Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  He supposed she was upset that he'd wed again when he'd specifically promised he wouldn't, but money didn't grow on trees. He wasn't a magician who could pull cash out of his hat. His marriage to Penelope had rescued them both. Why wasn't she smiling? "Darling," he said, "what are you doing?" "I'm leaving you." "You're joking." "No, I'm not."

  "But... but. . . how will you get on without me?" His confident facade slipped for a moment. "I imagine I'll get on just fine." "Where will you go? What will you do?" "Actually, I'm about to marry, too," she claimed. "You are not."

  "Yes, Charles, I am. I figured if you can do it, so can I." "You're being absurd."

  "I'm not. For once, I'm being totally rational. The blinders are off, and I'm doing what I should have done years ago."

  "Which is?"

  "Run away from you as fast as I can."

  "There's no need for insults," he huffed.

  "No, there's not. Good-bye."

  She turned as if she planned to go that very second, and he grabbed her arm. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing. I'm better than I've ever been."

  He gazed into her beautiful brown eyes and felt as if he was staring at a stranger.

  "I married the girl for us, Anne. For us! So that we could get back on our feet." He clasped her hands in his and linked their fingers. "I'm so wealthy now! It will be just like the old days. There'll be no more traipsing about the countryside, no living in cheap hovels, or sneaking out of town in the middle of the night. I've secured our future."

  She sighed. "I take it you haven't spoken to Jordan."

  "Why should I? He'll only nag."

  "You must talk to him. Ask him about Penelope's trust fund."

  "What could he possibly have to say that would be of any significance?"

  She drew away and flashed a pitying look. "Good luck to you, Charles. I honestly mean it."

  She started out, and he snapped, "Hold it right there! I don't give you permission to depart."

  "I'm not your servant, and I'm not your property. If I choose to go, it's none of your affair."

  It finally dawned on him that she was serious, and he was stunned. She was the only one who'd stayed, the only one who'd been loyal, and now, after he'd wed Penelope to fix their problems, she was ready to call it quits.

  He'd never understand women!

  "You can't expect me to believe you have somewhere to go."

  "I don't care what you believe."

  "What's this nonsense about your marrying?"

  "It's true. All this time, while you were trifling with Penelope and Mrs. Gray, I was fucking somebody, too. And he's mad about me."

  Her admission was so outrageous that if she'd aimed a pistol and shot him, he couldn't have been more shocked. "You ... you ... had a lover? While you were my mistress?"

  "Isn't it wild? Isn't it grand?"

  She marched outside, her bags abandoned, and she kept on down the drive, nearly skipping with delight at the prospect of being away.

  He went out on the stoop, and he hollered after her, "I won't ever take you back."

  "Don't worry. I won't be back." She didn't bother to glance around at him.

  "When you new ... new ... lover tosses you out, and you come crawling to me, I'll shut the door in your face. Even if you beg, it's over!"

  "Yes, Charles, it's definitely over."

  Shortly, she veered off into the woods, and he watched till he could no longer see her. In all the years they'd been together, they'd never quarreled, and he was shaken by the encounter. She'd always been there for him, like a comfortable pair of shoes or an old robe. Yes, he'd taken her for granted, but that was hardly unusual. She was female and a lowborn one at that.

  He studied her luggage and scoffed. She was in a temporary snit, but it would pass.

  A maid strolled by, and he directed her to haul Anne's things upstairs, but before the woman could move, his bride rushed down the hall.

  "What did you just say?" Penelope demanded.

  "Mrs. Smythe had considered leaving us, but I've persuaded her to change her mind. I've advised the maid to carry her belongings to her room and unpack them."

  "That.. . that. .. hussy will not remain here," Penelope insisted, and she glared at the maid. "Have these bags set out on the road."

  A muscle ticked in his cheek as he said to the maid, "Would you excuse us?" She vanished like smoke, and he whirled on Penelope, his temper sparking. "I have no idea why you would presume to countermand my orders."

  "I will not have your mistress residing under my roof."

