Luckily, John wasn't present. Ian had no desire to converse with the disreputable bounder, and he would have hated to place Emma in an awkward situation.

Jack was standing next to him, the two of them on their way to join Rebecca at the theater. They'd quarreled as to whether Jack would attend, too, so they weren't in the best mood to greet Emma.

Something was eating away at Jack, something important and troubling, but Ian wouldn't probe for what it was. Jack would blurt it out when he was ready. There was no use pestering him.

Still, for reasons Ian didn't comprehend, he wished he hadn't brought Jack along. Emma would confide to John that they had another brother, and Ian didn't want John to know.

Jack had a childlike infatuation with John, and he was intrigued by all that John symbolized as far as their noble heritage. Absurd as it sounded, Ian was terrified that John would steal Jack away. John was a dynamic and charismatic individual, and with Jack being Ian's only kin, Ian couldn't bear to share him. Not with John. Not with anyone.

"Hello, Lady Wakefield," he said as she neared, and he bowed.

"Lady Wakefield!" She laughed and peered around. "Whenever I hear that tide attached to my name, I automatically presume the person is referring to someone else. You knew me when I was Miss Fitzgerald. I think that means you should call me Emma."

"Hello, Emma." "How have you been?"

She took his hands and squeezed them, and he couldn't resist her friendly charm. "I'm fine."

"John and I have missed you so much. We chat about you every day."

At the tidings, he suffered the silliest spurt of gladness, but he ignored it. She was the ultimate diplomat, and he was certain she was lying. John would never have mentioned him. Their last fight had been too hideous, the basis of John's dislike too shameful and too appropriate. There could be no reconciliation.

Emma spun toward Jack and asked, "And who is your handsome companion?"

Huddled in the shadows as they were, it was difficult to see Jack clearly. With his blond hair and blue eyes—that were an exact replica of her husband's—his resemblance to John was uncanny.

She clutched a fist over her heart and muttered, "Oh, my Lord."

Ian reached out to steady her. "What is it?"

"Is he ... is he ... John's son? I had no idea. Does John know?"

"No, no," Ian hastily soothed, "he's not John's son. You can't tell here in the dark, but he's much too old."

"Oh ... well..." Her pulse slowed, her composure reasserting itself.

"I'm sorry. It never occurred to me that you might make such a shocking assumption. This is Mr. Jack Clayton Romsey."

Jack bowed, too. "Lady Wakefield, I'm so pleased to finally meet you. I apologize for any distress."

Emma frowned at Ian. "A Clayton cousin?"

"A brother," Ian gently said.

"A brother! John will be thrilled." She turned her radiant smile on Jack. "What is your story, Jack? May I call you Jack?"

"I'd be honored, milady."

"Why do we know nothing of you? How did you come to be living with Ian?"

Ian explained, "He showed up on my stoop a few months ago."

"Really? Just like that? What a splendid conclusion for both of you."

"I had a letter," Jack stated, "that my mother gave to me when I was a boy, and I always kept it. It was from my father."

"How very romantic!" Emma beamed.

As if a silent signal had been sent, she glanced over her shoulder. A man had exited the restaurant, and Ian and Jack espied him at the same time.

"There's John now. John!" she summoned her husband. "You won't believe who I've found."

Though he was only twenty or thirty feet away, the true distance between them was as vast as an ocean. John pulled up short and glared at Ian, but didn't speak.

"Who's that?" Jack inquired. "Is it Lord Wakefield?"

"Let's go, Jack," Ian said. He grabbed the younger man by the arm and tried to drag him away.

Jack shook him off. "I want to be introduced."

"Jack! Come on!" Ian insisted more sternly.

"Don't be ridiculous," Emma scolded. "Of course you'll stay and meet him."

"I'm fond of you, Emma," Ian quietly replied, "but don't put yourself in the middle of this. You don't belong there."

"Nonsense! Whatever concerns John, concerns me, too. He's not angry, and the two of you will not continue this idiotic feud. Not if I have anything to say about it."

"It's not about anger, Emma. It was perfidy and betrayal, pure and simple."

She glowered at John, then at Ian, but neither of them had moved an inch, and she marched to John, ready to do what, Ian couldn't guess. Emma was like a force of nature, positive she could bend everyone to her will, but not in this case. His conduct toward John was beyond forgiveness.

It was the most humiliating interval of his life, and he wasn't about to tarry and be given a cut direct that would have had High Society gossiping for ages. Not by John—whom he'd loved so dearly. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

"Come, Jack. Let's go." His brother didn't budge, and Ian repeated, "Jack!"

Ian whipped away and hurried off, taking an opposite route from where Lord and Lady Wakefield were furiously whispering, and he didn't peek over to see if Jack had obeyed his command to depart. If Jack had remained behind, if he'd loitered like a sycophant, hoping for Wakefield's notice and blessing, Ian would be crushed.

He rushed around the corner, and for an instant, he thought John bellowed, Ian, wait! but he was certain his fevered mind was trying to switch fantasy into reality. He didn't stop.

Momentarily, Jack caught up to him. With Jack torn between the sibling he didn't know and the one he did, familiarity had won out, and Ian's relief was so great that he was amazed his knees didn't buckle.

He was terribly undone by the encounter, but he didn't want Jack to perceive his upset, and as Jack sidled nearer, Ian's face was an expressionless mask. Only the shaking of his hands provided any indication of how seriously he'd been affected.

They walked on, proceeding toward the entrance to the theater.

Finally, Jack broke the awkward silence. "Lady Wakefield seems very nice."

"She's wonderful," Ian agreed.

"What did you do to Lord Wakefield that caused your fight?"

"Nothing."

"Liar. Tell me. It can't be that ghastly."

It was on the tip of his tongue to confess. He'd never apprised anyone about that awful night, about the horrid accusations that had flown, or the painful information that had been revealed. He was wretched, keeping it all in, acting as if none of it mattered. As he tried to gamble himself into poverty and drink himself into oblivion, the truth was eating him alive.

"It's water under the bridge," he mumbled, incapable of justifying.

Recognizing that he'd get no answers, Jack sighed. "Will Rebecca be joining us?"

"She said she would. Why?"

"I'd just as soon not sit with her."

"I've purchased a box, so she'll be there. She's too much of an attention-seeker to miss the opportunity to have all of London gawking at her."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"Do me a favor," Ian snapped.

"What?"

"Don't make a scene. I'm not in the mood for any of your antics with her."

"I know how to behave in public," Jack bristled. "Regardless of what you think, I wasn't raised by wolves."

In a snit, he stormed off. They were outside the theater, and he waded into the crowd and vanished, making it a perfectly bad ending to a perfectly bad day.

Ian was still reeling from his earlier spat with Rebecca and Caro. Rebecca would get over it. She was too bent on marriage, and she'd persuade herself to forgive him. As to Caro, she'd never speak to him again, and the prospect was more troubling than it should have been.

At his loss of her esteem, coupled with his stumbling on John and Emma, he was completely disordered, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. As he climbed the steps into the building, he was incredibly self-conscious, feeling more isolated and more alone than he'd ever been.

With his disposition being so foul, the notion of enduring a tepid comedy was abhorrent. He almost turned to leave, but he'd invited Rebecca, so he started up the stairs to his box. He trudged toward it, when the horde split, and he was face-to-face with the Earl of Derby's party.

The Earl, himself, wasn't present. It was the most open secret in the city that he rarely consorted with his wife, so it was the Countess, with her only son, Adam, as her escort. Behind them, appearing miserable and oddly mismatched, were Caro and her fianc6, Edward Shelton.

Shelton was lumbering and obese, his gray hair thin and balding, and he was much older than Ian recollected. In stark contrast, Caro looked like a shiny angel. She was dressed in a silvery gown that shimmered when she moved, the sapphire trim enhancing the blue in her eyes, making them seem larger and more luminous. Her blond hair was swept up in an intricate chignon, a few ringlets dangling on either side to accent her beautiful features.

Her cheeks were flushed, her back ramrod straight, and she was trembling slightly, giving him the distinct impression that she was furious.

Had her mother said something vile? Or had Caroline and Shelton been quarreling? Shelton had his hand on her arm, guiding her through the melee, and Ian suffered the most virulent surge of jealousy.

His head flashed with disturbing images of Caro's wedding night, of fat, perverted Edward pinning her down and ravaging her as she pleaded for mercy.

The vision was so clear, and so disgusting, that Ian could scarcely keep from racing over and yanking Shelton away. He couldn't stand to have Shelton touching her, couldn't stand to know that—very soon— Shelton would have the right to do whatever he wished to her.

Her wedding was a month away, and Ian felt ill just from considering what it would mean. Caro had been betrothed to John for years, and Ian had stoically accepted the circumstance. Despite the demands of both fathers, John had had no intention of ever marrying her, so she'd been safely single. But now, jolted by the hard evidence that she was engaged to someone who was prepared to follow through, he was too distraught for words.

He wanted to burst into the middle of the family gathering, wanted to force them to acknowledge his existence. He never approached them in public, for he refused to give them the chance to snub him. Previously, due to his kinship with John, they'd been coolly courteous, but since John's split from Caro, they were overtly hostile. He avoided them like the plague, but suddenly, he was determined to talk to Caro, to witness some hint of affection that would tell him he still mattered to her.

It was folly, it was insanity, his rage being all out of proportion to the situation, but he couldn't put it aside. He marched over, bold as brass, and insinuated himself in front of Lady Derby, coming so near that she would have had to knock him down in order to skirt around him.

"Good evening, Countess," he said.

"Mr. Clayton," she replied with a regal nod.

As if he were vermin, she stepped by him and into the box, with Adam pausing to hold the curtain for her.

"Adam," Ian said, "how have you been?"

"It's Lord Silverton to you," Adam growled as if they hadn't been cordial for the past decade, and he, too, swept in, leaving Ian alone with Caro and Shelton.

"Hello, Caro." He inappropriately used her nickname, daring her to comment.

"Mr. Clayton." She imbued the greeting with the same amount of disdain exhibited by her mother.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your fiancé?'

