Fantasy 02 - Forbidden Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  Across the room, he opened the door a crack and peeked out.

  "Yes?" His voice was amazingly calm.

  "I heard a loud bang, sir," the butler said.

  "A bang?" He was innocence, itself.

  "I thought I should check. It sounded like a gunshot."

  "Oh, that!"

  "There was screaming, too. A woman. Screaming." Jack leaned nearer and whispered, "Mrs. Blake was here. She was upset. We quarreled." "So she shot at you?" "No, no. She threw a ... a ... lamp." "And the scream?" "She has a temper."

  "That she does," the butler agreed. "I've brought a broom. Should I clean the mess?" "The mess?" "From the lamp." "I tidied up myself."

  "I see." There was a pause, the butler clearly incredulous; then he bowed. "Very good, sir."

  He left, and Jack closed the door with a determined click. He whipped around, as she scrambled to her feet. She spun away, showing him her back as she straightened herself and pretended she hadn't been affected in the slightest.

  "A lamp?" she chided, stifling a laugh.

  "It was the best I could do on short notice."

  He marched over to her, and he stood, fists on hips, glaring down his haughty nose. She wasn't sure what he wanted, what he expected, but she couldn't give it

  to him. She continued ignoring him as she fussed with her clothes.

  Out of the blue, he said, "Will you marry me?"

  She froze, panicked; then she shifted away, acting as if the words hadn't been uttered. She strolled about, picking up her belongings.

  "Have you seen my earring? It seems to have fallen off. I can't find it anywhere."

  "Marry me," he said again.

  "No."

  "Why?"

  She scoffed. "Because I don't like you."

  "Yes, you do. You're wild for me."

  "I am not. I think you're a horse's ass."

  "Are you in the habit," he crudely asked, "of fucking men you don't like on the middle of the floor in their bedchambers? Does it happen often?"

  "It was another moment of temporary insanity."

  "We keep having a lot of those."

  "It doesn't mean anything," she insisted.

  "Doesn't it?"

  "No."

  "What is the real reason? "For what?"

  She turned away, feigning nonchalance, even though her insides were churning, her fingers shaking. His proposal had rattled loose emotions she'd buried. She'd once been a female who'd harbored silly romantic notions about love and marriage, but they'd been extinguished with liberal doses of reality.

  Wealth was the only thing that mattered, the only genuine security. If a woman had enough money, she could take care of herself. She didn't have to depend on tepid assistance from an unreliable man.

  He laid a hand on her arm, the gesture stopping her in her tracks. "Rebecca!" "What?"

  "Why won't you have me?" "Leave it be, Jack." "I deserve to know." "You won't like my answer." "Tell me anyway."

  She shrugged him off. "All right. You're poor as a church mouse. As far as I can see, that fact will never change."

  She grabbed her purse and started out, eager to be away and wanting the horrid scene to end. He foiled her by beating her to the door and bracing his palm on it.

  "Let me out," she fumed.

  "We have to talk about this."

  "We just did. You didn't like my response—as I warned you wouldn't—so I can't imagine what else needs to be said."

  "Hove you."

  Her stupid heart fluttered. "You do not." "I do."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  He absolutely could not be in love with her! If he persisted with his ludicrous assertion, she might begin to believe him, might assume they could have a future, when she knew how fickle strong sentiment could be. A man's affection never lasted. Jack could declare himself till doomsday, and she wouldn't listen.

  She peered up at him. He looked so young, so handsome and confused, and she was overcome by the worst maternal instinct—when she had no maternal instinct, at all—to hug him and tell him that everything would be fine.

  At experiencing the impulse, which was so foreign to her character, she was alarmed. He had an odd ability to stimulate her in ways she didn't like, to goad her into doing things she didn't wish to do. Like shooting at him, or having torrid sex on the rug.

  It was folly to fraternize, and she had to make him understand that his fondness was grossly misplaced.

  "Jack, you're behaving like a virginal debutante."

