The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  “I renamed her when we were children. Anne’s a plain name, and she’s my beautiful cousin.” She spoke without irony, and Thomas liked her better for her uncritical affection.

  He peered over her shoulder. “Do you have any idea where she and Bream are?”

  “We’ll have to find them among the dancers. You’d better dance with me. We’ll look foolish otherwise.”

  Despite the fact that he’d never been asked to dance by a lady, Thomas wasn’t unwilling. They would indeed look awkward fighting through the throng, which wasn’t arranged in neat lines as at a proper ball. Couples whirled around together like fledgling pheasants summoned for feeding time, bumping and jostling with the object, he guessed, of achieving as much physical contact between men and women as possible. He offered her his arm and almost became entangled with the small cloth bag that hung on strings from her wrist.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “My reticule,” she said. “There’s no room for pockets in the new fashions.”

  That he could well believe. There was hardly room for a small woman in the skimpy gown.

  He led Mrs. Townsend through the doors into the melee, her hand on his arm as though they were entering a more exclusive ballroom. Maintaining a proper distance was not easy, as other arrivals competed for space. Still, he flattered himself that he made an example of dignified behavior to the revelers—if they cared—until someone crashed into his back. The jolt made it necessary to embrace her to keep them both upright.

  She was warm and soft and fit perfectly against his body, odd since he was a giant in comparison. He looked down at the jaunty curls hugging her skull and spilling over onto her brow, then the tender curves of her bosom, almost as pale as her gown against the burgundy and silver of his coat and embroidered waistcoat. He stared with fascination at a single freckle, like a birthmark, centered with exquisite precision between her breasts. He wanted, quite desperately, to touch it. Better still to kiss it. To discover how it would feel on the tip of his tongue . . .

  Sternly, he wrenched his eyes from the spot and his mind from the errant thought. Neither lips nor tongue would ever approach the vicinity of Mrs. Townsend’s breasts. Instead, he looked at her face, and that was a mistake. Her gaze spoke eloquently to him of indecent, bedroom thoughts. Brown eyes glowed like gold fire, and carmine lips parted in a gentle invitation. A dull roar drowned out any thought but an incoherent urge to possess. His muscles followed the animal instinct that had taken over his brain. Both arms surrounded her, gripped her bottom, and lifted her against him so they were aligned from chest to thighs, and his mind dwelt on dark corners and dirty deeds. That bowed red mouth called, and his own responded, descending inch by inch through the hot feverish air.

  A sound, a little huff—of shock? Of desire?—penetrated the fog of his senses, and he realized what he was doing. He turned to stone, unable to move a muscle, drowning in the dreamy summons of her gaze. Until her expression changed, her eyes sparkled with laughter, and her mouth broadened to a merry grin.

  Quickly, he released her and put the few inches of air between them that the crowd would allow. “I do beg your pardon, ma’am.” He was surprised he could manage even that gruff apology.

  “No harm done,” she said. “It is quite a crush. Shall we enter the fray?”

  She didn’t seem upset. Had he imagined the whole encounter? Had the contact that seared him to the core in reality taken only a few seconds and left her unaffected? If so, he told himself sternly, it was just as well. He was going to wed her cousin.

  “Mrs. Townsend,” he said. Though no longer jammed together in a forced embrace, they were close enough to carry on a conversation without shouting. “Why are you here? Why did you bring your cousin here?”

  “I thought it would be fun, Your Grace. Anne hasn’t had much amusement in her life.”

  “Should amusement be purchased at the expense of decorum?”

  “I’m probably the wrong person to ask. I never quite mastered decorum. Did you know I eloped to Scotland with Robert Townsend when I was seventeen?”

  “And did that amuse you?”

  For a moment he glimpsed a shadow in her eyes, then she was laughing at him again. She was always laughing at him, but this time her mirth seemed brittle. “Of course. Why else would I do it? Why else would I do anything?”

  The answer to her challenge was easy. “Duty to one’s family.”

  She pulled a face. “Dull stuff. But, since you insist, I am doing my duty to my cousin. To ensure she makes a good marriage.”

  “Are you an expert on marriage?”

  If his question was a challenge back, she evaded it. “I’m an expert on amusement. And now it amuses me to dance with you.”

