Deeper Than Desire Page 5

  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,

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  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 atti-

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  tudes, 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.

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  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

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  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 the for, and I want an excuse to talk with him." She wiggled

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  her brows, then ambled over and flopped down on the bed. "Hopefully, he'll agree to chaperone me for a tour around the property."

  Olivia gawked, then she strode to her dresser and pretended to search for an item in the drawers. "Should you be loitering and chatting with such a person?"

  Penny laughed. The women in her life were such stuffed shirts! "Honestly, Olivia, it's not as though I'm asking him to make mad, passionate love to me."

  "Penny!" Olivia scolded, whipping around.

  Olivia was so straitlaced; it was entertaining to shock her. "What about Lord Salisbury? Has he kissed you yet?"

  "Penny!" she repeated. "I scarcely know the man. And he's a gentleman. Why would you imagine he had?"

  "Aren't you the least bit curious?" She rose up on an elbow. "If I were being forced to wed, I'd want to learn if he was a good kisser. Wh
at if you delay until after the ceremony, and you discover he's terrible at it?"

  "Where do you get these ideas of yours?" She rolled her eyes. "Besides, I'm not being forced to marry anyone."

  "It seems like it to me." She paused, and cunningly inquired, "Have you ever been kissed?"

  Olivia's quick rejoinder was prim. "I won't answer such a—"

  "I have," she interrupted.

  "I don't believe you." Cutting off the conversation that Penny was eager to have, Olivia proceeded to the wardrobe and retrieved her walking hat and wrap, and she shut the cabinet with a sharp click. "In the future, if you confide such an outlandish tale, I will inform Margaret of what you claim to be doing in your spare time."

  An idle threat. "You don't have to be such a prude. Not around me," she asserted. "Do you want to know

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  what will transpire on your wedding night? A scullery maid told me all about it."

  "You're lying again, and I wish you'd stop it." She tromped to the door and opened it. "Let's go down, shall we? I'd like to see if there's any breakfast remaining."

  "No, thank you. I ate with the earl ages ago." Penny accompanied her into the hall. "He waited for you for over an hour."

  "Oh, no!" Olivia groaned, panicked by the news.

  "When he left, he was quite perturbed." Which couldn't have been further from the truth. The earl had been pleasant and cordial, had eaten a speedy meal, then had dashed out, explaining that he was off for his habitual morning ride. He hadn't mentioned Olivia, but it was fun to set her worrying. She was the type who'd fret all day.

  "Your mother will have my head!" Off she went, mumbling to herself.

  Penny tarried until she'd disappeared around the corner, dawdled another minute to be sure she hadn't forgotten anything, then she reentered Olivia's room and spun the key in the lock.

  She enjoyed rummaging through Olivia's belongings. Her stepsister had such pretty jewelry and clothes. Sporadically, Penny pilfered from her, and Olivia never missed what Penny stole, or if she did, she blamed it on crazy Helen and, therefore, didn't fuss over the loss.

  Penny liked to keep track of Olivia, to be apprised of what was occupying her, and what she was thinking. She read her diary and correspondence, and of course, it was always humorous to snoop at her sketches. Olivia assumed she was so clever, hiding the art she was forbidden to create, skulking up into the attic to paint whenever Margaret was out of the house.

  As of yet, Penny hadn't considered blathering to Margaret that Olivia was drawing—despite Margaret's

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  orders to the contrary—but she hadn't put off the notion altogether. There might come a moment when it would be lucrative to divulge the news, but it hadn't arrived.

  She riffled through Olivia's dresser, examining her undergarments, then her jewelry box, though any actual valuables had been sold and substituted with fakes.

  After a painstaking inspection, she lay down on the bed, staring up at the canopy, listening as a servant tried the knob, men moved on. She relished being on the other side of the door, knowing that she was inside when she wasn't supposed to be.

  Flipping onto her stomach, she pressed her body into the mattress, and her breasts rubbed across the covers. She pushed with her hips, mimicking the thrusting motion that the stable lads had shown her when she'd still been able to sneak off.

  On a particularly naughty afternoon, she'd permitted the best-looking boy, Jeremy, to lower the bodice of her dress and peer at her breasts. They'd been full and round, her nipples sticking out. He'd been excited, enthralled, and she'd liked how it had felt to have him so awestruck. She hadn't let him touch her, but she'd promised she would on the next visit, then there hadn't been a next.

  She rotated onto her back, so that she could fondle her breasts. The boys had done the same, through the fabric of her gown, and she'd been thrilled by their groping and pawing. But now that Margaret was continually hovering about, she couldn't slip away, and she regretted that she hadn't let Jeremy do more during that conclusive, torrid rendezvous.

  He'd wanted to kiss and suck on them, but she'd said no, and oh, how she rued that she had. She closed her eyes and envisioned that it was Jeremy's coarse, work-

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  hewn fingers manipulating her, and the stimulation had her wet and tingling down below.

