"Tell me the truth," he urged. "If you're in trouble, just say so. I'll assist you if I can."
He'd always felt close to her, connected in an inexplicable way, so he could sense that she was weighing possible responses.
Eventually, she admitted, "I'm going to be married."
A surge of dismay shot through him, but he tamped it down.
"Congratulations."
'Thank you."
"It's what you always wanted." "I suppose."
"Who's the lucky fellow?" "I don't know if you'd be acquainted with him. He's a friend of my father's."
"Your father's?" The Earl, Bernard Foster, was sixty if he was a day. "Yes."
A sinking feeling crept over him. "Who is it, Caro? Who has your father chosen?" "Mr. Edward Shelton."
Ian hid any visible reaction. While he'd had no personal dealings with Shelton, he knew of the man. He was a rich blowhard, in his sixties, too. Rumor had it that he had a penchant for very young girls, so Caroline was much older than he generally preferred.
Was Caro aware of the gossip? Was that the real reason she'd come?
Perhaps she wanted him to allay her fears, and he was greatly conflicted by what he should say. Was this any of his business? A father always selected his daughter's spouse, and at Caro's level, the decisions were made on the basis of wealth and property that were beyond Ian's ken.
What was it to him if the Earl of Derby picked an elderly pervert to wed his spinster daughter?
Since his fight with John, Ian had eschewed the entertainments he'd previously attended, favoring instead the darker side of London. In spite of his isolation, he was cognizant of the stories that had attached to Caro after her failed engagement, and they hadn't been kind.
John had skated away from condemnation, but Caro—whose mother was so hypocritical in her attempts to appear pious and moral—had been painted with a hateful brush. People had tittered over her icy disposition, and tales had been spread that John had tried to seduce her, but had learned she was frigid, so he refused to have her in his bed.
The frenzy was exacerbated by John's hastily marrying the very common, very pregnant vicar's daughter, Emma Fitzgerald.
As the news broke, John had absented himself from London, so he hadn't been available to counter the lies about Caro, but even if he'd remained in town, how could he have answered? A gentleman could never reply to such vile accounts.
"I'm sure you'll be very happy," he cautiously began.
"Really?"
"It's what the Earl has arranged for you." "He claims the scandal will die down if I marry someone else."
"I'm certain he's correct." "Are you?"
"Caro, if you find the match repugnant, you don't have to go through with it." Was that what she'd come to have him say? "This isn't the Middle Ages. He can't force you."
"I know, but if I don't agree, what will become of me?"
"You'll continue to live with your parents—as you always have."
Even as he voiced the remark, he recognized that it would be a horrendous outcome for her. Her parents were unbearable and unlikable. Her mother in particular was petty and vicious, cruel to Caro in innumerable sly ways that Caro tolerated with a quiet dignity. They treated her like a feeble half-wit, and she'd endured the dubious fate for twenty-five years. How could she face more of it?
"Do you know Mr. Shelton?" she inquired.
"No."
"But you understand men and their desires." "Well... yes."
"Will he demand a lot of kissing?"
"Most likely." He grinned, trying to lighten his comment. "Husbands seem to enjoy that sort of behavior."
"But I was wondering ... that is ..."
They'd arrived at the crux of the matter. Whatever was driving her, it was about to be revealed, but he wasn't keen to be apprised of what it was. Still, he'd once been her friend, and he liked to believe that he'd retained a spark of humanity and would aid her merely because she needed him to.
"What is it, Caro? You can ask me anything."
"I'm curious as to what else I'll be required to do." She glanced away, embarrassed at her naiveté, at her lack of sexual knowledge.
"Oh..."
"I don't have anyone with whom to discuss marital obligation, but I don't think I can marry Mr. Shelton. He's so old, and there's just something about him that's ..." She trailed off, unable to explain what she sensed in the man. "I don't know what's expected of me, but whatever it is, I can't provide it to him."
"Speak to your father."
"I tried, but he won't listen. So I thought that if I... that is ... well..." "What, Caro?" "I want to be ruined." "Ruined!"
"Yes, and I want you to be the one who does it."
Ian gaped at her. "I was correct: You've tipped off your rocker."
"Why would you say so? Can you look me in the eye and tell me I should go through with it? Can you look me in the eye and tell me it's for the best?"
"How can my opinion signify? It would be a waste of breath. In the end, you'll do as your father has commanded."
"What if I didn't?" she bravely retorted. "Mr. Shelton wants a virginal bride, and if I'm not one, he'll refuse me."
Her vehemence was intriguing and confounding. It was odd for her to be so adamant, to be plotting against her father and fiancé. While Ian didn't want her to be afraid or to worry, when her spouse was to be Edward Shelton she was right to be apprehensive. Yet the debacle was none of his concern. He did not want to be involved in the situation, and he was irked that she'd sought him out to question.
"I'm not the one to advise you, Caro. This is between you and your father."
"I realize that, but... but... maybe if you could show me?"
He was aghast. "Show you what?"
"How ruination occurs. You're experienced, and I don't detest you."
"I'm so relieved to hear it."
"You're very good at kissing, too. That's what I remember most about you."
Uncomfortable with what she'd divulged, she shifted from foot to foot. Suddenly, she appeared very young, very shy, and against his will, he was so bloody sorry for her.
