The Trouble With Being Wicked (38 page)

“She wasn’t the first to make such a claim,” Ash pointed out, curious to see where the marquis was taking this
tête-à-tête
. Last time Roman had caused a scandal, Ash hadn’t asked for details. Simply paid off Lord Hollyhand and hoped he was making the right choice. This time, he wouldn’t be so trusting.

“No, and I daresay she wouldn’t have been the last.” Montborne sighed again. “I enjoy their games, I admit it. Walk willingly into traps other men avoid. But that doesn’t make it
their right
—” He stopped, perhaps realizing his fist had balled and was preparing to slam into the wide arm of the chair he’d appropriated. “It does not give them the right to take advantage.”

“You believe they take advantage of
you
?” Ash couldn’t keep his astonishment from showing.

Montborne waved his long fingers in the air. “Lady Frances, Miss Merriweather, Miss Georgia Umbridge. Lady Delacorte, but don’t tell her husband. These Society women are unprincipled Jezebels, Trestin. I don’t care whose sister or daughter they are. The lot of them ought to be locked up.”

“I’ve had that thought, too.” Ash paused, remembering the ring in the drawer. “Does it make us wicked if we seek the company of women whose intentions we at least understand?”

Montborne looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “This is about me, Trestin.”

Ash almost rolled his eyes. “Of course. Go on.”

“As I was saying, women these days have stacked the deck against us. All of this nonsense about ‘compromising positions’ is just a way for them to trap us into matrimony. I won’t have it, Trestin. I simply will not play into it.”

Ash steepled his fingers, pressing his index fingers to his lips. “I see. And you came to tell me this because…”

“You wouldn’t hold me to it, Trestin, would you? If it were your sister, you’d give her a sound scolding and send her to her room, but you wouldn’t make a man shackle himself to a woman he’d been tricked into bedding—would you?”

A terrible feeling hardened in the pit of Ash’s stomach. “You don’t really expect me to answer that.” His hands found the arms of his chair. As though he meant to lift himself out of it if just the wrong word dropped—

Montborne sighed, deflating even more. “I suppose you’d want to see the circumstantial evidence first. Interview the appropriate parties. Lord Trestin and his
reasons
.”

Ash gripped the arms of his desk chair. This was not his sister. This could not be his sister. This was only a hypothetical conversation in which Montborne had come to ask a man in possession of far too many sisters what he might do in such a situation. That was all.
It was not his sister.
“I’d at least want to hear what my best friend was trying to tell me before I decided on the best way to skewer him by his bollocks.”

“Damn it, Trestin. You don’t make this easy.”

“My apologies,” Ash bit out. “I wasn’t aware it was supposed to be.”

Shrunken in his chair, chin in hand, Montborne looked more miserable than any man Ash had ever seen. He closed his eyes, focusing on taking solid breaths while he waited for the marquis to explain.
 

“I had Lucy last night.”

Ash’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe.
 

“She was disguised. I swear I didn’t know. It was a trap. I couldn’t have seen it. I was foxed, she was lovely… The setting was right.” Montborne drew himself up, becoming the self-assured reprobate Ash remembered, with one significant exception. The sorrow in his eyes made him seem well and truly wretched. “All I can say for myself is that I did want her. Very, very badly.”

Ash drew a breath. Then another. And another and another until he became drunk on air. “How…could…you? How
could you,
Montborne?”

“She tricked me! But it was me, it was me, too.” He hung his head. Blond curls fell into his face. “Something is different about her. I tried to tell you, I did. But I suppose she’s your sister. You can’t see it. But I could. And I wanted her. Wanted her so badly…but I couldn’t have her, could I? Because I love you and I love her and I love your whole goddamn miserable family. So I used my voucher to gain access to Mrs. Galbraith’s, where I advanced on the first raven-haired temptress I saw. It was your sister, Ashlin. Lucy was at the soiree.”

Stunned and barely able to comprehend what Montborne was telling him, Ash grasped his chair’s arms for dear life. “You thought my sister was a courtesan?”

Montborne pulled an incredulous face. “I didn’t believe it at first, either! But she is. Not exactly, but yes.” He leaned forward, hands braced. “Wait, don’t kill me until I’ve a chance to explain. Did you see the girl in the veil or mask or whatever?” He didn’t wait for Ash to nod. “She’s your sister. Celeste is teaching your sister whore’s tricks. I’m not sure on the specifics. Lucy was a virgin when I—”

The unthinkable became untenable. “Liar,” Ash bit out, pushing up from his chair. He advanced around the desk. “You find me in my
one
goddamned moment of happiness and you invent this cork-brained tale to steal it away. How could you be such a rotten friend, Montborne? I’ve never wronged you once!”

Montborne rose as Ash took another step toward him. This time, unlike the other times Ash had threatened him, he looked scared. “Ashlin, listen to me. This isn’t my doing. Celeste has your sister under her wing and I daresay she’s doing a smashing job. Lucy’s a hit, both with her mask and without. Celeste gave her confidence, wiles, and I say, her
wiles
…” He shook his head. “But I swear, Ashlin. I can’t think why. Lucy says she won’t marry me. She wouldn’t even let me ask.”

Ash couldn’t claim surprise. Naturally, Lucy wouldn’t want to force Montborne up to snuff. She was too independent. What had she said about managing men? He remembered their last truly meaningful conversation all too well. She’d told him in so many words she placed no value on her virtue.

Good God, everyone he loved was out to make his existence into a mockery. Lucy, Montborne, Celeste—dear God,
Lucy
. His baby sister. Yet it was a damned shame how easy it was to believe the flirt behind the mask last night was his sister. It was in her blood.
Their
blood.

