Forbidden Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  What alternative did she have?

  “I’d best get home,” she said.

  “It would take so long to have my carriage readied. I thought I’d walk you. It will be much faster.”

  “That will be fine.”

  He went to the hall and peeked out, certain there’d be no servants about, but still, it was prudent to be vigilant. He linked their fingers, and they tiptoed down the stairs and out into the frigid air. The ground was frosty, their breath billowing about their heads.

  She lived many blocks away, and they started off, both of them silent and morose and fretting over what would happen next. The streets were mostly empty, with only a few teamsters making deliveries of milk and coal. He skirted her past the hearty souls, barely drawing a glance, and in minutes they crept around the stables behind her father’s mansion.

  As he reached for the gate, the first rays of dawn were visible on the horizon.

  She rose up and kissed him, and he resisted the urge to pull her close, to hold on to her and never let her go.

  There was a strange finality to the moment, as if he’d been through it before and knew that disaster approached. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the conviction that he’d never see her again.

  He was being maudlin as a schoolgirl, and he shucked off the peculiar fright. He peered over the fence to the house, relieved that the windows were dark, not a candle burning anywhere.

  “I must think on this,” she whispered.

  “I know. If your answer is yes, send me a message, and I’ll come fetch you. Or you can show up at my door. I’ll have a bag packed, and we can leave immediately.”

  “And if my answer is no?”

  “Then you need do nothing, at all, and I will wish you happy in your pending marriage. Now go.”

  She hesitated, looking as if she would say something profound and definitive, but in the end, she swallowed down whatever it had been. She spun and stepped through the gate, and she was many strides across the yard when he was again overcome by the notion that she was going forever.

  Softly, frantically, he called, “Caro!”

  She whirled around. “What?”

  “Don’t wait too long to decide.”

  “I won’t.”

  She walked on, and he watched until she was inside, and he continued to tarry, unable to force himself away. He gazed up at her bedchamber, where he yearned to see the glow of a lamp. He was desperate for the small assurance that she’d arrived, but there was no sign of her.

  The sky was growing lighter, the shadows fading, the risk increasing that someone might espy him lurking—like a vagrant or a robber—near the Earl’s residence. It was dangerous to remain.

  He turned and left.

  * * *

  Rebecca peeked out the window of her carriage. The horse sighed; the driver shifted his bulky form. Both man and animal were hoping she’d either get out or give the instruction to keep on. It was the witching hour she hated most, that lonely period just before dawn when she could never sleep.

  At such a forlorn time, she always ended up doing precisely what she oughtn’t. Such as she was contemplating now.

  She wrapped her fur cloak more tightly over her body, the silky fabric of her ball gown crinkling in the cold air. She’d had too much to drink, had gamboled much later than she’d intended, and any sane individual would have been lounged at home by a warm fire.

  Ian’s house loomed in the distance, and she was torn over her having stopped by. He’d told her not to, and in view of her misbehavior with his brother, it was the only logical course. Yet she recognized it as the initial stage of his tossing her over, which she couldn’t allow.

  She didn’t love Ian—she’d never loved anyone—but she liked and understood him, and she was determined that they wed.

  An image flashed—of annoying, exasperating Jack Romsey—but she pushed it away. She wouldn’t be dissuaded. Not by his sexy demeanor. Not by his ludicrous proposal. Not by his handsome looks or fabulous anatomy.

  She wanted to marry Ian—she needed to marry Ian—and she wouldn’t let anything prevent the conclusion she desired.

  He had to be reminded of why he enjoyed their relationship so much. A rough and rowdy bout of fornication would restore his waning affection, and she’d just planned to get out, when his front door opened. She observed, stunned, as he exited with a cloaked woman hanging on his arm.

  He was already entertaining another paramour! The bastard!

  She was furious, and she frowned, trying to glean the woman’s identity, though it wasn’t much of a mystery. She hadn’t forgotten how Lady Caroline had been slinking around.

  Was Ian involved with her? Could he be that foolish?

  The pair proceeded on, with Ian so focused on Caroline that he didn’t notice Rebecca where she was parked down the block.

  She loitered until they were a safe distance away; then she had her driver tag after them. As they approached the Earl of Derby’s mansion, her temper flared.

  Lady Caroline could have any man she wanted. She was engaged, for pity’s sake. Why sniff after Ian?

  Ian belonged to Rebecca! How dare Lady Caroline interfere! The little hussy!

