The Trouble With Being Wicked (14 page)

I do not take lies lightly.
She heard the threat ring, over and over, as Roman waited for her to respond.

It was petulant, but she couldn’t help it. “I hoped you would want me to be happy.”

He stepped toward her, crowding her into the corner. “I do. I love you. Good Lord, I have loved you since the moment I saw you on the steps of Drury Lane, making eyes at the Duc de Salvoy while you were on the Prince’s arm.”

Her heart crashed to a halt. No one had ever said he loved her and meant it.

His eyes searched her face. “But that’s because you and I are of a kind. Not quite worthy of the rest of the world. A dalliance with Trestin, on the other hand, can only cause pain. Yours and his. You must end this before it becomes anything more.” His eyes steeled, but they couldn’t cut her as deeply as his words just had.

She wasn’t worthy.

She barely heard his next pronouncement over the pounding in her head, so loud were her thoughts and so quietly did he utter his threat. “You must end it. Or I will.”

Chapter Ten

Ash tried not to stare at the pull of fabric around the shadowy curve of Miss Smythe’s breasts. In the after-dinner glow of his sister’s sumptuous meal, his eyes felt heavy, his body near-sated. He could easily imagine stealing Miss Smythe upstairs for a few bites of dessert. Mostly bites of her, but if it helped, he could have a tray of strawberries sent up, perhaps some wine—

He caught himself before he threw everything he’d worked for over seven years into the rubbish pile.

It was useless. He wanted to pummel his neighbors, Montborne included. Ash wasn’t the only one to notice her gown was just a little too tight. Even the ladies seemed to be sending her surreptitious glances.

If Ash knew a thing or two about women’s clothing—and unfortunately he did, though not for any interesting reasons—she had a wispy fichu tucked into the deepest décolletage ever to show itself in Brixcombe. He should send for a shawl to cover her with. Aside from his concern over his neighbors’ sensibilities, he feared he was about to have two impressionable females begging for the latest London fashion. Then it would be
his
tender sensibilities in question, because the thought of either of his sisters in such a gown was enough to make him forget how damnably attractive Miss Smythe looked with her tiny waist cinched above her hips. Hips that made a man’s hands want to hold on for the ride.

Good
God
. He spun on his heel to ring for a blasted shawl.

“Good party, Trestin,” Montborne boomed behind him. Ash pivoted once again then froze.
She
was standing beside the marquis. In the gown. The one he wanted to peel off of her. The most irritating part was, aside from the plunging décolletage, she was everything that was fresh and clean—if one ignored the mud stain along her hem, the tendrils of red hair curling from her chignon and the frown tugging her lips.

In other words, there was nothing wholesome about Miss Smythe, except what he imagined. “I will pass your appreciation to my sister,” he promised. Then he took in the two together. Montborne’s gloved fingers barely grazed Miss Smythe’s bare elbow. His expression turned longing, as though the slight touch was not enough.

Ash could understand. A little too well. But he didn’t expect to feel jealous.

“Please do,” Montborne said in a light tone. “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself. Are you, Miss Smythe?”

She tugged her elbow to her side and covered the spot with her hand. “It’s a delightful party, my lord.”

Montborne’s jaw clenched as he looked down at her. Frustration flared so briefly, Ash might have imagined it. Only then did he realize the two hadn’t come upon him together. Montborne had been watching her for the last twenty minutes, much to the frustration of Ash’s sisters, who enjoyed monopolizing him. Ash had been watching Montborne for almost as long, almost as carefully as he’d been studying Miss Smythe, who’d been steadfastly ignoring both of them. She and the marquis must have approached him at the same time from opposite sides of the room.

“Have you seen the Chinese lanterns in the garden?” Ash asked her at the same time Montborne said, “And how
is
your holiday progressing, Miss Smythe?”

Defiance flickered in her eyes. “I quite like it in Brixcombe. In fact, I am overseeing the restoration of a cottage that served as the vicarage at one time. Perhaps you remember it?”

Ash would have said it was impossible for a man as confident as Montborne to falter. Yet for a split second the marquis deflated as though he’d been mortally wounded. Piqued by his best friend’s odd behavior, Ash was on high alert when Montborne turned to him and accused, “You sold her the Amherst property?”

Ash stiffened. If that wasn’t indication of a past, nothing was. He hated being left out of secrets. Irrationally detested it.

“I sold Captain
Inglewood
the Amherst property,” he replied, just to test Montborne’s reaction to that little tale. “Miss Smythe is his wife’s companion.”

As predicted, Montborne’s head swiveled to regard Miss Smythe. Ash couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see hers. She was asking Montborne to trust her.
Please.

Ash could survive Miss Smythe’s duplicity. He might be a tiny bit enamored of her, but she was a stranger to him. But what had gotten into Montborne? They were old friends. They had never kept secrets from each other, none that Ash knew of.

He deserved the truth. Or at least, Montborne’s half of the truth.

Yet when Montborne returned his attention to Ash, he simply nodded and tapped his finger against his chin. “Captain Inglewood, yes. Capital chap. Almost a legend, you might say.”

It was Miss Smythe’s turn to touch Montborne’s elbow.
Thank you,
she seemed to say. A sick feeling took root in Ash’s stomach. Montborne knew women. Montborne liked women. Miss Smythe could easily pass for one of the young things he had been accused of seducing. It would explain her bitterness, and Montborne’s rickety attempt to lie for her.

Ash’s fist clenched. Never mind Mrs. Inglewood was the obvious woman who had been seduced. Something was suspicious about Miss Smythe. She and Montborne shared a past. They clearly shared
something.

