Chapter TWO

“Bloody hell!”

Ian blew out a heavy breath and studied the ceiling. What was Caro doing? Had her snobbish attitude finally driven her over the edge?

“Of all the nerve,” Rebecca huffed. “Ordering you about as if you were a servant! Who does she think she is?”

“She thinks she’s the daughter of the Earl of Derby.”

“So? How can that give her the right to barge in and insult us? You ought to have her whipped.”

Jack rolled his eyes and asked, “Shall I go down and toss her out?”

Ian shook his head. Only the worst sort of crisis would have spurred Caro to visit. Simple curiosity, if nothing else, would ensure he met with her.

“No. I’ll see what she wants.”

“You can’t be serious,” Rebecca griped. She frowned at Jack. “Send her packing. At once!”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Jack mocked.

Ian sighed. He possessed a mild affection for Rebecca, and he enjoyed having her in his bed. For such a young woman, she was an accomplished lover who had few scruples, so she was a splendid paramour.

Her reputation was more awful than his own, so when he’d set out to offend the members of High Society with his abominable character, she’d been the perfect choice as mistress, but he’d hooked up with her before Jack had arrived on his stoop.

His despicable, deceased father, Douglas Clayton, had fornicated from one end of the realm to the other, without worrying over the paternal consequences. Ian had suspected that he had other siblings besides John, but until Jack had knocked on his door, he hadn’t stumbled on any.

He was thrilled to have Jack as a new brother, just as he was delighted to wallow in iniquity with Rebecca, but he couldn’t stand being in the same room with them. Their mutual dislike had been instantaneous, and they fought like cats trapped in a sack, with Ian stuck between them and having to mediate their petty quarrels.

“Rebecca,” he said, “go home.”

“I won’t!” she declared like a spoiled child. “You can’t make me.”

“I can, and you will. And you’re not to mention Lady Caroline to anyone.”

“As if I’d be quiet over this juicy tidbit!”

“You will not speak of it!” Ian warned. “She’s risked much by coming to me, and I won’t have her besmirched by us.”

“Ooh, poor Caroline,” Rebecca scoffed. “The little lady needs a champion. How wonderful that it will be big, tough Ian Clayton.”

Ian ignored her and turned to Jack. “Have the carriage readied; then escort Rebecca out—whether she agrees to go or not.”

“Lucky me,” Jack sarcastically oozed.

“Just do it,” Ian grumbled.

“Your wish is my command.”

“I won’t go!” Rebecca insisted, to which Jack begged, “Let me pick her up and drag her out, would you? It would be so amusing to throw her out on her pretty ass.”

Rebecca scowled at Jack. “If you so much as—”

“Jack! Rebecca! Be silent!”

“You are not my husband, Ian,” Rebecca reminded him. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

“And you are not my wife, Rebecca, so I don’t have to listen to you, either. You’re going home. Now!”

She was a female who would push and push, but she was savvy enough to realize when she’d gone too far. She peered at him, at Jack, at him again; then she shoved the covers aside, scrambled to the floor, and stomped toward the dressing room and her clothes in the bedchamber beyond.

Her path led her directly past Jack, who was insolently loitering in the threshold and refused to move as she approached. With her curly red hair flowing to her waist, her fabulous, naked body visible for both of them to see, she was a sight—but she knew it.

She stopped next to Jack, neither intimidated by him nor embarrassed by her nudity.

“Have a good look, my darling boy. Tonight—when you’re all alone in your bed—you can picture me and fantasize over what you’ll never have.”

“I’ll try not to get too hot and bothered.”

She stepped in, her torso nearly pressed to his. She appeared to be taunting him or testing his mettle. Jack stood his ground and didn’t flinch, even when she licked her lush lips and shook her halo of auburn hair in a provocative way so that it shimmered and settled around her.

“Will you dream of me?” she asked. “Or will you dream of … sheep?”

“Definitely sheep.”

“I thought so. You seem the type.”

She exited, and on seeing her go, Ian sighed again.

If she and Jack didn’t despise each other, Ian might have played matchmaker. They were the same age, and they’d be a handsome couple. Their divergent qualities were an excellent combination of fire and calm, and though she denied it, Rebecca would like to marry, again. Other than Jack loathing her, he’d be ideal as her spouse. He could rein in her more outrageous tendencies, which Ian—being an ancient thirty-two—would never have the stamina to do.

She was too much for him. All that temper and vitality simply made him weary.

