Cheryl Holt (7 page)

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. What 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
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
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, then 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-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
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
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 suddenly 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
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.”

“She doesn’t have any support, then?”

“No.”

Mrs. Graves didn’t elaborate, and Jane could barely dissuade herself from voicing the dozens of questions she had.

How could such a girl be disposed of with no stipend? Was there no one to fret about where she’d gone?

Maybe her wealthy relatives were ashamed of her abnormality, and they had wanted to hide her from the world. But didn’t they comprehend what the orphanage was like? Hadn’t they checked?

What would become of her?

That she could be sent here—dumped here, really,
with only the precious clothes on her back—was the saddest tale Jane had ever heard, and as she stared down at the impassive, serene child, a wave of protectiveness swept over her.

Jane rarely bonded with any of the orphans, for it was too depressing when they left or died. But for some reason, Helen was different. Nothing bad would happen to her while Jane was around.

Jane held out her hand, and Mrs. Graves didn’t notice when Helen reached out and grabbed for it.

“Daft, indeed!” Jane grumbled indignantly, as they strolled out. The child might be mute, but she was smart as a whip. Whoever had labeled her as stupid had no idea what they were saying.

As they passed the front door, Mr. Sawyer entered to begin his evening shift. He was the new attendant Mrs. Graves had hired. Jane avoided him and started up the stairs.

When they were at the landing, she paused, peeping down to where he was removing his hat and coat. She turned Helen so that the child could clearly view him.

“Don’t ever speak to that man,” she whispered. “And don’t
ever
go off alone with him.”

Helen made no comment, but she scrutinized Sawyer, and Jane could tell that the warning had registered. As if they were magically bound together, she felt she could discern the girl’s thoughts.

“You understand me, don’t you?” Jane mused, as though Helen had communicated aloud. “Well, I don’t care about the others. I’ll always call you Helen.”

Helen flashed a brilliant smile that lit up the dim corridor. Jane said nothing and continued to climb.

Olivia tiptoed down the darkened hallway, convinced she’d lost her mind.

She’d spent the entire day doing what was required of her and keeping herself occupied.

From the moment she’d risen—grouchy and exhausted from another night of restless sleep—she’d told herself that she would not think about Phillip, would not consider the indiscreet discussions they’d had, or his request that she join him in the library.

She was very good at focusing herself, and for lengthy periods, she’d managed to forget about him, until Penny had coaxed her out for an afternoon stroll. They’d sat on a bench, sheltered from the manor by a thick hedge, when she’d noticed that she could observe the rear of the stables.

Phillip had been there, covered with dust and sweat. As she’d spied on him, he’d yanked off his shirt. It had been the first time she’d beheld a man’s chest, so she had no examples with which to compare it, but she was positive his was an excellent specimen.

His shoulders were broad, his arms muscled and strong, his waist thin. Tanned and hale, he’d glistened in the bright sunlight, and the vision jostled her innards, making her crave and yearn for things she didn’t understand.