The Importance of Being Wicked (13 page)

“Are you her only child?”

“I have a half brother, John, from her first marriage.
He
received me, in my father's house. My father left everything to my mother.”

“And your brother wouldn't assist you, either?”

She gave a grim little smile. “We never got on well. John is a very proper man.”

“I beg to differ. Abandoning one's sister is not the act of a proper man.” This part of her tale seemed to particularly outrage him.

“Thank you for that. You can be pompous, Thomas, but you're never as bad as John.
You made your bed, sister, when you disgraced the family. Now you may lie on it
were his words. Robert always said he was hopelessly commonplace.” Even thinking about her brother made her want to growl. “So I went back to London empty-handed.”

“I'm shocked. What about Camber? Surely he wouldn't leave his brother's daughter in such straits.”

“Uncle Camber was in his last illness. And after his death, there was Morrissey. I've told you before what
he
thinks of me. I found myself at a standstill, with creditors hammering at the door.”

Thomas had been shaking his head during this sorry recitation. “What did you do?”

“That's where the Quintons come in.” She explained how Max Quinton had negotiated with Robert's creditors and why the sudden appearance of the debt to Horner had been such a disaster.

“He threatened to call in the bailiffs? What a blackguard!”

“Yes.” To avoid his eye, she looked down at her hands, nervously tracing the carved curlicues on the armrest of her chair. “Fate brought us to Newmarket at the same time, and it was a solution to the problem.”

“You are not having anything more to do with the villain. We'll find another answer.” And Caro believed him. He'd lend her the money, perhaps, or advance the sum from Anne's fortune. She felt a weight slide from her shoulders.

She looked up, and that was a mistake. His expression was not suitable for a man engaged to another woman. There was heat in his regard and something more. Something remarkably like affection. She wrenched away her gaze in an effort to suppress the answering warmth in her breast.

“Thank you, Thomas. You are very kind.” To express her real feelings of gratitude would be rash and might lead to something they would both regret.

He extended his hand toward her, then hastily withdrew it. “Townsend must have been a fool to gamble away a fortune like that—and a rogue to leave his widow unprovided for.”

“I told you he couldn't help it. I told you I was extravagant. We were both so very young, with little idea how to keep house or live within our means.”

“Seventeen, I think you said you were when you married him.” He shook his head again. “Taking a girl so young away from her family. Abominable behavior.”

“It was just as much my fault,” she said. “We were violently in love, and my mother refused her consent. We
had
to go to Scotland.” She recalled the desperate passion of extreme youth, the urgency, the inability to wait even a minute for the consummation of their love. The joyous lust that had them swiving in the carriage all the way to Scotland. But the ardor had faded over time till she could barely recall that madness. Recollecting those feelings was made easier by the emotions evoked by the man sitting opposite her. Her desire for Thomas wasn't as unruly, but she wasn't sure it was any less powerful. The difference lay in her maturity and the absence of affection. She didn't love the duke, and she would not let her hopeless attraction spoil her memories of her husband.

“Robert was the most brilliant, fascinating man I ever met,” she said fiercely. “Everyone agreed. You've met the Duke of Denford. There are few cleverer men than Julian, but Robert was the leader of their set, the one they looked up to. Beautiful, witty, and a great original thinker. It never fails to amaze me that such a man chose me. Whatever happens to me for the rest of my life, I shall be grateful for our years together.”

T
homas listened with growing dejection to the enumeration of Robert Townsend's virtues. No one ever called
him
brilliant. Or witty. Not even handsome, let alone beautiful. He was well enough, he supposed. He'd never had cause to regret his appearance or reason to think much about it. He was a big, plain, ordinary man with a strong sense of duty who happened to have been born to a dukedom.

For many women, the last was enough of an asset to make up for shortcomings in other areas. Caro Townsend, however, was not impressed. For her, the qualities he did not possess more than compensated for the fact that her late husband had been nothing but an irresponsible wastrel. He'd like to kill the fellow. Good thing he was dead.

