Read The Importance of Being Wicked Online
Authors: Miranda Neville
P
eople seemed to think the appearance of the Duke and Duchess of Castleton at the Beaufetheringstone ball marked the end of the honeymoon. Caro found herself besieged by callers, including curious members of the
haut ton.
For Thomas's sake, she refrained from saying anything outrageous and managed well enough. She amused herself watching these proper ladies, most of them claiming to be relations of Thomas's family or the Brothertons, mix with her own crowd, who now streamed back into the house, expecting to be fed and entertained. She and Thomas rarely dined alone, and he put up with it very well, good man that he was. He'd become adept at dropping loaded hints when the evening grew late. As eager as he to retire to bed, she made no effort to slow the parting guest, despite twinges of guilt that she was abandoning her friends, who'd so often stayed up all night to save her from her own company.
No more was said about her extravagance, and she did her best to hold back. But it was so hard, after a year or more of penury, not to succumb to a pretty shawl, a pair of embroidered slippers, or an extra course at dinner when Mrs. Batten suggested it. She couldn't bear to say no to her cook, who'd been loyal through hard times and enjoyed stretching her talents with the best ingredients.
She was sitting with the Countess of Ashfield, a kind if acerbic lady who had adopted her as a protégée, an assistance that provoked mixed feelings. Her Ladyship was delivering some heavy-handed advice about how she should go on when Marcus made an appearance. He'd called a couple of times, and since she knew Thomas found it trying, she hadn't encouraged him. Marcus tried to annoy Thomas by flirting with her, and her husband showed himself all too responsive to the provocation.
“Lord Lithgow,” said the countess at her most disapproving. “I knew your mother.”
“More than I did,” said Marcus. “She died when I was in long skirts.”
“I knew your father, too.” Her tone descended to frigidity. “I heard he died,” she then added more cheerfully.
“So sad,” Caro said, before the countess could congratulate poor Marcus on the demise of his sire. “He died abroad, didn't he? Naples? But we are all so pleased to have Marcus back in England.”
The countess glared. “I remember well when the four of you were sent down from Oxford. Townsend and Windermere's son were bad enough, but you and Fortescue were disgraceful.”
Caro covered her mouth to hide her mirth. “Do you know why they were ejected from the university?” she asked innocently. “They broke into the Bodleian Library at night. You'd think the proctors would have been impressed by such enthusiasm for scholarship.”
“I believe Her Ladyship knows what we were looking for,” Marcus said.
Indeed, Lady Ashfield's expression resembled that of an affronted rooster, while Caro and Marcus exchanged sideways smirks.
Caro's resolution of good behavior wobbled. “They were just pursuing their studies in art. I think it's very mean of Bodley's Librarian to keep the erotic books and pictures under lock and key.”
Lady Ashfield swung her lorgnette in Caro's direction. “You always were a silly girl, Caro. I'm sorry to see marriage to a solid man like Castleton hasn't made you mend your ways. As for your first husband, the less said the better.”
Suddenly, the conversation wasn't so amusing. Caro dug her nails into her palms.
I will be good, I will.
“Yes,” she said. “Let's not discuss Robert because I'm afraid we shall never agree.”
“I'll say no more on the subject,” the countess said. “I forgive you because I could never abide your mother.”
“If you don't mind my saying so, Lady Ashfield, there's certain illogic in your position. You accept my transgressions because of my parent, but condemn Lithgow because of his.”
“Let me repeat that you are a silly girl, Duchess. I shall take my leave, but if you have any sense, you'll keep this fellow at arm's length. Castleton won't tolerate a scandal.”
Marcus, who'd observed the exchange with blatant amusement, burst out laughing once the countess had harrumphed herself out. “Well done, Caro. You accused the old beldame of being illogical. Very good, coming from you.”
Caro turned her ire on him. “Don't start. And what do you mean by kissing my hand like that when you came in? Do you
want
to create a scandal?”
“I wouldn't mind. I've been doing it all my life, just by existing.”
“I know. It's unfair you should always be tarred with your father's brush. Thomas told me he stole a valuable miniature from Castleton. I assured him you had nothing to do with it.”
Marcus's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Really? Is that his excuse?”
“What do you mean?”
“We were summarily ejected from Castleton, and he knows why. It doesn't reflect well on him.”
“I've never known Thomas to be untruthful. What happened? Let's sit down, and you can tell me the story.”
