by Cheryl Holt
She peeked around the frame, and they were over by the hearth. It was a chilly night, and they had a roaring fire burning. Mr. Shawcross was relaxed in a chair, his brother leaned against the wall. They were casually dressed, their coats off, their sleeves rolled back. They were drinking liquor, a decanter and two glasses on the table by Mr. Shawcross.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said.
“Why are you lurking? Did you need something?”
“Could I speak to you? Just for a minute?”
He sighed as if she was a heavy burden. “I suppose.”
“Are we finished?” his brother asked him. “Don’t we have to discuss our plans for tomorrow?”
“I’ll find you in awhile,” Mr. Shawcross said. “Where will you be?”
“I’ll be in a parlor playing cards, but I’ve won from everyone. I’m sure they’ll be rushing to town very soon—because I’ve emptied their purses.”
Mr. Shawcross scoffed. “You don’t amuse me.”
His brother smirked, then asked Rebecca, “Dare I leave you alone with him, Miss Carter?”
“You needn’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”
“Raven is a renowned libertine. Were you aware of that? Don’t be fooled. If you’re silly about him, there can’t be a good ending for you.”
“Get out of here, Lucas!” Mr. Shawcross snapped.
“I’m simply telling her the truth. I like her, and I don’t like you, and she has no business being in this bedchamber.”
“Your concern is noted, now get! Or I’ll toss you out bodily.”
“All right, all right,” Lucas Shawcross muttered. “When you’re done—which I’m predicting won’t be for hours—I’ll be downstairs at a card table.”
“Clayton and most of the men went into Frinton,” Rebecca told him. “I doubt you’ll stumble on anyone eager to gamble.”
“I’ll have to beg the footmen then.”
“Lucas!” Mr. Shawcross said. “We’ve been through this. Don’t steal from the footmen! They can’t afford it, and you don’t need the money.”
“Yes, but they’re so much more interesting than Clayton’s tedious chums. They’re real people, whereas his friends are idiots and whiners who are indescribably dull.”
He headed out, and she was hovered in the threshold, so he had to walk by her to exit the room. He took a last glance at his brother, then murmured to her, “He bites, Miss Carter. Be careful.”
He sauntered off, and she remained frozen in her spot as his strides faded. Mr. Shawcross refilled his glass and sipped the liquor. She didn’t move, and he said, “Well? Are you coming in or not?”
“I’m coming in.”
“Shut the door then.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“I won’t risk that a housemaid will sneak by and eavesdrop on our conversation. From your dour expression, it’s clear you intend to raise a hideous topic, and I’d rather not have the servants tittering over it.”
“If I was caught in here with the door closed, I’d be in so much trouble.”
He scowled furiously. “Then go to your own bedchamber. I don’t have the patience for your dithering. If you have something to say, say it. If you don’t, then leave me be. I’m busy, and I’m exhausted.”
She almost stomped out. Beatrice had addressed her in that same snide tone for most of her life, and she was heartily sick of it. But apparently, she had no pride at all.
She was sad and dejected, and she wanted to spend time with him. She wouldn’t let him be horrid to her, wouldn’t let him bark and complain and insult. If these were to be some of the final words they ever shared, then she insisted they be words she could mull with satisfaction after he left forever.
She shut the door. She didn’t slam it, but secured it hard enough that he knew she was irked.
“Don’t be rude to me,” she said. “I don’t like it, and I don’t deserve harsh treatment from you.”
He pondered, then nodded. “You’re correct. I’m grouchy, so I’m behaving badly. I apologize.”
He wasn’t a man who apologized very often, and she accepted his comment for the olive branch it was.
“Why are you so upset?” she asked.
She thought he’d deny any distress, but he didn’t. “I had a dreadful day. I’m getting the justice that is my due, but I don’t feel any better.”
“What justice are you due?”
He caustically assessed her, then he downed his liquor instead of explaining. “Why are you here? What do you need?”
“You fought with Clayton.”
“What of it? If you’re about to chastise me for it, you shouldn’t.”
“I won’t chastise you. The staff is gossiping, and I figured I should learn what it was about.”
“It was about you. What would you suppose?”
“Me!”
“I ordered him to never touch you again.”
She sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t have.”
“I don’t care.”
“It will make things worse for me.”
“No, it won’t. Clayton has run out of opportunities to inflict himself on you.”
“You keep spewing remarks like that, but you never clarify your plans. Stop speaking in riddles.”
“This house doesn’t belong to him anymore. I’ll kick him out shortly, after I’ve toyed with him a bit more, but his days of being in residence—where he can terrorize you—are at an end.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this property is mine.”
“How could that be? He hasn’t put it up for sale.”
“He mortgaged it over and over, to square his gambling debts, and he never tendered any payments. I bought it from his creditors—for pennies I might add.”
“Give it back to him.”
“No.”
He poured himself another glass of liquor and pointed to the empty chair next to him. “If you dawdle over there, I’ll strain my neck looking at you. Sit down.”
