by Cheryl Holt
“I hate you!” she seethed.
“I don’t care if you hate me,” he declared. “Just don’t snub me—before your mother and her snooty friends. I can’t bear it when you do.”
It was the must stunning confession she’d ever heard. He always contended that he held her society in contempt, that her position meant nothing to him.
Obviously, he’d been wounded by her disregard, and she yearned to shake him. How was she supposed to have responded to his galling public advance?
He was the one who’d thrust himself at her mother, when he was aware of how she would react. He’d been an insulting boor, which, in her opinion, was his condition most of the time. Had he expected Caroline to leap to his rescue? If so, he was completely deranged!
“What do you want from me?” she asked, though in a whisper.
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you here?”
“I can’t begin to explain.”
“You must have some idea.”
“I had to see you.” He appeared bewildered, as if his actions were incomprehensible to him.
“Give me one reason I should let you stay. Give me one reason I shouldn’t scream bloody murder and bring the servants running.”
“I want you,” he said. “I’ve always wanted you.”
“Have you?”
“You know I have.”
She scoffed. “I know nothing of the sort. You’ve never been anything but snide and critical.”
“That’s because I’m mad about you and you drive me berserk with your ridiculous conduct.”
“If you’re mad about me—as you claim—you have a funny way of showing it.”
He slid off her and onto his back, an arm flung over his eyes as he wrestled with private demons. She watched him struggle, and she was overcome by the strongest urge to soothe and comfort. It was a lover’s inclination, a wife’s inclination. She felt so at ease with him, as if they’d lain like this, sharing secrets in the dark, a thousand occasions prior.
“What is it, Ian?” She caressed his chest, his heartbeat discernible under her hand, and it was the most superb sensation in the world.
After a lengthy pause, he admitted, “I bumped into John.”
“What did he say to put you in such a state?”
“We didn’t speak.”
“Really?”
“No.”
There’d been gossip of a terrible quarrel, that John had ordered Ian out of his home and his life. While the rift was occurring, Caroline had had her own problem—that being her failed engagement of twenty-four years—so she’d been too wretched to worry about the stories. But now, she couldn’t help but wonder what had caused their discord. Ian had always thought that John treated her abominably, and an awful suspicion dawned: Had she been the catalyst?
“Would you like to tell me about it?” she inquired.
He chuckled, but sadly. “No.”
“It wasn’t on account of me, was it? I’d be very upset if the two of you were fighting about me.”
“It wasn’t because of you.”
“Then … why?”
He gazed at the ceiling, and she had just started to think he’d confide in her, when he rolled onto his side and drew her into his arms.
“You can’t marry Edward Shelton. He’s depraved in a manner you don’t understand.”
“He’s my father’s friend.”
“I realize that, but their relationship doesn’t preclude his having strange tendencies.”
“As far as I’m concerned, all men are peculiar.”
“It’s more loathsome than that. He’s perverted in his tastes, extreme in his pleasures.”
“Then he’ll hire whores to tend his base needs.”
“You can’t marry him, Caro. I won’t let you.”
“It’s none of your business, Ian.”
“It is! I don’t want you hurt—as he will definitely hurt you.”
She was humored by his apprehension. Did he suppose she had a dozen other choices, that she was a magician who could pull a different future out of a hat?
“And what would become of me if I didn’t wed Mr. Shelton?”
“Demand that your father find you someone else.”
It was her turn to chuckle miserably. “Haven’t you heard what people are saying about me? Rumor has it that John seduced me, that I’m a soiled dove.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
“So? The facts don’t matter. No other man will have me. My father scrounged to the bottom of the barrel and stumbled on Mr. Shelton. There is no one else.”
“Then … then … continue on as you have been, living with your parents.”
“Till when? Should I stay till I’m thirty? Fifty? A hundred?”
“You’re being flip, while I’m being serious.”
“My father doesn’t want me in his house any longer.”
“Nonsense.”
“It’s true,” she divulged. “I eavesdropped when he was arguing with Mother. He’s tired of supporting me.”
“You can’t marry Shelton.” He was beginning to sound like a broken clock that kept chiming the same hour.
“And you shouldn’t persist in your liaison with Mrs. Blake. Will you stop?”
“No, I won’t. Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m mentioning it because I’m jealous of her.”
“You are not.”
“I am, and I’m not too proud to tell you. But how about you? What is the real basis for your objection to Mr. Shelton?”
“I’ve told you: He’s exceedingly dissolute.”
“And that’s it?”
He couldn’t look her in the eye but stared somewhere over her shoulder. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Are you sure you have no personal motive? Because if you did, this might be the moment to inform me.”
“And what would you do? Would you cry off on your betrothal? Would you leave Shelton waiting at the church and run away with me?”
“I might surprise you. Don’t forget: I came to you, begging to be ruined.”
