Forbidden Fantasy Page 5

  “But … but … I just arrived.”

  “And now you’re leaving.”

  “I don’t wish to go.”

  “It’s not up to you.”

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

  “It’s not yours either, princess.”

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

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

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

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

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

  His mother had been a gentleman’s daughter, tossed out by her parents after the notorious aristocrat Douglas Clayton had impregnated her. Jack had indistinct memories of her, but while she’d lived, their life had been one trial after the next, and he recollected it as a period when he was always hungry and cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Let’s get you going,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He stood, too, so that they were eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe. He wanted her again, already.

  “I’m not sorry,” he said.

  “I am!”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining while it was happening.”

  “Then you weren’t listening very closely. Ian will kill me.”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t you dare tell him! If you do, I’ll kill you!”

  He laughed. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “You tricked me! You seduced me against my will!”

  “Liar.”

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

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

  “You’re laughing at me!” she correctly charged.

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

  “Speak for yourself.”

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

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

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

  * * *

  “You will go downstairs—immediately!—and you will be your usual, charming self throughout the entire meal. Am I making myself clear?”

  Britannia Foster, Countess of Derby, glared at her recalcitrant daughter.

  “My headache is unbearable,” Caroline claimed.

  “So? Why would a little discomfort keep you from your duties?”

  “I don’t feel like socializing.”

  “How can it signify? Mr. Shelton will be here any second. You must be in place to greet him, as is proper and expected.”

  “No one will notice if I’m not there.”

  “I shall notice,” Britannia said. “You’ve caused sufficient scandal, and I won’t stand for your instigating more.”

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

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

  “Must I?” Caroline snidely inquired.

  “Yes, you must.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She tromped down the stairs, and as she reached the foyer, she steeled herself for her pending encounter with Edward. Due to her responsibilities as hostess, she’d welcome him politely, yet during the interminable evening she’d be roiling with animosity. She detested him and Bernard, but she was so adept at hiding her actual sentiments that they never noted the severe level of her dislike.

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

  “Bernard!” she sharply summoned. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He whipped around, irked at having been caught.

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

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

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

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

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

  “I don’t excuse you.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, for I have no intention of tarrying. Good night.”

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

  “I’m off to Georgette’s,” he boldly replied. “Where would you suppose?”

  “Don’t use that harlot’s name in this house.”

  “You asked; I answered. If you don’t want the truth, don’t press.”

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

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

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

  “We’ll see,” he enigmatically mused as if he had something up his lying, deceitful sleeve.

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

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

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

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

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

  * * *

  “Hello, Edward.”

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

  “Fine,” she retorted, which was a huge fib. She was the most miserable person he’d ever met.

  “I missed Bernard at supper.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “I presume you’ve told her,” he tentatively broached, “that she has no choice in the matter?”

  “Don’t worry. I shan’t allow her to embarrass us more than she has.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

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

  “You’re awfully determined.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Are you jealous? Is that why you’re pushing so hard for the match?”

  “Jealous! Of … of … Caroline?”

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

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s ancient history. I never reflect on it.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, I was too foolish to know any better. It was a passing fancy.”

  “Really?”

  He chuckled, aware that levity would infuriate her.

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

  “Don’t lie, Brit. If you had to do it all over again, you’d run off with me in a heartbeat.”

  “You flatter yourself, Edward.”

  “Do I?”

  “You’re the most inflated, vainglorious man. I never could abide you.”

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