by Cheryl Holt
“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 doesn’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.
I thought you were my friend, he’d said.
I 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.”
“We’ll see,” his brother said again, and he continued on, as Ian fussed and stewed in his empty parlor.
He paced back and forth, back and forth, and with each trek across the floor, he was more despairing. Why couldn’t he ever have what he craved? Why couldn’t anything ever go as he planned?
Like a spoiled toddler, he railed against life, against Fate. Every imaginable injustice appeared to have been foisted on him, and he was so weary of battling for every little scrap.
He merely wanted to be happy. That’s all he wanted. Why couldn’t he be happy? Why was contentment so difficult to attain?
He wanted Caro.
The sudden need flowered in his chest, and it grew and grew until it was blazing like a forest fire.
He’d suffered years of rejection, and he was tired of denying himself. For more than a decade he’d mooned over Caro, and now he was about to stand idly by while her parents married her to Edward Shelton.
What was the matter with him? Why was he so ready to surrender? Why couldn’t he fight—just once—for what he desired?
He glanced at the clock, seeing that it was after ten and wondering where Caro was. Had she gone out for the evening? If she was attending a soiree, could he locate her? Or should he risk sneaking into her father’s mansion again?
He had to find her, and he marched to the foyer, anxious to grab a coat and hat, to have a horse saddled so he could ride off in search of her. He’d just stepped toward the door, when it opened and—as if he’d conjured her by magic—she slipped in.
She pushed off the hood of her cloak, and she was pale and shaking.
“I had to speak with you,” she started. “Is it all right that I’ve come?”
“You never need an invitation.”
He approached and took her hands in his. She was frozen, her fingers icy, and he was sickened to realize that she’d traipsed through the dark London streets to be with him.
“What happened?” he asked. “What is it?”
“After I was with you the other afternoon,
my mother was furious.”
“I presumed she would be.”
“She’s decreed that I’m out of control and should be punished. She conferred with my father, and he agreed.”
“To what?”
“They’ve moved up the wedding date.”
“When is it to be?”
“A week from today.”
* * *
“I’m here to say good-bye,” Caro said.
“Good-bye?”
Ian was aghast, which provided some relief. She was weary of lectures about duty and responsibility, and she’d wanted to converse with someone who would be as appalled as she was, herself. Ian was the only one who would listen, the only one who would commiserate or empathize, so after Britannia had made her vile announcement Caroline had crept away as soon as she was able.
What she truly yearned to say was, Save me! Help me! but she didn’t, for what—precisely—could Ian do for her?
If she declined to go through with the ceremony, her father would cast her out, and she’d be shunned by society. She’d be disowned, a poverty-stricken female, with no funds and no acquaintances to offer her aid or shelter.
Would she beg Ian to take her in and support her? For how long? In what capacity?
It was ludicrous to suppose he was the answer to her prayers.
“I can’t stop by again,” she stated, feigning calm.
“Never?”
“With the wedding so near, I’m sure I won’t have another chance to get away.”
“I see.…”
There was a noise down the hall, most likely a servant rambling about, and Ian gestured for silence and led her to the stairs. Without argument, she followed him up to his bedchamber. He shut and locked the door, and as they stood, facing each other, she noticed what hadn’t been apparent in the foyer.
He was greatly distressed, himself, perhaps even more than she, so it was a terrible moment to have arrived, but she wouldn’t regret her decision.
They had no remaining opportunities where they could be together. After she was married, despite how dreadful it turned out to be, she would honor her vows to Mr. Shelton.
“What is it, Ian?” she inquired. “What’s wrong?”
“Everyone is leaving me,” he oddly said.
“Everyone?”
“First John, then Jack, now you.” He drew her into his arms, and he kissed her with a particular desperation. “I don’t want you to go.”
