Though it was aberrant and foul, the undeveloped female body excited him. His whole life he'd grappled with the scurrilous urges, but they were too powerful to fight, and he'd ceased his struggles to control them.
Caroline was much more mature than he liked, but she would—if he was lucky—birth many, many daughters who resembled her, and he'd have them in his home and available to enchant him for decades to come.
Everything had the most wonderful way of working out for the best!
The madam appeared. She was a malodorous, buxom woman, whom he couldn't abide, but she knew her business. Nothing surprised or shocked her, not even his most depraved requests.
"What'11 it be, sir?" she queried.
"I'd like a tiny girl, with rosy cheeks and rosy lips—like a little doll. I want the youngest you have in the house, but she shouldn't be too experienced. I want to scare her a bit."
"I think I have someone you'll enjoy very much," the woman said without hesitating.
Edward handed over a purse full of money, and the woman hurried off to fetch the child of his dreams.
I
have to tell you something." "What is
i
t?" Ian snapped at Jack. "It's a confession." "I'm not in the mood."
Ian was reeling from the prior night's encounters. Too much had transpired in too short a time. He'd finally bumped into John, but he'd been too much of a coward to walk over and offer the apology that was owed, or beg for the forgiveness that was craved.
He'd met Caro's family at the theater and had allowed her mother to hurl public insults. The altercation had tossed him into an abyss of despair, and for hours he'd hovered outside Derby's mansion, in the rain and the wind. He'd wrongly entered Caro's bedchamber and dallied with her till dawn, sneaking out after the cock had crowed.
He felt drained and confused. He hadn't slept a wink, was grumpy and exhausted, and the last thing he wanted to do was have a philosophical chat with Jack.
"Can't it wait?" he asked.
"No. I should have spoken up days ago."
"Very well. Sit down."
"I'd rather stand."
"Sit!" Ian gestured to the chair opposite. "I'm not about to strain my neck glaring up at you while you blather on and on."
"All right, if you feel I must."
"You must."
Jack plopped down, and he stared at the floor, unable to begin.
He seemed very young, very unsure. He carried himself so well, was so reliable and courteous, that Ian frequently forgot his true age. Just then, he looked so much like John, so much like the captivating, insolent rascal who'd gotten himself into so many jams and who'd always come to Ian for advice and assistance.
Ian couldn't remain angry, and his ire faded.
"What is it?" Ian repeated more gently.
Jack hemmed and hawed, then admitted, "I had sex with Rebecca."
"You what?"
"I... I... had sex with Rebecca."
"You did?"
"Yes. I didn't mean to. It just... just happened."
"How does sex just happen?"
"It was sort of an ... an .. . accident."
Ian wanted to laugh, but didn't. He wasn't positive what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't anything close to this. He was very still, studying the boy, trying to figure out how he should react.
He wasn't upset—when he probably should have been. He wasn't hurt—when he probably should have been. He didn't feel betrayed or let down, so what should be his response?
He and Rebecca had a different relationship that was incomprehensible to others. They were both on a reckless course, circumstances causing them to behave badly, so they were a good match. They understood each other. Neither condemned the other for lapses in judgment, just as neither hoped for improved conduct. They were friends; they were cordial; they were excellent together in bed.
"Jack," he started, "Rebecca is my mistress."
"I know; I know."
"She and I have an arrangement."
"I know that, too."
"Yet you proceeded anyway."
"Yes." He peeked up. "I realize that this is where I'm supposed to apologize, but I'm not sorry."
"You're not?"
"Well, I'm sorry that I deceived you, but I'm not sorry for what I did with her. I liked it very much, and I won't lie to you."
"I see."
"It was actually quite spectacular," he muttered.
"I don't need any details, Jack. I've fornicated with Rebecca on many occasions. I'm aware of her numerous charms."
Ian sighed. For the life of him, he couldn't decide what was best. He couldn't have his brother copulating with his mistress, yet he didn't want to be shed of either of them. It was difficult to acquire a suitable paramour, and he wasn't in the mood to search for a new one. Obviously, a brother was irreplaceable.
After a lengthy silence, where Ian mulled and stewed, Jack urged, "Say something."
"I'm curious as to what I should do, and I'd love to hear your opinion."
"I guess you'd be entitled to kill me."
'That seems a little dramatic."
"Or. . . or.. . you could throw me out. I packed a bag—just in case."
"Is the situation likely to reoccur?"
"I'm not certain. The first time was more of a collision, if you will, but if the same kind of opportunity crept up on me ..." He blushed and cleared his throat.
"Have you discussed this with Rebecca?"
"Oh, yes."
"What was her suggestion?"
"She said that if I confessed, she'd murder me."
He sighed again. "She oughtn't go about making such spurious threats. People misconstrue her intent."
"I told her the exact same thing." Jack frowned, then inquired, "Do you imagine she was serious? Should I watch my back?"
Ian scoffed. "She didn't murder her husbands. At least, I don't believe she did. I've often wondered about the second one, but the other two were very elderly. They dropped dead of their own accord."
"So I'm safe?"
"She won't kill you, but she'll definitely get even."
"I was afraid you'd say that." He rose and shuffled his feet. "So ... should I fetch my bag?"
Ian didn't have to ponder the question, for he'd known the answer before Jack asked it. He couldn't carry on without Jack. Their lives had rapidly grown inseparable, intertwined like two strands of a rope. Ian didn't want him to ever leave.
