Chapter One

London, Winter, 1814...

I wish to speak with Mr. Ian Clayton." Lady Caroline Foster stared at the butler who'd answered the door. She tried to appear imposing, but intimidation was difficult. It had taken weeks to learn where Ian was living, and now that she'd arrived, she was terrified over what she'd set in motion. "And you are ... ?" the butler inquired. The question flummoxed her. In her rush to confer with Ian, she hadn't stopped to consider that an employee's initial order of business would be to ascertain her identity. She needed to be ruined—and in a hurry—when she wasn't even sure what the deed entailed. Ian was the only person she knew who might assist her, but their meeting had to be a secret, and she couldn't risk discovery.

She'd traveled in a rented carriage, had worn a hooded cloak to shield her striking blond hair, her big blue eyes, her perfect and easily recognized face. Servants were the worst gossips in the world. If she stated her name, within minutes the information would be bandied about in every house in London that mattered.

She pulled herself up to her full height of five foot six and repeated, "I wish to speak with Mr. Clayton. Is he available or isn't he?"

A man approached from down the hall and entered the dim foyer, but she couldn't see him clearly.

"Who is it, Riley?" he queried.

The butler gazed over his shoulder. "It's a visitor for Master Ian, sir."

"I'll handle this," the man said. "You may be about your duties."

He urged the butler aside and insolently leaned against the door frame.

At first glance, with his golden hair and too blue eyes, his tall stature and slim physique, he so resembled her prior fianc6, John Clayton, Viscount Wakefield, that she nearly fainted. Luckily, he wasn't John, but someone much younger who had the misfortune of looking very much like him.

In the six mortifying months since John had ended their lifelong betrothal and had humiliated her by swiftly wedding a pregnant commoner instead, Caroline had avoided him like the plague. If she'd run into him now, she'd have located a pistol and shot him right through the center of his black heart.

"Who are you?" she demanded in her most authoritative tone.

"Who are you?" he quipped like an annoying juvenile, even though he had to be every bit of twenty years.

"I've come to see Ian Clayton," she advised. "Either have the good manners to notify him that I am here, or be courteous enough to apprise me that he is out, and I shall return later."

With her father being the Earl of Derby, she'd been raised to be haughty and proud, to peer down her aristocratic nose at those she deemed inferior, and it was a hard habit to break. Typically, she hated to seem pompous, but with how her knees were shaking, she was glad for her ability to condescend.

By venturing to Ian's as she had, she was completely out of her element, so it was comforting to revert to form.

"Ian's here," he admitted with a casual shrug. When he made no move to go fetch him, she said, "Well... ?" "He's in bed."

"But it's two in the afternoon." "It certainly is."

She scowled. Ian was still abed? In the middle of the day?

As Ian was John's bastard half brother, she'd known him for over a decade, and throughout that period, he'd been excessively conscientious. What could have happened to alter him into a sloth?

"Is he ill?"

"Definitely not."

"Rouse him for me," she commanded.

"I imagine he's already mused," her mysterious host announced. "Up, too."

He was babbling in riddles that she was in no mood to decipher, and she pushed past him, barging in as if she owned the place. She proceeded to the stairs, acting as if she would brazenly climb them and find Ian.

She'd never previously visited a bachelor's abode, and couldn't quite articulate what had driven her to this one, so the prospect that she might was thrilling and ludicrous.

A hand on the banister, she whipped around. "Will you get him or shall I?"

"I'll get him," he offered after a lengthy pause. He evaluated her in an intense and unnerving way. "You must be Caroline Foster."

"Don't be ridiculous. I know Lady Caroline. She'd never behave so imprudently."

"Wouldn't she?"

"No. She's an absolute paragon of appropriate conduct. Ask anyone; they'll tell you what she's like."

He scoffed. "You don't have to pretend. It's evident who you are."

"I'm not Caroline Foster!" she tried to insist.

"Ian was extremely precise in describing what a rich snob you are. You couldn't possibly be anybody else. I wondered if you'd come sniffing around."

He'd leveled so many insults that she couldn't decide where to begin in chastising him. How dare he castigate her! How dare he criticize! He didn't even know her.

"What is your name?" she seethed.

"Jack Romsey. Jack Clayton Romsey."

"You're a Clayton brother?"

"Another illegitimate one, Lady Caroline."

He tossed out the word illegitimate as if it might cause her to swoon. "With your inflated attitude, I might have guessed."

"We're slithering out of the woodwork like mice on a cold winter's night. I'll get Ian for you."

"You do that."

"It might be a while before he receives you. Make yourself at home."

He sauntered off, leaving her to her own devices, and at suffering his disregard she was furious.

She'd been abandoned by him. No maid appeared; the butler had vanished. Of course, Ian was a bachelor, his wealth of dubious origins and not commensurate with her family's by any means, but still, she'd expected simple courtesy.

There was a parlor off to her right, and she strolled in, determined to do just as Mr. Romsey had suggested: She'd make herself at home. She and Ian had been acquainted forever, so it wasn't as if she'd invaded a stranger's residence, though he could scarcely be referred to as a friend, either.

They'd interacted merely because Ian had lived with John, but Ian being a poor relative, who'd emerged from nowhere and latched onto wealthy John like a leech on a thigh, she'd always considered his alliance with John to be suspect. On one despicable occasion, she'd stupidly voiced her opinion on the subject, so they'd never gotten on.

He went out of his way to bully her, and she detested him—as she did every man she knew—for his arrogance and patronizing. She'd spent all twenty-five years of her life letting men order her about, and she was sick to death of their superior posturing and asinine advice.

She dawdled, studying the furniture, the drapes, the paintings on the wall. She'd viewed Ian through his association with John, but for some reason, he and John had quarreled and were no longer close. Ian was away and on his own, and she was more intrigued than she should have been by how he was carrying on in his new situation.

There was liquor on a sideboard, and she boldly walked over and reached for a decanter of the whiskey that Ian's uncles brewed in Scotland. She filled a glass to the rim, and she sipped it, mesmerized by the sharp flavor.

She couldn't remember drinking liquor before—no male would have allowed it—so as a petty form of protest, she downed the entire amount. As the contents hit bottom, she felt much better. The imbibing of hard spirits was so sinful, and so out of character, that she resolved to make it a habit.

Fifteen minutes passed, then thirty. She poured another whiskey, the second one going down much easier than the first. She was overheated, the fur on her cloak stifling, but she didn't remove it. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips tingling, her body parts loose and limp.

The alcohol was awfully potent, reducing her inhibitions and circumspection. Her temper spiked. Why was Ian ignoring her? And what of Mr. Romsey? Had the infantile scapegrace even notified Ian that she'd arrived? He was probably sitting on the landing, snickering and watching to see how long she'd tarry.

Well, she'd show him! In the crush of recent weeks, any reticence or reserve she'd once possessed had fled. When she was about to be married off against her will, like a prized cow at auction, she wouldn't be coddled or sent away like an obedient schoolgirl.

She gulped a third serving of whiskey, deeming it the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted; then she started for the stairs. If Ian wouldn't come to her, she'd go to him.

She tromped up, listening and climbing, until she was rewarded with murmurs emanating from a room at the end of the hall. She presumed it to be the master suite, and she marched toward it, eager to strut in and demand Ian's attention, but as she neared, her confidence flagged.

She had no idea why she'd risk detection in such a precarious spot. If she'd been caught in his front parlor, she could have devised a suitable explanation, but she couldn't justify loitering outside his bedchamber.

The liquor had imbued her with courage, though not enough for shameless conduct, so shortly she was tiptoeing to the door. It was open a crack, and she peeked in, flustered to note that she was gazing directly at his bed.

He was awake and resting on the pillows, and while she knew she should sneak off, she couldn't pull herself away. He'd always fascinated her, and she hated to admit that neither time nor distance had quelled his allure.

With his black hair and blue eyes, his fabulous anatomy and assertive manner, he was just so blasted handsome. There was no denying it, and she was irked by how his looks tantalized her. Why couldn't she control herself around him? What was wrong with her that he had such an effect?

His hair had grown out, and it was held back in a rakish ponytail. He hadn't shaved, and his cheeks were shadowed with stubble, which gave him a dangerous air and exacerbated the rugged Scottish heritage he'd constantly striven to hide.

His untidy condition astonished her, yet she enjoyed this rumpled version much more than she had the polished, suave gentleman he'd been prior.

He wasn't wearing a shirt, and she couldn't quit staring at his bare chest. It was covered with a matting of hair, as dark as the hair on his head, and she suffered from the strangest urge to rush over and run her fingers through it. The quantity was thick across the top; then it thinned to a fine in the center and disappeared beneath the blankets to destinations unknown.

His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and as he stretched and yawned, she could observe the hair under his arms, the round pebbles of his nipples. She was agog, and her heart raced at the sight.

"What time is it?" he asked, and Caroline was shocked to hear a female voice answer.

"Almost three."

He was with a woman! Had he a lover? Was she his mistress?

Since his fight with John, and his subsequently removing himself from John's town house, there'd been so little news. If he'd taken a paramour, Caroline would have had no method of gleaning the information, yet amazingly, she was angered by the notion. As she rippled with what could only be jealousy, she wanted to laugh aloud.

Jealous? Over Ian? She didn't even like him. Why would she care if he was consorting with a strumpet?

Still, his dalliance put a damper on her bravado. She'd planned to storm in and request his assistance with her dilemma, but with a trollop lying next to him, she never could.

She'd decided to turn away when Ian spoke to his companion, and Caroline was frozen in place.

"You have to be home soon," he mentioned, his soothing baritone wafting across the room and tickling Caroline's innards.

"Yes, so I suppose we should make the most of the minutes we have remaining."

"I suppose we should."

The woman shifted so that she was draped across his torso. The upper half of her body was naked, the bottom half concealed by quilts, but Caroline suspected she was naked down below, as well.

As a sheltered spinster, who'd waited through her prime for John to proceed with their wedding, she had few clues as to what adult men and women did when they were alone.