 
“Excuse me. Miss Lancester is calling me.” Abruptly, she turned.

Lucy
was
calling her. But Ash wasn’t fooled.

“You seem rather familiar with her,” he said to Montborne once she was out of earshot.

Montborne avoided his gaze. Or he simply couldn’t pull his eyes away from Miss Smythe’s swaying, retreating form. “She’s got the attention of every man in the room.”

“Including yours.”

Montborne pivoted toward him, making the conversation more private. “And yours.”

Ash took a step toward the marquis and lowered his voice. “Just how well do you know her?”

Wordlessly they advanced to the side of the room, seemingly of the same mind to keep the conversation between them. Montborne’s voice lowered. “No better than any single man ought to know an unmarried young woman.”

“Don’t lie to me, Montborne.”

“Why do you care? What business is it of yours if I’ve…” Montborne trailed off, jaw muscle twitching.
 

Ash’s head pounded.
Had he been right?
If Montborne had
touched her—
Ash stepped closer. “Finish your sentence,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

Montborne’s blue eyes flicked to the assembly. He stared blankly for a tense moment before turning back to Ash. “She’s just a woman I know in London who happens to be taking a holiday in the country. Can we please leave it at that?”

“What kind of trouble are you in?” Ash fired back, changing tack.

Montborne recoiled. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You wouldn’t have come to Devon if you weren’t in trouble again. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what you’ve been accused of.” He sounded belligerent. He wanted only the truth—why wouldn’t Montborne share it?

Montborne’s eyes snapped. “I’m not one of your sisters. I can handle myself.”

But Montborne hadn’t been able to yet. Because truthfully, Montborne never came to the country unless something had gone horribly wrong and he required Ash’s assistance. It was all Ash had to lord over the marquis, and he didn’t hesitate to use his experience to force an accounting of the truth. “Does she deserve to be caught up in whatever you’ve done?” For the first time, he cared more about the girl Montborne might have seduced than his friend’s social standing.

Montborne let out a hollow laugh. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business. But for the record, I did not invite Celeste into my problems.”

“‘Celeste,’ is it? Precisely what kind of unmarried young woman is she?” Ash couldn’t keep the jealousy out of his voice. He’d always put his family first, above all else. And Montborne was part of that family; a tall, blond brother to them all. But
this
—for Montborne to have misused
her
—was beyond anything Ash could countenance.

Montborne’s voice lowered. “The kind men like you don’t touch. You’re far too interested in her. Keep your distance, Ashlin.”

But Ash couldn’t let it go. He felt responsible. All the times he’d bailed Montborne out, only to see the awful repercussions of his misplaced trust now. “Did you ruin her? Is that what this is about?” There, he’d said it.

Montborne looked at him queerly. All trace of resentment was gone. “You ponce. I haven’t ruined anyone. You of all people should know that.”

Ash ignored the tiny part of him whispering that maybe he should believe his friend, as he’d always done before. But he was too jealous to be rational and too indignant to let it go. He was sure Montborne was concealing unsavory dealings. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Everyone knows you fall in love with anything in a shift. How could you resist
her
?”

Montborne looked offended and just a bit hurt. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “What
I
feel for her is irrelevant. Listen to me.
She’s not good enough.
I only say this because I care about you.”

It took every ounce of Ash’s willpower not to send his fist flying into Montborne’s face. “She’s good enough to bed but not good enough to marry?” He took one step closer, until he could smell the marquis’ lemon soap. “Stay away from her.”

Montborne’s eyes steeled. “You’ve got this all wrong. I’m only trying to protect you.”

“You
lied
for her!” Belatedly, he looked around the room. His guests were gathered around the pianoforte, oblivious to the argument heating the corner. He’d been too absorbed to hear the strains of music drifting through the room. It infuriated him to know his best friend was siding against him.

He turned back in time to see Montborne’s pang of regret. But the marquis’ voice remained strong as he replied, “I did lie. And I would do it again. Look, Ashlin, what I said earlier—I swear I don’t know her in the carnal sense. But I do know how easily a man can fall for her. It’s as easy as breathing. She might be beneath us, but she has all of London at her feet.”

Ash slammed his hand against the wall behind Montborne’s head. He didn’t care how big of a scene they caused anymore. “Lying to me isn’t
helping
me.”

Montborne released his breath slowly. Then he patted Ash’s shoulder and eased himself from his pinned position against the wall. “Fine. You want the truth? A man like you only pursues a woman like her for one reason. I tried to warn you. When this all blows up in your face, at least you will know I tried.”
 

Ash’s best and, really, only friend turned on his heel and stormed toward the door. Ash watched him go.

Montborne’s warning rang in his ears, drowning out everything—the chink of teacups against saucers, the chime of his sisters’ laughter, the nasal drone of Mrs. Pratt’s monologue over the plink of pianoforte keys.

Everyone in London lusted after Miss Smythe.

Oh, God. He wasn’t the only one.

* * *

Celeste followed Lord Trestin as he ducked through the open terrace doors. She kept to the shadows. A respectable woman didn’t follow a man into the garden.

A respectable woman didn’t follow a man at all.

She doubted he was aware of her behind him. He was angry. She hurried to keep up with him. What had Lord Montborne told him? She shouldn’t care. Not about whatever Montborne had said or how Lord Trestin had responded. In fact, she should be taking herself as far away from both men as she could. And she had—for a moment. She’d left because the man who was supposed to be her friend was treating her with disdain and the other was looking at her with suspicion. But after witnessing the men nearly come to blows, she regretted leaving them alone. Roman could tell anyone else she was a high flyer and it wouldn’t matter. But Lord Trestin knowing seemed the worst thing that could happen to her.