by Cheryl Holt
"But what if Edward learns of the rumors?" she nagged.
"What rumors? If your snippy companions are spreading gossip, I'll sue to shut them up."
"Fine then, I will deal with it myself, but if you don't like the steps I take, I won't listen to any complaints."
"Be my guest," he magnanimously stated. "You have my permission to make a fool of yourself in any fashion you desire."
He started out, when she snapped, "Where are you going?"
"Where would you suppose? Georgie and her mother have invited me for supper. Then I'm escorting Georgie to the theater."
She gasped. "Will you sit with her in our box? Where all the world can see?"
"It's not our box. It's my box, and yes, I will."
"If you do, you'll be sorry," she threatened.
"Sticks and stones, Britannia. Sticks and stones. Georgie is your destiny, approaching like a bad carriage accident. I suggest you prepare yourself."
"What about Caroline?" she hissed.
"What about her? She's scheduled to marry Edward next week, and she will marry Edward next week."
Despite how Britannia whined, she couldn't make him feel guilty, couldn't make him stay. He was weary of her, weary of his two tedious children, and he was moving on to a new and better life.
He whirled away and stomped out, curious as to why he still bothered stopping at home.
There's really only one choice," Caroline murmured. "Did you say something, milady?" Caroline jumped, having forgotten there was a maid in the dining parlor with her.
"No, nothing," she lied. She glanced at her breakfast plate, her fork blindly pushing the eggs round and round in a circle.
She could elope with Ian, the enigmatic, captivating man she loved. Or she could remain in London and marry Mr. Shelton. She could keep what she had or throw it all away. She felt as if she was perched on a high cliff and about to leap over the edge, when she had no idea how far it was to the bottom.
If she refused Ian, she'd never see him again, and though she'd been groomed to be tough and stoic, she didn't imagine she could survive the loss. Not now. Not when she'd finally realized how important he was to her.
She stood, causing the maid to frown as she stared at Caroline's uneaten food.
"Wasn't the meal to your liking, milady? Shall I have Cook make you something else?"
"No, it was wonderful. I'm so distracted this morning that I'm not hungry."
She raced out and up the stairs to her room. Her first order of business was to escape the house and never return. If she packed a bag, the staff would be suspicious, so she couldn't take anything, and she gazed about, studying her bedchamber.
They were so wealthy it was almost obscene, yet she was leaving with only the clothes on her back. She was abandoning it all for the man of her dreams, like a heroine in a romantic theatrical. When she was ready to give up everything for him, could there be a more striking example of how much she cared?
After donning her cloak and hat, she'd spun to go when panic seized her. What if she was delayed? What if she couldn't get away immediately?
She wanted Ian to know that her answer was yes, wanted him to be excited and watching for her, and she grabbed a pen and jotted him a quick note; then she folded it and hid it in her reticule.
Feigning calm, she walked down to the foyer and casually requested that the carriage be brought round. Now that she'd made up her mind, she was anxious to be away, and she loitered in the drive, impatient for it to arrive.
By the time she heard the horse's hooves, she was frantic. The longer she dawdled, the more convinced she became that she would never get away. There seemed to be talons curling around her ankles and trying to drag her inside.
Just as the carriage pulled up, a maid bounded out to announce that her mother needed Caroline to attend her at once.
Caroline gaped at the carriage, at the maid, as she considered climbing in and trotting off, but when so many servants were observing, she couldn't disobey the summons. There was no greater way to draw notice to herself.
She smiled and agreed, even though a strange terror was gnawing at her. With her plans so near to fruition, she was in a wild state. Her note to Ian was like a lead weight in her purse, and she was desperate to have it sent.
She slipped it to a footman, claiming that it was a message from her brother to Mr. Clayton, and that she'd offered to deliver it for him. The servants transported dozens of letters every day, so he would convey it to Ian's home without a second thought.
She went in and proceeded to the front parlor, surprised—but not overly so—when she was advised that her mother was sequestered in her private suite and asking that Caroline meet her there.
