The Trouble With Being Wicked (20 page)

Ash’s whole body went numb. “I should call you out for that.”

The marquis glanced up, not appearing the least threatened. “I’m just curious. What would it take for you to leave her alone?”

What would it
take
? Ash tried to swallow but his throat was dry. This wasn’t a matter of setting her aside because she wasn’t pure enough to be his future viscountess. Nor was it a hypothetical situation Montborne described. This was a real concern for her future. What if she ended up a loose woman, all because no
 
man had stepped in to help her, including Montborne?

“Your silence is terrifying me, Ashlin.” Despite Montborne’s friendly chiding, his teasing ran with an undercurrent of jealousy. He may not have ruined her, but he was definitely involved with her somehow.

Ash drew himself straighter as he became surer Montborne
was
a party to her ruin. The man was never going to admit it, but it was right there in his hawk-like guarding of her. Miss Smythe meant more to him any of the young ladies he’d ruined. Ash might never know why. But hadn’t
he
always tidied up the destruction left in Montborne’s wake? Was it any different if Montborne wasn’t directly responsible for her fall? The injustice done to her was far too late to avenge, but Ash couldn’t be aware of her plight now and
not
help. What could he do to make it right? What did he
want
to do?

It was as if that question gave him permission to unleash his deepest fantasy.
He could have her for his own.
If he became her protector, he could ensure she was taken care of. He could comfort her with more than an embrace. When she’d fallen
 
into his arms the previous night, she’d proved she’d relied on herself too long. He couldn’t make up for the lost opportunities some other man had stolen from her, but at least she wouldn’t be entirely alone.

Could he live with himself if he took a mistress?

Montborne’s expression changed from serious to condemning in an instant. “Are you honestly considering it?”

Ash scowled. “My affairs are none of your business.”

Montborne straightened. He leaned on his walking stick with his good arm and regarded Ash with disdain. “Is that so? You’ve suddenly grown up and become a man?”

Ash stepped forward. “Strong words from someone who ran home with his tail between his legs.”

Montborne’s mouth dropped open at Ash’s unprecedented attack. Then his face hardened. “Stop trying to act the jaded rake. You deplore vice, depravity and anything else the rest of us consider entertainment. You cannot handle a fallen woman and for God’s sake, your sisters’ reputations cannot, either.”

“I only wish to provide for her,” Ash growled, not appreciating the reminder about his sisters. “Not that I must explain myself to you.”

“Provide her what?” Montborne raised his hands in the air, indicating the surrounding, desolate area with exasperation. His voice strained, as though he was frustrated that their argument had persisted to this detestable point. “Celeste could buy your estate three times over. Good Lord, Trestin. She’s a courtesan. She’s rich as Croesus.”
 

Ash’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t have heard Montborne correctly. “What?”

The marquis sighed. He rubbed his gloved hand over his face, half-turning toward the cliffs. His voice dropped low. “I promised not to tell you. I feel like the greatest cad. But I can hold my tongue no longer. I beg you, keep your distance. You’re too besotted already and I fear…” He looked away. “I don’t want you hurt.”

“
She’s a courtesan?
”

Montborne nodded, covering his face with his good hand.

“
How the hell long has this been going on?
”

The marquis’ uninjured shoulder shrugged. He didn’t look up. “Fifteen years? Twenty? I remember tales of her when I was at university, so sometime when we were lads.”

The air whooshed out of Ash. It was another moment before he could draw breath again.
Celeste, a courtesan. A courtesan. Celeste.
For years. Not just one man, one poor decision. But a lifetime of it.

“Truly?” It came out a whisper.
 

Montborne nodded into his hand. “They say she’s worth more than fifty thousand pounds.”

Fifty
thousand
? Ash stared at Montborne in shock. A staggering sum. He could never in his life expect to have that much at hand. And she’d spent a few quid on a rotting pile of limestone? Here? On the fringes of a desolate moor? What could that have possibly been about?

