Fantasy 02 - Forbidden Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Hello, Ian."

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

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

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

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

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

  A pox on all of them!

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

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

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

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

  Chapter Two

  Bloody hell!" Ian blew out a heavy breath and studied the ceiling. What was Caro doing? Had her snobbish attitude finally driven her over the edge?

  "Of all the nerve," Rebecca huffed. "Ordering you about as if you were a servant! Who does she think she is?"

  "She thinks she's the daughter of the Earl of Derby."

  "So? How can that give her the right to barge in and insult us? You ought to have her whipped."

  Jack rolled his eyes and asked, "Shall I go down and toss her out?"

  Ian shook his head. Only the worst sort of crisis would have spurred Caro to visit. Simple curiosity, if nothing else, would ensure he met with her.

  "No. I'll see what she wants."

  "You can't be serious," Rebecca griped. She frowned at Jack. "Send her packing. At once!"

  "Yes, Your Majesty!" Jack mocked.

  Ian sighed. He possessed a mild affection for

  Rebecca, and he enjoyed having her in his bed. For such a young woman, she was an accomplished lover who had few scruples, so she was a splendid paramour.

  Her reputation was more awful than his own, so when he'd set out to offend the members of High Society with his abominable character, she'd been the perfect choice as mistress, but he'd hooked up with her before Jack had arrived on his stoop.

  His despicable, deceased father, Douglas Clayton, had fornicated from one end of the realm to the other, without worrying over the paternal consequences. Ian had suspected that he had other siblings besides John, but until Jack had knocked on his door, he hadn't stumbled on any.

  He was thrilled to have Jack as a new brother, just as he was delighted to wallow in iniquity with Rebecca, but he couldn't stand being in the same room with them. Their mutual dislike had been instantaneous, and they fought like cats trapped in a sack, with Ian stuck between them and having to mediate their petty quarrels.

  "Rebecca," he said, "go home."

  "I won't!" she declared like a spoiled child. "You can't make me."

  "I can, and you will. And you're not to mention Lady Caroline to anyone."

  "As if I'd be quiet over this juicy tidbit!"

  "You will not speak of it!" Ian warned. "She's risked much by coming to me, and I won't have her besmirched by us."

  "Ooh, poor Caroline," Rebecca scoffed. 'The little lady needs a champion. How wonderful that it will be big, tough Ian Clayton."

  Ian ignored her and turned to Jack "Have the carriage readied; then escort Rebecca out—whether she agrees to go or not."

  "Lucky me," Jack sarcastically oozed.

  "Just do it," Ian grumbled.

  "Your wish is my command."

  "I won't go!" Rebecca insisted, to which Jack begged, "Let me pick her up and drag her out, would you? It would be so amusing to throw her out on her pretty ass."

  Rebecca scowled at Jack. "If you so much as—"

  "Jack! Rebecca! Be silent!"

  "You are not my husband, Ian," Rebecca reminded him. "I don't have to listen to you."

  "And you are not my wife, Rebecca, so I don't have to listen to you, either. You're going home. Now!"

  She was a female who would push and push, but she was savvy enough to realize when she'd gone too far. She peered at him, at Jack, at him again; then she shoved the covers aside, scrambled to the floor, and stomped toward the dressing room and her clothes in the bedchamber beyond.

  Her path led her directly past Jack, who was insolently loitering in the threshold and refused to move as she approached. With her curly red hair flowing to her waist, her fabulous, naked body visible for both of them to see, she was a sight—but she knew it.

  She stopped next to Jack, neither intimidated by him nor embarrassed by her nudity.

  "Have a good look, my darling boy. Tonight—when you're all alone in your bed—you can picture me and fantasize over what you'll never have."

  "I'll try not to get to
o hot and bothered."

  She stepped in, her torso nearly pressed to his. She appeared to be taunting him or testing his mettle. Jack stood his ground and didn't flinch, even when she licked her lush lips and shook her halo of auburn hair in a provocative way so that it shimmered and settled around her.

  "Will you dream of me?" she asked. "Or will you dream of... sheep?"

  "Definitely sheep."

  "I thought so. You seem the type."

  She exited, and on seeing her go, Ian sighed again.

