Fantasy 02 - Forbidden Fantasy (10 page)
"No."
"I plan to marry Ian," she bluntly stated, wanting Jack to be very clear as to her ultimate goal. "Were you aware of that fact?"
"He doesn't love you."
"So?"
"Then why would you?"
"How about to have a roof over my head and food on the table?"
"You already have a home—with a fine roof and a fully stocked larder."
"Maybe I want a grander roof," she said. "Maybe I want tastier food."
"Why are you so greedy?"
She bristled. "Until you've walked in my shoes, you have no right to judge."
"I've been poor all my life, but it's never made me prostitute myself simply to receive a few fancier baubles."
"Bully for you."
He assessed her, his gaze contemptuous. "Wouldn't you like to be valued as something more than a pair of tits and an ass?"
"What an absolutely cruel thing to say."
"Why is it cruel? Aren't you preparing to sell yourself—again—to the highest bidder? I'm merely speaking the truth."
"No, you're not. Your cock is hard, and I haven't tended it, so you're angry, and you're trying to provoke an argument."
"Is there some reason I should be pleasant at the moment?"
The conversation had deteriorated to its usual juvenile level, which wasn't surprising. They had no capacity to fraternize like normal human beings. The carriage was stalled in traffic and, his disgust with her obvious, he reached for the door, anxious to jump out and leave her to her own devices.
Absurdly, she was hurt that he'd go, and she could barely stop herself from grabbing onto his coat and begging him to stay.
He stared at her, his blue eyes digging deep, making her fidget with his keen scrutiny. He seemed to be cataloguing her features, as if seeing her for the very last time.
"I have to inform Ian of what we did," he quietly announced. "I can't live with myself." "You are mad!" "I'm sure you're correct."
"Have you considered the consequences? He might throw you out of his house. Or disavow your kinship. He might... might... challenge you to a duel!"
"Whatever he might do, my punishment would be warranted," he said with an inherent dignity that belied his humble origins.
"It was just a hasty tumble in the dark," she insisted, denying its import. "You're making too much of it."
He blew out a heavy breath. "The more I listen to you talk, the more I realize it's not worth keeping a secret for you."
"If you tell him, I'll kill you. I swear it."
"In light of the gossip about you in the community, is that a threat you should hurl?"
"Will you get it through your thick head? I don't know why my husbands keep dying!"
"I thought you said your reputation as the Black Widow was well deserved."
He opened the door and leapt to the street, and the crowd swallowed him up.
She leaned against the squab, praying that he didn't mean it, that he'd keep his big mouth shut. If he tattled, what should she do?
Chapter
Seven
Oh, my goodness!” a female voice gushed. “Ian Clayton! Is it really you?”
Ian stared down the dark street to where a woman was leaning out the window of a fancy carriage that was parked in front of a restaurant.
A grinning and very pregnant Emma Fitzgerald— make that Emma Clayton, Lady Wakefield—maneuvered the steps of the vehicle with the help of a footman, and she approached from down the walk. Her figure was limned in the light cast by the carriage lamp. She was big as a house and beautifully attired in an emerald dress that set off the auburn in her hair and the rose in her cheeks.
He wasn't surprised that she'd shunned a conservative wardrobe and had done nothing to conceal her delicate condition. She was experienced in midwifery and considered birthing to be normal and respectable. On seeing her again, he tamped down his delight, embarrassed to have it revealed.
He hadn't spoken with her since he and John had argued, since Ian had left Wakefield Manor and never talked to John again, save to threaten his very life if he failed to do the right thing and marry the Emma he'd ruined. Ian had suspected that he'd eventually run into her, but the encounter had arrived too soon, and he wasn't positive how to act.
Luckily, John wasn't present. Ian had no desire to converse with the disreputable bounder, and he would have hated to place Emma in an awkward situation.
Jack was standing next to him, the two of them on their way to join Rebecca at the theater. They'd quarreled as to whether Jack would attend, too, so they weren't in the best mood to greet Emma.
Something was eating away at Jack, something important and troubling, but Ian wouldn't probe for what it was. Jack would blurt it out when he was ready. There was no use pestering him.
Still, for reasons Ian didn't comprehend, he wished he hadn't brought Jack along. Emma would confide to John that they had another brother, and Ian didn't want John to know.
Jack had a childlike infatuation with John, and he was intrigued by all that John symbolized as far as their noble heritage. Absurd as it sounded, Ian was terrified that John would steal Jack away. John was a dynamic and charismatic individual, and with Jack being Ian's only kin, Ian couldn't bear to share him. Not with John. Not with anyone.
"Hello, Lady Wakefield," he said as she neared, and he bowed.
"Lady Wakefield!" She laughed and peered around. "Whenever I hear that tide attached to my name, I automatically presume the person is referring to someone else. You knew me when I was Miss Fitzgerald. I think that means you should call me Emma."
"Hello, Emma." "How have you been?"
She took his hands and squeezed them, and he couldn't resist her friendly charm. "I'm fine."
"John and I have missed you so much. We chat about you every day."
At the tidings, he suffered the silliest spurt of gladness, but he ignored it. She was the ultimate diplomat, and he was certain she was lying. John would never have mentioned him. Their last fight had been too hideous, the basis of John's dislike too shameful and too appropriate. There could be no reconciliation.
Emma spun toward Jack and asked, "And who is your handsome companion?"
Huddled in the shadows as they were, it was difficult to see Jack clearly. With his blond hair and blue eyes—that were an exact replica of her husband's—
his
resemblance to John was uncanny.
She clutched a fist over her heart and muttered, "Oh, my Lord."
Ian reached out to steady her. "What is it?"
"Is he ... is he ... John's son? I had no idea. Does John know?"