  He wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea. A sedate country dance he could manage. But it wasn’t in the interests of his own sanity to engage in the kind of intimate cavorting on offer at the Pantheon. The memory of Caro Townsend pressed against him was still etched on his body.

  “Come,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We look foolish standing here.”

  “I don’t know this dance.”

  She grinned impishly. “I don’t think anyone does. Try for something between a minuet and a jig.”

  The ludicrous combination of the stately court dance and the lively saltation of the common people was quite like the pairing of the Duke of Castleton and Mrs. Caro Townsend. Impossible.

  The appearance of Oliver Bream and a masked, domino-clad lady meant he didn’t have to try.

  “Miss Brotherton,” he said, bowing. “I am relieved to see that you, at least, had the discretion to come well disguised.”

  “Caro insisted,” she replied. “It’s dreadfully hot in here. I wish I could remove the domino.”

  Not if he had any say in the matter. At least Mrs. Townsend, negligent as she might be as a chaperone, had the sense to keep her cousin covered up. “In that case,” he said, “I won’t suggest we dance. May I accompany you to a seat beneath the gallery? I believe it may be cooler there.”

  Anywhere would be cooler if it were away from Caro Townsend’s vicinity.

  Oliver was in the full-blown throes of his new passion, Lady Windermere long forgotten and his fickle desire fixed on its latest object. Caro had heard it all before, many times, and scarcely paid attention to his furious comments on the Duke of Castleton. “Annabella cannot marry that man!” he said, as they turned in the dance. Accustomed over the years to public balls, Caro and Oliver were able to dance and converse without difficulty while avoiding major collisions with other dancers. “She has an artistic soul, and the fellow is a yahoo.”

  Oliver always imbued his paramours with exquisite sensibilities, regardless of the truth. As for the duke, Caro wasn’t sure he was in fact one of Swift’s uncivilized creatures. For Anne’s sake, she should be glad: Castleton was determined to wed her, and she had to admit he was a suitable husband for her rich cousin.

  It would be easier for her own emotions if she could dismiss the duke as a negligible dullard. For this evening had revealed an inconvenient truth. She, Caro Townsend, a virtuous if not reputable widow, desperately wanted to go to bed with the Duke of Castleton.

  When he’d saved her from being knocked down by the crowd, taken her in his arms, she’d been struck by a devastating lust she hadn’t felt since Robert died. Or for some time before if she were honest with herself.

  She wanted to feel desire. She welcomed the heat in her veins, the flutter in her chest, the streaks of excitement passing through her body making her feel young and hopeful and so alive. A liaison for pleasure and amusement was just what she needed. But with the right kind of man, a man of the world. Not a stuffy, overly formal nobleman who wanted to marry her cousin.

  For Castleton was the kind of man one married. She had no doubt he’d enjoyed a discreet liaison or two, probably with members of the demimonde. He wouldn’t dally with a lady. And even if he didn’t wed Anne, Caro was the last woman h
e’d consider. He was devoted to family tradition, and the Dukes of Castleton always married money.

  She was mad to even think about Castleton and marriage and herself in the same sentence. He lived for duty and propriety, the cold precepts her mother had tried, and failed, to drum into her. The things she’d rejected forever when she ran off with Robert Townsend. The kind of daughter her mother wanted would suit Castleton: a prim creature possessed of polite accomplishments and the womanly virtues of meekness and obedience. Caro Townsend wanted the warmth and laughter and acceptance she’d found with Robert, and which lived on in his friends.

  The only relationship she and Castleton could ever have would be a brief affair. And she wouldn’t bed her cousin’s suitor, which meant she had to put him out of her mind and forget the way she’d wanted to sink into his large, protective embrace. To pull his firm stubborn mouth to hers and devour him. To rip off his perfectly proper, not-too-fashionable clothing and discover the powerful body she guessed dwelt beneath wool, linen, and starch. To feel those big hands all over hers. She must ignore the empty ache in her belly and the certainty that Castleton could fill and soothe it. And she must forget what their brief embrace had revealed. That Castleton wanted her, at least as far as his physical reaction was concerned.

  If she had to be attracted to a duke, why couldn’t it be Denford? Why couldn’t she accept Julian’s careless offer? He was handsome, wicked, and undoubtedly a skilled lover. She knew him well enough not to expect anything from him but pleasure, and that she could have. But she didn’t want it. Not from him.

