The Trouble With Being Wicked (2 page)

Celeste dragged a low table beneath the gap at the top of the wall and climbed onto the dusty surface, newly determined to make this house a home. The front door creaked just as she reached her hands toward the break in the thatching. “Mrs. Inglewood?” Tom called into the hallway. “You have a visitor.”

Celeste froze as a man’s dark form filled the doorway. She’d been caught in plenty of compromising positions. Standing tiptoe on a tabletop, her pale hands stretched high while her hips swayed to maintain her balance, wasn’t one of them.

“Good afternoon.” His smooth, cultured voice had the soothing effect of a fine French brandy. It warmed her from her belly to the tips of her toes. “Mrs. Inglewood, I presume?”

* * *

 
“I’m afraid not,” the shadowed woman standing atop the low table replied. Every word rolled off of her tongue as languidly as if she reposed in her bath.

Her bath? Good
God
. Had he lost his mind?

Her lithe arms dropped. They folded across her breasts, obscuring the distracting curves that had stopped Ashlin Lancester, Lord Trestin, in his tracks. He quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Relief for the reprieve, and for the reassurance that this unexpected temptress wasn’t Captain Inglewood’s wife. He hadn’t shamed himself by coveting her. Even if it
had
been seven years since he’d last allowed himself the amorous company of a woman, he hadn’t grown so monstrous that he’d thrown off all sense of decency and looked lustfully at a lady whose intimate favors rightfully belonged to another man.

He was so startled by his sudden surge of libidinous feeling that he had trouble collecting himself. It was one thing to appreciate the shadowed promise of a silhouette. But had he truly believed himself capable of desiring another man’s
wife
? That was so far outside of his usual conduct, it gave him more than a moment of pause.

But no. She wasn’t
Mrs.
Inglewood. He hadn’t fought this hard to better himself, only to lose his control now.
 

Then again…he supposed he must hope she wasn’t someone else’s wife, either. He clenched his fist at his side. His vision hadn’t adjusted to the dimness of the room, but he could make out enough to see there were two of them. “Them” being women. “Women” being cause for alarm. In the last seven years, he’d treaded carefully on the few occasions when he’d encountered a new member of the fairer sex. In Brixcombe, that had been thankfully seldom. If he limited his count to just the times he’d been introduced to a woman whose voice alone made him think of hot water and naked skin, then that number fell to a blessed nought.

He thrust his mind from any thoughts of this woman in her bath and evaluated the facts. Two women, ten hatboxes, a coachman and a single footman. Where was Captain Inglewood?

More importantly,
why
was Ash here alone with two women, one of whom had already penetrated his carefully honed, absolute control?

“I am Lord Trestin,” he said, for courtesies must be observed, no matter how alarmed he was at the notion of two women encroaching upon his carefully developed sanity. Two women tucked this far from the village, without the protection of a male family member—and without his knowing it—
must
be his concern, even if it put him in a deuced awkward position. What would they have done tonight if he hadn’t come upon them?

“A pleasure, my lord,” the temptress replied in her velvet voice. And she was a temptress, not the dowdy maid nor gentle lady he might have expected to encounter, had he expected to encounter a woman instead of Captain Inglewood. This apparition, whose full breasts and tiny waist were outlined by the light above her, was an altogether different creature than the kind usually found in Brixcombe-on-the-Bay. He’d lived here his entire life, so he ought to know.
 

“I am Miss Smythe.” Her arm extended toward the second woman, who appeared enormously
enceinte
. “She is Mrs. Inglewood.”

He trained his sight on the rounded silhouette, but it was no use. If only he could see in the dark, he could form a more complete picture of them. His new neighbors after all.
Who were women.

What the devil was going on? Captain Inglewood hadn’t mentioned anything about a wife or female wards or women of any kind in his correspondence—Ash would have remembered if he had. When a man was as plagued by females as Ash was, he took note of that sort of thing.

