The Importance of Being Wicked Page 2

  She bid the Venus a silent farewell. Hearing her name called, she looked over the banister and saw a mop of fair curls at the foot of the stairs.

  “I saw him leave,” Oliver said.

  “I fobbed him off. For now.”

  “Well done! What did he think of my Venus?”

  “Artists! Do you honestly care what a man like Horner thinks? All he cares about is money.”

  “He’s the first man to see it. Was he overcome by her beauty?”

  “He was struck by her resemblance to me. How could you, Oliver? First you blab all over town that I own a picture that was supposed to have been sold ages ago. Now he’ll no doubt start a rumor that I posed naked for you.” In fact, Oliver had taken an unfinished canvas, abandoned when he could no longer afford to pay the model, and adapted it.

  His boyish features wore nothing but wounded innocence. “The whole point was that the hair is like yours.”

  “You didn’t have to make it short! When Robert said the Titian reminded him of me, my hair was long.”

  “I’m sorry. I never thought of that.”

  As they talked, they’d returned to the drawing room and now stood before the nude. Caro shook her head in despair. “I do trust that isn’t my expression. She looks as though she is ready to welcome all comers. Horner had quite the wrong idea.”

  “No, not you. I was inspired by someone else.”

  “Oliver! Surely you don’t mean Anne! I swear, she’s never worn an expression like that in her life.”

  Oliver wore the fatuous grin provoked by Caro’s cousin and current houseguest, Anne Brotherton, the latest unattainable object of his desire. “In my dreams, she does. One day, I know, she’ll look at me like that.”

  Poor Oliver. He suffered hopeless passions, never with the slightest hint of reciprocation from their objects. His adoration of Cynthia, Lady Windermere, had lasted only a few days, but there was no point saying he’d be over Anne within the month. While in the throes of his fickle infatuations, he was convinced his love would last forever and eventually melt the lady-du-jour’s obdurate heart. Caro reminded herself that she was not feeling sympathetic toward Oliver’s absurdities today.

  “I’m still very angry at you.” Her voice broke with frustration. “How could you be so indiscreet, Oliver? I told you the Titian was a secret.”

  “I’m sorry I told Johnson. I’ve told him it was all nonsense. He won’t say anything else, I promise. You know what happens when I get foxed.”

  Caro always found it hard to stay annoyed at Oliver. “I was at fault too. I drank too much wine that night.”

  “I’m glad you still have her. She’s such an amazing work. How did Titian manage those skin tones?” He rocked back on his heels and squinted at his own work. “Mind you, I think my Venus is a damned good painting.”

  “It is,” Caro assured him. “The flesh is beautifully painted.”

  “She is my masterpiece. I’m glad she’ll be displayed in your drawing room. Someone may see her and want to buy her.”

  The painting was supposed to make up for the fact that Oliver owed her quite a large sum of money, amassed through small loans, a few pounds here and there to buy paints, canvas, or food. At present, he actually lived in the room over the carriage house as well as working there, having been ejected from his lodgings for nonpayment of rent. He didn’t pay her rent, either. It was some time since he’d sold a picture. Caro was too softhearted to remind him that the Venus belonged, by rights, to her. Lord knows she’d never sell it, so if he found a buyer he might as well reap the reward.

  Now that she knew of his inspiration, Caro could see some resemblance to Anne, despite her cousin’s dark hair.

  “I’m sure Annabella won’t notice, but I wonder if Cynthia will see the likeness when she dines with me this evening.”

  “Let me dine with you too,” he begged.

  “You told me you were meeting Bartie St. James and the Longleys.”

  “We could all dine with you. Please? It’ll be fun! Besides, none of us can afford to eat anywhere decent. Neither Bartie nor Adam Longley has sold a picture in weeks.”

  And I can’t afford to feed every starving artist in London.

