The Trouble With Being Wicked (9 page)

She stepped back, shaken. She’d savored the afternoon. Absorbed the headiness of a man’s innocent interest and boldly peeked into the private life of a reputable, if peculiar, family, all the while knowing it could end in a fell swoop. She hadn’t expected Fate to strike so swiftly, or with such powerful accuracy. Roman was the worst blabbermouth she knew. And he knew her better than anyone.

“I thought you never left London, my lord.” Her teeth ground together. Her hands clutched opposite elbows as she sought to warm herself from the moor’s chill wind and her own guilty conscience.

“Yes, we’re both a little out of our element, wouldn’t you say?” He attempted to ease onto his elbow, but before he could raise an inch off the ground he let out a great, pained bellow and collapsed onto his back. His breaths came harsh and shallow as he stared into the open sky. “God
damn,
that hurts.”

Celeste leaned over his prone form. Her shadow fell across his face.

“I can see down your bodice.” He feigned peering closer.

She quickly righted herself and gave her neckline a solid tug. “You must have hit your head but good if you think I’m putting on a show for you.”

He allowed his head to collapse onto the rocky soil. “One can always hope.”

Celeste pressed her lips together lest she smile and encourage him. Goodness. It was her worst fear come true. Roman Alexander. A man who knew what she was…and who would delight in the telling of it.
 

She winced as his eyes squeezed closed. “What happened? Why did you fall?”

“Fall?” Blue eyes blinked open in comical disbelief. “Why did I
fall
? Try, ‘Why were you
thrown
?’ or, ‘My dear Roman! You look as though my obviously healthy lungs might be put to better use calling for a doctor!’”

“You insufferable man. Can’t you be serious for once? You’re hurt.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” His wicked smile clenched into a grimace.

She gathered her skirts and looked toward the sleepy village nestled in the valley below. “I’ll fetch a physician.”

A hand wrapped around her ankle. “Not so fast. What are you doing here? I’ve never known you to rusticate.”

“You don’t know everything about me.” She shook off his hand with a little kick of her boot. He might be one of her inner circle, but he would never understand her desire to raise a child. Not the Marquis of Montborne, who deplored the country and spent every waking moment taking London by storm, cultivating his scandalous reputation at all costs, lest someone decide he was respectable and therefore
responsible
.

But they
were
friends. Close friends, for if she was a bird of paradise, then they were birds of a feather. She wouldn’t leave him here if he didn’t want to be left alone.

She indicated the arm pinned beneath him. “Can you walk?”

He cocked an eyebrow worthy of Adonis at her. “Does it look like I can walk?”

“Yes,” she bit her lower lip, “though I suspect your shoulder is dislocated.”

He blanched. “Please, spare me the details.”

The awkward contortion of his coat sleeve was enough to make her queasy, too. Nonetheless, she’d set a fair share of shoulders in her time. Men had a tendency to throw them out in her presence, be it brawling outside a brothel or attempting an athletic bedroom feat. “I can set it, if you’re well enough to sit up.”

“Now you’re just being cruel.” He grimaced as he made one more attempt to rise. He quickly gave up and leaned back on his good arm, broad shoulders hunched in pain. “Hurts like the devil. Does everything else appear all right?”

She inspected his long, lean body. Roman was easily the handsomest marquis she’d ever met. In fact, until she’d glimpsed Lord Trestin in the sunlight, Roman had been the handsomest –and most outrageous—titled gentleman of her acquaintance. “Your clothes are ruined, but aside from your shoulder, you appear in top form.”

“Good Lord!” he said with mock horror. “I haven’t even paid for these breeches yet.”

She chuckled despite herself. “What
have
you paid for, my lord?”

“Touché.” He stretched his good arm behind his head like a pillow, settling back to look at her. “My creditors are following me all the way to Devon these days, or so the papers say.” He cocked his head, curls shining like the guineas he so desperately needed. “You look pretty, though I daresay you’re showing less bosom than usual. I suppose it is the country mores that have you all covered up.”

