Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (9 page)

"Yes."

He halted and straightened. "Do you think I care?"

Tears flooded her eyes, her shame escalating. "I can see that you don't."

"You're so foolish."

"I'm not! I wanted to please you."

"You're too immature to please me. Can't you grasp that fact?"

"Give me another chance!"

"Another chance! You'll be lucky if I don't take a switch to you. Don't you know anything about men? I could rape you without consequence. Maybe I should talk with your mother."

"But you asked me to ... to ..."

"Why would I have you as my bride? You'll have to provide me with a reason why I should bother." "I'm rich."

"And whores are cheap. I pay them when I'm finished, and I don't have to fuss with them again. If I married you, I'd have to chat with you over the breakfast table every morning for the rest of my life. At the moment, it doesn't seem like much of a bargain."

"I'd do whatever you demanded," she boasted. "I'd never complain."

"Wouldn't you? In light of what I've already observed, I'm convinced you'd be a constant pain in my ass."

"I could satisfy you better than any harlot."

"Now that I doubt." He clutched her nipple, squeezing till she winced. "I'm sick of you. Cover yourself, then go to the house before someone sees us."

"Perhaps I want someone to see us."

"I'd rather throw myself off a cliff than be caught with you."

She glared, wishing she'd had the foresight to bring a pistol with her. If she had, she'd have shot him right through the middle of his black heart.

"I hate you!" she seethed.

"No, you don't. You yearn to be a countess too badly. You're like a dog at a bone. Next time I'm alone, you'll show up to pester me."

"I won't. I'm quite certain of it. I never intend to speak to you again."

"Fine by me."

She stormed away, having been positive that he'd arrived at Gray's Manor because he was sniffing after her fortune. Every man in the world loved her because of her money, yet he acted as if her wealth had no meaning, as if it conferred no special status.

She reached the rear door and rushed to her room. Then she paced for hours, as she plotted and stewed. She would get even. She couldn't predict how or when, but she would, and when she did, he'd never be the same.

Anne Smythe sat at the table on the verandah, munching a scone, but her appetite had fled. From a parlor window, she'd spied as Penelope Gray had flitted into the woods, as Charles had sauntered after her. The horrid girl had just stomped back, and Anne could only imagine what Charles had done to her. He hadn't reappeared yet, but he would, and Anne pushed her plate away and went inside as Jordan was coming out.

"Anne"—he halted and scrutinized her—"are you all right?"

She shook her head. She was such a fool! Such a stupid, stupid fool! She'd persuaded herself that this occasion would be different, that Charles had been telling her the truth and they would finally marry.

"He's here because of Penelope Gray's dowry," she admitted. "He's going to try to ruin her and force a marriage."

"Of course, he is," Jordan agreed, though gently. "How could you have presumed he planned to do otherwise?" "I'm so sorry."

"Why should you be sorry? You're not his mother." "But I let him travel to Gray's Manor. I could have dissuaded him, or convinced him to visit elsewhere, but he said that. .. well... oh, it doesn't matter now."

"Why stay with him, Anne? Leave him. Stop tormenting yourself."

"And where would I go? I've been with him for two decades. This life is all I have, all I know."

"When I'm wed and settled," Jordan proposed, "you'd be welcome to come live with me."

He'd offered before, and she was ashamed to be forty years old and to recognize that it was her only option. "I'm sure your new bride will be happy to have Kettering's mistress as a permanent guest."

"Perhaps not, but we'll figure something out. I appreciate your loyalty to him. I'll always help you."

"I know." Out in the trees, she saw Charles strolling toward them, a confident grin on his face, and her rage surged. "You can't let him get away with this—for Miss Gray's sake as much as your own."

"I won't."

"How will you prevent it?"

"I'll talk to her mother. Don't worry."

"You should probably chat with her at once."

"I'll make it a point."

She continued on into the mansion, momentarily disoriented as she left the bright sunshine and entered the dim corridor. She dawdled, waiting for her vision to adjust, her temper to calm.

