"She's having cold feet."
"Is she?"
"Can you believe it? She doesn't care to be your wife! I can't imagine why. Can you?"
She cackled like a witch stirring her cauldron. Her enjoyment of Caroline's dilemma was out of proportion to reality, and Edward was beginning to question whether she wasn't completely crazed.
"Get her for me."
"You don't need to—"
"Get her!" he hissed. "I'll wait here."
"Very well," Britannia huffed. "You may see for yourself that she's fit and present. She's merely being disobedient and I'm keeping her locked in a closet so that she doesn't run away. That's how desperate she is."
She stomped out, and a few minutes later, she returned with her daughter in tow. Caroline entered first with Britannia behind her, and Britannia blocked the door, as if fearful that Caroline would bolt through it and escape.
Caroline approached until they were toe-to-toe, and she appeared confident and stubborn, when in the past she'd been meek and submissive. From where had this adamant person sprung? How could she have metamorphosed into a totally different individual from the one he'd always known?
The alteration was unnerving and infuriating. He didn't want her changing! He wanted the timid, quiet girl she'd been previously. If she'd developed a backbone, it would be much more difficult to bend her to his will.
"Have you something to say to me?" he sneered.
Boldly, she replied, "I don't want to marry you."
He was so stunned by the insult that he was amazed he didn't slap her.
"Why would you consider your opinion to be relevant?"
"I've been told, over and over, that it's not. I simply thought you should know."
Her obstinacy spurred him to crave the nuptials more than ever, and he started calculating the ways he would punish her for her impudence, commencing on their wedding night
"Here's what we will do," he said to Britannia. "The ceremony will be held in three weeks—but only three— so don't ask for another extension. It won't be granted."
"I won't go through with it!" Caroline contended, but he ignored her.
He continued to Britannia, "We shall disseminate whispers that Bernard is sick. To quell speculation, Caroline, you, and I will show ourselves at Westmoreland's ball on Saturday, which would have been our wedding day."
"She shouldn't be let out in public," Britannia mentioned.
"Why not? What could she possibly do? Is she so out of control that her own mother can't make her behave as she ought?"
The jibe had its intended effect. Britannia rippled with rage. "We will be more than happy to attend the Duke's ball with you."
"Fine," he said. "I will pick you up in my carriage at eight."
I realize it's horridly presumptuous of me," Jack began, "but might I speak with Lady Wakefield?" .
"And you are?"
At the butler's question, Jack was disconcerted about how he should answer. He was loitering like a supplicant on the stoop of the great and notorious Viscount Wakefield, so he wasn't about to proclaim that he was a Clayton bastard son. Nor would he brag that he and the Viscount were half-blood brothers.
"My name is Jack Romsey. I met her once prior. I was introduced to her by Mr. Ian Clayton."
The reference to Ian brought a smile to the butler's stony face. "Are you a friend to Master Ian?"
"Yes."
"How wonderful. We've missed him terribly these last few months. Please come in."
From remarks Ian had made, Jack had assumed that alluding to Ian would get him tossed out, so he was surprised by the warm reception.
He was led into a fancy parlor, but at viewing the grandeur, he was hit by a wave of nerves. The ornate decor emphasized the disparities between who he was and who his siblings were. Luckily, he was dressed appropriately in clothes Ian's tailor had sewn, but no matter the extravagance of the garments, they couldn't alter the ordinary man within.
"I am Rutherford," the butler said. "May I pour you a refreshment?"
A hearty shot of liquor would have stilled his trembling, but he didn't think he should greet the Viscountess while sipping on a brandy.
"No, thank you."
"Very good, sir. Make yourself comfortable"— Rutherford pointed to a sofa—"and I shall notify Lady Wakefield of your arrival."
Jack tried to sit, but he was too anxious, so he ambled around, looking at the paintings on the walls, the flowers in the vases, the figurines on the tables.
He wasn't sure why he'd come. He and Ian had reached a truce of sorts; then Ian had departed for Scotland. He'd invited Jack to tag along, but Jack had declined, not being eager to intrude on Ian's homecoming.
Ian had urged him to remain in the London house, insisting that it was Jack's home, but without Ian in residence, Jack didn't feel that it was. So after Ian had left, Jack had packed a bag and left, too. He was at loose ends, at liberty to go wherever he wished and do whatever he wanted, but he received no joy in his freedom.
From the time he was a very small boy, he'd been alone, so it was his usual condition, but since he'd had a brief taste of family with Ian, the sudden severance of their connection was frightening and humbling.
He was sad and forlorn in a way that was different from ever before, and as he'd walked down the street— ready to flip a coin and pick a destination—he'd found himself proceeding to Viscount Wakefield's door instead.
During his previous encounter with Lady Wakefield, she'd been kind and unpretentious, so Jack doubted she'd be offended by his improper visit. If she was, at least he'd have tried, so he wouldn't have to fret over what might have been.
Much sooner than he'd expected, footsteps sounded in the hall, and like a ray of sunshine, Lady Wakefield rushed in. She was petite and beautiful and very pregnant She grinned, and instantly he wanted to know her better. He wanted her to consider him a friend.
"Jack Romsey! It really is you! When Rutherford announced you, I didn't believe him."
"Hello, Lady Wakefield."
She hurried over and held out her hands. He seized them in his own as she rose on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. He hadn't had many women fuss over him in his life, and the sweet gesture made him feel welcome as nothing else could have.
She studied him, assessing his features. "My Lord, but I can't get over how closely you resemble my husband. If you were a few years older, you could be his twin."
"I've often been told as much." "I'm so glad you're here," she said. "So am I."
"You're not as stubborn as your two brothers, are you?"
"I'm hoping I'm not."
"After I met you that night with Ian, I was going to call on you, but I let John convince me mat I shouldn't. Can you imagine?" She chuckled in a merry way. "I actually listen to him occasionally—even when he's being foolish."
"Why was he being foolish?"
"We could see that Ian was still furious. John was afraid that if I went to his house, he might refuse me entrance, and then they'd have had another row, which would have been awful. There's already been such terrible talk."
"I thought Lord Wakefield was the one who was angry."
"Oh, he was. They both were. They said some dreadful things, but they're too proud to apologize, yet each is miserable without the other."
"Ian would never have snubbed you. He's very fond of you."
"I know. John was just being silly. It's a Clayton trait. I pray you were blessed with not inheriting it. Come!" She dragged him into the hall. "John is home today. He's been dying to meet you, but too pigheaded to do anything about it."
They halted at the end of the corridor and marched into the library without knocking, and Jack was amazed by the informal nature of the imposing residence and its occupants. They were like a normal couple, with a regular routine, and he didn't feel out of place. It seemed as if he'd always stopped by.
Lord Wakefield was across the room, seated at a massive desk and absorbed with reading through a voluminous stack of papers. He was aware of his wife's arrival and knew it was she without glancing up.
His nose buried in his work, he grumbled, "Emma, if you keep interrupting, how am I to get my chores done?"
"John! We have a guest."
"Will I be pleased?"
"I'm certain you will be."
"Does he want something from me?"
"Yes." Lady Wakefield winked at Jack and whispered, "I'm constantly bringing in people who need his assistance, when he hates doing good deeds. He assumes you're here for a charitable contribution. It makes him cranky."
"I can hear you, you know." Wakefield pushed his papers aside and sighed. "Very well. What is it this time?"
He stood, smiling at Lady Wakefield, as she beamed. "Look who's come!"
The Viscount stared at Jack, scowled in confusion, then recognition dawned, and he muttered, "I'll be damned."
"John!" Lady Wakefield scolded. "Don't curse! He'll think you're a barbarian." "I am a barbarian." "John!"
"Sorry. It slipped out." He didn't seem contrite. "Haven't I cured you of your bad habits?" "Not all of them. A man has to keep a few." "I don't see why."
He gazed toward the door, then frowned at Jack. "Is Ian with you?"
"No." At the news, Wakefield visibly deflated, and Jack hastened to explain, "He's moved to Scotland."
"Scotland!" Wakefield said.
"It's a long story."
"I hope you'll tell it. I'm eager for every detail of how he's been."
Wakefield rounded the desk and approached. They were the same height, the same build. The Clayton bloodline was strong, and Jack felt as if he were peering in a mirror and seeing how he would appear in another decade.
After a thorough evaluation, Wakefield murmured, "My goodness."
"Hello, Lord Wakefield."
"Your name is Jack?"
"Yes, Jack Clayton Romsey."
Wakefield reached out and laid a hand on Jack's shoulder, as if touching him to be sure he was real. His emotion was evident and genuine, and it was the strangest sensation, but Jack felt as if he'd always known the man, as if they'd merely been separated for a short while.
"Isn't it wonderful, John?" Lady Wakefield inquired.
"Yes, Emma, very wonderful indeed."
"It's like a gift," she said.
"I'm presuming"—Wakefield spoke to Jack—"that you have the most interesting tale to share as to where you've been and how you came to be living with Ian."
"Yes, I do."
"You must tell me all about your mother—and our father."
Lady Wakefield added, "We were just about to sit down to dinner. Will you join us?"
Jack's initial reaction was to decline, but they seemed to truly want him to stay, and his heart was aching with delight that he'd have the chance.
"I would love to stay," Jack replied.
To his surprise, his response caused Lady Wakefield to burst into tears and, as if her weeping was a common occurrence, Wakefield pulled out a kerchief and tenderly dabbed at her eyes.
"Why are you crying now?" he asked her. "I'm so happy for you."
She fell into his arms, and he hugged her tight as he glanced over at Jack.
"Have you had much experience with pregnant women?" Wakefield queried.
"No, sir."
"I've learned that they cry like watering pots. She might not stop for hours, so let's go eat. We could starve before she's finished." He started out, his wife safely tucked at his side.
Jack followed them, and as they stepped into the hall, Wakefield gazed over his shoulder.
"I'd like it if you'd call me John," Jack's older brother urged.
"I will," Jack said, and they proceeded into the dining room together.
I've had him kidnapped." "You what?" Caroline was stunned. Was there no crime Britannia wouldn't commit?
"You heard me: I've had Mr. Clayton kidnapped." "But... why?" "He's my insurance." "Against what loss?"
"Due to your father's reduced mental state, the wedding is twenty days away instead of two."
Thank God! Caroline muttered to herself. "Why would the date of the ceremony have spurred you to abduct Mr. Clayton?"
"You now have an eternity in which to thwart me.
Should you refuse to marry Edward Shelton, I will have Ian Clayton killed."
"Yes, Mother, you've been very blunt about what you would do."
"He will be my collateral to prevent any bad behavior on your part."
"Can you expect me to believe that you have him hidden away in some hovel, awaiting the moment I say my vows?"
"I don't care what you believe."
Caroline scoffed. "What did you do? Sneak into his home and club him over the head?"
"Actually, he'd fled London. He was sick of you and your antics, and he was scurrying back to Scotland where he belongs. I had a pair of ruffians attack him on the road. It was very simple."
Caroline studied her, but she couldn't decide if Britannia was lying or not. She had grown so crazed that any nefarious conduct seemed likely. Then again, Ian might be just down the street, sitting in his own parlor and oblivious to the drama unfolding in the Derby household. How could she know for sure?
She had to contact him, had to find out if he was all right.
He'd been fond enough to fight for her, to force his way into her father's mansion and demand that she leave with him. His show of support was the sweetest, kindest deed that anyone had ever done for her. He really was her knight in shining armor.
"I have a gift for you," her mother said, and she handed over three letters.
"What are these?" Caroline asked even though she knew. Her spirits flagged.
"They are messages you managed to pen and have delivered to Mr. Clayton. As you win see from the attached note, he has left the city, and his residence is shuttered ^definitely."
Caroline ran a thumb across the top letter, reading the words someone had jotted on the front. It was as her mother had claimed. He was gone, and Caroline felt his absence as heavily as if he'd died.
