They were brothers, but hardly more than strangers. As Ian occupied himself with women, drink, and wagering, they stumbled along, with Jack doing his best to provide friendship and counsel on the lighter issues of life. But he wouldn't dream of giving advice on an important problem, nor was he certain advice would be appreciated.
Suddenly, Ian spun and started for the door. "I'm going out."
"Now? But it's almost midnight, and it's raining cats and dogs."
"I just need to ... to..."
"You don't have to explain. If you want to go, go." "Rebecca is here. She's upstairs, having a bath. She's waiting for me to join her." "You don't care to?"
"I guess I don't."
The news was odd. Rebecca was a great beauty, and even though she was a crazed witch, Jack couldn't conceive of any man shunning the chance to bed her.
He let out a low whistle. "If you leave, she won't be happy."
"I don't imagine so."
Ian was shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be away, and Jack waved him toward the hall. "Just go. I'll deal with her."
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
"She can be a handful."
"She's a wee mite. I'm not afraid of her. I'll see her home—if I have to bind and gag her to get her there." Ian chuckled, his expression relieved. "Thank you." "You're welcome." "I owe you one."
He rushed out, as Jack murmured, "Your debt has already been paid a hundred times over."
Dawdling, he contemplated Rebecca. She'd be nude, hot and slippery all over, and at the realization, his cock stirred, which made him grin. She was Ian's mistress, and he wasn't such an ungrateful wretch that he'd take what Ian considered his own, yet he often caught himself lusting after her.
What healthy male wouldn't? She was sin incarnate, a walking, talking erotic fantasy. Frequently, he viewed her naked and doing all sorts of things she oughtn't, and he always tried to act nonchalant, as if he wasn't affected, but it was difficult to pretend indifference.
With that mouth and those eyes, she should have been locked up in a distant convent or prison, where sane, normal men wouldn't have to gaze upon her and be bewitched by lechery.
He went to the stairs and climbed, more eager than he should have been for the pending fracas. He loathed her—for her avarice, for her vanity, for her loose morals—but he garnered an enormous thrill from their sparring. She was a vixen and she-devil, wrapped in a pretty package, and there was nothing quite so entertaining as goading her into a temper.
He entered Ian's bedchamber and proceeded to the dressing room, pushing the door open and marching in. Her back to him, she was reclined in the tub. Her knees were spread wide, and she was sipping on a glass of Ian's whiskey and smoking one of his cheroots. Her lush red hair dangled over the rim and hung to the floor.
Expecting Ian, she glanced over her shoulder, a sultry smile on her ruby lips, but when she saw him, her mood instantly soured.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you to knock?"
"No."
"Were you raised in a cave?"
"I've heard it said that I was."
"I'm not surprised." She spun around, ignoring him. "Get out of here. I'm enjoying myself, and I won't have you pestering me."
Infuriating her to no end, he approached and sat on the edge of the tab. He could see into the water, and he struggled not to gape at her perfect breasts, her tantalizing nipples. He snatched the cigar and snuffed it out; then he took her whiskey and downed the remaining contents.
"You rat!" she protested. "Give me that." "You're finished."
"I am not."
"You are. Ian's gone out." "What?" "He's gone out." 'To where?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea. He asked me to take you home."
"But... but... I just arrived." "And now you're leaving." "I don't wish to go." "It's not up to you."
"You may have imposed on Ian's affluence and good graces, but this is not your bloody house."
"It's not yours either, princess."
"I don't have to listen to you. You managed to fool him with your false claims of a common paternity, but I'm not so easily duped. He's such a smart fellow. How did you convince him you were brothers?"
"I cast a spell on him. When I was younger, I traveled with a caravan of gypsies, and they showed me how, so be careful, or I'll cast one on you, too."
She frowned and studied him, clearly wondering if a hex was imminent, and he liked that he could keep her off balance.
He wasn't ashamed of his antecedents, but he wouldn't defend them to people who could never understand. His sudden appearance as Ian's brother had fomented tons of gossip, but he never discussed his history or answered the charges that were slyly voiced.
He had to give her credit: She had the courage to level her accusations to his face, rather than behind his back as most were wont to do.
His mother had been a gentleman's daughter, tossed out by her parents after the notorious aristocrat Douglas
Clayton had impregnated her. Jack had indistinct memories of her, but while she'd lived, their life had been one trial after the next, and he recollected it as a period when he was always hungry and cold.
After her death, on a sodden, wintry street in York, he'd been a boy all alone, and he'd gotten by as best he could. He actually had traveled with gypsies, with a circus, with a troupe of theatrical players.
Through it all, he'd kept a letter from his father to his mother, as well as a stained baptismal certificate. On a blustery autumn day, as he'd loitered on a London corner, he'd been weary and starving and questioning the reasons he continued on. He'd made a few inquiries, had learned Ian's address, and had knocked on his door.
His brother had read the two tattered documents, then had welcomed him to stay for as long as he liked. It had been as easy as that, but he wouldn't explain as much to Rebecca Blake.
Her world was one of wealth and privilege. She'd never missed a meal or huddled in an empty stairwell to get out of the rain. She'd wed and buried three rich husbands, and each of them had left her money, yet she constantly mentioned that she was broke, when she had no notion of what true poverty entailed.
Her last spouse's family had proposed a settlement, which she'd refused, demanding much more, and it was obvious she was wrangling to have Ian as her fourth husband so that she could latch onto his fortune, too, which seemed so silly.
She had more than enough, yet she was never satisfied.
"Let's get you going," he said.
