The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  It was a long time since she’d dressed for a lover. If that was what she did. She felt something die inside her at the thought.

  Her clean shift went on next, fine cambric soft against her skin. Her undergarments had always been of the best quality. This one was worn thin in a few places, the result of many washings, and should be replaced soon. With something cheaper.

  Next she turned attention to her hair, an easy task. The need to manage without a personal maid had contributed to her decision to cut it. That and angry grief had made her take the scissors to the abundant locks Robert had once loved so much. She combed the cropped curls and teased them into place around a green velvet headband.

  A knock at the door announced the return of the chambermaid with her gown. First, the girl tied Caro’s stays, then slipped the white muslin, now perfectly crisp and smooth, over her head, fastening the buttons and helping to arrange the embroidered tunic.

  “Very pretty you look, ma’am. Will you be dining out?”

  “I’m not sure,” Caro replied, and dismissed the girl with a sixpence she could ill spare.

  She completed her ensemble with a simple gold cross on a narrow black ribbon and white silk slippers.

  Very virginal, she thought, as she caught sight of herself in the dressing-table mirror, blurry in the mottled glass. A lump arose in her throat and choked off her laugh. She peered at her ashen face, pinching her cheeks and biting her lips. A resemblance to a ghost was never desirable. And she was supposed to be desirable.

  She had decided to leave the decision in the hands of fate and Sir Bernard Horner. As twilight faded to dusk, she lit a candle, sat down, and waited. Down the street, a church bell chimed the half hour. She’d give it thirty minutes. By the time the hour struck, if Horner hadn’t contacted her, she’d order a modest dinner and go to bed alone. Then God only knew what she would do.

  Anne stood when she heard the door open. She was ready to go out, in bonnet and pelisse. Lady Windermere apparently had something in common with her friend Caro: an inability to be on time. Anne didn’t understand why. It was so much easier to be punctual—then everyone knew what was happening, and when. Lady Windermere’s butler came into the morning room, an imposing chamber twice the size of Caro’s drawing room.

  Her heart sank at the entrance of the Duke of Castleton. When he’d called at Conduit Street the previous day, she’d denied him. Caro was out on an errand, and she wasn’t feeling up to a stilted exchange about Roman antiquities and the weather, the pair of them politely bored as they pretended to share each other’s enthusiasms.

  It was perhaps a little unfair to dismiss Castleton’s interests as purely meteorological. She had no reason to believe he wouldn’t be an excellent steward of her inheritance, a responsible landlord, and a dutiful family man. But Lord, he was dull. The only time he showed the least animation was when he looked at Caro, which he did a lot, surely more than he knew. It hadn’t ever occurred to Anne to expect a passionate attachment on the part of her suitor, but to have him stare at her cousin was disconcerting. His avid gaze reminded her of the way her pious companion Miss Smart looked at a sweetmeat during Lent: as though it was the one thing in the world she most wanted but was kept from taking by her own scruples.

  “Miss Brotherton.” He took her hand with the exact correct degree of pressure and bowed at the right angle.

  “Duke.”

  “You are dressed to go out,” he said. “I apologize, I know it is early for a call. They told me at Conduit Street that you were here.” His eyes roamed hungrily around the room as though seeking a hidden corner. “Is Mrs. Townsend with you?”

  “I am stopping at Windermere House for a day or two while Caro is out of town.”

  “I see. Was this an unexpected journey? She said nothing of it the night before last. Where has she gone? When will she return?”

  Such pointed questions verged on the ill-bred, but since Anne was a little worried about Caro’s sudden departure, she decided to be forthcoming.

  “She has gone to Newmarket.”

  “Newmarket!” Castleton almost shouted the word. “What is she doing there?”

  “Visiting Mr. and Mrs. Quinton.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Old friends.”

  “Whom she suddenly took it into her head to visit?”

  Anne shared his skepticism. “She wasn’t very clear about the reason. Something about a matter of business. It must have been urgent for her to travel at night. She left in a hackney around six last night.”

