Cheryl Holt (6 page)

Attired in a stylish blue daydress that accented her winsome features, she was pretty and fresh, graphically and painfully reminding Winnie of the divisions between them, of the fact that Edward wanted to wed a sweet, innocent, biddable girl. A nobleman’s daughter. All that Winnie was not and never would be.

What was she doing, loitering where anyone could see, and mooning over him like an infatuated ninny? Chagrined, she pulled herself together, masking further response, a knack she’d acquired through years of practice.

“I really can’t, Lord Salisbury.” Rudely, she used his title, and he frowned that she’d so quickly decided
not
to refer to him as Edward. “But thank you for the invitation.”

Before he could reply, she stumbled over to Olivia, made a few inane, prattling comments—that she later wouldn’t be able to recall—then she rushed into the manor, running till she located an empty salon.

In abject misery, she balanced herself against the wall, needing the support to stay upright.

She was sexually attracted to Lord Salisbury! Olivia’s potential husband!

When she’d been dawdling on the verandah, she’d been scared to classify what she’d felt.

But it was blatant, heady sexual desire. She was no simpering miss, no naïve child, so she was well aware of what had sizzled between them. Disgustingly, she’d enjoyed every second of the encounter, and if they’d had the privacy and the time, she’d have gaily acceded in pushing the rendezvous to another level.

Women such as herself had names, and she knew them all: hussy, slattern, trollop. She’d assumed that she’d ventured beyond this stage, that her degraded constitution was an aberration, a delirium of youth and immaturity, but apparently not.

Better than anyone, she understood how easy, how perilous, it was to succumb to the pleasures of the flesh. The results could be deadly. For years, she’d labored to restrain her base nature, fighting the insistent urges, and living so soberly and so sedately that she might as well have taken vows and become a nun.

Yet Edward Paxton had but smiled at her, and she was ready to fling her principles and virtue to the four winds. She felt as if the lid had been torn off a Pandora’s box where she’d hidden her sordid traits, and she was terrified that she’d never be able to put it back on.

Previously, she’d proven that she couldn’t trust herself, that given the slightest provocation, she could and would commit any licentious act. Hadn’t she learned any lessons from the past?

With a groan of dismay, she peeked into the hallway. There were no servants about, so she sneaked out and made for the stairs and the safety of her room.

Because she’d been feeling blue and housebound, she’d let the beautiful weather lure her outside, but it wouldn’t happen again. She mustn’t cross paths with the earl, mustn’t say or do anything that might encourage him. Her degraded spirit, and lack of morality, couldn’t be allowed to taint Olivia’s chances.

She owed it to the family; she owed it to herself, and she would not relent.

Margaret sipped her morning chocolate, mentally arranging her day. She’d been up since dawn, and she was dressed, her hair done, but she hadn’t exited her room, for she didn’t want others to know how early she’d risen. It wasn’t fashionable, so people would have found the conduct odd, and if there was one thing she insisted upon, it was exemplary behavior.

As the daughter of a baron, who had wed and buried two earls, she had an image to maintain.

Sleep didn’t come easily anymore. Too many worries plagued her, and as usual, this most recent debacle had fallen squarely on her shoulders. It was up to her to save them all, and the unwanted burden made her furious. Just once, couldn’t others have carried the load? She’d had two exalted husbands, neither of whom had been worth the price of the suits in which they’d been interred, and what did she have to show for it?

Not two pennies to rub together!

They’d both been scalawags, prone to overindulgence in strong drink, gambling, and strumpets. She’d put up with their shenanigans, and where had it left her? With no assets, and a mound of debt she couldn’t hope to pay off in ten lifetimes! That’s where!

If Olivia didn’t come up to scratch in their quest to snag Lord Salisbury, Margaret couldn’t predict what she might do. She wasn’t about to let poverty degrade her as it had Winnie, yet Olivia had less ambition than anyone she’d
ever met, and she had no knack for flirtation or wooing.

Why couldn’t she buckle down and apply herself to the task?

Well, if Olivia couldn’t figure out how to beguile Edward, maybe Penelope could, though the prospect was remote. At sixteen, Penny was too young to assume the onus of being a wife, or to execute the duties of countess. Besides, Margaret didn’t aim to settle for a lowly earl as her son-in-law.

