Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  She seated herself behind his desk, and she utilized his writing supplies to pen a fake letter. After completing it, she dawdled, steeling herself for the pending discussion. Edward Paxton's future was rushing toward

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  him like a runaway carriage, and unfortunately for him, he wouldn't be able to halt the steady, unrelenting onset of his destiny.

  Presently, he approached, and she feigned deep concentration and worry, focusing on the false missive she clutched in her hand. He entered, and was nearly at the desk before he noticed her.

  "Margaret? I didn't see you."

  She blinked, as though disoriented. "Edward?"

  He studied her. "Is something amiss?"

  "Oh . . ." she responded, pretending great despair.

  "What it is?"

  She stroked her brow, as if weary and confused. "May I confide in you?"

  "Yes."

  "You wouldn't hold it against Olivia, would you?"

  "Olivia? Why, no. Why would you presume so?"

  "She's an innocent in all this."

  "Of course she is."

  Pondering, fretting, she made a small moue with her lips. "I'm at my wits' end," she murmured. "I don't know where to turn."

  "Tell me." He lugged over a chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, eager to listen.

  She offered him the faux letter she'd concocted. "I received it this morning, from London, and I've been heartsick ever since."

  She watched as he read the lies she'd composed, and she was thrilled at how his eyes widened in horror when he saw Winnie's name, though he squelched any indication of recognition.

  "Winifred," he mused as if he weren't acquainted with her. "Is the author referring to your cousin?"

  "Yes. Oh, this is so humiliating."

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  "Do go on."

  Margaret sighed. "She has an appalling problem."

  "With what?"

  "With immorality. She's drawn to men, and she can't control herself. I've prayed for her and struggled to assist her in modifying her behavior, but after this outrage, I have to conclude that it's impossible for her to change." She simulated a credible sob. "Oh, I shouldn't be mentioning this to you. What must you think?"

  His cheeks were bright red. "It's quite all right. Continue."

  "She promises, and weeps, and vows she won't do it again. Then, when she's caught, she begs for forgiveness. Now, to learn that she's wreaked havoc on another family ... that she may have destroyed another marriage . .."

  Shuddering, she let the implication trail off, letting him assume the worst.

  He swallowed, could scarcely speak. "She's in the habit of illicit fornication?"

  "With married men!" Margaret nodded, fueling his astonishment, and she bent in and whispered, "Why, years ago, she birthed a child out of wedlock! You can't imagine the steps my late husband had to take to fend off a scandal."

  "Gads," he muttered, seeming ill. "How awful for you."

  "What would you advise, Edward?" She rested her hand on his wrist. "I'm sending her to London tomorrow. She shouldn't stay here around the girls—not with this newest turpitude brewing."

  "No, no. She's not fit company for them."

  "But what should I do with her once we're home? In the past, I took pity on her, because I'm her only living relative—she has no one else—but how can I persist in

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  housing her with my daughters? I can't risk that her vices might rub off on them. Especially Penelope, when she's at such an impressionable age."

  "Let me ruminate on it, will you? Maybe I could use my influence to intervene with the man's father. To keep it quiet."

  "I couldn't impose on you." She massaged her temples. "I have the most dreadful headache. Would you pardon me if I spent the evening in my room?"

  "By all means."

  Retrieving the letter, she trudged out, striving to appear fragile and weak, and she could feel his stunned gaze following her.

  Stupid as any male ever born! she grumbled to herself. Passion transformed them into blithering idiots. How easily he'd been duped! If she could just get the remainder of her scheme to progress as effortlessly!

  She proceeded to Olivia's bedchamber, and Olivia was meekly perched on the edge of the mattress. When Margaret entered, Olivia stared at her so directly that there was no doubt she comprehended why Margaret had come.

  Margaret shut the door and advanced. Olivia stood, braced, and they were toe to toe, eye to eye.