  They vanished into the alley, and though it was despicable, Rebecca clambered out and sneaked after them.

  She hid behind a tree trunk, and she was close enough to see, but not close enough to hear. Lady Caroline kissed Ian on the lips, and they lingered, touching and whispering; then Caroline slipped inside. Ian dawdled, keeping vigil, gazing after her with such unfulfilled yearning that it was almost painful to watch.

  Finally, he trudged back to the street. Rebecca huddled behind the tree, not breathing, not moving a muscle, as he passed by a few feet away. She stayed put till he’d disappeared; then she returned to her carriage and climbed in.

  The driver urged the horse forward, and they started toward home. She leaned against the squab, her mind racing with what she’d discovered.

  Deep down, she wasn’t a wicked person, but as the old saying went: All was fair in love and war. And this was definitely war. Lady C. had her own fiancé, and she needed some encouragement to avoid Ian. She’d been warned off before, but obviously, she hadn’t heeded Rebecca’s advice.

  The question now was to figure out the best way to make her pay attention and do what Rebecca wanted.

  Rebecca thought and thought, and as the answer became clear, she sighed with resignation. There was really only one choice.

  If Lady Derby happened to learn what her darling Caro was doing, how would she react?

  It was going to be interesting to find out.

  Chapter FOURTEEN

  “I know who you are, Mrs. Blake.”

  Britannia stared at the notorious woman. She was very beautiful, but in a deadly way—as three prior husbands had discovered to their peril.

  With her lush red hair and her piercing blue eyes, she was very striking, and Britannia thought that men would lust after her like dogs in a barnyard. She was too attractive, and for someone so young, she exuded a sensual air that was disturbing.

  Britannia hated her on sight.

  “Shall we sit?” Mrs. Blake rudely asked, since Britannia hadn’t had the courtesy to suggest it.

  “No. I have no idea why I stooped to granting you an audience—curiosity, I suppose—but I intend for your appointment to be extremely short.”

  As if she hadn’t just been insulted to high heaven, the annoying child chuckled. “I guess the gossip is accurate.”

  “And what gossip would that be?”

  “You, Lady Derby, are an irrepressible shrew.”

  Britannia couldn’t remember when she’d ever previously been so offended.

  “Get out of my house.”

  “I’ll go in a minute. As you said, this won’t take very long.”

  Blake sauntered to the sideboard and, without invitation, poured herself a drink.

  Britannia sputtered with indignation, huffed to the hall, and bellowed, �
��Jenkins! Come at once! I need you.”

  As usual, the slothful butler didn’t appear, so she stormed over to Mrs. Blake, ready to pick her up bodily and toss her out on the lawn.

  “Speak your piece,” Britannia seethed. “Then be on your way.”

  “Won’t you join me in a whiskey? You’re going to require fortification.”

  “Jenkins!” Britannia shouted again.

  “Very well.” Blake sighed. “Do you know where your daughter was last night?”

  “My … daughter?” The remark caught Britannia off guard. “You mean Lady Caroline?”

  “Have you another daughter of which I’m unaware?”

  “She was in her bed, fast asleep.”

  “Was she?”

  Blake raised a brow with such aggravating confidence that Britannia could only surmise that whatever the harlot was about to impart would be the truth. There wasn’t a person alive who could barge in with such cool poise unless they held all the cards. Not that Britannia would ever let on that she believed any stories.

  “I hear that you’re set on her marriage to Mr. Shelton,” Mrs. Blake mentioned. “In fact, it’s rumored that you’re so determined it’s almost an obsession with you.”

  “You hear many things, Mrs. Blake. I would recommend that you consider the source of your information. When you roll in the gutter, it’s common for rubbish to stick.”

  Jenkins took that moment to haul himself into the parlor.

  “You called, Lady Derby?” he inquired.

  “Show Mrs. Blake to the door, and if she ever returns, summon the law and have her dragged off as a vagrant.”

  Blake didn’t move. Neither did Jenkins. Then Blake flashed such a wicked grin that Britannia blanched. Whatever would next spew from Blake’s mouth was nothing that should be voiced in front of a servant.

  “I’ll just be off,” Blake said. “I merely stopped by to advise that you have Lady Caroline checked by a midwife before the wedding. You ought to be positive that she’s … well…” She halted and giggled, looking so innocent, so lethal. “Mr. Shelton would probably like to know for sure.”

