Fantasy 01 - Secret Fantasy (30 page)

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 provide-—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."

It was very quiet, and as the driver calmed the horses, she peeked out the curtain. A footman emerged from the house to lower the step.

Finally, the door was opened, and Robert rushed out to running feet and boyish whoops of welcome. Then he leaned in and extended his arm to her.

"Come, Anne," he said, "and meet my sons. Come and meet your family."

Ready for anything, she climbed out to begin her new life.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.”

“When will you return?”

"I don't know that, either."

Jordan peered into the worried faces of Johnny and Tim, a still-silent Mary loitering discreetly behind them, and he wished he could provide them with more satisfying answers. He was aware—better than anyone—how awful it was to have the Earl of Kettering as a father. After suffering through so many upheavals in their young lives, they viewed Jordan as a safe port in their personal storm, and it had to be terrifying to watch him prepare to depart, but he had to go.

If it took the rest of his days, he would find Margaret Gray and see her established in the style her fortune mandated. It was his fault that she was missing, that she could be in any dire situation. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would ensure that she was apprised of the peculiar twist of fate that had propelled her from an anonymous, penniless woman to one of great wealth and position.

As Attorney Thumberton worked in the London courts to have the mess with the trust resolved, Jordan had teams of men scouring the countryside, looking for her, but they'd had no luck. She had vanished, leaving no trace as to where she might be.

"When you locate Miss Gray," Tim asked, "will you marry her?"

"Me?" Jordan adjusted the strap on his saddle and smiled. "Marry Miss Gray? Why would you think I would?"

"Mr. Mason says that she's an heiress. If you married her, you'd have plenty of money, so we could stay with you forever."

At the boy's hopeful tone Jordan chuckled, but he shook his head. "No matter what happens, you can stay with me, but no, I would never wed Miss Gray."

"But why?" Johnny pressed. "I heard she's quite pretty."

"She's very pretty," Jordan agreed, "but we would never suit."

The children regarded him as some sort of hero, and he wouldn't diminish their esteem by confessing how he'd actually treated Margaret. He could imagine nothing more wonderful than to have her as his bride, but a marriage between them could never be.

He'd refused her when she was poor, so he could never have her when she was rich. It would be the height of hypocrisy, the pinnacle of pretension, to dream of such an absurd ending. Should he so much as suggest a union to her, she'd laugh herself silly, and he'd never embarrass her—or himself—in such a despicable and pathetic fashion.