Fantasy 03 - Double Fantasy (11 page)

His behavior was enough to make Ophelia suspect he had some scruples.

"You might as well spill it," Ophelia needled, "or I'll go ask Percy and find out his version. I can side with him—or not."

Ophelia could be an ally or an enemy, and her relationship with Percy could be used to benefit or harm. Though Anne was loathe to parley, she considered her options, then tucked away her sour attitude.

"I tried to convince him that I can't marry Lord Gladstone."

"Don't call that pirate Lord Gladstone to my face or I'll rip your tongue out."

"Fine then. He insists that I have to marry Jamie."

"But you don't want to?"

"No."

Ophelia shielded her livid reaction. She wouldn't openly work against Percy, but she'd cut out Anne's heart and feed it to the chickens in the yard before she'd let Anne become countess.

"Did Percy say why you should proceed?"

"He thinks that I'm lucky Jamie picked me and that I should be glad."

"He would," Ophelia falsely commiserated. "He's not the one who will have to live with that barbarian after the ceremony."

"Precisely, but he couldn't fathom why I'd have reservations. Since I was ... ah ..." Embarrassed, Anne cleared her throat. "Since I was forced to spend the night in Jamie's bedchamber, I suppose there's no other result that's possible."

"I can't believe Merrick locked you in like that! I begged him to release you," Ophelia lied, "but the man is insane. He listens to no one."

"I know. I'm scared of him. He chose me, but it should have been you, instead. You're much better suited to be his wife."

Ophelia scowled. Had she just been insulted? She studied Anne, trying to decide, but Anne looked innocent as a cherub painted on a church ceiling.

"Have you spoken with your sister?" Ophelia inquired.

"I was about to."

"I noticed that she's friendly with Jack Merrick. Perhaps she could persuade him to reason with his brother on your behalf."

"That's a marvelous idea."

Anne flitted off, and Ophelia tarried, wondering how the universe could have conspired against her so completely. Was there no justice in the world?

Ophelia had plotted and planned, had managed and directed, while Percy had reveled in his London pursuits. She'd never been able to make him grasp how the estate paid for his amusements. He only wanted to play—and to have money available when he needed it.

She had kept the coffers full of cash, and now Anne might wind up in charge of everything! It was a tonic so bitter that Ophelia couldn't swallow it.

She went to the stairs and climbed, eager to fret and fume in the privacy of her boudoir. She'd occupied the countess's suite for nearly two decades, having evicted her mother from it at the earliest opportunity. It was her sanctuary, her haven, and she hastened toward it, lost in thought, when her mother leapt out from the shadows.

Ophelia jumped a foot.

"Mother, what are you doing?"

"I'm watching you," the demented shrew said. "I'm watching you and him."

"You're crazy as a loon," Ophelia hissed. In case there was a servant lurking who might overhear, she leaned closer and whispered, "As soon as this mess with Merrick is resolved, I'm sending you to an asylum. I intend to select the most disgusting one I can find. Do you understand me, Mother?"

"The Lord will protect me, you spawn of Satan."

Ophelia laughed. "Satan didn't spawn me, Edith. You did. It's all your fault."

"Not my fault," Edith declared. "I knew nothing! Nothing!"

"Are there any bats left in your belfry?"

Ophelia walked on, and Edith began spewing Bible verses, which set Ophelia's teeth on edge. Edith had always been peculiar, but she hadn't really fallen into the abyss of madness till the day she'd stumbled on Ophelia and Percy immersed in a particularly raucous session of fellatio.

She hadn't been the same since.

The old lunatic was growing more deranged by the second, and she should have been committed eons ago. Ophelia had no idea why she was delaying the inevitable, but something had to be done.

She slipped into her bedchamber and was about to lock the door to keep Edith out, but she stopped, stunned to discover a bevy of maids packing her belongings.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded.

Appearing guilty and terrified, the group curtsied as the most senior among them stepped forward to explain, "It's Jamieson Merrick, Lady Ophelia. He commanded us to prepare the suite for Miss Carstairs."

"He what?" Ophelia was so enraged that she was surprised she didn't collapse in a swoon.

"He made us do it, milady," another added. "He told us, himself. We didn't see as how we could refuse."

