The Trouble With Being Wicked (35 page)

“Then you need to stop it.” Montborne moved further into the room. “It doesn’t set a good example for your sisters.”

“I hardly envision my sisters following in these footsteps.”

“I thought you would care.”

“I do,” Ash defended himself, “but why would my nighttime activities concern them? It’s all very discreet. How would they even know?”

“Of course they know, you ninny. You’re all they’ve got.”

Ash toyed with his signet ring and scrutinized the marquis. Did his sisters truly notice his nighttime comings and goings? Or was it just Montborne who cared?

Montborne’s usually handsome face scowled. “I’m telling you, your proclivities are rubbing off on them and you’re too single-minded to notice. Your apple is rolling closer and closer to the tree and I fear theirs are beginning to rot, too.” He paused just long enough to let the accusation sink in. Then he closed the remaining distance and set his hands on the edge of Ash’s massive oak desk. “When was the last time you really looked at your sisters? A week? A month? Have you seen them at all? All you think about is
her
. I tried to warn you. You didn’t listen. A new habit that is becoming tedious, I might add.
When was the last time you played escort to your sisters?
”

It took all of Ash’s control to keep from defending himself again. He hated being compared to his father. Hated more that it was true; he was following in those fated footsteps and they seemed a perfect fit. But the more exasperated Montborne became and the deeper he tried to drive his verbal sword, the more guarded Ash felt. He set his signet ring aside. “I’ve missed a few routs. The girls attend in the company of friends. What is it to you?”

The marquis pounded his fist on the desk. “You neglect them! For bedsport! Your sister needs you. You must pay more attention. People are beginning to talk.”

Ash’s guardedness slipped. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Lucy. She’s turning heads.” He grimaced. “It’s deplorable.”

Ash was sure he hadn’t heard him correctly. “Lucy?”

“Yes. Thank God I finally have your attention. She’s the toast of the Season. Normally that wouldn’t concern me, but she’s flirting like a Vauxhall vixen. She’s even gone missing in the middle of assemblies. I’ve tried to follow her, but she’s damned good at disappearing. Something must be done about it.
You
must do something about it.”

Ash’s eyes narrowed. It was a damned
convenient
time for his sister to need him. “How can this be possible? She’s a handsome enough girl, but the toast? Why haven’t I heard of this before?”

Montborne exhaled as though it pained him to explain. “It isn’t that farfetched to imagine why she hasn’t bothered to mention it. You’d never approve of her gallivanting while holding a dozen suitors on a leash. That’s not even why I’m here, because I don’t begrudge her a bit of fun. She’s an easy target for rakes, Ashlin. That’s why I’ve come.”

Ash dismissed the charge instantly. It was all too, too convenient, and entirely implausible. “That’s ridiculous.”

The marquis’ mouth dropped open. “You know I’m not one to exaggerate—”

Ash regarded him with incredulousness. “The biggest fabricator of cock-and-bull tales in all of England? You told a cozy enough story about Miss Smythe, if I recall correctly.”

Montborne looked hurt. “I’ve only ever had your best interests at heart.”

He did look earnest. Still, his claim was absurd. Lucy hadn’t even wanted a Season. When they’d first arrived in London and Ash had ferried her from one party to the next, she’d done nothing but decorate the walls. Delilah was even worse, occasionally claiming the headache and refusing to attend altogether. His impatience for this improbable story grew. Evidently, Montborne would say anything to drive a wedge between him and Celeste. “Your best interests always seem to conflict with what I want,” Ash drawled. “Why is that?”

“Mayhap because you can’t see what is directly in front of you.” Montborne took a breath, visibly calming himself. “Your sister requires your attention. Listen to me. Just this once.”

“I won’t waste my time on nonsense. Lucy is the last girl to attract roués.”

“Have I ever led you astray?”

“Yes!” Ash slammed his hands on the desk. “You ruined everything!”

The marquis rolled his eyes and rested a palm over his broadcloth-cloaked heart. “What a horrible friend I am, making sure you didn’t bed a lightskirt by mistake. Tar and feather me all you want, but have some sense. You aren’t going to acknowledge her in public, are you?”

“No.” It actually hadn’t occurred to him. He planned to move her to the country as soon as his sisters were settled. What more could he do?

Montborne’s expression softened to sympathy. “Then what are you doing?”

Ash fell silent. She wanted more from him than he could give, yet he continued to take what she offered. Because he
was
in love with her. Just not enough.

Montborne lowered his voice. “You can’t skulk around forever, hiding in her terraced house. Is that what you want? Is that what she wants? Celeste loves dancing and late-night fetes. You’re a country mouse. You have nothing in common besides her bed. Move on, Trestin. I know it’s hard. I’m not maudlin for months on end because I enjoy it. But I truly believe the right young lady for you is out there somewhere.” He paused. “You don’t want
this
.”

“Stop telling me what I want.” Despite his grumble, he couldn’t shake the disquieting thought that Montborne was right. Did she love dancing and late-night fetes? He didn’t know. She was a complicated twist of needs, and he was surprised to realize he yearned to know her inside and out, to scale the façade and protect the girl who lived inside, scared and alone.

He made a promise then and there that he would acknowledge her as his mistress. Damn the gossips and their wagging tongues.

Montborne raised a blond eyebrow. “Life is short. You wanted a wife. Go wife-hunting. Don’t end up like me, wondering how it all came to this.”

Ash recoiled. What he asked was impossible. Leave Celeste? She would have to leave him. He simply couldn’t.

But he hated to think how close she was to that. He shook his head, feeling like a man who must select from a dozen bad choices. “I can’t.”