She had much grander aspirations for her daughter.

With Penny’s parentage and looks, coupled with a sufficient amount of plotting and positioning, she could be a duchess, or a princess.

Who knew where the road might take them? Queen, perhaps?

There was no end to the benefits of an advantageous marriage, and Margaret was willing to do whatever was necessary to catapult Penny into the maximum union, but first things first. And that meant having their finances stabilized, their immediate futures assured, so that she could focus her energies on their subsequent destinies.

At all costs, and before their visit was over, Olivia had to be engaged to the earl. No other conclusion was acceptable.

Olivia had no clue as to how far their circumstances could plummet, and therefore she had no conception of the drastic decisions that frequently had to be made to guarantee one’s security and that of one’s family.

Margaret could make those decisions without batting an eye. She’d done it with that horrid baby Winnie had birthed all those years ago, and she’d just done it again with Helen. Back in London, if matters had evolved according to plan, Helen had vanished without a trace.

When Olivia married Salisbury, there would be no
insane niece to cloud the nuptials, no discovery later on that might lead the earl to feel he’d been duped as to the purity of the Hopkinses’ blood.

If Helen’s existence was detected, what kinds of stories might circulate? What if Penny garnered a royal fiancé, and then news was disseminated that she had a crazed relative stashed away at home? Even though Penny and Helen weren’t blood kin, no one would wait to hear how distant their consanguinity before the betrothal was terminated, and Margaret wasn’t about to risk having Helen’s lunacy reflect badly on Penny.

A knock sounded, and Penelope pranced in before Margaret could bid her enter. Penelope was aware of how much it irked Margaret when she demonstrated such shoddy manners, and a sharp rebuke was on the tip of her tongue, but Margaret tamped it down.

Penelope was in the worst stages of adolescence. She flourished on mischief, and when given a command or scolding, she ignored every word. If someone made a suggestion as to how she should comport herself, she did the opposite of what was advised.

Very likely, she’d intruded just to get a reaction from her mother.

Margaret knew Penny’s game, and she wasn’t about to play it. Not when there were bigger fish to fry.

Margaret’s greatest fear was that Penny would behave inappropriately around the manor, that she might draw attention to herself in a way that would be detrimental to Olivia. While customarily, Margaret couldn’t care less about Olivia, in this situation, deportment was paramount.

Penny was spirited and vivacious, and others didn’t always comprehend how to interpret her conduct.

Margaret felt as though she were walking a tightrope,
which only served to increase her agonizing over their collective fates. She’d explained their quandary to Penny, and how imperative their trip to Salisbury, but Margaret couldn’t say too much more. The least comment would have Penny scampering off in the wrong direction.

Penny had invariably been stubborn, but currently, she thrived on being contrary, and this sojourn was so important that Margaret couldn’t indulge her typical peevishness. So far, Penny had done naught but complain about how boring the estate was, and how she was desperate for some excitement. She’d been pleading to return to London in all haste.

“Good morning, Margaret,” Penny said as she flounced in.

“Penelope.” At the disrespectful form of address, Margaret nodded and silently gnashed her teeth. The discourteous salutation rankled, so Penny regularly used it instead of the boorish
mother
.

“Why are you hiding in here? It’s ten-thirty.”

“I was just coming down.” Margaret was irritated by Penny’s sniping. If she had been anyone else’s daughter, Margaret would have taken a switch to her.

“There’s no need to hurry. The earl has eaten and departed.”

“You had breakfast with Lord Salisbury?” Afraid that Penny might offend or antagonize him, Margaret didn’t want any cozy parlaying between them.

“Yes.”

“Was Olivia with you?”

“No. I haven’t seen her.”

Margaret’s blood boiled. Olivia had strict instructions to be stationed in the dining parlor before eight each morning so that she could greet the earl whenever he chose to show himself.

Between Penny and Olivia, and their unbefitting attitudes,
Margaret wondered if she would survive the next few weeks. Doubtless, she’d end up bald from tearing out her hair.

