Dreams of Desire (18 page)

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Authors: Cheryl Holt

BOOK: Dreams of Desire
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John glared at the twins, his cold, hard gaze slithering over them.
Their eyes were wide with an expression of innocence, as if they were perplexed over why they’d been summoned to his library.
Though they’d lived with him for close to eighteen months, he didn’t really know them. Their father had been a renowned ne’er-do-well with whom John had occasionally debauched.
Why the girls’ guardianship had been given to John was a mystery. Perhaps, in view of their father’s unsavory tendencies, he’d recognized that John would be a good influence on his daughters.
John had tried his best with them, had brought them into his home and kept them with him despite the troubles their presence caused. Yet this was how they repaid him? With treachery?
On his way to the library, he’d nearly gone to the woods and cut a switch in order to administer a sound thrashing to both. He was that enraged.
“What are you talking about, John?” Miranda inquired.
“You’re pretending ignorance?”
“We’re not
pretending
. We simply can’t fathom why you asked us here.”
“You seem angry,” Melanie added. “Is something wrong?”
Their pretty heads were cocked at the exact same angle. Identical frowns marred their brows.
“Tell me what you did to Miss Lambert.”
“Miss . . . Lambert?” Miranda said as if she wasn’t acquainted with Lily.
“Tell me about the hot springs!” he shouted, and they jumped.
“What . . . what do you wish to know?”
“I’m curious about your version of events. I want to hear how big of a lie you’ll have the gall to spew.”
They gaped at him; then, as if on cue, they burst into tears.
He stoically evaluated them, completely unmoved by their waterworks. He was positive the charade had been thoroughly rehearsed.
It was now clear that they’d maliciously tormented several very nice women whom he’d hired to serve as their companions. Every time calamity had struck, the poor victims had attempted to defend themselves, but he’d accepted the twins’ false tales over the true ones.
He’d fired people because of them, had tossed people out of the house with no notice or warning, had threatened arrest and refused to write letters of reference.
Seven women had had their careers destroyed. What had become of them? Had they found other employment? Or—more likely—were they scraping by on the streets, unable to support themselves because the exalted Earl of Penworth had branded them thieves or sluggards?
“Why are you crying?” he queried, merely to learn what they would say.
“We didn’t intend any harm,” Miranda declared.
“Didn’t you?”
“No. We were just playing a trick on her.”
“We weren’t aware that she’d fallen,” Melanie claimed, “or that she was left behind.”
“We thought she chased us up the stairs,” Miranda said. “We thought she could see the light from our lanterns.”
“We were trying to scare her,” Melanie asserted, “not hurt her.”
“As soon as we arrived in our bedchamber, we asked a maid about her, and—”
“Really?” John interrupted. “Which one?”
“Becky. She told us that Miss Lambert was in her room, too.”
There was no maid in the castle named Becky, but Miranda mentioned her with great certitude, giving not the slightest hint of deception. The girl had to be the most accomplished liar who’d ever lived.
“It never occurred to us,” Melanie contended, “that Becky was mistaken. We assumed Miss Lambert was fine.”
“If we’d had a clue,” Miranda continued, “as to her actual situation, we’d have gone down to help her.”
“But we didn’t know,” they wailed together. They slid matching kerchiefs from their sleeves and dabbed at their eyes. They gazed at him, looking candid and miserable. If Lily hadn’t lifted the veil that kept him blind to their shenanigans, he might have once again swallowed their nonsense.
A lengthy silence ensued, as he stared, and they stared back, not realizing that the rules of the game had changed. Even if their behavior had started as a prank—which he didn’t believe for a second—the results could have been catastrophic.
“Is that it?” he finally asked. “Is that all you have to say?”
“What else could there be?” Miranda replied.
“How about the fact that you pushed her down? That she hit her head?”
“We didn’t push her! She tripped.”
“Did she?”
“Yes!”
“And I suppose she simply rolled into the water all on her own.”
“My goodness!” Melanie gasped, appearing shocked. “Miss Lambert fell into the pool? She could have drowned!”
John scrutinized them, waiting for some sign of regret or shame, but other than a swatch of color on their cheeks, their expressions could only be described as serene.
“Here is what I’ve arranged for you,” he stated.
“What do you mean?” Miranda inquired.
“I’m sending you back to London. You’ll leave on Friday.”
It was almost a week away, but there was no suitable ship departing any earlier.
“We don’t want to go to London,” Miranda complained. “We’re enjoying ourselves too much in Scotland.”
John ignored her. “Once you debark, my clerk will meet you at the harbor, and you will be escorted to Penworth Hall. You will remain in the country—seeing no guests and engaging in no entertainment—until I return and decide what’s to be done with you.”
“But . . . but . . . that’s cruel,” Melanie whined.
“Not nearly as cruel as your assault on Miss Lambert.”
“Assault!” Miranda blustered. “What has she alleged? Whatever it is, bring her in here and I shall call her a liar to her face!”
“I wouldn’t force her to endure your company long enough to give you the chance.”
They simultaneously sucked in insulted breaths, their anger evident.
“How is it,” Miranda demanded, “that you would take a mere servant’s word over ours?”
“It was rather easy. I don’t like you, and I’m struggling to remember why I’ve been considerate to either of you.”
“Well!” they huffed in unison.
“The next few days will be awkward,” he informed them, “but you are not to be in the same room with Miss Lambert. Should you bump into her on the stairs or in a hallway, you are not to speak to her. You are not to molest her in any fashion. Do I make myself clear?”
He stopped, watching them again, trying to guess what was going through their devious little minds.
