The Trouble With Being Wicked (19 page)

“She’s crowning,” he announced without preamble. “It will be minutes, perhaps an hour.”

“What can I do?” Trestin didn’t move from the doorway. Celeste was impressed by his presence nonetheless. He’d provided a solution to the best of his abilities. He’d
come
. He hadn’t needed to, for Stevens could as easily arrived alone.

But he
had
come. And he’d held her. That alone helped her more than he would ever know.

“I sent runners in search of Whitton,” he said when no one replied to his initial offer of assistance. “His wife said he was called to Plymouth and can’t be expected back before daylight.”

Stevens looked up from his crouch at the foot of the bed. He didn’t wince when Elizabeth belted out another cry. “Where are the towels?”

Celeste grabbed a stack from the bedside table and held them to him. He set them on the mattress. Then he turned his attention to Lord Trestin. “You can help by lifting her into a more comfortable position. Seated is better, but we haven’t the equipment for it. If you can get her onto her knees, she will be in far less pain.”

Celeste caught Hildegard’s eye. They shrugged at the same time. If the man wanted to deliver the baby like it was a foal, they were in no position to argue.

Trestin slid his arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and brought her onto her knees. Stevens coached her, murmuring nonsense to her, occasionally shouting, and sliding his hands over Elizabeth’s nether regions in ways even Celeste hadn’t been touched.

Inch by inch, the baby’s head emerged. Then its tiny little hands.

As Hildegard wrung hot towels out, Celeste mutely passed them to Stevens. After a time, her heart ceased twisting every time Elizabeth screamed. Her focus became so intense she barely heard anything at all. It was the most magical scene she had ever witnessed, and she saw it all as if through a glass window. Elizabeth was having a
baby
.

As Stevens turned the child so its little face came into view, Celeste’s heart burst with love.

She looked up to beam at Elizabeth. She felt overwhelmed by a new, maternal emotion that made her feel needed. Instead she caught Trestin staring at her. She placed her palm on her own belly, for a moment forgetting to hand a hot towel to Stevens.

Trestin’s gaze slowly lowered to her hand.

Elizabeth screamed. Celeste looked up. The baby suddenly dropped into Steven’s waiting hands. He turned it over, patting its back, wiping away the mucus from its mouth and nose. Then he held the squealing bundle up for Elizabeth’s inspection. “It’s a boy,” he announced. “A healthy son any man would be proud of.”

Celeste forced a smile to her lips. For Elizabeth’s sake, and for the sake of their witnesses, who expected them to be thrilled by the arrival of the firstborn son. But this little boy had inherited nothing from his father, not even his father’s name. In the best circumstance, he would be a by-blow his sire completely ignored. At worst, he would be an embarrassment, taunted for life because he hadn’t been born legitimate.

Either way, she would love him. She tried to catch Elizabeth’s eye to tell her so, but it was impossible. The new mother, who had expressed so little interest in her unborn baby during her confinement, gazed at her squalling son with awe.

With a few murmured directions, Lord Trestin helped Elizabeth recline. Stevens worked between her legs another few minutes, then placed the baby in her arms. Hildegard fussed with a blanket, tucking it in around mother and son. Then they all stood back and breathed a collective sigh of relief.

For one beautiful, glorious moment, everything was perfect.

Chapter Fourteen

The next day dawned blue and warm, splendid weather for the rowing party planned that afternoon. But the cloudless sky was ineffectual at settling Ash’s turbulent thoughts. She would be there, at the bay. His sisters had arranged it and he’d been powerless to stop it; his best recourse was to chaperone. But he wasn’t ready to see her yet. He had no idea whether the previous night had changed anything, or whether everything was as awkward now as it had been before. He needed a moment alone to sort it all out, if it could even be sorted out. He needed
her
alone.

Why would he want them to be alone?

He followed his sisters down the rocky path to the water. They brought with them a light repast and two servants to heave rowboats from the boathouse. A quarter hour later, the vessels bobbed gently along the shore, but Miss Smythe was still nowhere to be seen.

Ash scoured the cliff tops. Had she had a change of mind? Mayhap she’d overslept after the long night, or was occupied with the infant. He’d even prefer she’d taken ill. Any excuse was better than believing she’d decided to avoid him.

Lucy and Delilah diverted themselves by scavenging for seashells among the rocks. They wandered along the shore arm in arm. Ash dug his boot heels into the stones and waited. Waves lapped calmly toward his toes, pushed by a light, salty breeze. He gazed across the pristine water, feeling its expanse, imagining taking the boat to sea and never returning. If he had no responsibilities, no cares, the world outside of Brixcombe would surely be an adventuresome place. But he was fixed to Brixcombe like a tree whose roots snarled deep into the soil. When he returned from London with a wife in tow, he need never leave again.

A wife. What made him think he could take a wife just now?

He scanned the cliffs behind him. No curvy silhouette marched across the edge. No bonnet-capped siren picked her way down the steep path. No sign at all that she’d come as planned. He stopped his thoughts there, before he actually sounded disappointed. What did it matter if she avoided him? It would be better that way. Taking her into his arms last night had done nothing but prove she was as soft and vulnerable as she looked. That she could melt into him for comfort, and not just a torrid kiss. That he wasn’t thinking the least bit about taking a wife. He was far too distracted by
her
.

Lord Montborne’s voice behind Ash startled him. “Your face the other night was one I’d rather not see again. I have a feeling this one’s worse.”

