Lithgow, odiously unconcerned, arose from his inelegant position with catlike ease. “I appear to have outstayed my welcome. Unless you feel in need of my protection, Caro. Your husband seems to suffer from violent impulses.”
Violent impulses, indeed. To hell with the code duello. Beating the man to dog meat had enormous appeal, and Thomas felt no compunction about using his superior size and weight.
“Yes, Marcus,” she said. “Leave. I’ll explain to Thomas.”
Unabashed, Lithgow removed the lily from his ear and swept a bow. “This is yours, I believe, Duchess. Au revoir.” He had the nerve to present it to her as though he were a suitor. She had the nerve to smile.
“You are utterly impossible! Now get out of here before you cause any more trouble.”
Civilized. Gentleman. Thomas muttered the words under his breath as Lithgow left, reining himself in until he heard the front door close. That he was considering anything as illegal and disreputable as a duel ought to shock him. Illegal be damned. He’d take his chances. Lithgow wanted to steal Caro from him, and he would stop at nothing to prevent it.
And what of her? Was she tempted to succumb? He was horribly conscious that Caro didn’t reciprocate his feelings, or not with equal intensity. She wanted him, yes. And their marriage had saved her from a financial fix though it hadn’t brought her the wealth she’d anticipated. The thought entered his head to be instantly dismissed. Caro wasn’t mercenary. She accepted him as a bedmate, but what if she found a different one she preferred? Although he was doing his best to improve, she’d been frank about his shortcomings in that area.
She released her grip on his arm, tiptoed up, and pulled his head down for a quick kiss. “I would never have thought you such a hothead. You had quite the wrong idea.”
He stepped back, resisting the lure of her lips. “What am I supposed to think, madam, when I return to my house and find my wife almost in the arms of another man?”
“I wasn’t in his arms.”
“Don’t quibble. You were sitting together, and he had his hands on your face. And don’t tell me he’s an old friend.”
“I know how it looks, but I was saying no.”
“The dastard was forcing himself on you! I will call him out.”
“He wasn’t trying to kiss me. He asked me to pay a debt. Robert lost to him at cards, just before his death.”
“I see.” He couldn’t doubt the sincerity in her voice. “I’ll pay it. How much was it?”
“There’s no need. The debt cannot be enforced, and I told him so.”
“I don’t want you obliged to him in any way. How much?”
“A lot. And I don’t want you to pay him.”
“Give me the figure, Caro. With any luck, he’ll take the money and leave the country again. Good riddance.”
“No. I don’t want you to,” she repeated, folding her arms. “You can take the money and use it to pay for my clothes.”
He stared at her in frustration. Her mouth wore that stubborn look, and he was sure the last suggestion had been an afterthought.
“Please, Thomas! Let’s forget about this. There’s nothing between Marcus and me and never has been. Your jealousy is quite groundless. You’re the only man I want.” Her gold-flecked eyes met his with what he wanted to believe was affection.
“I hope you’ll admit now that the fellow is no good. Dunning a widow for a gaming debt is bad form.”
“Are you sure you’re not prejudiced against him? He told me you were the reason he and his father had to leave Castleton House.” She proceeded to narrate a farrago of nonsense about an injured horse.
“I remember the incident,” he said at the conclusion. “I also remember the beating I received when I confessed the matter to my father. I’m sorry you’d credit that I would let another take the blame for my error.”
“I didn’t, and I told him so. I’m afraid it was Lewis Lithgow up to his old tricks. Don’t you see this proves Marcus had nothing to do with stealing the miniature?”
Typical Caro logic. It proved nothing of the kind. In Thomas’s opinion, Lithgow had twisted the tale to make Caro sorry for him. Nevertheless, he gave in with a sigh and took her into his arms. She was soft and tender. His heart ached with love and fought the doubt that plagued him. Was he weak to believe her? Had his father fought off similar doubts until he found absolute proof that his wife was untrue?
He ran his hand through the silken curls, feeling the shape of her head, which rested against his chest. He held her thus for a moment, and his eye rested on Oliver Bream’s naked Venus. It was time to start asserting himself as master of his house.
The next afternoon Caro sat in the drawing room with Oliver, Anne, and Cynthia. Predictably, Oliver’s passion for Anne had run its course, and he was singing the praises of another lady he’d glimpsed at an exhibition of watercolors. He was begging Caro to somehow find the unknown beauty and invite her to dinner. The two previous objects of his fickle passion egged him on, coming up with outlandish plans for the identification of his latest muse.
“If you say she looked respectable,” Anne said, “and young, she must surely be hunting for a husband at Almack’s. You should apply for a position as a footman there.”
“Oliver’s too short for a footman,” Cynthia objected. “The fashionable places won’t hire them under six feet tall. But we could dress him as a girl, and he can be a seamstress.”
“I can’t sew,” Oliver said.
“You shouldn’t let a little thing like that deter you,” Caro said. “Let’s all go up to my room and find a gown for you. I’m sure with a little contrivance, we’ll make you look very pretty.” She mussed his head. “You have such lovely curly locks.”
General laughter was interrupted by the entrance of Thomas, followed by a footman carrying a large flat object wrapped in cloth.
“Good afternoon, my dear,” he said, exhibiting no trace of the irritation that a roomful of her friends sometimes elicited. “Ladies, Bream.”
He motioned for the servant to deposit his burden against the wall. “I’ve bought a picture,” he said. “James, help me get this down.” The two of them removed Oliver’s Venus from the wall, against the expostulations of its creator. “Sorry, Bream, but I don’t care to have a painting of my unclothed duchess exposed to the world.”
“It’s not her body,” Oliver objected.
“Of course it isn’t. None knows better than I. But people may get the wrong idea. I have reason to know they already have. It’s going down to the cellar, and we’ll replace it with this.”
This, when unwrapped, was revealed as a large painting of a brown horse.
“A horse!” Oliver said unnecessarily. “And remarkably badly painted too.”
“Do you think so?” Thomas asked. “I like it.”
“You might at least have bought a Stubbs,” said the outraged artist.
“As a matter of fact, Bridges offered me one of those. But it was half the size and three times the price. This one seemed the better bargain.”
“The beast’s neck is crooked, and the perspective is off in the rear leg.”
The ladies examined the picture in silence. Oliver was right.
“I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “You may be the art expert here, but I’m the authority on horseflesh. I’ve seen animals with just that kick to their gallop.” His voice was grave, but Caro didn’t miss the twinkle in his eye, the suppressed smirk on his lips.
“I think it’s lovely,” she said. “He looks very handsome there. Is it a he, Thomas?” She looked closer. “Yes it is. If the artist got that detail right.”
It was, of course, perfectly dreadful. But having her husband come home with a new painting made her feel very happy. Perhaps next time he could be persuaded to buy a good one.
Chapter 24
“Can 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.
Thomas 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.
The Importance of Being Wicked Page 24