“Are you suggesting I generally look like a wharf doxy, my lord?”

His eyelids lowered. “I prefer the term ‘beddable.’”

She gave her neckline another good, hard tug, then shook her skirts away from her legs. The wind immediately whipped them back, outlining her thighs. His lascivious smile returned. “Some women can’t help it, I fear.”

Her heart sank. She feared, too. “Shall I help you up or not?”

“And here I was, enjoying our unexpected time together. I vow if I live through this day, I shall die of a broken heart for all of the times you’ve rejected me.” He paused. “Mercenary female.”

“Paying customers only,” she reminded him. An odd, empty feeling clenched in her chest. “I can’t offer up my heart to just anyone, any more than you can afford to fall in love with an impoverished girl.”

“Last time I checked, your heart isn’t connected to your…” He allowed his gaze to trail her body. Every inch of her warmed, for he was a handsome man, even if she’d never felt inclined to test their friendship in bed.

She attempted to turn the subject. “Why are you here, my lord?”

He spared her a bemused glance. “I live here, my dear.”

How could she have forgotten? Granted, his crumbling ancestral pile wasn’t something she thought of often, for she and Roman didn’t speak of important things. Yet the property he seemed determined to forget was all that stood between himself and complete ruin. Notwithstanding his paucity of funds and deplorable reputation, the Marquis of Montborne was considered a catch.

Then again, all marquises were.

He regarded her intently, merry eyes serious for once. “Why are
you
here?”

She bit her lip. It was the second time he’d asked. He wasn’t likely to let her avoid the question much longer. But she couldn’t tell him the truth, not yet, not when he would mock her. Or worse…tell her it was an impossible, foolish dream. “I’m on holiday.”

“Holiday,” he repeated slowly. “Like our bacchanalia in the Mediterranean, or the summer the Frogs renamed that street after you?
Rue Lumiêre des Étoiles.
Street of Starlight, or some such. My French is abysmal.” He slowly cocked a blond eyebrow. He was known more for his lightheartedness than his intelligence. But he wasn’t stupid, and he clearly perceived she was withholding information. She fought the urge to turn away. He was just as determined to know her as she was to evade anything more superficial than a night on the town with a man. It was the reason they had come to be friends.

Yet she couldn’t tell him, not when she didn’t fully understand her sudden wish to pretend everything in her life had gone differently. So she replied with something guaranteed to distract him. “I should have bedded you when I had the chance. Now you’re in two pieces.” She indicated his awkward arrangement.

He pulled a face. “First of all, I’m still attached in all the meaningful places. Secondly, of course we’ve been to bed! Remember Lord Scotherby’s party? I’m hurt you don’t recall it.”

She smiled faintly. It wasn’t a night she was proud of.

“What a bountiful mound of womanliness you were, too. I slept like a stone. My head has never rested on a softer pillow.” He leered at her breasts again. He was riling her, just as he always did. She couldn’t help chuckling.

Satisfied he’d made her smile, he laid his guinea-gold head on the ground again. With his right arm crooked beneath him at a painfully irregular angle and left hand comfortably settled on his stomach, he looked as though he was in no hurry to go anywhere. That was Lord Montborne to his core. How many times had he made her late to one function or another? How many times had the hostess given up and served dinner anyway, so the men were at their port when he and Celeste arrived? All the knowing looks she’d not only endured but played to, when the truth was that Lord Montborne was simply the slowest man on Earth.

“Camel.”

“Pardon?”

“It looks like a camel. That one there.” He pointed directly above his face, then swung his leather-gloved finger to three o’clock. “Mouse.” Six o’clock. “Cloud.”

He was obviously in no danger of dying while she went for help. She made to leave. His hand wrapped around her ankle again and she nearly fell flat on her face. “Roman!”

