by Cheryl Holt
"We can chat about a wedding now," she said, "unless there's another topic that's captivated you." She leaned forward, the front of her nightgown perilously low, giving him an unimpeded view of her breasts.
He wasn't impressed, and he shrugged. "Let's stick with Miss Gray. What should I know about her?"
His indifference incensed Lavinia, and she'd had enough. She stood and stared down at him.
"You're being an ass."
"Yes, I am."
"Go away. I'm sick of you."
She waved toward the door, and when he didn't move, she turned to stomp out. Margaret cowered, terrified that discovery was imminent, and she couldn't defend her spying on them.
Luckily, Lord Romsey saved her by grabbing Lavinia's wrist and drawing her back to the couch. He didn't tug very hard, but Lavinia collapsed down onto him and giggled like a schoolgirl.
"Convince me to offer for her," he urged.
"You know you want to."
"Do I?"
Lavinia was sprawled across him, their chests, loins, and legs pressed together. He was stroking her bottom, rubbing in slow circles, when he'd only recently caressed Margaret in much the same way.
The man was a dog!
"She's young," Lavinia was saying.
"But mature."
"Oh, very mature," Lavinia concurred. "She's been too sheltered, though." "I realize that."
"But that could be a benefit for you."
"I was pondering the very same."
"You could teach her what you'd like her to do. You could make her practice till she gets it right."
"Practice makes perfect," he snickered.
"She'd be too inexperienced to refuse or complain. Isn't that every husband's fantasy?"
"Not mine. I'd rather have a woman who knows what she's doing."
"Liar," Lavinia chided. "You can't fool me. You men all think with your cocks, and you like to plant them between a fresh pair of virginal thighs."
"Too true."
They both chuckled, and Margaret frowned. The statement had a hidden meaning she didn't understand. She felt as if they were speaking in a foreign language.
"I put you in the room next to hers," Lavinia said. "In case you decide to be swept away by passion, there'll be nothing to prevent you."
"Are you suggesting I sneak in and ravage her?"
"I wouldn't mind—so long as you wed her afterward."
He shuddered in mock horror. "You're cold, Lavinia."
"Why? I aim to ensnare you. I'm happy to do whatever will accomplish my goal."
"Even if it involves an innocent's ruination?"
"Every female has to spread her legs sooner or later. It's not much of a loss for her, but a gain of everything for me."
"That being?"
"A close alliance with your family."
"Have you a speck of remorse about any of this?"
"No."
"I'm astounded." He toasted her with his glass. "You're even more of a mercenary than I supposed."
"Why? Merely because I insist on a Grand Match for her?"
"No. Because you'll stop at nothing to get what you want."
"Precisely. Don't you forget it." "I won't. I shall be completely on guard throughout my visit."
Margaret was furious. They were bartering over her as if she were a prized cow. In light of Lavinia's enthrallment with the nobility, her motives weren't surprising, but Margaret was disgusted by Romsey's blasé approval of violence to coerce Margaret into an untenable union.
How could either of them presume she'd blithely walk down the path they'd engineered? The moment she left Lavinia's boudoir, her initial order of business would be to have a new lock nailed to her door.
"And if I elect to force the matter," Romsey asked, "and I creep into her bed, what should I teach her first?"
Lavinia cocked a brow. "I know what you like. I've heard all about you."
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you show me? Let me see if you've heard correctly."
She climbed onto his lap, her knees on the sofa cushion, her thighs draped over his. As they conversed, she was sliding the straps of her nightgown down her arms so that her breasts were bared, the nipples jutting out, and they were directly in his face. Almost reluctantly, he clasped the two mounds and petted the tips with his thumbs.
Margaret was mesmerized. She hadn't known that adults carried on so decadently. She felt as if she'd opened a portal to a secret world, and she couldn't keep herself from watching.
Lavinia purred, arching her back as she riffled her fingers through his lush, dark hair, and she wore a satisfied smile, as if she'd finally enticed him into behaving as she'd wanted all along.