He reached down and pulled her up, but the tub was slippery, and she toppled to the side. There was nothing he could do but catch her. She landed in his arms, every damp, shapely inch of her sprawled across him in a provocative way. Her bare bosom was crushed to his chest, her
lips
a hairsbreadth from his own, and for a stunned moment, they froze, then a wave of madness swept over him, and he kissed her.
He didn't ponder Ian, or her relationship with him, didn't consider her prior dead husbands, or what he viewed as her greedy behavior. He simply forged on.
She was hot and wet, and she smelled so good, and he dragged her across his lap. His cock swelled to an enormous size, and he grew so aroused that he worried he might spill himself in his trousers.
The placard of his pants was all that separated him from paradise and, pushed beyond his limit, he flexed into her. He wrestled to get nearer, as she was doing the same. She hissed and bit, clawed and rasped, offering him her breast, and he seized it in a frenzy.
When she was urging him to feast, how could he fail to oblige her?
He cupped her between her legs, and he felt as if he'd been jolted by lightning. Frantically, he ripped at the buttons on his pants, yanked his phallus free, and impaled himself in her sheath. He thrust once, again, again, and he came in a torrid rush, but the ecstasy quickly waned.
He pressed his forehead to her nape and struggled to calm his breathing. Sanity returned, and reality sank in for both of them.
"Oh, my God!" she muttered. "What have I done?"
She leapt away and stood before him, a naked, quivering ball of wrath.
He stood, too, so that they were eye-to-eye and toe-to-toe. He wanted her again, already. "I'm not sorry," he said. "I am!"
"I didn't hear you complaining while it was happening."
"Then you weren't listening very closely. Ian will kill me." "Probably."
"Don't you dare tell him! If you do, I'll kill you
!
"
He laughed. "I'm shaking in my boots."
"You tricked me! You seduced me against my will!"
"Liar."
He shoved her to the wall, and he leaned in and sucked on her nipple as he fingered her down below. His thumb found her clit, and he touched it once, twice, three times, and she came to high heaven, screaming with bliss, her knees buckling so that he had to hold her up lest she fall to the floor in a heap.
He smirked. She was so damned sexy, and he was so titillated. They were like two combustibles stored in the same shed. The smallest spark had ignited a maelstrom.
"You're laughing at me!" she correctly charged.
"I can't help it. You're easy and loose, and apparently, I'm no better. We're quite a pair."
"Speak for yourself."
She stormed out, and he tarried in the quiet, and as reason reasserted itself, he was aghast.
He'd betrayed his brother, had jeopardized the only stability he'd ever known, merely to climb between the thighs of a tempestuous vixen he could hardly abide. What had he been thinking? How could she—how could any woman—be worth so much?
He plopped into a chair, his chin in his hands, wondering how he'd ever make it right.
Y
ou will go downstairs—immediately!—and you will be your usual, charming self throughout the entire meal. Am I making myself clear?" Britannia Foster, Countess of Derby, glared at her recalcitrant daughter.
"My headache is unbearable," Caroline claimed. "So? Why would a little discomfort keep you from your duties?"
"I don't feel like socializing." "How can it signify? Mr. Shelton will be here any second. You must be in place to greet him, as is proper and expected."
"No one will notice if I'm not there." '7 shall notice," Britannia said. "You've caused sufficient scandal, and I won't stand for your instigating more."
"How have I caused scandal?" Caroline demanded. "I did everything you asked. I waited and waited for John to marry me, yet he cried off. How can his decision be my fault?"
"If you'd enticed him—as any well-bred girl could have accomplished—you'd have been wed long ago." She pulled herself up to her full height, her portly form hovering over Caroline where she huddled on the bed like a sick, whiny child. "You must face the facts: You have no feminine attributes for a man to enjoy. By deigning to wed you, when you are damaged goods, Mr. Shelton has thrown you a lifeline. If you are to have any kind of future, you must seize the chance he's so graciously provided."
"Must I?" Caroline snidely inquired.
"Yes, you must."
From the moment her husband, Bernard, had announced the match, Caroline had been unruly. With each passing day, she grew more intractable, which was so out of character. She'd always been so obedient and submissive.
Britannia was so anxious for the nuptials to occur that it was difficult to conceal her glee over Caroline's fate. When Wakefield had finally spurned Caroline, Britannia had been elated. She'd grabbed the opportunity to have her greatest wish come true.
Revenge against Edward Shelton had driven her for decades. It fueled her crazed ambitions for Caroline— the child she'd conceived in shame, the child she loathed—and fed a secret yearning that was so extreme it bordered on madness.
A few whispered comments to Bernard had sent him racing to Edward with a proposal. Now, with Britannia's scheme so close to fruition, she wouldn't be denied simply because Caroline didn't like Edward.
No woman of their station was ever allowed to wed for love—herself being the prime example of how dreams could be dashed—and she would have her way. She always did. Caroline would be Edward's wife, no matter what. Edward would pay the price Britannia was determined to extract.
"You're trying my patience," she snapped. "Get up, calm yourself, and get down to the parlor. You will join us—in ten minutes. If you don't arrive, I shall return and take a switch to you. Perhaps if I beat some sense into you, you'll remember your obligations to your family."
She stomped off, barely able to keep from striking out More and more, she felt out of control with rage, her temper bubbling so vehemently just beneath the surface that she could scarcely function.
At age fifty-five, she was a frumpy matron who hadn't aged well, who was trapped in a marriage she abhorred. She was obese and homely. Her jowls sagged, her eyes were beady, her lips taut with disapproval of everyone and everything.
She'd never been beautiful, had never had the allure or polish that other debutantes had so effortlessly exhibited. She, herself, had been a spinster, waiting for her cousin, Bernard, to settle down and tie the knot, a feat which he hadn't chosen to effect until he was thirty and she twenty-five.