by Cheryl Holt
With his father's appearance and subsequent charming of Lavinia and Penelope, Jordan was teeming with an ire and frustration that couldn't be squelched. He'd longed to spend some time with Margaret, so he'd wrongly barged into her bedchamber, once again, but after waiting for her for hours, he was incredibly angry.
She'd intrigued him against his will, and he blamed her for his enticement. He had a task to complete, one that didn't and couldn't include her, and he hated having her as a distraction. Yet, he couldn't stop thinking about her and the innocent kiss they'd shared in the woods.
Was she thinking of it, too? Had she wasted a single second pondering him and the chemistry that drew them together? Though it was absurd, he was dying to know the answer.
She wasn't happy to see him—not that he cared— and she scowled, trying to embarrass him into leaving, but she didn't realize that he was beyond outrage or shame. He'd stay till he was ready to go.
"My door was locked," she pointed out. "Any sane person would have recognized that it indicates I don't wish to be disturbed."
He held out the key so she could grasp how easily he'd gained entrance. "Any sane person would, but as I previously explained, no one has ever accused me of being overly rational."
"How could anyone have a better opinion when you constantly prove that you're deranged?"
He approached, liking how she stood her ground. She was fearful, but curious, too, and captivated by the sensations that flared whenever he was near.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"If I thought it was any of your business—which I don't—I'd tell you that I was at my school, preparing lessons for tomorrow."
"I heard that you work for a living." He sounded snide and snobbish, and she took the comment for the slur it was.
"You're here to marry an heiress, yet you have the audacity to condemn me for employment? What gall! At least, I have the satisfaction of deserving what I earn. When you're paying your bills with Penelope's money, how will your pride stand it?"
She stomped to the wardrobe, stuffed her cloak and bonnet inside, and slammed the door. He walked over and trapped her in the circle of his arms.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm being an ass."
"Yes, you are."
"I didn't mean to insult you."
"Of course, you did."
She struggled, but when he wouldn't release her, she gave up the fight and slumped against him.
"You could get a job, yourself," she grumpily said. "It wouldn't kill you."
"A job!" He was aghast at the notion. "What would I do?"
"You seem like an educated fellow. You could be a clerk or a gentleman's secretary. Not everyone has to reside in a mansion with dozens of servants and fine wine at every meal. You could lower your standards."
He sighed. If he did as she'd suggested, what would become of his siblings?
His aggravation at Charles surged anew. He didn't want to be anybody's savior, and he detested being put in a position where so many others were relying on him. He recalled Johnny and Tim, Charles's ten-year-old twin sons, whom Jordan had met occasionally. He'd once visited the house where Charles had effectively abandoned them, only to discover that there was no food in the larder, no clothes that still fit them in the dresser drawers, and no tutors had been engaged in over a year.
"I have many brothers and sisters who need my assistance," he stated. "I'm afraid they'd starve on a clerk's salary."
"Why can't your parents look after them?"
"My mother passed away when I was a babe, and my father is ... is ..." He shrugged, unable to account for Charles. "He can't care for them."
"Well, re-enlist in the army. Isn't that what you're good at? It's rumored that you're some sort of. .. of ... hero."
She muttered the word hero as if it were an epithet, and he chuckled miserably. By volunteering for every dangerous foray, he'd done his best to die in the army, but no matter how fervently he'd tried, he hadn't perished. He'd arrived home in London, hale and healthy and facing financial chaos, but he'd had his fill of death and destruction, and he wouldn't return to the war. Not that he'd reveal as much to Margaret Gray. Let her assume what she would.
"I was a lousy soldier," he lied.
"I'm sure that's not true. I'm sure you're proficient at whatever you attempt. You just require a shove in the right direction."
"And how about you?" He was eager to steer the conversation away from him and his problems. She was much more interesting. "I've been informed that you're an excellent teacher."
She was suspicious, as if she couldn't conceive of anyone saying something positive about her. "Who told you that?"
"Everyone to whom I've spoken."
"They're correct," she grudgingly admitted.
"Why do you do it?"
"Because I've been given so much, and it's only appropriate that I give something back. I feel it's my Christian duty, and I love children, but I'm continually chastised. I'm tired of all the nagging, so if you have negative opinions, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep them to yourself."
"I'm hardly nagging."
"You are."
"I'm actually amazed." "By what?" "By you."
She glanced up at him, and her verdant eyes were so wide and guileless that he had to bend down and kiss her. He seemed to have no other choice. For a brief instant, she allowed it; then she pulled away.
"What do you want from me?" she demanded.
"I don't know."
"You keep trifling with me—though I've practically begged you to stop. What am I to do?"
"Don't do anything. Just let it happen."
"But I don't want it to happen. I want you to leave me be."
"Do you really mean that?"
She frowned, considering. If she ordered him out, he wasn't certain he could oblige her.
His father's arrival at Gray's Manor had rattled loose his inhibitions. He felt as if he were perched on a cliff and about to jump over into open space. The slender threads of morality and sense that had tethered him to the civilized world had been severed.
In his wild condition, he would be a hazard to her, but he felt that they'd met for a reason, and he had to learn what it was.