She kissed him on the lips, the embrace going on and on, though Romsey appeared loathe to participate. As it became more heated, her hands were everywhere, touching and exploring, and oddly, Margaret's own anatomy was affected by the spectacle. Her own nipples came to life, growing rigid and poking at her corset. Blood pounded in her veins, her womb shifted and stirred.
Lavinia slipped to the side, and Margaret was desperate to see more, but the sofa blocked the view so she couldn't figure out what Lavinia was doing. It seemed that Lavinia was unbuttoning his trousers, but why would she? And why would Romsey let her?
The encounter was the strangest Margaret had ever witnessed. Lavinia was smug and preening, on fire with lust, but Romsey was impassive and aloof and had scarcely moved. How could one of them be so vain and inflated, while the other was so impervious?
Lavinia glanced up and smirked. "Are you ready, darling? Shall I escort you to paradise?"
"Would it be worth my while?"
"Of course," she declared. "I'm renowned for my prowess."
He was skeptical. "Are you?"
"Definitely."
Lavinia waited, on a precipice of anticipation, as Romsey studied her with no visible emotion. Ultimately, he shook his head. _
"I doubt you could impress me, Vinnie"—he used a nickname for Lavinia that Margaret hadn't heard before—"so I believe I'll decline."
"You can't be serious!" Rage mottled Lavinia's cheeks, and she climbed to her feet.
"Oh, but I am. I really don't like you enough to have you go down on me, and considering my offensive habits, that's saying a great deal."
"You are a beast!" she fumed. "I don't know why I put up with you!"
"Maybe because you're eager to have a viscount in the family?"
"I don't want one this badly. You lesser nobles are a penny a dozen."
"Yes, but don't forget my dear father. He won't live forever. Someday, I'll be an earl."
"Bully for you." She yanked at her nightgown and tugged on a robe, pulling the belt tight and hiding what she'd been so keen for him to behold only minutes earlier.
He stood and walked away from the sofa so that Margaret couldn't see him, but Lavinia was bristling with malice. He was humored, and he laughed at her.
"Face it, Vinnie," he taunted. "You're a trollop. You always have been, and you always will be."
"Get out of here!" she bellowed. "And next time you need someone to suck you off, you can beg the housemaids. I'm sure any one of them will be happy to oblige you."
"I'm sure they will."
Margaret recognized it as her cue to sneak away. She hadn't ascertained why Romsey wished to marry her, and she didn't care why. He was a distasteful fiend, and she'd never agree.
Her eye was still pressed to the crack in the door, her hand on the knob, when abruptly, it was jerked open. She lost her balance and stumbled into the room.
Lord Romsey chuckled. "Hello, Miss Gray. How kind of you to join us. We were just talking about you."
With how he was grinning, he had to have been aware of her presence. When had he realized it? She was mortified, and she flushed with shame.
Lavinia whipped around, and she was more irate than Margaret had ever seen her. She stormed over, her anger so evident that Margaret worried L
avinia might strike her when she never had prior.
"Margaret!" she seethed. "What are you doing?"
"I... I..."
"Margaret?" Romsey gasped and frowned. "Your name is Margaret?"
"Yes," Margaret mumbled. "You're not Penelope?" "No, why?"
He was horrified. He assessed her for a charged moment; then he muttered an epithet and stomped across the room to stare out the window.
Lavinia leaned in until she and Margaret were toe-to-toe. Lavinia was only an inch or two taller, but she was so livid that she seemed much bigger. Margaret could detect the tiny age lines around her eyes, the creases around her mouth that she concealed with creams and powders.
"You were eavesdropping," Lavinia accused.
"No, I wasn't," Margaret lied. "I was searching for you. I was about to knock. Penelope said we had a visitor, and I was ... was ..."
Romsey butted in. "She's been loitering there and listening to us, practically the whole time."
"You knew, and you didn't tell me?" Lavinia hissed at him.
"She amuses me. I take it she's not your daughter."
"No, she's not my daughter," Lavinia spat. "Why would you presume something so ludicrous?"
