The Importance of Being Wicked (11 page)

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 household 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.

“Where is the paper Robert signed?” she asked. “I want to see it.”

He wouldn't have it with him! She might yet be able to postpone her fate.

“It seems a poor thing for us to begin our liaison with a display of distrust.” Rich from a man who was luring her to his bed with a combination of bribery and blackmail.

She raised her chin. “I'm afraid I cannot conclude any arrangement with you until I have the paper in my hands.”

“It so happens,” Horner said with a truly evil smile, “that I travel with items of a sensitive nature I prefer not to leave unguarded.”

He removed it from his pocket, unfolded the sheet, and let her read it. It was the same inflexibly legal document he'd shown her before. “Here,” he said. “I'll set it on the mantelpiece underneath this candlestick. In the morning, you may consign it to the fire.”

He moved around her, embraced her from behind and sucked on the nape of her neck. In an overwrought moment, she envisioned the IOU reduced to ashes, along with her virtue. Not that she'd ever had much of that. She and Robert had coupled on numerous occasions before they wed. And though she'd remained true to him, some members of their set took marriage vows lightly when attractive prospects beckoned. As a widow, she'd been intending to take a lover, and now she would. Even if anyone found out, none of her friends would condemn her.

Except Lord Stuffy. The thought of his predictable disapproval made her bristle with defiance. After all, Castleton wanted a bride with a fortune. Did that make him any better than her? Not a bit of it!

She would bed Horner tonight, and tomorrow she would be free.

“We have a bargain, Sir Bernard. Shall we adjourn to the bedchamber?”

Chapter 10

F
acing the fire, Caro only heard the door open. Her hands went instinctively to hide her bare breasts from a servant.

“Damn it!” Horner cried, “I said we weren't to be disturbed.”

“Get your hands off Mrs. Townsend.”

Why in heaven's name was
Castleton
here?

“You again!” Horner said. “This is a private parlor, and it's none of your damn business what Caro and I choose to do.”

The duke strode across the room and glowered at the pair of them with barely concealed menace. Horner seemed to shrink like a dried prune in comparison with Castleton's oversized vigor. Her heart beat wildly. He'd come to save her!

“I arrived in Newmarket for the races and stopped at the Greyhound for dinner.” He was calmly indignant. The coolness of his demeanor doused her reflexive joy at his arrival. Her cheeks burned with rage and humiliation at being discovered with her bosom hanging out.

“I . . .” She began pulling away from Horner and tugging fruitlessly at her fallen bodice.

Castleton cut her off with a haughty glare. She'd never seen him more ducal. “I arrived at this inn and was greeted with the news that a lady under my protection was dining in private with a gentleman who is most definitely not her husband.”

“
Your
protection?” Horner said.

“What gives you the right to say any such thing about me?”

“The right of a man betrothed to her cousin. A man who has the right to expect his fiancée's chaperone to behave with common propriety.”

The scorn in his words sliced at her heart. Not to mention the fact that, as soon as her back was turned, he'd proposed to Anne and been accepted. She met his coldly dominant gaze and wished she didn't feel like a lapdog yapping at a bloodhound. But she couldn't help it. She was almost spitting with annoyance.

“Even if we were already cousins,” she said, “it still gives you no say in my affairs. None at all. I suggest you leave this room and seek your dinner elsewhere.”

“You heard the lady.” Horner gained courage from her words.

Castleton's attention swung to the baronet, whom he regarded in silence for an indefinable pause. “Do you remember what happened at the Pantheon? I hit you, sir. Once. I wanted to hit you again, but I never got the chance. Now either get out of my way or make me a happy man.”

Horner, the pusillanimous worm, backed away. Castleton, the big bully, turned back to her and her gaping bodice. “As usual, Mrs. Townsend, you need covering.” He glanced around the room, retrieved her shawl from the back of a chair, and wrapped it around her. “Come,” he said.

It was definitely a command, proven when he took her hand and dragged her through the door into the busy passage. “Don't make a scandal,” he said softly.

Very well, she wouldn't. But Lord Stuffy was going to feel the sharp end of her tongue once she got him alone.

“We're going in the wrong direction. What about my luggage?”

“Is it in Horner's bedchamber?”

“It's in my own room, one flight up.”

“You're not sharing with Horner?”

“What do you think I am?” A stupid thing to ask. She knew just what he thought, and he wasn't far wrong.

He followed her in silence to her modest chamber.

“I'll stay here,” she said.

He folded his arms. “Pack. You're coming with me.”

“And where are we going, pray?”

“To my house. I told you I had a place here.”