"Well?" he pressed. "Should I go?"
"Yes," she said, crushing him; then she groaned. "No. Oh, I don't know what I want."
She pushed him away and went to the window to stare
out at the darkening sky. Dusk had fallen, and stars were beginning to twinkle. He came up behind her and rested his palms on her shoulders, and she elbowed him in the ribs.
"Don't stand here with me. Someone might see you." "I don't care."
"Yes, you do. There'd be a big fuss, and you'd have to marry me." She peeked up at him. "Wouldn't that be your worst nightmare? Having to settle for a girl with nothing?"
"Have you paused to wonder why I was placed in the room adjoining yours?"
"The servants probably did it as a cruel jest."
"Perhaps it was Fate, taking a hand, giving us a chance to be together."
"Or perhaps," she countered, "it was merely the housekeeper's harmless error."
"Lavinia presumes that I'm in the bedchamber next to Penelope."
"Is that where you'd like to be?"
"No."
"The mistake will dawn on her eventually. She'll have you moved."
"What should we do in the interim?"
"There's a question for the ages: What should we do?" She gazed at the Evening Star out on the horizon. "Have you ever wished that you could simply close your eyes, say a few magic words, and become someone else?"
"I wish it all the time," he confessed.
"So do I, Lord Romsey. So do I."
"Call me Jordan."
"Will you leave, please? Will you make this easy on me? I can't choose what I want. It's wrong for you to stay, but I haven't the fortitude to command that you go."
"It's not wrong. It's our destiny."
"What a romantic you are. I ne
ver would have guessed."
He wouldn't have, either. He knew better than to trust Fate, yet he couldn't deny the urge he felt to proceed.
"Come." He linked their fingers and tugged her toward the bed.
"Lord Romsey!"
She dug in her heels, desperate to halt his forward progress, and he sat on the edge of the mattress and peered up at her.
"I want this from you, Margaret."
"Lord Romsey ... Jordan ... I'm a spinster! I haven't the foggiest idea what it is you're asking of me."
"I'll just hold you for a bit."
It was a strange admission for him. He consorted with women for one purpose and one purpose only— that being sexual trysting—and he never sought more than physical alleviation. Female companionship was a corporeal necessity, usually a commercial transaction, too, with money paid for services rendered. He never dallied to be soothed or consoled, but suddenly, he couldn't wait to cuddle with Margaret Gray.
"Aren't you lonely, Margaret?" he inquired. "Wouldn't it be marvelous not to be so alone—just for a while?"
"Yes, it would be."
"Do you trust me?"
"Not for a second."
"Which is very wise," he replied, "but I won't hurt you."
"I can't imagine you'll do anything else."
"Lie down with me, Margaret. Don't be afraid."
He shifted onto the pillows, and when he tugged again, she came without further argument. She was draped across him, braced on her straightened arm, wary of him and what he was about.
"Relax," he coaxed. "It will be all right."
He pulled her down so that her chest connected with his, and the contact was electrifying.
"What are you going to do?" she queried.
"I plan to kiss you senseless."
"Will I like it?"
"Very much."
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure."
He rolled them so that she was on her back, and he was hovered over her. She looked so sweet, and it was horrid of him to coerce her into doing what she oughtn't. He was a worldly, sophisticated roue, who could effortlessly lure her to iniquity, but he couldn't desist. She was so wholesome and unsullied, while he felt soiled and contaminated. If he spent enough time with her, maybe some of her freshness and decency would rub off.
He brushed his lips to hers, and they both groaned with delight. The embrace was pure heaven, and he increased the pressure, his mouth seeking, playing. She joined in, reveling in the moment, in the novelty. His tongue flicked out, asking, asking again, and she opened and welcomed him inside.
Instantly, he was swept into the inferno. His hands were everywhere, caressing in slow circles as the anticipation spiraled. He nudged her legs apart, so that he was cradled between her thighs, and he flexed, her skirt a soft cushion that spurred him on. He dipped under her chin, to her bosom, and as he rooted at her cleavage, she writhed in agony.
"I feel terrible," she managed. "Are you positive you're doing this correctly?"
He chuckled. "I'm renowned as being extremely adept with women."
"I ache all over."
"If you're very nice to me, I'll make it go away." "Then do so," she complained. "I can't bear this torture."
"The pain is part of the pleasure." "I don't like it." "You will."
He pinched her nipples, squeezing them through the fabric of her gown, and her hips started to meet his, thrust for thrust.
"Jordan!"
"This is what your body needs, Margaret. Don't fight it."
Her innocence thrilled him, but it unnerved him, too. What was he thinking? If they were discovered, there'd be the devil to pay. He could never marry her, as duty and honor would require.
Could he blithely wreck her life?
His lust was running at a fevered pitch, so he wasn't concerned about any consequences, but if he wasn't cautious, he'd behave in a dreadful, irrevocable manner.
"I want to show you something. It will feel wonderful."
"Get on with it!" she snapped. "If this .. . this ... anguish will cease, I'll let you try anything."