“And I told you that I wouldn’t do it.”
“So change your mind. Alter my fate.”
At the bold declaration, her pulse raced. Her life had been so steeped in ritual and ceremony that she’d never envisioned another ending.
What if she declined to do as her father bid her? What if she cast caution to the wind? Would the Earth cease spinning? Would the sun not rise in the morning sky?
“You don’t really want it to happen, Caro,” he gently said.
“I might,” she insisted, “if you gave me a good enough reason.”
“You’d never follow through,” he replied. “I know you too well. You’d never shame your family.”
He was correct, but she didn’t want him to be. She liked to imagine herself as spontaneous and brave, able to defy her father and march away from her marriage without a backward glance, but she wouldn’t. She’d been trained from birth to value and preserve the traditions of status and class, of wealth and privilege. To expect her to believe that a different path was possible, he might as well ask her to believe that the ocean was red or the grass blue.
She smiled and admitted, “You’re right in saying that I would never go off with you, but I’m not married yet.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I have this month stretching ahead of me. I don’t want to wed Mr. Shelton without learning what it was like to be with you.”
She was amazed by her proposal, but suddenly, it seemed like the only feasible solution, as if she’d been planning to do this from the very first.
“Will you give me this piece of yourself?” she inquired. “Will you grant me this gift that I shall treasure all my days?”
* * *
Ian frowned, struggling with what his answer should be.
He’d always deemed her the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, and with her on her bed, her hair down and attired in her nightclothes
, he was even more astounded by her perfection. The dim glow of the candle accentuated her creamy skin, her flawless features, making him ache, making him yearn to give her what she wanted. But should he?
A month was such a short interval, and when the sole purpose of the affair was a fleeting dalliance, was it worth the bother?
They’d have to tiptoe about, would have to plot and scheme so that they weren’t caught. Their trysts would be furtive and brief, their occasions for consorting minimal and dangerous.
The slightest whiff of association would bring disaster. Her parents would never let him wed her as a reparation. She’d be shipped off in disgrace, to a rural estate or convent, and he’d never see her again.
Rebecca would be enraged, spurred to commit murder, which—considering her history—was no small concern. Jack would be disappointed by what he’d view as despicable conduct, and his attitude toward Ian as an idolized older brother would fade.
Yet, if Ian forged on, he would have thirty magnificent days with Caro. Each morning—for an entire month!—he’d jump out of bed, excited that she might be able to sneak away, that they might be together for a few minutes or hours.
Silly as it sounded, being with her made him happy, and when he’d always been so alone and unwanted, when contentment was so elusive, the chance for a temporary reprieve was enticing.
Could he agree? How could he not?
“Thirty days,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“I can make you no promises.”
“Nor can I make any to you.”
“We’ll have to be very careful.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“And I shall have to practice restraint—in my manly drives.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“You must go to your marital bed a virgin.”
She sighed. “I suppose I must.”
“I’ll ensure that you do.”
“Before we’re through, will you at least advise me as to what the loss of my virginity entails? I’d like to have some idea as to how it occurs so that I’ll know when it happens.”
“You’ll definitely know.”
“How?”
“It’s a very physical endeavor.”
“What is involved?”
His cheeks flamed bright red. He had no notion of how to explain the ordeal. He had sex with women who were aware of what was required, and he couldn’t imagine describing the details. She probably wouldn’t believe him anyway. It would seem too odd.
“I’ll show you as much as I can. We can come very close without actually progressing to the end.”
“Marvelous.”
“Yes, it will be. No regrets, Caro.”
“Nary a one, Ian.”
He began kissing her again, and he was nervous as a lad with his first girl. Now that they’d decided to philander, he was so worried about pleasing her.
The rage he’d suffered at the theater had waned, and it had been replaced by a determination to make her happy. When their affair was concluded, and they went their separate ways, he wanted her to be glad for what they’d done.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue in her mouth, his hands on her breasts. He molded and shaped them, plucking at the erect nipples, but he couldn’t stand that she was hidden from him. He fussed with the tiny buttons on her nightgown, but they were so difficult to open, and he quickly lost patience.
“I have to have you naked,” he told her.
“Naked! Well…”
He was demanding too much, too soon, but he felt as if he’d been waiting all his life to be with her. He clasped the neckline and rent the garment down the middle.
“Ian! You can’t be tearing off my clothes!”
“Why not?”
“My maid will suspect what I’ve been doing.”
“Burn it in the fire when we’re finished.”
At that moment, he was so aroused that he didn’t care about such petty matters as clothes or a servant’s opinion.
He yanked at the ruined fabric, pushing it to the side so that her front was exposed. He studied her nude torso, his hot attention drifting across her chest, her mons, her thighs. His loins lurched with potent delight, keen to be nearer, to explore in ways he oughtn’t.
“You’re so pretty, Caro.”
