Authors: Cheryl Holt
Dreams of Desire (34 page)
Lily had fled without a good-bye. She’d done it for altruistic reasons, but she’d left him—as his mother had left him all those decades ago. When he wasn’t looking. When he least expected it.
He was alone and always would be. No one would ever love him. His bride would be Violet, but his spouse would be obligation to his heritage and line. Duty would be his poor bedfellow on cold winter nights.
He staggered to his feet, feeling as if he’d aged a hundred years.
“Edward and the twins are departing in the morning,” he informed her. “You will go with them.”
“You’re being absurd. I’m your hostess. I’ll stay at the castle as long as you’re in residence.”
“No, you’re going, and when I return to England, I will make other arrangements for you. I don’t trust you, and I don’t intend to share a household with you or your son ever again.”
He whipped away and went to the door. He yanked it open, coming face-to-face with Violet.
“Well?” she asked.
“The engagement is on.”
“And your little ...
friend
. What of her?”
friend
. What of her?”
“She’s gone.”
“Forever?”
“Yes.”
“Swear to me that she will never be back to darken our lives.”
“She will never be back,” he said with a grim finality.
“Fine,” she tersely retorted.
“Now pack your bags.”
“Why?”
“You’re traveling to London tomorrow with Esther.” He pushed by her. “Go to England—and leave me the hell alone.”
“IS the earl at home, Angus?”
“Yes, Lady Barbara.”
Barbara untied her cloak and handed it to him. “Will he see me?”
“Probably not.”
“Why?”
Angus leaned in and whispered, “He’s in a peculiar mood. He’s receiving no guests.”
“That won’t do. The entire country is atwitter over his rise from the dead.”
“Quite so, milady.”
“He should be throwing a grand ball every night to celebrate.”
“Perhaps—if you were to mention as much—he might heed you.”
She sauntered down the hall. “Where is he?”
“Eating his supper.”
“By himself?”
“He sent everyone else to London.”
“What about Miss Lambert? I thought he was enamored of her.”
“Gone with the rest of them.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Esther, too?”
“Yes.”
“He needs a hostess,” Barbara murmured.
“One who could breathe some life into this dreary place. It’s been so gloomy.”
“Well, I’m here to liven it up.”
She swept into the dining room, and the sight that greeted her would have been humorous if it hadn’t been so sad.
John was at the end of a long table that could easily seat fifty, but he was the only one present. Two rigid footmen hovered like statues behind him.
She was extremely nervous over her reception, more so than she’d been when he’d initially come to Scotland. Then, she’d taken him by surprise. He hadn’t known what to do with her, but he’d let her remain.
How would he act? He’d driven the others away. Even Miss Lambert. His isolation was complete, so might he be kinder to Barbara?
Although he pretended not to be, he was a compassionate person. He wouldn’t toss her out. He wouldn’t!
“I’ll have what he’s having,” she blustered as she pulled up a chair.
Neither footman moved, and she waved an impatient hand.
“I’m famished!” She flashed her most flirtatious grin. “Please hurry.”
The two men glanced at each other, then at John for instructions, but he didn’t offer any. Ultimately, one of them shrugged, and they tiptoed out to ask others what they should do.
“If it isn’t my mother,” John snidely mused.
“Hello, darling. You appear tremendously hale. Dudley said you were, but I decided I should check for myself.”
“Why are you always turning up—like a bad penny?”
She bent nearer and pushed his hair off his forehead. During his escape from the grotto, he’d taken a painful blow on the noggin, and fortunately, it was healing with no infection.
He didn’t appreciate the maternal gesture, and he batted her away.
“What do you want?” he grouched.
“I hear my old bedchamber is empty, so I’m reclaiming it.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yes, lucky you.”
A tense silence developed, and John continued to eat as if she wasn’t sitting three feet away. She held her breath. If he was going to kick her out, this was the moment it would occur, but he said nothing, and she exhaled slowly.
Crisis averted!
Angus came in with her requested plate and silver-ware. He winked at her as he set them down.
“Where is Miss Lambert?” she queried to John as she began to eat, too.
“I have no idea.”
“I assumed you sent the family away so you could consort with her in private.”
“She did not see fit to stay on in her position. She resigned and left.”
“The rude little minx! Didn’t she realize you loved her? Didn’t you tell her? My goodness, all those days down in the grotto, what did the two of you talk about?”
“Barbara?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up.” He threw down his napkin and rose so rapidly that his chair fell over. Then he marched out without another word.
As his strides faded, she peered at Angus, and they exchanged a significant look.
“I’m convinced he loved that girl,” Barbara said.
“Is his heart broken? Is that the problem?”
“I believe it is.” She frowned, then smiled. “Do you know what I think, Angus?”
“What, milady?”
“I think we should locate Miss Lambert and bring her back. In the interim, let’s plan a party. If he’s surrounded by a castle full of guests, he won’t have time to mope.”
“IF your son finds me in here, he’ll torture me on the rack down in the dungeon.”
“He won’t find you.”
Barbara tugged on Phillip’s wrist and pulled him into her boudoir. He went willingly enough, but still, he didn’t like the situation.
When Esther had evicted Barbara, it had been a blessing in disguise. With Barbara living in his house, he’d been able to simply walk to the next room and climb into her bed. It had been the easiest affair he’d ever pursued, but he didn’t like gamboling in the earl’s territory. If they were caught, an uproar would surely ensue.
The previous week, Edward Middleton had threatened to have Phillip hanged. If John Middleton found out that Phillip was swiving his mother, Edward’s threat would pale in comparison.
“What if he comes to check on you?” Phillip pressed.
“It’s after midnight. He retired hours ago.”
“That doesn’t mean he isn’t suffering insomnia and wandering the halls.”
