Not only had he kissed her, but he'd touched her all over. Even now, these many months later, she still quivered with excitement whenever she recollected how splendid he'd made her feel. With the slightest encouragement, she'd jump at the chance to engage in a similar scandalous pursuit.
Over on the bed, his lover was on her knees and straddling his lap. She arched her back, the motion thrusting her bosom up and out, and Ian clasped her breasts, his thumbs grazing her nipples.
Caroline's own nipples responded, but she wasn't surprised. On that one, improvident occasion, Ian had caressed them, so she was aware of how sensitive the taut nubs could be. They throbbed in a rhythm with her pulse, rubbing her corset in a fashion that was disturbing. She was breathless with anticipation, as if Ian were massaging her instead of his partner.
He eased the woman forward and—stunning Caroline to her very core—he wrapped his lips around the rosy tip and suckled like a babe. The woman purred and cooed, savoring the indecent gesture.
Caroline was transfixed, the mysterious feminine spot between her legs growing relaxed and wet. In agony, she stuffed a knuckle in her mouth and bit down, stifling a groan of astonishment.
Oh, how would she ever look him in the eye now that she'd seen his lips on that... that... ?
She shook her head in disgust, once again eager to sneak away, when Mr. Romsey piped up from inside the room. He was watching them? They didn't care? How sordid! How peculiar!
"Are you finally awake?" he queried.
"Barely," Ian replied.
His lover chuckled in a sultry way and chimed in, "I can vouch for the fact that he's very, very awake."
She glided her hips across Ian's loins, and she leaned over, so that she was facing in Mr. Romsey's direction—and Caroline's, too—and Caroline instantly recognized her.
Rebecca Blake! The notorious, lethal Black Widow!
She was beautiful and young—only twenty—and she'd already buried three husbands. This shrew, this vulture, this ... this ... murderess was who Ian had chosen to slake his manly lusts?
Caroline was amazed that he was alive and possessed of sufficient vigor to misbehave.
But then, she uncharitably mused, he isn't married to her. She likes to kill after she's wed. Not before.
Mrs. Blake grinned toward Mr. Romsey, like the cat that had swallowed the canary. She braced an arm behind her neck, and ran a hand down her front, seeming to taunt him with what he couldn't have.
At the indiscreet pose, Ian scowled. "Don't tease the lad."
"But it's so entertaining," she pouted.
"It's all right," Mr. Romsey claimed. "She can preen all she wants. I'm not interested in what she has to offer."
"Liar," Mrs. Blake bristled.
"Ooh," Mr. Romsey mocked, "such a tiny woman, such an enormous temper."
She frowned, as if contemplating assault, but Ian grabbed her by the waist to keep her from lunging.
"Enough!" he scolded, and he pushed Mrs. Blake to the side and sat up, moaning and clutching his scalp. "I have the worst hangover in history. If I'm forced to listen to you two bickering, I'll have to go out in the alley and shoot myself."
"He started it," Mrs. Blake complained.
"Enough!" Ian repeated, shouting this time, which had him moaning even louder. "You two make me feel like I'm your nanny." He flopped onto the pillow and peered over at Romsey. "What do you want?"
"You have a visitor."
"Who?"
"I'm sure the lady in question would rather I not reveal her identify to your.. .friend."
"A lady!" Mrs. Blake interjected. "Who would dare call on you? Everyone ought to know better. Have you a secret paramour?"
"Are you serious? You constantly wear me out. How could I have the stamina for anyone else?"
"Good. If you were cheating on me, I'd have to kill you—which would be such a waste." She stroked Ian's chest, but he was irritated, and he shoved her hand away.
"Cease your games," Ian snapped at Mr. Romsey, "and just fucking tell me who it is."
Caroline was shocked by his rough language. She'd never previously heard the term, and was confused as to its definition, but she was certain it was an epithet. What had happened to him?
In the years she'd known him, he'd been restrained, cultured, and refined. Yet now, he was drinking to excess, consorting with dubious characters, and using profanity. He was so different that if he'd suddenly sprouted wings and flown away, she couldn't have been more surprised.
Mr. Romsey approached the bed, coming into Caroline's line of sight. He wasn't disturbed by the naked couple, and Caroline imagined he'd witnessed similar displays on numerous occasions. He bent down and whispered something—probably Caroline's name—in Ian's ear.
"The devil it is!" Ian mumbled. "You're positive?" "Yes," Romsey responded. "What does she want?" "She didn't say."
Ian lay very still, considering; then he snarled, 'Tell her to go away." "Tell her yourself."
"She's such a witch, and I'm in such a foul mood. I can't speak with her. I wouldn't be civil, and if I uttered a harsh word, she'd quake herself to pieces."
At discovering his terrible opinion, Caroline was crushed. She'd often been curious as to what he thought of her, and now she knew. Absurdly, tears flooded her eyes. She'd been taught to hide her emotions, to pretend to be what she wasn't. Men treated her as if she were stupid, as if she were frail and incapable of making a decision.
She wasn't a... a... witch, as he'd so callously charged. She'd been tutored in modesty, in reserve and protocol. As her stern, rigid mother had frequently counseled, she would endure misfortune and trauma in her life, but due to her elevated station, she would be expected to persevere, to lead and show those who depended on her how to forge on through any adversity.
When the situation called for it, she could be tough and tenacious, and she wouldn't be maligned for what she viewed as her strongest traits.
Rippling with anger, not concerned over who learned that she'd arrived, she togged off her hood, slapped open the door, and marched in.
The three occupants spun to look at her, gaping with varying amounts of incredulity and consternation.
"Caroline Foster?" Mrs. Blake sputtered. "Why, you little strumpet! Get out of here, or I'll make sure your father knows where you were."