Her stoic, straitlaced mother, Britannia, should have been the person to provide the necessary details, but she'd never divulged any specifics, and Caroline would have died before inquiring. She and her mother had never gotten along, and often Britannia was so unpleasant that Caroline wondered if her mother hated her.

Their conversations were stilted, awkward affairs, filled with chastisement and reprimand. As to the topic of amour, if Britannia alluded to it at all, it was to hint at beastly masculine drives that could only be satisfied by females of the lower classes, but the cryptic comments shed no light on the subject.

What—precisely—were the foul activities that men relished? Caroline was so anxious to know. When she and her mother were so different, Caroline was positive that if it was something Britannia abhorred, Caroline would probably like it very much.

She'd been kissed exactly once—by Ian—and she wasn't sorry. It had occurred at John's Wakefield estate. She'd been depressed about John's refusal to wed, and she'd been unable to sleep and wandering the halls. Ian had been doing the same.

Not only had he kissed her, but he'd touched her all over. Even now, these many months later, she still quivered with excitement whenever she recollected how splendid he'd made her feel. With the slightest encouragement, she'd jump at the chance to engage in a similar scandalous pursuit.

Over on the bed, his lover was on her knees and straddling his lap. She arched her back, the motion thrusting her bosom up and out, and Ian clasped her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples.

Caroline's own nipples responded, but she wasn't surprised. On that one, improvident occasion, Ian had caressed them, so she was aware of how sensitive the taut nubs could be. They throbbed in a rhythm with her pulse, rubbing her corset in a fashion that was disturbing. She was breathless with anticipation, as if Ian were massaging her instead of his partner.

He eased the woman forward and—stunning Caroline to her very core—he wrapped his lips around the rosy tip and suckled like a babe. The woman purred and cooed, savoring the indecent gesture.

Caroline was transfixed, the mysterious feminine spot between her legs growing relaxed and wet. In agony, she stuffed a knuckle in her mouth and bit down, stifling a groan of astonishment.

Oh, how would she ever look him in the eye now that she'd seen his lips on that... that... ?

She shook her head in disgust, once again eager to sneak away, when Mr. Romsey piped up from inside the room. He was watching them? They didn't care? How sordid! How peculiar!

"Are you finally awake?" he queried.

"Barely," Ian replied.

His lover chuckled in a sultry way and chimed in, "I can vouch for the fact that he's very, very awake."

She glided her hips across Ian's loins, and she leaned over, so that she was facing in Mr. Romsey's direction—and Caroline's, too—and Caroline instantly recognized her.

Rebecca Blake! The notorious, lethal Black Widow!

She was beautiful and young—only twenty—and she'd already buried three husbands. This shrew, this vulture, this ... this ... murderess was who Ian had chosen to slake his manly lusts?

Caroline was amazed that he was alive and possessed of sufficient vigor to misbehave.

But then, she uncharitably mused, he isn't married to her. She likes to kill after she's wed. Not before.

Mrs. Blake grinned toward Mr. Romsey, like the cat that had swallowed the canary. She braced an arm behind her neck, and ran a hand down her front, seeming to taunt him with what he couldn't have.

At the indiscreet pose, Ian scowled. "Don't tease the lad."

"But it's so entertaining," she pouted.

"It's all right," Mr. Romsey claimed. "She can preen all she wants. I'm not interested in what she has to offer."

"Liar," Mrs. Blake bristled.

"Ooh," Mr. Romsey mocked, "such a tiny woman, such an enormous temper."

She frowned, as if contemplating assault, but Ian grabbed her by the waist to keep her from lunging.

"Enough!" he scolded, and he pushed Mrs. Blake to the side and sat up, moaning and clutching his scalp. "I have the worst hangover in history. If I'm forced to listen to you two bickering, I'll have to go out in the alley and shoot myself."

"He started it," Mrs. Blake complained.

"Enough!" Ian repeated, shouting this time, which had him moaning even louder. "You two make me feel like I'm your nanny." He flopped onto the pillow and peered over at Romsey. "What do you want?"

"You have a visitor."

"Who?"

"I'm sure the lady in question would rather I not reveal her identify to your.. .friend."

"A lady!" Mrs. Blake interjected. "Who would dare call on you? Everyone ought to know better. Have you a secret paramour?"

"Are you serious? You constantly wear me out. How could I have the stamina for anyone else?"

"Good. If you were cheating on me, I'd have to kill you—which would be such a waste." She stroked Ian's chest, but he was irritated, and he shoved her hand away.

"Cease your games," Ian snapped at Mr. Romsey, "and just fucking tell me who it is."

Caroline was shocked by his rough language. She'd never previously heard the term, and was confused as to its definition, but she was certain it was an epithet. What had happened to him?

In the years she'd known him, he'd been restrained, cultured, and refined. Yet now, he was drinking to excess, consorting with dubious characters, and using profanity. He was so different that if he'd suddenly sprouted wings and flown away, she couldn't have been more surprised.

Mr. Romsey approached the bed, coming into Caroline's line of sight. He wasn't disturbed by the naked couple, and Caroline imagined he'd witnessed similar displays on numerous occasions. He bent down and whispered something—probably Caroline's name—in Ian's ear.

"The devil it is!" Ian mumbled. "You're positive?" "Yes," Romsey responded. "What does she want?" "She didn't say."

Ian lay very still, considering; then he snarled, 'Tell her to go away." "Tell her yourself."

"She's such a witch, and I'm in such a foul mood. I can't speak with her. I wouldn't be civil, and if I uttered a harsh word, she'd quake herself to pieces."

At discovering his terrible opinion, Caroline was crushed. She'd often been curious as to what he thought of her, and now she knew. Absurdly, tears flooded her eyes. She'd been taught to hide her emotions, to pretend to be what she wasn't. Men treated her as if she were stupid, as if she were frail and incapable of making a decision.

She wasn't a... a... witch, as he'd so callously charged. She'd been tutored in modesty, in reserve and protocol. As her stern, rigid mother had frequently counseled, she would endure misfortune and trauma in her life, but due to her elevated station, she would be expected to persevere, to lead and show those who depended on her how to forge on through any adversity.

When the situation called for it, she could be tough and tenacious, and she wouldn't be maligned for what she viewed as her strongest traits.

Rippling with anger, not concerned over who learned that she'd arrived, she togged off her hood, slapped open the door, and marched in.

The three occupants spun to look at her, gaping with varying amounts of incredulity and consternation.

"Caroline Foster?" Mrs. Blake sputtered. "Why, you little strumpet! Get out of here, or I'll make sure your father knows where you were."

"If you do," Caroline warned, "I'll have a chat with your brother-in-law."

Mrs. Blake was at the beginning of legal proceedings with her latest dead husband's family. They planned to discredit her elderly husband's Last Will so that she didn't inherit a penny.

If her brother-in-law was informed of scandalous conduct by Mrs. Blake, it would add fuel to a very public and vicious feud.

"You despicable wench!" Mrs. Blake hurled. "I ought to scratch your—"

"I told you to wait in the foyer," Mr. Romsey calmly interrupted, as Ian pinned Mrs. Blake to the mattress.

"It's been half an hour," Caroline remarked, advancing on the bed, "and I'm weary of your discourtesy."

Her gaze locked with Ian's, and dozens of scattered and unusual sentiments coursed through her. She was disgusted by his indolence, by his apathy for the things that had previously mattered to him, but she was also delighted, her whole being ecstatic that she was with him again.

She hadn't seen him since their kiss at John's estate. John had severed his engagement to her, so they'd all been fighting, and she'd left without so much as a polite farewell.

She regretted that hideous day, had pondered and ruminated over every wonderful, dreadful moment. Had Ian ever reflected on it, himself? Had he ever lamented over how they'd parted?

"Hello, Caro." His eyes were cold and hard, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Hello, Ian."

"You shouldn't have come. Your father would be upset if he knew."

If one more person mentioned her father, if one more person castigated her for taking a breath without his exalted permission, she might start screaming and never stop.

"I don't care what my father would think."

"Yes, you do," he chided as if she were a child. "Let me assemble myself, and I'll have a servant take you home."

He was treating her as John always had, as her father and brother always had, as if she were a fragile ninny who was too timid to take a single step without some man first advising her of which direction to go.

A pox on all of them!

A veritable ball of umbrage, she guessed she should be more like Mrs. Blake, ready to lash out physically at the slightest provocation. Perhaps if she threw a few fists and bloodied a few noses, she'd garner some of the respect she so desperately craved.

"I'm not leaving until I speak with you," she threatened, "so I'll meet you in your library in fifteen minutes."

She whirled away and stomped to the door, but at the last second, she glared over at Ian. "Don't make me come back up here, or I guarantee you'll be sorry."

She exited, their mouths flapping like fish tossed on a riverbank. Prepared for anything, she walked to the stairs and headed down.

 

 

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 naiveté, 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.

 

 

Chapter Three

Hello, Ian." Caroline was lounged in the shadows of his bedchamber, mostly concealed from view, and as he jumped a foot, she bit down a grin. Four days had passed since their prior encounter, and obviously, he hadn't expected her to return. She was delighted to have surprised him—again.

"For pity's sake," he snapped, "who let you in?" "None of your servants was about, so I admitted myself."

"It's the middle of the night! You can't be in here." "I already am."

She rose and sauntered toward him. She'd been waiting an eternity for him to arrive, and she wondered where he'd been. At the theater? Out gambling and carousing? Philandering with loose women?

He was dressed for an evening on the town, and in his fancy suit, with his black hair swept off his head, he was so handsome, so masculine. At being near to him and having him all to herself, her heart fluttered with excitement.

He was perplexed by her advance, and the stunned expression on his face was priceless. He had no idea what to make of her brash conduct, and she was struggling to figure it out, herself.

What had possessed her to sneak out of her father's house? What had driven her to Ian's, where she'd prowled about like a thief?

She had no explanation.

"Is your mistress with you?"

