The Trouble With Being Wicked (15 page)

He would never look at her with adoration again.

He stopped just past the fountain. A string of lanterns washed the pool in shimmering color. He propped his foot against the limestone wall and rested a hand on his knee. The lanterns bathed him, throwing shadows across the strong planes of his face. It wasn’t long before he noticed her approach.

A tempest of desire and frustration swirled together in his expression. Her chest tightened.
He saw her.
Not as an irritating intrusion on his carefully ordered world, but as a person. As a woman.

“My lord,” she began, but he cut her off. He was a storm of emotions. A gale that blew through her and left chills along her arms. In two steps, his lips swept over hers, capturing, claiming. With a shaky breath, he thrust his long fingers into her hair. Her simple chignon disintegrated under his touch—along with her promises to herself.

An experienced woman recognized when a man desired her. But there was more to his assault. Denial. She felt it in the kiss, in the way his hands tangled in her hair and pulled her lips closer. He sucked the air from her lungs as though he could inhale her and keep her with him forever.

But he couldn’t. She shouldn’t be here, and no matter how much she wanted this, she should never have followed him. She pushed against his chest. Her protest was futile. A low moan vibrated in the back of his throat and she gave in to its plea. She needed him, too.

Desire wrapped around her, secluding her from reason. She relaxed into the kiss, letting his pleasure, his desperation, his hunger thrum through her like the taut string of a violin. This was Lord Trestin, whom she could never have, and it was wrong. But it felt oh so very, very right.

A shadow moved, or maybe the hitch of a shocked breath sounded. She and Lord Trestin jumped apart like a dairy maiden and her first boy. Their heads swiveled to the intruder.

Roman’s blue beam of disapproval could be felt across the darkened yard. Celeste sucked in a breath at the vehemence pouring from him. In that moment, she could believe he hated her.

For one split second, she hated him, too. She was a courtesan. She had recently been
the
premier courtesan in London. She’d spent a lifetime cultivating her image, defining it and detailing it like a beloved painting. Roman knew that better than anyone. They were soul mates of a sort, both etching a living from the darkest essence of their person. But the way he looked at her now left her feeling filthy, cold, hot, angry and…frightened.

You and I are of a kind. Not quite worthy of the rest of the world.
Not worthy of love, or, it would seem, devotion. For Roman had betrayed her more than anyone else in her thirty-three years. That was what made her heart turn in on itself and form into a tight little rock—the knowledge that if Roman thought her so contemptible, what chance did she have to earn the respect of a man like Lord Trestin?

She lifted her hem an inch. Not the deep curtsey one usually afforded a marquis, but a shallow acknowledgment of his position over hers. A nod to his ability to be fickle, to dance with the devil if he so chose, and to hell with anyone else. But he was a man, and a lord. He could do as he chose.

A woman must live with the consequences.

She sauntered toward him, daring him to shout that she was a loose woman and her behavior only proved it. To tell Lord Trestin everything, and ask if he regretted kissing a whore. But Roman kept silent. He didn’t even look at her as she passed him, training his censure on Lord Trestin instead.

Her heart thudded as she left them in the garden. She tingled everywhere from the effects of Lord Trestin’s kiss. Her thoughts were a jumble of emotion, for she couldn’t quite regret the encounter, yet she was more disappointed in herself than she’d ever been. For Roman had one thing right: she’d pursued Lord Trestin, as though a deficiency within her made her seek out men. A flaw inherited from her mother, or a learned trait to seek comfort in the arms of a man when she felt alone.

She mustered up her last bit of courage and carried herself into the house. Neither man followed. Like dogs fighting over a food scrap, they remained postured to defend their right to it, neither paying any attention to her.

She was as extraneous as she had ever been.

Chapter Eleven

That night Ash didn’t sleep. He couldn’t help but recall all the times Montborne had behaved terribly and he had loyally intervened. Why, he’d been pulling Montborne out of scrapes of the female variety ever since they were lads. The marquis certainly had no room to lecture
him
.

What the devil was going on?

Over and over, the more recent occasions he’d saved Montborne came to his mind. Young ladies with questionable scruples who had accused Montborne of the worst offense: compromise. Ash had never allowed himself to wonder if the allegations were true. He’d believed his best friend. Until now. Was Montborne as much a rogue as his reputation alleged?

The thought of him using Miss Smythe without concern for her haunted Ash as he tried to sleep that night. It was impossible to stop its endless loop. Rage, fury, confusion and hurt all vied for space inside his head. God, but was it true? He didn’t want it to be. It
could
be. The looks Montborne had cast her, a mix of fear and tenderness, spoke volumes. He’d confronted Ash, adamant he not pursue her. When had Montborne ever cared who Ash pursued? Not that he had ever pursued a young woman—wasn’t even admitting, specifically, that he was pursuing Miss Smythe—but Montborne had never once evidenced interest in Ash’s female companions or lack thereof. And then there was that peculiar speech about guilt that Montborne had given upon seeing Miss Smythe. Was that what the marquis felt when he looked at her? Guilt?

As Ash lay in bed, he warred with a question he’d never thought he’d need answered. Had Montborne ruined the one woman Ash had ever fallen for?

He needed to know before it drove him mad. And he was alarmingly close to madness. Kissing her was even better in truth than in his dreams. It fired his blood and awakened a beast he’d long thought tamed. A beast more berserk than he’d ever dreamed. Everything about her luscious curves felt right in a way that was oh so wrong. He wanted to do it again and again, take even more. He was worse than Montborne, as bad as his father, because he wanted to take from her until she had nothing left to give.

