Fantasy 02 - Forbidden Fantasy (3 page)

"I'll try not to get too hot and bothered."

She stepped in, her torso nearly pressed to his. She appeared to be taunting him or testing his mettle. Jack stood his ground and didn't flinch, even when she licked her lush lips and shook her halo of auburn hair in a provocative way so that it shimmered and settled around her.

"Will you dream of me?" she asked. "Or will you dream of... sheep?"

"Definitely sheep."

"I thought so. You seem the type."

She exited, and on seeing her go, Ian sighed again.

If she and Jack didn't despise each other, Ian might have played matchmaker. They were the same age, and they'd be a handsome couple. Their divergent qualities were an excellent combination of fire and calm, and though she denied it, Rebecca would like to marry, again. Other than Jack loathing her, he'd be ideal as her spouse. He could rein in her more outrageous tendencies, which Ian—being an ancient thirty-two— would never have the stamina to do.

She was too much for him. All that temper and vitality simply made him weary.

"Are you really planning to speak with Lady Caroline?" Jack inquired, yanking Ian out of his pitiful reverie.

"I suppose I must. Why didn't you wake me when she first arrived?"

"I tried, but you were too hungover. You didn't hear me."

Ian had no comment. Once, he'd have been ashamed of his deteriorated circumstance, but not anymore.

As Douglas Clayton's natural son, sired in a Scottish village when Douglas had been on a hunting jaunt, Ian enjoyed confounding the snooty members of the ton. He'd acted the part of the refined gentleman, spending so much time pretending he belonged to their society that he'd actually started to believe he did.

But base blood controls. It was an old axiom, but apropos. He'd been born a bastard, would always be a bastard, and he saw no reason to behave any differently. Since his final, ugly fight with John, when he'd hurt his dear brother so deeply, he'd accepted the fact that he was a scoundrel. No matter how he'd previously striven to prove otherwise, he had no redeeming traits.

He was now a drunkard, gambler, and scapegrace, and he wouldn't lament how his foul attributes had taken charge and were ruling him.

He eased his legs over the edge of the mattress. His head pounded, his stomach roiled, and sweat pooled on his brow.

Jack leapt to his rescue, filling a glass of whiskey and holding it out. At Ian's quizzical glare, Jack explained, "Hair of the dog."

"Marvelous. Just what I need."

Ian swilled the entire thing, shuddered with revulsion, then stood and staggered to the dressing room. He clad himself in trousers and shirt, though he didn't bother to tuck it in or button up the neck. He rolled up the sleeves and—unshaven, unwashed, unshod—he proceeded downstairs.

When she viewed his unkempt state, Lady Caroline would likely swoon, but he cared not. She was the very last person he'd expected to show up at his door. He hadn't invited her, and if she didn't like his disheveled condition, she could go hang.

As if he were an arrow and she his target, he trudged to his library, intrigued as to why she'd visited, but he declined to speculate, for he wouldn't admit to any heightened interest. He would courteously attend her, then send her on her way.

He entered and walked straight to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. The one Jack dispensed had had an enormous medicinal effect, and with another dose Ian was certain he'd begin to feel human.

Caroline was over by the window, trying to ignore him, but as the rim of the decanter clinked on the glass, she whipped around, her disapproval gallingly obvious.

"Honestly, Ian," she scolded, "it's the middle of the day, and that liquor is so potent. I'd like you to at least pretend sobriety while we talk. Must you imbibe?"

"Yes, I must."

He gulped the contents. To spite her, he poured another and gulped it, too. She had a way of tilting her aristocratic nose up in the air, of pronouncing her words with a hint of disdain that nipped at his feelings of inferiority.

Her contempt made him angry, made him want to wound her, which was impossible. She was built of ice; she had a heart of stone.

"I didn't ask you here," he pointed out. "If my habits offend you, leave."

"You're drinking to annoy me."

"No, I'm drinking because I feel like it. Your opinion is totally irrelevant."

"You're being an ass."

"I'm being myself."

"You've changed."

"No, I haven't. You're the one who regularly sniped at me because of my crude conduct. I've merely given it free rein."

Still, her low esteem rankled, and the glass was suddenly heavy as an anvil. He put it on the sideboard, as if that's what he'd intended all along. In a huff, hating her, eager to have her gone, he crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

"What do you want?"

"I need to speak with you."

"On what topic? And be quick about it. I've things to do and places to be, and I won't waste a single second with you."

She studied him as if he were a curious insect. "What have you to do? Will you continue cavorting with Mrs. Blake? Is she upstairs?"

"What if she is?"

"Really, Ian, should you fraternize with her? She's so unsavory. What's gotten into you? You used to have better sense."

A muscle ticked in his cheek, and he struggled to keep from marching over, tossing her over his knee, and giving her the spanking she deserved.

At age twenty, he'd come to London, paid handsomely by his contemptible father to spy on John, then secretly report on his misadventures. John had thought they were friends, but they never had been.

For twelve accursed years, Ian had ingratiated himself to John so that he could eavesdrop and tattle. He had an incredible knack for betrayal and duplicity, and by deceiving John, he'd become wealthy, but his prosperity was like a weight around his neck, choking him with all that had been lost.

Through it all, Caroline had been a constant. When he'd initially met her, she'd been an irksome adolescent, and he'd watched from the background as she'd grown from a cheery, beautiful girl into a frustrated, fuming spinster.

As she'd waited for John to marry her—something he was never going to do—her smile had dimmed and her demeanor soured, until she'd ended up as cold and unpleasant as her parents or her older brother, Adam.