"No."

He was accustomed to their rebuffs and pretensions, but still, it hurt him, and he chuckled nastily. "You Fosters are such a bunch of snobs. Don't your necks get tired from sticking your noses so far up in the air?"

At the slur, she bit down on a caustic retort, which had him eager to rattle one loose.

"I say," Shelton interrupted, "we don't have to stand here and be insulted by the likes of you."

Shelton urged Caro along, and Ian had to physically restrain himself, lest he reach over and punch the man.

"Who are you, sir?" Ian persisted. "I had assumed you were her fiancé, but I believe I'm mistaken. Aren't you her grandfather?"

People were eavesdropping, and they tittered and guffawed. Malicious gossip would fly for days, and he was shocked that he'd instigate so much trouble. Obviously, he'd been spending too much time with Rebecca and absorbing her spiteful habits.

"You're an ass, Mr. Clayton," Caro responded. "You always have been."

She waltzed away, Shelton tagging after her, the curtain of the box fluttering shut, but sealing them in as firmly as if it had been made of iron.

He dawdled, like a beggar on the street, and he was so bloody tempted to storm in after them, to throw things, curse at them, and continue the despicable scene, but it occurred to him that his indignation was absurd.

He wasn't concerned over what Caro elected to do. He never had been. If she chose to bow to her father's dictate and wed an aged reprobate, what was it to Ian?

Feigning nonchalance, he tugged on his coat and shrugged to the onlookers.

"I can't wait to see the children they produce."

He shuddered dramatically, igniting another round of titters. Then, as if he hadn't a care in the world, he walked on to his own box and climbed in.

Neither Rebecca nor Jack had arrived, and his initial impulse was to head home so he could fume in private.

The brief exchange had pushed him to a dangerous precipice where he wasn't anxious to linger. All his life, he'd grappled with the class distinctions forced on him by his bastardry. He'd coveted and begrudged, but had valiantly fought against his envy and resentment. He'd told himself that he'd moved beyond it, that it no longer had the power to wound as it had when he was younger. But he'd been fooling himself.

The old feelings of impotence and inequity surged to the fore, and he yearned to smash through every wall that had ever been constructed to keep him from joining the exalted ranks of the aristocracy. He was suffocating on an injustice he didn't deserve and couldn't battle.

He wanted to rail and shout, but he'd never let the horrid members of the ton realize how grave his distress. They were watching him, giggling and pointing when they thought he couldn't see.

Off to his right, Caro's party was ensconced in their seats, sitting like glum statues, refusing to fuel the fire of rumor Ian had sparked.

He tarried through the first act, then the second, all eyes upon him to learn what he might do. The third act began, and he slipped out and raced down the stairs and into the cold, wet night.

His mind in turmoil, his emotions careening with fury and desolation, he glanced in both directions, wondering where to go next.

 

Chapter Eight

Who's there?" Caroline peered into the dark shadows of her bedchamber. Her maid had left a candle burning, and the flame sputtered. A storm was brewing, an odd burst of winter thunder reverberating through the house. The door to her balcony cracked open, the curtains fluttering, her nightgown billowing out.

"Who's there?" she asked again, and like a ghostly apparition, a man stepped across the threshold.

He was attired all in black, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders, and she bit down a squeal of fright.

"Lock the door," he commanded, as he came into view.

"Ian," she murmured, astonished.

For him to have scaled the bastion that was her father's mansion, to have risked danger and ruin merely to be alone with her, was too marvelous and too terrifying to be true. Was he insane?

"Get out of here!" she hissed.

"No."

"You're not welcome." "I don't care."

"I won't speak with you—not after how you behaved at the theater."

"Lock the door!" he repeated.

Approaching until they were toe-to-toe, he reached over and spun the key, sealing them in. Then he pushed her against the wall and fell on her like a starved beast. There was none of the courtesy or finesse he'd exhibited during their previous trysts. He was livid, teeming with rage and passion, so agitated that she was alarmed by his intensity.

He seized her mouth in a torrid kiss, his hands on her breasts, his thigh wedged between her legs. His lips were icy, his fingers, too, as if he'd tarried in the dastardly weather for hours, waiting for the moment she'd enter her room.

He lifted her, her bare thighs wrapped around his waist, so that she was splayed wide, their intimate parts connected, igniting a fire low in her belly. She'd planned to ignore him and send him away, but she was surprised to find that his rough handling was exactly what she needed. She scratched and clawed at him, fighting to get nearer.

She was blazing with an ache she wanted him to assuage, but footsteps echoed in the hall as her brother climbed the stairs and headed for his own room.

Ian yanked away and glared at her, seeming to accuse her for Adam's passing by, and he clamped his palm over her mouth so that she couldn't call out.

As if she would! The last thing she would ever do was summon assistance, for she could never justify his furtive arrival.

Her brother walked on, without breaking stride, without having a clue that his sister was being ravished a few feet away. As he retreated, Ian carried her to the bed. He dropped her onto the mattress and crawled on top of her, and he kissed her again, being fierce and unrelenting, demanding that she return his ardor with an equal fervor.

"Don't ever pretend that you don't know me," he growled.

"I hate you!" she seethed.

"I don't care if you hate me," he declared. "Just don't snub me—before your mother and her snooty friends. I can't bear it when you do."

It was the must stunning confession she'd ever heard. He always contended that he held her society in contempt, that her position meant nothing to him.

Obviously, he'd been wounded by her disregard, and she yearned to shake him. How was she supposed to have responded to his galling public advance?

He was the one who'd thrust himself at her mother, when he was aware of how she would react. He'd been an insulting boor, which, in her opinion, was his condition most of the time. Had he expected Caroline to leap to his rescue? If so, he was completely deranged!

"What do you want from me?" she asked, though in a whisper.

"I don't know."

"Why are you here?"

"I can't begin to explain."

"You must have some idea."

"I had to see you." He appeared bewildered, as if his actions were incomprehensible to him.

"Give me one reason I should let you stay. Give me one reason I shouldn't scream bloody murder and bring the servants running."

T want you," he said. "I've always wanted you." "Have you?" "You know I have."

She scoffed. "I know nothing of the sort. You've never been anything but snide and critical."

"That's because I'm mad about you and you drive me berserk with your ridiculous conduct."

"If you're mad about me—as you claim—you have a funny way of showing it."

He slid off her and onto his back, an arm flung over his eyes as he wrestled with private demons. She watched him struggle, and she was overcome by the strongest urge to soothe and comfort. It was a lover's inclination, a wife's inclination. She felt so at ease with him, as if they'd lain like this, sharing secrets in the dark, a thousand occasions prior.

"What is it, Ian?" She caressed his chest, his heartbeat discernible under her hand, and it was the most superb sensation in the world.

After a lengthy pause, he admitted, "I bumped into John."

"What did he say to put you in such a state?"

"We didn't speak."

"Really?"

"No."

There'd been gossip of a terrible quarrel, that John had ordered Ian out of his home and his life. While the rift was occurring, Caroline had had her own problem—that being her failed engagement of twenty-four years—so she'd been too wretched to worry about the stories. But now, she couldn't help but wonder what had caused their discord. Ian had always thought that John treated her abominably, and an awful suspicion dawned: Had she been the catalyst?

"Would you like to tell me about it?" she inquired. He chuckled, but sadly. "No." "It wasn't on account of me, was it? I'd be very upset if the two of you were fighting about me." "It wasn't because of you." 'Then ... why?"

He gazed at the ceiling, and she had just started to think he'd confide in her, when he rolled onto his side and drew her into his arms.

"You can't marry Edward Shelton. He's depraved in a manner you don't understand."

"He's my father's friend."

"I realize that, but their relationship doesn't preclude his having strange tendencies."

"As far as I'm concerned, all men are peculiar."

"It's more loathsome than that. He's perverted in his tastes, extreme in his pleasures."

"Then he'll hire whores to tend his base needs."

"You can't marry him, Caro. I won't let you."

"It's none of your business, Ian."

"It is! I don't want you hurt—as he will definitely hurt you."

She was humored by his apprehension. Did he suppose she had a dozen other choices, that she was a magician who could pull a different future out of a hat?

"And what would become of me if I didn't wed Mr. Shelton?"

"Demand that your father find you someone else."

It was her turn to chuckle miserably. "Haven't you heard what people are saying about me? Rumor has it that John seduced me, that I'm a soiled dove."

"We both know that's a lie."

"So? The facts don't matter. No other man will have

me. My father scrounged to the bottom of the barrel and stumbled on Mr. Shelton. There is no one else."

"Then... then... continue on as you have been, living with your parents."

'Till when? Should I stay till I'm thirty? Fifty? A hundred?"

"You're being flip, while I'm being serious." "My father doesn't want me in his house any longer." "Nonsense."

"It's true," she divulged. "I eavesdropped when he was arguing with Mother. He's tired of supporting me."

"You can't marry Shelton." He was beginning to sound like a broken clock that kept chiming the same hour.

"And you shouldn't persist in your liaison with Mrs. Blake. Will you stop?"

"No, I won't. Don't be absurd."

"I'm mentioning it because I'm jealous of her."

"You are not."

"I am, and I'm not too proud to tell you. But how about you? What is the real basis for your objection to Mr. Shelton?"

"I've told you: He's exceedingly dissolute."

"And that's it?"

He couldn't look her in the eye but stared somewhere over her shoulder. "Yes, that's it."

"Are you sure you have no personal motive? Because if you did, this might be the moment to inform me."

"And what would you do? Would you cry off on your betrothal? Would you leave Shelton waiting at the church and run away with me?"

"I might surprise you. Don't forget: I came to you, begging to be ruined."

"And / told you that I wouldn't do it."

"So change your mind. Alter my fate."

At the bold declaration, her pulse raced. Her life had been so steeped in ritual and ceremony that she'd never envisioned another ending.

What if she declined to do as her father bid her? What if she cast caution to the wind? Would the Earth cease spinning? Would the sun not rise in the morning sky?

"You don't really want it to happen, Caro," he gently said.