At her audacious mentioning of his paramour, he sputtered with shock. "Do you ... do you ... mean Mrs. Blake?"

"Have you another besides her?"

"No."

"She won't be stopping by, will she?" "No," he repeated.

"Good. I'd hate to have her interrupt."

She reached for the clasp on her cloak, unhooked it, and the heavy garment slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor. She stood before him in corset and drawers, in stockings and heeled shoes, and naught else.

The decision to wear the scanty outfit had come about after she'd eavesdropped on a maid who'd been giggling over how she'd espied a similar circumstance in another noblewoman's boudoir. Caroline had never heard of such scandalous behavior, but had been electrified by the information.

After her previous visit, when Ian had sent her home, she'd been furious. She was sick of men telling her what to do, and she'd determined that, in the future, whatever advice a male gave to her, she would do exactly the opposite. She intended to be as recalcitrant and stubborn as possible.

She'd boldly entered his residence, and she would use every trick imaginable to entice him into letting her stay.

On seeing what she'd revealed, he gasped. "Have you gone stark-raving mad?" "Perhaps."

"You've shed your clothes!"

"Yes, I have."

"And your hair is down!"

"It's very beautiful, too, don't you think?"

"No, I don't think. What's come over you?"

She took a step, then another, until she was directly in front of him. In the space separating them, sparks erupted, and she was thrilled by the sensation. Maybe she wasn't dead, after all.

"I have a secret to share with you," she said.

"What could you have to say that would interest me in the least?"

"John dumped me over like so much rubbish."

"I know. I was there, remember?"

"He was too busy cavorting with his mistresses to marry me, when we'd been betrothed for decades. Yet in a thrice, he married somebody he'd only recently met."

"His wife, Miss Fitzgerald, is actually quite—" "Shut up, Ian." "What's your point, Caro?" "Have you any notion of what these last few months have been like for me?"

"I heard some awful rumors."

"People call me an ice maiden. They titter that I'm a cold fish, that a man who had me in his bed would freeze to death."

"I'm sorry," he murmured, seeming sincere.

"Because of it, my exalted father is planning to wed me to an aged, faltering acquaintance."

"I'm sorry about that, too."

"I feel used up and past my prime. The sole husband available to me is old enough to be my grandfather." She grabbed his lapels and pulled him to her, their torsos melded all the way down. "Can you even begin to guess how angry I am?"

"No, I can't."

"You're the only man who ever evinced the slightest awareness of me as a woman."

"I assure you that it was a moment of temporary insanity."

"Wash?"

"Absolutely."

"And now, when I've come to you, begging for help, you can't be bothered."

"I'm not the person to assist you, Caro."

"You're wrong. Just about now, you're precisely who and what I need."

"I'm not!" he insisted. "I have no idea why you'd presume to impose on me."

"Don't you? I'm not cold, Ian. I'm very, very hot. Once upon a time, you understood that fact, and I've decided you should be reminded of it."

While she'd always considered herself to be tall, he was so much taller, and she had to rise up on tiptoe. She seized his shirt and pressed her lips to his.

He was the only man she'd ever kissed, so she hadn't had much practice and wasn't very adept, but he was. In his long and iniquitous life, he'd had plenty of experience in the art of wooing, yet he was still as a statue and refusing to participate. She felt as if she were clutching a piece of wood.

Not even her shocking attire could move him. Perhaps he was the one made of stone—and not her.

"Kiss me back, Ian."

"No."

"I know you want to."

"I don't. I really, really don't."

He stared at her, aloof and firm in his resolve to resist, and the more adamant he appeared, the more determined she became. If it killed her, she would drag a reaction out of him!

She took his hand and placed it on her breast, and the stimulation was so intense that she was surprised her knees didn't buckle. The effect was potent for him, as well.

Whatever restrictions had held him in check, whatever wall he'd erected to keep her at bay, it came tumbling down.

He picked her up and carried her to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress. Then he tumbled down atop her, his body stretched out the length of hers.

She'd never lain with a lover, so she hadn't known how it would be, and she was ecstatic to discover that she enjoyed it very much. He was crushing her in a way that should have been suffocating, but he didn't seem heavy. He felt extremely welcome, and suddenly she was contemplating all sorts of conduct that she had no business contemplating.

"You are playing with fire, Caro," he claimed.

"Fire, hah!" she taunted. "I exposed myself to you unclad, yet you're completely indifferent. You're naught but a hearth of burnt ashes." "Am I?"

"Yes, and after my ordeal with John, I'm tired of throwing myself at men who don't want me. Perhaps I should seek my ruination elsewhere. There must be a male somewhere in this accursed city who'd be glad to have me."

"You'd seek another man's bed? You are out of your bloody mind."

He dipped down and kissed her, finally giving her the attention she'd yearned to receive. With a groan of pleasure, he molded his lips to her own, and she shut her eyes and reveled.

This ... this ... was what she'd been seeking, what she'd craved. This frantic rush of need and hunger was a balm to her weary soul. She didn't want to think or fret. For a short while, she simply wanted to be.

He was touching her everywhere, riffling through her hair, down her shoulders and arms. She joined in the fray, exploring as she'd always longed to do. She hadn't realized that a man's anatomy could be so perfect, and merely from caressing him she was growing agitated. There was tension building inside her, tension she didn't comprehend and didn't know how to assuage.

His crafty fingers went to her breasts, and he massaged them, the sensation so delightful that she squirmed and writhed in agony. He clasped the nipples, applying pressure so that her skirmishing increased.

His torso was wedged between her thighs, and instinctively, she flexed against him, her hips working in a rhythm that he instantly matched. His loins were connected to hers, only the fabric of her drawers and his trousers separating them, and she could feel the hard ridge at his center, about which her married acquaintances occasionally whispered.

She hadn't unraveled its purpose, but she was dying to learn more about the naughty rod. How was it used? Why was it necessary?

She hadn't a clue, but she recognized it to be an indication of heightened ardor, so despite how he might snap and bark, he still fancied her.

"You've missed me," she charged.

"I haven't."

"You desire me; I can feel that you do." "You're mad." "Quit pretending." "I'm not."

She tried to reach down and touch what she was so curious to investigate, but he grasped her hand, preventing any examination.

"Let me!" she protested.

"No."

He captured her wrists and trapped them over her head. The restrictive position was thrilling, and it placed numerous sensitive spots into closer contact with his masculine parts.

He slid to the side, his thigh draped across her crotch and holding her down. Without her being aware, he'd loosed her corset, and he slipped under the edge, his palm covering her bosom, bare skin to bare skin.

She gasped and arched up, wrestling to get away, but to move nearer, too.

He shoved at the frilly lace, and her breast popped free of constraint. Grinning, he was insolent and smug, as if this was what he'd planned all along.

"My, my, Caro," he murmured, "how pretty you are."

His thumb was twirling her nipple, making it ache, making it throb.

"Ian!" She was begging for something, but not for him to desist!

"Is this what you wanted? Is this what you came for? I'm about to give you what you've obviously been needing."

He bent down and took her nipple in his mouth, and he sucked on it as a babe would its mother, though with none of the tender ministration. He was rough and demanding, his teeth nipping at it till she was a thrashing ball of misery.

He rooted to the other, and soon he was shifting back and forth between the two. As he kept on, his hand slithered down her stomach, her abdomen. He fiddled with the string on her drawers, then crept inside, continuing on to her womanly hair and lower.

He spread her nether lips, his fingers gliding into her privates. They seemed to fit just right, to scratch an itch she hadn't known she was suffering. He stroked in and out, the tempo so mesmerizing that her sheath wept with joy at the fondling.

She was embarrassed and tried to press her legs together, tried to dislodge him, but he wouldn't budge.

"You are so ready," he muttered.

"For what?"

"For me, darling. For me." "What are you doing? I feel as if I might explode." "You just might," he said, worrying her as to what was approaching.

"Oh ... oh..." she panted. "Stop! Please!"

"No."

"I can't... I can't..." "Almost there."

"Where?" she anxiously questioned. "Where are we?"

His thumb flicked out, jabbing at a spot she'd never noted before. He poked at it again and again, as he suckled her nipple with all his might.

She splintered, her anatomy seeming to careen off in all directions. She was flying through the universe, blinded by ecstasy, as if pitched toward a precipice she couldn't locate.

Ultimately, she reached it, and she cried out, then began the journey down, floating forever in a sea of bliss and lassitude that totally engulfed her. She'd been paralyzed, her limbs were rubbery, and she was relieved to be lying down. If she'd been standing, she'd have collapsed in a stunned heap.

She landed, safe and secure in his arms. While she'd had her world shattered, her entire being ripped asunder and rearranged, he appeared relaxed and even a tad bored. How could she have been utterly undone, and he not fazed?

At having reduced her to such a pathetic state, he oozed with male arrogance.

"Are you feeling better?" he queried.

"As a matter of fact, I am."

She was far beyond the day when she'd grovel or shy away.

"What were you hoping to accomplish by coming here?"

"Precisely this, I suppose."

"You suppose? Didn't you know?"

"I'm a spinster, for pity's sake. How could I guess what would transpire?"

He flopped onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. With their ardor cooling, she was chilled, and she scooted nearer, seeking his body's warmth.

Her life was so sterile, her encounters with men so stilted and formal that she'd never imagined the sort of intimacy they'd just shared. She wanted more of it; she wanted all he had to give. She was tired of being unloved and unwanted, and she was certain that if she wed grumpy, elderly Edward, she'd be more isolated than ever.

"What should I do with you, Caro?" he inquired.

"Am I still a virgin?"

He sighed. "Yes, you are."

"How would I know if you ..."

"There's a bit more to it."

"What occurs?"

He sighed again. "May I take you home now? Or is your carriage parked out behind the house?"

He would send her home? Now? After what they'd done? How could he?

Her spirits flagged.

She felt as if he'd opened a door to a secret room she hadn't known to exist. She wished there were a mirror next to the bed. She was positive—that if she stared into one—she'd look different, yet he was exactly the same. How could he be so impervious?

