After all, desperate times called for desperate measures!
If she couldn't devise a solution, her sole option was to marry her neighbor and paramour, Robert Mason. He'd loved her so tediously* for so long, and he was constantly pestering her to proceed with the wedding, but— as she continually prayed for a reprieve—she used every machination to postpone the inevitable.
His standard of living was so meager, his assets so pathetic, that the very notion of stooping so low was too abhorrent to consider—unless, of course, she came to such a dismal fork in the road that she had no other choice. Then she'd latch onto him with nary a second's hesitation.
If only she hadn't frequently bragged about the size of Penelope's dowry! With the excessive sum having been publicly bandied, she had to be cautious. If she utilized the wrong penny at the wrong moment, she could attract dangerous scrutiny. The balance had to be given—intact—to Penelope's husband. There wasn't a single farthing available for an extravagant London excursion, which meant that Penelope had to wed Jordan Prescott.
When the dowry changed hands, Lavinia would be destitute, her house likely sold to satisfy creditors, and she'd be out on the streets. But the Prescott family couldn't let Lavinia, as Penelope's mother, wallow in squalor. She would ride Penelope's coattails to financial security.
As to Margaret, Lavinia wasn't concerned about her. They were on a sinking ship, and every woman had to save herself!
"Aren't you forgetting one thing?" Lavinia asked.
"What?"
She walked over behind Penelope as Penelope primped in the mirror. Lavinia enviously assessed Penelope's marvelous, youthful figure. Her waist was so tiny, her hips so curvaceous, her breasts so firm and pert, compared to Lavinia's, which were beginning to droop.
"I apprised you of what you'll have to do to keep your husband happy in the bedchamber."
"I never will!" Penelope insisted with the annoying certainty of a child.
"He'll stray if you don't. Could you bear to have him philandering with every hussy in town?"
"I'd kill him first."
"He'll touch you in despicable ways," Lavinia warned. "He'll take off your clothes, and he'll make you do things you detest. You'll have to agree. It's the price you pay for a good marriage."
"Are you trying to scare me? Or disgust me?"
"I'm merely telling you how it is. When picking a spouse, you have to factor in the physical traits of the man. When he's as handsome as Lord Romsey, the sex is easier to tolerate. But when you have to oblige an obese man, a bald man, or a cruel and revolting man—and you have to do it night after night—it becomes insufferable."
"I don't care what he looks like."
"You will," Lavinia asserted.
"I won't! There are too many other details that are more important to me."
"I'll decide what's best for you," Lavinia threatened.
"No, you won't. You don't know anything about me. I'm going to get everything you always wanted but never had, and you can't stand it."
She whirled away and strutted out, and Lavinia's anger surged. She'd informed Jordan that he could ruin Penelope whenever he was ready, and the prospect was increasingly satisfying to ponder. A bit of rape might be just the ticket to shove the arrogant girl off her pedestal.
Would Jordan dare? Could he be that ruthless? She'd heard so many terrible rumors about him. How badly did he desire Penelope's fortune?
Lavinia would have her way. Whether Penelope consented or not, she would end up married to Jordan Prescott.
*
Robert Mason was prepared to knock on the door to Lavinia's boudoir when it was flung open and Penelope sauntered out. He jumped to the side. He didn't like Penelope, had never trusted her, and often thought he might be downright afraid of her.
Lavinia claimed that she would wed him, but if it entailed playing father to Penelope, he was glad for the delay. He hoped Penelope would be wed herself before too long, so she wouldn't continue to be the wedge that had separated him from Lavinia.
"Hello, Robert." Penelope's voice was laced with sarcasm.
"Hello, Penelope. How are you?" "I'm fine. What brings you upstairs?" He patted his satchel. "I have some business to discuss with your mother."
"Business? Is that what they call it these days?" She chuckled slyly, indicating that he had no secrets regarding his relationship with Lavinia, and she totted off. He observed her till she reached the stairs; then he entered Lavinia's room.
"Darling," Lavinia welcomed, "how sweet of you to visit. But it's really an awful time. I asked you not to stop by this week."
"Or next," he griped. "I know, but I missed you. Besides, you were adamant that we review your financial situation as soon as possible."
Recently, with her fiscal quandary at crisis levels, she'd confided in him and pleaded for his advice. He was proud that she'd sought his assistance, but the papers she'd provided were extremely convoluted. Her income didn't match expenses, and he couldn't reconcile the two, so he couldn't make sense of her circumstances—other than to fear that she was facing bankruptcy.
"Have you studied my records?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"There are many discrepancies with the numbers."
"I told you that I'm not a mathematician," she snapped.
"I realize you're not."
"That's why I need your help."
"It's a tad beyond my ability to decipher. Perhaps if we hired an accountant, he could—"
"No!" she declared much too vehemently. "I won't have strangers pawing through my private calamity."
She was seated at her dressing table, preening in the mirror, and he stood behind her, his palms on her shoulders. They were such a striking couple, her with her blond hair and blue eyes, him with his brown hair and brown eyes. His dark features were a startling contrast to her pale, iridescent splendor.
He'd loved her since he was ten years old, and she was eight, and he'd remained captivated through her horrid marriage to Horatio, as well as his own to a kindly woman whom he'd never appreciated. He wasn't able to sever his fascination to Lavinia, and he couldn't say why. He simply adored her in an insane, inexplicable fashion that never faded.
