The Importance of Being Wicked (12 page)

“Then you celebrated your betrothal by leaving for Newmarket for the races?”

“That was a tale for Horner. Your cousin confided her worries to me. She couldn't understand what urgent matter required you to travel alone and by night.” He frowned. “Anne is, of course, an innocent. It didn't occur to her that you had left London with a lover.”

Caro's ire returned. “Is that what I did?”

“I knew Horner was bound for Newmarket, too. It's the only explanation that makes sense.”

“How about the explanation that I traveled by mail coach. Since you've led a sheltered life, you may not be aware that this lowly form of transport departs London at seven o'clock in the evening.”

“Good Lord! Why would you do that?”

“People travel by mail all the time. Instead, on absolutely no evidence, you decided I had run off with Sir Bernard Horner.”

Castleton aligned his knife and fork on his empty plate. “May I remind you that I discovered you in his company, in an inn, in his room?” He didn't have to mention her state of undress. A quick glance at her bosom was enough.

“This is intolerable.” She knew how to retreat from a losing argument. “I am going to bed. Where shall I sleep?”

“That's a good question. We'll have to light fires upstairs and see if any of the beds are ready.”

Caro shivered at the thought of cold, damp sheets. She spotted a warming pan hanging from the wall near the stove, along with a covered fire shovel. “We'll need both of these.”

With some maneuvering, they filled both objects with glowing coals. Caro carried the warming pan in both hands and followed Castleton, armed with the fire shovel and a lamp, through the dark house and up a plain wooden staircase.

“There are four bedrooms,” he said, “but I usually come here alone, so if any bed is prepared, it will be mine.”

The truth was even worse. None of the spare rooms even had mattresses on the beds. The largest chamber was fully furnished and made up with sheets that were, as Caro had guessed, ice-cold.

“You sleep in here,” he said. “I'll find somewhere downstairs once I've lit the fire.”

“You're very good at that,” she said as she plied the warming pan to the big bed.

“Another thing my father insisted on.”

“He sounds like a practical man.”

“Very practical.” He blew on the coals to coax a healthy red glow. “He didn't believe in self-indulgence.”

“What did he believe in? What did he enjoy?”

“The advancement of his family was important to him.”

“That's not quite the same thing. Denford said he collected pictures.” She didn't mention Julian's opinion of the late duke's taste. Though to be fair, Julian was pretty dismissive of everyone's taste but his own. “Did he love them?”

“Love?” The word emerged as though it were a foreign concept. “Love had nothing to do with it. Italian pictures were the fashion, and my father wished Castleton House to be a model of a nobleman's residence. As I said, he was devoted to improving the fortunes of the Fitzcharleses.”

“And you are, too,” she said, the dim light and shared intimacy of labor lending her daring. “Did he also marry a rich bride?”

“My mother was of modest fortune.”

“So you would say he failed at marriage?”

“Perhaps.” He sounded a little bleak, and Caro was sorry for her impertinent prying. She knew nothing of Castleton's parents. For all she knew, his father and mother had been unhappy together.

The last remnants of her anger fell away. Being in this bedroom with Castleton was beyond strange. He hadn't questioned her further about her journey, presumably still believing she'd intended to meet Horner here even though they'd traveled separately. She ought to confide her problem since he was going to be related to her. But she didn't relish the prospect—of the confidence or the kinship—and she was ever happy to postpone an unpleasant task.

“There,” he said, rising from his knees before the fire. “That should keep you warm.”

In the firelight, he looked pale and weary, not surprising since he'd spent hours that day with his huge frame crammed into a small carriage. She, on the other hand, had slept all morning. “You take the bed,” she said.

“Certainly not. You are a lady and my guest. Even if an unwilling one.”

The little touch of humor tipped the scales. She couldn't let him toss and turn all night on some miserable little sofa, or on the cold, hard floor.

“We'll share the bed. It's a big one, with plenty of room for both.”

He stared as though she were mad. “That would be most improper!”

“As though there isn't anything improper in the fact that we're staying together in this house, with no one but a drunken servant for chaperone.”

He continued to stare, and she realized it wasn't Lord-Stuffy-style shock at her outrageous suggestion but a dark, heated gaze that looked very like passion. She wondered if the same emotion was reflected in her eyes. Then he turned away.

“I won't disrobe, and we'll place the bolster between us.” No response. She was torn between a desire to beg him to sleep with her—and more—and the rational impulse to drive him out of her presence. “For God's sake, Castleton,” she said, her voice breaking, “we're to be cousins.”