Determined to conclude the appointment as rapidly as possible, she rushed up, anticipating that her mother would be prone and suffering from some ludicrous complaint. Instead, Britannia was over by the window and scowling down on the driveway where Caroline had been about to depart in the carriage.
They both froze, and Caroline was positive she looked guilty as sin. Instantly, she reverted to form, masking her expression, slowing the violent beating of her heart.
"Mother, I'm told you wanted me."
"Were you going somewhere, Caroline?"
"I'm off on some errands."
"What errands are those precisely?"
Caroline had never been adept at prevarication, so it was difficult to lie with any aplomb. "I have a dress fitting, and the hats I ordered are finished."
"I wasn't informed that you'd purchased any clothes."
"You weren't? So sorry. I'm off to fetch them. May I help you with something before I go?"
She stepped toward the hall, as if to indicate that she was in a hurry. Britannia was silent, but she approached and circled Caroline, providing her with the distinct impression that Britannia was blocking her in. Caroline tamped down her annoyance, recognizing that any display of exasperation would only extend the encounter.
Britannia shut the door, and there was an odd finality to the motion, as if it had been closed for good and would never open again. She glared at Britannia, irked to realize that her mother was very angry, and for once, Caroline was in no mood for any dramatic posturing.
She'd spent her whole life politely listening to her mother's diatribes, and her tolerance for a lecture had vanished.
"What is it, Mother? I can see you're upset."
"To whom did you write?"
Caroline was confused by the query. "What?"
"I was watching you. You gave a letter to the footman. To whom was it composed?"
"I wrote no letter," she fibbed. "It was Adam's correspondence. I was merely delivering it for him."
"So if I question your brother, he will verify your story?"
"Why wouldn't he?"
Britannia advanced until they were toe-to-toe, and she towered over Caroline, making her feel small and exposed.
"Tell me about Ian Clayton," Britannia snarled.
It was the last comment Caroline had expected, and her astonishment registered before she was able to conceal it.
"Ian . . . Clayton?" She pretended to be puzzled. "Wakefield's natural brother? Why would you inquire about him?"
"I had a visitor who's relayed the most intriguing tale."
"Really?" Caroline's pulse thudded with dread. "About what?"
"Confess your treachery, Caroline Foster. I would hear it from your own perfidious lips."
"My . . . my . . . treachery? Honestly, Mother. What are you saying?"
"Are you still a virgin? Or have you squandered your most prized asset on that Scottish vagabond?"
"Mother!"
Half-mad with fury, Britannia loomed nearer.
"Were you aware," she seethed, "that I can tie you down and have a midwife examine you to learn for sure?"
"How could you insult me so horridly?" She tried to seize the offensive, but her indignation was too tepid to be believed. "I scarcely know Mr. Clayton. How could you ac
cuse me of dastardly behavior?"
"So . .. it's your ploy to deny culpability?"
"As I've done nothing wrong, of course I'll deny it."
"Liar!" Britannia hissed, and she drew her hand from the fold of her skirt.
Caroline was stunned to see that Britannia clutched a riding whip, and she lurched away as Britannia struck her across the face. She was off balance, and she stumbled to the side, as Britannia hit her again and again, the blows raining down on her head and shoulders, the force driving her to the floor.
She was on her knees, trying to crawl away, but Britannia was in a frenzy, and there was no escaping her wrath.
"Your base blood has gained control of you," her mother raged. "I knew it would eventually! I knew it!"
"Mother, stop!" Caroline begged, but it did no good.
Britannia was practically foaming at the mouth, spewing nonsense and hurling invectives.
"You will marry your father!" she shouted. "You
will be forever joined to the devil that spawned you. I've been waiting all these years for it to happen, and happen it shall! My shame must be avenged!"
"I'm not marrying Father," Caroline said, hoping to inject some sanity into her mother's rant. "I'm marrying Mr. Shelton. I'm marrying Edward."