  But she didn’t say it. She never did. She loved her friends, and the Battens would come up with something. Robert’s former valet and his wife, who combined the work of housekeeper and cook, had stayed with her despite the sometimes chaotic and often impecunious nature of her household. However short of money she might be, it was nothing to the poverty of Oliver and his friends. Besides, she and Robert had always kept an open house, and to do otherwise insulted his memory.

  A house full keeps loneliness at bay.

  “I’ll speak to Mrs. Batten.” She glanced at the clock and hoped it was right. “Good Lord! I must shoo you out of here! Annabella’s duke will be here any moment.”

  “You’re not going to let him marry her, are you?”

  “Not unless he’ll make her happy. Now go! I need to play the chaperone and terrify him.”

  Oliver grinned happily. “I don’t want to miss that. I’ll be back. I want to help.”

  Chapter 2

  The Dukes of Castleton always married money. Since the first duke, a child of two, had been granted the title by his father Charles II, the family had been responsible for its own prosperity. The Merry Monarch was generous with titles and honors for his numerous mistresses and ever-growing crop of bastards, but he was also short of money. So the first Thomas Fitzcharles, son of an actress named Mary Swinburne, had a duke’s title but an income scarcely worthy of the average baronet. He found himself a rich wife with a handsome estate and house in Hampshire, which he rechristened Castleton House.

  His successors added to their holdings through judicious marriages until, a hundred years later, the family had amassed estates worthy of an earl and, better still, the income of a prosperous London merchant, but without the unfortunate necessity of anyone having to work for it. Not for the Dukes of Castleton the distasteful tasks of service to the Crown in the army or government. Instead, their talents were directed to the onerous business of seeking, pursuing, and winning the very best heiresses.

  The fourth duke had always felt it keenly that his bride brought good blood but a mere twelve thousand pounds. In a moment of weakness, he’d been distracted by a pretty face. The marriage had not been a success. His son, he swore, would do better. It was with the greatest satisfaction that, on his deathbed, he heard of the demise of the only male heir to the enormously rich Earl of Camber, leaving the earl’s granddaughter with a huge inheritance and no fiancé. “She’s the one,” he said happily, and expired.

  His son, another Thomas Fitzcharles and the fifth duke, was on his way to meet his destiny: the Honorable Anne Brotherton. The fact that she was to be found in this plain gray brick house on a quiet street in Mayfair was surprising. But he supposed that Mrs. Townsend, Miss Brotherton’s cousin, was a widowed lady of advanced years and retired habits. He’d never encountered her during his occasional incursions into the ton. She probably owned cats and rarely went out in society. Good. It was a trifle tiresome that Miss Brotherton insisted on coming to London at this time instead of letting him visit and woo her at her country estate. Thomas wasn’t fond of London. And in the country there’d be no competition for the heiress’s hand.

  He paused on the steps and frowned, reluctant to request admittance despite a chilly drizzle. He wished he could summon more enthusiasm for the task at hand. But he’d always been a dutiful son and a dutiful Fitzcharles. And if he had it in mind to shirk either duty, his father’s legacy had deprived him of the possibility of defiance. There was an irony in there somewhere should he wish to disinter it. But the Fitzcharleses didn’t go in for irony, or any other fancy attitudes. Thomas was first and last a Fitzcharles, the Duke of Castleton, and his prime duty was to find a duchess. A rich duchess. The richest of all. He was sure he and Miss Brotherton would understand each other and deal very well. A spark
of a notion that life and matrimony might hold something more was ignored. When he had time, he’d make sure it was snuffed out completely.

  He grasped the brass door knocker and rapped it sharply. The manservant expected him and led him upstairs to a drawing room. He had an immediate impression of bright colors and a warm atmosphere that came from something more than the fire in the grate. The room held but a single occupant, a young woman. Was Miss Brotherton receiving him alone? It seemed most improper, though a hopeful sign for his courtship.

  She set aside an embroidery frame, rose from the sofa, and moved forward to greet him, her hand outstretched.

  “Your Grace,” she said. He’d been a duke for over a year, but it was as though he’d never heard those two familiar words before. Her voice was a melody played on a clarinet, a fine brandy on a cold night.

