The Trouble With Being Wicked (7 page)

Assuming Lord Trestin allowed her to pass. “Your sisters invited me to tea,” she said, surprised her voice shook just a bit.

“Did they?” he said so slowly that she thought she could hear his exasperation. He looked toward his house with a resigned sort of tenderness that caused her belly to flip. “How hospitable of them.”

She almost fell over in shock. So he possessed a dry wit, did he? She never would have guessed.

She indicated his baskets. “I gather you are not joining us?”

He looked over her head, far beyond the landscaped property line. Wistfulness darted across his chiseled face, disappearing just as quickly as his earlier slip of emotion. Whatever he had been about, he was taking tea now. “But I am,” he said, his eyes flicking toward her. They danced just a bit, so that she was sure he was taking pleasure in obstructing her. “I find I’m suddenly parched.”

There was a streak of humor in him! Her lips turned up. What a delightful—and terrifying—revelation. “Then I suppose I shall see you inside.”

“It would be terribly ill-mannered of me if I didn’t offer to accompany you in.” He deliberately didn’t move to show her his arm.

She couldn’t help herself; she laughed aloud. “It would be, my lord,” she said, now absolutely certain he was provoking her.

For a moment, she thought he might return her smile. Then his jaw tightened and he looked away. His refusal to meet her eyes left her staring at his cravat. She felt abandoned despite—or because of—their light bantering a moment ago.

She must wait him out. She’d pressed him too far, and he’d retreated. She sensed he was too much of a gentleman to send her packing without cause, and so she could only stand here and resist his attempts to wish her away. She
needed
to enter his house and take tea with his sisters. A tiny, budding part of her begged to be properly welcomed to the district. And then there was this closed expression of his… His very disinterest in her made him the most interesting man of her acquaintance. Never had she felt as compelled to enter a man’s head.

Was it really so important to know what he thought of her?

With a last, yearning look at the moor and a hooded sweep of his gaze across her face, he shifted his baskets to one arm. “Very well, then. If you don’t mind, I’ll return these to the garden shed first.”

She nodded, having nothing clever to say to that. Though she did find it odd that he didn’t just send them with a servant. Surely he had dozens of those.

He flinched when she touched his coat sleeve. She smiled serenely at his stoic profile, a last attempt to soften his obvious aversion to walking with her, then put it out of her head. She’d long ago accepted the futility in trying to understand a man.

He shortened his strides to match hers, despite his apparent eagerness to be done with her. She ignored his surliness and looked about. As a creature of the night, her shared courtyard in London wanted only a shaft of moonlight to make it romantic. Her new property in Brixcombe, by comparison, must be presentable at all hours. Worston’s gleaming drive wrapping the side of the western wing was just the sort that would brighten it. Flowers of every imaginable shape and color budded from hedgerows and shrubbery, exactly as her cottage lawn might look one day, if only she had the imagination to achieve it.

“I never tire of looking at flowers,” she announced breathlessly. “How invigorating it must be to live here.”

He looked sideways at her and made a noncommittal noise. She paused before a shrub just beginning to blossom, forcing him to stall as well. The shrub’s tiny green flowers had blue tips. She poked one delicate, pale yellow center, entranced by the presence of so many colors in a single bloom. “It’s so breathtaking, I can hardly believe it’s real.”

“
Hydrangea macrophylla
. At the moment they are too green to truly be beautiful.” His gloved hand grazed several clumps. Then his voice lowered to a murmur so private, she wasn’t sure the words were intended for her. “The blue becomes so vivid at the edges, the centers so yellow, they rival the sunset for beauty.”

She looked at him in astonishment. Clearly he didn’t storm about finding fault everywhere.

He glanced sideways at her again. Chagrin tightened his lips. Without a word, he tugged her along.

Gravel crunched beneath their feet, the only sound apart from the cheerful chirp of birds. The path wound to a cluster of rhododendrons standing nearly as tall as Lord Trestin. She released his arm, hurrying to inspect it up close. “Heaven,” she declared, tracing a brilliant poppy-colored bloom with one gloved finger. Now
this
would look enchanting in her garden.

He set his baskets on the ground and pulled a knife from his pocket.
“Rhododendron eclecteum.”
He separated the blooms from the shrub and extended them toward her like a priceless gift, regarding her with a strange, almost hopeful look in his eyes.

Her lips parted in surprise. The simple nosegay was the most beautiful arrangement she’d ever beheld. Dumbfounded, she stared at it. Her limbs felt frozen, as if deep inside, her body rejected this sincere attention. She’d received flowers before, of course, but this was different. He had no expectation of her in return. He didn’t even
like
her.

She wanted to accept them with a gracious smile, but her lips clamped together as if holding back a powerful wave of emotion. She wasn’t worthy of his flowers. He shouldn’t even be standing here with her.

Suddenly, he turned and seized his empty baskets from the ground. In several strides he reached the garden shed, wrenched the door open and tossed them inside.

When he returned the flowers were gone.

Her heart thumped unsteadily as she touched her fingers to his coat sleeve again. An odd, buoyant feeling began to lift her feet. Men had looked at her with hot, open arousal and murmured explicit intentions against her neck. Yet for all her years of experience, she’d never felt as beautiful as she had in that moment when he’d held out flowers as earnestly as a lad. She wanted to savor it forever, a precious gift he’d given her without meaning to.

His arm stayed rigid under her hand, his back ramrod straight as he led her around to the front steps. Yet his starchy insistence that he wasn’t aware of her only underscored how very aware of her he was. It all suddenly made sense, even if she couldn’t have been more shocked by it. He
reacted
to her, whether he wanted to or not. The knowledge was heady, intoxicating. Wholly unexpected. And surely it was utterly ridiculous for her to seize upon it with a strangling grip.

