The Importance of Being Wicked (24 page)

Chapter 24

“C
an we ride today?” Caro asked. “It's a beautiful day.”

Thomas looked up from his enormous plate of roast beef and eggs. Caro never failed to wonder at the vast amount of food he put away to sustain that large frame. She eyed the rare beef and pushed aside her toast with a shudder. How could he, at this hour of the morning?

“You're not eating your breakfast.”

“I don't feel like it.” Even tea tasted sour.

His knife and fork hovered. “Do you think you could be . . . increasing?” he asked with patent embarrassment.

“I wondered myself, but if you recall, I bled last week.”

The bleeding had been a disappointment. Her menses had always been irregular and often light. This time Thomas had been kept from her bed only for one night. Or not from her bed. He sweetly held her in his arms, despite the lack of congress.

His cheeks tinged with color. Such frankness still made him shy, she thought fondly. “I have business that will keep me out most of the day. You should stay and rest if you feel poorly.”

“Nothing fresh air won't cure.” She pouted. “Can you come back in time for us to ride?”

“I'm sorry, my love. Why don't you walk in the park with Anne and Lady Windermere?”

After he left, she wandered around the house, feeling out of sorts. Once her daily consultation with Mrs. Batten was over, she sat at her desk in the morning room to compose a note to Cynthia. The door opened to admit Marcus, whom she hadn't seen since his fracas with Thomas.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “The servants have been ordered not to let you in.”

“Tsk. Such a greeting for an old friend, Caro. I waited in the street until your jealous husband left, and your footman departed on an errand. I took a chance that Batten would open the door. I knew I could talk my way past him. His loyalties remain with Robert.”

“You shouldn't have come here.” While she hadn't promised Thomas she wouldn't see Marcus, her agreement had been implied. “If you've come to ask me about the Venus again, I don't have it.” Though she had no intention of relinquishing the Titian, she didn't hold it against him that he tried to collect a debt.

“I take your word for it. I wanted to see you. I was worried Castleton might beat you after our little fight. I've been shaking in my boots expecting his seconds to call, almost left town in terror.”

As always, she was amused by his effrontery. “Instead, you braved the lion's den in my defense. Such a knight-errant. Your concern is vain. Castleton would never hurt me, and you should leave.”

He came over to the desk. “You look pale, Caro. Are you well?”

“Just a little languorous. I need fresh air. I'm writing to my friends to suggest a walk.”

“Why isn't the protective husband looking after you?”

“He has business in the City.”

Marcus grinned. “Allow me to offer my poor self as a substitute.”

She should refuse. Common sense and loyalty demanded it, but she felt quite unlike herself. Why couldn't Thomas have stayed when she was unwell? She knew fresh air would restore her, and she wanted it now. It would take ages to receive a reply from Cynthia. Why, she and Anne were more than likely out themselves, enjoying the sunshine.

Marcus saw her waver. “I can have a pair of horses sent from the livery stables in no time,” he coaxed.

That gave her pause. Thomas was dogmatic in forbidding her to ride without him, even while admitting that hired horses were too slothful to present a danger. She stiffened.
Forbid
was one of her least favorite words. Come to think of it, how dare he forbid her Marcus's company? There wasn't anything illicit between them, nor anything untoward about her riding out, in public, with a gentleman.

A little demon of wickedness beckoned to her. It seemed like an age since she'd done anything naughty. Why, she was in danger of becoming the kind of demure creature she'd left behind forever when she eloped with Robert.

“You'll enjoy it,” said Robert's best friend.

“It would be agreeable,” she said. “Just for an hour or two.”

“We can ride to Marylebone.”

The choice of destination, much less popular than Hyde Park, decided her. “I'll change into my habit.”

She was tired of being good. And with any luck, Thomas need never know.