  "Am I?"

  "Yes. We've fornicated twice—and I'll be the first to admit that both occasions were overly passionate, but you're letting your emotions run amok."

  "How?"

  "You've obviously never been informed that sex can stir potent feelings, and it jumbles a person's common sense."

  "So if I say I'm in love with you, I'm merely suffering from carnal delusions?" "Basically, yes."

  "Are you supposing you're the only woman with whom I've ever copulated?"

  "No, you're much too good at it to be a novice."

  "You're right, Rebecca. I'm much too good at it, and I know a few things about sex and love that you never will."

  She frowned. He seemed to imply that he'd had many, many paramours, and that he'd been in love many, many times. If he was going to aggravate her with maudlin drivel, he at least ought to leave her with the illusion that she'd been his favorite!

  "And what have you learned that's so accursedly wise?" she inquired.

  "What's between us is very powerful, and we'd be fools to walk away from it."

  "There's nothing between us!"

  "Liar! Why don't you stick to the real reason you've refused me: I'm not rich enough to suit you."

  "That's correct. You're not."

  "Why must money be all that matters to you? You have a house and a steady income. Why isn't that sufficient? Why must it always be more, more, more?"

  He was so snide, so certain his opinion was the sole one that was valid, and she was infuriated by his callous disregard for her precarious position. What did he know of being an unattached female? What did he know of struggling to make ends meet, of worrying— month after long month—whether there'd be funds to pay the bills?

  "You say you love me," she countered, "so prove it."

  "How can I? If cash is your prime motivator, I have none."

  "So go get some. Ask your brother to endow you with a stipend."

  "Ask Ian?" At the suggestion, he was appalled. "On what grounds would I solicit an allowance? Pray enlighten me; I'm dying to hear your reply."

  "Have you ever inquired as to why he fought with Wakefield?"

  "No, and I wouldn't presume to pry."

  "Haven't you ever wondered how Ian obtained his fortune? He's a bastard son—as you are yourself—and he's never worked a day in his life. Yet, he's rich as Croesus."

  "So?"

  "Rumor has it that he earned his money by stealing it from Wakefield. He pilfered the Clayton coffers for years, without Wakefield suspecting."

  She'd finally made him angry, and he shook his head in disgust.

  "I won't listen to such vile slander, Rebecca. Not from you. Not from anyone."

  "Ask him!" she pressed. "Ask him where he came by his wealth! If he embezzled it, then it's ill-gotten gains. Why shouldn't you have some?" She paused, letting her terrible words sink in. "If you love me—as you claim—then that's what you can do. Demand your share, become affluent, and I am yours."

  "You are such a mercenary," he accurately charged. "I can't believe that you would stand here in the man's home, that you would sleep in his bed and harbor hopes of wedding him, but have the gall to level such despicable accusations as to his character."

  "I'm simply repeating the gossip," she coldly said. "I thought you should know."

  "How dare you speak so wickedly of him!" he loyally, tediously stated. "He's been kind to me! He took me in when I had nowhere to go!"

  "So? His kindness doe
sn't mean he isn't a thief."

  With each comment, she felt as if she were stabbing him with a knife. Any affection had been crushed, and the worst wave of melancholy swept over her.

  By hurting him as she had, she'd relinquished something remarkable and fine, and she was bereft at what was lost, but she wouldn't sorrow. She'd set out to erect a permanent barrier between them, and now that she had, she wouldn't regret it.

  "What will it be?" she nagged. "How badly do you want me?"

  He grimaced with loathing. "As opposed to you, I have my pride. I'd live in the gutter before I'd beg him for a handout."

  "Then I guess you'll never have me as your wife, will you?"

  "I guess I won't."

  He went to the bed, stooped down, and picked up her pistol.

  "Don't forget this," he said. "With that temper of yours, I'm sure you'll need it many times in the future."

