The Trouble With Being Wicked (24 page)

The room was otherwise sparely decorated. A coffee-colored fainting couch was arranged in a corner, and there was the chair Lucy had fallen into, but most of the seating was in the form of luxurious pillows and feather-ticked mattresses covered in azure silk strewn on the floor. Plush Persian carpets added to the ambiance, though functionally, they were more for keeping bare bottoms warm.

“She’s beautiful.” Lucy rose again to inspect a naked Greek marble standing in the corner. Celeste felt a flutter of pride. It was her favorite piece, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. The marble faced the wall, displaying a curve of backside and silhouette of breast. Something about the way the subject looked over her shoulder, daring the viewer to follow, had seemed perfect for this room.

Gordo arrived. He set the tray on a mattress and excused himself. He was immune to this room, having served her and her guests in it more nights than either of them could remember.

She sat on the mattress and showed Lucy how to arrange their skirts so only a hint of ankle was bared. Nothing that would draw censure, but enough to incite a man’s attention.

“Do you really wish to leave all this behind?” Lucy’s large brown eyes remained wide, but she’d stopped staring. Now she was looking at Celeste as though
she
were the oddity.

“I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure I want to. I’m not sure of anything except that something must change.” She downed her wine to occupy both her hands and her mouth. Could they really speak of such things? Her past, her future?

She wouldn’t dwell on whether she could or couldn’t, should or shouldn’t. Instead, she would give the young woman what she wanted. Intimacy. “I’m old,” Celeste declared, waving her hand to indicate the room. “Too old for this.”

Lucy stopped sawing at a hard block of cheese and looked up. “Please do not say such hideous things. If you’re old, then I’m very nearly old, and where does that leave us?”

Celeste stole a slice from Lucy’s cheese pile and nibbled on it. “I’m not sure. Can a former courtesan become a spinster?”

“Is there a clause saying spinsters must be virgins?”

“Perhaps those are old maids.” Celeste smiled as she plucked another triangle of cheddar.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Lucy poured more wine into both their glasses. “Now, you’re too old to attract a man? Bosh. My brother fell head over heels for you the minute he saw you.”

The sharp cheese turned to dust in Celeste’s mouth. She swallowed and reached for her wine, feigning nonchalance. “Rusticating in the country limited his options. He wouldn’t have looked twice at me in London.”

Lucy waved her objection away. “Younger men enjoy older women. Roman kept a mistress twice his age when he was twenty.”

She was far too aware of the marquis. But Celeste wouldn’t rebuke her. “Perhaps it’s me. Perhaps I am simply not attracted to young men anymore.”

“Trestin is younger.”

Celeste smiled wryly. “Your astuteness is wearing.” She set down her wine and brushed crumbs of cheese from her skirt. “If I don’t occupy you one way, you’ll think of other ways to entertain yourself. Why don’t we try something simple? Here, finish up, and we will use the mirror.”

“But I don’t see a mirror—Oh.”

Celeste rose to her knees and tugged a creamy satin sheet off a mattress-sized mirror propped against the wall. It fell away in a
whoosh
of crumpled fabric. The entire room was visible in reflection, a fact of which Celeste was well aware.

Celeste drew Lucy onto her knees beside her. She paused, allowing the young woman time to absorb her reflection. Then she began.

“Lesson one: Unless you have overly displayed your bosom, a man looks at your face first. Then his gaze travels. After he has perused you once, he does so again, this time in reverse. For this reason a woman must be sure her entire body is ready for a man at all times. If only one asset is to his liking, he will generally dismiss the woman. But a woman with many appealing characteristics will receive more notice. It is the sum, rather than the parts, which attracts him.”

“I have a plain face.” Lucy didn’t shy away or frame it in an accusing way. It was a simple statement of truth.

“No woman is entirely plain or entirely beautiful. It is the confidence with which you hold yourself that affects how others see you.”

Lucy considered that. “You’re saying I have the ability to make myself beautiful?”

The French had learned this lesson centuries ago. They lived by it. On this side of the Channel, only the demimonde seemed aware that beauty was more than a physical arrangement of features. Lucy would need more convincing.

Celeste leaned toward her ear. “Have you ever been kissed?”

Lucy’s eyes looked downward and a knowing smile crept across her lips. “Yes.”

Celeste hid her surprise. Surely Trestin didn’t know. She cupped Lucy’s elbows and lowered her voice. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.”

“Was he gentle?”

Lucy half laughed, half sighed. “No.”

Celeste laughed a low, courtesan’s laugh. “Thank goodness.” She brought her face even closer to Lucy’s and whispered directly in her ear. “Did he make you feel wanted?”

“Y-yes.”

“Desired?”

Lucy sighed.

“Look at yourself.”

Lucy did, slowly. She stared at her reflection. “I look drugged.”

“No, inviting. See how your eyes are heavy? Your lips are full and slightly parted. You have a rosy glow.”

Lucy pursed her lips in response. She blinked when she appeared poised for a kiss instead of dubious. “Are you sure you didn’t apply cosmetics while my eyes were closed?”

Celeste laughed again. She tugged a few tendrils from Lucy’s coiffure and arranged them softly around her face. “A man lives to see a woman’s pleasure. When he believes he can please her, he is attracted. When she laughs, he believes it is because he made her laugh. To attract Roman, you must be open to the pleasure he can bring you. Then you will be beautiful to him.”

“But I will not
be
beautiful.”