"Do you really want me to go?" she shamed herself by asking.

"No, but what good would it do to have you remain?"

"We could spend a few hours together."

"We don't even like each other. What would be the point?"

He turned onto his side and scrutinized her. His face was an expressionless mask, and she peered into his blue, blue eyes, trying to read his mind.

"We could grow to like each other."

He scoffed. "I doubt it. We've had twelve years. It hasn't happened yet."

"I was engaged to your brother the whole time!"

"Yes, you were." He toyed with a lock of her hair. "Why are you really here, Caro? Tell me."

"I don't know."

'Then lie to me. Make something up."

She struggled with what to say, how to explain, but the words wouldn't come. For a fleeting instant, many months prior, he'd seemed to understand her, had been the only person who ever had.

"I'm so lonely," she eventually replied, humiliated by a flood of tears. "I'm so lonely, and I'm so alone, and I—"

As if he couldn't bear to hear the rest, he kissed her.

His mouth bit into hers, as his fingers wound through her hair. He fought with the strands as if he might yank them from her head. He was angry—either with himself or with her, she couldn't decide.

Finally, as if he'd figured out what he needed, or had reached the end of the road, he gentled and drew away.

"I don't want you to leave," he admitted. "I want you to stay. I want you to stay for as long as you can." "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm very sure." "I can tarry till dawn." "I'd like that."

"So would I."

He rolled over and pulled her with him so that she was draped across his torso. He grabbed for the laces on her corset, and they began again.

 

 

Chapter Four

Do you ever think about our brother?"

"Which one?"

"Which one do you think?" Jack said. "The

exalted Viscount Wakefield."

"Sometimes," Ian admitted.

"Will I ever get to meet him?"

"Why would you want to?"

"Just curious. I'm told I resemble him."

"You're an exact copy—though you've managed to control your baser impulses as Wakefield never could."

Jack smiled, glad his history was obscure. Ian had minimal clues about how Jack had survived his youth, but only those tidbits Jack had felt like sharing.

"Wakefield was a scapegrace?"

"And a cad. And a sluggard, but he thrived on his low reputation. He enjoyed aggravating people, and he misbehaved on purpose. It drove our father to distraction."

"Would Wakefield like me?"

Jack hated the plaintive tone underlying his question. He'd never had a family, so he was desperately pleased that he was with Ian. Ian had offered him shelter from the rough streets of London, but Jack couldn't move beyond his wish to become acquainted with his other brother.

The notion of having another sibling, of his being nearby and easily encountered, disturbed Jack's usually placid demeanor. He wanted to look Wakefield in the eye, to take his measure. He wanted Wakefield to know he existed.

"Why would Wakefield like you?" Ian asked, trying to appear stern but failing. "You're a pain in the ass."

"You're too kind."

"Aren't I, though?"

Ian was over by the fire, brooding and staring into the flames, and Jack watched him, wondering what had happened. The past few days, he'd seemed bothered, quieter and more pensive, as if he was weighed down by a heavy burden.

They were brothers, but hardly more than strangers. As Ian occupied himself with women, drink, and wagering, they stumbled along, with Jack doing his best to provide friendship and counsel on the lighter issues of life. But he wouldn't dream of giving advice on an important problem, nor was he certain advice would be appreciated.

Suddenly, Ian spun and started for the door. "I'm going out."

"Now? But it's almost midnight, and it's raining cats and dogs."

"I just need to ... to..."

"You don't have to explain. If you want to go, go." "Rebecca is here. She's upstairs, having a bath. She's waiting for me to join her." "You don't care to?"

"I guess I don't."

The news was odd. Rebecca was a great beauty, and even though she was a crazed witch, Jack couldn't conceive of any man shunning the chance to bed her.

He let out a low whistle. "If you leave, she won't be happy."

"I don't imagine so."

Ian was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be away, and Jack waved him toward the hall. "Just go. I'll deal with her."

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"She can be a handful."

"She's a wee mite. I'm not afraid of her. I'll see her home—if I have to bind and gag her to get her there." Ian chuckled, his expression relieved. "Thank you." "You're welcome." "I owe you one."

He rushed out, as Jack murmured, "Your debt has already been paid a hundred times over."

Dawdling, he contemplated Rebecca. She'd be nude, hot and slippery all over, and at the realization, his cock stirred, which made him grin. She was Ian's mistress, and he wasn't such an ungrateful wretch that he'd take what Ian considered his own, yet he often caught himself lusting after her.

What healthy male wouldn't? She was sin incarnate, a walking, talking erotic fantasy. Frequently, he viewed her naked and doing all sorts of things she oughtn't, and he always tried to act nonchalant, as if he wasn't affected, but it was difficult to pretend indifference.

With that mouth and those eyes, she should have been locked up in a distant convent or prison, where sane, normal men wouldn't have to gaze upon her and be bewitched by lechery.

He went to the stairs and climbed, more eager than he should have been for the pending fracas. He loathed her—for her avarice, for her vanity, for her loose morals—but he garnered an enormous thrill from their sparring. She was a vixen and she-devil, wrapped in a pretty package, and there was nothing quite so entertaining as goading her into a temper.

He entered Ian's bedchamber and proceeded to the dressing room, pushing the door open and marching in. Her back to him, she was reclined in the tub. Her knees were spread wide, and she was sipping on a glass of Ian's whiskey and smoking one of his cheroots. Her lush red hair dangled over the rim and hung to the floor.

Expecting Ian, she glanced over her shoulder, a sultry smile on her ruby lips, but when she saw him, her mood instantly soured.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?"

"No."

"Were you raised in a cave?"

"I've heard it said that I was."

"I'm not surprised." She spun around, ignoring him. "Get out of here. I'm enjoying myself, and I won't have you pestering me."

Infuriating her to no end, he approached and sat on the edge of the tab. He could see into the water, and he struggled not to gape at her perfect breasts, her tantalizing nipples. He snatched the cigar and snuffed it out; then he took her whiskey and downed the remaining contents.

"You rat!" she protested. "Give me that." "You're finished."

"I am not."

"You are. Ian's gone out." "What?" "He's gone out." 'To where?"

"I haven't the vaguest idea. He asked me to take you home."

"But... but... I just arrived." "And now you're leaving." "I don't wish to go." "It's not up to you."

"You may have imposed on Ian's affluence and good graces, but this is not your bloody house."

"It's not yours either, princess."

"I don't have to listen to you. You managed to fool him with your false claims of a common paternity, but I'm not so easily duped. He's such a smart fellow. How did you convince him you were brothers?"

"I cast a spell on him. When I was younger, I traveled with a caravan of gypsies, and they showed me how, so be careful, or I'll cast one on you, too."

She frowned and studied him, clearly wondering if a hex was imminent, and he liked that he could keep her off balance.

He wasn't ashamed of his antecedents, but he wouldn't defend them to people who could never understand. His sudden appearance as Ian's brother had fomented tons of gossip, but he never discussed his history or answered the charges that were slyly voiced.

He had to give her credit: She had the courage to level her accusations to his face, rather than behind his back as most were wont to do.

His mother had been a gentleman's daughter, tossed out by her parents after the notorious aristocrat Douglas

Clayton had impregnated her. Jack had indistinct memories of her, but while she'd lived, their life had been one trial after the next, and he recollected it as a period when he was always hungry and cold.

After her death, on a sodden, wintry street in York, he'd been a boy all alone, and he'd gotten by as best he could. He actually had traveled with gypsies, with a circus, with a troupe of theatrical players.

Through it all, he'd kept a letter from his father to his mother, as well as a stained baptismal certificate. On a blustery autumn day, as he'd loitered on a London corner, he'd been weary and starving and questioning the reasons he continued on. He'd made a few inquiries, had learned Ian's address, and had knocked on his door.

His brother had read the two tattered documents, then had welcomed him to stay for as long as he liked. It had been as easy as that, but he wouldn't explain as much to Rebecca Blake.

Her world was one of wealth and privilege. She'd never missed a meal or huddled in an empty stairwell to get out of the rain. She'd wed and buried three rich husbands, and each of them had left her money, yet she constantly mentioned that she was broke, when she had no notion of what true poverty entailed.

Her last spouse's family had proposed a settlement, which she'd refused, demanding much more, and it was obvious she was wrangling to have Ian as her fourth husband so that she could latch onto his fortune, too, which seemed so silly.

She had more than enough, yet she was never satisfied.

"Let's get you going," he said.

He reached down and pulled her up, but the tub was slippery, and she toppled to the side. There was nothing he could do but catch her. She landed in his arms, every damp, shapely inch of her sprawled across him in a provocative way. Her bare bosom was crushed to his chest, her lips a hairsbreadth from his own, and for a stunned moment, they froze, then a wave of madness swept over him, and he kissed her.

He didn't ponder Ian, or her relationship with him, didn't consider her prior dead husbands, or what he viewed as her greedy behavior. He simply forged on.

She was hot and wet, and she smelled so good, and he dragged her across his lap. His cock swelled to an enormous size, and he grew so aroused that he worried he might spill himself in his trousers.

The placard of his pants was all that separated him from paradise and, pushed beyond his limit, he flexed into her. He wrestled to get nearer, as she was doing the same. She hissed and bit, clawed and rasped, offering him her breast, and he seized it in a frenzy.

When she was urging him to feast, how could he fail to oblige her?

He cupped her between her legs, and he felt as if he'd been jolted by lightning. Frantically, he ripped at the buttons on his pants, yanked his phallus free, and impaled himself in her sheath. He thrust once, again, again, and he came in a torrid rush, but the ecstasy quickly waned.

He pressed his forehead to her nape and struggled to calm his breathing. Sanity returned, and reality sank in for both of them.

"Oh, my God!" she muttered. "What have I done?"

She leapt away and stood before him, a naked, quivering ball of wrath.

He stood, too, so that they were eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe. He wanted her again, already. "I'm not sorry," he said. "I am!"

"I didn't hear you complaining while it was happening."