He clamped his hand on the crown of his head, wanting to bury his face as Montborne had done. But he couldn’t. His sisters had begun to make their way back, and he must gain control of himself.

None of it made sense. That she’d gone to such lengths to conceal her identity when she must have known it would be impossible. That she’d ended their kiss—twice—when he might have taken more. That she’d turned to him, burrowing into his embrace like a fragile woman, and grabbed hold of all he could give. Why? What did a notorious harlot expect to find in Brixcombe? Why had she turned to
him
when she needed help?

He wanted to rest his hands on his knees and take a few heaving breaths. He wanted to rail at the unfairness of it, of living a few exhilarating moments thinking he could have her for his own, only to learn she wasn’t the victim after all. He’d thought he could help her? Protect her? When all this time, she’d been one misstep away from ruining
them
?

He’d been so quick to accept the blame. He’d accused her of luring him, but ultimately, he’d believed it was
his
descent into depravity. His tainted blood. And she’d been a whore the entire time. Not just damaged goods, but the wicked enchantress he’d feared. A woman who could bring a man to financial ruin in a single night. She’d used him. Used his sisters to get to him. Endangered their futures so she might work her wiles against him. He couldn’t say why just yet, but he knew she had. Why else would she have come to him? Or had he gone to her, like a dog sniffing a bitch in heat? What manner of man lost his heart to a harlot?

A female
ahem
at their shoulders caused both men to turn. Ash needed another moment to recover, maybe even years to process what he’d just learned.

“Lord Montborne, Trestin,” Lucy said with the put-on air she used around company, “I thought you might wish to welcome our guest.” She indicated Miss Smythe, who was some yards away wrapped in a smart-looking coat cut from cherry-dyed wool.

Ash’s inhale was sharp and swift. She was beautiful. Her red hair curled beneath her bonnet into a softly sweeping halo. But she was the Serpent and Eve rolled into one. And he’d almost bitten from the forbidden fruit.

He lashed out at his sister for putting him in the untenable position of seeing Miss Smythe now. “I’m speaking with Lord Montborne, Lucy—”

Montborne bent over Lucy’s hand. “Miss Lancester, how kind of you to warn us about a gathering of feminine wiles. We men are always at the disadvantage, I fear.”

Lucy yanked her hand away. “If you granted us our voice, we would not need to collude.” She spun and took her leave as quickly as she’d stolen into their conversation.

“Not exactly as I envisioned our next meeting,” Montborne commented under his breath.

Ash made a note to speak with her later. The marquis did deserve a modicum of civility. The four of them were nearly family. It was the reason Montborne had braved Ash’s ire to tell him something he definitely did not want to hear.

Ash’s hand clenched. Maybe one day he would find it in himself to apologize to Montborne, too.

“She’s older than I remember her,” Montborne said offhandedly, “but she’s aged rather well.”

“I estimate she’s over thirty,” Ash said at length, recalling the tiny crows’ feet that had laughed at him. Surely a woman consumed by depravity ought to look used up. Yet Miss Smythe was quite uncommon, in his estimation. Damn her.

“Not Miss Smythe, you nearsighted oaf. Miss Lancester. I still think of her as the chubby-cheeked sprite who used to toddle behind us when we were boys.”

“What do I say to her now?” Ash asked, not really listening to his friend. Did he confront her? Demand she leave before she ruined them all? How could he, with his sisters beside her? And everyone within earshot of the servants? His gut twisted. If word should get out, their whole family would be ruined. Again. Good God, they’d hosted a
dinner party
and she’d been a guest of honor! It was almost enough to make him want to beat his forehead against the nearest cliff face.

“You may tell her she’s grown into a rather pretty young lady,” Montborne replied, turning toward Ash. He let out a long-suffering sigh. “I never thought it would happen. She was a plain-faced child. Really.”

Ash tore his eyes from Miss Smythe long enough to regard his friend with confusion. “You want me to tell Miss Smythe you’re consenting she is passably attractive?”

