The Trouble With Being Wicked (11 page)

Evans held brown work gloves toward him. Ash collected them and stalked out. He wanted to blame his sister for upsetting his day, but he couldn’t. It was his failure, all his. For a man who’d always striven for perfection, failure—seemingly continual failure where his sisters were concerned—wasn’t a pleasant sensation. But it inspired him to do better. Make things right. Just a few more weeks and they would head to London. She’d finally consented to go. A minor victory, but a meaningful one. She couldn’t possibly find a suitable husband in Devon. The only eligible man for miles was Montborne.

Ash snorted. Montborne’s only two eligible qualities were that he was still breathing and unwed. Otherwise, he was beyond laughable as a prospective suitor for Lucy. For one, a prospective suitor must, logically, have marriage in mind. The marquis abhorred the thought of
one
woman for
all
eternity. Women were entertainment, to be enjoyed and then put aside.

Wealthy widows were his partiality, for in addition to being a rake, he was so light in the pockets, he could float away. Which brought Ash to the second point: when Montborne did marry, as all peers must, it would be for money. Lucy’s portion wouldn’t begin to cover the marquis’ debts. He’d never even consider her.

Despite his friend’s black reputation, Ash didn’t worry about his arrival in Brixcombe. Montborne was like a brother to all of them. They’d grown up together. Yet even were that not the case, the marquis maintained a wide berth between himself and debutantes. More than one had tried to leg-shackle him. In Montborne’s mind, they were all suspect.

London was Lucy’s best chance for a husband. In Town, she was bound to meet at least one man worthy of her hand. In the meantime, there was one neighbor Ash did concern himself with. He must keep Lucy away from Miss Smythe. As he cut through the rhododendrons into his rear garden, he realized he could almost certainly blame Miss Smythe for Lucy’s outrageousness just now. After their disastrous tea, there had been nothing but admiring choruses of “She’s so charming!” and “What an enviable existence!” all through dinner.

His jaw clenched. Yes, he knew precisely where to lay the blame for Lucy’s wild notions. At the expensively clad feet of the fashionable bluestocking who made spinsterhood look appealing.

His boots left soft marks in the lawn as he headed toward the garden shed. Noticing the dark dents trailing him, he blamed that on Miss Smythe, too. He never was so careless. What was it about her that drew them into foolishness, all of them?
 

A flickering image of the flame-haired siren seated primly in his drawing room was all it took to remind him just how desirable she was. He knew his sisters well enough to know that ordering them to stay away from Miss Smythe would only make her more appealing, and the last thing Miss Smythe needed was to be more appealing.
 

Listen to him! What rot. There was nothing appealing about a woman with too much cheek. She was ruining
him,
too. Good God, he must have looked like a first-rate fool, clutching flowers and spouting Latin to her. What was the matter with him? She was obviously of common stock. Her demeanor was shockingly forward. Her gowns were too tight. She
argued
with him. As though he needed another mouthy female to contend with.

A man must consider the entire package when choosing a wife. Not that he was considering her, not in the least. While it was nice to be in the company of a woman who noticed the beauty of his flowers, she hadn’t been the least bit demure about it. If he had enjoyed it just a little, well, that didn’t make it right. She hadn’t even had a
chaperone
.

He shouldn’t have encouraged her to think he liked her. He didn’t even approve of her. And now she was ruining his plan to marry his sister off by planting ideas of female independence and other nonsense. Where would it end?

Chapter Seven

If anyone had told Celeste that she would spend her time in the country pursuing a man who wanted nothing to do with her, she would have laughed deeply and declared them mad. But bumping along in her velvet-lined carriage, clutching a potted rosebush and dressed in her finest walking gown, Celeste could only laugh at herself.

“Madness, indeed,” she murmured, her gaze trained beyond the long glass pane to the onion-domed fortress sprawled defiantly across the moors.

“Brilliance,” Elizabeth countered, her hands clasped under her rounded belly. Her coloring had greened a bit when the carriage had begun its steep ascent, but focusing on the horizon seemed to have helped. Some of her natural rosiness now dusted her high cheekbones. “When you asked me the best way to win a man’s esteem, I immediately
knew
this was the right course of action. It’s the perfect way to finagle your way into his confidence without the messy business of sex.” Her lips curved. “No man takes interest in a woman who throws herself at him. Toss yourself in his direction and he will be sure to forget all about the prize under your skirts.”

Celeste tapped her friend on the arm. Her forced smile, however, made
her
a bit nauseated. She would never admit as much to Elizabeth, but she was terrified. Hiding in her safe little rabbit hole had served her well. Pursuing the fox made her feel exposed. What if… What if she began to
like
the fox? What if she discovered the fox had feelings?

What if she discovered
she
had feelings?

She was a little past that point, was she not? Girlish hope—just a curl, mind, hardly bigger around than her little finger—had already escaped the tight box where it had been suffocated for so long. Years ago, she’d determined she’d have none of it, whatever
it
was. Night after night, week after week, month after month, when men had come and gone without so much as a good-bye, decades over which she’d determined that she wasn’t worth loving, her hope had stayed nice and neat and buried. She’d given up her ability to feel, and for a good reason. The whiplash assignations that had thrilled her mother—was that love? The passionate back-and-forth Elizabeth and Captain Finn had? The forbidden longing Miss Delilah felt for her Mr. Conley? Or the blue devils that plagued Roman after a flirtation? From what she knew of love, it was a painful business.

Yet that foolish curl of hope snaking in her belly said she was tempted to experience it for herself. Just once.

