Cheryl Holt (12 page)

“Yes.”

“But I could never marry you, as circumstances would warrant. I have no property, scarcely any salary. Only the clothes on my back are my own. I have nothing. I could give you nothing. Do you understand?”

It was so hopeless! They were crazed to persist, but his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her with a wild abandon that made her ignore her family’s dire plight, her marriage to Edward, Helen’s welfare.

When he touched her, she became someone else, someone she didn’t recognize, who was equipped to forsake all propriety, all virtue and respectability. She would gladly submit to any reckless deed if he was the one who asked it of her.

What had befallen her? Why couldn’t she control this bizarre spiral?

His hands were on the front of her dress, and he caressed her breasts through the fabric. With an incorrigible, rash hunger, she needed this licentious fondling, and she groaned with delight.

“God, you’re so passionate,” he maintained. “So eager.”

“For you, Phillip,” she pledged. “Only for you.”

They kissed for an eternity, there on the isolated lane, the sun shimmering through the trees, the birds squawking from the branches. The ardor gradually faded, and their lips parted.

Phillip stared, cataloguing her features. “So . . . we’re to keep on?”

“There’s no alternative, is there?”

“No, I don’t imagine there is,” he said, resigned. “Visit me tonight.”

“In the library?”

“No. At my cottage behind one of the barns. I’ll show you where it is when we approach the manor. Can you?”

“I’ll find a way.”

He released her, positioning her on her own saddle. During the fervid embrace, her hair and gown had been mussed, and he straightened them until she was in a satisfactory condition.

They’d have to arrive in the yard as the strangers others envisioned them to be, and she hated having to pretend no knowledge or partiality.

She traced a finger across his cheek, his lips, imprinting the memory.

“Don’t ever shun me or send me away,” she implored. “I can’t bear it.”

“I won’t,” he promised, but as he made the vow, she knew he would never be able to keep it.

What did the future portend? How could this debacle have a favorable conclusion? Had she no common sense remaining?

Apparently not, for she was ready to risk any hazard simply to be with him.

Discouraged, frightened, weary, she nudged her horse away and started toward the house. At a proper, allowable distance, he tracked after her—the perfect groom.

They rode on—the noblewoman and earl’s daughter, the working man and employee—the vastness of an immense universe separating them.

Penelope peered up and down the pretentious supper table, assessing Lord Salisbury’s guests. He’d invited many people: the neighboring gentry, the vicar and his wife, the local squire. The stodgy group was supposed to impress, but Penny found them to be boorish and dreary.

A predictable country soiree, it had commenced with
the tedious drinking of spirits in the parlor, followed by the monotonous repast in the enormous dining room, then the chatting and socializing.

It wasn’t as formal and stuffy as the parties Margaret hosted in London, but still, Penny was bored to tears. Even the prospect that there might be dancing later had failed to elevate her spirits.

As usual, Margaret was watching her like a hawk, prepared to pounce for the least indiscretion. She couldn’t walk in the garden without feeling like a felon. She’d tried to flirt with some of the lads at the stables, but the stablemaster had made short shrift of any attempts at fraternization.

The sole diversion to be had was her regular jaunts to Olivia’s bedchamber, where she sneaked peeks at her portfolio. What a scandalous thrill that daily ritual had turned out to be!

Olivia expended an excessive amount of energy drawing her lover in various stages of dishabille.

How had Olivia initiated the brazen affair? It was a question that vexed Penny. Her stepsister was too sedate and dignified to remove her clothes and fornicate with a man, and Penny had no doubt that was what was occurring. Olivia couldn’t have dreamed up the wicked scenes. They were too lifelike.

Where did they convene for their assignations?

She’d striven to catch them together but hadn’t had any luck. The lone occasion she’d coaxed Olivia out to the yard, so that she could gauge her reaction to the half-naked, burly fellow, Olivia had hardly evinced any response, and Penny had been so disappointed.

What she wouldn’t give to spy on them while they were in the throes of passion!

Across the table, one of the earl’s neighbors, who’d been introduced as Freddy Blaine, was furtively appraising
her. He was the son of a lowly baronet, and she’d overheard her mother muttering that he was a ne’er-do-well and a miscreant, so Penny’s curiosity had been piqued.

