The Trouble With Being Wicked (26 page)

The brute effectively blocked Ash’s progress with a brawny arm. “She’s. Not. Receiving.”

Ash pushed on the obstruction across his chest, nearly sick at the thought of her
receiving
anyone but him. “She’ll rethink that when she knows who it is.”

“My orders are clear. No service after two of the clock.”

“I’m different,” Ash insisted. “Off with you now. Tell her Lord Trestin is here.”

“Lord Trestin, you say?” The Atlas-like butler drew up and peered at Ash strangely.

Ash tried to skirt him from the other side. “I
do
say, good man, I
do
say. Let a fellow through. I have matters of grave importance to discuss with her.”

“Hmph. It’s past three, you know.” But the man let him through. A fact Ash greatly appreciated, as he was expending considerable energy attempting to shift the man’s bulk with his own, less considerable weight.

“You’re not what I thought,” the man muttered, then grabbed Ash by the collar and dragged him through the hall.
 

Ash’s toes trailed carpet. “Let—go—of—me—you—buffoon.”

“Don’t—bite—the—hand—that—feeds—you.” The Greek god or pirate or eunuch towed Ash into a pitch-black room.

“Feed me? More like strangle me,” Ash complained.

“I could have left you on the step,” Atlas reminded him.

“If this is what passes for hospitality around here…” Ash muttered. “The least you could do is light a candle.”

“No service after two of the clock,” the brute reminded him, depositing him on an unseen sofa. “You’re lucky I’ve decided to let you in. Sober up, milord. Celeste deserves better than a drunken sot.”

“I’m very respectable,” Ash called to the pirate/eunuch’s giant back. Then dizziness accosted him and he concentrated on keeping his accounts.

Lord, he
was
sotted. His head spun in two directions and if he wasn’t mistaken, this house looked suspiciously like a bordello. Not that he’d ever been in a bordello, not that he could see past his nose, but he imagined a bordello might look something like the room he was in. Not that he knew which room he was in, but it probably looked like a bordello.

When he felt better, he concentrated on his speech. He was here to make a speech, wasn’t he? Or did he think she was just going to let him into her bed?

“I understand you’re a harlot,” he said aloud, trying for something more conversational than,
Please, Miss Smythe, I’m in love with my memories of you.

“And
you
are clearly an ass of the first order.” Her voice jolted him as candlelight flooded the room. He turned—carefully, so as not to swing his head—and gaped.

God, she was beautiful. The taper in her hand touched every curve perfectly. Her bed-tossed hair gathered in shimmering curls. He wanted to thrust his finger through each and every one.

Her green eyes were accusing and…something else. Hurt? He latched onto it, shrouding himself in drunken hope. “Be my mistress,” he pleaded, all self-restraint gone.

She visibly flinched. “Not in a thousand years.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” She didn’t need a reason. This was her territory. She was in control.

His drunken hope shriveled.

Suddenly her shoulders collapsed. She looked at him helplessly. “Because this is who I am. I will never be anything more.”

“But I’m not asking you to be.” Even in his drunken state, he knew those were not the words she wanted to hear.

“I don’t accept money from friends,” she replied stiffly. “Now, good night.”

He smiled what he hoped was a devastating smile. “So, we’re friends?”

Candlelight bounced across her face, highlighting new gauntness. “We are nothing.”

Was she gaunt because of him? He rose gingerly and took a step toward her, careful not to frighten her. “I think you do harbor some feelings,” he said cautiously. “Whether you admit it or not.”

She stepped back and thrust the candle between them, guarding her body from his. “Is mind reading one of your achievements, my lord?”

He plucked the taper from her fingers and set it on a table. “Right after estate management and dealing with my sisters. Come now, don’t deny it. If you didn’t feel something, you would have called in the pirate by now.”

“You’re drunk.” Another step backward. She hit the door’s frame. Perfect.

He searched her eyes. Within moments, he was lost. How beautiful she was, so vulnerable yet so strong. That part of his memories, at least, had been real. “Yes,” he said, “but I’m also serious.”

Her eyes flashed. “As serious as you were about Jessica?”

That drew him up. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “You sound jealous.”

Her face turned, presenting him an alabaster cheek. “One cannot help hearing the gossip. Everyone is talking about your progression through the lighter skirts in the
ton
.”

He pressed his lips against her cheek. Not a kiss. Just feeling her, smelling her, detecting the leap of her pulse and indrawn breath. She smelled like heaven. Just as he remembered.

He straightened. “I don’t want them. Only you.”

She sucked in a breath. Her gaze flew to his face. Fear. And longing. She did care. No matter what she claimed. Hope crashed through him.

“Celeste, I will offer you everything I have. Please, don’t deny me. Not tonight.”

Her lips parted. “Everything?”

She must know he had almost nothing compared to her. “Two hundred pounds per annum,” he said, terrified she would reject his puny sum. Surely she would agree. She had to. Otherwise, he’d die a miserable, sexless drunk.

Her face closed. She turned into him, pressing a warm round breast into his chest, but then, to his confusion, she wriggled her way under his arm and hefted him against her shoulder.
 

What was this? Had he actually succeeded in convincing her?

“Five hundred pounds,” she countered, “and you are allowed one night per week.” She began propelling him down the hall toward the stairs.