"Yes, yes, you're marrying your father!"
Chapter Fifteen
You'll marry your father! You will! You will!" Seeming befuddled and out of her mind, Britannia babbled the strange remark over and
over.
"No, I'm to wed Edward," Caroline soothed, "just as you asked of me."
"Edward, yes, Edward," Britannia agreed, the lash slowing, lucidity gradually creeping in. "You will be his bride, and the two of you will get what you've always deserved."
The whipping ended, and Caroline struggled to regroup, but before she could, Britannia grabbed her and dragged her to the dressing room. Though Caroline fought and kicked, Britannia had the strength of ten men, and with hardly any effort, she pushed Caroline into the small, windowless space.
Was she to be confined? Was she to be Britannia's prisoner?
"Mother! What are you doing?"
"You shan't leave this house till the wedding."
"Don't be absurd. I won't stay in here. You can't make me."
"Can't I? I am your lawful parent, and I have spoken with Bernard as to what should be done with your whoring self. He says the ceremony must go forward, and that I may proceed as I see fit to guarantee that it does. You will never be with your precious Ian Clayton again."
She slammed the door and spun the key in the lock. Then she stomped out, each door of the outer chambers slamming, too. Caroline pounded on the wood and cried for help, but no one dared to assist her, so there would be no rescue.
She was all alone.
Jack trudged toward home, his ears burning with cold, his fingers frozen, his coat too thin for the frigid morning air. After his hideous fight with Ian, he'd spent the night drinking himself silly, and he was stumbling back with his head aching and his pockets empty, but he didn't feel any better than he had when he'd departed in a huff.
He was disgusted with himself, with Ian, with life in general, and he kicked at a rock, sending it skipping down the street. He was walking through a fancy neighborhood, and he scrutinized the large mansions, manicured gardens, brick drives, and wrought-iron fences. What would it be like to live in such splendor? Were any of the wealthy, indolent occupants happy?
As he strolled by one of the gates, he realized it was the Earl of Derby's property. In no hurry, he studied it, and his curiosity was piqued when the front door opened. He watched, mildly interested in who might exit until he saw Rebecca Blake step out, and he was immediately suspicious as to her motives. What reason could she have for stopping by?
No doubt, she was creating mischief for someone, and it was probably Ian. The petty witch!
Jack was livid. He might be furious with Ian, himself, but that didn't mean he'd stand by and let Rebecca harm him. What was she thinking?
He tarried, keeping out of sight till she'd climbed in her coach, and it approached. The driver tugged on the reins, halting as another carriage went by, and Jack seized the opportunity, grabbing for the door and climbing in after her.
She jumped a foot, and muttered, "What the devil?"
"Hello, Rebecca," he said as he plopped down on the seat across from her.
"My heart nearly gave out. Are you insane? You could have been trampled by the horse or crushed by the wheels."
"I'm too tough to be killed."
"Pity," she cooed.
He lounged, a foot negligently tossed over his knee, and he stared her down, using silence to unnerve her, to make her chatter and spew lies about what she'd been doing, but it didn't work. She ignored him and gazed out at the passing buildings.
Ultimately, he broke the impasse, taking a stab at unraveling her plot.
"How is Lady Derby?"
"She's a royal bitch."
"So I've heard."
The silence grew, and she closed her eyes and nestled against the squab. She looked wretched, and he wondered why.
Was she having second thoughts? Was she suffering a twinge of remorse?
He couldn't imagine it. She would do or say anything to get what she wanted, and she wasn't concerned over who she hurt in the process.
"How could you?" he finally began.
"How could I what?'"
"You tattled to Lady Derby."
For a moment, it seemed as if she'd deny the charge; then she murmured, "Leave it be, Jack. It's none of your affair."
"Isn't it?"
"No."
"Everything about Ian is my affair. I'll have to tell him what I saw."