Anyone Margaret didn’t like, Penny tended to like very much; in addition, there was the merriment to be had by goading Margaret into a dither.

Though he endeavored to hide it, he was inspecting her with an obvious, nefarious intent. Whenever he could get away with it, his gaze dropped to her cleavage and lingered, so as she felt it, she thrust her bosom up and out.

Hah! Let the old reprobate see what he was missing!

She guessed his age to be near to the earl’s, and with his wavy brown hair and hazel eyes, he was handsome, in a crude sort of way. He was tall and thin, not gone to fat and gout as so many of the older men had done, and the gleam in his regard was exciting.

After viewing Olivia’s pictures of the stablemaster, she was curious about dallying with a grown man. While boys appealed to her, their awkward fumbling in dark corners had left much to be desired, and she conjectured as to how a more mature chap would differ. Would it be more fun?

She glanced around. No one was paying her any attention, especially her mother, who had harangued the vicar’s wife into a stupor, so she latched onto Mr. Blaine’s stare. For a moment, they connected, and in a flash, a world of understanding passed between them. He lifted a brow and quirked his head, accepting her forwardness as a proposition.

The interminable feast finally ended, and she was forced to endure several hours of inane mingling. While there was card playing, nobody was sufficiently enterprising to rearrange the couches so there could be dancing. The only benefit of the horrid evening was that Margaret was engaged in conversation, so Penny could pilfer from the brandy decanter without others noticing.

While Margaret permitted her to have watered-down wine with her meals, Penny preferred the stronger spirits that Margaret had strictly forbidden her to sample. She liked how liquor made her tingle and prickle, how she felt powerful and invincible, and by the time the guests began to depart, she was giddy, though she masked any exuberance.

Freddy Blaine had sought to get close all night, but there had always been so blasted many people flitting about that they hadn’t had a second to palaver privately. As he went to make his farewell to the earl, he sauntered by where Penny was loitering next to the sideboard.

“Meet me in the gazebo,” she whispered. “In fifteen minutes.”

Heart pounding, she dawdled until another couple had exited, then she pleaded her own fatigue and obtained Margaret’s permission to retire. In her bedchamber, she tarried just long enough to fetch a cloak, then she tiptoed down the servants’ staircase. In a thrice, she was stealing across the rear lawn.

The gazebo loomed, white and eerie in the moonlight, and the air was so still that she wondered if he was truly inside. Then a horse snorted from behind the decorative building, and with a look over her shoulder, she climbed the steps.

He was sitting in the shadows, lounging on a cushioned bench, one ankle crossed over the other.

“Well, well,” he chided, “if it isn’t the earl’s wee daughter.” Suddenly unsure, she hesitated, and he patted his leg. “Come here, you impertinent wench.”

“I can’t stay. I—”

“Now!” he hissed, intimidating her with the harsh edict, and without argument, she did as he bid.

Seizing her wrist, he jerked her down, her bottom perched on his thigh, her breasts crushed to his chest.

Her prior forays into coquetry had been leveled on boys, so she had no experience in dealing with an adult male. He knew what he wanted, and it dawned on her that she might have been a tad more adventurous than was wise. She braced against his shoulder, trying to push herself off him, but he wouldn’t let her go.

Where her hip was wedged into the vee between his thighs, his manly rod was erect, and he didn’t strive to conceal it. She knew what it meant for him to be so cocked—the housemaids were incredibly indiscreet with their chatter—and butterflies swarmed through her stomach.

“What do you want of me, little girl?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” he scolded. “This is your party, and I’m here at your request.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” she pouted. “I don’t like you. You’re entirely too arrogant.”

He chuckled. “You were plenty flagrant with your
appetites
at supper. Don’t let shyness overtake you this late in the game.”

“You flatter yourself if you thought I was interested in you.”

Bold as brass, he cupped one of her breasts. “You’re awfully proud of this pair,” he taunted. “Are they real? Or do you use padding to disguise the fact that you’re a child?”

“I’m not a child!” she huffed, and she was furious.