T
homas hurried through his business at an unseemly pace. The lawyer was clearly irked at his lack of attention to detail, but he couldn't get his mind off Caro. A good husband would surely tend to his wife's needs when she felt unwell. And suppose she was truly ill? In all the time he'd known her, she'd displayed not a hint of malady. He should have canceled his appointment and remained with her, making sure she took gentle exercise that wouldn't tax her strength.

As he left the lawyer's office, he remembered a jeweler's shop that lay directly on the way home. Perhaps a little gift would aid her recovery.

The errand took longer than he intended, and he half expected to find she'd gone walking with the other ladies. But she was in the drawing room, reclining on the chaise with a shawl over her knees. “How are you?” he asked anxiously. He couldn't recall a time when she'd lain down. Except in bed. Or while being figuratively ravished by Roman kings.

“Thomas!” She held out her hand to him with a dazzling smile. “You're home early. How lovely.”

“Are you feeling worse?”

“I'm fine. All the better for seeing you.”

“I was sorry I had to leave you, so I cut my business short.” He knelt beside her. “I brought you a present.”

She sat up and opened the small box. “Oh, it's lovely!”

“It's not much. I have more jewels for you when we get to Castleton.” When he saw the necklace of amber beads, he'd thought of Caro's bold coloring, but now they looked mean.

“They're beautiful. Put them on me.” She twisted around for him to fasten the catch at her neck. “How do I look?”

“Beyond beautiful.” He wished he could find words. She'd changed into one of her white gowns. The orange beads, matching the tone of her hair, looked stunning against her milky skin. The glow in her eyes, the plump, parted lips, sent the inevitable message to his groin, which he tried to ignore. A trip to the bedroom for the rest of the afternoon seemed an excellent plan, but she hadn't been feeling well.

“We could ride now, if you wish,” he said. “Or perhaps a stroll in the park if that's all you can manage.”

She put her hands on his shoulders and glanced down. Her mouth curved into a wicked smile at the evidence of his unspoken plan. “Exercise would be good, but I think we should take it indoors.”

“In the bedchamber, perhaps?” His nerves sang with triumph.

“That's a good place.”

Without more ado, he picked her up and strode to the door. “We need to conserve your strength.”

“How fortunate that you have enough for two.” Her throaty chuckle against his ear sent a rush of blood south. His brain fought to think of her pleasure when his body was telling him to charge in like a conquering hero.

Slowly.
He needed to control himself.

In the bedroom, he set her on her feet and stood behind her to work on her buttons with eager, clumsy fingers and inch down the light muslin sleeves. The silk of her slender arms was abraded by gooseflesh. “Are you cold?” he murmured.

She laughed again. “Far from it.”

As the gown pooled at her feet, he kissed the nape of her neck and her upper back, caressing the shapely shoulder blades. “I love that,” she said with a satisfying shudder when he brought his tongue into play.

“Happy to oblige.” He continued his ministrations while he somehow managed to unlace and discard the stays, then brought his hands around to her breasts.

“Talk to me,” she said, bending back into him and pushing the firm little mounds into his eager hands through the fine fabric of her shift. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

Could he speak such thoughts aloud? He wasn't a particularly articulate man, and it had never occurred to him to talk during lovemaking. If coherent conversation was possible. But her pleasure was his aim, and the formation of sentences might dampen his lust, make him last longer.

“Your breasts are like ripe apricots, firm but yielding, with little cherries on top.” That didn't sound right. “No, more like unripe raspberries.” That sounded worse. For the first time in his life, he saw the point of being a poet.

“Very good. Tell me more.”

“I'd like to smother them with cream and eat them.”

“
There's
a plan for another day.”

“I shall suck them until they are long and hard.”

She laughed again, low and sensual. “I like long and hard.”

He continued to caress her as he spoke and felt her breasts grow firmer under his palms. “Then I'll kiss the freckle that sits right between them.”

“I forgot about that freckle.”

“And kiss my way down to your belly and lick it.”

“How does it taste?”

“Sweet. Everything about you tastes sweet.” Continuing to murmur nonsense, he let his hands roam the route described by his words. Then he had the idea.