He, too, recollected every moment of their passionate embrace. It had been magnificent, it had been idiotic, and it had lasted entirely too long, so that, in the intervening months, he'd had too many details to mull. He couldn't get over how perfectly she'd fit in his arms, how sweet she'd tasted, how marvelous it had felt to hold her.
For much of
h
is adult life, he'd been bewitched by her. She'd been his forbidden fantasy, the ultimate and unattainable prize, and he'd loathed himself for his desperate attraction. Once, there'd have been nothing he'd have relished more than to be her savior, but the time when he'd have acted as her champion had passed.
He knew her well. Eventually, she'd come to grips with what her father had ordered. She would do her duty—to King and country and family—and she'd wed Edward Shelton.
In the interim, his fixation with her had scarcely waned. He liked her much more than was wise, and he wouldn't risk dallying with her. It was a recipe for disaster.
"I can't help you," he said. He went to the door and hollered, "Jack! Jack, are you still here?"
He hoped that Rebecca was being her usual recalcitrant self, that she hadn't left, and that Jack was in the house and pestering her to hurry. Shortly, he was proved right as Jack's fleet strides pounded down the stairs.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"Would you see Lady Caroline home?"
Jack peered over at Caro and frowned. "I thought you wanted me to take—"
"This is more urgent."
"I don't wish to go," Caro protested.
Jack was torn over who to heed.
"Take her," Ian quietly insisted.
"Ian!" Caro beseeched. "Please don't make me."
He proceeded to the hall, pausing to gaze back at her. For once, he let his regard shine through. In the past, he'd been so meticulous about concealing it. He was anxious for her to depart with some inkling of how
much he admired her, how much he imagined they'd have been grand together if status and circumstance hadn't been quite so important.
Then he hid any fond sentiment, his typical mask of ennui and disdain sliding into place.
"Don't ever return, Lady Caroline," he said. "If you do, the staff will have instructions not to let you in."
He spun and fled, climbing and climbing the stairs, until he was far enough away that he couldn't hear as Jack escorted her out.
Chapter
Three
H
ello, Ian." Caroline was lounged in the shadows of his bedchamber, mostly concealed from view, and as he jumped a foot, she bit down a grin. Four days had passed since their prior encounter, and obviously, he hadn't expected her to return. She was delighted to have surprised him—again.
"For pity's sake," he snapped, "who let you in?" "None of your servants was about, so I admitted myself."
"It's the middle of the night! You can't be in here." "I already am."
She rose and sauntered toward him. She'd been waiting an eternity for him to arrive, and she wondered where he'd been. At the theater? Out gambling and carousing? Philandering with loose women?
He was dressed for an evening on the town, and in his fancy suit, with his black hair swept off his head, he was so handsome, so masculine. At being near to him and having him all to herself, her heart fluttered with excitement.
He was perplexed by her advance, and the stunned expression on his face was priceless. He had no idea what to make of her brash conduct, and she was struggling to figure it out, herself.
What had possessed her to sneak out of her father's house? What had driven her to Ian's, where she'd prowled about like a thief?
She had no explanation.
"Is your mistress with you?"
At her audacious mentioning of his paramour, he sputtered with shock. "Do you ... do you ... mean Mrs. Blake?"
"Have you another besides her?"
"No."
"She won't be stopping by, will she?" "No," he repeated.
"Good. I'd hate to have her interrupt."
She reached for the clasp on her cloak, unhooked it, and the heavy garment slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor. She stood before him in corset and drawers, in stockings and heeled shoes, and naught else.
The decision to wear the scanty outfit had come about after she'd eavesdropped on a maid who'd been giggling over how she'd espied a similar circumstance in another noblewoman's boudoir. Caroline had never heard of such scandalous behavior, but had been electrified by the information.
After her previous visit, when Ian had sent her home, she'd been furious. She was sick of men telling her what to do, and she'd determined that, in the future, whatever advice a male gave to her, she would do exactly the opposite. She intended to be as recalcitrant and stubborn as possible.
She'd boldly entered his residence, and she would use every trick imaginable to entice him into letting her stay.
On seeing what she'd revealed, he gasped. "Have you gone stark-raving mad?" "Perhaps."
"You've shed your clothes!"
"Yes, I have."
"And your hair is down!"
"It's very beautiful, too, don't you think?"
"No, I don't think. What's come over you?"
She took a step, then another, until she was directly in front of him. In the space separating them, sparks erupted, and she was thrilled by the sensation. Maybe she wasn't dead, after all.
"I have a secret to share with you," she said.
"What could you have to say that would interest me in the least?"
"John dumped me over like so much rubbish."
"I know. I was there, remember?"
"He was too busy cavorting with his mistresses to marry me, when we'd been betrothed for decades. Yet in a thrice, he married somebody he'd only recently met."
"His wife, Miss Fitzgerald, is actually quite—" "Shut up, Ian." "What's your point, Caro?" "Have you any notion of what these last few months have been like for me?"
"I heard some awful rumors."
"People call me an ice maiden. They titter that I'm a cold fish, that a man who had me in his bed would freeze to death."
"I'm sorry," he murmured, seeming sincere.
"Because of it, my exalted father is planning to wed me to an aged, faltering acquaintance."
"I'm sorry about that, too."
"I feel used up and past my prime. The sole husband available to me is old enough to be my grandfather." She grabbed
his
lapels and pulled him to her, their torsos melded all the way down. "Can you even begin to guess how angry I am?"
"No, I can't."
"You're the only man who ever evinced the slightest awareness of me as a woman."