The thought of Anne dampened her overpowering desire to take him as a bedmate in a wicked way. Perhaps it did the same for him.

He nodded. “Very well.”

Back-to-back on opposite sides of the bed, they sat and shed their footwear and top layers of clothing: his coat, waistcoat, neckcloth, her embroidered overdress. She was ready first and climbed into bed, arranging the long bolster down the center. She kept her back to him, knowing by the dip and creak of the bed that he'd joined her after extinguishing the lamp.

Tense and unable to relax, Caro listened to his breathing.

“You don't need to worry, you know,” she said after a while. “No one will ever know. I daresay your Mr. Trout won't even be awake before we are.”

Would he take that as an invitation?

Was
it an invitation?

Her skin shimmered, longing for the touch of masculine flesh. Warmth between her legs bloomed into a yawning emptiness, a desperate ache. How bitter that she couldn't tend to her needs herself because of the presence of a man. Yet—oh, irony!—she couldn't get the man to take care of the matter.

He's going to marry your cousin, she kept telling herself. If he weren't already engaged, she might let decency fly out of the window. But she couldn't, wouldn't betray Annabella.

Chapter 11

T
he only proof that Thomas hadn't dreamed everything that had happened since yesterday morning in London was the bolster. And the fact that he was in Little Tidmarsh Cottage. Judging by the light slanting through partly drawn curtains, he'd slept late.

He'd shared a bed with Caro Townsend, the thing he'd longed for since he first laid eyes on her. Lying awake beside her had sorely challenged his self-control. The only reason the night had been spent chastely was his own exhaustion, and his invented engagement to Anne Brotherton, a fiction he must cling to if her cousin was to escape his house unmolested.

He found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and speaking earnestly to the dissipated Trout. The servant leaped to attention at his master's entrance and awaited his fate with bowed head and well-justified fear. Before Thomas could pass sentence of dismissal, Mrs. Townsend intervened.

“Mr. Trout has a nephew who can come in today and help out. As soon as he's brought up coal and made the fires upstairs, he will fetch him. A very useful lad—Henry is it?—and he can even cook a little.”

“I have every intention of hiring new servants. Servants who are not addicted to drink.” He regretted leaving his valet in London.

“Why don't you see to the fires, Trout? I'll talk to His Grace.”

See to His Grace, rather. Mrs. Townsend had risen from her bed in a managing mood.

Trout gave his benefactress an adoring look and shuffled off.

“Don't be stuffy, Castleton,” she began, as soon as the man had gone. “How do you expect to find competent servants on the Sunday before race week at Newmarket?”

He had no idea how to answer that. Mrs. Townsend didn't appear to need or want an answer. She merely continued briskly on. “There's hot water in the scullery. You'll feel better after a wash, and meanwhile, I'll cook some breakfast.”

The magical word
cook
crushed all resistance. Thomas returned feeling like a civilized gentleman, despite wilted linens and an unshaven jaw, his senses ravished by the smell of fried bacon and toast. She handed him a plate heaped with food, including a huge, perfect half-moon of an omelet. He'd never breakfasted with a woman who wasn't his mother or sister. He'd never spent the night with a woman, having been in the habit of calling on his mistress in the afternoon, then returning home to dine.

The sense of intimacy with Caro was enhanced by the domestic nature of their conversation. “I will not keep an unsober servant,” he said.

“Poor Trout is not generally given to drunkenness.”

“How do you know? You only just met him.”

“I know drunkards, and Trout is not one. He's sad and lonely because his wife ran off with a soldier last week.”

“I'm sorry for the fellow, of course.”

“Was—is—Mrs. Trout a pretty woman?”

“I don't know. I'm not in the habit of ogling the servants.” He'd never given either Trout more than a moment's consideration, and none at all to their level of personal appeal. “I suppose she's a bit younger than he.”

“It would be cruel to dismiss him now. Let him bring in his nephew for company. Training him will give Trout something to do. It's a dull life looking after an empty house. That's very likely why Mrs. Trout ran off.”

“Am I responsible for my servants' amusement?”

“Of course not. But you should be sensitive to their tribulations. And even if you insist on being a stuffy old duke, bear in mind that we need Trout and his nephew to look after us while we are here.”

“We're returning to London today.”