Stepping back evoked a mewl of protest. “Wait,” he said, and walked around to survey his prize, fingered the fine cloth of her shift.

“I think we'll keep this on. I like the way your unripe raspberries show through it.” The shadow of her dark red nether curls enticed him, too, but he didn't know how to say so. Down on his knees, he removed each slipper, untied the garters, and slithered the white silk stockings down her calves, stopping only to tickle the back of each knee and kiss the knobby joints that he found curiously touching. He could smell the sweet odor of her excitement and knew she'd be wet and slick. His own arousal increased.

“You're very dressed,” she said.

“Who's in charge here?”

“Sorry, Your Grace. I won't say another word.”

“Other expressions of pleasure are acceptable.” How wonderful it was to find humor in the bedroom. “And since you asked so nicely . . .”

He picked her up again and arranged her against the pillows, then removed his own clothes, one by one. Having her watch—with the occasional sigh, hum, or squeak of enthusiasm—motivated him to strut and posture with each discarded garment.

“You're a very big man. In every way,” she said, as he slid off his breeches and drawers, leaving him naked.

He arranged himself into one more pose, with flexed arms and thrusting pelvis, to give her a chance to see the truth of her words. Her low chuckle made him harder, if that was possible.

He walked the few steps to the end of the bed. “You'll pay for that.”

“I count on it.”

He climbed onto the end of the mattress and crawled toward her. “Now I'm going to eat you up,” he said with a growl.

First, he kissed her lips, long and deep. Her eager response and his erection pressed against her belly as he knelt between her parted legs were a desperate temptation. But he held back. “It's time to show you I'm not just words,” he croaked when the sweetness of her mouth was more than he could stand.

Instead, he mouthed each piquant nipple, sucking until they were red and taut and straining through the damp fabric. His tongue found the little freckle, first noted so long ago at the Pantheon. Then, with hands and mouth, he descended over ribs and belly and below, pressing nose and mouth into the cushiony curls of her feminine entrance. Her thrusting hips were evidence of her own desires, and he was anxious to meet them. His heart swelled with love for this woman, and if there was anything he could do to make her feel the same way, he'd spare no effort.

Pulling back, he tugged at her shift. She raised her behind to help him expose her sex to his fascinated eyes.

“I've never looked at a woman like this before,” he said in wonder. “Like a mouth turned on end. You're so pretty down here. I would never have thought it. But maybe it's only because it's you.”

Light fingers caressed his head, and he needed no further encouragement to adjust his body so his head was between her knees. With reverent hands, he brushed aside the curls, parted the entrance lips, and placed his mouth over the exposed mysteries. He couldn't have described the taste, only that it was unlike anything he knew, and he would henceforth call it Caro's taste, and delectable. Her hum of pleasure accompanied his exploration of this unfamiliar country. He found the passage that gave him such delight and then, with a jolt of recognition, the “little yard,” which felt subtly different when touched with the tip of his tongue. He knew what to do, he thought gladly, and began to work it with firm, regular strokes. He had to grasp her hips to keep her from bucking him off as she moved into his rhythm. It became a battle in which they were both allies and adversaries. By now he knew the meaning of her sounds, the sighs turning to moans, accelerating with his movement, until she exploded with a loud shriek of joy and her spasms, her scent, her liquid drowned his senses.

His head lay on her panting belly, and she stroked his face with convulsive fingers, her lack of care welcome evidence of the mindless state to which he'd reduced her.

“I love you, Caro.” And though he didn't expect it, he longed to hear the words returned. He was stroking her outer thigh but instead of the longed-for declaration his attention elicited a wince. Examining the spot he discovered the beginnings of an ugly bruise. “You hurt yourself! When? This wasn't here last night.”

“I bumped into the Pembroke table in the drawing room this morning. Clumsy me.”

“You must be more careful.”

Then a muffled crash from the corner of the room jarred him from his happy, if not yet satisfied, state. “What was that?”