"Then you weren't listening very closely. Ian will kill me." "Probably."

"Don't you dare tell him! If you do, I'll kill you!"

He laughed. "I'm shaking in my boots."

"You tricked me! You seduced me against my will!"

"Liar."

He shoved her to the wall, and he leaned in and sucked on her nipple as he fingered her down below. His thumb found her clit, and he touched it once, twice, three times, and she came to high heaven, screaming with bliss, her knees buckling so that he had to hold her up lest she fall to the floor in a heap.

He smirked. She was so damned sexy, and he was so titillated. They were like two combustibles stored in the same shed. The smallest spark had ignited a maelstrom.

"You're laughing at me!" she correctly charged.

"I can't help it. You're easy and loose, and apparently, I'm no better. We're quite a pair."

"Speak for yourself."

She stormed out, and he tarried in the quiet, and as reason reasserted itself, he was aghast.

He'd betrayed his brother, had jeopardized the only stability he'd ever known, merely to climb between the thighs of a tempestuous vixen he could hardly abide. What had he been thinking? How could she—how could any woman—be worth so much?

He plopped into a chair, his chin in his hands, wondering how he'd ever make it right.

You will go downstairs—immediately!—and you will be your usual, charming self throughout the entire meal. Am I making myself clear?" Britannia Foster, Countess of Derby, glared at her recalcitrant daughter.

"My headache is unbearable," Caroline claimed. "So? Why would a little discomfort keep you from your duties?"

"I don't feel like socializing." "How can it signify? Mr. Shelton will be here any second. You must be in place to greet him, as is proper and expected."

"No one will notice if I'm not there." '7 shall notice," Britannia said. "You've caused sufficient scandal, and I won't stand for your instigating more."

"How have I caused scandal?" Caroline demanded. "I did everything you asked. I waited and waited for John to marry me, yet he cried off. How can his decision be my fault?"

"If you'd enticed him—as any well-bred girl could have accomplished—you'd have been wed long ago." She pulled herself up to her full height, her portly form hovering over Caroline where she huddled on the bed like a sick, whiny child. "You must face the facts: You have no feminine attributes for a man to enjoy. By deigning to wed you, when you are damaged goods, Mr. Shelton has thrown you a lifeline. If you are to have any kind of future, you must seize the chance he's so graciously provided."

"Must I?" Caroline snidely inquired.

"Yes, you must."

From the moment her husband, Bernard, had announced the match, Caroline had been unruly. With each passing day, she grew more intractable, which was so out of character. She'd always been so obedient and submissive.

Britannia was so anxious for the nuptials to occur that it was difficult to conceal her glee over Caroline's fate. When Wakefield had finally spurned Caroline, Britannia had been elated. She'd grabbed the opportunity to have her greatest wish come true.

Revenge against Edward Shelton had driven her for decades. It fueled her crazed ambitions for Caroline— the child she'd conceived in shame, the child she loathed—and fed a secret yearning that was so extreme it bordered on madness.

A few whispered comments to Bernard had sent him racing to Edward with a proposal. Now, with Britannia's scheme so close to fruition, she wouldn't be denied simply because Caroline didn't like Edward.

No woman of their station was ever allowed to wed for love—herself being the prime example of how dreams could be dashed—and she would have her way. She always did. Caroline would be Edward's wife, no matter what. Edward would pay the price Britannia was determined to extract.

"You're trying my patience," she snapped. "Get up, calm yourself, and get down to the parlor. You will join us—in ten minutes. If you don't arrive, I shall return and take a switch to you. Perhaps if I beat some sense into you, you'll remember your obligations to your family."

She stomped off, barely able to keep from striking out More and more, she felt out of control with rage, her temper bubbling so vehemently just beneath the surface that she could scarcely function.

At age fifty-five, she was a frumpy matron who hadn't aged well, who was trapped in a marriage she abhorred. She was obese and homely. Her jowls sagged, her eyes were beady, her lips taut with disapproval of everyone and everything.

She'd never been beautiful, had never had the allure or polish that other debutantes had so effortlessly exhibited. She, herself, had been a spinster, waiting for her cousin, Bernard, to settle down and tie the knot, a feat which he hadn't chosen to effect until he was thirty and she twenty-five.

Her spouse had been selected for her, and she'd had no say in who it would be, so she had done her duty. But as she'd suspected, her decades with him had been a trial of endurance.

She hated him and the two children she'd spawned. Her eldest, son Adam, was heir to the exalted Derby line, but a spoiled, stupid oaf. Her youngest, daughter Caroline, was ungrateful and brainless, suitable as fodder for the marriage market and naught else. The two offspring had ruined her life and represented her failure to find happiness, and she yearned to wreck then-lives as they had wrecked hers.

She tramped down the stairs, and as she reached the foyer, she steeled herself for her pending encounter with Edward. Due to her responsibilities as hostess, she'd welcome him politely, yet during the interminable evening she'd be roiling with animosity.

She detested him and Bernard, but she was so adept at hiding her actual sentiments that they never noted the severe level of her dislike.

Breathing deeply, she was ready to enter, to entertain, when she espied Bernard, dressed in coat and hat, and about to sneak out without her being aware that he'd left. Her fury flared.

"Bernard!" she sharply summoned. "What do you think you're doing?"

He whipped around, irked at having been caught.

"What is it, Britannia?" He sighed, acting the part of the downtrodden husband that he played so skillfully.

She huffed over, sorry that she wasn't holding a pistol, that she hadn't murdered him years earlier. "We have guests coming for supper."

"No, you have guests coming for supper. I've told you to stop including me in your frivolous soirees."

"Edward will be here!" she fumed. "You know how obstinate Caroline is being. We must present a united front, so that she understands she has to follow through."

"Caroline will do as I've bid her. She wouldn't dare defy me. Now if you'll excuse me—"

"I don't excuse you."

"Well, that's too bad, for I have no intention of tarrying. Good night."

"Where will you be?" she challenged, weary of pretending to be the blind, contented wife.

"I'm off to Georgette's," he boldly replied. "Where would you suppose?"

"Don't use that harlot's name in this house."

"You asked; I answered. If you don't want the truth, don't press."

"You shall not go!" she hissed. "I will not tolerate it! I will not be humiliated with Edward about to arrive."

"I love her," he ridiculously, tediously claimed, "and I plan to marry her. You have to accept the inevitable. This farce of a marriage is over—as it should have been long ago."

"You're mad. I've spoken with an attorney. There is not a church or court or peer or king who would grant you a divorce from me."

"We'll see," he enigmatically mused as if he had something up his lying, deceitful sleeve.

He marched out, abandoning her in the hall as if she were a servant. She watched him go, yearning to chase after him, to yank him inside, but she didn't. Short of tying him to a chair, she couldn't make him stay.

He was still a handsome man, with a full head of hair and tall, slender body. Women lusted after him, and he returned their affection. She couldn't tabulate how many affairs he'd had, but they'd all been fleeting. Until now. Until Georgette.

He might believe that he would run off with the little hussy. He might assume Britannia would stand by and be shamed to infinity, but he was dead wrong.

She would kill his precious Georgette; then she'd kill him. And she wouldn't bat an eye.

Her expression grim, she proceeded to the parlor, braced to brazen it out before her guests.

 

Hello, Edward." "Hello, Brit," Edward said, using the nickname she hated. It was a petty slight, meant to remind her that he knew her well and she had no secrets. "How have you been?"

"Fine," she retorted, which was a huge fib. She was the most miserable person he'd ever met.

"I missed Bernard at supper."

"He was called out at the last minute. On important business."

They both recognized the statement to be false. Bernard was a carousing roue, yet he and Britannia strutted around as if they were the epitome of a happily married couple. She was such a contemptible hypocrite, and all of London tittered about her behind her back.

At having voiced the lie, her lips were pursed like a prune, and he could barely stifle his distaste. She was such an unlikable woman, and he abhorred that his pending nuptials forced him to fraternize. Once the ceremony was concluded, and there was no further need to feign familial harmony, he'd make it a point never to see her again.

Poor Bernard! The pitiable fellow would never be shed of her, and Edward was so glad that Bernard had ended up with her rather than himself. When they'd all been younger, it had been amusing to toy with her, to fake devotion and act as if he might steal her from Bernard, but Edward never would have. She was simply too unpleasant for words, and over the intervening decades, nothing had occurred to change that fact.

Across the room, Caroline slipped out onto the verandah, and he remarked, "Caroline seems out of sorts."

"Of course she does. She despises you." Sarcastically, she added, "Can you imagine that?"

"Bernard and I have decided on the union. Her opinion is irrelevant."

"Yes, it is."

Her tepid assurance didn't calm his anxiety. While

Caroline had previously been the most docile of females, she'd recently grown surly and curt. Edward had no idea what was eating at her, but he wouldn't brook any feminine hysterics, nor would he permit her to refuse him.

From the day she'd been born, he'd plotted as to how he could wed her, and he'd impatiently waited until she was twelve to first approach Bernard. He'd said no, insisting he would honor the betrothal to Wakefield. After Wakefield had tossed her over, Bernard had come crawling back. He'd begged Edward to save her from disgrace, and Edward had smugly consented.

He preferred young, pure girls, and with sixty years of living he'd wed and survived five child-brides. None of them had been more than fourteen at the time of the ceremony, so Caroline was much older than he'd typically have selected. Yet, he delighted in the realization that he'd finally gotten what he wanted, that she hadn't been able to escape him.

Despite her advanced age, he would have an enormous amount of fun teaching her her marital obligations, and he was eager to start.

Still, she'd been behaving so erratically, had even dared a few caustic comments as they'd chatted before supper. With her being so much more mature than most brides, it was conceivable that a modern notion had lodged in her flighty head and she supposed she didn't have to obey her father. The prospect had Edward unsettled.

"I presume you've told her," he tentatively broached, "that she has no choice in the matter?"

"Don't worry. I shan't allow her to embarrass us more than she has."

"I didn't think you would."

