The Importance of Being Wicked (29 page)

“Oh God!”

“He wasn't there,” she wailed.

He gathered her up, holding her close while she sobbed into his chest, soothing her with murmurs, stroking her back as though comforting a child. He let her cry out her grief, a rock of support until her sobs subsided. Then he look out a large linen handkerchief and dried her face.

“I'm so sorry, my darling,” he whispered.

She gulped. “You have nothing to be sorry for.
You
were there. When I called, you
came.
And you stayed and cared for me.”

“I always will, I promise. You have nothing more to fear.”

“I know,” she said, gazing at his dear, serious face. “I know you will never let me down.”

A whitening around his mouth told her he wasn't untroubled. “I fear I did. If it wasn't for our quarrel, you might not have miscarried. I blame myself,” he said.

“No. I was wrong to go out with Marcus, though I didn't know he was in the closet. I understand your anger.”

He shook his head. “I knocked you down.”

“What? Never!” She had no idea what he was talking about.

“When you tried to stop me attacking Lithgow.”

“That? I barely hurt myself.” She took his head between her hands. “Forget it. You did nothing wrong, then or since. You
cared
what happened. Though neither of us knew we'd conceived, you were sorry we lost our child. Robert didn't care. He pretended to. Perhaps he did, a little. And I pretended too. As he spent more time at the tables, lost ever bigger sums, I told myself his behavior was to drown his own sorrow and guilt. I did my best to be happy and cheerful so that he wouldn't blame himself. For three years I lied to myself. And went on doing it after his death. Until now. Now I know what a good man is.”

His cheeks reddened. “You do me too much honor.”

“Impossible. You're the best man I ever met, and I love you.” She climbed onto his lap and flung her arms around his neck in a burst of joy unalloyed by any shadow of pain or doubt.

“My darling Caro,” he began, his voice hoarse. “I cannot express the joy it gives me to hear it. The day I walked into Conduit Street and found you was the best of my life.”

“And the best of mine. I love you, Thomas, Duke of Castleton and my very own Lord Stuffy. I love you I love you I love you.”

Now that her feelings had been acknowledged, she repeated them without cease until cut off by a kiss, Thomas's powerful, all-encompassing kiss. Never again, she thought as she happily surrendered, would she risk losing him. He would never let her down, and she need never again fear being alone.

T
homas presented himself in the duchess's boudoir for an early supper. He wore the new set of evening clothes his tailor had delivered to Conduit Street during their absence, a dark gray coat with satin breeches in a lighter shade. He did not, to his very great pleasure, anticipate wearing them for long.

Caro, alone, thank God, was dressed just as formally, in a gown he'd never seen before. Not that he was good at remembering clothes, but he wouldn't have forgotten this one, which clung to every curve and displayed a good deal of bosom. He expected no less and would have been disappointed if it hadn't. What did surprise him was how magnificent red silk looked with red hair.

“Lord Stuffy,” she said. “I need to speak to you about your drinking and gaming.”

Oh, dear. He'd been so overcome with happiness following her declaration of love that he'd forgotten his disgusting conduct in London. Not to mention the appalling state in which he'd returned.

“I'm sorry, Caro,” he said. “It won't happen again. I thought you'd love me if I behaved like Robert.”

“Now you know,” she said, “that's the last thing I want. And if you ever do it again, I shall have to take severe measures.”

She couldn't be serious! He eyed her cautiously. Her face was stern, but surely there was a lilt of laughter in her delicious low voice that sent a message straight to his groin.

“I'm prepared to suffer any punishment you name, Duchess.” He could hardly wait!

“What I had in mind was a little education.” That sounded promising. He always enjoyed her lessons. “Come here.”

He came, very willingly.

“Sit.”

He obeyed.

“Now I'm going to teach you how to drink and play cards.”

“I'm not sure I want to. I didn't enjoy London's low haunts.”

Caro stood over him with hands on her delectable hips, tilting her head. “Hmm. I want to hear about your little tour, in the company of Julian Denford no less. But another time. I do believe you know how to open a bottle of wine?”

The champagne bottle had a very tough cork, but as with so many things, practice makes perfect. Wielding the corkscrew without damage to himself, he poured two glasses of the bubbling wine.

She raised hers. “To wine and cards.”

Very gingerly he took a sip, half expecting his head to explode in pain. He felt fine.

“That's enough,” she said. “Drinking in small quantities is the trick.” She took a chair beside him at a small table, on which rested a pack of cards. “Now we play. Cut and show me your card.”

A knave of hearts. “Very good.” She did the same and showed a nine. “You win this round.”

“This is a stupid game,” he remarked, much more interested in contemplating the fastenings on the red silk than the turn of the cards.

“True. But the prize isn't stupid. You can choose which garment I remove.”

“Now?” he croaked.

“Why wait? Unless you are hungry and want to eat supper first.”

“Absolutely not!” He gave the matter some thought. His first thought was the gown, but she looked very fine in it, and he had absorbed the lesson that a pleasure postponed is a pleasure enhanced. “Please remove your left glove.”

“Good choice.” She slid it down her arm, very slowly, wearing a prim expression that would fool no one.

He won again. The other glove.

The next drawing lost him a shoe, then he hit a run of bad luck. Not that he felt unlucky as he removed footwear, neckcloth, coat, and waistcoat. Not when Caro looked at him like that. He felt quite overheated. Still, he was pleased to turn up the ace of spades. Time to pay her back.

He rose and glanced around, noting that Caro had already put her own stamp on her quarters. Flowers, brightly colored shawls, and general clutter had dispelled the gloom. “Stand up, please.”

“Why?”