"If you do," Caroline warned, "I'll have a chat with your brother-in-law."
Mrs. Blake was at the beginning of legal proceedings with her latest dead husband's family. They planned to discredit her elderly husband's Last Will so that she didn't inherit a penny.
If her brother-in-law was informed of scandalous conduct by Mrs. Blake, it would add fuel to a very public and vicious feud.
"You despicable wench!" Mrs. Blake hurled. "I ought to scratch your—"
"I told you to wait in the foyer," Mr. Romsey calmly interrupted, as Ian pinned Mrs. Blake to the mattress.
"It's been half an hour," Caroline remarked, advancing on the bed, "and I'm weary of your discourtesy."
Her gaze locked with Ian's, and dozens of scattered and unusual sentiments coursed through her. She was disgusted by his indolence, by his apathy for the things that had previously mattered to him, but she was also delighted, her whole being ecstatic that she was with him again.
She hadn't seen him since their kiss at John's estate. John had severed his engagement to her, so they'd all been fighting, and she'd left without so much as a polite farewell.
She regretted that hideous day, had pondered and ruminated over every wonderful, dreadful moment. Had Ian ever reflected on it, himself? Had he ever lamented over how they'd parted?
"Hello, Caro." His eyes were cold and hard, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Hello, Ian."
"You shouldn't have come. Your father would be upset if he knew."
If one more person mentioned her father, if one more person castigated her for taking a breath without his exalted permission, she might start screaming and never stop.
"I don't care what my father would think."
"Yes, you do," he chided as if she were a child. "Let me assemble myself, and I'll have a servant take you home."
He was treating her as John always had, as her father and brother always had, as if she were a fragile ninny who was too timid to take a single step without some man first advising her of which direction to go.
A pox on all of them!
A veritable ball of umbrage, she guessed she should be more like Mrs. Blake, ready to lash out physically at the slightest provocation. Perhaps if she threw a few fists and bloodied a few noses, she'd garner some of the respect she so desperately craved.
"I'm not leaving until I speak with you," she threatened, "so I'll meet you in your library in fifteen minutes."
She whirled away and stomped to the door, but at the last second, she glared over at Ian. "Don't make me come back up here, or I guarantee you'll be sorry."
She exited, their mouths flapping like fish tossed on a riverbank. Prepared for anything, she walked to the stairs and headed down.
Chapter
Two
B
loody hell!" Ian blew out a heavy breath and studied the ceiling. What was Caro doing? Had her snobbish attitude finally driven her over the edge?
"Of all the nerve," Rebecca huffed. "Ordering you about as if you were a servant! Who does she think she is?"
"She thinks she's the daughter of the Earl of Derby."
"So? How can that give her the right to barge in and insult us? You ought to have her whipped."
Jack rolled his eyes and asked, "Shall I go down and toss her out?"
Ian shook his head. Only the worst sort of crisis would have spurred Caro to visit. Simple curiosity, if nothing else, would ensure he met with her.
"No. I'll see what she wants."
"You can't be serious," Rebecca griped. She frowned at Jack. "Send her packing. At once!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!" Jack mocked.
Ian sighed. He possessed a mild affection for
Rebecca, and he enjoyed having her in his bed. For such a young woman, she was an accomplished lover who had few scruples, so she was a splendid paramour.
Her reputation was more awful than his own, so when he'd set out to offend the members of High Society with his abominable character, she'd been the perfect choice as mistress, but he'd hooked up with her before Jack had arrived on his stoop.
His despicable, deceased father, Douglas Clayton, had fornicated from one end of the realm to the other, without worrying over the paternal consequences. Ian had suspected that he had other siblings besides John, but until Jack had knocked on his door, he hadn't stumbled on any.
He was thrilled to have Jack as a new brother, just as he was delighted to wallow in iniquity with Rebecca, but he couldn't stand being in the same room with them. Their mutual dislike had been instantaneous, and they fought like cats trapped in a sack, with Ian stuck between them and having to mediate their petty quarrels.
"Rebecca," he said, "go home."
"I won't!" she declared like a spoiled child. "You can't make me."
"I can, and you will. And you're not to mention Lady Caroline to anyone."
"As if I'd be quiet over this juicy tidbit!"
"You will not speak of it!" Ian warned. "She's risked much by coming to me, and I won't have her besmirched by us."
"Ooh, poor Caroline," Rebecca scoffed. 'The little lady needs a champion. How wonderful that it will be big, tough Ian Clayton."
Ian ignored her and turned to Jack "Have the carriage readied; then escort Rebecca out—whether she agrees to go or not."
"Lucky me," Jack sarcastically oozed.
"Just do it," Ian grumbled.
"Your wish is my command."
"I won't go!" Rebecca insisted, to which Jack begged, "Let me pick her up and drag her out, would you? It would be so amusing to throw her out on her pretty ass."
Rebecca scowled at Jack. "If you so much as—"
"Jack! Rebecca! Be silent!"
"You are not my husband, Ian," Rebecca reminded him. "I don't have to listen to you."
"And you are not my wife, Rebecca, so I don't have to listen to you, either. You're going home. Now!"
She was a female who would push and push, but she was savvy enough to realize when she'd gone too far. She peered at him, at Jack, at him again; then she shoved the covers aside, scrambled to the floor, and stomped toward the dressing room and her clothes in the bedchamber beyond.
Her path led her directly past Jack, who was insolently loitering in the threshold and refused to move as she approached. With her curly red hair flowing to her waist, her fabulous, naked body visible for both of them to see, she was a sight—but she knew it.
She stopped next to Jack, neither intimidated by him nor embarrassed by her nudity.
"Have a good look, my darling boy. Tonight—when you're all alone in your bed—you can picture me and fantasize over what you'll never have."