"If I have to drag her to the altar, you'll have her in the end. You may count on it." Her smile was almost eerie in its resolve.

"You're awfully determined."

"Yes, I am."

"Are you jealous? Is that why you're pushing so hard for the match?"

"Jealous! Of... of... Caroline?"

"Doesn't it bother you that I'm going to have her, when I wouldn't have you all those years ago?"

"Don't be ridiculous. It's ancient history. I never reflect on it."

"Don't you?"

"No, I was too foolish to know any better. It was a passing fancy." "Really?"

He chuckled, aware that levity would infuriate her.

She'd been Bernard's impetuous, wretched wife, who'd been desperate to be rescued from a marriage she'd dreaded. Edward could easily have stolen her away, but he hadn't been serious. Even back then, she'd been a fat, obnoxious harpy.

"Don't he, Brit. If you had to do it all over again, you'd run off with me in a heartbeat."

"You flatter yourself, Edward."

"Do I?"

"You're the most inflated, vainglorious man. I never could abide you."

At the insult, he felt free to hurl one of his own. "I wonder if Caroline will be interesting in bed, or if she'll take after her mother. You always were cold as snow under the blankets."

While there was no love lost between them, it was a horrid remark, even by his low standards.

She gasped and strangely contended, "I'll have my revenge. You'll see."

"What revenge?" he scoffed. "About what are you babbling?"

"Beware, Edward. Beware! Your sins are about to come home to roost."

There was a bizarre gleam in her eye, and for the briefest moment, she appeared quite mad. Then the peculiar interlude concluded, and she stomped off.

He watched her go, and he actually shuddered, an icy shiver slithering down his spine, as if he'd been cursed.

Unnerved, he laughed off the odd episode and went in the other direction. It was time to speak with his fiancée, time to remind her that he was in the room and expecting her to attend him.

He walked to the verandah, hoping he would catch her strolling in the dark. Caroline needed a taste of masculine passion, and he was just the man to provide it

 

Chapter Five

Would you pass the tea?" "But of course. Would you like a biscuit?"

"That would be marvelous. You're too kind."

Ian scowled back and forth at Jack and Rebecca. He'd been in the dining room with them for twenty minutes, and neither had uttered a harsh word. They were being disgustingly solicitous, and there had been so many polite exchanges that he wanted to gag. What on earth had come over them?

He was too hungover to figure it out, and he couldn't abide having to observe as his brother and mistress behaved like imbeciles. As he'd drunk and gambled till dawn, and was fairly sure he'd lost a thousand pounds, his patience and mood were exhausted.

Anymore, he seemed determined to part with every farthing of the blood money he'd received from his father, and if he kept on, he'd be poverty-stricken. Was that his plan? If he ended up destitute, how could penury be beneficial? Especially now that he had Jack to consider.

He glared at Jack. "What is your name?"

"My name?" Jack asked, confused.

"Yes, your name! Your name! I thought it was Jack Romsey."

"You know it is."

"Really? From how you're acting, I could have sworn someone sneaked in and took your place." "How am I acting?"

"Like a fucking pantywaist. Stop it. You're annoying me." He turned his attention to Rebecca. "And as to you ..."

At his sharp tone, her fingers shook, and tea sloshed over the rim of her cup.

Appearing meek and guilty as hell, she stared at her plate. "What will you do to me? Just tell me; I can't bear the suspense."

He had no idea what she meant. "What will I do to you? For what transgression?"

Her relief was palpable. "Well... for... nothing. For nothing, at all."

"Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," she insisted, and she stood. "I was going to invite you for a ride in the park, but I... ah ... recollected a previous appointment. I'll come by tomorrow."

As she hustled out, he frowned and muttered, "I don't understand women."

Jack was suddenly in a hurry, too. "I remembered that I have to... to..."

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Just dandy. Why?"

Ian studied him, finding it curious that he looked guilty, too. "No reason, I guess."

"You don't need me for anything, do you?" "No."

"Then I think I'll... I'll..." He blushed a bright red.

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"Get out before I throttle you." "Am I bothering you? I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have—"

"Jack! Please!"

His brother's irritating mouth snapped shut, and he slithered out, leaving Ian to fume and ponder in the quiet.

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and the worst wave of melancholy swept over him.

What was he doing, carousing to excess? The wagering and inebriation were bad enough, but he was so out of control that he was trifling with Caroline, and he had no qualms about the possibility of discovery. His lack of conscience was so at odds with the man he'd once been that the changes were alarming.

He was bent on destruction, punishing himself by destroying every good thing he'd built in London over the prior twelve years, but castigation was stupid. Some deeds were too heinous to be forgiven, and he could never fully atone for how he'd betrayed John. So why keep trying?

In the middle of his morose reverie, a female voice said, "Hello, Ian."

"Hello, Caro." He sighed and glanced up.

After his night of insanity with her, he'd given strict instructions to his staff not to let her in again. Yet here she was, like a painful toothache. Would he have to fire someone so the servants would heed his edict?

"How did you gain entrance?"

"I simply walked in. How would you suppose?"

"Have you ever heard of knocking?"

"Why would I? You've told your butler to refuse me."

"Yes, I have. You can't keep coming here!"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"You'll be caught. There'll be a big fuss." "Maybe I don't care if there's a fuss." "Yes, you do."

"I'm about to be married," she reminded him, the news like a punch in the gut. "No one's concerned as to where I am or what I do."

"That doesn't mean your father wouldn't have a fit if he knew."

She closed the door, sealing them in. "My wedding is set for March fifteenth."

Her citing of the date was extremely distressing, but he couldn't figure out why it would be. Blandly, he inquired, "Is it so soon?"

"Four weeks away."

"It certainly is."

"Have you any comment on the situation?" "What would you like me to say besides congratulations?"

"Would you imagine I'll be happy with Mr. Shelton?" "Since when did your kind ever marry for happiness?"

"My kind"? Honestly, Ian, where do you get your absurd notions?"

"From status-conscious snobs like you."

She shot a reproving glare. "So what is your opinion as to my pending nuptials? Will my union with Mr. Shelton be one long romantic adventure?"

He couldn't see any reason to lie. "No. It will be quite awful."

She chuckled, though miserably. "You've always been so brutally frank. It's a most infuriating trait."

"I aim to please."

"Were you aware that Mr. Shelton is thirty-five years older than me?" "Is it that many?"

"My mother claims the age difference is a boon." "How could it be?"

"She says I'm nervous and fickle, and I'll benefit from his steadying presence." "Your mother is an idiot."

"It's two in the afternoon," she mentioned, switching subjects, "and you aren't dressed." "No, I'm not."

"You're falling apart. What's happened to you?" It was a question he'd asked himself a thousand times.

"You can't keep visiting," he scolded. "Why not?"

She marched to the sideboard, and he watched— flummoxed—as she passed up the food, but helped herself to some of his uncles' whiskey.

He was aghast. "Have you become a drunkard?"

"I don't believe so. Why?"

"Whenever I see you lately, you have liquor in your hand."

She grinned. "I have, haven't I?"

"Yes, and I don't like the transformation."

She shrugged. "I don't care."

Her reply aggravated him, which was silly. His primary criticism of her had been that she was too cautious. Now, as she was spontaneous at every torn, he was irked. Why couldn't he be glad?

She approached the table, and just as he assumed she'd sit in the chair next to him, she snuggled herself onto his lap.

"Caro!"

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sitting on your lap."

"You have to stop being so forward."

"Why?"

"Because ... because ..." "Aren't you the one who urged me to be more impulsive?"

"Well... yes."

"I've merely decided to heed your advice, and I'm giving my passionate character free rein. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong with it? I'll tell you what's wrong with it. It's... it's ..."

"I missed you," she blurted out.

He'd missed her, too, but he'd never admit it. "That's as may be, but it doesn't imply that you can—"

She kissed him! Directly on the mouth!

Her fingers were in his hair, her breasts pressed to his chest. His body reacted as vehemently as could be expected, his cock rising to the occasion, and he was so conflicted.

He'd always desired her, and she was throwing herself at him. Why not catch her? What objective was served by restrained conduct?

He couldn't conceive of a single one.

She'd begged him to ruin her, though he was positive she wasn't serious. She was unhappy and fretting over her marriage, but he was sure—when push came to shove—that she'd go through with it. She simply needed to feel more secure as to her marital obligations, and a few evenings earlier he'd given her a hint as to what would be required. Why not continue with his lessons?

When he was working so hard to establish himself as a bounder and roue, what could be more fitting than to seduce the very prim and proper Lady Caroline? He could go some distance down the sexual road, without actually deflowering her.

If they were discovered, what was it to him? Apparently, she was prepared to risk her reputation, and she was the one who had everything to lose. With the exception of his new relationship with Jack, he was possessed of so little that mattered. If she was eager, shouldn't he oblige her?

So far, he'd dawdled like a statue, unwilling to join in, and his anatomy made the choice that his common sense couldn't render. He seized control of the embrace, pulling her nearer, as he caressed her shoulders, hair, and back. He clasped her hips, situating her delectable bottom so it was nestled to his inflamed loins. With each shift of her torso, she rubbed across his phallus, making him groan, making him ripple with lust.

"You've taught me something about myself," she murmured. "What is that?" "I adore kissing."

"I can tell."

"I think I have a knack for it, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, yes. You definitely have a knack."

With a renewed fervor, he captured her mouth, and he was stunned by how natural it seemed to dally with her. He felt as if he'd been kissing her forever, as if he'd been created specifically for kissing her and no other purpose.

Goaded to recklessness, he draped her over his arm and nibbled down her neck, to her bosom. He fought with the bodice of her dress, then eased a breast free. He licked the aroused tip, as she arched and struggled against the potent stimulation.

"Oh, Lord, yes," she breathed. 'Touch me just like that! Don't stop!"

"You've become a wanton."

"Do you mind?"

"Not a whit. I find it quite grand."

He'd often suspected that she was an inferno of buried passions, and he was delighted to be proved correct. How lucky he was to have stumbled on her when she was ready to misbehave!

