The Importance of Being Wicked (14 page)

“We can't do this,” she whispered.

He groaned, clutched her convulsively, then dropped his arms. He stepped back, leaving her lonely, cold, and stumbling.

“I do beg your pardon. I shouldn't have done that, but the temptation was more than I could resist.” He shot out an arm and rather clumsily helped her stay on her feet. As soon as her footing was solid, he withdrew his touch as though she were a burning brand. “I take full responsibility, Mrs. Townsend, and you may rest assured that such a thing will never happen again.” Lord Stuffy was back in full force.

“Don't be absurd, Castleton,” she snapped. “I wanted to kiss you as much as you wanted to kiss me. And yes, I know we shouldn't have, but we did. It's idiotic for you to start Mrs. Townsending me now.”

“I think it better,” he said. “This has been a colossal mistake.”

To what did he refer? The kiss? The evening? His saving her from Horner? In his mind, ever setting eyes on her was probably a colossal mistake.

Chapter 12

T
hough tempted to retreat to London, Thomas stuck by his plan to attend the race meeting. He left the house early without seeing Mrs. Townsend. It was safer that way. He called on the Newmarket correspondent of his London bank and obtained enough money to pay for her to return to town in comfort, and to rid himself of her dangerous proximity. He breakfasted at an inn—
not
the Greyhound—and let the conversation of horse-minded men wash over him. Pace and speed, weights and handicaps, jockeys and grooms, wagers and odds. Uncomplicated masculine topics that let him forget a painful night.

She hadn't shared his bed this time, but having her two rooms away offered little distraction. He hadn't the fatigue of travel to dull the edge of arousal created by her very existence and honed by that extraordinary kiss. He knew he had been wrong to take it, but the temptation had been impossible to resist. It was all he had hoped for and more and would have to last him for the rest of his life. Because he was absolutely not going to touch Caro—Mrs. Townsend—ever again.

Aside from the occasional sporting lady like Sir John Lade's wife, Newmarket Heath was blessedly free from the distracting presence of females. Yes, among the many varieties of male attire that thronged the course, the paddock, and the stands, the sight of a skirt tended to catch his eye. Without thinking, he'd stare at the woman, until he realized he wasn't expecting to see any lady he knew, neither would he care if he did. As long as
she
wasn't there.

As long as she wasn't within two miles, better still fifty, he could for a few minutes forget the best kiss he'd ever experienced. And while he didn't precisely regret the occurrence, he preferred to avoid thinking about the fact that it could never be repeated. That he might go through his entire life without another such kiss. That he was supposed to wed a lady who likely would never make him feel like that.

Was he to spend his life yearning for another?

He was leaning on a fence, trying to attend to one of the matches that preceded the day's subscription stakes, when he became aware of Sir Bernard Horner a bare half dozen feet away. His hackles rose, but any kind of altercation would draw attention. They exchanged wary glances, then curt greetings.

“How is Mrs. Townsend?” the baronet inquired, sounding nervous. “She has suffered no ill effects from her journey, I trust.”

Thomas raised his chin and looked down his nose. “I don't know what you mean, Horner. Did Mrs. Townsend leave London?”

“Er . . . did she not?”

“Not to
your
knowledge. I would be quite distressed should it come to my attention that you claimed otherwise. I might have to inform Lady Horner of your mistake.”

Horner went a little green about the gills. “No need for that, Your Grace.”

“I'm glad we are clear.”

“When I return to town, I do have a small matter of business with the lady.”

The baronet shrank into the oversized collar of yet another striped coat as Thomas loomed over him and lowered his face to within inches of Horner's unpleasant visage. “You may bring your business to me. There is not the least necessity for you ever to exchange another word with the lady.”

Horner backed away. Pretending to spot an acquaintance, he took a flustered leave, turned tail, and dove into the crowd. Thomas slapped his hands together and smiled. He still wanted to hit the baronet, just on principle, but he was a reasonable man and knew it wasn't necessary. Let Horner come to his notice again, however . . .

He remained on the course. The view was better from the grandstand, but he felt edgy, not in the mood to make conversation with slight acquaintances. He had arranged to meet the owner of Grey Flyer after he'd watched her run.