  “To take her to the posting inn? Did she engage a post chaise?”

  Anne hadn’t given any thought to Caro’s mode of transport, being generally indifferent to practical details which, in her life, someone else attended to. “I suppose so.” What she didn’t mention was that Caro had borrowed some money from her. Not much. Anne had only a small sum on hand since all her bills were sent to her man of affairs. She felt a little guilty she hadn’t paid more attention when Caro had tactfully probed her about her pin money. Always having enough for her needs, Anne never worried about such mundane things. Her enormous fortune was securely tied up and in the hands of her trustees, to be handed on eventually to her husband.

  “Did she go alone? Without her maid?”

  “My cousin does not keep a personal attendant,” she said defensively at the note of censure in Castleton’s voice. “I offered her my own as a companion, but she said she was quite accustomed to traveling alone. Newmarket is little more than fifty miles away.”

  “Let me get this straight, Miss Brotherton. Mrs. Townsend, a young woman, left London, at nightfall, on an unexpected journey, without either attendant or escort.”

  Though accustomed to regarding Caro’s disdain for the constraints of convention with amused awe, when he put it like that, it did sound less than ideal. “I’m not my cousin’s keeper,” she said.

  “No,” he said, with a level of emotion she’d never have predicted in Lord Stuffy. “But obviously the woman needs one.”

  The invitation came with five minutes to spare. Sir Bernard Horner would be honored if Mrs. Townsend would join him for dinner in his private parlor.

  She wrapped a shawl about her, held her head high, and tried not to imagine that everyone looked at her askance as she followed the servant down one flight to a first-floor parlor. The Greyhound was an old building, perhaps dating back to the days when King Charles II had made Newmarket fashionable and built his own house here. The room was small but elegant for an inn, with painted paneling and decorated with framed hunting prints. Horner, who’d been lounging next to a cozy fire, rose to his feet.

  He was, of course, wearing stripes. Tonight, his evening coat sported a subtle contrast in shades of brown and buff. His pantaloons, in dark brown, were skintight, leaving nothing of what they contained to Caro’s imagination. She found it was knowledge she’d sooner do without. Taking a deep breath, she contemplated Horner’s assets at a more elevated level.

  He really was a very elegant man, she told herself. A trim figure with scarcely a hint of a paunch. A profusion of chains and fobs hung from his gaudy brocade waistcoat, each individual one in good taste, even if the total effect was a little excessive. His brown hair threaded with gray was exquisitely curled, doubtless through the considerable exertions of his valet. And he was clean. Or at least well perfumed, so any unpleasant bodily odors were well masked.

  If she found him repellent, it was merely due to his personality—which hopefully wouldn’t be on display in bed.

  She’d heard whispers among the ladies of the artistic set that older men offered the advantages of experience, of knowledge in the bedroom unknown to callow youth. She’d listened without much interest. At the time, Robert was all she wanted or needed, and after his death she wanted no one.

  Then Castleton had reawakened her. She’d lain in bed at night, her body aching for a man, trying desperately not to think of this particular one. She was trying now, but a vision of the duke
plagued her mind. The way his haughty features sometimes seemed but a mask for a sweetness and good humor he worked hard to repress. How his body felt pressed against hers in the licentious heat of the Pantheon. His magnificent figure intruded on her optimistic assessment of Horner’s meager attractions. If only this new desire could be fueled, then satisfied, by a different man.

  She stiffened her resolve. She couldn’t fool herself that bedding Horner would be a blissful experience. It only needed to be bearable. Since she couldn’t have Castleton, she might as well make do with the perfectly willing man in front of her and solve her pressing problem at the same time.

  What this action would make her, she refused to contemplate. It was merely another inconvenient fact for her to ignore.

  “Caro, my dear.” Horner didn’t even make a pretense at formality. “Come and sit by the fire.” He took her arm to lead her to a cushioned bench. With a gracious nod, she disengaged herself and chose a chair opposite. He smiled as she arranged her skirts, unconcerned at her small rebellion against his proximity. Confidence and lascivious anticipation were written on his face, as well they might be.

