Chapter TWELVE

“There’s a hole in my wall.”

“I know.”

“Were you planning to enlighten me as to how it got there?”

“Eventually.”

Ian frowned at Jack and sighed. “The servants inform me that you were arguing with Rebecca. Alone. In your bedchamber. A gun was fired.”

“It was.”

“And…?”

“She was very angry.”

“Are you about to confide that the two of you had another sexual accident?”

Jack was silent, staring at his supper plate. Finally, he muttered, “I asked her to marry me.”

“So she shot at you? That must have been quite a proposal.”

“She didn’t appear to care for it,” he grumbled.

“You know, Jack, it’s not very sporting of you to propose matrimony to my mistress.”

“Don’t worry; she said no.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel better? Did she shoot at you before or after she rejected you?”

“Very funny.”

Jack went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey.

“Would you like one?” he queried.

“I believe I would.”

Jack poured another and, looking morose and miserable, he sat again.

“Would you mind telling me what’s wrong?” Ian pressed. “Besides the fact that you’ve discovered Rebecca to be a wild hothead?”

Jack downed his drink. “Why did you fight with Lord Wakefield?”

“With Wakefield? Why would you inquire about him?”

“I’m curious about something I was told.”

“What was that?”

Jack gazed around the ornate dining parlor, studying the fancy furnishings, the plush rugs, the silver candlesticks and crystal chandelier.

“Rebecca swears that you’re rich because you embezzled from Wakefield. She said that he caught you and that’s why you quarreled.”

“Rebecca said all that, did she?”

“Yes.”

“You two are certainly a pair of chums. I don’t know why I continue to act as if I’m involved with her.”

Jack shrugged, which could have indicated any number of replies, so Ian kept pushing.

“Where did she hear such a dastardly thing?”

“She claims it’s being whispered all over London.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Is it true?”

Ian’s face was an impassive mask. “What do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

Ian gulped his own whiskey and stood. “Good night.”

“I want to know what happened,” Jack declared, “and I want you to be the one who apprises me. I won’t have every society rumormonger needling me with stories.”

Ian assessed Jack, whom he’d grown to love so dearly. He was glad they’d met, glad that Jack had come to live with him. He couldn’t remember what his life had been like before he’d had an exasperating younger sibling, and at the notion that he might have squandered Jack’s regard he was unbearably sad.

“It’s sort of true,” Ian quietly admitted.

“Sort of? What does that mean? You either stole from him or you didn’t.”

There was a lengthy, painful silence; then Jack posed the question that Ian had asked himself on a thousand different occasions.

“What possessed you? Why lose a brother over something as stupid as money?”

Why indeed? “It seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

“Don’t be flip,” Jack scolded. “Not about this. It doesn’t become you.”

Ian’s humiliation rose up, flaming his cheeks with the wickedness of what he’d done. He plopped into a chair. “It wasn’t because of the money. John couldn’t have cared less about that.”

“How odd. Rich men usually obsess about their finances.”

“Not John. If he could have, he’d have given it all to me—the title, the properties, and every last chattel. He didn’t want any of it.”

“Then what did you do to make him so angry?”

“I earned my fortune, but I didn’t deserve it. Our father rewarded me for … for … spying on him.”

“Why would you?”

“John was set to inherit so much wealth, but Father didn’t trust him to manage any of it—and with valid reason. Before John married Emma, he was a mess. I was paid to report back, but the funds came from John’s estates.”

“For twelve years, Ian?”

“Yes.”

“That’s such a long time.”

“I know. Father brought me down from Scotland and arranged for us to cross paths when we were little more than boys—I was twenty and John was eighteen—but I pretended it was a chance encounter.”

“Wakefield didn’t realize?”

“He never had a clue. So you see, it was betrayal that killed us.”

“Shame on you,” Jack murmured.

Ian winced, as if the terrible night were occurring all over again. It was all still so vivid in his memory. John had been so shocked, so hurt.

I thought you were my friend, he’d said.

I never was, Ian had lied.

Ian hadn’t meant it, but they’d been fighting, and they’d hurled awful remarks that couldn’t be retracted. They’d both been wounded too deeply.

He and John had had their ups and downs, and John was renowned for being spoiled and difficult. But Ian had loved him, flaws and all.

He missed John. He missed John each and every day.

“By every measure, Ian, our father was an ass. Why would you help him?”

“I’ve never been able to explain why I did it.”

He’d been young and poor and foolish, and his father had offered him an opportunity to change his life and grow incredibly affluent in the process. Ian had acted as any sane fellow would have, had forged ahead to prosperity and status, but he wouldn’t try to justify his behavior to Jack.

