Her spouse had been selected for her, and she'd had no say in who it would be, so she had done her duty. But as she'd suspected, her decades with him had been a trial of endurance.
She hated him and the two children she'd spawned. Her eldest, son Adam, was heir to the exalted Derby line, but a spoiled, stupid oaf. Her youngest, daughter Caroline, was ungrateful and brainless, suitable as fodder for the marriage market and naught else. The two offspring had ruined her life and represented her failure to find happiness, and she yearned to wreck then-lives as they had wrecked hers.
She tramped down the stairs, and as she reached the foyer, she steeled herself for her pending encounter with Edward. Due to her responsibilities as hostess, she'd welcome him politely, yet during the interminable evening she'd be roiling with animosity.
She detested him and Bernard, but she was so adept at hiding her actual sentiments that they never noted the severe level of her dislike.
Breathing deeply, she was ready to enter, to entertain, when she espied Bernard, dressed in coat and hat, and about to sneak out without her being aware that he'd left. Her fury flared.
"Bernard!" she sharply summoned. "What do you think you're doing?"
He whipped around, irked at having been caught.
"What is it, Britannia?" He sighed, acting the part of the downtrodden husband that he played so skillfully.
She huffed over, sorry that she wasn't holding a pistol, that she hadn't murdered him years earlier. "We have guests coming for supper."
"No, you have guests coming for supper. I've told you to stop including me in your frivolous soirees."
"Edward will be here!" she fumed. "You know how obstinate Caroline is being. We must present a united front, so that she understands she has to follow through."
"Caroline will do as I've bid her. She wouldn't dare defy me. Now if you'll excuse me—"
"I don't excuse you."
"Well, that's too bad, for I have no intention of tarrying. Good night."
"Where will you be?" she challenged, weary of pretending to be the blind, contented wife.
"I'm off to Georgette's," he boldly replied. "Where would you suppose?"
"Don't use that harlot's name in this house."
"You asked; I answered. If you don't want the truth, don't press."
"You shall not go!" she hissed. "I will not tolerate it! I will not be humiliated with Edward about to arrive."
"I love her," he ridiculously, tediously claimed, "and I plan to marry her. You have to accept the inevitable. This farce of a marriage is over—as it should have been long ago."
"You're mad. I've spoken with an attorney. There is not a church or court or peer or king who would grant you a divorce from me."
"We'll see," he enigmatically mused as if he had something up his lying, deceitful sleeve.
He marched out, abandoning her in the hall as if she were a servant. She watched him go, yearning to chase after him, to yank him inside, but she didn't. Short of tying him to a chair, she couldn't make him stay.
He was still a handsome man, with a full head of hair and tall, slender body. Women lusted after him, and he returned their affection. She couldn't tabulate how many affairs he'd had, but they'd all been fleeting. Until now. Until Georgette.
He might believe that he would run off with the
l
ittle hussy. He might assume Britannia would stand by and be shamed to infinity, but he was dead wrong.
She would kill his precious Georgette; then she'd kill him. And she wouldn't bat an eye.
Her expression grim, she proceeded to the parlor, braced to brazen it out before her guests.
H
ello, Edward." "Hello, Brit," Edward said, using the nickname she hated. It was a petty slight, meant to remind her that he knew her well and she had no secrets. "How have you been?"
"Fine," she retorted, which was a huge fib. She was the most miserable person he'd ever met.
"I missed Bernard at supper."
"He was called out at the last minute. On important business."
They both recognized the statement to be false. Bernard was a carousing roue, yet he and Britannia strutted around as if they were the epitome of a happily married couple. She was such a contemptible hypocrite, and all of London tittered about her behind her back.
At having voiced the lie, her lips were pursed like a prune, and he could barely stifle his distaste. She was such an unlikable woman, and he abhorred that his pending nuptials forced him to fraternize. Once the ceremony was concluded, and there was no further need to feign familial harmony, he'd make it a point never to see her again.
Poor Bernard! The pitiable fellow would never be shed of her, and Edward was so glad that Bernard had ended up with her rather than himself. When they'd all been younger, it had been amusing to toy with her, to fake devotion and act as if he might steal her from Bernard, but Edward never would have. She was simply too unpleasant for words, and over the intervening decades, nothing had occurred to change that fact.
Across the room, Caroline slipped out onto the verandah, and he remarked, "Caroline seems out of sorts."
"Of course she does. She despises you." Sarcastically, she added, "Can you imagine that?"
"Bernard and I have decided on the union. Her opinion is irrelevant."
"Yes, it is."
Her tepid assurance didn't calm his anxiety. While
Caroline had previously been the most docile of females, she'd recently grown surly and curt. Edward had no idea what was eating at her, but he wouldn't brook any feminine hysterics, nor would he permit her to refuse him.
From the day she'd been born, he'd plotted as to how he could wed her, and he'd impatiently waited until she was twelve to first approach Bernard. He'd said no, insisting he would honor the betrothal to Wakefield. After Wakefield had tossed her over, Bernard had come crawling back. He'd begged Edward to save her from disgrace, and Edward had smugly consented.
He preferred young, pure girls, and with sixty years of living he'd wed and survived five child-brides. None of them had been more than fourteen at the time of the ceremony, so Caroline was much older than he'd typically have selected. Yet, he delighted in the realization that he'd finally gotten what he wanted, that she hadn't been able to escape him.
Despite her advanced age, he would have an enormous amount of fun teaching her her marital obligations, and he was eager to start.
