The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  He rather thought Townsend had been dead only a year or so, but his brain wasn’t up to advanced arithmetic. It had never occurred to him that a woman might be as frustrated by celibacy as a man, another consideration to be postponed until later, when his mind was working. Now, with some urgency, he needed to decide whether he would further resist her. And suspected it was a fruitless exercise. She lowered herself over his lap and her sex, warm and wet, brushed against his straining cock.

  “So what do you think?” she whispered, clinging to his shoulders, her lips close to his mouth. “Shall I take you, Thomas? Shall I have my wicked way with you?” With each provocative word, she swayed her pelvis back and forth, taking him to heaven with each touch and to hell because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  He submitted, surrendering without a fight. Pushing aside her petticoats, he took her delectably curving hips in his hands and seized control of her movements.

  “Who’s taking whom?” he growled, and pulled her down onto him. But it turned out her guiding hand was needed to find the right spot, and once he was lodged in her tight passage, they let out twin sighs of bliss.

  “Oh yes,” she breathed. “There. So good,” and other words of command and praise. She didn’t let him set the rhythm, as he would have expected, but moved up and down at her own pace, weaving and rotating her hips, clenching his cock with inner muscles before a long, languorous withdrawal, followed by a renewed thrust as she gloved him in her heat. It was entirely possible that he was going to die.

  Her words became less frequent and made less sense. Her breathing grew faster, along with the rise and fall of her hips, like an accelerating trot. One hand descended to touch herself where they were joined, and she emitted a sharp cry.

  Unalloyed hunger swept aside every thought and consideration. As she fell against his chest, he grabbed her tight and flipped them over so she was lying on her back and he was on top, pushing into her, harder and harder. Balanced on his elbows, he could see Caro’s face, eyes closed and mouth open, more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen. Faster and faster came his mindless thrusts until at last, in great gusts of ecstasy, he spent.

  Just sensible enough to fear crushing her, he slid off and knelt on the floor, holding her tightly with his head on her chest, exuding gusty breaths. Mine. Mine forever, was the only conscious thought that penetrated his blissful satisfaction.

  “Thomas.” His very ordinary name, spoken soft and husky against his ear, sounded precious and unique, as though no man had ever before borne it. “You wicked, wicked man, Thomas.”

  He raised his head to look at her, all soft and golden in the midday light. “I shouldn’t have done that, Caro. It’s still morning, and we’re in the drawing room.” Good Lord! He’d never been with a woman before noon. And to his shame, he wanted her again. “I’m sorry I lost control.”

  Her gurgle of laughter was pure music. “I don’t think you had any choice, Your Grace. And I have no idea why you are apologizing. Surely you realize I wanted this as much as you, probably more?”

  “I should have been strong for both of us.”

  Caro sat up and held his head between her hands. “Look at me, Thomas,” she said, “and listen. We want each other. There is nothing wrong with us enjoying each other at any time and in any place that suits us both. It would be remarkably foolish not to since it’s the main reason for our marriage.”

  That seemed wrong, and he wanted to protest, yet wasn’t it true? His intense desire for her had driven him to overcome his scruples. And what of Caro? He offered her wealth and position, security from want, safety from the importunities of Horner and his ilk. It was madness for a woman in her precarious situation to turn down his offer, yet her hesitation had been genuine. His chest swelled with pleasure.

  He’d never thought of a woman wanting him for himself, not for who he was. He’d never really separated the idea of himself as a man from his position in life. He wasn’t sure it was even possible. But insofar as it was, Caro wanted him.

  “We should be wed as soon as possible,” he said, his only defense against the immoral urges that seemed to have possessed him.

  “My feelings, exactly,” she said.

  Chapter 15

  Thomas and Caro shared a post chaise from Newmarket to London. He managed to resist her attempts to seduce him in the carriage, but truly, she didn’t try very hard. Intimate congress in a small and fast-moving carriage was not ideal. Hired chaises weren’t dubbed “yellow bouncers” for nothing. They managed to do quite a lot of kissing and cuddling during the journey, leaving Caro anxious to reach her bed, and not alone.