It was the worst answer she could possibly give, for in his stimulated state, he was desperate to interpret the comment as permission, when he knew it wasn't. He had to call a halt, but he couldn't. Not quite yet.
He unbuttoned her dress so that the bodice was loose, and he yanked at the front. In a thrice, a perfect breast popped into view. He clasped the tip, as she cried out and arched up, but he pushed her down.
"What a little hellcat you are," he murmured.
"Don't torment me."
"The torment has just begun."
He sucked the taut end into his mouth, continuing on till it was red and inflamed, and his agitation grew so intense that he was frightened. He was past the spot where he could prevent himself from doing permanent injury to her.
He drew away, stealing a final, brief kiss; then he rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up.
His breathing was labored, his pulse racing, his cock a wedge between his legs that throbbed and protested, demanding a satiation he daren't supply.
Tentatively, she reached out and stroked his arm.
"What is it?" she queried, confused. "Did I do something wrong?"
He smiled. "No. You were splendid."
'Then ... what?"
"You simply arouse me beyond my limits." "Is that a good thing?"
"Yes, my dear Margaret, that's a very, very good thing, but a man can get to a point where he can't stop." "There's more to it?" "Quite a bit more." "What happens?" "I'll show you someday."
"When?"
"I don't know."
With her sexual nature, she'd be game to try whatever he suggested, which was precisely the reason they had to slow down. If neither of them could temper the pace, they were on a fast road to perdition.
"Why not keep on?" she inquired.
"I need to reflect on this. It was awful of me to come in here and pressure you."
"Oh, now you say so! After you've ravaged me to Hades and back again!"
"I enjoyed it very much, though." He grinned. "That's why I must reflect."
"I'm an adult, Jordan. If I decide to gad about like a common trollop, it's my own affair."
"There's nothing common about you. That's the problem. You're very fine."
Too fine for the likes of me! he almost said, but didn't.
She sat up, too, her dress clutched to her bosom. Her hair had fallen; her lips were moist and swollen, her cheeks flushed with desire. She looked rumpled and adorable, and he was flabbergasted at how eager he was to begin again. When his room and hers were in such proximity, how would he stay away?
He wasn't a saint, and he didn't pretend to be. He was a mortal man, with human drives and passions, and he wanted her so badly that it scared him.
"What now?" She appeared young and lost.
"I think I'd better conclude my dealings at Gray's Manor and be on my way as swiftly as I'm able."
She studied him, her face blank and unreadable. "It's probably for the best."
"It probably is," he agreed. "Will I... I..." "What?"
She waved away the comment. "Don't mind me. I was merely about to ask if we could be together again before you go, but it would be madness."
"Yes, it would be."
"I have to remember that I don't like you. It will help me to ... well..."
He leaned in and kissed her.
"I wish I were a different man. I wish I were the man you need."
"Believe me, so do I."
He stood and walked away, while she remained on the bed. A thousand remarks hovered in the air, but he couldn't speak any of them aloud, and he wasn't surprised. What could possibly be appropriate?
"Perhaps after I'm married," he finally said, "I can assist you in some fashion. I can provide funds so you could move away or you could—"
She shook her head, her sad, wise expression silencing him. "Don't make promises that you could never keep. It's cruel.
"
"I'm sorry."
"I survived long before you arrived, and I will endure long after you're gone. You needn't worry about me." "I won't, then."
But he would. He'd always wonder about her and be troubled.
"Go," she urged, gesturing for him to leave. He dawdled, wanting to say something pithy and defining, but what?
Without another word, he spun away, and went to his
room, and he shut and locked the door, but the walls soon closed in on him. He couldn't abide that she was so near but so hopelessly far away.
He rushed to the hall and down the stairs, out into the cool night, racing away as if the Hounds of Hell were on his heels.
Chapter Six
Lavinia peeked out her door, and when she finally espied Lord Kettering strolling down the hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. She'd been huddled in the shadows for two hours, watching for the moment he exited his room and headed down to breakfast.
She was wearing a sheer negligee, the neckline cut very low to reveal her splendid bosom, so he would get an eyeful of what he could have with scarcely any effort.
For days, she'd been sending him signals, but she hadn't been able to entice him. Either he was entirely disinterested—which she would never believe—or he was being absurdly coy. When she was so obviously ready for a greater intimacy, what was to be gained by delay?
He neared, and she pulled open her door, pretending that she thought he was the maid.
"Abigail, you've come! I need you to—" She cut off and fiddled with the bodice of her negligee, acting as if she were embarrassed by her state of dishabille, but drawing his attention to it, too. "Oh, Lord Kettering! I didn't know it was you. Pardon me."
"Good morning, Mrs. Gray."
"I've told you over and over: You must call me Lavinia."
"Certainly, so long as you will call me Charles." "I will; I will."
She dropped her hand, and his expression brightened at the sight of her breasts. For once, her hint registered. He chuckled and glanced down the corridor to ensure they were alone.
"You're a very beautiful woman, Lavinia."
"Do you think so?"
"I've wanted to tell you, but I hated to seem too forward."
"I don't find you forward, at all. In fact, you've been a total gentleman." "Have I?" "Yes."