  "I can see that you have miscalculated the terms of our relationship, so let me be very clear: What I do—or don't do—will never be any of your business."

  "If you allow her to stay, I'll kill you in your sleep."

  He laughed and laughed. "You are the most horrid, spoiled child I've ever met. Now be off—or I'll take a belt to you."

  "I will not be dismissed like a common servant!"

  She stamped her foot, and he reached out and yanked her close to whisper a threat in her ear.

  "Have you forgotten the things I made you do last night?"

  "Let me go!"

  "I showed you a bit of what I'll expect. It can be much worse, or it can be much easier for you. The choice is yours, but whenever you disobey me, I shall drag you into the bedchamber and force you to do something you loathe." He shoved her toward the stairs.

  "Proceed to my room and wait for me. I'll be up soon to consummate the union."

  "I hate you!" she seethed.

  "The feeling, my dear, is entirely mutual."

  She bristled, about to explode; then she spun and stormed off, which was just as well. It had been a trying day, and he had no patience left for dealing with her. He still had to endure the ordeal of the marital joining, and he was sincerely pondering whether to have someone observe it so that there was a witness. With so much at stake, he couldn't give Lavinia any opportunity to cry foul.

  He went to find Jordan, who was located in a rear parlor, staring into an empty hearth. Charles sauntered over and sat next to him.

  "Look who's finally slinked in," Jordan said. "Did you say hello to your children?"

  "What children?"

  "Three of them arrived this morning."

  "Why would they come here?"

  "They didn't have anywhere else to go."

  "I take it you've seen to them?"

  "Don't I always clean up your messes? I realize it's your wedding day, but I really hope you rot in hell."

  "Is that any way to congratulate me on my nuptials?"

  "You want me to congratulate you?"

  "Of course. All's fair in love and war. You know that. It was a vast sum. You can't assume that I'd permit you to have it without a fight."

  "I didn't."

  "It was a game; you lost. So . .. don't be surly. It's beneath you."

  Jordan shook his head in derision. "My God, but you're a piece of work."

  "I merely wed an heiress—as any sane insolvent man would."

  "Do you ever feel remorse about anything?" "No. Why would I?"

  "I have to tell you, Charles, you deserve Penelope."

  "I agree. You could have raped her at any time, but you didn't. It's hardly my fault that you were timid in your pursuit."

  Abruptly, Jordan stood. "Let's go."

  "To where?"

  "To your bedchamber. I intend to watch the consummation."

  Charles had been thinking to request the very same, but still, Jordan's offer surprised him. "Why would you want to?"

  "I plan to ensure that you never wiggle out of this."

  "Be my guest." They walked out, when Charles pulled Jordan to a halt. "By the way, I spoke with Anne, and she made an odd comment about Penelope's trust. She said I should ask you about it."

  "It's nothing," Jordan insisted. "We can discuss it later."

  Jordan kept on, and Charles accompanied him, eager—in a thoroughly vain and masculine fashion�
� for Jordan to jealously view what Charles had stolen from him.

  What is Lord Romsey doing here?" "He's a witness." Penelope frowned. "He ... he's ... a

  what?"

  "It's an ancient custom," Lord Kettering explained. "When there's a chance that others might question the validity of the marriage, witnesses are brought in to verify the consummation."

  "You mean he's going to ... to ..."

  "Yes, he is," Kettering said.

  "But that's ... that's ... positively medieval."

  "Isn't it, though?"

  "Don't you care if he sees you ... if he sees me . . ." She wailed. "You can't intend for him to ogle me as you thrust away!"

  "Actually, that's precisely what I intend."

  "I can't let him see me without my clothes."

  "Don't worry. With how homely you are, I don't think he'll notice."

  "Could we cease with the chatter?" Romsey interjected. "This will be extremely unpleasant, and I want it concluded as rapidly as possible."

  "You can't stay!" Penelope declared. "Go. At once!"

  "Sorry, but I can't oblige you." Romsey pulled up a chair and sat a few feet from the bed.