  As she dropped into a curtsey, he took her slender white hand and, instead of merely bowing, he raised it to his mouth, unthinkingly brushing his lips over soft skin. An indefinable scent tickled his senses, and he wanted to pursue it. He didn’t want to let her go.

  She retrieved her hand and stepped back, leaving him a touch bereft. His spirits soared as he examined his intended bride. He saw a small woman—not much below average height, but he was a large man—clad in a soft white gown that displayed the pleasing proportions of her figure. Her only adornment was a thin red ribbon about her neck, but the simplicity of her dress enhanced her prettiness. Golden red curls framed a delicate face with a faint dusting of freckles over a sweet little nose. Both her eyes, somewhere between gold and brown, and her dark rose mouth sent the message of humor and enjoyment of life. The smile that animated her expression roused a warm tightness in his chest and a certain heat farther down his body. He felt his lips stretch into a foolish answering grin. Then she spoke again.

  “Anne is at the dressmaker’s. I am her cousin, Caro Townsend.”

  The room suddenly felt as chilly as the street outside. Fool that he was. Miss Brotherton was no redhead. Every report said she was a pretty dark-haired girl. Which, describing an heiress, meant she was no more than passable and probably plain. Had this glorious creature—the widowed cousin—been an heiress, she’d have been lauded as a raving beauty in every corner of the kingdom.

  Disappointment, scarcely acknowledged, turned to annoyance that his quarry hadn’t the courtesy to receive him. “Honored, ma’am,” he said, his words as stiff as his spine. “You should have sent word that the time of my call did not suit.”

  “Oh it suited,” she said blithely. “Anne will return soon. I wanted to meet you first.”

  “I have the permission of her guardian to call on Miss Brotherton. Doubtless Lord Morrissey wrote to you himself.”

  Her laugh was as smoky as her voice. “Morrissey has no idea Anne is with me. He doesn’t approve of me.”

  “I’m sure you exaggerate, ma’am.”

  “Unfortunately not. I’m held in quite low repute. You must not have asked anyone about me.”

  “I confess I understood you to be a lady of more . . . advanced years since you were cousin to Miss Brotherton’s late father.”

  “My father married late, my cousin early, so the generations slipped out of alignment. I’m four years older than dear Annabella, though she used to call me aunt as a joke.”

  “You don’t look anything like my aunts.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. I think. Let’s sit down, Duke. My cousin is very dear to me, and I am her chaperone. Imagine I’m that frightening old lady you’d been expecting and let me ask you some difficult questions.”

  He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or indignant. This little slip of a girl appeared quite serious about interrogating a duke.

  “May I offer you refreshment? A glass of wine?”

  “Thank you, no. I need to keep my wits about me.”

  He waited for her to be seated, then, following her gesture, lowered himself onto a sofa, almost landing on a massive ginger cat who lay there on his back, his four legs splayed to display a white stomach.

  “Don’t mind Tish,” she said.

  He squeezed himself into the corner of the sofa so as not to disturb the sleeping beast. At last, some aspect of his imagined picture of the Widow Townsend turned out to be accurate.

  “Handsome creature. Tish, did you say?”

  “Short for Atishoo. He sneezes a lot.” The cat opened his eyes and stared at Thomas without moving from its undignified position. “Do you like cats?”

  “I prefer dogs,” he said tactfully, rather hoping the creature wasn’t about to live up to its name all over his breeches.

  The room had a cheerful atmosphere. The clutter of feminine occupation lay everywhere: sewing, books, a sketchbook. A vase of red tulips echoed the shades of an oriental carpet. Despite the unwelcome feline company, his seat was a comfortable one. He relaxed and waited confidently for Mrs. Townsend to do her worst.

  Mrs. Townsend leaned forward in her chair. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “That’s a delicate question.”

  “Of a woman, yes. A gentleman has nothing to hide about his years except perhaps a lack of them. Besides, the information is readily available in the peerage. Save me a visit to the circulating library.”