Suddenly, she grabbed a fistful of Margaret's hair and wrenched hard enough to make Margaret wince. With her other hand, she seized Margaret's wrist, her nails digging deep, breaking the skin.
"Ow!" Margaret was stunned by the attack and wrestling to free herself.
"Jesus, Lavinia!" Romsey barked. "Are you mad?"
As if to intervene, he rushed over, but before he could assist, Lavinia warned, "You didn't see anything."
"No, I didn't," Margaret agreed.
"You didn't hear anything."
"No."
"If you whisper a word of this to Penelope, I'll kill you, do you understand me?" "Yes, Lavinia, I understand." "Get out!"
She pushed Margaret, and Margaret lurched away just as Romsey had reached out to separate them. Margaret glanced over, their gazes locking. He had the decency to appear apologetic, but his paltry concern provided no solace whatsoever.
Margaret had never been more humiliated in her entire life. Praying that she never saw the despicable man again as long as she lived, she turned and ran.
Chapter Three
“This is my darling daughter, Miss Penelope Gray." "Hello, Miss Gray." "Hello, Lord Romsey." Jordan forced a smile at the pretty adolescent girl, but he was having trouble exhibiting any courtesy. His fury at Lavinia was palpable, the moment extremely awkward. An uncomfortable silence ensued.
"As I explained, Penelope"—Lavinia was desperate to smooth things over—"Lord Romsey has come specifically to meet you. Isn't that marvelous?"
"Oh, absolutely grand." Penelope's lack of enthusiasm was galling. "Your name is familiar to me. How would I know of it?"
"His father is the Earl of Kettering," Lavinia announced, before Jordan could say a word.
Penelope nodded. "It's more than that, though, isn't it? I've heard of you. Aren't you notorious?"
"Penelope!" Lavinia scolded. "Where are your manners?"
"It's all right, Lavinia," Jordan insisted. He was used to snide comments, and his answer was to confront them directly. He didn't give two figs what others thought. "We might as well have it out in the open, so that there are no misunderstandings."
Lavinia bristled. "That may be, but I won't permit her to be rude to you."
"I'm not a child, Mother," Penelope sniped.
"You're acting like one."
"What did you do?" Penelope pressed. "I remember that it was something horrid."
In the bland fashion he'd adopted in telling the tale, he said, "Everyone assumes that I killed my older brother so that I could become the heir."
"Did you?" Penelope had the audacity to inquire.
"What do you think?"
Penelope studied him, then shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea. You certainly appear as if you could be violent."
Jordan laughed. He had to give her credit. Most people were more circumspect. He liked that she was overtly offensive, rather than tittering about him behind his back.
He couldn't claim that he'd loved his dead brother, James, but he'd never wished him ill, either. James had committed suicide, so it had seemed only natural to cover up the true cause. Jordan had acceded to his father's demand for secrecy, circulating a false account of a hunting accident, but neither of them had peered down the road to envision the whispers their furtive deed would generate.
Jordan had been branded a murderer, but he never defended himself against the slander. Others could believe what they wanted about that awful day. He would never dignify their suspicions with a response. If he owed James anything, he owed him privacy as to the details of his squalid death, but it definitely made bridal hunting a chore.
"Lord Romsey was in the army," Lavinia clarified with a great deal of exasperation, "which is the reason for his rough edge. He's a decorated war hero. He's only recently returned to England."
"So what?" Penelope replied. "That doesn't mean he didn't murder his brother."
"For God's sake," Lavinia snapped, "shut up!"
"He asked my opinion!" Penelope complained.
"But he didn't really want it!" Lavinia struggled for calm. "He's going to stay with us for the next month. He's eager to get to know you better."
"Wonderful." Penelope looked as if she were chewing on shards of glass. "May I be excused?".
"Yes," Lavinia said, but an angry glare passed between them. "We'll talk later."
"I can't wait."