“Are you really planning to speak with Lady Caroline?” Jack inquired, yanking Ian out of his pitiful reverie.

“I suppose I must. Why didn’t you wake me when she first arrived?”

“I tried, but you were too hungover. You didn’t hear me.”

Ian had no comment. Once, he’d have been ashamed of his deteriorated circumstance, but not anymore.

As Douglas Clayton’s natural son, sired in a Scottish village when Douglas had been on a hunting jaunt, Ian enjoyed confounding the snooty members of the ton. He’d acted the part of the refined gentleman, spending so much time pretending he belonged to their society that he’d actually started to believe he did.

But base blood controls. It was an old axiom, but apropos. He’d been born a bastard, would always be a bastard, and he saw no reason to behave any differently. Since his final, ugly fight with John, when he’d hurt his dear brother so deeply, he’d accepted the fact that he was a scoundrel. No matter how he’d previously striven to prove otherwise, he had no redeeming traits.

He was now a drunkard, gambler, and scapegrace, and he wouldn’t lament how his foul attributes had taken charge and were ruling him.

He eased his legs over the edge of the mattress. His head pounded, his stomach roiled, and sweat pooled on his brow.

Jack leapt to his rescue, filling a glass of whiskey and holding it out. At Ian’s quizzical glare, Jack explained, “Hair of the dog.”

“Marvelous. Just what I need.”

Ian swilled the entire thing, shuddered with revulsion, then stood and staggered to the dressing room. He clad himself in trousers and shirt, though he didn’t bother to tuck it in or button up the neck. He rolled up the sleeves and—unshaven, unwashed, unshod—he proceeded downstairs.

When she viewed his unkempt state, Lady Caroline would likely swoon, but he cared not. She was the very last person he’d expected to show up at his door. He hadn’t invited her, and if she didn’t like his disheveled condition, she could go hang.

As if he were an arrow and she his target, he trudged to his library, intrigued as to why she’d visited, but he declined to speculate, for he wouldn’t admit to any heightened interest. He would courteously attend her, then send her on her way.

He entered and walked straight to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. The one Jack dispensed had had an enormous medicinal effect, and with another dose Ian was certain he’d begin to feel human.

Caroline was over by the window, trying to ignore him, but as the rim of the decanter clinked on the glass, she whipped around, her disapproval gallingly obvious.

“Honestly, Ian,” she scolded, “it’s the middle of the day, and that liquor is so potent. I’d like you to at least pretend sobriety while we talk. Must you imbibe?”

“Yes, I must.”

He gulped the contents. To spite her, he poured another and gulped it, too. She had a way of tilting her aristocratic nose up in the air, of pronouncing her words with a hint of disdain that nipped at his feelings of inferiority.

Her contempt made him angry, made him want to wound her, which was impossible. She was built of ice; she had a heart of stone.

“I didn’t ask you here,” he pointed out. “If my habits offend you, leave.”

“You’re drinking to annoy me.”

“No, I’m drinking because I feel like it. Your opinion is totally irrelevant.”

“You’re being an ass.”

“I’m being myself.”

“You’ve changed.”

“No, I haven’t. You’re the one who regularly sniped at me because of my crude conduct. I’ve merely given it free rein.”

Still, her low esteem rankled, and the glass was suddenly heavy as an anvil. He put it on the sideboard, as if that’s what he’d intended all along. In a huff, hating her, eager to have her gone, he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

“What do you want?”

“I need to speak with you.”

“On what topic? And be quick about it. I’ve things to do and places to be, and I won’t waste a single second with you.”

She studied him as if he were a curious insect. “What have you to do? Will you continue cavorting with Mrs. Blake? Is she upstairs?”

“What if she is?”

“Really, Ian, should you fraternize with her? She’s so unsavory. What’s gotten into you? You used to have better sense.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek, and he struggled to keep from marching over, tossing her over his knee, and giving her the spanking she deserved.

At age twenty, he’d come to London, paid handsomely by his contemptible father to spy on John, then secretly report on his misadventures. John had thought they were friends, but they never had been.

For twelve accursed years, Ian had ingratiated himself to John so that he could eavesdrop and tattle. He had an incredible knack for betrayal and duplicity, and by deceiving John, he’d become wealthy, but his prosperity was like a weight around his neck, choking him with all that had been lost.

