The Importance of Being Wicked (5 page)

“And so he may.”

“So you don't advise me to reject him?”

“It's too early for me to judge if he is anything more than a Lord Stuffy. But I would say he isn't without promise. He just needs to be tested a little.”

“Morrissey won't be pleased if I reject such an ideal match.”

“We have months before he returns from Ireland. Plenty of time to get rid of Castleton if you don't like him. In the meantime, you must give him a chance.” That was reasonable. Unusually reasonable for Caro, whom she would have expected to urge rebellion.

“Apparently he is going to escort us to Almack's on Wednesday. Er . . . What is Almack's?”

“An assembly room in King Street that holds weekly balls. Only the very best people are admitted.”

“Excellent. You and I are, after all, two of the very best people. Are the balls entertaining?”

“I wouldn't know, having never attended. It's necessary to obtain vouchers from the lady patronesses.” Caro didn't have to explain. Anne understood that the Townsends, despite impeccable birth and connections, had always preferred to avoid the
ton.
“Not that I've ever been denied admission. I've never applied.”

Anne heard a note of bravado in Caro's voice. Even for her dauntless cousin, it was one thing to eschew such places, quite another to be denied admittance. “I think it sounds very dull,” she said. “Let's make sure we always have something better to do on Wednesdays.”

Chapter 4

A
t eleven o'clock the doors to Almack's closed, and late arrivals were no longer admitted. Of Miss Brotherton and Mrs. Townsend, there was no sign. Thomas, who'd spent an hour and a half dancing and making small talk with the sort of girls he'd have courted if Felix Brotherton hadn't done him the favor of dying, was not altogether surprised. When he'd received Mrs. Townsend's excuse of an early-evening engagement, he'd smelled a rat.
It will be more convenient if we meet you at Almack's
, she wrote. More convenient for whom?

Clearly, she was determined to keep her cousin away from him, but she wasn't going to succeed. If the heiress didn't want to have him, that was her privilege. But he'd be damned if her little snip of a cousin was going to make the decision.

He excused himself from his hostesses and a bevy of disappointed chaperones, and made his way on foot to Conduit Street. He didn't really anticipate that the ladies would be home; he certainly didn't expect to be handed a note, addressed to His Grace the Most Noble Duke of Castleton in a florid and definitely ironic hand. Mrs. Townsend informed him that their plans had changed and gave him new instructions. Apparently the game wasn't quite what he'd thought.

He continued his walk north to Oxford Street and the Pantheon Theatre, where a masquerade ball was being held. The management of the establishment wasn't worried about conflicting with the assembly at Almack's. It catered to a very different crowd. Not that Thomas knew firsthand. It wasn't at all the kind of place he frequented.

At almost midnight, revelers were still entering through the columned front. A hawker on the pavement offered a variety of masks, but Thomas decided not to bother. The new arrivals, both men and women, sported a wide variety of dominos and costumes from a ludicrous range of historical periods. Since many wore ordinary evening clothes, he wouldn't stand out, and he thought it unlikely, though not impossible, that anyone would recognize him. If someone did, he hoped his presence would lend countenance to the ladies. Given his impression of Mrs. Townsend's careless attitude to propriety, he didn't count on their being adequately disguised. Damnation! She was not a fitting chaperone for her cousin, who deserved the careful protection due a great heiress and future duchess.

Having paid his entrance fee, he was proven right. Not immediately, because a small woman didn't stand out in the busy foyer, but soon he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Townsend. She stood next to a pair of great doors through which the sounds of music and revelry emerged. Yes, she was masked, but she needn't have bothered. A narrow strip of black velvet covered her eyes and not much else. Anyone who knew her would recognize the pert nose, the lush red mouth, the assertive little chin. Aside from that excuse for a mask, she was dressed in the new fashion that left a lady half-naked. The miniature bodice of her white gown left a good deal of pale flesh on view to the
hoi polloi.
He found himself torn between conflicting desires to explore it with his hands and bundle her in a blanket. Of Miss Brotherton, there was no sign.

Mrs. Townsend watched the arrivals passing through the entrance. A man approached her, a drunken cit judging by his swaying gait and plain town garb. Thomas prepared to intervene, but the fellow accepted her negative shake of the head and staggered on.

Then she saw him and smiled, as innocently as his sister Maria accepting his escort to church. “I've been waiting for you,” she said gaily.

The frustrations of the evening welled in his chest. “We had an engagement. You could have had the courtesy to inform me of your change of plans.”

