The Second Seduction of a Lady (11 page)

“I like that about you. What do you want to do?” He hoped she’d say she wanted manage him.

“I’d like to have a home of my own. I like”—she blushed prettily—“doing what we just did. And I like children. I don’t know why I never thought of it before, but do you realize what it means?”

His chest swelled. “It sounds to me like you want to be a wife.”

“Isn’t it odd?”

“The only odd thing is that you never knew it before. But I’m glad of that because you’d have been snapped up years ago by some lucky fellow. I do hope this long overdue road-to-Damascus conversion means you’re going to be
my
wife and have
my
children.”

“I’m frightened, Max. I could lose them. I could lose you.”

He saw the lonely child, mourning her mother, beneath the strong features of the mature woman who worshipped common sense. “Our children will grow up and leave us, as they should. But I’ll still be there.”

“You might die.” He had to strain to catch the choked words.

“I probably will, eventually. But I’m a tough fellow so don’t count on outliving me, even if you can give me five years.” This drew something between a snort and a chuckle. “Of course I won’t be happy about it, but if it’ll make you feel better to die first, I suppose I can make the sacrifice.”

“Oh, Max!” There were tears in her eyes. “I love you very much.”

“As long as that is so, I know we’ll be happy. I know because I waited thirty years to meet a woman who could touch my heart. I took one look at you in the Petworth assembly room and knew I had found her. I’m a very steadfast man and I will always love you. Not only that, but I will take the greatest care of you. I’ll treat you even better than I treat my horses.”

Her capable fists pummeled his chest. “You are outrageous! Next you’ll be threatening to ride me.”

“I already have. And you can ride me too.” He watched her construe his meaning and her mouth widened to a wicked grin that sent a message to his cock. “I think the waiting time is down to five minutes. You are about to learn, my darling, about some more of the advantages of marriage.” He pulled her down into his arms and she snuggled into his side, her head in the crook of his neck.

“Max.”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. That I never read your letters. We could have been married for years. I’m so glad we met again.”

“Don’t dwell on it anymore. Let’s think about what’s to come. It’s very lucky you’re such a managing woman. I have dozens of relations who need your assistance.”

“I’m no longer so confident in my ability to improve the affairs of others.”

“Nonsense. We’ll be able to combine visits to our families with my calls on horse buyers. Though, if you don’t mind, we won’t stay with the Ashdowns when we’re in Sussex.”

“Poor Sylvia.” She kissed his collarbone. “What about the children? Our children?”

“We’ll take them with us.”

“You’re quite mad.” He felt a wet drop on his shoulder.

“What’s this? Tears? I shall have to do something about them.”

“I’m not crying.” She sniffed. “I’m happy.”

E
leanor woke feeling better than she ever had in her life, despite aching muscles and a certain soreness down below. The bustle outside told her the inn was enjoying a busy morning. Enough light seeped through the curtains to reveal her sleeping husband. Not legally hers, yet, but in a little while they’d drive to the border and make it official. And find Caro.

Good lord, Caro! She’d completely forgotten.

“Wake up, Max.” Even shaking his bare shoulder gave her a frisson of pleasure. Pity there wasn’t time to do anything else this morning except dress and eat.

Without opening his eyes he pulled her to him for a kiss. Any interesting development was forestalled by a knock at the door. She ducked beneath the sheet. Thank God the servants thought they were already married.

“We’ll just go in and surprise them,” she heard.

Caro!
Caro
?

“Wait!” She slid to the floor and rummaged through her valise for the nightdress she’d never got around to wearing. “Put this on.” She tossed Max his shirt.

He made no effort to leave the bed, but put on the garment in obedience to her furious glare. “The managing begins,” he murmured.

She was scarcely decent when the door opened to admit Caro and Robert Townsend, looking radiant with youth and beauty and entirely unashamed of themselves.

“Eleanor!” Caro said.

“Max!” said Robert.

Eleanor wondered how, as the supposed responsible adults, they were going to explain themselves. But Caro was no more interested in the affairs of her elders than she ever had been.

