The Trouble With Being Wicked (13 page)

She laughed, but he was intensely aware she had yet to accept. “You must be well-acquainted with the marquis.”

Jealousy, hot and surprising, spiked through his chest. “Are you?”

She forced her attention to him from the shore. “The marquis is very fond of London.”

Her coy responses irked him. He tried for one of his own. “And ladies.”

She smiled wryly, causing his stomach to trip. “So it’s said.”

“Then you’ll come?” It maddened him to think she would come for Montborne and not for him. Still, he wanted her to come. The party would seem dull without her. If it meant putting her in Montborne’s path, he would risk it.

“I’ll have to ask Elizabeth.” Her lower lip caught in her teeth. “What of your sisters? I thought you would have us steer clear of them.”

“I never said that.”

She laughed in that low, seductive way of hers. “You don’t need to.”

He supposed he had
made his feelings clear, even if he hadn’t specifically lined them out. “I merely ask you not to encourage their hoyden ways.”

She was quiet a time. “Very well. What of the cottage? It has been three days, yet I’ve seen no one on the property. Do you still mean to send your estate manager as a show of good faith?”

Oh, she was a persistent little minx. His opinion of her rose. But he wanted the truth, and he knew only one way to have it out of her. “I’ll send someone as soon as Captain Inglewood requests it. My good faith, as you describe it, is only assured for the person who signed the bill
 
of sale.”

When she looked up again, her lips were turned up and one slender eyebrow was raised. “I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

Chapter Nine

Celeste could have done with something stronger than sherry as she ticked off the minutes until Roman deigned to make his entrance. Miss Lancester’s dinner party had, to this point, proved a resounding bore. The entertainment clearly hinged on their guest of honor’s arrival, which to Celeste’s calculations, was at least a quarter hour away. An enormously long quarter hour, as the tedium did nothing to distract her from obsessing over what might or might not happen in the next few hours. What would Roman do—or, God forbid, say—when he found her here? She ought to have sent him a warning instead of relying on surprise, but how did a woman contact a man in the country without drawing attention?

Lord Trestin brooded before the fireplace. The occasional unreadable glance warmed her from her slippers to the nape of her neck. She should have been disappointed to realize calling on him today had done nothing to quell his interest in her, contrary to Elizabeth’s advice. Instead she felt a bit…fluttery.

“And how do you find our little town, hm?”

She cupped her sherry glass in her hands and forced her attention to the man seated beside her. As Lord Trestin had warned, the dinner party was a close affair. Miss Lancester’s guests were lower gentry, still far higher on the social ladder than Celeste, but not so high as to possess the amusing eccentricities of the Upper Ten Thousand. The married couple attending, Mr. and Mrs. Pratt, had found something marvelously diverting to whisper about with Miss Lancester and Miss Delilah. Mr. Mudwilder, a bachelor, had chosen to settle his large frame on the cushion beside Celeste. The cloying scent of his shaving powder almost distracted from his tedious description of his new prize bull.

It seemed he was done with his one-sided discussion of cattle. “I find I have a fondness for the seclusion of Brixcombe,” she said, wishing Elizabeth hadn’t taken Lord Trestin’s reprimand to heart. She could have used her friend’s magnetic pull on men just now. Mr. Mudwilder was sweet, but she would rather not spend the evening deflecting his attempts at discourse. Elizabeth would have played to him. He’d have gone home alone, but feeling very good for his effort.

“I’ve always enjoyed solitude, myself,” he said, shifting his bulk against the cushions, “so long as I can look forward to pretty company in the evening.”

She quickly took a sip of sherry. Goodness. He seemed so earnest. What did she say to that besides thank you?

“My apologies,” he blurted before she could say anything. He took a draught of wine. When he looked at her again he appeared sincerely penitent. “I meant no offense. You’re very pretty. A man can’t help but want to compliment you, even if he hasn’t a chance in ten of drawing your attention.”

She could only seem to look at her hands and the crystal glass she cupped between them. Oh, no. Was
she
blushing? It was one thing to play coy, but this was no patron looking for an evening between the sheets. She hardly knew what to make of his gallantry.

If only Elizabeth were here! But she’d firmly declined. “I suppose I
ought
to give more consideration to my condition,” she’d said, patting the top of her belly. “You’ve said so enough yourself. Go along now to Lord Trestin’s dinner, and make friends with him. I shall sit here and keep my fingers crossed for you.”

So Celeste was to contend with Mr. Mudwilder’s solicitous attention alone. And evade Lord Trestin’s smoldering looks, and pray Roman’s reaction to her presence was discreet.
 

Elizabeth had voiced an opinion on that, too. “For all that you refuse to acknowledge it, I do believe the marquis is half in love with you. I’m sure he will keep your confidence, as you asked.”

Celeste wasn’t as convinced. She drew taut when Miss Lancester set down her lemonade and fixed her attention on the door. “At last, Lord Montborne arrives.” If a hint of cynicism bespoke her annoyance, the others didn’t seem to notice.

Miss Delilah leaned toward Mrs. Pratt, a fearsome-looking woman in a somber, high-necked dress. “Lucinda positively
breathes
Lord Montborne.”

Lord Trestin gave no indication he had overheard the stage whisper. An irregular spot in the papered wall had his attention.

“No need to exert yourself, Nordstrom, old boy,” a familiar, jovial voice boomed down the hallway. “They’re no doubt expecting me by now. I’m excruciatingly tardy, you see.” In a great burst of energy, Roman swept into the room. “Ladies! Mr. Mudwilder, my dear Mrs. Pratt.” He indicated the assembly with a flourish of his walking stick. “
Mr.
Pratt, and, of course, our esteemed host and my friend, Lord Trestin. So much for dinner tonight, I suppose. Have I at least come in time for dessert?”