There was no way to make it sound acceptable.

Fate had evened things out, though. Early on, Ian had learned that no matter how many dirty pounds he stashed in his bank account, his illicit Scottish heritage guaranteed that he was never welcomed as a full son by his father, never acknowledged as a Clayton child by his father’s peers. Only John had enjoyed knowing him, and he’d deceived John at every turn.

“You’re not very loyal, are you, Ian?”

Ian watched Jack’s esteem fade.

“No, I’m not.”

“If you could be so heartless to Lord Wakefield, what might you do to me?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it? I assumed you were a different kind of man.”

“I’ve tried to claim otherwise, but my base blood has always controlled me. You should let it be a lesson to you.”

“How so?”

“We’re Douglas Clayton’s illegitimate offspring, and we can’t shed the stain of our paternity. We shouldn’t pretend to be what we’re not.”

“That’s where you’re mistaken, Ian. Douglas may have sired me, but I don’t have to be like him. I’m not like him.”

His sanctimonious pronouncement over, Jack stood and walked to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I think maybe I should leave.”

“Leave … my home?” Ian scoffed. “Don’t be absurd. How would you get by?”

“I’m sure it will surprise you, but before coming here, I made my own way. I didn’t have a fancy house to live in, or delicious food to stuff in my belly, but I never betrayed a soul, and I most definitely never hurt a friend.”

“Aren’t you a paragon?” Ian maliciously retorted.

“Not a paragon, no. But a stalwart and trustworthy person—always.” He started out again. “I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to end up so cruel and miserable—as you and Rebecca seem to be.”

Ian listened to Jack stomping away, and he felt as if the past was repeating itself, that what had transpired with John was occurring with Jack. He’d split with one brother because he’d been too proud to speak up. Was he prepared to have the same conclusion with Jack?

The horrid prospect jolted him out of his stupor, and he hurried to the hall, just as Jack had reached the stairs and begun to climb.

“Jack, wait.”

Jack halted, the distance separating them impossibly wide. “What is it?”

“I never told John, but I was so sorry.”

“He’s not dead. You could talk to him. You could apologize now.”

“He wouldn’t grant me an audience.”

“What if you’re wrong? What if he would?”

The notion dangled between them, but Ian was too distraught to embrace it. Instead, he said what he could, what was absolutely true.

“I don’t want you to go. Not ever. And most especially not when you’re so angry.”

“I don’t belong here,” Jack insisted.

“You do belong. You belong right here—with me.”

Jack looked so bewildered. “I don’t know what to do, Ian. Everything is so jumbled.”

“Sleep on it. Things will seem less bleak in the morning.”

“We’ll see.” He kept climbing.

“Please?”

Ian heard the quiver in his voice, and he hated that he was begging, but if Jack left, what good was any of it? He’d have no one in the entire world, save Rebecca, and having her was worse than having no one, at all.

“Jack!” he snapped, his irritation poking through. “Tell me you’ll stay.”

“We’ll see,” his brother said again, and he continued on, as Ian fussed and stewed in his empty parlor.

He paced back and forth, back and forth, and with each trek across the floor, he was more despairing. Why couldn’t he ever have what he craved? Why couldn’t anything ever go as he planned?

Like a spoiled toddler, he railed against life, against Fate. Every imaginable injustice appeared to have been foisted on him, and he was so weary of battling for every little scrap.

He merely wanted to be happy. That’s all he wanted. Why couldn’t he be happy? Why was contentment so difficult to attain?

He wanted Caro.

The sudden need flowered in his chest, and it grew and grew until it was blazing like a forest fire.

He’d suffered years of rejection, and he was tired of denying himself. For more than a decade he’d mooned over Caro, and now he was about to stand idly by while her parents married her to Edward Shelton.

What was the matter with him? Why was he so ready to surrender? Why couldn’t he fight—just once—for what he desired?

He glanced at the clock, seeing that it was after ten and wondering where Caro was. Had she gone out for the evening? If she was attending a soiree, could he locate her? Or should he risk sneaking into her father’s mansion again?

He had to find her, and he marched to the foyer, anxious to grab a coat and hat, to have a horse saddled so he could ride off in search of her. He’d just stepped toward the door, when it opened and—as if he’d conjured her by magic—she slipped in.

She pushed off the hood of her cloak, and she was pale and shaking.

“I had to speak with you,” she started. “Is it all right that I’ve come?”

“You never need an invitation.”

He approached and took her hands in his. She was frozen, her fingers icy, and he was sickened to realize that she’d traipsed through the dark London streets to be with him.

“What happened?” he asked. “What is it?”

“After I was with you the other afternoon, my mother was furious.”

“I presumed she would be.”