"I might," she insisted, "if you gave me a good enough reason."

"You'd never follow through," he replied. "I know you too well. You'd never shame your family."

He was correct, but she didn't want him to be. She liked to imagine herself as spontaneous and brave, able to defy her father and march away from her marriage without a backward glance, but she wouldn't. She'd been trained from birth to value and preserve the traditions of status and class, of wealth and privilege. To expect her to believe that a different path was possible, he might as well ask her to believe that the ocean was red or the grass blue.

She smiled and admitted, "You're right in saying that I would never go off with you, but I'm not married yet"

"No, you're not."

"I have this month stretching ahead of me. I don't want to wed Mr. Shelton without learning what it was like to be with you."

She was amazed by her proposal, but suddenly, it seemed like the only feasible solution, as if she'd been planning to do this from the very first.

"Will you give me this piece of yourself?" she inquired. "Will you grant me this gift that I shall treasure all my days?"

Ian frowned, struggling with what his answer should be. He'd always deemed her the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, and with her on her bed, her hair down and attired in her nightclothes, he was even more astounded by her perfection. The dim glow of the candle accentuated her creamy skin, her flawless features, making him ache, making him yearn to give her what she wanted. But should he?

A month was such a short interval, and when the sole purpose of the affair was a fleeting dalliance, was it worth the bother?

They'd have to tiptoe about, would have to plot and scheme so that they weren't caught. Their trysts would be furtive and brief, their occasions for consorting minimal and dangerous.

The slightest whiff of association would bring disaster. Her parents would never let him wed her as a reparation. She'd be shipped off in disgrace, to a rural estate or convent, and he'd never see her again.

Rebecca would be enraged, spurred to commit murder, which—considering her history—was no small concern. Jack would be disappointed by what he'd view as despicable conduct, and his attitude toward Ian as an idolized older brother would fade.

Yet, if Ian forged on, he would have thirty magnificent days with Caro. Each morning—for an entire month!—he'd jump out of bed, excited that she might be able to sneak away, that they might be together for a few minutes or hours.

Silly as it sounded, being with her made him happy, and when he'd always been so alone and unwanted, when contentment was so elusive, the chance for a temporary reprieve was enticing.

Could he agree? How could he not?

"Thirty days," he murmured.

"Yes."

"I can make you no promises." "Nor can I make any to you." "We'll have to be very careful." "That's putting it mildly."

"And I shall have to practice restraint—in my manly drives." "Don't you dare!"

"You must go to your marital bed a virgin." She sighed. "I suppose I must." "I'll ensure that you do."

"Before we're through, will you at least advise me as to what the loss of my virginity entails? I'd like to have some idea as to how it occurs so that I'll know when it happens."

"You'll definitely know."

"How?"

"It's a very physical endeavor." "What is involved?"

His cheeks flamed bright red. He had no notion of how to explain the ordeal. He had sex with women who were aware of what was required, and he couldn't imagine describing the details. She probably wouldn't believe him anyway. It would seem too odd.

"I'll show you as much as I can. We can come very close without actually progressing to the end."

"Marvelous."

"Yes, it will be. No regrets, Caro." "Nary a one, Ian."

He began kissing her again, and he was nervous as a lad with his first girl. Now that they'd decided to philander, he was so worried about pleasing her.

The rage he'd suffered at the theater had waned, and it had been replaced by a determination to make her happy. When their affair was concluded, and they went their separate ways, he wanted her to be glad for what they'd done.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her breasts. He molded and shaped them, plucking at the erect nipples, but he couldn't stand that she was hidden from him. He fussed with the tiny buttons on her nightgown, but they were so difficult to open, and he quickly lost patience.

"I have to have you naked," he told her.

"Naked! Well..."

He was demanding too much, too soon, but he felt as if he'd been waiting all his life to be with her. He clasped the neckline and rent the garment down the middle.

"Ian! You can't be tearing off my clothes!" "Why not?"

"My maid will suspect what I've been doing."

"Burn it in the fire when we're finished."

At that moment, he was so aroused that he didn't care about such petty matters as clothes or a servant's opinion.

He yanked at the ruined fabric, pushing it to the side so that her front was exposed. He studied her nude torso, his hot attention drifting across her chest, her mons, her thighs. His loins lurched with potent delight, keen to be nearer, to explore in ways he oughtn't. "You're so pretty, Caro."

"Do you think so?" She flushed a charming shade of pink.

"Oh, yes. So pretty—and all mine."

He fondled her breasts, and at his touching her, bare skin to bare skin, she hissed and arched up, trying to escape, but to offer more of herself, too.

"This is how I want you," he stated. "I want you naked and aching for me."

"Oh, that feels so good."

"And it's about to feel even better."

He abandoned her mouth and blazed a trail to her bosom, his hungry lips eager to nurse at her nipple. He suckled, being hard and rough, keeping on till the tip was raw and inflamed; then he moved to the other and proceeded to do the same.

"Let me show you something," he said.

"What?"

"You'll see."

"Tell me!"

"No."

"Beast!"

"Always."

He continued down, nibbling her tummy, her abdomen. As he arrived at her womanly hair and prepared to delve inside, she raised off the pillow and glared at him.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I'm going to kiss you here." "You are not." "I am."

"Ian!"

"Be silent. You wouldn't want anyone to catch us like this, would you?" "No."

"Then be quiet."

She flopped down, as he wedged himself between her thighs, planted so firmly that she couldn't shove him away. He parted her nether lips, his tongue lapping at her most secret spot, and her protests ceased.

He held her down, inflicting bliss, until she was moaning and forgetting where they were and what they were about.

"Hush!" he scolded. "Someone will hear."

"I can't help myself."

"You have to."

"Just finish it! I can't bear this torment."

"All in good time, my little beauty. All in good time."

"If you don't hurry, I shall have to kill you."

He laughed and took pity on her, dabbing at her sexual nub, once, again, and she came in a rush, a scream of pleasure billowing out. He grabbed the pillow and pressed it over her face to stifle the noise, but still, it was noticeable.

As she spiraled up, he froze, his ear toward the door. If anyone had been walking by, they'd have noted the commotion, but no one was there, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

He hated that this was how it would go. They would flirt and seduce, would trifle and tease, but they would be courting danger at every turn. When the passion they generated was so remarkable, the perils didn't seem fair.

She climbed to the peak and was floating down as he nuzzled up her body. He kissed her, and as she grinned and kissed him back, he decided that she was worth every risk.

She pulled him close and whispered, "You are so wicked."

"I try my best."

"I want to do it again."

"I'll bet you do."

"I want to do it all night."

"You can, milady."

"I love it when a man lets me have my way."

He gazed down at her, and the strangest sensation swept over him. He felt as if his heart didn't fit under his ribs, as if he was smiling—but on the inside. It had to be joy. There was no other sentiment that matched the queer, quivery feeling racing from his center to his extremities.

He rolled onto his back, with her draped across him. "Let me show you something else," he said. "I can hardly wait."

He reached for his shirt and started in on the buttons.

 

Chapter Nine

Isn't that Father?" "No, it isn't." Britannia ignored Caroline and stared straight ahead, refusing to glance down the street, for she was aware of what she'd see.

"I'm sure it's him," Caroline persisted. "There. In front of that tea shop." "You're wrong."

As far as Britannia knew, neither of her two children had a clue that the Earl was a lying, cheating scoundrel. It was a shame she'd sought to hide at all costs. She turned in the opposite direction, forsaking her trip to the milliner's. Caroline had no choice but to spin and follow.

'The weather is so dreary," Caroline complained. "I could use a hot refreshment. Shall we join him? I bet he'd be surprised."

I bet he would be, too, Britannia sourly mused. "We aren't chasing strange men into culinary establishments.

Honestly, Caroline, what's come over you? Would you hurry along?"

Caroline was keeping up, but barely. "I thought you wanted to buy a new hat."

"I have a headache, so we're going home."

"Who's he with?" Caroline was gaping over her shoulder, trying to unravel a mystery that wasn't a mystery, at all. "Why ... it's a girl. I don't know her, though. Isn't she a pretty little thing?"

"Well, that certainly proves it's not your father. He wouldn't be off gallivanting in the middle of the afternoon. He has meetings with his land agent all day."

They arrived at her carriage, the footmen loafing and unprepared for her sudden reappearance. They jumped to attention and lifted her in. She pressed her bulky form against the squab, soothed by the dark confines, the soft feel and smell of leather.

Caroline was outside and still staring behind her, and Britannia snapped, "Caroline! Don't stand there gawking like a scullery maid. You're making a spectacle of yourself. Get in."

"In a minute, Mother."

"If you are not in this carriage in five seconds, we shall drive off without you."

"I'm coming; I'm coming."

Caroline's irritation was clear, so the footmen would have noted her pique, which would have them gossiping over Britannia's having raised a disrespectful daughter. Britannia was so angry that she yearned to lumber out and beat Caroline to a bloody pulp. Only the prospect that others might see kept her planted in her seat.

Something was bothering Caroline, and Britannia was sick of her moods and sass. One moment, she'd be smiling and happy, another miserable and morose. Had she heard the rumors about Edward? Was she reconsidering?

Caroline climbed in and settled herself, but she continued to peek out the curtain. "Mother?" "Yes?"

"Does Father have a... a... mistress?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"But what am I to think?"

"It wasn't the Earl!"

"Who was that girl with him?"

"Be silent!"

"But—"

"I don't have to sit here and listen to your rude insinuations." She started to tremble, her wrath bubbling up like soup in a pot. "If you mention the topic again, I shall slap your mouth."

The threat was sufficient. Caroline's curiosity was retracted and refocused inside the coach.

After a painful interval, she insolently inquired, "Do you ever regret marrying Father?"

"What a ludicrous question. Of course I don't."

"Are you satisfied with your life?"

"I'm perfectly content." Her face was so brittle, she was amazed it didn't crack.

Out of the blue, Caroline said, "I don't want to marry Mr. Shelton."

"So? No woman ever wants the man who is selected for her. You'll grow to tolerate him."