  "I have one question." Margaret impaled her with a furious glare, letting the silence play out, and when she started to fidget, Margaret sneered. "Are you still a virgin?"

  "Margaret!"

  Shame burning her cheeks, she glanced down, and Margaret clasped her by the back of the neck, squeezing tight, her nails digging in. "Have the decency to look at me."

  "You're hurting me."

  "I don't care."

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  She squeezed harder. Never previously had she physically abused Olivia, but she was so enraged that she deemed herself capable of any despicable act. and it required every ounce of fortitude she possessed to refrain from slapping her as she had Winnie.

  "I repeat: Are you a virgin?"

  "No." '

  Margaret shoved her away, and she stumbled and grappled for purchase on the bedpost.

  "I'm glad your father is deceased, so he isn't here to witness this hideous moment." Her scorn and disdain evident, she evaluated Olivia. "I didn't raise you to be a whore. Is this your true nature? Are you a slattern by temperament? Will you copulate with any common partner, like your dissolute brother?"

  "I... I love him," she tediously claimed.

  "Love, bah!" Margaret scoffed. "Will love put food in your belly? Buy your coal in the winter? Love doesn't signify in the slightest."

  "It matters to me!" she spouted, clutching a fist to her breast, exhibiting some spunk.

  "Well, not to me. I've just talked with the earl." The falsehoods were rolling off her tongue, each one simpler to voice. "He's decided to ask for your hand."

  "No!"

  "You can anticipate a proposal in the morning. You shall accept it."

  "I won't!" She was trembling. "You can't make me."

  "Oh, but I can."

  "I want to return to London," she protested. "'We'll commence with a new search. I'll wed whomever you select. I swear it! But not Edward Paxton. Don't demand it of me. I can't do it for you."

  "Do you suppose suitors grow on trees? That I can

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  conjure another out of my hat—like a magician at a fair?"

  "You're so clever, Margaret," she cajoled. "You can find someone else."

  "There's the rub, Olivia. I don't wish to expend the time or energy."

  "Please!"

  "No."

  "I'll refuse his suit. I will! It will embarrass all of us. Don't put me in that position."

  Margaret closed the distance between them. "I don't believe you understand me, so let me be more clear: Before we left London, I arranged to have Helen admitted to a hospital."

  She gasped. "What?"

  "I didn't want the staff to be burdened with her while we were away."

  "She's no burden."

  Margaret ignored the asinine comment; the imbecile was a constant drain. "She's safe. For now. But if you reject the earl, I'll move her to an orphanage, and I will never tell you where she is. I'll go to my grave with my secret."

  'That's barbaric!"

  "Even if you managed to locate her and bring her home, London is such a dangerous city. Why... a moron such as her could trip down the stairs, or be trampled by a horse." She mused, "Who can predict what tragedies might befall her?"

  "You would ... would ... kill her?"

  Margaret taunted, "The girl should have been abandoned as soon as her abnormalities were discovered."

  "But she's our niece!"

  "Not mine. Not mine at all."

  "Why would you do such a t
hing to me? To Helen?"

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  "I would have our financial situation rectified, our future stabilized. You have no idea how determined I am to have this successfully resolved."

  "There has to be another way."

  "There is no other way. You will wed Edward Paxton. By next Friday."

  "I won't," she insisted again, and her petulance was beginning to grate.

  "That is certainly your prerogative, but you might reflect before your decision becomes irreversible, for / am deadly serious."

  Olivia sank down onto the mattress and gawked at the floor. Margaret could almost see the wheels spinning in her mind as she wrestled with this new reality.

  She groused, "Even if he offers for me, how can I agree? He'll expect a virginal bride."

  Margaret smirked at the remark, perceiving a capitulation. "There are many methods by which to fool a husband. You won't be the first bride to pretend to maidenhood." She shrugged. "A bit of theatrics, a display of nerves, a hidden vial of red dye ..."

  "You make it sound so calculated."