  Thoroughly aroused, she returned to her stomach, and burrowed her nose into the pillows. While stretching her arms, she banged them against a solid object, and she recognized its shape. Olivia's portfolio! She pulled it out and lifted the flap, surprised by the number of pictures.

  As she tugged them out and arranged them in a neat pile, astonishment gripped her. She'd expected the usual array of boring sketches—of Helen, of Winnie, of the town house, of a street vendor—but this was something else entirely, so unanticipated and sensational that she scarcely knew what to make of it.

  "Nudes!" she murmured. "How absolutely grand!"

  Olivia had drawn herself over and over, her bust bared, her breasts naked and depicted from every angle. With her, in the center of every page, was Lord Salisbury's stablemaster!

  In the week they'd been at the estate, Penny had caught several glimpses of him. Once, he'd had his shirt off, his hairy chest and muscled shoulders visible from the secluded walkway where she'd spied on him. He was the most gorgeous creature she'd ever witnessed. Plainly, Olivia thought so, too.

  In every scene, he was simpering toward her exposed bosom, and in the last one in the stack, she was on his lap, and he was caressing her with his large hands. She was in ecstasy, his stroke electrifying and exhilarating her.

  Penny looked and looked, so wound up that she could hardly breathe.

  Why had Olivia done this? What did it portend? Was she having an affair with the stablemaster? She was too much of a stick-in-the-mud to commit so wicked an

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  exploit. How had she had the opportunity or the inclination?

  "Oh, God!" She squealed, teetering over and clutching the pictures to her chest, while she chortled with delight.

  This was too delicious to be true!

  Olivia and the stablemaster!

  What a luscious secret to possess! How could she use the information to the greatest advantage?

  Carefully, she replaced the illustrations in the portfolio, and buried them under the pillows, adjusting the bedcovers so that there was no hint that they'd been ruffled. With a hasty glance around, she made certain there was no sign she'd been snooping.

  Then she crept into the hall. Finding it empty, she tiptoed out and shut the door.

  ******************

  Jane stood in the matron's office, the deadly quiet of the orphanage resonating behind her. The children were working, so no chattering was allowed, and any burst of merriment was instantly muffled, the offender paddled for insubordination.

  The tiny girl beside her had obviously come from a rich family. She'd already been stripped, her hair raggedly chopped off, and she was attired in a standard gray pinafore, but her other apparel was on a nearby chair. Her pink dress, the matching bloomers sticking out beneath, was stitched to perfection. Her coat was crafted of the finest wool.

  The garments would be sold, and it was such a pity that the dear things would be forever lost to her.

  She was only three or four, but the most beautiful child Jane had ever seen. With her white-blond hair, her

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  big blue eyes, rosy cheeks and lips, she looked like an expensive doll.

  What tragedy had befallen her? How could such an immaculate child end up in the same situation as Jane?

  The clock struck three and she winced, praying Mrs. Graves would finish with the admittance papers so that Jane could get the girl settled and be rid of her. Jane had been interrupted with various tasks all afternoon, and she was an hour behind at her stitching. She didn't dare lag further.

  Whereas previously an anonymous benefactor had paid her room and board, the subsistence had sudd
enly stopped, and Mrs. Graves never ceased to remind her that she now had to earn her keep or go. The burden was intense, the threat genuine, and the possibility terrifying that she could be thrown out into the slums of London.

  Jane hadn't been told much about who she was or from where she'd come, but she knew for sure that she was twelve years old. The concept of fending for herself was too gruesome to consider. Occasionally, there were children who were brought in off the streets, so she'd heard the stories of what it was like on the outside, and she'd do whatever was required to prevent herself from being evicted.

  There was also the danger that Mrs. Graves might take her to the special "house" she'd mentioned. After Jane's funds had been cut off, Mrs. Graves had raised it as an option, stating that many girls chose it as an alternative to homelessness. Though she claimed it was a nice, warm residence, where rich gentlemen visited and gave gifts to the inhabitants, one of the older boys had subsequently advised Jane that she should never agree, that it was an evil spot, so she'd declined the offer.

  Jane didn't trust Mrs. Graves, and any suggestion the

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  dour older woman conveyed wasn't for Jane's benefit, but because Mrs. Graves would make a profit

  "What shall we call her?" Mrs. Graves broke the silence and tossed her papers aside.

  "Why don't we just ask her her name?" Jane broached.

  "She's daft as a loon. Can't talk." Mrs. Graves ventured, "How about Martha?"

  When Mrs. Pendleton had been alive, she'd taught Jane to read, so even though the documents were upside down, she could see that the girl was Helen Hopkins. Under Mrs. Pendleton, the children had kept their names, or been provided with names if they were babies, but Mrs. Graves didn't regard them as individuals and couldn't distinguish one from the other.

  They were all either Mary or Martha, even if they were mature enough to remember their original identities. Helen would never be uttered in the dreary place.

  "Martha it is," Mrs. Graves chirped, as though they'd discussed it, and Jane had concurred. 'Take her upstairs, show her her bed, then see what kind of work you can get her to do."