An Improper Wife Chapter One

  Chapter One
Newcastle, England, December 1798

Despite the crush of people that pressed into the intimate corner of the crowded

ballroom, the din faded into the background when Lady Caroline Wilmont allowed the

hooded blue domino to draw his cape close around them. She leant against the stone pillar

and he rested a muscular arm above her head.

 

His costume wasn’t original—few at such masques were—but the piercing blue eyes

staring back at her from behind the mask offered the hope she could forget the prison that

awaited her tomorrow.

 

Guilt niggled. If her presence at the soiree was discovered…she commanded her nerves

into submission. Responsibility be damned. She would leave before the assigned hour of two

a.m. when the masks were to be removed. No one would know the future Viscountess of

Blackhall had attended a masque. Tonight, she was simply one of the many masked women

bent on seduction—and being seduced.

 

Caroline ducked her head, allowing the locks of her long blonde wig to fall to the sides

of her face. A crescendo of violins rose from the orchestra. The beat of her heart matched the

trilling vibrato. She turned her face just enough to be able to study her admirer through her

lashes. His gaze boldly met hers, then dropped to the draped bodice of her Aphrodite

costume. Warmth spread through her limbs and brought a flush to her cheeks.

 

The rich purple of the long sash around her neck contrasted with the stark white of the

plunging décolletage designed to accentuate full breasts, bared to a hint of nipple pink. Her

pulse skipped a beat. If she leant forward a hair’s breadth…

 

The crowd pressed closer, up the two steps that separated them from the dance floor.

 

The masked gentleman’s leg brushed her thigh, revealed by the slit in the costume’s long

skirt. She could scarcely believe her luck. A second move, and one so bold this early in the

evening. The hour was just before midnight and the more prominent guests had yet to

appear. If she had captured his imagination to the extent he would forsake other possibilities,

this last night of freedom might cost less than the allotted two hours.

 

“Your beauty makes me forget my manners,” the domino murmured.

 

She gave a low laugh. “I daresay your manners are impeccable—outside of this room.”

His gaze locked onto her mouth. “Do you prefer impeccable manners?”

 

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth. His eyes darkened, and her heart skittered

as he leant into her. Caroline slid around the pillar towards the wall, intending to draw him

into a more intimate semblance of privacy. Her hip collided with rounded buttocks. She

twisted to the right. A masked joker grinned at her over the head of the lady she had

bumped into. He reached out with the hand that was wrapped around the woman’s waist

and nipped at the skin just below Caroline’s breast.

 

She turned back around and got a mouthful of her domino’s hard chest. She snapped

her head up, and blue eyes stared down at her in a blaze of desire. She froze as his mouth

descended. Soft as velvet, his lips slid languidly over hers. He flicked his tongue against her

lips and she breathed in the heavy aroma of cigars, and recognised the pungent taste of

brandy. Her uncle smelt of brandy and cigars.

 

Uncle? She tensed, eyes locked on the domino’s shadowed features. His seductive kiss

played on her lips. An unpleasant tremor fluttered in her stomach. Damn her uncle. She

closed her eyes tight and focused on the warmth of the domino’s lips. A low groan rumbled

from him. Strong, solid arms banded around her and pulled her closer. Caroline

concentrated on the feel of her breasts flattened against the hard muscles of his chest. Why

didn’t her heart pound, her breath catch, her body yearn for his touch?

 

Fear surfaced. No. She refused to believe what her betrothed, John, had said only two

months before his death. Despite the fact he had come from yet another night of drinking,

gaming, and carousing, the accusation that she was a passionless husk had cut deep. The

cloying scent of perfume and tobacco that clung to him had reminded her that he felt no

regret about going from one woman’s bed to another. But doubt lingered.

 

She forced back the memory. It wasn’t lack of desire that kept her from enjoying the

domino, but the dread of discovery. Once they were alone, she would discover the ecstasy of

his lust. Her heart beat faster with the memory of overhearing John speak of how a woman

had driven him mad by sucking and licking his cock. She planned to drive this man wild and

discover the part of her that ached for a man’s touch.

 

The domino deepened the kiss and Caroline envisioned him braced over her, hands on

her bared breasts, his hard length rubbing against her pussy. Darker features and black hair

 unexpectedly replaced the fair-haired domino in her mind. A flicker of pleasure tightened

her nipples and the desire streaked to the heated petals of her pussy.