  “I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw you in the yard. Hobbs confirmed it was you, or I wouldn’t have believed my good fortune. What brings you to Newmarket? The races perhaps?”

  Not wishing to lay her cards on the table about her failed mission, Caro prevaricated. There was no reason to let Horner know just how desperate she was.

  “Let us not speak of such dull stuff now, nor of business,” he replied to her vague excuse. “They keep a very good table and cellar here, and I’ve ordered a neat little supper. Meanwhile, allow me to pour you a glass of burgundy.”

  Caro accepted the wine and took a sip for courage.

  He raised his glass. “Let us take wine together.” She returned the gesture, and their eyes met. “To the first of many such comfortable evenings,” he said. “And a long association.”

  “What brings you to Newmarket, Sir Bernard? Do you have a horse running?”

  “A colt in the stakes on Thursday. I have high hopes for him. You should back him to win.”

  “I’m not fond of wagering,” Caro said. “Tell me about the horse. What is his breeding?”

  The topic of Newmarket’s spring meeting and the sporting scene in general kept them talking through a couple of courses. Though she’d hardly had a bite to eat all day, Caro was too nervous to do justice to the roasted carp, tender lamb, asparagus, braised parsnips, and half a dozen other dishes. She praised much but swallowed little, just a mouthful or two of each. Horner kept pressing her to drink, and each time she swallowed a healthy gulp, the excellent red vintage soothing the nerves in her stomach. If she was to go through with this, a measure of inebriation would help.

  When the meal was over but for dessert, Horner dismissed the waiter. They sat across from each other at the square table with dishes of nuts and sweetmeats between them.

  “Will you have a stuffed fig? Or a date?” Under the table, she felt his knee brushing against hers.

  Caro selected a square of marchpane and bit into it, almost choking on the sugary paste. Hastily, she replaced it on her plate.

  “Does it not please you?”

  “Too sweet.”

  “A lady who prefers spicy tastes!” he exclaimed, his hand now caressing her knee.

  “Not at all,” she said hastily, forcing herself to tolerate his groping. “I’m just not in the mood for sugar.”

  “Allow me to crack you a walnut.”

  She accepted with pleasure since it would occupy both his hands. He wielded the nutcracker skillfully and presented her with two perfect halves on the palm of his left hand. When she reached for them he intercepted her hand with his right, squeezing her fingers firmly so she felt his rings.

  “Such soft hands.” His voice dropped to a low caress. “Such a delicate little creature. I could crush you between my fists.” And he tightened his grasp, causing her to cry out as the rings dug deeply into her flesh. She snatched back her hand.

  His lips thinned. “Eat the walnut, Caro,” he said.

  She took one of the halves and chewed on it. It was like dust in her mouth, and she needed another mouthful of wine to help her swallow.

  “Sir Bernard,” she said, pushing away the hand that was once more under the table, trying to insert itself between her legs. “You’re moving too fast.”

  He looked wounded. “My dear Caro, I thought we were getting along so well, yet you persist in using my title. My intimates call me Bernard, just Bernard. And I think we both know that we are destined to be intimates.”

  “You presume too much,” she said haughtily.

  “I don’t think so. Why else are you here?” A fair question.

  He stood up and brought his chair around the table, next to hers. When he seated himself, they were thigh to thigh, his arm around her shoulders. “Now, my dear. Am I going to have to be crude about this? Let’s keep it civilized and start with a kiss.”

  He gave her little choice, cupping her chin with his other hand and turning her face toward him. Up close she couldn’t see the whole man, only heavy-lidded gray eyes, a nose, and huge, pale lips. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. She liked kissing, and it had been a long time. She closed her eyes and let him take her.

