Cheryl Holt (30 page)

While he’d like to blame youth and naïveté for what
he’d done, they were sorry pretexts. At age twenty, he’d been callow, poor, and easily swayed, but what was his excuse for continuing on when he was twenty-five? When he was thirty?

Could he ever find a valid reason for his conduct? He and John had had their ups and downs, their quarrels and differences. John could be difficult, complex, troublesome, but Ian was no saint, himself. They’d got on famously most of the time, the periods of conflict short and rapidly forgotten.

John was his only brother. What had possessed Ian to suppose that any amount of money was worth losing his friendship and regard?

John had no one whom he trusted. Too often, he’d been duped and deceived. By their father and most everyone else. He didn’t absolve others of their sins, and he’d never forgive this. Their relationship was over. Forever.

Ian had uttered some vile remarks that he’d both meant and hadn’t, that he regretted yet didn’t. Frequently, his pride and envy overcame his better sense. Jealousy goaded him to do things he hadn’t intended, to hurt those he loved.

He sighed. What a waste it all was. Their sibling rivalry. His covetousness and resentment. Through his perfidy, he’d grown to be a rich man, yet he reaped no satisfaction from his affluence. What contentment was there in wealth that had been earned by such dubious methods? He couldn’t fully enjoy benefits that were obtained at John’s expense.

In the foyer, he donned his coat and hat, arranged to exit into the chilly dawn air, when footsteps sounded on the stairs. Anxious, he looked up, anticipating it was John, speculating as to whether his brother had had a change of heart during the interminable night and had
decided they shouldn’t part on such bitter terms.

To his great surprise, it wasn’t John, but Caroline.

For the merest instant, she paused, a hitch in her gait, and he read a thousand emotions on her beautiful face. Joy, embarrassment, bewilderment, animosity. From the blow John had delivered, he’d sustained swelling and bruising to his cheek and brow and, as she noted his injury, her eyes widened with dismay, then she carefully masked any exhibition of sentiment, retreating behind her typical wall of ennui and disdain.

She floated down, her maid trailing after her. They were wearing cloaks, hats, and gloves, and she was obviously prepared to travel without a word of
adieu
to either John or himself, which was understandable. By any stretch of the imagination, the previous evening’s debacle hadn’t been the Clayton brothers’ finest moment, and he wished he could fix what had befallen her, but he hadn’t devised a feasible solution.

After incessantly fretting as to her condition, he’d sneaked to her room, not certain what he was hoping to have happen. Luckily, her door had been locked, so he hadn’t entered, and he was still trying to figure out why he’d made the effort. The incident in the library had been terrible. Not their lengthy kiss, but how it had ended, with John witnessing their passion, with his admonishment of her as though she were a child, with her humiliation over being caught.

Ian wanted to make it right, but he hadn’t a clue as to what his actions should be. He wasn’t about to apologize for kissing her, which was what he was positive she’d demand from him. The encounter had been delightful, what had occurred marvelous, and she hadn’t done anything wrong.

As she reached the bottom stair, he hesitantly acknowledged, “Lady Caroline.”

“Mr. Clayton.” She was haughty, contemptuous.

How could she carry on as if they were strangers? A few hours earlier, he’d had his hand on her breast! Anger surged, hot and potent, and he had to quash an impulse to shake her until her teeth rattled.

As if he were invisible, she strutted past him, flaunting her position, her station, and he grabbed her wrist, the subtle maneuver immediately detaining her.

“Couldn’t you be bothered to say good-bye?”

“Why would you feel it necessary that I say goodbye to
you
?”

“Pardon me, Your Royal Highness.”

She was panicked, afraid that he might allude to their dalliance in front of the maid, and thus her indiscretion would be relayed to her father. “As we’re scarcely acquainted, Mr. Clayton, what might I need pardon you for?”

He sighed again. Hating her. Hating himself. “Nothing, Lady C. Nothing at all.”

“Well, then—” She shifted away, breaking their physical contact.

“Are you off to London?”

“Yes, although I fail to see how my plans are any of your affair.”

“I’m going, too. Would you like me to ride with you?”