“And I suppose you have a chaperone for me there? Staying with my cousin's betrothed at his bachelor
pied-à-terre
is so very proper. Nothing scandalous about that!”

“You're not remaining here with Horner. I forbid it.”

“Forbid!”

“And if necessary, I shall put you over my shoulder and carry you out. I doubt anyone at the Greyhound, where I've been known for years, will object to a duke disciplining an errant relation.”

T
homas had no doubt he was going to pay for that statement later, especially once Caro discovered how many lies he'd told to get her away from Horner. The story he'd concocted during the journey from London was a good one, certainly good enough to make Horner think twice. But he would have to confess that he was not, in fact, engaged to Anne. As for the fact that Caro had taken her own room at the inn, he wasn't sure what to make of it. Unwonted discretion was his best bet. She and Horner had certainly arrived at the same time. The servant he'd bribed to find Horner's room had been quite sure of that.

His chaise was ready with fresh horses even though it was only two miles to Little Tidmarsh. He blessed his decision to buy a place away from Newmarket itself and the hordes of the horse mad.

Mrs. Townsend maintained a wrathful silence for the entire brief journey. She sat as far from him as the dimensions of the carriage allowed, arms tightly folded about her chest. Her scent, warm and sweet, pierced the cool, damp, night air. By the faint light of the lantern, he could see her head tilted in annoyance, her mouth in a pout. As usual, he quite desperately wanted to kiss her.

“Caro . . . Mrs. Townsend, why . . . ?”

“Don't,” she snapped. “You've ruined everything.” And turned her face away.

What the hell was he doing here? He'd come up with plenty of rational reasons why he should intervene in her affairs, most of them involving her position as Anne's chaperone. But when it came down to it, there was really only one. He couldn't bear to think of Caro in Horner's arms and couldn't believe she wanted to be there. Making an eight-hour journey to rescue a woman from a fate from which she apparently had no desire to be rescued was easily the maddest thing he'd ever done in his life. Now he had to extract himself from the situation without ruining all his plans and his sisters' prospects.

Another advantage of Little Tidmarsh Cottage was that it was hidden from the road by substantial shrubbery. As they passed up the drive, the house loomed into view, shrouded in darkness.

“Wait here,” he told her. He hammered on the door without expecting an immediate reply. Trout wouldn't hear a knock from the kitchen quarters. The door yielded to the turn of the old circular handle, and he was able to grope for a taper kept in the hall. He lit it from the carriage lantern, paid the postboy, and handed his companion down from the carriage.

“Welcome to Little Tidmarsh Cottage,” he said as he led her into the house. “Let me find us some better light.” A couple more candles revealed the hall, plain and sensible like the rest of the house.

She sniffed haughtily and looked about her. “Quite big for a cottage.”

“True. But small for a duke.”

“Also extremely cold. I was warm at the inn.”

“I'll soon get a fire lit. He opened the door that led to the kitchen quarters, and shouted, “Trout! Are you there?”

Surprise got her off her high horse, at least temporarily. “Trout? You have a servant named Trout?”

“Two of them. Mr. Trout comes from an ancient line of Cambridgeshire Trouts.”

“Really?”

“I have no idea. I hired him and his wife to take care of the place when I bought it four years ago.”

“And you have only two servants in this . . . cottage?”

“There's no need to keep a place fully staffed that I use only a few weeks a year. When I come for the race meetings, I bring in servants from Castleton House. I'm going to the kitchen to find the Trouts,” he concluded, to forestall questions about why he'd made this particular journey to Newmarket without establishing a staff here.

“I'm not waiting here,” she said. “The kitchen, at least, will have a fire.”

The kitchen did indeed offer a welcome and caressing heat, but the lamp on the deal table revealed no sign of either Trout. He could, however, hear porcine grunting from the adjacent room. Through the open door he found Trout asleep in a chair in the pantry, an open bottle on the floor beside him, and a strong smell of gin.

“Trout, Trout.” He shook the man's shoulder.

“Don't bother.” Her voice came from the doorway. “There's never any point waking up drunken servants. They aren't any use in that condition.”

“I've never had to tolerate a drunken servant.”

“My! Haven't you led a sheltered life.”

“A well-ordered life, I would say. I must wake him. Otherwise, how are we to get fires lit in the house?”

After the application of some force, Trout raised a bleary eyelid. Thomas noticed his linen was filthy, and he hadn't shaved in some time. “Where is your wife?” he asked.

Trout rolled rheumy eyes and opened his mouth in a gap-toothed snarl. “She left me. The strumpet.” Head flopped back, eyes closed, and snoring recommenced.