“Robert used to talk about the excitement of play,” she was saying, “the beat of the heart, the shortness of breath while waiting for the turn of the card that might win him a fortune. The thrill running down every limb, making every nerve tingle when he drew the right card.”

What nonsense! He wanted to shake her. But he dared not touch her and answer for the consequences.

“And when he didn't?” he said sourly. “Was the joy of anticipation worth the misery of realizing you'd lost the means to support your wife?”

“He explained that to me. The loss only made the next hand, the next roll of the dice more important. It made the stakes higher and the excitement greater. But I doubt you'd understand.”

He certainly did not and hoped he never would. However, there was no point arguing. They'd only end up fighting, and he had another matter he wished to broach.

“I don't wish to go home tomorrow.”

She looked up, having been staring at the fire, brooding about the perfections of her late husband. “Very well. I shall take the mail coach.”

“No! I won't have you travel that way. I merely need to find a banker since I don't have sufficient funds with me for us to travel separately by post. I also wish to attend the race meeting. I discovered this morning there's a mare running tomorrow I might wish to buy. I'd like to see her go through her paces in a contest.” He wasn't sure why he hadn't brought this up earlier, but he knew he didn't want to give her a reason to leave without him. He wanted another evening of her company. “As long as I'm not inconveniencing you,” he added.

“Not at all,” she said. “I'd enjoy the races.”

That was
not
what he meant. “I'm afraid that isn't a good idea. We mustn't be seen together, and ladies are scarce enough at Newmarket that everyone would notice you. For the sake of your reputation you must stay in the house. The day after I can ensure your return to London with discretion and safety.”

He expected her to argue. Instead, she nodded her boyish curls and said something about teaching Henry to make biscuits. How pleasant! She'd be waiting for him on his return with a good dinner and her delightful company. He felt a little guilty about clinging to the fiction that he and Anne were betrothed, but it was safer that way. Caro would never betray her cousin. She'd keep him in line if he was tempted to do anything rash.

“What would you like to do for the rest of the evening?” he asked. “I'm not much of a hand at cards.” He certainly wouldn't be up to the skill of the experienced player she must be. Worse still, the danger of a casual touch when dealing, playing, or gathering up cards was too great. Once, during dinner, their hands had brushed over the saltcellar, and the moment had sent every nerve he possessed into a frenzy. Touching must be avoided. As long as they didn't touch, he could control himself.

“Not cards. I'm tired of sitting still.” She stood up and walked over to the window, pulling aside the curtain. “Let's go for a walk. See, Thomas. How beautiful. The sky is clearing, and the moon peeping from behind the clouds. I believe it's almost full.”

He didn't want to look out of the window. His eyes were transfixed by the red wisps caressing her graceful nape, the line of her shoulder blades beneath the thin cloth of her gown, the curve of her waist and hips. The faint shape of a bottom that his palms itched to explore.

“Are you mad?” Even as he said it, he thought it might be the perfect solution. Darkness would save him from looking at her, and the night air would dampen his desire.

B
eyond the small wood, open fields in bright moonlight beckoned, the flat contours of Cambridgeshire, broken only by the occasional tree etched against the sky. As long as they kept moving, Caro was warm in her heavy pelisse and stout half boots. Since she liked to walk briskly, Castleton didn't have to moderate his long strides too much for her to keep up. He walked beside her, hands clasped behind his back, a large shadowy figure looking straight ahead.

“This is another thing I miss about living in the country,” she said. “It reminds me of when I first met Robert. I used to creep out of my room at night to meet him. Luckily, summer was exceptionally dry that year.”

Talking about Robert, the love of her life, the man she still mourned, kept her mind from unbecoming thoughts about her cousin's future husband. She'd been very afraid that if they spent another five minutes in that warm parlor, she'd do something truly mad, like leaping onto his lap and exploring his muscular chest. The intense physical awareness, the longing for his touch that had been building all evening, abated in the cool air.

Somewhat.