Montborne blanched. “Good Lord, Trestin, no. Your
sister
. What the devil has gotten into you?”

Ash didn’t have to pretend. He’d gone to the devil faster than he’d ever thought possible. He looked at the stones beneath his feet, as though if he looked hard enough, he could stare straight into Hell. “Honestly, Montborne, I haven’t the faintest idea.”

* * *

“He’s coming!” Lucy grabbed Celeste’s arm and pulled her in a half circle. “Dear Zeus.”

Celeste didn’t have to ask who she meant. The marquis was handsome and dashing and at least nine years Lucy’s senior. It was natural she would have developed a
tendre
for Roman, though surely she ought to have been sensible enough to resist.

What did concern Celeste was Roman’s returned interest. He looked over at their
tête-à-tête
regularly, and it wasn’t because of her. He was intrigued by Lucy. Celeste wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

There was no time to decide. He and Trestin were crossing the shore in their direction. “Shh, they’re almost here,” she said, prying Lucy’s fingers from her arm. “Stop making eyes at him.”

Lucy latched onto her again, drawing them face-to-face. “Please, I’ve seen the way my brother looks at you. You must tell me everything you know about entrancing men.”

Celeste blinked. Lucy’s wide eyes looked back at her in innocence, but Celeste was no longer fooled. Trestin was right. The girl was intrepid.

She pulled Lucy’s arm through hers and tried not to look scared out of her wits. How did she answer Lucy? What on earth did Lucy know about her?
 

What had she told her
brother
?
 

“This isn’t finished,” Celeste said under her breath.

“I should hope not,” Lucy replied with an impish grin.

“Ladies,” said Roman after he and Trestin touched their hats, “we thought there must be more to this outing than you standing on one side and we on the other. Rather feels like my first time at Almack’s. You may feel assured that is not an experience I wish to repeat.”

Lucy sniffed, evidencing she truly had no idea how to entice men. She always drew up too tightly when he came near. “My lord, you know I’ve never been to Almack’s.”

He remained collected, but his blue eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “I’m certain you will adore it.”

Trestin held his hand toward Celeste. “Miss Smythe, would you allow me to row you across the bay?”
 

Awareness coiled inside her as she slid her hand into his. He grasped her securely and pulled her toward him gently. After last night, she wasn’t sure she should be alone with him. She’d felt more vulnerable in that hour than she had in her entire life.

The way he watched her now, those golden eyes molten as he gazed at her, left her breathlessly unable to change her mind.

Roman and Lucy turned to regard Trestin with surprise. It seemed they had forgotten why they were here: to row in the bay. Roman found his tongue first. “Is that wise?”

Trestin shot him a heated look. “I find myself brimming with questions that can’t seem to wait.” His grip on Celeste’s hand tightened.

Her anticipation was replaced by doubt. She tried to pull her hand back but Trestin held firmly. She searched Roman’s face for any sense of what Trestin meant, either by his words or his hold on her.

Roman pressed his lips together. Faintly, surely too faintly for Lucy or Trestin to see, he shook his head
no
.

Oh, God. He’d told Trestin.

“Can’t they wait?” Roman asked quietly.

Trestin grimaced, a failed attempt at a smile. “No. They can’t.”

Oh, God.
She wanted to tear herself from Trestin’s grip and run to Roman so she could pound her fists against his chest.
He’d tried.
He’d meant to keep her secret and he was sorry for whatever happened next. But he hadn’t been able to resolve his opinion of her. She wasn’t good enough for his friend.

He
wasn’t her friend.

Her heart felt smashed under a carriage wheel. She wasn’t sure which was worse: Roman’s disloyalty or Trestin’s ruined opinion of her. She wanted to run away but Trestin held her tight. Furthermore, Lucy stood beside her and Delilah watched them all from her perch on the beach, and Celeste didn’t want to give either girl cause to wonder at the drama unfolding before their eyes. How could it possibly be explained in a way that wouldn’t inform them of the truth?