  At first it felt all right. Not pleasurable, not exciting, but acceptable. His lips were dry with a papery texture. Then she felt the invasion of his tongue and gave an involuntary start, pulling back from him. She scraped back her chair and retreated to the hearth.

  Horner leaned back and laughed. “Playing the prude? Hardly necessary, but if you insist, I can accommodate you. I’d quite enjoy having to catch you, and in this room, no great exertion would be required.” He too abandoned his chair and followed her. “I’d still have plenty of vigor remaining to punish you for your resistance.”

  “I believe you are getting ahead of yourself,” she said, fighting off the urge to flee. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “We haven’t come to any arrangement.” The words came out slurred. She must have drunk even more than she thought. And she was frightened of what she had to do.

  “I thought we had. Truly, I believed we would come to an agreement when we ran into each other at the Pantheon.” He ran his fingers along the edge of her bodice, just as he had that night. This time he dipped a finger between her breasts, stroking the flesh with his wrinkled digit. “I meant to ask you, my dear. Why did Castleton interrupt us? Is he my rival for your favors? He has the reputation of being powerfully proper. Wouldn’t suit a merry filly like you at all.”

  Caro swatted away his wandering hand. “I do not appreciate being compared to a horse. As for the duke, think what you will.”

  “You can’t fool me. He’s after richer game.” Caro shrugged. “Since you persist in being both coy and businesslike, let me make myself plain. I am prepared to be generous and discreet. There’s no reason why our arrangement should interfere with your normal life, and I have no wish for it to be generally known.” He coughed. “Lady Horner would not be pleased.”

  So there was a wife. And Caro would be ready to wager a fair sum that Lady Horner had considerable power over the purse strings. Of course, if she were to continue her “normal” activities, it would be impossible to keep her affair a secret. Oliver was in and out of the house all the time, other friends almost as often. Not to mention Anne, who would be staying with her for at least another month.

  And Castleton. Castleton would find out. Caro’s stomach lurched.

  “You can’t come to my house,” she said.

  Horner raised his brows, then shrugged. He must have noticed, as she had, that she’d virtually agreed to be his mistress.

  Mistress. It was a better word than courtesan, or prostitute, or trollop. With a word like mistress, she could keep her self-respect.

  “I own a house where we can meet.” The mood had changed from the conditional to the definite. “You need only tell your ho
usehold you will be home late. I never stay the night. I’ll be generous with gifts, both money and jewels. I’m sure you’d like to keep your own carriage, too.”

  She could live as she once had, when she and Robert first married, and he came into his fortune. No more scraping, no more small fires, no more duns.

  She’d be a mistress, and no one need know.

  A dry hand touched her cheek, traveled down her neck, causing her to gulp as though choking, stroked the fleshy swells revealed by her gown, then pushed the material down and tugged away the loose gathers of her stays. Horner cupped one of the exposed breasts in each hand and squeezed, a little too hard. “I want you,” he said, his voice hoarse. He pressed in closer, and she felt his erection against her thigh. “I wanted you from the moment I set eyes on you, and now I’ll have you.”

  Caro felt unbearably warm, but not with arousal. The room was indeed small. It lacked a hiding place or any means of escape. Other than the exit into the inn passage, constantly filled with passing guests and servants, the only door led into a bedroom.

  Oh Robert! How could you have been so stupid as to lose to this man?

  “What about Robert’s debt?” she said faintly.

  “You shall have it in the morning.”

  That was better than she’d expected. One night. All she had to stand was one night. It would make her a trollop, but with luck no one would ever know.

  She pushed him away, but not violently, and extracted herself from his embrace. He allowed it and regarded her with a faint smile that spoke of complete confidence.

  “Give me a minute to think.”

  “Take five, by all means,” he said with an ironic bow. “Should you need an incentive,” he added after thirty seconds’ silence, “remember the bailiffs.”

  After this, she swore, I shall live within my means. Never overspend my income. I shall pay off Robert’s debts and be free. And perhaps in a year or two I will meet a man who stirs me as Castleton does. One whom I can have.