“Do you think so?” She flushed a charming shade of pink.
“Oh, yes. So pretty—and all mine.”
He fondled her breasts, and at his touching her, bare skin to bare skin, she hissed and arched up, trying to escape, but to offer more of herself, too.
“This is how I want you,” he stated. “I want you naked and aching for me.”
“Oh, that feels so good.”
“And it’s about to feel even better.”
He abandoned her mouth and blazed a trail to her bosom, his hungry lips eager to nurse at her nipple. He suckled, being hard and rough, keeping on till the tip was raw and inflamed; then he moved to the other and proceeded to do the same.
“Let me show you something,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
“Tell me!”
“No.”
“Beast!”
“Always.”
He continued down, nibbling her tummy, her abdomen. As he arrived at her womanly hair and prepared to delve inside, she raised off the pillow and glared at him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to kiss you here.”
“You are not.”
“I am.”
“Ian!”
“Be silent. You wouldn’t want anyone to catch us like this, would you?”
“No.”
“Then be quiet.”
She flopped down, as he wedged himself between her thighs, planted so firmly that she couldn’t shove him away. He parted her nether lips, his tongue lapping at her most secret spot, and her protests ceased.
He held her down, inflicting bliss, until she was moaning and forgetting where they were and what they were about.
“Hush!” he scolded. “Someone will hear.”
“I can’t help myself.”
“You have to.”
“Just finish it! I can’t bear this torment.”
“All in good time, my little beauty. All in good time.”
“If you don’t hurry, I shall have to kill you.”
He laughed and took pity on her, dabbing at her sexual nub, once, again, and she came in a rush, a scream of pleasure billowing out. He grabbed the pillow and pressed it over her face to stifle the noise, but still, it was noticeable.
As she spiraled up, he froze, his ear toward the door. If anyone had been walking by, they’d have noted the commotion, but no one was there, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
He hated that this was how it would go. They would flirt and seduce, would trifle and tease, but they would be courting danger at every turn. When the passion they generated was so remarkable, the perils didn’t seem fair.
She climbed to the peak and was floating down as he nuzzled up her body. He kissed her, and as she grinned and kissed him back, he decided that she was worth every risk.
She pulled him close and whispered, “You are so wicked.”
“I try my best.”
“I want to do it again.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“I want to do it all night.”
“You can, milady.”
“I love it when a man lets me have my way.”
He gazed down at her, and the strangest sensation swept over him. He felt as if his heart didn’t fit under his ribs, as if he was smiling—but on the inside. It had to be joy. There was no other sentiment that matched the queer, quivery feeling racing from his center to his extremities.
He rolled onto his back, with her draped across him.
“Let me show you something else,” he said.
“I can hardly wait.”
He reached for his shirt and started in on the buttons.<
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Chapter NINE
“Isn’t that Father?”
“No, it isn’t.”
Britannia ignored Caroline and stared straight ahead, refusing to glance down the street, for she was aware of what she’d see.
“I’m sure it’s him,” Caroline persisted. “There. In front of that tea shop.”
“You’re wrong.”
As far as Britannia knew, neither of her two children had a clue that the Earl was a lying, cheating scoundrel. It was a shame she’d sought to hide at all costs. She turned in the opposite direction, forsaking her trip to the milliner’s. Caroline had no choice but to spin and follow.
“The weather is so dreary,” Caroline complained. “I could use a hot refreshment. Shall we join him? I bet he’d be surprised.”
I bet he would be, too, Britannia sourly mused. “We aren’t chasing strange men into culinary establishments. Honestly, Caroline, what’s come over you? Would you hurry along?”
Caroline was keeping up, but barely. “I thought you wanted to buy a new hat.”
“I have a headache, so we’re going home.”
“Who’s he with?” Caroline was gaping over her shoulder, trying to unravel a mystery that wasn’t a mystery, at all. “Why … it’s a girl. I don’t know her, though. Isn’t she a pretty little thing?”
“Well, that certainly proves it’s not your father. He wouldn’t be off gallivanting in the middle of the afternoon. He has meetings with his land agent all day.”
They arrived at her carriage, the footmen loafing and unprepared for her sudden reappearance. They jumped to attention and lifted her in. She pressed her bulky form against the squab, soothed by the dark confines, the soft feel and smell of leather.
Caroline was outside and still staring behind her, and Britannia snapped, “Caroline! Don’t stand there gawking like a scullery maid. You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Get in.”
“In a minute, Mother.”
“If you are not in this carriage in five seconds, we shall drive off without you.”
“I’m coming; I’m coming.”
Caroline’s irritation was clear, so the footmen would have noted her pique, which would have them gossiping over Britannia’s having raised a disrespectful daughter. Britannia was so angry that she yearned to lumber out and beat Caroline to a bloody pulp. Only the prospect that others might see kept her planted in her seat.