The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  Yet Thomas’s calm, unthreatening demeanor was wonderfully reassuring, and the sight of his big solid body had Caro thinking hot, wet, bedroom thoughts. This time she was going to see him naked. Which garment would she remove first? He was dressed for traveling, she realized. He’d come to Conduit Street without stopping to change his clothes. An indication of eagerness trumping decorum she found hopeful.

  She was debating the advantage of seeing Castleton in breeches and boots with nothing on top against the allure of a large man in nothing but a shirt when Oliver interrupted her lascivious imaginings.

  “I’m sorry, Caro.” He looked his most sad and puppylike.

  “So you should be,” she said sternly. “I suppose it was Julian’s idea.”

  “I’m afraid it was mine.”

  “Why so nasty? It’s not like you. Impish, yes, but not cruel.”

  “I’m afraid the duke will take you away. I don’t want anything to change.”

  Caro unwillingly relinquished the visual feast of her future husband and turned to her friend. “I promise I won’t let Castleton come between us. And I don’t believe he wishes to.” She hoped it was true. No, she believed it. He’d taken the party and the charades very well.

  “You’ll have to go and live in the country much of the year.”

  “And you shall come and stay with us. I’m sure Castleton House has room for you.”

  “A patron often houses an artist on his estate.” Oliver was visibly cheered by the prospect. “Clean air and good country food. ‘The gay parterre, the chequer’d shade, the morning bower, the ev’ning colonnade.’ I shall be invigorated and inspired.”

  When Oliver started quoting poetry, Caro knew all was well. “I’m sure Pope had Castleton in mind when he penned those lines. Meanwhile, do you think you could persuade some of my guests to move on? It’s getting late.”

  “Late?” Her statement awoke Oliver from his reverie on pastoral delights. “Late? We never leave your parties until dawn. And then only if we’ve run out of wine.”

  “Tonight, I want to go to bed early.”

  Oliver could be obtuse, but even he read the message in the looks Caro cast at Castleton. “I’ll spread the word. Do you mind if I take a bottle or two back to the carriage house?”

  “Empty the cellar for all I care. Just get them out of here.”

  Half an hour later, Caro drove the last guests, armed with the last unopened bottles, out of the kitchen door across the garden to Oliver’s rooms. Thanks to Oliver’s busy tongue, they all knew why they were being ejected. Caro received some comments that made her blush. Finally, only two people were left, the two who probably didn’t understand that the evening had been cut short, or why.

  “My darling Annabella!” Caro said. “You look tired. Don’t let me keep you up. I’ll just have a word with Castleton before he leaves.”

  Ever amenable, Anne said good night, completely unaware that, if Caro had her way, she’d be seeing the duke again at breakfast.

  “Thank goodness they’ve gone!” She’d barely got the words out before she found herself in his arms, an excellent augury for the future of her plans that night. He swept her up and carried her, as easily as he would a sheet of paper, over to the sofa, where he settled her on his lap and lowered his head. She hadn’t even had to say that single “word” she’d promised Annabella.

  The man knew how to kiss. There was nothing tentative about his approach. Not a skirmish, nor even a siege. He just bore in, guns blazing, and comprehensively took possession of her mouth. She was swooning with joy and alive with wanting, pressing herself against him in supplication, sighing with relief when he took her breast in his hand, firm but gentle. His thumb stroked the skin above her bodice, and she managed to insert her own hand to help him tug it down. She wanted his large hands on her breasts, everywhere on her body, now.

  Panting with longing, she pulled back to take a breath and, damnation, so did he. A long breath. A very long breath. He didn’t start kissing again, nor did he further explore her bodice.

  “Caro,” he said. “We must stop. We need to talk.”

  Chapter 18

  “Do we have to talk?” Caro asked. “Couldn’t we just go to bed?”

  “I should return to Nerot’s,” Thomas said with the greatest reluctance. He belied his intention by tightening his hold on her, relishing the weight of her slight body on his lap.

  “Why? Stay tonight. You aren’t even in evening dress. Your clothes will do very well at breakfast, and no one will be shocked to see you leave later in the morning dressed in a wool coat and buckskin breeches.”

  “What about your servants? What about Miss Brotherton?”

  “Neither the Battens nor Anne are ever shocked at anything I do.” Her breath and smoky tones caressed his ear in a whisper. “I have a big bed.”

  He felt his moral fiber dissolve into pulp. Caro’s bed, with a comfortable mattress, warm covers, and a naked Caro in it was enough to tempt an archbishop.

  “Speaking of archbishops,” he began.

  “Were we doing that? Apparently your kisses have obliterated my memory.”

  “No, but I was thinking about the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “I am insulted. People do not usually think about members of the clergy, even senior ones, instead of going to bed with me. Really, Your Grace!”

  “No, His Grace. He could marry us. Or at least provide a license so we don’t have to wait.”

  “Excellent notion! I make a habit of spontaneous weddings.”

  He wished she hadn’t brought up her former husband as they clung together in the house she’d shared with Robert Townsend. Unless she meant something different. “If you prefer, we can wait and have a bigger affair with a wedding breakfast and all our relations. Between us, we have connections in at least half the ton.”