“He can’t stand me, and he doesn’t want me here. Why would he visit?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Not to me.”
She dragged him to her, his body crushed to hers so he could feel her all the way down. She’d already shed her clothes and was attired in a negligee and robe. The fabric was nearly transparent, giving him tantalizing glimpses of several naughty spots.
“Do you want to have sex with me?” she asked. “Or would you rather scurry home like a frightened rabbit?”
She was saucy and decadent and wild, and he chuckled.
“I’d rather stay and have sex.”
He clasped her hand and ran into the bedchamber. Like a randy adolescent, he tumbled onto the bed and drew her down with him. They were merry, giggling like children who’d stolen cookies from the pantry.
She rolled on top of him and pinned him down.
“Tell me how much you lust after me,” she demanded.
“Constantly.”
“Tell me I’m not too old, and I’m still beautiful.”
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
“And the
old
part? Tell me I could be a girl fresh out of the schoolroom.”
old
part? Tell me I could be a girl fresh out of the schoolroom.”
“Sixteen, if you’re a day.”
She raised a wicked brow. “For that divine compliment, you get a special prize.”
She stripped off her robe and negligee, and she hovered over his lap, her back arched, her glorious breasts on full display.
Yes, she was older than he. Yes, she was debauched and shameless and too indecent for her own good. Yes, she’d never bring a fellow anything but trouble.
But she was magnificent all the same.
He liked to imagine her, twenty years younger, waltzing in the courts of Europe, flirting and vamping, all the men falling at her feet. She must have been a sight.
“You, Mr. Dudley, are wearing too many clothes.”
“Perhaps you should divest me of them.”
“Let’s start with your trousers.”
She was unbuttoning them, when suddenly, a man cleared his throat. The sound was so unexpected that—initially—Phillip couldn’t make sense of it.
Barbara halted and scowled. Together, they glanced over at the door.
John Middleton, Earl of Penworth, her only son, was glaring at them.
His coat and cravat were off, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms. His hair was mussed, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. He appeared vulnerable and weary. The imperious aristocrat had been replaced by the exhausted, overwhelmed, very mortal man.
A mortal man who’d just stumbled on his mother—whom he didn’t like very much—having sex with the neighbor.
“Mr. Dudley, I presume?” Penworth’s voice was tight with rage.
“John!” Barbara squealed. “Oh no!” She leapt off Phillip as if he was on fire and snuggled herself to his back, trying to conceal her nakedness. But she was quite a bit too late.
Phillip thought he should comment, but he couldn’t fathom the topic. No explanation was necessary, and excuses were pointless. What remark could render the incident any less hideous?
He sat up and stood, grabbing the edge of the quilt and tossing it over Barbara. She clutched at it like a lifeline, holding it to her bosom, but she couldn’t obscure the fact that she resembled a French courtesan. She was simply a very carnal creature, and there was no hiding it.
Penworth approached Phillip until they were toe-to-toe.
“You’re fucking my mother?” Penworth crudely seethed.
“Yes,” Phillip admitted, and he braced.
The blow—when it came—was powerful and hard, and it knocked him to his knees. He didn’t attempt to block or deflect the punch. He figured Penworth was entitled to his fury.
“John!” Barbara bellowed. “Stop it this instant.”
She scooted off the mattress, struggling to keep the blanket wrapped around her.
“Stay out of this,” Penworth warned her.
“For pity’s sake,” she scolded, “I’m a forty-six-year-old divorcée. I won’t have you brawling over me as if I was some virginal debutante.”
Penworth stared and stared, as if really seeing her for the first time, and Phillip waited on tenterhooks to learn what would happen next.
Finally, Penworth staggered away from her.
“Get out of my house,” he hissed. “Be gone when I awake in the morning.”
“You can’t mean it,” she pleaded.
“Get out!” he shouted, and he stormed away.
Chapter 22
“WELCOME home, milord.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back.”
“I trust your journey from Scotland was uneventful?”
“Completely dull, with nary a bump in the road.”
John handed his gloves to the butler in his London house. Footmen traipsed in behind him with his luggage.
“We heard you had a spot of trouble up north,” the butler said.
“A small incident, of minor import.”
“So . . . all is well?”
“Yes.”
The butler’s inquiry—though casually posed—wasn’t an idle one. A master’s demise was always a time of great upheaval for his staff. John’s servants were probably still worried that he wasn’t hale or that he was suffering lingering effects.
In all actuality, so much had occurred since the cave-in at the grotto that it almost seemed as if it had never transpired. Considering the other catastrophes he’d endured in the interim, his near-death episode was downright blasé.
Lily had left him. He’d disavowed his mother. He’d split with Edward and had to make arrangements for Esther. He had to . . . marry Violet.
He wrinkled his nose with distaste. Perhaps Esther was correct, and he should wed immediately. If he forged ahead, the deed would be done, and he wouldn’t spend the next ten months fretting over it.
As he peered around the vestibule, he thought it looked different, as if he was in someone else’s residence. There was very little in the furnishings or décor to indicate the place was his.
“Who is at home this evening?” he asked.
“Your stepmother and Lady Violet. They’re planning to dine in about an hour. Will you join them?”
Other books
Sons and Daughters by Mary Jane Staples
Ravaged: An Eternal Guardians Novella (1001 Dark Nights) by Elisabeth Naughton
The Currents of Space by Isaac Asimov
Her Lone Wolf by Paige Tyler
Hitman's Secret Baby: A Bad Boy Romance by McKenzie Lewis
Blur Me by Jones, EB
Promised to the Crusader by Anne Herries
Evil Without a Face by Jordan Dane
Dust to Dust by Heather Graham
La piel del tambor by Arturo Pérez-Reverte