"I can't go through with it. Would you speak to Father?"

"No."

"Please?" "No."

"I can't do it."

"Your wishes have no bearing on the situation."

"Why can't I have an opinion? I'm the one who will have to live with him. Not you. I've heard terrible stories."

"They're not true."

"How can you say that when I haven't told you what they are?"

"It doesn't matter what they are."

Caroline studied her as if seeing her for the very first time, and in the worst display of sentiment, tears welled into her eyes.

"You don't care about me, do you?" Caroline accused.

"Don't be absurd. I'm your mother."

"You don't like me; you never have."

Britannia glared, her patience exhausted. If Caroline was determined to drag them into a mire, then Britannia would oblige her. As calmly as if they were discussing the weather, she replied, "No, I don't. Not really."

"Why not? Am I so unlovable?"

"You were a difficult child, Caroline."

"How? How was I difficult^. I did everything you ever asked. For years, at your insistence, I pursued my fruitless betrothal to Wakefield, and now, I've accepted this odious arrangement with Mr. Shelton, and I never once objected."

"Do you assume that makes you a saint?"

"Yes, that's precisely how I feel: Saint Caroline. I'm about to be sacrificed at the altar of your peculiar whim. You seem so bent on my marrying Mr. Shelton. Why are you?"

"Your father has decided on it." "You and Father were arguing one day. He said he's weary of supporting me. Was he serious?" "What do you suppose?" "Was he?" Caroline pressed. "Yes."

"If I backed out of my betrothal, would you let me continue residing with you?"

"No. I'd cast you out. You'd be disgraced, shunned by the entire world."

"I don't want to end up like you," she rudely pronounced. "I'll speak with Father, myself, about canceling the engagement."

"Yes, by all means," Britannia sneered. "Talk to him. Boast of how recalcitrant and ungrateful you've become. I'm sure he'll be delighted to have you tell him all about it."

"He's fond of me."

"Is he?"

"He'll listen."

"No, he won't. He's a selfish man—the most selfish I've ever known. You're naught but a bother to him, and if you presume differently, then you're a fool."

Declining to quarrel further, Britannia shut her eyes, pretending to doze, though her reflections were in turmoil.

Caroline had to marry Edward. There was no other choice.

All those years ago, when Edward had seduced Britannia, she'd believed his lies and had yielded to him, but he'd acted with malicious intent. At the liaison's conclusion, he'd waltzed away without a second thought, and Britannia had been left to suffer the consequences of his feigned regard—for twenty-five years!—while he'd suffered no consequences for his wicked deed, at all.

Well, revenge was a hearty meal, and Britannia had waited forever to dine on her feast of vengeance. With her scheme so close to fruition, she wouldn't be denied the chance to use Caroline to extract punishment. She had to see the expression on Edward's face when she informed him of what he'd actually done by marrying the girl who'd always been there—right under his nose.

Caroline would be his bride—whether she wished it or not—and if she was getting cold feet, it was time to move things forward. The wedding date wasn't set in stone, and perhaps it would be wise to hold it even sooner.

She nodded with satisfaction. Caroline would be wed before she knew it, and in the interim, Britannia would watch her like a hawk. The child was spewing strange ideas, and Britannia had to discover why.

Nothing and no one could be allowed to interfere with Britannia's plan.

Good-bye, darling." "Good-bye." "You'll talk to her, won't you?" "The moment I arrive home." Bernard smiled at Georgette, his latest in a long line of infatuations. He'd been in love so often, with so many pretty girls, but for some reason, she'd captured his fancy in a way none of the others had.

He didn't understand why he was so obsessed with her. He'd bribed her with gifts and courted her like an attentive swain, but she wouldn't succumb to his advances, and the more she resisted, the more he desired her. She was like a grand prize, being dangled just out of reach.

She was petite and slender, a waiflike creature, with beautiful brown hair and big brown eyes. She made him feel manly and strong, capable and indispensable to her happiness. When she gazed up at him, as she was now, looking innocent and adorable, so in need of his help and protection, it was difficult to refuse her anything.

"If you don't get the divorce arranged," she mentioned, "I'm not certain my mother will let you keep visiting."

"Why not?" The old bat was constantly hovering, so there could be no impropriety.

"She claims gossip is spreading."

The notion infuriated him. Why couldn't people mind their own business? His peccadilloes were his own private affair.

"What is being said?"

"Well, that you aren't sincere in your affection."

"Of course I'm sincere. How can you doubt me?"

"I don't! But Mother is afraid that you'll tire of me, and after you go, my reputation will be ruined. I won't be able to show myself in Polite Society ever again."

"I'll take steps to begin the legal proceedings at once."

Her grin lit up the room. "Do you promise?" "Yes, I promise."

She threw her arms around his neck and gave him the sweetest peck on the lips. At having her slim, tiny body crushed to his, he pulled her nearer and deepened the kiss, his hands roving over her, his lust instantly out of control.

She submitted until he grazed her breast; then, breathless and overcome, she yanked away.

"Please, Lord Derby," she protested, "you know I can't."

"I know. Forgive me."

"It's torture, having to wait and wait for you to be free. I can't bear it."

"I can't, either. I'll speak to the Countess again."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"You're too kind to me."

"And I'll be even kinder in the future." He gave her a parting, fatherly kiss on the forehead. "Now I must be off."

"Will you be by tomorrow?"

"Most definitely."

She escorted him to the door, waving merrily from the stoop till he was out of sight. The second he could no longer see her, he started missing her.

He couldn't go on as he was. Georgie was so vivacious and fun, and she made him feel twenty years old, like a young buck on the prowl. His world was all boring duty, all tedium and monotony, but when he was with her, he forgot his responsibilities.

He couldn't abide the thought of returning home, of sitting through another stuffy supper with Britannia. She'd be nagging. Caroline would be glaring at him, bitter over her pending nuptials. Adam—who'd discovered Bernard's passion for Georgie—would be piously reproachful of Bernard's late arrival.

He wanted to be separate and on his own. He would give the management of the estates over to his attorneys. Then he'd send Adam abroad so he didn't have to observe his surly face. He'd hurry Caroline's wedding to Edward, and he'd divorce Britannia.

There would be no one to interfere, no one to chastise or condemn. He and Georgie would be together at last!

Is he gone?" "Yes, thank the Lord." Shaking with relief, Miss Georgette Lane walked to the sideboard and downed three quick brandies, indulging her tendency to over-imbibe; then she went to the foot of the stairs as her mother, Maude, plodded down.

"I didn't think he'd ever leave," Maude muttered.

"Neither did I."

"Did he bestow any trinkets?"

"Not today."

"But you were with him all afternoon!" "I know." "Cheap bastard." "No, he's not."

Georgie defended him by holding up her hand to display two of the rings she'd received prior, but her mother wasn't impressed. Whatever Lord Derby opted to give, greedy Maude whined that it should have been more.

It had been Maude's idea to split off from their traveling troupe, to try to make a new start—through swindle and vice—in London. How could they have guessed that Lord Derby would present himself as such an easy mark? And so fast, too!

Georgie was weary of the entire wicked charade. "I suppose he felt at liberty to fondle and poke, though," Maude complained. "Doesn't he always?"

"You didn't let him do anything relevant, did you?" "No. He touched my breast; then I acted all panicky and made him stop."

"You're the most convincing virgin." "That's what he presumes I am." "Keep it that way." "I'm trying my best."

Georgie hated her part in their scheme, but was willing to persist all the same. Ages ago, she could have yielded and become his mistress, but Maude had done a thorough investigation of the perverted codger. He was a fickle fellow, whose attention was prone to wandering. The trick was to keep him coming back, to keep the gifts and promises flowing. If she could snag Derby, the rewards would be indescribable.

"I don't understand men and their penchant for girls," Maude was saying. "You're so skinny, and your chest is so flat. He should just find himself a boy."

"I don't believe he's partial to boys," Georgie replied.

"What the hell is he looking for then?"

"You said it yourself: He wants to be young again. He assumes that having a youthful bride will change everything."

"Stupid fool."

Maude proceeded on into the parlor and poured herself a brandy, while Georgie stared out the window in the direction the Earl had gone.

Would he really shame his wife with a divorce? Would he break up his family, stun his friends, horrify his children? Would he do something so terrible—just for her?

It was the most preposterous notion imaginable, and the man was an idiot to even consider it.

"There ought to be a law," she mumbled; then she went to join her mother for another stiff drink.

Edward Shelton climbed out of his carriage, his hat pulled low to shield his identity, and he scurried through the gate and was swallowed up behind a hedge. Since it was a dark night, and a disreputable section of town, the chances of his stumbling . on an acquaintance were slim to none. Yet, a person couldn't be too careful. His peers would ignore many bad habits, but not all of them.

He rapped on the door, using the secret knock the madam had devised, and immediately he was ushered to a private salon.

With his wedding to Caroline only a few weeks away, his lust was at a fevered pitch. There were so many things he wanted to do to her, so many things he wanted to teach her, and his fantasies were driving him wild with anticipation.

He was still furious that she'd evaded him when she was small. With her big blue eyes and silky blond hair, she'd been like a perfect, porcelain doll. Throughout her childhood, he'd tried to steal a brief grope or kiss without her parents knowing, but he'd never been able to lure her away.

Though it was aberrant and foul, the undeveloped female body excited him. His whole life he'd grappled with the scurrilous urges, but they were too powerful to fight, and he'd ceased his struggles to control them.

Caroline was much more mature than he liked, but she would—if he was lucky—birth many, many daughters who resembled her, and he'd have them in his home and available to enchant him for decades to come.

Everything had the most wonderful way of working out for the best!

The madam appeared. She was a malodorous, buxom woman, whom he couldn't abide, but she knew her business. Nothing surprised or shocked her, not even his most depraved requests.

"What'11 it be, sir?" she queried.

"I'd like a tiny girl, with rosy cheeks and rosy lips—like a little doll. I want the youngest you have in the house, but she shouldn't be too experienced. I want to scare her a bit."

"I think I have someone you'll enjoy very much," the woman said without hesitating.