“Come.” She took his hand and let him lead her to a roomy velvet-covered sofa. He knelt at her feet and removed a shoe. Then the other.

“Wait a minute. You only won once.”

He ran his hands up her calf and found a garter. “I have no sense of honor. I've decided to cheat.”

“When it comes to games of chance, honor is overrated.”

“However,” he said as he rolled down her stocking, “I'm not entirely without scruples. I'll take anything off you care to name. It would only be fair.” As soon as he had both stockings off, he knelt upright. “Name your desire, Your Grace.” And to his pleasure, she brought his shirt over his head and contemplated his bare chest with a satisfied gleam.

Cards forgotten, they removed the rest of their clothes, Caro's shift being the last to go. He knelt before her and contemplated her white and gold beauty, topped with the shock of red. Her brown eyes sparkled with golden lights and met his with unguarded devotion.

“I feel stripped naked,” she said.

“Perhaps because you aren't wearing any clothes, Duchess.” But he knew what she meant. Caro's hidden sadness had gone, and she was exposed in all her glory, of body and soul.

“I love you, Thomas,” she whispered. “I love you so much. I'm so lucky to have found you.”

“Not as lucky as I,” was all he could manage. But he had no reason to curse his lack of eloquence. With absolute certainty, he knew it didn't matter. She loved him as he was, and she was his forever.

With a little cry of glee, she propelled herself off the sofa. His back hit the carpet, and she landed on top, splayed across his happy, naked body. She lay between his bent knees and smiled. “I have you where I want you, Lord Stuffy.”

This particular game he now felt confident in playing. “No you don't,” he said, grasping her waist and rolling them over so his size dominated her curves of delicious flesh. He brought her arms up over her head, holding her wrists down with his big left hand. Then he lowered himself to tease her exposed sex with his hard one.

She rolled her hips. “I think I'll have to rename you Lord Wicked.”

“Can't you at least raise me to my proper rank?”

He loved the invitation in her chuckle that echoed the encouragement of her movements. “Definitely not. My role in life is to keep you in your place.”

“And what is that place?” He answered the question himself by thrusting into her until he was blissfully sheathed in her welcoming heat.

Her laugh of pure joy pierced his heart. “For the moment, it's on top of me. But we can take turns. I don't care what your place is as long as we're always together.”

Epilogue

O
liver Bream and his wife had enjoyed a pleasant week amid the gay parterres and chequered shade of Castleton House. Now it was time to pay the piper.

He'd painted group portraits before—one didn't say no to members of the royal family—but he never enjoyed the experience. Castleton wanted a portrait and Caro wouldn't have any other painter than Oliver and Oliver couldn't refuse Caro. So here he was in the saloon, surrounded by books, toys, embroidery, Tish the cat, and
children.

Children were so hard to pose. The five-year-old twins, Anabel and Olivia, wouldn't sit still. They'd inherited more from Caro than red hair. At least the infant Marquess of Tisbury rested stolidly on his mother's knee, chewing on his fist and eyeing Oliver with a look of profound disapproval. No question whom he took after.

Lord Stuffy was smiling, as he often did. His hand on his wife's shoulder, he leaned over to hear something she said. Oliver hoped he could catch that expression, which would certainly brighten things up when the picture joined the ancestral gallery. He'd long since accepted that Caro was happy with her duke. He was happy himself, and on his way to being rich.

Two small curly dogs scampered into the room, tumbling on the floor with the little girls in their white muslins and blue satin sashes.

“Too much white!” Oliver pronounced. “And no dogs!”

“Please, Papa!” one twin begged. “Leonardo and Raphael must be painted too.”

Castleton looked up and looked stuffy. “The dogs stay.”

“I hate painting dogs.”

Stuffiness turned to pure wickedness. “Would you rather paint two bichons or a pack of foxhounds with attendant horses?”

Caro giggled, the girls cheered. Oliver sighed.

“Very well, Thomas.” He picked up his brush and consoled himself with the thought that
The Duke and Duchess of Castleton and Their Children
would be the sensation of next year's exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts.

Author's Note

A
fter the fun of endowing the members of the Burgundy Club with fabulous volumes to make any bibliophile drool, I turn to art collecting in this new series. I invented the Farnese Venus, drawing my principal inspiration from Titian's
Venus of Urbino
in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. I imagine Oliver Bream's “modern” Venus to resemble Goya's
Naked Maja,
which hangs in the Prado in Madrid. I look forward to raiding the great art collections of the world as the series continues.

The game of charades played by Caro and her friends, in which the teams put on little plays to act each syllable of a word, is the version I learned growing up in England. Evidently it goes back some time. It shows up in Thackeray's
Vanity Fair,
published in 1847 but depicting Regency-era events, and was performed with Bollywood-style excess in the Reese Witherspoon movie.

As always, I would never have written this book without the help and support of many. Special thanks to Jill Tuennerman, Kathleen Greer, Caroline Linden, Sabrina Darby, Megan Mulry, Isobel Carr, Candice Hern, David Ross (who found out what champagne corks were like in 1800), the #1K1H group on Twitter, the ladies of the Beau Monde, my fellow members of The Ballroom Blog, and my agent Meredith Bernstein. Thanks also to the entire team at Avon Books, especially my wonderful and talented editor Esi Sogah, who always makes my books better.

About the Author

M
IRANDA
N
EVILLE
grew up in England before moving to New York City to work in Sotheby¹s rare books department. After many years as a journalist and editor, she decided writing fiction was more fun. She lives in Vermont. She loves hearing from readers and may be reached through her website, www.mirandaneville.com.

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By Miranda Neville

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