She clutched the small pile to her bosom. The letters were her last link to him, as cherished as if they'd been a strand of hair or miniature locket with his portrait tucked inside. On seeing her pathetic gesture, Britannia yanked them away and tossed them in the fire.
"I've been so cautious," Britannia mused, "so I'm perplexed as to how you were able to draft a plea for assistance, but you won't dare another such outrage. I have fired the maid and footman who abetted you. They've been turned out without a penny. If they apply for a new position, and a reference is sought, I shall say they were thieves. They'll never work again. Because of you, they'll probably starve in the gutter."
Tears welled into Caroline's eyes. Disaster struck whatever she touched. Was she tainted? Was she cursed?
"You are so wicked," Caroline charged, hating Britannia as she'd never hated anyone. "When did this happen to you? How is it that I didn't know?"
"Now that I'm aware of how sly you can be, I'll watch you even more closely. If you solicit aid from the other servants, I'll foil you, and the penalty to the involved employee will be worse than ever. Am I beginning to get your attention?"
"Yes, you are."
"You will marry as you've been commanded by your parents. You can't evade your fate." "I realize that."
Her father was lost in his sorrow. Her brother detested her. She had spurned Ian. There was no one else who might have been worried about her, who might have intervened.
She was on her own, floating free of what had tethered her to her prior life. She felt invisible, unloved and unwanted. What would become of her?
"And don't forget," her mother taunted, "in the end, I have your precious Mr. Clayton. Nothing would please me more than to kill him for his audacity. I almost hope you give me an excuse to proceed."
She chuckled, sounding every bit like the deranged person she was, and she whipped around and walked out. The key spun in the lock.
Chapter Twenty
Don't turn around." At the sound of a female voice coming from directly behind her, Caroline stiffened but didn't move. The Duke's grand ballroom was packed with people, and oddly enough, whoever had approached her seemed to be hiding in the drapes.
Edward had vanished in the throng, but Britannia was a few feet away and observing her every second, so Caroline was pretending to be very meek. She'd hoped to beg someone for help, but the crowd was an unfriendly mob.
Any person present would think her mother to be perfectly reasonable in forcing Caroline into a horrid marriage. They would deem a refusal as childish and reprehensible on Caroline's part.
"Who's there?" Caroline asked, keeping her expression carefully blank.
"It's me, Rebecca Blake."
Though astonished, Caroline showed no reaction. "What do you want?"
"I'm the one who told your mother about Ian."
"Why am I not surprised? How wicked of you."
"It was, and I'm... I'm... sorry." There was a pause, and she added, "And I don't apologize very often, so I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't gloat."
"I'll try not to."
"Are you in trouble because of me?"
"Of course I am. What would you suppose?"
"I've heard terrible rumors—that she beats you, that you're being locked in a closet."
Caroline thought about denying the stories and asserting that everything was fine, as was her tendency, but Mrs. Blake was the type of individual who'd be brave enough to assist. Caroline had to seize what might be her only chance.
"It's been awful," she admitted.
"I figured as much."
"Do you know where Ian is?"
"He's left town," Mrs. Blake confirmed.
Caroline nodded, calculating the response and what it meant for her future, what it meant for his. Did Britannia have him as she claimed?
"I need your help," Caroline said.
"I suspected you might. Is your mother watching you?"
"Like a hawk. I can't take a breath without her noticing."
"I just saw John Clayton go into the parlor down the hall. He's sitting alone, having a brandy." "So?"
"I'll create a diversion and keep your mother occupied. As soon as I've distracted her, sneak off and talk to him. You'll have to hurry."
'To Wakefield? Why would I?"
"He's a man, as / obviously am not. Plus, he's powerful—as powerful as your father—and he loves Ian. He'll aid you as no one else would dare."
Caroline recognized the wisdom of Mrs. Blake's statement, but she was loathe to parley with Wakefield. He'd hurt her in too many ways to count, but Mrs. Blake was also correct in suggesting that Caroline solicit his support. Of all the people she knew, he was the most likely to stand up to her parents.
If his brother was in danger, he'd want to be notified, and if rescue was necessary, he would act on her behalf.
"All right," Caroline decided. "Go ahead."
She felt a rustling; then Mrs. Blake stepped into view. She walked between Caroline and Britannia, passing by until she was on Britannia's opposite side.
"Lady Derby," Mrs. Blake greeted much too loudly, "the death of your husband's mistress is so shocking. Everyone is whispering about it. Couldn't you just expire from mortification?"
As Britannia prepared to do battle with Mrs. Blake, her back was to Caroline, and Caroline slipped away and ran down the corridor. There was a room at the end, and she rushed in and slammed the door.
Wakefield was seated on a sofa, staring into the hearth. He glanced over at her, frowned, and rose.
"Caro?"
"Yes." Her heart was pounding.
"I'm having a brandy." He grinned his devil's grin that, for years, had had women swooning all over the city. "You won't tattle to my wife, will you? She doesn't approve of my bad habits."
His marriage to the vicar's daughter was still a sore subject. "Please don't mention her to me."
As she neared, he could sense her anxiety. "What is it? What's wrong?" "You must help me." "I'm happy to. Tell me what you need." "My parents are foisting me off on Edward Shelton." "So I've heard."
His smile wavered. Apparently, he felt guilty over his role in her current fate. Good! The bastard! If he'd wed her as he should have done, she wouldn't be in such dire straits.
"I don't wish to marry Mr. Shelton."
"It's what your father selected for you, and you should—"
"I love Ian," she declared, cutting him off. "How grand for Ian," he murmured kindly, "but your parents would never give their consent." "I don't care about their opinion." "Yes, you do."
"You don't know me, John, and you never did. I love Ian, and I won't accept Mr. Shelton as my husband. I won't!"
"Would you like me to meet with them? In light of our past, I doubt they'd pay any attention to me."
"I don't need you to speak with them. I need you to find Ian. I need to be sure he's safe."
"Ian's in Scotland."
"I'm not certain that he is. My mother is mad and—"
"Well, I don't know if mad is the word I'd choose."
"No, she's crazed. She insists she had Ian kidnapped while he was on the road and that—if I don't go through with the ceremony—she'll have him killed."
"She said that?"
"Yes."
"You must have misunderstood."
"She was very clear." "It can't be true." "What if it is?"
They were both silent, and she could see the wheels spinning in his head. Since their botched engagement, they'd scarcely crossed paths, yet here she was, ranting like a lunatic. He was probably rejoicing that he'd had the foresight to break off with her.
"Now, Caro"—he used his most annoying, placating tone—"you're obviously distraught over recent events."
"You think I'm suffering from some sort of... of... delusion?"
"No. You've simply been under a lot of pressure."
He was lucky she didn't slap his imperious smirk off his perfect face. He'd always thought he knew best, always thought he knew more than she did. She grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him.
"Listen to me, and listen well: I would do anything for Ian. I would walk through hell and back. I would drown myself in the deepest ocean. I would jump from die highest cliff. I would even marry Edward Shelton. But I absolutely must know if he's all right."
He studied her, then shrugged. "You're serious."
"Yes. Locate him, and if he's free and unharmed, bring him to me so he can take me away from here."
"If it's so terrible at home, don't wait. I'll assist you now. If you're afraid or if you're being mistreated, I'll intervene and place you under my protection."
"I can't jeopardize Ian. If she has him as she claims, and she learns I've met with you, she'll hurt him. I'm positive she will. She's increasingly deranged."
"I'll find out where he is."
"Thank you."
She raced to the door and opened it.
"Caro?" "Yes?"
"I'm glad you came to me." "I'm not!" she rudely replied. "I'd rather cut off my arm than ask you for help, but you care for Ian." "I love him. I always have." "Then don't fail me. Don't fail him!" "I won't." "Swear it!" "I swear!"
He put his hand over his heart, and the other was stretched out as if he'd laid it on a Bible. Their gazes locked and held, and he seemed sincere. Maybe he'd changed; maybe he'd come through for her. For once.
The hall was empty, and she tiptoed out, then hurried to her mother before Britannia had noticed that she'd sneaked off.
Mrs. Blake had continued insulting Britannia, and a huge crowd had gathered to titter over the fireworks. Mrs. Blake saw Caroline approaching. She raised a brow in question, and as Caroline responded with a quick nod, Mrs. Blake stumbled forward pretending someone had pushed her. She had a full glass of wine, and she spilled the whole red mess down the front of Britannia's dress.
"Oh, Countess," she gushed, "I'm so sorry."
"You little fiend!" Britannia hissed. "My gown is ruined."
"I'd buy you another," Mrs. Blake offered, "but my brother-in-law has my money tied up in court. Would you speak to him for me? If you could convince him to relent, I'd compensate you."
Britannia was so furious that Caroline worried she might explode. Caroline leaned in and scolded, "Mother, you're making a scene. Why don't we go?"
"Yes, why don't we?"
Britannia flashed such a look of hatred at Mrs. Blake that the bystanders blanched and stepped away, presenting them with an easy path to the foyer.
Britannia hastened through the gauntlet, Caroline hot on her heels, departing so swiftly that they didn't even wait for their cloaks and hats to be retrieved.
Caroline passed by Mrs. Blake and mouthed, Thank you.
You're welcome, Mrs. Blake mouthed in reply, and suddenly Caroline didn't feel so alone.
For the first time in so very long, she was hopeful. She had Wakefield and Mrs. Blake as her allies. Perhaps she would survive her ordeal, after all. Perhaps everything would work out for the best.
Explain yourself!" Bernard demanded. "What do you expect me to say?" Britannia retorted.
Bernard skimmed the note he'd received from Wakefield. "He maintains that you've kidnapped his brother! Where would he come by such a ridiculous notion?"
"How would I know?" Britannia scoffed. "The man's a lunatic. He always has been. I have no idea why you'd interrogate me over something so preposterous."
"Am I to believe he pulled the insane nonsense out of thin air? That he's making bizarre accusations with no proof?"
Britannia didn't answer, and Bernard scrutinized her, wondering what the actual account was.
Wakefield was a pain in the ass, but he wasn't crazy.
Nor was he prone to hysterics. If he would allege such severe misconduct by Britannia, it likely had some basis in fact.
Bernard couldn't guess what scheme Britannia had concocted. She was a riddle he didn't care to solve.
"Caroline must have gotten word to him," Britannia said. "She's filled his head with twaddle."
'To what end?"
"She's determined to stop the wedding." They were back to the wedding again? He gnashed his teeth.
"Madam, I told you to handle this situation. Must I assume—once more—that you can't manage your daughter? How many more discussions must we have on this topic? If you cannot deal with such a simple problem, what use are you to me?"
"I have her completely under my control."
"Do you?"
"No one sees her. No one confers with her. She's totally isolated."
"Then why is Wakefield pestering me? At this very moment, he's racing to Scotland on some wild-goose chase."
She chuckled in a way that frightened him. Anymore, she seemed a bit mad, which had him unnerved and terrified as to what would become of her.
"So... he's off to Scotland, is he?" she reflected.
"Yes."
"Marvelous. He'll be out of our hair."
"I didn't realize he was in our hair."
"The Claytons have always been a nuisance."
He couldn't disagree. Still, he was bewildered over the strange letter and fretting over what it might portend. If Britannia had done something despicable in her pursuit of Caroline's marriage, he ought to respond, but in what fashion?
When he was desperate to have Caroline wed and gone, why would he interfere? If Britannia was only furthering a difficult conclusion, who was he to complain as to her methods?
"I don't wish to be advised as to what folderol you've instigated," he stated, "but whatever it is, be sure nothing happens to Ian Clayton. Or if it does, be sure your hands are clean. I won't be dragged into a scandal, merely because you can't carry out your plan with any degree of circumspection.
"Don't worry, dear Bernard. I shan't get caught. Nor shall you."
She grinned and strolled out, while he mulled in the quiet.
Her comment had him more uneasy than ever. What was she implying? What had she done? What would she do?
He couldn't bear to know.
He poured himself a brandy, drank it down, then climbed into bed. Refusing to be disturbed, he closed the privacy curtains so he could ruminate—without interruption—over Georgie and the awful hole her death had made in his life.
