Cheryl Holt (17 page)

At her benefactor’s death, she’d made one calculated move after the next, grappling for position in the scandalous circle inhabited by herself and the other hapless women just like her.

Ceaselessly, her eye had been on the maximum prize—a nobleman with the resources to bestow a refined mode of living.

Wakefield had been her preference and, as he’d been the most handsome and virile of the idle, extravagant fellows with whom she’d socialized, she’d felt that the sexual fraternization wouldn’t be quite so detestable.

Biding her time, she’d dawdled on the periphery of his world, ingratiating herself, courting his friends. She’d studied him, had taken flattery and coquetry to a nauseating level, until she’d contrived to entice him into their arrangement.

When he was happy, he was magnanimous, and her engaging abode was a virtual trophy to how commendably she did her job. She spent her allowance judiciously, wanting his peers to see how well he’d chosen, wanting
him
to be inordinately pleased whenever he came to relax and unwind.

Nostalgically, she glanced around, taking it all in, recalling the raucous fun she’d instigated, the nights of drink and frolic she’d accommodated, and she wondered how much longer she’d have the opportunity to host the guests who flocked to her soirees because of her connection to the notorious viscount.

She had no illusions about why she was currently such a powerhouse in the demimonde. Wakefield might be a scapegrace and a libertine, but he was rich and prominent. People were drawn to him, they curried his favor, and the simplest means of reaping it was to win over his mistress.

Though he was purported to be a scoundrel and a loafer, in all actuality, he was clever and astute. With his title and fortune finally inherited, he would succeed beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings, and Georgina planned to be with him through each step of his ascent to eminence and acclaim.

Though he perpetually denied the inevitable, he would wed that ninny, Caroline Foster, a trembling,
blathering fool whom Georgina couldn’t abide. If it wasn’t Lady Caroline, it would be some other simpering, vapid girl just like her, so he would need a strong woman in the background, who was smart and resourceful, who could read people and manipulate them to beneficial effect.

Georgina intended to be that woman.

She couldn’t lose her influence over him. Her livelihood, her future—why, her very life!—rested on her capacity to persevere with him, and she wasn’t about to relinquish what she’d toiled so exhaustingly to attain, which was why she was so gravely troubled by the vicar’s daughter who was with John at Wakefield Manor.

His fiancée, Georgina could handle. Miss Fitzgerald was another story. John felt an affinity for her that was potent and unwavering, the likes of which frightened Georgina to her very core and was the reason she’d debased herself by approaching Ian Clayton.

She’d been so sure that Ian would have perceived the inherent dangers created by Miss Fitzgerald, though with him, it was difficult to discern his motivations. As to his loyalties, she’d erred hideously, and had embarrassed herself in the process, but she wouldn’t rue her mistake. In the prevailing situation, it was advantageous to know who her allies were—and weren’t. Besides, she had many bigger issues with which to cope.

During the period she’d been Wakefield’s consort, he’d had many flings. An opera dancer here, a randy widow there. Georgina had spies everywhere and kept close tabs on him. None of his petty dalliances had lasted more than the time it took him to drop his trousers. He’d always come back to Georgina, satisfied with their alliance, yet when Georgina thought of how he’d looked at Miss Fitzgerald, a frisson of panic slithered down her spine.

Miss Fitzgerald was tough, tenacious, a fighter, a winner. She was the type who focused on a target and never vacillated until she’d achieved her goal, precisely as Georgina might, though they’d use different procedures.

What if she set her sights on Wakefield? The pious carper was poor as a church mouse. If she concluded she could improve her circumstances by allying herself with the wealthy viscount, where would that leave Georgina?

She’d witnessed them together that day in the library at Wakefield. There’d been a spark and energy flaring between them that she hadn’t wanted to admit. Even more odd was the afternoon that she’d broken the rules and brazenly gone to John’s bedchamber—uninvited—in the hopes of convincing him to let her remain.

The prim and proper Miss Fitzgerald had been in his dressing room, and obviously assisting him with his bath. Though she’d been fully clothed, Georgina had observed enough to be distressed. The little witch had generated a furious cockstand for him, and he’d refused to permit Georgina to tend it. Then, he’d insisted that she depart for London posthaste.