He stopped himself there. Even he could hear how mistrustful he sounded. Just because there were two women and ten hatboxes didn’t mean he ought to be suspicious. He’d stopped off here to welcome his new neighbor, not frighten the man’s thoroughly pregnant wife. The least he could do was inquire after her health, for likely she should be in bed, not traipsing across the moors unattended. The poor woman must be exhausted standing this long.

He stepped into the front parlor and easily navigated around the late vicar’s favorite chair. It was a parlor he knew as well as his own, perhaps better, and now it had a new owner to bring it back to life. One who would have a child to bring laughter and innocence back into a home that had stood empty for far too long. He ought to be happy, not quiz the women to discomfort.

The smile he pasted on his face felt like skin stretched over his teeth. Smiling wasn’t asked of him often. He likely should practice, for he understood London’s debutantes appreciated a bit of charm, and despite his decision to remain celibate these last few years, eventually, he must take a wife. There were scant weeks left for him to acquire any charm before he made his debut into the
ton
.

He inclined his head toward the tall woman before him—not the temptress, but the second woman. Despite her advanced condition and his complete lack of experience in such matters, she held herself with a negligence that drew his attention. As though a swollen belly had been placed on an otherwise exquisite woman, and she took no notice of it.

It was an uneasy feeling he had, but one he couldn’t shake. A soon-to-be mother ought to look…maternal. Shouldn’t she? “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Inglewood.” He nodded to her. “Miss Smythe.” He nodded to her companion. He tried to sound as though he meant it. Likely his wariness resulted from his surprise at finding them here and not an actual cause. And yet…

“When I saw a carriage headed toward the old Amherst property,” he continued, “I expected to find your husband. I didn’t see him in the drive. Is he about?”

Both women stiffened. Ash took a wider stance against the ancient floorboards, as though preparing for a quarrel. Distrust was habit for him, he reminded himself. Not a cause for alarm.

Then Miss Smythe said, “The captain is detained,” in that slow, curling voice that warmed his insides. Even though he now felt as though he were
in
that hot bath with her, he didn’t ignore his growing suspicion. He’d been the sole guardian of his sisters for seven years. His ability to detect falsehoods was sharper than he’d ever wanted it to be.

His lips curved into a sardonic grin.
Was that true?
Or had he become so jaded by his high-spirited wards that he assumed every woman he encountered was full of mischief? Exactly how many unfamiliar women had he encountered since he’d inherited the title? A few dressmakers, a governess and…? That was all he could recall. No wonder he felt like a mistrustful ogre. Not that he’d had much finesse to start with, but if he’d ever possessed a natural charm like his friend Lord Montborne’s, it had been destroyed by years of holding himself apart, of trying to be a gentleman to the few women he knew, and a guardian to two wards who appreciated neither.

His vision was adjusting so that he could see features. The shelves on the bookcase, a pillow peeking from beneath a shroud. The ridiculous crowd of curls teased to frame Mrs. Inglewood’s face. That was the London fashion now, he supposed. His sisters had been hounding him for tongs and ribbons. Never mind the two new wardrobes that filled almost a room apiece, or the coin it had cost for either.

Mrs. Inglewood’s curls reminded him that he must remember to attend to the posthouse in Brixcombe before returning to Worston Heights, else his package would be sent up to the house tomorrow and his surprise spoiled by his diligent servants. His sisters had pleaded for this small treat, and he always felt powerless to deny them.

“Yes,” Mrs. Inglewood agreed with a glance for her companion. “The captain is at sea, where he much prefers to be.”

Ash detected a note of forced confidence, as though she meant to persuade herself as much as him. “I see,” he replied slowly. “Will he be coming soon? I expected him at the end of next week, otherwise I would have had the house opened for your arrival. I apologize if I’ve confused things. It’s dreadfully cold in here.”

Miss Smythe’s voice purred in a hum that coursed through him as if she’d whispered directly into his ear. “I had no
idea
the cottage was in such a deplorable state, my lord, or certainly I would have contacted you. We left London early, and did not think to send word ahead.”
 