She rose and marched to the door, when it occurred to her that Penny had donned her riding outfit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she questioned, though she already had her answer.

“Riding,” Penny replied defiantly.

“No you’re not.”

“The earl said I could.”

“You shouldn’t have put him in such a position, because you know I won’t allow it.”

Penny’s hazel eyes flashed with ire. She shook her head, and her lush auburn tresses swished across her back. In an earlier century, a priest might have decried it as a witch’s mane, and Margaret often speculated as to whether the ancient priests’ admonitions about red hair weren’t true, that it was indicative of an unrestrained character.

As a juvenile rebellion, Penny liked to wear it down, but Margaret had forbidden her to leave her bedchamber with it hanging free.

Her locks were fiery and arresting, and with the blossoming of her figure, she’d recognized the power she wielded with that hair. Men gazed at her, followed her, and wheedled for introductions, and she was thrilled by the control it gave her.

Though Margaret had warned her about the perils of coquetry, she wouldn’t listen, and Margaret couldn’t make her appreciate the dangers she tempted by flaunting herself. Unfortunately, she’d inherited her father’s penchant for base amusement, as well as his demand for instantaneous gratification. Whatever she wanted, she wanted it at once, and at times, Margaret despaired for her.

She’d developed a fancy for a lower sort of boy, the kind of rough, crude fellow who drove a delivery wagon or poured beer in a tavern, and Margaret had to constantly guard her to keep her from doing something reckless.

Disgustingly, she had a fondness for stablehands and, on one astounding afternoon, Margaret had caught her kissing a hired man. She’d had him whipped, then fired, and had imprisoned Penny in her bedchamber for a week, with just bread and water to sustain her.

When she’d been released, Margaret had barred her from sniffing around the horses.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Penny declared.

“Watch me.” Margaret shot her a malevolent glare. “Go straight to your room and ring for a maid to pin up your hair. Don’t come out until you’ve had it fixed in a suitable style.”

“Witch . . .” Penny muttered.

Margaret slapped her as hard as she could. Though Penny’s cheek snapped to the side, the recalcitrant child exhibited no other evidence that the blow had affected her. Slyly, she smiled, making Margaret uneasy, and she wondered if Penny had intended to instigate the discord, if she’d deliberately goaded Margaret into expressing strong emotion.

She didn’t understand her daughter and never had. If she hadn’t seen Penny slip from her body, she’d disavow the girl as being hers. Perhaps the old wives’ tales about changelings had some basis in fact!

“Get out of my sight,” Margaret seethed.

Penny strutted out, laughing as she sauntered down the hall.

Penny strolled the corridor, peeking in doors to ascertain who was in their rooms and who wasn’t. She liked
to know where people were. Over the years, she’d stumbled upon many interesting baubles in the chambers of others, so she was extra observant when walking about.

At Olivia’s, she halted, surprised to find her present. Olivia thrived on arising at the crack of dawn, because she had so many inane projects to slave away on throughout the day.

Though Olivia could be reserved and stern, Penny liked her well enough. She never tattled, no matter what Penny did. When they were younger, Olivia would refuse to spill the beans, even when Penny had acted outrageously and Olivia was punished for it.

Penny admired her for that; she also judged her to be incredibly stupid. Who would take discipline for another? Especially when Margaret could be so viscious at dishing it out!

“Hello, Penny,” Olivia welcomed as she did a final check in the mirror.

“You’re off to a late start.”

“I didn’t sleep very well. I guess I’m nervous.” She blushed and changed the subject. “You’re looking very fashionable. Are you going riding?”

No one was aware of the incident in the Hopkinses’ stable, or of Margaret’s edict prohibiting Penny from approaching any building vaguely resembling a barn. Margaret had been too mortified to discuss Penny’s amorous adventure—even with her sainted cousin Winnie.

“I might.”

“It’s been a while,” Olivia pointed out. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“I don’t really care if I ride or not, but one of the men who works in the stable—I suspect he’s the stablemaster—is the most handsome chap. He has blue eyes to die for, and I want an excuse to talk with him.” She wiggled
her brows, then ambled over and flopped down on the bed. “Hopefully, he’ll agree to chaperone me for a tour around the property.”