Penelope's sarcasm was impossible to conceal, but she made a suitable curtsy and departed, leaving him and Lavinia to fidget in the quiet until her footsteps faded on the stairs. He sighed, cursing his father, cursing his plight, and sick over the fact that Penelope was every bit as young and snotty as he'd predicted she'd be.
She wasn't the first rich girl to cross his path, but she was a prime example of why women shouldn't be allowed to have their own money. It elevated their sense of worth, imbuing them with a superiority they seldom deserved.
"Don't pay any attention to her," Lavinia counseled. "I didn't."
She waved away Penelope's sour demeanor as if it were a fetid odor; then she went to the sideboard and poured herself a brandy.
"Would you like one?" she offered.
"No, thank you."
"Do you mind if I indulge?" She chuckled in a sultry, affected way that never ceased to annoy him. "It's a vice, I'm afraid."
"Go ahead."
She sipped away as he gazed out the window into the garden, contemplating the manicured flowers, the trimmed hedges, the thick woods beyond.
He was worried about poor Miss Gray—the other Miss Gray whom he'd mistaken for Penelope. How was she faring? What had happened to her?
Lavinia's attack, carried out earlier in her boudoir, had been so unexpected that he hadn't been able to stop it, and he felt completely responsible for the hideous situation.
He wasn't sure when Miss Gray had arrived outside Lavinia's door, but once he'd realized she was there, he'd been curious to discover if she'd dare to watch, so he'd kept on much longer than he should have.
From the moment he'd entered his dressing room and espied her washing, he'd been intrigued. There was just something about her that he liked very much. As he was wife hunting, and in dire need of an heiress as fast as one could be found and bound, he'd been thrilled to have stumbled upon someone so fine.
But he should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Nothing ever was, and with his having met Penelope, he was even more revolted by his pathetic circumstances. When he'd joined the army, he'd owned property and had had hoards of cash in the bank, but due to the shenanigans of his father, he was broke. Who could have imagined that—while Jordan was off, serving his King—the disgraceful spendthrift and scoundrel, Charles Prescott, Earl of Kettering, could have convinced the bankers to transfer it all to him?
While Jorda
n was soldiering on the Continent, his father had squandered every acre and penny, so that now, Jordan had to chase after the Penelope Grays of the world. With Margaret Gray's identity revealed, he felt cheated, as if Fate had dangled a fantastic prize in front of him, then snatched it away.
He spun and stared at Lavinia. "Penelope didn't seem all that excited."
"I didn't tell her you were coming."
"Why not?"
"She didn't need to know."
"Isn't she aware that you've been discussing her marriage with me?" "No."
"Why not apprise her?"
"She thinks she's about to have a Season in London," Lavinia explained.
"Not if she marries me. I loathe the city, so we'll rarely be in town."
"Don't fret over it. If you decide you want her, just say so."
"Penelope's view may be a tad different than yours," he warned.
"So? If she puts up a fuss, we'll simply have you ruin her. Then, she won't have any choice in the matter."
He whirled toward the window, reflecting on Penelope, on Margaret Gray.
"How is Miss Gray—the other Miss Gray—related to you?"
"She's Horatio's niece." "Horatio is your late husband?" "Yes."
"Has she lived here long?" he queried. "Fifteen or twenty years." "She's an orphan?"
"Horatio took her in when she was a child." "So you've been a sort of mother to her?" Perish the thought! Her maternal instincts left much to be desired. "No. I have scarcely any bond with her, at all." "Really?"
"Yes, really," she said coldly. "What do I look like? A nanny for every stray urchin who strolls by?"
"No, hardly that," he murmured.
He started out, but at the last second, he peered over at her. He'd intentionally kept plenty of space between them so he couldn't reach over and throttle her.
"If you assault anyone again while I'm here, I'll leave, and you and your daughter can choke on all her money."
She merely smirked and finished her drink. "We'll see, Jordan. We'll see how badly you want it."
"Yes, we will."
He walked into the hall, continuing till he located an exit onto the rear verandah, and he descended into the garden and proceeded down the path to the woods.