The Trouble With Being Wicked (30 page)

“It’s also useful for looking into windows,” she suggested in measured tones. What would he think? But he was bound to realize it shortly. Stars were nearly invisible through London’s smog.

He wasn’t yet jaded enough to conceal his shock. “Windows, you say?”

She pulled the drape aside. This was a street of fashionable courtesans, far enough away from the brothels to add a hint of respectability but segregated from the rest of Polite Society.

Three windows crossways glowed. Of those, two had the curtains drawn back. One of the two looked directly into Sophia LaMonte’s entertaining room. And indeed, she was entertaining.

Ash tipped the Dollond toward Sophia and her lover. He removed the lens cap and adjusted the eyepiece before selecting another with a shorter focus. Satisfied, he leaned into the eyecup.

His indrawn breath wasn’t the least bit methodical.

Celeste had a pretty good idea of the scene. Sophia LaMonte wasn’t particularly imaginative. Moreover, her creamy breasts were visible to the naked eye. Though the show he was getting was of a much higher quality, Celeste didn’t need a telescope to see what was happening in the window across the street.

At first, she didn’t identify the acidic feeling in her stomach as anything but an unsettled reaction to her afternoon tea. But as Ash continued to watch Sophia’s performance, Celeste slowly she realized she was jealous.
Jealous! Her!

It had to be the first time. As she watched his dark head bent in studious fascination, it matured into full-fledged possessiveness. She was at once annoyed and panicked, yet in a strange way, she relished
feeling
.

“This woman has a very strange concept of what is attractive to a man,” he commented, adjusting the Dollond’s focus to keep pace with the couple moving from the low couch in the corner to Sophia’s massive four-poster centered in the room.

“That must be why you cannot take your eyes off her,” Celeste drawled.

“Are you jealous?” He tilted the Dollond away from the couple and regarded Celeste with just enough amusement to irritate her.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t even know her name.”

Ash abandoned the telescope to close half the distance between them. “I could find out.”

“It’s Sophia. Sophia LaMonte.” She didn’t know why she said it, other than Ash already knew where Sophia lived and could find her without any effort.

And what difference did it make if his attention wandered? It would eventually. All men’s did.

It already had. Once again he was peeping into the room across the street. Gathering herself together, Celeste pushed him away from the Dollond. “Allow me, my lord.”

With a mock bow, he surrendered the equipment. She leaned into the eyepiece and
tsk
ed. “Ah, it is exactly as I feared. Lord de Winter has lost all capacity of reason and is letting Sophia’s pink mouth think for him. The poor sot will be bankrupt by morning.”

“That’s not quite the way I’d put it.” Drawing his face level with hers, Ash murmured, “He’s most definitely thinking it through. He’s wondering if he should be doing this. He’s wondering if he will be found out. He’s wondering where she learned to do such exquisite things with her tongue, and whether or not he will be able to sneak out to do this again.” Ash’s voice lowered. “He’s wondering how much it will cost and if he even cares. Mostly, though, he’s thinking about the many ways he wants to put himself inside her, and whether she will object to any of them.”

Celeste inhaled sharply. “It sounds like you wouldn’t mind being in his place, my lord.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I don’t deny it.” His breath blew lightly across her ear. “Indeed, I fear my head is quite wrapped around it.”

Hers, too. “Then perhaps we should retire.”

“That is a spectacular idea.”

“I meant from this endeavor, my lord.” Her voice was barely audible now, her eyes blind to the scene across the street. She felt nothing but the overpowering heat of his presence.

“And shorten my first encounter with your exquisite Dollond?”

“The hour grows late. I have many things to occupy me in the morning—”

His mouth covered hers. Her body responded, euphoric, eager and traitorous. His hands caught her upper arms, but he wouldn’t be content to stop there. He wanted and he would take.

Instinctively, she knew she would give.

He began inching her back toward a fainting couch in the middle of the room. Its purpose was clear, but she couldn’t. Not there.

Her knees caught against it. She held his coat lapels tight so she wouldn’t fall back against it, and pressed kisses to his chin so he wouldn’t think she was reneging. “Not here.”

“But I like here.” He nipped her bottom lip. His manhood stood stiff and straight between them, bound by his breeches and the tiny thread of decency she still possessed. Carefully, she avoided brushing against it as she grasped his hand and pulled him toward the hall.

“Celeste, God,” he moaned, allowing her to lead him through her house, “why am I always waiting for you?”

“It’s good for you, my lord.”

He pulled her back to him and ground his erection against her backside. “And you’re such a good little girl, aren’t you? Always concerned about me and what is good for me. You even left me all alone when you thought it was what I wanted.”

“You speak nonsense, my lord.” She tried to pull away, but he held firm.

“Then why did you leave?” He rubbed himself against her rear. His hands roamed to cup the undersides of her breasts. “Why did you run away from Devon? Were you afraid?”

“Yes!” she cried. He continued to hold her even as she tried to pull away. “Being with you is a mistake.”

He stopped rubbing against her. “For whom?”

“You! Me! Both of us!”

“Then where are we going?” He sounded genuinely confused.

Exasperated, she spun to face him. “To my room!”

He looked back at the room from which they had just withdrawn. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “Not exactly.”

“Then I’m not leaving.” He advanced, closing the space she’d made between them. As always, though, he seemed to understand her before she understood herself. “Unless, for some reason you want me to.”

She stared at the carpet. “I don’t.” And she didn’t. But she did.

Gently, he prodded, “Why?”

A frown bent her brows together. Why must he make this so difficult? She hardly knew what she wanted anymore. How could she explain it to him?

“There you go again,” he said, cajoling her. “You’re upset with me. What have I done?”

She threw her hands up. “You make me like you!”