Still, she'd been behaving so erratically, had even dared a few caustic comments as they'd chatted before supper. With her being so much more mature than most brides, it was conceivable that a modern notion had lodged in her flighty head and she supposed she didn't have to obey her father. The prospect had Edward unsettled.
"I presume you've told her," he tentatively broached, "that she has no choice in the matter?"
"Don't worry. I shan't allow her to embarrass us more than she has."
"I didn't think you would."
"If I have to drag her to the altar, you'll have her in the end. You may count on it." Her smile was almost eerie in its resolve.
"You're awfully determined."
"Yes, I am."
"Are you jealous? Is that why you're pushing so hard for the match?"
"Jealous! Of... of... Caroline?"
"Doesn't it bother you that I'm going to have her, when I wouldn't have you all those years ago?"
"Don't be ridiculous. It's ancient history. I never reflect on it."
"Don't you?"
"No, I was too foolish to know any better. It was a passing fancy." "Really?"
He chuckled, aware that levity would infuriate her.
She'd been Bernard's impetuous, wretched wife, who'd been desperate to be rescued from a marriage she'd dreaded. Edward could easily have stolen her away, but he hadn't been serious. Even back then, she'd been a fat, obnoxious harpy.
"Don't he, Brit. If you had to do it all over again, you'd run off with me in a heartbeat."
"You flatter yourself, Edward."
"Do I?"
"You're the most inflated, vainglorious man. I never could abide you."
At the insult, he felt free to hurl one of his own. "I wonder if Caroline will be interesting in bed, or if she'll take after her mother. You always were cold as snow under the blankets."
While there was no love lost between them, it was a horrid remark, even by his low standards.
She gasped and strangely contended, "I'll have my revenge. You'll see."
"What revenge?" he scoffed. "About what are you babbling?"
"Beware, Edward. Beware! Your sins are about to come home to roost."
There was a bizarre gleam in her eye, and for the briefest moment, she appeared quite mad. Then the peculiar interlude concluded, and she stomped off.
He watched her go, and he actually shuddered, an icy shiver slithering down his spine, as if he'd been cursed.
Unnerved, he laughed off the odd episode and went in the other direction. It was time to speak with his fiancée, time to remind her that he was in the room and expecting her to attend him.
He walked to the verandah, hoping he would catch her strolling in the dark. Caroline needed a taste of masculine passion, and he was just the man to provide it
Chapter
Five
W
ould you pass the tea?" "But of course. Would you like a biscuit?"
"That would be marvelous. You're too kind."
Ian scowled back and forth at Jack and Rebecca. He'd been in the dining room with them for twenty minutes, and neither had uttered a harsh word. They were being disgustingly solicitous, and there had been so many polite exchanges that he wanted to gag. What on earth had come over them?
He was too hungover to figure it out, and he couldn't abide having to observe as his brother and mistress behaved like imbeciles. As he'd drunk and gambled till dawn, and was fairly sure he'd lost a thousand pounds, his patience and mood were exhausted.
Anymore, he seemed determined to part with every farthing of the blood money he'd received from his father, and if he kept on, he'd be poverty-stricken. Was that his plan? If he ended up destitute, how could penury be beneficial? Especially now that he had Jack to consider.
He glared at Jack. "What is your name?"
"My name?" Jack asked, confused.
"Yes, your name! Your name! I thought it was Jack Romsey."
"You know it is."
"Really? From how you're acting, I could have sworn someone sneaked in and took your place." "How am I acting?"
"Like a fucking pantywaist. Stop it. You're annoying me." He turned his attention to Rebecca. "And as to you ..."
At his sharp tone, her fingers shook, and tea sloshed over the rim of her cup.
Appearing meek and guilty as hell, she stared at her plate. "What will you do to me? Just tell me; I can't bear the suspense."
He had no idea what she meant. "What will I do to you? For what transgression?"
Her relief was palpable. "Well... for... nothing. For nothing, at all."
"Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine," she insisted, and she stood. "I was going to invite you for a ride in the park, but I... ah ... recollected a previous appointment. I'll come by tomorrow."
As she hustled out, he frowned and muttered, "I don't understand women."
Jack was suddenly in a hurry, too. "I remembered that I have to... to..."
"Are you feeling all right?"
"Just dandy. Why?"
Ian studied him, finding it curious that he looked guilty, too. "No reason, I guess."
"You don't need me for anything, do you?" "No."
"Then I think I'll... I'll..." He blushed a bright red.
"Jack?"
"Yes?"
"Get out before I throttle you." "Am I bothering you? I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have—"
"Jack! Please!"
His brother's irritating mouth snapped shut, and he slithered out, leaving Ian to fume and ponder in the quiet.
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his head in his hands, and the worst wave of melancholy swept over him.
What was he doing, carousing to excess? The wagering and inebriation were bad enough, but he was so out of control that he was trifling with Caroline, and he had no qualms about the possibility of discovery. His lack of conscience was so at odds with the man he'd once been that the changes were alarming.
He was bent on destruction, punishing himself by destroying every good thing he'd built in London over the prior twelve years, but castigation was stupid. Some deeds were too heinous to be forgiven, and he could never fully atone for how he'd betrayed John. So why keep trying?
In the middle of his morose reverie, a female voice said, "Hello, Ian."
"Hello, Caro." He sighed and glanced up.
After his night of insanity with her, he'd given strict instructions to his staff not to let her in again. Yet here she was, like a painful toothache. Would he have to fire someone so the servants would heed his edict?