The Trouble With Being Wicked (8 page)

No! She couldn’t think of him in that way. He wasn’t
just another title. He was lord of these lands. One word from him and all of Brixcombe would shun them. She must keep him at arm’s length, for the babe, if not for herself.

They paused outside of an open door. He turned to her. “I cannot leave Worston, Miss Smythe. A title is a shackle. At any rate, my sisters are here. Where else would I be?”

His brow softened at the mention of his sisters. Suddenly, she felt an onslaught of guilt. He would despise her if he knew what she was doing. She’d known him but briefly yet she could sense his honor. He held himself far above everything, and if he learned the extent of her deception, he would be furious.

Never in their lives should his precious sisters come across a woman of her caliber. Especially not at tea in their own home, under their brother’s protective watch. He’d committed himself to raising them nobly, and she was throwing herself upon them. What she was doing was unforgivable. The urge to run was consuming. She should claim a sudden illness—

“Trestin!” a sprightly young lady’s voice called from inside the room.

“Do stop dawdling!” The second sounded more mature.

The first rang again, just as insistent. “For heaven’s sakes, Trestin, let Miss Smythe by.”

He redirected his gaze to some unseen point inside of the room. “I do love them, Miss Smythe. But they have their moments.” A devilish gleam brightened his eyes, as if a new thought had occurred to him. “Go on, now. They aren’t that terrible, I promise.” He chuckled. Quietly at first, then louder, as if he’d made a joke only he understood. “Not
that
terrible.” He laughed outright then, mayhap mistaking her surprise at his smile for horror. Laughter tumbled from him, a rich, satisfying sound that coated her belly and made her heart reverberate like a gong.

She capitulated then and there. Here was a man who delighted in his family, who could be a bit wicked when it came to his role as an older brother. She ached to be near such fullness of affection. As though proximity could bring just a smattering of that love to her.

Stupid, stupid woman. He’d done nothing but show her his
teeth
.

She entered the room, her spine tingling with awareness as he followed her inside. She’d been in grand drawing rooms before but none as stately as this. Everything, everywhere, was breathtakingly unspoiled. The high ceiling gave the room the same airiness as the foyer. A half dozen seating arrangements clustered about various low tables. Gold curtains framed towering windows. Beyond the windows, a circular garden on a tri-level terrace showed signs of early bloom. Amazingly, it was a different garden than the one she and Lord Trestin had walked through.

Everything looked perfect, including the two young women waiting impatiently on a couch by the fireplace. Two exquisite, female versions of him, right down to their curly black hair. Though not twins, they were remarkably similar-looking. They rose and bobbed their heads, then curtseyed to their brother.

“Miss Smythe,” he said, leading her to them, “these are my sisters. Miss Lancester is elder, and the one I presume most wished to satisfy her curiosity.”

Miss Lancester ignored her brother’s pointed chiding and assessed Celeste with friendly interest. Rather than Lord Trestin’s tawny-colored eyes, she had brown eyes—as did the younger woman, on second look. She wasn’t as young as Celeste expected an unmarried miss to be. Likely she’d had several years to secure a husband. Why hadn’t she? Though she didn’t have the man-stopping perfection of her younger sister, she wasn’t precisely plain. She was from a privileged family and had a concerned older brother to see her to future. She ought to have a husband by now, unless there was something very wrong with her character.

They curtseyed to each other.

Lord Trestin nodded toward the younger sister. “And this is Miss Delilah.”

The jewel of the family. She pouted prettily at her brother. “What on earth kept you? I’m deathly tired of waiting for you every afternoon while you crawl around in the peach house.”

He stiffened. “You knew I wasn’t coming; that’s why you invited a guest in my place.”

She rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t keep us waiting. It’s plain as day you intercepted our Miss Smythe.”

He leaned toward her to murmur in her ear, “Nagging like a fishwife doesn’t become any woman. Please desist.”

“At least it’s some kind of wife,” she muttered.

His barely controlled grimace was replaced by a glower. “Pardon?”

“I said I should be very pleased when I become Gavin’s wife.” She bobbed toward her brother.

“Delilah,” Miss Lancester rested a hand on her sister’s arm, “you know Trestin is never going to allow us to take tea—or allow Mr. Conley to call on you—until you cease sniping at him like a shrew.”

Miss Delilah’s brown eyes flashed. “As if I need his approval. I’m one and twenty, you know.” This last was directed to her brother, though it was clear by the exasperation on his face that he was well aware of her age, and possibly every minute he’d spent in her company from the time she was born.

Gone was the handsome man who had escorted Celeste with austere aplomb. His eyes were guarded in a look Celeste was coming to recognize. Turmoil, in the fisted hand at his side and the slow, deep breaths he used to calm himself, belied his true emotion. Instead of being indifferent, as she had supposed, he was passionate. He hid it well, perhaps even from himself.

“Old enough to know better,” he grated out.

Miss Delilah arched an eyebrow, appearing more satisfied than offended. Her expression suggested she was pleased he’d finally acknowledged her age.

After a moment of silence, he indicated that they should take their seats. Celeste chose a spindly chair opposite the girls. Instead of sitting, however, Lord Trestin stalked to the bell pull and yanked. Hard. When it came away in his hand, he stared at it a moment. He colored and, with a scowl, cast it onto one of the many tables. Then he stalked to stand behind his sisters.