“She’s decreed that I’m out of control and should be punished. She conferred with my father, and he agreed.”

“To what?”

“They’ve moved up the wedding date.”

“When is it to be?”

“A week from today.”

*   *   *

“I’m here to say good-bye,” Caro said.

“Good-bye?”

Ian was aghast, which provided some relief. She was weary of lectures about duty and responsibility, and she’d wanted to converse with someone who would be as appalled as she was, herself. Ian was the only one who would listen, the only one who would commiserate or empathize, so after Britannia had made her vile announcement Caroline had crept away as soon as she was able.

What she truly yearned to say was, Save me! Help me! but she didn’t, for what—precisely—could Ian do for her?

If she declined to go through with the ceremony, her father would cast her out, and she’d be shunned by society. She’d be disowned, a poverty-stricken female, with no funds and no acquaintances to offer her aid or shelter.

Would she beg Ian to take her in and support her? For how long? In what capacity?

It was ludicrous to suppose he was the answer to her prayers.

“I can’t stop by again,” she stated, feigning calm.

“Never?”

“With the wedding so near, I’m sure I won’t have another chance to get away.”

“I see.…”

There was a noise down the hall, most likely a servant rambling about, and Ian gestured for silence and led her to the stairs. Without argument, she followed him up to his bedchamber. He shut and locked the door, and as they stood, facing each other, she noticed what hadn’t been apparent in the foyer.

He was greatly distressed, himself, perhaps even more than she, so it was a terrible moment to have arrived, but she wouldn’t regret her decision.

They had no remaining opportunities where they could be together. After she was married, despite how dreadful it turned out to be, she would honor her vows to Mr. Shelton.

“What is it, Ian?” she inquired. “What’s wrong?”

“Everyone is leaving me,” he oddly said.

“Everyone?”

“First John, then Jack, now you.” He drew her into his arms, and he kissed her with a particular desperation. “I don’t want you to go.”

With a groan of dismay, he proceeded to the bed. He removed her cloak and tossed it on the floor; then he climbed onto the mattress, urging her down so that she was draped across him. She was still attired in the gown she’d worn to supper, the fashionable neckline cut very low, her breasts practically falling out of the bodice.

With the slightest tug, he freed them and sucked on her nipple, seeming to be soothed by the gentle motion. But as he shifted to the other one, the passion rapidly escalated.

“How long can you stay?” he queried.

“As long as you’d like.”

“Till dawn?”

“Certainly.”

“I want to make love to you. I want to make you mine in every way that counts.”

“I want it, too.”

“I don’t want to ever forget what it was like.”

“Neither do I.”

He was unbuttoning her dress, as she worked on his shirt. They jerked and pulled, wrenched and yanked, and quickly they were naked. They stretched out, with her on top.

“I wish there was more time for you to teach me your sexual games,” she said. “I feel like there’s so much I don’t know.”

“I’ve created a wanton.”

“Yes, you have.”

She relished how naughty they were when they were alone, and as a spinster she’d missed out on many fantastic adventures. Without a doubt, Mr. Shelton would never inspire her to such outbursts of ardor.

It seemed as if a portal was closing, as if she was about to be shut off from the life she could have had if she’d been smarter in her decisions. On this, her last night with Ian, she felt that it was her final chance to be happy, and she planned to grab for whatever bliss he chose to bestow. At the moment, she didn’t care about Mr. Shelton or her mother or her duty to her family. For once, she would selfishly revel.

In the morning, when it was over, she was positive she’d rue and regret, but not now, not when her every sinful desire was about to be realized.

He dipped down and nursed at her breasts again; then he meandered lower and settled himself between her legs. She grasped his destination, and she spread wide, welcoming the decadent invasion.

Swiftly, he goaded her to the precipice and heaved her over, her anatomy convulsing with ecstasy. She struggled to the peak, then floated down—grinning—as he caught her.

He was very tense, his body rigid with unfulfilled lust, and she wasn’t certain how to pleasure him. He’d always acted like too much of a gentleman, so he’d never shown her the indecencies she’d been anxious to learn.

“I want you to put your mouth on me,” he said. “I want to be inside you at least once before we’re through.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

He hesitated, then mumbled, “I don’t know if we should.”

“I’ll do whatever you’d like. Tell me what it is.”

“It’s a whore’s trick,” he claimed. “It’s awful of me to ask you.”

“I don’t mind.”

He shifted up the pillows, his masculine shaft alive and reaching out to her, demanding she tend it.

To her amazement, he clasped it and brushed the tip across her lips.

“Lick me with your tongue,” he instructed.

