The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  He’d witnessed a few weddings, including that of his oldest sister. But the vows seemed new and unfamiliar and filled with meaning. For richer for poorer. Those words would have felt different if he’d married as planned, but he couldn’t regret them. To love and to cherish. That he would do. He wanted to cherish Caro as he sensed she hadn’t been by her previous husband. And when it came to her turn, and she promised to obey him, he was sure he heard a lilt of laughter in her husky tones. His lips twitched in sympathy and anticipation.

  As he slipped his ring on her finger, he couldn’t resist raising her hand to his lips. As his head dipped closer to hers, she breathed, “Nice pantaloons.” So at the most holy moment of the ceremony, she made him want to laugh. He thought it a good omen for their life together.

  He noticed that the church was by no means empty. A couple of dozen of Caro’s usual hangers-on had turned up to support her and, whether they’d been invited or not, returned with them to Conduit Street for the wedding breakfast. Given the quantities of food and champagne laid on by Caro’s cook and served by the two footmen he’d hired, she’d expected quite a few of them. This was now his house, and he longed to have it, and his wife, to himself, but it wouldn’t be long now. So he looked on indulgently as the coterie of artistic riffraff surrounded her.

  Breaking off a confabulation with Anne and Cynthia, she came over to the corner where he stood with a barely tasted glass of wine. Her hand on his forearm and a suggestive twinkle in her gaze had his heart beating a tattoo.

  “So, Your Grace,” she said, “is it time for us to depart? This crowd will remain as long as the wine hasn’t run out, but there’s no reason for us to stay.”

  He’d forgotten she didn’t know. He wrenched his attention from the neck of her gown which, despite its new color and cloth, was just as revealing as her former style. A pleasure for him. He frowned. He wasn’t sure he wanted his wife’s bosom to be a pleasure for anyone else. “We’re not going. We’re staying in London.”

  “It’s getting late for the journey, anyway.” Her smile was naughty enough to curl his toes. “The bedroom here is much closer.”

  “You have a wicked mind, Duchess.”

  “I never thought to be called by that title.”

  “It suits you.”

  “Because it means you’re mine. I’ve been waiting long enough. I do hope we don’t have to leave too early in the morning. I expect I shall wish to sleep late.”

  “We can sleep all day. We won’t be going to Castleton for a few weeks.”

  “Why not?” She didn’t seem concerned.

  “I had a letter from my mother this morning. There’s been a problem with the alterations to the Grange, her new house. She remains at Castleton, so we’ll stay here until she and my sisters are ready to move.”

  “I see.” Did he detect a hint of frost in her tone? “That’s good news. I hate to miss London during the season. Since we don’t have to leave, I can enjoy this party with my friends. George!” She summoned one of the new footmen. “Bring me some more champagne, please.”

  Instead of having eyes only for him, as he might have expected at a wedding breakfast, she became the life of the gathering, fluttering from group to group, making jokes, hanging shamelessly on the arms of her disreputable friends. He acquitted her of flirtation, just. He knew this was her manner. Her warmth and vivacity was what drew him to her, after all. But was it too much to expect that he should be the main beneficiary on their wedding day? He fought visions of Hercules cleaning the Augean stables. Rerouting the River Thames and flushing every extraneous person from the house had a lot to recommend it.

  In the end, he got rid of them by ordering the footmen to stop serving wine. Once the dining room was denuded of every crumb of food, and the locusts discovered that there was nothing to drink, they began to depart.

  By the time Anne and Cynthia made a fond farewell with many hugs, tears, and felicitations, Caro had calmed down. It hurt her that she was not to be permitted to share Castleton House with the Dowager Duchess and her twin daughters, but it wasn’t really Thomas’s fault.

  She had already suspected, when the ladies didn’t make the short journey to London for the wedding, that her mother-in-law disapproved of the match. She’d tried not to mind. It was no worse than her own mother, after all.