The girls ignored this scene. Miss Delilah folded her hands in her lap and leaned toward Celeste. “We’re going to London. I hear it is a great, dirty city with far too many people, but Trestin says we must go.”

Lord Trestin’s teeth clacked together. This was clearly a point of contention.

Celeste wasn’t sure what to make of her. Or any of them. Their interaction was so far removed from the polite, respectful family she’d imagined, it was almost…freeing.

“He has his reasons,” Miss Lancester said, clearing the low table of fashion plates to make space for tea. Several plates were from the previous year. But this was Devon, and it likely took months for fashion to reach these parts.

The younger girl rolled her eyes. “Of course he does. He has reasons for everything. Why ladies can’t run through fields barefoot. Why ladies can’t run through fields at all. Why ladies mustn’t ride astride. Why ladies cannot curse. Why ladies must keep clean. Why ladies—”

Celeste smothered her laugh with a cough. She recognized
that
Lord Trestin already.

“I do hope you’re not catching cold.” Concern marred Miss Lancester’s porcelain brow.

“No, no. ‘Tis just…” Celeste glanced at Lord Trestin. His scowl could have smelted her largest gold brooch. “…the dust,” she finished lamely.

“It’s the house,” Miss Delilah offered with a nod of certainty. “It’s falling to bits.”

“Enough.” Lord Trestin’s hand clenched and unclenched. He searched the doorway, as though hoping the tea tray would materialize so he could fling it against a wall, but he wasn’t that fortunate. They were a long way off from tea.

He glared at the back of his sister’s dark head. “You’re going to London. Some man will surely take one look at you and clamp his hand to his heart, thereby freeing me from having to keep you out of trouble every second of every day.”

“But Trestin,” Miss Lancester tilted her head to look at him, “she’s in love.”

Miss Delilah’s face crumpled. She was in love, or at least, she believed herself to be in love. Yet she had almost as little control over her future as Celeste had had at her age.
 

Their situations weren’t the same. Celeste didn’t pretend they were. But she did feel sympathy for the girl. Lord Trestin obviously didn’t approve of her beau, whoever he was. She just as dearly wanted to marry him.

* * *

It was another hour before Celeste managed to escape Worston Heights. She scrambled down the drive, not the least convinced she had left any impression on Lord Trestin or his sisters, favorable or otherwise.
 
It was a shock to realize his family was hardly better mannered than a corps of courtesans. Aside from her naïve belief that proper families were faultless, she’d assumed that anyone as rigid as Lord Trestin must have order at home. He and his sisters cared for each other, she could see that, but having a family was clearly not as effortless and harmonious as she’d always imagined it would be. The thought gave her hope.

She looked back toward the hall, this time seeing its stark perfection as a façade. Her heart contracted for the young man who’d lost so much. He acted as both father and brother to those girls. She couldn’t truly relate, for she’d never been fooled into thinking she was loved. There’d been no disappointment in her childhood, for her father had disappeared when she was in leading strings, and her mother had never pretended to care. How would she feel if she’d grown up believing her mother and father would be there for her, only to discover it was a lie?
 

Who took care of him?

She turned and wrapped her arms across her belly as a chilling breeze swept the estate. Slowly, she made her way down the carriage drive and entered the maze of hedgerows dividing the moors. She was halfway down the hill when she heard the pound of hooves crossing the hill. She turned, welcoming the distraction, and saw an elegant horseman astride a large, black steed. Horse and rider galloped hell-for-leather, the rider’s lithe body bent low against his mount’s neck. To ride like that! To ride at all. She owned one of the finest phaetons in London, had been tumbled in a carriage or two. But to ride! It was a luxury she rarely afforded herself, for being gawked at on Rotten Row had long ceased to entertain her.

Foolishly, her heart thrilled at the thought of Lord Trestin chasing her, perhaps to beg her pardon for his family’s boorish manners. But as the rider came closer, she realized it wasn’t him. This man had hair the color of gilt.

She stopped to give him space as he crossed the path, lest she be trampled. He clearly planned to jump the hedgerow, cross the path, then jump a second hedgerow several yards later. He must be athletic to attempt something so mad. Her heart leaped into her throat. One hedge cleared, then two. His golden head gleamed in the sun. Safely on the other side, he continued at a hard gallop.

Then, for no discernible reason, horse and rider separated. Celeste shrieked as the man flew through the air and landed with an earth-shaking thud, disappearing in the heather. She broke into a run, scrambling up the stile and over the tall hedgerow as though she’d climbed railings her entire life. The horse continued on for a distance before stopping to graze.

“Are you hurt?” she called, throwing decorum aside as she ran toward the man. Sweat beaded on her brow and trickled along the back of her neck. Whether it was from her quick sprint or her fear for the man, she couldn’t say.

He laid on his side, face turned away, but her instinctual fear became very personal and very, very real when she realized who he was.

Chapter Five

Perhaps it was having the biggest gossip in London tumble at her feet that made her sweat freeze like icicles. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing her old friend injured that caused her heart to constrict in her chest. Or perhaps it was her appreciation for all men with captivating eyes and a quick smile that made her feel like she’d been turned inside out. Whichever it was, the instant Roman Alexander, Lord Montborne, raised his curly, blond head and turned to gawp at her, Celeste let out an unladylike curse.

His eyes widened, then gleamed with humor. “Well, well, well. Who’d have thought I’d tumble right into London’s most delectable trap? Excellent timing, as always, Celeste.” He grinned lasciviously at her. “You may kiss me better now.”