Cheryl Holt (23 page)

“What if someone finds out?” he lectured gently.

“No one will,” she confidently insisted, though she wouldn’t worry if the news circulated. Perhaps damage to her reputation would provoke a proposal.

“Caro, I must say that—”

She couldn’t bear to hear his admonition. If he was displeased by her brazen conduct, as Mr. Clayton had vigorously contended, she’d expire from mortification!

“Let me tell you about my trip,” she interrupted. “I had a marvelous journey.”

Boldly, she took his arm and spun him toward what she trusted was a receiving parlor. Efficiently and briskly, she maneuvered him away from his most recent temptation. He sighed and dragged his feet, but she tugged him forward, and he accompanied her, too much of a gentleman to stop when she was so intent on her destination.

As they crossed the threshold, she regally peered over her shoulder at his consort. Caroline could perceive the dozens of emotions that were bombarding the guileless woman. She was appalled, thunderstruck, and hurt, and Caroline braced herself, refusing to feel any guilt over her actions. John belonged to her and always had!
She was tired of sharing him with every lightskirt who strolled by!

As though it were an afterthought, she decreed, “You there, girl! Have my bags taken upstairs and unpacked. Then inform the housekeeper that I’d like a bath delivered to my room. In about half an hour.”

John stiffened, angry by what she’d done, but she shut the door so that her scolding would be leveled in private.

Ian shook his head, wondering why John had trailed after Lady Caroline with nary a complaint, and why he hadn’t so much as cast a farewell glance in Miss Fitzgerald’s direction.

Naturally, any chap confronted by his fiancée, while dallying with his paramour, had to be discomfited, so Ian could hardly rebuke him for a lapse. With John’s lackadaisical attitudes regarding women and their feminine sentiments, he didn’t possess the requisite courage to navigate such a disastrous bog.

No doubt, escape had been the better part of valor.

What a dreadful encounter! For all of them!

Lady Caroline’s appearance hadn’t been impromptu or ill considered. She’d come because of Miss Fitzgerald, for once evincing a bit of fortitude—misplaced though it might be.

How he hated that she’d exert so much effort on John’s behalf!

As the thought materialized, he shoved it away, declining to ruminate over her. Why did he permit her to bother him? He couldn’t care less if she disgraced herself, year after bloody year, mooning over a man who wasn’t interested.

But didn’t she have any pride? Any sense?

Yes, her accursed father had arranged her marriage when she was a child, but when would it dawn on her that the agreement had been a mistake, that John wouldn’t honor it? Caroline was no longer an insipid girl, and she didn’t have to blindly comply with her father’s edicts. What would it take for her to realize that her opinion mattered? Where was her backbone? Would she never have the mettle to say
enough
and move on?

He had no illusions about why he obsessed over her so often and so thoroughly: He was desperately attracted to her, his fascination fueled by a complex combination of resentment and jealousy. She exemplified everything he’d ever coveted, everything that might have been his had the world been fairer. Yet she was so far beyond his station that it was ludicrous to ponder her at all, and the fact that she was so unattainable made her more desirable. Plus, she was John’s, had perpetually been meant for him, which only added to her forbidden allure, making his fixation more absurd and illogical.

She could never be his, but he regularly fantasized about the possibility. What man wouldn’t want her to grace his bed?

John presumed she was a cold fish, but Ian saw a fire and vitality that were vigilantly banked. There was passion bubbling just below the surface, which was why he goaded her so severely. He wanted to be present when all that pent-up calenture came tumbling out. What a sight it would be!

He focused his attention on Miss Fitzgerald, who seemed to have been turned to stone.

She was also glaring at the closed door, the force of her gaze steadfast, as if she were trying to burrow through the wood so as to discover what was occurring on the other side.

If he’d been disposed, Ian could have clarified: John
was being cordial and sociable, while explaining to Lady Caroline—as if she were a wee lass—that her trip had been overly rash. Then, with no concern for her feelings, he’d make plans to send her home with all due haste so that she’d be in London before others were aware of what she’d done.