May I speak with Jack?" Rebecca tugged off her gloves and tossed them on the table in the foyer, acting as if she were welcome in Ian's home, acting as if she hadn't been bodily evicted during her previous visit. She feigned confidence, behaving as if she would saunter into the parlor and make herself comfortable as she always had in the past.
"He's not here, Mrs. Blake," the butler confirmed as he discreetly but competently blocked her entry.
"I'll wait—if it won't be too long. When are you expecting him?"
"I don't believe he intends to come back."
"What do you mean?"
"Master Ian has traveled to Scotland."
"Jack went with him? I thought he was staying in London."
She hadn't thought it, at all. She'd just hoped he wouldn't tot off and abandon her. Not that she wanted him to remain, precisely. Not that she'd given him any reason to remain.
"He's gone, too, but not to Scotland. He packed a bag that contained only the clothes with which he arrived, and he left."
"I see."
She peeked into the nearby salon. A footman was covering the furniture with sheets, as if the house was being shut down.
"Is the staff leaving?"
"Yes."
"Forever?"
"I haven't been notified of what Master Ian will do next."
Liar, she mused. "Were Jack and Ian fighting?"
"I'm certain they weren't, Mrs. Blake."
His stony reply indicated that, even if they had been, he would never gossip. It was an attitude she generally respected, but in this instance, when she was dying for information, she wanted to throttle him till he spilled all.
"Has Jack provided a forwarding address?" "No."
"Have you any idea how I could reach him?"
"No," he said again. "Would you like to jot a message in case he contacts us?"
She considered what type of communication she might convey, when she wasn't even clear on why she'd stopped by.
She was simply feeling so morose. She was embarrassed that she'd caused so much trouble, and she hated that Jack was upset with her. To make amends, she'd involved Wakefield in Ian's little drama. If anyone could go against the Countess with impunity, he could. She'd done the right thing for once, and she'd rushed to apprise Jack, to see if he might be proud of her, but the ass had vanished.
Wasn't that just like a man! She'd finally conducted herself in a manner that would have pleased him, but he'd fled before she could boast.
She was frequently labeled a shrew, when she didn't mean to be. She knew how to be a faithful friend, but she'd had so few chances to display any loyalty.
She wanted to tell Jack that she was sorry, that she was inundated by guilt, that she wished she could retreat in time and start over.
But what she said to the butler was, "No, I don't have a message. Thank you anyway."
She grabbed her gloves and walked out, and she loitered on the stoop, remembering their last encounter, when they'd had wild sex, when they'd parted on such bad terms. How could he just go off and leave her?
She didn't understand him, and she was furious that she didn't. If she'd had a heart, he might have broken it.
"Bastard," she grumbled.
A tear tried to leak out, but she wouldn't let it surface. She'd already cried once over the unappreciative oaf, and she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of crying over him again.
Are you positive you don't want me to come with you?" Jack inquired of his brother John. . "Yes."
"I'd be happy to accompany you." "It's not necessary. Stay here and escort Emma to the country. That's the best help you can offer me." "I will," Jack said.
John had promised to take Emma home to Wakefield Manor for the birth of the babe, but Lady Caroline's cryptic warning about Ian had altered their plans. Their initial inclination had been to disregard it, but what if she was correct and something nefarious had happened?
John was anxious to discover Ian's true condition, just as he was eager to redeem himself to Lady Caroline by going to check. Jack was delighted to witness such honorable behavior from someone about whom there'd always been such dreadful rumors.
"When will you return?" Emma asked.
"Very soon. The wedding is scheduled for March fifteenth, so if I am to be of any assistance whatsoever, I must get back before then."
"It doesn't give you much time," Emma cautioned.
"A little more than two weeks," John agreed.
"So you mustn't dawdle."
Emma led him out to the drive where his horse was saddled for the fast trip north. She tagged at his coat, tightening it to ward off the chill, and she pulled out a scarf she'd knitted and wrapped it around his neck. John teased her for fussing, but she wouldn't be denied.
The sky was gray and angry looking, with snow or freezing rain seeming likely, and Jack pondered the wisdom of John riding off in inclement weather. A frisson of worry slithered down his spine, and he said, "Why don't you send a letter, instead, to see if he's there?"
"If the answer was slow in coming, and I learned that he hadn't arrived, what would I do? It would be too late to intervene in the wedding, and Caro would kill me."
"And she'd be married to Mr. Shelton," Emma added.
"Which would be a nightmare. I don't know what her father was thinking in proceeding with such a horrid engagement."
"Well, he had her betrothed to you for years," Emma wryly retorted, "but he didn't seem to notice how awful it was for her."
"Very funny."
"I'm glad she's so devoted to Ian," Emma mentioned. "He needed someone to love him."
"Yes, he did," John concurred. "Whether it's Caro remains to be seen."
Emma sighed. "It's so romantic."
"Only a female would find it so."
Emma elbowed him in the ribs, as John grinned over her head and winked at Jack.
The pair said their farewells with a lengthy kiss and much quiet whispering that Jack struggled to ignore. In the days he'd been with them, he was regularly disconcerted by their open affection. He'd never been with a married couple that was so besotted, and it reinforced how lucky he was that Rebecca had refused him. If he was ever to take a bride, he craved what John and Emma had together. He'd hold out for love, for friendship and abiding fondness.
Rebecca would have furnished him with none of those things.
If there was a tiny, idiotic voice deep inside that kept insisting they could have forged a different conclusion, he was an adult man, and he didn't have to listen.
John gave Emma a final hug, then leapt onto his horse. He leaned down and caressed her cheek, saying, "Don't you dare have that child without me."
"I won't," she pledged, "and don't you dare come back without Ian."
"I won't do that, either."
"Be careful. Stay warm. Stay dry."
"For you, my dearest Emma, I will."
He straightened in the saddle and vowed, "I'll meet up with you at Wakefield Manor."
"I'll be waiting. Don't disappoint me."
"I wouldn't dream of it." His gaze moved to Jack. "Watch over my wife while I'm away."
"It will be my pleasure," Jack responded, proud to have been entrusted with the important task.
John waved, yanked on the reins, and cantered off.
Long after he'd disappeared, Emma stared down the street, and Jack tarried a short distance off, loathe to interrupt such a private moment.
Ultimately, she drew away, her smile a tad strained, her eyes watery.
"It's the first time we've been separated since we were married," she explained. "I've gotten used to having him around."
"I can certainly understand why."
"He can be exasperating, but he grows on you."
Jack chuckled. "Yes, he does."
She hesitated, peered down the street again, then nervously asked, "He'll be all right, won't he?"
"Of course he will. He's just traveling to Scotland. It's not the end of the world."
"It seems like it to me." She walked over and linked her arm with his. "Let's go in and eat, and I shall spend the entire meal regaling you with stories of John as a boy."
"Are you sure he'd want you to?" "He'd hate it, so we won't tell him. It will be our little secret."
They laughed and went inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ian stood on a rocky outcropping and stared down at the small valley, studying the haphazard assortment of sagging huts owned by his relatives. With snow covering the hillsides, and smoke curling from the chimneys, it should have been picturesque, but the view was so depressing.
While scarcely more than a boy, he'd left at his father's behest. He'd journeyed to England to befriend his half brother, as well as to become a prosperous gentleman and betrayer. He'd shed his accent, his poverty, and rural mannerisms like a snake shedding its skin, as if heritage and tradition meant nothing.
Since then, he hadn't visited, so his recollections were those of a lad of twenty, who hadn't known how poor he was, who hadn't grasped the differences he'd encounter in the outside world.
His kin had once been powerful and wealthy, had owned huge tracts of Scotland, had fought and died for their legacy and customs. But history had worked its toll, and they had so little remaining. His uncles seemed content, but they were all so old!
Poverty and hardship had worn them down early, had them gray and stooped and weary from the struggle of keeping on.
They were all thrilled to see him, and they'd welcomed him like the prodigal son, but he felt so guilty. Over the years, his father had encouraged him to take so much money from John, and he gleefully had, but he'd never sent a single farthing to his family. His childish memory was that they'd been affluent from whiskey and wool, so they hadn't required any assistance, and he was shamed to be so painfully confronted by reality.
He wasn't like them, and he didn't belong, which shouldn't have hurt or surprised him, but it did. He'd never belonged anywhere. Growing up in Scotland as he had, he'd been an oddity, the bastard offspring of a rich nobleman. In England, he'd been an oddity, too, but snubbed and demonized because of it.
So what was he to do now?
He couldn't return to London. With Caro having married Edward Shelton, there was nothing for him in the city. Neither was there any reason to keep on in Scotland.
His uncles had begged him to stay, but he wasn't a farmer and couldn't see himself engaged in the toil it took just to get by. Should he move to Edinburgh? To do what? For how long? And if he didn't go there, where should he go?
He had no answers. Everything seemed futile, and his emotions were at their lowest ebb.
A brisk wind blew past, the cold making him shiver. He trudged down the trail to the hovel where his bed and bag were located. A hot fire burned in the grate, and he hung his coat and hat and went to sit in the chair by the hearth, his shoulders draped in a shawl an aunt had woven, when someone pounded on the door.
He frowned but didn't budge. He didn't want to chat, but his caller didn't realize that he was sulking and in no mood for company.
The intruder knocked again, and again, and finally, Ian cursed and stomped over and yanked on the knob. Though it was mid-afternoon, the sun gave off a pitiful bit of light. The sky was leaden, and with him standing in the dim cottage, he could barely focus.
There was a man on the stoop, and it seemed to be John, which was impossible. He was wrapped from head to toe against the bad weather, his face partially concealed by a scarf, but it had to be John. It couldn't be anyone else.
Was he hallucinating? Had the isolation driven him mad?
"There you are," the vision muttered, "and about bloody time, too." "What?"
"Have you any idea how difficult it was to find you?" "John?" he asked.
"Yes, it's me. What do I look like? A ghost?" "Yes."
"Since I've just ridden from one end of this godforsaken country to the other, might I suggest you invite me in?"
"John?" he said again, astonished and certain he'd lost his mind.
The apparition stamped snow from his boots and snarled, "And if you still have a stick up your ass about that fight last summer, and you decline to grant me some of your supposed Scottish hospitality, I can't predict how I'll react."
In a daze, Ian stumbled out of the way, and the man entered. Ian watched, stupefied, as he shucked off his heavy garments, regally tossing them in the middle of the floor, expecting a servant to magically appear and pick them up.
It really and truly was his brother. At least, Ian thought it was. Perhaps it was a Scottish fairy, playing some terrible prank.
"What in the hell are you doing in Scotland?" he demanded.
"Hello to you, too, Ian. I'm pleased to note that you haven't been kidnapped or murdered." "Murdered!"
John glanced around the tiny space. "Where do you keep the liquor?"
"In the cupboard in the corner."
Ian gestured to it, wondering if he might blink and John would vanish. But no. John marched over, rummaged for a glass, and poured himself an ample quantity of Ian's uncles' finest brew. Then he proceeded to the fire and stood, letting his backside be warmed by the flames.
Ian stated the obvious. "It's the dead of winter." "Yes, it is." "Yet you're here."
"And I should receive a medal for a job well done, too." He gulped the whiskey and poured himself another. "It's a lucky thing this bottle is full, and I hope you have more than one. While I'm away from home, I like to catch up on my ration of vice."
"Why?"
"I can't drink a drop in front of Emma. It's the kind of wicked behavior that sends a vicar's daughter into a righteous frenzy."
Good for you, Emma! Ian mused. John had spent most of his adult life inebriated. Any person who could convince him to get sober and stay sober was a miracle worker.
"You poor, poor man." Ian oozed sarcasm.
"I admit that being married has its disadvantages"— John wiggled his brows and laughed—"but it has its advantages, too. Especially when your bride is as humorous and entertaining as Emma. You should try it sometime."
"I'll keep that in mind."