Marcus sank into a chair, crossing one leg over the other. “My father inveigled us in for a visit, based on our very tenuous connection through my mother, then ignored all hints we should be gone. He was good at that.”
Caro smiled. “I always heard he was the consummate rogue, and very charming.”
“He taught me everything I knew.” The resentment underlying the flippant remark was unmistakable, then dissolved into a kind of yearning. “I loved it at Castleton. I'd never known such a wonderful place. Clean, orderly, with well-behaved servants and regular meals. After a childhood spent living hand to mouth in pokey lodgings, always one step ahead of the bailiff, it was heaven on earth.”
“What was Thomas like then?” she asked, eager for a glimpse of her husband's past. “He was how old, about thirteen?”
“Yes, and I a year or two younger. He was reserved, not used to playing with other boys, but neither was I. Of course, I wasn't reserved. I was far too used to charming the debt collectors, and the women my father was cheating of their fortunes. I'd never met anyone as straightforward as the Marquess of Tisbury, as he was then known.”
“He hasn't changed,” she said with a fond smile.
“Turns out I was wrong, Caro. His father was very strict. Oddly enough, I envied him that.”
It was hard for Caro to see the appeal of a strict parent. Instead, she felt a kinship with her husband. Their reactions to harsh upbringings had been different. He never spoke of his father except with respect. She never spoke of her mother at all.
“We got along well enough. He helped me with my riding, which was pretty bad while he was an excellent horseman. One day we rode out together, practicing jumps. We were bragging back and forth, daring each other to try taller ones. Of course, I couldn't win, but I challenged him to attempt one far bigger than I could manage. He sneered at it, calling it a small log, and instead he went for a monster of a hedge.”
“What happened?” Caro held her breath, charmed with this picture of her staid husband as a competitive boy.
“He took a run at it, but his mount caught its hind leg on the descent and they went down. The horse came up lame.”
“Thomas must have been devastated. He loves horses.”
“Mortified at his failure more like it.”
“That too.”
“We walked the horses back to the stables in silence, any camaraderie lost. He was clearly afraid of his father. That evening, before dinner, my father came to my room. Told me we had to leave immediately because I'd damaged a valuable horse, and the duke no longer tolerated our presence.”
“That doesn't sound at all like Thomas,” Caro said, shaking her head. “He would never make another take the blame for his mistake. Your father was lying. He wanted to escape with the miniature.”
“I'll grant you my father could have lied. And stolen. Likely in fact. What was this picture, anyway?”
“A portrait of Charles II, Castleton's ancestor.”
Marcus shook his head incredulously. “Is that all? I expected a Holbein at least. There's no way it could have been worth more than fifty pounds. My father would never have abandoned a cozy berth for such a paltry sum.”
“Well, you'd know the value, so I won't argue. But I refuse to believe Thomas made you take the blame like that.”
Marcus stood up and paced around the room. He stopped in front of Oliver's Venus. “So this is the thing you've tried to palm off as a Titian.”
Caro suppressed her irritation at having to return to a subject she was now thoroughly sick of. Once she'd told the story of the substitute Venus, again, Marcus sat beside her on the chaise and took both her hands.
“I want the Venus,” he said. “The real one.”
“But you said . . .”
“That was then, when you needed it. Now you don't need the money, and I do. You've married a duke, for heaven's sake. If you still have that picture, I'm claiming my debt.”
“I don't have it,” she snapped, avoiding his eye. “And you can't.”
“I don't believe you.” Taking her head between his hands, he made her look at him. “You're a good liar, Caro, but not good enough to fool me. Don't forget, I'm a professional cardplayer. I haven't lived all these years without knowing when to spot a bluff.”
Caro's chest heaved. Once upon a time, when Robert was alive, she'd believed in the sanctity of a debt of honor. But her struggles with his debts had taught her to pay only what was enforceable. While sorry if Marcus was short of funds, she wasn't giving him the Titian.
She tilted her head in Marcus's grasp and pursed her lips. “No,” she said softly.
T
homas walked into the drawing room and discovered his bride on the sofa with Marcus Lithgow, with every appearance of being about to be kissed. A rushing in his ears drowned out all but a single instinct: the villainous Lithgow could not have Caro. Unlike his father, he would fight for his wife.
He strode over, pulled Caro to her feet and thrust her out of the way. Then he grasped Lithgow by the neckcloth with his right hand and raised his left in a fist, preparing to do what it had itched for since the minute he'd seen them together in that ballroom.