Through it all, Caroline had been a constant. When he’d initially met her, she’d been an irksome adolescent, and he’d watched from the background as she’d grown from a cheery, beautiful girl into a frustrated, fuming spinster.

As she’d waited for John to marry her—something he was never going to do—her smile had dimmed and her demeanor soured, until she’d ended up as cold and unpleasant as her parents or her older brother, Adam.

Ian had tolerated, detested, and lusted after her in equal measure. He’d pined away, silently coveting her, but his attraction had been fueled by envy and resentment.

He was Douglas Clayton’s oldest son, but because the philandering prig hadn’t wed Ian’s mother, Ian was nothing to anyone. John was the heir; John held the title and fortune. The unfairness had eaten away at Ian, had left him bitter over all that John possessed.

Ian had wanted Caroline because she’d been John’s. There was no higher motive behind his enticement.

It was a despicable legacy, one that he couldn’t bear to recall, and he hated being in her presence. She reminded him of the sins he’d committed, of the ways he’d failed John and himself. He didn’t need her strutting in and insulting him for his choices or mode of carrying on.

“That’s enough.” He walked over and clasped her arm. “Let’s go.”

“To where?”

“I’m sure this will come as an enormous surprise to you, but I don’t have to stand here, in my own library, and listen to you denigrating my acquaintances. You’re leaving.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He stepped toward the hall, but she dug in her heels and wouldn’t budge. He pulled again, but couldn’t move her, and he was stunned by her resolve.

She’d always been the most tractable of females. Her submissive nature had driven John to distraction and was the reason he’d refused to marry her.

Ian, too, had frequently chided her over her willingness to please, over her absolute devotion to duty. Her life was a long charade of missed opportunities. She never stood up for herself, stated an opinion, or grabbed for what she craved.

Yet all of a sudden, she was firm and adamant. From where had this new virago sprung? Why had she picked this moment—when he simply wanted her gone—to exhibit some backbone?

“Stop it,” he scolded.

“Stop what?”

“You’re being obstinate.”

“And you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m allowed. It’s my home, and you’re not welcome in it.”

“Would you kiss me?”

He faltered and staggered away. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.”

“I could swear that you asked me to kiss you, so I couldn’t possibly have. Now go.”

He pointed to the door, figuring that if he couldn’t haul her out, maybe she’d depart on her own, but she didn’t. Instead, like the most experienced coquette, she closed the distance between them and snuggled herself to him. Not a smidgen of space separated them, so he could feel every inch of her delectable torso. Her breasts, in particular, were riveting, the soft mounds molded to him as if they belonged there and nowhere else.

“Kiss me,” she repeated.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like you, so I don’t wish to.”

“You did it once before,” she mentioned, making it sound like a challenge.

“And I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“Have you? Let’s see.”

Stunning him again, she rose on tiptoe and brushed her ruby lips to his. For an insane instant, he permitted the contact. He’d always desired her, and apparently, neither time nor distance had lessened his fascination.

Why not forge ahead? a diabolical voice goaded. Why not take what she is offering?

The urging was so strong that he wondered if Satan, himself, wasn’t off in the corner and coaxing him to misbehave.

He lurched away, but she clutched at his shirt, trying to draw him to her, the two of them wrestling over whether to reinitiate the embrace. It was the most absurd, farcical episode of his life, and he would have laughed if he hadn’t been so disoriented.

He lifted her and physically set her away.

“Have you gone mad?”

“Occasionally, I feel that I have.”

“You can’t waltz in here and demand to be … be … kissed.”

“Why can’t I?”

“It’s just not done!”

“Oh.”

She shrugged as if she’d never been informed of the restrictions that ruled her world. Then she sauntered to the sideboard and helped herself to a glass of whiskey.

She drank it! The whole thing! Without coughing or sputtering! What on earth had happened to her?

“Does your family in Scotland brew this?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“It has the most relaxing effect. I may have to start purchasing it for myself.”

She turned and was about to pour herself another serving, when he stomped over and yanked the bottle away.

“Give me that.”

“No. You had some. Why shouldn’t I?”

“You can’t … can’t … drink.”

“Why?”

“Because—”

The likely replies were all ludicrous: Because you’re a grand lady. Because you’re an earl’s daughter. Because you’re Caroline, and you never have previously.

All of them were foolish, especially in light of the fact that she was an adult and perfectly capable of deciding how to comport herself.