The moment was so bizarre. He couldn't remember when he'd last heard John laugh. Maybe he never had. In all the years they'd lived together, his brother had always been so despondent.
Now he was smiling and making jokes. If he'd suddenly sprouted a second head, Ian couldn't have been any more stunned. John was carrying on as if they hadn't been separated a single day, as if Ian hadn't irreparably damaged their relationship.
"Aren't you still angry with me?" he had to inquire.
"Yes. I'd like to beat you to a pulp, but I think the icy trip has frozen my temper. And my hands. If I struck you just now, my fingers would crack into a dozen pieces."
Ian slumped into a chair. Was he dreaming? He'd pondered a reconciliation with John so often and with such intensity that it was entirely possible he was imagining the scenario all over again, with the difference being the precise amount of detail.
"Why are you here?" he queried.
"I've come to fetch you to London."
"But I don't wish to go."
"You have to. Caro needs you."
Once, he'd have been thrilled by the news, would have instantly raced to England to assist her, but he was wiser now. The summons was nonsense.
"No, she doesn't. She made her opinion very clear: She's married her Mr. Shelton, and I'm certain she's happy and settled."
"She hasn't married him yet," John maintained.
"Yes, she has. The wedding was held on the twenty-fourth. That's why I left. I couldn't bear to watch it happen."
"You know, you might have told me how much you cared for her. I could have helped the two of you. We could have avoided this whole mess."
"I tried to tell you—that one time. You didn't seem inclined to listen."
They both flushed, recollecting the night at Wakefield Manor when John had stumbled on Ian as he'd been kissing Caro. A brawl had ensued, and before it was concluded, they'd both been bruised and battered, their friendship ruined by harsh words and bitter revelations.
"We were pathetic, weren't we?" John mumbled.
"Pathetic doesn't begin to describe it."
"Afterward, I was so sorry."
"I knew you were. So was I." Ian went over so that they were face-to-face. "Our father was an ass."
"He definitely was," John enthusiastically concurred.
"I can't figure out why I agreed to work for him to your detriment."
"You were young and stupid and destitute."
"That pretty much covers it."
"Yes, it does."
"I hated taking your money—I hated it every day— but Father said I should, and I forged on, even though I knew it was wrong. It's been an albatross around my neck. I want to return it to you. I want to return every penny."
"I wasn't upset about the money." John waved away a decade of duplicity as if it had been of no consequence.
"You should have been upset. You're being too kind to me."
"You were the eldest," John stated. "I always thought you deserved a share. If you'd simply asked me for a portion, I'd have filled a bank account for you. I still would."
"If you persist with this casual attitude about your fortune, I can't see how you'll remain a rich man."
"Neither can I. Between you and my wife—with all the charities she makes me fund—I'm surprised I have a farthing to my name."
"You love her, don't you?" Ian murmured, amazed.
"More than my life."
"I'm glad for you."
"I think she saved me."
"I think she did, too."
As easy as that, they were friends again, the squabble of the previous summer swept away as if it had never been. Ian was so relieved he felt dizzy.
Why had they fought? He could scarcely recall. In hindsight, it all seemed so silly.
John was blushing, embarrassed at having confessed his fondness for his spouse, and he switched subjects.
"Now, about London ..."
"What about it? What has brought you all this way?" "Caro's wedding has been rescheduled for the original date."
Ian's pulse pounded with joy, but he tamped down any elation. What was it to him if she hadn't followed through? What was it to him if she'd altered her plans?
She was the most fickle female he'd ever met, and it was typical of her to change her mind. He'd have expected nothing else. Her future had no bearing on his. Whatever she elected to do—or not to do—she'd made it very plain that he would have no role in how events played out.
He was over it. He was over her! When push had come to shove, when she'd been forced to choose between himself and her parents, she'd cast him aside like a worn pair of slippers.
As he'd stood in her father's library, being dragged out by burly servants, as he'd bellowed her name and pleaded with her to pick him over them, she hadn't bothered to take a final glance in his direction.
"So she isn't married," Ian cautiously ventured. "How could the delay possibly matter to me?"
"Caro begged me to find you for her."
"She did?"
"Her mother claims she's had you kidnapped and that you'll be killed if Caro doesn't marry Mr. Shelton."
"The Countess said that?"
"Caro is extremely frightened. She insisted that—if she knew you were all right—she'd defy her mother and refuse the match, but if there was a chance the Countess might harm you, she'd have to proceed."
"She'd wed Shelton to keep me safe?"
"Yes, and you can't let her sacrifice herself like this."
Ian reflected, then blew out a heavy breath. "I don't want to be involved. This is none of my affair, and I can't believe she's requested my assistance."
"Why wouldn't she have? You're smack in the middle of it."
"The Countess is such a witch!" Ian seethed. "I'd love to see her get her comeuppance."
"So would I. You could make it happen by coming to England with me."
"I don't know...."
"Won't you help me redeem myself in Caro's eyes? I hate that she has such a low opinion of me."
"If you cajole me into going with you, are you supposing she won't detest you quite so much?"
"Precisely."
"Her loathing is fairly intense. You're hoping for an awful lot."
John shrugged. "I promised her I'd bring you home, and if I have to, I'll bind you, gag you, and throw you over my saddle like a sack of flour."
"You wouldn't."
"I would, but I'd rather you agreed on your own and came without all the fuss." "To do what?"
"To prove that Britannia is a lunatic and a liar, which will keep Caro from a hideous marriage."
"That's worth something, I guess."
"And I have to admit"—John grinned from ear to ear—"that it will be hilarious to see Britannia's expression when you foil her by showing up alive and unscathed."
Ian spun away and went to the window, staring out at the snow that was drifting down.
He'd gone to Caro like an adoring fool, and with hardly a thought, she'd tossed away what he was offering. If he rushed to London and she spurned him again, he didn't know how he'd survive her rejection.
Still, when John had braved such a distance, Ian couldn't imagine declining to accompany him, and in consenting to go back, Ian didn't have to do it for any emotional purpose. Obviously, Caro was a damsel in distress. He could steel himself against heartbreak, could aid her because she needed him to, then he could be on his way, with his sentiments in check and his detachment visible and firm.
He peered over his shoulder. "Why would she put herself through all this just for me?"
"She loves you, you dolt!"
"No, she doesn't," Ian scoffed. "I spoke to her father, before I left. I asked for her hand. Didn't she tell you?"
"No. She didn't exactly have time to share the details of your affair. Thank God."
"I begged her to stand up to them, to leave with me, but she wouldn't. She was content to stay, and I can't decide why I should go to so much trouble for a woman who's been very clear that she's not interested."
"She's interested, Ian. Believe me. She was so worried about you that she actually sought me out and talked to me."
"Considering how much she despises you, that's definitely a sign of her desperation."
"It is, so you must return with me. If you don't, I'll never hear the end of it from Emma. You wouldn't do that to your brother, would you?"
Ian chuckled. "No, I wouldn't."
"You'll come?"
"Yes." Ian sighed, wondering what kind of predicament he'd gotten himself into. "When must we arrive?" "By the fifteenth." "But... that's only five days away."
"You'll need a fast horse, and we'll be off at first light."
"What if it keeps snowing? We might not be able to ride out of the valley."
"I can control many factors," John replied, "but I can't do a thing about the weather. We'll just have to cross our fingers."
"What if we don't make it by the fifteenth?"
"We have to," John said. "There's no other choice."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Do you ever wonder about Caroline?" "What about her?"
Britannia stepped in behind Edward, whispering so that no one could hear. Not that anyone was listening.
The church was closed, the door locked tight so their exalted family could have a private ceremony. No guests had been invited, so the rows and rows of pews were empty.
Bernard was over by the altar railing, awaiting the vicar, and he was so disconnected from the marital events that he might have been a stranger who'd wandered in by accident.
Her surly, unpleasant son, Adam, was off in the vestibule, sulking over her command that he attend despite his protestation that he didn't care to participate.
Caroline was seated in the front row. She'd chosen a silvery blue gown as her wedding dress, and with her blond hair and fair complexion the color washed out her skin so that she looked pallid and frozen. She might have been a carved statue, except that she kept glancing around, hoping for a last-minute rescue by Ian Clayton.
Britannia smirked.
Wakefield could find a magic horse with wings to fly him to Scotland and back, but he and Clayton would never return in time, not with the blizzard on the border. The distance was simply too far, the roads too hazardous.
In a few minutes, Caroline would be married to Edward. Britannia would finally have the revenge she'd sought for so long. She'd never been so happy!
"Weren't you ever curious," she inquired, "about the date of her birth?"
"No. Why would I have been?"
"Don't you recollect our affair, Edward?"
"Vaguely."
He always pretended that their liaison hadn't impacted him, while on her end she'd suffered daily.
"How typical of you to deny me," she fumed.
"Good God, Britannia! It's been twenty-five years. Let it go."
"I don't wish to. At the moment, there's nothing I'd like to talk about more."
He whirled on her, his fury clear. "We will not discuss it! Be silent!"
"No, I shan't be. In fact, I believe I shall chatter about you—and my prior relationship with you—all day."
"Are you completely insane?" He glared at Bernard, who appeared to be in a trance. "Madam, as your husband is in no condition to advise you as to your comportment, I shall speak in his stead: Get a grip on yourself!"
Britannia chuckled, assessing woebegone, pathetic
Bernard, who was so weak of character that he'd been felled by the death of a mere strumpet.
He only thought he was miserable. Before the festivities were concluded, he'd likely be comatose with shock.
She grinned at Edward. "The last sexual encounter occurred in early May. I've never forgotten." "What encounter?" "Why, yours and mine."
"Oh, for pity's sake, Britannia! Why dredge up ancient history? What is the matter with you? Your sense of decorum has utterly fled."
"Caroline was born in January."
"Thank you for letting me know. I'll be sure to buy her an appropriate bauble when next the day rolls around."
She walked off, amused that he couldn't unravel the true message she was trying to send.
He was so thick. He wouldn't figure it out till it was too late. She'd tell him in the morning, after the consummation, after he was beyond the point where he could fix what he'd done. She'd tell Bernard, too. She'd provide every sordid detail, and she'd watch and laugh as her words pushed him into an even deeper stupor. If she was very lucky, she'd drive him to an apoplexy.
He'd be at her mercy, bedridden and unable to escape, but she wouldn't kill him right away. She'd slowly torment him until he expired from rage and fear.
She stopped directly in front of him and mused, "Ah, Bernard, look at your daughter. Isn't she lovely?"
"What... ?" He struggled to focus on her. "What is it? Why can't we start? What's the delay?"
"Are you in a hurry?"
"Yes. I want the blasted thing finished, and I have no idea why I'm here when I'm feeling so poorly."
"You wretched soul! Imagine! Having to attend your own daughter's wedding! Such a chore! Such a burden!"
"I didn't mean it like that," he grumbled.
"Didn't you? You've never felt much of a connection to Caroline, have you?"
"I felt as much as any father would."
Which wasn't much at all, Britannia had learned. What good was a daughter? What benefit was there to having one? A daughter was like a fattened hog, auctioned off to the highest bidder.
"Have you ever noticed how she doesn't resemble you?" Britannia taunted.
"No, I haven't."
"Well, she doesn't. She hasn't any of your features. When she was younger, people gossiped about it constantly."
He peered over to where Caroline was morosely balanced on the edge of the pew. She was like a frightened rabbit, ready to bolt.
"I assume you're trying to tell me something," Bernard huffed, "but I'm in no mood for riddles. What is it, Britannia?"
"It's nothing. I'll explain tomorrow."
"You do that."
He turned away, signaling their discussion to be over, and she moved on to Caroline, who had just cast another longing glance at the door.
"He's not coming," Britannia said, sitting next to her. "There's no need to torture yourself."
" Who is not coming?" Caroline asked, playing dumb.
"Your Mr. Clayton, of course. I'm aware that you contacted Wakefield. You were hoping he'd locate his brother and that the despicable pair would ride to your rescue."
The news stunned Caroline, and she abandoned any pretense. "How did you know?"