  “Stay,” she said. Punctilious as ever, he’d accompanied her upstairs and seen her settled in.

  “I mustn’t keep the horses waiting.”

  “Pay off the postboys. Stay for dinner, and the night. Anne is still with Cynthia. No one will know, if that’s your concern.”

  “The servants will know.”

  “Don’t be Lord Stuffy.” She pressed herself against him and pushed his greatcoat off his shoulder. “The Battens won’t care.”

  He took a step away and shrugged back into the garment. “After we marry, we must find better servants for our London house.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the Battens. Besides, they’ve been with me for years.”

  “I’ll find them another position. Or pension them off.”

  Caro had no intention of allowing any such thing, but she decided to postpone the matter in favor of the immediate task of dissuading Thomas from leaving her alone.

  To no avail. She could tell he was tempted, especially after another lengthy kiss. Instead, he delivered more bad news. “I leave for Castleton in the morning.”

  “Do you have to go so soon?”

  “I told you I have business that cannot be postponed.” So he’d said during the journey, but he hadn’t mentioned leaving immediately.

  “Let me come with you.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but I shall be too busy to entertain you. And it wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Why ever not? Surely your mother is there?”

  “I prefer to introduce you to my home as my bride.”

  He was not to be moved and left her frustrated and a little hurt.

  She didn’t believe his excuse about estate business. She knew what called him urgently home: the need to reconcile his family to the match. And since Caro had spent the last seven years not giving a damn what anyone thought of her, she found it infuriating that she minded. Suppose under the influence of his oh-so-correct mother and beautifully behaved sisters, Thomas realized what a disaster she was. Suppose he called off the engagement. Or suppose he didn’t, and grew to hate her for the rest of his life.

  She already feared the possibility and wondered if she was mad to give in to his begging. She hadn’t forgotten his promise to help her “regulate her conduct.” Her mother had spent her life trying to regulate Caro’s conduct until Robert saved her. He never stopped her from doing anything she wanted. She’d given in to the sweet sincerity of Thomas’s desire for her, but how long would that last before resentment and “regulation” set in?

  And if he came to his senses and jilted her, how could she bear the fact that she would never share a bed with him, never see the big beautiful body naked? How could she live for the rest of her life with only one quick coupling on a sofa to sustain her?

  Hating to spend an evening alone, she walked over to the carriage house, but Oliver, her usual recourse, wasn’t there. She wandered restlessly around the small garden; when it grew darker and cold, she paced the house.

  Damn Thomas! How dare he persuade her to marry him, then leave her like this. Leave her to face thoughts and memories she preferred to avoid. It reminded her of nights when she expected Robert and he didn’t come home.

  The next morning, she wrote notes to Anne and other friends. She needed to fill up the house.

  One small concern was quickly put to rest. Anne exp
ressed herself unsurprised by the match. “He and I would have done very badly together. I knew he wanted you. And I believe you are well suited.”

  “That remains to be seen.” Caro still felt querulous. “I’m not pleased that he’s taken off on business. Since we are newly betrothed, he should have stayed with me.”

  “But Caro,” Anne said, “that’s what gentlemen do. We ladies must find our own pastimes.”

  It crossed her mind that at least Thomas’s business wasn’t at the gaming tables, but Caro was in no mood for common sense. The only pastime that currently interested her involved Thomas and a bed. Or a sofa or, at a pinch, a patch of grass.

  If Anne approved the match, the rest of her set was less enthusiastic. Julian and Oliver were the first to arrive on her doorstep and hear the news.

  “My dear Caro! There’ll be no more cakes and ale for you.” The Duke of Denford’s reaction to the news of her engagement to the Duke of Castleton was typical.

  Oliver, in his gloriously frank way, worried that meals for starving artists would not be so readily forthcoming. But he was quite hopeful about the opportunities for patronage from Castleton and his connections. He also made it clear he wouldn’t be shy about continuing to ask for “loans” from his newly rich landlady.

