Fantasy 02 - Forbidden Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  In a snit, he stormed off. They were outside the theater, and he waded into the crowd and vanished, making it a perfectly bad ending to a perfectly bad day.

  Ian was still reeling from his earlier spat with Rebecca and Caro. Rebecca would get over it. She was too bent on marriage, and she'd persuade herself to forgive him. As to Caro, she'd never speak to him again, and the prospect was more troubling than it should have been.

  At his loss of her esteem, coupled with his stumbling on John and Emma, he was completely disordered, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. As he climbed the steps into the building, he was incredibly self-conscious, feeling more isolated and more alone than he'd ever been.

  With his disposition being so foul, the notion of enduring a tepid comedy was abhorrent. He almost turned to leave, but he'd invited Rebecca, so he started up the stairs to his box. He trudged toward it, when the horde split, and he was face-to-face with the Earl of Derby's party.

  The Earl, himself, wasn't present. It was the most open secret in the city that he rarely consorted with his wife, so it was the Countess, with her only son, Adam, as her escort. Behind them, appearing miserable and oddly mismatched, were Caro and her fianc6, Edward Shelton.

  Shelton was lumbering and obese, his gray hair thin and balding, and he was much older than Ian recollected. In stark contrast, Caro looked like a shiny angel. She was dressed in a silvery gown that shimmered when she moved, the sapphire trim enhancing the blue in her eyes, making them seem larger and more luminous. Her blond hair was swept up in an intricate chignon, a few ringlets dangling on either side to accent her beautiful features.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her back ramrod straight, and she was trembling slightly, giving him the distinct impression that she was furious.

  Had her mother said something vile? Or had Caroline and Shelton been quarreling? Shelton had his hand on her arm, guiding her through the melee, and Ian suffered the most virulent surge of jealousy.

  His head flashed with disturbing images of Caro's wedding night, of fat, perverted Edward pinning her down and ravaging her as she pleaded for mercy.

  The vision was so clear, and so disgusting, that Ian could scarcely keep from racing over and yanking Shelton away. He couldn't stand to have Shelton touching her, couldn't stand to know that—very soon— Shelton would have the right to do whatever he wished to her.

  Her wedding was a month away, and Ian felt ill just from considering what it would mean. Caro had been betrothed to John for years, and Ian had stoically accepted the circumstance. Despite the demands of both fathers, John had had no intention of ever marrying her, so she'd been safely single. But now, jolted by the hard evidence that she was engaged to someone who was prepared to follow through, he was too distraught for words.

  He wanted to burst into the middle of the family gathering, wanted to force them to acknowledge his existence. He never approached them in public, for he refused to give them the chance to snub him. Previously, due to his kinship with John, they'd been coolly courteous, but since John's split from Caro, they were overtly hostile. He avoided them like the plague, but suddenly, he was determined to talk to Caro, to witness some hint of affection that would tell him he still mattered to her.

  It was folly, it was insanity, his rage being all out of proportion to the situation, but he couldn't put it aside. He marched over, bold as brass, and insinuated himself in front of Lady Derby, coming so near that she would have had to knock him down in order to skirt around him.

  "Good evening, Countess," he said.

  "Mr. Clayton," she replied with a regal nod.

  As if he were vermin, she stepped by him and into the box, with Adam pausing to hold the curtain for her.

  "Adam," Ian said, "how have you been?"

  "It's Lord Silverton to you," Adam growled as if they hadn't been cordial for the past decade, and he, too, swept in, leaving Ian alone with Caro and Shelton.

  "Hello, Caro." He inappropriately used her nickname, daring her to comment.

  "Mr. Clayton." She imbued the greeting with the same amount of disdain exhibited by her mother.

  "Aren't you going to introduce me to your fiancé?'

  "No."

  He was accustomed to their rebuffs and pretensions, but still, it hurt him, and he chuckled nastily. "You Fosters are such a bunch of snobs. Don't your necks get tired from sticking your noses so far up in the air?"

  At the slur, she bit down on a caustic retort, which had him eager to rattle one loose.

  "I say," Shelton interrupted, "we don't have to stand here and be insulted by the likes of you."

  Shelton urged Caro along, and Ian had to physically restrain himself, lest he reach over and punch the man.

  "Who are you, sir?" Ian persisted. "I had assumed you were her fiancé, but I believe I'm mistaken. Aren't you her grandfather?"

  People were eavesdropping, and they tittered and guffawed. Malicious gossip would fly for days, and he was shocked that he'd instigate so much trouble. Obviously, he'd been spending too much time with Rebecca and absorbing her spiteful habits.