He sucked on her nipple until her hips started to flex, then he reached down and pressed on her mons with the heel of his hand, but the gesture provided scant relief.

She was beginning to comprehend the pleasures of the flesh, so she knew what her body craved, and he was elated to give it to her. However, they were lounged in a chair in the dining room. He wasn't positive if Jack and Rebecca had departed, and he had no clue as to the location of any of the servants. Someone could walk in on them, and while he wasn't concerned over being observed, he was certain she'd be mortified.

He drew away and straightened her clothes, then he stood her on her feet, and he stood, too.

She frowned. "What are you doing? We can't quit!"

"Let's go up to my bedchamber."

"Will we engage in the sorts of activity we attempted the other night?"

"That was my intent. I'm hoping to have my wicked way with you."

"Then by all means, let's go to your bedchamber."

As if they were adolescent sweethearts, he linked their fingers and led her toward the hall. She'd grown so brazen that she willingly followed, content to leap off any cliff he suggested.

He grabbed for the knob and opened the door, when he literally bumped into Rebecca.

Suddenly and without warning, he was positioned between his mistress who was extremely jealous and Caro who was ... was ... Well, he couldn't describe what she was. The scene was hideous, and he hadn't a clue how to wiggle out of it.

Like a beast, he stepped away from Caro, pretending no heightened affection. It was the only satisfactory resolution, but still, he could feel her stiffen, could sense that she perceived the insult.

"I thought you'd left," he said to Rebecca, struggling to sound casual.

"I was curious if you'd like to..." Rebecca paused as she saw Caro. Her gaze narrowed, her brain whirring as she tried to deduce what Caroline's presence indicated. On the spur of the moment, he couldn't devise an acceptable response.

"What are you doing here?" she asked Caro.

"I might ask you the same question," Caro rejoined, "but then, we both know the answer, don't we?"

Rebecca's hot temper sparked. "I have every right to be here if I wish. Ian and I have an understanding."

"Ian and I have an understanding, too," Caro maintained, being deliberately enigmatic.

Rebecca gasped and shifted her malevolent glare to Ian.

"Explain yourself," she demanded.

He had no idea why he was meeting with Caro, couldn't justify it to himself, and most especially couldn't justify it to Rebecca.

"It's not what you think," he pitifully asserted.

"Isn't it?"

"We're old friends," Caro chimed in, imbuing the comment with too much innuendo. Where had she obtained this aptitude for feminine wiles?

"What are you doing sniffing around Ian?" Rebecca challenged. "Be gone! At once!"

"I'm not ready to leave."

"Ladies," Ian interrupted, "if I might—"

"Shut up, Ian," they snapped in unison.

"Ian," Caroline kept on, regal as any princess, "I'd like to finish our discussion. Would you arrange to have Mrs. Blake escorted out?"

Rebecca scoffed. "As if Ian could order me to do anything! I'm a widow and—as opposed to you—I'm permitted to act however I please."

"I'd forgotten you were a widow in mourning," Caro mused. She rudely and critically assessed Rebecca's bright red gown.

"I'm sure it will come as a surprise to someone as pious and perfect as yourself," Rebecca retorted, "but I'm not in mourning. My late husband was a violent boor and not entitled to any lingering respect from me."

"Actually"—Caro was giving as good as she got— "I'm not surprised in the least. How many husbands have you killed? Five? Six?"

"Now you've done it," Ian muttered.

"I didn't kill any of my husbands!"

"That's not what I hear."

"Is it my fault they keep dropping dead?"

"You always seem to be with them when it happens. Some of us find it a tad too coincidental."

"I don't know why they keep dying!"

"Don't you?"

Caro stared her down, appearing greatly harassed, immaculate, and without fear of harm. She regarded Rebecca as if the ferocious, incensed woman were a queer bug that ought to be squashed.

"Jack!" Ian called. "Jack! Are you here? Come help me!"

Shortly, Jack hurried toward them, and in an instant, he discerned the awkwardness of the situation.

"Rebecca," he said, "why don't I see you home?"

"I don't need a boy to show me the way," she fumed, her livid gaze locked on Caro's. She spun and stormed out, halting at the last to hurl over her shoulder, "Lady Caroline, I wonder if Mr. Shelton knows where you are."

Caro was unperturbed by the threat. "Why don't you speak with him? I'm positive he'd be eager to chat with an individual of your stellar character."

For a split second, Rebecca looked as if she might engage in some of the homicide for which she was so notorious, so Jack blocked her and dragged her away.

Ian watched them go, yearning to trot off after them. At the moment, he'd like nothing better than to be relaxing in a gentlemen's club and enmeshed in an amiable game of dice. He'd be surrounded by sane, rational men, the company of whom he enjoyed and understood.

The dust settled, and Caro broke the jarring silence. "Well, that was unpleasant." "It certainly was. I'm sorry." "Are you?" "Of course I am."

The ice queen had returned with a vengeance. She was coldly furious, but only a person who knew her intimately—such as himself—could detect it

"In the past," she charged, "you castigated me because I held my tongue in ugly circumstances, or because I was calm in the middle of discord. Were you implying I should be more like Mrs. Blake? Is she the sort of female you relish?"

There were a dozen replies he could make as to why he persisted with Rebecca. He liked her fire and sass, her spirit and audacity. She was wild in life and wild in bed, and in light of his current attempts to regularly offend others, it was enormously entertaining to observe as she thumbed her nose at Caroline's society, but he doubted Caroline would appreciate any candor on the topic.

"I've known her a long time, Caro," he quietly stated.

"Have you?" She smiled the frosty smile that could set grown men to trembling. It was her mother's smile, her aristocrat's smile, her wealthy, spoiled earl's daughter smile.

"Good-bye," she said.

She tried to step around him, but he moved into her path, a hand on her waist.

"I don't want you to leave. Not when you're so angry."

"I'm not angry"

"You can't he to me. I know you too well."

"No, you don't. You don't know me, at all. Nor do I know you." She yanked away so that he wasn't touching her. "Occasionally, I'm lonely and frightened, and I allow my low feelings to push me into foolish predicaments. I sit in my empty bedchamber, and I pine for you, and I convince myself that you're missing me, too. I forget that you have an entire existence that doesn't include me—just as I have one that doesn't include you and never will."

"That's not true, Caro. We're old friends. You said so yourself."

"I didn't mean it," she cruelly retorted. "I apologize for pestering you. It won't happen again."

"You haven't been a bother. You're welcome to stop by whenever you like."

"Don't start being kind to me. Courtesy doesn't become you."

She walked down the hall, toward the rear door, and he called, "Wait, Caro. Let me take you home."

"I can find my own way—as your mistress can. I'm not helpless and never have been. No one seems to realize that about me."

Then she was gone, and he slumped against the wall.

It had been the worst afternoon of his life, and it

wasn't even three o'clock. If he had a hundred years to try, he wouldn't be able to fix this for either woman.

He proceeded to the dining room, poured a whiskey, and began to drink.

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

Remove your hand before I break your arm," Rebecca warned.

Being his typical, annoying self, Jack didn't heed her command.

"I'm not afraid of you," he blustered.

"You're not?"

"No."

"Let me demonstrate why you should be."

She'd been an orphan raised by distant cousins— who'd had six boys. They'd all been bigger and meaner. She'd learned the hard way how to scrap and brawl, how to defend herself and win.

She whipped around, ready to bloody his nose, when she came face-to-face with his fabulous blue eyes. In the past few days, she'd been haunted by those eyes, and she didn't want to be gazing into them now. They were too piercing, too astute, and they seemed to delve through muscle and pore, down to the center of her miserable black heart.

"What will you do, Rebecca?" he taunted. "Will you fight the entire world?"

"If I have to."

"I'm not the enemy."

"You couldn't prove it by me."

She couldn't bear having him so close, and she stomped to her carriage and climbed in.

She was still trying to figure out what had transpired between them in Ian's dressing room. Jack had come upstairs to inform her that Ian was gone, he'd aggravated and insulted her, and the next thing she knew, she was riding him like a mare in heat.

After the life she'd led, she had few scruples and even fewer reasons to behave, yet she was very committed to Ian. He was a generous, attentive lover, and he'd been kind to her when no one else had shown an ounce of concern. For his stalwart devotion, she owed him gratitude and fidelity, yet Jack had merely glanced in her direction and she'd succumbed like a harlot.

She'd betrayed Ian! Ian whom she adored! Ian whom she hoped to marry! And she'd done it with his penniless, exasperating brother! Had any woman in history ever committed a more heinous act?

As she recollected her treachery, she blushed with shame, which was saying a lot. She never regretted, never apologized or lamented. As a single female, she had to survive as best she could, and if others didn't like how she carried on, she didn't care.

She'd been wed at fourteen, at sixteen, at twenty. Her three husbands had been brutal swine, who weren't missed. The first two had left her meager inheritances that barely paid the bills. The third had been a money-grubbing miser, who'd died with plenty of cash in the bank, but she doubted she'd receive a penny of it.

She was no fool, and she understood how the world worked. She had no influential acquaintances and no power. Despite how long she bickered with her brother-in-law, he would end up with it all, so she had to marry Ian. No other man would have her, but what if he found out what she'd done? There was a limit to what he'd tolerate, and having sex with Jack crossed any acceptable line.

She couldn't justify her crazed rush to fornicate with Jack. She didn't even like Jack!

With how he'd slithered out of nowhere and ingratiated himself to Ian, she remained unconvinced that they were siblings, and she loathed that Ian was so fond of him. Her grip on Ian's affection was tenuous, so she didn't want to share him with anybody.

What had she been thinking? How could she continue visiting Ian? How could she wed him? Her conduct with Jack would forever be a wedge between them, a secret she couldn't divulge.

Desperate to be away, she pounded on the roof of the coach, signaling the driver to hurry, when Jack climbed in behind her.

He paused to peer up at the other man and said, "Mrs. Blake is going home. Take your time arriving, would you?"