"Wakefield wrote to the Earl. He complained that you'd approached him like a madwoman and were spewing wild tales."
"I begged him to travel to Scotland for me, to find out if Ian is safe."
"When will you accept reality, Caroline? Clayton is hidden away—by me—and he shall remain so until after the vows are spoken and the union consummated. You can't evade your fate."
"The ceremony hasn't commenced yet, Mother. John may still arrive."
"John has gone to the country. His wife wanted to have her baby at Wakefield Manor, and he's taken her. He's a busy man, and he couldn't be bothered with your petty request. He never went to Scotland."
"That's a lie! He swore he'd help me."
"He may have promised you, but his only follow-up was to compose a scathing letter to your father. He suggested that Bernard consult with medical professionals about your mental condition."
"He did not!"
"Bernard had considered locking you away in an asylum, but I convinced him the better punishment was to proceed with the nuptials."
Caroline stared at Bernard, studying his diminished capacity, his lack of interest in the present affair. Her mind was awhirl with calculating the odds of how truthful Britannia was being, and ultimately, she shook her head.
"John did nothing of the sort. He'll come through for me. Just you wait and see."
"Believe what you will"—Britannia shrugged as if she couldn't care less—"but why you would suppose you could rely on a scoundrel like Wakefield is beyond me. He's failed you your entire life. At this late date, why would you expect him to act any differently?"
The vicar emerged from behind the altar, his vestments on, a prayer book in hand. He motioned for them to assemble.
Caroline didn't budge, and Britannia snapped, "Come. It's time."
"I can't. I can't do it."
She was so pale and trembling so ferociously that Britannia wondered if she might faint.
"Think of Ian Clayton," Britannia goaded. "Think of what will happen to him if you don't behave as I've commanded."
The grim reminder had its desired effect. Caroline rose and stumbled over to join Edward.
Dearly beloved," the vicar intoned, "we are gathered here in the sight of God..." As he droned on, Caroline blocked out his words, gazing at a spot over his shoulder where a beautiful tapestry hung on the wall. She concentrated on the colors, trying to separate herself from what was transpiring.
She'd arrived at the church, certain that a miracle would occur, that John would walk in and halt the service, or that Ian would swoop in and carry her off.
Neither man had appeared, and she had to stop anticipating a happy ending.
Edward was clasping her arm very tightly, holding her in place, and her parents were positioned directly behind her to hinder any escape.
In a few seconds, she would have to speak her vows—or not. What was best? Should she save Ian? Should she save herself?
Caroline couldn't do both. If her mother had kidnapped Ian, Caroline couldn't cry off. If she refused Edward and rushed out of the church, she'd be leaving Ian to whatever hazard Britannia had devised.
If she disobeyed her parents and forsook Ian, she would be alone, without even the aid of an unreliable scapegrace like John Clayton. Who would take her in? Sadly, she couldn't conjure the name of a single person. She'd be on her own. How would she support herself?
She was nearly hysterical with despair, surrounded by people who hated her, and so lost in her rumination that she didn't notice the vicar had paused and was glaring at her.
Her father hissed, "Answer him!"
"What?" Caroline stammered.
"Answer the question with / do."
Britannia butted in. "Vicar, if you would read the line again, I'm sure she'll chime in as she ought."
"These promises are important, Lady Caroline," the vicar scolded. "Please pay attention."
"I'm sorry. What did you ask?"
The vicar repeated, "Do you, Caroline, take Edward to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She gnawed on her lip, delaying a response, when suddenly noise erupted outside the church. Someone was shouting and pounding on the door.
"Keep going!" Britannia decreed.
The vicar began again, but the commotion grew, and he hesitated.
"Perhaps we should see what he wants."
"Don't be absurd," Britannia scoffed. "Do you recall how much money the Earl donates to this parish every year? You're trying his patience. Get on with it!"
The uproar became a frenzy, and Caroline struggled against Edward's firm grip.
"Caroline!" Edward reproached. "You're making a scene. Desist! At once!"
"I have to know who it is." She was prying at his fingers, but he wouldn't let go.
"Vicar!" the Earl barked. "Continue on, or explain to me why you can't, and I'll confer with the Archbishop tomorrow as to your lack of regard for my family's business."
The vicar was in a quandary, with the bride clearly wanting to run off and her rich, powerful parents and fiancé determined to proceed.
Caroline gave a vicious yank and pulled away from Edward, only to be grabbed by her mother.
"Ian!" Caroline wailed, but Britannia clapped her palm over Caroline's mouth.
Caroline fought and kicked-at her mother's shins, as Britannia whispered, "I will not be thwarted. If it is he, and he thinks to intervene, he will pay in the end. So will you."
"Lady Derby," the vicar admonished, "this is a house of worship. I can't have a... a... brawl in the middle of the ceremony. It's obvious that Lady Caroline doesn't wish to keep on, and if she—"
"Shut up!" Britannia growled, sounding like a rabid dog.
Caroline's brother was tired of the tumult, and he pushed open the barred door to reprimand whoever had interrupted.
Looking aggrieved and travel weary, their clothing damp and muddy, Ian and John Clayton hurried in, the two brothers side by side. They were tall and handsome and filled with a fury that was thrilling to witness.
Caroline had never seen a more magnificent sight.
She bit Britannia's hand as hard as she could, and she sprinted down the aisle and fell into Ian's arms.
"Are you all right?" He kissed her cheek, her hair.
"Yes, yes," she panted. "Now that you're here, I'm fine."
"In case you were wondering, you're not marrying Mr. Shelton." "I won't. I can't."
Ian linked their fingers and, with John bringing up the rear, they marched toward the altar.
"Who, sir, are you?" the vicar inquired of Ian.
"I'm the man Lady Derby claims to have kidnapped."
The vicar gasped. "Kidnapped?"
"Be gone, you bastard devil," Britannia seethed.
The Earl stepped forward and frowned at John. "Wakefield, take this half-blood nuisance, and get out of here."
"I'd rather not," John flippantly retorted.
Ian glared at the vicar. "I apologize for being late, but I'm afraid I missed a section of the vows. Could you repeat it?"
"To which one are you referring?" the vicar queried, trying to inject some sanity into the scandalous scene.
"Ask me if anyone objects to the union. Ask me if there is anyone who would like to 'speak now or forever hold his peace.'"
"I take it you're opposed?"
"Damn straight I'm opposed!" Ian snarled. "You can't have her, Shelton."
"How do you plan to stop me?" Edward replied.
"You're naught but a disgusting pervert, and I'm prepared to accuse you to the entire world."
"Now see here!" Edward indignantly spouted. "You will not cast aspersions on my character!"
"Why shouldn't I? You're aware that any story would be true. And as for you ..." Ian advanced on Britannia until they were toe-to-toe. "I wish we were at Wakefield. I'd have John order you to the stocks in the village square and have you publicly whipped."
"You little weasel!" Britannia raged. "How dare you barge in! How dare you insult me! Bernard, do something!"
"What would you have me say, Britannia?" Bernard sighed. "Your scheme has been foiled. I warned you to be cautious, yet you've made a total mess of it. Why should I rescue you?"
Caroline scowled at the Earl. "You knew about Ian? You knew she was threatening to kill him?"
"Well..." Derby blushed and tried to assert, "Not really."
"You encouraged her!" Caroline charged. "What is the matter with you? You've known John since he was a baby. You were friends with his father, yet you could let her murder Ian? You're as deranged as she is."
"I've had enough of this," Ian said.
He drew her away and started out, with John staying behind to prevent any of them from coming after her.
"Where are you going?" the Earl demanded.
"Wherever Caroline would like," Ian answered.
Edward was finally rattled into action. He stomped toward John, as if he'd tromp over the slighter, younger man, but John delivered a hard punch to Edward's chest that cowed him into halting.
"This is my wedding," Edward bellowed at Ian, "and Caroline is my fiancée. You can't abscond with her. Who the hell do you think you are?"
Ian grinned. "I'm the fellow who ruined her."
"What?" Edward nearly swooned. "What are you saying?"
"She's damaged goods, Shelton," Ian confessed. "I've had her dozens of times. Didn't her parents tell you?"
Edward was about to commit mayhem. "You'd better be lying."
"I'm not. Just ask them. They both know all about it. The Countess even bribed me to be silent and go away, and I'd considered it, but it appears I've changed my mind."
"Clayton!" Bernard shouted. "Don't you leave this church with her. I'll hunt you down, I'll find you, I'll sue, I'll... I'll..."
Ian assessed Bernard, then Caroline, and shrugged.
"Let's go," he said.
"Let's do," she replied.
They started down the aisle again, when Britannia hurled herself at Edward. She grabbed his lapels and shook him.
"You have to stop them," Britannia insisted.
"I don't see how I can," Edward said, "or why I'd want to now. You treacherous witch! You were about to pawn her off on me when you knew she was a whore."
The insanity that had been simmering inside Britannia bubbled to the surface.
"She's your daughter!" Britannia screeched. "You can't let him take your own daughter! You can't!"
"Britannia!" Edward snapped. "Control yourself."
"She's your daughter!" Britannia claimed again. "You have to marry your own daughter. I must have my revenge! I can't be denied! Not after I've waited all these years to see you punished!"
The crazed pronouncement seemed to suck the air out of the room. Everyone froze in place.
John frowned at Ian. "Did she say what I think she said?"
"Yes, she did," Ian responded.
Caroline dropped Ian's hand and came back to her mother. She studied Britannia's unhinged expression, then she shifted her gaze to Edward, and the assembled group turned with her. They all observed the same thing: She and Edward looked exactly alike.
She peered at the Earl, studying him, too, and deeming it curious that she had no features in common with him. How was it that she'd never before noted the differences? No wonder the Earl had never felt any connection to her. There wasn't one.
"You had an affair with Edward, didn't you, Mother?" Caroline correctly deduced. "You hinted at it once, but I ignored you. That's what you were trying to disclose, wasn't it? You were planning to marry me to my own father."
"Oh, my God." Edward lurched away from Britannia as if she had the plague. "Woman, you are mad as a hatter! You always have been!"
Britannia's beady little eyes darted around the sanctuary, seeking an escape route, and she resembled a rat caught in a trap. For a moment, Caroline was certain Britannia would scoff at the accusation, but instead, she laughed an eerie laugh that raised the hackles on Caroline's neck.
"Yes, I had an affair with him," Britannia admitted. "I was young and foolish, and he made me love him, but he never arrived to take me away as he promised he would."
"I didn't come for you," Edward interjected, "because you were a lunatic, and as far as I can tell, nothing has changed in the intervening decades."
"You see?" Britannia fumed. "Even now, he insults me. Even now, he has no idea how to be sorry. He must pay!"
Her arms outstretched, she stumbled toward Edward, lumbering like an automaton and intent on inflicting bodily harm.
"Britannia!" the Earl commanded, and he marched down from the altar and stepped between Edward and her mother.
John positioned himself between them, too, but Britannia was such a large person, and in such a muddled state, that Caroline wasn't positive they could restrain her. Not that Caroline cared if they could or not.
For once, she was unconcerned about the Earl and his countess and how their predicament was resolved.
She scrutinized the Earl, who'd always detested her, then Edward, who was unveiled as her true sire, and she shuddered with distaste. She'd been mere seconds away from an incestuous union, orchestrated by a maniac. She felt tainted and revolted, but at the same juncture, strangely freed.
The Earl was struggling to contain Britannia, as Edward scurried out, led to safety by the vicar. For a brief instant, Caroline's gaze locked with the Earl's, and he appeared stricken and apologetic, but it was probably a trick of the light.
"Lord Derby," she said, her mode of address severing her ties to him, "your countess previously informed me that she murdered your mistress. With poison."
"She what?" he wheezed with shock.
"She confessed her homicidal crime a few weeks ago. Directly after, I tried to notify you, but you wouldn't listen. I thought you should know." She turned to Ian. "Please, take me out of here. I don't want to see either of them ever again."