Mrs. Townsend tilted her neck and looked like a cream-swallowing cat. “Domestic problems, Duke?”

“I doubt he'll be good for much before morning. And Mrs. Trout has apparently decamped. I don't know how we are to make ourselves comfortable.” His stomach growled ominously. He looked at her hopefully. “And what about our dinner?”

“I dined with Sir Bernard. I can only commend the Greyhound's cook.” She chose a chair at the kitchen table, closest to the fire, and settled down, looking smug. “Don't mind me. I'll watch you eat.”

Sending away the post chaise was starting to look like a bad idea. The stable here only contained a single horse and the servants' gig, not a vehicle for nighttime use. He was stuck here with no one to make dinner. He looked again at Mrs. Townsend. Perhaps she knew how to cook—and she must know more about it than he . . . Not encouraging.

He stiffened his sinews. The blood of kings and actresses flowed in his veins. He'd managed to open a bottle of wine, hadn't he? There was no need for him to starve.

C
aro was too distressed to even think about being helpful. This great big lout of a duke had marched into an inn room where he had no business being and ruined her plan. The fact that she had, for a fraction of a second, been pleased to see him was neither here nor there. Not only had she been humiliated at being discovered, with her bosom exposed, no less, but he'd had the nerve to claim he had some kind of authority over her based on his engagement to her cousin. If such an engagement existed.

Unfortunately, she feared it did. Not for one moment did she credit his tale of being in Newmarket for the races. Obviously, Anne hadn't believed her shadowy explanation of needing to see Eleanor Quinton. Worried about Caro, she must have sent Castleton after her. And why would she have done so, why confide in him, and why would he have agreed, if they hadn't come to an understanding?

She disguised her anguish beneath a superior smirk. Couldn't he see the pair of them were ill suited? She couldn't bear to see her dearest Annabella unhappy.

As for Castleton, he could rot in hell and starve doing it.

She watched him forage while she sat at the table in the blissfully warm kitchen, which was well-appointed with a modern range and solid furnishings. An oak dresser displayed pots and molds. Crocks for dry goods lined up neatly on fitted shelves. Various foodstuffs—a flitch of bacon, a ham, a bunch of onions—hung from ceiling hooks out of the reach of vermin.

In a couple of trips to an adjoining pantry, the duke assembled a loaf of bread, butter, a wedge of cheese, and a bowl containing eggs.

“Do you know how to cook eggs?”

As it happened, she did. The Townsend household had been known to experience staffing difficulties. In happier times, she and Robert had cobbled together meals without much skill but plenty of laughter. By the end of the third domestic crisis, she had conquered the art of the omelet. The Duke of Castleton looked baffled. Tonight, she was in no mood to be helpful and merely shrugged disdainfully.

Disdain wasn't one of her practiced looks, but Castleton seemed convinced by it. He eyed the stove, then the pots and pans on the dresser, then the eggs again. He picked one up, a small white oval cradled in his large palm, and considered it. Still baffled, adorably so. A giant of a man whose stature dominated the dark utilitarian chamber, reduced to helplessness by the simple egg. Caro folded her arms to fortify a weakening resolve.

With the deliberation that characterized him, Castleton returned the eggs to the pantry. On his way back, he removed the ham from its hook.

Good idea, Duke
.

He found a large knife in the dresser drawer and a couple of plates. Then, calmly and efficiently, he carved bread, ham, and cheese into slices.

“My father insisted I learn to carve,” he said when he found her watching. “I don't do it often, but it may be one of the more useful lessons of my youth. Will you have some?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I'm not sure what's in the cellar, but there's beer up here. May I pour you a tankard?”

“I'd rather have tea.” Her head still buzzed from the burgundy at dinner. “I'll make it.” She wouldn't be able to look at him if she was busy. “Eat,” she added, seeing that he was far too polite to start his meal while she set the kettle over the hottest part of the fire and searched for the tea caddy.

Only the clink of pottery and quiet ducal munching disturbed the charged silence. Caro returned to her seat, sipped her tea, and tried not to stare at him eating. Every now and then, he'd catch her watching him. He looked so wonderfully safe and solid, and she had to admit to herself if not to him—never to him—that she was much happier in the kitchen with Castleton than in bed with Sir Bernard.

Bed. The low hum of desire unfurled in her belly. Well, it needed to be furled back up.

“You finally spoke to Annabella,” she said. “You are engaged.”

He didn't deny it. “I called at Conduit Street this morning, then at Windermere House. We spoke then.”