  He opened the door, and she stood there, heartsick, enraged, resolved. She yearned to explain, to justify, to plead for sympathy. It was on the tip of her tongue to apologize, to change her mind and announce that she'd have him, after all, but she spun and walked out without a farewell.

  Chapter Twelve

  There's a hole in my wall." "I know." "Were you planning to enlighten me as to how it got there?" "Eventually."

  Ian frowned at Jack and sighed. "The servants inform me that you were arguing with Rebecca. Alone. In your bedchamber. A gun was fired."

  "It was."

  "And .. . ?"

  "She was very angry."

  "Are you about to confide that the two of you had another sexual accident?"

  Jack was silent, staring at his supper plate. Finally, he muttered, "I asked her to marry me."

  "So she shot at you? That must have been quite a proposal."

  "She didn't appear to care for it," he grumbled. "You know, Jack, it's not very sporting of you to propose matrimony to my mistress."

  "Don't worry; she said no." "And this is supposed to make me feel better? Did she shoot at you before or after she rejected you?" "Very funny."

  Jack went to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey.

  "Would you like one?" he queried. "I believe I would."

  Jack poured another and, looking morose and miserable, he sat again.

  "Would you mind telling me what's wrong?" Ian pressed. "Besides the fact that you've discovered Rebecca to be a wild hothead?"

  Jack downed his drink. "Why did you fight with Lord Wakefield?"

  "With Wakefield? Why would you inquire about him?"

  "I'm curious about something I was told." "What was that?"

  Jack gazed around the ornate dining parlor, studying the fancy furnishings, the plush rugs, the silver candlesticks and crystal chandelier.

  "Rebecca swears that you're rich because you embezzled from Wakefield. She said that he caught you and that's why you quarreled."

  "Rebecca said all that, did she?"

  "Yes."

  "You two are certainly a pair of chums. I don't know why I continue to act as if I'm involved with her."

  Jack shrugged, which could have indicated any number of replies, so Ian kept pushing.

  "Where did she hear such a dastardly thing?"

  "She claims it's being whispered all over London."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Is it true?"

  Ian's face was an impassive mask. "What do you think?"

  "I have no idea."

  Ian gulped his own whiskey and stood. "Good night."

  "I want to know what happened," Jack declared, "and I want you to be the one who apprises me. I won't have every society rumormonger needling me with stories."

  Ian assessed Jack, whom he'd grown to love so dearly. He was glad they'd met, glad that Jack had come to live with him. He couldn't remember what his life had been like before he'd had an exasperating younger- sibling, and at the notion that he might have squandered Jack's regard he was unbearably sad.

  "It's sort of true," Ian quietly admitted.

  "Sort of? What does that mean? You either stole from him or you didn't."

  There was a lengthy, painful silence; then Jack posed the question that Ian had asked himself on a thousand different occasions.

  "What possessed you? Why lose a brother over something as stupid as money?"

  Why indeed? "It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

  "Don't be flip," Jack scolded. "Not about this. It doesn't become you."

  Ian's humiliation rose up, flaming his cheeks with the wickedness of what he'd done. He plopped into a chair. "It wasn't because of the money. John couldn't have cared less about that."

  "How odd. Rich men usually obsess about their finances."

  "Not John. If he could have, he'd have given it all to me—the title, the properties, and every last chattel. He didn't want any of it."

  "Then what did you do to make him so angry?"

  "I earned my fortune, but I didn't deserve it. Our father rewarded me for ... for... spying on him."

  "Why would you?"

  "John was set to inherit so much wealth, but Father didn't trust him to manage any of it—and with valid reason. Before John married Emma, he was a mess. I was paid to report back, but the funds came from John's estates."

  "For twelve years, Ian?"

  "Yes."

  "That's such a long time."

  "I know. Father brought me down from Scotland and arranged for us to cross paths when we were little more than boys—I was twenty and John was eighteen—but I pretended it was a chance encounter."

  "Wakefield didn't realize?"

