The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  “You’re doing very well,” she said. “Carry on.” And “Oh, yes” when he explored the slippery flesh. The idea occurred to him to use his fingers to imitate the action of his cock so he found the tight passage and inserted first one, then two, moving them in simulation of coitus. Her increased slick wetness was an indication of pleasure, judging by her accelerated breathing.

  “Excellent,” she crooned, stroking his forehead, a sign of approval that made his head swell with pride and his cock with an eagerness he did his best to ignore. He had a job to do. “Now,” she said, “use your thumb to find my little yard.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what Robert called it.”

  He really could have done without the reference to Robert, who, of course, had taught her these things. It crossed his mind to wonder if all women were equally knowledgeable and guessed not. “You mean like a man’s yard only smaller? Inside you?”

  “Much smaller. Not that men’s are that big. It’s a silly word, isn’t it? So boastful.” She giggled. “It wouldn’t be much fun for women if they really were that long.”

  He almost choked. He’d often thought the same thing.

  “The little yard is the center of a woman’s pleasure,” she explained. “Find it, and we will love you for it.”

  Strangely unembarrassed, he groped around until he found a little knob of flesh, slightly pointed. “Yes,” she said, laying her hand on his to stay his wandering. “You are a model student.” He flicked it with his thumb. “Oh, yes! Extra points for initiative.” Then, her hand on his, she guided his movements until he found the rhythm that pleased her, and she left him to it.

  Gasps of pleasure told him that he was doing the right thing. “Oh, Thomas,” she cried. Watching the expression of concentrated bliss on her face filled his heart with joy. Acting on instinct, he increased the pace of his strokes. Her hips encouraged his rhythm until she reached a peak. Her inner passage shuddered about his fingers, and the exquisite beauty of his darling girl inspired an awe he’d never imagined. “Oh Thomas!” she repeated, softly this time, and melted. He gathered her into his arms and felt her boneless surrender to fulfillment.

  She offered him a smile of wicked gratitude, evoking both pride and humility: pride in what he’d done for her and humility that Caro had entrusted herself to him.

  “Magnificent,” she sighed.

  What a marvelous power he’d learned, to be able to give such ecstasy! He wondered if he could achieve the same effect with his “yard” inside her. His poor member was hard and rearing for action and might very well have reached that metaphorical length.

  “How long before you can do it again?” He kissed her neck, savoring her slightly salty taste.

  “Almost no time. Women have greater stamina than men,” she teased, playing with his hair. “We can go five, ten, fifteen times a night.”

  He wasn’t sure how serious she was, but he had his answer. Pushing her legs apart, he mounted again, but instead of diving right in, he ran the length of his cock along her open sex so his big yard recommenced the rubbing of her little one. “A pupil of remarkable diligence,” she cried. “Oh, yes,” she breathed a little later when he maneuvered her so that her bent knees almost touched her shoulders and entered, penetrating her deeply while maintaining the friction outside. Her comments faded to moans, happy moans, as he felt her rise again to a peak, then tumble into bliss. Her muscles’ clenching his cock triggered the beginning of his own completion.

  “You go straight to the top of the class,” she whispered, as he collapsed.

  So far, marriage surpassed his fondest hopes.

  Chapter 20

  The new Duke of Denford tended to avoid balls, even though his new status induced invitations from ladies who’d ignored his existence when he’d been many degrees away from the dukedom. But Lady Beaufetheringstone, a newish hostess among the haut ton, had won a reputation for amusing affairs and was known to relish those who bore a faint whiff of scandal. Even so, he’d have consigned her engraved card to the fire with a dozen others had he not heard about her fondness for her pet bird. He happened to have a very fine Tiepolo on his hands, a portrait of a pretty lady with a parrot on her arm.

  Alas for his hopes of unloading this pricey piece of art on the lady’s doting husband, Lord B didn’t share his bride’s taste for entertaining and kept to his own rooms. Julian took up a position next to a large potted plant and watched his old friend Caro mingle with the beau monde. Wherever the new Duchess of Castleton went, her doting husband trailed protectively. After two weeks of marriage, during which the newly wed couple had been resolutely “not at home” to callers, they’d emerged stinking of bliss.

