that were motivating him? Would she ever comprehend the burdens that weighed him down?

Happiness and contentment were for idiots and fools. He had to care for these children, as well as the rest who were scattered across the country, had to see to their welfare and ensure their safety and security. They couldn't continue on, cast to the vagaries of fate.

"Of course, you can stay," he murmured. "For as long as necessary."

"Thank you, sir," both boys chimed soberly, though Mary had no reaction.

"You've come at the very best time, too," he said, trying to lighten the solemn moment. "I'm getting married! In a few minutes. You can help me celebrate." He herded them toward the kitchens. "Have you had breakfast?"

"No."

"Well then, let's feed you; then we'll get you settled."

He ushered them inside and deposited them with an older, matronly housemaid; then he proceeded to the front parlor and sat, morose and stunned, his head in his hands, his mood at its lowest ebb.

What had he ever done to deserve a better ending? He wished the vicar would hurry, that the entire, sordid affair could be wrapped up as quickly as possible. Why delay the inevitable?

He peeked up, looking for a clock to see the hour, when he noticed Anne loitering in the threshold.

"May I interrupt?" she inquired.

In his vile condition, he didn't want to speak with anyone, but he said, "Certainly."

She turned to someone in the hall and urged, "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not," a man answered. "I should have stopped this years ago."

"I've known Jordan forever," she explained. "He's very fair, and he'll give you good advice."

"I just hope I don't lose my boys over this." The man's voice was tremulous, as if he was on the verge of tears.

"Why would you?" Anne responded. "It was none of your doing."

"I should have guessed, though. How could anyone assume I didn't know what was happening?"

"But you didn't. Now come."

Jordan's curiosity was piqued as Anne entered, followed by Mr. Mason, Lavinia's handsome neighbor. Mason had seemed smitten by Lavinia—poor fellow!— but with how he was regarding Anne, Jordan was no longer sure of anything.

"Jordan, I believe you've met Mr. Mason."

"Yes, I have." He was too miserable to stand as courtesy required, so he merely gestured to the opposite sofa. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Mr. Mason has something to tell you, something you must know before you marry Miss Gray."

"You'd better make it fast," Jordan said. "The vicar should be here any second."

"To start the ceremony?"

"Yes."

Anne rested a reassuring hand on Mason's shoulder. "It will be all right." "I doubt that."

"You two should talk alone. I'll be outside if you need me."

She exited and shut the door, and as an awkward silence ensued, Jordan's annoyance boiled to rage.

Obviously, Mason had a horrid story to share about Penelope. It would prove to Jordan that he shouldn't marry her, and Jordan couldn't bear to listen. He didn't need Mason supplying him with reasons not to proceed—he had too many of his own—but with the arrival of his half siblings, no other conclusion was possible.

"Well?" he snapped. "Get on with it." "Lavinia's done a terrible thing." "Why am I not surprised?"

Mason reached into a satchel he'd brought and retrieved some papers. "Anne—that is, Mrs. Smythe— felt I should confide in you."

"You're awfully friendly with Anne all of a sudden."

Mason glared, but didn't jump to fill the opening Jordan had furnished. If the pair had sexual secrets, Mason wasn't about to divulge them, and he instantly rose in Jordan's esteem.

"I take full responsibility for my failure to act," Mason declared, "and I'll accept any punishment that is leveled."

"A very gallant speech, Mr. Mason, but what have you failed to do?"

"Did you know Lavinia's husband, Horatio Gray?" "No."

"When he died, he was incredibly wealthy. He left the women of this family very well-off."

"I'm aware of that fact. That's why I'm here."

"What you don't know is that he arranged three trust funds. One for Lavinia. One for Penelope." He paused, gathering his courage. "And one for Margaret Gray, whom Mr. Gray loved as his own daughter."