"Was the impertinent swine kind enough to clarify where he's moving me to?"

"Off to the other wing, to the room next to your brother's."

She was being demoted to a spot reserved for the lowliest, most unimportant guests.

"He said you'll be leaving shortly anyway," the maid continued, "so we should keep out some things for tomorrow but pack the rest. We picked out several gowns for you, but if milady would like to ... to—"

The woman recognized that there was no proper way to end the sentence, and mercifully, her idiotic voice screeched to a halt.

Ophelia stared them down, worried that the top of her head might simply blow off. Then she spun and stormed into the hall, bellowing, "Percy! Percy! Where are you? I need you!"

Her mother was still fluttering about. "Damnation, Ophelia! Damnation! The fires of Hell are nipping at your heels."

"Shut up, Edith!"

Ophelia swept by, looming like a Valkyrie, shouting and carrying on till someone pointed her toward Percy's tiny bedroom located on the far side of the house.

How had this happened to them? Was there no humiliation Jamieson Merrick would fail to inflict? Was there no limit to the indignities Percy would tolerate?

She stalked in like a tempest on the wind, only to find him brooding in a chair and feeling sorry for himself. She slammed the door so hard that the windows rattled.

"I want him dead!" she seethed.

"What's he done now?" Percy's tone was placating, as if he were speaking to a bothersome child.

"He's taken away my boudoir and given it to Anne!"

"Without asking me first?" he stupidly said. He couldn't accept that he no longer had any authority.

"It was my room! Mine! You gave it to me, and he's taken it away."

He chuckled meanly. "Are you finally riled? If he's seized something you cherish, then you know how I've felt for months. You've lost a petty bedchamber, but I've lost everything else."

"I want him dead," she repeated. "Today!"

"And how am I to accomplish it? Have you a magic gun that will automatically hit its mark?"

"I don't care how you do it, just do it."

"Don't order me about, Ophelia. I've told you I won't slay him anywhere near the manor."

"Then I'll deal with it myself," she wildly vowed. "I'll stab him or pour some poison into his soup."

"You won't. / shall have the pleasure of murdering him—but in my own good time."

"You've persuaded Anne to proceed with the wedding!" she accused.

"Of course I have."

"I won't have her as countess. I won't! I won't!" "Darling, Ophelia, I believe the matter is out of your hands."

"If she becomes countess, I'll kill you. I swear it." "Your threats are tiresome, and I'm weary of listening to you. Why don't you put your mouth to better use?" "You wish to fornicate? Now?" "Yes. Lie down on the bed." "No."

"I command you to lie down." "No," she said again.

His passions were inflamed, and his gaze dropped to her bosom. After her race through the house, her pulse was elevated, and her breasts strained against her corset. Their sex was most enjoyable when he was enraged, so as he grabbed her arm and threw her onto the mattress, she fought just enough to make it difficult for him.

They'd been lovers for so many years that she often felt they were naught more than an old married couple, and their wrestling brought a rough edge to their ardor that pushed it to new heights.

He held her down, but she scratched and clawed at him, so he captured her wrists and pinned them over her head.

"If you won't murder him," she taunted, "then I'll marry him, myself. I'll never let Anne wed him and rise above me."

"You would marry my bastard half brother?" "Yes—if that's what it will take to keep Anne in her place."

He was aghast, and she was tickled to have astounded him. He always thought he knew best, always thought he had all the answers. Well, if he didn't make a move, and soon, she would make some moves of her own. And they wouldn't include him!

Her remarks pitched him to a higher level of ferocity. He yanked at her skirt, and impaled himself, and he took her like a harlot, like a scullery maid caught in the kitchen late at night.

He loosed her wrists to clasp his hand around her throat, and as he thrust, he began to squeeze, tighter and tighter, so that she struggled to breathe. It was the most dangerous, most erotic thing they'd ever done, and as his lust spiraled, she grew frightened, worried that—for once—he might not stop, and her fear enhanced the excitement.

He came with a bellow of fury, his seed shooting into her, and as his flexing ceased, he lifted his palm from her neck. She sputtered and gasped, drawing air into her lungs.

"You'll never have him as your husband," he vowed.

