by Cheryl Holt
"You can't mean to keep me here," she said.
"Oh, but I do. You're completely insane. And you're
dangerous. You can't be out among normal people. There's no telling what mischief you might instigate."
"I've done nothing wrong!"
"Nothing!"
"I was entirely justified in seeking revenge against Edward."
"Madam, I suggest you be silent. The very fact that you would mention your affair to me only underscores how crazed you are."
"You are a philandering roue! You always have been. Don't try to seize the moral high ground."
He'd been an awful husband; he couldn't deny it. He'd chased after every trollop who'd strolled by, but with all that had recently occurred, his liaisons seemed to have been so pointless.
He wished he could go back and do so many things differently. He wished Georgie were alive and being courted by some fine fellow her own age who would have cherished her as she'd deserved. He wished he'd been a better father to Adam and Caroline.
After the fiasco at the church, Adam had packed his bags and left, claiming he'd never return, and Bernard hoped that time and distance would calm him, but he wouldn't count on it.
Mostly, he wished he knew how Caroline was weathering her mother's revelations, but he had no idea where she was and no one he could ask who might inform him. She wasn't an earl's daughter, after all, so everything she'd understood about herself was false.
She'd been born during his marriage to Britannia, so in the eyes of God and the law she was considered to be his child and always would be. He wouldn't repudiate her. It was so strange, but when he'd believed himself to be her actual father he'd constantly snubbed her. Now that he'd found out he wasn't her father, he was desperate to make amends, to take the faltering steps toward a continuing relationship.
Instead, he would head to his empty mansion. The family he'd loathed was in tatters. His spouse was deranged, his son had fled, and his daughter was missing and would likely never talk to him again. It was a pitiful situation, indeed.
"If you aren't here to fetch me home," Britannia nagged, "why have you come?"
"I've brought some of the items you requested."
"Pen and ink?"
"No."
"But I need to write letters. I have to notify my friends of how heinously I'm being treated!"
"You have no friends, Britannia. Not any who'd like to hear from you anyway, and I won't allow you to share your venom with the outside world. You've done enough harm."
"You can't refuse to let me correspond!"
"I already have." He placed the satchel of her belongings on the narrow, rickety cot where she slept. He didn't know how it held her enormous weight and girth.
"Now then, I'm off."
"When is your next visit scheduled?"
"It's not. In the future, if you must contact me, you'll have to send a message through my solicitor. I don't intend to confer with you in person ever again."
"Don't be ridiculous. You shall come whenever I summon you."
"No, Britannia, I won't. I'm leaving you to stew in your own juice."
"Stop being melodramatic."
"I could have had you tried and hanged."
"For what crime?" "For murder."
She laughed. "There's not a jury in the land that would have convicted me for killing your mistress. You were going to divorce me. The girl had you bewitched."
He could have made a thousand replies. He could have admitted all the ways he'd erred; he could have reminded her that his failings weren't Georgie's fault, or that he was genuinely sorry for everything that had transpired.
But she was crazy, and he was so very weary.
"You must listen to me," he told her, unsure of how to get her to focus. "Should you need anything, tell your nurse, and a note will be dispatched to my lawyer."
"I won't speak with your lawyer. I will speak with you directly, or I will speak to no one, at all."
"So be it."
He sighed, gazing at the gloomy cell, at his mad wife who hadn't yet paused in her pacing. She was like a spinning top that couldn't be stilled.
"I doubt you'll ever thank me," he murmured, "but by keeping you here, I'm doing you a favor."
"A favor! How?"
"At least you're alive. That's better than swinging from a gibbet, I'd warrant. Good-bye."
He knocked for the guard to let him out, and to his dismay, she hurried over and stood as if she'd walk out with him.
"What are you thinking, Britannia?"
"I'm coming with you."
He sighed again. "You're not. You can't. You must remain here."
"With all these lunatics?"
"Well, since you put it that way, yes."
"I'm coming with you!" she repeated, growing agitated.
He rapped more forcefully, and the guard arrived. Bernard stepped out, and Britannia tried to step out, too, but the guard held up a hand, signaling her to halt. Without warning, she grabbed his wrist and twisted it so hard that he howled in pain, and he began struggling with her.
It was a hideous scene—his demented, obese wife grappling with her jailor—and Bernard was too stunned to assist or intervene.
On whose side would he have fought? Britannia had to stay, but he couldn't bear to be the one to physically restrain her. He was paying the staff, and paying them well, to do that exact sort of thing.
The guard's yowling brought several others running, and it took five burly men to wrestle her to the floor. One of them produced a type of jacket, and they shoved her arms into it. The sleeves had long strings attached at the cuffs, and they were wrapped around her waist so that she was trussed like a Christmas goose.
The sweating, bruised men eased her to a sitting position, but she was too large for them to move her farther until she was ready to go. She glared up at him, and her hatred was so evident that Bernard blanched.
"I waited thirty years," she hissed. "I planned how I would wound you in the worst possible way. I finally told you the truth about Caroline, but you don't care!"
"I care that you hurt her, when she didn't deserve it. But I'm unconcerned about you. Your misery is all your own doing."
