Forbidden Fantasy

by Cheryl Holt

  “Yes, you are.”

  “You will marry as you’ve been commanded by your parents. You can’t evade your fate.”

  “I realize that.”

  Her father was lost in his sorrow. Her brother detested her. She had spurned Ian. There was no one else who might have been worried about her, who might have intervened.

  She was on her own, floating free of what had tethered her to her prior life. She felt invisible, unloved and unwanted. What would become of her?

  “And don’t forget,” her mother taunted, “in the end, I have your precious Mr. Clayton. Nothing would please me more than to kill him for his audacity. I almost hope you give me an excuse to proceed.”

  She chuckled, sounding every bit like the deranged person she was, and she whipped around and walked out. The key spun in the lock.

  Chapter TWENTY

  “Don’t turn around.”

  At the sound of a female voice coming from directly behind her, Caroline stiffened but didn’t move. The Duke’s grand ballroom was packed with people, and oddly enough, whoever had approached her seemed to be hiding in the drapes.

  Edward had vanished in the throng, but Britannia was a few feet away and observing her every second, so Caroline was pretending to be very meek. She’d hoped to beg someone for help, but the crowd was an unfriendly mob.

  Any person present would think her mother to be perfectly reasonable in forcing Caroline into a horrid marriage. They would deem a refusal as childish and reprehensible on Caroline’s part.

  “Who’s there?” Caroline asked, keeping her expression carefully blank.

  “It’s me, Rebecca Blake.”

  Though astonished, Caroline showed no reaction. “What do you want?”

  “I’m the one who told your mother about Ian.”

  “Why am I not surprised? How wicked of you.”

  “It was, and I’m … I’m … sorry.” There was a pause, and she added, “And I don’t apologize very often, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t gloat.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “Are you in trouble because of me?”

  “Of course I am. What would you suppose?”

  “I’ve heard terrible rumors—that she beats you, that you’re being locked in a closet.”

  Caroline thought about denying the stories and asserting that everything was fine, as was her tendency, but Mrs. Blake was the type of individual who’d be brave enough to assist. Caroline had to seize what might be her only chance.

  “It’s been awful,” she admitted.

  “I figured as much.”

  “Do you know where Ian is?”

  “He’s left town,” Mrs. Blake confirmed.

  Caroline nodded, calculating the response and what it meant for her future, what it meant for his. Did Britannia have him as she claimed?

  “I need your help,” Caroline said.

  “I suspected you might. Is your mother watching you?”

  “Like a hawk. I can’t take a breath without her noticing.”

  “I just saw John Clayton go into the parlor down the hall. He’s sitting alone, having a brandy.”

  “So?”

  “I’ll create a diversion and keep your mother occupied. As soon as I’ve distracted her, sneak off and talk to him. You’ll have to hurry.”

  “To Wakefield? Why would I?”

  “He’s a man, as I obviously am not. Plus, he’s powerful—as powerful as your father—and he loves Ian. He’ll aid you as no one else would dare.”

  Caroline recognized the wisdom of Mrs. Blake’s statement, but she was loathe to parley with Wakefield. He’d hurt her in too many ways to count, but Mrs. Blake was also correct in suggesting that Caroline solicit his support. Of all the people she knew, he was the most likely to stand up to her parents.

  If his brother was in danger, he’d want to be notified, and if rescue was necessary, he would act on her behalf.

  “All right,” Caroline decided. “Go ahead.”

  She felt a rustling; then Mrs. Blake stepped into view. She walked between Caroline and Britannia, passing by until she was on Britannia’s opposite side.

  “Lady Derby,” Mrs. Blake greeted much too loudly, “the death of your husband’s mistress is so shocking. Everyone is whispering about it. Couldn’t you just expire from mortification?”

  As Britannia prepared to do battle with Mrs. Blake, her back was to Caroline, and Caroline slipped away and ran down the corridor. There was a room at the end, and she rushed in and slammed the door.