  "He never had a clue. So you see, it was betrayal that killed us."

  "Shame on you," Jack murmured.

  Ian winced, as if the terrible night were occurring all over again. It was all still so vivid in his memory. John had been so shocked, so hurt.

  / thought you were my friend, he'd said.

  / never was, Ian had lied.

  Ian hadn't meant it, but they'd been fighting, and they'd hurled awful remarks that couldn't be retracted. They'd both been wounded too deeply.

  He and John had had their ups and downs, and John was renowned for being spoiled and difficult. But Ian had loved him, flaws and all.

  He missed John. He missed John each and every day.

  "By every measure, Ian, our father was an ass. Why would you help him?"

  "I've never been able to explain why I did it."

  He'd been young and poor and foolish, and his father had offered him an opportunity to change his life and grow incredibly affluent in the process. Ian had acted as any sane fellow would have, had forged ahead to prosperity and status, but he wouldn't try to justify his behavior to Jack.

  There was no way to make it sound acceptable.

  Fate had evened things out, though. Early on, Ian had learned that no matter how many dirty pounds he stashed in his bank account, his illicit Scottish heritage guaranteed that he was never welcomed as a full son by his father, never acknowledged as a Clayton child by his father's peers. Only John had enjoyed knowing him, and he'd deceived John at every turn.

  "You're not very loyal, are you, Ian?"

  Ian watched Jack's esteem fade.

  "No, I'm not."

  "If you could be so heartless to Lord Wakefield, what might you do to me?" "It's not the same."

  "Isn't it? I assumed you were a different kind of man."

  "I've tried to claim otherwise, but my base blood has always controlled me. You should let it be a lesson to you."

  "How so?"

  "We're Douglas Clayton's illegitimate offspring, and we can't shed the stain of our paternity. We shouldn't pretend to be what we're not."

  "That's where you're mistaken, Ian. Douglas may have sired me, but I don't have to be like him. I'm not like him."

  His sanctimonious pronouncement over, Jack stood and walked to the door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "I think maybe I should leave."

  "Leave
... my home?" Ian scoffed. "Don't be absurd. How would you get by?"

  "I'm sure it will surprise you, but before coming here, I made my own way. I didn't have a fancy house to live in, or delicious food to stuff in my belly, but I never betrayed a soul, and I most definitely never hurt a friend."

  "Aren't you a paragon?" Ian maliciously retorted.

  "Not a paragon, no. But a stalwart and trustworthy person—always." He started out again. "I don't want to stay here. I don't want to end up so cruel and miserable—as you and Rebecca seem to be."

  Ian listened to Jack stomping away, and he felt as if the past was repeating itself, that what had transpired with John was occurring with Jack. He'd split with one brother because he'd been too proud to speak up. Was he prepared to have the same conclusion with Jack?

  The horrid prospect jolted him out of his stupor, and he hurried to the hall, just as Jack had reached the stairs and begun to climb.

  "Jack, wait."

  Jack halted, the distance separating them impossibly wide. "What is it?"

  "I never told John, but I was so sorry."

  "He's not dead. You could talk to him. You could apologize now."

  "He wouldn't grant me an audience."

  "What if you're wrong? What if he would?"

  The notion dangled between them, but Ian was too distraught to embrace it. Instead, he said what he could, what was absolutely true.

  "I don't want you to go. Not ever. And most especially not when you're so angry."

  "I don't belong here," Jack insisted.

  "You do belong. You belong right here—with me."

  Jack looked so bewildered. "I don't know what to do, Ian. Everything is so jumbled."

  "Sleep on it. Things will seem less bleak in the morning."

  "We'll see." He kept climbing.

  "Please?"

  Ian heard the quiver in his voice, and he hated that he was begging, but if Jack left, what good was any of it? He'd have no one in the entire world, save Rebecca, and having her was worse than having no one, at all.

  "Jack!" he snapped, his irritation poking through. "Tell me you'll stay."