The Importance of Being Wicked

by Miranda Neville

  A grunt and a long wuffle drew a smile. Better let him sleep it off. It would give her time to gather the servants and tidy up the house.

  Thomas woke to late-afternoon light. It must be twelve hours since Denford poured him into his carriage and sent him home to Caro. He thought better of Denford than he had. A little. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he liked his fellow duke, but he felt a certain respect for him.

  Examining the state of his head, he found it normal. He recollected Caro forcing some vile liquid down his throat on the grounds that it would make him feel better. Apparently it had. He couldn’t understand why some men became drunkards. It was a most unpleasant process. The only negative physical effect he felt was hunger. He could summon his valet and demand food, but there was only one person he wanted to see.

  Caro had seemed quite her old self yesterday. Or was he imagining that she was finally over the melancholy caused by losing their child? He rubbed his chin and frowned. Better not seek her out until he was shaved. He rang the bell.

  “Her Grace asked to be informed when you awoke,” Minchin said.

  “Where is she?”

  “In the garden, I believe, Your Grace.”

  Thomas had a new plan. “Let her be for the moment. I need to bathe and dress. And have someone bring me bread and a slice or two of meat.”

  An hour later, feeling quite himself, he headed for the state apartments. His mother had complained of his father’s miserly refusal to replace any of the furnishings, and he had to admit she was right. The rooms were gloomy and overly formal, understanding gained from living in the bright, cheerful chaos of Conduit Street.

  Entering the saloon, he wondered if he was dreaming. First of all, it smelled of flowers, which bloomed brightly in three or four colorful arrangements. And where did that lacquered bureau cabinet come from? It wasn’t a new acquisition, after all, but he’d never noticed how handsome it was until it stood in better light, out of the dark corner it had inhabited all his life, and probably for the last century. The room no longer seemed dismal, a ponderous space designed to overawe the visitor. The placement of the seating invited conversation. He imagined Caro here, entertaining callers and making them laugh. There’d never been enough laughter at Castleton House.

  A picture over the fireplace made him frown. He had no idea who the lady in the ruff was, but her plain features weren’t helped by a disapproving expression. Strange, Caro hadn’t moved her. Too high for her to reach, no doubt.

  He rang the bell and gave an order to the house steward. Now he needed assurance that his wife, whom he’d left languishing, hadn’t endangered her fragile health moving furniture.

  “Come with me to the saloon, please.”

  Caro wasn’t sure whether she was about to receive congratulations or a scolding for the new arrangement of the room. As for the other major apartments, she blenched. She hadn’t had time to decide where everything should go. There were pictures on the floor in the dining room, and the smaller drawing room resembled a furniture warehouse.

  Thomas led her by the hand through the main door in the garden front. He didn’t seem angry. There was an air of suppressed excitement about him. “Close your eyes,” he said when they reached the double door to the saloon. He guided her in. “Now you may open them.”

  She was speechless. The Farnese Venus—her Venus—hung in pride of place over the fireplace. She looked beautiful, and Caro had never thought to see her again.

  “How? Why?” She clutched Thomas’s hand, fearing the picture was a chimera that would disappear before her eyes.

  “I went to London to fetch it, thinking it might raise your spirits. I was shocked when Batten told me you’d ordered him to take it to auction.”

  “I wanted you to have the money for your sisters.”

  He kissed her hand. “Denford tells me it’s one of the great small paintings of the Italian Renaissance. Thank you for bringing my family such a magnificent dowry. I believe it deserves pride of place.”

  “But Thomas,” she said, lifting her hand to touch his beloved face. “How do you come to have it? Did you buy it?”

  He smiled into her hand. “Mr. Christie was remarkably amenable once I introduced myself and told him my duchess had consigned the picture without my permission. Some disappointed bidders will have heard that the Titian was withdrawn from the sale.”

  “This is a case where I’ll forgive you for being a high-handed duke.” She gave him a brief kiss and would have made it a long one, but he clearly had more to say. So she stretched her arms about his chest and snuggled up happily. Lord, how she’d missed his solid comfort.

  “Despite how important the Titian is to you, you were ready to give it up, to help me. Thank you for your sacrifice, but I would never wish to deprive you of your memories of Robert. Your happiness is the only thing that matters.” His voice was matter-of-fact, without a hint of resentment.

  “You are so good to me.”

  She rested in the shelter of his arms and looked at Titian’s goddess. For so long the Venus had held an importance to her far beyond artistic merit. What was its meaning now? Did she feel more than the simple pleasure at gazing on a marvelous painting, perhaps the best she had ever seen? Caro looked into her heart and discovered a quiet happiness, tinged with melancholy, at the memory of its acquisition. And a strong, bright love for the man whose generosity of spirit had brought it back to her.

  “It’s our picture now,” she said. “When I look at it, I will think of you.”

  Thomas’s cheekbones reddened in that embarrassed look she so adored. “She’s very pretty, though she doesn’t look much like you. You’re prettier.” Dear Thomas. He would never be a critic. “The boy’s a jolly little beggar.”

  This seemed the moment to speak. She took a deep breath, for she knew it would be difficult. “There’s something I must tell you. I think we should sit down.”

  They shared a sofa, Thomas looking wary. She perched on the edge of the seat, her hands clasped together in her lap. She stared at her thumbs. “I want to tell you about losing my child. My first child.”

  “My dearest! I shouldn’t have mentioned the boy in the picture. Don’t talk about it if it distresses you.”

  “I must. I avoided thinking about it for too long. Avoided the truth.” The sentences jerked out. “I was so happy to be increasing after three years. I wanted a child. I thought Robert did too.”

  “Did he not?”

  “He seemed pleased, in a careless sort of way. I thought he was just being a man. I didn’t yet know the gaming fever had taken hold of him, and everything else was unimportant. As I grew larger and came closer to my confinement he went out more and more, often late at night.”

  She thought she could tell the story to the one she trusted above all others. But an open heart was vulnerable to hurt. She let out an involuntary gasp of pain. Thomas swore under this breath and placed a gentle hand on her head.

  Through gathering tears she relived her terror. “The labors came in the middle of the night and woke me. I was alone. I called for the servants. They sent for the doctor. But Batten couldn’t find Robert. He searched all over London for him, all the usual places, to no avail. My labor was very hard, and long. It lasted all day and into the next night.”

  “When did Robert come home?”

  “He didn’t. Our baby was born in the early hours of the morning. He only lived a minute. Robert came home hours later. He never even saw his son.” Caro broke down.

  “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 y
ou 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.

  Thomas 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 wi
th 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

  Oliver 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.