“You'll never find a carriage for hire today, and we've already missed the mail. Surely you don't intend that we travel by stage?”

Unfortunately, what she said was true. “We shouldn't travel anywhere together. We'll have to wait till tomorrow. I'll go into town later and reserve two post chaises.”

“I'll take the mail. I can't afford to travel post.”

“That's why you traveled by mail?”

“Why else?”

Thomas digested this piece of information. He regarded himself as suffering from extreme—though temporary—financial stress, but he'd never met anyone who had to use public transport because of a lack of means. It certainly put paid to the notion that Horner had been expecting to meet her. Little as he regarded the man, he couldn't be such a miser as to make his mistress travel in discomfort. More importantly, though, he was faced with a prospect that thrilled and terrified him—another night under this roof with Mrs. Townsend.

“We won't sleep together again,” he said.

“Of course not. Trout will stuff a mattress for me in one of the other rooms.”

“And we'll have to keep your presence a secret.”

“Trout won't say a word.” She tilted her chin in sweet triumph. “Unless, of course, you give him reason to be angry.”

“You've persuaded me. I'd better go and talk to the fellow before he leaves for town. I have a few things I'd like him to fetch. In fact, I'll go with him.” Better to be seen sharing a gig with Trout than stay behind. He needed to get out of the house before he kissed her.

“I
like your house,” Caro said. “I like this room.”

The dining room had tall windows overlooking a lawn, leading down to a wooded area and the stream that ran parallel to the village street. Full-grown trees were interspersed with beech saplings, gay in their pale spring green, and the ground was covered in bluebells, the most joyful of flowers. A large bunch graced the center of the table where she and Castleton dined on a simple meal, prepared by her with the able assistance of young Henry Trout.

“It's not much,” he replied, “but I always liked it. “The Newmarket inns are noisy during the race meetings and filled with dubious company.” Caro looked at him sharply to see if this was a reference to last night, but he spoke sincerely, without any appearance of censure.

“A few years ago,” he continued, “I came upon this place. I like living simply from time to time, and it's the only place I've ever lived that was my own. A dukedom comes with such a weight of custom and tradition that we aren't often able to indulge ourselves. Little Tidmarsh Cottage is my personal extravagance.”

“It reflects your own tastes?” she asked, rolling her eyes at the prints framed in black and gold, hung in carefully spaced rows and almost filling two walls of the square room. “Does every single one of those horses remind you of something you like? Do they all have names?”

He smiled at her teasing; he usually did; it was one of the things she liked about him. He looked at her now, not with the heavy desirous look she sometimes caught that so reflected her own feeling, and without a hint of the mildly disapproving Lord Stuffy. His untroubled gaze made him seem younger.

“Do you know what I'd like?” he said. “I'd like a picture of us now at this table. I'd like to keep it to remind me of a happy moment.”

Oh my. Her heart would burst.

“Would you mind if I called you Caro?”

Call me whatever you want. Do whatever you want.
“Of course not,” she said faintly. “We are, after all, to be cousins.” She needed to keep reminding herself of that fact. “How do your intimates address you, or are you always Castleton?”

“My father . . . my family always call me Thomas.”

“Isn't it unusual for the heir to a dukedom to use his Christian name?”

“When I was born, my great-grandfather was still alive. My grandfather was styled Marquess of Tisbury and my father Earl of Melthorpe. I should have been called by the least of the family titles, but my father didn't like it.” He enjoyed the story, she could tell, drawing it out. “The titles had been bestowed on the first duke at the age of two by his sire, King Charles II. Charles was fond of all his children and he also enjoyed a jest. One day, it seems, the infant Thomas Fitzcharles disgraced himself on the royal lap.”

“And? Come on, Castleton, what was the name?”

“Viscount Stinkard. And that, my dear Caro, is why I grew up addressed by the name Thomas. You are welcome to use it, too.”

“You do realize,” Caro said through her laughter, “that you've given me a priceless weapon. I don't see how I am supposed to resist calling you Stinky.”

“Stuffy
and
Stinky? Have some mercy!”

His smile clutched at her heart. Their gazes locked across the table, as her mirth faded to a portentous silence that he was the first to break.

“Caro,” he said. “Since we are friends, will you not confide in me? What brought you to Newmarket? I'm afraid you have money troubles.”

She'd been dreading this moment, inevitable from the moment he strode into Horner's parlor at the Greyhound. But why not tell him? As Anne's husband, he could assist her. He
should
assist her.