Smooth talker that he was, John would persuade her that he was doing it for her benefit and, like the obedient child she’d ceaselessly been, Caroline would go without a fuss.

Unfortunately for Miss Fitzgerald, she wasn’t cognizant of the odd dance in which John and Caro habitually engaged. She was stunned and heartbroken, and he detested having to distress her further, but it couldn’t be helped. In all likelihood, she was living out some fantasy of her own: the vicar’s daughter and the wealthy viscount commencing a clandestine, exhilarating romance.

It was pathetically touching. She and John were squirreled away in the country, so it was easy to forget their respective positions, and Caroline’s arrival was a huge dose of painful reality.

He’d grown to like Emma Fitzgerald. Though he’d initially fretted about her motives and her ability to stand up for herself, he’d quashed his misgivings As she’d repeatedly proven, she was no incompetent ninny. She could hold her own against the likes of John Clayton, although Ian did occasionally chafe over what was transpiring between them during their peculiar appointments. Their affinity was powerful and so blatant that, after that mysterious afternoon when she’d left John
napping
in the library, he’d conjectured that it might have burgeoned into a dangerous realm.

As he tarried there with her in the quiet foyer, her anguish patently apparent, he grasped that his suspicions were correct: Miss Fitzgerald was precariously attached
to John, maybe even in love with him, which was foolhardy and disastrous.

Intervention was essential. She needed to be jolted out of her idiocy, though he’d sound his alarm kindly. Emma Fitzgerald didn’t belong in John’s life and never would, and she had to be vividly advised of that pesky detail.

“Don’t mind her,” Ian said, referring to Caroline. “She doesn’t mean to be rude; she’s just never had to act any differently.”

Miss Fitzgerald blinked and blinked, as if she’d stumbled out of a dark room into the bright light. “Who is she?”

“Lady Caroline Foster. Her father is the Earl of Derby. She’s John’s fiancée.” It was a small lie but important and timely to utter.

“They’re betrothed?”

“Since they were children,” he fibbed again.

The tidings had her so aghast that he almost couldn’t continue with his ruse, but she had to be dissuaded from her dubious course. “Previously, John felt no urgency to wed”—an understatement if there ever was one!—“but with his assumption of the title . . .” He let the implication trail off, let her conclude that the ceremony was imminent.

“Have they set the date?”

“Soon.” Pensively, he nodded but didn’t elaborate so that she’d infer the worst.

“My . . .”

For a lengthy interlude, she peered toward the room where John was sequestered with Caroline. Anyone who wasn’t versed in the intricacies of their bizarre relationship might have imagined them ardently kissing. Tender sweethearts reunited.

Her woe and longing were agonizing to witness, and
when she faced him, her eyes were glistening with tears.

“I had no idea,” she insisted. “He hadn’t told me.”

“A wise woman,” he delicately counseled, “might reflect upon the futility of persisting in a venture fraught with such peril.”

“Yes,” she softly agreed, “a wise woman might.”

“John will return to London shortly.”

“I’ve never supposed he’d do anything else.”

“I’ve known him for many years, Miss Fitzgerald.” Gad, but he felt as if he were kicking a puppy! “It wouldn’t be prudent to hope that he’d follow through on a promise or that he might change his behavior.”

Her eyes searched his. She was so genuine, so sincere, and her affection for John was obvious. What a depressing and dear notion! She’d been so swept up in the excitement that she’d failed to recollect their divergent antecedents, but she was smart, and she understood what needed to be done. For John. For herself.

Nervously, she licked her bottom lip. So fetching. So refreshing. So misguided in the affairs of the heart. “Would you give the viscount a message for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Would you tell him that I . . . that I . . .” She had to swallow twice before she could finish. How she would rue the separation! “That I’ve been neglecting other duties so I could tour the estate with him, but I won’t be available to assist him from here on out.”

“I’ll notify him.”

“And would you”—she swallowed again, more tears threatening—“would you work to ensure that he heeds my decision? He might not be inclined to listen.”