He winked! The bastard! The driver would suppose that she'd deliberately planned to be sequestered with Jack, and rumors would spread.

Did Jack want stories drifting to Ian? Was he completely deranged?

"Get out of here!" she hissed, but the horses took that moment to pull, and the carriage lurched forward. Jack tumbled onto her, his weight pushing her onto the seat. In a thrice, she was flat on her back, and he was sprawled on top of her. Down below, his cock was erect and prodding her leg.

They hadn't been secluded for two seconds and he was aroused, which indicated that he desired her again, that their initial encounter hadn't been a fluke. Every feminine part of her rejoiced.

What was the matter with her? Had she no integrity? No honor? People often whispered that she possessed no conscience or morals. Were they correct?

"Ah!" she shrieked. "Are you mad? Get off me!"

He chuckled, but ignored her, so she batted at his shoulders and chest, and he seized her wrists and pinned them over her head.

The position provided even closer contact. Her entire front was stretched out and crushed to his, and her traitorous anatomy was in heaven.

She increased her struggles.

"Desist!" he ordered.

"Not till you move!"

"As if I'd move with you punching at me like a lunatic!"

"If you didn't deserve it, I wouldn't be punching you!"

He kissed her.

At the feel of his delicious mouth touching her own, she melted like butter, her limbs growing rubbery and limp. For the briefest instant, they wallowed in the sweetness. It seemed so natural and right; then he stiffened and jerked away.

He slid to the opposite seat, scowled, and insisted, "I didn't mean to do that."

She was still half-dazed and, as if waking from a dream, she blinked and blinked. Then reality crashed in, and she sat up and pressed herself into the corner.

"I didn't mean to do it, either."

They glared, each blaming the other, when it had been more of a spontaneous combustion of ardor. What had come over them? They were like a pair of rutting dogs.

"Look," he started. "I've been thinking about the other day." "And... ?"

"I said I wasn't sorry, but I was mistaken. I'm very, very sorry that it occurred."

"Why? And as a woman who's regularly accused of violent behavior, might I suggest that you be extremely cautious in your reply?"

If he claimed he hadn't enjoyed it, if he contended it had been all her fault and none of his own, she couldn't predict what she'd do.

"Ian is my brother," he stupidly reminded her.

"Yes, he is."

"And you're his mistress." "That, too."

"What we did was wrong." "Yes, it was," she agreed. "I feel terrible." "So do I."

"And I was thinking—"

"About what?"

"We have to tell him."

"Tell him! Are you insane?"

"I can't abide that we've betrayed him, especially when he's been so kind to me. The truth is like a tough piece of meat stack in my throat."

She wasn't swallowing it down too well herself, but she couldn't imagine admitting to the tryst. There were some men who didn't care if their mistresses had other lovers, but she was positive Ian Clayton wasn't one of them. They'd never discussed the terms of their arrangement, but they didn't have to.

While he didn't demand much from her, fidelity was the least of what was owed. He'd been a loyal friend, through many trying ordeals, yet she'd repaid him with perfidy.

She shook her head. "We can't confess." "We have to, Rebecca."

"We do not! It was a reckless whim. Though I can't figure out why, we're suddenly experiencing a physical attraction."

"That's putting it mildly."

"It was heretofore unrealized by us, but now that we're aware of the danger, we'll simply be more vigilant."

"We'll pretend it never happened? We'll sweep it under the rug?" "Yes."

"How will we accomplish this feat? I live with the man! Whenever I torn around, I bump into you. Am I to ignore you?"

"Yes," she repeated.

"What if I don't wish to ignore you?"

"What are you? A beast in the field that must copulate at the drop of a hat? You have to learn to control your base impulses."

"I'm a healthy, red-blooded male. It's not that easy."

He shot her such a potent, torrid look that she felt it down to the marrow of her bones. She stifled a shudder, glad for the shadows of the carriage so he couldn't see how he affected her.

"You're also an adult," she persisted. "You may suffer from passionate urges, but that doesn't mean you have to act on them."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

He scoffed with derision. "You really are a cold one, aren't you?"

The charge stung, but she refused to let him know. "I'm called the Black Widow. Did you presume my reputation was unearned?"

"Yes, actually, I did."

"Then you're a fool."

"I guess I am."

"I'm fond of Ian," she said.

"You suppose I'm not?"

"I won't have him hurt by our folly."

"So it's better to he to him?"

"Yes, it is."

Her harsh words had wounded him, but it couldn't be avoided. He shouldn't have any illusions about her.

They were the same age, but compared to her and what she'd endured, he was a babe in the woods. Just then, he appeared so young and troubled, and she yearned to reach across the space that separated them, but she didn't dare. She was so tempted, but she couldn't risk another inferno. She stared the other direction instead, pulling at the curtain and studying the passing street.

She could feel him watching her, his elevated regard like a silky caress, but she forced down the need to revel in it. She had to maintain the distance between them, and she raised the only topic that mattered.

"Why does Lady Caroline keep showing up on Ian's stoop?"

T haven't the foggiest." "How often has she been by?" "I can't say."

"You must have some idea."

"I'm not Ian's nanny," he snapped. "It's hardly my job to track his guests."

"But she's betrothed to Edward Shelton. Why is she visiting Ian?"

"How would I know, Rebecca? You might as well ask me how many drops of water there are in the Thames."

"He hasn't confided in you about her?"

"No, and even if he had, I wouldn't tell you."

She knew she should let it go, but Lady Caroline's behavior had her rattled. "They've been acquainted a long time, but she hasn't previously prevailed on his friendship. Why now?"

"She must want something from him," he allowed. "Perhaps it has to do with our brother, Lord Wakefield. Wakefield's termination of their engagement wasn't very graciously done. Ian knows Wakefield better than anyone. Perhaps there are issues unresolved, and she's seeking his advice."

If Lady Caroline had come to Ian for advice, Rebecca would eat her bonnet!

"Have you met Wakefield?" she inquired.

"No. Have you?"

"Yes."

"What's he like?"

"He's a wealthy, indolent aristocrat. What would you imagine?"

"If I called on him"—he was so ridiculously optimistic—"would he grant me an audience?"

"I doubt it. His wife might, though. He married down, and she has a penchant for commoners."

"Really?"

"Ian and Wakefield used to be so close," she mentioned, intent on gleaning any detail that might explain Lady Caroline's motives. "I've heard that he and Ian quarreled, that then rift is irreparable. Do you know the basis of their fight?"

"No."

"I plan to marry Ian," she bluntly stated, wanting Jack to be very clear as to her ultimate goal. "Were you aware of that fact?"

"He doesn't love you."

"So?"

"Then why would you?"

"How about to have a roof over my head and food on the table?"

"You already have a home—with a fine roof and a fully stocked larder."

"Maybe I want a grander roof," she said. "Maybe I want tastier food."

"Why are you so greedy?"

She bristled. "Until you've walked in my shoes, you have no right to judge."

"I've been poor all my life, but it's never made me prostitute myself simply to receive a few fancier baubles."

"Bully for you."

He assessed her, his gaze contemptuous. "Wouldn't you like to be valued as something more than a pair of tits and an ass?"

"What an absolutely cruel thing to say."

"Why is it cruel? Aren't you preparing to sell yourself—again—to the highest bidder? I'm merely speaking the truth."

"No, you're not. Your cock is hard, and I haven't tended it, so you're angry, and you're trying to provoke an argument."

"Is there some reason I should be pleasant at the moment?"

The conversation had deteriorated to its usual juvenile level, which wasn't surprising. They had no capacity to fraternize like normal human beings. The carriage was stalled in traffic and, his disgust with her obvious, he reached for the door, anxious to jump out and leave her to her own devices.

Absurdly, she was hurt that he'd go, and she could barely stop herself from grabbing onto his coat and begging him to stay.

He stared at her, his blue eyes digging deep, making her fidget with his keen scrutiny. He seemed to be cataloguing her features, as if seeing her for the very last time.

"I have to inform Ian of what we did," he quietly announced. "I can't live with myself." "You are mad!" "I'm sure you're correct."

"Have you considered the consequences? He might throw you out of his house. Or disavow your kinship. He might... might... challenge you to a duel!"

"Whatever he might do, my punishment would be warranted," he said with an inherent dignity that belied his humble origins.

"It was just a hasty tumble in the dark," she insisted, denying its import. "You're making too much of it."

He blew out a heavy breath. "The more I listen to you talk, the more I realize it's not worth keeping a secret for you."

"If you tell him, I'll kill you. I swear it."

"In light of the gossip about you in the community, is that a threat you should hurl?"

"Will you get it through your thick head? I don't know why my husbands keep dying!"

"I thought you said your reputation as the Black Widow was well deserved."

He opened the door and leapt to the street, and the crowd swallowed him up.

She leaned against the squab, praying that he didn't mean it, that he'd keep his big mouth shut. If he tattled, what should she do?

 

Chapter Seven

Oh, my goodness!” a female voice gushed. “Ian Clayton! Is it really you?”

Ian stared down the dark street to where a woman was leaning out the window of a fancy carriage that was parked in front of a restaurant.

A grinning and very pregnant Emma Fitzgerald— make that Emma Clayton, Lady Wakefield—maneuvered the steps of the vehicle with the help of a footman, and she approached from down the walk. Her figure was limned in the light cast by the carriage lamp. She was big as a house and beautifully attired in an emerald dress that set off the auburn in her hair and the rose in her cheeks.

He wasn't surprised that she'd shunned a conservative wardrobe and had done nothing to conceal her delicate condition. She was experienced in midwifery and considered birthing to be normal and respectable. On seeing her again, he tamped down his delight, embarrassed to have it revealed.

He hadn't spoken with her since he and John had argued, since Ian had left Wakefield Manor and never talked to John again, save to threaten his very life if he failed to do the right thing and marry the Emma he'd ruined. Ian had suspected that he'd eventually run into her, but the encounter had arrived too soon, and he wasn't positive how to act.