  “Unless you are planning to move out of Conduit Street. Please don’t, Caro! It’s not just that I would have to move. Nothing will be the same without you here.”

  “I’m sure Caro and Castleton will move to his house,” Julian said. “In Whitehall, I believe. Once a fashionable area. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the proximity of so many government offices.”

  She and Anne had driven past the house that morning, a vast old place that looked drafty and uncomfortable. It was also most inconveniently located, far from her friends, none of whom held government places. Would Thomas insist on moving there, even against her wishes? How much time would he agree to spend in London? He had told her he’d accommodate Anne’s desires, but perhaps a bride without a fortune didn’t merit the same consideration. They would have been wise to spend less time kissing and done more talking about their future on the road from Newmarket.

  Talking about their future. How dismally commonplace that sounded. She wasn’t enamored of moving to the country. Somehow, she’d envisioned carrying on with her old life, in her cozy house, with the constant company of her friends. The only difference would be the absence of duns and debts and the presence of Thomas in her bed.

  “It’s not going to be the same.” Julian echoed her thoughts. “All these years I spent traveling, around England or abroad, with no place of my own, I could rely on a welcome in Conduit Street. A meal and good company.”

  “I know,” Caro replied, touched by the genuine feeling in his speech. “Robert’s death was a loss for all of us.”

  “Robert was one of my best and oldest friends,” Julian said. “But it was you, Caro, who made this house a home for so many of us. I quarreled with Windermere, then Robert died. I never see Marcus. Now your departure marks the end of my youth.”

  Caro wanted to cry. Here she was, about to contract an advantageous marriage to a man whom she might not love but desperately desired. And she felt she was truly killing Robert. Because he’d not only been her husband and her lover, but his friends had given her a family, a warmth and connection she’d lacked from her mother and brother.

  “I may have lost Robert,” she said, “but I will never, ever abandon his friends. I won’t let Castleton come between us.”

  Julian raised his eyebrows, and his lips hardened into a cynical sneer. “If you have anything to say in the matter.” He sounded much more like himself. “I’m afraid you accepted Castleton because you need his money.”

  “That’s not true,” Caro said. “He’s a good man for all his stuffiness. I want to marry him.”

  “Are you low on funds, Caro?” Oliver said. “You should have said something. I could sell my Venus and give you the money.”

  His question seemed breathtaking in its naïveté. But Caro had never confided in her friends, never told them just how bad her situation was. Not because she didn’t trust them but because she preferred to deny the existence of her circumstances. And because explanations would mean speaking of Robert’s faults. That Thomas was prepared to take her on, debts and all, was really quite extraordinary.

  “May I have a word with you in private, Caro?” Julian asked. “I want to ask you about the Farnese Venus,” he continued once they were alone.

  “For heaven’s sake! That again? How many times do I have to assure everyone I don’t have it?”

  Julian looked down his nose at her, his eyes boring into hers. “I don’t believe you. And I think you’d be wise to tell me the truth.”

  Caro held his gaze. “Why? Not that I’m lying, but if I were, why should I tell you?”

  “Robert left you in trouble. I wish I were in a position to help, but this damn dukedom has been nothing but an expense for me so far. You may protest as much as you like, but I know you accepted Castleton for his money. And if that is true, the Titian can save you. You might be able to get as much as three thousand pounds for it.”

  Caro gaped. “Three thousand! That’s much more than I thought it was worth.”

  “You see, my dear. You could pay your debts, and you wouldn’t have to marry Castleton.”

  “Except,” she snapped, “that I don’t have it, and I do want to marry Castleton.” She’d never felt more certain of that fact. Ever since Thomas had left, she’d been wavering, wondering if they were mismatched, fearing they’d make each other unhappy. The moment Julian offered her a way out, she was absolutely sure she wanted the marriage. And it was none of his business.

  “If you say so,” Julian said, shaking his head. “But think about this. When you marry, your property will become Castleton’s property. I don’t think he cares much for pictures of undressed ladies. He could demand you sell the Venus, and you wouldn’t reap the benefit.”

