Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (3 page)

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 Lavinia 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 Jordan 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.

He'd inquired after Margaret Gray, and a footman had advised that she was out for the afternoon, but would be returning shortly, and he was determined to speak with her. He had to ascertain that she was all right, that there were no lingering effects from Lavinia's vile conduct.

If he had another, more personal reason for wanting to see her, he wouldn't mull his motives. He was a man on a mission—that being his need to immediately wed an heiress—so he had no business seeking her out. Still, he couldn't be dissuaded. The unusual female had gotten under his skin, and he couldn't be easily shed of her.

Supposedly, she ran a school for the neighborhood children, and she earned an income by instructing them to read and write. He was bothered and fascinated by the peculiar report.

A working woman! A schoolteacher! Gad, to what was the world coming? When a gently bred female such as Miss Gray had to work for a living, it seemed as if the very fabric of British society was beginning to unravel.

He'd just rounded a bend when she approached. She was wearing a modest green dress, and a fetching straw bonnet with a matching ribbon. Her auburn hair was tucked into a tidy chignon, though several strands had escaped, giving her a rumpled air that he found much too appealing.

On his observing her, his heart did a little flip-flop, which was disturbing. He didn't want to like her, but apparently, he did, and he was sufficiently experienced in male and female relations to grasp how attractions could arise in the strangest places.

He stopped and waited for her to notice him, and when she finally did, she frowned so viciously that he almost felt sorry he'd forced the encounter. Almost.

She studied the surrounding forest, clearly pondering whether she should abandon the path and tromp through the briars rather than talk to him. The realization pricked at his pride, and he marched toward her, coming closer and closer, eager to learn precisely how near he could get before she panicked.

She didn't move, though, not a muscle. She wasn't afraid of him, and after so many years of nervous paramours and quaking debutantes, her brave disdain was a welcomed relief.

They were toe-to-toe, and sparks erupted, the very atmosphere charged with energy due to-her proximity. The oddest sensation of . . . of ... joy rushed through him. There was no other way to describe his delight.

"Hello, Margaret," he said.

"It's Miss Gray to you."