  If she and Jack didn't despise each other, Ian might have played matchmaker. They were the same age, and they'd be a handsome couple. Their divergent qualities were an excellent combination of fire and calm, and though she denied it, Rebecca would like to marry, again. Other than Jack loathing her, he'd be ideal as her spouse. He could rein in her more outrageous tendencies, which Ian—being an ancient thirty-two— would never have the stamina to do.

  She was too much for him. All that temper and vitality simply made him weary.

  "Are you really planning to speak with Lady Caroline?" Jack inquired, yanking Ian out of his pitiful reverie.

  "I suppose I must. Why didn't you wake me when she first arrived?"

  "I tried, but you were too hungover. You didn't hear me."

  Ian had no comment. Once, he'd have been ashamed of his deteriorated circumstance, but not anymore.

  As Douglas Clayton's natural son, sired in a Scottish village when Douglas had been on a hunting jaunt, Ian enjoyed confounding the snooty members of the ton. He'd acted the part of the refined gentleman, spending so much time pretending he belonged to their society that he'd actually started to believe he did.

  But base blood controls. It was an old axiom, but apropos. He'd been born a bastard, would always be a bastard, and he saw no reason to behave any differently. Since his final, ugly fight with John, when he'd hurt his dear brother so deeply, he'd accepted the fact that he was a scoundrel. No matter how he'd previously striven to prove otherwise, he had no redeeming traits.

  He was now a drunkard, gambler, and scapegrace, and he wouldn't lament how his foul attributes had taken charge and were ruling him.

  He eased his legs over the edge of the mattress. His head pounded, his stomach roiled, and sweat pooled on his brow.

  Jack leapt to his rescue, filling a glass of whiskey and holding it out. At Ian's quizzical glare, Jack explained, "Hair of the dog."

  "Marvelous. Just what I need."

  Ian swilled the entire thing, shuddered with revulsion, then stood and staggered to the dressing room. He clad himself in trousers and shirt, though he didn't bother to tuck it in or button up the neck. He rolled up the sleeves and—unshaven, unwashed, unshod—he proceeded downstairs.

  When she viewed his unkempt state, Lady Caroline would likely swoon, but he cared not. She was the very last person he'd expected to show up at his door. He hadn't invited her, and if she didn't like his disheveled condition, she could go hang.

  As if he were an arrow and she his target, he trudged to his library, intrigued as to why she'd visited, but he declined to speculate, for he wouldn't admit to any heightened interest. He would courteously attend her, then send her on her way.

  He entered and walked straight to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. The one Jack dispensed had had an enormous medicinal effect, and with another dose Ian was certain he'd begin to feel human.

  Caroline was over by the window, trying to ignore him, but as the rim of the decanter clinked on the glass, she whipped around, her disapproval gallingly obvious.

  "Honestly, Ian," she scolded, "it's the middle of the day, and that liquor is so potent. I'd like you to at least pretend sobriety while we talk. Must you imbibe?"

  "Yes, I must."

  He gulped the contents. To spite her, he poured another and gulped it, too. She had a way of tilting her aristocratic nose up in the air, of pronouncing her words with a hint of disdain that nipped at his feelings of inferiority.

  Her contempt made him angry, made him want to wound her, which was impossible. She was built of ice; she had a heart of stone.

  "I didn't ask you here," he pointed out. "If my habits offend you, leave."

  "You're drinking to annoy me."

  "No, I'm drinking because I feel like it. Your opinion is totally irrelevant."

  "You're being an ass."

  "I'm being myself."

  "You've changed."

  "No, I haven't. You're the one who regularly sniped at me because of my crude conduct. I've merely given it free rein."

  Still, her low esteem rankled, and the glass was suddenly heavy as an anvil. He put it on the sideboard, as if that's what he'd intended all along. In a huff, hating her, eager to have her gone, he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

  "What do you want?"

  "I need to speak with you."

  "On what topic? And be quick about it. I've things to do and places to be, and I won't waste a single second with you."

  She studied him as if he were a curious insect. "What have you to do? Will you continue cavorting with Mrs. Blake? Is she upstairs?"

  "What if she is?"

  "Really, Ian, should you fraternize with her? She's so unsavory. What's gotten into you? You used to have better sense."