Edward handed over a purse full of money, and the woman hurried off to fetch the child of his dreams.

I have to tell you something." "What is it?" Ian snapped at Jack. "It's a confession." "I'm not in the mood."

Ian was reeling from the prior night's encounters. Too much had transpired in too short a time. He'd finally bumped into John, but he'd been too much of a coward to walk over and offer the apology that was owed, or beg for the forgiveness that was craved.

He'd met Caro's family at the theater and had allowed her mother to hurl public insults. The altercation had tossed him into an abyss of despair, and for hours he'd hovered outside Derby's mansion, in the rain and the wind. He'd wrongly entered Caro's bedchamber and dallied with her till dawn, sneaking out after the cock had crowed.

He felt drained and confused. He hadn't slept a wink, was grumpy and exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do was have a philosophical chat with Jack.

"Can't it wait?" he asked.

"No. I should have spoken up days ago."

"Very well. Sit down."

"I'd rather stand."

"Sit!" Ian gestured to the chair opposite. "I'm not about to strain my neck glaring up at you while you blather on and on."

"All right, if you feel I must."

"You must."

Jack plopped down, and he stared at the floor, unable to begin.

He seemed very young, very unsure. He carried himself so well, was so reliable and courteous, that Ian frequently forgot his true age. Just then, he looked so much like John, so much like the captivating, insolent rascal who'd gotten himself into so many jams and who'd always come to Ian for advice and assistance.

Ian couldn't remain angry, and his ire faded.

"What is it?" Ian repeated more gently.

Jack hemmed and hawed, then admitted, "I had sex with Rebecca."

"You what?"

"I... I... had sex with Rebecca."

"You did?"

"Yes. I didn't mean to. It just... just happened."

"How does sex just happen?"

"It was sort of an ... an .. . accident."

Ian wanted to laugh, but didn't. He wasn't positive what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't anything close to this. He was very still, studying the boy, trying to figure out how he should react.

He wasn't upset—when he probably should have been. He wasn't hurt—when he probably should have been. He didn't feel betrayed or let down, so what should be his response?

He and Rebecca had a different relationship that was incomprehensible to others. They were both on a reckless course, circumstances causing them to behave badly, so they were a good match. They understood each other. Neither condemned the other for lapses in judgment, just as neither hoped for improved conduct. They were friends; they were cordial; they were excellent together in bed.

"Jack," he started, "Rebecca is my mistress."

"I know; I know."

"She and I have an arrangement."

"I know that, too."

"Yet you proceeded anyway."

"Yes." He peeked up. "I realize that this is where I'm supposed to apologize, but I'm not sorry."

"You're not?"

"Well, I'm sorry that I deceived you, but I'm not sorry for what I did with her. I liked it very much, and I won't lie to you."

"I see."

"It was actually quite spectacular," he muttered.

"I don't need any details, Jack. I've fornicated with Rebecca on many occasions. I'm aware of her numerous charms."

Ian sighed. For the life of him, he couldn't decide what was best. He couldn't have his brother copulating with his mistress, yet he didn't want to be shed of either of them. It was difficult to acquire a suitable paramour, and he wasn't in the mood to search for a new one. Obviously, a brother was irreplaceable.

After a lengthy silence, where Ian mulled and stewed, Jack urged, "Say something."

"I'm curious as to what I should do, and I'd love to hear your opinion."

"I guess you'd be entitled to kill me."

'That seems a little dramatic."

"Or. . . or.. . you could throw me out. I packed a bag—just in case."

"Is the situation likely to reoccur?"

"I'm not certain. The first time was more of a collision, if you will, but if the same kind of opportunity crept up on me ..." He blushed and cleared his throat.

"Have you discussed this with Rebecca?"

"Oh, yes."

"What was her suggestion?"

"She said that if I confessed, she'd murder me."

He sighed again. "She oughtn't go about making such spurious threats. People misconstrue her intent."

"I told her the exact same thing." Jack frowned, then inquired, "Do you imagine she was serious? Should I watch my back?"

Ian scoffed. "She didn't murder her husbands. At least, I don't believe she did. I've often wondered about the second one, but the other two were very elderly. They dropped dead of their own accord."

"So I'm safe?"

"She won't kill you, but she'll definitely get even."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He rose and shuffled his feet. "So ... should I fetch my bag?"

Ian didn't have to ponder the question, for he'd known the answer before Jack asked it. He couldn't carry on without Jack. Their lives had rapidly grown inseparable, intertwined like two strands of a rope. Ian didn't want him to ever leave.

"No, I don't want you to go."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you."

"You can't have sex with Rebecca again, though." "I know."

"Maybe you two should avoid each other?" "I'll see to it."

"I'd appreciate it if you would. And if you find yourself contemplating another accident with her, I'd be obliged if you could tell me right away."

"I will," Jack promised, and he scurried off.

 

Chapter Ten

Father, may I speak with you?" "No."

Caroline stared at her father, imploring him

as he proceeded toward the door. "It's important." "I'm on my way out, Caroline." "Please?"

"Oh, all right." As if she were the greatest burden in the world, he blew out a heavy breath and stomped into the nearest parlor. "I can spare you five minutes, so whatever it is, be quick about it."

She longed to shake him. How could the entire course of her life hang in the balance of five measly minutes?

"It's about my engagement," she started.

"What about it?"

"I don't wish to marry Mr. Shelton."

"So?"

"I need you to call it off."

"Call it off?" He was aghast. "On what grounds?" "You may use any basis you like. I just want it over."

"Are you insane?"

"No. I simply can't be his wife. You never asked my opinion; you just forged ahead. I'm twenty-five years old, and I ought to have been consulted."

"Where did you come by such a ludicrous notion?"

"It's not ludicrous," she insisted. "Many fathers confer with their daughters on such a weighty issue."

"Not this father. This isn't some fantasy in a storybook where females are allowed to act however they please. This is England. I am the Earl of Derby, a peer of the realm, a friend of the King. You'll do as you're bid, and you'll do it gladly."

Desperate to be away, he peeked at the clock, and she tamped down her frustration. Why couldn't she be clear? Why couldn't she make him understand?

"You can blame it all on me, and I won't say a word."

"How very big of you!"

"Mr. Shelton can explain the split any way he likes."

"Oh, he can, can he?"

"Yes."

He rolled his eyes and spun away. "I don't have time for your nonsense."

"When will you have time?”

"I never will," he said. "You're marrying Edward and that's final. I suggest you prepare yourself."

Then he was gone, and she dropped onto the couch, listening as he stormed out. An image flashed in her mind—of the pretty brown-haired girl she'd seen with him outside the tea shop.

Had he raced off to be with a mistress who was young enough to be his granddaughter? The prospect— of his being too busy to help her merely because he'd rather be off philandering—was so galling that she was enraged.

Her request to end the arranged marriage was the first occasion she'd ever stood up for herself, and he couldn't be bothered to heed her complaint, let alone aid her in facilitating a resolution. Perhaps with all the meekness she'd displayed over the years, it was beyond him to take her seriously.

She glanced around the ornately furnished room, and suddenly she felt as if she was suffocating on the accouterments of her boring, privileged life. Her family had money, status, and power, but when they were all so miserable, what good was any of it?

She had to escape, if only for a few hours, and she knew precisely where she'd go. She had to be with Ian. When she was with him, her problems faded away, vanishing in the haze of the passion and desire he generated.

She hastened to grab a cloak and sneak away, but as she hurried to the foyer, the door so close to being reached, she bumped into her mother.

"Have you seen the Earl?" Britannia inquired.

"He left already."

"Left! But he just arrived. I didn't have a chance to speak to him. Where was he going?"

"I assume he was off to visit his paramour."

"I have no idea who you mean," Britannia huffed. "Did he mention when he'd return?"

"I wouldn't expect him back anytime soon."

Caroline was stunned by the contemptible remarks flowing from her lips. It was as if she'd opened her mouth and another woman's comments were being voiced.

She'd never been so angry, and it was fabulous to be furious and lashing out. She'd always let others treat her as if she were stupid, as if she hadn't a brain in her head. She'd done everything—-everything!—they'd asked, yet they repaid her with scorn and indifference.

She skirted by her mother and walked to the door.

"Where are you going?" Britannia demanded.

"Out."

"I don't give you permission to leave." "I don't care."

She scurried away, the mansion like a prison gate that could swing shut and trap her if she didn't dash to freedom. It was very cold, an icy rain falling, the frigid air bracing.

Like a madwoman, she gaped about, then sprinted to the street, and she ran and ran until her neighborhood of stately mansions disappeared and she began to see shops and pedestrians on their daily errands.

On the corner, there was a row of rental cabs, and she went to the nearest one, tossed coins to the driver, and clambered in without assistance.

Shortly, she was at Ian's house, and she leapt out and marched to his stoop.

She was frantic to be with him. Their ardent interludes were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that seemed genuine. She felt as if she were weightless, floating away, and that he was a tether to all that was normal and real. If he didn't seize hold of her, she might fly off to some distant, unknown place and never return.

She knocked and knocked, but no one answered, so she barged in. Luckily, at the same moment, he was coming down the hall. He halted and frowned.

"Caro?"

"Yes."

"My goodness, did anyone see you? It's broad daylight. What are you thinking? What's wrong?"

"My mother hates me," she said in a rush, sounding desperate and crazed, "and my father is having an affair, and I can't marry Mr. Shelton, but no one will help me. I don't know what to do. I just had to be with you."

If he sent her away, she couldn't predict how she'd react. When she'd fled from her mother, she'd needed a refuge, and he'd been the only choice.

Like a blind woman, she stumbled over, and she collapsed toward him, relieved that he caught her. If he hadn't reached out, she'd have plummeted to the rug.

"You're soaked through," he chided, though kindly.

"I had to get away from them."

She pressed herself to him, her nose buried against his chest. He was so warm, so sturdy and reliable, and she could have tarried there forever, safe and secure in the circle of his arms.

