The Importance of Being Wicked (6 page)

The only relationship she and Castleton could ever have would be a brief affair. And she wouldn't bed her cousin's suitor, which meant she had to put him out of her mind and forget the way she'd wanted to sink into his large, protective embrace. To pull his firm stubborn mouth to hers and devour him. To rip off his perfectly proper, not-too-fashionable clothing and discover the powerful body she guessed dwelt beneath wool, linen, and starch. To feel those big hands all over hers. She must ignore the empty ache in her belly and the certainty that Castleton could fill and soothe it. And she must forget what their brief embrace had revealed. That Castleton wanted
her,
at least as far as his physical reaction was concerned.

If she had to be attracted to a duke, why couldn't it be Denford? Why couldn't she accept Julian's careless offer? He was handsome, wicked, and undoubtedly a skilled lover. She knew him well enough not to expect anything from him but pleasure, and that she could have. But she didn't want it. Not from him.

As though her thoughts had conjured him up, she glimpsed Julian through the crowd, dancing with a masked lady who looked like Cynthia Windermere. She hoped she was wrong.

“Is that Julian?” she interrupted Oliver's rapturous paean to Anne's beauty. “Could he have brought Cynthia here?”

“Lady Windermere?” Oliver replied, as though he'd hardly heard of the woman who, a week earlier, had inspired almost the identical laudatory flights he now devoted to Anne. “Yes, I think that's her. We'd better return to your cousin. She may need us.”

“Oh dear! Do you think Anne in danger of ravishment at Castleton's hands?”

Oliver tended to lose his sense of irony when he was in love. “Who knows what the fellow might do when confronted with so much loveliness,” he said darkly.

“By all means, let us find them before he gets carried away.” She was cruel to tease Oliver but really, he was absurd. There wasn't the least chance that Castleton would ravish Anne in a public place, or anywhere else. Lucky Annabella if he would.

The level of noise in the Pantheon had steadily risen, reflecting increasingly loose and raucous behavior among the ballroom's clientele. Something soft flew over Caro's shoulder, brushing her cheek. The missile was followed by a feminine shriek, a masked lady who appeared in danger of losing her gown, and a gentleman whose Elizabethan costume revealed most of his legs. The woman brushed past Caro and snatched at her property, now draped over Oliver's shoulder and recognizable as a long satin glove the color of a peacock feather. Caro guiltily realized the proceedings were about to become quite unsuitable for her innocent cousin, whom she'd brought here as a means to vex her stuffy suitor. She was worried about Cynthia, too. It was her fault her friend had come to the attention of Denford. It was time to inform her exactly why Julian Fortescue meant nothing but mischief toward the wife of his former best friend, now his bitter enemy.

“Oliver.” She had to raise her voice almost to a yell. “Find Cynthia. Things are getting out of hand, and we should take her home.”

Oliver folded his arms and looked stubborn, though his rocklike demeanor was marred by the jostling crowd. “She'll be safe with Denford. He won't let anyone harm her.”

“I'm not worried about anyone
else
harming her. I don't trust Julian.”

“What about Annabella?”

“I shall go and ensure that she hasn't fallen prey to the ravishments of Lord Stuffy. I see them under the second arch from the left. Find Cynthia and bring her there.”

“What if she won't come?”

“Lie. Tell her I have urgent need of assistance.” She pushed Oliver in the direction she'd last seen them. “Now go.”

As Oliver's slight figure was engulfed in a crush of bodies, Caro fought her way toward the relative peace of the gallery until her progress was foiled by a body, and deliberately so. Why, with half of demireputable London crammed into a very large space, did she have to run into Sir Bernard Horner?

The way his eyes lit up left her in no doubt that her presence at the Pantheon had given him the wrong idea.

“My very dear Mrs. Townsend. What an unexpected pleasure. And alone, too.” His caressing tones pierced the ambient roar.

“What a surprise, Sir Bernard.” Her smile aimed to conciliate without encouraging. In the past few days she'd ignored two letters, facing the insoluble problem of her debt to him with denial of its existence.

“I've been waiting to hear from you.”

“I've been busy. Why don't you call on me tomorrow afternoon. Shall we say three o'clock?” She'd make sure she was chaperoned by Anne and Oliver, and she'd have the morning to think of an answer. “I must get back to my party.”

“I can't let you go alone.” He seized her hand and devoured her face with lustful pale eyes. “First, won't you dance with me?”

She made her hand rest limply in his grasp, thanking Providence that she was gloved. If she had to touch his bare flesh, she wouldn't be able to maintain the appearance of affability. “Thank you, but I think not. I'd fear for the safety of my gown in this mob. I'm fond of it and fear it would be ripped to shreds.”

Not the right thing to say. His eyes gleamed at the prospect. “I'll protect you. It is my greatest wish to offer you my protection.”

The thought of what he meant by protection made her stomach flip. “Another time. I must go.”

