The Trouble With Being Wicked (32 page)

“Why? Is anything the matter with you?” Elizabeth pulled away and examined Celeste from arm’s length. “You’re not eating, are you?”

Celeste would
not
burst into tears over Ashlin. “Jessica Frost—well, she made some horrid remarks about my age the other night. I simply haven’t been able to enjoy biscuits as I used to.”

Elizabeth snorted. “I may be living in utter seclusion, Celeste, but I haven’t gone blind. It’s him, isn’t it?” She angled her temple in the direction of Mayfair, as though she could perceive Ash through the walls and streets separating them.

Celeste pulled her hands away and walked toward the window. “Him? I hardly think of him.”

“You forget how pathetically I pined for Nicholas. But it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Celeste spun around. She looked hard at her friend. Dark circles rimmed the delicate skin beneath Elizabeth’s gray eyes. Her dress wrinkled in ways that would have horrified her just months earlier. Her breasts looked heavy and her shoulders drooped. But her tired eyes glowed, and a thin smile lifted the corner of her mouth.

“What is it you desire, Celeste? Because you must believe in it, want it with all your heart, or it won’t come to pass.”

“I want Lord Trestin to love me,” Celeste blurted. She clapped a hand to her mouth.

Elizabeth’s happiness dimmed. “You shouldn’t have even met a man like him, darling.”

Celeste cracked a wry smile. “What happened to believing?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Unless you’re willing to have his baby…”

And so they’d come full circle, back to the argument that had precipitated this entire endeavor. Elizabeth believed in scheming, and Celeste didn’t.

“
My
father walked away,” she reminded Elizabeth. “Having a baby didn’t help my mother at all.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “Some men are more honorable than others. I think your Lord Trestin would do the right thing by you.”

But was that the right thing to do by him? Forgetting her sponge when she well knew the consequences? But she couldn’t fault Elizabeth for the decision she’d made, now that it was done. The baby was beautiful, Captain Finn delighted, and Elizabeth living her dream. It would take decades to know if it was indeed the
right thing
.

Elizabeth’s voice broke into her maudlin thoughts. “I’m sure Nicholas would have married me, if he wasn’t already spoken for.”

Celeste pressed her lips together. What could she say to that? Captain Finn was unlikely to have the chance to prove himself one way or the other—she certainly wasn’t wishing an early demise on his poor wife. She could only watch and hope the situation turned out the best way possible for each of the people involved. As for her own situation…she supposed she could at least be glad Trestin wasn’t
married
.

Realizing that wasn’t likely to be the case forever only depressed her more.

Chapter Twenty-Two

He did not come that night. Or the next, or the next. She shouldn’t have expected him to. She was his mistress, nothing more. Yet every day without word was torture. Every night, interminable. She dreamed of him. His smell, his charm, the warmth of his smile.

Waking to find herself alone became her nightmare. It wasn’t long before sleep eluded her entirely and she became too withdrawn to eat. Even Elizabeth stopped paying calls, though Celeste kept her appointments with Lucy, who had taken to her lessons in seduction surprisingly well.

Despite Celeste’s daily
tête-à-têtes
with her protégée, emptiness threatened to swallow her. How many more nights could she go on waiting, wondering? Yet how could she end it, knowing this
affaire
was the only reason she could hope to see him at all?

When he finally arrived, it was nothing like the first time. Their hollow meeting left her even more bereft than she’d been before. She had only a shadow to remember him by, a warm, brandy-laced silhouette. For though they were not strangers, he barely spoke a word.

She’d put an end to agreements before, and for lesser reasons. No money had exchanged hands. They had no contract, for she had yet to sign the bold declaration waiting on her desk. But she didn’t tell him their tryst was over. She didn’t doubt he would come again, and she couldn’t deny she wanted him to.

He did not stay the night. And he did not say when he would return.

She found herself impossible to understand. Was it Elizabeth’s certainty that there was no hope for her? Or her own disappointment in herself, for allowing herself to want something preposterous so badly that she’d given in and experienced it, knowing it would hurt in the end?

One day passed. A day she could have ended it, but she didn’t. All her bravado, all her promises to herself during the day to put an end to it before she lost what little was left of her pride, seemed to die in the pink rays of evening’s light. Then two days went by, for Thursday was a day a man could reasonably be expected to visit his paramour, and she wouldn’t tell him to stay away on a day he might come.

But though Friday was generally held to be a good day to inform one’s lover his attentions were no longer required, it was just as good a day to pull oneself together and make the rounds of female acquaintances. Elizabeth was delighted to see her, as were her mantua-maker and milliner.

This was how it got to be Saturday, at which point it had been almost four days since his last visit. Four days was almost forever, in a man’s mind. At four days, she could expect him to visit at any moment. For if he was distancing himself, four days was a long time to be stalwart, and if he had simply forgotten her—as men were wont to do—then his needs should bring him to her shortly.

But they didn’t, at least not on the fourth day. At five days he officially became unpredictable. But if she called things off now she’d lose credibility, for he would believe her to be put out over his lack of attention and fail to see the point—she was better than
this
.