She didn’t dare defy his direct order to stay in town, yet she was frantic over what might transpire in her absence. She couldn’t sit idly by, unable to deduce how her destiny was unfolding, and thus incapable of altering the course of events.

“What to do?” she muttered to the empty salon.

Someone needed to intervene, someone who could subtly remind Miss Fitzgerald—in no uncertain terms—that she didn’t belong with Wakefield. Ian would be of no help. So who else might suffice?

Desperate measures were called for, and consequently, a devious, underhanded idea popped into her
head. For an eternity, she mulled the benefits and detriments before proceeding.

Rising from the couch, she went to her writing desk, retrieved a blank piece of paper and dipped her pen, weighing her words.

Dear Lady Caroline
. . . she began, then halted. The formal salutation set the wrong tone. She crumpled up the page and started over.

Dearest Caro
. . .

She wanted Wakefield’s alleged fiancée to believe the letter—which would be succinct, explicit, and anonymous—had been sent by a concerned friend. She brooded and deliberated, then dipped her pen once more.

. . .
I endlessly debated as to whether I should write you, and ultimately, I couldn’t keep quiet. You have such a great affection for John, and I decided you would want to know. I am incredibly worried about what is occurring during his extended visit to Wakefield Manor
. . .

She read the opening lines, read them again, then smiled malevolently.

“Perfect,” she murmured and continued on.

Ian lounged on the sofa in the library, swirling the whisky in his glass, and glaring at his half brother’s back, but the intense regard couldn’t goad him into turning around. John was lingering by the window and staring across the rear lawn, unduly intrigued by whatever he beheld.

Recently, he’d changed. It was just after the noon hour, and he was sober. The boredom that habitually plagued him had vanished, his personal demons conspicuously trounced. Their cadre of acquaintances had retired to London on schedule, but John hadn’t grumbled
about the tranquil pall that had descended once they’d gone.

Ian couldn’t figure it out, but he wasn’t about to question the boon. Or complain. There were so few things that made his sibling content, and Ian welcomed any development that would elevate his mood.

“Georgina stopped by my bedchamber before she left.” Absurdly, he was dying to confess, as well as to see what sort of response he’d garner with the news.

“What for?”

“To give me a French kiss.”

Casually, John peered over his shoulder. “What did she want from you?”

“What makes you think she wasn’t merely inflamed by my fabulous anatomy?”

“Hah! She loathes you.” He laughed at the notion, which was hilarious considering the state of Ian’s and Georgina’s mutual dislike. “I know her too well. She never does anything unless she expects something in return.”

Too true. That’s why Ian hated her. She was a mercenary. “She wanted me to talk you into letting her stay here in the country.”

“Did she say why?”

“She was afraid that if you were separated too long, you’d realize you didn’t miss her, and you’d boot her ass out the door.”

“I wouldn’t, simply because it would be such a nuisance to replace her.” He shrugged. “Besides, she’s extremely talented with that mouth of hers. I wouldn’t want to forego that bit of delight.”

“She was definitely proficient.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I didn’t allow her to finish.”

“Why not?”

“Because I had no desire to scheme against you.” Not with her anyway.

“You could have done the deed but not told me.”

“It crossed my mind, but it didn’t seem sporting.”

“Who cares what’s
sporting
when a woman has her lips wrapped around you?”

“I’ll remember that next time.”

They both grinned, an identical quirking of their cheeks.

Then, lost in thought, John spun around to scrutinize the yard again, and Ian assessed him as he leaned against the window frame. The silence was companionable, making Ian glad he’d broached the topic of Georgina, and relieved that John hadn’t been royally pissed, but how sad that John had no staunch feelings about her.

Gad, she’d been his paramour for over two years. What a waste of cash and effort!

Just when it appeared that the conversation wouldn’t resume, John peculiarly queried, “What do you suppose your mother saw in our father?”

“Besides that he was handsome, rich, and could charm the bark off a tree?”

“Yes. Besides all that.”

John chuckled, and Ian rolled his eyes at how thick his brother could be.

