The Trouble With Being Wicked (4 page)

“
You
will?”

A mistake.
She was the companion, not the one to be ordering such things as repairs. “I would hardly ask Mrs. Inglewood to take on the task in her condition. Would you?”

His gaze flicked to Elizabeth. His censure tempered, for he seemed to consider her something to be handled gently. Celeste could have easily disabused him of that notion, but to what purpose? If he had a fondness for Elizabeth, she ought to leverage it, not quash it. If she was in any way jealous that her friend had drawn his concern—which she was certainly not—there was nothing to it but the collective rivalry that existed among all members of the Muslin Company.

“Mrs. Inglewood ought to be resting,” he said. When his gaze returned to Celeste, traces of the warmth he’d directed at Elizabeth touched on her. The molten warmth she’d feared would undo her.

She despised feeling vulnerable. For all of her life, she’d protected her heart from just such a danger as her attraction to him presented now. What men wanted, they took. Then they searched out another conquest, and another, for a woman never stopped giving but a man lost interest easily. There was no permanence. No promise she would receive anything but a few jewels and a bank draft before she was set aside.

She tore her gaze away and looked down, seeing the rough bark beneath her hand. Besides guarding the only part of herself she’d ever been able to keep private, she must be more careful to behave submissively. As much as she detested comporting herself meekly, she did not want to give him reason to look closer.

“I wish you would reconsider,” he pressed her. “The tree is completely unaware of the harm it is doing.”

Celeste’s brows drew together at his statement. His argument was absurd, yet he appeared completely serious. Which could only mean he had an irrational but unshakable attachment to the tree. She wasn’t much for trees, but she knew enough about irrational attachments. “Perhaps if the house hadn’t chosen this specific place on which to build itself, it wouldn’t be at odds with the tree.”

Lord Trestin did not crack a sheepish smile, as any rational man might have. Instead he scowled even darker. “I see no reason to make an effort to salvage what cannot be recovered. The house, I fear, is damaged beyond all measure. I should not have sold it.”

“Not have sold it?” Her belly twisted as she searched for some reason he could be so dead set against her. But no, he was guarding the tree. For some unfathomable reason, he would rather keep the tree than have her for a neighbor.

She shouldn’t care. She didn’t even know him. But it felt terrible to be passed over for a tree.

He regarded her with a touch of regret. A compassionate emotion that made her want… What, exactly?

“Yes, Miss Smythe,” he said in a devastatingly resigned voice, “it really is unfit.”

She went cold at his pronouncement.
Damaged. Unfit.
Her gaze fell to the trunk again. It was a great, old tree, one that had stood for generations. She didn’t think that was why he preferred the tree over her.

“It’s just one crack, my lord,” she tried again, attempting to understand him. “The entire roof needs to be thatched anew, yet I heard you say nothing about that.”

“No matter how many cosmetic improvements you make, the house will always have a defect through its very heart. A new roof won’t change that.”

She pressed her lips together, even more determined to restore the house to its former beauty. She would fight him for her dream, if that was what it took.

A breeze rustled the branches overhead. She looked up. And up. The tree was vast, soaring high above the cottage’s roof. In her concern for the cracked wall, she hadn’t spared the tree much thought. Now she let herself look at it, truly see it, and realized with new longing there was more to this tree than she’d thought.

A little clapboard house, set high in the branches and decayed by time, creaked in the wind. Her heart contracted, imagining the boy Lord Trestin must have been and remembering her own sad childhood. Even the pleasure of a new doll had been denied her, for her mother had been selfish, almost a child herself, barely sparing the coin required to feed her only daughter.

Lord Trestin had been given a tree house. A refuge of his own. She knew this had been his, even though he didn’t say so. The truth was there in his rigid bearing and the troubled look he was doing his best to suppress. Taking down this tree meant hacking at a memory he cherished. Could she do that? Was she worth it?

She’d started to fall in love with the cottage when she’d thought it broken. This told her it had once been a home. She desired a home so badly she would lie to have it. She had to. Because no one would want her next door if they knew who she was.

But if she must choose between her dreams and his memories…

Celeste stood tall and looked into his eyes. She allowed her emotions to run free for just this instant—then they would be boxed and stored again. “This is not about the crack, is it?” She hoped he would see her sympathy and know she was worthy of marshaling this property he held dear.

His eyes flicked upward. Jealousy stabbed her sharp and quick, for no one had cared as much for her as he seemed to care for a few rotted boards.

He took a step toward her. He no longer looked resigned. He looked determined. “I must be frank with you, though I should not fall on such poor manners as a matter of course. In various moments I find myself doubting the existence of Captain Inglewood. I’m Lord Trestin, a man of little humor and even less patience. I do not take lies lightly.
That
is what this is about.”

Lord Trestin.
Suddenly she recalled where she’d heard the name. Every lightskirt knew of Adam Lancester, the infamous whoremonger who had been murdered almost a decade ago by his unamused wife. The Cyprian Corps, usually a jaded lot, had wept. Celeste could never forget that, even if she’d never known Adam personally.

Goodness. If anyone could tell a whore from ten paces, it ought to be this man. Adam’s son.

But
did
he know? Or did he merely question their story? Even after his shocking statement, she couldn’t think he knew. He’d been so baldly honest, she had to believe he would accuse them of harlotry if he did.