  Wakefield was seated on a sofa, staring into the hearth. He glanced over at her, frowned, and rose.

  “Caro?”

  “Yes.” Her heart was pounding.

  “I’m having a brandy.” He grinned his devil’s grin that, for years, had had women swooning all over the city. “You won’t tattle to my wife, will you? She doesn’t approve of my bad habits.”

  His marriage to the vicar’s daughter was still a sore subject. “Please don’t mention her to me.”

  As she neared, he could sense her anxiety. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “You must help me.”

  “I’m happy to. Tell me what you need.”

  “My parents are foisting me off on Edward Shelton.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  His smile wavered. Apparently, he felt guilty over his role in her current fate. Good! The bastard! If he’d wed her as he should have done, she wouldn’t be in such dire straits.

  “I don’t wish to marry Mr. Shelton.”

  “It’s what your father selected for you, and you should—”

  “I love Ian,” she declared, cutting him off.

  “How grand for Ian,” he murmured kindly, “but your parents would never give their consent.”

  “I don’t care about their opinion.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “You don’t know me, John, and you never did. I love Ian, and I won’t accept Mr. Shelton as my husband. I won’t!”

  “Would you like me to meet with them? In light of our past, I doubt they’d pay any attention to me.”

  “I don’t need you to speak with them. I need you to find Ian. I need to be sure he’s safe.”

  “Ian’s in Scotland.”

  “I’m not certain that he is. My mother is mad and—”

  “Well, I don’t know if mad is the word I’d choose.”

  “No, she’s crazed. She insists she had Ian kidnapped while he was on the road and that—if I don’t go through with the ceremony—she’ll have him killed.”

  “She said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have misunderstood.”

  “She was very clear.”

  “It can’t be true.”

  “What if it is?”

  They were both silent, and she could see the wheels spinning in his head. Since their botched engagement, they’d scarcely crossed paths, yet here she was, ranting like a lunatic. He was probably rejoicing that he’d had the foresight to break off with her.

  “Now, Caro”—he used his most annoying, placating tone—“you’re obviously distraught over recent events.”

  “You think I’m suffering from some sort of … of … delusion?”

  “No. You’ve simply been under a lot of pressure.”

  He was lucky she didn’t slap his imperious smirk off his perfect face. He’d always thought he knew best, always thought he knew more than she did. She grabbed the lapels of his coat and shook him.

  “Listen to me, and listen well: I would do anything for Ian. I would walk through hell and back. I would drown myself in the deepest ocean. I would jump from the highest cliff. I would even marry Edward Shelton. But I absolutely must know if he’s all right.”

  He studied her, then shrugged. “You’re serious.”

  “Yes. Locate him, and if he’s free and unharmed, bring him to me so he can take me away from here.”

  “If it’s so terrible at home, don’t wait. I’ll assist you now
. If you’re afraid or if you’re being mistreated, I’ll intervene and place you under my protection.”

  “I can’t jeopardize Ian. If she has him as she claims, and she learns I’ve met with you, she’ll hurt him. I’m positive she will. She’s increasingly deranged.”

  “I’ll find out where he is.”

  “Thank you.”

  She raced to the door and opened it.

  “Caro?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m glad you came to me.”

  “I’m not!” she rudely replied. “I’d rather cut off my arm than ask you for help, but you care for Ian.”

  “I love him. I always have.”

  “Then don’t fail me. Don’t fail him!”

  “I won’t.”

  “Swear it!”

  “I swear!”

  He put his hand over his heart, and the other was stretched out as if he’d laid it on a Bible. Their gazes locked and held, and he seemed sincere. Maybe he’d changed; maybe he’d come through for her. For once.

  The hall was empty, and she tiptoed out, then hurried to her mother before Britannia had noticed that she’d sneaked off.

  Mrs. Blake had continued insulting Britannia, and a huge crowd had gathered to titter over the fireworks. Mrs. Blake saw Caroline approaching. She raised a brow in question, and as Caroline responded with a quick nod, Mrs. Blake stumbled forward pretending someone had pushed her. She had a full glass of wine, and she spilled the whole red mess down the front of Britannia’s dress.