As the time for the stakes race neared, the atmosphere grew festive and feverish. There was plenty of money on the line, even for a race without a large purse. Grey Flyer had excellent breeding, but she was a two-year-old racing for the first time and competing against colts. Thomas had no doubt he could get good odds on her, most sportsmen preferring not to back a filly against the boys. Thomas liked her chances. She'd only be carrying six stone, and the condition of the turf after a dry week would suit her.

He ignored the cries of odds. His interest in horse racing came from his love for the magnificent creatures, their grace and courage. Nothing beat the thrill of nurturing a youngster or seeing a horse he owned throw its heart into the competition.

Grey Flyer was a lovely creature. He had a prejudice in favor of a good-looking horse. Strong, ugly brutes could win races, but in his stables adherence to points of beauty was important. She looked alert and lively at the start line, gamboling playfully and giving the occasional naughty buck, not enough to trouble her tiny jockey. Though an extravagance he perhaps should resist, he was fairly sure he wanted her. He'd sell a different beast to make up the difference.

The race started without incident. The field of ten horses was bunched at first, and Thomas's heart constricted to see his filly on the inside at the first sharp turn where a stout post marked the course. A horse could be jostled and lose balance, especially an inexperienced one. Grey Flyer emerged from the turn uninjured and, as the field spread out, she was in the leading trio. By the home straight, the race was down to two, Grey Flyer and a big bay, just the kind of inelegant horse Thomas disliked. From the cries of the crowd, he gathered the bay was the bettors' favorite. A collective groan arose as Grey Flyer stretched out her nose and managed to win by less than a neck.

Grinning widely, happy as he hadn't been all day, he happened to look down a passage cleared by the departure of spectators from the railings. Someone besides him was pleased at the outcome, perhaps had backed Grey Flyer with excellent odds. Just a boy, and not from a well-to-do family. He wore sturdy laborer's trousers and a plain reddish brown coat, shabby and too big for him. As he jumped up and down, waving his fists in the air in a paroxysm of ecstasy, his villainous wide-brimmed hat fell off.

The “boy” swooped down to rescue his headgear but not before revealing close-cropped curls in a distinctive shade of red.

It couldn't be.

But this was the kind of crazy start Caro Townsend would indulge in. Now he thought about it, she'd been far too meek when he'd told her she couldn't accompany him to the race meeting. No doubt she'd already been planning the escapade, and bribed that adoring youth to lend her his clothes.

Tossing her over his shoulder and dragging her away wasn't an option. The idea was to avoid scandal. Even speaking to her would draw attention. Enough people knew him by sight to wonder what a duke was doing with an insignificant urchin. Yet he couldn't leave her entirely alone. Should her disguise fail, she could get into trouble amid raucous racegoers who, at this point in the afternoon, were feeling the effects of the ale vendors. It seemed to him that several fellows, disappointed backers of the hulking bay, were eyeing her with disfavor. He wouldn't be surprised to learn she'd put some money on Grey Flyer. Knowing her, she'd found some flash-dealer who'd refuse to pay her, and she'd make a fuss. Agitation blinding him to the fact that Caro Townsend had years of practice with disreputable company, Thomas imagined her beaten, then ravished by the criminal element at the racecourse, unless he was there to save her.

She moved off, wandering into a sea of men. Thomas followed at a distance, helped by the russet hue of her coat. When she stopped to address someone, he braced himself for a fight, but it was no one more threatening than a pie seller. She gave the man a coin and took a hearty bite. Thomas, who had breakfasted some hours ago, envied her. He almost wished he'd brought her with him. They could now be celebrating the gray's victory with shared pastry, and perhaps a tankard of ale.

“Your Grace!” he recognized the speaker, threading his way toward him. The owner of Grey Flyer. He took his eyes off Caro for only a matter of seconds, and then she was nowhere to be seen. Shoving into a solid mass of humanity elicited some rude objections but no sign of his quarry. He'd better take care of business, then go in search of her.

Distraction and anxiety were poor emotions under which to conduct a negotiation. The price, agreed to in under five minutes, was at least fifty pounds too much for the mare. Then followed a miserable hour at the end of which Thomas was hungry, bruised, and soiled by the proximity of unwashed humanity. He missed two more races because he was too busy scanning the unruly spectators for a small figure with a squashed hat. Finally, he thought to try the stalls where the animals waiting to run were housed. He'd visited them himself earlier, to see how the gray looked before the race.

The crowd was riveted by the much-anticipated match of horses owned by Lord Sackville and the Duke of Grafton. He'd been looking forward to it himself, with both animals contenders for big races later in the season. In a foul mood, he approached the almost deserted stables.