He continued to watch her with an unfathomable look. “If you wish to reconsider your investment in Devonshire, I’ll gladly void the bill of sale and return your bank note.”

Your
investment
. Your
payment
.
Though it was unclear whether he knew them to be Cyprians, he’d flatly questioned the existence of the captain. Ironic, as there was indeed a captain who had fathered Elizabeth’s child. And he was paying for them to be here, in a way. He was even at sea—adrift in a sea of skirts, if Elizabeth’s bitter ranting was to be believed.

A harsh laugh strangled in Celeste’s throat. This was not the first time she’d been unwanted, nor was it the first time her vast bank account ensured that even the highest stickler couldn’t expel her. For though he’d offered to nullify their agreement, he had no ability to do so without her consent. What wounded her, however, was the very fact of not understanding why. Why did he find her so abhorrent, if he had no notion of her past?

She at last found her voice. “I assure you, my lord, I would never put the good
captain
through the trouble of reneging. He wouldn’t appreciate us declining so generous a living as he has provided for us here.”

Lord Trestin’s voice lowered, drawing her to lean toward him. “A young woman accustomed to the delights of the city is like to become bored in Devon. Then who will have gone through a lot of trouble?”

She hadn’t been a courtesan for eighteen years—or reached the age of three and thirty—without learning when a man had gained the upper hand. He knew she was lying. He was willing to accuse her of it. But it seemed he did not know the extent of it. She must not allow him to cow her, for in truth there was no time to find another cottage before Elizabeth began her confinement. “If it is dull here, then it’s all for the better. Too much fun can tax one’s energy, don’t you agree?”

He flinched at the word
fun
. “No.”

Their gazes caught, locked. Despite his accusations, in spite of her own vow to be everything pious and good so as not to cast a shadow over Elizabeth’s innocent babe, and notwithstanding the vast chasm that separated her from all men, and especially this straitlaced, unyielding one, awareness shot through her. It was entirely one-sided, for never had a man looked at her with so much…nothingness.

It rattled her. She was accustomed to the scorn of ladies. Knew well the lustful, heated looks of their husbands, and the jealous glares of lesser whores. She’d been given the cut direct, spat upon, and groped in darkened alcoves. But she’d never been regarded as though she wasn’t worthy of the effort it took to form a reaction.

She quickly recovered her composure, for that was what women in her situation did. This was
her
rundown property on the edge of a little-known hamlet, nestled between an unforgiving moor and a less-forgiving sea. Hers to share with Elizabeth and the babe, and nothing about their arrangement involved him. Because she hadn’t foreseen him. Not his shrewdness nor his high-handedness nor his very maleness—that masculine self-assuredness she found so very, very attractive.

If only he didn’t live next door. Brixcombe suddenly felt crowded. It must infuriate him to know he could do nothing but disapprove of her. He could not evict her, not from her own property. He could only look at her and go a little mad every time he thought of whatever it was she had done to make him object to her.

She smiled to herself. She’d always been rather good at driving men mad.

Chapter Three

Ash left the old Amherst property in a thunder of hooves and ill thoughts. He’d been careful to spare nothing more than a glance for Miss Smythe as he’d seen her and Mrs. Inglewood to the Hound and Hen, depositing them there against his better judgment. Or was it brilliance on his part? He’d had to choose between having them near his sisters or setting them down at the local inn. It had barely been a choice at all.

If he were honest, he was more relieved to be free of Miss Smythe than to know he’d kept her apart from his sisters. It wouldn’t do to encourage her and that was that. He was an unmarried peer and she was… Well, he had yet to determine precisely what she was. That was exactly why his thoughts were upside down.

He forced his body to relax now that he was headed in the opposite direction from her. Women enjoyed thwarting him; incontrovertible evidence he was cursed. Worse, they enjoyed a challenge. To Miss “Smythe,” their sparring was exciting. She’d sent him furtive, heated looks from the moment he’d made it clear he wouldn’t be tempted by her wiles.

Had she truly tried to seduce him with her eyes, or had he only seen his own wild passions reflected in those green orbs? Either way, her effect on him was the same. He had no use for a woman of her brazen nature, nor did he appreciate her stealing into the carefully patrolled shadows of his mind. Good God, the way she’d looked at him when he’d torn his gaze away…the scorching, sensual lift of her eyebrow, the near-imperceptible intake of her breath, was almost enough to make him regret the last seven years of abstinence.

His body tightened again and he shifted in his saddle. Was he never going to get that image out of his head? Damn her. He could not allow lust to override his sense. If he couldn’t control his traitorous body, he must at least keep a clear head. His sisters depended upon it.

Drawing to a halt in the white gravel drive of Worston Heights, he tossed his reins to a groom and took the granite steps two at a time. He tucked the package containing his sisters’ tongs and ribbons beneath the voluminous folds of his greatcoat just before he entered—though he had little expectation of encountering them in the hall. That was another matter altogether.

His heels clicked against the entryway. He handed his black beaver hat to his butler, Nordstrom, and glanced at a Morbier clockwork diligently keeping time. Half five. His jaw tightened.

“My lord, did you encounter Aaron and Henry in Brixcombe?” Nordstrom asked as he wiped the felt brim with his gloved hands.

The mention of his footmen brought Ash to attention. “Are my sisters missing again?” Their disappearing could be counted on, especially on days he found himself in a dark mood. He must find them before they were sucked into a bog, or—