“Honestly! As if I require a male escort! I’m twenty-four years old; I can take care of myself.”

She strutted to the door, her maid scurrying before her to open it, and he watched her, his venom spiraling as he muttered under his breath, “Impossible bitch.”

He hadn’t meant for her to discern the crude epithet, but she had. As if she’d been stabbed by his disrespect, she halted. Her back was ramrod straight, her body trembling with ire, and he truly postulated that his boorishness
might impel a scathing retort, but he was mistaken.

Fury suppressed, dignity intact, she strolled out without turning around.

For several minutes, he loitered until her coach rattled away, then he went out, mounted his horse, and followed her, eager to catch up with her and gallop on without giving a thought to her welfare.

With a quick tug of the reins, he trotted down the winding drive toward the lane and the village beyond. Before the final curve in the road, he pulled in and gazed at the manor.

The sun was rising behind the house, the orange sky making the masonry glow as though it was afire. He took in the scene, appraising, evaluating, remembering, and as he did, he detected movement in an upstairs window. Narrowing his focus, he endeavored to ascertain who it might be, but he couldn’t tell.

Desperately, he yearned for it to be John, and he waved—just in case it was. Then he cantered on, rushing by Caroline’s lumbering carriage, hurrying toward London and whatever lay ahead.

Georgina relaxed in her chair, in the center of Wake-field’s box at the theater, her eyeglass pressed to her eye as she spied on the opulent, bejeweled crowd.

She held court like a queen, welcoming friend and foe alike during the lengthy intermission, and from her demeanor, no one could have suspected that she was nervous as to her status with John. As her world was filled with vicious, malevolent people—too many of whom she’d maltreated or insulted—she hadn’t shared her secret. There was a veritable horde that would relish in her downfall.

For a month now, she’d dawdled at home, with no
information, and she was frustrated and frantic.

Her anonymous note to Caroline Foster had worked like a charm. As Georgina had predicted, the foolish ninny had scampered after John. He would abhor such cleaving behavior, but he’d have hosted her politely, and would have endured many a tedious day entertaining her, which was precisely what Georgina had wanted. Every hour he spent with Lady Caroline would be one he couldn’t spend with that slattern who’d captured his fancy.

But still, Georgina was nettled. Since she’d sent Lady Caroline on her wild-goose chase, Georgina hadn’t learned a single tidbit as to how the sojourn was progressing. Before quitting the country estate, she’d bribed three servants at the manor, and Rutherford had been on her payroll for an eternity, but she hadn’t heard a peep out of any of them.

She’d penned a few flirtatious letters to John, inane, chatty missives to remind him of her, but he hadn’t replied. Not that she’d expected he would, but she’d posted them anyway, desirous of prompting him to recall that he had other responsibilities.

What was transpiring at Wakefield? The question—and myriad conceivable, horrid answers—had kept her awake many a night.

The Earl of Derby’s box was across from her, and she was disappointed that the pompous ass wasn’t in it. If he had been, he’d have been glaring down his pretentious nose at her. Derby protested that it wasn’t fitting for John to publicly consort with Georgina, so Georgina liked to be gallingly conspicuous.

Derby had made it clear that his little darling, Caroline, shouldn’t have to be dishonored by Georgina’s presence in Wakefield’s life, but Caroline was such a dolt that she didn’t know who Georgina was. If she
peered across the opera house and observed a female guest in John’s box, she was too stupid to wonder who it might be.

She looked closer. So far, Derby’s box had been empty, but suddenly, the curtain rustled, and an entourage of women sauntered in. Georgina’s heart skipped a beat. Lady Caroline was in the middle of the group, having slithered back to London without Georgina’s having been apprised!

She fumed. That bastard Rutherford had received his last farthing! How dare he neglect to warn her of this monstrous development!

Staring, she assessed the younger woman’s elegance, her serene countenance, her unaffected mien. How could a man bear to marry such a prim, prudish paragon of virtue? Especially Wakefield. The very notion of their union was laughable.

Her hatred was so strong that Lady Caroline could probably feel the malice spewing across the theater. What was the silly twit doing in London? Couldn’t she keep Wakefield occupied for even a few days? What was the matter with her?

