Authors: Complete Abandon
People laughed at her behind her back, calling her a fool, a harlequin, claiming that she’d ruined her chances by allying herself with John. If he ultimately refused to marry her, she wasn’t sure how she’d react. She was a spinster merely because she’d cast her lot with him, not doubting that—as her parents perpetually insisted—he’d settle down and do the right thing. Should he demur in the end, she’d just die!
Despite her mother’s admonitions, she was positive that she could change him, that she could rein in his exorbitant tendencies and make him a better man. He could be an adequate husband, even if he might not be
the dashing, romantic swain she’d fantasized about as a girl.
Certainly, she liked him well enough, notwithstanding his numerous foibles and fondness for mischief. He was amiable and polite, familiar, like a comfortable pair of riding boots.
If she sporadically wished that he made her heart pound, that he’d gaze at her with the fire of manly desire in his eyes, that he would sweep her away into a life filled with passion and excitement, she pushed the notions aside. Theirs would be a sound union, based on entrenched principles of obligation to family and country, and it was imprudent to crave what was never meant to be.
The carriage rounded a corner and rumbled out of the woods, and she managed a glimpse of the residence. It was beautiful, situated on a hill, the windows gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. A thrill of anticipation and worry skittered down her spine.
She hadn’t written to notify John she was coming, and he would be astonished. She never did anything unexpected, never broke a rule or behaved impetuously, so she couldn’t explain what was motivating her.
Assuredly, there was the need to have John regard her as spontaneous—he often teased her for being too repressed—but the anonymous message she’d received had also played a part in her resolution to travel to Wakefield.
John had an affinity for loose women, a propensity her mother had expounded on at length, and she had no illusions as to the type of marriage she would have: With John as her husband, she would have to feign naïveté as he consorted with the Jezebels of the world.
Caroline didn’t grasp the sordid particulars, but her mother had hinted that females of the lower classes
would provide John with an entertainment that she—as the daughter of an earl—shouldn’t have to furnish. Though this incomprehensible, implicit dictum was distasteful, she’d assumed she’d acceded to it, but upon learning of his current trollop, she’d reeled with frustration.
The harlot would afford him a further pretext to evade matrimony, and even as she valiantly struggled to hide her pique, she was out of patience.
When his father had died, her parents had promised her that—with the title weighing heavily on his shoulders—John would come up to scratch, but she’d been looking forward to a proposal for months! The unsigned letter had forced her hand, and she wasn’t about to tarry in London as her destiny was, once again, delayed.
She’d send the coquette packing, then she’d have John all to herself for an entire week! Such confined fellowship would work miracles on their relationship!
Her parents were in Scotland, and their absence had given her the perfect opportunity to make the furtive trip, with no one being the wiser. She would use every second to remind John of why they’d be so good together. His procrastination was about to end!
The coach rattled to a stop at the front of the mansion, and she continued to peek out as the coachmen performed their tasks. Eventually, the door was open, the step down, and she exited. With her stomach churning in knots, she smoothed the anxious marks from her brow, and fixed a serene smile.
John would be delighted to see her! She wouldn’t contemplate any other possibility!
Rutherford was present to attend her, and she started toward him, eager to be announced, when she caught her reflection in a windowpane. Other than a few wrinkles
in her skirt, she was relieved to note that she looked immaculate.
Her blond hair was pulled into a neat chignon, her blue eyes and attractive mouth were accented with a dainty coating of facial paints. She’d worn an off-the-shoulder, cream-colored gown that underscored the delicate shading of her pale skin. Slender, shapely, wealthy, a privileged noblewoman about to greet her fiancé, she boldly waltzed into the house as though it already belonged to her.
Unduly pleased, she entered and spun around only to come face to face with Ian Clayton.
When she’d left town in a giddy rush, she hadn’t calculated that Mr. Clayton would also be in the country, when she should have known he would be. He and John were two peas in a pod, and where one went, the other followed. It was a reality that irked and vexed her.
The brothers were inordinately devoted, and John would likely want Mr. Clayton at the wedding. Why, he might ask Mr. Clayton to be his best man! How would she tell him no?