  “No thank you. Small and private will suit me well. And the sooner the better.” She kissed his neck. “Will your mother and sisters come?”

  “No.” He couldn’t explain why. He was furious with his mother and didn’t wish to live with her. Yet he felt a certain filial loyalty that deterred him from betraying her sin. And his sisters he’d always protect. One day he might be able to confide in Caro, but not yet. Which made the subject he must now raise a little tricky.

  “Would you mind very much if we didn’t move to the house in Whitehall?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Buildings there are in great demand as offices for the ministry. I can sell it for a good price. We could live here while we look for a more convenient London house.”

  Caro raised her head and stared at him. “You want to live here?”

  “Why not? We can hire some more servants, and the location is convenient.”

  “It’s awfully small for a duke. There isn’t even a bedchamber for you on the second floor, and the dressing room is only big enough for a small bed.”

  “If you don’t mind sharing your room with me, I have no objection. Sleeping with you, my dearest Caro, will be no hardship.” He couldn’t imagine wanting to spend time in a lonely bed. He’d made the suggestion for reasons of economy, but he saw additional benefits.

  “I’d like to stay here,” she said. “I’ve always loved this house, ever since Robert and I bought it when I was a bride.”

  Robert again, damn him. “We won’t stay here forever. Once we find something larger, we’ll sell it and use the price to pay your debts. Now,” he said, reluctantly removing her from his lap, “I must leave.”

  “Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to inspect your bedchamber? You should test the mattress.”

  Denial was painful, but he managed it. He’d succumbed to her once, but not again, he swore, until they were man and wife. He had vowed to treat her with all the respect and consideration his duchess deserved.

  The Castleton lawyers took a long time to draw up sheaves of documents, which Caro signed without any argument. Her own income would be dedicated to the repayment of
debt, as would the eventual sale of Conduit Street. If it occurred to her that her new husband was behaving less than generously, she repressed the thought. The obligations were her old husband’s and not Thomas’s responsibility. The creditors should be happy that the installments would be larger and the debts retired earlier.

  She did not reveal the existence of the Titian. She felt dishonest, but Julian’s warning, combined with Thomas’s modest settlements, convinced her to remain silent. The Venus rested serene in her secret room, and there was no need for anyone to know about it until they sold the house and moved. She’d tell Thomas then, probably. By that time, she’d know him better.

  For she was about to wed a man she didn’t know very well. There’d been a lot she hadn’t known about Robert when she ran off with him, including the fact that he would become addicted to gambling. They were both young and unformed. Castleton was a grown man with a fixed character.

  Every instinct told her he was a man to be trusted. Perhaps a little closefisted, and closemouthed, too, when it came to matters of business. Not that she cared much about the latter. She wasn’t interested in money and would settle for being able to pay her bills without thought. Wheedling tradesmen for credit was an aspect of her old life she waved off without regret.

  She couldn’t expect perfection, and there was the Lord Stuffy side of Thomas that might become tiresome. On the other hand, he would be utterly reliable, as a husband and eventually as a father. He’d never mentioned children though he must want an heir. She hadn’t told him about the child she’d lost. Always good at denying wishes for what she couldn’t have, she allowed long-suppressed maternal yearnings to assert themselves. She hoped she’d conceive again soon; though it wasn’t going to happen with Lord Stuffy’s refusing to share her bed before the wedding.

  It amused her to tempt him into breaking his vow of temporary celibacy. They’d missed out on courtship, their relations comprised of forbidden yearning culminating in a surprise engagement. The attempted seduction of a gentleman by a lady wasn’t a conventional wooing, but she’d never been a very conventional girl. She relished the chase, especially when he escorted her to the kind of events she’d never attended with Robert.

  The Countess of Ashfield, a mutual cousin of the Fitzcharleses and the Brothertons, proclaimed herself ready to introduce the future Duchess of Castleton to good ton. For Thomas’s sake, Caro endured the dullest rout party she could possibly imagine. Anne refused to accompany them, a wise decision. The event offered no refreshments, no music or dancing, no entertainment of any kind as far as Caro could see. Merely a frighteningly large number of overdressed people squeezing their way around a circuit of elaborate rooms, exchanging small talk that no one could hear.

  “I heard a rumor there is food through that door,” she said, tiptoeing to reach Thomas’s ear.

  He bent a little. “How did you hear anything in this din?” He’d recently seen a barber, so her hand felt soft bristles on the nape of his neck, and she drew his head down farther, inhaling the refined masculine soap he favored. Only his slightly wider eyes and stiffening jaw were evidence of the effect of her breasts, barely encased in a bodice so tiny the dark pink circles around her nipples peeped through the narrow lace trim about the neck.

  “I was listening to the lady in the velvet hat while you talked to that old roué with the wig.” With her mouth against his ear, she was able to dart her tongue into its whorls. “Wine too.”

  “Don’t do that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We’re in a public place.”

  She kept hold of his neck and nibbled on the lobe of his ear. “I’m starving to death.”