C
aro had fallen asleep feeling miserable. She didn't blame Castleton for kissing her. How could she? She'd wanted his kiss, and every expectation had been met. Those glorious, illicit minutes in his arms should be a memory to treasure. Then he'd ruined it. Instead of turning it off with a jest, acknowledging a minor mishap and moving on, he'd gone all Lord Stuffy on her.

Hardly a word was exchanged on the walk back to the house, but she could feel him exude judgment in every step. As though it was
her
fault for tempting him to misbehave. She'd done nothing! Nothing at all until he seized her.
He
had initiated the kiss. On returning to the house, he'd bidden her a stiff good night at her bedroom door and stomped off.

She awoke feeling defiant and went downstairs to give him a piece of her mind about noblemen who kissed their fiancée's cousins in dark fields, then blamed the cousins. After that, of course, she'd forgive him. The time they'd spent together had been wonderful. And he'd been so kind and understanding about Horner and her debt. She'd make him an omelet.

Then she discovered he'd taken off without a word, the coward! Left unexpressed, her annoyance bloomed into rage, and she set about bending the hapless Henry to her will.

No one at the racecourse took any notice of her. She glimpsed Castleton a couple of times—he stood out in a crowd—but had no trouble avoiding him. When a gorgeous gray horse appeared, she fancied it was the same one she'd watched on the heath two days earlier. Her delight in its victory was marred only by her solitude. What fun it would be to have a friend with her. Castleton would doubtless know all about the horse.

She watched another race or two and discovered the stables. The gray was nowhere to be seen, but she made friends with a handsome chestnut. In London, she'd spent little time with horses, but Caro was fond of all animals and didn't fear them. The chestnut seemed to appreciate having his nose rubbed.

“What a nice boy,” she said. “Are you going to run very fast? I think you are. Yes, I think you are.”

This satisfactory conversation was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. “
What!
”

She leaped around with a shriek, much to the displeasure of her chestnut friend. “Castleton! You almost scared me to death.”

“Guilty conscience, Mrs. Townsend?”

Hah! He was the guilty one. She raised her chin. “Since you refused to bring me here, I decided to come on my own. Don't you like my disguise?”

“No one possessing eyes and an iota of common sense would mistake you for anything but a woman. I don't see why you couldn't have stayed in the house, as I asked, instead of behaving like a hoyden.”

She put her hands on her hips and glared. “What I do with my time, Castleton, is my own business. You do not own me, and you have no authority to judge or order my conduct.”

“I claim the authority of a host. I take responsibility for your well-being while you are a guest in my house—”

“—An unwilling guest—”

“—and running around a racecourse infested with drunk men is no place for a lady.”

He looked—and sounded—very like the Castleton she had first known, stolid and self-righteous.

“You are so stuffy.” She didn't ask him why he'd kissed her, why he'd stopped, why he was betrothed to her cousin. She didn't say what she wanted to say. Frustration weighed on her chest and emerged in a childish chant of the old slur. “Stuffy, stuffy, stuffy.” As her voice rose in volume, she ignored his attempts to hush her. She didn't care if every stableboy in Newmarket heard her. “You never have any fun, and you want to stop everyone else from enjoying themselves, too. The way you're going on, anyone would think I'd come to a haunt of thieves and prostitutes.”

He gave a superior little smile. “Many an unwary racegoer has been the victim of a pickpocket. As for the latter, Mrs. Townsend—”

Damn! She shouldn't have mentioned prostitutes. If he brought up her behavior with Horner, she was going to hit him.

“—you are, after all, a lady who attended a masked ball with all sorts of unsavory elements.”

“Oooh!”

“And took her innocent cousin with her.”

She decided to hit him anyway. Hopping up and down, she belabored him about the shoulder with her hat while he stood like a rock, unaffected by the battery.

“Caro! Is that you, Caro?” A new voice penetrated her in the haze of her frenzy.

Dropping her weapon, she spun around to watch the approach of a familiar, and welcome, figure. “Max!” she cried, delighted to see him. Now she could tell Castleton to go to the Devil.

Max Quinton was every bit as calm and almost as large as Castleton, but he was never stuffy. “I heard you were in the neighborhood,” he said. “What scrape are you in now?” He smiled a little. “I suppose there's a good reason why you are dressed as a boy and attempting to assault a duke.”