"When I get out, I'll kill Edward, then I'll kill you. You'd best keep looking over your shoulder."
"You'll never get out," Bernard vowed. "I intend to see to it."
He left, and she started screaming, "Bernard! Bernard! Bernard!"
He shuddered and hastened down the lengthy labyrinth of corridors, and even after he was in his carriage and proceeding home, he was certain he could hear her bellowing his name.
Edward entered his club, and he tarried in the foyer, impatient for the butler to take his coat and hat, but no one appeared, and his temper flared. How dare the servants fail to attend him! His exclusive membership cost a pretty penny, and their sloth would be reported.
He marched up the stairs to the library, positive he would bump into some person of authority to whom he could vent his wrath, but to his surprise, he encountered no one. The place was busy—male laughter drifted by as he approached the stately chamber—but as he strolled into the room, the closest gentleman coughed discreetly, alerting the other patrons. The noise was a warning that wafted through the crowd.
Heads turned; brows raised; whispers swept by. The words Shelton and his own daughter! were bandied by all. Every man stared him down, their indignation and censure clear. He stared back, angry, defiant, and refusing to be cowed.
From out of nowhere, the butler emerged, his fake smile firmly fixed.
"Is there a problem?" Edward asked. As if he didn't know!
"No, Mr. Shelton. If I might speak with you downstairs?"
He was much smaller than Edward, but he had a nimble and diplomatic knack for steering out an undesirable guest. On a dozen previous occasions, Edward had chuckled when it had been some other poor fellow who was cast out.
To realize that it was now himself! To understand that he was being sh
unned!
For the briefest instant, he dragged his feet, thinking that he might defend himself, that he might hurl the facts at their pathetic faces.
/ had no idea that she was my daughter, he imagined himself saying. It was all Britannia's doing. The woman is mad, I tell you! Mad!
But as he frowned at their stony expressions, absorbing the collective resolve to eject him from their eminent company, he recognized they couldn't be dissuaded, and he wasn't about to grovel.
Without comment, he whipped away and stomped out. He was mortified and fully aware that his years of residing in London—perhaps in England—were at an end. He'd never be invited to another social event. He'd be ignored by everyone who mattered.
Who had tattled? Derby? Wakefield? Why would they? Or had it been that weasel of a vicar? Who could be trusted anymore?
He stormed to his carriage and climbed in, advising his driver to take him to his favorite brothel. There was no situation that a bit of illicit fornication couldn't cure, and within minutes he'd sneaked through the shrubbery to the secret entrance.
He knocked the special knock, expecting to be greeted immediately, but he waited and waited, and no one came.
Finally, the madam peeked out, a brawny houseman lurking behind her.
Edward straightened and flashed his most imperious glare. "I seek an afternoon of entertainment. I demand to be admitted."
"We don't serve your kind," she sneered. "Be gone, you disgusting pervert!"
She slammed and barred the door.
Gad! Even the whores were revolted by him! Considering some of the foul deeds he'd attempted in the woman's establishment, that was saying a lot.
He was so shocked he couldn't move. He loitered on the stoop, his cold cheeks red with humiliation, the icy rain wetting his shoulders. He wanted to raise his fist, to pound and howl until his furious summons was heeded.
He'd inform the old harlot of how he was an innocent victim, how he'd done nothing wrong. It wasn't as if he'd married the accursed child. Yes, he'd privately lusted after her, but with no overt action being undertaken, how could he be judged guilty? Was it his fault that Britannia was deranged? Why should he be punished?
He trudged to his carriage and gave the directions to hurry home. He'd pack his bags and flee the city in the dark of night where he wouldn't be seen scurrying away like a rat in the sewer. But where the hell was he to go? And when would he ever be able to return?
*
Rebecca was snuggled under the covers and staring at the ceiling when she first noted that someone was banging on her front door. It wasn't that late, only midnight or so, and she was plagued by her usual insomnia.
Her butler and housekeeper were away for the weekend, so neither was available to respond. The other servants were asleep in their rooms in the attic, and even if they could hear the commotion, they wouldn't answer.
Well, she wasn't about to, either. Whoever it was could come back in the morning when sane, rational people were up and dressed and receiving callers.
The thumping grew more determined, and she'd tugged a pillow over her head when a man bellowed, "Rebecca Blake! I know you're in there!"
Scowling, she sat up.
"Rebecca!" he continued. "Get your shapely ass out of bed and open the door!"
"What the devil... ?" she muttered.
Shivering against the chill, she grabbed a woolen shawl and marched down the stairs.
"Rebecca!" he yelled again. "Don't make me come in and get you!"
"Would you be silent?" she griped as she fumbled with the lock, yanked on the knob, and peered out. "You'll wake the dead."
There was no moon, so it was difficult to see, but from his tall height and halo of golden hair she was sure her visitor was Jack Romsey.
Her heart did a funny little flip-flop.
Wondering if she wasn't dreaming, she blinked and blinked.
"Jack?"
"Bloody right!" he growled, and he stormed over the threshold.