She could definitely be domineering and exasperating, but in spite of her flaws, he'd do anything for her. He'd proven over and over that he was willing to demean and debase and humiliate himself, but when the reward for his devotion was their eventual marriage, he couldn't desist. He'd been waiting his entire life to be her husband, and he was ecstatic to note that the outcome was closer than ever to becoming reality.
"You're very beautiful this afternoon," he advised. He was desperate to change the tenor of the conversation, to avoid the details of her doomed pecuniary plight.
"Do you think so?"
"Oh, yes."
"You're so good to me," she said as he bent down and nipped at her nape.
"I know what you want, Lavinia. I know what you need."
He slid down the straps of her negligee till he'd bared her breasts. She arched and stared at her reflection.
"Am I looking older?" she queried.
He was no fool. "Absolutely not. You get prettier every second."
She shifted around and grinned. "I do, don't I?"
"Yes, you do."
He was fibbing, not inclined to point out that her age was beginning to show. Her hair was sporting a few strands of silver, her waist was thicker, her breasts sagging, but he would never mention the differences. To his besotted eye, she was still as fetching as she'd been as a young girl.
He linked their fingers, determined to lead her over to the bed, but she pulled away, dashing his plan for a quick romp.
"Oh, Robert, not now. I couldn't possibly."
"Why not?" He was more surly than he'd intended to be, but it had been weeks since she'd deigned to fornicate with him.
"I have the worst headache. I'm utterly sick about Penelope and Lord Romsey."
"Has he arrived?"
"Yes, but she claims she's going to London to make a better match."
"Better than a viscount? Why ... that's ludicrous."
'That's exactly what I told her."
"We can't afford a trip to London."
"No, we can't," Lavinia agreed.
With marriage to Lavinia imminent, he considered any funds his own as much as hers, and he'd never permit Penelope to squander so much.
"You have to reason with her," he declared. "I'll help you."
"I knew I could count on you!"
She bounded to her feet and wrapped her arms around him. Her lush body was pressed to his, and his cock leapt to attention.
He drew her nearer, his hips grinding into hers, as he dipped down and sucked on her nipple. She let him briefly indulge, then she eased away, and he sighed with resignation. It was such a chore, luring her into the physical intimacy he enjoyed so much.
"Let's talk about my finances," she urged. "Have you any positive information to share?"
He hated to constantly be the bearer of bad news, but her circumstances were more grave than she fathomed. She had dug a terribly deep hole, and he could supply no shovel to rescue her.
"It's very dire, Lavinia. You'll probably lose the house."
"How soon?"
"Six months, maybe less."
"Gad! So fast!" She shoved him away and paced. "And the banker. Have you spoken with him?"
"Yes, but there's nothing he can do, Lavinia. You simply owe more than you can ever pay, and people are demanding their money. I warned you this would be the consequence of your borrowing so much."
"Don't nag!"
"I'm not."
When he was aware of how affluent she'd been after Horatio's death, it galled him to be silent. How could one single woman spend so much? It was a staggering amount, and she was mad to have frittered it away.
He hugged her. "Forget about your debts. Forget about this mansion and this beastly property. Marry me, and we'll be happy with what's left. All we really need is each other."
"Oh, Robert, I can't discuss this, not while Romsey is here, and Penelope's future is up in the air."
"You can't leave me hanging forever. I have to have some answers in my own life."
"Of course, you do."
"It's unfair of you to keep delaying. When you persist with your dithering, I wonder if you're serious in your affection."
"Don't be silly. We'll set the date. I promise!"
"Will we? Or should I move on? Your procrastination has me doubting your interest in a union."
While she strove to be tough and independent, the prospect of his abandoning her always garnered a reaction. Instantly, she took his hand and escorted him to the bedroom.
Hope sparked eternal!
"I've been so awful to you," she cooed. "Why do you put up with me?"
"Because I can't resist."
"No, you can't," she said. "All this talk of bankruptcy has me so tense. Would you rub my back?"
"Yes, darling. Lie down. I'll have you feeling better in no time."
As she shimmied out of her negligee and snuggled down on the bed, he tamped down a victorious grin. They would begin with a massage, but it would progress to other raucous and rough games. It would be a leisurely and satisfying afternoon—just as he'd intended.
“What the hell are you doing here?" Charles Prescott, Earl of Kettering, sipped on a brandy and smiled at Jordan, pretending to be glad to see his son.
"Hello to you, too." He jiggled his drink, indicating the liquor. He hadn't been in Lavinia's residence fifteen minutes, and he'd already made himself at home. Before a full day had passed, the servants would think he owned the place. "The brandy is excellent. French, I'd guess. Would you like one?"
"I hadn't planned on it," Jordan snidely said, "but now that you've arrived, I'll have several."
He huffed to the sideboard, reached for a glass, then changed his mind and swigged straight from the decanter.
"Honestly, Jordan, you get more discourteous by the moment."
Jordan glared, his expression aggressive and hostile. "I repeat: What are you doing here?"
"Can't a father offer support when his son is about to tie the knot?"
"Since when are you concerned about my welfare?"
"I've always had your best interests at heart."
"We're all alone, Charles, so you can drop the paternal pretense."
Charles considered carrying on the charade, but it was such a waste of energy. He and Jordan knew each other well. They had few secrets.
He shrugged. "Light me a cigar, would you?"
"Light it yourself. Now tell me what you want."
"I was in the neighborhood."
"And . . . ?"
"I stopped by."
"And ... ?"
"I wanted to see how you are."
"And could it also be—just perhaps—that you didn't have anywhere else to go? Admit it: You're here to sponge off Lavinia Gray for as long as she'll allow it."