  “Fancy seeing you here, Duke,” said a voice he hadn’t heard in well over a year.

  “Marcus!” He turned and embraced, in the French fashion, his old friend and partner-in-transgression, Marcus Lithgow. “How long have you been in London?”

  “Long enough to hear about your elevation. It seems death has been very good to you.”

  Julian shrugged. “It remains to be seen if the title is worth the trouble. What brings you back from Naples?”

  “Death has been good to me, too. I have inherited a title from a distant connection of my father’s, probably even more worthless than yours. Behold the new Lord Lithgow.”

  “The entire House of Lords will expire of a collective seizure when we enter together.”

  “You’re on your own there. Mine’s a humble Irish barony without even a seat in Parliament. And not a square inch of land nor a sixpence to sweeten it.”

  “How your father would have enjoyed it. I heard about his death from Hamilton. My condolences.” Julian knew too much of Marcus’s conflicted relations with his sire to waste his words on deeper expressions of sympathy.

  “The irony is the old man died a lord and didn’t know it. I received the notification days after his death. Never mind, he was a Polish count. Or rather, he managed to get himself accepted as such at the Court of Naples and Sicily.”

  “You have to admire the man’s talent. I never met a more successful charlatan.”

  “What news here? How is Caro? I was sorry I had to leave the country right after Robert’s funeral. She was in a bad way.”

  “I think you’ll find her quite recovered. She just married again.”

  “Well, well. She always was a virtuous little thing, for all her wildness. Remember how we used to take bets on who would lure her to sin? Yet she remained true to Robert, however little he deserved it. Whom did she marry?”

  Julian smiled. “This you won’t believe. Castleton. The stuffiest man in England and a duke to boot.”

  “ ’Struth. Our little Caro a duchess. I would never have believed it. Haven’t we all come up in the world?”

  Julian saw something more in Marcus’s reaction to the news than he let on. No one else would have detected the spark of emotion in his practiced gamester’s eye. Before he pursued the matter, he broached a topic of more interest to himself. “Did you receive my letter?”

  “Nothing lately. With the troubles in Europe, I had to make my way home the slow way.”

  “It’s about the Farnese Venus. Caro says you may have it.”

  Marcus’s surprise was genuine and unfeigned. “Why ever would she think that?”

  “She says that. I don’t know if she thinks it. The picture hasn’t been seen since Robert’s death. There was lately word around London that it was still in her possession though I’ve certainly never seen it at Conduit Street, and I’ve looked.” He observed Marcus through narrowed eyes, gauging how far to confide in the friend of his youth. Not very. They were birds of a feather, no more to be trusted than a pair of jackdaws with a jewel box.

  Marcus stared back at his most guileless. “No need to ask why you’re interested. You always envied Robert the Venus. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”

  Like hell he would. Julian would have to keep careful watch on Marcus. But he s
aw no reason not to let him loose on Caro. As Robert’s best friend among the old foursome, Marcus might persuade her to talk.

  “Come and make your bow to the new duchess. You’ll enjoy meeting the duke, too.”

  The Countess of Ashfield had persuaded Thomas that Lady Beaufetheringstone’s affair would be a benign venue for them to edge Caro into polite society. Lady B seemed a jolly dame with an amusingly tart tongue and a curious pair of peacock-colored gloves that seemed vaguely familiar. Caro found the company pleasant enough, the ladies more curious than censorious, the men openly admiring and ready to be amused by her. Still, it was as well Thomas remained at her side, except for a couple of sets they danced with others presented by their hostess. She was alone when Julian and Marcus found her, Thomas having been taken off to the card room for a man-to-man talk with an elderly relic, a friend of the late duke’s.

  “Marcus, you devil! Why didn’t you let me know you were back.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Over a year and only one letter.”

  “I’m not much of a correspondent. Besides, I’ve been busy.”