She neared, but didn’t sit as he’d demanded. She studied him, and there was an aura around him she hadn’t noticed before. He seemed cold-blooded and dangerous, the kind of brigand you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.
Should she be afraid of him? She’d never worried about it in the past, not even the first afternoon when she’d been alone with him on the promontory. She’d never sensed any menace, but now, it practically rolled off him in waves.
“What did you do to Beatrice?” she asked. “The servants are gossiping about that too. She came home from Frinton and locked herself in her room.”
“Is that where she went? I was wondering where the old bat was hiding.”
“Tell me what you did!”
“I did what I’ve been dreaming about for two decades.”
“Which is what?”
“I took my father’s company from her, so she doesn’t have anything left. She’s about to discover what it’s like.”
“You took her company? Carter Imports?”
“Yes.”
“Give it back,” she said again.
‘I can’t. I’ve closed it down.”
“But…but…how could that happen?”
“Ask your dear Cousin Clayton. He really shouldn’t gamble.”
“You’ve shuttered Carter Imports?”
He’d just admitted it, so her question made her sound like a dunce, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around the disaster. She’d spent the day, seeing to her usual chores, carrying on as if everything was fine, but they’d lost Carter Crossing? They’d lost Carter Imports?
“Why would you do this to us?” she asked.
“I didn’t do it to you. I did it to Clayton and Beatrice.”
“It will impact me just as hard as it impacts them.”
“Yes, tragedies have a terrible way of sweeping entire families to their doom. In my personal experience, I’
ve found it can’t be avoided.”
“You hate us that much?”
“I don’t hate you specifically. Or your cousin, Millicent. I’m ambivalent about her, but as to Clayton and Beatrice, my loathing for them knows no bounds.”
He poured himself yet another drink, but before he could swallow any, she marched over and yanked it away. She set it out of his reach.
“Cease your barking,” she said, “and explain what this is about.”
“My father’s name was Harrison Stone. Have you ever heard of him? Well, no, you wouldn’t have. You were a child when he was sent to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“What crime was that?”
“He was accused of embezzling from Lord Coxwold, and it was such a hefty sum that the pompous sot was almost bankrupted. The problem was that my father didn’t steal a penny from him.”
She’d already deduced the answer, but she posed her query anyway. “Who was the embezzler?”
“It was Charles Carter, but he blamed my father.” He grabbed the decanter and downed a huge slug, then he toasted her with it. “He and Beatrice have lived high on the hog since then, haven’t they? The root of their wealth was pilfered from my father, but that never seemed quite fair to me.”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“In case you were curious, my father hanged himself in prison.”
She winced. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” His gaze was brutal, as if she was responsible for the calamity.
“Yes, I’m sorry, you rude oaf. Why do you detest Clayton? Is it simply because he’s Charles and Beatrice’s son? Or are there other issues with him that you haven’t revealed?”
“He ruined my sister.”
“Oh.”
“She wound up in the family way, and she and her baby died in childbirth.”
Rebecca blanched with dismay. Evidently, this was a blood vendetta, so he’d never be satisfied, no matter how much retribution he obtained.
“It was years ago,” he said, “and most people would probably insist I should be over it, that I should forgive and forget, but I’m not a forgiving man.”
“I’ve figured that out about you.”
“I was out of the country and far away in Africa, so I wasn’t able to protect her. He destroyed her, then walked away. I’ve been waiting for my chance to get even.”
“After you’ve extracted your vengeance, do you suppose you’ll be happy?”
“Yes. A bit of revenge always makes me happy.”
“So what will happen now?” she asked.
“What do you think will happen? I’m retrieving what belonged to my parents. Whatever is left—and Beatrice and Clayton have squandered nearly all of it—when I’m through, it will all be mine.”
He stood suddenly and stepped in so they were toe to toe, and he towered over her in that thrilling manner she relished.
She wasn’t sure what he intended—to strike her? to kiss her? to throw her out?—so she was unprepared for him to sweep her up and carry her into the bedroom.
“Raven Shawcross!” she scolded. “Put me down this instant.”
“No.”
He stomped over and flung her onto the bed, and he tumbled onto the mattress with her. In a trice, she was flat on her back, and he was stretched out atop her. Without a word being exchanged, he began kissing her as if they’d been separated forever and had finally been reunited.
Where he was concerned, she was a complete milksop, so of course she joined in with a great deal of enthusiasm, but why would she participate so eagerly? He’d just informed her that he’d ruined her cousins. Shouldn’t she be incensed?
Beatrice had always behaved horrendously toward her, but despite her flaws, she’d fed, housed, and clothed Rebecca for twenty-four years. Shouldn’t Rebecca exhibit some loyalty to her?
And what about her own situation? Was he planning to kick them out on the road? Where were they to go? How would they support themselves after they arrived?
Carter Imports had been the family’s sole source of revenue. If it vanished, how would they survive? Would they move to London and become rag pickers and rat chasers?