  “I am twenty-nine.”

  “I see.”

  Mrs. Townsend stood up and moved to take a seat at a writing desk, sideways to the room so she presented her profile. Having dipped her pen in the inkpot, she wrote something down, something that took longer than inscribing two digits. He watched her, taking in a cluster of curls at her forehead, a small, slightly upturned nose, and a mischievous mouth. It occurred to him she was toying with him.

  “Is that good or bad?” he asked finally, breaking the silence against his better judgment.

  She turned her head. “It remains to be seen. Tell me of your family. Where do they—and you—live?”

  “I have three sisters, the eldest of whom is married. The two youngest, twins of sixteen years, live with me at my principal residence, Castleton Park, near Basingstoke in Hampshire. As does my mother,” he added. “The estate there has some five thousand acres.” He wondered if she expected him to tell her his income, something he’d rather avoid for the present. “I own town properties in Guildford as well as lands in Wiltshire, Surrey, Hertfordshire, Suffolk, and Lincolnshire.”

  “Three addresses inspire confidence, six is a little excessive. Do you own a London house, too?”

  “Fitzcharles House is in Whitehall. It is currently let, but I expect to repossess it once I am wed. In town I stay at Nerot’s Hotel.”

  “So you don’t spend much time in London?”

  “I haven’t until now. While my father lived, I spent much of my time traveling to our different estates when I wasn’t at home. Although I prefer the country, I expect to attend Parliament now that I am duke.”

  “I hope you wouldn’t expect a wife to bury herself in rural obscurity.”

  “I am willing to accommodate Miss Brotherton’s desires, but surely she has spent much of her life in the country.”

  “Very true, unfortunately. Anne has come to visit me to get a taste of town life.”

  She began to write again, or at least scratch at the paper. He couldn’t imagine what she was recording.

  “I understood,” he said, “that your cousin was not making a formal presentation.”

  “True. I shall not be presenting her at court at this time.”

  “So she won’t be participating much in the entertainments of the season?”

  Mrs. Townsend’s pen continued to move. “I wouldn’t say that. I daresay we shall manage to amuse ourselves.”

  “In that case,” he said, “I would be honored to accompany you both to the assembly at Almack’s next Wednesday.”

  “I’m sure that would be most entertaining.” Setting down her pen with a click, she shifted her chair to face him. “What do you do, Duke? How do you spend your time?”

 
; “I tend to the duties of my situation in life.”

  “I’m sure you are a paragon among dukes.” She sounded impatient. “What gives you pleasure? What gladdens your heart?”

  What kind of questions were these? Was this a trap? “Well,” he said, pondering how he should respond, “I take pride in my stables and maintain a small racing establishment at Newmarket. Nothing extravagant,” he added quickly, lest she think him given to profligacy. “I rarely wager. I play cards only for small stakes, and I drink wine in moderation.”

  “That all sounds very dull. Do you keep a mistress?”

  Good God in heaven! What kind of chaperone, of whatever age, asked a question like that? She seemed quite unaware of anything unusual, merely regarded him with raised eyebrows and a bold gaze. He couldn’t meet it and looked away, casting desperately around the room for inspiration in answering—or not answering. What he found didn’t help, but it did explain what kind of woman asked such a thing.

  A woman whose portrait—whose stark-naked portrait—hung on the wall of her drawing room where anyone might see it. He tried to look away, but he couldn’t. Not so much as a wisp of fabric veiled the expanse of pale flesh. He wrenched his attention away from the depiction of his hostess’s exposed body to the painted face, which wore an expression not so dissimilar to that the original had recently fixed on him. Bold indeed. Except that as he gazed at the picture, the look in the woman’s eyes seemed to grow sensual, inviting, unlike his hostess’s quizzical expression. He twisted his neck, which felt warm under its encasing layers of linen.

  He darted a look back at Mrs. Townsend and stopped. It was not, it occurred to him, a very good likeness, aside from the coiffure, the shockingly short red curls.