“No!” Caro shrieked, tugging at his arm. She clung like a creeping vine, and even through his rage he couldn't bring himself to hurt her. The time wasted disentangling her allowed Lithgow to react, and not in a gentlemanly fashion. He kicked Thomas hard with his boot, and they both ended up on the floor, knocking over a small table in the process and complicating Thomas's efforts to beat the stuffing out of his adversary.
Though he had at least a stone's advantage over Lithgow, the smaller man knew how to fight, experience doubtless gained in all sorts of low places. The battle degenerated into kicks and scratches and gouges. He had the blackguard beneath him when he was shocked by a deluge of cold water and flowers on his head, contributed by Caro. It gave Lithgow a chance to shove him back, but the contents of another vase went straight into the other man's face.
“Stop it at once,” Caro said. “I have more flowers, and I'm not afraid to use them. Roses this time, and they have thorns. I was not about to kiss Marcus, and he wasn't kissing me.”
The civilized gentleman in Thomas beat back the inner savage. This was no way to settle a quarrel. He let go and rolled off. He and Lithgow lay side by side on the carpet, panting and spitting out water and bits of foliage. Caro stood over them, brandishing a large porcelain rose bowl. “Don't you dare, Marcus,” she said, when the bastard made another move. “I will not have you two fighting in my drawing room.”
The sound of her speaking like an outraged dowager almost made Thomas laugh. Almost. Instead, he stood up and loomed over Lithgow, who sat on his arse with his knees apart and looked remarkably foolish with a white lily tucked behind his ear.
“Name your weapons!” he said through clenched teeth.
“Absolutely not!” Caro said, inserting herself between the combatants. “Marcus is lethal with guns and swords.” She set the roses on a table that had survived the melee intact and gripped his arm. “Please, Thomas. I want you alive.”
He gathered Caro against him possessively. While a little miffed that she doubted his skills, he was glad she didn't wish him dead. “If you value your life, Lithgow, you'll leave this house and never set foot in here again.”
“Butâ”
He cut off Caro's expostulation. “Quiet. We'll speak about this later.”
Lithgow, odiously unconcerned, arose from his inelegant position with catlike ease. “I appear to have outstayed my welcome. Unless you feel in need of my protection, Caro. Your husband seems to suffer from violent impulses.”
Violent impulses, indeed. To hell with the code duello. Beating the man to dog meat had enormous appeal, and Thomas felt no compunction about using his superior size and weight.
“Yes, Marcus,” she said. “Leave. I'll explain to Thomas.”
Unabashed, Lithgow removed the lily from his ear and swept a bow. “This is yours, I believe, Duchess. Au revoir.” He had the nerve to present it to her as though he were a suitor. She had the nerve to smile.
“You are utterly impossible! Now get out of here before you cause any more trouble.”
Civilized.
Gentleman.
Thomas muttered the words under his breath as Lithgow left, reining himself in until he heard the front door close. That he was considering anything as illegal and disreputable as a duel ought to shock him. Illegal be damned. He'd take his chances. Lithgow wanted to steal Caro from him, and he would stop at nothing to prevent it.
And what of her? Was she tempted to succumb? He was horribly conscious that Caro didn't reciprocate his feelings, or not with equal intensity. She wanted him, yes. And their marriage had saved her from a financial fix though it hadn't brought her the wealth she'd anticipated. The thought entered his head to be instantly dismissed. Caro wasn't mercenary. She accepted him as a bedmate, but what if she found a different one she preferred? Although he was doing his best to improve, she'd been frank about his shortcomings in that area.
She released her grip on his arm, tiptoed up, and pulled his head down for a quick kiss. “I would never have thought you such a hothead. You had quite the wrong idea.”
He stepped back, resisting the lure of her lips. “What am I supposed to think, madam, when I return to my house and find my wife almost in the arms of another man?”
“I wasn't in his arms.”
“Don't quibble. You were sitting together, and he had his hands on your face. And don't tell me he's an old friend.”
“I know how it looks, but I was saying no.”
“The dastard was forcing himself on you! I
will
call him out.”
“He wasn't trying to kiss me. He asked me to pay a debt. Robert lost to him at cards, just before his death.”
“I see.” He couldn't doubt the sincerity in her voice. “I'll pay it. How much was it?”
“There's no need. The debt cannot be enforced, and I told him so.”
“I don't want you obliged to him in any way. How much?”