Hadn’t that been his complaint with her? He couldn’t abide malleable women, and she’d been the ultimate one. She never took a step her father hadn’t authorized, had never put her foot down with John when he’d delayed and humiliated her with a string of mistresses.

With her burst of independence, she was acting precisely as he’d insisted she should, so why chastise? If anyone could benefit from a belt of Scottish whiskey, it was she!

Still, it unnerved him to see such unusual conduct. He’d been complicit with others in treating her as if she were a child, and he couldn’t seem to break his peculiar need to watch over her.

With a resounding smack, he set the bottle out of reach; then he leaned in and trapped her against the cabinet.

“What do you really want?” he murmured.

“I told you: I want you to kiss me.”

“Why?”

“Because when you did it prior, I liked it very much. I’ve been thinking that I’d enjoy having you do it again.”

He vividly recollected the rash night he’d kissed her. John had finally mustered the strength to cry off and mean it, and Ian had stumbled on her later, when she’d been wretched and needing solace. Like the cad he was, he’d taken full advantage, kissing her as if there were no tomorrow, as if they were the last two people on earth, but she’d hated it.

How could they have such divergent memories of how the incident had played out?

“You didn’t like it, Caro.”

“I did, too! But it was such a long time ago. I was wondering if it would feel the same.”

He scrutinized her, struggling to deduce her objective. She didn’t have a spontaneous bone in her body, and she wouldn’t risk disgrace by coming to him for a mere kiss.

“Tell me the truth,” he urged. “If you’re in trouble, just say so. I’ll assist you if I can.”

He’d always felt close to her, connected in an inexplicable way, so he could sense that she was weighing possible responses.

Eventually, she admitted, “I’m going to be married.”

A surge of dismay shot through him, but he tamped it down.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s what you always wanted.”

“I suppose.”

“Who’s the lucky fellow?”

“I don’t know if you’d be acquainted with him. He’s a friend of my father’s.”

“Your father’s?” The Earl, Bernard Foster, was sixty if he was a day.

“Yes.”

A sinking feeling crept over him. “Who is it, Caro? Who has your father chosen?”

“Mr. Edward Shelton.”

Ian hid any visible reaction. While he’d had no personal dealings with Shelton, he knew of the man. He was a rich blowhard, in his sixties, too. Rumor had it that he had a penchant for very young girls, so Caroline was much older than he generally preferred.

Was Caro aware of the gossip? Was that the real reason she’d come?

Perhaps she wanted him to allay her fears, and he was greatly conflicted by what he should say. Was this any of his business? A father always selected his daughter’s spouse, and at Caro’s level, the decisions were made on the basis of wealth and property that were beyond Ian’s ken.

What was it to him if the Earl of Derby picked an elderly pervert to wed his spinster daughter?

Since his fight with John, Ian had eschewed the entertainments he’d previously attended, favoring instead the darker side of London. In spite of his isolation, he was cognizant of the stories that had attached to Caro after her failed engagement, and they hadn’t been kind.

John had skated away from condemnation, but Caro—whose mother was so hypocritical in her attempts to appear pious and moral—had been painted with a hateful brush. People had tittered over her icy disposition, and tales had been spread that John had tried to seduce her, but had learned she was frigid, so he refused to have her in his bed.

The frenzy was exacerbated by John’s hastily marrying the very common, very pregnant vicar’s daughter, Emma Fitzgerald.

As the news broke, John had absented himself from London, so he hadn’t been available to counter the lies about Caro, but even if he’d remained in town, how could he have answered? A gentleman could never reply to such vile accounts.

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy,” he cautiously began.

“Really?”

“It’s what the Earl has arranged for you.”

“He claims the scandal will die down if I marry someone else.”

“I’m certain he’s correct.”

“Are you?”

“Caro, if you find the match repugnant, you don’t have to go through with it.” Was that what she’d come to have him say? “This isn’t the Middle Ages. He can’t force you.”

“I know, but if I don’t agree, what will become of me?”

“You’ll continue to live with your parents—as you always have.”

Even as he voiced the remark, he recognized that it would be a horrendous outcome for her. Her parents were unbearable and unlikable. Her mother in particular was petty and vicious, cruel to Caro in innumerable sly ways that Caro tolerated with a quiet dignity. They treated her like a feeble half-wit, and she’d endured the dubious fate for twenty-five years. How could she face more of it?

“Do you know Mr. Shelton?” she inquired.

“No.”

“But you understand men and their desires.”

“Well … yes.”

“Will he demand a lot of kissing?”