Really, she could do nothing after five days but wait for him to come to her. If she was to keep any vestige of pride, she must be patient. That was how she came to be resting against the massive headboard of her bed, spectacles on, rereading
Pride and Prejudice
when he arrived on the sixth day.

She looked up slowly to hide the staccato thumping of her heart. She didn’t remove her spectacles or adjust the simple knot of hair tied at the nape of her neck. There was no need to check her night rail or the bedcover across her lap, for though her underthings left little to the imagination, her robe was both warm and discreet.

In short, she was at home. He had interrupted her, and for that he owed her something.

She folded her page over and put the book aside. Surprisingly, she felt more power than she had in a long while.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes searched hers, looking for accusation. If he found it, he would flee. Men always bolted at the first sign of a paramour’s pique.

She didn’t care if he left. It would be better that way. A lie, but one she must tell herself.

“A good first effort, my lord,” she replied archly. “But let’s see if you can do better.” Pushing the covers aside, she rose to meet him face-to-face. Face-to-neck. As if she needed reminding he was the man.

He cocked his head at her. “How so?”

It was infuriating, this pretense that he didn’t know the anguish he’d caused her. All men played at it when it suited them. She drew a breath.
I have not heard from you in five days. I have been moldering here for almost a week and you have done nothing to reassure me you even thought of me once while you were gone.

Of course, she couldn’t say this. She would sound exactly as a man expected a slighted woman to sound: demented. Instead she focused on the strong line of his jaw until she collected herself.

“My lord, I wasn’t expecting you.” She folded her arms across her body. “What would you have done if I was not at home?”
What would you have done if I was not at your beck and call?

“There are only a few other places you might be,” he replied reasonably, taking her hand. His thumb caressed her knuckles. Her right arm remained protectively over her belly.

“Would you have sought me out?” A tiny lurch in her heart betrayed her pleasure at the thought.

He smiled at her, so handsome in his evening finery. “I would have waited,” he said, his voice a caress, “as it couldn’t be that long before you came home.”

She frowned. She wanted him to admit he cared whether she was at home or not. “Gordo wouldn’t have allowed you entrance after hours.”

“Good thing, then, that I wouldn’t have asked.” He raised an eyebrow, reminding her that he’d never waited for permission to call on her. Such as this very meeting in her bedchamber, which he had so arrogantly initiated without notice.

She stood up straighter, tugging her hand from his. “I have rooms for what we are about to do. He shouldn’t have let you up without asking me.”

Trestin looked pained. “I thought you wanted me in your bedchamber.”

She was momentarily thrown. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t need to.” He moved closer, invading her space. “This floor is your personal lair. It’s evident in the décor and the way you relax when you come into the room. Look,” he flicked the spectacles up from her nose before gently returning them, “you have no pretenses here. I rather like it.”

She brushed his hand away. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Should I have sent word ahead?” He wore the perplexed look of a man who wondered if he should not have come.

“No! Yes! No!” She hated when she couldn’t decide what to do with him. She was a creature at odds with herself.

“Which is it to be?” he asked gently.

She took a step away from him. “You can’t just come here when you feel like it.”

“I can’t?” He advanced on her. “Because I rather thought that’s the agreement we had.”

Her brain muddled as the intoxicating smell of him enveloped her. “Nay, my lord,” she said a little less emphatically than she meant to. “This is not an inn.”

He grinned. “Are you sure? Because you’re making it sound so. ‘Send word. Don’t assume there is space. Bring your own towels.’”

He was charming her and it was working. She tried to regain control of the situation. “I deserve—”

He angled his head, listening intently.

She stuttered. What demands could a mistress make? He had every right, just as he’d said. Nervously she stammered, “You interrupted my reading.”

“I can see that.” He indicated the dog-eared book on her bed. “Is it good?”

She shrugged. “If you enjoy novels where the woman achieves the upper hand and the man must come crawling back, then yes.”

“Those are the very best.” He chuckled, deflecting her pathetic attempt to rebuke him. And she let him.
Stupid, stupid woman.
 

She crossed her arms under her breasts. “Can I help you out, my lord?”

“In fact…” He took a step forward, closing the scant distance, and idly caressed the points of her elbows with his thumbs. Warmth slid in a delicious wave over down her back as he pulled himself toward her. “I was just thinking how adorable you look in those spectacles.”

“Th-these?” She touched the wire bridge, subconsciously pushing them higher on her nose. All thoughts of tossing him on his arse fled like little cowardly soldiers.

He nodded, tugging her closer still. Long lashes shielded his eyes. “It’s very hard to think when you look like Miss Smythe.”

She fought to keep her wits about her. “But I never wore these in the country. At least, not in front of you.”

“Ah, but you
were
prim.”
 
He said it as though she’d dressed in Devon to seduce him. A low laugh rumbled through his chest, causing her to look up into his eyes.
Mistake.

He continued his slow seduction of her elbows, circling his thumbs in soft caresses. “But now there is something about these…” A deep, heavy breath momentarily clouded her thin lenses. “I find them very, very attractive, Miss Gray.”

His voice was silken, full of promise, tense with barely leashed desire. Her pulse doubled in response. Evidently catching her in modest dishabille was, for him, as heady as if he had caught her at her bath.