  As though her thoughts had conjured him up, she glimpsed Julian through the crowd, dancing with a masked lady who looked like Cynthia Windermere. She hoped she was wrong.

  “Is that Julian?” she interrupted Oliver’s rapturous paean to Anne’s beauty. “Could he have brought Cynthia here?”

  “Lady Windermere?” Oliver replied, as though he’d hardly heard of the woman who, a week earlier, had inspired almost the identical laudatory flights he now devoted to Anne. “Yes, I think that’s her. We’d better return to your cousin. She may need us.”

  “Oh dear! Do you think Anne in danger of ravishment at Castleton’s hands?”

  Oliver tended to lose his sense of irony when he was in love. “Who knows what the fellow might do when confronted with so much loveliness,” he said darkly.

  “By all means, let us find them before he gets carried away.” She was cruel to tease Oliver but really, he was absurd. There wasn’t the least chance that Castleton would ravish Anne in a public place, or anywhere else. Lucky Annabella if he would.

  The level of noise in the Pantheon had steadily risen, reflecting increasingly loose and raucous behavior among the ballroom’s clientele. Something soft flew over Caro’s shoulder, brushing her cheek. The missile was followed by a feminine shriek, a masked lady who appeared in danger of losing her gown, and a gentleman whose Elizabethan costume revealed most of his legs. The woman brushed past Caro and snatched at her property, now draped over Oliver’s shoulder and recognizable as a long satin glove the color of a peacock feather. Caro guiltily realized the proceedings were about to become quite unsuitable for her innocent cousin, whom she’d brought here as a means to vex her stuffy suitor. She was worried about Cynthia, too. It was her fault her friend had come to the attention of Denford. It was time to inform her exactly why Julian Fortescue meant nothing but mischief toward the wife of his former best friend, now his bitter enemy.

  “Oliver.” She had to raise her voice almost to a yell. “Find Cynthia. Things are getting out of hand, and we should take her home.”

  Oliver folded his arms and looked stubborn, though his rocklike demeanor was marred by the jostling crowd. “She’ll be safe with Denford. He won’t let anyone harm her.”

  “I’m not worried about anyone else harming her. I don’t trust Julian.”

  “What about Annabella?”

  “I shall go and ensure that she hasn’t fallen prey to the ravishments of Lord Stuffy. I see them under the second arch from the left. Find Cynthia and bring her there.”

  “What if she won’t come?”

  “Lie. Tell her I have urgent need of assistance.” She pushed Oliver in the direction she’d last seen them. “Now go.”

  As Oliver’s slight figure was engulfed in a crush of bodies, Caro fought her way toward the relative peace of the gallery until her progress was foiled by a body, and deliberately so. Why, with half of demireputable London crammed into a very large space, did she have to run into Sir Bernard Horner?

  The way his eyes lit up left her in no doubt that her presence at the Pantheon had given him the wrong idea.

  “My very dear Mrs. Townsend. What an unexpected pleasure. And alone, too.” His caressing tones pierced the ambient roar.

  “What a surprise, Sir Bernard.” Her smile aimed to conciliate without encouraging. In the past few days she’d ignored two letters, facing the insoluble problem of her debt to him with denial of its existence.

  “I’ve been waiting to hear from you.”

  “I’ve been busy. Why don’t you call on me tomorrow afternoon. Shall we say three o’clock?” She’d make sure she was chaperoned by Anne and Oliver, and she’d have the morning to think of an answer. “I must get back to my party.”

  “I can’t let you go alone.” He seized her hand and devoured her face with lustful pale eyes. “First, won’t you dance with me?”

  She made her hand rest limply in his grasp, thanking Providence that she was gloved. If she had to touch his bare flesh, she wouldn’t be able to maintain the appearance of affability. “Thank you, but I think not. I’d fear for the safety of my gown in this mob. I’m fond of it and fear it would be ripped to shreds.”

  Not the right thing to say. His eyes gleamed at the prospect. “I’ll protect you. It is my greatest wish to offer you my protection.”

  The thought of what he meant by protection made her stomach flip. “Another time. I must go.”