  “This is a fascinating conversation, Julian, and I’m so grateful for your interest in my affairs. How many times do I have to tell you—I do not have the Venus.”

  She could see he wasn’t convinced, but what else could he do? She dared not even look at the ceiling lest Denford divine that the Titian was hidden away upstairs. Its presence in her house felt like a black smudge on her conscience. Not because of Julian. It was no affair of his. But should she reveal its existence to Thomas? Her husband had the right to know what she owned, and she couldn’t believe he would force her to sell it. But she could be wrong and Julian right about that.

  “If you are to turn Puritan,” Julian said, accepting for the moment that she wasn’t going to sell him the picture, “you should have one last celebration here. When does your beloved return to London?”

  “He wasn’t sure how long his business would take. A week perhaps.”

  “You must give a dinner for all your friends.”

  “To introduce them to Castleton?”

  “Don’t be dense, Caro. Before he comes back. One last glorious revel at Conduit Street before you leave, a final celebration of the Townsend set. You could call it a farewell to Robert, if you like.”

  The idea beckoned enticingly. One last, grand gathering of the kind she and Robert had held together so often in the early days. A chance to be the hostess of the most amusing and disreputable young people in London, one more time. And she could afford it now, just like the old days. The best dishes ordered in, wine flowing like the Thames.

  “I don’t know. I’ve mourned Robert for so long, and now I’m to start a new life. It doesn’t seem fair to Thomas.”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You know it’ll be a much better party without him.”

  Five days later, on the arrival of a letter from her betrothed postponing his return, Caro regretted the virtuous impulse that had rejected Julian’s suggestion. If she couldn’t entertain, she decided, she could at least shop. Toward the end of Robert
’s life, when the stream of bills coming into the house expanded to a torrent, Caro had made an effort to retrench. In the interests of economy, she hit upon a strategy based on the French fashion for light muslin gowns. She would give up costly materials and dress simply. Her expensive dressmaker, the best in London, who luckily still extended credit to the Townsend household, made her a complete wardrobe of white gowns. Always white. It became her signature. It turned out to have been a brilliant notion when she became a widow. Instead of going into full mourning, she merely replaced the colored ribbons and sashes with black. Thank heaven she’d never resorted to dye. Since she couldn’t order new gowns—the old ones had never been paid for—she’d have been stuck in black forever.

  The economy of the white wardrobe hadn’t been an unalloyed success. The garments got dirty and required frequent laundering. And all that washing wore them out. She needed some new clothes, badly.

  Frankly, she was a bit sick of white. And of muslin. She had a yearning for silks and satins, fine woolens and twills. And bright colors. Red perhaps. She’d never worn so much as a scrap of ribbon in red, which her mother had decreed a hue that clashed with red hair. It was about the only one of her mother’s precepts she’d never disobeyed. It was time.

  Chapter 16

  On his twenty-first birthday, at his father’s request, Thomas had signed a good many legal documents renewing and extending the various trusts governing the Castleton properties. This was normal. Wise aristocrats who wished to retain their wealth placed as much property as possible under the protection of entail. Unfortunate habits like gaming and falling in love with grasping courtesans had a way of affecting scions of even the best-regulated families. Had Robert Townsend’s forebears been so prudent, Caro wouldn’t be in her current fix.

  Obeying his father, Thomas hadn’t thought to inquire about the provisions made for his sisters. Margaret, only a year younger than he, married and took with her a dowry of twenty-five thousand pounds. He’d assumed the twins would have the same amount. The greatest shock of his inheritance, after learning that his father had gambled on the Exchange and left diminished accounts and a pile of debt, was the fact that the Ladies Maria and Sarah Fitzcharles had been left penniless. Less than penniless. The trusts had been set up so not a penny of capital could be diverted to the twins. And Thomas, all unknowing, had cooperated in his sisters’ disinheritance. When the truth came to light, he swore he would make up for it by savings from his own income.