After the nuptials, the pair would carry on with their male association, which would include Mr. Clayton’s free run of her home. That he’d lived in the selfsame house for the prior decade was a factor she discounted. She’d be a bride who ought to be permitted to select who would be welcomed under her own roof, but how did a wife mention such a complaint to her spouse? How did she confess that his half brother frightened her out of her wits?
When she was around Mr. Clayton, she didn’t know what to do or say. Seeming overly large in size, he intimidated her, which was silly. He was the identical height as John, but with how he strutted about, he appeared bigger. They were enough alike to be, well . . .
brothers . . . but while John’s features were angelic and beautiful, his were rugged and untamed.
“My, my,” he derided sarcastically, “if it isn’t
Lady
Caroline.”
He purposely stressed her title in a manner that was designed to enrage and, mute and furious, she glowered at him. Though she endeavored to avoid him, there were times—such as now—that a confrontation was inescapable. He made her feel inept, unimportant, as if she were conceited and vainglorious, and his acerbic attitude incensed her.
She was a very nice person—to those meriting her courtesy. Which Mr. Clayton clearly did not! Neither by his birth status nor his conduct did he warrant any attention at all.
“Did you inform John of your plans?” He leaned in, trying to alarm her with his proximity, and he was succeeding. Her pulse rate increased, her nostrils flared, her stomach muscles clenched.
For some reason, when he was near, her senses were especially acute. She could smell the soap with which he’d washed, the aroma of tobacco clinging to his jacket, could discern the heat emanating from his lanky torso. She couldn’t figure out why he unnerved her, but she wasn’t about to ponder her peculiar sensitivity.
Ignoring him, she turned to the butler, undoing her wrap and holding it out.
“So it’s an impromptu visit, is it?” he chided when she didn’t respond. “Well, John is definitely going to be
surprised
.”
She wouldn’t attempt to interpret his emphasis on the word
surprised
. It could have any meaning; she wouldn’t try to decipher it.
He watched her with those shrewd blue eyes of his, and she tamped down a shiver, unwilling to let him ascertain
how completely he disturbed her equilibrium. As he inappropriately assessed her, his rudeness was unbearable, and she glanced away, declining to pay him any heed.
“What will
Daddy
say when he finds out you’ve trotted off by yourself?”
“Rutherford”—she spoke to the retainer—“show me to the drawing room. I’ll wait for John there. I don’t care for the conversation here in the foyer.”
“Ooh,” Mr. Clayton jeered, “a direct hit, milady.” Dramatically, he clutched a hand over his heart as though she’d wounded him, which she could never do. He was made of ice and steel. Then, he snapped to, oozing false civility. “I’ll escort her, Rutherford. Order refreshments, then be about your duties.”
The butler crisply bowed to Mr. Clayton’s obvious authority—rather than her own—and sauntered off, leaving her alone with the domineering oaf and more angry than she’d ever been.
In the ensuing hush, they studied each other, combatants in an undeclared war. His sizzling concentration roved over her, boring into her, so that he seemed to peer into her very soul, and she shifted uneasily, suffering the insane sensation that he’d unearthed each of her petty secrets.
She shattered the tense silence. “I can locate the parlor myself, thank you very much.”
He scowled. “Stop being such a snob.”
“I?” She was aghast at the uncivil remark, and she haughtily enlightened him. “I’ll have you know that I’m considered quite a friendly individual—when I’m in
friendly
company.”
“No,” he countered, “you’re an out-and-out snob. And you go out of your way to be a bi—” He checked
himself before he would have pronounced whatever else he judged her to be.
“A what?” she petulantly inquired.
“Never mind,” he arrogantly replied, and she fumed again. She hated it when men treated her as less than an equal, as though she were dainty or frail or—worse yet!—stupid.
“I can’t abide your churlish behavior. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” He was consistently determined to instigate a verbal brawl, but she wouldn’t oblige him. She tried to go, but somehow, he’d moved and efficiently blocked her retreat.
She bristled. Though she couldn’t fathom why, he was bent on tormenting her. Yes, she’d insulted him on that one horrid occasion, but it had been years earlier, when she’d impulsively and immaturely made an indecorous slur about his lineage, as well as the conceivable, dishonest financial incentives that might have spurred him to share the town house with John.