  "You're an ass, Mr. Clayton," Caro responded. "You always have been."

  She waltzed away, Shelton tagging after her, the curtain of the box fluttering shut, but sealing them in as firmly as if it had been made of iron.

  He dawdled, like a beggar on the street, and he was so bloody tempted to storm in after them, to throw things, curse at them, and continue the despicable scene, but it occurred to him that his indignation was absurd.

  He wasn't concerned over what Caro elected to do. He never had been. If she chose to bow to her father's dictate and wed an aged reprobate, what was it to Ian?

  Feigning nonchalance, he tugged on his coat and shrugged to the onlookers.

  "I can't wait to see the children they produce."

  He shuddered dramatically, igniting another round of titters. Then, as if he hadn't a care in the world, he walked on to his own box and climbed in.

  Neither Rebecca nor Jack had arrived, and his initial impulse was to head home so he could fume in private.

  The brief exchange had pushed him to a dangerous precipice where he wasn't anxious to linger. All his life, he'd grappled with the class distinctions forced on him by his bastardry. He'd coveted and begrudged, but had valiantly fought against his envy and resentment. He'd told himself that he'd moved beyond it, that it no longer had the power to wound as it had when he was younger. But he'd been fooling himself.

  The old feelings of impotence and inequity surged to the fore, and he yearned to smash through every wall that had ever been constructed to keep him from joining the exalted ranks of the aristocracy. He was suffocating on an injustice he didn't deserve and couldn't battle.

  He wanted to rail and shout, but he'd never let the horrid members of the ton realize how grave his distress. They were watching him, giggling and pointing when they thought he couldn't see.

  Off to his right, Caro's party was ensconced in their seats, sitting like glum statues, refusing to fuel the fire of rumor Ian had sparked.

  He tarried through the first act, then the second, all eyes upon him to learn what he might do. The third act began, and he slipped out and raced down the stairs and into the cold, wet night.

  His mind in turmoil, his emotions careening with fury and desolation, he glanced in both directions, wondering where to go next.

  Chapter Eight

  Who's there?" Caroline peered into the dark shadows of her bedchamber. Her maid had left a candle burning, and the flame sputtered. A storm was brewing, an odd burst of winter thunder reverberating through the house. The door to her balcony cracked open, the curtains fluttering, her nightgown billowing out.

  "Who's there?" she asked again, and like a ghostly apparition, a man stepped across the threshold.

  He was attired all in black, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders, and she bit down a squeal of fright.

  "Lock the door," he commanded, as he came into view.

  "Ia
n," she murmured, astonished.

  For him to have scaled the bastion that was her father's mansion, to have risked danger and ruin merely to be alone with her, was too marvelous and too terrifying to be true. Was he insane?

  "Get out of here!" she hissed.

  "No."

  "You're not welcome." "I don't care."

  "I won't speak with you—not after how you behaved at the theater."

  "Lock the door!" he repeated.

  Approaching until they were toe-to-toe, he reached over and spun the key, sealing them in. Then he pushed her against the wall and fell on her like a starved beast. There was none of the courtesy or finesse he'd exhibited during their previous trysts. He was livid, teeming with rage and passion, so agitated that she was alarmed by his intensity.

  He seized her mouth in a torrid kiss, his hands on her breasts, his thigh wedged between her legs. His lips were icy, his fingers, too, as if he'd tarried in the dastardly weather for hours, waiting for the moment she'd enter her room.

  He lifted her, her bare thighs wrapped around his waist, so that she was splayed wide, their intimate parts connected, igniting a fire low in her belly. She'd planned to ignore him and send him away, but she was surprised to find that his rough handling was exactly what she needed. She scratched and clawed at him, fighting to get nearer.

  She was blazing with an ache she wanted him to assuage, but footsteps echoed in the hall as her brother climbed the stairs and headed for his own room.

  Ian yanked away and glared at her, seeming to accuse her for Adam's passing by, and he clamped his palm over her mouth so that she couldn't call out.

  As if she would! The last thing she would ever do was summon assistance, for she could never justify his furtive arrival.

  Her brother walked on, without breaking stride, without having a clue that his sister was being ravished a few feet away. As he retreated, Ian carried her to the bed. He dropped her onto the mattress and crawled on top of her, and he kissed her again, being fierce and unrelenting, demanding that she return his ardor with an equal fervor.

  "Don't ever pretend that you don't know me," he growled.

  "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."

  T 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 / 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 ano
ther 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.