“I owe Sir Bernard Horner a thousand pounds. Plus interest.”

“Good Lord! How did you come to owe such a sum? Is it a gaming debt? You are a gamester!”

“Not I, Robert. It was his debt.”

“And you were ready to trade your virtue for his vowels? To bed Horner for a thousand pounds? How could you think of such a thing?”

His obvious disgust slew her. Defiance and anger, her customary response to criticism, saved her from crying with pain at his scorn. The tears could come later, when she was alone.

“How easy it is for
you
to pass judgment! A man who never wanted for anything. And what of your virtue, Lord Stinkard? You'll be bedding my cousin for her money. What's the difference, except that your virtue will earn a far higher price?”

He wasn't smiling anymore, Lord Stuffy at his most rigid. “There's no comparison. My intentions toward Anne have always been decent.”

“You are engaged to marry a woman you hardly know and scarcely like simply because she is rich.”

“Exactly. Marriage. There's nothing wrong in using the honorable estate of matrimony to increase the wealth and influence of a family.”

Caro's eyes narrowed as she mentally sharpened her sword. She had no idea if Castleton fenced in real life. If so, she hoped he was better at it than the metaphorical form of the sport. “And that's your family tradition?”

“Indeed.”

“What of your grandmother?”

“My father's mother? An heiress from a powerful northern family. My grandfather did well.”

“Not that one. Your ancestress.” Caro stood up, banged on the table with her fist, and yelled at him. “Lord Stinky's mother, you great hypocritical fool. You are descended from a whore, and your whole wonderful family tradition was founded on prostitution. How dare you put on your stuffy airs and judge others?”

He stared at her for a second, then jumped to his feet. Descendant of a whore or not, Lord Stuffy never forgot his manners. He opened his mouth, closed it again, looked flummoxed. Then he roared. A huge belly laugh rolled across the room. Caro hardly knew how to respond until infected by his mirth. They stood across from each other, howling with laughter, he with arms bent in the classic pose of Henry VIII, though not quite as broad as that massive monarch, she clutching her stomach with crossed arms.

“Hypocrite,” she gasped through tears of hilarity.

“No more! I'll never be a hypocrite again with Caro Townsend to keep me honest. Can we be friends?”

An embarrassed cough revealed the presence of young Henry. “Excuse me, Your Grace. Shall I clear the table?”

“Have you finished, Caro? Shall we leave Henry to his work?”

“Yes. The servants need to finish for the night. Henry, your tarts were delicious.” She shot Thomas an admonitory look.

“Very good, Henry. Excellent work,” he said.

The meal over, they retired to the parlor. Caro had been right in thinking he wouldn't be happy trying to sleep there. Another agreeable, plainly furnished room, it was comfortable, with a fire roaring in the stone hearth, but the seating consisted of a set of old-fashioned armchairs with tapestry seats and backs, nothing anyone would wish to spend the night on. A big canvas over the mantel showed a pair of hounds in a landscape; otherwise, the walls were unadorned. The curtains, drawn shut now night had fallen, were a restful shade of blue that reflected the peaceful atmosphere. She wished she had her embroidery with her. Such a domestic setting seemed to call for it. And it would give her something to do with her hands.

Thomas took the seat on the other side of the fire from her. The provincial cut of his clothes didn't disguise his powerful chest and broad shoulders. Shoulders sturdy enough to bear any burden. She was so tired of taking care of her own affairs.

Caro played with the fringe of her shawl and tried to think of something to say. He was the first to break a silence that was no longer tranquil but thick with unexpressed emotions.

“I apologize for my previous remarks. I have no right to judge you. Please tell me how you came to be in such straits.” She heard a genuine concern in his measured words that plucked at her heart. “Did Townsend leave you so badly off? I gather he was a gentleman of means.”

“I'm afraid we were young, foolish, and extravagant.”

“You must have been very extravagant to have spent so much in a few years.”

“Robert was unlucky at cards and dice,” she said softly. “He couldn't help it,” she added. Out of loyalty, she couldn't let him blame her husband. “Please don't say any more about him.”

Thomas seemed to hold his tongue with some effort. “What of your family?” he asked finally. “You are a Brotherton after all.”

“When I ran off with Robert, my mother severed all contact. She always disapproved of me. I was a wild child, and she thought I was the Devil's spawn. Red hair, you know. I went down to Somerset after Robert died. She wouldn't even receive me.”