The Trouble With Being Wicked (18 page)

His submission for her kiss.

She would have agreed. He didn’t doubt it. In a few minutes, they’d be reduced to hot tongues sparring for control. A sensual mimic of the battle they’d waged verbally.

In due course, she would yield to his plundering. Press her curves flat against him as a sacrifice to the starving beast within him. She would call his name.
Ashlin.

The notion dashed like cold water against his skin. The smile wiped from his face. Reality. He must focus on reality. But what was reality when one was waving with the wind in a tree?

That was where he’d gone wrong. He’d had the situation in hand and then he’d let her bait him to foolishness. What was it about him that couldn’t resist her? What was it about
her
?

Backing down proved more difficult than climbing up. When his boots finally touched the ground, he waited impatiently for her to descend. This entire escapade was ridiculous. What devil had made him do something so imprudent? So foolhardy? So invigorating?

When she reached the ground, she spun to face him. Her chin notched up. “I can make my own way home, my lord.”

For some reason, that only irritated him more. “That is precisely the attitude I take issue with. I don’t care what your age is or how firmly you are on the shelf. You are an unmarried woman. You ought to have a chaperone. You ought to have…well,
something
.”

There must have been a hundred things he could have said that would have made her less angry with him. Attacking her independence wasn’t one of them. “What gives you the right to lecture me? You are not
my
brother.”

“Damned right I’m not. I would have locked you in the attic, wrapped your—” he indicated the generous expanse of cleavage heaving before his eyes, “
this
in a blanket, and beat away all the loathsome ‘suitors’ who meant you harm.”

“Is that so? And if I had a brother, what do you think he should have done to
you
last night? Smacked your cheek with his glove? Called for a special license?”

Ash drew back. He hated that she’d thrown his mistake in his face. “It was just a kiss.” But there was no such thing as just a kiss. One kiss could have them leg-shackled, if the right person witnessed it. If her reputation were as clean as the driven snow, one kiss could be enough to cause her ruination.

But they weren’t being watched right now. And deep inside him, he knew his hadn’t been her first.

Indignation brought fire into her eyes. She was beautiful. Angry. But hissing, spitting mad, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. Had he really imagined himself with a meek woman? Surely there would be no fun in that.

“Just a kiss,” he whispered. To himself, not her. For maybe his father had been on to something with his pursuit of passionate women. Ladies of the night, tavern wenches, even Ash’s own mother. His father had never been happy to merely exist. For the first time, Ash had an inkling why. “Just a kiss.”

And just to prove a kiss meant nothing, he stepped forward. Pressed his body to her slight, shaking one. And kissed her.

Her lips were sweet, soft, with just a hint of salt. She recoiled at the suddenness of his change of tack but he stroked his hands over her back until she eased. Then he delved into her hot mouth and thrust his hands into that mass of hair that was never tamed. He pulled her closer. Then closer still, until the swell in his breeches became unbearable.

He lifted her easily and had her against the oak in two steps. She wrapped her legs around his waist and he groaned and pressed deeper, allowing himself a hint of relief against her core. It was, in a word, madness. But he wasn’t mad. He was merely his father’s son.

Readily she responded, all curves and wanton womanliness. He should have realized sooner she wasn’t the young woman he’d imagined her to be. She was too confident, and damned if he wasn’t aware of her appeal.

“Trestin,” she said, freeing her lips to breathe his name. “Oh, Trestin. We cannot do this.”

“Yes, I know,” he replied, kissing her, squeezing his eyes shut, letting his hands roam her body. He grasped handfuls of curves. Breasts. Hips. Buttocks.

So this was how Montborne was always getting himself into trouble. This was what had killed his father.

Ash stilled. Slowly, he released her. She wasn’t angry anymore. At least, the thoroughly kissed look on her face didn’t hint at it. Instead, she regarded him wryly, with a hint of resignation. As though she had known it would come to this.

“I cannot be cross with you anymore. You’re only behaving as men do.”

Was this how men behaved? All men? Or just the depraved ones? Just the ones who had lost control? His disgust with himself knew no bounds.

Straightening, he set her down and unhooked their hands, which somehow had become a tangle of fingers and palms. As though he couldn’t quite let her go, despite knowing it must be done.

“If you suppose this is how a man behaves,” he said, “I have some grave doubts about your past.” He grimaced. He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. Not when it was he who’d dragged her to the tree.

She only laughed. Hollowness rang an undertone. “You amuse me, Lord Trestin, and so I shall make you a deal. Allow me to befriend your sisters and I will allow you to pay court to me. You can show me exactly how it is a proper gentleman behaves.”

A direct hit.
He could no more behave with decorum around her than she could stop seducing him. “Funny, as I want neither of those things.”

That infernal eyebrow rose. “As you say.”

He did say, damn it. Why were women always second-guessing him? Cross now with her, with himself, with his damnable infected bloodlines and with his prick, he signaled her to follow him. Together they began the short trek back to his coat and gloves. From there they walked to her cottage in silence, though the cacophony in his head made it seem a troupe of gypsies followed behind.

At the cottage gate, he thrust her through it, then marched her up to the door. Self-loathing, pure and simple, had replaced the lust in his veins.

It was evident his will to resist her depleted each second he was with her. At this rate, he’d be begging her to let him into her bed by nightfall. That would be the end, the very bottom of him, exposing the shameful parts of himself he’d buried in the years since his father died.

