The Trouble With Being Wicked (25 page)

Ash kept his attention on the ballroom, searching, always searching, for a woman who made his body scream for release like Miss Smythe had. “Cease being aware of my sister.”

Montborne shrugged. “Everyone is aware of your sister.”

Ash frowned. At twenty-five hundred pounds, that seemed unlikely. With a tongue as sharp as a razor, it seemed impossible. She wouldn’t make a man flush—not with cash or with excitement. They were speaking of
Lucy
.

Ash dismissed the notion along with the debutantes decorating the perimeter of the parquet floor. If one of the lily-whites caught his attention, it proved nothing. He needed to convince himself that he was not attracted to whores. He focused on a silk-clad woman in striking emerald. He could no more afford her than he could increase his sisters’ dowries. But she was beautiful, and if he was going to press his experiment on anyone in this room, it would be her.

She turned, revealing an aristocratic profile fit for a duke’s daughter. Perhaps she was. Loose women pulled from all ranks.

“Who is she?” he asked, knowing Montborne would have the answer.

The marquis righted himself from his customary—and practiced—indolent pose to focus on Ash’s quarry. “Lady Heppenwaite? An earl, two dukes and a prince, and that was only last year. The countess is far above your reach.”

“Introduce me.”

“No.”

Ash scooped a glass of wine from a passing tray and turned. “I have to try.” It was the closest he’d come to admitting his fear aloud.

Montborne’s icy eyes melted a fraction. “Don’t do anything out of desperation that you will later regret.”

Ash looked away. Montborne didn’t understand. What if he simply hadn’t known the extent of the depravity inside him? He’d demonstrated in Devon, the middle of God’s own nowhere, that he could be chaste. Until “nowhere” was invaded by lightskirts. Then he’d toppled like a stone circle in a bad storm. Solid, dependable, true, until a steady breath of wind became a forceful gust.

“I think I’ve been lying to myself all this time,” Ash admitted finally. “Isolation masked my true nature.”

Montborne moved to stand closer, so their shoulders almost brushed. “I hate to say it, Ashlin, God knows I do. But maybe your feelings had nothing to do with her being a tart. Maybe you actually cared for her.”

Every muscle in Ash’s body recoiled from the idea. He couldn’t have cared for her. She was a courtesan. She’d probably lain with half the men in this room.

God, that made him sick.
This
was why he needed to move on. So he could stop thinking about what she might be doing right this minute—and with whom. “See here, Montborne. Testing my resolve is imperative, and I’ll do it with or without your assistance.” He paused. “Preferably with.”

His hand opened and closed as he awaited the marquis’ response. After all the times Ash had helped him out of one tangle or another, an introduction to one of Montborne’s wicked women was hardly asking much.

Montborne sighed. He clapped Ash on the back. “This wouldn’t be an issue if you’d just flogged a few more tavern wenches in your youth. But I suppose if you’re bent on sowing soggy oats when most men of your age are settling down, I’m your best bet to help. Still, why assume I know Lady Heppenwaite?”

Ash lifted a brow.

“Very well. Jessica isn’t your type, though.” He pulled his eyes from the ballroom to look long at Ash. “I warned you.”

Ash’s teeth gritted. He knew the countess wasn’t his type—yet. Her hair wasn’t the warm color of cinnamon and her pink lips didn’t turn up in a quick smile. She didn’t remind him of little children and sunshine and his heart didn’t squeeze at the thought of her beside him. But he had to know if any of those were real emotions, or if he had created those feelings to justify an innate need to satisfy a baser inclination.

Montborne availed himself of two glasses of wine. He tossed one back and set the empty vessel on the tray, then indicated for Ash to follow him across the floor.

Jessica offered her hand to the marquis as he drew to a halt before her. “Hello, darling,” she said. Her delicate wrist glittered in emerald-studded bangles. Across the room she’d been pretty enough, but up close she was ravishing. Large brown eyes twinkled in a heart-shaped face. Raven-black hair swept into a complicated knot at the top of her head, decorated by a diamond and emerald comb that matched the sparkle in her eyes.

Ash felt nothing.

Not true. He felt guilt, because she wasn’t Celeste. If he was going to lower himself, didn’t he owe it to Celeste to lower himself with her?

But wasn’t that the stupidest thought he’d ever had?

When Montborne bent to kiss her hand, Jessica took his instead and pulled him against her side, looping his arm through hers like a pretty bauble. Destitute he may be, but the tall, golden marquis led a charmed life.

She smiled at her prize before turning her attention to Ash. As she lifted her face, a pout formed on her rosebud lips. Her eyes attempted to engage his even as she addressed the marquis. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Montborne cupped his hand over hers with a familiarity Ash found unsettling. “Surely you know Lord Trestin.”

She made a moue, then dipped a slow curtsey which presented her charms quite clearly.

“I’m afraid I’ve been away from Town too long,” Ash murmured, glad he sounded steadier than he felt. “London has grown in new and beautiful ways in my absence.”

Her face lit with interest and her bosom doubled in size, or so it seemed. “What pretty flattery, my lord. I see they grow them fine in the country.” She perused him, taking care to pause over his nether regions, and stretched her lips into a feral smile.

She would be a feather in any man’s cap and it was obvious why. So what was his hesitation? He
wanted
to try bedding her. Needed it. For himself and for his sisters, whom he was shamefully ignoring while his mind was obsessed with Miss Smythe.

God, hadn’t he promised himself he’d never think of his sisters and sex in the same thought again?

