by Cheryl Holt
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 behavior, 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 stack 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 torn 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 he 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?"
T 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 then 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 juve
nile 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 of 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.
Luckily, John wasn't present. Ian had no desire to converse with the disreputable bounder, and he would have hated to place Emma in an awkward situation.
Jack was standing next to him, the two of them on their way to join Rebecca at the theater. They'd quarreled as to whether Jack would attend, too, so they weren't in the best mood to greet Emma.
Something was eating away at Jack, something important and troubling, but Ian wouldn't probe for what it was. Jack would blurt it out when he was ready. There was no use pestering him.
Still, for reasons Ian didn't comprehend, he wished he hadn't brought Jack along. Emma would confide to John that they had another brother, and Ian didn't want John to know.
Jack had a childlike infatuation with John, and he was intrigued by all that John symbolized as far as their noble heritage. Absurd as it sounded, Ian was terrified that John would steal Jack away. John was a dynamic and charismatic individual, and with Jack being Ian's only kin, Ian couldn't bear to share him. Not with John. Not with anyone.
"Hello, Lady Wakefield," he said as she neared, and he bowed.
"Lady Wakefield!" She laughed and peered around. "Whenever I hear that tide attached to my name, I automatically presume the person is referring to someone else. You knew me when I was Miss Fitzgerald. I think that means you should call me Emma."
"Hello, Emma." "How have you been?"
She took his hands and squeezed them, and he couldn't resist her friendly charm. "I'm fine."
"John and I have missed you so much. We chat about you every day."
At the tidings, he suffered the silliest spurt of gladness, but he ignored it. She was the ultimate diplomat, and he was certain she was lying. John would never have mentioned him. Their last fight had been too hideous, the basis of John's dislike too shameful and too appropriate. There could be no reconciliation.
Emma spun toward Jack and asked, "And who is your handsome companion?"
Huddled in the shadows as they were, it was difficult to see Jack clearly. With his blond hair and blue eyes—that were an exact replica of her husband's—his resemblance to John was uncanny.
She clutched a fist over her heart and muttered, "Oh, my Lord."
Ian reached out to steady her. "What is it?"
"Is he ... is he ... John's son? I had no idea. Does John know?"
"No, no," Ian hastily soothed, "he's not John's son. You can't tell here in the dark, but he's much too old."
"Oh ... well..." Her pulse slowed, her composure reasserting itself.
"I'm sorry. It never occurred to me that you might make such a shocking assumption. This is Mr. Jack Clayton Romsey."
Jack bowed, too. "Lady Wakefield, I'm so pleased to finally meet you. I apologize for any distress."
Emma frowned at Ian. "A Clayton cousin?"
"A brother," Ian gently said.
"A brother! John will be thrilled." She turned her radiant smile on Jack. "What is your story, Jack? May I call you Jack?"
"I'd be honored, milady."
"Why do we know nothing of you? How did you come to be living with Ian?"
Ian explained, "He showed up on my stoop a few months ago."
"Really? Just like that? What a splendid conclusion for both of you."
"I had a letter," Jack stated, "that my mother gave to me when I was a boy, and I always kept it. It was from my father."
"How very romantic!" Emma beamed.
As if a silent signal had been sent, she glanced over her shoulder. A man had exited the restaurant, and Ian and Jack espied him at the same time.
"There's John now. John!" she summoned her husband. "You won't believe who I've found."
Though he was only twenty or thirty feet away, the true distance between them was as vast as an ocean. John pulled up short and glared at Ian, but didn't speak.
"Who's that?" Jack inquired. "Is it Lord Wakefield?"
"Let's go, Jack," Ian said. He grabbed the younger man by the arm and tried to drag him away.
Jack shook him off. "I want to be introduced."
"Jack! Come on!" Ian insisted more sternly.
"Don't be ridiculous," Emma scolded. "Of course you'll stay and meet him."
"I'm fond of you, Emma," Ian quietly replied, "but don't put yourself in the middle of this. You don't belong there."
"Nonsense! Whatever concerns John, concerns me, too. He's not angry, and the two of you will not continue this idiotic feud. Not if I have anything to say about it."
"It's not about anger, Emma. It was perfidy and betrayal, pure and simple."
She glowered at John, then at Ian, but neither of them had moved an inch, and she marched to John, ready to do what, Ian couldn't guess. Emma was like a force of nature, positive she could bend everyone to her will, but not in this case. His conduct toward John was beyond forgiveness.
It was the most humiliating interval of his life, and he wasn't about to tarry and be given a cut direct that would have had High Society gossiping for ages. Not by John—whom he'd loved so dearly. He wouldn't be able to bear it.
"Come, Jack. Let's
go." His brother didn't budge, and Ian repeated, "Jack!"
Ian whipped away and hurried off, taking an opposite route from where Lord and Lady Wakefield were furiously whispering, and he didn't peek over to see if Jack had obeyed his command to depart. If Jack had remained behind, if he'd loitered like a sycophant, hoping for Wakefield's notice and blessing, Ian would be crushed.
He rushed around the corner, and for an instant, he thought John bellowed, Ian, wait! but he was certain his fevered mind was trying to switch fantasy into reality. He didn't stop.
Momentarily, Jack caught up to him. With Jack torn between the sibling he didn't know and the one he did, familiarity had won out, and Ian's relief was so great that he was amazed his knees didn't buckle.
He was terribly undone by the encounter, but he didn't want Jack to perceive his upset, and as Jack sidled nearer, Ian's face was an expressionless mask. Only the shaking of his hands provided any indication of how seriously he'd been affected.
They walked on, proceeding toward the entrance to the theater.
Finally, Jack broke the awkward silence. "Lady Wakefield seems very nice."
"She's wonderful," Ian agreed.
"What did you do to Lord Wakefield that caused your fight?"
"Nothing."
"Liar. Tell me. It can't be that ghastly."
It was on the tip of his tongue to confess. He'd never apprised anyone about that awful night, about the horrid accusations that had flown, or the painful information that had been revealed. He was wretched, keeping it all in, acting as if none of it mattered. As he tried to gamble himself into poverty and drink himself into oblivion, the truth was eating him alive.
"It's water under the bridge," he mumbled, incapable of justifying.
Recognizing that he'd get no answers, Jack sighed. "Will Rebecca be joining us?"
"She said she would. Why?"
"I'd just as soon not sit with her."
"I've purchased a box, so she'll be there. She's too much of an attention-seeker to miss the opportunity to have all of London gawking at her."
"That's what I was afraid of."
"Do me a favor," Ian snapped.
"What?"
"Don't make a scene. I'm not in the mood for any of your antics with her."
"I know how to behave in public," Jack bristled. "Regardless of what you think, I wasn't raised by wolves."