 

Caroline clutched the domino’s shirt. His grip tightened as his tongue curled around

hers, tasting, stroking. She slipped her hands between their bodies and pressed against his

sternum. The firm, contoured muscles of his chest quivered beneath her fingertips. She liked

this, would gladly take him, and yet, she had expected something more.

 

He drew back and trailed fingers over the thin material of her costume, grazing the

edge of her breast. From the corner of her eye, Caroline caught sight of lush, blonde hair

piled atop the head of a woman wearing a Marie Antoinette costume. She froze. Only one

woman between Newcastle and London had such luscious hair that she needed no wig to

play Marie Antoinette. Lady Margaret.

 

What was Margaret doing here? Earlier that afternoon, when her mama had asked her

if she planned to attend the ball, she had claimed to have a headache. She’d told Caroline

privately that she found the ton even more tiresome in Newcastle than she did in London.

 

Caroline would never have dared attend the masque in London, where she was sure to be

recognised. But her uncle had insisted at nearly the last minute that they oblige her future

father-in-law and hold the wedding in the chapel on his estate. So here in Newcastle, she had

little fear of getting caught at the party. Her heart sank. Now Margaret had destroyed her last

chance for seduction. There was nothing left but to flee.

 

The blue domino leant forward and whispered in her ear, “Aphrodite.”

 

His breath, warm and eager, brushed the tiny hairs on her skin. A shiver raced along

her spine and made her scalp tingle. Yes. This she craved. Damn. Too late, all too late.

 

The domino withdrew enough to be able to look upon her face. “Perhaps we should

find somewhere more private?”

 

If he had suggested that but five minutes ago! She would throttle Margaret. Caroline

lifted a corner of her mouth in a half-smile. “Pray, sir, fetch me a punch. This room is a

veritable sweatbox.” She ran fingers over the swell of her breasts, wiping a trail in the sheen

of perspiration beaded across her skin.

 

His gaze followed the action, eyes darkening before he returned his gaze to her face and

gave a slight bow. “At your service.”

 

He turned and took the two steps down to the dance floor, then began shouldering his

way through the crowd towards the buffet table at the opposite side of the room. Caroline

 hesitated, the lost hope of feeling that muscled chest beneath her palms and his hard thighs

heavy against her, suddenly bitter. She had planned intimate kisses, clandestine caresses, and

the memory of a man’s hard cock between her fingers. She planned to give all, save proof of

her innocence. On the morrow, she would do her duty as the promised virgin. Now nothing.

 

If Margaret caught her at the ball, there would be hell to pay.

 

Caroline swallowed the panic bubbling in her throat, and turned to the left, intending to

skirt the wall to the French doors that lay a few feet away. She met the joker’s gaze. He

grinned. The woman with him faced Caroline and gave her a sultry look. Caroline turned to

the right and glanced in the direction she’d seen Margaret. Where had she gone? Nerves

sizzled with apprehension and tension in her neck promised a headache in the morning.

 

She looked back in the direction of her companion. He halted to the left of the masked

dancers and turned to stare at her. A small smile curved one side of his mouth. Her stomach

fluttered, then soured. The ball was the event of the season. He would be another ten

minutes making his way through the crowd. By then, she would be on her way home.

 

Caroline turned and hugged close to the column as she headed for the balcony doors. She

slipped past couples in intimate conversation. Under her breath, she cursed again, and

scanned the crowd as she sidestepped a woman dressed as Autumn. Once outside, she

would make her way through the gardens to the servants’ entrance, then to the front of the

mansion where a hackney waited.

 

She was out the door, across the stone balcony and down the last of the four steps when

behind her a voice said, “Have you gone mad?”

 

Caroline froze, skirt held above her ankles. It had been too easy. She released the dress

and slowly turned. Lady Margaret stood at the top of the stairs, the ridiculous pannier she

wore spanning half the width of the steps. Caroline started to speak, then paused when

another masked domino and sultana emerged from the ballroom. He pulled the sultana

closer and she responded with a giggle. They rushed down the stairs, headed for the

seclusion of the gardens. Longing stabbed at Caroline. She was a fool to have thought she

belonged here.

 

Margaret’s gaze followed their retreat, then shifted back to Caroline. “Looking for a bit

of privacy?”