“Outrageous.” He settled his arm around her. Holding her. Being near her was bliss. Just as he’d remembered. “I cannot possibly afford that.”

“But you’re desperate, my lord
,”
she reasoned as they worked their way to the stairs. “Five hundred pounds doesn’t begin to take advantage of your desire.”

“Oh, I’d hardly say I’m desperate. I left a perfectly good countess standing in her foyer just now.”

“I can earn six hundred on my memoirs alone,” she replied without a hint of emotion. “Five is a bargain.”

“You can only sell that story once.” They turned onto the stairs and he immediately tripped. The carpet seemed snagged in just the right places to catch his boot. Suddenly, he felt every ounce of the brandy he’d fortified himself with. What was he about? Was this really happening, or was it another dream?

After five hundred miles of stair-climbing, he decided to find out. They reached the landing. She nudged him down the hallway and into a bedchamber. He stopped at the side of the bed to nuzzle her neck. The riot of curls smelled so good, like lavender and vanilla.
 

She turned her head. A quiet moan escaped her.
Good God.
Was it really going to happen? Was he finally going to have her?

He nipped her just beneath the ear. “Three hundred pounds and you’re at my beck and call.”

She regarded him wryly. “My other patrons will complain about that.”
 

The iciest thing she could throw at him. “Four and you lose them.”

A bark of laughter escaped her. “Seven and I will tell you I love you.”

He’d been wrong. That was colder. “Five and I will claim the same.”

She pushed him onto the bed. “You’re an ass.”

“And you,” he said as his head hit the pillow, “are beautiful.”

Chapter Nineteen

He was tousled, foxed, and completely unreasonable. What on earth was he doing here?

But she knew. A man in his cups would do anything that pleased his prick, even if his prick would eventually let him down. She was three and thirty, after all. And a fool. And half in love with him. And, and, and. There was no excuse for bringing him to this room and helping him off with his coat. Or his waistcoat. Or the impeccably laundered linen covering his chest.
 

His jaw was darkened by a hint of shadow. She touched it, drawing her fingers along the supple yet firm hairs on his chin. His eyes drooped closed in pleasure. Her heart ached with longing. She dropped his linen to the floor, wanting nothing but to crawl under the coverlet with him. Was there anything headier than a man reveling in a woman’s touch?

He had tried others of her kind since Devon. His eyes, so deep and clear, had regarded others with the intoxicating desperation she felt was reserved for her. She knew this because women talked, because some were her friends, and because everyone with a tongue was gossiping about Lord Trestin.

Yet here he was.

What next? Despite her bantering, she couldn’t accept a shilling from him. And she couldn’t lie with him.

He grabbed her wrist as she attempted to escape. “Stay.”

“Let me go.”

“A thousand pounds. If you but touch me. Here.”

She sucked in her breath as he placed her hand on his naked chest.

“And here.” He moved her hand to his brow. Her fingers pulled away from the heated skin, unable to bear the intimacy. He tugged her hand back to his chest, to the crested male nipple hardened in expectation of her touch. “And here.”

Her core throbbed in response. Yes, she wanted to lie with him. She wished she could lock him in this room and never let him leave. But she would be a fool to give in just because he had slipped into her house and wooed her with a few drunken words.

“No,” she said, pulling her hand away. It slipped from his freely, sending her wobbling off-balance.

“Celeste,” he murmured, eyes half-closed. His long, black lashes fanned over his cheeks. “My dear, darling Celeste. You are a cruel woman.”

They were the last words he uttered before passing into complete oblivion. As his breath evened out, Celeste, fool that she was, contemplated sliding into his arms. He would never know. She could use him to comfort her just as he’d meant to use her.
 

Instead, she tiptoed back to her room and crawled under the covers. She did not sleep at all that night.

* * *

The momentary confusion of waking in an unfamiliar room was compounded by a brain-splitting headache and a lack of proper toiletries. Ash slung his legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Not a strop or razor in sight. The film on his teeth could grow carrots and he’d give his last shilling for water and a soft cloth, neither of which were in view.

He staggered to a vanity table. The spindly stand offered hopes that were easily dashed. He rubbed his palm over the back of his head. Wearing yesterday’s clothing was adventuresome enough. But for the love of God, he required a hair comb before he made an appearance belowstairs. Wasn’t his behavior last night shameful enough?

He surveyed his surroundings. The room wasn’t dusty but it had an abandoned, musty smell to it and its contents had been whittled to only the most basic furniture and supplies. Which was not to say it wasn’t a handsome room. The décor was of the utmost good taste. Surprisingly so, for a house he had come to regard in his drunken state as little more than a bordello. He couldn’t say what disturbed him more: that her personal refuge fed his view of her as an innocent, or the lack of evidence to the contrary.

A cursory scratch at the door was his only warning before it opened. An older, solid-looking maid entered. She carried a tray stocked with linen and a ceramic ewer. He vaguely recalled seeing her the night they’d delivered Mrs. Inglewood’s child, but it was the amenities next to the ewer that made him feel better about his predicament. She’d brought the blessed razor, a mug of coffee and—a finger of brandy?

“Aye, milord,” she said, seeing him blanch, “hair of the dog.”

He availed himself of the coffee and waited impatiently for her to set down the rest so he might shave. He wasn’t particularly eager to begin his disgraceful journey home, but at least he would feel human doing so.