"No, no," Ian hastily soothed, "he's not John's son. You can't tell here in the dark, but he's much too old."
"Oh ... well..." Her pulse slowed, her composure reasserting itself.
"I'm sorry. It never occurred to me that you might make such a shocking assumption. This is Mr. Jack Clayton Romsey."
Jack bowed, too. "Lady Wakefield, I'm so pleased to finally meet you. I apologize for any distress."
Emma frowned at Ian. "A Clayton cousin?"
"A brother," Ian gently said.
"A brother! John will be thrilled." She turned her radiant smile on Jack. "What is your story, Jack? May I call you Jack?"
"I'd be honored, milady."
"Why do we know nothing of you? How did you come to be living with Ian?"
Ian explained, "He showed up on my stoop a few months ago."
"Really? Just like that? What a splendid conclusion for both of you."
"I had a letter," Jack stated, "that my mother gave to me when I was a boy, and I always kept it. It was from my father."
"How very romantic!" Emma beamed.
As if a silent signal had been sent, she glanced over her shoulder. A man had exited the restaurant, and Ian and Jack espied him at the same time.
"There's John now. John!" she summoned her husband. "You won't believe who I've found."
Though he was only twenty or thirty feet away, the true distance between them was as vast as an ocean. John pulled up short and glared at Ian, but didn't speak.
"Who's that?" Jack inquired. "Is it Lord Wakefield?"
"Let's go, Jack," Ian said. He grabbed the younger man by the arm and tried to drag him away.
Jack shook him off. "I want to be introduced."
"Jack! Come on!" Ian insisted more sternly.
"Don't be ridiculous," Emma scolded. "Of course you'll stay and meet him."
"I'm fond of you, Emma," Ian quietly replied, "but don't put yourself in the middle of this. You don't belong there."
"Nonsense! Whatever concerns John, concerns me, too. He's not angry, and the two of you will not continue this idiotic feud. Not if I have anything to say about it."
"It's not about anger, Emma. It was perfidy and betrayal, pure and simple."
She glowered at John, then at Ian, but neither of them had moved an inch, and she marched to John, ready to do what, Ian couldn't guess. Emma was like a force of nature, positive she could bend everyone to her will, but not in this case. His conduct toward John was beyond forgiveness.
It was the most humiliating interval of his
li
fe, and he wasn't about to tarry and be given a cut direct that would have had High Society gossiping for ages. Not by John—whom he'd loved so dearly. He wouldn't be able to bear it.
"Come, Jack. Let's go." His brother didn't budge, and Ian repeated, "Jack!"
Ian whipped away and hurried off, taking an opposite route from where Lord and Lady Wakefield were furiously whispering, and he didn't peek over to see if Jack had obeyed his command to depart. If Jack had remained behind, if he'd loitered like a sycophant, hoping for Wakefield's notice and blessing, Ian would be crushed.
He rushed around the corner, and for an instant, he thought John bellowed, Ian, wait! but he was certain his fevered mind was trying to switch fantasy into reality. He didn't stop.
Momentarily, Jack caught up to him. With Jack torn between the sibling he didn't know and the one he did, familiarity had won out, and Ian's relief was so great that he was amazed his knees didn't buckle.
He was terribly undone by the encounter, but he didn't want Jack to perceive his upset, and as Jack sidled nearer, Ian's face was an expressionless mask. Only the shaking of his hands provided any indication of how seriously he'd been affected.
They walked on, proceeding toward the entrance to the theater.
Finally, Jack broke the awkward silence. "Lady Wakefield seems very nice."
"She's wonderful," Ian agreed.
"What did you do to Lord Wakefield that caused your fight?"
"Nothing."
"Liar. Tell me. It can't be that ghastly."
It was on the tip of his tongue to confess. He'd never apprised anyone about that awful night, about the horrid accusations that had flown, or the painful information that had been revealed. He was wretched, keeping it all in, acting as if none of it mattered. As he tried to gamble himself into poverty and drink himself into oblivion, the truth was eating him alive.
"It's water under the bridge," he mumbled, incapable of justifying.
Recognizing that he'd get no answers, Jack sighed. "Will Rebecca be joining us?"
"She said she would. Why?"
"I'd just as soon not sit with her."
"I've purchased a box, so she'll be there. She's too much of an attention-seeker to miss the opportunity to have all of London gawking at her."
"That's what I was afraid of."
"Do me a favor," Ian snapped.
"What?"
"Don't make a scene. I'm not in the mood for any of your antics with her."
"I know how to behave in public," Jack bristled. "Regardless of what you think, I wasn't raised by wolves."
In a snit, he stormed off. They were outside the theater, and he waded into the crowd and vanished, making it a perfectly bad ending to a perfectly bad day.
Ian was still reeling from his earlier spat with Rebecca and Caro. Rebecca would get over it. She was too bent on marriage, and she'd persuade herself to forgive him. As to Caro, she'd never speak to him again, and the prospect was more troubling than it should have been.
At his loss of her esteem, coupled with his stumbling on John and Emma, he was completely disordered, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. As he climbed the steps into the building, he was incredibly self-conscious, feeling more isolated and more alone than he'd ever been.
With his disposition being so foul, the notion of enduring a tepid comedy was abhorrent. He almost turned to leave, but he'd invited Rebecca, so he started up the stairs to his box. He trudged toward it, when the horde split, and he was face-to-face with the Earl of Derby's party.
The Earl, himself, wasn't present. It was the most open secret in the city that he rarely consorted with his wife, so it was the Countess, with her only son, Adam, as her escort. Behind them, appearing miserable and oddly mismatched, were Caro and her fianc6, Edward Shelton.