  “Was dinner not to your liking?”

  “We dined so long ago, and it wasn’t what I had in mind. My instinct tells me something delicious awaits me just the other side of that door.”

  His look told her he wasn’t entirely convinced, wise man, but hunger—for food, or hopefully something else—made him give in to her whispered urging. To her pleasure, the door led to a sitting room, crammed with furniture that had been moved from the larger reception rooms for the assembly. In her head she mapped a route to a well-padded and capacious divan.

  Things went as planned, at first. The moment she pulled the door closed behind them, plunging them into darkness, she was caught in Thomas’s wonderfully comprehensive hold. The sense of security that enveloped her along with his big body was a sensation she’d never experienced. Her mother had only offered carping criticism unalloyed by affection. Her many friends had given her warmth and acceptance, while Robert’s embraces had provided passion and excitement. But a sense of safety—no.

  There was something about her soon-to-be husband that made her worries melt away. And that was odd because if anyone had asked her, she’d have claimed to be carefree, refusing to let her money troubles disturb her equanimity and joie de vivre. She knew it wasn’t just about money. Thomas’s solidity provided a security she’d never known she lacked.

  Not that Castleton failed to inspire passion and excitement. Or warmth. She burned for him. Why else had she lured him to this storage room? Affection too. More than affection. Romantic love she associated with Robert’s courtship, those wild weeks when every minute apart was agony and she’d lived only for him. Thomas didn’t quite make her feel like that; though, if he could be persuaded, he fulfilled a very earthy need. Really, she reasoned, since he’d reawakened her dormant passions, the least he could do was cater to them. So she responded eagerly to his firm, pliant lips and questing tongue, returning his kisses with interest and his embrace with all the strength her small frame could muster.

  “Oh Caro.” His broken whisper told her he was as consumed with wanting as she was.

  “I can lead us to a bed,” she murmured, and felt for his male member. She stroked its length, rock hard through satin evening breeches. Her quim was aching and empty. He wouldn’t deny her now.

  “No.”

  Apparently, he would.

  He put her from him, his shallow breathing an indication of the cost to him. “We cannot do this in Lady Ashfield’s closet during a rout party.”

  “It’s very large for a closet. More like a sitting room. No one else is in here. No one will come in.”

  “It’s improper to behave so in someone else’s house.”

  She didn’t dare yell at him, so she hissed instead. “I see Lord Stuffy has made his appearance.”

  “I’m afraid so. Come. We only have another week or so to wait.” He found her hand in the dark, an inadequate touch when other parts of her longed for his attentions.

  “If I live long enough to see us to the altar,” she grumbled, “I expect a truly remarkable experience in the bedroom as soon as possible afterward.”

  Even in the dark, she sensed his rare broad smile. “I shall endeavor not to disappoint.”

  Chapter 19

  They were married by special license at St. James’s Church. Thanks to the finicky postponements of the lawyers, they might have saved the expense and had the banns called. But at least it enabled them to be wed in the afternoon. Another delay caused by some last-minute cavil on the part of his solicitor cut the time of the ceremony dangerously close to the noon hour.

  On the other hand, it allowed for the slowness of tailors. Thomas was able to be married in a blue coat and buff pantaloons that, according to his valet, would not have disgraced Mr. Brummell himself. He’d now met the much-lauded Brummell and, though he couldn’t see anything very special about the fellow, he had to allow that he dressed with a restrained propriety that was much to his own taste. As he nervously tweaked his neckcloth, he wondered if his bride would approve.

  Happily, he doubted she’d care one way or another what he wore. She’d made it very clear that she was far more interested in seeing him undressed. He looked forward to obliging her. Sticking to his principles for the last two weeks had been torture.

  The delivery of a letter as he was about to leave caused a new delay. Recognizing hi
s mother’s hand, he tore it open for a cursory scan. Annoying but by no means disastrous. Since they wouldn’t have to make the journey to Hampshire after the ceremony, it advanced the devoutly-wished-for consummation by a few hours.

  His cousin Charles Fitzcharles awaited him downstairs, and they walked the few hundred yards to the church. Caro was better attended than he. Anne Brotherton and Lady Windermere, who’d agreed to take over as the former’s chaperone for a few weeks, were with her in the vestibule of the church. Also, inevitably, Oliver Bream and the Duke of Denford. The latter especially he could have done without. It turned out the fellow was giving away the bride. Thomas could feel that sardonic smile boring into his back as he waited at the altar.

  But even Denford couldn’t bother him when he turned to see Caro wafting toward him, ravishing in green silk. He’d never seen her wear anything but white. The rich hue complemented her natural radiance, and she appeared vibrant and luminous, a gorgeous exotic bird in the classical severity of the church’s interior.

  She was his. All fears about the wisdom of his decision, doubts that had tickled the back of his mind however much he tried to ignore them, seemed to fade to less than a grain of sand at the immediate realization that this fabulous creature was his. His to brighten his days and warm his bed. All his past life now seemed painted in shades of gray compared to the glorious burst of color that Caro brought with her.