"Then you'd better kill him for me, hadn't you?"

She shoved him off and stood, disgusted and seriously questioning why she kept on with him. Had she finally goaded him sufficiently that he'd respond as she wanted? Would he prove his mettle?

If he didn't buck up and assume control, she knew how to spur him on. She'd dabble with Jamie until Percy was provoked into a jealous, homicidal frenzy, which would solve all their problems.

She grinned, deciding that the prospect of seducing Jamie again wasn't repugnant in the least.

Edith watched Ophelia storm into the hall, swaying her hips like the whore she was. Ophelia couldn't have been more sinful if she'd worked in a brothel.

Edith smirked, relishing Ophelia's distress at losing the bedchamber she'd stolen from Edith so many years earlier. Edith had suffered constant disregard from her dreadful children, and it was her deceased, loathed husband who'd entrapped her.

In his Last Will, he'd granted total authority to her wicked son, leaving Edith unprotected and at Ophelia's mercy.

She'd never had any power or influence, and she'd endured her horrid plight for three decades. Was it any wonder everyone deemed her mad?

But silent revenge was so sweet.

Ophelia was gradually realizing that her whoring days were coming to an end. Percy had been brought low, too, rendered as insignificant as a man ever could be, and Edith gloated over every degradation Jamie Merrick imposed.

Unnoticed and unobserved, she sneaked after her daughter, aware of where Ophelia had gone and what she'd do when she arrived.

Edith halted outside Percy's door, and she pressed her ear to the wood, eavesdropping as her two children argued, then copulated. She usually let them finish, humored to have them add to their list of sins. The more they transgressed, the greater their damnation, the more potent God's ultimate wrath would be.

"You'd better kill him for me, hadn't you," Ophelia nagged, and Edith had had enough of their antics.

She flung the door open. Her daughter was over by the window, her breasts bared, her gown askew. Edith's slothful, evil son was on the bed, his clothing messy, too, his wormy little phallus hanging out of his trousers.

They both jumped to cover themselves so that she couldn't view what she'd seen a hundred times previous.

"Fornicators," Edith charged, using the taunt that angered them the most.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Ophelia seethed.

"Will you be ready to meet your Maker? What lies will you tell Him? Do you think they'll save you?"

"Get her out of here," Ophelia hissed to Percy.

Percy sighed and rose. "Come, Mother. You know you're not allowed in my room."

"Fornicators," Edith hurled again as Percy led her out.

"I've had enough, Mother," Ophelia threatened. "Do you hear me?"

"I hear, but I am not afraid," Edith replied. "The Lord will look after me."

"I doubt it," Ophelia said. "He has to be as weary of your harangue as I am. He'll let me do whatever I want to you, and He'll be glad about it."

"Ophelia! Mother!" Percy snapped. "Shut up!"

He dragged Edith out, as Edith smiled, delighted with her afternoon's effort.

Nine

“What are our plans?" "I don't know yet." » "Will we return to London?'

"I'm sure we will." "How soon?"

"Probably directly after the wedding. Why?"

Jack studied his brother, wondering how he could be so cavalier about Gladstone. Jack was tired of traveling. He yearned to settle down, to give up his nomad's life, but Jamie couldn't wait to get moving again.

"When you go," Jack said, "I think I'd like to stay here."

Jamie gaped at him as if he'd pronounced that he enjoyed diving into shark-infested waters. They'd always been together, just the two of them against the world, and Jack couldn't imagine an existence where Jamie wasn't smack in the center of it. Maybe Jack would join him later, but for the moment, Jack wanted to hold still.

"Of course you won't stay at Gladstone," Jamie scoffed. "You'll come with me—as you always have in the past."

"To do what, Jamie? What's in London that's so bloody important?"

"My ship. The crew. The women, the food, the parties, the gambling. What would you suppose?"

"So what? You have all this now." Jack swept his hand from horizon to horizon. "Forget about the ship and the crew and the rest of it."

They were loafing on the verandah, talking and sipping whiskey. The sun had set, and the sky was an indigo blue, the green colors of the park so vibrant that it hurt to look at them. As far as the eye could see, the land was Jamie's. It was rich and fertile, the sort of place that represented the very bedrock of British wealth and class.