Montborne leaned back, distancing himself. “You’ve changed.”

Ash’s head shot up. “Is that such an offence?” He flattened his hands on top of his desk. “Why this sudden interest in my life? Who does this concern, Montborne? It damned sure isn’t me. Yes, I want to have a mistress. I’m like my father after all. There, I said it. I’ve given up denying it. You can’t condone it, though. You can’t accept it. Why? Have you done something that makes you feel so guilty you’ve decided to offer moral guidance? A way to atone for some horrible dishonor you’ve caused?”

Montborne set one hand on the top of the desk and leaned toward Ash. “It’s easy to turn the tables, isn’t it?
It’s not me, it’s you.
But I’m not the one about to ruin my family name. I think you want to
marry
her. I think you’re actually considering it.”

Ash rose from his chair, closer than ever to settling this argument with brute strength. Montborne didn’t flinch.

“Of course I want to marry her,” Ash said. “
I love her
. But I can’t. I won’t. Why are you making me say it?”

Montborne slammed his hand on the desk, causing a smack loud enough to be heard in the rest of the house. “Because someone has to. You’re obsessed. ’Tis a simple thing, Trestin. Give her up. Show your sisters what it means to behave with decorum. You used to do it all the time.”

Ash’s teeth grated together. “Whatever you’ve done must be damned despicable if you think you can absolve it by playing guardian angel to me.”

Montborne shook his head. “More like bedeviling you into rethinking your intention to ruin your family for a whor—”

Ash leaned across the desk. He had Montborne in a death grip before the last words were said. “I’m going to kill you.”

“That’s…” Montborne struggled to breathe, “…exactly my point. You make…stupid choices…for her.”

Ash loosened his grip enough to prove him wrong. “Stop pushing your guilt off on me.”

Montborne coughed against his shoulder but he never stopped glaring at Ash. “I’ve done nothing wrong. But then, you’ve never believed that, have you?”

Reluctantly, Ash released him. He couldn’t answer that. Not to Montborne’s face.

Montborne didn’t need him to. He tugged at his coat, righting it, and raised cold eyes to Ash’s face. “It’s always been ‘foolish Montborne,’ hasn’t it?”

Ash didn’t answer.

The marquis’ smile was grim. “One day, I’ll prove you wrong.”

Ash sat back in his chair. “I’m waiting.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Duty to family had always been foremost in Ash’s mind, guiding him when he would have otherwise given in to the depravity of his tainted soul. Montborne’s assertion that he’d forgotten his duty disturbed him more than he would admit.

But he didn’t ignore the warning altogether. He made a special effort to see his sisters at dinner. He noticed nothing amiss. He dutifully escorted them to Lady Janeson’s ball and stood by Lucy all night. Not one man approached.

Nor did Montborne appear, belatedly recalling Ash to the fact that the marquis didn’t normally deign to attend such insipid entertainment as the girls enjoyed. Ash ushered them home after midnight, more convinced than ever that his best friend had turned against him. How could Montborne know firsthand what went on at events he didn’t even grace with his presence?

Later that week, Ash asked Celeste if she enjoyed dancing. Her broad, answering smile unnerved him in a way his sisters’ bland enthusiasm for his restored attention hadn’t. Montborne was right about this much, damn him.

Ash regarded her hopeful face, at a loss how to proceed. He couldn’t take her to a
ton
ball, for she would never be permitted entrance. He wasn’t privy to the parties where she would be allowed. It frustrated him to want to make her happy, and not know how.

As always, she soothed him with a warm smile and a look of adoration. He didn’t deserve either. She assured him that no man had ever cared so much for her happiness, and snuggled into his arms. That was how he came to be helping her from a luxurious mink coat two days later in the crowded entranceway of Mrs. Galbraith’s voucher-only soiree.

“We can go home,” Celeste murmured against his ear as he lifted the heavy garment from her delicate shoulders.

“I’m fine.” He wouldn’t admit he’d rather be anywhere else, mayhap even receiving the worst kind of lecture from Montborne, than preparing to enter the den of dissolution that was this Cyprians’ fete. But Celeste had held vouchers for months. When she’d presented them to him as a solution, he hadn’t been able to refuse.

He had a sinking feeling he wouldn’t be able to refuse her anything.

“Just an hour while I make my rounds,” she promised, and without the delay of a receiving line, they whisked into the house.

Within minutes, all thoughts of a quick exit left him. It shocked him to see how brightly she shone in a room where she reigned supreme. She was no flavor of the moment, nor was she a country miss trying to blend into drab gentry. She was secure in her status as high courtesan, the woman who’d felled the reclusive, reserved Lord Trestin without even lifting a finger. He was the bauble on her arm, not the other way around.

He hadn’t predicted how on display he would feel. He hadn’t considered how he’d react to seeing her in her element and realize there was so much about her that he couldn’t possibly understand. He hadn’t expected to enjoy watching her sparkle in a place where he’d sworn never to set foot.

She stopped walking without warning. He plowed into her from behind. His gloved hands wrapped around her slim, bare shoulders, sending tremors of possession through him. Just as it had outside of the cottage so many weeks ago.

They shouldn’t be here, at this fete. This place existed for sin. Being seen with her sealed his reputation as his father’s son. For some reason, these warnings only made him think of sneaking off into a curtained alcove and—

“Good God,” she said under her breath.

Preparing to slay a dragon or call out an old lover, he pulled himself straight and scanned the room for danger. Nothing. Nothing a man would fear, at least. Then he spotted a dark-haired woman in a demi-mask laughing brazenly from the center of a throng of young men. “A new member of the Muslin Company,” he guessed, squeezing Celeste’s shoulders.