Surprised by the request, she froze, then did as he’d commanded, and she was tantalized by how she’d galvanized his attention. She didn’t think she’d ever seen a man quite so focused.

“You like that, do you?”

“Very much.” He moaned and flexed his hips. “Open up. Take me like this.”

She gazed at him, stunned, but horribly fascinated, too, and she eagerly complied. He tasted like heat and salt, and though he’d mentioned that it was a deed for a harlot to perform, she was enthralled.

He thrust, pushing in, then retreating, giving her a bit more with each penetration. She could have lain there forever, savoring the depraved escapade, which only proved how low her true character actually was.

She might have been an earl’s daughter, but she was thrilled to misbehave like any common trollop. He was transfixed, and she was delighted to confer something he so obviously treasured.

She’d just started to get the hang of it when he shoved her away, and she glared up at him, wanting to keep on.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m too aroused; I can’t continue.”

“You never let me have any fun,” she pouted.

He was in agony, every muscle taut as a bowstring, and he urgently needed the male release that would bring him relief. She snuggled herself to him, assuming he would rub himself on her belly as he had during prior trysts, but he rolled them so that she was on the bottom and he was wedged between her thighs, his rod dropping to her center.

“I want you so badly,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then take me. I am yours.”

“My God! Don’t give me permission.”

“I want it to be you. I want to know what it’s like.”

He nudged forward so that the end was inserted.

“If I proceed,” he warned, “there is a thin piece of skin that’s called your maidenhead. I’ll tear it.”

“Will it grow back?”

“No. So your husband”—he could barely pronounce the loathsome word—“will know that you’ve been with another man.”

She thought about Mr. Shelton, about her bitter, resentful mother, her foolish, preoccupied father. They were sacrificing her like an innocent maiden in a savage’s ritual. What loyalty was owed?

“I don’t care if I’m discovered,” she insisted.

“He could beat you for it, Caro. Or divorce you, or kill you, and he would suffer no punishment for his crime.”

“I don’t care,” she repeated. “I really don’t.”

She pressed herself to him, the crown lodged in even farther. He hung his head, his eyes closed, as if praying for strength.

“I’m so hard for you,” he muttered.

“Then take me! Don’t make me wait. Don’t leave me wondering.”

For an eternity, he paused, perched on a cliff of indecision, so she raised the stakes.

“I can’t be with you again,” she said.

“I know.”

“This is our only chance.”

“I know that, too.” His expression changed, becoming more tender. “If we progress, there’s no fixing what we’ve done. I would hate it if you were sorry later on.”

“I never will be.”

He studied her, then nodded, and he clasped her flanks and braced himself.

“No regrets, Caro.”

“No, none.”

He began driving into her, and at feeling him so intimately and unusually located, she had an attack of virginal nerves and tried to wiggle away, but he held her in place.

“Ian, stop!”

“No.”

“Can we talk about this?”

“No!”

“Please.”

“It has to conclude like this, Caro. Don’t you see? This is where we’ve been going all along.”

He flexed and flexed, and he broke through, his cock fully impaled.

“Oh, oh…” she breathed, arching up, tears stinging her eyes. “You didn’t tell me it would hurt.” She forced a chuckle, but it was a miserable sound.

“I didn’t want to frighten you.”

He kissed her, dawdling and delaying, and gradually, her anatomy adapted. As she relaxed, he commenced again, entering her over and over, and rapidly she was meeting him thrust for thrust.

His passion increased, his penetrations more precise, more resolute, and finally he tensed and emptied himself against her womb. The sensation was magical, and she hugged him tight, wishing they could be together forever, that nothing from the outside world would ever intrude. Her heart was filled to bursting, and she roiled with emotion. She was so happy; she was so sad, and she was experiencing every wild swing of sentiment in between the two conditions.

I love you!

The phrase popped into her mind, and she didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before. Of course she loved him. She always had and always would.

He drew away, though he was still buried deep.

“Are you all right?” he murmured.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not made of glass.”

“No, you’re not.” He kissed the center of her palm.

“I’m so glad it was you.” She sighed, reflecting on what they’d done, where it would lead, how it would end. “I’m not a virgin anymore, am I?”

“No.”

“I’m glad about that, too.”

The lazy night stretched in front of her. He was partially erect, his phallus unsated and ready for another go, and she was curious as to how much effort it would take to encourage him.

“How soon will you be able to do it again?”

“Not soon enough to suit you, you minx.”

He laughed, a merry chortle she’d never previously heard from him, and he shifted them so they were snuggled on their sides and grinning like a pair of half-wits.

She traced his lips with her tongue, as she took his hand and laid it on her breast.

“I can only stay till dawn,” she reminded him, “so you’d best get busy.”