“You’re always ‘calculate this, consider that, get a doctor.’ It’s just occurred to me you’re awfully cautious for someone in the business of entertaining others.”

“Huh!” Annoyance flashed through her, something she wasn’t used to with him. She liked him because he was carefree and the last one to judge—especially after all the scandals he’d caused. Now he was watching clouds while his arm was bent like a broken carriage axle. What right did he have to lecture her on responsibility?
 

“I
am
going for a doctor. If you expire before I return, please be so good as to pen a note explaining it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re leaving?” He pulled an endearingly miserable face on her. “Why don’t you sit here with me and wait? Someone will be along. We’re not in the middle of nowhere, you know. Brixcombe’s just a few miles,” he waved his hand to the left of his ear, “that way.”

“Perfect. Then you don’t need me at all.”

“Not need you? What kind of nonsense is that? Celeste, I worship you. I adore you. You wouldn’t really leave me here and walk away, would you?”

She swiveled as much as she could, given that he held her ankle. Her long, silent look was answer enough.

“All right, then.” He released her and rested his hand over his flat belly. “It was marvelous to see you again. I certainly never thought to find you here.”

She marched a good yard or so before her feet stopped. Her hands clenched. “Arrrrrgh!” she yelled at the top of her lungs, because they
were
in the middle of nowhere, and no one was going to hear. Having the biggest gossip she knew decide to visit an estate he usually pretended didn’t exist was just her luck.

Feeling somewhat better, she pivoted and marched back. She bent over him. “You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

His forearm was slung over his brow. He peered around it, late afternoon nap inconvenienced by her interruption. “About?”

She lightly kicked against the bottom of his boot. “Me, you blockhead. I would like just
one
holiday without the bother of a man chasing my skirts.”

He yanked his foot away. “Not my Hessian!” He clapped his hand to his heart. “Celeste, I’m wounded.”

“So I’ve noticed. But I need your assurance on this. It’s…important to me.”

“No, I mean I’m wounded you think I would even consider betraying your confidence. We’re friends. You’ve stood by me when few others have.” Then his eyebrows waggled. “And I suppose if you wish to leave off your trade for a few months, I can’t say I blame you. Lovemaking is grueling business.”

She was too much a bundle of nerves to laugh, and yet she could almost believe he meant it. “I have your word?”

“If you don’t know how much I treasure you by now, you should just leave me here to die because that’s what I’ll do if you doubt me.”

Goodness, he was melodramatic. She
wanted
to trust him. Yet they were talking about Lord Montborne, the worst say-anything, do-anything, make-merry sort. If he could entertain himself at her expense, he would. He might not mean to do it, but when boredom set in or he was in need of attention, her secret would be too delicious to keep to himself.

But she had little choice. She must either trust him or tell Lord Trestin herself. Shame washed over her at the thought of baring her past to the viscount. Indignation followed, for he alone had ever made her feel tainted. For eighteen years, she’d held her head high. One self-righteous lord and she was suddenly ashamed of everything she’d accomplished?

No. She would maintain her dignity. If the truth came out, she would proudly throw her shoulders back and dare him to judge. What man hadn’t sought the services she provided? What woman hadn’t eventually spread her legs?

Thus decided, she squatted on her heels as close as she could to Roman and slid an arm around his shoulders. He reeked of horse and male sweat. Not at all the way she was used to him smelling. “I suppose you left your lemon soap cake in London,” she mused, helping him into a sitting position.

He grabbed his injured right arm with his left hand, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. “Stars. Jesus. Christ. Woman.” When the pain seemed to clear a bit, he groaned and laughed at the same time. “Are you telling me I smell like horseshit? Because I believe that isn’t at all on my list of concerns at the moment.”

She chuckled, feeling better. He’d said he would keep her secret. They’d been friends a dozen years or more. She had to believe he meant it. “Can you get up?”

“Maybe.” He wheezed on the word. “God.”