Who was he to scorn her? To harass and insult? The gall! She started to resist, wanting to return to the manor, when he slipped his hand under the bodice of her dress and tugged the fabric down so that her breasts were exposed, her nipples puckering.

“Aye, they’re
real
enough,” he derided. “Not much to speak of, though.”

“Bastard!” she seethed. She tried to slap him, but she had no leverage with which to land an effective blow.

He countered immediately, with scarcely any effort, pinning her arms behind her back. The maneuver further revealed her breasts, providing him with an even better glimpse of what she no longer wished to show him. He gripped one of her nipples and squeezed until it hurt.

“Let me go!” She kicked with her feet and wrestled with her hips, yet she didn’t actually want to get away. She was stimulated by how he was holding her captive, how she couldn’t escape.

“You like it rough, do you?” He was hauling up her skirt. “Well, so do I.”

In a coarse fashion, he bent over and sucked at her nipple, while his fingers slithered into her womanly sheath. She was wet, ready, and the location of his hand was so naughty and so wrong that it seemed to burn her.

Abruptly, he withdrew, and bluntly inquired, “Is this a narrow, virgin’s puss?”

She was determined to put him in his place, to have him deem her to be older than she really was. “Hardly,” she boasted. “I’ve had dozens of lovers.”

“I’ll bet you have, you slattern.”

No one had ever been so rude to her! “Don’t call me names.”

“If the shoe fits . . .” He stood and began to unfasten his trousers.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously.

“I aim to find out if that mouth of yours is good for anything besides spewing sass.” The last button fell free, and his phallus was hovering behind the loosened placard. “Get down on your knees.”

She was aware of what he wanted—her coterie of admiring boys had often joked about it—and she was paralyzed between apprehension and willingness. He
clutched her shoulder, her mouth in front of his crotch.

“Suck me off,” he decreed. “I would have a French kiss.”

“No!”

He retrieved his John Thomas from his pants. It was her first chance to see one, and she was only inches away. The dastardly thing was mesmerizing, hideous, all red and covered with thick, pulsating veins. She was fascinated, terrified.

He stroked the crown against her lips. “Open up, my pretty harlot.”

She wouldn’t, keeping her lips compressed, and he grasped her neck, battling to compel her to take him inside. They scuffled, but he grew weary and tossed her away. Banging to the floor with a loud thump, she struggled to her knees, then her feet, straightening her gown, shielding her breasts from his torrid gaze.

Disgusted, he loomed over her.

The presumptuous swine! How dare he think poorly of her!

“You’re a pathetic cock tease,” he sneered as he stuffed his privy parts into his pants. “Strutting your ass all over, and cramming your tits in a bloke’s face whenever he turns around. Lucky for you that I refuse to copulate with children.”

“I’m not a child!” she angrily repeated.

“How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen?”

“How old are
you
?” she snapped.

“Forty-three. I’m a full-grown man, and I know how to act like one.”

“I’m twenty-two,” she fibbed, desperate to sound more sophisticated than she was.

“Right!” he scoffed. “Well, don’t come sniffing round me again unless you’re prepared to follow through. Next
time, I won’t be so accommodating of your maidenly hysterics.”

“Ooh, you . . . you . . .” She couldn’t conceive of a derogatory word to describe him.

“Begone,” he muttered. “I’m sick of your juvenile ways.”

He shoved her toward the stairs, and like a frightened nitwit, she ran off into the night.

Phillip stood next to the door of his cottage, watching for movement on the length of lawn that separated the manor from his humble domicile. Off in the distance, thunder rumbled with the approach of a summer storm, and the air smelled verdant and moist.

Olivia was coming to him. Any second, she’d be flitting through the hedges in a wild dash to his cottage, but what did he intend when she arrived?

Would he have sexual intercourse with her? Was he bent on ruining her? Could he cuckold his father so horridly?

The obvious answer was no, he couldn’t. In the beginning, he’d considered an affair, but the reality was that, deep down, he loved Edward and couldn’t hurt him. So if he didn’t contemplate fornicating with her, what was his goal? Why had he urged her to visit?