  His grip on her hand tightened, and she wouldn’t be able to escape without a struggle. She glanced about her, desperately seeking help. Anne and Castleton shouldn’t be far away unless they’d moved. She couldn’t see a soul she knew, and she very much doubted that any stranger would come to her aid, even if she screamed. Which she very nearly did because, while she wasn’t looking, Horner raised his free hand and ran dry, ridged fingertips over the exposed swell of her breasts.

  “So lovely,” he said, leaning in. Oh, God. He was going to kiss her. She tried to free her hand, using the other to pry open his grasping fingers, but to no avail.

  “Let go!” she said, abandoning the pretense of complacency. And watched with horror as his mouth descended toward hers. She smelled his sweet perfume mixed with sweat, the wine on his breath.

  Her knee was poised to strike his private parts when suddenly she was released. Horner, taken completely by surprise, struggled in the grasp of a very large duke.

  Chapter 5

  Thomas had no idea who the man in the tight striped coat was, but he knew he didn’t like him. Only a complete scoundrel would go out in public dressed thus. Mrs. Townsend appeared to greet him with pleasure. Not surprising that she would have such a friend. The atmosphere in the Pantheon had degenerated into a licentious romp, no place for a gently bred and innocent lady. He considered taking Miss Brotherton home, abandoning the disreputable, albeit appealing, Mrs. Townsend, to her fate.

  She was smiling at the fellow, letting him hold her hand! If this was an example of the kind of man she admired, it confirmed every poor impression he’d gained of her. Ignoring his inconvenient attraction would be easy.

  Then something changed. She was trying to get away. The blackguard had the nerve to lay his fingers on the curves of her bosom, the flawless skin that he, Thomas, was far too much of a gentleman to touch, however much he might wish to. Crimson rage flooded his brain and took possession of his body. The gently bred and innocent Miss Brotherton was abandoned without a tho
ught. He charged, knocking over a few drunken oafs along the way, grabbed the oversized striped collar of that ridiculous coat and tore the villain from his prey.

  Whatever his name was, he had no chance to put up a fight. Thomas spun him around and smashed fist into jaw, not as flush as he would have liked given the constraints of the crowd, but hard enough to send the striped body flying into a group of revelers.

  At that point, things got a little interesting. The fellows he’d floored in his initial charge bore in, giving Thomas no chance to explain he’d been motivated by chivalry. Quickly deciding there wasn’t any point reasoning with inebriated riffraff, he raised his fists and found himself in a fight.

  Outnumbered three to one, he had the advantage of size and sobriety. One went down with a single blow, and he was parrying the attack of the others when he became aware of help from an unexpected quarter. Caro Townsend, swinging her reticule about her, managed to knock down one of the assailants. Whatever she had in the cloth bag must be quite heavy, confirmed when she nearly hit him over the head with it.

  “Careful,” he cried, as it glanced off his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Caro said, whacking a husky giant in the chest just as the new combatant charged Thomas. Her intervention very likely saved him from being felled.

  He would have ordered her to safety, but he was too busy with a foe who, with no regard for the rules of pugilism, grabbed him by the neckcloth and had to be dislodged. Boxing his ears, also not an approved technique, did the trick.

  The brawl spread, with men who neither knew nor cared about the cause of the fight joining the fray. Thomas found himself back-to-back with Caro, she swinging her lethal accessory, he wielding his fists. Someone succeeded in landing a punch in his eye, but he ignored the pain. “Are you all right?” he yelled at his unlikely second.

  “Splendid!” she shouted back. “How are we going to get out of here?”

  “I have no idea.” And he didn’t. He should be worried, for the situation looked to be developing into a full-blown riot. Instead, he felt exhilarated, blood coursing through his veins in the excitement of combat. He couldn’t attribute it to the martial spirit of his Fitzcharles ancestors, for they had none. His brain had never felt keener or more attuned to the actions of his limbs: disarming the powerful but unscientific sally of a man with the physique of an oversized hauler by the expedient of kicking the man’s ankle so he lost his balance and crashed to the floor; parrying the attack of a costumed cavalier by twisting his wig and rendering him blind. He discovered he possessed the low cunning that his ancestress Mary Swinburne, the darling of Drury Lane, must have used to capture a monarch and dispose of half a dozen rivals.