Dreams of Desire (21 page)

She grinned at Phillip as if he was a favorite pet, as if her taking responsibility for the amour would lessen Clarinda’s rage. Of course it didn’t.

Phillip had a knack for getting himself into trouble with the ladies. As they’d traveled across England in their peddler’s wagon, dispensing potions and advice, it had been the story of their lives.

They would stumble on a scenic village, but Clarinda never had a chance to form any friendships. He would trifle with someone’s wife or daughter, and they’d end up fleeing an angry mob in the middle of the night.

He was the most arrogant man she’d ever met, so he never thought any of it was his fault. Women naïvely trusted him, so it was easy for him to land in a jam. And the consequences inevitably fell on Clarinda.

She loved the house that Captain Odell had provided for them. For once, she actually had a home, and she wouldn’t relinquish it without a fight. Only catastrophe could result from his behavior with Barbara, and Clarinda wouldn’t allow him to ruin the world she was building for herself.

“Would you excuse us?” she said to Barbara. She grabbed Phillip and dragged him away, and he staggered after her like a recalcitrant boy.

“When you’re finished,” Barbara cooed to him, “I’ll be outside.”

“I’ll find you,” Phillip called over his shoulder.

“I’ll be with my future daughter-in-law, whom I plan to upset and annoy.”

“I’ve talked to Lady Violet on several occasions,” Phillip admitted. “She’s dumb as a post.”

“I suspected as much, which will make our chat all the more amusing.”

Their intimate banter—as if they knew each other extremely well—increased Clarinda’s aggravation.

“Come on!” she nagged, lugging him away so he could no longer see his inamorata.

She found a deserted parlor, hauled him into it, and slammed the door. He gazed about, located a sideboard, and helped himself to the earl’s whiskey.

“Would you like one?” he asked.

“No.”

“Your loss.”

He downed the glass, then poured himself another and downed it, too.

“I’ll give the rich credit,” he said. “They know how to pamper themselves.”

“Would you stop drinking and tell me what you’re doing.”

He scowled as if it was the stupidest comment ever. “I’m having a clandestine affair, as you deduced clearly enough. Why are you raising such a fuss?”

“You’re having sex with the earl’s mother!”

“Yes. So?”

She threw up her hands and marched over to join him at the sideboard so she could pour her own whiskey.

“What if you’re caught?” she inquired.

“What if I am?”

“She’s not some farm girl from nowhere. She’s not some widow with no family to care what she does. She’s Barbara Middleton.”

“Do you really think Penworth gives two hoots about her? He can’t abide her, and he never even speaks to her. She could race through the garden, naked and on fire, and he wouldn’t notice.”

“You’re mistaken. It doesn’t matter what occurred in the past. It’s a son and his mother. If he learns of your dalliance, all hell will break loose.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m not. I’m trying to get you to focus. Now tell me: If Lord Penworth catches you, what is your plan?”

He poured a third drink, and he sipped it as he pondered.

“I suppose I’d . . . I’d . . .” He paused, then muttered, “I guess I’d have to marry her, wouldn’t I?”

Clarinda had just swallowed a mouthful of liquor, and at hearing the whopper of a lie, it went down the wrong way. Pounding on her chest, she sputtered and coughed.

“
You’d marry her?
For pity’s sake, Phillip. I’ve been your sister for twenty-five years. You can fool others with your nonsense, but you can’t fool me.”

“Why couldn’t I marry her? There are worse fates than being wed to an earl’s mother.”

“How about the fact that she has no income and no home? If Penworth doesn’t offer to support her, she’ll be living on the streets.”

“There is that,” he allowed.

“What would you do with her? Would you tie her to your wagon and have her lumber after you like a milk cow? Somehow, I don’t see her content with that scenario.”

He chuckled. “No, I don’t imagine she’d take to it.”

“And she’s so much older than you. How many years is it? Twenty?”

“Only sixteen.”

“Only!” She inhaled a deep breath, struggling for calm as she peered over at him. “You’ll never wed. You’re too independent, but if you ever decided to proceed, wouldn’t you like to have a bride who loved you?”

“Perhaps.”

“How could Barbara Middleton be that person?”

“She’s just lonely—like all the rest of them. I make her feel better about herself. It’s what I do. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong with it? There are so many things
wrong
with it that I can’t tabulate them all.”

“Nothing bad will happen. Trust me.”

She’d known him a long, long time. When he said the words
trust me
, they were headed for catastrophe.

“Don’t wreck this for me,” she begged.

“I won’t.”

“Please. I’m happy here, and I don’t want to leave.”

He grinned his impudent grin, the one that made female hearts flutter whenever they saw it, and he tossed an arm over her shoulder.

“You worry too much, Clarinda.” He spoke in the coaxing tone that
always
had her worrying. “Everything will be fine. I’ve got it all under control.”

“If that’s what you believe, then I’ll brace myself, for calamity is about to mow me down like a runaway carriage.”

BARBARA Strolled the grounds, pretending no destination, but in reality, she was working her way toward Violet Howard. The snotty imp was adept at scurrying away, but for once, Barbara wouldn’t let her.

Violet acted as if Barbara was invisible, but what addlebrained Violet didn’t understand was that Barbara was back to stay.

If John had resolved to marry, she intended he would wed someone Barbara liked, someone who would like Barbara in return. Was Violet Howard the best choice to be his bride? Though she’d never conversed with the ghastly child, Barbara was sure the answer was a resounding
no
.