  "You're doing this to humiliate me," she hissed at her husband.

  "No," Kettering said, "I'm doing it so that you can't trot off with your fortune."

  "And I'm doing it," Romsey chimed in, "for your protection."

  "My protection?"

  "Yes. My father is a scoundrel. He's landed himself in this sort of predicament before, but he always worms his way out of it. My presence will guarantee that he can't evade your matrimonial noose."

  The statement should have made her feel more secure, but the notion of never being able to escape Charles was so disheartening.

  If she divorced him or murdered him in his sleep, would she still be a countess? Or would she lose the title when she lost the man? Why did life have to be so complicated? Why couldn't a girl buy a title and leave the man out of it altogether?

  "Could we get on with it?" Romsey pestered. "I'm in a hurry."

  "What's the rush?" Kettering said. "It's my wedding night. I plan to enjoy it."

  "You can enjoy it after I go. I have no desire to hang around and drool over your alleged prowess."

  "I could teach you a few things, my boy," Kettering boasted.

  "I'm sure you could," Romsey agreed. "Now get moving!"

  "How can I make you go away?" she inquired of Romsey.

  "Climb up on the bed and spread your legs," he crudely advised.

  "And after that, how can I make your father go?"

  "You can't," Romsey claimed. "You wanted him, and he's yours forever."

  The word forever reverberated around the room, and she shuddered, frantic to delay the inevitable.

  "Could we talk about this?" she asked.

  "No," they responded in unison.

  "I've changed my mind, though. I don't care to be a countess, after all."

  "Fickle brat!" Kettering scolded. "Do you see why I need a witness, Jordan?"

  "You have to proceed," Romsey asserted. "That's the price for what you've done. Refusal isn't an option."

  "But I don't have to do anything I don't wish to do. My mother said so."

  "Shall we fetch her?" Kettering interrupted, and he chuckled spitefully. "No doubt she'll be happy to discuss your behavior—if she's regained consciousness."

  "What if he's planted a babe?" Romsey mentioned.

  "He hasn't."

  "You don't know that. He's disgustingly virile, and he seems to sire offspring wherever he goes." She blanched. "He what?"

  "He has many, many children—both legitimate and illegitimate. This very second, some of them are napping down the hall. Didn't he tell you?"

  "Gad no!"

  She scowled at Kettering, but he preened, delighted to have his potency revealed.

  "You can't assume," Romsey continued, "that you're immune to pregnancy simply because you're against it occurring."

  "If I'm with child, I'll kill myself." She paused. "I take that back. If I'm pregnant, I'll kill him."

  "It's definitely something to consider," Romsey concurred. "Remember: You don't have to remain with him. You can live with your mother. You can seek refuge with friends. But for now, you do have to complete the marriage. You'll never survive the scandal if you don't."

  She stared at Romsey, then Kettering, then Romsey again.

  An image flashed—of herself in London, parading into a grand ballroom and being introduced as the Countess of Kettering. She could practically hear the mothers gasp with shock, could almost see the other girls turn green with envy.

  Wasn't such a moment worth any price?

  "Fine," she stated. "Have it your way."

  "I always do," Kettering replied, automatically presuming that she'd been speaking to him.

  "Shut up." She climbed onto the bed and gazed at the ceiling as Kettering fussed about, apparently unbuttoning his trousers.

  "Don't you dare undress," she snapped.

  "I agree with your bride," Romsey said to his father. 'The less I see of you, the better."

  "What's the fun of having you watch," Kettering queried, "if I can't really go at it?"

  "Just get it over with! Please!" Romsey sounded as if he was begging.

  Kettering laughed, then climbed up, too. With no wooing or finesse, he lifted her skirt, entered her, and sawed away.

  Her virginal membranes were tender from the prior evening, so she was very sore. She winced, but tamped down any display of agony.

  I'm a countess now.. . I'm a countess now...