“I did, eventually. And now you are here. I wasn't entirely sure you'd follow us. You might have preferred to remain at Almack's and court a less-demanding bride.”

“Certainly less troublesome.”

“Also less rich. You should expect to go to a little trouble for such a prize.”

She aimed to provoke him. He took a deep breath and determined to disappoint her. “Since you expected me, I hope I haven't kept you waiting too long.”

“I guessed you would remain at Almack's until eleven and a big man like you, accustomed to country life, is doubtless a swift walker. You are remarkably punctual.”

“And you,” he replied, “are remarkably recognizable. That ridiculous mask wouldn't fool anyone who'd ever set eyes on you.”

“In that case, I'll take it off.” She tossed him a defiant look and suited action to words. She was trying to annoy him, and succeeding too.

“You shouldn't be alone in such a public place.”

“I'm accustomed to taking care of myself.”

He shuddered to think of what could happen to such a delicate creature. Did she have no idea of the dangers of such mixed company? An appalled thought struck him. “I don't see Miss Brotherton. Please don't tell me she's in there without an escort.”

“Oliver came with us. She's dancing with him now.”

Of course. Who else? “Is Bream up to the task of protecting a young lady in such a place?”

“The crowd seems good-natured, and Annabella isn't dressed in a manner to attract much attention.”

Bringing her to a sense of propriety was a doomed endeavor. “Why do you call her that?” he asked instead.

“I renamed her when we were children.
Anne
's a plain name, and she's my beautiful cousin.” She spoke without irony, and Thomas liked her better for her uncritical affection.

He peered over her shoulder. “Do you have any idea where she and Bream are?”

“We'll have to find them among the dancers. You'd better dance with me. We'll look foolish otherwise.”

Despite the fact that he'd never been asked to dance by a lady, Thomas wasn't unwilling. They would indeed look awkward fighting through the throng, which wasn't arranged in neat lines as at a proper ball. Couples whirled around together like fledgling pheasants summoned for feeding time, bumping and jostling with the object, he guessed, of achieving as much physical contact between men and women as possible. He offered her his arm and almost became entangled with the small cloth bag that hung on strings from her wrist.

“What is this?” he asked.

“My reticule,” she said. “There's no room for pockets in the new fashions.”

That he could well believe. There was hardly room for a small woman in the skimpy gown.

He led Mrs. Townsend through the doors into the melee, her hand on his arm as though they were entering a more exclusive ballroom. Maintaining a proper distance was not easy, as other arrivals competed for space. Still, he flattered himself that he made an example of dignified behavior to the revelers—if they cared—until someone crashed into his back. The jolt made it necessary to embrace her to keep them both upright.

She was warm and soft and fit perfectly against his body, odd since he was a giant in comparison. He looked down at the jaunty curls hugging her skull and spilling over onto her brow, then the tender curves of her bosom, almost as pale as her gown against the burgundy and silver of his coat and embroidered waistcoat. He stared with fascination at a single freckle, like a birthmark, centered with exquisite precision between her breasts. He wanted, quite desperately, to touch it. Better still to kiss it. To discover how it would feel on the tip of his tongue . . .

Sternly, he wrenched his eyes from the spot and his mind from the errant thought. Neither lips nor tongue would ever approach the vicinity of Mrs. Townsend's breasts. Instead, he looked at her face, and that was a mistake. Her gaze spoke eloquently to him of indecent, bedroom thoughts. Brown eyes glowed like gold fire, and carmine lips parted in a gentle invitation. A dull roar drowned out any thought but an incoherent urge to possess. His muscles followed the animal instinct that had taken over his brain. Both arms surrounded her, gripped her bottom, and lifted her against him so they were aligned from chest to thighs, and his mind dwelt on dark corners and dirty deeds. That bowed red mouth called, and his own responded, descending inch by inch through the hot feverish air.

A sound, a little huff—of shock? Of desire?—penetrated the fog of his senses, and he realized what he was doing. He turned to stone, unable to move a muscle, drowning in the dreamy summons of her gaze. Until her expression changed, her eyes sparkled with laughter, and her mouth broadened to a merry grin.

Quickly, he released her and put the few inches of air between them that the crowd would allow. “I do beg your pardon, ma'am.” He was surprised he could manage even that gruff apology.

“No harm done,” she said. “It is quite a crush. Shall we enter the fray?”

She didn't seem upset. Had he imagined the whole encounter? Had the contact that seared him to the core in reality taken only a few seconds and left her unaffected? If so, he told himself sternly, it was just as well. He was going to wed her cousin.