  Caro raised her brow. “Busy getting into trouble, I suppose. I never did hear why you left England last time.” Marcus had a positive genius for ruffling feathers.

  “Not sure I can remember myself now.”

  The trio exchanged news for a while, and it felt like old times. But her genuine pleasure at seeing Marcus turned wary when Julian left them, and Marcus raised the vexed subject of the Venus. He wasn’t crediting her explanation about Oliver’s nude being mistaken for the Titian.

  “Caro, my love. Robert had the painting two days before he died.”

  “I know that. Then it disappeared.” Disappeared into the secret closet the day after his death, when the duns descended, and the first inkling of financial disaster hit her.

  “He lost it to me at hazard.” That was a surprise.

  “Just as I’ve been telling everyone,” she said in her most earnest tone, wondering what on earth he was talking about.

  “It wasn’t the first time he lost to me. When you make your living from gaming, as I do, you learn to take advantage of fools like him.”

  His betrayal stung. “How could you?”

  “Calm down, Caro. I never played for high stakes with Robert. Believe it or not, I tried to stop him.” She was glad. She held few illusions about Marcus, but she was fond of him. “There’s nothing you can do once the gaming fever takes hold of a man. I’ve seen it dozens of time in every European city. It’s always the same, and always ends in tragedy. What happened during Robert’s last illness? What happened to the Titian?”

  “I don’t know. The night he fell ill, I had gone to the theater with Oliver. When I came home, I found Robert unconscious downstairs. He was burning up.”

  “I know that. I dragged him out of Seven Dials and brought him home. That’s when he insisted on playing. I tried to refuse, saying he had nothing to stake. He was drunk and offered the Titian.”

  Caro’s heart sank. She’d believed, despite everything, that Robert had clung to the picture because it meant so much to them both. “Did you agree?”

  “He was mad, Caro. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’d never seen him so crazed, but I didn’t know, then, how ill he was. Of course he lost, in one stupid gamble against the odds. Robert never liked to play safe.”

  “And then?” she whispered.

  “He collapsed. I called for Batten and went to summon the doctor.”

  Caro covered her mouth, reliving that terrible night. “I never knew how the doctor came. I never thought to ask.” She touched his arm. “Thank you, Marcus.”

  His hand over hers, they stood in silence for a minute. She was still thinking about Robert’s final decline, but he hadn’t forgotten the original topic under discussion.

  “What happened to the Venus, Caro?”

  “I told you I don’t know. The next day, I noticed that it had disappeared. He must have lost it to someone else.” A feeble explanation, she realized.

  “And then lost it to me? Robert was meticulous in matters of play. To the point of foolishness.”

  “It must have been the fever that made him do it. I’ve told you all I know,” she said firmly. Then, since attack was the best form of defense, “Why didn’t you come to me to collect the debt?”

  “Do you have to ask, my dear? I’m no saint. I’ve been called a villain by some of the best people in Europe. But I wasn’t about to dun my best friend’s widow when I knew she’d been left in a precarious position. I knew you’d need to sell the Venus, and I assumed that’s what you had done.”

  “Well I didn’t,” she said peevishly.

  “So I hear. Julian says the painting hasn’t turned up in any collection and he—or Isaac Bridges—would know.”

  “It’s a mystery.”

  “Indeed.” Now he moved closer. She’d forgotten what a striking man Marcus was. Not as gorgeous as Robert, as handsome as Windermere, or as darkly appealing as Julian. But he was by any standards good-looking, even without the debonair charm that was his stock-in-trade. She felt a pang of longing for the young innocent girl who’d been dazzled by the quartet of beautiful young men and fallen in love with their leader.

  He was leaning over her, holding her hand as her mind raced, seeking the words to make her denials convincing. The notion of telling him the truth crossed her mind, only to be dismissed. Her painting was safe only if no one knew about it.

  He glanced over her shoulder, and the tension went out of him. He smiled, the engaging grin of Marcus at his most charming. It was so hard to remember that it was also Marcus at his most lethal.