Ash turned, surprised the marquis had come down the bluff so quickly. There’d been neither hide nor hair of him a moment ago.

Ash scowled at the last person he wished to see. “Who invited you?”

The marquis rolled his eyes. “I’m always invited.”

Ash supposed it was true. Their friendship was preordained, for their mothers had been fast friends. Back when Lady Montborne had been Lady Clara, and Ash’s mother had liked to laugh.

But he couldn’t let go of his anger yet. Roman had started all of this when he’d implied Ash’s suspicion about Miss Smythe’s lost virtue was correct. He’d never felt so conflicted in all his life.

He and Montborne turned to watch Ash’s sisters inch farther down the shore. The girls’ pink bonnets nearly touched as they exclaimed over a tidal pool carved into the rocks.

“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?”

Ash glanced at his friend in surprise. He hadn’t expected empathy, not after their last exchange. Nor was he ready for it. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

“Only the melancholy look on your face that smacks of blue devils.”

Ash clenched his jaw. “I’m not melancholy.” He certainly wasn’t blue-deviled.

Montborne brushed at invisible lint on the coat sleeve of his sore arm. “Is that so? I’ve never seen a man who looked more anxious.”

Restless. Irritated. Unsatisfied. But not anxious. Anxious would mean he cared whether she joined them today, which he did not.

Ash turned, arms crossed, and raised an imperious brow. “Do you enjoy irritating me?”

Montborne grinned. “It
is
diverting. Especially as I’ve only known you to fuss over those little female versions of yourself.”

“You try raising girls, and see if you have time for anything else.”

His friend laughed. “God, no, my brothers are impossible enough without having to worry whether they’re going to marry.” He turned to Ash, blond eyebrow curved inquiringly. “I’m trying to be patient, but I’ll come straight to the point. I saw you ride away from the Amherst property this morning. Care to enlighten me?”

Ash dropped his arms. His hands balled into fists. “Are you following me?”
When would Montborne leave him alone?

The marquis bent and picked up a stone. He rolled it between his fingers, then held it up for his inspection. “I do, occasionally, rise before noon just for my own personal edification.”

“If you’re implying something untoward occurred between Miss Smythe and myself last night…”

The marquis looked Ash directly in the eye, all pretenses gone. “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s the appearance of impropriety I’m concerned about, something I’ve heard you warn your sisters against time and time again. One cannot explain himself to everyone. Trust me, Ashlin. I know.”

“Mrs. Inglewood was delivered of her child last night,” Ash bit out. Did he really need to defend his actions to a man who’d never once considered his own?

“As I stated,” Montborne replied, “it matters not
why
you were there. All I saw—and I saw it with my own eyes, mind—was you leaving her house in the early morning hours. Ashlin, you must have a care. Some rumors circle more easily than others.”

“Is that so?” Ash sneered.

Montborne lifted one shoulder as if he wished he were wrong. “I’m afraid it is. Especially when it comes to her.”

Ash gritted his teeth. “What the devil is so special about Miss Smythe that you must constantly warn me away from her?” He took a step toward his friend. “What is it you’re hiding?”

“Me?” Montborne looked offended but Ash didn’t relent. He was ready to plant his best friend a facer if it meant finally having the truth.

At long last, Montborne inhaled with a great show of resignation. “I see. Disappointing, but hardly unexpected. For the moment, I’m going to ignore the fact that you clearly believe me an out and out rotter. I’ve tried to be discreet and damn it, I don’t know how to say it any other way.” He looked away sharply, clearly frustrated with himself. “She’s ruined, Ashlin.”

“I
know.
” God, he was weary of thinking about it.

The marquis narrowed his eyes. “You do? How could you? I’ve never touched her. I told you that.”

His adamant insistence gave Ash pause. His pause allowed Montborne more time to regard him.

“You did know that,” Montborne said slowly. His eyebrows rose as if he’d just solved a mystery. “Because
you’ve
been with her.”

“No,” Ash said too quickly.

Montborne tipped his head forward to look down his long nose. “Yes, you have. How else could you be so sure she’s compromised?”

Ash felt cornered. “Because beautiful women don’t suddenly closet themselves in the middle of nowhere unless they have reason to?”

“Because you care about her and you’re starting to make excuses. When a man has been in love as often as I have, he knows what to look for. You’re the most muddled, frustrated beau I’ve seen since the last time I took a fancy to a woman.”

“Which was when?” Ash glared at him.

“Yesterday.” After a pause, Montborne lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Women are all so very lovely, it is damned difficult to choose.”

Ash swallowed his disgust. There was no point in explaining how feckless his best friend sounded.

The marquis shrugged again. “Enough about me. How bad is it?”

Pulling off his hat, Ash ran his hand through his hair. The wind had kicked up. The bay roiled before him as turbulently as his emotions. He didn’t want to confide in anyone, least of all the man who inexplicably frowned on his infatuation. But he could also use his friend’s advice. “What do you mean?”

“How far has it gone? Have you bedded her?”

“Good God, Montborne, I said no. She’s not some tavern wench.” He looked over just in time to catch Montborne grimace. “What?”

“What if she is?”

He stilled. “What are you saying?”

Montborne stubbed the toe of one boot into the stones. “We agree she’s ruined. What choices are left to a woman without her virtue? I mean, if she became some kind of…I don’t know. Whore. Would you still want her?”