  “Oh, Countess,” she gushed, “I’m so sorry.”

  “You little fiend!” Britannia hissed. “My gown is ruined.”

  “I’d buy you another,” Mrs. Blake offered, “but my brother-in-law has my money tied up in court. Would you speak to him for me? If you could convince him to relent, I’d compensate you.”

  Britannia was so furious that Caroline worried she might explode. Caroline leaned in and scolded, “Mother, you’re making a scene. Why don’t we go?”

  “Yes, why don’t we?”

  Britannia flashed such a look of hatred at Mrs. Blake that the bystanders blanched and stepped away, presenting them with an easy path to the foyer.

  Britannia hastened through the gauntlet, Caroline hot on her heels, departing so swiftly that they didn’t even wait for their cloaks and hats to be retrieved.

  Caroline passed by Mrs. Blake and mouthed, Thank you.

  You’re welcome, Mrs. Blake mouthed in reply, and suddenly Caroline didn’t feel so alone.

  For the first time in so very long, she was hopeful. She had Wakefield and Mrs. Blake as her allies. Perhaps she would survive her ordeal, after all. Perhaps everything would work out for the best.

  * * *

  “Explain yourself!” Bernard demanded.

  “What do you expect me to say?” Britannia retorted.

  Bernard skimmed the note he’d received from Wakefield. “He maintains that you’ve kidnapped his brother! Where would he come by such a ridiculous notion?”

  “How would I know?” Britannia scoffed. “The man’s a lunatic. He always has been. I have no idea why you’d interrogate me over something so preposterous.”

  “Am I to believe he pulled the insane nonsense out of thin air? That he’s making bizarre accusations with no proof?”

  Britannia didn’t answer, and Bernard scrutinized her, wondering what the actual account was.

  Wakefield was a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t crazy. Nor was he prone to hysterics. If he would allege such severe misconduct by Britannia, it likely had some basis in fact.

  Bernard couldn’t guess what scheme Britannia had concocted. She was a riddle he didn’t care to solve.

  “Caroline must have gotten word to him,” Britannia said. “She’s filled his head with twaddle.”

  “To what end?”

  “She’s determined to stop the wedding.”

  They were back to the wedding again? He gnashed his teeth.

  “Madam, I told you to handle this situation. Must I assume—once more—that you can’t manage your daughter? How many more discussions must we have on this topic? If you cannot deal with such a simple problem, what use are you to me?”

  “I have her completely under my control.”

  “Do you?”

  “No one sees her. No one confers with her. She’s totally isolated.”

  “Then why is Wakefield pestering me? At this very moment, he’s racing to Scotland on some wild-goose chase.”

  She chuckled in a way that frightened him. Anymore, she seemed a bit mad, which had him unnerved and terrified as to what would become of her.

  “So … he’s off to Scotland, is he?” she reflected.

  “Yes.”

  “Marvelous. He’ll be out of our hair.”

  “I didn’t realize he was in our hair.”

  “The Claytons have always been a nuisance.”

  He couldn’t disagree. Still, he was bewildered over the strange letter and fretting over what it might portend. If Britannia had done something despicable in her pursuit of Caroline’s marriage, he ought to respond, but in what fashion?

  When he was desperate to have Caroline wed and gone, why would he interfere? If Britannia was only furthering a difficult conclusion, who was he to complain as to her methods?

  “I don’t wish to be advised as to what folderol you’ve instigated,” he stated, “but whatever it is, be sure nothing happens to Ian Clayton. Or if it does, be sure your hands are clean. I won’t be dragged into a scandal, merely because you can’t carry out your plan with any degree of circumspection.

  “Don’t worry, dear Bernard. I shan’t get caught. Nor shall you.”

  She grinned and strolled out, while he mulled in the quiet.