Ian’s mother had had a three-month revel with the dashing, dynamic Douglas Clayton, when he’d traveled to Scotland on a protracted hunting trip. According to stories that clan members had shared, she’d been young and foolish, and very much in love with the charismatic foreigner, and Ian hadn’t begrudged her her conduct, though he’d never told her so. She’d died in childbirth.

“Money and status,” he baldly pronounced. “What do you suppose yours saw in him?”

“
Touché
,” John retorted.

John’s mother had wed Douglas because her family had commanded her to, the union having been contracted during her childhood, but the underlying reasons were the same. With affluent men, they always were.

Ridiculously, John inquired, “Was your mother happy with him?”

“It was a ninety-day lark.”

John winced. “Sorry.”

“You know what he was like.”

“Aye. A bounder and an ass.”

“And those were his best qualities.” Ian sampled his whisky. “In fact, as you dig into the various estate books, I’m wondering if you’ll find expenditures for more of his children.”

“He might have sired others?” John was aghast at the prospect.

“Well, he went to Scotland every autumn. For decades. My uncles inform me that he was quite randy.”

“Oh, Jesus.” John rubbed a weary hand over his face. “So there might be dozens of little
Ians
running around the Highlands?”

“If you’re not careful”—he smiled wickedly—“you might end up supplying shelter for an entire household of people just like me.”

“I’d shoot myself first.”

He flashed Ian a comical glower, feigning pique, but though he acted like a malingerer, and griped about his responsibilities, he didn’t shirk the important ones.

“I’d never let you,” Ian joked, “because I couldn’t bear to learn who’d inherit after you. I’d likely have to start being polite to someone more offensive than you, and I couldn’t bend over much more than I have. It’s not in my nature.”

“The heir is my second cousin Henry. Or so I’ve been notified.”

“That dolt?” Ian gave a mock shudder. “Shouldn’t you be setting up your nursery?”

John cringed. “God, but you sounded just like Father—risen up from the grave—when you said that.”

“What a haunting that would be!” Ian agreed. “But you know he was correct.”

“Who the hell would I marry?” John grimaced. “I take that back: Who the hell would marry
me
?”

“Anybody would. You can have your bloody pick, so stop being difficult.”

“I’m not jesting,” John contended. “I truly need your advice.” With a last, yearning glance at the yard, he came over and sat across from Ian on the other sofa. “Of all the suitable women we know, who would you suggest?”

“Well, how about Caroline? She’s crazy about you—when I can’t begin to imagine why—and her father insists the engagement is binding.”

Lady Caroline’s father, the Earl of Derby, had negotiated the match with Douglas when she was a babe. Caroline’s spouse was to have been John’s older brother, James, and when he’d died, the two pompous men had sought to obligate John—without seeking his opinion—but John hadn’t been inclined to honor James’s betrothal. His repudiation had been the cause of interminable strife and discord between father and son.

“Will you listen to me? I’m
not
marrying Caroline, and that’s final.”

“Why not? She’s beautiful, sweet, educated. What’s not to like?”

“I’ve known her all my life, Ian,” John grouched. “Fucking her would be like fucking my sister.”

“Oh,” he sagely pontificated, “so that’s the problem.”

“Precisely. Could you conceive of instructing her to
go down on you? She’d quake herself to death.”

Actually, Ian could absolutely picture it. In his view, Caroline was a repressed, ripe spinster, who was prime for the plucking, but there was no convincing John. “She might surprise you.”

“I doubt it. I mean, honestly”—he was up again, pacing, then marching over to gawk out the window—“could you see yourself hiking through the woods with her, maybe having her up against a tree, or tumbling her in the grass? Her hair would get mussed, and she’d have an apoplexy.”

“I thought that your kind was constantly in pursuit of a chaste, biddable wife.”

“My
kind
? Ian, how do you come up with such rubbish?”

“Seriously,” he said. “Why would her lack of sexual spontaneity matter? You could bed her a few times a year, she’d dutifully give you the sons that you require, and you’d still have Georgina—or someone like her—to perform whatever nasty acts appeal to you.”