When they didn’t respond to his question, he posed it more sharply.
“Do I make myself clear!”
“Yes, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear,” Melanie said, but Miranda had the gall to taunt, “What if we don’t obey you? What if we abuse her hideously?”
John leaned back in his chair, being a veritable master at exhibiting a cool, calm façade. If they presumed they could best him in attitude or manner, they were gravely mistaken.
“I am a major benefactor of a convent in Belgium,” he told them. “Many English girls—from good families—are housed there to conceal various scandals.”
“So?” Melanie snapped like a petulant toddler.
“I control your lives and money until you’re twentyfive—or until you wed. During the coming week, if you so much as peek at Miss Lambert, I shall have you bound and gagged and delivered to the nuns.” He raised a casual brow. “And there you shall stay for the next seven years.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Miranda seethed.
“Wouldn’t I? If that is what you stupidly imagine, then I suggest you tread very, very cautiously, because with the mood I’m in, nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He waved toward the door. “Now then, I’m sick of the sight of you. Be gone, and don’t compel me to ever again suffer your presence unless I specifically request it.”
Chapter 12
“HOW are you enjoying my castle?”
“It’s very . . .
rural
.”
“Yes, well, castles are like that.”
Violet smiled at John, wishing she had the temerity to say what she really thought.
The rooms were small and oddly shaped, the ceilings low, the chimneys poorly designed so smoke hung in the air. Being a medieval edifice at its core, the stairways wound in strange directions, and the layout of the various sections made no sense.
It was drafty and dull, and she couldn’t imagine why anyone would cherish it.
“Do you visit often?” She hoped the answer was
no
, that she wouldn’t be required to frequent the dreary building after she was countess.
“Usually twice a year.”
“Will I accompany you on every trip?”
“Yes.”
Her mask must have slipped, her distaste momentarily revealed, for he frowned.
“Unless you don’t care to,” he hurriedly said. “I could come alone if the journey would be too much for you.”
“I’m happy to travel with you. I love it here. Truly.”
He took her arm and led her across the terrace to the balustrade, and they gazed out over the park.
“The place will grow on you, Violet. Just give it some time.”
“I told you: I already love it.” She forced another smile. “There is one question I have, though.”
“What is it?” She hesitated, and he pressed, “You can ask me anything. We’re betrothed, so we should be able to discuss whatever is necessary.”
“Yes, we should,” she heartily concurred, but it was hard to raise the subject vexing her.
She had scant experience talking with men. Her father, the duke, was her sole example of male conversation, and he didn’t believe in wasting energy on a daughter. Yet she was positive that—should he learn of Violet’s situation—he wouldn’t be pleased. But how was she to broach such a deplorable topic?
“It’s about your . . . ah . . . mother. Will she be staying here? Will she be in residence whenever we arrive?”
“My mother? Why would you worry about her?”
“I’ve conferred with Esther, and she says that—”
“Pardon me, but I won’t listen to what Esther said about Barbara, and I won’t have you gossiping about Barbara either.”
His anger was evident, and she was rattled by his sharp tone. Was she to be silent? Was she to continue with her complaint? Why didn’t matrimony come with instructions? It would be helpful to have a book of rules so she could open to a certain page and locate advice on how to proceed.
“Yes, gossip is awful”—she nodded in agreement—“and I understand your feelings on the matter.”
“You couldn’t possibly.”
“I’m sure that having your mother here is difficult.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Have you a plan for her?” His frown increased, but she forged on. “Will she remain in Scotland? Or will she return with us to England? You’re not intending that she live with us, are you?”
He rested a hip on the balustrade, his arms crossed over his chest. He was being particularly cantankerous, but then, both Esther and Edward had warned her that he thrived on belligerence.
“What if I
was
thinking of bringing her with me?” he absurdly threatened. “What’s it to you? She has no bearing on you or your relationship with me.”
Could he really be that thick? Could he really not grasp the uproar that would ensue should Barbara reappear in London?
“People would be shocked,” she insisted.
“So?”
In light of how he always shunned scandal, his reply was very peculiar. If he’d suddenly sprouted a second head, he couldn’t have seemed any more odd.
“Is this your way of telling me that she’ll be joining us? For if it is, I must inform you that I doubt my father will approve.”
“Since you will be my wife, his opinion would be irrelevant.”
At hearing what could only be construed as an insult to her father, her temper flared. She moved in the highest echelons of society, and she was aggrieved that he would discount what—to her—was a grave circumstance.
Was this how they would carry on together? Would he forever chastise and admonish? Would he forever denigrate the issues that were vital to her?
Her view of marriage was an idealistic, hazy vision of unending contentment that—she had to admit—might not have any basis in reality.
She yearned for a grand, romantic lark, and she refused to have a husband who was like her father, someone who was so much older, who ignored her and treated her as if she were a silly child.
Her greatest fear was that she would wed, but naught would change, that she would limp along just as she had under her father’s roof. If she went through with the ceremony, but wound up a mute puppet, expected to vapidly grin while she tolerated John’s ill moods, she didn’t know how she’d survive it.
Laughter wafted by from out in the garden, and she glanced down a pathway to see Edward strolling with the twins. They were a merry trio, the twins giggling as Edward teased them, and a virulent wave of envy washed over her.

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