There was a gleam in his eye that made her nervous, and for each step he took forward she took one back until she was at the wall and could go no farther.
"It's the middle of the night," she pointed out.
"Yes, it is."
She could smell alcohol on his breath. "You've been drinking."
"Not nearly enough to keep me from coming over here."
"What are you doing? What do you want?" "I have to talk to you." "I believe you are."
She waited for more, but he seemed incapable of speech, which was hilarious. He'd always had too much to say, much more than she'd ever cared to hear.
"Well?" she pressed.
"I'm told that you did a good deed."
He hurled the remark like an indictment, and she scoffed.
"Me? Don't be ridiculous."
"When I was initially apprised of the story, that's what I said. I said, 'Rebecca Blake, hah! She hasn't a kind bone in her body.'"
"No, I don't."
"I swore it couldn't be true." "I'm certain it wasn't."
"But the teller of the tale insists that not only were you very considerate—you were also very brave." "How absurd."
She couldn't have false gossip spreading. She had a low image to maintain, and she wouldn't have others suspecting that she was a sentimental fool.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"For what?"
"For helping Lady Caroline—when she was in trouble. For trying to make amends." "I did nothing of the sort."
"You did. Don't stand there and deny it." "I lent minor assistance when she was in a jam. So what?"
"So ... maybe you're not the shrew I've accused you of being."
"Aren't you a flatterer?"
"I'm leaving London," he said, abruptly switching the subject.
"I thought you already had."
"I'm here to say farewell."
"You've already done that, too."
"But this time, I'm asking you to come with me."
'To do what? Will I roam the rural highways like a player in a traveling troupe? Will I carry my belongings in a satchel and sleep in a tent in a ditch?"
She'd exasperated him, and he huffed out a heavy breath.
"Would you shut up and listen for once?" "I'd listen if you had anything pertinent to say." "My brother, John, has made me an offer I can't refuse."
"Knowing Wakefield as I do, that sounds either illicit or dangerous."
"He owns a small property in the country, and I'm to live there. It's not charity," he hastily added. "I told him I wouldn't accept charity. I want to earn my own way."
"You're a veritable saint."
He ignored the taunt and kept on. "I'm to work for him as his land agent, and the job comes with a fine house and an excellent salary."
"You're going to be a gentleman farmer?"
"I guess I am."
"What do you know about farming?"
"You'd be surprised."
"You'd have to factor the accounts, too. Can you read and write?"
She had no idea why she was so terrible to him. He simply brought out every bad trait she possessed, and she ended up lashing out when she didn't mean to.
A muscle ticked in his cheek. "I take it back."
'Take what back?"
"Perhaps you are a shrew, but do you know what?" "What?"
"I like you anyway." He leaned in and nibbled her nape. "You smell good," he mumbled. "You're drunk."
"Yes, I am, but it's given me the most keen insight." "About what?"
"I never spend enough time convincing you to do what I want."
"There aren't sufficient words in the universe to persuade me to go off and be the wife of a country farmer."
"Then I'll have to utilize other methods."
"Such as?"
He picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Her bottom was next to his ear, her head dangling. She pounded on his back with her fists.
"Put me down!"
"No." He swatted her on the
rear.
"Jack! You'll wake the servants. They'll see."
"Why would I care? Besides, I'm about to be their master, so they need to get used to me." He started climbing the stairs. "Where's your bedchamber?"
"My bedchamber! I'm not having sex with you!"
"Did I ask your opinion?"
He arrived at the landing and walked down the hall, entering the first room he saw that had a bed. He dropped her onto it and crawled on top of her, pinning her to the mattress before she could scurry away. Not that she tried very hard. His tongue was in her mouth, his fingers in her hair, and as he kissed her she moaned with delight.
As always happened when she was with him, their ardor rapidly increased, and he clutched the neckline of her nightgown and ripped it down the center. The fabric fell away so that she was nude and stretched out beneath him.
He fumbled with his pants, and in a thrice, he was inside her and thrusting away. She wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and as he reached between their bodies to touch her, she came in an instant.
With a hearty shout, he joined her, and as quickly as that, they were finished. Together, they soared to the peak, but as they floated down, he was chuckling and smug, reminding her of what a conceited oaf he could be.
She punched him in the chest. "Get off me."
"No." He kissed her again, his cock leaping to life and not the least bit sated. "Say yes. Say you'll marry me."
"We've been through this before."
"Yes, we have, and you keep giving me the wrong answer. Tell me that you'll have me. Tell me that you love me."
"I don't love you," she declared. "I don't love anyone."
"Except yourself. But isn't it lonely on that tiny island where you hide yourself away?"
"I'm not lonely," she insisted.
"Which brings me to point out how you'll behave as my wife."
"I haven't agreed, and you're already imposing conditions? You're really pushing your luck."
"I'm positive I'll convince you, so here are the terms by which we'll carry on: You can't ever own a pistol, and you can't ever lie to me."
He could have made any stipulations in the world, and he'd chosen those?
She giggled. "You are mad."
"Mad for you."
"I understand why you'd be nervous about pistols, but why would you worry about prevarication? I've always been candid with you."