  By failing to tell her of the duchess’s dissatisfaction, Thomas protected her feelings. But that he acquiesced with his mother’s refusal to even share a house with Caro for a few weeks, a very large house, hurt her. She wished he’d stood up for her.

  Criticizing those she loved had never been Caro’s way. She looked forward, eagerly, to being entirely alone with her husband on their wedding night. But her disappointment took the edge off her raging anticipation.

  As the front door closed behind the last guest, Thomas took her by the hand. “Tell Minchin and Her Grace’s maid we won’t need them again tonight,” he ordered a hovering footman. She had her own maid now, lodged in the rapidly filling servants’ quarters, but apparently Thomas was going to deal with her clothing himself. Heat curled in her stomach. She was also not at all averse to playing valet.

  Together, they entered the room she’d shared with Robert for so many years, but she barely gave him a thought. The new curtains and covers helped, lush pale green silk embroidered with rare eastern blooms she’d ordered to replace the shabby chintz. The glowing fire dispelled any hint of chill, augmenting the subdued light from a brace of candles. The scent of rose-petal potpourri invited them into a bower of sweet sensuality.

  “Caro. My Caro,” Thomas said softly, stroking her face with a comforting reverence.

  When he looked at her thus, she could no longer believe her new husband was ashamed of her. The dregs of resentment faded from her consciousness. Now she could set her mind to the welcome task of discovering just what her new possession looked like without clothes. She was going to take this seduction very slowly. She tiptoed to deposit a butterfly kiss on his lips. “And you are my very own Lord Stuffy.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll be able to wring the starch out of me.” The humor and affection in his eyes, darkened with unmistakable desire, further ignited her own. She reached up for a long, deep kiss that left them both a little breathless.

  With both hands, he framed her face, drew them down her neck, traced the collarbones with his thumbs. His touch roamed the expanse of shoulder and bosom exposed by her gown. Her flesh awoke to the texture of a man’s hand. She’d forgotten how much she loved to be touched.

  “How do I remove this?” he asked.

  “You want to see more?” The question was teasing, and a delaying tactic. She wanted him to linger where he was. A quick brush of his fingers just at the nape of her neck reminded her it was a spot that particularly ached to be caressed.

  “The cut of your gowns,” he said running a finger along the edge of the bodice, “was the first thing I noticed about you.”

  “Truly?”

  “No. Not just that. But it pleases me that no one else is permitted to see beneath them. Now turn around, so I can get you out of this thing.”

  The buttons gave him little difficulty. “Stroke me there,” she said, as accidental touches on her back set her skin alight. “Oh, yes. That feels so good.”

  “You are so soft,” he said, dropping a kiss on her nape, while he pushed the silk gown over her shoulders, and it dropped to her feet in a rustle. “Now, how do I deal with this?”

  “Have you never taken off a lady’s stays before?”

  “I am a tyro in the art of undergarment removal.”

  That might be so, but Thomas was an efficient man and had little difficulty working out the lacing. All too soon, he had her out of them, and her fine, brand-new cambric shift, too. He turned her around and surveyed her at arm’s length with burning eyes and a grin of anticipation. “I think I’ll leave on the stockings. They’re very taking.”

  She yearned for him to touch her everywhere. Every inch of h
er body cried out for those competent hands. She stood almost naked and just a tiny bit chilled, and desire mounted in a delicious, slow crescendo.

  “I’m overdressed,” he said.

  “And so well dressed, too.”

  “You picked the oddest moment to compliment my new clothes, just when I was putting the ring on your finger.”

  “You know me, Thomas. Sometimes I just blurt things out.”

  “Anything you’d like to blurt now?” Kiss me everywhere, she wanted to say, but he interrupted her thought. “No? Good. Perhaps you’d care to unstuff me, starting with this wretched neckcloth.

  How could she refuse such an invitation? She picked open the knot and unwound the linen strip from his neck, slowly and carefully as though the preservation of its pristine starchiness mattered. She intended to enjoy unwrapping her package, to savor the gradual exposure of every inch of flesh and muscle. Then she walked away from him, deliberately swaying her hips, bending at the waist as she arranged the neckcloth over the back of a chair. She could sense his eyes boring into her exposed bottom. Heat bloomed between her legs. She lingered a little before turning back, considering which garment she’d remove next.