 

Caroline ignored the cold—she had left her wrap inside and had not intended on

retrieving it—and leant against the stone pillar. “I am alone, as you can see.”

  

“Yes, I can see you are…now.” Margaret took two of the steps, stopping so that she

towered over Caroline. “Perhaps you have a lover waiting in the garden?”

 

Caroline sighed. “How did you know it was me?”

 

Margaret snorted. “We have known one another since the nursery. I would know you

in any disguise. Just as you recognised me—and do not deny that is the reason you fled.” She

descended to the fourth step so that they were eye level with each other and said in a voice

barely audible over the music filtering from the ballroom, “You are to marry on the morrow.

 

What in God’s name are you thinking?”

 

“As you say, tomorrow I marry. I go from grieving betrothed to wife.” Unwanted wife,

she mentally corrected. So much so that her future husband’s business had taken precedence

over their marriage and he refused to come to England until the very day of their wedding.

 

“Surely, I can have this,” she added, “my last night of freedom.”

Margaret arched a brow. “Do not expect the privileges of rank then flout the

responsibilities.”

 

Caroline snorted. “Responsibilities be damned. I have worn black a full year and will

wed the Viscount tomorrow, as my rank dictates. Tonight, I am not Lady Caroline, heiress to

twenty thousand pounds a year, soon to be Viscountess. Tonight, I am Aphrodite, the

goddess of love and beauty, who indulges her whims as she wills.”

 

A couple appeared from the garden shadows beyond the light cast by the open balcony

doors. The dark wig on the woman dressed as Curiosity was askew and leaves clung to the

cape on the gentleman dressed as Death.

 

Margaret frowned and waited until they’d ascended the stairs and entered the ballroom

before saying, “If word of your escapade reaches his lordship, you may well not become

Viscountess.”

 

“By God, I shall rip off my mask now!” Caroline declared.

 

Margaret rolled her eyes. “Pray, forego the dramatics.”

 

Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Where is your sense of adventure? What is this spell that

has turned you into a prig?”

 

“Good sense and age,” Margaret replied. “The same spell you should have fallen under

long ago.”

 

Caroline gave an unladylike snort. “A year of mourning has soured me. As if being

betrothed to that indifferent man hadn’t been enough,” she added under her breath.

  

Margaret’s face softened. “Perhaps his brother will be better.”

 

Better? She’d heard rumours. Lord Taran Robertson demanded obedience. As apathetic

as John had been, Taran was forceful in his cravings—his sexual cravings. She’d even heard

he’d used a paddle on a mistress when she’d been disobedient. A thrill streaked along her

spine. Controlling and dominant, yet virile and passionate. She remembered the new

Viscount of Blackhall. Eyes the colour of copper laced with amber strands had darkened to a

rich brown when he’d met her gaze in the instant before bending over her hand. She’d been

sixteen, too young to recognise the tremor of awareness in her stomach as desire.

 

When John died, Taran had become Viscount of Blackhall. A prickle skimmed her arms.

Odd, that the same twist of fate that had taken her father had repeated itself and saved her

from John. Both had died in riding accidents. Despite her lack of feeling for John, his death

had come as a shock. Finding herself betrothed to the brother ere the body was cold had been

an even greater shock. She’d had her uncle to thank for that. No. Her father. Had he not left

his brother-in-law in charge of her fortune, her future might have looked very different. 

 

Loneliness closed around her heart. She missed her father. He had been a good man,

who couldn’t accept that his wife’s brother, privateer Phillip Etherton, was the infamous

pirate Peiter Everston. The fortune Phillip Etherton had amassed came as a result of blurred

lines between protecting the seas for the Crown, and murder. But wealth wasn’t enough.

Uncle wanted to join the elite circles of society, and her marriage to the Viscount of Blackhall

was the price.

 

“John cared nothing for me,” she said, more to herself than Margaret. “He was cold and

unfeeling.” As would be his brother. A lifetime of cold nights and dreary, lonely days

stretched out before her.

 

Margaret placed a hand on her shoulder. “I have heard otherwise.”

 

“From his mistresses, no doubt.”

 

“A man may have as many mistresses as he likes,” Margaret replied. “It is no shame to

the wife.”

 

“I shall provide the required heir,” Caroline replied with an aplomb she was far from

feeling. “I am going.” She turned and continued down the stairs.

 

“Car—Aphrodite,” Margaret called, but Caroline didn’t turn back.