“Mrs. Townsend,” he said. Though no longer jammed together in a forced embrace, they were close enough to carry on a conversation without shouting. “Why are you here? Why did you bring your cousin here?”

“I thought it would be fun, Your Grace. Anne hasn't had much amusement in her life.”

“Should amusement be purchased at the expense of decorum?”

“I'm probably the wrong person to ask. I never quite mastered decorum. Did you know I eloped to Scotland with Robert Townsend when I was seventeen?”

“And did that amuse you?”

For a moment he glimpsed a shadow in her eyes, then she was laughing at him again. She was always laughing at him, but this time her mirth seemed brittle. “Of course. Why else would I do it? Why else would I do anything?”

The answer to her challenge was easy. “Duty to one's family.”

She pulled a face. “Dull stuff. But, since you insist, I am doing my duty to my cousin. To ensure she makes a good marriage.”

“Are you an expert on marriage?”

If his question was a challenge back, she evaded it. “I'm an expert on amusement. And now it amuses me to dance with you.”

He wasn't at all sure it was a good idea. A sedate country dance he could manage. But it wasn't in the interests of his own sanity to engage in the kind of intimate cavorting on offer at the Pantheon. The memory of Caro Townsend pressed against him was still etched on his body.

“Come,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We look foolish standing here.”

“I don't know this dance.”

She grinned impishly. “I don't think anyone does. Try for something between a minuet and a jig.”

The ludicrous combination of the stately court dance and the lively saltation of the common people was quite like the pairing of the Duke of Castleton and Mrs. Caro Townsend. Impossible.

The appearance of Oliver Bream and a masked, domino-clad lady meant he didn't have to try.

“Miss Brotherton,” he said, bowing. “I am relieved to see that you, at least, had the discretion to come well disguised.”

“Caro insisted,” she replied. “It's dreadfully hot in here. I wish I could remove the domino.”

Not if he had any say in the matter. At least Mrs. Townsend, negligent as she might be as a chaperone, had the sense to keep her cousin covered up. “In that case,” he said, “I won't suggest we dance. May I accompany you to a seat beneath the gallery? I believe it may be cooler there.”

Anywhere would be cooler if it were away from Caro Townsend's vicinity.

O
liver was in the full-blown throes of his new passion, Lady Windermere long forgotten and his fickle desire fixed on its latest object. Caro had heard it all before, many times, and scarcely paid attention to his furious comments on the Duke of Castleton. “Annabella cannot marry that man!” he said, as they turned in the dance. Accustomed over the years to public balls, Caro and Oliver were able to dance and converse without difficulty while avoiding major collisions with other dancers. “She has an artistic soul, and the fellow is a yahoo.”

Oliver always imbued his paramours with exquisite sensibilities, regardless of the truth. As for the duke, Caro wasn't sure he was in fact one of Swift's uncivilized creatures. For Anne's sake, she should be glad: Castleton was determined to wed her, and she had to admit he was a suitable husband for her rich cousin.

It would be easier for her own emotions if she could dismiss the duke as a negligible dullard. For this evening had revealed an inconvenient truth. She, Caro Townsend, a virtuous if not reputable widow, desperately wanted to go to bed with the Duke of Castleton.

When he'd saved her from being knocked down by the crowd, taken her in his arms, she'd been struck by a devastating lust she hadn't felt since Robert died. Or for some time before if she were honest with herself.

She wanted to feel desire. She welcomed the heat in her veins, the flutter in her chest, the streaks of excitement passing through her body making her feel young and hopeful and so alive. A liaison for pleasure and amusement was just what she needed. But with the right kind of man, a man of the world. Not a stuffy, overly formal nobleman who wanted to marry her cousin.

For Castleton was the kind of man one married. She had no doubt he'd enjoyed a discreet liaison or two, probably with members of the demimonde. He wouldn't dally with a lady. And even if he didn't wed Anne, Caro was the last woman he'd consider. He was devoted to family tradition, and the Dukes of Castleton always married money.

She was mad to even think about Castleton and marriage and herself in the same sentence. He lived for duty and propriety, the cold precepts her mother had tried, and failed, to drum into her. The things she'd rejected forever when she ran off with Robert Townsend. The kind of daughter her mother wanted would suit Castleton: a prim creature possessed of polite accomplishments and the womanly virtues of meekness and obedience. Caro Townsend wanted the warmth and laughter and acceptance she'd found with Robert, and which lived on in his friends.