  The decision was taken from her. Thomas was ripping off his own clothes with more speed than finesse. Coat, waistcoat, and shirt were flung aside without the least regard for the care of his expensive new tailoring. He hopped up and down to get out of his boots, which were tossed to opposite corners of the room, and yanked down his pantaloons. She hardly had a chance to admire him, to take in the contours of flesh and muscle, before he swept her up and deposited her on the bed.

  Flat on her back, knees bent and slightly apart, she struggled to regain control of her limbs. Embroidered silk imprinted her flesh, and she spared a thought for the expensive new draperies. Then he landed on top of her, and she shrugged off the housewifely concern. If he spoiled the counterpane, they could afford to replace it. She gave herself up to the enjoyment of skin against skin, the light abrasion of rough hair on his chest and limbs against her flesh, the hard, questing demand of his cock against her belly, the marvelous joy of two bodies joining.

  And join they did. Slow deliberation was not on Thomas’s agenda, so she surrendered her wish for a measured approach. His approach was measured by extreme urgency. How could she argue with being desired so much? She opened her legs and welcomed him in, the slide of his cock possessing her aching passage, filling her soul and reaching to her very heart. In time with his precise thrusts, she began the long ascent.

  She could see the play of his biceps and shoulders as he supported himself, the tendons of his neck straining, his jaw clenched. The fierce joy of lust blazed in his eyes. She closed her own, the better to concentrate on matching his rhythm, letting the indefinable sensation swell and build toward the ecstatic explosion. His thrusts accelerated. Too soon. She wasn’t quite there yet. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing every nerve on the yearning nerves of her sex. So close.

  With an incoherent passionate cry he came. His hot seed flooded her, and his arms collapsed. His weight bore into her chest, then he rolled off, taking her with him and hugging her tightly.

  “Oh Caro! Thank you, my darling.” Through ragged breathing he pressed wild kisses all over her face. She suppressed her disappointment and gave herself up to the enjoyment of his adoration, took pleasure in his pleasure.

  It wasn’t the first time things had ended thus for her. At least Thomas was sober and would doubtless soon be ready for another bout. She snuggled into the sheltering curves of his body and gave herself up to the delightful fact that she was married again, had a permanent bedmate and partner. It wasn’t just lovemaking she’d missed for so long.

  Thomas had never felt better. Tucked up between crisp linen sheets, supported by soft feather pillows, with his lovely Caro naked against his skin was about the most delightful thing he could imagine. Neither of them had to go anywhere. He mused on the pleasures of short hair, his palm on the tender nape of his neck and fingers threaded into the silken fringe.

  “I like this room,” he said idly. “Though it seems smaller than I would have expected.”

  She stiffened, just a little. “I warned you.”

  “I’m not complaining.” He tightened his embrace. “You may regret it. I’m a big man and take up a lot of room.”

  She ran admiring hands up and down his arm. “There’s so much more of you to love.” A long, leisurely kiss was the only response to that compliment.

  “Even if we’ve established that one bedchamber between us is sufficient,” she said when she came up for breath, “you may find the living quarters cramped. I know you’re used to grander surroundings.”

  “I don’t mind. In fact, I like it. A big house can be inconvenient. You’ll find out when you see Castleton.”

  “If we ever go there.”

  “Are you upset that we’re staying in London for a while? I thought you preferred it.”

  “Of course I do. I’ll miss my friends when we’re in the country.”

  It seemed something was bothering her, some womanly whim perhaps. But he felt far too lazy and satisfied to pursue the matter. The last thing he wanted was a quarrel, tonight of all nights. Rather, he looked forward to having her again. Once was not nearly enough to relieve the rampant frustration he’d felt since Newmarket. Truly, since the first time he’d laid eyes on her. That quick tumble on the Quintons’ sofa had only heightened his desire, and, miraculously, she desired him as much. Any practical problems arising from their marriage could be forgotten for a few days. He had every intention of enjoying a honeymoon, most of it spent in this very room.