His grip on her hand tightened, and she wouldn't be able to escape without a struggle. She glanced about her, desperately seeking help. Anne and Castleton shouldn't be far away unless they'd moved. She couldn't see a soul she knew, and she very much doubted that any stranger would come to her aid, even if she screamed. Which she very nearly did because, while she wasn't looking, Horner raised his free hand and ran dry, ridged fingertips over the exposed swell of her breasts.

“So lovely,” he said, leaning in. Oh, God. He was going to kiss her. She tried to free her hand, using the other to pry open his grasping fingers, but to no avail.

“Let go!” she said, abandoning the pretense of complacency. And watched with horror as his mouth descended toward hers. She smelled his sweet perfume mixed with sweat, the wine on his breath.

Her knee was poised to strike his private parts when suddenly she was released. Horner, taken completely by surprise, struggled in the grasp of a very large duke.

Chapter 5

T
homas had no idea who the man in the tight striped coat was, but he knew he didn't like him. Only a complete scoundrel would go out in public dressed thus. Mrs. Townsend appeared to greet him with pleasure. Not surprising that she would have such a friend. The atmosphere in the Pantheon had degenerated into a licentious romp, no place for a gently bred and innocent lady. He considered taking Miss Brotherton home, abandoning the disreputable, albeit appealing, Mrs. Townsend, to her fate.

She was smiling at the fellow, letting him hold her hand! If this was an example of the kind of man she admired, it confirmed every poor impression he'd gained of her. Ignoring his inconvenient attraction would be easy.

Then something changed. She was trying to get away. The blackguard had the nerve to lay his fingers on the curves of her bosom, the flawless skin that he, Thomas, was far too much of a gentleman to touch, however much he might wish to. Crimson rage flooded his brain and took possession of his body. The gently bred and innocent Miss Brotherton was abandoned without a thought. He charged, knocking over a few drunken oafs along the way, grabbed the oversized striped collar of that ridiculous coat and tore the villain from his prey.

Whatever his name was, he had no chance to put up a fight. Thomas spun him around and smashed fist into jaw, not as flush as he would have liked given the constraints of the crowd, but hard enough to send the striped body flying into a group of revelers.

At that point, things got a little interesting. The fellows he'd floored in his initial charge bore in, giving Thomas no chance to explain he'd been motivated by chivalry. Quickly deciding there wasn't any point reasoning with inebriated riffraff, he raised his fists and found himself in a fight.

Outnumbered three to one, he had the advantage of size and sobriety. One went down with a single blow, and he was parrying the attack of the others when he became aware of help from an unexpected quarter. Caro Townsend, swinging her reticule about her, managed to knock down one of the assailants. Whatever she had in the cloth bag must be quite heavy, confirmed when she nearly hit him over the head with it.

“Careful,” he cried, as it glanced off his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Caro said, whacking a husky giant in the chest just as the new combatant charged Thomas. Her intervention very likely saved him from being felled.

He would have ordered her to safety, but he was too busy with a foe who, with no regard for the rules of pugilism, grabbed him by the neckcloth and had to be dislodged. Boxing his ears, also not an approved technique, did the trick.

The brawl spread, with men who neither knew nor cared about the cause of the fight joining the fray. Thomas found himself back-to-back with Caro, she swinging her lethal accessory, he wielding his fists. Someone succeeded in landing a punch in his eye, but he ignored the pain. “Are you all right?” he yelled at his unlikely second.

“Splendid!” she shouted back. “How are we going to get out of here?”

“I have no idea.” And he didn't. He should be worried, for the situation looked to be developing into a full-blown riot. Instead, he felt exhilarated, blood coursing through his veins in the excitement of combat. He couldn't attribute it to the martial spirit of his Fitzcharles ancestors, for they had none. His brain had never felt keener or more attuned to the actions of his limbs: disarming the powerful but unscientific sally of a man with the physique of an oversized hauler by the expedient of kicking the man's ankle so he lost his balance and crashed to the floor; parrying the attack of a costumed cavalier by twisting his wig and rendering him blind. He discovered he possessed the low cunning that his ancestress Mary Swinburne, the darling of Drury Lane, must have used to capture a monarch and dispose of half a dozen rivals.

The screech of whistles pierced his senses, but his sights were set on Caro's stripe-clad debaucher, who had rallied (or bribed) a beefy bruiser as his companion in a new offensive. He kept his fists up and shook off a restraining feminine hand on his shoulder.

“Castleton!” His name, Caro's voice. “Castleton, we must leave. The management has summoned the watch.”

Distracted for a moment, he lowered his guard but was saved by a new ally, a tall, slim, black-haired figure. “Get Caro away,” Denford shouted, planting a right-handed punch squarely on Beefy's jaw.

“The striped fellow is mine,” Thomas yelled back.