"You won't ever have to," he vowed. He glanced over at John. "Will you be all right?"
"Yes," John said. "I'll stay and clean up the disaster. You get going."
Together, she and Ian walked out of the church.
Behind her, she could hear her mother shrieking, "Let me at him, Wakefield. Let me at him!"
Her brother was by the door, having watched all with his typical disdain. As she passed, his sole participation in the event was to mutter, "Good luck. You'll need it."
Caroline swept by him without a word, judging it peculiar that he was now only a half brother and scarcely related, at all, but not being especially saddened by the realization. He'd always been awful to her, his dislike as blatant as her parents' had been.
She followed Ian outside. His horse was tied in front, and he escorted her to it, tossed her up, and jumped on after her. The animal was winded from the journey that had brought Ian to London, but it was hale and spirited, and as Ian pulled on the reins, it eagerly leapt to action.
They raced off, cantering down the road, the church quickly vanishing from view. She didn't even have on a coat, and the cold bit into her skin. She wrapped her arms around Ian's waist, held on tight, and never looked back.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I demand that you have me released!" "I could, but I won't." Bernard stared at Britannia, wondering how he was to deal with the reality that his countess was a raging lunatic. He'd never liked her, had definitely never loved her, but honesty!
She was pacing incessantly across the small cell. Her dress was ragged and dirty, her hair sticking out as if the gray strands had been altered into snakes. She looked inhuman, demonic even, like a wicked creature from an ancient Greek legend.
The hospital where he and Wakefield had delivered her was the best of its kind, but the accolade was a sorry statement on the level of modem convalescent care. She'd been housed in the private wing, with the other members of affluent families who had to be permanently locked away, but the conditions were sparse and disturbing.
"You can't mean to keep me here," she said.
"Oh, but I do. You're completely insane. And you're
dangerous. You can't be out among normal people. There's no telling what mischief you might instigate."
"I've done nothing wrong!"
"Nothing!"
"I was entirely justified in seeking revenge against Edward."
"Madam, I suggest you be silent. The very fact that you would mention your affair to me only underscores how crazed you are."
"You are a philandering roue! You always have been. Don't try to seize the moral high ground."
He'd been an awful husband; he couldn't deny it. He'd chased after every trollop who'd strolled by, but with all that had recently occurred, his liaisons seemed to have been so pointless.
He wished he could go back and do so many things differently. He wished Georgie were alive and being courted by some fine fellow her own age who would have cherished her as she'd deserved. He wished he'd been a better father to Adam and Caroline.
After the fiasco at the church, Adam had packed his bags and left, claiming he'd never return, and Bernard hoped that time and distance would calm him, but he wouldn't count on it.
Mostly, he wished he knew how Caroline was weathering her mother's revelations, but he had no idea where she was and no one he could ask who might inform him. She wasn't an earl's daughter, after all, so everything she'd understood about herself was false.
She'd been born during his marriage to Britannia, so in the eyes of God and the law she was considered to be his child and always would be. He wouldn't repudiate her. It was so strange, but when he'd believed himself to be her actual father he'd constantly snubbed her. Now that he'd found out he wasn't her father, he was desperate to make amends, to take the faltering steps toward a continuing relationship.
Instead, he would head to his empty mansion. The family he'd loathed was in tatters. His spouse was deranged, his son had fled, and his daughter was missing and would likely never talk to him again. It was a pitiful situation, indeed.
"If you aren't here to fetch me home," Britannia nagged, "why have you come?"
"I've brought some of the items you requested."
"Pen and ink?"
"No."
"But I need to write letters. I have to notify my friends of how heinously I'm being treated!"
"You have no friends, Britannia. Not any who'd like to hear from you anyway, and I won't allow you to share your venom with the outside world. You've done enough harm."
"You can't refuse to let me correspond!"
"I already have." He placed the satchel of her belongings on the narrow, rickety cot where she slept. He didn't know how it held her enormous weight and girth.
"Now then, I'm off."
"When is your next visit scheduled?"
"It's not. In the future, if you must contact me, you'll have to send a message through my solicitor. I don't intend to confer with you in person ever again."
"Don't be ridiculous. You shall come whenever I summon you."
"No, Britannia, I won't. I'm leaving you to stew in your own juice."
"Stop being melodramatic."
"I could have had you tried and hanged."
"For what crime?" "For murder."
She laughed. "There's not a jury in the land that would have convicted me for killing your mistress. You were going to divorce me. The girl had you bewitched."
He could have made a thousand replies. He could have admitted all the ways he'd erred; he could have reminded her that his failings weren't Georgie's fault, or that he was genuinely sorry for everything that had transpired.
But she was crazy, and he was so very weary.
"You must listen to me," he told her, unsure of how to get her to focus. "Should you need anything, tell your nurse, and a note will be dispatched to my lawyer."
"I won't speak with your lawyer. I will speak with you directly, or I will speak to no one, at all."
"So be it."
He sighed, gazing at the gloomy cell, at his mad wife who hadn't yet paused in her pacing. She was like a spinning top that couldn't be stilled.
"I doubt you'll ever thank me," he murmured, "but by keeping you here, I'm doing you a favor."
"A favor! How?"
"At least you're alive. That's better than swinging from a gibbet, I'd warrant. Good-bye."
He knocked for the guard to let him out, and to his dismay, she hurried over and stood as if she'd walk out with him.
"What are you thinking, Britannia?"
"I'm coming with you."
He sighed again. "You're not. You can't. You must remain here."
"With all these lunatics?"
"Well, since you put it that way, yes."
"I'm coming with you!" she repeated, growing agitated.
He rapped more forcefully, and the guard arrived. Bernard stepped out, and Britannia tried to step out, too, but the guard held up a hand, signaling her to halt. Without warning, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it so hard that he howled in pain, and he began struggling with her.
It was a hideous scene—his demented, obese wife grappling with her jailor—and Bernard was too stunned to assist or intervene.
On whose side would he have fought? Britannia had to stay, but he couldn't bear to be the one to physically restrain her. He was paying the staff, and paying them well, to do that exact sort of thing.
The guard's yowling brought several others running, and it took five burly men to wrestle her to the floor. One of them produced a type of jacket, and they shoved her arms into it. The sleeves had long strings attached at the cuffs, and they were wrapped around her waist so that she was trussed like a Christmas goose.
The sweating, bruised men eased her to a sitting position, but she was too large for them to move her farther until she was ready to go. She glared up at him, and her hatred was so evident that Bernard blanched.
"I waited thirty years," she hissed. "I planned how I would wound you in the worst possible way. I finally told you the truth about Caroline, but you don't care!"
"I care that you hurt her, when she didn't deserve it. But I'm unconcerned about you. Your misery is all your own doing."
"When I get out, I'll kill Edward, then I'll kill you. You'd best keep looking over your shoulder."
"You'll never get out," Bernard vowed. "I intend to see to it."
He left, and she started screaming, "Bernard! Bernard! Bernard!"
He shuddered and hastened down the lengthy labyrinth of corridors, and even after he was in his carriage and proceeding home, he was certain he could hear her bellowing his name.
Edward entered his club, and he tarried in the foyer, impatient for the butler to take his coat and hat, but no one appeared, and his temper flared. How dare the servants fail to attend him! His exclusive membership cost a pretty penny, and their sloth would be reported.
He marched up the stairs to the library, positive he would bump into some person of authority to whom he could vent his wrath, but to his surprise, he encountered no one. The place was busy—male laughter drifted by as he approached the stately chamber—but as he strolled into the room, the closest gentleman coughed discreetly, alerting the other patrons. The noise was a warning that wafted through the crowd.
Heads turned; brows raised; whispers swept by. The words Shelton and his own daughter! were bandied by all. Every man stared him down, their indignation and censure clear. He stared back, angry, defiant, and refusing to be cowed.
From out of nowhere, the butler emerged, his fake smile firmly fixed.
"Is there a problem?" Edward asked. As if he didn't know!
"No, Mr. Shelton. If I might speak with you downstairs?"
He was much smaller than Edward, but he had a nimble and diplomatic knack for steering out an undesirable guest. On a dozen previous occasions, Edward had chuckled when it had been some other poor fellow who was cast out.
To realize that it was now himself! To understand that he was being shunned!
For the briefest instant, he dragged his feet, thinking that he might defend himself, that he might hurl the facts at their pathetic faces.
/ had no idea that she was my daughter, he imagined himself saying. It was all Britannia's doing. The woman is mad, I tell you! Mad!
But as he frowned at their stony expressions, absorbing the collective resolve to eject him from their eminent company, he recognized they couldn't be dissuaded, and he wasn't about to grovel.
Without comment, he whipped away and stomped out. He was mortified and fully aware that his years of residing in London—perhaps in England—were at an end. He'd never be invited to another social event. He'd be ignored by everyone who mattered.
Who had tattled? Derby? Wakefield? Why would they? Or had it been that weasel of a vicar? Who could be trusted anymore?
He stormed to his carriage and climbed in, advising his driver to take him to his favorite brothel. There was no situation that a bit of illicit fornication couldn't cure, and within minutes he'd sneaked through the shrubbery to the secret entrance.
He knocked the special knock, expecting to be greeted immediately, but he waited and waited, and no one came.
Finally, the madam peeked out, a brawny houseman lurking behind her.
Edward straightened and flashed his most imperious glare. "I seek an afternoon of entertainment. I demand to be admitted."
"We don't serve your kind," she sneered. "Be gone, you disgusting pervert!"
She slammed and barred the door.
Gad! Even the whores were revolted by him! Considering some of the foul deeds he'd attempted in the woman's establishment, that was saying a lot.
He was so shocked he couldn't move. He loitered on the stoop, his cold cheeks red with humiliation, the icy rain wetting his shoulders. He wanted to raise his fist, to pound and howl until his furious summons was heeded.
He'd inform the old harlot of how he was an innocent victim, how he'd done nothing wrong. It wasn't as if he'd married the accursed child. Yes, he'd privately lusted after her, but with no overt action being undertaken, how could he be judged guilty? Was it his fault that Britannia was deranged? Why should he be punished?
He trudged to his carriage and gave the directions to hurry home. He'd pack his bags and flee the city in the dark of night where he wouldn't be seen scurrying away like a rat in the sewer. But where the hell was he to go? And when would he ever be able to return?
*
Rebecca was snuggled under the covers and staring at the ceiling when she first noted that someone was banging on her front door. It wasn't that late, only midnight or so, and she was plagued by her usual insomnia.
Her butler and housekeeper were away for the weekend, so neither was available to respond. The other servants were asleep in their rooms in the attic, and even if they could hear the commotion, they wouldn't answer.
Well, she wasn't about to, either. Whoever it was could come back in the morning when sane, rational people were up and dressed and receiving callers.
The thumping grew more determined, and she'd tugged a pillow over her head when a man bellowed, "Rebecca Blake! I know you're in there!"
Scowling, she sat up.
"Rebecca!" he continued. "Get your shapely ass out of bed and open the door!"
"What the devil... ?" she muttered.
Shivering against the chill, she grabbed a woolen shawl and marched down the stairs.
"Rebecca!" he yelled again. "Don't make me come in and get you!"
"Would you be silent?" she griped as she fumbled with the lock, yanked on the knob, and peered out. "You'll wake the dead."
There was no moon, so it was difficult to see, but from his tall height and halo of golden hair she was sure her visitor was Jack Romsey.
Her heart did a funny little flip-flop.
Wondering if she wasn't dreaming, she blinked and blinked.
"Jack?"
"Bloody right!" he growled, and he stormed over the threshold.
There was a gleam in his eye that made her nervous, and for each step he took forward she took one back until she was at the wall and could go no farther.
"It's the middle of the night," she pointed out.
"Yes, it is."
She could smell alcohol on his breath. "You've been drinking."
"Not nearly enough to keep me from coming over here."
"What are you doing? What do you want?" "I have to talk to you." "I believe you are."
She waited for more, but he seemed incapable of speech, which was hilarious. He'd always had too much to say, much more than she'd ever cared to hear.