  Britannia gaped at her, thinking it would be so easy to commit murder, to simply reach over, wrap her large hands around Blake’s slender throat, then squeeze and squeeze until the woman collapsed dead on the floor.

  “Leave us, Jenkins,” Britannia commanded, and the retainer scurried out. Once he’d departed, she demanded, “What are you trying to say?”

  “Lady Caroline is having a sexual affair with Ian Clayton.”

  In her entire life, Britannia had never been more shocked. “Ian … Clayton? Douglas Clayton’s Scottish spawn?”

  “Yes. She’s been sneaking to his house, in the afternoons and evenings, when no one is watching where she’s gone.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’ve seen them with my own two eyes.”

  Britannia’s mind whirled. Why would Caroline do it? Why would she risk so much for an ordinary peasant? But more important, why would Blake tattle? What had she to gain?

  “Are you hoping to blackmail me, Mrs. Blake? Is that your game? For if it is, I must tell you that you’ll find a very dry well. I won’t pay you a penny. You may shout your falsehoods hither and yon, and the Earl and I shall ruin you.”

  “I’m not after any money,” Blake claimed.

  “Then what is it? Why have you come? If you’re not plotting to spread your filth, what is your purpose?”

  “Their liaison must end. Immediately.”

  “Really? And am I to assume that your motives are purely benevolent?”

  “No, I’m being completely selfish.”

  “In what fashion?”

  “Ian is mine,” she stated, “and I want her to leave him alone. That’s all I want. I’d appreciate it if she’s not allowed to meet with him again. Can you handle the situation, Lady Derby? Or will you force me to confer directly with your husband?”

  Without another word, Blake spun and left, and Britannia’s quaking knees gave out. She sank down onto the nearest chair, wondering what her next step should be.

  She’d waited twenty-five agonizing years to orchestrate Edward’s marriage to Caroline. The prospect had sustained her through every social engagement where she’d had to observe Edward flirting with others, where she’d had to smile at him and pretend they were cordial.

  If she couldn’t have her revenge, if it was suddenly snatched from her at the very last second, how would she survive it?

  Desperate measures were required. The only question was: What should they be?

  * * *

  “There you are,” Bernard grumbled. “I’ve been searching everywhere.”

  “What are you doing home at this hour?” Britannia asked.

  “I must speak with you.”

  “Well, after the morning I’ve had, I have no desire to speak with you.”

  He ignored her and crossed over to where she was slumped in a chair. She was very glum, but he wouldn’t try to ascertain why. She was an impediment to his plans, and he would soon be shed of her.

  Britannia was the past. Georgie was the future.

  “I must get my affairs arranged,” he said. “I’m tired of your delays and arguments, so I’m proceeding with the divorce—whether you’re amenable or not.”

  She scoffed and shot him such a malevolent glare that a frisson of fear slithered down his spine, but he pushed away the absurd reaction. He disliked her, was constantly aggravated by her, but he wasn’t—and never had been—afraid of her.

  What could she do to him? She was a woman, and a very stupid one at that.

  “How typical of you, Bernard, to think only of yourself at a time such as this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve just had the most interesting visitor.”

  “Why would you bother me with the details of your petty life, Britannia?”

  “Tell me what you know about Ian Clayton.”

  “Ian Clayton? Wakefield’s brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know him as well as I. Form your own opinion, and don’t pester me. Now about the divorce—”

  She rose, and she looked menacing in a manner he’d never noted prior. She was big boned and obese, and though he was taller, she seemed to tower over him.

  “Tell me about him!” she insisted.

  “He’s quiet and driven, reputed to be honorable, but I’m told that he quarreled with John and it changed him. His Scottish heritage gives him a dashing air that the ladies consider attractive.”

  “Would that include your own daughter?”

  “She’d never stoop that low.”

  “Wouldn’t she?” Britannia laughed in an eerie way. “She’s fucking him.”

  The crude remark was so abruptly voiced, and so out of character, that he couldn’t decide what to make of it. For a brief instant, she appeared quite mad.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. What should we do?”

  “If you expect me to believe she’s been having sex with him, you are out of your bloody mind.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we call her down and interrogate her?”

  “About Ian Clayton? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He assessed her, worried that she’d tipped off her rocker, which would be just his luck. It was sufficiently difficult to cope with her when she was merely hysterical and boring. It would be total hell to put up with her if she was crazy.

  “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.”