Denford ignored him and landed a vicious left in Stripes's stomach. “Get out. I'll hold off the watch while you and Caro escape.”

A glimmer of sanity tempered his frenzy, and it occurred to him that, as the man who'd started the fight, however righteous the cause, he might be taken up by the law. And though he could doubtless argue or buy his way out of trouble, it would be, to say the least, embarrassing to have to do so. Not to mention how the episode would look when it was known he had a lady with him. Caro Townsend tugged at his shoulder. His sense of propriety returning, he firmly placed her hand on his arm and drew her close for protection. For her sake, even more than his, he prayed the fight would be regarded as all in a night's work at a public masquerade and not draw the attention of Grub Street. Mrs. Townsend's involvement in a scandal would affect her cousin.

Her cousin.

Thomas's heart sank. He stopped abruptly, jerking Caro to stand with him. He'd never even given a thought to the fact that he'd left Miss Brotherton all alone when he'd thrown himself into the melee. He craned his neck to the spot under the gallery where he'd abandoned the heiress. No sign.

“Your cousin. We must find her.”

Denford noticed his hesitation. “Go!” he urged.

“I must find Miss Brotherton.” He hated having to shout out her name in this company, but the noise was too loud for discreet communication.

“Bream has her,” the other duke yelled back. “They'll meet us in the street.”

Thomas still wavered. “Should we help Denford?” he asked Caro.

She grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. Her white gown was a little creased, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. “Julian can look after himself. He's been in far worse fixes than this.”

Thomas could well believe it. “Very well. Let's go.”

He thrust his way through a teeming mob, with her clinging to his arm and positively skipping along beside him. “You were absolutely splendid! I wouldn't have guessed you for a warrior.”

His chest swelled with pride, struggling with the distressing knowledge that public brawling was no suitable activity for a gentleman, or a lady. Propriety won when he thought of Miss Brotherton.

“Let's hurry. I don't have much faith in Bream's powers of protection.”

“She'll be fine. I expect Cynthia is with them too.”

“Lady Windermere?”

“She came with Julian.”

A married woman, attending such an affair with a man of Denford's reputation! Thomas's exhilaration faded speedily, and he was left to coldly face the absolute proof that his hoped-for bride had fallen into most undesirable company.

“I hope, Mrs. Townsend, that this unseemly brawl makes you regret your rash behavior in coming to this place.” They had reached the relative calm of the street.

She pulled away and faced him, folding her arms in front of her. “That is too much!” Her enchanting face displayed a blend of amusement and annoyance. “Who started the unseemly brawl? Not I!
I
didn't hit Sir Bernard Horner.”

“If you mean the fellow in the striped coat, he was pawing you in the most disgusting fashion. I came to the rescue of a lady.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You appeared in distress. Not surprising for a lady alone in such a place.”

“So it's my fault?” Amusement had fled, leaving nothing but outrage. “I'd appreciate your keeping out of my affairs. I have no wish to be at odds with Sir Bernard.”

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, angry and mortified. He'd rushed in like a foolish knight-errant, but apparently the lady didn't wish to be saved. He'd misinterpreted the situation between Mrs. Townsend and the man in the striped coat—Horner she'd called him. For all he knew, she was encouraging him, indulging in flirtatious byplay he'd failed to understand. Good Lord, perhaps the pair of them were lovers. His cheeks heated as she glared up at him, her lips pursed. Their gazes clashed for some seconds, and he felt a tightening in his chest, a compound of irritation and something more, something he couldn't name. Then her mood shifted, her expression softened.

“I'm being unjust,” she said. “You meant well, and you weren't to know that you interfered where you weren't needed.” A hint of distress flickered across her mobile features. He wanted to press her, to ask how he could help. He also wanted to run away as far as he could. Mrs. Townsend was the kind of overly dramatic, emotional woman who came to a bad end.

Her melancholy, if that was it, passed quickly. The smile that had bewitched him earlier made its reappearance. “You must admit,” she said, “it was the most magnificent fight. I don't know when I've enjoyed myself more.”

He had his defenses mounted against her charm. “A fracas in a public place, or anywhere else for that matter, is no place for a lady.”

She laughed aloud. “Don't be stuffy, Castleton. You know you enjoyed it.”

To his shame—and he had no intention of owning it—she was right. In the small hours, after he'd seen the ladies bestowed safely in Conduit Street, he walked to Piccadilly through the cool, quiet streets. Too tired for thought, he let his mind roam aimlessly and found himself humming.

He never hummed. And he certainly had no reason for frivolous gaiety. His neckcloth was a mess, his waistcoat buttonless, and his shirt torn. His hands were sore from punching, his chest and shoulders stiff from received blows, and he knew beyond doubt that in the morning he'd be sporting a black eye.

Barely acknowledged, shoved into the back corner of his mind, was the fact that he'd never had so much fun in all his twenty-nine years. He'd never felt more alive.