The Trouble With Being Wicked (10 page)

He did, but not without effort. It took all her strength to boost him onto a horse nearly as many hands high as he. After several tries, they succeeded—if one counted him promptly passing out over the withers of his mount as success.
 

Celeste tugged the reins gently and began the long walk in the direction of his estate, which he had graciously pointed out before losing his lights. Who would have thought that by the end of the day, she’d have not one but two men fall at her feet? One more literally than the other, but still.

She smiled to herself. She
was
one of the best.

Chapter Six

Ash gently pressed his palm against the side of his sister’s head. “If you don’t mind,” he drawled, edging Lucy’s face from the reflection in his dressing room mirror, “I should like a moment of privacy in my own home.”

Despite his protestation, dark ringlets and wide brown eyes reappeared next to his in the looking glass. Lord Montborne delighted in teasing Lucy that all the good looks had apparently been reserved for Delilah, but that was more out of a sense of fraternity than fact. Lucy wasn’t entirely plain, and when her eyes lit as they did now, Ash couldn’t help but wonder why she’d never turned a man’s head. It caused him to fear it was her high-spiritedness, a trait their parents had possessed in abundance and which he couldn’t seem to moderate in her, no matter how hard he tried.

“Trestin, be serious,” she said, grabbing for his white neckcloth, “this cravat is a sin. Evans, what are you thinking? This knot hasn’t been seen since 1812.”

Ash sighed to himself. He feared
this
was what kept her at home. “I suppose you’ve learned a few fashionable knots from those plates you and Delilah are so fond of, and are now eager to convince me the expense is warranted?”

Evans, a beanpole with a shock of straw-colored hair, had dutifully turned to locate a fresh cravat from the wardrobe. He paused, perhaps thinking his master would call off the lady of the house this once.

Oblivious to his hopefulness, she looked Ash over with a critical eye. “The least you can do is knot it in a more manly way.”
 

Evans had never voiced a peep of disapproval over Lucy’s regular presence in the dressing room while she and Ash went over menus and the like. But three and twenty was young for a man to keep mum when his talent was impugned, and Ash forgave the lad’s quickly strangled bark of offense.

Ash unraveled the cravat deftly and retied it in the simple—and only—way he liked. “Am I allowed to respond to that?” he asked of her jab at his manhood.

In the beveled mirror hanging over his dressing table, her lips turned in an impish smile. “Of course not.”

For all of the frustration she caused him, she did make him laugh—only ever silently, as now, when he wanted to chuckle and pull his hair out at the same time. She had a wicked sense of humor. But he loved her too much to risk encouraging her brazenness, and so he remained austere. Since the age of two and twenty, he had feared his mismanagement of his sisters would ruin their lives, for they were china dolls and he a stupid oaf with no idea how to raise them. “You do realize that when I am wed,” he said, “you will no longer be lady of the house. No more ordering my servants about.”

“I suppose that is meant to scare me.” She puckered her lips in horror and widened eyes sparkling with mischief. “I shall be an old maid in my brother’s home! Well, not even the threat of living under your wife’s assuredly beautiful thumb makes me desire a Season. My mind is quite made up about it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, determined not to respond to her nonsensical refusal to listen to reason. He maintained a steady gaze on his reflection and was equally horrified by what he saw there. Black tufts poked out from between his fingers. Half an inch too long. He caught Evans’ eye. The valet nodded and turned to procure the shaving equipment.

“I’ve always preferred your hair a bit unkempt,” Lucy said, coming behind him to tweak his hair into little disheveled tussocks. “You look like a pirate.”

“Husbands,” Ash reminded her.
Focus. Reality.
Those were the important tasks that kept the world from erupting in chaos.

“Yes, of course. You wish me to be excited about your decision to haul me to London and marry me off.”

Good God, the chit could be annoying. Had he said she made him laugh?

“I will never look forward to it,” she assured him, brushing away Evan’s attempt to position a pair of short shears and reaching for the dish of pomade instead. “But not because I have qualms about London, nor is it men in general I find repugnant. In fact, I rather enjoy a man’s company, when he is pleasing and amiable.” She shot Ash a look that clearly stated he wasn’t being pleasing or amiable.

She smiled beatifically and continued, “You see, the problem is that I have no wish to marry a stranger. Men are difficult enough to manage when one knows their flaws.”

“That is a completely inappropriate thought,” Ash began, but she cut short his lecture with a few dabs of pomade in his hair.

“Even if I do meet someone I find acceptable,” she continued, “twenty-five hundred pounds is nowhere near enough to compensate for my advanced age. I shall be pitied and therefore embarrassed. I know
you
do not want to cause more reason for my embarrassment.” She pressed her lips together with a satisfied nod for her oratory—and, it was to be assumed, her ability to dress his hair.

He grunted, not the least amused, and scrubbed his hands against the spiky tufts sticking every which way around his head. She didn’t find her dowry sufficient. She feared she’d be embarrassed in Town. Worse, she didn’t believe herself capable of attracting a man she could be happy with. All of these complaints were entirely his fault.

Luckily, she’d turned her attention to the window and the sunny spring day that called him out of doors. It galled him to know how little faith she had in her future. He’d failed to protect her from the pain of their parents’ passionate, scandalous demise. He’d failed to see her wed at eighteen—or nineteen, or even twenty-two—and now she was frighteningly close to never marrying at all.