“Guess what! We were married last night. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” She sat on the edge of the bed and started a rambling account of their journey, punctuated with excited exclamations about the wonders of Robert, who regarded her with amusement. Not knowing him well, Eleanor couldn’t say if his affection equaled that of his bride. But Max was right. In her own current state of happiness she couldn’t find it in herself to regard their future with misgivings.

“How did you find us?” she asked, when Caro had finished her rapturous account of their Scottish wedding.

“We drove from Gretna this morning and stopped to hire a post chaise when we learned Mr. and Mrs. Quinton were staying in the inn. When did you get married? Did you go to Gretna, too?”

Eleanor glanced at Max, a silently smiling observer of the scene. He shrugged.

“Well, we aren’t married yet. But we will be later today.”

“Darling Eleanor!” Caro cried, evincing no shock at the behavior of her erstwhile chaperone. “I wish you happy and so does Robert, don’t you Robert?”

“Felicitations, madam. And to you Max.”

“Would you come back with us to Scotland and witness
our
wedding?” Eleanor asked. “I wanted to be there for yours, but you got here much sooner than I expected.”

“No,” Max interrupted. “We’re not going to Gretna Green. We shall return to Lancashire, have the banns called, and be respectably married by your father. Robert and Caro will come with us and with luck people will think they were married there too. The elopement can be hushed up.”

Eleanor gazed at him fondly. “How clever of Max. I want you to be received in society, Caro.”

Caro shook her head in disbelief, as though Eleanor were the foolish youngster. “I told you we don’t care about the
ton
. We’re going down to London to meet the others and see Robert’s banker and attend a sale of pictures at Christie’s.” She took Robert’s hand and smiled blissfully.

“That’s right,” Robert agreed. “Now that Max doesn’t control the purse strings, I can buy any picture I want.”

“And I can buy new clothes that weren’t chosen by Mama.”

“Then we thought we’d run over to Amsterdam. Caro’s never been abroad.”

“And then we’re going to buy a house in London.”

“Too bad we can’t go to Paris.”

“Oh Eleanor!” Caro said, leaning over to give her a hug. “I told you love was delicious.”

“Good Lord, Max,” Eleanor said, once the newly married couple had taken their leave with well-meaning promises to write that would surely be broken. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

Max, who had remained in bed throughout the entire visit, seized her hand and pulled her down beside him. She relaxed into his reliable solidity.

“If things don’t go well, you will be there to set them right.”

“We,” she said. “We’ll do it together.”

“So laugh, because it’s the only rational thing to do.”

“Thank God I’m marrying a sensible man.”

Want to know what happens when
fun-loving Caro grows up?

Keep reading for an excerpt from

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING WICKED

available December 2012
from Miranda Neville
and
Avon Books

Spring 1800

T
hey’d reached the rump of the evening. Caro Townsend surveyed the remains of another dinner party. No one had much to say, but no one wanted to brave the cold streets of London in the small hours. How small the hour was she had no idea; the mantel clock was unreliable at the best of times and had no chance of being right when she forgot to wind it. Half a dozen guests remained in the drawing room of Caro’s Conduit Street house. In one corner, an argument between two painters and a writer on the superiority of their respective arts had degenerated into desultory insults. Adam and Lydia Longley, exhausted by their roles in a reenactment of Hogarth’s
Rake’s Progress,
had collapsed on the sofa like a pair of puppies. And Oliver Bream was drunk.

“May I tell you a secret, Caro?” he asked, sprawling on the floor at her feet.

“Of course.” Caro tried not to laugh. She knew what was coming, and it was no secret to anyone.

“I’m in love,” the young artist said earnestly.

She rolled her eyes and fortified herself with another gulp of wine in preparation for an oft-told tale.

“I’m in love with Lady Windermere,” he said, then lowered his voice to a reverent whisper. “With Cynthia.”

“I would never have guessed.”

Oliver was too far gone to detect sarcasm. “She’s the loveliest, sweetest woman in the entire world. She’s perfect.” He looked around the room, puckish disappointment creasing his face. “But she left.”