"No, I don't want you to go."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"Thank you."
"You can't have sex with Rebecca again, though." "I know."
"Maybe you two should avoid each other?" "I'll see to it."
"I'd appreciate it if you would. And if you find yourself contemplating another accident with her, I'd be obliged if you could tell me right away."
"I will," Jack promised, and he scurried off.
Chapter
Ten
Father, may I speak with you?" "No."
Caroline stared at her father, imploring him
as he proceeded toward the door. "It's important." "I'm on my way out, Caroline." "Please?"
"Oh, all right." As if she were the greatest burden in the world, he blew out a heavy breath and stomped into the nearest parlor. "I can spare you five minutes, so whatever it is, be quick about it."
She longed to shake him. How could the entire course of her life hang in the balance of five measly minutes?
"It's about my engagement," she started.
"What about it?"
"I don't wish to marry Mr. Shelton."
"So?"
"I need you to call it off."
"Call it off?" He was aghast. "On what grounds?" "You may use any basis you like. I just want it over."
"Are you insane?"
"No. I simply can't be his wife. You never asked my opinion; you just forged ahead. I'm twenty-five years old, and I ought to have been consulted."
"Where did you come by such a ludicrous notion?"
"It's not ludicrous," she insisted. "Many fathers confer with their daughters on such a weighty issue."
"Not this father. This isn't some fantasy in a storybook where females are allowed to act however they please. This is England. I am the Earl of Derby, a peer of the realm, a friend of the King. You'll do as you're bid, and you'll do it gladly."
Desperate to be away, he peeked at the clock, and she tamped down her frustration. Why couldn't she be clear? Why couldn't she make him understand?
"You can blame it all on me, and I won't say a word."
"How very big of you!"
"Mr. Shelton can explain the split any way he likes."
"Oh, he can, can he?"
"Yes."
He rolled his eyes and spun away. "I don't have time for your nonsense."
"When will you have
time?”
"I never will," he said. "You're marrying Edward and that's final. I suggest you prepare yourself."
Then he was gone, and she dropped onto the couch, listening as he stormed out. An image flashed in her mind—of the pretty brown-haired girl she'd seen with him outside the tea shop.
Had he raced off to be with a mistress who was young enough to be his granddaughter? The prospect— of his being too busy to help her merely because he'd rather be off philandering—was so galling that she was enraged.
Her request to end the arranged marriage was the first occasion she'd ever stood up for herself, and he couldn't be bothered to heed her complaint, let alone aid her in facilitating a resolution. Perhaps with all the meekness she'd displayed over the years, it was beyond him to take her seriously.
She glanced around the ornately furnished room, and suddenly she felt as if she was suffocating on the accouterments of her boring, privileged life. Her family had money, status, and power, but when they were all so miserable, what good was any of it?
She had to escape, if only for a few hours, and she knew precisely where she'd go. She had to be with Ian. When she was with him, her problems faded away, vanishing in the haze of the passion and desire he generated.
She hastened to grab a cloak and sneak away, but as she hurried to the foyer, the door so close to being reached, she bumped into her mother.
"Have you seen the Earl?" Britannia inquired.
"He left already."
"Left! But he just arrived. I didn't have a chance to speak to him. Where was he going?"
"I assume he was off to visit his paramour."
"I have no idea who you mean," Britannia huffed. "Did he mention when he'd return?"
"I wouldn't expect him back anytime soon."
Caroline was stunned by the contemptible remarks flowing from her lips. It was as if she'd opened her mouth and another woman's comments were being voiced.
She'd never been so angry, and it was fabulous to be furious and lashing out. She'd always let others treat her as if she were stupid, as if she hadn't a brain in her head. She'd done everything—-everything!—they'd asked, yet they repaid her with scorn and indifference.
She skirted by her mother and walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" Britannia demanded.
"Out."
"I don't give you permission to leave." "I don't care."
She scurried away, the mansion like a prison gate that could swing shut and trap her if she didn't dash to freedom. It was very cold, an icy rain falling, the frigid air bracing.
Like a madwoman, she gaped about, then sprinted to the street, and she ran and ran until her neighborhood of stately mansions disappeared and she began to see shops and pedestrians on their daily errands.
On the corner, there was a row of rental cabs, and she went to the nearest one, tossed coins to the driver, and clambered in without assistance.
Shortly, she was at Ian's house, and she leapt out and marched to his stoop.
She was frantic to be with him. Their ardent interludes were the only thing that made sense, the only thing that seemed genuine. She felt as if she were weightless, floating away, and that he was a tether to all that was normal and real. If he didn't seize hold of her, she might fly off to some distant, unknown place and never return.
She knocked and knocked, but no one answered, so she barged in. Luckily, at the same moment, he was coming down the hall. He halted and frowned.
"Caro?"
"Yes."
"My goodness, did anyone see you? It's broad daylight. What are you thinking? What's wrong?"
"My mother hates me," she said in a rush, sounding desperate and crazed, "and my father is having an affair, and I can't marry Mr. Shelton, but no one will help me. I don't know what to do. I just had to be with you."
If he sent her away, she couldn't predict how she'd react. When she'd fled from her mother, she'd needed a refuge, and he'd been the only choice.