As she’d voiced her innuendos too loudly, a servant had overheard and had apprised John, so she’d had to apologize, lest he suppose she had a temper.
The taste of that atonement was still bitter on her tongue, and though Mr. Clayton had accepted her expression of regret, she’d been left with the impression that he hadn’t really forgiven her.
He slithered closer, the toes of his boots dipping under the hem of her skirt. “John won’t be glad to see you.”
How dare he comment! “I can’t understand why you’d deem my arrival to be any of your affair.”
“Everything that occurs in John’s life is
my
business.” He glared at her as if she were a fool. “You shouldn’t have come. He’ll be upset.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she argued between gritted
teeth. She absolutely would not explain herself, not when she’d been so thrilled by having braved an adventure. She wouldn’t let Mr. Clayton spoil it!
“Why do you persist?” he suddenly, vehemently asked.
“With what?”
“With chasing after my brother? He’s not worth it, and he doesn’t deserve you.”
Several cutting retorts were perched on the tip of her tongue, and with every pore in her body, she longed to lash out so that he would feel the sharp edge of her ire. Just once, she’d like to toss her composure on the ground and stomp on it. She’d relish the prospect of reproving the impertinent bounder, of letting her carefully restrained, spirited constitution shine through.
But fortunately, John’s opportune emergence down the hall prevented her from making a scene. Abruptly, she calmed, adopting the tranquil disposition for which she was renowned, and Mr. Clayton—knave that he was—recognized how quickly she brought herself under control so that John wouldn’t notice her fury.
As she seethed, he chuckled, and she contemptuously snubbed him—a tactic at which she excelled—focusing instead on John, and immediately, she concluded that the troublesome letter had been accurate.
There was a thin, rather plain woman with him. She was outfitted in a drab, functional black dress, a straw bonnet, and a threadbare cloak. They were promenading arm in arm, chatting as if they were bosom buddies, and he was smiling down on her in a fashion that was never manifest when he was with Caroline. Though she’d convinced herself that love and affection were not to be achieved through her marriage, his displaying them to another stabbed like a knife at her self-esteem and prodded her latent competitive instincts to the fore.
They approached, not aware of her, and Caroline was able to analyze her nemesis, allowing that the woman could probably be pretty if she’d had the advantage of stylish attire or coiffure. She was so far John’s opposite that it was laughable, except for one teeny detail: They exuded an energy, or a chemistry, so potent that Caroline could distinguish it with scant difficulty.
She stiffened, ready for battle, and to her dismay and horror, Mr. Clayton was inspecting her as she evaluated the couple. He raised a brow, as if to query, what do you think of that?
With ease, he’d deduced that she’d rushed to Wake-field to lock horns over this very situation. Why was he so adept at reading her? How embarrassing that he could!
John gaped down the corridor and saw her. His usually glib demeanor slipped, and he missed a step. For a brief instant, he looked terribly culpable, as if he were doing something wrong and she’d caught him in the act. Good! Let him stew! It was about time she garnered improved treatment for herself!
Then he smiled—the bland, affable smile he reserved just for her—and her heart sank. Why couldn’t he gaze at her the way he was ogling at his new
friend
?
“Caro?” At least he used her pet name! “Is it really you?”
“Yes, John, dear.” Unruffled, poised, she strode forward, both hands extended for him to grasp, and he didn’t disappoint. He moved away from the other woman as if she’d been rendered invisible.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was so lonely in London without you”—she rose up on tiptoe to collect her ritual kiss on the cheek; he’d never kissed her on the lips, but oh, how she wished he would!—“that I decided to visit.”
“I see.” Frowning, he exhibited no evidence of the glowing adoration he’d been lavishing on his colleague. “Does your father know you’ve come?”
“No.” Flirtatiously, she grinned, but inwardly she flinched. How had it happened that she was twenty-four years old, and no one believed she could take a breath without her father’s permission? “He and mother are in Scotland.” Leaning nearer, she hoped to have his companion stewing over their familiarity. “I ran off all by myself.” With her maid, of course. She wouldn’t be wild enough to abandon all semblance of propriety.