"Well?" she pressed.
"I'm told that you did a good deed."
He hurled the remark like an indictment, and she scoffed.
"Me? Don't be ridiculous."
"When I was initially apprised of the story, that's what I said. I said, 'Rebecca Blake, hah! She hasn't a kind bone in her body.'"
"No, I don't."
"I swore it couldn't be true." "I'm certain it wasn't."
"But the teller of the tale insists that not only were you very considerate—you were also very brave." "How absurd."
She couldn't have false gossip spreading. She had a low image to maintain, and she wouldn't have others suspecting that she was a sentimental fool.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For helping Lady Caroline—when she was in trouble. For trying to make amends." "I did nothing of the sort."
"You did. Don't stand there and deny it." "I lent minor assistance when she was in a jam. So what?"
"So ... maybe you're not the shrew I've accused you of being."
"Aren't you a flatterer?"
"I'm leaving London," he said, abruptly switching the subject.
"I thought you already had."
"I'm here to say farewell."
"You've already done that, too."
"But this time, I'm asking you to come with me."
'To do what? Will I roam the rural highways like a player in a traveling troupe? Will I carry my belongings in a satchel and sleep in a tent in a ditch?"
She'd exasperated him, and he huffed out a heavy breath.
"Would you shut up and listen for once?" "I'd listen if you had anything pertinent to say." "My brother, John, has made me an offer I can't refuse."
"Knowing Wakefield as I do, that sounds either illicit or dangerous."
"He owns a small property in the country, and I'm to live there. It's not charity," he hastily added. "I told him I wouldn't accept charity. I want to earn my own way."
"You're a veritable saint."
He ignored the taunt and kept on. "I'm to work for him as his land agent, and the job comes with a fine house and an excellent salary."
"You're going to be a gentleman farmer?"
"I guess I am."
"What do you know about farming?"
"You'd be surprised."
"You'd have to factor the accounts, too. Can you read and write?"
She had no idea why she was so terrible to him. He simply brought out every bad trait she possessed, and she ended up lashing out when she didn't mean to.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. "I take it back."
'Take what back?"
"Perhaps you are a shrew, but do you know what?" "What?"
"I like you anyway." He leaned in and nibbled her nape. "You smell good," he mumbled. "You're drunk."
"Yes, I am, but it's given me the most keen insight." "About what?"
"I never spend enough time convincing you to do what I want."
"There aren't sufficient words in the universe to persuade me to go off and be the wife of a country farmer."
"Then I'll have to utilize other methods."
"Such as?"
He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Her bottom was next to his ear, her head dangling. She pounded on his back with her fists.
"Put me down!"
"No." He swatted her on the rear.
"Jack! You'll wake the servants. They'll see."
"Why would I care? Besides, I'm about to be their master, so they need to get used to me." He started climbing the stairs. "Where's your bedchamber?"
"My bedchamber! I'm not having sex with you!"
"Did I ask your opinion?"
He arrived at the landing and walked down the hall, entering the first room he saw that had a bed. He dropped her onto it and crawled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress before she could scurry away. Not that she tried very hard. His tongue was in her mouth, his fingers in her hair, and as he kissed her she moaned with delight.
As always happened when she was with him, their ardor rapidly increased, and he clutched the neckline of her nightgown and ripped it down the center. The fabric fell away so that she was nude and stretched out beneath him.
He fumbled with his pants, and in a thrice, he was inside her and thrusting away. She wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and as he reached between their bodies to touch her, she came in an instant.
With a hearty shout, he joined her, and as quickly as that, they were finished. Together, they soared to the peak, but as they floated down, he was chuckling and smug, reminding her of what a conceited oaf he could be.
She punched him in the chest. "Get off me."
"No." He kissed her again, his cock leaping to life and not the least bit sated. "Say yes. Say you'll marry me."
"We've been through this before."
"Yes, we have, and you keep giving me the wrong answer. Tell me that you'll have me. Tell me that you love me."
"I don't love you," she declared. "I don't love anyone."
"Except yourself. But isn't it lonely on that tiny island where you hide yourself away?"
"I'm not lonely," she insisted.
"Which brings me to point out how you'll behave as my wife."
"I haven't agreed, and you're already imposing conditions? You're really pushing your luck."
"I'm positive I'll convince you, so here are the terms by which we'll carry on: You can't ever own a pistol, and you can't ever lie to me."
He could have made any stipulations in the world, and he'd chosen those?
She giggled. "You are mad."
"Mad for you."
"I understand why you'd be nervous about pistols, but why would you worry about prevarication? I've always been candid with you."
"Have you? You just told me that you're not lonely, and that you don't love me. That's two gigantic fibs in a row."
"Will you get it through your thick head? I don't love you!"
"You do, too. Stop denying it, and marry me. Let me be the strong one. Let me fight your battles for a change. You don't have to be so damned tough."
She gazed at him. He was so handsome and sexy, so stalwart and dependable, and he seemed to be genuinely fond of her. It was such a novel and frightening prospect, having a man who actually wanted her. If she consented, she'd have someone on her side, would have a best friend.
"Marry me," he urged.
She sighed. "I suppose it wouldn't kill me."
At her tepid reply, he laughed and laughed. "I can see that I'm wearing you down, so I can't quit now. By morning, I intend to have a full-on yes."
He rolled them so that she was on top and he was on the bottom, and as he clasped her breasts and started to
flex, she decided he wouldn't have to try nearly as hard or as long as he assumed.
Where is your brother?"
Caroline glared at John. As if he had any control over mulish, stubborn Ian Clayton!
"Gone to Scotland." "Scotland!" "I'm sorry, Caro."
When she'd run out of the church with Ian, she'd thought they were riding off into the proverbial sunset. Instead, he'd escorted her to John's town house and deposited her in the care of the butler. Then he'd cantered off without a good-bye.
Initially, she'd presumed that he'd returned to the church to help John with the aftermath of the wedding, but he hadn't come back. She'd tarried, expecting him, but as hours had become days, then weeks, she'd been flabbergasted and furious.
Eventually, she'd begged John to hunt for him, and he'd been searching high and low, while she'd been trapped in his home, hiding from scandal, and fretting over what to do next. Now, to learn that Ian would rather trot off to another country than be with her!
Would it have killed him to take her along? Would it have killed him to inquire as to what she wanted? Didn't the obtuse lout comprehend that she'd have followed him to the ends of the earth? Would she be forever plagued by Clayton men?
The bastard!
She was so angry that she could have bit nails in half!
"What is he doing in Scotland?" she asked. Her jaws were clenched so tightly she could barely force out the question.
"He's rented a house in Edinburgh, but I don't know how he's keeping himself busy."
"Why would he leave me here like this?"
John shrugged. "Ian has always been a mystery to me. I couldn't begin to guess."
"You must have some idea."
"He's contrary. You know that."
"But he came all the way from Scotland—just for me! Why would he simply turn around and go back?"
"Like I said, Caro, he can be perverse."
"Have you his address?"
"Yes."
She went to the window and stared out at the gray sky. It was late April, but it still seemed like winter. The temperature was frigid, the rain continuing to fall, the roads an impassible mire.
Her entire life, she'd lived under her father's thumb, and for the first time ever, she was free and alone. She could go wherever she wanted and do whatever she wanted, but there was only one thing that appealed.
She could have her pick of options, and what she picked was Ian Clayton. But the ass was in Scotland! In light of how much she loved him, was there any choice as to what she had to do?
"I need a favor."
"I'm completely at your disposal." "Actually, it's two favors."
"I'm happy to give you whatever is within my power to bestow," he gallantly said.
"I have a large dowry, and considering what I've been through, I think I deserve to have it. I recognize this is a huge request, but would you speak to the Earl about it? If he plans to renege, I'll hire a solicitor."
"Caro!" His brows shot up.
"What?"
"That's so ... so ..." "Unlike me?" "Yes."
"You never did know me very well, John."
"I realize that now."
"Will you meet with him?"
"I'll try my best, but you're aware that—even if I can persuade him to release it—it has to be transferred to your husband, not to you, so you have to marry in order to receive it."
"Oh, I fully intend to wed," she asserted, "which leads me to the other favor."
"What is it?"
"May I borrow a carriage?"
"Certainly. Where is it you need to go?"
"I've suddenly decided I must make a fast trip to Scotland, and when I arrive, your brother had better watch out!"
Chapter Twenty-Four
There's a woman in your bed, sir." "A woman?" Ian glared at his valet. The man had worked for him exactly two days, and Edinburgh—for all its metropolitan airs—was a very provincial place. He had to be shocked. Would he resign in a huff? "Is she pretty?" Ian asked. "She's English."
The answer provided no valuable information. As he tried to rebuild his life of vice and gambling, he'd met several intriguing females who hailed from London, but he hadn't acted on any of their blatant invitations.
Would one of them have dared breach the sanctity of his new home? Did he want one of them to?
Since he'd left Caro, his lust had fled, and he was so lacking in arousal that he wondered if he shouldn't just proceed to Arabia and become a eunuch. Obviously, he'd outgrown the need for his manly appendage, so why keep it attached?
"I don't suppose she gave you her name?"
"No, but she claimed to have traveled a great distance specifically to find you. She said she was hungry and tired and cold, and she demanded that I see to her. I advised her that she couldn't stay, but she wouldn't listen. She was extremely bossy."
Rebecca Blake? Rebecca had come from London?
It couldn't be anyone else. What was he to do with her? How would he get her out of his bedchamber? There wasn't a crowbar big enough to pry her out of it.
"Did you provide for her as she requested?"
"I couldn't very well refuse a lady."
"No, you couldn't."
"After she ate and washed, she nodded right off." Ian sighed. "That will be all. You may call it a night."
"Are you sure?" "Yes, thank you."
The man hesitated. "About the morning ..." "What about it?"
"I didn't realize you were a ... a ..."
"A what? A blatant fornicator?"
The poor fellow blushed bright red. "Well, yes, and I'm not positive of the protocol. Should I assist the two of you upon your waking? Or should I keep out till summoned? I should mention that I'm a bachelor. I don't imagine I ought to... to..."
He looked as if he might ignite with embarrassment, and Ian took pity on him, figuring he'd probably race to his room and pack his bags as soon as their conversation was finished.
"Go to bed. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."
"Very good, sir."
His relief palpable, he scurried away, and Ian stood in the foyer, watching him climb the stairs. After he'd disappeared, Ian trudged after him.
He was in no mood to tangle with Rebecca, and if he'd had another bed, he'd have picked her up and dumped her in it, but he hadn't had occasion to purchase much furniture. The sole bed was his own, and he wasn't about to sleep on the floor merely because she was deranged.
What was she thinking? Though the calendar indicated it was spring, the weather hadn't improved. The roads were treacherous, yet she'd ventured off on a fool's mission.
How many times should he have to tell her to go away? She'd be lucky if he didn't take a stick to her, and he wouldn't use it to paddle her bottom, either. In the hope of pounding some sense into her, he'd knock it over her hard head!
He marched into his bedchamber, tossed his coat over a chair, and rolled back his sleeves—as if preparing for a fight. A candle burned on the dresser, and as he approached her, his eyes plainly observed what his mind couldn't comprehend.
"Caro?" he murmured.
Caroline Foster was in Scotland? Why? It was painfully clear that madness afflicted her family. Had she inherited some of the dreadful traits?
He eased away, the sight of her disturbing in a fashion he didn't understand.
With her blond hair spread across the pillows, her creamy skin so pale against the dark quilts, she was so beautiful, like an enchanted fairy princess or an angel. He was so happy to see her, so joyous that she'd arrived. His absent lust returned with a vengeance. He was frantic to rip off his clothes, to crawl under the blankets and make love to her all night long, which had him wondering if he was the crazy one rather than she.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and she stared at the ceiling, scowling as she tried to recollect her location. When recognition dawned, she grinned a smile that alarmed him. He was certain Eve had flashed the very same smile at that imbecile, Adam, who'd been hooked like a fish on a line.