Who would he be then?

Chapter Thirteen

On the very day Celeste and Elizabeth directed their servants to move their belongings from their suite of rooms at the Hound and Hen to the cottage, Elizabeth went into labor.

“It will be at least another day,” the local physician informed them after looking her over. “These things take time, especially with the first.”

Celeste worried her lower lip as he collected his instrument bag from the foot of the bed and prepared to leave. “What should I do? To keep her comfortable?”

Elizabeth let out a squeal of pain. “Kill him!” She didn’t have to explain it wasn’t the doctor she wanted dead.

Celeste squeezed her hand—or attempted to. Elizabeth’s grip made hers seem feeble. “That won’t help your pain, dearest.”

Perspiration beaded across Elizabeth’s reddened brow. Her eyes squeezed shut as her fingers dug into the bedsheet beneath her. “It will certainly make
me
happier.”

Doctor Whitton’s smile inched up at one corner. “See that there are clean linens and hot water available when the time comes. Mrs. Inglewood might consider walking around a bit if she is able, to speed the babe’s arrival. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“I wish you could stay.” Celeste glanced again at Elizabeth. What could she do for a woman in the last stages of childbirth, except watch helplessly from the side of the bed? “But if you’re sure it will be another day, then I suppose you must go. Will I be able to reach you if we require you earlier?”

He patted his coat pockets as if reassuring himself he hadn’t forgotten anything, then looked up at her. “I can’t promise to be in any particular place, for an emergent call may require my attention. But you may leave a message with my wife and I’ll come as soon as I’m able.”

“Thank you.” Celeste leaned over Elizabeth and pushed a damp lock of hair from her friend’s brow. “He’ll be back tomorrow, dearest.” She patted the top of Elizabeth’s hard belly. “Do you hear that?” she asked the babe. “There’s no rush. None at all.”

But her words went unheeded. Nine hours later, Celeste, Elizabeth, and Celeste’s maid, Hildegard, pooled their collective knowledge of midwifery and arranged Elizabeth at the foot of the bed. Elizabeth’s knees jutted into the air and a sheet covered her thighs. The enormity of what was about to happen sent Celeste into a panic. “Have you heard anything from Doctor Whitton?” she asked Hildegard for the tenth time, though she knew very well her maid had not. They’d sent a note two hours ago, when only a guinea-sized opening had heralded the baby’s arrival. That opening was now roughly the size of an apple, and every so often, the tiniest wet tuft of baby’s hair emerged before slipping back in.

Hildegard shook her head. Her old hazel eyes were worried. Normally, she was a natterbox. Celeste never felt entirely alone when Hildegard was near, for she had a way of bustling about that made Celeste feel fussed over. Her silence tonight confirmed her fear more than anything she might have said.
 

“Is he coming?” Elizabeth half-yelled, half-sobbed as another contraction wracked her body. “It would be just like a man for him to leave me like this!”

“No, madam,” Hildegard said as she replaced the hot cloth over Elizabeth’s brow with a cool one. Even she couldn’t provide the reassurance either woman needed.

An hour later, a commotion in the front parlor caused Celeste’s heart to leap. She dropped Elizabeth’s hand and raced to the door. “Is Doctor Whitton here?” she called to her footman, Tom, as she barreled into the hallway.

“No. It’s only me.” Just hearing Lord Trestin’s voice reassured her. Though she couldn’t think what he could do, for surely he was no more skilled in childbirth than she.

He entered the hallway and she had her first look at him since that day at the tree, two weeks ago now. “Good evening.” He handed his riding gloves and hat to the waiting footman and strode toward Celeste with purpose. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Do you need to have a lie down?”

She shook her head as he pressed his cool, bare hands to her face. All the fear she’d buried in the last hours came to the surface in a heaving, shaking breath. Before she could stop it, a single tear collected at the corner of her eye. She raised her hand to wipe it away lest he see her weakness, but he caught her hand. He touched the hot, wet corner of her eye with the tip of his finger. “Tell me what to do.”

“I—” But that was the core of it. She didn’t know.

“There, there.” He gathered her into his arms and pressed the side of his face to her temple.

He felt strong, wrapped around her comfortingly. Warm. Kind. Burying her face into his chest, she inhaled sharply of his scent, memorizing it, cherishing the feel of his body around hers. He felt so good.

She couldn’t help herself. She wept.

She cried for Elizabeth, who was in so much pain. For the baby, whose birth had already gone awry. For herself, because Lord Trestin was here, he had come, and she wasn’t alone anymore. It was only a moment, but it felt like a lifetime of tears. She’d needed to be held. Had craved it since that night Roman had touched her wrist.

Trestin soothed the middle of her back with his strong hand. When her sobs subsided as quickly as they had started, he offered her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her tears, evidence of her secret emotions, and collected herself, once again becoming the calm woman who had taken care of herself since she was naught but a child. “Thank you for coming,” she said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “I had no idea who else to turn to.”

The barest frisson of doubt lurked in his eyes. “In these matters, I fear I may not have been the surest choice. However, my head groom should arrive within minutes.”

Celeste let out a bark of laughter. “Is Elizabeth foaling?”

Trestin smiled slowly, nearly stopping her heart. “How different can it be?”

A banging at the front door startled them. Quickly, Celeste was introduced to Stevens. Then the three of them moved to Elizabeth’s bedchamber, where the groom wasted no time kneeling at the foot of the bed.