  “But enough of this dull business,” he said. “You’re a bride again and should be celebrating. And here is your new spouse!”

  She turned to find Thomas steering himself through the company in their direction, Lord Stuffy to the life.

  London life, Thomas had discovered, was greatly improved by going to bed early. With his wife. Aside from a little shopping, a meeting with his man of business, and the occasional walk in the park, the two weeks since their wedding had been spent in Conduit Street, blissfully devoid of callers.

  They’d talked mainly of unimportant matters, but Caro did tell him about the loss of her child, to assure him that she wasn’t barren, she claimed. Then she quickly changed the subject. Seeing the matter was painful to her, he allowed it. He would have liked to press for details though not because he was worried about her ability to bear children. He looked forward to increasing their family, but his concern was for her. His heart ached for her loss, and he would have liked to comfort her distress. But his wife, he had learned, did not care to dwell on unhappy things.

  Thomas had been brought up to keep his manner reserved and his emotions even. Amazed by her freely expressed opinions on any given subject, her quick anger, and quicker return to laughter, he found her endlessly fascinating. Yet instinct told him she held something back, that discontent lay buried beneath the sunny façade.

  He discovered in himself a boundless desire to make her happy and a terrible fear that he wasn’t the man to do so. He knew himself to be a simple man, and Caro, for all her openness, was an enigma.

  He hadn’t wanted to come to this ball, but Lady Ashfield insisted the new duchess should spend more time learning the ways of the ton. He emerged from a tedious conversation, ready to take Caro home for the only instruction that currently interested him. Their mutual education in how to please each other was proceeding apace, and he felt confident that, in this area, he would graduate with honors.

  Ready to make his excuses and snatch her away, he was displeased to observe Caro in close and earnest conversation with another man. She was holding the fellow’s hand. Steady, he told himself. It’s just her way. He was accustomed, if not resigned, to such affectionate demonstrations with her friends of both sexes. This one he’d never seen before. At least, that’s what he thought until he came closer. It had been a long time, fifteen or six
teen years, but the boy was recognizable in the man. Lithgow.

  “Thomas!” Her pleasure seemed unfeigned. She shook off Lithgow and offered both her hands to him. “Look who’s here! It’s Marcus Lithgow, Robert’s friend, and mine.”

  He’d heard her mention Marcus but never by his surname. He’d thought Denford was as bad as it could get, and he was almost used to Oliver Bream and the coterie of artists. But now this! He might have guessed Robert Townsend’s best friend would be a rogue.

  “We’ve met,” he said, standing straight to display his superior height. “Lithgow.” Caro might tease him about it, but this was a moment for Lord Stuffy at his stuffiest. He tucked Caro’s hand into the crook of his elbow for emphasis.

  “He’s Lord Lithgow now,” she said at her sunniest. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

  “We’re by way of being cousins,” Marcus said. “My mother was a connection of the Fitzcharles family.”

  “A very distant one,” Thomas said firmly.

  Lithgow’s smile oozed slime. “How charming that we are now related, Caro. Caro and I go back a long way. When we first met, she was the prettiest seventeen-year-old in the world. Robert, damn him, won her away from the rest of us. You’re a lucky man, Castleton, to have beaten the competition. I flatter myself it might not have happened had I been in England.” With a natural grace Thomas couldn’t but envy, he took Caro’s free hand. Anyone watching would think it a friendly reunion rather than a confrontation of snarling dogs with Caro as the bone.

  “You and I go back even further, Lithgow. I’ve never forgotten your visit to Castleton with your father.”

  “I’m flattered that fortnight made such an impression.”

  “It was your sudden departure, like a pair of thieves in the night, that made it impossible to forget.”

  If Lithgow had been a man of honor, he’d have called him out for such an insult, and Thomas would have been glad to oblige. Instead, he laughed. “My dearest Caro! Your new husband isn’t very cordial. Is he always like this with your friends? How uncomfortable that must be for you. But I’m a man of peace, so I forgive him. I entirely understand how the green-eyed monster extends its claws when such loveliness as yours is at issue.”