Ian had tolerated, detested, and lusted after her in equal measure. He'd pined away, silently coveting her, but his attraction had been fueled by envy and resentment.

He was Douglas Clayton's oldest son, but because the philandering prig hadn't wed Ian's mother, Ian was nothing to anyone. John was the heir; John held the title and fortune. The unfairness had eaten away at Ian, had left him bitter over all that John possessed.

Ian had wanted Caroline because she'd been John's. There was no higher motive behind his enticement.

It was a despicable legacy, one that he couldn't bear to recall, and he hated being in her presence. She reminded him of the sins he'd committed, of the ways he'd failed John and himself. He didn't need her strutting in and insulting him for his choices or mode of carrying on.

"That's enough." He walked over and clasped her arm. "Let's go." "To where?"

"I'm sure this will come as an enormous surprise to you, but I don't have to stand here, in my own library, and listen to you denigrating my acquaintances. You're leaving."

"I am not."

"You are."

He stepped toward the hall, but she dug in her heels and wouldn't budge. He pulled again, but couldn't move her, and he was stunned by her resolve.

She'd always been the most tractable of females. Her submissive nature had driven John to distraction and was the reason he'd refused to marry her.

Ian, too, had frequently chided her over her willingness to please, over her absolute devotion to duty. Her life was a long charade of missed opportunities. She never stood up for herself, stated an opinion, or grabbed for what she craved.

Yet all of a sudden, she was firm and adamant. From where had this new virago sprung? Why had she picked this moment—when he simply wanted her gone—to exhibit some backbone?

"Stop it," he scolded.

"Stop what?"

"You're being obstinate."

"And you're being ridiculous."

"I'm allowed. It's my home, and you're not welcome in it."

"Would you kiss me?"

He faltered and staggered away. "What did you say?" "You heard me."

"I could swear that you asked me to kiss you, so I couldn't possibly have. Now go."

He pointed to the door, figuring that if he couldn't haul her out, maybe she'd depart on her own, but she didn't. Instead, like the most experienced coquette, she closed the distance between them and snuggled herself to him. Not a smidgen of space separated them, so he could feel every inch of her delectable torso. Her breasts, in particular, were riveting, the soft mounds molded to him as if they belonged there and nowhere else.

"Kiss me," she repeated.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't like you, so I don't wish to." "You did it once before," she mentioned, making it sound like a challenge.

"And I've regretted it ever since."

"Have you? Let's see."

Stunning him again, she rose on tiptoe and brushed her ruby lips to his. For an insane instant, he permitted the contact. He'd always desired her, and apparently, neither time nor distance had lessened his fascination.

Why not forge ahead? a diabolical voice goaded. Why not take what she is offering?

The urging was so strong that he wondered if Satan, himself, wasn't off in the corner and coaxing him to misbehave.

He lurched away, but she clutched at his shirt, trying to draw him to her, the two of them wrestling over whether to reinitiate the embrace. It was the most absurd, farcical episode of his life, and he would have laughed if he hadn't been so disoriented.

He lifted her and physically set her away.

"Have you gone mad?"

"Occasionally, I feel that I have."

"You can't waltz in here and demand to be... be ... kissed."

"Why can't I?"

"It's just not done!"

"Oh."

She shrugged as if she'd never been informed of the restrictions that ruled her world. Then she sauntered to the sideboard and helped herself to a glass of whiskey.

She drank it! The whole thing! Without coughing or sputtering! What on earth had happened to her?

"Does your family in Scotland brew this?" she inquired.

"Yes."

"It has the most relaxing effect. I may have to start purchasing it for myself."

She turned and was about to pour herself another serving, when he stomped over and yanked the bottle away.

"Give me that."

"No. You had some. Why shouldn't I?" "You can't... can't... drink? "Why?" "Because—"

The likely replies were all ludicrous: Because you're a grand lady. Because you're an earl's daughter. Because you're Caroline, and you never have previously.

All of them were foolish, especially in light of the fact that she was an adult and perfectly capable of deciding how to comport herself.

Hadn't that been his complaint with her? He couldn't abide malleable women, and she'd been the ultimate one. She never took a step her father hadn't authorized, had never put her foot down with John when he'd delayed and humiliated her with a string of mistresses.

With her burst of independence, she was acting precisely as he'd insisted she should, so why chastise? If anyone could benefit from a belt of Scottish whiskey, it was she!

Still, it unnerved him to see such unusual conduct. He'd been complicit with others in treating her as if she were a child, and he couldn't seem to break
h
is peculiar need to watch over her.

With a resounding smack, he set the bottle out of reach; then he leaned in and trapped her against the cabinet.

"What do you really want?" he murmured. "I told you: I want you to kiss me." "Why?"

"Because when you did it prior, I liked it very

much. I've been thinking that I'd enjoy having you do it again."

He vividly recollected the rash night he'd kissed her. John had finally mustered the strength to cry off and mean it, and Ian had stumbled on her later, when she'd been wretched and needing solace. Like the cad he was, he'd taken full advantage, kissing her as if there were no tomorrow, as if they were the last two people on earth, but she'd hated it.

How could they have such divergent memories of how the incident had played out?

"You didn't like it, Caro."

"I did, too! But it was such a long time ago. I was wondering if it would feel the same."

He scrutinized her, struggling to deduce her objective. She didn't have a spontaneous bone in her body, and she wouldn't risk disgrace by coming to him for a mere kiss.