Never let vice rule you, or desire lure you. For these are but fleeting pleasures. Guilt, my friends, is forever.

Guilt kept Ash awake. Guilt, and fear that if he slept, he’d dream of her. He was already hard enough without the vivid fantasy of her riding him.

If Montborne had seduced her, Ash could at least understand why he’d done it.

* * *

The first thing Celeste did when she arrived at the cottage the next morning was open the shutters. Lord Trestin had made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t perform the repairs so long as “Captain Inglewood” wasn’t around to request them. An admirable attempt to force her hand, but she would not be played. The baby was due any day now. Restoring the cottage so she and Elizabeth could get on to the business of preparing for the infant must be her first priority—remembering the events of the previous night her last.

Tangled rosebushes and weeds encroaching on the cottage’s limestone exterior made it difficult to reach the old wooden panels. Before long she had a good-sized tear in the flounce of her least-best gown. She hardly noticed the damage. Groundskeepers organized from Brixcombe’s citizens worked elsewhere around the property, but this one task she’d kept for herself. Standing on tiptoe, she wrestled with the last rotted shutter. Perhaps it was her way of distancing herself from her London identity. She’d never attempted anything as invigorating as home repairs. Gordo, her brawny manservant, made sure of it. Even Hildegard sheltered her from the simple task of dusting. She was surprised to discover she actually enjoyed rolling up her sleeves and didn’t mind a little dirt.

She squealed as the shutter finally swung open, nearly toppling her into the thorny bushes. She mentally struck a task from her list, feeling very pleased. They must still secure the shutters so they didn’t swing in the wind, along with many other chores that would keep her occupied for several weeks, but she could savor her success here.

She dusted her hands on her borrowed apron and looked up to see Lord Trestin’s sisters headed toward the cottage. What on earth?

“Good morning, Miss Smythe!” Miss Lancester called out, swinging a smart, periwinkle-hued parasol in one hand. Her other arm was entwined with her sister’s, whose dainty pink parasol shielded her fair complexion from the sun.

 
“Good morning,” Celeste replied, extricating herself from the rosebushes to greet them. She brushed a few damp curls from her face, conscious that his sisters resembled two diamonds of the first water and she looked like a rag doll. Did Lord Trestin know they were about? She couldn’t think he did.

Miss Delilah smiled. “Perfect day for a walk, is it not?”

“I was just saying so,” Miss Lancester agreed. “Warm for March. Would you like to step out with us?”

Worston was nearly two miles away. They hadn’t happened here by accident. Celeste was no green girl, nor was she so starved for company that she couldn’t detect an ambush.
 

“Yes, please come,” Miss Delilah urged her. “We so wish to know how you liked our party.”

Miss Lancester regarded Celeste frankly. “Our little gathering couldn’t be what you’re used to in London. I do hope you enjoyed yourself.”

 
“I did,” Celeste replied slowly. They were definitely angling for her reaction. Why?

She looked for an answer that would suffice. “It was…”
Wonderful. Disheartening. Exciting.
“…educational. Thank you for the invitation.”

They regarded her with similar expressions of exasperation. “Yes, well, no doubt you wonder how we country misses survive such insipid entertainments,” Miss Lancester tried again. “But you were arm in arm with Lord Montborne most of the night, were you not? It must have seemed just like London.”

Ah. There it was. Celeste hadn’t spent her entire life around females without learning about jealousy. She chose her words carefully. “I’d forgotten the marquis hails from Devon. Imagine my surprise when I encountered him here.” That much was true.

Miss Delilah leaned in toward Celeste, offering a conspiratorial smile. “He seemed taken with you. I suppose he’s rather handsome, if you favor the insouciant, Adonis type.”

Miss Lancester suddenly dropped her pretense of friendly curiosity. “Better a gentleman than the farm laborers you ogle!” she said with a jab of her elbow into her sister’s side.

“Gavin is a blacksmith, Lucy.” Miss Delilah shook her head and gave a little
tsk
. “Why must you always be so unkind?”

It was quickly dissolving into an argument, which suited Celeste. They were no longer asking her uncomfortable questions. She also had to admit the sisterly exchange was a little fascinating to a woman whose childhood had been spent entirely alone.

 
“Unkind?” Miss Lancester replied. “I defend you to Trestin every day. But really, why can’t you set your sights higher? Even a soldier would be preferable to a farrier.”

Miss Delilah’s brown eyes went wide. “So he can
die
?”

Miss Lancester cast her an ironic look. “Smelting is
so
safe. To say nothing of getting kicked in the head shoeing a horse, or dropping an anvil on one’s foot—”

Miss Delilah appeared crestfallen. “Why can’t you be happy for me?”

When Miss Lancester remained silent, her sister prodded, “Just because your situation is hopeless doesn’t mean I shouldn’t marry the man
I
love.”

Miss Lancester’s spine arched. “What a terrible thing to say. Sometimes I vow you resent me.”

Miss Delilah dropped her sister’s arm and took a step back. “I do! I’d like nothing better than a five-room cottage and a pair of domestics, yet I must marry well because Trestin thinks he failed
you
. It’s ridiculous.”

Miss Lancester’s lips formed an O of surprise. “Where did you get that idea?”

“From him! The very thought of you becoming a spinster makes him redouble his efforts against me. It’s very selfish of you and I’m quite put out about it.”