He took her hand and led her up the stairs to his bedchamber, and she followed along, perfectly content to do whatever he wanted. There was a toasty fire burning in the grate, and he guided her to it. She stared into the flames, mesmerized, as he removed her cloak; then he sat in a chair and drew her onto his lap.

"Calm yourself," he murmured, "and tell me what's happening."

"I can't marry Mr. Shelton."

"I'm thrilled to hear it."

"I want to be happy. That's all I want."

"It's so difficult to achieve, isn't it? Happiness, I mean."

"Yes, so I talked to my mother. I told her that I refuse to end up like her. She's so forlorn and angry." "She definitely is."

"I want something better for myself, but she said I have to wed Mr. Shelton."

"So you spoke to your father?"

"But he wouldn't listen, either. He was eager to be with his mistress, so he was too busy to discuss it." "He has a terrible reputation for that sort of thing." "So this girl isn't the first?" "No, not the first."

"I didn't know! My world is disintegrating before my very eyes! Everything I believed about my family is false."

"Have you ever stopped to consider that it might be you who's changing? Perhaps they're exactly as they've always been and you're simply seeing them more clearly."

"Perhaps," she allowed.

"I'm proud of you."

She was amazed. "You are?"

"I recognize how hard it is for you to stand up to them." He kissed her temple. "I'm glad you came to me."

"So am I."

"How long can you stay?"

"For as long as you'd like. No one will notice if I'm late getting back." "I doubt that's true."

"I suppose you're right." She sighed. "I should probably be home by dark."

He smiled. "Then I suspect we shall have a lovely afternoon."

She smiled, too. "I suspect we shall."

 

Come with me." Ian eased her to her feet.

 

"To where?" Let me show you."

He'd just staggered out of bed, and a bath had been delivered, so the water would still be hot. She was freezing, her garments damp, her hair wet, and his initial order of business was to warm her and dry her clothes.

He couldn't get over the fact that she'd visited him, in the middle of the day—without hesitation or concealment—which indicated that the scene with her parents must have been appalling. He'd imagined that life with the Earl of Derby was unpleasant, so he wasn't surprised by her story, but it pained him that she was hurting.

He peeked in his dressing room, ensuring there were no servants lurking; then he drew her inside. "What's this?" she said.

"Honestly, Caro, you must have seen one. It's a hip bath."

"I know that," she retorted. "I assume one of us is about to bathe. Is it to be me? Or you?" "You."

"Are you going to watch?"

"Yes. I intend to wash you, too." He grinned wickedly. "If you're really nice to me, I might even join you."

"In the tub?"

"Yes."

"Are you telling me that men and women actually carry on this way? Together and in the open, where any servant could stroll in?"

"It's quite common, and a favorite pastime of mine." At realizing how much he'd revealed about his disreputable character, she glowered, and he hastily added, "Not that I've ever done such a thing with a female."

"Oh, of course not." "I'm a veritable saint."

"Absolutely," she wryly agreed. "How could I be twenty-five years old and not have learned these secrets?"

"Don't ever regret being sheltered."

"I used to presume it beneficial"—her sizzling gaze took a deliberate, inquisitive meander down his torso—"but since becoming involved with you, I've changed my mind."

"I have that effect on people. The more you get to know me, the worse you'll behave. I guarantee it."

She chuckled and spun around. "Unbutton my gown."

He proceeded methodically, stripping her as if he were a lady's maid. He could have lingered and enjoyed the endeavor, but he wanted her naked. He removed her dress, petticoats, shoes, and stockings, and he paused to take them into the bedchamber, to drape them over the chairs in front of the fire.

At seeing her belongings scattered about, he was much more pleased than he should have been, and when he returned to her, he was frowning.

"Why are you scowling?" she asked.

"Because I like having you here."

"My presence makes you grumpy?"

"Very."

"I don't understand men."

He nestled himself to her backside and peered over her shoulder, tantalized by how her breasts pushed against her corset. She was so beautiful, and she was all his.

He untied her laces, dragging the blasted contraption away; then he yanked off her drawers, and in a thrice, she was nude. He wrapped his arms around her and ran his palms down her stomach and thighs, and she shivered, but he was fairly sure it wasn't from desire.

"Let's get you in the tub," he urged, and he held her hand as she climbed in.

She slid down, hissing as she immersed herself. There was an extra bucket of hot water on the floor, and he dumped it over her, earning a squeal of irritated delight; then he pulled up a stool and sat next to her.

She was relaxed and content, and at the sight, he was overcome by the oddest impression that she'd finally arrived right where she was meant to be. His heart did a funny flip-flop, jerking in his chest, until he actually rubbed the center, massaging away the ache.

"You're scowling again," she said, laughing.

"I'm trying to figure out how rapidly I can have you in my bed."

"Is that your plan?"

"Oh, yes, that's my plan."

"You have a very fiendish mind."

"I can't deny it."

"I'm not complaining."

He snatched up a cloth and swished it; then he swabbed it over her body, stroking it across her shoulders and bosom, down her tummy and between her legs.

Though she was a spinster and a virgin, she'd abandoned her prior reticence. Events had made her more reckless, more eager to experience the mischief he initiated, so she did nothing to slow him, which was incredibly titillating. His cock was so hard that he wondered how he'd stand.

"Are you feeling better?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes."

"Have I vanquished your chill?" "Like a knight in shining armor." "Marvelous. Out you go."

He helped her rise and step out; then he grabbed a towel and dried her.

"You didn't get in with me," she protested.

"That's because I'm so impatient to lure you to my bed, instead."

"Will you join me next time?"

"Most definitely."

At the notion that she was already contemplating a next time, his heart made that silly fluttering motion again.

He was so happy when she was near, so miserable when she wasn't, but he wouldn't focus on the peculiar sentiment. He wouldn't like her more than was wise, wouldn't moon over her when they were apart. If he did, he'd start to dream about a future that could never be, which was the height of folly.

They'd been acquainted forever, and he knew her well. Though she was currently distressed over her betrothal, in the end she would relent. If he began to hope she'd do anything else, he'd drive himself crazy.

He folded the towel around her, tucking the corner between her breasts, and he led her into his bedchamber. They tumbled onto the mattress, and Caro was as comfortable as if they'd been lovers for years rather than days.

He rolled on top of her, and as he kissed her he was stung by the realization that he never wanted to let her go, so his journey to insanity was complete.

He wasn't looking for a mistress—he had one of

those—and he wasn't looking for a wife. He especially wasn't looking for a wife who was the daughter of one of the most powerful families in England. He would never pursue such a negligent path, but at that moment, when she was warm and fragrant and snuggled beneath him, any wild conclusion seemed possible.

Needing to feel her flesh pressed to his own, he yanked at his shirt, tugging it off and tossing it on the floor. Then he pulled her towel away, exposing her to his avid scrutiny, and he lay atop her again, both of them moaning with pleasure as bare skin connected.

He nibbled down her neck, across her chest, and he suckled at his leisure. His sexual stimulation was painful, his poor, neglected phallus begging for mercy.

He groaned with dismay.

"What is it?" she asked. "Are you injured?"

"No, but I'm so aroused that it hurts."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She grinned. "You're suffering because of me?" "Yes, you wench."

"Fabulous. How can I soothe your ache?" "You can't." "Why not?"

"Well... there are ... we are ... I am ..." He still wasn't able to explain the mechanics of fornication. It was simply beyond him.

"Why are you embarrassed? Are you telling me that you can philander with ease, but you can't talk about it?"

"Some things are better in the demonstrating." "So demonstrate." She flung her arms wide, like a virgin about to be sacrificed. "No."

"Why?"

"Because I'd have to remove my trousers and have you touch me."

"What a grand idea! Let's try it." She wiggled out from under him, ready to undress him against his will.

"No," he said again. "If I take off my pants, there's no predicting what I might do."

"You'd be spurred to further misbehavior?"

"Yes, and a man can become too provoked, to where he can't control himself."

"Have I suggested you control yourself?"

"You're to be wed soon, Caro."

"Not if lean help it."

He continued as if she hadn't interrupted. "So we can't do anything that might harm you at the start of your marriage."

She shoved him onto his back, her glare imperious and irked. "I hate it when you treat me like a child, and I'm tired of waiting for you to get on with it."

"One of us needs to keep a level head."

"I don't see why. So far, we've broken every imaginable rule. Why restrain ourselves now?"

"Because we must."

"Ian?"

"Yes."

"Do be silent."

She came up on her knees, and she hovered over his crotch, making quick work of the buttons on his trousers, and he dawdled like an imbecile and let her have her way. He should have stopped her, but his anatomy seemed to have cast a spell on his tongue, and he couldn't utter a single word of protest.

She drew the fabric away, baring him to his haunches, and she sucked in a surprised breath.

"My, my," she murmured, "would you look at that!"

"We're built differently—in our private parts," he managed to grind out.

"I know. I've listened to women gossiping."

As if she were a tot that had discovered a new flavor of candy, she proceeded to explore. She squeezed and caressed, each innocent stroke shooting through him like a bolt of lightning. Her thumb grazed the sensitive crown, his limbs jerking in response as sparks of desire flowed from his loins outward.

"It's very large," she mentioned.

"It can be—when I'm excited."

"Such as now?"

"Yes. I'm definitely excited now." "Wonderful."

He reached down and positioned her fingers, wrapping his hand around hers and guiding her in the appropriate rhythm. She was a willing, adept pupil, who instantly grasped what was required, but the stimulation was too extreme.

He'd intended to be patient, to let her tease and play, but he'd been goaded to madness. His lust spiked, his seed surging to the tip and demanding release. He slapped her away, when she didn't understand why he would.

"What's the matter?" she queried. "What did I do?"

"I need to come."

"I don't know what that means."

"You don't have to know. Just hold me."

"Like this?"

"Yes."

She hugged him as he stretched out, his phallus pressed to the soft skin of her belly. He thrust once, again, and again, and he emptied himself against her stomach. A potent orgasm carried him away, and as he spiraled up he worried that he'd never find the peak.

Finally, it crested and he tumbled down, joyous and laughing and happier than he could ever remember being. He landed in her arms, so glad to be with her, so glad he'd taken the chance.