"I was visiting Lady Derby. So what?" She shrugged. "Why must you run to him over the least little difficulty? You're like a whiny child in the schoolyard who rushes to the tutor over the smallest infraction."
"Ian deserves to know that you're scheming."
"Who says I'm scheming^"
"You are the worst liar."
"I was merely paying a social call. If you don't believe me, ask the Countess."
She appeared guileless and innocent, and if he hadn't understood her quite so well, he might have been fooled. As it was, he yearned to lean over, to clasp her by the shoulders, and shake her till her teeth rattled.
"You're aware of the type of people the Fosters are. If you've been indiscreet, can you envision what they'll do to Lady Caroline?"
"If she's gotten herself into some sort of trouble, why would I care?"
"Yes, Rebecca, why would you?"
He assessed her flawless features, her curvaceous body. She was so beautiful, and she oozed an animal magnetism that was disturbing and exciting. Too bad the pretty package concealed such a black soul.
She was cold as ice, brutal as a slave master. She had a heart of stone beating in her chest.
Why had he ever presumed himself in love with her? Why had he proposed marriage? He was a kind man, a good man. If he'd had the misfortune to ally himself with her, her malice and wickedness would have rubbed off. Eventually, he'd have started to act just like her.
An expression of relief crossed his face, and she snapped, "Why are you grinning?"
"I just realized how lucky I am that you spurned me."
"I'm so glad I could brighten your day."
"I was thinking with my cock rather than my head. I'd have been miserable for the rest of my life."
"I'm sure you're correct. That's why I refused you."
To his surprise, she seemed wounded by his remarks, which was impossible. She had no conscience. No insult could faze her.
She fussed with the curtain, continuing to stare outside. "I'm marrying Ian, Jack. You must forget any absurd notions you had to the contrary."
He hadn't a clue if Ian would wed her or not. Who could predict what a fellow might do to possess a female like Rebecca Blake?
"What if he's decided to marry Lady
Caroline instead?"
"Has he?"
To torment her, he replied, "Maybe."
"If he assumes it will happen, he's mad. It doesn't matter what she's told him. She'll never go against her family. He's chasing windmills."
"Is he? If you're so certain of his intentions toward you, why speak to Lady Derby? Of what are you afraid?"
She fumed quietly, then admitted, "I'm terrified that I'll end up old and poor. I'll do anything to escape such a dire fate."
"I've always been poor, but poverty didn't make me cruel or vindictive." "Bully for you."
The carriage had stalled in traffic, and with the cessation of movement he felt as if he was suffocating. He was desperate to be away, and he reached for the door, anxious to flee as rapidly as he'd arrived.
"Jack!" she said before he could jump.
He peered over his shoulder. Stupidly, he rippled with a wave of hope that she might have changed her mind, that she'd have him, after all.
What the hell was wrong with him? Had he no pride? No sense?
"What?" he barked.
"I'm sorry."
He scoffed. "No, you're not. You've never been sorry about anything in your whole life."
"I am sorry," she claimed. "I never meant to hurt you, but you simply can't give me what I require. Why can't you at least try to understand my position?"
"I understand it perfectly. I believed I was in love with you, but it was a chimera. You're not the person I imagined you to be."
"And what sort of person did you suppose I was?"
"I thought you were vulnerable and lonely and in need of a friend. I thought you might come to love me in return."
"I wouldn't have," she candidly advised. "I've never loved anyone. I couldn't have made you happy."
"On that point, Mrs. Blake, we are in complete accord."
He leapt into the street and walked away without a
backward glance.
What does she want?"
"She didn't say, Miss Georgette." "Well .. . tell her ... tell her ... I'm indisposed and to be on her way."
"I doubt she'll heed me. She's made herself comfortable in the front parlor."
Georgie glared at the butler, and she yearned to scold or berate, but she couldn't blame him for being upset. With the indomitable Countess of Derby having barged in at such an ungodly hour, he was at a loss. So was she. What a disaster!
