Forbidden Fantasy Read online

  “I’ve known her a long time, Caro,” he quietly stated.

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

  “Good-bye,” she said.

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

  “I don’t want you to leave. Not when you’re so angry.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “You can’t lie to me. I know you too well.”

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

  “That’s not true, Caro. We’re old friends. You said so yourself.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” she cruelly retorted. “I apologize for pestering you. It won’t happen again.”

  “You haven’t been a bother. You’re welcome to stop by whenever you like.”

  “Don’t start being kind to me. Courtesy doesn’t become you.”

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

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

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

  It had been the worst afternoon of his life, and it wasn’t even three o’clock. If he had a hundred years to try, he wouldn’t be able to fix this for either woman.

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

  Chapter SIX

  “Remove your hand before I break your arm,” Rebecca warned.

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

  “I’m not afraid of you,” he blustered.

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Let me demonstrate why you should be.”

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

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

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

  “If I have to.”

  “I’m not the enemy.”

  “You couldn’t prove it by me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She increased her struggles.

  “Desist!” he ordered.

  “Not till you move!”

  “As if I’d move with you punching at me like a lunatic!”

  “If you didn’t deserve it, I wouldn’t be punching you!”

  He kissed her.

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

  He slid to the opposite seat, scowled, and insisted, “I didn’t mean to do that.”

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

  “I didn’t mean to do it, either.”

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

  “Look,” he started. “I’ve been thinking about the other day.”

  “And…?”

  “I said I wasn’t sorry, but I was mistaken. I’m very, very sorry that it occurred.”

  “Why? And as a woman who’s regularly accused of violent be
havior, might I suggest that you be extremely cautious in your reply?”

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

  “Ian is my brother,” he stupidly reminded her.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And you’re his mistress.”

  “That, too.”

  “What we did was wrong.”

  “Yes, it was,” she agreed.

  “I feel terrible.”

  “So do I.”

  “And I was thinking—”

  “About what?”

  “We have to tell him.”

  “Tell him! Are you insane?”

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

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

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

  She shook her head. “We can’t confess.”

  “We have to, Rebecca.”

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

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

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

  “We’ll pretend it never happened? We’ll sweep it under the rug?”

  “Yes.”

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

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  “What if I don’t wish to ignore you?”

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

  “I’m a healthy, red-blooded male. It’s not that easy.”

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

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

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  He scoffed with derision. “You really are a cold one, aren’t you?”

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

  “Yes, actually, I did.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “I’m fond of Ian,” she said.

  “You suppose I’m not?”

  “I won’t have him hurt by our folly.”

  “So it’s better to lie to him?”

  “Yes, it is.”

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

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

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

  “Why does Lady Caroline keep showing up on Ian’s stoop?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “How often has she been by?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “I’m not Ian’s nanny,” he snapped. “It’s hardly my job to track his guests.”

  “But she’s betrothed to Edward Shelton. Why is she visiting Ian?”

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

  “He hasn’t confided in you about her?”

  “No, and even if he had, I wouldn’t tell you.”

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

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

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

  “Have you met Wakefield?” she inquired.

  “No. Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s a wealthy, indolent aristocrat. What would you imagine?”

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

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

  “Really?”

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

  “No.”

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

  “He doesn’t love you.”

  “So?”

  “Then why would you?”

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

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

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

  “Why are you so greedy?”

  She bristled. “Until you’ve walked in my shoes, you have no right to judge.”

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

  “Bully for you.”

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

  “What an absolutely cruel thing to say.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I have to inform Ian of what we did,” he quietly announced. “I can’t live with myself.”

  “You are mad!”

  “I’m sure you’re correct.”

  “Have you considered the consequences? He might throw you out o
f his house. Or disavow your kinship. He might … might … challenge you to a duel!”

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

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

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

  “If you tell him, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

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

  “Will you get it through your thick head? I don’t know why my husbands keep dying!”

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

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

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

  Chapter SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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