As he struggled to slow his frantic pulse, she chuckled and said, "What on earth was that?"

"That, my darling, Caro, was a very dramatic example of male sexual ecstasy."

"Dramatic, was it?"

"Oh, yes."

"And what is this?" She dabbed at the spot on her abdomen where he'd spewed himself with such relish. "My seed." "What is it for?"

"It's a sign that I was pushed beyond my limit."

"It erupts from the tip every time?"

"Only when I'm very satisfied."

"So I take it that you were?"

"Yes, you minx. But it can also plant a babe."

She scowled. "How?"

He slipped his fingers into her sheath. "When my rod is very erect, I can shove it inside you—here." "Inside?"

"Yes, and if I would spill myself while I was there, I could leave you with child." "You're joking." "No."

"What happens when you simply discharge it on my stomach?"

"Nothing. It's very pleasurable."

She appeared very smug. "Can we do it again?"

"If you give me a minute to catch my breath."

"But I'm ready now."

"A man needs a bit of a break in between." "Spoilsport," she pouted. She fondled his cock, which was sated and half-erect. "You're not very hard." "But I will be very soon. Just you watch." He rolled her onto her back and started in again.

 

Chapter Eleven

You lousy bastard." "What? What did I do?" Rebecca stormed into Jack's bedchamber and slammed the door. He'd just bathed, so his hair was damp and swept off his forehead. He was attired solely in a pair of tight-fitting trousers that delineated every muscle on his fabulous body, but she refused to be distracted by how marvelous he looked. "You tattled to Ian," she seethed. "Yes, I did." "I told you not to."

"I couldn't keep such a terrible secret," he piously declared. "It was eating away at me."

"What about what I wanted?"

"What about it? Ian is my brother, and you are ... are..."

"What am I?" she demanded when he couldn't finish. "And I must warn you that if you're about to refer to me in a derogatory fashion, you might wish to reconsider. I'm very, very angry."

She reached into her reticule to retrieve a small pistol, and she aimed the short barrel right at the center of his black heart.

"Are you mad?" he snapped.

Not intimidated in the least, he stomped over, stopping directly in front of her. He didn't grab for the weapon, nor did she lower it. A stony, awkward impasse ensued.

"I take it the rumors are true," he taunted.

"What rumors?"

"You're a man-killer."

"Only when the man in question needs killing. Then, I don't have the slightest qualms." "Really?"

"Yes, really. Take another step and you'll see what I mean."

She didn't want to murder him, but after the humiliating encounter she'd just endured with Ian, she'd decided that Jack should pay for the damage he'd wrought. At that moment, death seemed like a dandy price to extract.

She hadn't visited Ian in days, hadn't had sex with him in weeks, when she was supposed to be his devoted mistress. Their separation unnerved her, had her fretting over whether his attention was waning.

She'd come to his home, dressed for seduction, but she'd been rebuffed. Not only had he been uninterested in a tryst, but he'd claimed that they should break off for a bit and let their ardor cool. He'd even hinted that perhaps they should split for good.

When she'd pressed him as to why, he'd informed her of Jack's confession, but she hadn't felt he was being entirely candid. There were other issues driving him, issues that had nothing to do with Jack. Ian had changed, was happier and more content than he'd ever been. Something had happened that went beyond her misbehavior, and she had to learn what it was, but in the interim, she had to deal with Jack.

He was such an insolent, imperious creature, and he needed to be put in his place. Hence, the pistol.

She waved it at him. "I'd like to hear one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

"Because I'm awfully partial to living?"

"You'd best think up a better response."

"Do you actually expect me to believe you'd shoot me?"

His disdain made her even more irate. "Yes, that's precisely what I expect you to believe."

"Give me that thing before you hurt yourself."

He laughed! The bastard laughed as if she were some wee bug who wouldn't harm a fly.

Didn't he understand anything about her? She had to marry Ian. She wouldn't be poor, wouldn't be forced into another violent marriage. When she was a girl, her cousins had wed her to the first reprobate who'd asked. They'd treated her as if she were a prized cow, and they'd received a pretty penny for their efforts, too. Then she'd been sold again, and a third time, until she'd grown old enough to avoid their machinations.

She would never again be in a position where her finances and physical safety were at risk, yet he stood there chortling as if her problems were a joke.

Her fury spiked.

"Shut up, Jack."

"I'm sorry, but I can't help myself. You humor me in too many ways to count." "Shut up!"

He lunged, and without thought or deliberation, she squeezed the trigger just as he knocked her to the floor. They both landed with a painful thud, and she tried to crawl away, but he stretched out and pinned her down.

The room was filled with smoke, the smell of gunpowder heavy in the air, the loud explosion making her ears ring. She gaped about, hoping to discover that she'd hit him, but with how tightly he was restraining her, she was fairly sure she'd missed.

Wasn't that just her luck! She'd fired at point-blank range, and the arrogant ass was still breathing!

Over his shoulder, she could see where the ball had struck the plaster. He stared at it, too, aghast at the damage.

"You've blasted a hole in Ian's wall."

"Yes, I have, and if I had a second round, I'd shoot another—only I'd aim more carefully."

"But you've wrecked his wall," he stupidly repeated.

"You ought to be glad."

"Glad!"

"If you hadn't tackled me, I'd have shot you instead. Which was definitely my intent." She struggled against him, wanting to escape his annoying presence. "Let me go."

"No, you crazed vixen. Hold still."

He clasped her wrists over her head, and suddenly every intimate spot was joined, chests, bellies, thighs forged fast. Down below, his cock had swelled in size. He smirked and took a naughty, delicious flex, his gaze metamorphosing from anger to desire in the beat of a heart.

He bent down and kissed her, and before she could command her traitorous body to ignore him, she was kissing him back.

Like two carnal savages, they were wild for each other. They clawed and bit, yanked and pulled, rolling about on the rug and fighting as if they were in a tavern brawl.

He jerked at her skirt, pushed her legs apart, and began unbuttoning his trousers.

"Don't you dare!" she warned. "I won't have sex with you. Not ever again."

"Won't you?"

He'd freed himself from the confines of his pants, and he wedged the blunt crown into her sheath. "You could have killed me."

"I wish I had!"

"You deserve a spanking."

"Hah! I'm trembling in my slippers."

"What you're going to get—is this!"

In a smooth thrust, he was impaled to the hilt, and the feel of him, so hot and virile, sent her into an immediate orgasm.

The pleasure was too extreme, like nothing she'd ever experienced prior, and she screamed in ecstasy. He clamped a hand over her mouth, as he found his own potent end. They came and came, spiraling up, then plummeting down together.

The instant it was concluded, his penetrations ceased, his livid look returning, as if she'd bewitched him against his will.

Footsteps hurried down the hall, as a servant approached to see what the racket had been.

Jack drew away and adjusted his trousers, while she lay there, gawking at the ceiling. He'd tumbled her as if she were a cheap harlot. Her dress was rucked up, her thighs bruised from his forceful incursion, her feminine regions wet and sticky with his seed. She'd never previously participated in such a shocking fornication, and all in all, she felt quite grand. Not that she'd admit it to the conceited oaf.

Across the room, he opened the door a crack and peeked out.

"Yes?" His voice was amazingly calm.

"I heard a loud bang, sir," the butler said.

"A bang?" He was innocence, itself.

"I thought I should check. It sounded like a gunshot."

"Oh, that!"

"There was screaming, too. A woman. Screaming." Jack leaned nearer and whispered, "Mrs. Blake was here. She was upset. We quarreled." "So she shot at you?" "No, no. She threw a ... a ... lamp." "And the scream?" "She has a temper."

"That she does," the butler agreed. "I've brought a broom. Should I clean the mess?" "The mess?" "From the lamp." "I tidied up myself."

"I see." There was a pause, the butler clearly incredulous; then he bowed. "Very good, sir."

He left, and Jack closed the door with a determined click. He whipped around, as she scrambled to her feet. She spun away, showing him her back as she straightened herself and pretended she hadn't been affected in the slightest.

"A lamp?" she chided, stifling a laugh.

"It was the best I could do on short notice."

He marched over to her, and he stood, fists on hips, glaring down his haughty nose. She wasn't sure what he wanted, what he expected, but she couldn't give it

to him. She continued ignoring him as she fussed with her clothes.

Out of the blue, he said, "Will you marry me?"

She froze, panicked; then she shifted away, acting as if the words hadn't been uttered. She strolled about, picking up her belongings.

"Have you seen my earring? It seems to have fallen off. I can't find it anywhere."

"Marry me," he said again.

"No."

"Why?"

She scoffed. "Because I don't like you."

"Yes, you do. You're wild for me."

"I am not. I think you're a horse's ass."

"Are you in the habit," he crudely asked, "of fucking men you don't like on the middle of the floor in their bedchambers? Does it happen often?"

"It was another moment of temporary insanity."

"We keep having a lot of those."

"It doesn't mean anything," she insisted.

"Doesn't it?"

"No."

"What is the real reason? "For what?"

She turned away, feigning nonchalance, even though her insides were churning, her fingers shaking. His proposal had rattled loose emotions she'd buried. She'd once been a female who'd harbored silly romantic notions about love and marriage, but they'd been extinguished with liberal doses of reality.

Wealth was the only thing that mattered, the only genuine security. If a woman had enough money, she could take care of herself. She didn't have to depend on tepid assistance from an unreliable man.

He laid a hand on her arm, the gesture stopping her in her tracks. "Rebecca!" "What?"

"Why won't you have me?" "Leave it be, Jack." "I deserve to know." "You won't like my answer." "Tell me anyway."

She shrugged him off. "All right. You're poor as a church mouse. As far as I can see, that fact will never change."

She grabbed her purse and started out, eager to be away and wanting the horrid scene to end. He foiled her by beating her to the door and bracing his palm on it.

"Let me out," she fumed.

"We have to talk about this."

"We just did. You didn't like my response—as I warned you wouldn't—so I can't imagine what else needs to be said."

"Hove you."

