The Importance of Being Wicked Read Free Page B

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.
    â€œYour 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.
    â€œAnne 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,