  "I am willing to do whatever it takes to bring about this union. You underestimate me at your peril."

  Olivia studied her. "I've always wondered where Penny comes by her viciousness. Now I know."

  "Yes, you do."

  "You're being too cruel."

  Margaret's stance hardened. "If I've offended your delicate sensibilities, I care not. You are the harlot. Not me."

  "But to punish Helen—"

  "Cease your whining!" she barked. "I won't listen to your complaints. You've made your bed. The consequences are pending. How horrid or gentle will they be, Olivia? The choice is yours."

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  "I don't know what to do."

  "Then I'll leave you to your introspection, but it shan't be accomplished here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You'll not meet with your lover to seek his assistance."

  "I hadn't intended to."

  "A likely, and convenient, story," she jeered. "Winnie has gone to London."

  "Why?"

  "It's none of your affair."

  "But she didn't say good-bye."

  "There wasn't an opportunity. She was desperate to go and had been fussing about it for days. I grew weary of her harangue and assented." Margaret would divulge no more on the subject. "You will occupy her bedchamber. As it's directly across from mine, and I am a light sleeper, you'll not be able to sneak out. Plus, I have the benefit of a key. You'll be locked in. Until the wedding."

  "You can't keep me prisoner!"

  What a child she was! She was frantic not to be watched. Obviously, she'd hoped for a final tryst, a fond adieu with her lover, but she couldn't be allowed to make matters worse than they already were.

  "How will you stop me? Will you run to the earl and humiliate yourself by confessing what a trollop you are? Will you blab to one of the servants about how unjustly you're being treated?" She started toward the door and held it open. "Let's retire to Winnie's room, shall we?"

  A staring match ensued, and an eternity passed. When Olivia's acquiescence came, she was furious, mutinous, her thoughts awhirl, plotting how she could escape.

  What a dolt she was. Couldn't she grasp the facts?

  Her fate was sealed. She couldn't flee from it, despite how much she detested the notion of wedding Edward.

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  Why was she complaining, anyway? There were many far more ghastly scenarios that could have been foisted upon her.

  Margaret gestured into the hall, and Olivia preceded her, marching down the corridor like a felon to the gallows. Margaret followed her into Winnie's bedchamber.

  Olivia glanced around. "Winnie's belongings are still here. You said she left."

  "I'm sending her things tomorrow. On the public coach."

  Olivia looked as though she might raise more questions, argue, or further plead her case, but Margaret was having none of it. She retreated to the door. "I'll deliver a tray for your supper. Until then, I suggest you make yourself comfortable. From now on, you'll not go anywhere without my escort."

  "Margaret, please!" She tried to reason one last time.

  "Perhaps you should spend your leisure hours pondering Helen."

  She slammed the door and spun the key.

  For a moment, she tarried, considering the absurdity of it all. The two women who, for years, had made up her family had simultaneously gone mad.

  Strumpets both. She wasn't surprised by Winnie's plunge from grace. But Olivia's? It was too strange to be true.

  What a bizarre spiral of events!

  Shaking her head, she descended to the lower floors in search of Penny, where she advised her of the plan. Initially, Penny was rebellious, disobedient, but as Margaret explained the necessities, Penny recognized that Margaret's scheme was for the best, and she conceded that her aid would be imperative.

  Satisfied that the details were set in motion so that circumstances would unfold appropriately, she instructed

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  the housekeeper to prepare supper trays, as well as to provide excuses to the earl for the evening absence of all of them. Then, she went to her room, where she would await the night and a successful outcome.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Edward walked up the stairs of the grand mansion. It was very late, everyone abed, and he tiptoed through the quiet halls.

  After his hideous conversation with Margaret, he'd fled the property, although he didn't imagine he'd slighted anybody. Margaret hadn't chosen to sup or socialize, either.

  With such horrid tidings unveiled, he couldn't have tarried at the dining table, prattling through an unending meal.

  How had he been duped so easily?