Montborne’s crystalline eyes bored into his, but Ash refused to acknowledge him. Finally, Montborne inclined his blond head. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be somewhere else.”

Jessica chuckled and patted his arm. He took himself off, though not before casting another warning look to Ash. He had helped, but not because he wanted to.

“I’d be honored if you would allow me to call on you,” Ash said to her, forcing himself to look her in her face as he did. His voice sounded hollow, as if he didn’t have the least bit of interest in his own invitation.

“Nine Grove Street,” she replied without preamble, “Thursday, not before midnight.” Her long lashes fluttered coldly, calculatedly. Had he been randy for her, he might have fallen for it.

But he wasn’t. Not in the least. It was impossible to imagine Miss Smythe working her charms like that. But that had been the problem with the others, too. Miss Smythe would not have done this, Miss Smythe always did that. Truly, he needed to forget about Miss Smythe.

Jessica leaned scandalously close. “Fine wine goes a long way with me.”

He nodded. Her husband must satisfy her monetary needs. The thought sickened him. Yet this was the way of things, how men satisfied their carnal desires without lowering themselves to tavern wenches. She wasn’t precisely a courtesan, but her satin slippers treaded the seamier side of propriety.

How she’d come to warm the beds of titled men, he might never know. Her history was irrelevant. The beast was either inside Ash or it was not. He wouldn’t know until he had tried and been caught up in the excitement of being with her, as he had with Miss Smythe. That sort of anticipation surely couldn’t be expected in a ballroom, with hundreds of eyes upon him.

He swallowed and forced himself to finalize their assignation. “I will do my best to please you.”

Jessica laughed. “I should hope so, my lord. Shall I expect you Thursday, then?”

His sisters’ come-out. What better night to go straight to Hell? “Perfect.”

She looked up at him from beneath impossibly long eyelashes. “As am I.”

Ash gritted his teeth into a semblance of a smile. He definitely had his doubts.

Chapter Eighteen

Three days later, Ash was of an entirely different mind. He’d had days to reconsider. To wish it was Miss Smythe he looked forward to, not some soulless Jezebel. Days to ask himself why he was doing this at all.

He’d gone to his sisters’ come out. Danced with them and played the gallant, but all the while he’d been waiting for midnight. Now, just after half two, a bottle of brandy kept him company while he drew up the courage to keep his assignation.

After a time it heard his secrets. Soon, it had heard too much. He tossed it into the fire. Lust should have burned in his loins. Instead, he felt all the excitement of a pile of sawdust.

The exquisite countess awaiting him was a prostitute. Nothing more. They would copulate and he would leave. In a few hours he’d be here alone, again, a shell of a man who had driven himself to deeds he barely understood. A man who wanted Miss Smythe—nay,
Celeste Gray
—with the consuming fire of a thousand suns.

He instantly regretted the loss of the bottle. At least a mouthful of brandy had swirled in the bottom of the vessel, a mouthful he desperately needed. It burned in a pretty blue flame that mocked him. Should he call for another bottle? Render himself incapable of an act he had no wish to perform?

He laughed bitterly. Wouldn’t impotence make an excellent rumor?

He was hardly impotent, however. He was painfully aware of his virility. He wanted release. Badly. Seven years was a long time to go without a woman. But no one could compare to the woman in his mind, not even Celeste herself. And so the question remained. How could one shameful night with a slattern sate him?

Ash lifted an empty crystal snifter and turned it idly in his hand, examining it for defects. He’d known she’d left Devon. He’d known she’d be here, and expected he would see her eventually. Why hadn’t he seen her yet? Where was she? She’d departed for London before he and his sisters had done. No explanation, no apology. Just packed her things and left.

People didn’t just
leave
. It was highly inconsiderate. God, he was a little foxed, wasn’t he? Why had she left? Had he made her flee? Had he railed at her until her only recourse was to leave? Even if he had, he deserved an explanation. People shouldn’t be allowed to just disappear.

An idea pushed its way through the mental fog that was his drunken brain. Why was he sitting here waiting to go to a strumpet he didn’t want, when he could be getting what he most desired from the one he did? He
had
made Celeste flee. And if it was his fault she had run, he could get her back.

At least for a night. That should be enough. Shouldn’t it?

He refused to wonder what he would do if it wasn’t.

His carriage awaited. He could use it to go anywhere he damn well pleased. And he knew precisely the address he wanted to give.
 

Minutes later, the equipage pulled before Celeste’s terraced house. He struggled out of his carriage and loped to the door, feeling more foxed than he’d been in years.

He grasped her lion’s head knocker like it could save him.
Rap, rap, rap.

When the door didn’t immediately open:
Rap, rap. RAP.

Rap.

Rap.

After an interminable amount of time, the door slid on well-oiled hinges to reveal a hulking man of indeterminate origin. Ash frowned. “Who are you?”

“I’m the man who’ll keep you out,” came the surly reply. The door began to shut in Ash’s face.

“Wait, wait, I didn’t mean it that way. I meant to ask where Miss Gray is. I mean, is she at home?”

“Miss Gray?” A pause. A frown. Then, “She’s not receiving.”

The door continued its path toward his face, meant to assure Ash he wasn’t welcome. He scowled. “Not
receiving
?” he asked, feeling drunk and rash and absolutely determined to see her. “She’ll bloody well receive
me
. Tell her I’m here. Tell her—” He swayed, afire with indignation and the sudden horror that his Miss Gray was no doubt earning her keep at this very moment. “No, I’ll tell her myself.” He endeavored to push his way into the house, despite the fact her brute of a butler could have crushed him in one beefy butler palm.