When Georgina had urged the inept noblewoman to travel to the Wakefield estate, she’d prayed that some repressed speck of feminine intuition might kick in, that Caroline would recognize the dangers posed by the vicar’s daughter. Apparently, Caroline was so obtuse that she couldn’t identify a hazard when it was thrown directly in her path.

Just then, Georgina’s friend Portia returned from a gossip foray in the lobby. She hustled to the chair next to Georgina and, fairly bursting with glee, she gushed, “You won’t believe what I heard.”

“What?”

“Guess which prominent family has spread the news
that their eldest daughter isn’t willing to accept a marriage offer from Viscount Wakefield?”

Georgina could barely refrain from leaping to her feet, babbling incoherently, displaying excessive concern over the tidings. She tamped down any reaction, fixed her smile, blandly murmuring, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“When was the announcement made?”

“In the past hour. Scuttlebutt has it that she went into seclusion for a couple of weeks to ponder her future.” Portia smiled wickedly. “Evidently, after a great deal of soul-searching, she’s decided that Wakefield is not the husband for her.”

“It certainly took her long enough,” Georgina said caustically, showing more interest than she’d meant to reveal. Others in her box, and in the surrounding boxes, were surreptitiously perusing her in order to glean her impression of the reported split.

“Did you know?” Portia queried.

“Of course,” she lied. “She actually cried off several weeks ago.”

“And you never breathed a word, you naughty girl!”

Georgina raised a brow, pretending a wealth of knowledge she didn’t possess. She was treading in perilous territory, aware that John would be furious if he discovered that she’d discussed him, but she couldn’t have others inferring that she’d been caught off guard.

Portia was chattering, furnishing some of the more acerbic quips bandied about as to spinsterish Lady Caroline—what a fool she was, what her family would do with her now—but Georgina scarcely listened.

She was in drastic need of fresh air, of peace and quiet, so that she could analyze the debacle in private, and she was seconds away from jumping up and dashing out, which she couldn’t do. Impassively, she flicked her
fan and used it to cool her heated face, while she mentally calmed herself.

“What did you find out about Lord Belmont’s nuptials?” she inquired, deftly switching the subject to another of Portia’s favorite topics.

Portia launched into a new tirade, and Georgina feigned attention until she deemed it safe to leave without giving others the perception that she was upset. She tarried until the third act began and, with a whisper to Portia, she sedately walked out, bound for the ladies’ retiring room.

Blessedly, it was vacant, and she was alone.

She stood before the mirror, checking her coiffure, dabbing color on her cheeks. In the dim glimmer of the lamp, she appeared twenty, but as she leaned in, the wrinkles she valiantly struggled to conceal were visible.

Spinning sideways, she studied her profile. Her breasts were still taut and rounded, but before long, they’d droop, she’d sag here and there.

With each passing year, her situation became more precarious. She wasn’t a youthful beauty, which was what the earls and viscounts of the aristocracy wanted. In other areas of commerce, maturity counted, but not in hers. Age was an enemy to be fought and vanquished.

She wasn’t anywhere near to being fiscally stable. She needed time to stabilize her finances. With skillful manipulation of her features, and proficient nurturing of John’s tendencies and habits, she’d hoped to hold on to him until forty or after.

If he tossed her over now, what would she do?

Before she’d garnered John as her protector, she hadn’t worried about locating another benefactor. When one had moved on, there’d always been another waiting in the wings, but the chances were increasing that no one else would have her after John cast her aside. She
was growing old, and the prospect was too grim to contemplate.

She had to lure him home! Had to get him back on familiar ground, so that he’d be removed from temptation. Once she had him in London, he’d recollect how adept she was at keeping him happy, why he’d picked her in the first place. They were a successful partnership, and no one understood him as she did. She’d invested much in their association, and she wasn’t about to lose him to some rural harlot’s devious machinations.

There were so few available options, but she had to concoct a method by which she could entice him. He was easily bored, was effortlessly distracted, so it was difficult to combine a suitable amount of vice and amusement.

What strategy might excite him sufficiently so that he’d reestablish himself in town?