“A lot. And I don't want you to pay him.”
“Give me the figure, Caro. With any luck, he'll take the money and leave the country again. Good riddance.”
“No. I don't want you to,” she repeated, folding her arms. “You can take the money and use it to pay for my clothes.”
He stared at her in frustration. Her mouth wore that stubborn look, and he was sure the last suggestion had been an afterthought.
“Please, Thomas! Let's forget about this. There's nothing between Marcus and me and never has been. Your jealousy is quite groundless. You're the only man I want.” Her gold-flecked eyes met his with what he wanted to believe was affection.
“I hope you'll admit now that the fellow is no good. Dunning a widow for a gaming debt is bad form.”
“Are you sure you're not prejudiced against him? He told me you were the reason he and his father had to leave Castleton House.” She proceeded to narrate a farrago of nonsense about an injured horse.
“I remember the incident,” he said at the conclusion. “I also remember the beating I received when I confessed the matter to my father. I'm sorry you'd credit that I would let another take the blame for my error.”
“I didn't, and I told him so. I'm afraid it was Lewis Lithgow up to his old tricks. Don't you see this proves Marcus had nothing to do with stealing the miniature?”
Typical Caro logic. It proved nothing of the kind. In Thomas's opinion, Lithgow had twisted the tale to make Caro sorry for him. Nevertheless, he gave in with a sigh and took her into his arms. She was soft and tender. His heart ached with love and fought the doubt that plagued him. Was he weak to believe her? Had his father fought off similar doubts until he found absolute proof that his wife was untrue?
He ran his hand through the silken curls, feeling the shape of her head, which rested against his chest. He held her thus for a moment, and his eye rested on Oliver Bream's naked Venus. It was time to start asserting himself as master of his house.
T
he next afternoon Caro sat in the drawing room with Oliver, Anne, and Cynthia. Predictably, Oliver's passion for Anne had run its course, and he was singing the praises of another lady he'd glimpsed at an exhibition of watercolors. He was begging Caro to somehow find the unknown beauty and invite her to dinner. The two previous objects of his fickle passion egged him on, coming up with outlandish plans for the identification of his latest muse.
“If you say she looked respectable,” Anne said, “and young, she must surely be hunting for a husband at Almack's. You should apply for a position as a footman there.”
“Oliver's too short for a footman,” Cynthia objected. “The fashionable places won't hire them under six feet tall. But we could dress him as a girl, and he can be a seamstress.”
“I can't sew,” Oliver said.
“You shouldn't let a little thing like that deter you,” Caro said. “Let's all go up to my room and find a gown for you. I'm sure with a little contrivance, we'll make you look very pretty.” She mussed his head. “You have such lovely curly locks.”
General laughter was interrupted by the entrance of Thomas, followed by a footman carrying a large flat object wrapped in cloth.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” he said, exhibiting no trace of the irritation that a roomful of her friends sometimes elicited. “Ladies, Bream.”
He motioned for the servant to deposit his burden against the wall. “I've bought a picture,” he said. “James, help me get this down.” The two of them removed Oliver's Venus from the wall, against the expostulations of its creator. “Sorry, Bream, but I don't care to have a painting of my unclothed duchess exposed to the world.”
“It's not her body,” Oliver objected.
“Of course it isn't. None knows better than I. But people may get the wrong idea. I have reason to know they already have. It's going down to the cellar, and we'll replace it with this.”
This, when unwrapped, was revealed as a large painting of a brown horse.
“A horse!” Oliver said unnecessarily. “And remarkably badly painted too.”
“Do you think so?” Thomas asked. “I like it.”
“You might at least have bought a Stubbs,” said the outraged artist.
“As a matter of fact, Bridges offered me one of those. But it was half the size and three times the price. This one seemed the better bargain.”
“The beast's neck is crooked, and the perspective is off in the rear leg.”
The ladies examined the picture in silence. Oliver was right.
“I don't think so,” Thomas said. “You may be the art expert here, but I'm the authority on horseflesh. I've seen animals with just that kick to their gallop.” His voice was grave, but Caro didn't miss the twinkle in his eye, the suppressed smirk on his lips.
“I think it's lovely,” she said. “He looks very handsome there. Is it a he, Thomas?” She looked closer. “Yes it is. If the artist got that detail right.”
It was, of course, perfectly dreadful. But having her husband come home with a new painting made her feel very happy. Perhaps next time he could be persuaded to buy a good one.