Celeste had known. That was why she’d panicked. He felt punched in the stomach. It was all he could do to remain upright.

“I don’t understand it myself,” Montborne said, reading Ash’s face. Ash slowly realized Montborne’s hands were raised in front of his chest in defense, or perhaps supplication. “It makes no sense. It must be some female game. I never did anything to deserve this. I swear, Ashlin. Your sister targeted me. I’ll be damned if I’ll bow down and take it.”

“Oh, you’ll take it,” Ash ground out. “You ruined her. She’s all yours.”

“She won’t have me, I told you.” Montborne’s exhale shuddered. “I understand you’re angry, but I’m not your enemy.”
 

He didn’t finish his thought. Ash didn’t need him to. He knew who to blame. But why? What had Celeste gained from it?

His heart. His trust.
Access to a world she didn’t belong in. What a fool he’d been. He’d known she was flawed. He’d very nearly reveled in it. How had he thought there’d be no consequences? After seven years of doing nothing but weigh consequences, how had he been foolish enough to believe a woman like her would ever be suitable?

He clenched his hands until his knuckles turned white. Was prostitution so ingrained in her that she saw no wrong in a woman using her body to achieve an end? How had he changed so much that he hadn’t seen what was right beneath his nose?

He sagged against the front edge of his desk. This was his fault.

No, this was her fault. And Lucy’s fault. He was just the fool gullible enough to allow it to happen.

Montborne stood and went to the sideboard, where he selected two crystal snifters and a decanter of French brandy. He paused, perhaps thinking twice, then dug two Spanish cigars out of a gold case on the table and grabbed a flint. He handed Ash a snifter and a cigar before returning to his chair. At first, Ash couldn’t stomach either. But as his gut attempted to turn itself inside out and his heart cracked open in his chest, searing his insides with smoke and liquor started to sound like a good idea.

They imbibed in silence, each struggling with truths too horrible to contemplate. They’d been duped.

“Lucy is a lovely young lady,” Montborne tried somewhere in the second half hour, but Ash’s quelling look silenced any continuation of that thought.

The room gathered a smoky haze. Sunlight, then candlelight, waned. At long last, Ash came to a few important conclusions. First, he was every bit the distracted, negligent disaster of a viscount Montborne had accused him of being. Second, Celeste was more toxic than he ever could have imagined. And third, it was just as well he hadn’t tupped every tavern wench and willing widow in Brixcombe-on-the-Bay, or even London. With a droll look, he blew a thick ring of smoke toward Montborne. “I see all that ‘experience’ you reaped from sowing oats in your youth thoroughly prepared you for the minx who is…my sister.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

The next morning, the pounding in Ash’s head did little to distract him from the yawning ache in his chest. He pushed himself from the library couch and rubbed his throbbing temples. Luckily, the fireplace had gone cold long ago. No offending light pierced his eyes. Only the anguish hollowing his heart competed with the staccato roar of blood pulsing through his head.

If he’d been the type to brood, he’d have used his aching head as an excuse to skulk about his house. Even without the headache, skulking sounded like a good idea. He was in no mood for company. He’d spent his last hours of consciousness trying to decide which woman had committed the greater crime. Both had deceived him. Both had ignored his wishes, his orders, even his pleas. Both had disappointed him. As he dragged himself from the library and closed the door on Montborne’s snoring, prostrate form on the floor, he decided perhaps there was no greater or lesser offender. Both women were guilty of breaking his heart.

He crept through empty hallways and up darkened stairs to his room. He hadn’t felt this powerless in seven years.
She’d
orchestrated it so that he could rail at no one but himself. He hated that. He could remember feeling this impotent only one other time. When his mother had left him with no one to blame, for she’d removed his reprobate father from the world and then lodged a bullet in her own temple. Then, too, he’d been alone, angry, hurt. He’d vowed never to allow his life to tumble out of his control again.

What a poor job of that he’d done.

This time, though, he
could
find Celeste and yell. He could howl until his lungs hurt. But he saw no point. She could say nothing that would change the fact that she’d taught his sister how to compromise his best friend. There’d be no catharsis in seeing her stricken eyes, no pleasure in a confrontation for him at all.
Had she known Lucy would be at the soiree?
It didn’t matter. She’d introduced his sister to the existence of a world she should never have imagined.
Had she tried to warn Lucy to leave before he learned the truth?
If so, it made her behavior last night that much worse. He’d attributed her concern to basic decency. He’d admired her for it. Did he really need to hear that instead, she’d been terrified he’d learn of her treachery?

Going to her terraced house would have been a simple matter of walking out of his front door. But he didn’t. Standing before her would only allow her to turn limpid green eyes on him. She might thrust herself into his arms and beg forgiveness. If he could withstand such a sweet assault, he’d be faced with the distasteful task of castigating her.

Lashing out at the woman he loved held no appeal. He preferred to remember her as she had been, when he’d looked at her and believed she was the woman he belonged to.

The ache in his chest sank into his belly.
He would never see her again.
Oh, God. He couldn’t even contemplate it.

For the next four hours, he lay in his bed until he feared that if he didn’t rise for the day, he never would. He forced himself to swing his legs over the side. Rang for his valet. Attempted to bring order to a face that had spent most of the night wedged between couch cushions. When he finished his toilette and could stall no longer, he asked Evans where he might find Lucy.

He and his sister must finish their argument. They were family. As with Celeste, he couldn’t unleash the full force of his hurt on Lucy. Unlike with Celeste, he couldn’t choose to never see her again. They must depend upon each other even when they disagreed.