She'd been twenty years old and much too vulnerable when she'd cast her lot with Charles. Her fiancé had been killed in an accident, and her parents had both died within months of each other. She'd been on her own and frightened about the future.

In those days, Charles had been so much like Jordan, handsome and virile and so very masculine. He'd always possessed the heart of a charlatan, but in the beginning, she hadn't understood what he was like. She'd been bowled over, seduced by his promises, and she'd willingly allied herself with him. There'd been no coercion.

Because she'd loved him, she'd remained with him at twenty-five, at thirty. She'd been with him through several marriages, the other woman who hoped to eventually take center stage, but what was her excuse now when it was so obvious that her dreams would never come true?

As he chased after Penelope Gray, and prepared to humiliate Anne, once again, after swearing he wouldn't, why did she stay? What was the reason?

She had no idea.

Her world was collapsing, falling away brick by brick, and the notion made her feel wild and reckless.

She started down the hall, when she literally bumped into a man who'd been approaching from the other direction.

"Pardon me," he murmured as he steadied her.

He was a striking fellow, tall and dark, with brown hair and eyes. He was her own age, or a few years younger, and he was well built, his sturdy frame exhibiting a robust physique.

"The fault is mine," Anne insisted. "I apologize."

"Not necessary." He smiled. "I'm Robert Mason, Mrs. Gray's neighbor."

"Oh, hello, Mr. Mason."

"You must be Mrs. Smythe."

"Yes."

"I've heard a great deal about you." "How terrifying!"

"All of it good," he quickly added, which she knew was a lie.

It was scandalous in the extreme for Anne to have barged in at Gray's Manor, but it was a mark of Charles's notoriety that he'd been allowed to bring Anne into a gentlewoman's home and pass her off as a friend of the family.

Mr. Mason hadn't released her arm, and normally, she'd have been upset that he hadn't. With her being Charles's mistress, she was regularly the target of unsolicited attention, but in her current mood, she didn't mind.

It had been an eternity since a handsome man had noticed her, and if he wanted to tarry for the next hour—for the next day!—she was eager to oblige. In fact, in light of her restless emotional condition, she might agree to do anything he requested.

He frowned, studying her. "Have we met previously?"

"I'm sure we haven't."

"You're so familiar."

"I was thinking the very same."

She didn't know if he was speaking the truth, but on her end, the comment was false. There was nothing about him that she recognized, but she was content to linger and gaze into his exquisite brown eyes.

He noted that he was holding her arm, and he dropped it and moved away.

"It was very nice to bump into you," he said, amused.

"And you, as well."

She gave him a hot look that was impossible to misinterpret, and she was stunned by her audacity. She never behaved wantonly, never cheated on Charles or even flirted. Not once in all the time they'd been together. Yet suddenly, she'd practically propositioned a stranger.

Whatever the message she'd been sending, he received it with no difficulty. He rippled with surprise as he calculated her intent.

"I hope to see you again very soon," she boldly declared.

"I hope so, too."

"Are you ever about after supper?" "I'll make it a point to be." "Marvelous."

He nodded, confused but intrigued, and he walked on.

She left, too, heading for the stairs and away from Charles and the confines of her life that were slowly choking her to death.

Chapter Seven

Dammit!" At Jordan's curse, muttered in the adjacent chamber, Margaret jumped. A crash followed as, in a fit of temper, he smashed something against the wall.

She was amazed to hear him storming about. He always seemed so calm and collected, so in control of every word and action. What could have happened to put him in such a dither?

Tiptoeing to the door, she pressed her ear to the wood, listening as he let fly with a string of epithets. When he smashed another object, she couldn't resist spinning the knob and peeking in. Unfortunately, she hadn't paused to remember that he was in the dressing room, complete with hip bath, soaps, and towels. To her dismay—she refused to call it delight—she had stumbled upon him in the same state of undress in which he'd initially found her.

He was attired in a pair of tan breeches that fell to just below the knee. His shirt was missing, as were his shoes and stockings, and she couldn't help but gape.