Free The Importance Of Being Wicked by Miranda Neville Page B
Authors: Miranda Neville
nothing at all to disgust a man in her appearance. Many would even find her pretty enough, regardless of the size of her fortune. A husband would have nothing to complain about bedding her.
Unfortunately, he felt not the slightest enthusiasm about doing so, which was remarkable in that he hadn’t enjoyed a woman in months. He’d thought it proper to break with his mistress, a widow residing in Basingstoke, when he wrote to Morrissey proposing his courtship of Miss Brotherton.
He didn’t even want to kiss her. He wanted to marry her, but he didn’t wish to kiss her. He wondered if he should be concerned.
The discovery in some distant county of an Anglo-Saxon midden, which sounded like an antique dust-heap, rendered her quite lyrical. All the way to Conduit Street, she talked about rubbish.
Naturally, he saw her up the steps and knocked on the door. And naturally, in this chaotic household, the door opened to reveal, not a servant, but the mistress of the house. Caro—Mrs. Townsend—stood in the doorway dressed in her usual white but revealing even more flesh than usual. In fact, her garb appeared to be fashioned from a sheet. The breeze set her curls aflutter and molded the light linen around her delicious figure.
“There you are,” she said.
Her foggy tones were like a physical caress that went straight to his groin and proved that his desire was still functional. Mrs. Townsend he wanted to kiss. And a good deal more.
Not daring to touch her, he bowed.
“You’d better come in. After an afternoon at the British Museum, I imagine you’re ready for refreshment, and I don’t mean tea. The servants are out, but I expect you can open a bottle of wine.”
A wise man would refuse. He’d made progress that day. A wise man would take leave of the woman he was courting and eschew the company of the woman he ached to bed. Every nerve vibrating, his eyes glued to her slender neck, the uncovered shoulder blades, the sway of her hips, Thomas followed his hostess up the stairs. Miss Brotherton, chatting away about the delights of that infernal museum, took her cousin’s arm.
Halfway up, Mrs. Townsend looked over her shoulder at him. The lift of her brow and the mischief on her lips told him why she’d refused to accompany her cousin today. It wasn’t that she was a neglectful chaperone—though she was that too—but that nothing short of massive bribery or extreme torture would get her through the doors of Montagu House. A moment of silent communion, over as quick as a wink, told him that, on the subject of the charms of the British Museum, they thought as one.
At the first-floor landing, Miss Brotherton continued upstairs. He followed Mrs. Townsend into the drawing room, which contained, of course, Oliver Bream. Did the man live in the house?
“Who was it?” Bream asked, not bothering to rise from his chair, a lack of polite observance in the presence of a lady that Thomas abhorred. “I wish you’d lie down again. The light won’t last much longer.”
The artist bent over a sheet of paper resting on a board on his knees and waved a pencil impatiently.
“Oliver’s doing a sketch for a new painting of the Rape of Lucrece, and I’m posing for him,” Mrs. Townsend said. “He’s right about the light. Would you mind fetching the wine?”
Taken aback at being given such a mundane domestic duty, Thomas nonetheless managed to find his way to the cellar, which contained a good many empty wine racks and a few dozen dusty bottles. His hostess had told him where to find a corkscrew and glasses. He examined the former with some trepidation. He’d never paid any attention to the question of how wine got out of bottles, but how hard could it be?
Quite hard, as it happened. After some experimentation and a wrenched thumb, he managed to extract a rather crumbly cork from a bottle of claret and carried it upstairs in subdued triumph.
Mrs. Townsend lay flat on her back on the chaise longue, her figure displayed in
Unfortunately, he felt not the slightest enthusiasm about doing so, which was remarkable in that he hadn’t enjoyed a woman in months. He’d thought it proper to break with his mistress, a widow residing in Basingstoke, when he wrote to Morrissey proposing his courtship of Miss Brotherton.
He didn’t even want to kiss her. He wanted to marry her, but he didn’t wish to kiss her. He wondered if he should be concerned.
The discovery in some distant county of an Anglo-Saxon midden, which sounded like an antique dust-heap, rendered her quite lyrical. All the way to Conduit Street, she talked about rubbish.
Naturally, he saw her up the steps and knocked on the door. And naturally, in this chaotic household, the door opened to reveal, not a servant, but the mistress of the house. Caro—Mrs. Townsend—stood in the doorway dressed in her usual white but revealing even more flesh than usual. In fact, her garb appeared to be fashioned from a sheet. The breeze set her curls aflutter and molded the light linen around her delicious figure.
“There you are,” she said.
Her foggy tones were like a physical caress that went straight to his groin and proved that his desire was still functional. Mrs. Townsend he wanted to kiss. And a good deal more.
Not daring to touch her, he bowed.
“You’d better come in. After an afternoon at the British Museum, I imagine you’re ready for refreshment, and I don’t mean tea. The servants are out, but I expect you can open a bottle of wine.”
A wise man would refuse. He’d made progress that day. A wise man would take leave of the woman he was courting and eschew the company of the woman he ached to bed. Every nerve vibrating, his eyes glued to her slender neck, the uncovered shoulder blades, the sway of her hips, Thomas followed his hostess up the stairs. Miss Brotherton, chatting away about the delights of that infernal museum, took her cousin’s arm.
Halfway up, Mrs. Townsend looked over her shoulder at him. The lift of her brow and the mischief on her lips told him why she’d refused to accompany her cousin today. It wasn’t that she was a neglectful chaperone—though she was that too—but that nothing short of massive bribery or extreme torture would get her through the doors of Montagu House. A moment of silent communion, over as quick as a wink, told him that, on the subject of the charms of the British Museum, they thought as one.
At the first-floor landing, Miss Brotherton continued upstairs. He followed Mrs. Townsend into the drawing room, which contained, of course, Oliver Bream. Did the man live in the house?
“Who was it?” Bream asked, not bothering to rise from his chair, a lack of polite observance in the presence of a lady that Thomas abhorred. “I wish you’d lie down again. The light won’t last much longer.”
The artist bent over a sheet of paper resting on a board on his knees and waved a pencil impatiently.
“Oliver’s doing a sketch for a new painting of the Rape of Lucrece, and I’m posing for him,” Mrs. Townsend said. “He’s right about the light. Would you mind fetching the wine?”
Taken aback at being given such a mundane domestic duty, Thomas nonetheless managed to find his way to the cellar, which contained a good many empty wine racks and a few dozen dusty bottles. His hostess had told him where to find a corkscrew and glasses. He examined the former with some trepidation. He’d never paid any attention to the question of how wine got out of bottles, but how hard could it be?
Quite hard, as it happened. After some experimentation and a wrenched thumb, he managed to extract a rather crumbly cork from a bottle of claret and carried it upstairs in subdued triumph.
Mrs. Townsend lay flat on her back on the chaise longue, her figure displayed in