  Her comment had him more uneasy than ever. What was she implying? What had she done? What would she do?

  He couldn’t bear to know.

  He poured himself a brandy, drank it down, then climbed into bed. Refusing to be disturbed, he closed the privacy curtains so he could ruminate—without interruption—over Georgie and the awful hole her death had made in his life.

  * * *

  “May I speak with Jack?”

  Rebecca tugged off her gloves and tossed them on the table in the foyer, acting as if she were welcome in Ian’s home, acting as if she hadn’t been bodily evicted during her previous visit. She feigned confidence, behaving as if she would saunter into the parlor and make herself comfortable as she always had in the past.

  “He’s not here, Mrs. Blake,” the butler confirmed as he discreetly but competently blocked her entry.

  “I’ll wait—if it won’t be too long. When are you expecting him?”

  “I don’t believe he intends to come back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Master Ian has traveled to Scotland.”

  “Jack went with him? I thought he was staying in London.”

  She hadn’t thought it, at all. She’d just hoped he wouldn’t tot off and abandon her. Not that she wanted him to remain, precisely. Not that she’d given him any reason to remain.

  “He’s gone, too, but not to Scotland. He packed a bag that contained only the clothes with which he arrived, and he left.”

  “I see.”

  She peeked into the nearby salon. A footman was covering the furniture with sheets, as if the house was being shut down.

  “Is the staff leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forever?”

  “I haven’t been notified of what Master Ian will do next.”

  Liar, she mused. “Were Jack and Ian fighting?”

  “I’m certain they weren’t, Mrs. Blake.”

  His stony reply indicated that, even if they had been, he would never gossip. It was an attitude she generally respected, but in this instance, when she was dying for information, she wanted to throttle him till he spilled all.

  “Has Jack provided a forwarding address?”

  “No.”

  “Ha
ve you any idea how I could reach him?”

  “No,” he said again. “Would you like to jot a message in case he contacts us?”

  She considered what type of communication she might convey, when she wasn’t even clear on why she’d stopped by.

  She was simply feeling so morose. She was embarrassed that she’d caused so much trouble, and she hated that Jack was upset with her. To make amends, she’d involved Wakefield in Ian’s little drama. If anyone could go against the Countess with impunity, he could. She’d done the right thing for once, and she’d rushed to apprise Jack, to see if he might be proud of her, but the ass had vanished.

  Wasn’t that just like a man! She’d finally conducted herself in a manner that would have pleased him, but he’d fled before she could boast.

  She was frequently labeled a shrew, when she didn’t mean to be. She knew how to be a faithful friend, but she’d had so few chances to display any loyalty.

  She wanted to tell Jack that she was sorry, that she was inundated by guilt, that she wished she could retreat in time and start over.

  But what she said to the butler was, “No, I don’t have a message. Thank you anyway.”

  She grabbed her gloves and walked out, and she loitered on the stoop, remembering their last encounter, when they’d had wild sex, when they’d parted on such bad terms. How could he just go off and leave her?

  She didn’t understand him, and she was furious that she didn’t. If she’d had a heart, he might have broken it.

  “Bastard,” she grumbled.

  A tear tried to leak out, but she wouldn’t let it surface. She’d already cried once over the unappreciative oaf, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying over him again.

  * * *

  “Are you positive you don’t want me to come with you?” Jack inquired of his brother John.

  “Yes.”

  “I’d be happy to accompany you.”

  “It’s not necessary. Stay here and escort Emma to the country. That’s the best help you can offer me.”

  “I will,” Jack said.

  John had promised to take Emma home to Wakefield Manor for the birth of the babe, but Lady Caroline’s cryptic warning about Ian had altered their plans. Their initial inclination had been to disregard it, but what if she was correct and something nefarious had happened?

  John was anxious to discover Ian’s true condition, just as he was eager to redeem himself to Lady Caroline by going to check. Jack was delighted to witness such honorable behavior from someone about whom there’d always been such dreadful rumors.