Free Dreams of Desire by Cheryl Holt

he’d been punched in the chest.
    What was he to do? He had to seize control before his mother and stepmother were brawling on the floor.
    “Barbara”—he stepped between the two women—“in my library. Now.”
    He gripped her arm and led her away, and as she passed the butler, she said, “Angus, please be a dear and deliver John’s whiskey to us. I’ll have one, too.”
    “Yes, Lady Barbara.” Angus appeared smitten. “I’ll bring it right away.”
    “Angus,” John admonished, “remember yourself. You are not to call her Lady anything.”
    Barbara winked—she winked!— at the elderly gentleman, and he winked back.
    John’s temper boiled. How long had Barbara been living in the castle? Why had no one told him? Was his whole staff involved in an insurrection?
    John had never specifically ordered them to keep her out, but why should that have been necessary? Who could have predicted such an abrupt return?
    He entered the library and marched to the desk, practically throwing her into a chair in the process. Angus tottered in after them, but as he set down his tray, John waved him away.
    “Go to the foyer,” John commanded. “Straighten out the mess Barbara’s presence has created.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    The obsequious man bowed his way out, and John dawdled, rigid with fury, until the butler’s strides faded.
    Barbara poured them each a whiskey, but when she tried to push his across to him, he refused it, which was ridiculous. He’d never needed a shot of liquor more.
    At his declining, she rolled her eyes in exasperation, took his glass, and downed the contents in a single swallow. Then she took hers and downed it, too.
    “Are you a drunkard?” John inquired.
    “I enjoy a nip now and again. I won’t deny it.”
    “Lucky me. I finally meet my mother, and she’s a sot.”
    “It was unnerving, seeing Esther. The old harridan! I think I’m entitled, don’t you?”
    John shrugged, but didn’t respond.
    “And it definitely wasn’t easy seeing you.” She refilled their glasses and shoved another toward him. “It can’t have been easy on you, either. Drink the blasted whiskey. Quit being such a boor.”
    He didn’t reach for it—merely to spite her—and she sighed.
    “Gad, you’re so much like him. How sad.”
    “What do you mean?” he asked through clenched teeth.
    “When you were little, you were so much like me, so alive and full of mischief, but your father has managed to drum out all my best traits. Did he beat them out of you? Or did he grind you down until you don’t remember me or what you used to be like?”
    His thoughts churned with anguish. He wanted to rail at her, wanted to demand she never speak of Charles, but any remark would simply encourage her in further denigration of the man.
    “How did you know I would be here?” he queried.
    “You always come for the autumn hunting.” He gawked at her, and she chuckled. “Are you surprised that I’m aware of your habits?”
    “Very surprised.”
    “Were you imagining no one ever wrote to me? That I had no acquaintances in London?”
    “I never pondered it.”
    “Of course you didn’t. You were a child. Why would you have? But I knew all about you—from friends and enemies alike.”
    The news was terribly disturbing. He didn’t want to be apprised of how she’d kept track of him, how people all over London had been spying and reporting to her. If he accepted her story as true, it might indicate that she’d cared enough to collect information.
    “Why didn’t you write to me yourself?” he pressed. “You could have asked for details rather than relying on secondhand accounts.”
    “I wrote for years. Charles wouldn’t let you read my letters.”
    “I don’t believe you,” he said, more vehemently than he’d intended.
    “I stopped when you turned sixteen because you finally wrote back and insisted I not bother you again. Don’t you recall? It’s certainly vivid in my mind.”
    He’d never written to