“Most likely.” He grinned, trying to lighten his comment. “Husbands seem to enjoy that sort of behavior.”

“But I was wondering … that is…”

They’d arrived at the crux of the matter. Whatever was driving her, it was about to be revealed, but he wasn’t keen to be apprised of what it was. Still, he’d once been her friend, and he liked to believe that he’d retained a spark of humanity and would aid her merely because she needed him to.

“What is it, Caro? You can ask me anything.”

“I’m curious as to what else I’ll be required to do.” She glanced away, embarrassed at her naïveté, at her lack of sexual knowledge.

“Oh…”

“I don’t have anyone with whom to discuss marital obligation, but I don’t think I can marry Mr. Shelton. He’s so old, and there’s just something about him that’s…” She trailed off, unable to explain what she sensed in the man. “I don’t know what’s expected of me, but whatever it is, I can’t provide it to him.”

“Speak to your father.”

“I tried, but he won’t listen. So I thought that if I … that is … well…”

“What, Caro?”

“I want to be ruined.”

“Ruined!”

“Yes, and I want you to be the one who does it.”

Ian gaped at her. “I was correct: You’ve tipped off your rocker.”

“Why would you say so? Can you look me in the eye and tell me I should go through with it? Can you look me in the eye and tell me it’s for the best?”

“How can my opinion signify? It would be a waste of breath. In the end, you’ll do as your father has commanded.”

“What if I didn’t?” she bravely retorted. “Mr. Shelton wants a virginal bride, and if I’m not one, he’ll refuse me.”

Her vehemence was intriguing and confounding. It was odd for her to be so adamant, to be plotting against her father and fiancé. While Ian didn’t want her to be afraid or to worry, when her spouse was to be Edward Shelton she was right to be apprehensive. Yet the debacle was none of his concern. He did not want to be involved in the situation, and he was irked that she’d sought him out to question.

“I’m not the one to advise you, Caro. This is between you and your father.”

“I realize that, but … but … maybe if you could show me?”

He was aghast. “Show you what?”

“How ruination occurs. You’re experienced, and I don’t detest you.”

“I’m so relieved to hear it.”

“You’re very good at kissing, too. That’s what I remember most about you.”

Uncomfortable with what she’d divulged, she shifted from foot to foot. Suddenly, she appeared very young, very shy, and against his will, he was so bloody sorry for her.

He, too, recollected every moment of their passionate embrace. It had been magnificent, it had been idiotic, and it had lasted entirely too long, so that, in the intervening months, he’d had too many details to mull. He couldn’t get over how perfectly she’d fit in his arms, how sweet she’d tasted, how marvelous it had felt to hold her.

For much of his adult life, he’d been bewitched by her. She’d been his forbidden fantasy, the ultimate and unattainable prize, and he’d loathed himself for his desperate attraction. Once, there’d have been nothing he’d have relished more than to be her savior, but the time when he’d have acted as her champion had passed.

He knew her well. Eventually, she’d come to grips with what her father had ordered. She would do her duty—to King and country and family—and she’d wed Edward Shelton.

In the interim, his fixation with her had scarcely waned. He liked her much more than was wise, and he wouldn’t risk dallying with her. It was a recipe for disaster.

“I can’t help you,” he said. He went to the door and hollered, “Jack! Jack, are you still here?”

He hoped that Rebecca was being her usual recalcitrant self, that she hadn’t left, and that Jack was in the house and pestering her to hurry. Shortly, he was proved right as Jack’s fleet strides pounded down the stairs.

“What is it?” he inquired.

“Would you see Lady Caroline home?”

Jack peered over at Caro and frowned. “I thought you wanted me to take—”

“This is more urgent.”

“I don’t wish to go,” Caro protested.

Jack was torn over who to heed.

“Take her,” Ian quietly insisted.

“Ian!” Caro beseeched. “Please don’t make me.”

He proceeded to the hall, pausing to gaze back at her. For once, he let his regard shine through. In the past, he’d been so meticulous about concealing it. He was anxious for her to depart with some inkling of how much he admired her, how much he imagined they’d have been grand together if status and circumstance hadn’t been quite so important.

Then he hid any fond sentiment, his typical mask of ennui and disdain sliding into place.

“Don’t ever return, Lady Caroline,” he said. “If you do, the staff will have instructions not to let you in.”

He spun and fled, climbing and climbing the stairs, until he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear as Jack escorted her out.