“What is beauty? The arrangement of certain facial features in a particular order? No, it is a perception. When you feel beautiful, when you are open to beauty, others will find you beautiful.”

“And smart,” Lucy added cheekily.

Celeste felt her heart expand as she watched Lucy’s confidence blossom. It was heady to be able to inspire another person in so few words. “We should definitely add ‘humble’ to the list.”

Lucy twisted to look at her. “Is that it, then? All I must do is walk around pretending I’ve just been kissed and men will flock to me?”

“No, but it’s a good first step. Kissing can give a woman confidence, so long as she is the one in control. Later, I will teach you about that. For now, try this: As you go about your day, remember how it felt to be desired by your gentleman. Imagine all the men you meet today feel the same way about you. You need not say anything different. Simply pretend you are allowing each man the honor of a moment of your time, and they will treat you differently.”

“I truly need not change?” It might have been her imagination, but Celeste thought Lucy held herself straighter.

“No.”

Lucy’s glowing face was full of infectious excitement. “What is lesson two?”

Chapter Seventeen

Mrs. Kenworth isn’t the type one marries,” Montborne drawled, sidling up beside Ash at Lady Melbourne’s ball. “An unfortunate fact Mr. Kenworth discovered too late. But I’ll assume the resolve on your face means you already knew that.”

Ash kept his eyes locked on the assembly. He was a hawk surveying a field overrunning with mice. Mice scampering about with no cover. Very little cover, anyway. Miss Smythe’s plunging décolletage at his sister’s dinner party was beginning to seem tame.

Damn it. He wasn’t going to think about Miss Smythe. Especially not her décolletage.

The marquis shifted to stand at Ash’s shoulder, balancing a plate on his arm while he juggled a glass of wine to his lips. He was too light in the pockets to skip lavish feasts like the one buckling the sideboard here. After taking a draught, he gestured with his wineglass to indicate the assembly. Or perhaps to ask the greater question,
What the devil are you doing?

Ash didn’t take his eyes from the field. The mice were plump tonight, and up to mischief. “Everyone knows Mrs. Kenworth is fast. But I thank you for your professional opinion.”

“It doesn’t take an expert. She wears her prowess like a badge. Which begs the question, why did you just dance with her?” Montborne waved a wedge of sandwich in her direction.

Ash’s patience wore thin. “I thought you wanted me to dance.”

“With your sister, yes. Or with your other sister, or with one of their wallflower friends. This is a perfectly respectable ball and you’re treating it like a brothel.”

“I’ve done nothing inappropriate.” It was London. The city was a cesspit. Even the reputable establishments brimmed with immoral women…and the men who desired them.

“No? Not with Mrs. Beckensdale at the theater,” the marquis mused, “or Mrs. Palmer at the opera? Lady Cresswell is said to have been spurred into a darkened garden by none other than the unimpeachable Lord Trestin. But I’m glad to know you no longer consider that sort of behavior inappropriate. Saves me a lot of time asking for forgiveness from you.” Montborne pushed his empty plate into Ash’s hand so as to be better able to flourish both the wineglass and the sandwich. “For someone as experienced as I, it isn’t a matter of great deduction to conclude you’re looking for a lover in the most clod-headed way possible.”

“Or perhaps the company I keep has gone stale.” Ash raised a mocking eyebrow toward his friend.

“Cockstand.”
Montborne grinned when Ash winced. “See? I’m never dull. And no matter how much you wish it otherwise,
you
are not the kind to engage in vulgarity.”

The marquis was enjoying himself a little too much. Ash handed the plate back. “All your crass language proves is that our hostess made a grievous mistake in issuing you an invitation.”

“And that is why I like you. A refreshing change from my devil-may-care accomplices. Tell me, how
is
the mistress hunt going? Or are you merely searching for tonight’s
affaire
?”

“What I do is none of your concern.” Ash let another skimpily-dressed woman catch his eye as she danced by. Not even a tightening in his groin. Damn it. Just because she was too thin and her face didn’t glow like she’d just descended from the heavens didn’t make her a poor choice for a night’s entertainment. Why wouldn’t his body cooperate?

“None of my—” the marquis exclaimed. “Why, I’ve listened to your lectures my entire life. I think I deserve one chance to be the responsible one.” He looked hard at Ash. “You can’t toss years of good behavior out of the window just because you’ve realized you aren’t as perfect as you once thought. One of us must care about that.”

Ash whipped around. “Do you think I don’t?” On the tip of his tongue danced the explanation for his sudden behavior. Yet he couldn’t seem to say it. What if Montborne was right? What if Ash’s entire life, he’d only been fooling himself?

Was he like his father? He had to know. Scantily clad, fast women had excited the former viscount. Was Ash like that?

He must know. He couldn’t proceed with his search for a wife until he knew whether he could remain faithful to her. This test wasn’t for his own entertainment. It was for science, and his eternal soul. For on the one hand, he never wanted to hurt his wife like his father had hurt his mother. And on the other, Ash didn’t want to end up with a bullet through his back.

“Very well,” the marquis replied, “
you
are under control and I am acting the nervous ninny.”

“Precisely.”

“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Now, what of your sisters? How are they taking your sudden interest in London’s demimonde?”

“My sisters are fine,” Ash lied, for the truth was he had no idea. He only knew he deplored this conversation.

The marquis dropped his empty wineglass on a passing tray. “Lucy’s transformation is rather interesting, actually. I’m not sure whether to be alarmed or pleased.”