At the reverberation of her voice along his spine, the hair on the back of his neck stood straight. But he had neither a desire to be aroused nor an interest in being set down.

“Deplorable?” He caught on the word that made him feel he’d done something wrong. “I meant to open it, as I said, and I would have done had I known to expect you. I apologize for any inconvenience.”

“There’s a wretched hole in the roof.” Mrs. Inglewood’s voice had smoothed into a caress, too, so that it sounded less like an accusation and more like a pout. “It quite puts me out to think what manner of creature might have crawled through it. If I discover a bat hanging alongside my gowns, I hope you’ll feel inclined to offer recourse.”

Recourse?
Monetary
recourse? Oh, he understood their game now. He wouldn’t be manipulated by a pair of softly rounded specters with sirens’ voices. “There is no hole.”

A flash of white teeth gave Miss Smythe’s wry smile away. “Oh, but there is,” she assured him. “I simply lift my hand like this,” she slowly, ever so slowly, raised her palm toward the thatching, “and a cool breeze reassures me of my correctness.”

“Impossible.” Too late, he realized that must be where the light was coming from. He must have lost his senses completely not to have noticed it.

“Impossible there is a hole, or impossible you do not know of it?” Her languid teasing further knocked his thoughts into a jumble. He steeled himself against her assault as she continued, “You may join me on this tabletop, if it will set your mind at ease.”

His first instinct was to cross the room and climb up beside her. If that was what she wanted, far be it for the gentleman in him to decline. His lips curved.
She’d have to cling to him for balance.
He’d be sure to hold onto her tightly, too. But just the fact that he’d envisioned such a shocking scenario was testament to the dangerousness of this woman. When had he ever seriously considered giving in to something so…so thoroughly
inappropriate
?
 

“Who are you?” His tone was not as firm as he meant it to sound. Likely for the better, for his sisters never appreciated his attempts to gain answers, and yet, he couldn’t help but feel he deserved answers. Honest answers.

Her chin notched. “Miss Smythe. Or do you mean what am I doing here? I’m Mrs. Inglewood’s companion.” She stopped at that, perhaps expecting that as a gentleman by birth—he almost smiled again; if not by his
manner
s, which he must admit, were not in top form today—he wouldn’t probe further.

He shouldn’t probe. He should remember himself and not allow her forwardness to provoke him, as was too often an occurrence with his sisters. A true gentleman would no more question her character or demand her references than he would ask her to leave. Especially as she’d done no wrong, at least nothing that he could accuse her of directly. Did crawling into the darker recesses of his mind, places even he’d forgotten existed, count as wrong?

He had a feeling that everything about her was wrong. He had no proof, yet he sensed it. He’d yet to fully see her, but he didn’t need to. Surely a paid companion would be meek, and not slide her eyes down his body in frank assessment. He could
feel
her assessing him despite the darkness, like fingernails drawing along his skin.

“Miss Smythe was kind enough to accompany me in my confinement,” Mrs. Inglewood said, coming forward. He’d almost forgotten her, so wrapped up was he in Miss Smythe. Silently, he cursed the weakness that made him aware of Miss Smythe at all.

He would not be like his father. He would
not
.

He tore his gaze from his temptress, though he continued to watch her from the corner of his eye. As though he feared she’d slip around him when he wasn’t looking.

Mrs. Inglewood took another step toward him. “There is
so
much to organize when one must pick up and move to the country!” she said with dramatic flare. “And then one of our carriages broke a wheel on the way, which as you might imagine caused all sorts of inconvenience. If not for Miss Smythe, I should have collapsed onto my trunk on the side of the road and sobbed into my kerchief.”

She said this with the overwrought sensibility of a woman so recently in that helpless situation, and yet…he couldn’t help but notice she didn’t seem at all like a watering pot who would sit on the side of the road and cry prettily. Neither woman did. He’d bet a penny they’d sooner unharness their horses and ride to the next town than be overcome by something as tragic as a carriage accident.