Too true. Miss Fitzgerald knew John well. If he didn’t want to cry off, it would be extremely difficult to convince him to desist. “I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Scrupulously, she observed him, as though she would say something else, and he was relieved when she decided against subsequent discourse. No sense prolonging the inevitable. Besides, he didn’t want to be furnished with more reasons to like her.

She was remarkably astute, and if she expounded on John in any fashion, if she initiated a discussion about his faults or her fears for him, Ian would readily join in, would end up seeking ways for the two star-crossed lovers to be together, when there was no excuse for exacerbating their insanity.

“Good-bye,” she said. “I wish—”

“Wish what?”

“That you and I had gotten to know each other. We’re both worried about John”—so it was
John
, was it?—“and I think we might have been friends.”

He nodded. “I believe we might have been.”

“Take care of him for me.”

How intriguing that here, at the last, she dropped any pretense that they’d been more than casual acquaintances. “I will.”

She nodded, too, then she shuddered, her body trembling violently, as if shaking off a heavy burden. Without another word, she departed, choosing to use the rear door utilized by the servants rather than the front that she’d enjoyed when she’d called on John.

For many minutes, he lingered, staring at the spot where she’d been and feeling lower and more despicable than he had in a very long while.

J
OHN
trotted his horse to the break in the trees and reined in, stretching his legs in the stirrups as he surveyed the pitiful scene before him. The estate agent had been explicit in his directions, so there was no doubt that he had the correct location.

His fascinating, amazing Emma lived here? How could it be?

While he’d known that her home was within walking distance of the manor, in his usual detached fashion, he hadn’t paid attention to her domestic arrangements. As he didn’t spend much time with commoners, particularly poverty-stricken ones, it hadn’t occurred to him that someone with whom he’d formed such an intimate bond could exist in such squalor.

Chagrin had delivered him to her door, though not the fiasco with Caroline. His abashment was due to the disconcerting fact that he’d finally noted she was on his original list of evictions.

Why hadn’t she said anything? Why hadn’t he noticed sooner?

He’d been sitting at his desk in the library, too distracted to accomplish any work. The ledgers had been strewn about, but he’d kept gazing at the fainting couch, daydreaming about how Emma had lain with him there.

In between his erotic ramblings, he’d pondered Caro, her resolution to come, her refusal to go. She was so habitually tractable that he couldn’t comprehend what
had happened to make her so adamant about remaining. She was so sweet-tempered that he’d never been able to put his foot down with her and mean it. If he knew how to be stern, she wouldn’t still be tagging after him, confident they would wed.

In the midst of his scattered musings, he’d glanced down at the names of those scheduled for removal, and the surname Fitzgerald had leapt out at him. After a few quick questions to his agent, he’d ascertained the devastating truth: Emma, her mother, and her sister were some of the purported reprobates he’d intended to render homeless.

During the extensive, agreeable hours they’d passed, she hadn’t said a word! Had never hinted at her plight or pleaded her case. How typical of her. Tending to everyone else’s needs first, declining to fret over her own miserable condition.

If he wasn’t so worried about her, he’d be furious. Didn’t she realize that, with the stroke of his pen, her troubles could have been solved? From the moment they’d met, she’d been pressuring him to perform some of her accursed
good deeds
, but could she let him toss a bit of his largesse her way? No, she could not!

Who was more deserving? Emma made him smile, brought him joy, provided him with copious reasons to be a better person. She pushed him to find a viable purpose for the detested responsibilities his title and heritage had placed upon him.

Gad, but she furnished him with an incentive to stay sober! No small feat!

Most of all, she was his friend. Outside of Ian, who could claim the dubious distinction? She liked him, relishing the good and fussing over the bad. She was constantly optimistic, and when he shared her pleasant
company, she made his adversities seem petty and negligible.

Would it have been so terrible to depend on him? Even a little? She was so damned tough. Hadn’t she been informed that it was permissible to solicit aid from friends when one was in dire straits? Couldn’t she let her guard down—just once!—so he could be strong for her? He had wide shoulders; she could lean on them, and he’d proudly assume her burdens.