As it was, he was already ensnared, and he could barely keep from stumbling toward her as if she was reeling him in.
She looked rumpled and adorable, and his male parts were screaming at him to run like hell.
He was in trouble!
She rolled to the side, the covers falling away, to reveal a perfect breast. He honed in on it, immediately inundated with delectable memories he didn't want to have. He couldn't quit gaping.
"Hello, Ian," she said, her voice sultry with sleep. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Caro, you're in Scotland," he stupidly retorted.
"Yes, I am."
"Why?"
"I'm delivering some important messages." "You couldn't write me a letter?" "No. They're urgent." "In what manner?"
"Your brother, Jack, needs you to come home for his wedding."
"He's getting married?"
'To your Mrs. Blake—which is definitely peculiar, and I don't wish to be apprised of the circumstances of how their amour flourished."
"Is that it?"
"No, as a matter of fact, it's not. John's wife is about to have her baby—she's convinced it's a boy, by the way—so you're about to be an uncle. John wants you home, too, to help him celebrate."
Ian was still raw over the recent twists in his relationships with his brothers, and he couldn't talk about them coherently. He switched to the only subject that signified.
"You're in my bed again."
"I am."
"Why does this keep happening?" "Don't you know?" "I haven't a clue."
"Come here." She rose up on her elbow and patted the mattress, coaxing him closer. "Why?"
"I have a secret to tell you."
"I don't care to hear it."
"I'm going to tell it to you anyway."
She reached for the covers as if she would climb out, stroll over, and ravage him. The prospect was both electrifying and terrifying, and he was frozen in place, unable to flee as he ought. The blankets were down around her lap. As if teasing him, she stretched her arms over her head, which emphasized her fabulous bosom, her slender waist.
He ignored her and gazed at a spot over her shoulder.
"What possessed you to travel so far?" he snapped.
"You left me at John's."
"Of course I did."
"It was weeks ago."
"Yes, it was."
"You never came back for me."
"Why would I have?"
"You know, Ian, that is the oddest question." "Why?"
"You saw no reason to return, while I was in London, impatiently waiting for you to arrive. Don't you find it a tad strange that we have such divergent views on the same point?"
He shifted nervously. He couldn't bear to discuss the jeopardy into which their affair had thrust her. Nor could he bear to remember the frenzied trip to England, through snow and icy rain, to stop her wedding. He and John walked in with only seconds to spare, and if they'd been delayed by even a few minutes, she'd have been Shelton's bride, and her mother's bizarre scheme would have been realized.
Every time he thought of the near result his negligence had caused, he felt ill. He'd always cared too much about her, and the notion that his folly had driven her to such a hideous situation was shameful and mortifying.
"I hastened to England as John requested," he said. "I interrupted the wedding as was proper and fitting. What more was it you wanted from me?"
"Are you really that thick?"
"I guess I am."
She stood, her nude body on full display, and she advanced until they were toe-to-toe. She snuggled herself to him so that her torso was pressed to his all the way down.
It took every ounce of strength he had not to hug her back. She felt so beloved and so familiar, and idiot that he was, he still physically desired her with every fiber of his being. Previously, he'd have done anything for her, but that moment had passed when he'd dawdled in the Earl's library and she had disavowed him to her parents.
Though he was over it now, when it was occurring he'd been crushed. He'd endured a life of insults because of his lineage, and he'd assumed he could handle any rejection, but hers had been more than he could abide.
He'd been happy to assist her in evading her mother, had been happy to see her safely under John's protection, but what more did she expect? They were never meant to be together. Their fates were never in accord.
She kissed him on the mouth, but he declined to participate. He was immobile as a statue.
"Kiss me back, Ian."
"No."
"I can sense how much you want to." "I don't."
His phallus was hard as stone, and she stroked across the placard of his trousers. The feel of her hand, positioned precisely where he craved it to be, was like a jolt of lightning.
He whipped away from her, his eyes shut, his breathing labored, as he tried to calm himself and determine how best to deal with her.
"What is it, Ian? What's wrong."
"You can't stay here."
"But I journeyed all this way. Don't pretend that you're not glad to see me."
"Why wouldn't I be glad?" he lied. "We're old friends. I'm always charmed by your company. I'm merely thinking that perhaps I'll... I'll... proceed to a hotel or rent bachelor's quarters till we can get you home."
"Home?"
"Yes."
She chuckled, but in a forlorn fashion. "I have no home, so I have nowhere to go. Your carnal antics saw to that. You ruined me, and I demand that you give me shelter."
"For how long?"
"Forever. How long would you suppose?"
Forever? Was she insane? This was stuffy, conservative Edinburgh, not some squalid London neighborhood where sordid characters abounded and any low behavior was allowed. He couldn't house an unwed female. He'd be tarred and feathered and run out of town by an angry mob.
He spun to face her, ready to talk logically, but he'd forgotten she was naked, and he couldn't remember what it was he was going to say. It had been something about sending her away, about shielding her from ridicule and scorn, but she was unbuttoning his trousers, and he was too confounded to stop her. Shortly, her fingers had slipped under the waistband of Ins pants, and she was caressing him in every way he enjoyed.
She dropped to her knees and pushed the fabric aside, and he was paralyzed with indecision, unable to desist or progress. She pulled his cock free, and she licked him over and over, then sucked him into her mouth. He stared down at her, prostrate before him and pleasuring him as the most experienced harlot might have.
The sight was decadent and mind-boggling. He loved her; he hated her, and he rippled with every emotion between the two extremes.
His temper flared. Why had she come to Scotland? Why was she bent on tormenting him? Didn't she understand that her very presence was torture?
He fisted his hand in her hair, guiding her to take him deeper, and he considered spilling himself in her throat. If she wanted to act like a whore, why not let her? It would be so easy to use her badly.
As fast as the despicable notion spiraled through his head, he tamped it down and drew away. She frowned at him, hurt, confused, and so incredibly lovely.
"What's the matter?" she inquired.
"I don't want this from you."
"Liar."
"Go back to bed, Caro." He straightened his clothes and adjusted his rampaging male anatomy. "We'll figure it out in the morning."
"We'll figure it out now." She glared at him, suddenly ablaze with her own burst of temper.
He grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her, covering her as he sighed with dismay. He refused to fight with her. He simply wanted her to leave, but apparently, she wouldn't be satisfied till they'd hashed out every contemptible detail of whatever absurd idea had spurred her to race north.
"Fine. Tell me whatever it is that's brought you here. Blame me for the whole bloody mess, then give me some peace."
"Give you some peace?"
"Yes."
"Have you the slightest clue as to what the past few months have been like for me?"
"I realize that they've been horrid." He sounded condescending and smug.
"Horrid doesn't begin to describe it! My mother is a deranged murderess who tried to force me into an incestuous marriage. My philandering, aloof father who I've known all my life isn't my father, at all. I have no parents. My family is destroyed." She punctuated each syllable with a jab of her finger at the middle of his chest. "I'm dying from the desolation for all that is lost me, and I've reached out to you for solace and friendship."
"I can't fathom why you would," he cruelly said.
"You are the only person who ever cared about me," she replied in a shout. "You are the only one who was ever genuinely kind to me, yet I come here, brokenhearted and needing you, and you can't so much as pretend to be glad that I've arrived."
"That's because I'm not glad."
"And why is that?"
"What do you want me to say, Caro?"
"I want you to declare that you love me. I want you to ask me to marry you so I can always be with you."
It would be so easy to spew a proposal, for she was correct: He loved her and always had. But so what? His heightened sentiment had no relevance to their situation. Throughout all the years of their acquaintance, she'd been very clear that ancestry was the most important factor. She'd endured a dreadful month or two, but a brief tribulation could never alter who she was deep down.
She'd had a crisis in her relationship with her parents, but it would pass. The Fosters would regroup and continue on as they had been. It was British tradition, the stiff upper lip for which they were all so renowned.
"I love you," he admitted, hurling the words like an accusation.
"Yes, you do," she agreed, not appearing any happier about the pronouncement than he was, himself. "But you're forgetting something." "What is that?"
"You're the child of an earl, and I am not," he tersely reminded her. "You are the prized daughter of one of England's premier families, while I am merely the illegitimate bastard of a dead Scottish commoner. Since the day we met, it's all I've ever heard from you. Don't prance about now as if it doesn't matter. I know you better than that."
Stunned by his remarks, she paused, then went over and flopped down on the bed, burrowing under the quilts. She studied the ceiling, fuming, ruminating, but not looking at him.
He wanted to rush over, to take her in his arms and offer comfort, but he didn't dare. He desired her so much, and the least bit of physical contact would make him behave like a moron, so they tarried, unable to move or speak, a void as wide as an ocean separating them.
"Ian Clayton," she finally grumbled, "you are an idiot."
"I won't argue the point."
"You said I'm forgetting something, but aren't you forgetting something, too?" "What?"
"I'm not an earl's daughter. I'm not anyone, at all." "You're Lady Caroline Foster, only daughter of the Earl of Derby. You'll never be anyone else." "Weren't you listening at the church?" "Well... yes."
"My father is not the Earl of Derby."
"It was a small group at the wedding. There was no one present who would repeat the truth."
She scoffed. "Someone told, and the gossip has spread. It's all over London."
"I didn't know. How awful for you."
"All these years, I've strutted around with my nose up in the air, certain I was better than you, being so horrid to you because of it. But the joke was on me. It was all a lie."
What a dolt he was! In the weeks he'd been sequestered in Scotland, he'd rarely thought of her. He hadn't wanted to feel sorry for her, so he hadn't let himself recognize that the pedestal upon which she'd been balanced had been shattered into a thousand pieces.
What did the change portend? Where did it leave them?
A spark of hope flared in his chest. She turned toward him, her blue eyes poignant. "Can you ever find it in your heart to forgive me?" "I already have."
"Thank you. It is more than I deserve."
He was inching to the bed, his feet carrying him directly where he should not go. He kept on until his thighs were pressed against the edge of the mattress, and he gazed down at her, so filled with affection that he worried he might burst.
She reached out her hand, and it hovered there, a lifeline, a tether, to the only thing he'd ever truly wanted. Dare he grab it? Dare he hold on?
He reached out, too, and he linked their fingers, the gentle touch connecting them, locking them together, sealing their fate.
"I have nowhere to go," she murmured. "Please don't send me away."
"I won't. I can't."
"I want to marry you," she proclaimed again. "I want to be your wife and have your children. Won't you let me?"
Two visions flashed—of the lonely, detached man he'd always been, and of the complete and contented man he could be with her by his side. He sank down next to her.
She was offering him a family to cherish, a home where he would always belong. He would be part of the whole, one of many. He'd have children to care for and a wife to love. In the past, he'd maintained that he didn't want any of it, that he didn't need any of it, but he'd been fooling himself.
He bent down and kissed her.
"I love you," he said, meaning it.
"I love you, too."
"I don't know how to be a husband."
"Nor do I know how to be a wife, but I suspect we'll figure it out."
"I suspect we will, too. Will you have me, Caro? I'm not much of a catch—"
"You're right about that!"
"—but I will protect you and watch over you, and I swear that I will love you till my dying day and beyond."
"Yes, I'll have you, Ian. Till my dying day and beyond."
The vow reverberated around the room, joining them more fully than any wedding ceremony ever could. "So it's settled?" she asked. "Yes, it's settled."
She blew out a heavy breath. "For a minute there, I was nervous."
"I can't deny it: I'm the thickheaded oaf you always accuse me of being."
"Yes, you are, but I'll make it my lifelong goal to save you from yourself."
"I can't wait."
How lucky he was! He smiled, and she smiled, too, and she tugged on his hand, drawing him closer.
"Now that the formalities are over," she said, "I was wondering...."
"About what?"
"It's frightfully cold in here."
"Yes, it is."
"I would pay a fortune to anyone who agreed to climb under the covers and help to warm me." "I know just the man you need." He chuckled and started unbuttoning his shirt.