The fearsome Mrs. Pratt tittered into her glove. “Of course we waited for you, my lord.”

“‘Of course?’” He looked about the room. Celeste willed herself to remain calm. Yet when his gaze touched on her with surprise, the amber liquid in her glass quivered.

“There is no ‘of course,’” he continued in amiable tones. “I should never wish to keep ladies from their dinner.”

Miss Lancester sniffed. “Then you ought to have arrived at half five, like everyone else. I wouldn’t have waited but for my brother, who wished for even numbers at his table.”

Lord Trestin’s brow furrowed at this blatant falsehood, but he didn’t disagree.

“Even numbers?” Roman looked about at each of the assembled guests. He saved Celeste for last. She could almost see the connections as he made them in his head. She recognized the near-imperceptible tightening at the corners of his eyes. Her heart tripped as she awaited his reaction. What was he thinking about so seriously?

“Mr. and Mrs. Pratt. Mr. Mudwilder and Miss Delilah.” Though he favored his left arm, which was no doubt still sore from his tumble, he tapped his walking stick against his left fingers, counting pairs. “Myself and our lovely hostess.” He paused to allow the girls to snicker at his matchmaking, but Celeste didn’t laugh. She raised her sherry to her lips as though she could place the feeble barrier between herself and Roman’s suspicions.

His eyes further narrowed on her. “And Miss Gray and our Lord Trestin, I presume.”

Celeste calmly broke in. “Smythe, my lord. Miss Smythe.”

Slowly, he nodded. “Ah, yes. How rude of me to forget your name, after we spoke at such length before your holiday.” He brightened suddenly. A chill stole through her despite the cozy fire in the grate. “But of course, I recall it clearly now. Did I not mention Devon as a lovely place to spend the summer? And then
you
asked me about the local gentry, to which I replied…” He frowned. “What was it I said, do you recollect?”

Celeste risked a glimpse at Lord Trestin. He watched their exchange with unreserved interest. As did everyone in the room, including Mr. Mudwilder beside her. “If memory serves, my lord,” she answered, “you recommended the Lancester family highly, as a pinnacle of all that is good in the world.”

Roman chuckled and lowered his walking stick, clasping the gold knob with both hands. His gaze did not falter from hers. “Yes, I am absolutely sure that is what I said, for there is no
sinner
nor prevaricator among them. And I, down from London so infrequently, find them a refreshing breath of fresh air. Please, my dear family,” he said, expanding his hands to include the three siblings, “never change. Never let vice rule you, or desire lure you. For these are but fleeting pleasures. Guilt, my friends, is forever.”

Mrs. Pratt clapped her hands together. “Well said, my lord. I pray you have seen your last scandal and are reborn a new man?”

Roman slowly unlocked eyes with Celeste and dragged his scrutiny to the prim woman beside Miss Delilah. “Nay, Mrs. Pratt. I fear for some of us, there is no second chance.”

* * *

Roman found her later, when the others were sated from dinner and nodding into their port. They twisted like corkscrews into a shadowy corner of Lord Trestin’s drawing room. Numerous seating arrangements allowed sufficient privacy to steal away entirely. She was wary of doing so. The last thing she wanted was to call any more attention to her relationship with Roman.

“How dare you?” she hissed, glancing sideways to be sure they weren’t overheard.

“How dare
you
? What are you thinking, Celeste? Or
are
you? God’s teeth, this is a mad scheme. I’m shocked. Lord Trestin is practically a saint.”

“I haven’t set my sights on him! You came up with that all on your own.”

His eyes were shards of jagged crystal, accusing and hurt. “No, you didn’t tell me anything, did you? I fairly begged you to enlighten me and you refused. No, actually—you
lied
to me out in that field. You said you aren’t practicing your charms. Who is to blame, if you do not like the way I’ve interpreted things?”

“You must trust me on this, my lord—” But she knew. He was right.

“Don’t ‘my lord’ me tonight. You left me completely in the dark and now have the audacity to be angry with me for assuming—” His gaze fell to the carpet then traveled back to her face. “I’d wager the last coin in my pocket I am not misinterpreting the way you look at him. Am I, Celeste? Am I wrong?”

Her indrawn breath hissed through her teeth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You might try me.”

“I just wanted—” She couldn’t say it. Saying it aloud would make her sound pathetic. Wasn’t her fame, her success, enough? Must she also feel adored?

“It’s what
you
want, isn’t it? Not what’s good for him. Not what an entanglement with a lightskirt might do to his sisters.”

“I’ve no designs on him,” she said again. Even to her ears, she sounded unconvincing.

Roman exhaled slowly. His right hand briefly touched hers and then dropped to his side. “I can understand why you might be drawn. He is the finest man I know. But my dear, I’m asking you, as your friend and his, don’t look in that direction. It won’t do.”

She glanced away.

Roman grasped her wrist. “Celeste, do not do this.”

Tears threatened to break. “What is so horrible about my fancying him?” She wanted to yank her arm away, but something about Roman’s touch comforted her. Her heart ached as she looked him. If only someone would hold her…

Roman’s thumb grazed over her wrist. “He’s not the type…not the type to dally with your type. It’s simply who he is. He’s driven to prove he’s better than his father. You do remember his father?”

She nodded, tugging her hand away. Being touched, but not deeply enough, left her empty.

“Then you understand why he’ll hate you if you take that from him.” Roman’s eyes snapped with warning. “He’ll never forgive you.”