He laughed as though she’d just said the maddest thing. And perhaps she had. Couldn’t she allow herself even a few blissful moments of intimacy without worrying about tomorrow? Or was she really so terrified of losing her heart that she would deny herself the chance to know what it meant to make love?

The more he laughed, the sillier she felt. A smile threatened her lips. “Although, you are doing a remarkable job of changing that at the moment.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying hard to conceal his amusement. And he was trying, she had to give him that. “But truly, what do you want me to do? I want you so badly it burns. I can’t stand next to you without pain. Yet no matter how hard I try to pretend you’re Miss Smythe, there is a terrible hole in my heart where my perfect little image of you used to live. So what would you have me do?”

Love me anyway.
But she said, “I expect you not to laugh.”

“I see.”

She recognized the frustrated look of a man attempting a task which should have been simple but was quickly becoming complicated. She would lose him if she didn’t decide soon.

He spoke first. “I think we’ve had enough introspection for the night. We must forget all of this and enjoy ourselves. Now, let me think how best to distract you…” He waggled his eyebrows. “Perhaps you are…ticklish?” Without warning, he pounced.

She was, in fact, extremely ticklish. Before his fingers even found her most sensitive places, she shrieked and squirmed to get away. “Ash! Don’t you dare!”

He caught her around the waist from behind. Hard muscle curved around her back, cupping her with the promise of a perfect fit. Her body softened and rounded to accommodate him. Even her laugh deepened, signaling her readiness to acquiesce. She’d expected him to avoid a direct discussion about their future. Yet a part of her had secretly hoped he’d take her in his arms and exclaim,
Yes, Celeste, I love you. I will always love you. Now can we please get on with it?

“Shall we finish the tour now?” he asked into her ear. His hands slowed to caress the flat plane of her belly and the curve of her hips.

“You’ve already tried that,” she scolded over her shoulder, scratching her delicate cheek against the roughness of his chin. Her fingertips traced each of his knuckles, memorizing his skin and the feel of him wrapped around her. This was the extent of what he would give her. She must be satisfied with that.

She led him up the stairs to the floor that housed her private rooms. He was the only man she had ever invited up.

If he sensed it, he didn’t say. The room was lit by a low-burning candle. He looked around without comment. Walking to the window, she drew the curtains closed. It was more out of habit than out of modesty, though she preferred not to put on a show like Sophia LaMonte. The fact was, Celeste wasn’t an exhibitionist. She was a neat creature by nature, and any flamboyance in her public persona was purely for show. Even the viewing gallery was primarily for display. Men were aroused by its existence, but most were too private to utilize it themselves. Her Dollond was the most erotic implement she owned. Thus far, no man had been able to resist the allure of fiddling with its settings and testing its precision.

Ash closed the door. He stalked toward her. “I want you so badly.”

“D-do you?”

His hands moved over her ribs and settled just under her breasts. “Lord, you feel good. So delicate.” He drew a ragged breath. “I’m going to break you.”

It took all her willpower not to thrust her breasts into his hands. Her nipples were buds of pleasure, aching for his fingers to squeeze them. She squirmed, wanting to feel his skin on hers. “Ashlin, please. Don’t stop.”

“Say it again.” His fingers drove into her hair. He pulled her head back so she had to look him in the face. “I want to hear it, over and over.”

“Ashlin, Ashlin, Ashlin,” she gasped.

He met her open mouth with his. She reveled in the hot slickness of his tongue. No other man would smell or taste like him. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, unraveling her chignon, pulling at her bodice, grasping the nape of her neck. He nudged her chin up and nipped the skin at her collarbone. She gasped. His tongue circled there, pooling heat deep in her core.

“Celeste, God, you taste good.” He was hard as stone against her. She moved a fraction across his length but he caught her hips. “Not now, darling. There are too many things yet to do.”

She whimpered into his open mouth. He pulled her to a nearby chair and settled her on top of him. Her legs spread open over his hips. Cool night air sneaked up her hiked gown and tormented her hot center.

She tried to squeeze her legs together for relief. He caught her thighs. “No,” he commanded, spreading them again. His hands encircled her knees, preventing her escape.

His face was level with her breasts. Neither the thin material of her gown nor her chemise disguised her nipples protruding in hard points against the fabric. He licked one until fabric clung to the dark circle. “Do you like that, darling? Do you like it when I touch you?” He sounded like someone else. So did she, when she whimpered again. Goodness, he was killing her.

Tugging her bodice by inches, he revealed a tiny birthmark on the top of her left breast. “Well, well. What have we here?” His tongue ran over the imperfection. “God, Celeste. I want you so badly.” His hands curved around her breasts. He weighed them each in turn, scratching his chin against the underside of each as he licked her in a wide, silken circle. “So perfect,” he murmured, brushing his lips over them. “Round and soft. So big for such a slender woman. Look, I cannot even get my hand around it.”

She looked. Her white breast was pale against the sun-warmed skin of his hand. Her nipple was caught between two fingers. Gently, he squeezed them together. She inhaled sharply. Her hips twisted on his lap, writhing to find release.

He gathered her in his arms and stood. He still appeared every inch the gentleman; not even a wrinkle dared crease his cravat. He carried her toward the side of the bed and set her on her feet. He leaned in and nuzzled her cheek, thrusting his hands in her hair and shaking out her red curls, cascading them over her bare breasts and her back.

A satisfied smile quirked his lips as he removed her garments one by one. When he reached her garters he paused. Then he dropped to his knees, removed her slippers and rolled her stockings down her thighs and over her calves, his fingertips grazing her skin as he inched them off.

He rose. He advanced on her until their bodies touched, hers naked, his fully clothed. She buried her face in his shoulder, allowing him to support her as he slowly, tortuously explored the curve of her hip and the slit of her bottom.