She ought to be in her own bedchamber and analyzing her circumstances. If he was about to evict residents, she was positive he would include every Carter in that group, so she and Alex were at risk of losing their home. If Beatrice and Clayton found themselves in dire straits, Rebecca couldn’t envision a scenario where they’d continue to extend charity to her and Alex.
Did Mr. Shawcross realize the wheels he’d set in motion with regard to her? Did he care that she might be imperiled? She was terribly afraid the answer was no, so she had no idea why she was loafing in his bed. She wasn’t a prisoner. She could push him off and march out, but why would she? Each time she was with him in an intimate way, it might be the last time.
He was touching her all over, his hands stroking her arms, hips, and thighs. The caresses were like bolts of lightning, and she would never tell him to stop.
Because she was a spinster and hadn’t expected to wed, she hadn’t fully pondered the physical side of passion. How could it be that she’d never heard how exciting it was? How could she be twenty-seven and never been told how much she’d enjoy it?
He was in a peculiar mood, his temper raging, his emotions spiraling to a dangerous height, so the encounter swiftly burned out of control. He was unbuttoning her gown, untying laces and raising the hem of her skirt. His busy fingers slipped under the bodice of her dress, massaging her breast bare skin to bare skin.
The feel of it was so shocking, but also so wonderfully delicious, that she didn’t order him to desist. He shoved fabric away, exposing a nipple and, stunning her, he dipped down and sucked it into his mouth. She hadn’t ever imagined a man doing such a thing to a woman, and every portion of her anatomy, down to the smallest pore, was absolutely riveted.
An appalling notion occurred to her: Was she a wanton? Deep down, had she always harbored licentious tendencies?
All her life, Beatrice had warned her that her mother had been a slattern, that Rebecca had to fight the natural urges her mother’s blood would foment. Rebecca had been aghast over the accusations and determined to prove Beatrice wrong.
But had Beatrice been correct?
Rebecca had only ever had her one brief amour when she was seventeen, so she’d never been enticed by immoral conduct, but she was definitely being enticed now. Her body had overwhelmed her common sense, her wits overruled by desire.
She yearned to do whatever he requested, so she couldn’t guess what might have happened. She certainly wouldn’t have called a halt, but abruptly, as if he’d been poked with a pin, he yanked away from her and rolled onto his back. He glared at the ceiling, his expression seeming a tad tormented.
“Why have we stopped?” she asked.
“You have to get out of here, Rebecca.”
“Why?”
“I’m a lusty man, and I don’t have many scruples. I have some, but not many. If you stay with me another second, I can’t predict what I’ll do to you.”
“You would never hurt me.”
“You can’t guarantee that, and I am not willing to test the limits of my restraint.” He shifted onto his side, so they were nose to nose, and he nodded to the door. “Go. Go now.”
“I don’t want to leave.”
“Well, I don’t really want you to either, but for reasons I can’t deduce, you fascinate me. There’s a powerful attraction between us, and I’ve been letting it flare, but I’m tamping it out. I know how to behave myself, and I have to start.”
“You’re departing for London soon. I’d hate to never see you again. These might be some of the final minutes we can be together like this. Would you rather we ignored each other?”
“I’m not Clayton,” he said.
“Thank goodness.”
“I loathe every Carter on the globe. That includes you, Rebec
ca. I won’t lie to you about it.”
“You don’t mean that,” she said. “You like me more than you care to admit.”
“I don’t.” He didn’t sound all that sure. Was he convincing himself or her? “You could never matter to me, so it’s ridiculous for us to dally.”
He’d stung her pride, and her temper ignited. “You’re the one who carried me in here!”
“I shouldn’t have. I have no honorable intentions toward you.”
She scoffed with disgust. “You think I haven’t figured that out?”
“Where would you like this to end? Shall I force myself on you, then abandon you to your fate? Is that the conclusion we should pursue? I told you I’m not Clayton, and I won’t act like him.”
From how much she’d relished the salacious episode, there would have been no force involved in whatever she’d tried at his behest. She was afraid he could coax her into any sinful antic. She didn’t tell him that though.
He slid off the opposite side of the bed, and he sat up, facing the far wall, his back to her—as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her.
She sat up too, her feet on the floor, as she straightened her dress and hair. It was an awkward, unpleasant moment. She was on the verge of tears, as if she’d lost a precious item and would never be able to retrieve it.
“You’d never force yourself on me,” she murmured, needing to break the tension that filled the air like bile.
“I’ve paid some attention to you—when I shouldn’t have—and I suppose, in that silly, feminine brain of yours, you’ve built up an entire fantasy where you believe I’ll fall in love and marry you. You’re a Carter, Rebecca. I would never proceed as you’re hoping.”
She had begun to dream about that very scenario, but she’d die before she’d confirm his assessment. While most people would describe her as humble and accommodating, in reality, she was bristling with vanity. It was likely her aristocratic father’s blood that made her feel so superior.
Usually, she concealed it, but she wasn’t always successful. Like now, for instance.
She wished she were a big, strong man, so she could march over and slap him for being so obnoxious. She’d visited him, being anxious to hear that he wasn’t departing—or if he was, that he’d take her with him.