  Winnie was a whore. A beautiful, licentious, lusty harlot, who seduced men for sexual pleasure.

  He didn't want to believe it—he couldn't believe it!— but he'd seen the shameful accusations with his own two eyes. He'd listened to Margaret's stammering, abashed admission as to Winnie's disrepute, and he yearned to deny Margaret's veracity, to repudiate every word she'd uttered, but the story had to be true. Who would admit to such a disgraceful family secret if it wasn't?

  Feeling betrayed, violated, he was more furious than he'd been in a very, very long while, though he wasn't sure why. Just then, if Winnie had been standing in front of him, he'd likely have shaken her until her teeth rattled.

  How dare you! he ached to shout at her. How dare she be dissolute, promiscuous, loose with her favors?

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  He patted the pocket inside his jacket, heard the crinkle of the letter he'd stuffed there. It had been slipped under his door before he'd left the house. Like a talisman with magic powers, it had drawn him in, though he struggled to resist its appeal. He'd read it over and over until he'd had it memorized.

  "My dearest Edward," the tidy script began.

  "I know what Margaret told you about me. It's not true. I swear it! Please let me explain. I can't bear it that you're angry. Come to me. I'll be waiting ..."

  She hadn't signed her name, only the initial W.

  Throughout the evening, questions had taunted him: What was her game? What was she attempting?

  Did she hope to beguile him into philandering with her? To what end? What did she really want? Money? An illegitimate child he would be obligated to support? Or was it simpler, more elemental? Did she merely desire him physically?

  She loves you; she's hurting.

  The thought kept blasting through his head with the impetus of a battering ram, so potent and authentic that he throbbed with the revelation.

  He was a good judge of character. He was! And during the blissful times they'd passed together, he'd never presumed that she'd had dubious motives. She'd entertained a deep affinity for him; he was convinced of it.

  Yet he'd seen the appalling indictment posted to Margaret, had viewed the censure printed in it. Why would Margaret invent such a terrible slander?

  At the landing,
he dawdled, trapped in his agonizing introspection. In one direction was the lengthy corridor that led to his suite. In the other, the elegant wing filled with slumbering guests. She was so close, and he was anxious to rush to her, to barge in, to denounce her for her sins and command an accounting.

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  He vacillated, ruminated, vacillated some more, and his decision crystalized.

  He had to learn the facts, so he had to ask Winnie. If he looked her in the eye, if he talked to her face to face, there was no way she could prevaricate. She had such an expressive demeanor that she couldn't conceal the truth.

  If he ascertained that Margaret was correct, that Winnie was a woman of base virtue, so be it, but he couldn't allow her to depart for London without having the situation resolved. His need for reassurance was asinine and imprudent, but he couldn't put it aside. He'd liked her too much, and couldn't stand that she might have deceived him.

  Prowling into the hall, he slinked toward her and the answers he was determined to receive. Quiet as a mouse, he opened her door and sneaked in. It was warm, and the bed curtains were tied off, a fresh breeze wafting in through the window.

  He could discern her form snuggled under the covers, and he suffered a pang of irritation that she wasn't awake and impatient for his arrival, although he couldn't have guessed when she'd conveyed the note to him. Very likely, she'd been anticipating him for hours and had given up.

  Not wanting to scare her, he crept to the bed and eased himself down. Her back was to him, and he leaned over her, more eager than he should have been for the instant she would discover it was he.

  "Winnie," he murmured, but she was sleeping so soundly that she didn't stir. He whispered again. "Winnie. It's me. I'm here."

  She mumbled, rolled over, blinked and blinked. "Lord Salisbury?"

  His heart skipped several beats. It wasn't Winnie!

  He was glowering at Olivia, and while he recognized that he'd made a horrendous error, he couldn't process

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  the enormity of what had just occurred. For many tormenting, protracted seconds, he scrutinized her, his mind unwilling to grapple with the magnitude of his blunder.