“She owns a carriage, Oliver. When you order a carriage for a certain hour, you have to leave.”

“That’s dreadful. We’re lucky not to keep carriages.”

Caro had always found a coach most convenient. But since she preferred not to dwell on her reduced circumstances, she emptied her glass and continued to listen to Oliver’s ramblings. She needed to send the rest of the party home or face the wrath of Mrs. Batten in the morning. Her few servants were immensely tolerant, but the housekeeper became tetchy about sleeping bodies when the maid had to clean the room. Caro never wished to speed the parting guest. She hated the moment when the last one left and she was alone again.

Oliver finally ran out of words to laud the charms of his latest inamorata. “Now you know my secret. It’s your turn to tell me one.”

“My life is an open book. I’m widowed, disreputable, and poor. What else is there to know?”

“Everyone has secrets.”

There
was
something, one thing that she, and no one else, knew. She’d kept it to herself for over a year now, since the day she was widowed. She’d never even told Oliver, her best friend and supporter since Robert’s death.

Caro looked about her; no one else paid any attention to them. She bent over Oliver’s tousled head and whispered, “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“If I tell a single soul, may I be doomed forever to paint nothing but children and dogs.” Coming from Oliver, who had very definite notions of the proper subject matter for a serious artist, this was a powerful oath.

She knew she shouldn’t, but suddenly the knowledge was like a weight on her spirit. “I own a Titian.”

Oliver shook his head sadly. “No, Caro. You’re confused. Robert sold his Titian. Shame, because it was a great painting.”

“He didn’t. I just told everyone he had.”

“Truly? Why isn’t it hanging in its old place, then? May I see it? Where is it?”

Damn! Oliver was much too interested. She recalled now how much he’d always admired the naked Venus. “It’s hidden. I shouldn’t have told you. Remember! No word to anyone.”

She stood abruptly, praying Oliver was too drunk to remember in the morning. “Friends,” she commanded, clapping her hands smartly. “This evening has become a bore.”

The company sprang to bleary attention, even the Longleys waking from their doze.

“As you know, my cousin arrives next week to stay with me. Annabella is a young lady of impeccable breeding and is being courted by a duke.”

The artistic set affected Jacobin tendencies, so the statement evoked a chorus of “No duke, no dukes.”

Caro raised her hand. “Since I am shortly to become a chaperone and respectable”—jeers of disbelief—“I propose a little excursion. We’ll climb over the railings into Hyde Park and bathe in the Serpentine.”

Cries of horror echoed throughout the room. “You’re mad, Caro!” “We’ll die of cold.”

“Very well. If you’re all such old ladies, I shall sing to you instead.”

“No!”

“Spare our ears.”

“Death would be preferable.”

So the evening ended, like so many before it, with an act of dubious legality and undeniable insanity. The cold-water bath stirred Caro’s blood. Shivering in her cloak on the bank of the lake, she thought how lucky she was to have such wonderful friends.

A week later

S
ir Bernard Horner appeared to be a disreputable man, not surprising since he claimed to have been a friend and gaming partner of Robert Townsend. Lack of respectability, infamy even, didn’t necessarily bother Robert’s widow. But Caro didn’t like the look of Horner.

He was handsome enough, she supposed. His clothes fit
very
well, buff pantaloons hugging every contour of his legs in a manner unsuited to his advanced years. His short-waisted coat was made from a striped twill that was a shade too loud. The curls in his brown hair did not appear to be natural and contrasted oddly with the pale face of a man who spent long nights in gaming hells. Caro had never seen or heard of the fellow, but that was typical of the company Robert kept in the last year or two of his life, when his passion for the gaming tables tore him from home most of the time, neglecting his former intimates and his own wife.

“Why have you only come to me now, Sir Bernard?” she asked. “Why not make the claim immediately after my husband’s death?”

“I didn’t like to harass his grieving widow.”

“How thoughtful of you to postpone your harassment until now.”

Horner tried to look wounded, an unconvincing expression that merely made him appear reptilian. “Robert did owe me a thousand pounds.”