“There was a creaking floorboard right outside my mother's room,” she continued a little desperately. “I had to walk very carefully around it, clinging to the wall. Then I slid down the banister, which was quieter than the stairs, and unbolted the little door into the garden.”

She had no idea what he made of these confidences. All she knew was she just had to keep talking, then she'd be safe. She'd even defended Robert's gaming, relating with approval an obsession that used to sicken and frighten her.

“Robert's house was less than two miles away, so he would walk. Then there'd be no need to find a place for a horse. He'd meet me in the thick shrubbery, where his lantern would be hidden, in case my mother or Eleanor should look out, and we'd go to the summer house the other side of the lake. That's where I lost my virginity.”

“Why would you tell me that?” It was almost the first thing he'd said.

“I had to. It's the only way.” Sentences emerged at random, pouring out of her mouth at increasing speed to match the pace of her stride. “I have to tell you about Robert.”

He halted. “Don't.”

The single word cut through her babbling like a stone shot from a sling. A hand to her elbow stayed her progress. She stopped dead, stumbling a little, and fell into a warm wall of solid rock. One powerful arm restored her balance and gathered her in, pressing her face into his broad chest, so that she inhaled the scent of wool and horse, then, penetrating the cold, wooded scent of the night, the spicy warmth of a plain, clean man.

“Caro.” Her name came in a whisper.

She ought to pull away. She ought not to be rubbing her cheek against the rough cloth of his greatcoat.

A big hand, fingers lightly callused from riding, stroked her jaw. “Caro. You are so soft.”

She mustn't be soft. She needed to be hard, to resist what would only be utter foolishness. Instead, she pressed her cheek into his touch. Then, moving without any impulse from her will, her chin tilted.

The moon was behind him, so she couldn't see his face, only hear his pleasant, deep but by no means musical voice speak pure poetry. “You are beautiful, Caro.” The simple words thrilled her as no love song ever had.

It was especially lucky that she couldn't see his lips. She'd looked at them often enough to know their shape and exact color. And she'd imagined their texture and taste. But if she could see them clearly, she'd have to kiss him. She closed her eyes against the unlikely danger of light from a shooting star illuminating his face, but the decision was taken out of her hands.

Lord Stuffy kissed her.

He kissed as he did everything, with careful deliberation. It started with a bare touch of his lips, hardly more than a breath. Then he advanced with gathering force and took possession. Her face was held firmly in place while his arm tightened about her shoulders, making her his captive while he plundered her mouth.

Not that she wished to escape. She opened to him willingly, slid her hands over his shoulders, and grasped his head, pulling him closer and hungrily matching his kiss. She relished the soft texture of the short hair over his skull, the slight scratchiness of his jaw beneath her palm. And above all, the sensation of tangling tongues and mingled breath, the male taste that was so joyfully familiar yet the particular vintage that was Thomas's and brand-new for her to explore.

Though Caro knew kissing Castleton was a bad idea, always had been and always would be, since it was happening, she decided to make it last. Perhaps he felt the same way, for he stopped for a quick, sharp intake of breath, then returned to the attack. She sank into his strength and let excitement and security—a heady, contradictory blend—drown her scruples.

Five minutes? Ten? Who knew how long they stood in the middle of a moonlit meadow, locked in a desperate embrace like a clenched fist, neither willing to let go. In the end, it was the desire to do more than kiss that saved Caro from insanity. The big hands she'd so often admired grasped her behind and pulled her hard against his lower body so she could feel his hardness, igniting the heat in her belly into a burning ache.

“I want you, Caro,” he whispered against her lips.

I want you, Thomas.
God, did she want him. Now. She wanted to push him down onto the cold ground, crawl all over him, ravish him.

A faint memory intruded, making love with Robert on the grass and laughing at the green stains that ruined her summer gown. The thought of her late husband scarcely lessened her lust, but a tiny glimmer of doubt penetrated her frenzied brain. She loosened her convulsive grip on his head. The small spark grew to a dull beacon of common sense.