Don’t be silly.
This was nothing but a scheme to ensure Lord Trestin came to view Elizabeth and her favorably.

Gradually, the hopeful sensation waned until she felt what she wished to feel: nothing at all.

“You say he’s taken an interest in you,” Elizabeth said, breaking into her thoughts. “In all seriousness, that must stop. He can have no cause to think of you in a less-than-moral light.” An ironic smile touched her lips. “We will be much better off if he puts you out of his mind. Not just for the babe, but for your sanity. An entanglement endangers your heart—Oh, don’t look at me that way. I know you are capable of feeling. Even the best of us are.” She pressed her lips together. Then her gaze briefly alighted on her belly.

An instant later, she trailed her hand through the air as if waving away her momentary melancholy. “This will put an end to his infatuation, mark my words. Men love to chase, not be chased. With me along to chaperone and you standing right there before him, he would be a terrible boor to decline your invitation of a walk, which means you will have an entire afternoon of him grappling with the unsettling feeling of having been cornered.”

“Boorishness is hardly in line with his behavior to date,” Celeste drawled.

Elizabeth gave her a long look filled with the confidence of a woman who knew the strength of her mind. “I shall insist
he act the proper lord. Remember, I used to be one of his kind. I know how they think.”

Not that anyone could ever look at Elizabeth and doubt she was the daughter of an earl, but yes, sometimes, Celeste did forget. She and Elizabeth hailed from vastly different backgrounds, yet they had met the same end. Celeste glanced at Elizabeth’s belly. Almost the same end.

It could have as easily been you.

But no, it couldn’t have. Celeste suspected Elizabeth had done worse than have a mere bout of “forgetfulness” when the time had come to insert her sponge. She wanted Captain Finn for herself, and she’d stop at nothing to have him. It was all the more reason Celeste had hauled her to Devon.

“The two of you will suffer each other an hour,” Elizabeth continued, oblivious to Celeste’s momentary disquiet, “during which you will entertain him with your legendary wit and confidence. After a few such afternoons, he will naturally begin to think of you in a platonic way, for each time
you
request his company, you reduce his interest. Before he realizes what has happened, the two of you will be friends.”

Celeste’s lips formed a moue. “I wish you wouldn’t make it sound so deceitful.”

Elizabeth let out a rich, throaty laugh. “Is there any other way for a woman to have what she desires?”

* * *

Ash paused before the hall mirror only to verify he hadn’t flicked a droplet of ink onto his face. Certainly not because he’d just been informed Miss Smythe and Mrs. Inglewood were in his drawing room. Certainly
not
because he wanted to look his best for them. Or even just one of them. Especially not Miss Smythe.

“One moment,” Lucy cautioned, materializing behind him. Her arms came around his middle. She seized the pointed ends of his green waistcoat and yanked. “There, now you’re ready for company.”

In his reflection, his cheeks turned pink. “I wasn’t
primping
.”

She grabbed his shoulders and forcibly faced him to her. She tousled his newly-shorn hair with her hand.
“Ashlin has a suitor,”
she singsonged under her breath as she undid all the hard work Evans had put into Ash’s appearance. When he growled, she jumped back with a yelp. “What? I think it’s marvelously romantic.”

“Lucy,” he grumbled, turning away from the mirror. “There’s no need to be ridiculous.”

Her brown eyes danced. “Oh, but I think there is.” Then she twirled and skipped off before he could form a retort.

Primed by one meddling female, he arrived in his drawing room to receive his callers. “Mrs. Inglewood, Miss Smythe,” he said, bowing perfunctorily, “welcome to Worston. I hope nothing has gone amiss?”

Miss Smythe hadn’t yet taken a seat, but Mrs. Inglewood had sprawled across his favorite couch and had gone so far as to prop her booted feet on an ottoman. He paused, momentarily dumbfounded by her unwieldy size. She looked fit to burst. “Mrs. Inglewood,” he said, coming toward her and forcing his tone to moderate lest she take offense, “I beg you will allow me to see you back to the Hound and Hen. A woman in your condition should have a care.”

“I find exercise invigorating.” She sent him a beguiling look that would have sent another man’s thoughts in a truly inappropriate direction.

Instead Ash was incensed. Could
one
woman of his acquaintance accept his advice
?
“If you’ve no concern for yourself, then I pray you will have a care for my sisters. They’re innocent girls not yet come out and aren’t used to seeing a woman who ought to be in confinement.”

Miss Smythe stepped forward. Her eyes sparkled over the gnarled leaves of a potted—rosebush?—cupped in her hand. “Her condition isn’t contagious, my lord. I should think you know that.”

There was something bewitching about her teasing him. When his sisters teased him, he worried too much that their sharp tongues would drive away their future husbands. With Miss Smythe he didn’t have that concern. Two days ago when she’d bantered with him in his garden and again in the foyer, he’d felt the most at ease in a woman’s company that he could ever remember. He’d immediately put an end to it. If he could allow his guard to fall so quickly, and over a simple quizzing, what would happen to him in London when he was surrounded by flirts?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, making no effort to sound welcoming, and yet feeling guilty for his tone. “That is to say, what is the reason for your visit?”

“Why, we came expressly for the purpose of visiting.” Miss Smythe extended the little mangled rose cutting in her hands. “Bearing gifts. Well, one gift.”

He eyed the forlorn specimen hastily thrust into a chipped earthenware pot. “If that came from where I suspect it came from, you’re attempting to butter me up with my own goods.”