  His hand found her breast, firm, beguilingly rounded, and peaking beneath his touch. He nuzzled her neck, and she giggled. This was the Caro he loved, laughing and happy, not complicating life with unexpressed dissatisfactions. With remarkable speed, his cock was primed for a rematch. He pulled them down into the bed and started to mount her again.

  “Thomas.”

  “Yes?” He found her thighs inexplicably closed against his pressure.

  “Do you like to touch me?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I like to be touched. I wish you’d do it some more. I’d like to touch you too.”

  He was game for that. “Be my guest.” He rolled off her and flung away the covers so they lay facing each other, naked in the shadowy room. She guided his hand and he stroked her breasts, one after the other, kneading the satinly softness, tickling his palms with her hardening nipples. She pressed them into his touch, murmuring her encouragement as she reciprocated, delicately tweaking his own nipples and threading her fingers through the light hair on his chest.

  A ripple of pleasure streaked under his skin when she traced the ridges of his abdomen, and he decided to echo her movements, discovering her ribs beneath the soft flesh. Following where she led, they explored each other: shoulders, arms, then into intimate territory: the little button of her navel that contrasted with his own indentation; the differing hip bones of man and woman; the coarser curls that guarded the entrance to her sex while she laid cool, clever fingers on his wildly springing cock. His breath caught, and he was ready to take her again, so hard he thought he’d burst with longing.

  She pushed him back. “Not yet. I’m not ready.” And pressed his hovering hand onto her mound.

  Could he really touch her there? He longed to, but it seemed disrespectful, an invasion even. He held back.

  “Caress me, Thomas,” she whispered. “Make me hot and wet.”

  “Is it proper?” Embarrassment and longing strangled his voice.

  She stared at him. “Have you never touched a woman there?”

  He shook his head, his mind in turmoil.

  “Have you never had a mistress?”

  It was the height of indelicacy to discuss such a thing with his wife, but he couldn’t avoid the question. “I have. For several years. I broke with her months ago,” he added, in case she got th
e wrong idea. “I told you the first day that I would never betray my wedding vows.”

  “Didn’t she ever need to be . . . helped like that?”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “Helped to achieve satisfaction.”

  “She never complained.”

  Caro regarded him with her lips pinched together before continuing. “Did you notice I didn’t finish when we joined earlier?”

  “Finish how?”

  “Achieve fulfillment, come to ecstasy.”

  Good God! She meant the equivalent of a man’s spending. It had never even occurred to him that women did so. He thought of Mary, his mistress, though he very much disliked doing so when in bed with Caro. He’d call at her Basingstoke house, which he paid for. They’d share a glass of wine and some undemanding conversation, then retire to bed, where he’d take his pleasure, much as he had earlier with Caro. Except never with the same intensity or emotional contentment. He hadn’t given any thought to whether Mary enjoyed herself, hadn’t had to. She made pleased noises and never complained.

  She’d been well compensated to do so. It was a stark fact and didn’t make him feel good about himself. He’d been taught all he needed for his position in life; his father had made sure of that. But clearly his education in pleasing a woman had been sorely lacking. His ignorance was humiliating, and its revelation cast a shadow over the start of his marriage.

  There was only one thing to do. “What do you want?” he asked. “Tell me, and I’ll oblige.”

  Caro gifted him with one of the big, glorious smiles that doubled the size of his heart. “I do like a man who knows how to ask for directions.”

  That was encouragement enough. “Let me see.” He’d stopped touching while they talked. Now he tried again, kneading gently as his hand discovered the shape of her private area beneath its curly coat.

  She settled back and opened her legs so her entrance divided beneath his palm. “Very good. Now touch me inside.”

  He held his breath as he dipped a finger into moist heat, drawing a little squirm from her that he judged to be pleasure. ”What next?”