* * *

As they ascended the granite steps, her bewilderment gave way to nervousness. She yearned to make the most of this opportunity, to demonstrate that she was kind and eager to make friends. That was why she’d come. As for Lord Trestin just now… She simply hadn’t known how good it would feel to have a man look at her without calculation, without lust, without wondering how much pleasure she could bring him before he went to his horses or his club. Without wondering if he could afford her price. She’d thought only of her pride, of wanting to believe somewhere deep inside her was a woman worthy of an invitation to tea.

For the time it took one haughty lord to cut a sprig of flowers and regard her with boyish eagerness, even she had forgotten the truth.

“This way, Miss Smythe.” His voice, always smooth, always tempting, summoned her across the foyer. She ought to turn around and take herself as far away as she could possibly get. Before she wanted things she couldn’t have.

But there was something deliciously appealing about things one couldn’t have, especially when one was just realizing she might want them. Not Lord Trestin per se, for he was a puzzling piece of work, but…someone.

She took his arm again. Her heart raced as they entered a long, cream-colored hallway. Centuries-old paintings hung from the walls, stone-faced ancestors frowning at her intrusion. Her belly became leaden again. His resplendent estate was flawless. She was a soiled splotch contaminating it.

Normal conversation seemed outside her ability, but the silence thundered in her ears. She tried for a simple topic. “Your home is beautiful, my lord, even more so inside than out. Though it does seem grand for just one family.”

He continued to walk at a level, measured pace. “Does it?”

When she realized that was to be the whole of his response, she indicated the airy hallway. “There must be two hundred rooms.”

Most men would take pride in showing a female through their impressive home. Lord Trestin merely nodded. “Only one hundred ninety-eight and a half. The water closet doesn’t fully count.”

“Water closet!” Respectable women did not ask for tours of the privy, and he might have an apoplexy if she did. But she couldn’t deny she dearly wished to see it. Perhaps she would have a chance later, out of necessity. If she drank plenty of tea.

He disregarded her excitement as if there were a water closet in every house he owned. “One doesn’t usually speak of it, but I felt it prudent to correct you.”

A smile tugged her lips. Here was his wry humor again, peeping out from behind a façade so pompous, even she had been fooled.

She indicated the immaculate, reflective floors. “But surely the granite is overmuch. This hallway alone must have created a canyon. One almost needs a coach and four to get to dinner, yet the whole floor is as smooth as a marble bust.”

Not even the barest hint of amusement played across his face. “There is indeed a quarry nearby. I believe my ancestors were mad to lug half of Devon up this hill, but it was a different time, I suppose. One can only imagine what such an endeavor would cost today. As for the span of it, I need only a single horse, for Rufus is a good, strong steed that can easily traverse the foyer without overtiring.”

She chuckled. She was convinced now that he did indeed enjoy a good laugh, and that she could draw it out of him. What a heady feeling, to know she had gained access to a part of him he seemed to protect, even from himself. “I almost expect those little cherubs on the ceiling to fly down and pat me on the head,” she said, and stole a peek at him from beneath her lashes.

“Fanciful,” he bit out. She shouldn’t have been surprised. She was learning quickly how far she could press him, and for how long, before he recalled he didn’t want to like her.

He cleared his throat, as though realizing he sounded horrid, even for him. “Forgive me. I’ve lived here my entire life. It’s much like staying in a coaching inn or attending a house party. Everything seems striking when you see it the first time. You may see a great hall with frescoes and gold leaf. I see peeling paint, wood that needs replacement, and cracking plaster.”

Her eyebrows arched. It was true; many things weren’t what they appeared at first glance. Unlike her cottage, which didn’t try to conceal its age, this house was like a courtesan whose makeup smudged as the night wore on. “How sad,” she said.

“Is it?” He stopped and regarded her intently, black lashes surprisingly long for a man’s. “I love Worston, right down to its moldy walls and crumbling south wing. Just because something needs work doesn’t make it unbeautiful. And then occasionally, the pride you gain from working out a stain here, a ding there can make something more lovely than it will ever be to someone else.”

Her breath caught. “But what about my cottage? You said the exact opposite yesterday.”

His eyes held hers. “I lied.”

Her head felt light. He continued to regard her as though he could see deep down inside her, to where all her most precious wants were hidden.
He’d lied yesterday.
To drive her away, she was sure of it now. But he
did
believe a few patches could make damaged goods like new again. Did he believe the same of a person? Could she be whole again, if only she made the effort?

“Do you keep to the country, my lord?” she asked, her voice weak. Little by little, he was affecting her. It scared the wits out of her.

He turned and gently steered her down the hallway. “I prefer my own bed to a strange one.”

She recoiled as if he’d rejected her. But of course he didn’t mean her bed, or even some other woman’s. “What of your lordship’s duties?”

From the corner of her eye, she detected his grimace. At her question? Or something else? “I have just this one property to maintain. Which is as well. I’m not a great traveler.”

Carefully, she forced herself to breathe. So he didn’t go to London. He didn’t recognize her. He might not be interested in pursuing her, but he didn’t know who she was. If he did, he wouldn’t be treating her with lordly ambivalence, wouldn’t be taking her to see his sisters. And he was, even if he didn’t particularly like her and wished she would leave.

“A lord like you could go anywhere.” She stopped herself there. What did it matter to her if he didn’t travel? What did she care about his wants, his fears, or the eccentricities that made him human? Were it not for Elizabeth’s baby, she would have no reason to have ever met him. She would have no reason to be in Devon at all.

Oh, mayhap she would have come across him in London one day, for eventually all lords must go to London. She might have taken her pleasure of him if he were willing. He would have been just another title, a few quid and a night between the sheets.

A flash of him naked and golden stole her breath. Goodness, where
were
her lungs?