Yes, she was a bit long in the tooth, but she was still pretty. And if she was a tad set in her ways, well, ways could be changed, with the right motivation. Which brought him to the niggling suspicion he couldn’t quite shake: Lucy didn’t
want
to be married. For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why. Their parents’ unhappy union would make anyone skittish, he supposed, but to not even want to try? It made him think her scared. Surely he hadn’t sheltered her so much that she was
afraid
to brave Society. Not his mulish, intrepid little sister.

He turned from the mirror, prepared to utilize every weapon in his arsenal to bring her to his side. “If you choose to remain unwed, you will stay here with me. You will not live in the dower house, if that was your intent. It’s old and musty and smells like moths.”

“Well, I can hardly claim it as my first choice, especially after that picturesque description. But I certainly don’t wish to live with you my entire life. At some point, surely my feelings will be considered.”

He recoiled from her verbal blow. Where did she get that notion? He’d meant to wield the threat of living with him to encourage her to leave, but he hadn’t meant to make her feel he didn’t consider her feelings. He considered both girls’ futures as thoroughly as his own, every minute it seemed, carefully weighing what was best for them against their wild notions of freedom. He issued orders and put down rebellions and occasionally allowed them to cajole him into extra pin money or a new gown. At times, it seemed all he ever thought about was their feelings. Why did she not see that? What must he do to convince her that all he had at heart were her best interests?

She stepped away from him, though whether it was to allow her to see him better, or for him to see her better, he couldn’t tell. “Emancipation will be sweet, Ash. You mean well, but sometimes you’re worse than Mother was.”

He sputtered. No one was worse than Mother was. Her ironfisted attempts to dominate those around her had contributed to the ruination of their entire family. Ash wished to guide his sisters, not control their every thought.

Lucy bit her lower lip before drawing her shoulders back. “I’m not so far from five and twenty, you know. I should like some semblance of my own life.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? Living alone is admitting defeat.” He drew a breath, willing himself to calm, for he truly wanted her to understand. “And I assure you, I will never cease watching out for you, no matter where you live. Especially so long as you are unmarried.”

Color came into her cheeks. “You’re deluded if you believe I’ll ever receive a proper offer. The only kind of man who wants a spinster for a wife is a hundred years old or else looking to salvage his hide from scandal.”

Ash sputtered. “Deluded? Because I want the best for you?”

“Because you refuse to see the truth! I mean to open a boarding school. I will be headmistress, and you cannot stop me.”

A giant fist socked him in his gut. She meant to have him out of her life. She
longed
for it.

But she seemed oblivious to the hurt she caused him. Determination and something else—something he hadn’t really seen in her before—lit her eyes. Anticipation.

“Not in Devon, of course. I would like to use my dowry as seed money. As my guardian, you’re obliged to bequeath it to me once I reach that certain age after which marriage becomes,” she tilted her head, “quite impossible.”

“You’re impossible,” he said under his breath.

“I heard that.” She smiled sweetly at him, feigning innocence in a pale yellow morning gown.

He indicated her youthful reflection in the mirror behind him. “You’re not old. Four and twenty. Plenty of women marry after twenty. If you’d just go to London—”

Her small shoulders set. “Women my age don’t go husband-hunting. I’m positively ancient. Firmly on the shelf. How else can I say it?” She regarded him steadily. “It’s time to plan for my future.”

His baby sister. A certified bluestocking. She couldn’t be.

Had he failed her so completely? Mayhap. If she was ancient, if he deluded himself as she claimed, then it
was
his fault. Mourning had held her back from her first Season, and he didn’t berate himself for that. But when the impact of their father’s overindulgent lifestyle had made itself known, and Ash hadn’t been able to afford the expense of a wardrobe, he’d been glad when she’d requested to delay her Season again. Only assiduous planning over the course of years had freed him from their father’s obligations and allowed modest dowries to be saved. But Ash hadn’t asked her to make her debut before now, nor had he considered a less costly come-out than the one he’d always wanted for her. Seven years had passed. No wonder marriage seemed impossible to her.

“Surely we can talk about this,” he said, growing desperate. How could he make her future right?

Black ringlets danced as she shook her head, her brown eyes sad. “Men have never sought introductions to me, even here in the country. I know how badly you want me to go to London, and I will go. Because if I don’t, I fear you won’t, and I know how much you wish to take a wife. But I won’t be made a fool. I have no marriage prospects. I wish you would accept that.” She regarded him squarely. “I have.”

“This isn’t over,” he warned, but he needed time to find a solution, preferably one that ended with her bright and happy and bouncing a baby. Her baby.

“Lord Montborne was seen in Brixcombe yesterday,” she declared abruptly. When Ash blinked, attempting to connect this information to their conversation, she explained, “I do hope we won’t go to London while he is in the country. How dreadfully dull that would be.”

Ash pressed his fingers to his temple. “Do you have any additional, illogical statements to make?”

Her face, which had been serene despite their arguing, closed. “None that would interest you, evidently. Good day.” She dipped a shallow curtsey and left the room, her stiff back evidence that he’d crossed a line only she could see.

Ash looked at his manservant. What he wouldn’t give to have Montborne here now, for the marquis understood women far better than Ash ever would. But Evans was his only company, and the lad knew better than to so much as roll his eyes.