  The refrain rang in her head, chiming in a rhythm with Kettering's bouncing on the mattress. For such an elderly fellow, he had an enormous amount of stamina, but his filthy groping didn't bother her in the slightest. She felt nothing and was thoroughly bored.

  "Would you finish?" Romsey demanded.

  "Certainly." Kettering consented as if they were discussing the weather.

  He tensed, his seed shooting into her, and she decided that she needed to find a competent midwife.

  Supposedly, there were potions and charms to avert pregnancy, and she had to learn what they were.

  Kettering grunted with satisfaction and rolled off her.

  Penelope peered over at Romsey and asked, "Have you seen enough?"

  "Yes, plenty."

  Kettering smirked. "This could have been yours, Jordan."

  "I'm elated to let you have her. The two of you make a wonderful couple." He stood and looked at Penelope. "I'll leave it to you to break the bad news about your trust fund."

  There was an awkward silence, and Penelope glowered. "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't pretend not to know," Romsey responded. "While your mother may ultimately end up in jail, your age will probably save you. But you might as well have the pleasure of explaining things to him."

  Kettering scrambled to his feet. "What are you saying?"

  "There is no money," Romsey said. "There is no trust fund. She's not an heiress."

  "That's a lie!" Penelope maintained. "I'm rich! I've always been rich!"

  "Give it up, Penelope," Romsey admonished. "Mr. Mason showed me the papers that detail the thefts committed by your mother. Even as we speak, a search has begun for Margaret so that the pilfered bequest can be returned to her."

  Kettering gaped at Penelope in horror.

  "No money?" he wheezed.

  "Not a single farthing," Romsey added.

  "You tricked me!" Kettering charged. "You knew, and you didn't apprise me till it was too late."

  "You're correct," Romsey affirmed. "I deliberately kept it a secret."

  "It's ... fraud! It's ... duplicity! It's ... it's . .."

  "It's a sixteen-year-old maiden who you ruined," Romsey hurled back.

  "You trapped me! You swindled me!"

  "You trapped yourself," Romsey argued. "I merely ensured that you gave her your name and the scant protection it will prov
ide-—though why she'd want to be a Prescott is beyond me."

  Kettering was so furious that he was shaking, and Penelope was tickled by his level of upset. Perhaps he wasn't as omnipotent as he seemed. Perhaps there'd be some chances to best him, after all.

  "I'm still a countess, right?" she inquired of Romsey.

  "Yes, Penelope, you're still a countess," Romsey said. "Consider it my parting gift to you. I hope you're happy, and that it brings you the status and recognition you seek, though with him as your spouse, I wouldn't count on it."

  "I am happy," she declared. "I absolutely am."

  Romsey stared at his stunned father. "Lavinia wants the two of you gone—today. So I suggest that you pack your bags, load your carriage, and slither out the same way you slithered in."

  He walked out, and Penelope grinned, already planning her triumphant entrance into London society.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Congratulations, Mrs. Mason." "Thank you, Mr. Mason." Anne smiled at Robert, still stunned by events. "I can't believe you married me." "And why wouldn't I? I love you." "But I can't figure out why you do." She stared at her hand, and even in the dark confines of the carriage that had whisked them to Scotland and back, she could see the simple gold band he'd slipped on her finger during their hasty wedding. Once prior, she'd settled for so little, had shredded every ounce of self-respect in her quest to keep Charles Prescott happy. Yet Robert didn't care about her past. He was looking to the future.

  Of course, in light of his relationship with Lavinia Gray, he was in a glass house and in no position to throw stones. He'd made some terrible choices, but so had Anne, and both hoped that after their experiences with folly and disaster they would be a tad wiser.

  The carriage rattled to a stop, and she sucked an anxious breath. Their elopement had transpired so rapidly, the trip north carried out in such a fleet, unplanned manner, that she wasn't prepared for this moment.

  Robert sensed her distress and hugged her. "Don't be nervous."

  "I'm not. Well, maybe I am. Just a bit."

  "It will be fine."

  "I know."

  "I'm so glad you're with me." "So am I."