Her stupid heart fluttered. "You do not." "I do."

"Don't be ridiculous."

He absolutely could not be in love with her! If he persisted with his ludicrous assertion, she might begin to believe him, might assume they could have a future, when she knew how fickle strong sentiment could be. A man's affection never lasted. Jack could declare himself till doomsday, and she wouldn't listen.

She peered up at him. He looked so young, so handsome and confused, and she was overcome by the worst maternal instinct—when she had no maternal instinct, at all—to hug him and tell him that everything would be fine.

At experiencing the impulse, which was so foreign to her character, she was alarmed. He had an odd ability to stimulate her in ways she didn't like, to goad her into doing things she didn't wish to do. Like shooting at him, or having torrid sex on the rug.

It was folly to fraternize, and she had to make him understand that his fondness was grossly misplaced.

"Jack, you're behaving like a virginal debutante."

"Am I?"

"Yes. We've fornicated twice—and I'll be the first to admit that both occasions were overly passionate, but you're letting your emotions run amok."

"How?"

"You've obviously never been informed that sex can stir potent feelings, and it jumbles a person's common sense."

"So if I say I'm in love with you, I'm merely suffering from carnal delusions?" "Basically, yes."

"Are you supposing you're the only woman with whom I've ever copulated?"

"No, you're much too good at it to be a novice."

"You're right, Rebecca. I'm much too good at it, and I know a few things about sex and love that you never will."

She frowned. He seemed to imply that he'd had many, many paramours, and that he'd been in love many, many times. If he was going to aggravate her with maudlin drivel, he at least ought to leave her with the illusion that she'd been his favorite!

"And what have you learned that's so accursedly wise?" she inquired.

"What's between us is very powerful, and we'd be fools to walk away from it."

"There's nothing between us!"

"Liar! Why don't you stick to the real reason you've refused me: I'm not rich enough to suit you."

"That's correct. You're not."

"Why must money be all that matters to you? You have a house and a steady income. Why isn't that sufficient? Why must it always be more, more, more?"

He was so snide, so certain his opinion was the sole one that was valid, and she was infuriated by his callous disregard for her precarious position. What did he know of being an unattached female? What did he know of struggling to make ends meet, of worrying— month after long month—whether there'd be funds to pay the bills?

"You say you love me," she countered, "so prove it."

"How can I? If cash is your prime motivator, I have none."

"So go get some. Ask your brother to endow you with a stipend."

"Ask Ian?" At the suggestion, he was appalled. "On what grounds would I solicit an allowance? Pray enlighten me; I'm dying to hear your reply."

"Have you ever inquired as to why he fought with Wakefield?"

"No, and I wouldn't presume to pry."

"Haven't you ever wondered how Ian obtained his fortune? He's a bastard son—as you are yourself—and he's never worked a day in his life. Yet, he's rich as Croesus."

"So?"

"Rumor has it that he earned his money by stealing it from Wakefield. He pilfered the Clayton coffers for years, without Wakefield suspecting."

She'd finally made him angry, and he shook his head in disgust.

"I won't listen to such vile slander, Rebecca. Not from you. Not from anyone."

"Ask him!" she pressed. "Ask him where he came by his wealth! If he embezzled it, then it's ill-gotten gains. Why shouldn't you have some?" She paused, letting her terrible words sink in. "If you love me—as you claim—then that's what you can do. Demand your share, become affluent, and I am yours."

"You are such a mercenary," he accurately charged. "I can't believe that you would stand here in the man's home, that you would sleep in his bed and harbor hopes of wedding him, but have the gall to level such despicable accusations as to his character."

"I'm simply repeating the gossip," she coldly said. "I thought you should know."

"How dare you speak so wickedly of him!" he loyally, tediously stated. "He's been kind to me! He took me in when I had nowhere to go!"

"So? His kindness doesn't mean he isn't a thief."

With each comment, she felt as if she were stabbing him with a knife. Any affection had been crushed, and the worst wave of melancholy swept over her.

By hurting him as she had, she'd relinquished something remarkable and fine, and she was bereft at what was lost, but she wouldn't sorrow. She'd set out to erect a permanent barrier between them, and now that she had, she wouldn't regret it.

"What will it be?" she nagged. "How badly do you want me?"

He grimaced with loathing. "As opposed to you, I have my pride. I'd live in the gutter before I'd beg him for a handout."

"Then I guess you'll never have me as your wife, will you?"

"I guess I won't."

He went to the bed, stooped down, and picked up her pistol.

"Don't forget this," he said. "With that temper of yours, I'm sure you'll need it many times in the future."

He opened the door, and she stood there, heartsick, enraged, resolved. She yearned to explain, to justify, to plead for sympathy. It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize, to change her mind and announce that she'd have him, after all, but she spun and walked out without a farewell.

 

Chapter Twelve

There's a hole in my wall." "I know." "Were you planning to enlighten me as to how it got there?" "Eventually."

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

"It was."

"And .. . ?"

"She was very angry."

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

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

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

"She didn't appear to care for it," he grumbled. "You know, Jack, it's not very sporting of you to propose matrimony to my mistress."

"Don't worry; she said no." "And this is supposed to make me feel better? Did she shoot at you before or after she rejected you?" "Very funny."

Jack went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey.

"Would you like one?" he queried. "I believe I would."

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

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

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

"With Wakefield? Why would you inquire about him?"

"I'm curious about something I was told." "What was that?"

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

"Rebecca swears that you're rich because you embezzled from Wakefield. She said that he caught you and that's why you quarreled."

"Rebecca said all that, did she?"

"Yes."

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

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

"Where did she hear such a dastardly thing?"

"She claims it's being whispered all over London."

"Really?"

"Yes. Is it true?"

Ian's face was an impassive mask. "What do you think?"

"I have no idea."

Ian gulped his own whiskey and stood. "Good night."

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

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

"It's sort of true," Ian quietly admitted.

"Sort of? What does that mean? You either stole from him or you didn't."

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

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

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

"Don't be flip," Jack scolded. "Not about this. It doesn't become you."

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

"How odd. Rich men usually obsess about their finances."

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

"Then what did you do to make him so angry?"

"I earned my fortune, but I didn't deserve it. Our father rewarded me for ... for... spying on him."

"Why would you?"

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

"For twelve years, Ian?"

"Yes."

"That's such a long time."

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

"Wakefield didn't realize?"

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

"Shame on you," Jack murmured.

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

/ thought you were my friend, he'd said.

/ never was, Ian had lied.

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

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

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

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

"I've never been able to explain why I did it."

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

There was no way to make it sound acceptable.

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

"You're not very loyal, are you, Ian?"

Ian watched Jack's esteem fade.

"No, I'm not."

"If you could be so heartless to Lord Wakefield, what might you do to me?" "It's not the same."

"Isn't it? I assumed you were a different kind of man."

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

"How so?"

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

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

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

"Where are you going?"

"I think maybe I should leave."

"Leave ... my home?" Ian scoffed. "Don't be absurd. How would you get by?"

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

"Aren't you a paragon?" Ian maliciously retorted.

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

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

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

"Jack, wait."

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

"I never told John, but I was so sorry."

"He's not dead. You could talk to him. You could apologize now."

"He wouldn't grant me an audience."

"What if you're wrong? What if he would?"

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

"I don't want you to go. Not ever. And most especially not when you're so angry."

"I don't belong here," Jack insisted.

"You do belong. You belong right here—with me."

Jack looked so bewildered. "I don't know what to do, Ian. Everything is so jumbled."

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

"We'll see." He kept climbing.

"Please?"

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

"Jack!" he snapped, his irritation poking through. "Tell me you'll stay."

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

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

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

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

He wanted Caro.

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

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

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

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

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

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

T had to speak with you," she started. "Is it all right that I've come?"

"You never need an invitation."

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

"What happened?" he asked. "What is it?"

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

"I presumed she would be."

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

"To what?"

"They've moved up the wedding date." "When is it to be?" "A week from today."

I'm here to say good-bye," Caro said. "Good-bye?" Ian was aghast, which provided some relief. She was weary of lectures about duty and responsibility, and she'd wanted to converse with someone who would be as appalled as she was, herself. Ian was the only one who would listen, the only one who would commiserate or empathize, so after Britannia had made her vile announcement Caroline had crept away as soon as she was able.

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

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

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

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

"I can't stop by again," she stated, feigning calm. "Never?"

"With the wedding so near, I'm sure I won't have another chance to get away." "I see... ."

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

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

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

"What is it, Ian?" she inquired. "What's wrong?"

"Everyone is leaving me," he oddly said.

"Everyone?"

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

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

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

"How long can you stay?" he queried.

"As long as you'd like."

"Till dawn?"

"Certainly."

"I want to make love to you. I want to make you mine in every way that counts." "I want it, too."

"I don't want to ever forget what it was like." "Neither do I."

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

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

"I've created a wanton."

"Yes, you have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't understand what you mean."

He hesitated, then mumbled, T don't know if we should."

"I'll do whatever you'd like. Tell me what it is." "It's a whore's trick," he claimed. "It's awful of me to ask you." "I don't mind."

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

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

"Lick me with your tongue," he instructed.

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

"You like that, do you?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you doing?"

"I'm too aroused; I can't continue."

"You never let me have any fun," she pouted.

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

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

"Then take me. I am yours." "My God! Don't give me permission." "I want it to be you. I want to know what it's like." He nudged forward so that the end was inserted. "If I proceed," he warned, "there is a thin piece of skin that's called your maidenhead. I'll tear it." "Will it grow back?"

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

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

"I don't care if I'm discovered," she insisted.

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

"I don't care," she repeated. "I really don't."

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

"I'm so hard for you," he muttered.

"Then take me! Don't make me wait. Don't leave me wondering."

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

"I can't be with you again," she said.

"I know."

"This is our only chance."

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

"I never will be."

He studied her, then nodded, and he clasped her flanks and braced himself. "No regrets, Caro." "No, none."

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

"Ian, stop!"

"No."

"Can we talk about this?" "No!"

"Please."

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

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

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