  A muscle ticked in his cheek, and he struggled to keep from marching over, tossing her over his knee, and giving her the spanking she deserved.

  At age twenty, he'd come to London, paid handsomely by his contemptible father to spy on John, then secretly report on his misadventures. John had thought they were friends, but they never had been.

  For twelve accursed years, Ian had ingratiated himself to John so that he could eavesdrop and tattle. He had an incredible knack for betrayal and duplicity, and by deceiving John, he'd become wealthy, but his prosperity was like a weight around his neck, choking him with all that had been lost.

  Through it all, Caroline had been a constant. When he'd initially met her, she'd been an irksome adolescent, and he'd watched from the background as she'd grown from a cheery, beautiful girl into a frustrated, fuming spinster.

  As she'd waited for John to marry her—something he was never going to do—her smile had dimmed and her demeanor soured, until she'd ended up as cold and unpleasant as her parents or her older brother, Adam.

  Ian had tolerated, detested, and lusted after her in equal measure. He'd pined away, silently coveting her, but his attraction had been fueled by envy and resentment.

  He was Douglas Clayton's oldest son, but because the philandering prig hadn't wed Ian's mother, Ian was nothing to anyone. John was the heir; John held the title and fortune. The unfairness had eaten away at Ian, had left him bitter over all that John possessed.

  Ian had wanted Caroline because she'd been John's. There was no higher motive behind his enticement.

  It was a despicable legacy, one that he couldn't bear to recall, and he hated being in her presence. She reminded him of the sins he'd committed, of the ways he'd failed John and himself. He didn't need her strutting in and insulting him for his choices or mode of carrying on.

  "That's enough." He walked over and clasped her arm. "Let's go." "To where?"

  "I'm sure this will come as an enormous surprise to you, but I don't have to stand here, in my own library, and listen to you denigrating my acquaintances. You're leaving."

  "I am not."

  "You are."

  He stepped toward the hall, but she dug in her heels and wouldn't budge. He pulled again, but couldn't move her, and he was stunned by her resolve.

  She'd always been the most tractable of females. Her submissive nature had driven John to distraction and was the reason he'd refused to marry her.

  Ian, too, had frequently chided her over her willingness to please, over her absolute devotion to duty. Her life was a long charade of missed opportunities. She never stood up for herself, stated an opinion, or grabbed for what she craved.

  Yet all of a sudden, she was firm and adamant
. From where had this new virago sprung? Why had she picked this moment—when he simply wanted her gone—to exhibit some backbone?

  "Stop it," he scolded.

  "Stop what?"

  "You're being obstinate."

  "And you're being ridiculous."

  "I'm allowed. It's my home, and you're not welcome in it."

  "Would you kiss me?"

  He faltered and staggered away. "What did you say?" "You heard me."

  "I could swear that you asked me to kiss you, so I couldn't possibly have. Now go."

  He pointed to the door, figuring that if he couldn't haul her out, maybe she'd depart on her own, but she didn't. Instead, like the most experienced coquette, she closed the distance between them and snuggled herself to him. Not a smidgen of space separated them, so he could feel every inch of her delectable torso. Her breasts, in particular, were riveting, the soft mounds molded to him as if they belonged there and nowhere else.

  "Kiss me," she repeated.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don't like you, so I don't wish to." "You did it once before," she mentioned, making it sound like a challenge.

  "And I've regretted it ever since."

  "Have you? Let's see."

  Stunning him again, she rose on tiptoe and brushed her ruby lips to his. For an insane instant, he permitted the contact. He'd always desired her, and apparently, neither time nor distance had lessened his fascination.

  Why not forge ahead? a diabolical voice goaded. Why not take what she is offering?

  The urging was so strong that he wondered if Satan, himself, wasn't off in the corner and coaxing him to misbehave.

  He lurched away, but she clutched at his shirt, trying to draw him to her, the two of them wrestling over whether to reinitiate the embrace. It was the most absurd, farcical episode of his life, and he would have laughed if he hadn't been so disoriented.

  He lifted her and physically set her away.

  "Have you gone mad?"

  "Occasionally, I feel that I have."

  "You can't waltz in here and demand to be... be ... kissed."

  "Why can't I?"

  "It's just not done!"

  "Oh."