John would have selected Violet for inane motives—property, dowry, ancestry—but Barbara didn’t think any of those aspects were vital. As her own situation had proven, there were other, more imperative issues: compatibility, respect, and common interests, to name a few. She was enough of a romantic to add
love
into the mix.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if John married a girl he loved?

Silly, immature Violet Howard would be an appalling wife, and Barbara had to convince John of his potential mistake.

Through the crowd, Violet was approaching, and Barbara hid behind a tree until Violet had passed. Then she stepped out and took Violet’s arm—as if they were bosom companions.

“Hello, Violet. You don’t mind if I call you Violet, do you? After all, you’re about to be my daughter-in-law. It’s only natural that we be on intimate terms.”

Violet’s eyes widened with dismay, and she tried to yank away, but Barbara simply gripped her arm more tightly. Her spine rigid, Violet walked on, staring straight ahead.

“What do you want, Mrs. . . . Lady . . . ah ...”

“You may call me Lady Penworth. Or you may call me Barbara. Either will suffice.”

“What do you want?” Violet snapped, ignoring both appellations.

“We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“You’ve been very rude to me, and I’m tired of it.”

“There’s no reason to be courteous to the likes of you.”

“Isn’t there? If you insist on being a shrew, how will we get on in the coming years?”

“A shrew! How dare you!”

“How else would you describe your conduct? From the moment you arrived in Scotland, you’ve been uncivil and vulgar. Unfortunately for you, I won’t pretend that you’ve behaved any differently.”

Violet’s pert nose was thrust in the air. “My father is a very important man.”

“Your father is a womanizing boor.”

Outraged, Violet gasped, “I will not listen to you denigrating him.”

“Too late. I already have.”

“I’ve written to him, to inform him that you’re here.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.”

“He’ll be very upset.” Mention of the duke had had no effect on Barbara, so Violet threateningly repeated, “Very upset!”

“Enough about your idiot of a father. I couldn’t care less about him. I’m curious about this: If you remain so disagreeable, how will your marriage to John ever occur?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you considered how easily I can sabotage your betrothal? If I decide to view you as an adversary, the wedding might never be held.”

Barbara stopped and pulled Violet around so they were looking at each other. Barbara was taller and older and more sophisticated. In every way, she loomed over Violet.

Having survived three decades of intrigue in the palaces of Europe, Barbara had thrived by knowing who her friends were, but knowing who her enemies were, too. If pathetic Violet Howard was anxious to clash, Barbara would oblige her, but Violet would be eaten alive.

“I don’t have to worry about you,” Violet boldly declared.

“You don’t?”

“No. I’ve spoken with John.”

“Have you? About what?”

“He’s kicking you out.”

“Is he? As a favor to you?”

“Yes.”

Barbara laughed. “If you want to play with the master, you should learn the rules before the game starts.”

“What rules? What are you talking about?”

“You’re an awful liar. John never said any such thing.” Barbara dropped Violet’s arm and moved away. “Last chance, Violet. What is it to be: friends or enemies?”

“I don’t wish to be either. You’re nothing to me.”

“Is that what you imagine? That you can fight me and win? Fine, then. Let’s battle. My first foray will be to tell John a terrible rumor about you. It will be a bald-faced lie, but I’ll tell it anyway.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I would. What should it be? How about that you’re in love with Edward? I’ll claim I heard your maid gossiping, and you’d rather have Edward as your husband.”

“What?”

Violet was gravely alarmed, and Barbara snorted with disgust.

Barbara had occasionally seen Violet huddled with frivolous, disreputable Edward, but she hadn’t speculated over it. Had their tête-à-têtes actually been illicit flirtations?

“Or maybe,” Barbara jeered, “I’ll pen an anonymous letter to your precious father. I’ll report that you’ve disgraced yourself with the earl’s brother, that the whole estate has watched the scandal transpire.”

“But . . . but . . . that wouldn’t be true.”

“Who cares? I’ll say it just to spite you. What sort of trouble would it cause?”

Violet gaped with revulsion, then began to tremble from head to toe. “You horrid, horrid witch!” she hurled, and she spun and ran.

Barbara walked on, pondering the encounter. She wanted John to be happy, and she was positive he wasn’t. Violet Howard would never make him happy. He needed someone who was more mature and stronger of character, who could appreciate his dreary history and cherish him regardless of his failings.

Where could she find such a suitable bride?

She ambled along, not realizing how far she’d strayed from the castle. She was on a quiet, deserted path, when a familiar male voice brought her to a halt.

“I don’t accept your resignation,” John haughtily intoned.

“You don’t own me,” a woman answered, “and you can’t force me to remain.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

Barbara peeked through a nearby hedge to see him sequestered in a secluded copse of trees with Miss Lambert. As Barbara spied on them, he stunned her by grabbing and shaking Miss Lambert. “You will not quit! I will not allow it!”

“It’s not up to you!”

“Isn’t it? If that’s what you suppose, then you don’t comprehend the power I can wield.”

Miss Lambert wrenched away, and she was quaking with fury. “You’re a bully, and I hate you,” she seethed.

“Well, at the moment, I can’t say I like you any better.”

“Just . . . just . . . leave me alone. Oh, please, just leave me alone!”

Miss Lambert raced off, and John shouted at her.

“Lily, get back here. At once!”

Miss Lambert, intrepid scamp that she was, kept on as if Barbara’s exalted son hadn’t uttered a single word. John dawdled, looking aggrieved and at a loss.

People never defied him. They never disobeyed or argued. Because of his rank and station, it simply never occurred to others that such brazen behavior would be tolerated. Yet Miss Lambert felt perfectly comfortable with flouting him.